11.15.12

Fun in a funnel fun drum fun in the sun. Seventeen years and fourty seven blunt ones and fun chums. We've met them here thirteen times before on the seventh of the seventh month. This hour the twelve of eights. Fourty seven moments in the barrel of the drum, fourty six, fourty five, fourty four. We, the sons of a sun bum of someone else's someone son. We hum the anchor loose over star board stump. His hers crossing lump in fourty three thumps, fourty two, fourty one. Thump on the drum and thump on the thump when the winning son's won. Hump and thump and wriggle and slump. Down dead porch step bump step slump. Down dead humming a hum as runts hum.

just air.

these words not music notes.

 just air.

not jumping or bouncing lightly.

just air and empty nothing.
balloon of lifting nothing.
helium happy nothing.

not wanting to disturb

but

feeling somewhat helium.
no, but yes helium.

floating on empty air.

floating up and blowing

away. not

music notes.

 just air

blowing.

Bluely, the panelling.

Here I sit, like Marten Luther's Here I Stand.
Tid bits and fans of the bland
wood and wood stained everything
truly.

Bluely rhymes but means little to bridge the gap
betwixt the thought and the image in mind.
What do I do and what to decide
staring at an object to destruct
in mind and in time.

Objects are boring next to a person
a love, a friend, a fucker, a mother fucker.
All stories need enemies.

Lacking an enemy protagonists brawl.
I stall
in picking up on the rhyme,
the rhythm,
the deftly disguised signs and bums typing and wiping
wine and tears.

Memories as compressed years
like air in a vessel
to be shot at
in the teeth of the great shark.
Smile you son of a
and I withdraw shaking head at purchased 70's movie reference.

Blond polish girls, sips ahoy, and (Seinfeld)
what is the deal with
all this wood stained paneling?

And the good poems the love poems are too personal.

So this is what you get.

The American Through And Through

Link Below:

https://docs.google.com/open?id=13n3UgdS9yrNzUIg-aq1y-XBmn0hkPSmcVAFAAqI_LO79QqnCU4P78Knk0zy9

12/16/11

I ran because the others ran
and the others ran because the woman ran.
We all ran and when we got to the top of the stairs the woman said

No train.

A cracked smile owning the moment.
We chuckled out loud despite the disappointment.
Children all of us.

Empty stations echo.
The man in a bright red baseball cap
leans on the railing; fingers stroking his lips and his chin
in that kind of absent...ness.

The slow receding clicks.
A girl in high heels. Black and pretty.
She's leaning against the trash, her hood shrouding her gaze.
Exhausted, over-worked.

You expected it to be something but it sure wasn't this.

Small devices, pouring minds in to distract the boredom.
Avoiding that moment when reality bites and snaps clear like a feral beast
in a trance.

It didn't quite turn out as expected. Not quite.
We chuckle out loud despite the disappointment.

I...I...I

I am brand! I am plastic man!

I have polyethylene asshole and financing plan!

My teeth white!

My shirt clean!

I get drunk and dance on "scene!"

I am brand!

My dad own land!

I toothpick in fist, I floss where sit!

I shit where stand!

I brand what are!

I are what see!

I sit tree, I pee, I sing opera in sea!

I make dad sing song!

I wrong, I run road too long!

I strong, I gong!

I gong with throng in stand!

I am brand!

I am plastic man!

pieces.

Rose, petal, flower, stem. Pieces of a whole. Peace is whole. Everything is in a person and everything is not. A human being dreaming. Dreaming of life and past and lives past and dreams past and dreamily dreaming of past dreams and of all in life once dreamt. Days, some slept through, some stepped through and stepped through and stepped through quickly. Some days forgotten. Some days never could forget. Some days you'll remember but you haven't yet. Days as apart of the whole, of life as whole, days as pieces, as mortar and stones. Pieces dropped, pieces saved.

A person remembers, a person forgets. Some memories are empty nets. A human dreaming. A person dreaming in pieces. A person is pieces. A human vast, a person whole, a wholeness as trillions of pieces. A mosaic, in pieces. A person dreams, of daughters and sons and nephews and nieces, dreaming of atoms, of cells, of bones, of organs, of the mind, of the heart, of bare feet in cool grass and of hot sun, of salty sea air and the song of a distant gull, of that first time your child, so small, is held, your heart is held, your soul forever in pieces, of family opening presents and of tears your tears running down cheeks now full of creases, of a sun rising when you thought again it never would, of a son smiling when you thought again he never could, of the smell of spring the rapture of life, of strife, of a husband and a wife, of pain that is not your own, of a child crying, of a child comforted, of pain that is your own, the pain of loss, the pain of life, the joy of life, the promise of living, of giving, of youth and all of its loss, of these parts that make a person, a human in parts. A person in pieces.

A person in body, a person must end they, must end, day must end, night then light and back to day again. But the light does not end. And thoughts will not end, memory will not end, the heart will not end, love will not end. We are pieces, and some pieces live on in other people in other places in other parts of the planet, on and on as birds in flight, as grass of the field and as trees. Of dust, to dust, but so much more than dust. And dust is only a part, a part that does not include the deepness of the heart. The endless heart. The dust is only a part. We've met at this moment, together in the breeze. Cool, and at peace in the fresh green leaves. Together we have met, in the place where there can be, no darkness, because we are the light of stars, and we are the thoughts of our children, and we are their tears. And we have met at this moment, and we will meet again, and again, forever.

A person in pieces, peace is whole. A person as peace. A person is pieces.