the life-sap that rises washing winter from my veins inebriates me as i feel my wooden fingers grow alive again beneath your sunset-green umbrella of love and as i stand here leaf-blind my tree-soul-self sees and i admire the aura of your birchbark skin— grace-white and delicate i want to wend my poetry along those branches branches that blow that tend that cradle the wind that bend the sky upward— to grow into whenever i try to reach you i can't and THAT leaves me leaning feeling dark and dark thoughts petrify my raging sap into amber crystals that fall to the ground and each crystal becomes a precious gem where within is trapped a tear of love for you and we sleep side by side by side and rarely touch as our roots tangle in the under-earth while my grizzled bark and oaken amber grows old and maybe we can be a chair together sometime
We are nameless, I-men, striving far above the beggared notions of apathies and death's release. We are shadeless, unencumbered beings drawn from Prime Consideration. Others, fallen, fail, false in trade, offer i for I. I, reaching skyward, holding fast the honest roots wherefrom he rises— i-man, reaching down, splits the rhizomed root, splicing fungused-i to feed upon a stolen I-man grace. And struts.
The photograph hangs on the wall by the window Three judges appear (one carries a folder), A tarot card reader, embalmer, engraver Without much to say and not much of it said About the boot in the crib and the tire in the bed, The round faced man and the *** on his head Painted with flowers and chipped on its edge. And the cat near the door with its collar and bell Flailing and airborne and mid caterwaul. And the three-legged dog with her leash on And sweater, jubilant, leaping— Mon Dieu! Grand jeté! And the crow— O the crow! In its cage cawing “Fire!” The crow crowing “Mayhem!” and “****** most foul!” The dog and the cat and the crow and the tire, The cage and the crib, the *** painted in flowers; All in a frame with a sign alongside— “Self portrait around the Ides of July.” A ribbon is clipped and then hung for its owner. It bears the word “Mention” and then the engraver Makes a note on a form he hands to the embalmer. The tarot card reader, turns— She and her hat, And addresses the room, “Ain't no card made for that.”
Authority: noun, (with capital A) An expert source of inexpert advice Or information, with little to say But popular amongst Authori-ties Which is the (noun) plural form of small minds With little to say and lots of them saying (Hear those majuscules!) FACTS HARD TO UNWIND! We find ourselves inclined to decline such waylaying Of truth or of fact with opinions sans stature (Somehow I have managed twelve beats to my measure) Like Truth from The Mount of their own manufacture They pander and ponce for their profit and pleasure. Authority: noun (with capital A) What can I say? It's the Word of The Day!