delete my previous
a posthumous collaboration
of poems constructed by john mingay
from email conversations with ed baker
i.m. ed baker (1941-2016)
ed was an outsider artist and early contributor to the vispo school of poetry
he was a native of the district of columbia usa
a comprehensive selection of his work can be found at
http://edbaker.maikosoft.com/
contents
a different kettle of fish
kink-a-dead-horse
a fugato (of sorts)
smoke signals
like it seems
always been so
purely being just here
seems like god is dead
in hell as here
blatherings
counterpoint
it’s like that
dust mote
prune juice
madman in the snow
same name now
butter in the tea
of those things
if all there is
flat forms
bull-shit and roses
what age is
boxes
kick a dead horsing
a different kettle of fish
just what is
about me
is not what is
not about me
however
I still don’t know
but it is not about me
because
what became
was what didn’t
some sort of knee jerk
but not quite
not black & white
a different kettle of fish
kink-a-dead-horse
what she has in mind
is a music of sorts
to cut all of this out
sounds
to kink-a-dead-horse with
as it is passed around
a blown language
you like already
but that she might
have held on to
for a while
as if more and more
of less and less
this here and now
later found in hell
a fugato (of sorts)
sounds in mind
in some other-wise way
found
a fugato
that might be
all and is
as was and wonder
at the voyage
you are on
now the first
thought struck
has no pieces left
smoke signals
and
maybe
maybe
if any of them
connect with me
send me
smoke signals
and junk
send me
a real crock-of-crap
in trying
to give the most of it
away
maybe
just
maybe
time will
put everything back
in that one same place
that driving-me-up-the-wall
hell of a place
an abstraction
of these countless seconds been
so far
so long here now
like it seems
nothing
is perfect
it seems
and
nothing
looks like
it seems
so
out there
to that
you must
add space
as if one
of the few
things yet
functioning
that is older
than you
older than
this world
found
along the way
always been so
I miss
the ubiquitous
beyond the usual
those things done
and things gleaned
things now to remember
of a divergence
that had always been so
as if a final edition
a long-neglected version
of myself
purely being just here
you said we could throw
another poem
at the human predicament
then abstract
all the suffering et ceteras
and move along
off into the day
through a rising sun
and mirror-grey clouds
with everything
we had heard we would need
reflected in a metaphor
a kind of link to years ago
when you fucking knew
what was what
and what cute crap
the smart guys
were offering up to so few
or a sort of comfort zone
of yesterdays
but which today is this epic
this priceless display
of you & I
purely being just here
seems like god is dead
from this plinth of weeds
it seems like god is dead
only
he was never born
so can’t just die
he can’t just see
that life sucks
and then you are wrong
like a bushy old saying
said by a bushy old man
with character in his head
and age tweaking his emotions
like a tail-piece
to a red penis
or a blue snake in crayon
the same and all
off into another day
looking for sacred land
a forever to be seen
through a net of stone
in hell as here
if we dig a hole
deep enough
we’ll come out
upside down
next to a girl singing
about close friends taken
dead now
mostly
all of them
doing the same things
in hell as here
just as here
just as we
for the most part
have found
that very same rut
and lived it
upside down
next in line
blatherings
in the midst
of much
that isn’t an opening
to anything adequate
the entire mess
of blatherings
goes on
and on
as if the alternative
would be here
in speaking of the points
the paint-throwers
seem about to hang out
across the street
from post to post
looking as safe
as a paper crush painting
and doing it all
as a this and that
a that and this
they think they may
just enjoy
counterpoint
not knowing
never stopped you
digging out
the stone
the rock
the lower left quadrant
of things
running through your mind
as a landscape
of words
of poems
that will never be
of counterpoint
to the not knowing
as if
a breath of fresh air
at last
it’s like that
the window
& her thing
this stone girl
in her garden
moving
last year’s pieces
of pip-pip and page
because it’s like that
with you
peeking in
on what must be
but be as most
somehow can
among all this crap
this
talking
talking
talking
comments
on comments
that don’t feel right
that you can’t figure out
that her words
can add so little to
however sure you thin
any girl of stone can be
dust mote
not much
but what is
what is now
if this not sure
is what you like
what you pegged
as full of fraud
and entrenched in habit
and hanging here
in the dust
like a mote
that seems to you
to communicate
something of mystery
or not
this not sure
as if otherwise
so to do
and continue on
no visitors
no friends
dropped
just like
everything else
prune juice
just about
everything else
is otherwise
but you
get around this
by exchanging
the days
for months
the prune juice
for poetry
and
the here for now
madman in the snow
you look
and like
what must be
yearned for
as something fleeting
something of wonder
you can watch
and hope forever
that what you are
is more than just
lines in pieces
newest done
more than just
an open gate
more than just
a madman
walking in the snow
same name now
for the same
name now
which you haven’t
replied to
there are sounds
I can figure
and press
to my body
each like
a priceless
translation
of what
in the dark
you are calling
the losses of fame
butter in the tea
even before
first found
you saw
the relevant
versus the new
as being
as fundamental
as culture
replacing nature
in this non-stop
modern hell
this time
as it is
as you see it
even now
little more
than old hat
worth just enough
to have
the morning yet
put a tad of butter
in the tea
of those things
disconnected
from the futures
you made
so much of
a day or so ago
as if
probably just
one of those things
now you
try to be
the first to copy
what is heard
of the morning sent
if all there is
that things
are becoming
more and more
surreal
as you grow older
is a test
to see
if all there is
comes back
or if this
is the truth
revealed
a narrative
that sells
illusion
to connect with
that sells
an idea
a feeling
already bought
in an attempt
to say
what is written
in a syntax
that never seems
to hang well
in time
flat forms
you have all that is then
and now and goes
without using either
snake or moon
to set the poetry
you wanted to picture
dancing in front of
those long-legged
flat forms that
for you
a well watched weather
had usually revealed
bull-shit and roses
yet then again
just about everything
is new to you
but with not much
to call authentic
not much
to appeal to
the egos of old friends
each trying
to be original
in a life
of bull-shit and roses
all so fucking serious
all little more
than meaningless pages
abandoned
in in-the-pipe-line books
for later
as if
it all
goes by
so fast
as not to be
not to last
not to stay
the present
too much like
those few
assemblings
you find
on your way
back to here again
what age is
you get
around
to asking
but seem
bored
by it all
by everything
that might just
be something
by everyone’s
own take
on what age is
boxes
not
furtherwise
not
insisting
before
letting it go
black
boxes
gone
blocked
right main
in on out
but you
don’t remember
any of it
you
don’t remember
telling them
anything
of two in the head
and at least
one in the heart
your
lesson
learned
in your
own mind
fixed
kick a dead horsing
be sure to look into it
before your sight goes
was what you had heard
but not me
rather
be sure to be gone
before it is too late
gone as if to suppose
you’ve maybe never been
© john mingay 2016