September 14, 2016
ascertaining factuality when trusting hunch serves surrender the power to win a war of covet, crave and colloquial
and I sat cross criss sauce apple but later amended myself for the purpose of this introductory part of the poem to saying indian legged and listened to the flute music of a master in middle asia outside the little river city that once stood filthy hands pouring in commodity into manufactured goodies good goods with all the kinds of neighborhoods one have propped up and able to withstand successive generations of boom bust cycle and repeat with less intensity each time there became less and less clear ambitions for imperial war time salvations ...
I hear boxes and air brake releases
from the post office two building down
I'm in a building where sound billows
in carom and crash over the brick stone
and concrete along this nearly treeless
part of 4th Street ...
the I am brigade-ists came parading with lists
into town recently with their fair share of lair
and lure and we all went down to where
their wares wear upon the eyes and pockets ...
it wasn't as if we intended
to part with our gold
outside our charms and charity ...
art is raspy we heard it
it is where the soul takes root
without having expression
to guide expression
we the observers
of the observer express
in order to assimilate
how what is feeling beyond
security comfort and new shoes ...
the poem ended
dead man walking
gentle soul still
surfing the sofas
one poet will
wash with this
brand new loofah ...