the
poem is pistol whipping petal wings of creativity inside my thoughts of pyramids
when
am I here
in
the roam
in
the dark velvet
in
the loam
they
find me
they
grind me
into
powdered bones
into
concrete
and
reinforced steel
I
am a skeleton
craving
electrical stimulation
along
guided angel wires
in
the pollens of seasons
I
write, turning my birth
to
carve air
to
flights
to
dares
to
wax melted
to
falls
to
gravity’s clay hands
to
rivers shaping wombs
disguising
death
as
calling my name
among
pieces of time
I
steal
I
claim tinder and flint
I
burn the trees
back
to the grasslands
I
want everything
I
can take
I
can hold
in
each breath
in
each deep questioned why
why
war
why
famine
why
rampant population growth
without
sustainable spring form humanity
why
are the cake pan destinies
streetlight
styled shadows
that
calculate chances in neon spotlights
onto
your life expectancy
only
to sell odds with paper gold
meant
more to cajole than to inspire you
this
is marketeering at its best
at
its sharp blade held to my throat
my
soul’s thinnest membrane
dredging
and pacing close to the fine
silt
and mud of my molecular veils
finger
tapping the taut tight taught radio transmissions
the
woven skies full of chem-trail emissions
the
control arms stretching our animal hides into lives
we
are the sideways drumming
we
are madness, running around
banging
slowly from each first cry
to
every coffin draped lie
each
of us is skin over bone
each
of us is a bloom
each
of us is a door
that
leads to where
our
humanity is
between
the Sun
and the outer space
that we
have placed
our wishes on repeatedly
looking
up
to pin the night sky
where we
have always wanted
to
feel welcomed
where we know we are part
of
a greater good
this
why I pierce my flesh
with
pound metal antennae
why
my cold forged hard shells
are
fires enveloped to enclose
the
seed-podded sounds
one
heartbeat at a time makes
we
become thunder
in
questions weighted
we
utter with faith
when
hope is as dangerous
as
the plague
when
modernity challenges
the
certainty of failure
we
are spawn
we
are fawns
we
are drawn
toward
conclusions
that
look like light
we
are too many rats
in
too many cages
we
are wrapped around ourselves
on
store shelves
in
a one god argument
as
we search for grace
and
silence in the white noise
I
am chewing the wires
that
steal into the skies
I
want the desires
the
soft peddle surrenders
the
warm blind places to crawl to
I
want to eat the whispers of parted time
I
want to taste every beauty that captures me
especially
when I am not expecting it to
no
what
I write isn't poetry
it
is clever pinwheels
all
my not wanting to be understood
all
my walking through living cemeteries
all
my wanting to be written in passing
all
my playing the game past go
and
collecting two hundred dollars
knowing
the road is an open journey
to
atomic stillness and electron observation
cats
have eyes like paper lanterns
for
this purpose and only fools
assign
light as luck
any
candle lit is a ring
a
bell danced knock on wood
as
midnight might be
peering
in through windows
wanting
some meaning
and
explanations
for
why smiles hold court
when
handling the oven door
and
opening it to smell
the
warm bread
and
the cures
that
turn mankind
into
a moment
that
tastes infinity again
EJR
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