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
Cations anions Come in strange colors Unlike fermions That are much duller
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.
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,
Posted on March 11,2011 by pseudoprometheus
words formed before flowers–
the grumblings of thunder
the screeching lightning
eons of rain pouring
made the sonorous poetry of the earth;
bleakness of the plains defined the
sadness inherent in our thought;