INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Solomon Musa Haruna
Michael Lee Johnson
Ann Arbor Review
is an independent
International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2020
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
note: in print 1967 - 1980. Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.
As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 53 years all together....
Silver Grey Fox
evening is a red light
The GPS is taking a stroll down Wall Street
Ideologues are my witnesses...
The occupy movement that arrested the sun
In New Jersey
Robin Hood tax, anti corruption fight
Who exactly put them in the 99 percent!
Statistics don't lie, they just don't exist
That's how Sartre made away with No Exit
Statement that has no foot in facts
Figures that never existed
The world is its own deceiver
I am catching my fun under the olive tree
reading an entry by CRD in 1001 ideas
That changed the way we think
It's the fiftieth entry I'm reading under this tree
It's between morning and afternoon
Tomorrow I will still read
And I will still know nothing
Because they say the universe is expanding
So I must run to catch up with it
I was born only when the universe had forgotten its starting point
I must now be the one to beat it in it's race against itself
And also put a leg and nose in it's place of departure.
The general craze of labs.
I am still under the olive tree
It's not that I will not eat breakfast
But I must catch the wing of the universe
And thrust over it's nose
The winds will fill my blood veins
space we must all swim through
But my ship is pages of books
With letters and, well, pictorials
That are fine picturesques of my credulous imagination
Albert Einstein, George Lamaiter, Edwin Hubble
How they leave me with this delusion of knowledge
I cannot unravel
must make myself assume my belief
My head can not be empty
The beauty of grey matter is those things
We pack in it and boast about
---nail a screw or fly like bubbles
I will define my world yet in what is sensible
Mathematics, geometry, philosophy and mystery
Once they chime with the wellness of peoples.
Even then, I get to see, again and again
That everything begins in code
Everything moves in code
Everything ends in code
poem was born by a cracker
Who unlocked the secret of a dead muse
God is dead, Nietzsche said, but
I say muse is dead
I am the age of a writer who inhabits himself
A demigod that turns urine to wine
will know these things when they happen to them
A pretty little baby amputated my soul one night
And Scholarship was hatched
It is a code. I am a poet
I have no muse.
I am an astronaut