All poems on this page Copyright © Stephen Norman 2004 unless otherwise stated. |
">
">
">
">
witness the works of Whitley William Doss. . .my penname, my poetic alter-ego. . .this is where i've shaken hands with James Tate, E. E. Cummings, William Carlos Williams, Stephen Crane, et al, and tapped the waters of prose poetry, surrealism, beat poetry, and impressionism. . .it's sometimes fun, sometimes melodramatic, often too sappy, always me. . .i am after all above all a poet, or a writer if the former strikes as too semantically simplistic, poet again when writer flails and falls flat as formulaic and cryptic. . .i'm too alliterate for my own good, my own style sometimes silly. . .take care to enjoy and enthuse if perchance anything in any way moves you |
as long as the day seemed far away from me at times & durations i declare i'm daft. dreamy durations, this always happens when i've been up all night. after walking much farther the run of the shuttle i finally arrived at the MT Cup. not for coffee, but to hang up an ad for new roommates. i scuffled like a zombie across the street to my bank and withdrew nearly double the funds i need to cover bills. then it was back to the Cup. not for coffee, but for spiced chai. it derides the sheepish sleeplessness of the days that drag. walking to class i passed the bus. i was tempted to hop on for a few lazy laps, legs crossed arms collapsed. decidedly it was against my good, better, and best judgments. i swear as i lit my first cigarette the sun came out just to scald me. that bad pun is my prayer for good luck on my first test. i will pass the second like Sysiphus with a titanic tumbler--leaping through hoops of cold chills in ways that evoke oasis. my reverse psychology is much like feigned propriety in that i'm not even embellishing details as i narrate this song for you. i hovered over the daily news stand for hints and minutes before deciding on a firm audible, "no thank you," as if onlookers were hanging on my very hesitation. i flirted with a middle aged woman looking for another building, but i was wrong along. my first test wasn't real. it regains actuality thursday. it's good news, a shade tolerant tree, a biome in plaid pants. i saw an old friend from high school. she brought up a phase i went through that consisted of rit dye and only wearing red clothing. mostly she listened to me talk to myself for a good hour, sand dunes evaporating under outlandish perplexity. i said terribly profound things more terrible than profound like. . . "when your mere glance breaks the societal mirror maybe it's time to up the dosage and dye your hair." "Marx was such a reductionist. he needed more pussy & poetry in his life." ". . .but i don't regret anything, including the things i deny ever happened." "marlboro lights, only virgins smoke them, that's all you need to remember." she pointed out that no studied theorist was without conceit, and i felt much better about being self-absorbed. class is almost over. in the land of the blind the cyclops still has no depth perception; fuck phenomenology. i insisted on being inconspicuous when i later hung more ads. being spotted shoots down our approach toward arcanum, destroying anticipation. except for my ex-girlfriend, Joni. she never sees me when she sees me anyway. she's on the "no thank you" list. the test in jest came and the professor actually handed out answers to what we already knew. i was especially knowing, having been looking for hints all day. and so the very day went. strange. sitting i had nothing too provoking to say, but walking around meant desperately seeking safe sitting situations productive to release & production. oasis met me, but i nearly drowned. |
--a penny for your thoughts.who'd pay even that for mine, are we all merely voyeurs of our own priceless dreams? starless nights ,a question defending at all cost the passersby their sombre fascinations i've become a voyeur, please.don't want to be involved but: entropy. an observer affects the observed, multiply this ad infinitum, because all observed are also observers of others observed(/ing). perception is reality. things are only alive via circadian attention paid frugally for nothing is real .pennies we create our present,pretty/pain--blah from frag- ments of the past, misunderstandings building perpetually into nowhere (it's the synopsis of the universe) |
a poem called another poem your dad was killed by a ninja? that's wickedly, er, pondering . . . oh, your day but still, how priceless it's a bit warm in here, isn't it? well, maybe you should just stay unsure unaware to this, our sweatshirt, la vie hey, did you know that one of my legs is shorter than the other-- i mean, uh, about one hundred people die each year choking on ball point pens. totally unaware . . . oh, i can't remember which leg. how's your dog? is it hot in here, or is it just me. jesus, i'm burning up hold on, i'm going to slip out of this ninja suit but please do go on. |
medley, quite vicariously this is fabrication imagined conversation fixed for your bedazzlement the day the sky stopped breathing constructed crackpotteries roll over and tell the other half that your intentions were good but intentions are at best matured-perhaps-soured aspirations skipping about snowscapes pull your cover up, wipe your face and maybe just maybe face the cold of heart & honesty honestly, even at your most downtrodden still there are crowded cupboards cupfuls of contemplations ready or not, but maybe here we go might chance the perimeters of galaxies only infants recall and recuperate not frightening, this tag tailed tolerance will ferment a first week consolation a consortium of wicker cabinet mentalities and recuperate |
mermaids' lyric (in response to Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock") we all play the Fool a time or two, and Prince Hamlet's are few, but there's a spark of him in me and you. you never know who lingers in the gardens picking petals divining your name. maybe it's for her that you do the same. it's do or die lonely. befriend or be only a flickering flame, a passing ember that no one will remember. |
right as rain God, smiling, handed me my report card with the calm, soothing, I think you'll be pleased. . . i anxiously fumbled, unfolded it only to find that i couldn't read his hand writing. and this was pleasing. |
TheCurseThatTurnsBoysIntoGirls it all starts with an innocently drawn surrealist compliment then one finds them self mind fields later crafting longdistance letters in a haste of longing one is conducting crises in aging litter strewn about the alleys of one's failed attempts it's listless, it's defeatist it's sweet burden come unexpected without so much as knock or kneel .you realize this in the specks illuminated by morning's ugly rays through your third story apartment room window (ants crawling under your shoe) but alas you're content or deargod even intrigued |
things left unheard of i'll be holding you to your hints even after mountains have melted into the gridlines of valley lore so long sweet afterlife we bare a striking match resemblance to dwarf stars never glanced even in accident on alphabet blocks letters displaced |
twenty four carat confabulation the science fiction of challenges met, figuring out that digital embraces just don't fly it will be years in waiting and a day ahead of itself, this kiss will be a lifetime supply of post-it notes. perhaps aghast, dashing through a thicket of hyperbole puddles of goo with a poof an envious imp this kissed will be a brilliant quote without quotations that bleeds through every page of the book leaving blank, perhaps us a little re-written. |
All poems on this page Copyright © Stephen Norman 2004 unless otherwise stated. |
">
">
">
">