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...



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