The stream (all workshops)
Big black boots
and a fedora,
low over my eyes.
Black chinos
with black braces
over black t-shirt.
Shuck on the leather jacket,
attach the Raybans
and ready to go.
Can't miss on the eight ball,
can't miss that Miss,
beefcake backs down,
tequila slides down.
This book is its cover.
But of course timeless too,
Sad I know not much,
of poetic skill
But artistic poetry,
I shall compose at
my sweet will .
Rhyme or no rhyme,
It's up to you to enjoy
Or tear my poetry up,
As a child would destroy
An unwanted toy
Maybe like some women do...
Theirs too...
To you who who have searched and did not find
we are one
To those who have been lost
we are one
To you who through searching for love have
lost your identities to a ruthless society
we are one
to you who you would rather ignore
tommorrow call
we are one
To you who lost herself on the pavements of happiness
To those who found a haven in the arms of now ,
we are one
There is a home for us ,there has to be.
Relax and enjoy, believe you.....me
while the plumes waft up through the air;
you quickly will find,
complete peace of mind,
erasing each primary care.
There's two ways to ingest this plant
baking will entice one to "teethe";
but other than that,
hold onto your hat!
Because then, all one must do is breathe.
Whenever I go to my cabinet
I not only think of myself;
I remember the "lot",
of friends that I've got,
and I decide we deserve the top shelf.
I've created scenarios around my eventual death,
sometimes a swan-like Camille in her finest performancec,
sometimes a fistful of shout like Eleni, "for my children".
I know nothing for sure, and each day
brings me to the cold rapture of sky--
Basho's poem and its scorpion sting.
Dying into this. Dying into this.
Splash.
Flip out life's begun
when you're seventy one,
nothing's "not done,"
you can eat how you like, wear what you like,
if you like,
kick all the traces, go out on a binge,
roll all around in the bed,
there's no one to scold
because you're so old,
all the powers that be are now dead.
Horizon
II
this
\
fix
/
to
\
mind
/
of
\
heap
/
steep
\
this
/
up
\
way
/
the
\
make
/
once
\
All somber, those who stand around
this wound cut deep into the ground
beside a box so square and stout
as if they fear you might get out
but from this casket there's no sound.
The preacher murmurs on unheard.
My attention's fixed upon a bird,
a hawk soaring nearly out of sight
within a sky so clear and bright
as if nothing special had occurred.
After moribund years of misery
An exerting care cautiously put
To seek fellowship in the sanctuary
And rest my burden with open door
A querying way asked the why
Not obliged to give a try
But for the gratitude and respect
Troubled self bereft of answers
For the tools to tackle the mundane
cargo lithe
this spirit flesh
evolution
excites like a winter surge
rakish falls the day behind
drab torn fountian clouds
cold and pallid
pour the fire from decanters
throat
and let slip ambrosia
passage
Tottensonnetag
let night find us
drowsy with angel touch
let the black winged wind
play its orchestra
and the moon shall ferry
the lost
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