There are many tears falling
Though not many tears talk.
Like a fascist by the heels
That history forgot.
There are many,
Though not many who talk.
There are many stars falling,
Though not many stars fall.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Today is Today
It's only a whisper,
Tentative laughter,
Holding a platter,
Ask for what you want
And have.
There is no failure,
Only exposure,
And after that--fortune,
Look her in the eyes,
Feel the wind,
And know one thing, friend,
I'm a reaper,
Not a weatherman.
Tentative laughter,
Holding a platter,
Ask for what you want
And have.
There is no failure,
Only exposure,
And after that--fortune,
Look her in the eyes,
Feel the wind,
And know one thing, friend,
I'm a reaper,
Not a weatherman.
Portrait d'une Femme
A folk story This is hers too, reflect me & you
You hear Fix her own goddam shoes
This is her. Save her dog from a pit-bull
Play heart, Really this isn't the first rodeo
Strings, ooo. Necessity is the mother of everything
That's rag A head full of ideas of how things
Time live Should be, you know this is pure
or Die try Apathy transformed into empathy
Everything Her own person, move it's time to go
Don't lie. Add another town but she stays home
Ex trope Always, but this is merely a portrait
Of mine. You have to see her to know it.
She is twenty-two
With a sleeve of tattoos
Imbued with meaning.
No waiting tables
Or pulling/pouring shots,
On the road you don't look back,
Explode like fireworks into the sun,
Ninth grade education
And she holds her own against train-hoppers,
I would say her beauty is
Like a leather hide cured and crafted
A hide that was ingrateful
A deer who gave life painfully
And a leather piece that was the product of the century
The struggle then the understanding
The careful crafting of her soul,
She isn't from your world, you don't know
Or care to know a traveling girl
You must think something when you see her on the street
I can see her singing in the key of free right in front of me,
It's in her living room and I am a guest,
You see appearances often deceive,
Get it?
See?
One more look and you won't believe.
You hear Fix her own goddam shoes
This is her. Save her dog from a pit-bull
Play heart, Really this isn't the first rodeo
Strings, ooo. Necessity is the mother of everything
That's rag A head full of ideas of how things
Time live Should be, you know this is pure
or Die try Apathy transformed into empathy
Everything Her own person, move it's time to go
Don't lie. Add another town but she stays home
Ex trope Always, but this is merely a portrait
Of mine. You have to see her to know it.
She is twenty-two
With a sleeve of tattoos
Imbued with meaning.
No waiting tables
Or pulling/pouring shots,
On the road you don't look back,
Explode like fireworks into the sun,
Ninth grade education
And she holds her own against train-hoppers,
I would say her beauty is
Like a leather hide cured and crafted
A hide that was ingrateful
A deer who gave life painfully
And a leather piece that was the product of the century
The struggle then the understanding
The careful crafting of her soul,
She isn't from your world, you don't know
Or care to know a traveling girl
You must think something when you see her on the street
I can see her singing in the key of free right in front of me,
It's in her living room and I am a guest,
You see appearances often deceive,
Get it?
See?
One more look and you won't believe.
Lore
Tangled dynamics
Don't repeat adages
Live and twist it
That's everything
On tongues so plain
The truest source
The rule is love
Now live with might
Don't repeat adages
Live and twist it
That's everything
On tongues so plain
The truest source
The rule is love
Now live with might
Another
It's another
Freestyle
Void of form
I was born
With spider's legs
With wicked webs
With worried ways,
Whoa,
It's not mysterious enough, anyways,
It's too confusing
Too musing
No confetti
I've been ready
For another fool
Like you
To dupe,
Oops,
Did I slip?
Do you poop?
Anyways,
It's another day
Another move
It's dangerous
Being cool
Strange days in fascination
Fashion me
New poetic form
Noel's Anthology of Literature That's Dope
Freestyle
Void of form
I was born
With spider's legs
With wicked webs
With worried ways,
Whoa,
It's not mysterious enough, anyways,
It's too confusing
Too musing
No confetti
I've been ready
For another fool
Like you
To dupe,
Oops,
Did I slip?
Do you poop?
Anyways,
It's another day
Another move
It's dangerous
Being cool
Strange days in fascination
Fashion me
New poetic form
Noel's Anthology of Literature That's Dope
Asia Minor
Does it ever really end,
Did it ever really begin?
My sister, she told me,
With a beggar's grin,
A grim recompense
Midst a regalia of death.
The butterfly in the mist
Pressed against the page
Like a window to infinity.
The slow march abreast the waves--
To Carthage then I came.
Catharsis.
Dialect so plain,
The valley of the caterpillar
Between two sheer cliffs.
*Slow clap* pillars of either this or that
Either one.
I say Father dear,
Mother severe,
There is no sight to soothe me,
Everywhere the tide of illusion eschews me from society
As if something guiding,
Vines around my feet
And your shadow at 12:03,
Dust in your face,
Eyes watering on the barren heath
And there is no wedding ring,
And there is no reverberation,
Only prison and pain and malice in station,
The palace of waste and indiscretion.
Nothing on top but a bucket and a mop
And an illustrated book about birds.
Radiant playa of doom,
Who needs actions
When you've got words?
Antithetical
Poetics of grace
Of wax and then wane,
A polish of deepening sickness.
The deepest most blackest home,
Darkness darker and feeling alone,
If you listen to me
I can show you something:
A fallow field all surrounding,
A friend knows no fear,
A friend knows only truth
And an open ocean all around you.
Did it ever really begin?
My sister, she told me,
With a beggar's grin,
A grim recompense
Midst a regalia of death.
The butterfly in the mist
Pressed against the page
Like a window to infinity.
The slow march abreast the waves--
To Carthage then I came.
Catharsis.
Dialect so plain,
The valley of the caterpillar
Between two sheer cliffs.
*Slow clap* pillars of either this or that
Either one.
I say Father dear,
Mother severe,
There is no sight to soothe me,
Everywhere the tide of illusion eschews me from society
As if something guiding,
Vines around my feet
And your shadow at 12:03,
Dust in your face,
Eyes watering on the barren heath
And there is no wedding ring,
And there is no reverberation,
Only prison and pain and malice in station,
The palace of waste and indiscretion.
Nothing on top but a bucket and a mop
And an illustrated book about birds.
Radiant playa of doom,
Who needs actions
When you've got words?
Antithetical
Poetics of grace
Of wax and then wane,
A polish of deepening sickness.
The deepest most blackest home,
Darkness darker and feeling alone,
If you listen to me
I can show you something:
A fallow field all surrounding,
A friend knows no fear,
A friend knows only truth
And an open ocean all around you.
American Poet
So this is style...another rose emerging into the cold, petals wilted, thorns exposed. A complete inner world of contemplation mirrored distinctly in a lucid and supple prose. I'm aware of my heart on my sleeve, it makes it easier to breathe...or was that easier to bleed? By any means, please, marry each idea to it's opposite. More Amarillo rest stop and truth beside your pillow and Joyce, him too, talking of the routine. Maybe to expand upon this notion: The rest stop is in your head and truth is what Sojourner says and Joyce, he's the intellect, the deft hand applying pressure against the wind and the breath. The one who chases the ox...and the hare and you're right there again. Like the lug shaft pressed firmly against a boot, another seed I have lying in root. Oblivion in me. I'm resting in places too calm to disguise.
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