I have the aims
of a famed procrastinator
who is perfectly positioned
in the place of
comfort that I prefer,
while I remain undisturbed
and also undeterred
from my lazy guy mission.

The dub reggae's loud as she relaxes
The drug-smoke hits our brain synapses
King Tubby* spreads my mind around the room
As we listen to the bass line boom

These are the times to be remembered
2017,  the first of November
As chilled out as it is possible to be
Yet, still be conscious, yet still breathe

Yes, nights like these are the good times
I scribble my words and try to think of rhymes
There are no words that need to be said
Between us, lying on this bed

The love is there, a living thing
With the bass-line's boom and the snare drum's sting
Yes nights like these should be remembered
2017, the first of November

Broccoli green
gum drop
tree tops
lean less than
lightly in
this no breeze
dry heat day.

The old lady houses
are made up of
mud encrusted
multi-colored
rough bricks

Seems to be
pre-blooming
purple flowers
unfold
before me.

Tree leaves
begin turning
from green to yellow
yearning for
the release of fall
when gravity will
take them all.

In the night
the fountain
spits red light
streams of water
with a little
blinking blue
to skew the view.

The phone store
is closed,
but I can still see
the sharp blue glow
of those
bright screens
blinking out at me
from the window
to the streets
where I am walking slowly.

By Arcassin Burnham


I was thinking about some things,
I don't ever watch t.v.
in this life things are too fake to even comprehend,
Life has never been so short,
Savings for some current spendings,
With less earnings I just don't want to pretend,

I was,
Coming,
To terms,
With,
With my,
With myself,
Cause I don't wanna be just a number,
Need more,
More,
Than,
Than what I was intended,
I Do not want no one to choose my exit.

The ebony
black bent gate
bends from the weight
of age
separated from
the scraped cement
while scratching
the great brick
supports beside it.

in this
pocketful
        of limbo
          the distance rises
               in curls of smoke
        a prairie fire
siphoning into
crisp edge
           of forest
          Inside my
uncloaked ventricle
primeval forces
turn my blood into
dusted gold
as they pump
        sacred texts
into my oxygen
      They roll your quintessence
upon my fingers,
            playing inside
     my psyche's  
wild ache
a spread of orifice
in spellbound mantra,
       as I spit out
          the
            hairy thorns,
a holy purge of
   internal
        engravings
    
Somehow ---
like a miracle,
I grow ripe seedlings
from deep within
            my womb
as I trip into
a universe rising
I take wisps
of your grace
as it brushes
the jut of my
astral collarbone
You are always
         grounding me
                    like this,
               my tongue
              tripping
         over velvet
stance of warrior
        assuaged into silk
    
        Without you,
I might be
whisked off into
the periphery
of chaos
but instead
       I am simply
tied to
      the urgency
of the little novas
about to
        explode

While I wait
            I tend to
              the wildfires.
     to make sure they
                   are still burning
I keep my honey
wet and fresh
upon your
                   lips,
let my pores
drip moonpools
    into your glistening
wet of mouth
and only when
          it is time
I let the whole of
           me burst
into the
      fire -wrapped
tips of
   stars

Dear reader

I am wet with red death
wed to time’s inevitability
and all that is left of the true me
is here for you to read.

So, you should know
my beloved book lover
this weary word smith
must admit
that I love you.

I love you who
are here now
working with me
or against me
the sad, angry,
bitter, and lonely.

And I love you
who have yet to come,
the newly young,
the unborn babies,
the teenager
who will feel
so alone
but might find a home,
and solace from my verses.

And I love all those
who will never know
my words.