>crumbled, rumbled, street survivors,
paper scraps that took the rage abuse rap,
dead love notes, bills red with overdues,
these pre-poems have traveled wind currents
some in from Jersey, some hailing Minnesota,
ain't never see one that crossed the Atlantic,
but reckon it is not a theoretical impossibilty

unpretty city streets, like a museum, collects 'em,
plenty of exhibition space, forlon, historically
orphaned, disbanded, whose paths all got confused,
some sweet, all beat, balled and thrown, no home,
no more, each a reveille, each humming taps, now,
all scented by strret odors, none pleasant, each was
in its prior life, the meat, the grist, the meal of what
was, coulda been, a poem that would have survived
yellowed in care, tender glanced, tucked in books,
safekept, but slipped away, victims of friction, fraction

look down, be unafraid, unravel them slow, careful,
abused, all these messengers all need a good home,
a box in a closet, a book of tenders, witnesses to what
they've seen, places they've been, hand held, tenderized
by words spiced, variegated, ink, pencil, typewritten, like
their prior human authors, all sizes, all shapes, some on
colored paper, a l l astrayed, accidental, purposed, details
and detritus, once deemed essemtial, important, necessary
and needed, even believed, but times change

you're stuck, brain ain't cooperating, tired of staring inside
your self's self, pull on a sweater, it's a chilly spring overcast air,
that don't natural warm, more naturally warn, be careful where,
you step, your next poem is laying right there, grab a few, take
more than a couple, this is like a school dance, try a few, until
you bank the right one in the till, the connection made, a kiss,
in secret stolen, and the drive, the forces, the perspiration urgency
leads to you desk, nook, granny's cranny, and the world of words
overflow like seagulls in a harbor, so many spilling, hard is the
choosing, but excited adrenaline, free basing, in your veins and
****, you gotta just write again, right now, add a ***** poem
back to its rightful place in a heart, upon eyes, tongue taste them
syllables, clap and laugh as they symmetrically form, subtle rhyming,
the sleeping seeds have sprouted, the brown brain loamy cells,
fertile and potent, energize, impregnate, and you just can't wait
to walk the streets, in search of many, many more

it's ok, you have permission to utter a whispery nearly silent
hallelujah<

Your grand memorial, all engraved,
Your history gilded, iniquity paved.
But each new eye who stops to read,
will know the less your wrongful deed.

"Erected here for future’s view,
By friends to make you shine anew."
The weight of grief, the tears once shed,
offset by a plaque that says you are dead.

Still, neath this stone, to make it clear,
Your marker says, “Yep, I was here.”
For all your fear of being erased,
In stone, your ego seems misplaced.

AI is groupthink, it’s hewed to pre-existing work,
which it aggregates into something bland and flat.

If you don’t want your work scraped and copied by AI, try
writing off-balance ideas that aren’t for everyone and have faith
that AI will never be able to actually rival human creativity.

Deny AI the echo chamber of predictable content on which it feeds.

I polish my pieces to a pointless sheen, which gives
them an algorithmically indecipherable quality.

When it comes my to poetry, I have to admit,
I’m working through mediocrity—hoping that it’s just a phase.

If failure is essential for growth
I’m going to be a giant

But after all, someone has to define the baseline.
You’re welcome.

Ok, Let’s wax poetic..

There are thousands of stars
in that black outer-place
where gravitas holds them
firmly in place.

I fret not about avian abductions,
or unidentified flying soccers,
still, I’ve a waxed on them
in multiverse
.
.
Songs for this:
I Like You (A Happier Song) [feat. Doja Cat] by Post Malone
Late Night Talking by Harry Styles