Shutterfly.com
 
dust + i am not i
poetry by olly bryan
published 15 september 2008
originally published by retort magazine
 
verse live | volume 1 number 7
 
"Poetry is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great and feeling souls." -Voltaire
 
published since April 2007 | Verse Live centers on the publication of new poetry.
 
 
GMB Chomichuk (eMailWeb site MySpace page) is a writer, artist, and founder of Alchemical Press, in Winnipeg, Manitoba (Western Canada). He is a proponent of illustrated, sequential, novel-length stories that are equal parts prose and picture. Current creative endeavors include: working as art director on two feature film projects with Absurd Machine Films, CD design and art direction with the band Tele, and writing/illustrating two novel-length projects for Alchemical Press. GMB has been part of the TBA staff since May 2007.
 
 
 

 
 
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dust
 
 

when you think to the depths
you reduce yourself to zero
and the world comes with you
anything is possible
and nothing is granted
which is why my friend
i am not anti war
or pro war
political or unengaged
left or right
strong or weak
i am poised in my unknowingness
i am the dust in the
core of the compass.

 
 
i am not i
 
 

i am not i
i am an incumbent of emptiness
i am all dead poets reincarnated
 
i will not name you
with admiration
micheline
baudelaire
rimbaud
you will not resonate within me
i am free of you
 
i clang
in my vessel
i chant
to my respected disease
 
i am all poets
soaked and drawn out
sunken and elevated
disgraced and damned
bulbous and glowing
 
i am stuck in my locality
i am stuck in my confessional mode
i am stuck in my ragged mangled prose
i am free
i am just guilty and ashamed
of my freedom
as i must be damned or loved
revered and endorsed
to be a real poet
 
i am all before me
your arguments and discrepancies
i am not i
i am my own speech

i am guided by pedants
of paperback life
but i embrace street seraphs
without schooled ideas
but gob-induced
pavement know how
and sore eyes
from night till dawn jaunts
 
i am a conglomeration
of past senses
without sense of place
i am a trouncer
of the prescribed mind
i am replacing it
for one less foreign to mine
 
i will not love you
micheline
baudelaire
rimbaud
as your words
are your reality pies
but less captivating
than the kitchens
where you cooked them
and the matches you used
to spark your fires
 
i am a cauldron
of cerebral sickness
 
i am a cauldron of i
i am nothing
i am not i.

 

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