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J. R.
PHILLIPS
PHILLIPS
THE ANTI-POET POET
J R Phillips
Mr. PHILLIPS is an angry poet. Much of his work can be viewed as
an indictment of everything from pop culture to the political
realities of a media-dominated society. Some of his more
contentious issues include public funding of the arts and the
blind allegiance to religious dogma. In this poet’s view, if people
don’t like art why should they be forced to support it with their tax
dollars? In this highly distressed economy government grants,
college poetry classes and workshops should be shut down. “Let
the cream rise to the surface” by it’s own merit and it’s inherent
salability. And as for religion the only true sense of spirituality can
only be found in the wonders of science and a greater
appreciation of the mathematical laws of the universe. "Only the
stars know the pure poetry we deny. Only the stars and the rotating
wheel we turn on. Only the stars and the mathematical moons and
flowers." --Michael Metz
J R Phillips
Mr. PHILLIPS is an angry poet. Much of his work can be viewed as
an indictment of everything from pop culture to the political
realities of a media-dominated society. Some of his more
contentious issues include public funding of the arts and the
blind allegiance to religious dogma. In this poet’s view, if people
don’t like art why should they be forced to support it with their tax
dollars? In this highly distressed economy government grants,
college poetry classes and workshops should be shut down. “Let
the cream rise to the surface” by it’s own merit and it’s inherent
salability. And as for religion the only true sense of spirituality can
only be found in the wonders of science and a greater
appreciation of the mathematical laws of the universe. "Only the
stars know the pure poetry we deny. Only the stars and the rotating
wheel we turn on. Only the stars and the mathematical moons and
flowers." --Michael Metz
BUKOWSKI
L.A. is not an eloquent town.
Is any wonder then,
The shrill, abrasive, staccato blare of the polylingual tongue
Leaves us groping for a voice
That can glean music from this polluted Babel air.
Then it’s just and good
We lay laurels on such an unlikely bloke as thee,
O gross and groty Quasimodo freak,
Charles B. or “Hank”
To your affectionate brethren?
That we shared a weakness for the “long-shot”
Sputtering and fading from the field
Approaching its final end
Will always remind me
Of those warm Sunday gatherings at the Track
With you seated next to me at the Club House bleachers,
A crumpled dog-eared Racing Form
Orphaned in your lap.