got a funny feeling that if
silence would visit this land
and I put the tuning tools to these
ears, it would become apparent
that even in these boonies, coyote
and elk alike cry and yap from reasons
that have little to do with nature
and everything to do with a sudden
worldwide youtube outage.
Wonder what a poor old sod can do?
Hm, maybe write? Really write something?
Get back to the cool groove of making up stuff,
leaving the primary decision
whether to put what is written in
paragraphs or poetic lines. But of course
to know and savor a silence
visiting this land is a doozy
of a fantasy in itself.
dropping by to publicly put this out:
a theory turns out to be a lot
more than a suspicion designed for fun.
Point could very well be better than Put,
but it is more important (worth a ton
should someone ever ask this image-smith)
that the local delivery dove
service gets this and so spreads the news
than whether one word scores a six or ten.
Nigh on two hours have I had this morn
and the true love of playing with words
has been free to jump around; free to dance,
and the drapes I sadly saw as bygone
suddenly reappeared and began
to part and permit scenic entry
which leads to subsequent entries
and perspectives like miracles
multiply as they by nature know.
So it is environment for the win
and that thing known as Flow is no myth,
but it cannot commune with a shut-in.
maybe in ways we do transgress
if what some eminent tongues declare true
about all of us being a massive
body, coming, going, trading night-writ
glances; expectant etches in the air,
unless half of the party is too drunk
on less-than-stellar wine to see
a new adventure longing to unfold
but a rude interference drives the waves
into hands that only know to strangle.
Back to the spring made for bathing in sin,
and face it, shades of iconography
need not obliterate festivities
as a tale is extra hard to conjure
if access to nervous modesty is
given the old forbidden realm treatment
taking shape as a gate which gold is fake
and where in the dickens does this warped strain
intend to sneakily slither towards
if not to the angelic bathing space
unless the desire is avoidance
and cannot help but reach for gaudy garb
giving in to the pelt’s needy wet mix
of plea and demand, genteel fingertips
play with a glider’s expertise
a rare instrument known as a horny
droplet; said dewy beads
common wherever the sighs that signal
a spring may peal. And if the joy
is as history has assumed and does
truly possess roots that stretch all the way
back to the dawning of mankind, how else
must a misty-eyed mystery lean,
except that this blissful abandonment
setting free hordes of cries
held for ages in dungeon bonds,
is true prayer’s genuine genesis.
the truest love ought to often
heavenly hover above
(obviously the hover would be
above as opposed to below
but this is poetic practice
giving higher priority
to stuff not necessarily
correct or logical) and be
the scented saintly presence
in good works acts highlighting deep
erasure of knowledge of another
universe or that the universe
is anything but this particular
and very fleshy symbol of
a dangling, gaping, eternity
to swaddle the supper in swelter
understand the universe must
allow evil wings equal seats
if only to give a better
angle on what could be called Good.
Heck, half of the joy of sex
is if it is immoral.
Speaking from a point of pure
simplicity says it is one grand game.