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 1d izzn
Zeno
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⠀⠀⠀⢻⠏⢠⣿⣷⡄⠹⣿⠋⣠⣶⣿⣿⣶⣄⠙⣿⠏⢠⣾⣿⡄⠹⡟⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠛­⣛⠋⠀⠋⠀⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠛⠀⠙⠀⠙⣛⠛⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
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⣰⡟⠀⠈⢻⣆⠀⣴⠟⠉⠀⠀⠉⠻⣦­⠀⣰⡟⠁⠀⢻⣆
⣿⣦⣤⠤⣴⣿⣴⣿⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣤⣿⣦⣿⣦⠤⣤⣴⣿
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I don't know what I was looking for,
in the honey draped lights flashing
in my eyes
And the sound of music
that keeps on playing and playing

And the wind that laps over my face
as the world turns,
Like horses running on axis,
weaving through the lines of shadow
and fireworks
And in their trail, I found
stardust that shimmers and shimmers

I found it confusing sometimes
In the endless mirrors and lights
that spirals in my mind
Like vines coiled around poles
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀  ⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀     ⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⢰⡟⢠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⡟⢠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠘⠃⢸⡿⠀⠀⣀⠀⠀⠹⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⠃⢸⡿⠀⠀⣀⠀⠀⠹⡇­⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠘⠃⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠑⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⠃⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠙⠀⠀⠀

And the looming sweetness that lingers,
like pink foam swirling in my mouth

I smiled towards the dying sunset,
thinking it would last forever
I try not to close my eyes
and not be blinded
by the world slowly slipping
away

Before the music dies
Before the yellow stars burn out
You might not hear my voice
or even remember my name
But I just want you to know that

I was here

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⠀⠀⠈⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠉⠁⠀
I've been to the
bitter, dark place
where dreams are
decorations in
dilapidated houses,
a building haunted by
the ghosts of spring.
I tasted the wine of
****** and convicts
there.

I've prayed with the
broken and wasted.
I spent
days and months,
almost forever with
the feral men and
women of America in
homes not fit for fleas.

Then one cosmic day,
while the wounded slept,
I chased a beautiful
moth that escaped the flame.
And that has made all
the difference.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEeNcBC_mnM
Here's a link to my YouTube channel where I read my poetry from my recently published books, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and Jump to the Madhouse and Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, available on Amazon.com
Just like that, outta the blue
I realize that no matter what I do
There'll never ever be another you
And it hurts like hell...
Btw, how great is Chet Baker??
 Apr 30 izzn
sandra wyllie
infesting my floors
and walls. Eating through
the cherry wood till there's a
hole where my house once

stood. He's a pathogen
invading my body with his,
injecting the poison in a shot
of release like a pent up

sneeze. He's smog, polluting
the air I breathe, blocking
my lungs till I wheeze. He's
a bacterial infection spreading

into my tissue. Knocking down
cells, making my brain swell. He's a
malignant tumor growing every day,
till I putrefy in a pool of his lies.
 Apr 9 izzn
matt r
o holy glow,
                  your pitch
eared knell.
                  the blue ish
halo hooped through lobe.

what do you call these "larger
deaths?" weighted deaths
                    /important deaths?

you ring these
deaths 'hind
eyes & throat

to samaritans &
moonwanderers?

no. so quiet as such like
a second post-homily

& therein lies the body, see;
   the rotting hipocrisy
          of expiration

                    ...

therein lies the flowery
bigot, or death as no
       inferno for
               consequence.
 Apr 9 izzn
Nêijî
Warmth
 Apr 9 izzn
Nêijî
To love and to be loved,
Oh how lucky one is to have both.

A warmth that neither time nor tide
Can wear away or coax to loathe.
 Apr 9 izzn
Nat Lipstadt
(~for Stella Marie, a newly arrived poet here at HP"
who asks, "when does a poem truly end?"~
)

She's off,
to a fancy, long gown, dinner dance, with her dancing partner,
a relationship that predates my arrival, my tired song reminder,
"but don't forget who's taking you home" has aged out from repetition,
and now she slips in beside me 'round midnight, and more often than not
so smooth, so silently, I wake up to early morn poetry writing time
and there she is, a Britbox ****** mystery dissolving on the tv screen,
earpoded and still miraculously,
deeply asleep

before she departs, poses for a final inspection,
demonstrating my wonderful
ability to adorn her gorgeous jewlery,
and sardonically modest, critique her with, an
"as expected,
you looking gorgeous"
which evokes her soft smile, at my soft edged compliment

but earlier, whine like a grown man on a diet (so pathetic).
there is nothing
sweet to eat for my apres dinner just(ice) dessert,
and leaving me chicken soup salty and
aggravated...she in a neutral tone,
a child practiced tone,
"go check the fresh fruit drawer, there is fresh fruit aplenty,"
and I, mentally comparing my desire for a raisin scone,
or vanilla butterscotch swirl,
to the taste bud reaction unfufilled,
find the clear plastic box of fresh blackberries,
like Leornard's tea,
that comes all  the way from Mexique,
and inelegantly stuff my face...

been writin poetry since early morn, pre~sunrise, through first daylight,
and now eventide, she's off, the apartment gone quiet, as I munch on twelve blackberries I have extracted to ease my sweetness lacking

but blackberries are ****, ******, that won't quell my inner needs,
of course, the notion of twelve blackberries, says, mmmm, could
be a poem in there somewhere, and the muses whisper asides, clues,
hints and apparitions of trite not quite ripe  lines and verses that might
be apropos to a poem so ilked and milked (sorry), AND that word hits me
tween and behind my blue gray eyes,  

T A R T
----------
with its mulivariable shades of meaning,
which amuse. and I love,
but also accuse me of possibly be distracted intowriting
bad poetry,

and wonder how the tongue disassembles our food,
separating their essence into the varieties of taste sensations,
sweet, sour, salty, bitter and savory

and reflect how wise these tiny tatse buds know
just how we humans sort people into categories that
mimic  
just how knowing, assess, categorize,
our fellows humans
along the same principles,

how can there not be a supreme intelligence,
that designed our bodies so similarly
and yet so differently,
and efficiently?

something if we thought about more,
might make us less inclined to blow each other up
with such genteel aplomb.

apologize for dragging you through this rambling essay,
but it came about when Stella Marie
asks, "when does a poem truly end?"


it ends here, when you captures the flows of the living currents
we surround ourselves with, reaching out to capture their
flowing parfume essences,
the sweet, the sour, the savory,
and connecting them to a larger envisioning,
which how we operate,
why we do not ignore spectacular sunrises, sunsets,
the "curve of a wrist"
how an ankle turns a leg into a finished sentence,
how tears confess true emotion and clarify,
even though they actually intefere with seeing,
and now its time to depart, end this long rhyme
about longing,
for something sweet
and the short answer is,
jumbling and humbling,
"you just know"
for she's back and read this poem,
and tartly replies directly,
and answers your question

                     nml
APRIL 8, 2025
9:53 PM
NEW YORK CITY
Eastern Standard time

please advise any typoes
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