Daily Poetry & Prose

Beg your beauty  beg the sky Beg your leg break the line storm cloud coming but it shall clear and the blue sky is the bright one gleaming 

Coins and pickles both turn.  They both shapeshift. A pickle cannot become a cucumber again-- but a coin can keep going back and forth as long as you like. 

The jelly in the belly of the genie shook when he laughed and asked me my wish I longed to be a free riding soul a flying fish.

One of my goals is to be more political and more informed but for now I will throw apples at trees and then shoot a gun into the glass ceiling. I will wonder about the war in Palestine and the apartheid state but not for too long because I have memes to make about how progressive I am.  My sarcasm will fall on deaf ears stuffed with ear buds and echo chambers.

Seances where ouija boards are drenched in wine and bread laughing at the savage masks we wore upon our heads Rage is paid for in advance it paves the weary road where we walk across it with regret, our steady steady load. 

They are jailing the terrorists and straining to see God among the trees They are throwing stones at the bricks  and bricks at the stones Mud at the dirt and dirt at the mud spitting through their teeth.

It might take a genius to quell the Middle East  are you one? It might take a genius to stop the guns are you one? It might take a genius to bring the poor up are you one? It might take a genius to bring the rich to the mountain top of common sense and the gurus to the seat of humility, are you one? Are you a genius, a guru, a poor man, a rich one? Are you a gun or a stop sign? A fist or a bed of nails? A rose or a time bomb?

Sour patch ruffle time tested misfit gold hammered dunk tank hip cat flippant So longer stronger red yellow blue rodeo marching to sunset Wild West voodoo Masterful meaning rhyme ribbon and fury fists drenched in ink plastic Barbie doll broken  long hair and dreadlocks stereo pumping  like a gas tank spilled all my alcohol trying to lift your spirit.

I am noticing a theme in these recent poems  They are talking about thread and waterfalls as if I could sew up the movement of water.  Maybe it's the same in the sense  of how a hem can come undone.  You pull the thread and it starts coming apart suddenly, by itself, and so quickly you can't stop it.  Yet it could also be about the taut line... pull a piece of thread up and follow it with your eye.

There is a silence inside my mind. I like it there. It's not like a Hindu temple, necessarily, it's not like a monk's cave. It's not like the inside of a mirror-sphere or the envelope of a tear. It's more like the canyon echo, the waterfall rocks where you can stand underneath, behind the tumbling waters of fast-rushing infinity and not get wet.

The fade is on fire the braid is on the head of mine as I brush it out it gets caught I tried to revive it like ant hills crawling up a piece of yarn

Refreshed in the breaking dam of my soul uncurled restless river spinning like wrought cast iron handles spin, rusted but worn smooth canyon how I love thee--Damn, OK, got you. Take my knee my hand my fist wrap it up in an angry kiss didn't you know poison and perpetual motion go hand in hand to the medicine land where rabbits run to and fro baby zebras zipping across the plains chased by lions once again you know I held you in mind half twisted like that wrought cast iron a tiny flower peeking through the gates stop don't make me wait there's a giant river a waterfall about to fall over the edge I'm in a raft a small thing a tiny kitten a ball of string fling me into Niagra Falls, baby.

What is this business of excuses of rainmakers and tidally winks Lincoln Logs and Fred Flintstone Red coats from Britain and the long suffering narrator/ What is this business of ruffians pirate plotting goose neck hobos dream stopping kill switch gobstoppers what is this renegade reaching sorcerer continuum.

 8:59 PM When Restitution's weary legs are bowed, and Superstition's wounded whispers call, the blank checks that Mercy writes are uncashed, ten grizzly bears are growling in my hall. Here all the polar opposites attract: becomes Gray: playing, spinning yin and yang  between the Dusk and breaking light of Day: Here I try but cannot tell the change slips.  In Poetry, I'll hide from icy winds which blow through my thin coat and leave a chill. I'll find the summertime inside my mind and reconnect with Dreams of my Free Will.