Bite wind cool drops water
Words spill between you and me
Made a little place in my mind to live
A sacred little parcel on which
To build my love to you
Bite wind cool drops water
Bleary eyed cliché
Draft horse whipped raw to the hide
Pain think think hurt
Despair about nothing
Despair about everything
Flogged meat suit
Race for rat soup
Stone suit stone faced
Single minded tunnel vision
Simple solutions for complex problems
Talk text tell somebody
All past no future
Despair for the exhausted commuter
Day 9 I guess: Getting things done …
writing poetry tonight
but cant refuse friends
Day 23: “an elevenie is an eleven-word poem of five lines, with each line performing a specific task in the poem. The first line is one word, a noun. The second line is two words that explain what the noun in the first line does, the third line explains where the noun is in three words, the fourth line provides further explanation in four words, and the fifth line concludes with one word that sums up the feeling or result of the first line’s noun being what it is and where it is.”
We pass scrub, and asphalt
and low bungalow style diners
We pass box stores
and lots full of dusty cars
With light glinting off windshields
Bus shelters we pass and we pass
Concrete deserts of mall parking lots
With fast food restaurants squatting in the low concrete islands
We pass billboards, and some of the billboards we pass are just metal skeletons on cracked concrete blocks among the dry weeds
We pass small shacks and some of the shacks we pass have signs bigger than themselves which say ‘smooth flavour’, ‘gas here’ or ‘cigarettes’
There are banks of dirty snow melting into the brown soggy fields we pass and the ditches are full of dried stalks of cattails and crabgrass
We pass dried puffs of weedy flowers that crumble into dust in the gardens we pass
And we pass drifts of windblown collected trash like sand dunes that have been weather beaten into indistinguishability
As we pass over the river there are sheets of brown ice collecting in the coves and inlets along the bank
And the water is swollen in flat standing waves which jockey and jostle their volume as we pass
We pass brown leafless trees reaching with skeletal fingers
And also we pass towers made of clever geometric lattices of steel girders
We pass dirt and gravel and dust dried into the gutters of the road
And also we pass glittering glass shards and stains of grease and oil revealed by the melting snow
We pass empty schools and yards but the houses we pass are warming in the new sun
We pass stores and streets and sidewalks and a few people are tentatively emerging with bags and boots and briefcases as we pass
We pass cars and buses and bikes that have been chained up for months on street posts and fences and a crossing guard is starting her morning shift as we pass
As we pass we hear the sound of a few birds singing loudly to fill the silence of their absent colleagues
And as we pass we hear the sound of a child’s voice shouting out his excitement somewhere in the distance
We pass into Spring
and soon the spring leaves will bud
and the birds will be joined by others
and we will celebrate the passing
of another winter
Day 8: “write a poem that relies on repetition” More poetry written in transit, go figure
There once was a man from Verdun
Who drank his coffee on the run
He was taking a sip
When the bus hit a dip
And coffee that day he had none
Day 6: A quickie to fill in some gaps
The whores of war parade their industry
jargon freeflow all told and nothing said
The loudspeakers scream incantations for the whores of war
the stockpiles grow
and the people dwindle
the whores of war sit on islands
surrounded by seas of blood
the blood doesnt touch the whores of war
and they bathe in spit
horrific things are what sets up the whores of war
gets their dicks hard
They strip down to the veign and imbibe the beast
scrape down to the bare sod
and rub the dirt into their filthy toxic flesh
The whores of war parade in breakfast nooks of foreign hotels
and fuck the underage staff in the ass for petty change
the whores of war draw back the curtains in to the blinding sun
of starving deserts carcasses picked pristine by the sun
they pull back the curtains on a sunset of nuclear orange light
In the beginning there was only the ghost.
From the ghost came the first idea.
That idea was of a body for the ghost to live in.
The idea created space and time to anchor itself inside the body,
without which it would explode back out into the ether
The ghost walked the earth it had created for so long it forgot it was a ghost.
It’s children warred among themselves not knowing that they were brother and sister.
They built monuments to honor their illusions
and make them more convincing.
Yet the ghost speaks to itself in a language separate from the body
and the ghost reveals itself shining through the holes in what is, and when.
In sleep the body gives its ghost back to the universe where it dances and revels
in the beautiful embrace that we know as death.
But the children are plagued with shadows of truth which not understanding, they fear,
and replace with confusion to hide their brilliance.
In the confusion we dance with love and death and work in the troubles of our nature and breadth.
In ourselves we excavate massive trenches through which our karma flows into futility
and when the light dies we lie fearful until morning where the brilliance of the sun warms the ghost
and it continues on its way.
We see through each other’s skin, and embrace, and know we are light.
If you listen closely you will hear the true commandments of the guides which tell us
to love our life on this earth and see eternity in our physicality.
and they tell us:
Breathing is the only most important thing.
God is to see death in all places.
Being totally honest is being totally psychic.
And with the light rise we are rejoined to what is and when, and we pass through it
like mimes who have forgotten that the show has ended.