ezramon's profile
AGE:
58
LAST LOGIN: February 17
LAST LOGIN: February 17
Although I attended, at one time or the other, AZ State University, University of AZ, University of CA @ Santa Barbara and Stanford, I hold no degree. My poetic bent has been exclusively shaped by self-education. I have written three unpublished novels. I do have a published short story and a poem in a coffee-table book.
Too sensitive to the heat, and for a number of other factors, my wife of 23 years and I moved from Phoenix to New Bedford MA in 1999.
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i roamed the demarcation line for six long years the line that demarcated the moat from the countryside the moat was an oval fen inland i had seen it frozen i had seen it bloated with summer stench and i could never find a ford the poison slime in it lived all year long writhing thoughts into that moat i poured.... then came banging rains and floods clear water broke through, then mud in which weather i saw the way whooshing i loped that horse through so that she seemed to cross in flight! th...
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the world is more complex today than ever before-- is this view a mere reflex for justifying war? not so! because of population growth it IS more difficult combined with technology to divine the meaning of both enemies pop up like boils under skin wherever you like is where to begin understanding all this piecemeal wrath (or oil pricing in today's greedy new math) you'd be better off just signing off to avoid becoming only another hit lighting another smoke and beginning to cough requires mor...
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"For her i'd even try to turn the tide.."--Johnny Cash from the feathered decks to the breadfruit isles we suffered, i suffered and there i alighted after much ruffling and unease to a land unknown a vault of the sea the woman held me perfectly balanced--i mean perfectly right and we were rewarded with an issue a vegetable-child who cried not who teethed not but who grew handsome and sturdy promising in its wild-eyed youth to become artistically profound and feed millions its tuneful song of ...
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it will be 2012, on a surprising day, a saturday, we will glance at our watches the last tine that way; i might be waiting on laundry or walking in the woods and all the world shall peer skyward (they are here finally!) we will ponder one another and see each other the same as one another that is too simple to explain it will be 2012, then zero again...
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in the heat of a blistering affair i know not how, i know not where this chided girl and i may meet-- so bright the lamp-posts on my street but for trysts the yard is very meet and there we lie on lilies and a fragrant sheet what goes on then is not of a kinsey graph for good love to science is a good laugh and we count the stars washing our bodies bright and blue hidden frm peeping eyes and the street's mussy hue
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The obvious subject of this poem is the experience of a depressive disorder, which malady strikes millions, in particular the artistic, and therefore especially sensitive, type of individual. It tends to read prosaically in my view, and lacks much poetic expression most of the time. However, the short line breaks and simplicity redeem it from being pedestrian, and it shows emotional clarity enough to make it a worthwhile effort.
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The surprise ending is the meat of this "treatment", although it need not have been, with the cryptic "device" that needed stealing by the cult, for me, the most interesting part. Given this tidbit i would certainly want to read the remainder of the novel, which was well-written and full of good descriptive prose.
First car love! Many have had it, some have dwelled on it, like this poet. The tactile sensations were believable enough, and one could almost smell the exhaust. I was impessed by the details and the picture they painted. A strong effort with some excessive verbiage, nonetheless.
The lack of descriptive prose was a drawback here, and made a skeleton out of the story, which was of no interest to begin with. 'Guys comparing dicks' is not original in any way at all.Adding the father was a bit like some famous French incarcerated playwrite, whether you want to say de Sade or Jean Genet. It left a bad taste in my mouth.
Some of the lines in this poem were good, musical, and made sense; others were quite forced and almost impossible to interpret. I was drawn in by the first stanza, taken aback by the second, thrown into confusion at the third, and completely befuddled at the end. At best I could say this is the soul of uneven writing.
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