K Michau More Texts

K T Michau

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STARING AT THE SUN

That disk up there, it keeps insisting

I give up, as I fall farther with every step.
The brilliance grows within the passion it demands,
still moving away faster than I can pursue.
A nasty game.

It must take a lot of pain
to widen that slit it comes through
each morning, up through the blocks and organs
of this existence. And often I get lost,

but still sometimes awaken in an upward draft,
in a lift I call the soul, sparks and flares
blazing away from within like the consummation
of an undevised perfection which must be called

miraculous. Yet always busy tearing itself to pieces
as it slides into the pit of being taken for granted.
I study it like a child at play, as if knowing
how it works might be what makes it work.

WHAT I'M DOING HERE

I called because I thought things might change.
This call is do or die.

What I don't want is to be dumped again after so much effort.
And don't call me a victim because nothing can happen after that.
I have my pride but life is rough.

Now I want to speak in defense of something.
Only when you are me.
Thoughts can bury you before your time.
Some intent is always lost in the translation.
But at least I tried.

VALENTINES DAY 1996

You in your box
dream of packages delivered
from different directions

while disease pursues.
You don't like you.
So things have become

frozen
by all the revolutions.
No dances away from the posse

coming to kill you...

SOMETHING

A man with no senses
Sits by a stream
Under a willow
In the road

Something is rushing
Something is brushing
Surely
Something is something

Something is something

After a time
A white no one comes
And takes him away

He is you and
He is here

WINNING TO LEARN

We consider the future because we're vulnerable.
It has nothing to do with how we dress.
We want to be different.
But have nothing new.

The mirrors still survive.
Dead in the halls of memory.
It makes us need it with it.
The monster that never tires and the fighter that never tries.

So have an apple and turn to love.
There's a stiffness in the growth of things.
A pall rises and suddenly checkmate.
How many ways can this happen?

Every face is a question.
The answers sternly regarding.
"I didn't want you to know I was asking."
Damn prophets and profiteers.

MUSICAL CHESS

Many ways to sing.
Many ways to silence.
Many would give up the ghost

for a song
invisible to all
but the listener.

Something new
far in the future
is the wrong idea.

Required
is a small amount
of ingenuity.

FOR AN OCCASION

You, the blind one, walk into a crowd of unknown people gathered together for the barest wisp of a common cause with your arms outstretched, smiling to be nice, ready to take them all on (as someone told you to do). And they are clustered in groups, facing away, happy with each other as you hope they can be with you.

Now why pretend they care? They toss their full glasses to the ground and the wave washes over you like in the movie that this is, with you wanting to ask the one special person the question you have been hoarding until now, but not just yet, implying that communication is at best a failure, that this ordering may not tell anyone anything anymore, that it is a sell to the naive who still wish to befit the common graces of show-and-tell in such a way that they end up handing out pieces of themselves.

Being like the politician who speaks in a way that can be understood at the expense of what one means to say can no more be a way to get things done.

THREE SHORT POEMS

The infant was thrown in the air and shot like a dove.

A long time passes, or some things take a long time.

All opinions expressed are not necessarily purely coincidental.