April 19, 2017

braving rebirth chronology : a tawdry-tawny suckling madness ...................................................................... NaPoWriMo2017 #20

what do we want do we know maybe no 
we may be blessed 
but yes, whatever it is, 
please be just out of reach 
we preach every breach you know 
because we always want now to be it, so ...

what I feel the Earth is doing is rebuking our authority 
we either feel it or perish or at least punch holes in our soul 
so all the observable cats 
and spaces the electrons went 
in our snow globes, disappear  
the soul as unstoppable seems an idea 
like the Martian atmosphere 
there then not 
there then not 
there then not ...

JEdgarHoover P Resident 
forever shady huck 
stirred from other side 
Welsh fae in cahoots with old roots 
hagstones knead any demons afoot, 
especially those that be hearth hangers 
the kind of soot covering the Sun 
if ye let them, mischief makers 
they like to hear what we think when 
sack cloth is thrown over daylight 
they find us entertaining, despite ourselves ... 

vignette wavered accordion measures 
aka how pieces of me wander off

ghost jaw harp choralists talk drumming 
desert sand quartering wind, 
thoughts of thirsty willows 
bogs too, with cattails 
and wood ducks 
in an ever Spring 
turning towards Summer 
they sing cicada 
in cycle uterus here, 
an always dreamed of place 
or otherwise thought paradise too ...

the taste of witch 
is where 
rivers run skin 
treed to bleeding 
till and sword o'er 
covering the hollowed halls 
hallowed bones once ago,  we are 
facets, branches, herbs, clays and metals, 
the kettle rain again, we are gear clocking eons 
and I have only begun to listen ... 
to myself and to all the coins 
in the fountains, voices calling mountains ... 

the Goddess laces pace-breaths with why we clutch at things 
desperate to feel something real, outside our own desires ... 

scene cuts to my phone booth 
tooth brushing up on ancient copper mines 
here, where I call myself stilled, catching my breath 
always pursuing the poem, in what's left 
of the brave new world ... 


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