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 Sep 2017
eleanor prince
pool swirling deep
surface still
beguiling

glimpsed from afar
caution warned
but you came

aeons spoke true
our hands shook
you held on

time stood still
even breath
paused

seconds stretched
vibrating
eternity

stunned we stood
uncaring for talk
riveted

others filled space
with putty chatter
while we stayed locked

silent cerebral synergy
magnetic dance
exceeding

all thought
numbed in
mindless joy
chance meeting with someone memorable
 Sep 2017
Akira Chinen
Don't waste your days away
write bad poetry
I mean absolute garbage
and draw stick figures
with squiggly lines
and paint with your fingers
and laugh when you ****
and blame someone else
for the terrible smell
and sing and scream
whenever your driving
to wherever you may be driving to
and stay up too late
and get up tired
and nap
and sleep through church
or at church
and snore really loud
and day dream
and live dreams
and when the nightmares come
enjoy the fear and the rush
and the pouring sweat
on your forward
as you wake up screaming
but don't look out the window
because there isn't anything
out there that is more scary
than your imagination
and make a deal with the devil
and cheat him his dues
and leave a rubber corpse
on your death bed
and live another day
and out run the sun
and give a butterfly the moon
in exchange for
the hidden treasure map
painted on its wings
and hang that map in the sky
to cover the hole
where the moon used to be
and don't worry
no one will notice
because they look exactly the same
and ask the stars politely
not to tell anyone
and don't forget to say please
and thank you
for stars never ignore a request
for a favor that is asked
with a manner of grace and kindness
and build sandcastles
to close to the shoreline
and watch the waves
wash the towers and walls away
and listen to the mist giggle
at the mischief it has done
and fold a boat
out of the song
no one else can hear
and give your hopes and prayers
to the wind
and sail away
and find yourself
and lose yourself
and give time and love
your full attention
and no matter
how bad things may ever get
or how good things may ever be
I will always be a fool
and a dreamer
and a magic bean believer
and I'll write you bad poetry
really bad
absolute garbage
whenever you need
because I can't think
of any better way
to waste my days away
 Sep 2017
zebra
please cut along dotted line
.........................................
ouchie
 Sep 2017
Mr Q
Within black feathers that perch on a pedestal, she
stands on an asphalt floor washed by static cymbals
that weave through bodies bumping clumsily together;
a sheen of she that rises up with eyes of red silver.

Eyes like a halo of stain glass windows over obsidian
with brown bear brows bristling at tees and suits
that slap and grab at the flow of her river of hair
winding over the hills and slopes of her dewy pear.

She sits and taps and drags a chip on her nail,
a red shattered mask of salty and wet sunsets.
The curl and pout of a finger and pointed chin
begets of me a twitch as if to hold her head.

I breathe in a shutter of her honeysuckle mist
that rushes to cover her meaty sweat and spit.
Its sugar tips into my sandy lips and tongue and
begs me to dive into that oasis of Sangria breath.

My hot skin stretches its trembling hairs to caress
her walnut varnished chest that peeks barely
out of her hide-and-go-seek black velvet dress.
Cheeks and belly stuck in a butterfly grip, I gasp
as she turns and beneath peachy lips gives a grin.
 Sep 2017
L B
On rising heat, killdeer flush
to decoy the enemy--
threat to its young that roams too close
They rush to skim on hayish blur
wailing over wildflowers drying

Fretful twitter in perpetual flight
swifts-- twirl and hurl their bits of bodies--
debris
from a cumulonimbus of a late-day sky
toward a ridge of stag horn sumac
presuming horizon primordial
behind which time and city-- drift and wobble
on rising heat-- after rush hour

*Rising Heat
Rising--
to meet my mind
on its way down
from my post behind
the laundromat
where I view it all--
rising--
where I usually go in search of quiet
to almost hear the ocean
     two hundred miles away
to strain words from wind
     in careless conversation
to wonder over
     missed whispers....

But not today
In rising heat, I went down
in search of something better--
     your eyes again
     solvent for my presence of mind
     dissolvers of hours and the order of things
But I need an excuse!
     To turn, to trespass, to disturb the peace!
     For your eyes again!
And still I need more-- being feverish, weak
Or?
Or... should I take the cure?
     To deny ...To deny

To deny what?
Overtones from a sea of years?
I don't know!  Whatever it was!
Nothing explain it...

I melt... I'm gone....
I think this feels like a song.  Wish I knew what to do with the music inside.  Written out behind the projects where i lived with my girls while finishing college. 1988
 Sep 2017
Mike Adam
No movement-

Still

In a building;
Head shrinking,

Wrinkles out-
Lining

Small perspective.

Expansive dream of
Yesteryear

Distilled in a single

Tear
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