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a noble
dap in
Naples note
his fascination
was joint
and drew
the line
with paint
but her
****** will
batch his
tweed jacket
furthest along
the map
that she'd
wed post
modern here
a post modern dap in Italy
I was
hers and
still toggle
their feature
as this
cluster in
maudlin with
alluvion tears
as rain
only to
gape acquiescence
there and
strengthen peace
of mind
or frizzy
hair ends
the medallion
lover of love's long lost history
you are so intrinsically dear to me
and i know you can hear the beat
when our hands go blistering

i love the neapolitan but not naples
listen to how the city sings like the others
but she buys time and barely bothers
to remove her appropriating staples

she is a reflection
of a reflection
of a reflection
of a reflection

but you, my dear neapolitans,

how holistically human you happen to be
and what a human thing to do
to braid oneself with a few
ventricles of other hearts unseen

you are not special insofar as you are human
and the home you make mistakes you
for a permanent resident, assumes you
are a planted person whose sole purpose is bloomin

but you are dynamic, not static
you do not live in someone's attic
you move around, the ground beneath you
isn't bequeathed to staying beneath you,


keep moving and loving and all of the aboving
because our love isn't something
that can be taken away by a location change
or how 21,000 hearts are arranged
this is just a love letter to the people in my hometown. i hope you enjoy
Just moments after the eye stops staring insatiably at us
You can hear the flicking on of all those machines
As you walk down the flooded streets so slow
The violinists pull the strings, and on they go
One to the left of us, three to the right
Two in front of us, and none to the behind

The conductors swing their arms
The symphony clangs, alarms
Lighting up the homes and the tv screens
Chilling the musicians, and the shaky beams
Walk around some more, you'll hear one hit a low C
While you slosh through the street's home sea
if anyone cares, I haven't been posting here because I haven't been writing. I've only been experiencing.
Specifically, I've been experiencing Hurricane Irma and the aftermath thereof. This is a poem about that aftermath. I hope you enjoy it.
He was
either a
Captain or
Tory to
lead river
by Alamo
where want
toiled much
and delay
soiled so
much together
unfortunately his
somber face
many that
Hasici died
and San
Antonio implored
diocese while
Serra's Chapel
also became
an acorn
for fruit
and burial
for Franciscan
outward envy
of mission
for peace.
Serra's Chapel refers to early mission by the same name in  in Orange County in California
(As seen from Sorrento)

The blue of the sky dips sharply
to meet the ocean, a panoramic view
broken only by Vesuvius puncturing
the horizon. It rises a thousand feet
deadly in it's beauty;
it stands for all to wonder.
Proud and powerful, yet unconcerned
it sleeps; daring to be woken

— The End —