william-crowe-ii - Hello Poetry

scraping lead against the paper, rough sounds of natural peace & moving along together but feel heartily amongst seaside drapes and the immaculate carpet of night.

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Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC

March 2, 2014

scraping lead against the paper, rough sounds of natural peace & moving along together but feel heartily amongst seaside drapes and the immaculate carpet of night.

17

He needs no introductions the man behind the mask in the indifference of the glass. Enraptured & alone, he does indeed wait for the miracle of the night. Impetuous, glaring, still.

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Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC

February 10, 2014

He needs no introductions the man behind the mask in the indifference of the glass. Enraptured & alone, he does indeed wait for the miracle of the night. Impetuous, glaring, still.

8

When I meditate listening to the words that pop up and glimmer in the front of my mind everything my eyelids behold begins to quiver & I can look straight through & see nothing

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Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC

When I Meditate

When I meditate listening to the words that pop up and glimmer in the front of my mind everything my eyelids behold begins to quiver & I can look straight through & see nothing

10

the sky is gray over naked gray trees all seems gray sidewalk & building & all is a dream & a pretty little dream & the mind is the dreamer sleeping in the gray & i am glad for it my dream is gray the rainy day is gray the rain in spain is gray the eyes of pretty ladies are gray just look at all of this gray sea of dreaming just look at the dream it is all gray it is all tathagata

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Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC

tathagata (January 2, 2014)

the sky is gray over naked gray trees all seems gray sidewalk & building & all is a dream & a pretty little dream & the mind is the dreamer sleeping in the gray & i am glad for it my dream is gray the rainy day is gray the rain in spain is gray the eyes of pretty ladies are gray just look at all of this gray sea of dreaming just look at the dream it is all gray it is all tathagata

20

when i die i want to be buried not burned certainly not sunk i want to be in the nice cool ground with the worms at least six feet beneath our own six feet

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Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC

April 12, 2014 (birthday poem)

when i die i want to be buried not burned certainly not sunk i want to be in the nice cool ground with the worms at least six feet beneath our own six feet

12

I have a shaggy mess of brown hair that stays tangled & rankled to fall over my glasses like a flag. Smoke from my cigarette trails behind me when I walk, in the direction of the breeze. I have short legs and long fingernails that break often. I wear an old sandalwood Buddhist mala rosary on my thin and bony right wrist. I've never made a necklace of flowers-- maybe I'll start making those tomorrow.

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Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC

Silhouette of the Artist as a Young Man

I have a shaggy mess of brown hair that stays tangled & rankled to fall over my glasses like a flag. Smoke from my cigarette trails behind me when I walk, in the direction of the breeze. I have short legs and long fingernails that break often. I wear an old sandalwood Buddhist mala rosary on my thin and bony right wrist. I've never made a necklace of flowers-- maybe I'll start making those tomorrow.

18

It doesn't take long for me to write a poem like it used to. No, I see a stream & think not of rhyme or of rhythm--words spew out like blood and venom. There's no secret to it, no golden key, it just comes. It bubbles out of me. I am a word-faucet.

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Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC

June 17, 2014

It doesn't take long for me to write a poem like it used to. No, I see a stream & think not of rhyme or of rhythm--words spew out like blood and venom. There's no secret to it, no golden key, it just comes. It bubbles out of me. I am a word-faucet.

13

a tribe of swans flying forward forever in a perfect V-- squawking against the wind, with wings laughing like little old ladies, rhythmically & white feathers falling to the gentle earth... black vultures the color of 3 AM in a pitiful wretched circle fly over the valley, worshipping the dead and the bones and the ashes.

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Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC

Untitled

a tribe of swans flying forward forever in a perfect V-- squawking against the wind, with wings laughing like little old ladies, rhythmically & white feathers falling to the gentle earth... black vultures the color of 3 AM in a pitiful wretched circle fly over the valley, worshipping the dead and the bones and the ashes.

16

life is a blood-red rust-red roadmap of cracked paper that soaks up suffering like soapy water and burns up slowly when set on fire

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Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC

Untitled

life is a blood-red rust-red roadmap of cracked paper that soaks up suffering like soapy water and burns up slowly when set on fire

8

On a plateau by the seashore sits a naked goddess, a dryad or a naiad-- she laments a soft song of mechanical love. Bathing in the quiet night, the light, the diamond-bright stillness. She looks at me with sad eyes. On a conch-shell loveboat together we sail through snaky canals of the heart. Cool, lapping water drips from her long seaweed hair as she sings for me-- we go beneath the sea & look up at intangible starfish that mirror the stars of the surface.

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Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC

marijuana poem

On a plateau by the seashore sits a naked goddess, a dryad or a naiad-- she laments a soft song of mechanical love. Bathing in the quiet night, the light, the diamond-bright stillness. She looks at me with sad eyes. On a conch-shell loveboat together we sail through snaky canals of the heart. Cool, lapping water drips from her long seaweed hair as she sings for me-- we go beneath the sea & look up at intangible starfish that mirror the stars of the surface.

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