See There, Where My Finger Points

By Doug Kuony

See There, Where My Finger Points is a collection of selected poems by writer, artist and musician Doug Kuony. Written mostly in free verse, See There, Where My Finger Points is a reflection on modern perceptions written in Kuony's unique, visual, humorous style.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Kuony
• Release date: Jan 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370414796

Doug Kuony

Doug Kuony is an American multimedia artist, poet, writer, photographer and musician.

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See There, Where My Finger Points

Selected Poems

By Doug Kuony

Copyright 2015 Doug Kuony

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table Of Contents

See There, Where My Finger Points

Old ‘55

Weeds

Still Life

Go Missing

Black Fedoras

Saint Elmo

I Don’t Have To Go Out

Orders

The TV In The Corner

Giant

A Restatement Of The Obvious

Street

Available Space

Going Places

We All Have Something To Hide

Night

Mirror

Men Of Quality

Of

I Care

Spanish Ribbon

Touch

Chinese Handcuffs

Consider

Darkness

Bones

The Sea

Along The Road

The Bridge

At Seven

Paris 1950

Ugly

Believe

Autumn

Voodoo Tacos

November

Two Acquaintances

I Am Nervous

Raised Against Another Day

Jordan

Death Poem

The Stones

A Young Man, Like Myself

The Inexpressible

Beatty Has A Tweezer

Village Idiot

Tree Top Flight

4:45

Halloween

Critical Thought

Walk Away

Selected Poems

Weegee

Sing

Shoot To Kill

The Hurdy-Gurdy Man

A Moment

The Children

Sister Aimee

Death Poem 2

Time

Where The Days Go

See There, Where My Finger Points

See there, where my finger point

Beyond the knuckle, nail and tip

See there, where my finger points

Along an imagined line of sight

And out across an open space

See there, where my finger points

See the elbow, wrist and thumb

See the folds of contoured cloth

Along the forearm sleeve

Along the cuff

See the line of my intent

Floating freely in the sky

Of silver, gold in cobalt night

Reflected glory

Like the mind

See there, where my finger points

The indicator, turnstile sign

The harbinger of what you seek

The signpost waving in the wind

Still, paling by comparison

See there, where my finger points

And differentiate between the two

Between the object point of my attention,

The reference for your observation

And the object I’m referring to

Observe the subtlest distinctions

Between the indicating

And indicated

See there, where my finger points

The finger pointing is not the moon

Old ‘55

Pablo holds the doll’s head

The eyes long gone

Crusted with dirt and sand

And a crop of rotten hair on top

It’s a find to be sure

A treasure of a moment

Already past

The future is still uncertain

But predictable

People moving in from far away

Families

Some singles

All strangers

And each has a mailbox

Set among the others

In rows, two high

Like birds along a wire

Almost as far as the eye can see

It’s Sunday in summer

The new arrivals stand in the sand

Beneath the palms

And look distracted for a snapshot

Their pale skin will burn red tomorrow

The locals have long taken the best spots

In the shade around the roots of the live oaks

Talking in whispers about developments

Beyond their control

And pass the time languidly

Waving the flies from their eyes

While the children lay shards

Of shell and broken pottery

In mounds by the highway

Three in a row

Simply for expression’s sake

Today the shade is the most precious commodity

The women stand with their babies

Wrapped in loose cotton unbuttoned at the belly

And dream

On the streets of Detroit you can

Escape