Editor’s Note:  The gremlins are hard at work behind the scenes preparing the July issue of The BeZine – to be published on the fifteenth.  Meanwhile we present a poem by Michael Dickel, for your Sunday reading pleasure.  

Michael Dickel shared poetry from his newly published chapbook, War Surrounds Us (Is A Rose Press), in the last two issues of The BeZineWe welcome Michael today as a new member of our core team.

This is not a poem

(cubist poem in entangled form)

Fake Sunset Music Digital art ©2015 Michael Dickel Fake Sunset Music
Digital art ©2015 Michael Dickel

i

This is not a poem; it’s a fake.
Someone else’s words, images, metaphors
creeping on cat’s feet into my mind,
clawing their way to the top of my consciousness
as though they were mine, mined
from some experience unique at once,
universal twice, useless thrice.
This is not a poem. It is a fake:

a book of chords, some sketch of the words,
a chorus. Fake the melody, fake the rhythm
fake the music of sensory language
abstracted to censor sexual pleasure
of the mind. Or something like that.
Or nothing like that. Or nothing.

Fake spring flower sunset Digital art ©2015 Michael Dickel Fake Sunset Flower
Digital art ©2015 Michael Dickel

ii

This someone: creeping, clawing as though from a universal.
This—a book, a chorus, fake, abstracted of the mind or nothing—
is not, else is, on cat’s feet, their way. They were mine, some experience
twice useless, not a poem of chords. Fake, the music to censor or something like that.
It’s a fake: words into my mind, to the top, mined, unique. Thrice: it is a fake.
Some sketch, the melody, sensory language, sexual pleasure: like that. Or nothing.
Images of my consciousness at once sketch, fake the rhythm. Metaphors.

Fake music flower sunset Digital art ©2015 Michael Dickel Fake Sunset Flower Music
Digital art ©2015 Michael Dickel

iii

This is not a poem; it’s a fake:
A book of chords, some sketch of the words,

someone else’s words, images, metaphors,
a chorus. Fake the melody, fake the rhythm

creeping on cat’s feet into my mind,
fake the music of sensory language

clawing its way to the top of my consciousness,
abstracted to censor sexual pleasures

as though they were mine, mined
of the mind. Or something like that.

From some experience, unique at once,
or nothing like that. Or nothing.

Universal twice, useless thrice.
This is not a poem. It is a fake.


This poem originally appeared in Drash Pit, April 2013


Dust Storm Sunset Digital image ©2015 Michael Dickel Dust Storm Sunset
Photo ©2015 Michael Dickel

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