January 27, 2017

connective tissue enlightenment is painful ...

I am a poet manic
bipolar wicked 
they could say I sit my can 
over my light, depressed ...

oddly with weird ritual adherence 
I can surmise 
why some in Christendom
would ask me if I was Lucifer ...

I'm kidding 
it's a great way 
of deflecting delusion 
of course and 
it's a greater compliment 
to myself than most 
I employ 
as implications 
in the abstractions 
of why and me 
truth and vine 
dine on my bones now 
crow and dryad 
old oaks be calling ...

however all that aside 
I am just another 
species of lucky Eddie 
who writes poems 
to see by smell 
along the way 
in and out of bones ...

sometimes, especially alone after midnight 
I think the world has not long to be what I mean 
or need it to be ... 

I intend to live as healthy as possible 
in the meantime though 
 enjoying being  me while harming none ...

 I do not mind being wrong however ... 

but the designs seem to be 
pattern-izing desires we held for chaos 
with applied quantum mechanical lackey 
to apprentice to 
master relevance ...

an angler fish fob glow in the dark 
calls me forward, toward 
the leap abyss underground
revealing the ceiling is the floor 
and more tasty puddings 
are available when elevating 
the leaving some 
on the table 
for the next wave 
of passing through 
Gautama to Marley 
in chains 
what went wrong 
suffering to Love 
song and parcel 
post to sundown 
those towns 
where cars crept 
and windows 
shuttered shit 
to bitten bits 
of seeping through life 
in clutched after  clutched 
revelations in the dark 
about how pretty 
the Dawn is around here 
when everywhere else 
the fan sits, gets hit 
and stills ...


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