For Mally McFustian (the self-professed poet)

It was her likeness to opaque 

she could not hear the stark differences between 

Voice and God, Cid and William, her own and others.

She thought she was poetic, she was hazy.

There is no great mystery lying in the Milky Way, find another way

to mean something you say. It is people like she 

that claim they think in poetry,

who are killing it-Literally-

making-non-sense and none said a thing,

they all oohed and awed at the silk flowers-

So I chimed in but did not say-

What do you want, a medal for lighting a fire?

Hell fire sparks easier for those who whip out wet matches,

need accelerants and whet whistles with Sulphur sounds,

What the-

What did she just say? Blowing smoke and sourced upwind.

Are you certain that is the right meta-

for your point is dull.

Perhaps hone in on the infinite edge of the rose petal…

Where? Love resides? Could you not find any other name?

It pokes me thorny to read such stretches of imagination that span

Short of any original creation, or enhancement to the existing therein.

Entanglement, she is inclined to throw loops and claim fancy stitch-work,

I am seeewww anapestic. Vast like space,

the space between her ears.

There is a fly in my primordial soup. Like Hamlet, I smell a rat that

binges on stolen cheese, farts and claims he has made new

poetry or silent but thoughtful prose.

She nibbles at my nerves and deserves to be told descriptive decadence

is not originality or insight.  When blurry, when it makes no sense

of any related things, it does not ring pretty and honestly,

is pretty irksome. Obviously, this is not poetic but pathetic and

her-a-tic, the fuse has been lit.

Someone call her on her bull

Painting By L. Prang & Co. (publisher) (Flickr: Woman with Lily) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A bluebird likely named Emily D.

This afternoon I saw a magpie that was having a bad day.

He landed in the driveway, 

his breast was heaving and his head cocked at me-

Who found herself smiling. 

With a twitch she switches sides, 

she strobes a cocked moment. 

A second later, he shook himself, 

his feathers fluffed and re-stacked,

he unpacked his folded wardrobe, 

whipping out wrinkles

and flew towards the mountains 

-East. 

Warm body, she faced the fading sun.


Painting by Rubens Peale,1865 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Trace particles

We need oxygen and yet there is
only 21% of this to share...
What else is there...
Well,
We all need water, and yet we find
one percent of this elixir, potable
on this Cagean terraqueous orb.

We need sleep, we tire and tear
with wear, we need to turn it all off,
down and out, overdone, burnt and
wasted, inward.

And consumables can be
inedible as well as hollow.
But empty calories make
friction

wiser we no longer mind
insurance and investments
but with luck we discover

miserably in need of love.
Just don't hold others breath
or lick other wounds,

this one silent assassin,
starved by selfish need
of Other.

We will share,
because we want to live
to some percent.



Pastel on paper by Stanisław Wyspiański, The Mulchs ("Planty" at night), c.1898 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Why not whistle

Care not I can make many more rhythms right now when prompted

Too, new order-never placed spot on true treeness via atmosphere-years.

(in here).

Help us. Past I caught looks; dropping names, and buckets for rain,

wet-ware, grey matter, categories, shuffling, say-ing-sing-song-sounds,

na, na, natural intrinsically nervy non sense, while willful wandering whimsies

not here-No way! Cold, dead, serious, adult hands, clasp, grasp

rigamortis or ultimatum sets down a tension, an out line about acquisitions, not knowing

all Is Ars Moriendi, comprehension via dystopian villages laying in the snow

to rest, a moment ago.

Well. Why not whistle?

Painting by Caspar David Friedrich [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What a Strange Trip we Spin

When we can finally
Let Go
we should hold onto that.
Forever young is not aging wisely.

No gain, less pain;
less risk, no reward.
In fact, 9 out of 10 persons,
in their final hour,
utter
Should & Late
now knowing it could come early.
Anyhow
on the seventh cloud,
in the ninth ward of heaven,
I see clusters of humanity acting civilized,
some are sleeping, some seem to be
searching around,
feeling nothing and gasping

for nothing they found
was there.
Ten out of ten,
just held on too long.

Painting By William Paxton (http://www.taller54.com/736.htm) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The i in Pi

3.14159265358979323846264338327950-
See,
I have a crazy suspicion of around about way roles surround spherical notions selfishly His or Her property keep wholes by center spin the one circular you is located pivotally inside-

Why-
I feel a round curiously as animal sense may guide somebody celestial towards strangers who as man alienate body spirit or tether into web for twisting not to confuse rebellion light.

Not-
a word a thing numerical or figure taken for whole concepts revealing secrets contained but to say measured with theory or method make from any one diabolic can be trapped centrally askew.




*Each word length occupies the same corresponding digit in this abbreviated representation of pi, or the area of a circle  (Ex: First word ‘See’=3 letters, ‘I’=1, ‘have’=4, etc.). The next number in sequence is (0) making this the end point.

Feature image of: 'Study of Circles on Black' (1921) By Wassily Kandinsky [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Wont you let the wind in

No poetry-

Silence it said.

It was raining and how could we live without

The yellow porch light, that lit the drops aflame midair

sent falling matches while we inhaled its sultry cologne,

It smelled like kerosene.

Nothing should be said,

but sound jumps and throttles anyway,

hits its edges

and snaps.

Let it fly,

was another way to lay claim on wind and smoke rings.

Seasonings and salt made new flowers, steeping in the dark

deeds have been doled to uncharted territories, stay-

what else is there to see?

The words will escape me just

this day without poetry… 

Painting by Paul Cornoyer [Public domain], 'Madison Square after the rain' c. 1900 via Wikimedia Commons.