Searching for the Duende

I continue to try, and here's another attempt.

We’re not unique
although we try
with ink, piercings, clothes,
some try hats,
wanting to be like Jesus
genus idiomaticum
an event unto itself
special in the world.
The random clutch
of father’s sperm and mother’s egg
never happened before
or so we think.
Don’t look at cockroaches,
they breed the same.

Wither the Words?

It began as a dot on my earlobe. I thought it was a drop of dried blood, or a black fleck of dust and didn’t think anything about it. The next time I looked in the mirror I saw more flecks making a line out of the ear canal and down the lob, like ants following a line. The flecks were larger and more distinct. I wiped them off and looked closely and discovered the flecks were tiny letters, serif letters, smaller than agate print, but still letters, independent of page or print, and very real. I swabbed out the ear canal and tried not to think anymore about it.
As I ate breakfast I could feel them. My wife asked, “What’s that coming out of your ear?”
“Nothing,” I said, wiping the ear with my napkin. I glanced at the napkin and realized the letters had grown larger, with sans serif mixed with the serif.
Since I couldn’t go to work with letters coming out of my ear, I stuffed cotton in my ear, hoping that would soak them up.
That only worked for an hour. The tickling inside the ear drove me to distraction. I wanted to (to be continued).

Another attempt at poetry

The bear and Christ seek the same
shredding of the ego.
The bear is Christ under a different name.
(Neither has a name, Christ
means anointed, a title, Jesus
an afterterm. He should go by son to track
an unnamed father ghosted in holiness.)
To whom shall I pray for poetic help
a nameless bear, an unnamed God
when both desire the same—
to shred the ego.
I can’t cast down my own idol,
a fearing deadful sacrifice.
Death comes on Christ bear’s pawprints
hallowed claws of blooded fur and flesh.

Into the jaws of bear

Here's my latest attempt at modern poetry. Am I getting closer?

I.
On the other side of ego the bear lives.
On the other side of ego—off the cliff
that takes the step of faith to leave.
One foot presses out to egoless space,
the other foot remains, anchored and groan
into the rock, the foot and rock are one.
Ego tendrils grow up around the leg
over the arm and clutch the hand,
holding hands in strangling grip.
To get to the bear the leg must break
off the foot and chop the hand.
No step
to the bear is easy.
The hopefull bear looks up.

II.
If I break off my leg,
the lifeless, granite one,
will it grow back?
When I step to the bear
will he restore the ripped off limbs?
Or teach me to dance
a one-footed hop to the sound of one hand clapping?
Or will I bleed out minerals from the stump
proving my heart of stone pumps
dry grit of boulders
through veins and arteries of rock?
Dead volcanoes.

III.
Purple chips the rock-foot, granite ankle,
cracks the flesh, the bone, the mineral
veins running through the mountain.
Shuddering quake. Purple dissolves the rock.
Water into crevices freezes, flakes the stone
to harmless Indian artifacts, elf-bolts,
imagined battles. Fissures grow
as my cock crows the day’s betrayal.
Jesus knows no more.

IV.
Soren, Soren, take my remaining hand. Together
we step off and soar to bear’s mouth,
into the teeth, around the tongue,
blessed holy tongue of grace and truth,
a beacon light of uvula
(vulva’s phonemic sister).

V.
Light ursine entrails calls.
Blindly through the past and ever green,
the evergreen pure and lively
against the shallow brown.
Jaws of life, a road 500 long, they’re dead.
Don’t look glowering at corpses. Hang them
in heaven’s vault within the stomach lining.

VI.
Naked thighed, wetly within the bear;
Soren’s stayed in waistcoat and pantaloons behind.
Costumes of ego dissolved in sunset digestion.
Let my naked prayers be heard,
digest me, please. Skin worn off
by cilia’s work, then muscle, fat, and bone.
The bear remains.

Last night's reading at the Coop went fantastic! Susan and I had a great crowd. George was as gracious as always. I wish I hadn't been so nervous during the whole event. The next time will be easier. Thanks to everyone who attended and gave their support.
Which brings the next and completely disconnected topic. Spring break is here and I'm postponing the stack of papers to grade. I'm going to devote the time to write my own papers. Real poety. The weather is cooperating and the shed will be warm enough. I'm thankful for the time and look forward to what can be produced. All will be informed as it's delivered.