"immediacy" poems
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set
orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till
spring"
the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
too much insufferable
having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit **** u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run
concurrently
there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****
tests and hunts,
I have successfully
failed
of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader
men
maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted
where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in
immediacy
heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
smothered life
but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a **** you
mirror
there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics
fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,
at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?
Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the
outrageous misfortune
of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.
Enough whining:
*I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering*
3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
You, the essence of my heart,
can win me & lose me in one moment,
carefree confidence descending into fear of failure...
an alarming look at the likelihood of loss.
My soul has risen to the immediacy of my mouth
where a touch of your tongue can draw it into your own
or your heedless words send it reeling back
into the dark recesses,
where it hides from the fierce light...
tormented by the longing for another touch.
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 11:19 PM UTC
I
I am often attracted to things unhinged. Not necessarily (traditionally) romantic, more akin to an unwillingness to ask permission, one who might say It was never your permission to begin with and not be angry or upset about having to say it. Few are so willing to evaluate situations without the overwhelming cloud of emotion. Judgment fully withheld, kind banter catching wind. A needed immediacy.
Jean-Michel Basquiat was aware of the past. He pretended to not care if you did not like his paintings. Part of him was upset some people did not understand. Basquiat strangled history down to basics: music, culture, society (not the same thing), generations of family after family. His point was not for you to obtain this. This was his conscience—tangible. Brain processing. Synthesizing. To him it was so simple. I refuse the word primal because it is misguided, it does not factor purity, clarity. Sugar Ray Robinson told Basquiat to stop painting the background. Tuxedo told Basquiat what words to place and where.
So much of my art is stripped and lucid and enacted with only me in mind.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
The story began one night in the dark
when most curious minds were asleep.
Sitting silently, only fingers tapping the keys,
“You tempted me like an empty page,” he wrote,
longing for a response of immediacy
that would fill his mind with more words,
the only thing he took comfort in.
She stepped aside from the voices
at her gathering to read his message.
“Emptiness,” she wrote back, “lives in the mind,
the habit of looking for what’s lost.
There is no zero in nature.
Let me tempt you with fullness instead.
Come and see what I see, and share what is there.”
As she sent the message, she swallowed deeply
knowing that what she offered was not quite a lie
but more of an unfulfilled desire.
“I can give you what I never had,” she thought.
Her mind wandered, filling
with all the ways that only emptiness can.
He wasn’t sure what she was offering him.
Whatever it was, he longed for it.
Her words flooded him with a feeling he couldn’t name.
Love? Desire? Intoxication? Yes.
As the sun rose, he took no notice of fatigue, thirst, hunger.
He forgot the empty days,
the time spent looking in the mirror,
counting the lost years.
He began again to write.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
butterflies on a beautiful boy
cling with insect intensity
they wear candy pink lipstick
he has his face reddened
with blusher
his hair is depicted in triplicate
on the cubical doors of toilets
black painted cubical doors
that possess an objective scrutiny
of an immediacy that suggests
a knowledge of expendable names
of disinterested inspection
names that are deletable with time
all that is left is a screaming solar plexus
he waits like an animated aura
a haloed head of violet rings him
as he leans against the toilet wall
with beautiful blonde ambition
the butterflies cling with insect intensity
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
Jovial mess on bed encapsulates heartburn diarama
a fresh coat Bismuth Business man with codeine red sweet stains on his dockers
3am Dharmic ranting
"job well done Wednesdays"
and "feel good Fridays"
Moronic howling immediacy
immediately vibrating cell walls within the twenty-something aged voice box device.
Burly chest galavant
push up to get the muscle fat
lean, and impress upon
the natural on-and-on
leave the face unscathed along
Have to be outside
Outside where it's most safe
ascend the incline just before the nightshade
lose your technology in the primordial Koi Fish Pond in oxymoronic fashion and let the nature of this dream leer at you from the area down below.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
Fog Happens
Yup. Not profound, even Jung, Kant and Freud,
wouldn’t deny their eyes, would no doubt disagree
with symbolic, philosophical implications, and the
head banging ramifications for the immediacy of
the spiritual impact while driving in this grey ****
Fog differs every time, and on an island, that’s for
**** sure. Today’s incarnation, the fog comes over
the water, but respects the man-made, timbered,
bulkhead, so the yard, with its circus of ravens, crows,
and other invisible birds, insects, rabbits, is visible,
but absent the inhabitants who are smarter-than-humans,
they remain aboded thinking, only stupid humans believe
they can navigate and forage, in a fog penetrating in air
that is 97% humidity and 100% peas soup thick skinned.
The time? Of course.
It’s 7:36 AM on the East Coast, and beyond the lawn lies a brackish bay that will lead you to the Atlantic and north to the Titanic, direction Newfoundland. Not enough info to geo tag me, but those who know me, knowledgeable in my early mornings scribblings, know my whereabouts, my telephone number. Do you?
Fog Happens to everyone and at random intervals, Nope. Not thinking of the brain clouds of ordinary Lethologica and Lethonomia. (Sunday lazy so just look it up and say out loud, gotta remember them words and laugh out loud cause you ain’t gotta a prayer.)
Fog Happens
in the heart, spreading north to the consciousness, and the lethargy of movement impeded by the lighthouse bells tolling “danger is about,” our light stolen, but you need to know, you’re perilously close to danger. Any action taken when heart-fogged can have awful consequences so stick close to bed, yank out your tablet, write a poem, listen to sad love songs on that Pandora Station, or send GIPHYs and emojis to your six year old granddaughter who is 108 miles to the west of where you both hide beneath coverlets, and laugh out loud with her like the bells chiming outside, and that helps move that heart~fog hanging low, out to sea.
YUP.
Fog Happens
Fog Passes
Jun 25, 2023
Jun 25, 2023 at 8:00 AM UTC
love and insecurity
tend to evolve into the same thing
you must trust that the other will stay
and you must trust yourself that the feeling won’t go away
because when you’re in love
you’re sitting on cloud nine
you can leave all your troubles behind
with one look from them
and it doesn’t matter if it’s a her or him
or anything inbetween
because love is a feeling
that everyone is permitted
there are no such things are love and mitigated circumstance
because love is feeling you get
from an interpretation that can arise
from the first time your eyes met
that lock of your eyes and the feeling of intimacy
love at first sight, immediacy
you have the yearning of learning everything about them
because you can’t deny the chemistry
your brain telling you that there is someone to yearn
because the greatest thing to learn is to love and be loved in return
I love you, I love you, I love you.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
near three years, nearer to eclipses,
since last scribed here, been there
been loved, mistreated, done my share
of giving beatings, for the deserving,
never been any body’s ****** no starting
now=ever.
men look at me, their eyes self-seducing,
a crook(ed) finger never summoned me
or any self respecting woman of valor,
with a full fist of words, a tongue sharper
than a deli slicer, if looks can **** then
left my fair share of men on the Riviera,
the Hamptons, the Gold Coast, uptown
and way downtown where the cool kids
pretend play @ being prey hunting grownups.
ya, hear your thinking and it’s stinking,
my generated magno-electric vibes that’s
to blame, get this kids! never your fault
being whom you the actual F are, it’s their filters
that ***** their vision, their desires unbidden,
casual dispensed, thinking glory is theirs to share.
my road is not broken, there are signs even I spot,
when the man I crave is nearby, whose calm is not
couched cool, who doesn’t wear his possessions on
his sleeve, one who says adventure, yes, let’s go,
never saying when, for the only when is what both crave,
the loving of immediacy of “right now,” and add
to that pithy, my name, Brandy, acknowledging it’s
me, just me, he addresses and not some vision that
was crafted by others into an ideal, and ‘because’ is
not sufficient but the perfect rationale, to trust what
your absent father called your *“finely tuned instincts for
human finery, humans who eclipse ordinary stars*”
Jul 15, 2023
Jul 15, 2023 at 7:57 AM UTC
He stakes my arms to the wall, with binding hands.
I feel his desire through the strength of his grip, he
presses against me and I can’t move. I meet his eyes.
He smiles. I smile.
We kiss to form a scabrous, common bond.
I feel bound up in him and we remain, as such,
too long, too rude, too rough - and free for all to see.
It’s enough to draw curious eyes and jealous sighs.
We stop for air, to reestablish equillibria.
Our immediacy is too giddy - we’re too flushed
for words - the libidinous overtures of ***** birds.
It’s just a kiss, or two - too few - measure them by
pleasures blush - but now, we to the dance floor rush
to join the crush - YES, fun is enough.
Feb 28, 2022
Feb 28, 2022 at 10:08 AM UTC
She loved to dance,
the music didn't matter much
It was the feeling,
freedom, surrendering,
I think it was a way of communicating for her
A switch of the hips,
tap of the foot or snap of the wrist
Illustrated her innermost feelings
I could never read dance
So for me it was only ever an obscure but intimate moment shared
Spoken words are my tools and I amplified my pointed but spinning feelings often and in person,
With no music playing, no time to reflect or poetry to serve as a conduit,
She would freeze and struggle in the immediacy of my spoken words,
These tools constructed small wonders leaving her still
For all the wrong reasons
Dissonance grew beneath the roof of these wonders
Breaching the walls,
always at nightfall,
We were slaves to our mediums
Our mediums enslaved us
She never knew the steps I was shuffling in were mimicking hers,
I didn't know the routine and her music muffled my words leaving them weak,
Hindsight, reason and honesty our last chance to dance and speak.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Pare 1 Of 3)
For the barefoot girl, the faithful
album was an afternoon in the
sports bar where there had been
a guitar player and some ginger ale.
Now the trumpet was singing a wide
screen view of the big game.
Eliminating distractions, the crew
was focused on the game, ignoring
the girl as she wandered, in bare feet,
between the tables. No pretense
suggested that the medium was not
appropriate for those who climbed
railroad ties and those who drank beer
in moderation after negotiations about
the green sheaves and the upstairs room.
In this castle, time was suspended.
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Part 2 Of 3)
Ashes were good for the roots of the plant
in the window where the response was
directed to the coolness, or the hot weather.
In sports, the weather seemed to be extreme.
It was always freezing cold the opposite;
coaches meant to be cautious watching for
heat stroke among the players. The club was
not louder than the dim barn where animals
were removed from the immediacy of the
last few weeks of the season. Some of the
birds could not fly; there were mice that
could climb to humble abodes in the rafters,
and the cats gathered apart from the dogs.
The heavy lifters had reassuring
incantations derived by the artificial
structures of the radiology through iconic
projection. Antenna reception hovered to
mark the insects with aesthetic devices,
a discovery by evolution.
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Part 3 Of 3)
Screams came from the permutation and
signing a transcript of the spiritual drawing
which had been seen wandering among all
the other creatures living and working in
the flying building. The gathering showed
grinning teeth and disappeared. Found at
the bottom of the mineshaft, was the fictional
ring of speculations and associations
confronting the mischief of the few by the
motionless badges of authority. Life depended
on the weathered red boards where the climate
ranged like it was galloping across the public
space, proved free by the friendliness of
kindly associates and the universe of powers,
the authority of birds that did not fly and barns
that had flown away.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
wild night videos
for the dark web
3 Atlean men
and a girl
she got it
by a mob
of Moroccan **** rockets
and will pine
for the rest of her days
screaming to the hells
in a reimagined language
the regression to Lilith
**** *********
the world
when hell touched paradise
***** and man handled
shot by shot
mouth to ****** to ****
split and folded
tooth and nail
to drive the ****** tides
of the world
***** monsters like
T Rex
force a ritual infliction
butter meat of dreams
pain sensually
reworked into pleasure
blister-hot and oh so sweet
married to a paradox
like feeling bad
about feeling good
give me your ankles *****
an unveiled immediacy
right off the bat
i got just the girl
confiding in me
so ready to die
like an Aztec princess
to be the star
like a peacock
in an engorged circus
blizzard of jealous snakes
strangled fanged and spewed
a swansong exhibition
in blood-soaked ponytails
a bobbing head
and choke throat ***** picnic table
with mayonnaise wounds
mediating power
in a psychoanalytic fetish
death is not death
but performative submission
her body ransacked
in tooth marks
and red tipped *******
steaming eraser head
pulses
a **** soaked
chicken on a plate
eradicating reality
are you gonna eat that?
pass the ***
collapses time
lust
custodian
of human archeology
**** piñata
bearing gifts
of squirty pork gasms
******** and cuchifritos
corpus of ****** horror
as liberation
crosses-temporality
and breaks the vessel of time
oow
Nefertiti where are you
a tongue up the ***
sniffs
Prada's Candy Perfume
**** blinking licks
up there where havoc lives
in **** **** farm country
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 2:28 PM UTC
Sometimes
She felt his skull could crack under the passion in her fingertips
And wouldn't that be beautiful
To end here, in the immediacy of desire
And wouldn't that be kinder?
Than the drawing out of this pain of inevitability
The guttural ache
Before the final crack
The splintering, not of bone
But of two hearts
Prised apart by the fingernails of realisation
That their shattered fragments can never make each other whole.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 10:27 AM UTC
"I see your hair is burning
Hills are filled with fire
If they say I never loved you
You know they are a liar"
-Jim Morrison
I used to be a girl who had very close relationships with eccentric women who talked to themselves & sang to kitty cats, birds, dogs, & who sometimes got cranky with squirrels who climbed into birdhouses. Women who had laughter follow them wherever they went. Who teased me but never made fun of me. Women who were much older than me, came into my life at various times, who moved in & out of it, fluctuating in immediacy but always loving me totally, always keeping in touch, never a hateful or spiteful glance. Women who saw me not as something to deal with, but something to help. I wasn't a chore. They were people who introduced me to things, included me in everything. Women who lent me books. Who played battleship, scrabble, cards, word games, catch, and pranks with me. Who invited me to watch movies, cook supper, pile wood, play in the sandbox or garden, walk on the beach with them. Women who spent time talking to me & doing things with me; both focusing on who I was & who I would be at once. Women who were grams & aunts & adopted family and who were not my mother.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
Sometimes I wonder if you’ve gone through what I have,
Dating other people as a narcotic to numb the pain of missing an extension of your heart,
We’re all creatures fixated on the now,
And short term memory and the immediacy of ******* prevail enough
So that Mrs. Right Now will do,
And maybe she’ll become Mrs. Right in time,
Maybe she’ll steal your heart,
Or maybe she never will
Maybe the heart can only be stolen in that first glance at feral eyes flashing with desire
All I do is explore mouths looking for answers,
Searching flesh for relief, however ephemeral
Oh how I hope you find this repugnant and foul,
How I hope you treasured each man like he was the last drop of water on Earth,
Of course I’m not naïve,
But I hope I meant as much as you made me believe
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
An aesthetic storm settled in the
wee hours of creation.
What of it strikes favor or disfavor?
Beauty's immediacy comes with
fatalistic sweep--demanding
principle, demanding ground.
Unveiled beyond time constraint
all over our world--in praise, in
revulsion, eyes score the gamut.
As if image begs love, to be so...
or unrequited.
What's plain of light exposes all
flaw or beauty in a single sitting.
The sitters vary the material world,
with eyes creation asks us to paint
what we see.
The eyes paint the sitter if the sitter
be deemed beautiful, instantaneously
sight's canvas may be left cold...
burdened.
Beauty aspires to affirmation of being,
to have it echoed.
Beauty's lain raw, holds what's held it--
as such...desolation is easy.
Eyes bespeak their volumes...beautiful
or ugly?
A sightly, unsightly moment given to the perpetual.
Epidemic pageantry--ordered by creation
make due...irregardless.
If beauty--eyes are for you--if ugly...eyes
are not.
Thus...of being, of affirmation, of visible,
of invisible--you...beauty are.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Finding a living is so hard,
so difficult to sustain
without a reason to sustain it.
Beyond personal dreams
and a need for greed.
An ocean of eyes follow me
through the working day
until I crave isolation.
Only to stumble into
my blank-walled retreat
and realise what isolation really means.
What happened to our potential love?
I cannot read your last letter,
too scared to hear
that you hold a happiness
that bears absolutely
no reliance on me.
You found our distance
lost its charm. You have him,
with his immediacy
and a history to draw upon,
to justify.
I am a teenage folly,
left in the scrap of old photographs
and even older emotion.
A disused, defunct muscle
left to atrophy
as you find your comfort
and your way in life.
But you are a stray, a stray
with the desire
to be led astray;
with the want for a longing.
You know I can fill your days with poetry,
your bed with flame,
your winters with heat.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
the ancient anxiety of dogs.
has winter
no levy
it cannot call.
bread;
the saying of bread.
bald man
in a hair salon
religion.
but also, bravery.
our present loss, lost
to the foreclosure
of immediacy.
litany's take,
a rake.
treads your boy
to banquet-
passes my own
pulling a mouth
from a wire fence
and waves.
was not believed
a child
this faith.
the strength of my father
to **** his due.
the strength of yours, too.
be still. and full.
has place
no debtor
in lull.
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 12:14 PM UTC
when critique is about, the unsuspecting walk like peacocks, showing off the wooden dutch slacks of fear prior to criticism, forging a proof of god so debased that it would require the holocaust to have taken place.
- yes, this call is immediate, what's the severity?
- immediacy in all circumstances.
- sounds terrible.
- yep, blood in my **** too.
- ooh, dialectical diarrhoea?
- skidding at one hundred miles per hour with a popsicle swerve on the slurp.
- trafalgar sq. fountains?
- lions roaring in alabaster to the breaking of bony hinges.
- triage.
- can i see him face to face.
- no, you need to speak to him first via the triage telephone system.
- so he's the now receptionist and knows the daybreak slots with chemical compounds.
- no, thingy thingy, dum dum **** a toe, crackle fun pull a twig: we're
the receptionists, he prioritises the eventuality of a cancer advert.
- three quid down the drain?
- yes, we, the receptionists of the world will stand against the robotic onslaught!
- ****** on winter sledges.
- exactly.
- not exactly, you, receptionist, you jane, me tarzan, you book face to face, now.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment, now.
- me jane, me receptionist, me on the conveyor belt of corn crop patched harvestable.
- me i.q.
- me one hundred and fifteen.
- face to face to farce.
- farce to bloke to pole.
- pole leaning on a pole.
- englishman eating a napkin.
- blackjack and ingredients for the pride of britain: vindaloo child.
- sloshed on a cricketeer's return.
- puns and cardamon cardigans of colour without scent.
- pushy apple sours coloured acid green without the mojo juice.
- spank that gimp ***** into a piglet.
- leathered up, boots on parole.
(who the hell is talking now?)
- i need to see the doctor face to face, i need my sick note to live on:
on brink of day in ultraviolet twilights, and drink.
- are you a banker?
- i'm a sick man, a beggar.
- we only provide sickness to the rich and famous.
- so what do i get?
- premature death.
- oh, can i have a bank account with that?
- oh sure, as long as you can accept debt.
- 5% like standard a.e.r.?
- no, 2000%
- so my debt interest will be crazy dizzy above my savings interest rate?
- yes.
- do you sell *** positive syringes?
- we're accommodating.
- thank you very much.
- thank you.
- goodbye morrow and marrow tight.
- bones ashore.
- **** all ahoy.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
The girl's paint chipped window is wide open,
allowing Spring to breath into
her home and into her
ever mending yet growing heart.
Outside of the window
she hears the crickets in the side yard.
They are speaking to her.
They speak of comfort,
yet all the while they stress
the immediacy of right now.
Now is the time
They say to her.
Here us now,
before we stop.
Here us now,
while we are still in unison.
Here us now,
as we share the quietness of the warm dark blue.
Here us now,
Before we are silenced by your
Burdensome thoughts.
Here us now,
Before we choose to stop.
For we sing
a sweet song
that often goes
Unnoticed.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 7:04 PM UTC
Brrrrrm Brrrrrrrm halt, now geared in park
With the brake on, waiting, just for a lark.
Here in immediacy, come out to play
Exquisite blue wrens, at the end of the day.
Leaving their nest in the bushes close by
To examine the scene, for here is a wry
Little creature, we clearly can see
The great disappearer. Invisible he
Will only come out when the car arrives home.
Wherever he goes other times is unknown.
Flutter, flutter, question mark. How can this be?
And what is this hard thing that we cannot see?
Now where is his nest, his wife and their egg?
They must be somewhere in this space that we peg.
Committed to finding what this bird’s about,
And then we will boot him from our garden out -
But such an enigma. There is evidence, sure,
Right there in the mirror, we’ve seen it before.
****
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
Unspool your foggy self-
importances and seize the sheer, visceral present,
or simply ladle and spoon
the strait and narrow. Truth skims
the surface of the mind's eye -
immediacy and brutality (always your specialties)
are to be expected, even pursued,
the loosening of mind and its swindling of body
sifted under opportunistic eyes.
(I imagine tragedies rolling like marbles in your ivoried hands).
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC