QED

poesy

Like the Butterflies

I want to make changes

even though

they do not become what they should be

that’s one narrow thought—a replay.

Spring arrives with a process of newness

and another real concern may be muted for another day;

I don’t want to live within a system of perpetual choice,

I want to arrive.

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queen of hearts

she leans on my apartment door

annotated knocks soon follow

an orchestra of tiny hands.

some say as the stars form

overhead,

we lose the capability

to respond to love

again and again.

but,

the confusion is only temporary—-

as we crash through the maze.

the day the earth stood still

Fragrant meadows continue in parts per billion

while the oil spits continually

on open road

along with yesterday’s trial

and errors.

A partial victory may be ahead

and one has to pray

as being under constant duress;

and like the crow, 

we come to fear our own shadow

because it lies dormant awaiting

the next surprise among the multitude:

some hurt

and others,

just stare you in the face:

a breathless reminder of

youth and dirt.

G Wash

A sticker bush performs a intervention

while the radio edits a wallow

near the shanty: yard unclean—-

an Ed Sullivan look alike sleeps

among scattered remnants of efficient cause

as we swagger unto the sandy road

without shame for now.

The sun reaches for the remaining

hill tops.

A runner advances into the

contours of the soul.

autonomous oak

gather round
youth
sprightly seedlings
in rejecting the status quo:
the methods
categories
are revealed by nature’s
catchall

Advertisement near 9th St.

In a type of world that forgoes the wave

for one more digital,

some would consider the press of a key

a willful act;

alas, it just a segment of interest without

the rules and regulations

of the outside world

which itemizes in some cases the overall project

to include the music

that stirs a particular cellular interest.

Nevertheless, I have a communicative inquisitiveness

as yet unknown

and also to not detract from the above

you have an aura that is brilliant.

Just sayin. and Hello.

Cliffnotes need not apply.

valley pawn

sent her desire via paypal:
a work ing method of
bundled roses
reworks the measurements into fine
pastel mini-works.

just pretend, we’re friends again?

Those days
when our umbrellas
sponsored us like orphans
so many walks—-so lonely a road
made clear our lovely intentions.

But,
we left those things there
within genial steps
as a clearing the way of sorts
for our failed improvisations.

No handshakes exist here anymore
just light embraces
made to____
stamp our impressions
and consecrate a future island purgatory
free from the fodder of our willed impostors.

Post-generation
the surrounding invested impresarios lurk
behind sign posts and marbled prisons
corrupting fortune’s placement
of the cards printed messages—-
against us.

The alternative route out of here
marks us all
for those listless days spent
forecasting moments
now shadows of the former
while we reconsider at the same time
our next holiday attempt
to subdue the lark.

the things we use to dance to

A door slams

on a drink coaster featuring

an antiquated Hollywood scene—

captions eliminated;

Virgin mad magnolias

sync up into vases

praying the sun.

“Can’t take this anymore?”

Coral centers her

omnipresent hopscotch

verbiage into weapons untimely:

 

(lovely lines there beautiful: an elegy.)

 

These are sent back neatly however

in the post,

with an executable tag

similiar to haiku

meditated on high range peak

in modest attire.

 

(Near 2 o’clock on the L train)

Listening to the border of the universe,

while pixelated leaves park themselves

in segmented fashion,

counter to the waves produced by machines

maximized in car commercials—

hybritized in magazines.

 

(a conversation overheard)

“Why don’t you just take this part

and remember forever

the times read by others in the daily;

no one has to know,

because its fixed…

and has a taste almost

similar to sugarcane.”

 

 

 

 

The 10th Circle

Before the roads closed
we duct taped our eyes
praying the fetor
would be more forgiving
on our olfactory receptors
as we traveled through
spectacles of fiberglass
and ash.
Even Virgil had to take
a respite this time around
for it was all too palpable
and inhumane.
No symbiosis
only struggle beyond the tide
without any trace of salt
for rust had taken its place.
An effluvium of consternation
for the exigent realities
once buried amongst stupor
rose like the siren.

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