Ars Philosophica Ars Poetica Footnotes Why

Notes on Canned Goods

I initially started the writing that led to this poem by looking into the actual words that were used.

Fragility — the human condition is exorbitantly weak. We really don’t like that fact.

Boxes — Maria Kondo – put your life into neat little bento boxes— tidy up your life

Mental Boxes — when our emotional chaos is present, we work hard to categorize our responses. Tidy up our minds — but that is usually mental space filled with work and future planning. Very tidy, our future, in our minds, until plans are disrupted by social crisis.

De-coupling — Social Distancing breeds anxiety -especially for extroverts- by hallowing our our group response. When all of a sudden you take away the immediate, physically present, response that we have by being in the same room or the same table — when canned laughter is absent you realize that fake laughter that connects you is better than watching comedy dead pan. A comedian of one is not really that funny. We require social interactivity.

And a news conversation that has to wait for delayed interactions, stops people from answering naturally and responding fluidly.

Canned Goods


2020 Ars Poetica Footnotes Poems

this art is not yours

Stop it!
Why are
You do-
ing this?
Your Nat-
Your voice.

This Art
Is not
For you.
You must
make it
Work for

These are
Just words.
These are
Not poems.

2020 American Place Ars Philosophica Ars Poetica Poems

Faith in art

Of an un-
Kind Spirit
When you
Get perspective
From above
And can see
On the astral
Plane. Comp-
rehension be-
gins again
When you
Return to
What is
Real and
Whole to
You. It’s
Harder than
It sounds!

2020 Ars Poetica Breaking Muse Garden Psalms Poems

Burst Your Bubble

My head, it splits
Like waves on
The barren shore
Bubbling oxygenation
As the brack
Settles into sand
And air escapes
Once again, gurgling
Out of the semi-solid surface.
My inspiration
Captured in bubbles
For brief moments — real!
In the end, a burst
Of emptiness, vapid dreams
Hollow constructions
Radiating energy but
Alas — empty…
These words, all that remain
Of the membrane of H2O
Clinging together desperately,
Delicately capturing a
Breath of life and then
Exhaling it to the world.
Captive for one moment
Before being shared with
Every living thing.
The poem, the word of being.

2020 Ars Poetica Poems

Dementia Moderna

Poetry organizes
This chaos inside
My head
|||/|||| || |||
Around my head
5,000 Ad Impressions
Per diem
Spooks —
Watching me in my head
Everybody’s Judging Me
(This is you…too)
Though I’m swimming through myself
The curtain’s pulled and the
Only Wizard left standing
Is the naked poet, tearing
Down your walls with
Symmetrical condensation
Even if the drops take an
Eternity, they will nourish
The lichen in your mind
And undo your construction
That keeps you from your fellows
And your obligations to your community.

2020 Ars Poetica Poems

Master’s Class

Medieval metaphors made molten
From smelters pour golden inspirations
Forming the meld of American spirit

William Shakespeare shook out the cobble stones
And delivered us the metaphor of morality and love
Psychology and introspection a
History of the rise and fall of Kings.
As this foundation stuck to the ages
And was carried on small wagons across
American plains to fill cold nights with
Tales and poetry opening up the
Minds of young industrious Yankees.

So Whitman took the book and transposed
The old English voice into the rambling
Preamble of the Frontier Epic.
To open the roads to dreams of new beginnings
In a place where Men’s spirit alone can create
Everything he needs to be whole. Here in
The Wild Yonder…where he mends walls with Frost.

A stone’s turn
To William’s rigid
A new rhythm
With Jazz
And a desire
To vanquish
And strip
The poetic
Vocal chord
To its
Truth that
Documents but
Leaves the
The point—
Perhaps in
This dis-
song without
It’s own desires —

2020 American Place Ars Poetica Poems

Ink Think

The only one
who thinks in poetry
is seemingly me.


Perhaps it’s you
who thinks
in broken lines,
metaphors and ink.

But to the rest
I must plainly digress
into lyric rust

For on the shelf
These prisoners ||\|||\
must sit
until they’re unhinged \_/

Or read aloud
to a half-listening crowd

2020 American Place Ars Poetica Poems

WCW (Metercratic Oath)

Got it right, got it right
Doctor Williams
Got it right

The trick is in the meter
solid rhythm, perfect beat
Well balanced measure
Pluck the string elegan’ly

Don’t forget the tercet
A quatrain will suffice

Just keep it in just meter
Or the critics will complain
That you have made no mastery
Of that which Williams claimed

Yet me I like my brevity
And dabble in vain rhymes
But The meter,
O the meter
I will take
do no harm.

2019 Ars Poetica Footnotes Poems Why

Poetry is dead?

I don’t
Want to practice
A dead art.

But you are practicing it
So how can it be dead?

Gone from the memory
Of the people. Lost
Are the words to them.
Confused by broken
Syntax and boiled down
Meanings. Un-reflected
Lives don’t contemplate
Their own depravity in
The face of those surrounding them.
Not enough words for
Comprehension available.

A failing of the Academies?

Lost to glowing gods
That speak of everything
And say nothing. No food
Left for the spirit of inquiry
Lost focus of the digitized mind.

Alas, poetry is dead unless we can resuscitate the culture.

Ars Philosophica Ars Poetica


Criticism in 2019 is bordering on cruel often seeking to dismantle credibility in the eye of the beholder.

Critical (Analysis) Critiqué (Peer review)

The critic (Siskel and Ebert) is very usually the failed artist. One who knows enough about a form from their own experiments, but orient towards the analysis of said art. I am not saying that I am not open to criticism. Though I prefer to wield it against myself and to question my heroes. I myself a degreed and proper student of literature with an expensive education in letters that is only useful now that I have made a living doing other things. Analysis is perhaps a better word these days. Not so rife with the darkness, our sardonic state of dialogue.

The art of poetry has been dissected, de-constructed, rebuilt, reconstituted, regurgitated, fight over it and derided as unacceptable. I doubt
I offer anything new to its discussion, but I am very interested that poetry not go the way of Latin. I don’t want to practice a dead art.