Daily Poetry & Prose

It's hard to explain without being petty but  I felt locked outside in the winter watching people at a warm fire I was unable to get the lock to work my key was old and out of place meanwhile people were parading down the staircase spilling wine on marble countertops and sighing as they plopped down to  laugh  together. I am outside anyways so I will listen carefully for the howl  of the wolf. There is a little White Fang in me. Perhaps I'm just worrying about the sled dogs happy, sloppy and well fed when I need to be out running without a harness.

What if I removed the thief in his sleep from the freedom he was keeping from the slaves and the scattered graves, dug waist deep. What if I reminded the spine on the crawling snake to stand upright and rise from the basket when the flute soared through the humid sky, deep in India. What if I presided over a jury, judge and all, with a staff and then felt myself falling  like when pulled by the undertow and was taken to the bottom of the sea What if I did not fight, to be me? The stolen glances of butterflies, scattered across the winds where he blows like a cloud waiting for me  to play air guitar and put my gums in the freezer stop yapping with clients and play. Another guy, one with a dark shock of hair said he disliked post modern poetry and I think that's what I am writing but I try to pepper in reality. I feel condescension sticking to my gums. Why not ascend, like the snake? Simply called by a sound.

The languidness lifts but not before she sneezes her knees are knocking from too much Red Bull at 2 a.m. and the puppets are out on the street again without their strings marionettes we are. Just waiting for fingers he whispered to me to stay out of trouble but I'm not some hoodlum wrapped up in cellophane

I'm done picking away at each little thing, every mark on the permanent record. I'm done reading by candlelight, it'll hurt your eyes, if you're not careful. I'm done reaching for the doorknob when it's time to go, I'm done talking to you for hours. I'm crawling out the window. See you later!

He said knowledge is like water  in a basket in a leaking basket was actually what he said a leaking basket knowledge is in a leaking basket you must pass it on pour it into another basket Another basket Yes another one If the other basket is full you can't pour the water in so keep an empty basket on hand yeah He said we all built the country together the labor and the intelligence we all built it together  there's no difference  between your life and mine He said we all built it together I told him when I was trying to be witty that he could wear a t-shirt that said "I'm with /\                  | The arrow would be pointing up Like "I'm with HIM" but it's not a he, just the 'whole of existence' that's what he would say like he's with the sky I find myself thinking he must have no time for these mortal things material things material world yet  I can't stay a tiny molecule forever

The thunderbirds are coming down from the sky torn to pieces are my churches and my schools, bent into shadows are those crying for their lives somewhere does the gypsy singer moan reaching her gnarled hands to the sky her leaves and autumn dresses have surprised us all after all we were waiting for spring. What color is a mirror? Only the colors it reflects. Likewise let our dreams not be eaten by dragons. Let's eat the dragon. Let's cry for help, a war cry a little boy. Let us never forget again. Let us be proud and bold, on horses, waiting not for the West Wind.

Navigation at the gates skating tagging true trimming ripped and wrapped the traps are winning keep down. Navy blue gas masks gagging the mitts and pins wringing the towels dry before hanging them on the line. Naval battles are not won or lost at sea they are won or lost in the minds of those who sail.

The rug has orange-rust and gold colors highlighted with cornflower blue. The patterns remind me of ancient Turkey or the Middle East. The acoustic guitar leans on the rug toward a stack of things, a broken amp, a make-up case and a camera. It leans on these things, a tower of creativity. The broken amp. The make-up case. The camera. These things make sound, make artifice, and capture life. The guitar does all these things. The rug mainly just covers the floor. Yet without its wild patterns it would just be bare wood hardly a breeding ground for creativity which requires many intricate threads to be woven together  with purpose.

Technology has officially surpassed thought. Right now the intellect of the world is a vulgar car with all cylinders rattling.