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CE Green May 9
Funny how foggy mornings stir you up.
Pancake batter lace memory.
Those thick ribbons, waves of thought.
Pleasant valley was somewhat a memorable kinda place, though. To me. My people. We laughed a whole lot. Drank. Whole lot. Smoked, a whole lot lot. Often late, late into the night. Rock n Roll. Look at me, ma! I’m a teenage Lou Reed. Man, we smoked a lot.
One by one we’d filter into the fireplace room, make our peace with the evenings debauchery and lapse carelessly into some thin form of rest.
I’d often be awake before the mice. Never could sleep well outside my home. Even the ******* dog would stare at me as I sauntered toward the toilet. Man, my hair was cool then. Even after sleeping on a floor, and it smelled like wood fire and eternity. Pull a King book off the shelf in the garage, *** a spirit from the half eaten pack on the kitchen counter and get in some porch time and wait for my people to wake up, one by one to come and greet me, to come and say “hey, crazy night dude. How long have you been awake?” That’s not verbatim, but it’s the best I can do to remember what they have said.
I’m awake now, this morning years later. Somehow I’m mostly still the same. No smoking. Pleasant valley a ghost upon my eyes. And my people I gathered with, well, they are mostly the same too. No smoking. Not as lean, married with children or **** near close. And I suppose that’s fine, and we are living our best lives, as slowly as we can. I just wonder if you guys are ever gonna see this, I just wonder if foggy spring mornings remind you of pleasant valley. I hope they always do. Amen.
CE Green Feb 9
Pockets emptying
Night time knighthood pay.
We glitter as long as we can.
Reminiscent of ****** stage gags
The scar you left on my hand.
Oh, and you aren’t here any longer
We killed you in a dream.
Your sports utility vehicle
Your visage unseen.
I beg for no further bother,
I’m lost and plumb green.
Movement like ghost shifting
Forever unclean.
CE Green Jan 23
Year’s end.
Shades collapsed a spell
Amidst nocturne Hex.
Thought wandering back to Diet Coke infusion caffeine memory, goldfish sized. The days where it ends.
Loathing, topspin grim.

Time sprout.
Shades up a touch
Among daybreak incandescence, rooibos serenade, shutting the irrationality switch off.
The days where it begins. Where I learn.
Perhaps I am myself again.
CE Green Jan 14
Now I confess, arrest me please
Though I am undeserving and completely at ease.
A quiet obsidian  house, only footsteps to be heard
The fox in the backyard, a squirrel or a bird.
I am the woman of the place, you know
A matriarch of sorts
Fruitful fungi sprout from my back
They are akin to witches warts.
I was found in a dream
I awoke upset
I am all that I need
I easily forget.
CE Green Dec 2018
The furnace won’t kick on and my heart is sick. There is no purring or growling from its mechanical insides. The heater, not the heart. Poetry is the cupboard that won’t stay closed, it wants to show you what is behind its shanty stubborn door. The cupboard is heart sick too; with less romantic implications involved. Poetry is the robot that wants to be A.I.
That wants to out perform its human counterparts, and yet empathizes too much with warmly lit LED eyeballs.
Yeah. Sometimes that’s what I think poetry is.
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