bex: Favorites

Apr 2018 bex

Pax

You were the dimlit star
I am trying to reach.

You've lost much
of your glow
how I wish
my light would reach you, and
teach you
that in life
you're ever so beautiful.

How the harsh words of the world
barricades you soft spoken heart
into stones.

thank you all in reading my lightly lit star in my so dim world.

ive secluded much of my world into the four corners of my home, hated to see how harsh can the world judge me. also hated this part of me, a coward. I needed to remind myself of this feeling to move forward even a little step will do.

#dimlit #star #pax #heart #spoken #stones #light #glow

Apr 2018 bex

HOLY CRAP

Apr 2018 bex

Brent Kincaid

HOLY CRAP

I’m drowning in your holy water
Though you got it from the tap.
I’d pray about it, but why bother?
I’d be just another kind of sap.
I’ve heard your words for a lifetime
And they still don’t make much sense.
They seem to support your lifestyle,
Earn you enough to pay your rents.

I’ve read your documentation through
And I’m not buying the whole deal.
It may sound good to people like you
But, I am convinced it is not real.
You take the words of millennia ago
And interpret them far too liberally.
You brag about caveman miracles
And quote from them too literally.

Then changes happened the time
That Yeshua guy hit the world stage
And things switched from god, to
The 'worship of a human being' age.
That’s a reversion back in time
To when we knew so little about
What lightning was and also how
Babies got started and came out.

Now, twenty one hundred years
After our Anno became Domini,
People are still bending down
To kiss a ring that means naught to me.
I have no trouble having reverence for
People who act like a holy spirit
But rockstar status for preachers?
I want nothing more to do with it.

As long as the poor and weak starve
Churches don’t need my wherewithal.
As long as the downtrodden suffer
True abomination is a huge cathedral.
I know this will offend some of you
Who find gods in the clouds comforting;
Believe slick tent preachers and priests
Deserving of mansions and gold trappings.

#apostasy #disbelief #atheists #agnostics #poetry #kincaid

Apr 2018 bex

Me, Bukowski, and a 12% alcohol can of Four Loko

Apr 2018 bex

Eric the Red

Me, Bukowski, and a 12% alcohol can of Four Loko

This dream was so real...
The Man
The Legend
The Legendary Drunk Poet Hisself
Asks to see my poetry
Tells me to bring wine

Dont Forget the wine *******

So I drive over in my El Camino
&
Bellbottoms
Only I’ve got a can of Fruit Punch
12%
Alcohol
Instead of a bottle of wine
As Hank requested

you have to make the reader jump off the cliff with you in your first line, otherwise there’s no point

sip

good God! What is this?!

I’m thinking he’s gonna be furious
But he takes a deep pull
Knocks out half a can
Looks at it

Fruit Punch eh?

I show him my stuff. He likes it. Some of it.

No more poetry for the day man. Say, let’s go to the beach. Huntington or Hermosa. Grab another can or two of this amazing concoction

I tell him they have it in Lemonade
Peach Black Cherry...he lets out a smile

burp

It smells like Fruit Punch

Well Come On *******!

He talk in rhyme the rest of the day...n just like his words have told me about souls

The free one is rare...but you know it when you’re around one because you feel great and beautiful yourself when you’re near one

Apr 2018 bex

Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am

Apr 2018 bex

Smoke Scribe

Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am

Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am

she
asks me good naturedly
which to wish me - a happy this or that
and a poem’s immaculate conception is instant arisen arising
hot ****

rueful smile and unruly reply
a solid out loud Ha!

neither either or he writes and so believes

for I am a god loving man,
whom we’ve -Him/It/Me have agreed
that I may call
Sam I Am
and the answer to your question is
why not

for most quests and questions can be well-answered
why not!

my genes my historical beings my ancestors and my issue
all declaiming that I am a jew who left egypt, no defaming, a slave to no man who cannot love another like his own self

but some in all that I write, this deity boss slips in quietly unseen in one of his jokes-on-us-disguises like singing ave maria

and thus whose to say
his rightful name, is not
Sam I Am

my choice and the big D
(a self-employed informal his choice, nom-de-guerre)
has agreed via his acknowledgement in his normative style of
low volume taciturn tacit acceptance

so wish me a u happy
anything you want-to-call-it-day

don’t matter. but know this u were there
when, all on that happy day where, @ the manger,
when this Sam-Approved-Appeared
poem was born and Sam blessed it with a
hot ****!

she laughs, tosses back in my face, some schematic I
prior penned that I can’t recall the when or where or my
nom-de-guerre employed but fits this ex-slave perfectly

“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”

happy

#passover #or #easter #happy #any #ole #thing #sam #i #am

Apr 2018 bex

the schematics of poetry writing (first passenger)

Apr 2018 bex

Smoke Scribe

the schematics of poetry writing (first passenger)

all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor

a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened

I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced

perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made

perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased

there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth

Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,

3/13/18
1:09am

#smokescribe #schematics #of #poetry

Mar 2018 bex

The Patti Smith Poems: The Alchemy of His Prescriptions

Mar 2018 bex

Nat Lipstadt

The Patti Smith Poems: The Alchemy of His Prescriptions

35,088 feet over Nebraska,

(Nebraska-imagining me climbing a ladder, me upwards, Jacob’s angels coming down, off to a high school All Saints wrestling match in a cornfield town)

a place not on my bucket list, just a blue bias of an eastern stater’s unknowns, a sure sign of how much he doesn’t know

reading Patti’s slender volume “Devotion”

slender like her body, some would call it a wiry woman's
sparse but directed, connective, word-worshipping,
old familiar strangers she delivers to you that you have never met, her phraseology striking me and strikingly beautiful simultaneous

scan it and understanding instantaneous
she asking,
why do we write?

her answers are fine copper wire threaded
into a coil and I close it quick cause the loving ****** desire to
plagiarize such an oddly gorgeous offerings is overwhelming;
I feel the wire words piercing my temple, intending to
emerge out the other side, a decorative symmetry,
I don’t own

my need to script some cursive on my smooth body parts,
on my god-given papyrus, always at the ready,
is a methadone itch, a dulling urge needy for fulfillment,
that needs satisfying but me, soundly second rate,
write like the flip side of a hit vinyl record, no one is expected to play, fulfillment meets futility

thus the title is a modification of a Patti light touch

my alchemy never made any gold and my present presence now over Iowa a reminder that my prescriptions are 1200  evacuations; they are negative commandments,
proscriptions, not prescriptions

do not write, do not wrong words with a middling diffidence,
hide your face and put her words on a shelf above your head
hard to reach, so you do not be tempted

why do we write?

“All seeking an emptiness to imbue with words.
The words that will penetrate ******
territory, crack unclaimed
combinations, articulate the infinite.” Patti Smith

disambiguation she relieves us of uncertainty
my combinations over Waterloo, Illinois
are ordinary smokestack gray, a spewing wastage,
the angels conforming that my words Cain-fail,
my confession
meets no one’s standards, not even mine

7:07pm Central Time

march 25 2018