Busted. Threadweary.
I am that man on cardboard:
"Will work for respect."

@dogtrax

Blood on the poem's
margins
from all our teeth and lips,
rhymes and
tongue slips,
rhythms incarnadine
on fingertips,
paradiddle yawps
and yips.
Shout your own
songs,
spatter wordblood
from
your red ellipse.

Books remind us
of what we love,
ethical blazes
lit by others
banked
then stoked
every time we return to them.

Spine and margin and cover and leaf bursting to light and heat.

Paragraphs burning bright as meteors,
metaphors leaping as shiny as minnows,
our hearts
ardent
and
catalytic,
skimming
from page to page.

How will we survive
what no one knew
would come?

Who will we become?
What will we do?

We are uninvited guests
in an undiscovered
country.

And no one is coming
to save us.

Improvise.

The world
is swept clean
by the threshings
of poets.
Clear and sharp
as storm ozone.

Pan's Hour

At sunrise,
when the day is at the treetops
filtering through, 
all that's pending is revealed:

Spider filament
&
pollen
&
falling frass.

The smallest gnats
&
dragonflies
&
dew drips.

Life in freefall.
Unveiled.
Delivered.

Prime numbers never rust.
They are careless AF.
They don't know meaning.
Ever a broken heart.
Only knowing one art.

@dogtrax

Even though waltz time
is 3/4
It's still a perfect square,
the only even prime,
a two-step,
itself plus one dance two in four
Coupled.
Level.
Mirrored,
Symmetric.
Almost indivisible.
Now consider zero.
Dance to that beat.

Yes/No/Maybe

I am interested
in the entanglements,
the implied next steps,
the adjacencies.

One step left or right
into the blackberry brambles
and multiflora rose
and the browse.

That is where
the mess flourishes
and the meaning scratches
and feeds.

May your losses
be borne up,
lifted by a kite
that they
may fly on.
Let the string
go.

Hermetic Sunday Morning

As below, so above.
We all live in
the ruins of the future
and the chaos of eternity.
As above, so below.

Having fun with Pixlr (pixlr.com). Jammed together lyrics from Frank Sinatra with Wilco: "Blue Skies, Sky Blue Sky"

Blue skies, smiling at me.
Nothing but blue skies
Can I see.
I should be satisfied.
I survived.
That's good enough
for now.

Lightning’s never over!
It will make a believer of us
growling from light to sound
bearing down on us with a
'now what Hallelujah,
a 'Saul on the road to Damascus ‘what now’.
Short-circuited,
the ground hears witness to reason
a souffle of unreason,
unflattened,
a meal fit for the transfixed.

A to a comment poem from @dogtrax here: rebrand.ly/5h8x2kk

Reason.
Flattened
and obsolete,
extinct as the word "obsolete".
What is coming?
What is bearing down?
I hear it coming.
I hear it bearing down.
I ask,
"Now what?"
Afterwards I ask,
"What now?"
Or should I have asked them
t'other way round?

Working out loud here with a post on how to evolve a poem: rebrand.ly/tvi1y1i

Dragonfly

on a window sill

on its back.

Fly.

No iridscence

only brittle,

grey,

dark

clear wings,

still.

And all I can

manage

is a poem

and a picture

and maybe you.

Tonight

It is coming a hard frost in May.
So hard to have hope
when you are walking away from this garden,
when you have covered
the tomatoes
and peppers
and all the vulnerable things
with every available sheet.
This cold world snaps hope
like a twig underfoot,
heedless as a god,
a reckoning unreckoned.

Show older
Mastodon

Server run by the main developers of the project 🐘 It is not focused on any particular niche interest - everyone is welcome as long as you follow our code of conduct!