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Motherless born,
passed among a long line
of wet nurses and nannies,
Staring and sucking at a
variety of irises & a chaos of aureoles,
he formulated an inchoate image
of a shifting face of love.

Later, to escape the claustration
of his stunted and sundered carapace,
he attempted to staunch the haunch's wound,
quelling his canablistic urge
in a feast and fury of erotic film and literature.
Apocatastasis the apotheosis of his loneliness,
diffusion of purpose his only recourse.

Fixed like a cat on the question
of in or out, or in and out, or at least
the mystery of entrances and exits.

For him, breath could be drawn
only in submersion or submission.
Fear and shame gave him gills.
He found his own ways to bury
and exhume himself.

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John T. Unger poet

I'm best known as an artist and designer. Relaxing makes me tense, so I tend to put in a lot of hours on diverse projects.

Before becoming a visual artist, I spent 15 years as a poet. I studied poetry at Interlochen Arts Academy, Naropa, Stone Circle and on the streets. I performed my work for years at Stone Circle, solo shows, poetry readings, and at Lollapalooza in 1996.

I still write poems, but only if I can make them fit the constraints ofTwitter.

Mobile: 231.584.2710 (9 to 5 PST only) | Email me

Art IS my day job

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