Biography of Stan Petrovich
Appearing in a mirage, I wandered the Arizona desert for forty years, always alone, always lost. The heat takes its toll on verbs, not adjectives. There are not two ways to approach dehydration; only one, the one with symbols. Petroglyphs in rock show the way to live without presumptuous glory.
Then, tired of the blistering sands, turning to my later years I longed for the sea. The green currents called. So leaving the Gila mirage-maker behind wound my way to Massachusetts, to watch the sea examine what it created, and to die.
Stan Petrovich Poems
And The Rains Came
After a 100-day drought Wringing the patience from everybody's pores, The rain finally enshrouded the concrete city; Strange hungry plants invaded odd corners,
I have lost my love of mankind, for his predominance and unstable stewardship of our inadvertently unstable planet earth; the errors that have occurred cannot be reversed: ask the polar bear, ask the space junk falling on our heads. Ask the dreary sun
The Wine Of Samadhi
This is true: In a state of meditation (Straight) I left both mind and body behind
He was a massive storm: He was never meant for the norm;
Wilson, Wickford and Dunne Were gunslingers and lawmen With a remarkable thing in common: They all had half-brothers they needed to kill.
Life Can Be
Life can be a little pat, The limp handshake of a mounebank Who steals you blind. Life can be a poisoned substance,
In search of something real: to it it is nectar; When we look for ink, paper and nomenclature; For ours is a world of representation; The bee's is a world of satisfaction.
For you, my sweet; an apple in your mind's eye; a strudle in lieu of a pie. We would, if we could,
Man's Counless Fears
i am stuck here in some kind of walled-in pit; had i legs & arms i might climb out of it.
No Peace in Suicide (1979)
Grandiose, spread-eagled, he is lofted from the window Only for his head to bond in a pool of blood -Never ming the five kids in the blowing snow- This man's last act was a thud.
Cations anions Come in strange colors Unlike fermions That are much duller
Boneless beasts Whose life is no more Than a wabble in the succulence of plankton, Far below light,
A lilting melody accompanies me Down the white-rock earthen path- Played by Pan, half man, And the air is an arc of rainbow drops,
Clouds By Number
Cloud Nine lived a life of fantasy, Barely conceding the existence of Cloud Eight, Who felt jealousy for Cloud Seven's Silver lining,
Fifty-fifty is the probability
That the cat or even we exist,
After the atom splits;
Whether the cyanide gas turns us blue or sets up a clue
Not to open the box
And observe a cat
That is not there.
There is always the chance