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 
simulation algorithms 
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 ...



EJR ©