I don't write, I paint myself blind with words...diogenes herded...ignorance...gilded cages...filling up on beauty unleashed...free will's maddening fractures...eyes that need to smell to see...
March 12, 2016
what will the poems be like when nations end
will they be human struggle-ttes
trying to save itself
in prophecy leaning
doom curves and
collection cans
memories and
massaged messages
will they seek
a blunt trauma divinity with
inner rhymes for no one in particular
another stanza is
scratched on my skin
raised on relief folly cull
I guess you are supposed to go
from feeling fucked with to
fucking with feeling
is my humanity
and yours for that matter
an open source
spore dispersal
soul to bones ratio...?
shh here goes the clock
a glock cocked tock tic squeeze
organ hand to pill fob
we go burying ourselves
into a night
of remember when
running was a sure thing
sensitivity is keen ear placement and a nose
that keeps its mouth shout lets touch and sight
take all the credit, scent is happiest
paired with taste, simple immutable graceful perception
epicurean rapture is probably what we want to be
this is an I am a slurpy tale told on a hot July day
gas-n-sip go manic dream sequencer american poet
don't know shit 'cept what I did to feel like this
and how it affects those who care enough
about me or the visage I presented when asked why
I wanted inside their sanctuary...
pity and fool walked along a river
fool said I can swim upstream faster
than wind can fly
pity said no but I know
why it is you believe
what monster I made
into your story
was perfect placement
before crest
wave build up
something coveted
hoarded away
potential in the poem...
like kites in early spring
made from found fallen branches
borrowed string newspaper and paste
making them is almost as fun
as luring the air onto their bellies
now here at the end
of an end of nations poem
free range is an illusion
we've harnessed the weather
and Pandora says we no longer dress
the occasion(s) as well as we used to...
EJR ©
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