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