May 2017
BRING BACK PLUTO!
his black T shirt blazons for the nether,
or is it heaven?
...the letters are glow in the dark.
He walks down the sunset street
smoking a sad cigarette. but really
he is not that sad. because he knows
he thinks, i need to get a job soon.
i wonder where i'll be working next.
i hope one day they flock to the music coming from me,
that would be so rad.
i'm nothing like my mom and dad.
but i'm not such pressing matter to the world, only to me
everywhere men best me
at one thing or another, keep a humble thing going.
they don't understand why i acted out
or where it came from, and there's really no need for them to,
one day some people will.
He thinks it's sad, that cigarette
We don't enfold without violence, but we do enfold
so perfectly. He is really quite intelligent.
He does and doesn't mind that you might suppose
him stupid, or this or that, which he isn't
by the way he looks and talks.
He knows he takes vain pride in being
pretty good looking and knowing about
lots and lots of different things.
That's okay, he loves the word smart.
Everyone is so smart, okay, God is so smart he thinks,
And that seems to just negate the iniquity of "IQ"
That segregates more elitist and more jealous types.
He is 22 now and clinging to his youth
(like his skinny jeans cling to his legs)
But this, he supposes, is maybe not so bad
So long as he takes care of everything he needs to.
On trivial matters right and wrong have faded from his mind,
His critics are shades of gray as is he,
But this is certainly connected to the more dire matters,
which, he thinks, rotate just as dizzyingly.
But that is why things die. Smart. Art.
That must be my connection to Unity,
It was no lie that I did feel this way and do these things
For ever, but it was certainly not perfect.
Only, it is. Right here, right now.
If you could only see his heart.
But he knows, that just means one day,
It will unfold, and you will. Sometimes,
he supposes he's ready to die, only
the aching in his stomach
of so many songs yet unsung
words not yet written
embraces unhad,
charities not given.
These are his thoughts. And he is also annoyed,
Paranoid in fact, all the judging rush hour traffic going by
What they think of me! He's sorry, he hates it. He smiled at you and your child. He thinks himself so dear.
But you only saw this dude walking through Lansdale,
Bringing back Pluto in skinny jeans and high tops,
his ***** thanks to God, the dirt is not *****
The worth is not worthy, smoking a cigarette,
looking at his phone, probably playing Pokymons again
another vibration somewhere down the line
Intersecting all the time.
his black T shirt blazons for the nether,
or is it heaven?
...the letters are glow in the dark.
He walks down the sunset street
smoking a sad cigarette. but really
he is not that sad. because he knows
he thinks, i need to get a job soon.
i wonder where i'll be working next.
i hope one day they flock to the music coming from me,
that would be so rad.
i'm nothing like my mom and dad.
but i'm not such pressing matter to the world, only to me
everywhere men best me
at one thing or another, keep a humble thing going.
they don't understand why i acted out
or where it came from, and there's really no need for them to,
one day some people will.
He thinks it's sad, that cigarette
We don't enfold without violence, but we do enfold
so perfectly. He is really quite intelligent.
He does and doesn't mind that you might suppose
him stupid, or this or that, which he isn't
by the way he looks and talks.
He knows he takes vain pride in being
pretty good looking and knowing about
lots and lots of different things.
That's okay, he loves the word smart.
Everyone is so smart, okay, God is so smart he thinks,
And that seems to just negate the iniquity of "IQ"
That segregates more elitist and more jealous types.
He is 22 now and clinging to his youth
(like his skinny jeans cling to his legs)
But this, he supposes, is maybe not so bad
So long as he takes care of everything he needs to.
On trivial matters right and wrong have faded from his mind,
His critics are shades of gray as is he,
But this is certainly connected to the more dire matters,
which, he thinks, rotate just as dizzyingly.
But that is why things die. Smart. Art.
That must be my connection to Unity,
It was no lie that I did feel this way and do these things
For ever, but it was certainly not perfect.
Only, it is. Right here, right now.
If you could only see his heart.
But he knows, that just means one day,
It will unfold, and you will. Sometimes,
he supposes he's ready to die, only
the aching in his stomach
of so many songs yet unsung
words not yet written
embraces unhad,
charities not given.
These are his thoughts. And he is also annoyed,
Paranoid in fact, all the judging rush hour traffic going by
What they think of me! He's sorry, he hates it. He smiled at you and your child. He thinks himself so dear.
But you only saw this dude walking through Lansdale,
Bringing back Pluto in skinny jeans and high tops,
his ***** thanks to God, the dirt is not *****
The worth is not worthy, smoking a cigarette,
looking at his phone, probably playing Pokymons again
another vibration somewhere down the line
Intersecting all the time.
