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We celebrate
our separation

from the mother ship
our first

independent breath
we are the seed

in pickled in animation
soon to have

dangling roots

whit howland © 2021
An abstract word painting.
Will we ever be
free of imaginary
monetary chains

  Kelly McManus
This isn't happening
all of the sudden
we need to close the beaches
and call in sick

Don't cry again teargas
it's not your fault
don't get hot there gun
you gave it your best shot

Song and dance, weekend warrior
soothe your soul
with a little radio friendly fire

The forest can be petrified
the sea wild
working without a mask
is both, you know

It's quite out of this world
but you haven't
really seen outerspace
until you've had DayQuil
with dissociatives

Then you take hot trips
to odd places
like an international
convenient store
where they're always
out of Africa and milk

I wish Monday mourning
would go jump off a bridge
I wish taco Tuesday
would become a festive holiday
nevertheless, our girl Friday
is always good for the job

The weight has lifted
the wait has (week)ended
the search for
my socks and sanity
can now kick off

When it comes to time,
many of us are fair-weathered friends.

In one brief moment we can save it
then turn right around and **** it.

Still, time is a thief,
so I guess we're even.
Something is out of place.
Something inherently
molecular within her
myogenic wilderness:
a modesty, an awareness,
the visible manifestation
of her shyness.
It contracts.
It tones.
It colors her
just as the sky.
just as stimuli.
There's something new
about this face.
Something awakened.
Something lovestruck
and silly.
For what else
could exert such
a dilator mechanism,
in all its deliciousness?
Death is to become sunshine,
To break open the self to the world,
In sunwheat gold and peasant hearth,
(The sun is the only empire of peasants)
Every grain of annihilation is still a seed,
And the sunlight carries the sleepless dead,
Their melted voices are warm upon our ears,
The sounds rooted in, but when we do not hear,
No more than the dead worshiping the dead.


Hearts melted as candles

Congeal into isolated connections

Pressed upon the lips of urgent ice

And both of these shall ever be

Till the gods to destruction go
You stand ready against all odds,
Holding true on fictitious front lines,
swearing the enemy is real

Much like the boy-
They all think you're crying wolf,
Searching for phantoms in normal faces

You can feel their ephemeral grasp,
make-believe fingers - tracing lines,
that make your hair stand up straight

Rock yourself to sleep,
Spear gripped tight in all-too-real hands,
They may not believe,
But your mind has seen,
Those unseen phantoms
This is my response to BLT's  "Word of the Day Challenge"
Fictitious: of, relating to, or characteristic of fiction: IMAGINARY
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