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lennon gazed upon the mound, forming an epiphany.
the beady brutes worked in perfect unison:
a communicative, coordinate artistry.

his foot reigned down, crushed and maimed.
while in his mind, the thought became:
*i am these ants as they are me as our pain is all the same.
'adopt a metaphor' experiment. john was a sadomasochist.
Why and how questions are made?
If some things aren't supposed to be answered
I keep asking myself
but I couldn't find an answer
Question?
Who are you?
Am I crazy asking you?
How can you answer me if your a question?
Answer me..
As I walk through the line

leaving the trace of my history

hoping to see my destiny
Sometimes I think myself clever,
a genius in horticulture,
harvesting perpetual fleeting moments.
A muted gardener.
Watering without promise or
sentiment.

When the air grows stale
I can disappear
(I always have),
like so many ghosts
or smoke
A nomadic farmer.

But today
I want to be
old and knotted roots.
stationary and permanent,
nourishing and timeless,
impervious to elements
so that she
might flourish.
I want to lean hard into the wind,
sway with it and
bend
while holding my
only purchase.

And when she opens up
it will be enough
and maybe for the first time
neither of us
will be
murderers of perennials.
 Sep 2011 Kirsten Martin
Brandon
My skin hangs in tattered rags in the closet
Like decaying suits of human flesh
Yesterday was the last day
I had to say goodbye
And today
Just doesn’t amount
To even opening up my eyes
Her lingering thoughts taste like gunmetal and ashes
Bullets reminiscing with bones like long lost friends
Meeting on a shore washed away
With crimson water waves
The bonesaw severs the phantom limb
And exposed us to winter cold
My eyes burn out
Leaving the last impression of her lips
Upon my eyelids
Keeping please and thank you
within the answers held far
from talking eyes.
Is a burst of air splashing casually
from the pages of a book,
waltzing into sighs.

I just saw indignation
standing out in a thin smile again.
Emotionless laughter is at my door
with another sign, still and pausing
when night has entered
silently my friend.

On one side little boxes full of hope
grow bigger as they sit.
Yet, misting gently in the distance
comes the morning
instinctively they grow smaller
then they quit.  

I do not know where I should be walking
or if I should mention what I see.
When uncertainty brings a little chill
hardens this soft heart
I carry
here inside of me.

You may hear stones from the ground
drinking the truth from my hands.
But not, if you still have
an axe to grind
stupidities pipe to smoke
at your command.

Listen to the cries of no, no, no
breathing inside all human souls.
Close your eyes and pretend
you are in Disneyland
burning every letter I sent you
but never wrote.

Your breath will come in a whispered kiss,
running through your head.  
The poison from your mouth
will empty out into all the goodbyes
you meant, but never
quite said.
 Jun 2011 Kirsten Martin
KM Jones
you are my favorite non-fiction
and darling, I've lived fantasies...
I have fictionalized feelings...

but what we shared was unstaged
-unscripted
something found in between the sheets and "I'm sorry's"

we redefined the line
we cut the strings
found ourselves lost amidst the friends and the lovers

like the rough draft of a Hemingway novel.

what we are is made for the storybooks, my sweet.

we witnessed monotony and wrote of miracles
never intoxicated, but always impaired

we could overflow libraries-
flood them with our stories of how the sea swallowed up * all those * l i v e s...
and we had barely missed making history

we begged the other to simply save us...

starving for the intrigue of a good fiction
- dying to live a story worth telling...
 Jun 2011 Kirsten Martin
Samuel
She's leaving soon
[Masked bandit runs onstage and stabs in heart, leaves]
And it's going to be excruciating for
The next month and a half
But there is no such thing as goodbye

Goodbye is, in truth
A word, a phrase that should have no place in this world
Seeing as all it does is transfer its dark tail to an
Unknowing and usually unwilling recipient
[Bandit returns, retrieves knife, leaves]

The vast majority of the masses would consent to labeling my ideas as
Idealistic.

Fine then, I suppose they could be thought of as such by people who consider
Them to be impossible, improbable, or merely unlikely
There is a rhythm to my thinking, however, to
Take a good thing and expand upon it, learn from it, live with it, grow
[Clowns dance across screen]
Until all the self-righteous fools and their cemented mindsets become old and
Sodden with unknown wealth

Intellect can only get one so far before one must understand that
Not everything will be understood
[Large dog chases tennis ball across field]
And to persist in questioning, in excess discovery is to eliminate the wonder
The beauty that persists in all things, or at least to
Diminish it

Keep the volume up
The love strong
The fire burning
Your heart sound
Your dreams huge
My will stone
My mind clear
Our lives intertwined
Our lives intertwined
[Sunset fades to black]
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