Thursday, 24 of April of 2014

Stan Wilson – Fresh Air Snoring

This outlier warrior poet has attended most all the Warrior Poet Society annual meetings. Yet he has a well earned reputation of writing poems that are (as the editors say) not biocentric enough.

Yet there he is every year at the Earth First! Round River Rendezvous’ annual Warrior Poet Society meeting and also at the annual Night to Howl poetry reading. (2009 Night to Howl recording enclosed)

And so regardless of his often lacking of a biocentric emphasis in his poetry, we still have to recognize Stan Wilson as one of the great warrior poets of our time!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

http://armedwithvisions.com/audio/Stan_Wilson_Fresh_Air_Snoring_Poem.mp3
A great Trickster Masterpiece by Stan Wilson

Trickster tendrils
Wrap around poet’s dreams
Loosening bonds & freeing
Subjectivity. All is not as it
Should be or could be
Or would be.
All is as if words
On a page, voices
Whispered deep in the
Heart then incanted
By mad persons strapped
To gurneys demanding
Not lawyers but
Parchment! It takes
A village groit to
Parade naked thru
Pacific Palisades marching
Phunky Presidio like
Calling “Presente!” as
The names of nameless
Hobo poets & schizophrenics
Word whispers are read off
over PA systems
Long ago unplugged.
There are no tributes,
There are no statues.
In America,
Life is cheap
& poetics even cheaper.
After police move
The homeless out
Who will the next
“Life-Style” criminal be?
Who will know
W/ no poets,
W/ no crazed word
Magicians,
W/ no sacred groits,
No new mythos
Can be spun &
Society b’comes
Not only less,
But less than.
America can
Crumble alone
W/ no great
Bards to tell
The tale,
To crucify the guilty,
To demand compassion,
To celebrated joy.
Poets hide disguised
As janitors &
Crack addicts.
Like truth’s
Sleeper cells
Called awake
By academia/s
Dying, crying
Jet bombs
Shake & bake
Even the tepid
To Red Hot Chili Peppers hot.
Smiles spread over
America’s wounded visage
& doom is jettisoned.
The trickster smiles,
The worm turns.
New soil is built,
a rooster crows, his hens
clucking contentedly.
Somewhere the sun sets
Over Mother Ocean
& in a Tortilla Flat,
thatched roof,
straw bale,
free verse mojo concoction,
a poet takes another
Sweet Jesus hit
Of fresh air.


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