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 Apr 2015 Josh Bass
Stellar
he used his senses to define her
with every stroke, firm and definite
turning curves into angles,
spaces into holes,
flaws into perfection

she was his world
she was his art

but little did he know
that she's suffocating­
she never wanted to be his world
she only wa­nted to be part of *it
follow my twitter: @artandmusings
 Apr 2015 Josh Bass
Mike Essig
Once on a miserably
hot, humid day
cruising above
a silent jungle,
I watched
a twenty-two year old
Cobra pilot
clear his machine guns
on an ancient,
abandoned,
Buddhist temple.

All the hubris
of western civilization
explicated
in one burst.

Homer, who best
knew the hearts
of men at war,
could not
have sung it better.
- mce
 Apr 2015 Josh Bass
Mike Essig
He told me once,
at seventeen,
in my parents' attic,
that he would be a star,
remake the world
in his own image,
forge his life
by his own hand
with his own tools.

It would all happen,
he assured me,
through his own will
and determination.

Other people
were unnecessary;
fate, destiny, karma
and bad luck
only existed
in the heads
of losers,
not for him.

He was exempt.

Nothing could stop him.

He declared
himself
invincible,
(he had been reading
Ayn Rand)
and smiled
patronizingly
at my own
pathetic hippie
lack of ambition.

Now,
forty years gone,
divorced, broke
and unemployed,
he bums a cigarette
and whines
about the economy.

Apparently
the world
had other plans.
- mce
 Apr 2015 Josh Bass
Mike Essig
On Tuesday I drove near
my ex-wife's house
for the first time
in almost three years.
At just that moment,
in just that place,
my car's clutch blew up.
Curse or coincidence?
Spooky to think about.
Hard to say.
- mce
 Apr 2015 Josh Bass
Mike Essig
The man of deeds who lacks the word
is simple, stupid and absurd.
He works and struggles all the day
for nothing more than mindless pay.
He loves the rich and thinks them smart
for gaining through their lack of heart.
He loves his boundaries; worships rules;
considers those who break them fools.
His mind is closed; his world is small;
he has no words to think at all.
His conversation tends to stink
because he never learned to think.
His only drive is buying more;
he's little but a robot *****.
He does and does and that's enough,
if he can just keep buying stuff.
He never questions what he's told;
he's just a thing that's bought and sold.
And when it is his time to die;
he'll lack the words to wonder why.
- mce
 Apr 2015 Josh Bass
Mike Essig
The poet owns
a closet packed
with dancing
skeletons,
whirling and gliding;
he never needs
to dance alone.
- mce
 Apr 2015 Josh Bass
Mike Essig
Women:
they show up,
they smile,
they love my poems,
they grace my bed
and then,
they leave.
Something
is awry here.
- mce
 Apr 2015 Josh Bass
James Crofts
We gather together to
form one elastic skin,
to create a blank moment  
embossed in all we can't say.
and like glass, this gilded action
provides us with little reflection
wrapping and yoking
our clear and carnal intention.
 Apr 2015 Josh Bass
James Crofts
My home, dank, dark, and grey
its schools that ebb and sway
its heart where the demons play
my home, dank, dark and grey

My home, sober, soiled, and tired
its tastes dull but acquired
its veins electrically wired
my home, sober, soiled, and tired

My home, the stoic jungle of stone
a concrete empire with no throne
where everyone feels alone
my home, the stoic jungle of stone.
I was feeling rusty because of university work. I thought it would be best just to force something onto a page.
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