Text and Digital Image ©2015 Michael Dickel; a journal sits beneath a book of poems, the glass table top transparent as words are not—beyond, a desert, mountains, war dividing them all. And you ask for free poems, for my book, this land bleeding in its pages, children slain for ideas in exchange for coins that you would not give for this transparent poetry that hides everything and reveals nothing that you want to see—no, the flowers here are not offered for free— you must give your life to it, you must give your life for it—you must live and die in itpoems

My free poetry book (a poem)

This is my free poetry book
                                for those who ask…

So many things to say
so many bargain books,
books online, bookshops
turning into used books,
book store-chic nostalgia
as the textbooks turn
electronic, old books
burn to heat the house.

And no one wants to buy books
anymore, so many free books—
a book free of thought
free for all, English poems
in demand among poems
of love, poetry for kids,
a poetry book less desirable
unless it’s a free book.

Poetry out loud only a
YouTube search away,
poetry book publishers
self-interested producers
of self-publisher havens.
Yes, I, too, published
myself, songs, words
of myself or not.

Social media poetry, now forms
the foundation of the poetry
python code,  and poisons
poetry-sale fashion—
those poetry clothes
more wanted than
another book of poems.

Poetry journals for sale
on the internet arrive
in email, another poetry
sale item, sales statistics
of rare poetry antique
images of zeros and
ones, sad poetry in those
Poetry, Texas, homes
selling real estate poems

while words rest
in the bedrooms
on tables—piles of
Dante and Morrison,
Creeley and Bishop,
Lennon and Sexton
writhing on the floor

while old poetry book
sales, those free books,
fuel a fire hotter than
what we will ever know,
more intense than what
we will ever feel. It is this
that changes and doesn’t
change everything and
nothing all of the time.

This is the real business
of poetry, the free poetry
of business mere gold dust.

Text and Digital Image ©2015 Michael Dickel; a journal sits beneath a book of poems, the glass table top transparent as words are not—beyond, a desert, mountains, war dividing them all. And you ask for free poems, for my book, this land bleeding in its pages, children slain for ideas in exchange for coins that you would not give for this transparent poetry that hides everything and reveals nothing that you want to see—no, the flowers here are not offered for free— you must give your life to it, you must give your life for it—you must live and die in it

Free poetry—transparency
Text and Digital Image ©2015 Michael Dickel

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