1. |
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4/4 still a popular form
Quadruped like a horse,
Galloping thru Missouri’s geological warps
Tall grasses and short, stamped flat by the force
traversing new grooves
Two hooves find purchase and formalize new curvatures
It’s funny the drummer’s feet are here from the eyes hidden
Just two hands up top like a square with two sides missin
At the bar request a water sparkling
Pause to verify phone wallet car keys
imposed, the grid on the manifold, a face with two hands below, as quiet as standing oak
the frame, perchance it broke, would it make a sound,
beige and the brown, bubblegum & daisy compound,
blue berries, cherries, and oranges arrayed on the count
and the gray that surrounds
They say a giant gourd of iron ore
Which from side to side was 90 miles or more,
One day did strike this flying orb,
Well on the other side it was night of course,
And hit the earth with such frightening force
As to exterminate all the dinosaurs
But isn’t it great?
I came centuries late!
Instead of their fate
I revel with mates in venues ornate
Drinking glenlivet straight,
My breath, on escape, resembles a wraith
(Lia twisted a j)
And it’s a hell of a high!
I’m wealthy and dry
Overwhelmingly blithe
Enjoying periodic swellings of pride,
What’s the good of telling the time,
The story I tell in my mind,
Embellish with relics and delicate lies,
Dodge truth like a big rock that fell from the sky
Burn one for the one whose turn’s come,
Burst come like nerves on the first gun
Absurd, the world stunned by the purse
The burst lung from the germs and blurred sun
The church, asserts drum against cursing tongues,
whence the word sprung?
The mirth is sucked, like mike, from love
The first cup was spilt, the second was slurped up,
The third remains undisturbed, her door shut
The fourth was bird dung
Burn one for the one in search of,
A life that occurs with the sun
The stern truss of the carriage,
The sure brush, the bearing,
Fern dust in the prairies, I tell you spread beauty
A word few use or skew and use loosely,
For now it’s the blue smoothie,
Tomorrow it’s green from the broccoli trees
Lots to carry, various alloys and barrels and animal hides
Sticks like wicks burn down the candle of time,
Taps levered dispatch beverages,
Guitar cases filling with treasure, the drummer in good measure
We who chart daily a monochrome grid,
In grayscale chainmail, spout cobblestone quips
The old same old same can’t complain and still does it
On the weekend fill rooms to gorge on spilled colors
From bells and skilled brushes
Two by fours,
The slamming doors, the glaring windows’ endless floors,
Ground to sky,
Pounce the ear, pounce the eye
By the ounce I sell, by the pound I buy
All around I fly,
Peddle quality wares in the towns I find
Pocket squares tied in a boundless line
amaze
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2. |
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Kichkelem Yum
Má tojechí, ma xan taan in paatik ka beychak Mix máakoon to ́oj
Niib óolal ta tséenten tial p ́aatken e maak bejlaena.
Ta kansajten u jats ́utsil e yóok ́ol kab bey xan in k ́aaj óol in juul.
Niib óolal jel bixechño, tumen ka oks óol ti tulakal baax ku ts ́aik tech e kuxtala.
Jel u pajtal in chiichnaktal in ts ́ikil ta wetel, bey xan ts ́ook in áalitech baxoob tial u naak ́al ti a pixan.
Jach taj yaajten
A Kuxtale, jach ta yaajchaji, ts ́ok a maansik k ́ak ́as tukuloob mix maak u k ́aat u mans. Bey tun, tulakal e k ́aasoba ts ́ook u muuk ́iintik a pixan.
Bale, k ́aasé, a yax pailé u yabilmanech.
A ch ́ibalilé u yabilmanech, ku sen tukultikech
Tulakaloon k ́aat íilech maalob.
Wa u k ́aat u yaal a kuxtail yan u p ́aatal 2,173 millas naachil tone, ka beychak.
Jel pajtal kuxtal kex naach aanko ́on, in k ́aat ka a ójeelte ti anen ta wetel.
Tak i maan ta wetel, tak in k ́aaj óoltik makoob yéetel tech, ka a éesten kajoó má in k ́aaj ólobi.
Jach yaab bax k ́aabet in kanik ti tech.
A ts ́ibalilobe, jach taj k ́aabet teen, ku áantken ka ójel tux kin tal, bey ka in kan tuux kin bin.
Tak in k ́aaj óoltik e yóok ́ol kab ta wetel, ka óojel bax a má in ójel.
Kin k ́aatkitech, má tubs ken,
Kin k ́aatiktech má a tubsik k-ch ́ibalil. K- Yabilmanech
Yéetel yaakunaj, beyxan maloob pákaat.
A yaax palil.
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3. |
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What is life if not a poem,
something in which to be woven
and undone. a purple mystic
of an overflow, tripping over
its own gorgeous gutter
and glamour. what is a poem
if not keeping up with change--
the work of a scribe whose learned
to blink at just the right times to
leave space for the drum beat
to capture an unutterable thing?
what is a poet if not an attempt
to grow infinite arms to hold all this
lament and hallelujah. the deep
space sounds of the soul are
a lilypad and a frog’s love affair,
both stamen and pistil of a flower,
the sensuality of spring rubbing
its back on winter’s blessing
of reflection. what is music
if not the seasons in motion
from sense to finger, to mouth,
to ear, back to sense. creation
in a menage a trois with order
and flow. what is art
but stillness of a moment
breaking out of its box of solitude?
what are you but a baby
of all this boisterous beauty
with your foot in your mouth,
tumbling over all of this plenty,
slightly blind to being?
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4. |
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Tango in place
Arm at the back
Arm up high on the brow
The day don’t come back
The way it left
was the way it was found
There is another one up ahead
There is another one up ahead
Turn find out
how hard to keep
within narrow lines
Don’t go fallow
The mind that stops
is one less life for deaths
traveling circus show
The line has many ways of leading
it can break you in parts
take you down all at once
It’s the nature of the string
You think you are headed one way
think you’re coming in the front door
But it’s the service entrance
and you don’t have a uniform
Get it straight now
Get it straight now
Epaulettes on your shoulder pads
means higher up on the pecking line
but lower than what you planned
You want to be the gatekeeper
or the bouncer in the back
It’s all by design
but you get no time
on the drafting board
it’s not your call
throw the dice
play the card
Makes no difference
in the end
pick up the pieces
mend the torn shirt
pray to the stone gods
pray for rain
pray for drought
call in your chips
see how little there is
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5. |
Lost in the Feed
02:45
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Lost in the feed
absorbed by the infinite depth of these
rectilinear screens
Thumb scrolls and eyes scan the scenes
Loading and reloading with always new portals to see,
enraptured by stories, reels, and IGTVs
Millions of people presenting
masking inner grief
I know because I too have been an attention thief
pouring over how this next post could make you show your teeth
hopefully resulting in a greater following
one, two, or if I'm lucky, three
We have subscribed to this game that keeps our eyes locked steady
Ever present sponsored content in the chamber
lock loaded and ready
to capitalize on our attentive minds
on our imaginings
these things that have come to be such hot financial commodities
sought after with heavy fervent hungry visceral and passionate greed
Every moment spent with that advertisement
brings prosperity to those sitting pretty in the exclusive club
of the top one percent
Now could you imagine
could it possibly be that
we have been undervaluing our own personalities
through being constantly chained consumed with these
never ending
always fresh
potent pungent with interest
feeds
Designed to keep us
scrolling,
and scrolling,
and scrolling,
and scrolling,
and scrolling,
and scrolling,
and scrolling,
and scrolling,
and scrolling,
until we finally need to surface to breathe
just long long enough to get
lost back inside of the feed
I am left to ponder and muse
the wondrous things this would would see
If we would all just collectively just put down these screens
and explored with great depth our vast infinite inner beings
Imagine with me the loves that we would develop
what passions we could fertilize and bloom
if instead we'd reinvest our time to inhale the sweet perfumes
of intense creative focus
in order to leave behind
beautiful totems
in our wake
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6. |
White Trapezoid
05:11
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7. |
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