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Daniel Cuzzo Nov 16
To live for tip tap beet how they greet wounded windows.
To say the dance is livid, lively, proven providence prevented
this day from basking, or moving portraits posing prominence.

Let long the tethers be quashed, the arrogance of the mash,
the brevity of rotunda. Capture sordid castrations of color
as frolicking follicles of filamented files in heavenly spirals
make you remember this blasted November.

Dance to renounce desperate claim to fake-humanity.
Dance to taste spilt milk spelled out in rapids.
Dance to give the giver of life claws.
Dance to make manic romantic’s clumsy flaws resolute.

And in the wee hours of the disparate, few know
that I consoled you.

For the dance of dead zombies sordid in strife –
come to fickle midwife berthing unborn boys.
Oh, heal the Dance and its joys.  **** the banished toys.
Let them dance their fairy hue.

Dance like lude and previewed and spectral integration.
Dance like unwashed wood’s vile vines.
Dance like ludicrous anti-Valentines.
Dance like you got no soul like never whole.

Dance off rumors dance off begotten dreams,
dance off liars and their tattered seems.

Dance, but know that you should crawl if perchance
the little apple should sing and rewrite everything.
Maybe it is, with the subtle shimmer of the soul
that in the dance we are but pajama poisons to the whole.

Albeit the raging repercussions,
the ****** of test-tubes, of sirens
and meticulous violence fighting fringe capitalism,
leftist indoctrination, rhyming placation
and yes:  methodological praise.

Lift the star off its rays
of undoing wooing pants off eager gents.

And in the eclipse of memoire, the cusp of selective rhyme
of distant AIDS, white-washed promenades
I’ll write a sultry verse of elegiac curse
and vehement little taste buds collecting
to imbue naked weather.

And with the clawed off Calypso
we choose neither celery nor the jukebox.
We choose: the ***** of the punch bowl
the clout of claustrophobia,
cornered in Captive States’ palisades
given grades of grim to not-so fantastic.

This chaos is not to be a subject of social engineering.
But to DANCE – God to dance right nuptial
with frisking air limbs scattered – plumbing everywhere
distributing despair carelessly from our Earthly bodies.

World inches past tomorrow has sounds of sonatas.
Yet gallows will chide, lunatics glide, releasing
the feeble, flimsy figures and rudimentary makeups
of the human race, along with it, the mellow trance:
the feline feminine foreclosure of forthright fathomless fiends.

In it the clocks of clever, candorous cadavers
that still lather the pedestal that poignant prudence deems
NECESSARY to support our survival,
It is simple truth:  to do the opposite.

SO burn, churn, play, foray, give grieve,
reprieve, glaze, glisten, char, christen, blare,
vindicate, tear, truly satiate, mar, placate,
place power in your-own hands and show your puissance!

Heal your pallor, accept the vintage seed,
Don’t hide the greed and the pillaging of our past.
The blood is pinned to us all but we can RADIATE.
Mandate a better future NO meager beleaguered children –
we can salvage this situation
galvanize grunt work for the Earth
instead of our masters in declining stasis.

And we will not suffer.  We will masticate
on fruits of the Earth in our favor,
our grunge will be washed our cells inflate
as we derivate the truth of our origins.

We cannot be stones in sorrow like this.
We cannot borrow the opinions of others but
salivate on the inspiration to create.

I DARE
you to glimpse the true future of our race
and initiate a tour of the universe,
to tweak your consciousness, start to twitter
like birds and not like social media,
twirl your sons and daughters in clean air,
and ink your family’s book of kin.

To echo the song of John Denver, “Let Us Begin.”
This poem was started on November 3, 2009, then rediscovered 11 years later and re-worked into "The Dance or 2020" on November 16.  I never understood the 2009 version.  It was rhythmic but made little sense.  Reading it 11 years later, I believe I was able to bring out its true meaning.
Don’t you know, I’m a cat?
I hide until you look cute.
Then I might sit by your side
except I come off like a tiger
with all my ego and pride.

But in fact, I lied, time I’ve wanted
and times I’ve tried are 10-1
I rarely approach anyone when I like them
unless we’re talking philosophy
or analyzing a book

in which case I might share thoughts on love
without realizing my protective gloves
fell off in my speech but never beyond reach
and all I had to do was touch your hand – no!

ONLY when you’re intriguing, high IQ,
can beat me in Scrabble and running too!
Yet she’ll never beat me in running
because magic makes me far away
even when I’m next to you.

There are fake smiles and there’s pain,
medications still fill my brain – but don’t explain
why I cannot embrace those I love.
Is it really because they’re not that one,
and that I’m afraid to resist a deeper tryst?

Can that not be forgiven
or will I accrue even more damage
than lying on tire, staring at deep blue
I swear I’m not thinking of you
in a field I’d like to keep
from being a parking garage

and instead, be a tool of hope:
a local life garden,
teaching neighbors how to cope
with global interdictions
how we have survived spiritual weapons

and evolved until our overblown
minds rise to the frequency
indelibly connected to every life and plant
but without those who surrounded us
who missed the ascension bus.

But I will no longer settle for all or naught.
My hormones no longer raging,
no longer necessary to be participating
in the race of life where I prove:  to get a wife,
ignore the truth of life

and birth three children within the confines
of lines drawn for eons,
restrictions on our health, wealth
the amount of KNOWLEDGE we can have
and the topics we can choose to extend.

I will not let go and bend to this decision
however, I can love and still look derisively
on everything and anything related to
taking power away from us
to GET TO KNOW OURSELVES.

And now you can bet I’ll get close
if I still know how or if tiger claws allow.
If not I want a refund for tears and tissues
hey, why not throw in printed pages
ink cartridges – college education
where I became MORE incomprehensible

all for the sake of creating one more sentence
for this enigmatic goal: don’t think it’s “feel whole.”
Nope, I’m supposed to do that without you:
wonderfully alone, spiritually connected
with Gaia, with God, the Universe!

And when I finally give in, feel the peace within,
if I’m crystalline and not shrively and old
I guess I’ll earn someone, an original part
of the same karmic mold.

The karmic mold has had long enough to grow.
No one’s overseeing it or feeding it
but he keeps writing fantastic footage that
only sounds good in English voice

-no, I don’t do crossovers!
I have one language and I tried Spanish.
It’s like I’m scared to death of bad breath.
I can’t utter a word outside my native tongue.
Yet, I’ve got to learn new ones – telepathy, here goes:

You’re thinking this guy is nuts,
I bet he’s writing high and with no clothes
and I bet I’m right about at least one of them
because he’s gotta’ be tired of not sleeping
creeping on 22-year-old idealists to regain
something, for you, that never should remain.

You were there to raise youth, to cherish them
not embellish them with notions
that they can be one with someone as impure.
As sure as time itself he’s past his shelf-life,
been under the knife at least twice.

Pills are poisons that restrict life
and he just got his back
already looking for a heart *******
of epic proportions of planetary distortions
when the world’s about to end and begin
let’s WIN that game of life you’d NEVER begun.

Begin…
“So, let us begin.” He says.
Can I begin – can it happen?
Do I need to be rapping
like an insecure tool:
wondering, if he’s even smarter
than when crushing’ in high school?

It’s when other people come into play
that I can’t say whether they
can tolerate my voice
that changes so often it’s nuts

-yes, eat nuts but no time to chew
as I drop poetry bombs
and avoid all the damage.
But feel it inside

my intimate circle:
where there is no collision.
Some precision calculations
made it so it was always here,

waiting for rain from trained
angels crying to water the dust,
decombust explosions to positive proof
that now I can be something other than aloof.

To Mother Earth and God I entrust.
That Dan Cuzzo can stay
ahead of the curve
that wraps around his DNA.
I’ll be being me: the ephemeral entity
and let the last leaves fall where they may.
To take slight so seriously,
how can earth be so kindly?
To see the fake in every smile
how can I grow the love in me?

Who am I to label simpletons
those who cannot keep up
and cannot digest, the intricacies
of fantasies that I make up?

But these stories have become me
become every bit the expression
that drives closer to a goal
or oblivion.

Should I study food bearing plants?
Will the garden I grow
be the only joy I know
or can I do both and follow

a thousand other threads of fate?
To undo the limits, I have to appreciate...

Only Love

How can I meet slight with it?
Do my needs even fit with this selflessness?
Shall I discover the ways to undue trouble
and broaden my heart

so that every person is a favorite character,
every person I meet inspires past prohibition
so it’s no longer sin to dance in daylight
for no reason or occasion.

But when my delight meets others’ spite
can I escape defensive lines of thought?
My militance wants to break offense
yet freedom is breaking free from that act:

the act of breaking nothing bad or good
forget feelings of lack, being misunderstood
it’s about not needing anything
but being everything.

I still want technology,
I want sustenance, music, imagery
but am I willing to become
the fire and remedy for a family?

My mind is set so wide it blinds
I wonder if perpetual meditation is better
than jumping across social media platforms
searching through norms for glowing understanding.

When I’m spinning my wheels
impatience derails, confidence fails
frustration curtails everything
I thought I knew.

The view of myself is of a confident man
who’s been through storms and would always stand
alone, aloof, dissatisfied, ready to divulge proof
that this crumbling world needed change.

Yet the change I need is…

Only Love

Love will grow the seeds
love may fulfill my needs
love can face harmful words of others.

Who am I to criticize
when my emotions lie
between high and wise?

My uncompromising want to see the font
of possibility available before
has me staring at each door
wanting to divide into ten
to press through and find:
a way to bring them all back.

Back to the me…
who sees his lack of memory.
Back to me…
who recognizes ONE is not enough.
Back to the me…
who has read to devise all of my dreams.
Back to the me…
who wants to feel whole and free:
practically giddy from anticipation of each day.

Maybe with ALL of me I can face
the weight of my own inadequacy.
With all of me I can find the person
who can walk in the way we were designed.

But BEFORE that.  There must be:

Only Love

A million variations of love
that can avoid the scenery of violence
and when you put a Dan in a garden
or in a warzone, the garden is still inside.

Everything good has a space.
What’s wanted is absorbed.
Nothing sacred is wasted.

I’m not scratching notes
and putting pasted articles
but finding my core
that accommodates more
than other thinkers interpreted
through this uncommon lens
of sensibilities tying together truths
and grasping onto some untruths
that carry my fragile body
through the sinister web
even if part of me cries.

My ego will not go off with a wave
even as big as a monsoon.
Even if there’s…

Only Love

For now, I’ll sleep, hoping for insight,
solutions striving, only for one word.
Yet I laugh before I pass out
because the letters got messed up
and I wrote:  “lovely novel.”
I think, maybe they’re not far apart?
Maybe writing will be my start
launching me into a spiritual society
that I had no clue was here until recently
and they really seem to strive for…

Only Love

I stop laughing, to get a start
on what will be, regardless of success
or ******* words to support my nerdiness,
a search for my own quiet, enlightening bliss.

I miss you God.  I miss how close we were.
You gave me an answer
but I did not understand
Exactly what I’m trying to understand now.

Every gift I take for granted,
I’ll go back and praise in retrospect.
I’m learning to see each perfect moment as so.
Just let me see the glow within
to connect me with the hearts of my kin
and let the new world begin.

I do want there to be a way for there to be…

Only Love

This little spark has made its mark
and it's past time to dream.
We are not careening to uncertainty
if we do not fear it…
Inspired by Ringing Cedars book 8 part 1
It's about that time.
The Trumpettes shall sound -
when that white house collapses
into a smoldering black mound.

The old system is dead,
and what have we learned?
******* keep playing,
even after the ruse is spurned.

Vote or die.
It must be a lie.
Here I still stand -
one heart, three eyes.

Now what's the answer?
What will it take?
My head surfs clouds,
your soul's a fiery black lake.

On the inside I know
I have evened the score;
and would crawl back to my roots,
before I'm the world's *****.
Sometimes a fall
is the universe's way of telling you
that you aren't grounding yourself enough,
that all you need
is to centre yourself
against the earth
in order for a balance
to find its way to you.

Often,
we put up the worst fights
when we fall,
simply because
we assume it is belittling,
and
in rushing to get back on our feet,
we miss the lessons
of the significance behind that fall...

Time is often most telling
in the most unorthodox ways,
so when you fall,
allow your rise to be at a pace
where you know that
your feet will help you stand firm.
Climbing up from the pile of rock and rubble -
my body is again strong, and mind forgets the ancient trouble.

From the place of war, lies, and confusion -
I surrender fight for the sake of my master’s delusion.

The form I held then was battered and broken;
my soul trapped in fear, and verse unspoken.

I am no longer shattered, thieving for fragments to catch. My best work yet is composed with spirit to match.

As the old world slips and falls to pieces,
we’d do well to recall where our own peace is -

once this circle resembles nothing we knew,
we must pick up the remnants and build something new.
ObsidianDeath Sep 17
Ascension

The sun will rise
And in the darkest parts of my mind
They have no control at all
I’ve risen from the ashes, reborn
This misery has no say
Hatred has died from all of this hunger
I’ve made peace with these demons
Rising with the sun
I am claiming my throne
I am a new being
This is my ascension
We've just about reached,
the height of this planetary peak,
a chip still on my shoulder,
for all I've done, I'll never know her.

Slip a mask on, lay out in the street,
the elite are coming, better spread the cheeks.
They say six feet apart, or six feet under,
****** by the government for centuries,
religious fairytale of wonder.

Where's the God of fiction,
to smite your enemies with conviction?
You took the book at face value,
the key is not above the clouds,
it's always been inside you.

Ashes, ashes, see it all fall down.
Eat the pain smuggled in,
by the red and blue clowns.
What doesn't **** you makes you stronger.
I chose the truth over a lie, stretched out to last longer.

Mind open wide, with the masses I am down,
eyes still open, call it corona,
I've been crowned.
Strip it all away.. let's have the truth -
the thing that cripples ego,
and rips so savagely at youth.

This is how Others think -
*** backwards they will sink,
drowning in their own sorrow,
composed by the losses of tomorrow.

As if there were such a thing -
they view it not as new,
but as a chore they have to do.

Crippled by the memory,
of tears at a vulnerable age,
they say that life ain't rosey,
but if you let it go, it's sage.

They need something to cling to,
a dream they cannot see through -
nurse the old things, make them last,
it's exhausting, living for the past.

People never like to admit, they could've done better,
it wastes a whole life, and you end it as a debtor.
I prefer the heart of the matter -
the type behind a young nun's chatter.

*******, this ride is frightening,
but I'll be the thunder following lightning.
Unafraid of insides, though I wouldn't eat 'em,
I know what's within, caught my demons and beat 'em.

I don't wear much makeup,
and never put on masks -
the game died years ago,
and you'll learn once you ask.

This body's pretty, but sure is tired -
played the role of veracity, as I was hired..
Here's my advice, as we head for home -
in case you forget, it's written in stone:

Even in whispers, spill your deepest doubts,
then dig above them all, to pull yourself out.
Stop placating symptoms. You won't find your way out until you reach the core.
She rises again, with her demons in tow.
Yesterday's enemies are this morning's foes.
The flames never lessen, forever rising from below.
They bloom from the heat born 30 years ago.

Why did nobody pause, to let her know,
love is freedom, and we each reap what we sew?
She has never been one to let things go -
still bent under the sun, picking stones to throw,
and burnt all over, casting a bright red glow.

To just stand up, raise her perspective from the low,
would liberate the debts both her heart and soul owe.
From soil sunken, we could all watch the roses grow,
gaze at the smoke rising, as the roaring fires slow..
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