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#pliny
My Prize for Waiting ~ *tucked in all by myself, resting dark and quiet in the thin place^ where the distance between this world and the next, is no distance at all, but  a few inches separating, easily fordable, back and forth-able my palms, hands down, come to rest on my ******* and the two thumbs in unison, begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between, conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point passageway to poetic mystical places, hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping no hurry to either arrive or depart, in patient attendance for rhythms of woven word arrivistes, coming in no particular order, asking to be seized, greedy to be nominated and recognized, immortalized, as great poetry, prize worthy, kept for all time inside others poetry chests but in the thin place, dream records are not kept, hazy scraps at best retained, a recipe for a witnessed totality, is only a soupy reduction of a few seconds of hazed video, that can neither give nor get no satisfaction the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct the body of the meal, the real deal, alas, there are no prizes either for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless poetry scraps the only evidence of my travels, a flushing, blushing residual flow, slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying, my blush, a prize for waiting but failing, “the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^ woe to me when returned in ignominy, medaled in only base irony, me and philosopher Pliny,^^^ both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius, our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash, but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged burnt photographs epistles, that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle, insufficient to weave a flax complete and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now, to snag another prized piece of meaningless, my prize for waiting in the solitude of the thin place* 3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019 ~ last nights scrap ***cease your whining, seize your waiting, therein is your own paid price for the prize of inspiration*** inspired by Jean Fisher, a real prize winning poet
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Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
My Prize for Waiting
My Prize for Waiting ~ *tucked in all by myself, resting dark and quiet in the thin place^ where the distance between this world and the next, is no distance at all, but  a few inches separating, easily fordable, back and forth-able my palms, hands down, come to rest on my ******* and the two thumbs in unison, begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between, conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point passageway to poetic mystical places, hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping no hurry to either arrive or depart, in patient attendance for rhythms of woven word arrivistes, coming in no particular order, asking to be seized, greedy to be nominated and recognized, immortalized, as great poetry, prize worthy, kept for all time inside others poetry chests but in the thin place, dream records are not kept, hazy scraps at best retained, a recipe for a witnessed totality, is only a soupy reduction of a few seconds of hazed video, that can neither give nor get no satisfaction the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct the body of the meal, the real deal, alas, there are no prizes either for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless poetry scraps the only evidence of my travels, a flushing, blushing residual flow, slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying, my blush, a prize for waiting but failing, “the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^ woe to me when returned in ignominy, medaled in only base irony, me and philosopher Pliny,^^^ both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius, our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash, but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged burnt photographs epistles, that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle, insufficient to weave a flax complete and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now, to snag another prized piece of meaningless, my prize for waiting in the solitude of the thin place* 3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019 ~ last nights scrap ***cease your whining, seize your waiting, therein is your own paid price for the prize of inspiration*** inspired by Jean Fisher, a real prize winning poet
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