Archive for March 26th, 2011
Sharp Pieces of Jug
If the plug is in the jug, does the stuff rot?
My malady lingers, but I see the rest of you recovered.
I want past tense too.
How would the room smell
if I threw the jug against the wall and there was spray?
All of the jugs left my world in the blackest of minivans,
and peace came and made my senses waiver like a butterfly.
The rest of you manifest so beautifully.
All the pieces of jug continue shattering my mind,
and until I clean my mind and kill it with drugs,
the flowers in my bed will be dying and laughing.
Etude for a Fool in a Castle
I’m staring at the topic angrily.
Beetles are eating the cheese
while sitting in the purple grass.
The odd dog looks wrecked and tart.
He watches the gravel fall from the tree.
An airplane moves roundly,
tasting the peachy boat.
Surviving on a Late Thursday Afternoon
Blooming tulips loving frozen drain pipes.
It’s cold here.
Tonight, we are hoping for miracles.
She always has schemes for survival.
You’re cleared for takeoff.
It might snow this weekend.
How’s business over there?
The traffic’s been light.
You must tell me about apples.
These things comfort my soul.
All of March should be a lion.
April should be a whale.
Whales are entirely loving.
May is a hyacinth blue moose
because I was born in May
on the day Lindbergh landed in Paris.
Defend yourself. Man-up.
How do you spell Katet?
HAHA! I’m a 21st Century Poet,
not fox. You better watch out.
I might post it.
Wednesday Morning Soundscape
Swimming waves of divergent black wools.
Human chattering.
And then it is all chattering everywhere.
It’s noise of harms of half-large self-importance.
Billions of layers of chattering, thicker than god.
Clicking of heels.
Sound is not studied when it is our own.
‘Cool’ Post-Modernist Architecture
Convoluted, dirty glass.
Tan plaster leans.
He doesn’t want to see your face again.
Windows to the souls are clean.
More towering glass stands behind
as if modern culture
is the only core for humanity.
Doesn’t seem possible.
Seems to be a cesspool.
Walk, slowly, the diluted pastures.
stillfugue 