reciting broken langauage
known to flatter;
the platters
been updated, and blu-ray
bested the vested interests.
no longer doth
the broken record play
like a broken record,
premium content describes:
the avoidance of self-plagerism
is of legal importance,
as such
madlibs back the adlib
filing in blanks from
PR contractors.
This is History two point oh,
time point zero... was somewhere beyond
the public's short term
memory-
the public's short term
members-
are three-
years-
old.
playing in traffic.
...all we do is feed the news,
that loops N.E.W.S.
news entertains while selling,
perpetual motion
as long as disasters exist
but this is all broken language,
regurgitated
to feed the youth.
6/18/10
bp (one of many)
under the sea
i will see
the brown and black--
map eaters cry tears
of rest stops
and starbucks
as black gold bleeds
the worlds whores.
deep sits the overkill of life
near drifts photo ops,
just nuke it already
and save the poster shrimp;
the eastern bloc way.
we die watching things die...
numbness is built in now.
how many of the xanax regulars
are double dosing?
i itch
my snitch
by the stitches
which binds my loom,
but i am never numb.
unintentionally.
boom wave jumping my southern father,
we do worry.
i will see
the brown and black--
map eaters cry tears
of rest stops
and starbucks
as black gold bleeds
the worlds whores.
deep sits the overkill of life
near drifts photo ops,
just nuke it already
and save the poster shrimp;
the eastern bloc way.
we die watching things die...
numbness is built in now.
how many of the xanax regulars
are double dosing?
i itch
my snitch
by the stitches
which binds my loom,
but i am never numb.
unintentionally.
boom wave jumping my southern father,
we do worry.
idz
I am not a god(dess)
in my own mind.
the delicate, intricate
deleterious, infamous
id
lurks
in plain sight
for we are the indoctinated,
to blind to see
in my own mind.
the delicate, intricate
deleterious, infamous
id
lurks
in plain sight
for we are the indoctinated,
to blind to see
10/7/09
London's Monument to the Slave Trade
patchwork plantation mosaics
painted parliament,
purveyors on belay...
profits purchased a poem.
painted parliament,
purveyors on belay...
profits purchased a poem.
9/28/09
Cenial [sic]
Traffic makes for cenial days,
dawn at night.
A sunrise's sunset drifts idly
below the surface of light fractures
with reds dampened,
spawning one-way mirrors at twilight:
picturesque diamond dust reflects
like fresh daytime snows below blue,
or dew mists
on smiling Arboretum spring leaves.
Aren't water drops just Escher's eyes?
Doesn't poetry have pleasant
sometimes abstract thighs?
Age old dilemmas revisited:
What came first, dawn or starlight?
(Who came first, mother nature or father time?)
Age old civilizations revisited:
All of our cement lines are our cities veins:
some of these are white lines for the forever vain,
yet anxieties always manage to get the main.
But a day is just a day.
Dawns at night should be
deep breathes and
retreats from lights spites.
Don't except, cenial-- is melting treasures.
dawn at night.
A sunrise's sunset drifts idly
below the surface of light fractures
with reds dampened,
spawning one-way mirrors at twilight:
picturesque diamond dust reflects
like fresh daytime snows below blue,
or dew mists
on smiling Arboretum spring leaves.
Aren't water drops just Escher's eyes?
Doesn't poetry have pleasant
sometimes abstract thighs?
Age old dilemmas revisited:
What came first, dawn or starlight?
(Who came first, mother nature or father time?)
Age old civilizations revisited:
All of our cement lines are our cities veins:
some of these are white lines for the forever vain,
yet anxieties always manage to get the main.
But a day is just a day.
Dawns at night should be
deep breathes and
retreats from lights spites.
Don't except, cenial-- is melting treasures.
9/15/09
To Jes
the silhoette
of a broken heart beats
to the sorrowful windsong
emminating
from the cracks of
"cannot be closed" windows
boiling thoughts
despite a summer's winter
condensing
apon the clouded panes
collecting
into tear drops
trickling down
leaving trails
in the mists
of love.
but you still breathe.
your breath still dances
with the unseen swirls
of the air's landscape
ebbing
with the bittersweet currents
of your hurricane's
close cousin:
a lucid dream
on a fresh, clean
canvas.
of a broken heart beats
to the sorrowful windsong
emminating
from the cracks of
"cannot be closed" windows
boiling thoughts
despite a summer's winter
condensing
apon the clouded panes
collecting
into tear drops
trickling down
leaving trails
in the mists
of love.
but you still breathe.
your breath still dances
with the unseen swirls
of the air's landscape
ebbing
with the bittersweet currents
of your hurricane's
close cousin:
a lucid dream
on a fresh, clean
canvas.
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