an epistolary coercion of things that swing to sail
I’m not sure what to say about all the words of the poets Your words make the mortar clinging at the alleybricks.
“We are the music makers & we are the dreamers of dreams”& so here we are in the midst of the illusion, caught in the cataclysm of universe wrought in supertransformidable collision of particle & mind (each made real by the other).
Your Mostly Face a human must exercise judgment or die
A Poem About History my neurotransmitters are not wrong
In light being let joy then be thy ferment & not fear
I love and fear you deliriously Is required of to be create-ive in abundant reserve. Is frightening.
“I don’t know how to not forge identity through association” sometimes we just listen for a while first & later we discover where we have differences
We shake off complacency suddenly believed she was the lighthouse
The route became a kind of uncertain thing I understand very well the fingers I see pointing lately/ the voices sternly reminding ‘marching is not enough.’
Spraytan Makeover apple pie on the table and Jimmy Stewart having a dream and you were there and you were there but nobody from these seven countries
Dreamwork I thought about the bathtub a lot.
who needed help we looked at the grass and the trees together and her breathing got slower and she began to talk about the mountains and the police and the animals
“the joy of poetry that enables the rebellion to be more prayer than protest” a wine to darken your tongue in this sad sweet hour of the ape—
Those people are illusions, but their mothers weep I’m straining to understand what the big fucking deal is about hillsides, fog, the Sun, etcetera
“Melt the money, but until then feed the hungry” If we perceive the collective will to be suppressed by those in power, it need not strike fear in our hearts
How is a ladder also a kite? I lean on a hope, always, for common ground.
Field Notes on a Women’s March in Texas when we are alone again & it is cold & dark & worrysome & difficult to remember, well, there was a walking that we walk still we walked & walked & walked among the walking
Henry Sea , ’tis no bummer to desire nowhere, I would settle, they say all information in the universe is conserved I worry over those who name their clocks after their suffering & proceed to worship. One giant guffaw before the unravel. Was it worth the ride?
Perhaps demons is not the problem an ounce or two of empathy toward the indignities & obstacles toward process with a mind to benefit others by one’s experience
Six Dumb Words the ‘struggle’ & how the sound of that word is like two men in the dark gripping one another by whatever it seems will kill
The Yellow in My Beak is Weak this is not my home I have no home & all the colors are wrong
Horizon-al Noon! since you asked me to be a poet, & since your writing on the horizon asks a poet to practice being a poet, & to share
Politics an empty moon