Retrospection pains us.

Those old posts… oof. Yet, I still stand by (most of) the poems. New content unlikely but possible.

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I’m singing… away from the rain

Recipe for sad day

Cold hues
rainy days
jazz… hasn’t been invented yet
but booze! is a true blue pal
and some say—this is where I wink—
tequila’s the bluest of blues:
takes the salt from your wounds
tells your lemons what for
makes the tragedy float swimmingly
away~~ memory
fading, was it always orange?

 

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topical so long as capitalism

Neighbor can you spare some grass?

Neighbor can you spare some grass?
The park’s bein’ flipped
upturned
Industrial to City Hall
they only want the kind of green you can’t walk
without clubbing (and being) one of the boys

Neighbor can you spare some grass?

 

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Easily Preventable

Muddy waters

Life-giver, breath-taker
intimately pushing away with your kiss
a flurry in midsummer’s night falls gentle,
soft and wet upon my sides, all sides
equal in caress and yet, why drifting apart in simultaneity
unless, O, we are not pure, no longer
innocent in romps and salad days,
but dark and sifting light as though it matters
our little action, a sieve to filter the ocean
really a blanket to shelter us, a guide
of color born to point away from death although
the horizon has long ceased
its pretense of slimness, now the true blanket manifest
enveloping ourselves—within each other—
flow now all to one, one singular, one singularity, one
point of many points eroding and replacing, infinitely with itself
again
again
and over
over you, arms no longer twined but stitched apart and as we are a (w)hole
I must needs follow: ‘til life do us part.

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Ghoulish colour

Element of Style

Single shade
beneath a palm tree, madder sand,
but calm and long past raging, longing passed
as but another storm
now there
now here
now over the horizon, giving way over
to dawn, a new statistic a new record scratch
into the palm. Thirteen salad days.
True, the shirt is madder yet, the slacks, yet
resignation has grown rather tight
if not around the waist then at least
around the island, no one to critique.
Perhaps a different shade to find alleviates
the pain, yet none other can I wear or see:
guess they were quite right to maroon me.

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Return of challenge, Son of Challenge

Kids those days

So splendorous their sun,
such fresh bounteous snows;
those days of yore, of wine and roses,
spent until Now did arrive:
wherefore their Now-aged gripe?
 
 
 

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Writing exercise, in form

Elegy for hp

Yours and mine, they’ve gone! Away, away, beyond the vale of ken,
of mortal ken, of knowledge yours and mine.
This withered life, do not despair its passing, for it cycles endlessly
as time does, here and ever not as we perceive, a tumbling down
to fall again atop, a peak collapsed to find itself aground,
a valley in the long run everlasting, merely here with dips and crests awash
and there, where we might see a door of one-way passage,
a portal lies in truth to start anew, a game all fresh once more and ripe for plucking.
But mourn we must regardless, as is proper, to shed a tear and gasp a word or two:
and let the dear departed know their dearness, push along with song and ounce of brew,
uplift their spirit safely to the portal, rising past the desert’s silver sand;
and now, so done, we scatter back to normal,
taking each his scheduled wind-ing route, but looking over shoulders
on the off chance, on the chance of speedrun intersecting-paths,
for life is time and both of these a circle, and a circle ever meets
upon a part.

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A poem! on my musical taste, vaguely

Plaintive Shinto Suicide Cult

Well, that’s not all I listen to
but it’s my aesthetic! Let the lovely
lucid aria
lurch you
into spiralizing ratios, golden ambrosia
slipping smooth between your lips
a note of un-life, re-life,
re-entry; the cult values renewability.
As you leave the miko presence within
finish re-internalizing
taste some beats, some licks

Take some.
Feel the anti-death vibrations good
and just
waters smoothing out discrepancies in wavelength
repossessed, your vibrancy reverbing off the charts
as you
D
r
o
p
.
Right,
onto a string section.

Class is ever in session-season-style
nary a regard to fashion, modes or guile
just saw the melody before your eyes above
the minor notes that hint, a faint and stretching
current overwhelming
grooves
into the banks
neat, neat yet neater
class I call jazzed, rolling over rock
and stone
and sense—
what’s left
are but norms
and you have those well enough.

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