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MetaVerse Aug 20
a plums is ripe
     on August august
(what greenest trees?)
                                           if one
which a organism
          that shalt isn't die:

yester Day's shape
     i do robust
(who tomorrow was?)
                                           if ten
how a organasm
          is thineself & thy;


MetaVerse Aug 3
My technoscribbles haven't all cachet;
A mother hen on Friday farts an egg.
Even a swill of parlance has a say
When maple roadmaps varicose a leg.
A skinnydipping nakedest remote
Viewer that loons a dreaming in a pond
Fractals a nascent green and gleimous note
Hanging athwart with someone's else's blonde.
Take heart.  The fish have lungs and breathe the air
Of a new day when everyfish can ***
With or without a whiff of underwear,
Though salty tears are sweetest under the sea.
Milfs are a pack of pickleballing hots
Playing to win a plate of tater tots.


Zack Ripley Jul 14
Of all the things I've lost
and all the things I've gained,
I've found the most meaning
in the things that remain
My Dear Poet May 20
my words come with no music
so you can just read them
the way you hear them

just like the way they’re spoken
unbroken, by the melody of the moon

my words have many fingers
so you can hold them
as you seldom do

and truth lingers unspoken
till you hear me, feel me
a wordless tune
Man May 2
So much to say, which means so little;
So little to say, what that means much.
These ends we face, often,
Come on fast and taper out just as such.
What that remains: naught but thought.
Loose and multiplicitous as strands,
Hair of the artist's brush,
Colors as the richest palette -
Bold & bright, deep & dark
Who am I,
But the meaningless purpose, set out
To echoes of their tears— dancing their fires
upon each tongue. Am I wrong wanting not,
to be as equal to parentages?


What does it mean to be free; to be not
Set to be, or set free in a world, only not to be
Anything it recognizes— for the freer person in
this world, are only but the dead. So must I,
sacrifice my life, to then feel alive?


My time each day, is all amalgamation of
Escapeless breath. Oh, isn’t it such a waste to
Be young; for the subtle interest of being ill trained
By the perception of the Owed?

For our youth is truly a debt to those
who train us to be better—
But it’s a lesson not meant to be free,
for when you meet their age, you like them,
feel something is owed.

“Oh, where is the time, I had invested in you,
The wisdom and guidance my
hand laid upon your head?
For from the full of my flesh, I raised you up,
From being a fool. I had decided your
purpose from what I had seen fit,”


Enough then said; to ask of you again,
who am I, who am I then?
BLD Mar 6
As evolution jumped from eon to eon,
the foundational hunger to remain
surpassed all bounds this great celestial
has ever witnessed in its cosmic disturbance.
How must Mars and Jupiter, these stars in the sky
view the deep blue that flooded the desolate,
a clump of collected debris basking in the ultraviolet,
unable to resist the presence of life, ever-so unwanted
and needless to exist? For our neighbors in the sky,
glancing our way in their soulless façade,
they gossip to their peers about the news over here,
the autumnal shift from emerald to bronze,
willows who wept in the heat of summer days,
dandelions dotting the ridges of a rolling hillside,
at times dipping their toes in the whispering waters
of a backyard creek caressing the moss
atop smooth and shimmering stones.

From nothing you surged as entropy evermore,
and from everything you share your entities,
the very body you call your own, the breath
you maintain in this cyclical palindrome;
as mere extensions of the singularity’s core,
you find yourself in this position of awe,
gazing at the consequences never meant to be seen.






How fortunate we are to find ourselves here
in a sea of tumultuous chaos, conscious and
ever-so present in the discovery of knowledge.
To look to the past through a tubular lens
and remain unknowing of time’s present state,
the physical probabilities of potentials unforeseen
bending the rays of time to juxtapose new and old;
reality remains a pervasive illusion
evading the grasps of human cognition. Our
consciousness supersedes the premise of us all,
but our curiosity quivers in the breath of the
meaningless; how could something so rare
and inconceivable surmount to nothing more
than the imminent emergence of an empty abyss?
We must never misjudge the reign of the cosmos,
lose all hope that nothing awaits --
this I will not believe.  

From nothing I surged as entropy evermore,
and from everything I share my entities,
the very body I call my own, the breath
I maintain in this cyclical palindrome;
as mere extensions of the singularity’s core,
I find myself in this position of awe,
gazing at the consequences never meant to be seen.
selina Feb 28
i wanted to write like josé olivarez,
to love, plain and simple, and to let
the light in, shamelessly, for all to see

but she wanted a t.s. eliot, maybe a surrealist
portrait, or a picasso to my pissarro, and a tiptoe
around the elephants, for a look into me, endlessly

as if always in search of some deeper, divine meaning,
we parted our ways, but now i no longer feel like me
i have lost my rhythm, though i have not stopped reading

i fall into ignorance; i am called out for perfunctories; so
other than a casual fear of forevers, i now also know: my love
tastes like cheap prose, and an atrophied fondness of writing
one of my favorites from the more recent poems
To be a poet
Is not to burn the paper with your words
but to be heard
when drifting smoke of love and life is gone
the poet in us carries on
when ink and page and pen are embers
it is the beauty one remembers
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