I'm a brick layer
by incarnation
by aspiration
by luminosity.

I find unfinished buildings-
toppled skyscrapers-
imaging their foundations
their structural intelligence.

With a brick here
and some love there;
once demolished
can be reassembled.

I'll reconstruct
your finest details,
the youthful aspirations
of an idyllic generation.

Too naïve to
understand that unforgiving
weather can happen
to even the kindest of buildings.

Maybe I grasped the wrong notion
A site meant for poetry in motion
Random musings are easy to find
One sentence isn’t a poem in my mind!

Not all poems have to rhyme
But some of your writings are a crime
A felony against art and words that wield power
These low effort attempts, hundreds each hour

I bet Sylvia Plath turns in her grave
At these pathetic bids some of you gave
Where is the rhapsody, where is the verse?
Your words should be in the back of a hearse

Where is the structure or composition?
Posting your crap was a poor decision
You might hate my words, though they are true
In my opinion, you have some work to do!

love is just moments
one by one each at a time
with conscious effort

I wish I was a number
So that I would be chosen
Take your pen and encircle me
Like I wish you would with your arms

Make me feel important
Like something that can't be missed
A day solely dedicated to me
Would truly be a dream

I wish I was a number
I wish I was a special date
Something you cant miss

I watched the woman wise beyond time
speak her poem to a nation not mine
voice carrying the weight of mountain ranges
the temperament of vast plains
the energy of impossible cities
and the grief and hope of individuals
with identities so closely bound
they’ve lost sight
from the long night she reached
and my foreign soul was lifted

Toy poems with metre measured in secret
mathic rhythms to mask the chthonic excuses

hidden in couplets and twice twisted sevens
jots and tittles known only in song

Cantor sing of alleluia, jah jah siss boom bah
Yah, who lifted us from slavery and brought us back

on track to be conjoined in
twin snaking tales of things that work, well

function for the good
in the principle
idea of be, aimed at
am-ing, ping, ding, ****

the witch is dead,
which old witch?
the wicked witch, ding **** the wicked witch is dead.
And that past as a flash- back to the future,
home again, home again,
higgs-idy lickity split,

you remember. We are old… working out

Silver sneakers, so Hermes-ish, I wish
to find that character playing the guesser guessing
something like the common sense
some folks scorn for simple use,
in times of electricity, whispering revealing the insanity,
in order
to lieve be the madmen, wombed and un, effected
by the tribal lie, used to shape a nation
from a ritual story retold to fit the pleasure of the tyrant
of the time,
time sold for membership in the mess,
a seat at the table….

imagine the aftermath of hate, juxt
now,
oppose the forethought,
say no,
the worst is not to come,
not from my agreeing with those fools
who
accuse me of lying in wait to take your soul,
and keep it safe,

wished you knew the secret of secrets, did you?
what do you know?
Death can be imagined more often than possible,
truly, once is enough,
truly, fleshed out with characteristics common-
found as basic features in life's
entertaining devices used to hold the oxen in line,
daily grind, grease the squeeks, see the wish
wish wish

all the stories speak of ever after this,
then that we know

yes,
know,
some sudden how, now
we know…

nothing.
F'sure, like I said. God, make me like Socrates,
and Jesus, suddenly
I know
nothing. But I'm alive.

And life still works, asking no further effort from me.