I don't write, I paint myself blind with words...diogenes herded...ignorance...gilded cages...filling up on beauty unleashed...free will's maddening fractures...eyes that need to smell to see...
April 28, 2017
suckling poems in heady scented tall rye, eye surrenders all ..................................... NaPoWriMo2017 #28
who was it decay fathom-ists broken doll faces in the pillar candles
we dreamed in lofty exhales, exchanged glances under the flicker light
why do we have so many clothes, vestibule mud room, wear stored
leather of the soul stretched over found animal skulls, you call, I call
corners and noise marked consumption waves, sin (e)lephants, doppler
their call, thunder when the grasslands burn ...
im-balancing my checking out accounts
I spend most of my time trying to find
where I fit into the matrix
is it all illusions and observable ones at that
the affix themselves up to be lamprey to lake trout
and you kow tow to know
zebra mussels are but one
kind of invader species
because any lord knows, we know
invader species, leaky roofs
those rooms with plastic over the furniture
rooms for when good company comes over
and because we never seem to be
good company anymore
those rooms are eaten
with shadowy white noise
I listen to the grace
of this social decay
sometimes I find listening
to a box fan
more interesting
then what is on TV
though I admit when stoned
everything has good story telling
especially those
ancient alien shows
especially when I am stoned
Ben and Jerry's in the freezer
tub of popcorn as my side car \
water and mandarin oranges
on the ready ...
inside this world
outside any window
of any life you care
dare or share
to remember here
the seasons race
by and bye
milk gland-ing eggs
hoops and spindles
sold straw
prospect daughters
waters we always knelt to
rains mostly, cold Spring days
edges, reins, reigns, reality
in the ugly headed rearing
back to that island near Mexico City
where an artist hung thousands of found dolls
no longer part of the joy of this world
and we live vicariously, selling narrative(s)
soul, and spirit, death becoming
old odd ambled may be(s)
tourist attractions
EJR ©
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