Paint myself a stone.
Equipped to roam aesthetic empire.
I walk the street,
Peeling up the corners of posters
for those who reach toward victory over death,
to see the stone beneath.
The pedestrians beside me sulk in rain
so eternally present,
it's pulsing collisions with the pavement
have drummed it's echoes into the soundtrack.
Engines stirring.
Rain pouring.
Walkers chattering.
Unnoticed erosion.
I watch the posters bleed.
A warning of their shared fate with the stone.
Canaries painted up with the brightest feathers.
Monuments like gleaming limestone pyramids.
But we won't remember the feathers as bright.
We'll remember the colors bled out, when they're bled out.
The paint on our pantheon will wash to white marble.
And they'll re-remember it as white marble.
They'll re-remember the lustrous white
limestone as dirt and sand,
when its dirt and sand.
Our history will be rewritten, as its remembered.
Oct 20, 2020
Oct 20, 2020 at 4:32 AM UTC
We've been given the antennae,
to alert the nearest node in the wave,
with just a calorie of effort.
That's the gift that gives us leverage.
Lifting up to surf the edge,
the valleys fold into the blaze.
A simple word can move the sled,
as time eclipses our transgression
We could travel peaks and valleys
to conclusion for forever,
never once aligning neatly
*** - for - tat)
with our impressions,
but...
We'd soon subside to find
a signal blinking in the night,
to heave it's burden on our tides,
and help to push us through the next one.
Remember that the signals always there.
It's always pulsing in the echoes.
Surfing waves beneath our vision.
Just remember we can lift it.
When you need it sound a siren.
Float the message to the surface.
All the lessons here can serve us
in a quest to make a difference.
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 5:22 AM UTC
I'm not as good as my brother.
I hurt him, and it hurts me.
Every day.
I hardly remember, but I didn't feel bad.
I remember never thinking about it,
until I didn't see him anymore.
Then it hit me.
I hit him.
He never hit me.
Ever.
That hurt me.
Aug 4, 2020
Aug 4, 2020 at 3:56 AM UTC
Rap at those enraptured under fears of the bacterial,
as children try discerning ethereal from material.
Drowning in the oceans of history, since repeating
these anachronisms trumpeted a fracture fed imperial.
Curse the brittle bones encroaching faster by the minute,
while the sinners broaching laughter couch a ghost within a cynic.
Living flesh against a ghost.
Spoken word against it's host
Who's the zombie here,
between a thread of hope and varicose?
Who's to know the line approached?
Serve the rabble in our throats?
Turn the table in our notes.
Learn the fables from the jokes.
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 9:48 PM UTC
"The thing about sht, is it rolls down hill"
My grandfather told me that.
He was a chemist.
"I know about some sht," he said.
"You get sht on by the people above you,
and you sht on the people below."
"Some may let sht slide,
some can't let sht go."
But you never sht on someone beside you.
That's how you make sht grow.
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 4:07 PM UTC
If I were on it, I'd align and live
a day worth the dent,
But if it's obvious or not I sense
created consent.
I try to fabricate a way in which
to break from the grip,
But it's appalling how inactive wings
will stay in the crib.
I see a season peeking in and out of clouds,
twiddle thumbs at my reflection
waiting numb at the direction of the wind
Brittle lungs hope to wrestle the distention
My complexion shows the symptoms
My assumptions were it's manifesting sin
It's the stagnant pool of water
It's a faltering foundation
guiding hands to feed the slaughter
Drawing lines to frame them in.
I make my mirror into butcher,
draw conclusions from the surface,
tunnel deep into the portrait,
judge the avatar as worthless.
We're just lonely little boxes,
on the surface,
if we only see the surface,
but the ocean drowns the treasure
for the divers to uncover
Will the tyrant butcher keep us boxed in cages
dancing superficial cadence
here to languish
never speaking to each other
Or can we assume the seasons feed the roots,
beneath the surface,
seed resurgence of connection,
see a new escape begin.
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 5:48 PM UTC
Look at us deciphering from scattered bits of simple cadence
Gluing framing gaining prudent palette learning newer flavors
Loosening the meaning proving brighter than you once expected
Catapulting action leaving no depiction undisected.
Incomplete induction building context of compressed impressions
Sifting pieces understanding wanderlust in simple lessons
Pouring into view the words
Assuming form in function destined
Coloring a loose interpretation
Fusing loving heaven.
Seldom do the patrons of this theater construct it perfect
None the less the picture seeds a lust and makes the effort worth it
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 6:52 PM UTC
Each is given their canvas
Open air along the brief respective flashes of time
We whittle gasping attempts at a connection
With only any placeable frames that we’ve collected
Hammer dissonance to Xanadu
Feather in the contrast as a method of description
or discretion.
_______________
Building a context
heft upon a quickly fading gust
Just a divvied introduction of trust as a reflection.
Left as signal threading the reverence into message
Let me bury symbols in code and seed a weapon.
________________
________________
Let me choose a frame and build a picture growing out to the edges
Filling seconds with deference
Knowing breath is the setting, for where the grey areas are
Levy loosening gaze, and form a tinctured impression of the glimpse I’ve incepted, though the lesson I’m guessing won’t fare to carry the cadences very far.
Tarry not for fear of ones inept reflection, bury not thy fierce direction.
Into the void.
Into the depths.
To build the frame.
To will the question.
Jan 22, 2020
Jan 22, 2020 at 11:43 PM UTC