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  Oct 2015 Keith J Collard
K Mae
who is it now who loves me
who changes tune for every feast
of every new curve learned
who echoes deeply as I howl
responds to shimmies and the luster
sliding all along the rim
I like to think it's all of from him
but peering over edges I can see
who shines a light in darkness
It Is Me
Keith J Collard Jul 2015
A Dimension Of Suicide

I find it mysteriously sad,
watching my footprints in grass
Begin to fade,
With the upward bending of each returning blade.
My path is gone,
Aside from what I am standing on,
But what if.... where I see tufts in lawn,
My mirrored footprints pushing up and lasting long,
Into my world he pushes in,
A happy man with a stronger print.

As I wake  with a worldly dream still inside my head,
I try to store it in the window beside my bed.
Reaching to touch a star and feeling the cold of glass instead,
I realize so close a world
since waking--has long been dead.

A silverscreen of car headlight beams,
gliding my walls conveys a supernatural theme,
Faster and faster,
'till the motion stills a scene,
In another world,
A man it seems?
Or a silky spectral suit
of asphyxiating white--
back to the color
of skeletons from dirt exhumed.
With an unbecoming
oblivion colored tie,
So flawlessly destroying
Edges onto spectral light.
And this suit would animate,
Gasping, trying to adjust,
The imperceptable knot,
Destroying, his tailored cumulus.

This tie stung with such a prelude,
it would only be akin,
to only one other view.
the wasp coming down the spider's tunnel,
and knowing your home is now your tomb,
stung, helpless,
waiting for the eggs to hatch,
and then consumed.


Just looking into where I will be ending,
In destroying digestion,
I was already dissolving,
In darkness ensphered
looking out its lining
into a more abysmal atmosphere.

I woke,
And touched a star on a cold window drawn,
To quickly make this dream be gone,
I ran barefoot outside,
To stand till dawn--
Grateful,
For holding down blades of cold wet lawn.
Keith J Collard Jun 2015
Been homeless for awhile now,
April is hard,
April is always hard,
been April for awhile now,
wish I never met her,
no adapting,
no predicting her weather,
when the sun comes through
I am the sweating winter fool,
and when she goes away,
such a dream was May,

Dreaming of May for awhile now,
forever dreaming,
forever is always hard,
dreaming is April,
everything is so close,
like the winter locker with summer clothes,
and when you lose something,
only April knows,
like patience,
and endurance,
been April for months now,
hard months forever in April,
been coughing awhile now,

  cold and painful is April rain,
Been homeless for awhile,
April is always hard,
Been having glimpses of May,
They are cold and painful,
They forever remind me,
There is no adapting,
April is the month of dreaming.
Keith J Collard Apr 2015
I used to sing that song " Im the man,Im the man ,Im the man."

But then my girl would hit me with a frying pan, frying pan, frying pan.

Now i lip sync so she cant understand, understand, understand.

For all she knows im saying yes m'am yes m'am yes m'am...but under my breath im the man im the man im the man.
Keith J Collard Apr 2015
You must die--whilst alive--to leave your cage. I once had a talking parrot--who lied--saying his luxury confinement was "quite ok."  On an african hunt for the diamond carrot, is where i stole him back to Bombay.
Then before returning on consignment--my pet parrot wished with me a parley.
      "Can you bring me back any messages--and tell them i am quite alright"--when i told this to a crying parrot--he quickly died on sight.
I told this to my pet when i returned--and he cried and did the same.  I sadly tossed him in the *******--but then i realized what the message contained--because he got up and flew away.

( lol, i was watching a self help speaker on tv last night, and he told a old indian parable, thought it would be catchy as a poem.)
Keith J Collard Nov 2014
No care in the world,
war, death, or girl,
isn't it so arbitraire,
the beauty of a pearl--
or the color of her hair?
my mother died yesterday,
and I did not care.
Algerian cafes are nice,
but only with the glare,
that comes from the sea,
sending me so inwardly,
if x happens, or z,
it doesn't matter to me,
I don't see his face in the sand,
I know priests must make a living,
and dunes makes up this prison,
that is fine, but I rather parley
with wine--seaside  at the café--
why must religion,
always come from a prison,
maybe if it was out there,
he could walk on water
because of the glare,
and I can see the arbitraire
golden blond of her hair,
instead she cries,
that I am going to die,
and you messieurs,
might as well be x or y,
and religion arbitraire as  pearls,
can I have a smoke?
maybe I'l see him in the curls,
x or y, I still lose my life,
shooting a man with a knife,
now I am tiring,
I do not know why I kept firing,
it was so hot that day,
I was squinting, I could barely see,
oh her skin when she exits water,
I only wanted to get back to Marie,
drink wine with bagets,
under the river lining sycamore trees,
now messieurs, I ask you to leave,
for I am to die,
because for my mother I did not cry,
and you despair for me,
YOUR RELIGION IS SWEAT IN THE EYE,
we should be calling the waiter seaside,
YES I AM TO DIE,
FOR YOUR LIGHT,
IS  GLARE--
BRINGING SQUINTING DARKNESS TO MY MIND,
AND THAT ARBITRAIRE STARE FROM GLARE,
CAN BE X, Y, OR Z, I DO NOT CARE,
PEARLS, GIRLS, AND SMOKING CURLS,
MY DESTINY WAS TO DIE, AND WHY?
THE ARBITIRAIRE BEAUTY OF PEARLS,
I will miss her seaside,
I hope, the crowd cheers my death,
and the guillotine shines,
and blinds me back for good,
to the darkness of my mind.
Keith J Collard Jul 2014
Did the Pax Americana
come and go?
Is her statue, made of ice and snow,
Do I see her in the fire and now I don't,
Pax Americana, I hear her, as I go deaf,
I feel you
As red decorates slowly through my vest.

I am with you, in a tiny-- but vast land--
yet still on my back,
Watching sweat pick up crystal sand,
Your dune has no debris that I see
mid this blackened road--shining so beautifully,

My Lady of Pax, my lady of last laughs
that came from the briefing,
My lady of things one would want to last
Yet you stay now that I am bleeding.

Lady Peace,  just like a goodnight kiss--
in respite, you exist,
This war all I've seen is their pretty olive eyes
and you are their lips,
You are here now as eternal momentary bliss.
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