He wore her thoughts and She wore his words,and together they were poetry

poems are my escape
into worlds where sense
is measured in meter and rhyme,
and the undercurrent of meaning.
i make regrettable decisions
and excise those
that meant me well
in exchange for a pain
less familiar.
i would apologize,
but pride dictates
i stand my ground
and put pen to paper
instead.

The old days, the old ways, those are in the winds of been;
with all the worries
worth worrying lost with the reasons why

today was to have been
impossible.

Self-evident, right, the prophets were right and
the liars
are with us, as sure as the poor.

Today, we live and die, planning to do it again,
after a nap, making clear

this peace past understanding, so you can see
through it to the

glimpse of a happiness you know, it's right, no evil
dripping acidic
lies
into hopes, we held locked in catechismical caves.

So long ago. The old days were not good.
Only the stories with happy ever after this
----

You see it done, old son, you take the role.
No missed takes, no second guess,
single-mind me, my self, I say may the game begin

en joy, they say, as if verbishment en into en trance
muted
nothing to this, in our own life's history,
verified, examined and, be hold,

not found wanting anything. Off the scale,
onto the state or stage of becoming,

not there, not here, be
coming
soon, always soon, soon, now

big bang, right. be

hell, you lie, and you know it, but why?
Liars prosper.
That's the key, if you give a buck. I'm a pro,

you don't get where reality is this slippery and
threatening,
guided by me, y'follow? you don't get here, and blame me.

Blame me, shame me, oughta take rope,
'n' hang me.

What if, still, in effect. Reality at gut level, synaptic axion dents, right,
waves of peristalsis moving shichewswallowed,

minus that action,
you are dead,

but your biome, the raw info, ideas that moved you, through the years,
we adapt, we modify our center of gravity,

we ellipsilate our sphere of influence into

fratical fractal real ification practices prospering in 2019.

Nonshite. Dear reader, we must pause, please, hold this thought...

The cultivator must be first, no lie. Seedtime gap harvest. Eat me.

sign on the bottle,
it was a clue, don't you want somebody to love?
You better,
find somebody to love, oh yeah, that left a mark. Funny,

It's okeh to smile, I said to Imogene Coca.
She stared into my eye, no Bette Davis eye,

Imogene Coca eye, no smile, no word mime meme bent
to a pixelation
degree, you pretend to see, AI can see the thread
you trust the legend,

scarlet thread or golden?
Which do we cut?

She is silent