May 26, 2016

the standards and means by which poem and I measure ourselves (bad husband, bad grammar, bad attitude and the pin prick-y way I've been told I get under skin)

in this material society 
\ours is a quicksilver spill pool ... 

we have sold straw bundled mothers 

where's father  

the miller's daughter exclaims  
as her mother motions 
down to the grind house ... 

cleaving thyself true 
by pursuit 
of physical perfection 
sucks the life 
from your flesh 

the writer and traveling soul 
knows this is the universe speaking 
to stay here 
be part 
of your own 
living diorama 
while dying slowly 
occasionally blooming petal pieced  
pilfer pilloried piled works 
of go function naked 

where I am 
where are you 
what am I 
what are you 
dual dice 
four sides 
train the triangles 
to play squarely 
did you bring your monster manual cinder slut 
or is what I got to give to you 
the grotesque part of the evening 

give me a soul to grow 
and watch me
be like those sea monkeys 
from the back of the comics 
spawn of prince Namor
what in us 
dies sooner 

in the scheme 
of things we are
tiny brine
 choice easy
once offered 
 jonah rides 
calm clam digger man ...

no I didn't mean to leave this place behind so abruptly 
but I cannot survive another day at the precipice 
of my own life as a RKO newsreel of disaster after disaster 
with heroic voice-over 
this nation under god and indivisible 
is on the edge of fascism 
as an elixir for what ails you 
perhaps there is stability in that 
this nation which stands to be over run 
with zealots from every part 
of the political spectrum 
has really been a piggy b ank 
for the fat cats 
who hide their identities 
behind just causes 
and incitements of riots 
Ed elk oort cloud
the fabric theorist was right 
as we go further into a digital universe 
carving out places to find ourselves inside of 
we are craving the sense of touch more and more 
what will fit us to feel who we are 
at any given moment 
when we need to be purposed 
identified in a language 
of sorrow and joy ...

what can we weave 
into these lives we lead 
what cloth can capture 
how we reach for things 
beyond our understanding 
in order to feel 
the pretense 
of being free 

you have words at your finger tips wanting the strumming 
Mediterranean to Adriatic skin crawl old bones to soul raitos 
know the guild by ages Pliocene nanobot scene and you mean 
to have had that conversation with your daughter 
already when you go out on planning 
to save the world from itself 
by sacrificing yourself 
in the wellspring of pomegranate poison lip 
and the hip sway Jesus complex 

when magnets 
call textiles 
wheat cheese 
we are in 
the other ways 
we measure here, here 
we heard weights say
herd wane 
and you 
are divine 
to profiteers ...

we begin 
to lean liens 
upon this shit 
a soul 

some you 
that will forever 
be without words ...

for I have known 
no thing 
that attains  
a consciousness 
can be stopped 
when love 
gives birth-reign 
to its pain 
to gain 
to thirst 

we only bleed 
mostly when 
we become aware 

I dare you 
to think otherwise 
if ever lucky 
enough to 
want to be 
in love 


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