Only until this cigarette is ended,
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The color and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

the one bit of capitalism you won't engage with, no matter what pressurises you to compete, you won't engage with it; and if you do, you're a fool.

**** like drinking in Polish
(70cl of whiskey, a bottle of wine,
a few beers)
is called *jazzing in slavic slang;
we drink till me drop,
and when levelled
we decide to do spasmodic dancing
techniques resurrecting
both Lazarus and Leviathan.

I could stare st myself
Endlessly
Never knowing who I am

This body
This mind

uncontrolable

Like the sea

Who am I
Who am I

Endless thoughts
Like the aquatic sea

We played blackjack taco until the early mourning sun singed the obsidian sky into submission 

singling the onslaught of dawn rising like ravishing wildfire over a horizon of jagged glacier crafted mountains peaked with diamonds coal and gold

We flipped stacks and stacked flips
Pushed coins and collected IOUs
Spilled ink and broke pens

Too many hours in the Night Jazzing about youth and the repercussions of aging in a time when aging was an agonizing sin we cured with creams and needles

The table was deliberately a mess with scattered tea leaves half smoked sticky icky sticks full of inspired inspirations, drained drank empty wine bottles and other alcoholic deviances, and incoherent ramblings cauterizing the senses 

uncompleted poems full of scribbled and scratched out words poke out from anyplace not covered  by crumpled  origami cash resting like a weird paper green zoo of swans frogs and paper airplanes.

The suns rays manage to find that one area in between the window shades and curtains to shine brilliantly into our darkly kept stygian tomb

Illuminating a night of lexicon ******, broken handed betting, and passion only poets and writers aspire to conquer

We rubbed out our sleepless crusted eyes and gathered our ink stains and haunted dreams and left into the morning that we found in some skeletol low rent motel room on the side of this deserted desert highway...

On the eve of whatever day it was, I awoke with the thought of sand jazzing its way through me like a joggers rush of blood to the head. Not a lot of fun, but fun enough to smile at the prospect of a working vehicle now clamouring its way seamlessly into my life and out through the front door to shake the post-mans hand and ask him his name for a Friday drink session because he's more than a postman, he's Michael Thurney Barnet of 5864 Quesnel Street, Powell River, BC, V8A 6H5.

Intro
Words in play without meter or rhyme
Is poetry without respect for sounds or time
Like a military bugler playing his morning song
But jazzing it up, which for the morning sounds wrong.

1
Poems short of prose serve to play the edge
In which the abstract thought can its verses wedge
Poetry's an art - that can't be denied
But when ripped apart, leaves readers in divide.
On one hand we have free verse with all its liberties
Its flows, like ocean waves, give in to subtleties
The other hand holds form where order and beauty lie
Its sound there calms the mind and guides the reading eye.
Well, how can art transcend if it's to be confined?
Ask the poor man painting, what keeps his strokes refined.
Ask him what is richer: materials or mind-
How he affords true art: in color or design.
And could he paint with passion if he were also blind?
To what limit does art flow, that could liberty unwind??

2
If sentences were laid and in stanzas fitted to form,
The simplest thought now sparks, the layman poet is norm -
-A hand that holds a pen.. its wondrous poem adored
Ha! That relic sonnet lost 'cause the modern reader's bored.
The talentless recites: his poetry: my rage..
Where then is the poem, in the words or on the page?
I'll credit that the form of poetry can change:
Like ocean waves on shores where waters rearrange
And subtleties lay washed whence art can have a fad
And for a moment last despite what I think bad.
Words without art, conveyed for art-less brains
The verse that freely speaks as the older school disdains..

3
But rhyming, timing schemes of ancient preference
What novelty they yield in these times of rhyme suspense....
Just the thought of it and one can hear a beaten drum,
A percussive, tired sound for ears tired and numb
They're artifacts of effort that the ancients then called art
Confined to rhyme and metered verse, the caged poems impart-
Shakespeare, Wilmot, Behn, these are but forgotten names
A pantheon of "poets" whose works of words too tame
Did not taste the "modernness" that free verse giveth to thee...
The ghosts of poems past singing their songs but never free.
How lucky for us rebel writers, we laugh at silly rules!
Rule-less, ruthless poems we write with rhyme nor time as tools!

Longing for the escape
Lost in the dreams

Missing the adventures in your eyes
I shall become a mystery

The long rides
the great new people

jazzing streets and sweet loving rivers.
but where will i go?

I'll be there waiting to be found so unwillingly.
Where is there exactly.

That my love is for you and I to find out.

by the sea
i saw her there,
lost on another voyage;
i hope she finds her way
home
floating on the notes
between the bars of the road
bopping along a scale
frozen in time
until the asphalt weakens
under the sun and rain and snow;
washout roads
lead to washed out souls
but
conditions have never been better.

i was saved by a martyr self
bundled in boxes and shipped off to
my sister — my keeper;
rescued by captain fantastic,
sleeping with myself,
saved in time tonight and every night
and winding it down
like the brown dirt cowboy you always knew i could be.

those songs came over the waves
sailing through my musical bones,
electrified;
neurotransmitters like piano keys
jazzing up a well-strummed soul,
fingers plucking heart strings without resistance,
and i am at the mercy of music you’ve made -
that mesmerizing melody
in the inflection of your voice
and
the movement of your body
against mine;
rhythm.

don’t **** this song and dance
when the curtains just opened

let this harmony take us home

and resonate.

Skipping town
And jazzing blues
Finding summer
Blissful nights and palpable vibes
Flying blues
catching fever
Tumbling magic and smiling moon
A night of memory
A time of wonders
What a lovely way to fly

Funky saxophone
giving beat,
Swinging and jazzing
like we’re elite.
When all the jitterbugs
finally meet-
It’s like the roaring twenties
in our heartbeat.

I hear it as jazzing sound
And see it as a breathing sigh
The snowfall and its white feather down
Both light and bright as a once darkened sky

The distant stars drowned out by the day
An aesthetic row of these ancient books
To hide is not part of the mountains way
All it takes for this one is a look

And I am lost beyond horizons
More cold than hollowed ocean nooks
Just as the breeze brings gifts
And rgis wish by a field to sow

I hear and see all this alive
And about you I wish to know

That it was