Prismatic color schemes on a plate of picnic beans.
Woe is me, obviously.
More poems need to be written and others need revised, but I’m feeling pretty fantastic about seeing my writing evolve.
cuz he walked around everywhere with a thumz up
The wide sweep of planets that beguile me
But there it’s been sunk in my gut
the broken and the menders
the fates have spoken / so that’s all
you try not looking despite your curiosity
try to otherwise
until you make up your mind / to learn to fly
What hierarchy / suggests / your impending / fruitions?
because all people everywhere / know that knowing causes / the greatest sorrow
to me you are / dark sky moon / you are too bright to fully consume / oh you pull at me / through & thru
It’s just a matter / of how many layers / of “me” you release
what good / is the awe / of stars / if we see / only that / we are / worlds apart?
Sick / Sick / Sick / Sick / Sick
who cares / what thinking / matters when making / matters most?
and / looking / to the sky / w/ / a b / -reath / of supremely / real / air
As darkness / inclines itself toward / the stars / There will be a / breath of air / That will become / the exhale of our united sigh
the more you wait / the more you drown in time // so just smile
Ouch / oo / eh / Oww
poor books, / I will pick you / up off the carpet / one day
This writing is less the craft heavy and prosody poised work that keeps process hidden behind closed doors of the poet’s writing studio and their intellectual hesitance, and more the freestyle, live over home-made beats push for moments of flow.
I am other / sound of thunder