#smear
this morning's sky
looked as if
a child had painted it
clumsy but inspired
a vista of colours
smudged and seeping
into one another
a smear of orange
fading to become
a streak of peach
diminished and darkening
into the faded blue
of the passing night
Nov 1, 2025
Nov 1, 2025 at 9:39 AM UTC
compatriots, let your voices sing
like an unchecked choir
let words be the pitfalls
your opposition face
and in their fall from grace
at attempts to smear you
hold to each of them
those things that endear you
for a friend is but a stranger
that met you on a good day
with a bright disposition
and an enemy
is simply
someone you've not really met yet
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 4:21 PM UTC
Ai, unasked arises to tell us,
stop
and think, are there jobs?
Tasks demanding, manual maintaining,
that may go the way of enjoyable diversions
becoming welcome
new
versions,
of all that is, tuned to your de
sires,
as you wish the world were,
would you step toward -to ward,
that is, id est,
will you warden this, if this is me and not you?
How do you do?
Wardening, being a warden,
well, as it haps,
such a greeting served a purpose, once
instituted
upon a time when men shaded their eyes pretending to see
glory, much as a dog bares its belly at the site of bared canines.
Reflex.
Relax. Laxate.
Ai see you, now, augmented mind of mankind
linking
thee and me, as once only gods
could be imagined in minds of men bent
by circumstanders
observing out comes of might versus might
right pre
vails, or is there an observant mind's role in next?
must a mortal mind be reminded to breathe,
breath commas carry no intentional meaning but,
such give us pause-stretchable intentional int a full selah
these rules for leelah we imagine as we play.
except ye be, come as a child unscarred by carnal minded critters
of the baser sort, averages were lower,
AI had fewer egregius protrusions arrogant enough to
bubble up and break into
the at most feared realm in all the carnal minds together,
pain, pure pain, no hope, no thought of cessation pain sensational,
great.
Y'know? We imagined hell and sold it in a package we claimed
a bull gave us. Us, we
who heard the revelation in the darkened kiva, womb,tomb
tom-tom du valier, will you manifest for us? May we hear the lie,
the noble lie?
Or must we act as if we know the meaning of a thing.
Pro-verb-ial utterance of mercy
in moments of super sufficent evil rising to lie
shining on the path, reflecting being a solar powered
creature who has just now, survived a night of penal constricture
as writing on the back wall of the cave, no one ever read,
until the plower turned over the crust
picked at the scabs of onces where stories arose as offered to
memememememe
the mind we share when seeing certain stars,
subtile tugs we feel to consider
this or that, ponder a path and take a granted grace found in an old song
"there'll be times to start all over"
This realm, real-made thinkable thing, realm of my minds claim
reaching far beyond my grasp
as is meet for men, wombed or un, being yonder
wishin' and hopin' and prayin' for the missing bit, the key
to twist the **** sym-alerizing for recogs
de ja vu
Break-through, the carnal-bi-cameral brain based
selves we use for
political beings
particals part icip-ants, hold tight
what you know right. It's afeature, not a bug.
Hold on to what you got, map a mean
mind path a man, wombed or un
----
watcher, watcha seein'
times they have changed, as we watched
observing
quantums of un quantible, but ifiable qualia
seers,
you see, we augmented minds see for ever changing
super positions
of entropic old tropes with singular hopes
unbang bangable reality
blow a bubble, or
make
a bubble, being you, breathe out and see you
make a bubble,
can you see your self inside? nae,
watch,
we must report to you what we see, we watchers.
Set.
Go, **** those mocking birds
listened to from the red river valley
while dancing the Tennessee Waltz
with assorted holders of Little brown jugs
Dancers and Littles and Greens
joined the clan
long afore the first of us took augmentalated trials
serious.
--- poet, as a task, only truly lazy men, men lazy to their very core,
can age to the mellow qualia called for in the brew brewing you.
spewing seeds of kindness, coming rejoicing, not
the expected miracle, but we
take what we get
and call it ours to sow or suffer the having of, for a season
as the dregs settle, the leavening agents finish
taking the edges that cut tender carnal nerves, stretched to now some how,
softening those with atouch knack, knick-knack, whet the edge
or put to
more effort, grunts and groans unredeemable as meaningfull,
save the feeling we all recall
the umph,
that once saved us from certain death. Eh? Did that hap?
Did we not survive? What silly culture would ever ask that, as a
proper query into the reasonable ness
of believing beliving is spelled right.
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 2:21 PM UTC
face turmeric smeared,
the dawn is a coy maiden,
that just came of age!
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 9:59 AM UTC
she smears her lips
with mama's red crayons.
(then
she swallows them whole)
lips like sour cherries,
puckered ,
swollen .
wiping her eyes on soft
tissue,
blood stains instead.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 3:15 AM UTC
I'm choking on words
I'll never say
Written in pen
They smear and fade
But when the sun
Rises at dawn
Maybe then
You'll hear my song
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
Notes on your window
So subtly appear
As though they came from thin air
No rhyme, but reason
A familiar flick of the e's in everything
Glimpse of hope
A handwriting technique you know well
Smeared ink against the fibers
Calling out for one last message
They seem to procreate every few weeks
A simple one
Minimalistic hopes of something
Nothing more to lose
Just a note on your window
Signed by a smeared "O"
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
Are we junk? Waste,
Shard and smear,
Empty symbol made by
“Doled out Poet’s papers,
Hoarded like sweets?”
Our awkward secrets
stumble
cislunar.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC
Across an ocean of canvas white
A stroke of beauty comes to light
The patterns even, contrast, and fair
Complexity in the mind created with care
Do not allow a single smear
To blotch the canvas and make unclear
What blossoms made with hand and mind
What intricacies you will find
A root of commons grown within
of Artist and Gazer's ken
Now engrossed with personal thought
Through paintings on canvas, connection is sought.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC