living in a misty dreamscape
Gentlemen, expenditures
purplish wizards have divvied
because of entrusted futures
for the sake of keeping resources
safely enough away from strafing
interference specialists
working for the sand-kicking side,
and speak of the devil speaking of
storms bringing sudden interruption,
it appears unnecessary
to present the graphic slideshow
Illustrating the energy drain.
I miss not writing about me,
becoming a leaf on a lark
and being okay not knowing why
the lark appeared and letting it stay
for it need not be a bird. And if
a period lands where it lands,
well that’s a cute perky titty
for someone somewhere, who knows, maybe
a room silent, dark, an anima
is free to let down her hair, for we
do not in desperation grasp
for wit or wish for decent dance moves.
She could be a cowgirl whose daddy
sternly warns her of poets with blogs.
Or she could be in India,
skin toasty, warm, eyes sticky with sleep.
Many of the colonies sprang so fast
into functional existence because
of allies who donated acreage
though some had trouble accessing comfort
as in slipping smoothly into pleasant
dreams when the night deepened and the crack of
a twig or the sneeze of a wild boar
suggested creepiness, on learning that
the colony on their land was or would
be intended as a segregation
so that repeat masturbators
may not pollinate a decent
society. To be put in
a masturbator colony
for repeat masturbators meant
this was the masturbator’s final chance.
Farmer Phillips offers a prime
example: from his bed he stared
into the late night bedroom ceiling space,
his lips forming the word ‘recalcitrant’.
Recalcitrant masturbators.
Recalcitrant was a dry, legalese
term for they who the colony would house;
meaning the colony presently
occupying the property parcel
Farmer Phillips donated to
the Reverend Jameson’s anti-sex
crusade which became a…
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less about writing actually and maybe more about finding that precious environment to do it in – concentrate – find that thing they call flow.
I seem to recall a vague adage that says if a real writer really wants to write, he or she will not make excuses but will find a way. Whenever I catch hints of this I enter a second-guessing phase – sometimes brief, sometimes long. Especially in recent history.
See, there’s been personal relocation issues, and the place I thought would be the work space turned into a world of constant slogging or a bee trying to butt through a concrete wall. It was because of noise. Another presence also does stuff in the near vicinity. Types. Chatters. And it became impossible to sustain the concentration necessary to get into the words, making the words, finding that sweet mental space that says there is no…
View original post 264 more words
It appears that I’ve made contact – brief contact – with one of my favorite voices that seemed lost forever – oh it’s been so long since I felt it – though it’s clearly not confident as it once was – here’s a taste – a section of dialog from a new thing I’ll be lucky to finish
————-
I lay no claim to prophetic
abilities, but I can’t help
but sense that in a few years we
will look back and see that we who
lingered on when most of the food
was with great gladness partaken,
except for the green gross jellos,
gross because of all the cabbage
slivers and carrot splinters, but
green jellos made gross because of
cabbage bits and carrot pieces
are part of our inheritance
when we talk about tradition
and rare is the tongue sufficient
in courage or maybe it’s less
an issue…
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Come to Timmy 