POEMS FROM THE TYPER
by Tom Miller
Courtesy of the Reinhard Palovcik
FREDInk Archives - Gainesville, FL
entropy
if i have given up on form
it is because the universe is moving
molecule by molecule
to a state of disorder
it seems more meaningful to me
to begin formless
allow words to come into being
reaching a perfect singular point
the big un-bang
bringing extinction to life
rousing death backward in its bed
into the dream order
ink retreating from page
clean white infinite potential
that used to be a tree, that used to be
a seed, that used to be an idea
somebody or something or nothing once had.
*
nice soft kiss
“i love you,” i said
as i thought about ramming my kielbasa
into her pink taco and gooping up the works
with my personal sour cream.
“i love you too,” she replied
as she dreamed about putting one drop of
superglue on my urethra while I sleep and
lopping my junk off with a rusty saw.
we had a nice soft kiss and continued
staring into each other’s eyes.
*
looking into the eyes
of my typewriter
those worn old eyes
which have seen the same things i have
eyes which have poetically interpreted
the spectacle of it all
eyes that
they are pleading in a way
for some action or some peace
the between times, useless in the case
not such a wonder
sticky marks of blood and wine
like scars telling the story
that everything really did happen,
if in doubt, read the page
that everything could come from 39 keys
and a big bar at the bottom—when you depress it
the result is space
cosmic, the universe in those eyes
those typewriter eyes that
those eyes that
eyes that
know.
*
two
restrictions like
this two
words per
line poem
serve only
to allow
for the
breaking of the rules.
*
two years after you left me
i sit drinking wine
looking at you across the table
as if you are there
i say, “what would you like to do today?”
there is no reply
it is exactly like when we were together
only now, you are easier to get along with
and the sex is better.
*
i got a pass
why did i get a pass?
i wasn’t a good guy
i was downright mean and nasty
didn’t treat my parents right
lied to friends, stole and cheated
screamed at the audience
then the parents died
the friends died too, one by one
and the audience stopped coming to the show
they also probably died
i’m past 40, counting down now
alone at the typer
thinking about those people
those wonderfully nice people
and then i realize
i didn’t get a pass
they did and went to the good place
as i sit here in writing in hell
for quite some time longer
*
i type a thing
writer
typing a thing then what kind of a writer
making a thing out of it were you thinking you were
anyway?
don’t write about writing,
the poets say, i type a thing
the ones who don’t write about writing i write it
i wrote it
and that’s
I give them my take: the whole fucking point of the matter
don’t write, i say.
don’t write. it’s writing what’s
been written again and again by better it’s me who
wrote this
i tell them, this is the law
write my ass. write my balls. the law of the writer
who gives a shit about your writing? who wrote the thing
if you won’t write a poem
about writing a poem, you always write the writer
what kind of writer are you? into the poem and the
poem as written was about
what are you good for? nothing but poetry.
writing about other stuff, i guess
writing about your dumb dreams don’t deny yourself
in a poem
who gives a shit
about your dreams but you? or you were never a writer
and if you can’t write about at all.
writing your dreams?
what the fuck can you write about?
all you can write is NOT dreaming -miller-
stuff, stuff you did and
what happened after.
if that isn’t writing about writing…
by Tom Miller
Courtesy of the Reinhard Palovcik
FREDInk Archives - Gainesville, FL
entropy
if i have given up on form
it is because the universe is moving
molecule by molecule
to a state of disorder
it seems more meaningful to me
to begin formless
allow words to come into being
reaching a perfect singular point
the big un-bang
bringing extinction to life
rousing death backward in its bed
into the dream order
ink retreating from page
clean white infinite potential
that used to be a tree, that used to be
a seed, that used to be an idea
somebody or something or nothing once had.
*
nice soft kiss
“i love you,” i said
as i thought about ramming my kielbasa
into her pink taco and gooping up the works
with my personal sour cream.
“i love you too,” she replied
as she dreamed about putting one drop of
superglue on my urethra while I sleep and
lopping my junk off with a rusty saw.
we had a nice soft kiss and continued
staring into each other’s eyes.
*
looking into the eyes
of my typewriter
those worn old eyes
which have seen the same things i have
eyes which have poetically interpreted
the spectacle of it all
eyes that
they are pleading in a way
for some action or some peace
the between times, useless in the case
not such a wonder
sticky marks of blood and wine
like scars telling the story
that everything really did happen,
if in doubt, read the page
that everything could come from 39 keys
and a big bar at the bottom—when you depress it
the result is space
cosmic, the universe in those eyes
those typewriter eyes that
those eyes that
eyes that
know.
*
two
restrictions like
this two
words per
line poem
serve only
to allow
for the
breaking of the rules.
*
two years after you left me
i sit drinking wine
looking at you across the table
as if you are there
i say, “what would you like to do today?”
there is no reply
it is exactly like when we were together
only now, you are easier to get along with
and the sex is better.
*
i got a pass
why did i get a pass?
i wasn’t a good guy
i was downright mean and nasty
didn’t treat my parents right
lied to friends, stole and cheated
screamed at the audience
then the parents died
the friends died too, one by one
and the audience stopped coming to the show
they also probably died
i’m past 40, counting down now
alone at the typer
thinking about those people
those wonderfully nice people
and then i realize
i didn’t get a pass
they did and went to the good place
as i sit here in writing in hell
for quite some time longer
*
i type a thing
writer
typing a thing then what kind of a writer
making a thing out of it were you thinking you were
anyway?
don’t write about writing,
the poets say, i type a thing
the ones who don’t write about writing i write it
i wrote it
and that’s
I give them my take: the whole fucking point of the matter
don’t write, i say.
don’t write. it’s writing what’s
been written again and again by better it’s me who
wrote this
i tell them, this is the law
write my ass. write my balls. the law of the writer
who gives a shit about your writing? who wrote the thing
if you won’t write a poem
about writing a poem, you always write the writer
what kind of writer are you? into the poem and the
poem as written was about
what are you good for? nothing but poetry.
writing about other stuff, i guess
writing about your dumb dreams don’t deny yourself
in a poem
who gives a shit
about your dreams but you? or you were never a writer
and if you can’t write about at all.
writing your dreams?
what the fuck can you write about?
all you can write is NOT dreaming -miller-
stuff, stuff you did and
what happened after.
if that isn’t writing about writing…
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