Oh, But what does it all mean Hidalgo?
Are we to fly in the face of the North Wind forever?

My mind has gone blank at the question.
Stranger still, the story perceived in prescient anticipation of the exact mentioned query once expounded upon spanning millions of miles of eloquent esoteric linguini, wit and charm with a dash of philosophic consequence, to fool you (the eager) into belief.

What is belief Hidalgo, but the suspension of reality, for an adept deeper world of unseen truth?

Do we see reality at all my friend? It is already shaped by our perceptions, responds to our expectations, nay we have not a clue, perhaps the arcane texts written by the hobo scholars of old hold the answer, so yet we settle on the material and fixate it as the lone clear star in an otherwise dark and cloudy sky. Mysteries abound behind the cosmos. Even when we look, do we really see, or are we as an insect upon the written page, crawling over the plain meaning? Is our capacity to hear underwhelmed by our propensity to listen? All these senses must count for something, for God is in a blade of grass, is he not, felt by the trodden hoof of the foot.

You’re a clever mad man Hidalgo.

Ay, the penultimate creator, singing in a sea of song, shining in a wave of light, lost in a dance of fractals, we are all the same rascal, blind though we are to the portrait of man, always creating, same as my neighbor, weaving dreams into Technicolor realities to beam into a future unknown. Our descendants watching us as reality television, mocking our fallibility, or perhaps empathizing and learning through telescopes strong enough to win a foot race with the sun; flying around the bend of space time and back.

The birds of the island are calm today; think they favor a slumbering respite from the noonday heat?

Mayhaps we’ll take a stroll across the columnous muddy bed, risking grey clay mummified suffocation; I dreamt as such. Yesterday’s storms make the journey perilous. My own thoughts leak from the grandiose ether and compel me to genius, the condition of the interminably insane or divine.

My bare feet tread the good earth, the 3rd density, in a daily attempt to stay grounded, however my mind is always floating, receiving transmitted whispers. Sanctified secret musings of the muse. Scribbled poetry of another dimension, meaningless to the materially minded, yet wholesome for the moment. Like a thunderstorm whose power is plain, yet unheard and unseen as the forest falling with a tree. Where do the tree and the forest begin? Are they the same root? Like my thoughts from a universal mind, the zeitgeist of an all-encompassing mood, a social memory complex.

The sophists will claim you are dodging responsibility. These tangents serve only to feed your egoic mind, but put no food in your belly nor rent in another’s hand.

Ay, but its creation all the same.
A tirade of compulsions. The ringing of the hill grows, the natural chorus of bugly unison screaming its existence into the manifold, manifesting itself to the initiate.

For what are they asking, could it be peace?

Ha Ha! Those shrill like cries wound the ears of the prideful dog, but are contained in the silences of the infinite potential all the same.

A man may change one hundred lives in a day, and earn no material currency for his unasked effort. Therefore, who is trivial? I change the wind by simply being, its current flows over me and the endless blades alike.

Vibratory love, what is that feeling, the realest phenomena of all?

Bliss in its own awareness, reveling in self-revelation, actualization, the knowingness of the child who still sees the spirit existing in each of the physical realm’s shadows. The taste of the foul and pure passing without judgment to the innocent tongue. A simple being secure with the wisdom of the wise. Does the power come from you or the hill, inspiring motions, accounting on the page symbolically. Break it down further. Dissolve. ******* into nothingness.

What is cheating Hidalgo?

Is the ant called to my arm by its own volition, how did it find me here on this patch of earth formed into mound by ancestors buried below.

Opening up all channels now.

Death locks the door with life’s key.

Should I let him crawl over me repeatedly?

Ten words to speak before the coming of the night.

Creative Destruction
Awake from the trance
Guns and Bullets
Shoot from our hands
Teller of Tales
Faint whisperer
Of sordid man’s
Hallucinatory waking
Follow the Beam
Follow the beam
The world before this world
Secrets unseen
My best thoughts come
As I lie suspended awake in sleep
Before sleep
No troubles
The curse runs blood deep
He closes the book but still speaks in rhyme
The riddle draws madness
The tongue laps up the fire
Drawn from self same wells
Will and Desire
Pruning and Preening
Political Beasts are we
Lost in our notions
I find, I keep
Braggadocioc Players
Upon the Worldly stage
Every person has the story
Only what is real?
What is fate?
So I lift my hat
To another year born true
A quarter century passed
Play the tune


Am I awaken by words from another man’s sleep?
What is the source of the tetradactyl nature?
My hexagonal heap
Of flesh and bones
Earth and dust
Brought together again by unending sound vibrating ceaselessly
I sleep but am not rested
Eat but am never full
The piper plays among the sand
Whirling in the heart of the caged word
If I keep my eyes fixated on a point, in actuality my vision expands and visualizes all

Reputationally speaking,
I am an ant, with male pattern baldness
We forget to chuckle at life’s absurdities, just as we pass by flowers without engaging the fragrance.


Rest your head with the hillside now
Restless wanderer of fantastical dreams

Treading water silently until our legs melt
Just as the weary albatross cries its last song over the harbor or the butterfly ***** its freckled wings, so too will we see the setting of the sun and a coming of the new dawn. If the chalk works carved in the abandoned sidewalk are to be believed, so must we girdle ourselves for the coming tides and lift our spirits once more for the ebb and flow of circumstance. The bike rides in the gutter all the same, and the forgotten cemetery stone stands as testament to the age gone by.

I think those who are in love on this era is cursed,
not that their love is delusional nor artificial
But because their manisfestation of love is perceived
by how society visualizes and defines it

We think someone genuinely love us because
they upload hundreds of photos of us
We think someone sincerely love us because
they write essay competition-worthy captions
We think someone truly love us because
they praise us at all of our selfie posts

To me, love is listening to a music
and suddenly it reminds you of them
To me, love is reading a good book
and suddenly wants them to read it as well
To me, love is when winter comes and all you ever think is whether they wear their warm clothes
To me, love is when the night comes and all you think of is how his day was

Well, then again, Chbosky once said that
"we accept the love we think we deserve"
And maybe we don't get to choose the way we love
or the way we want to be loved
Simply because we think it's the kind of love
that deserves us

Vocabulary

Bears imagism

Foundation


Imagery

Amplifies eloquence

Apache's tear


Metaphors

Stabilize meaning

Plausibility


Allegory

Visualizes enigma

Sammi Poe

He never asked me for anything.
His humbleness and fruitfulness grew on me
Without knowing that his hand could carve words into ellipticals and parabolas.
His cooking skills were awful,
but he can make a Ramen soup
That'll make your knees melt like overcooked chicken broth.
He was 24 when he first came to this country,
his English broken like the glass protecting his eyes,
He left African battlefields and deserts
To generate cereal boxes and lithium batteries.
His pockets stuffed w/ month-long receipts,
because he always wanted to keep track of where he spent his hard-earned money.
Nobody gave him a cup to **** in, much less a ***.
But he always felt optimism grow in his foreign lungs,
swinging his voice like a hammer to build maturity,
to stand like golden shrines.
He’d pray every night to speak to his lord,
to ask God to help shape him into something a bit more,
like his shoulders were too weak to bear the struggles of his cries.
He works harder than ghosts to keep his heart in this world.
The Beach Boys were his favorite band when he first came here,
and he always babbled about Brian Wilson because he wrote poems.
He searches for lost poems that he's buried inside the mother of his children
He visualizes the pages of these poems,
writing themselves on the faces of his children.
He tries not to see too long, too hard,
because then he may see too much of himself inside his oldest son.

My words don’t appear like my mind visualizes,

A speech-impaired philanthropist swings inside,

Tonight, the hailstorm rides the waves,

I am not on the same page, inside.



My thoughts wander on that plane,

An unforgotten tune lingering in the rain,

Leaving this mere mortal on this plane,

How I wish I can leave this pain.



I need the cover of the Carpathian mountains,

And beyond in the realm of darkness,

Ambient sounds and the tragedy of dropping rain,

I need to leave this page, struggling madness.



Before I leave, I need to confess,

That what the heart had desired for long,

To be on a journey, with my obsessed,

I wish you were on the same page, forever after

What may come, with fire or water,

The Earth can swallow me tonight,

I perish with all that remains, written on this page.

There is nothing like stepping outside on a chill morning
& standing barefoot in the dewy grass
with my eyes closed against the rising sun.

The light piercing my eyelids fills my vision with a calming sunset red
that perfectly visualizes the feeling of the softly warm sun rays
blanketing my skin as the morning breeze paints my body
with a fine chilled brush.

I feel each patient beat of my heart
singing a song with the morning birds,
the flowing river & the dancing trees.

The sweet melody satiates me with serenity
& if only for a moment,
I am happy.

I wish I could run
my fingers through your hair,
smell your sweet precious skin,
kiss your honey lips,
feel myself buried
in your delicious thoughts.

I close my eyes,
squeezing them tightly
& my mind visualizes
you here with me
here in my bed,
where I lie alone
naked & dreaming.

there is a boy who sits in the rain. Right smack on the ground, in the asphalt and dirt, but mud will not ***** further a stain of his token. and this boy is not forgiven, he is desperately lost in the state of broken-barely living which he feels suits him best. for this boy is willing to open wide, take the perverted inside for a price outweighing coins. At the moment they join, in whispered breath, he collects a secret as cold as death. They range from immoral to revolting; each twisted and shameless, yet not enough to dissuade the boy from his task. because this boy is searching for a murderer, solely to ask:

does the guilt make it your fault?

               they promised it was not mine at all

And each secret held in his chest has two culprits or more. More than one have committed the same folly. They are disturbed and cracked but not caught, living freely. The filth has a chance to wash clean; they are able to repair themselves. But the murderers? No second chances. Thus they do not come to the boy; they are found by the law. Visible in society and chained in view of the innocent, this boy’s ears echoes with their sins. All the killers of people, spouses, strangers, parents, children, friends, vibrancy. All because of anger, revenge, fetishes, sicknesses...deemed despicable they were left to rot. and that eight year old boy could never understand why they granted him innocence when he was caught. and this twenty-three year old boy will sit in the rain, drenched in sweat as he visualizes the fire and feels the burns that rain cannot extinguish, whilst staring at an empty land plot. and this boy trembles, caressing an old, withered cigarette pack that is one short. Since years ago, this boy has not recognized his worth.

I find my body constituently visualizes what use to be visualizable, what use to be tangible, comfortable.
Our blurry compatibility has driven me into a crash of emotions I can’t handle.
Killing me, every time I find my body visualizing what use to be visualizable, what use to be tangible, what use to be comfortable.

Pencils found in many sizes
Sleek and smooth
Shows the world in black and white
Or with a burst of color
Explains our deepest sorrows
Visualizes our highest hopes
Used as a powerful weapon
Creating soul crushing sentences
Or crafting joy inflicting paragraphs
The pencil is an instrument of great pain
As well as great happiness
The pencil gives the wielder great power
It allows the user an incredible outlet
Let it out

On crisp, bright winter days
She jogs in a place called “the quarry”
A mountain sculpted by a nearby cement company
In another way, the landscape is painted with
Miles of faded grass, black cows, bare trees
And wide-open spaces resembling the wild west

On any given day she jogs the route
Pony tail flips in the light breeze
Blue sweatshirt to match the sky
Gray leggings, old sneakers, jean ball cap

She looks straight ahead
In the distance, she catches a glimpse of a red object
She gains momentum, as she approaches
It proves to be a bright red women’s cowboy boot
Lays on the side of the road, though only one
Why would someone abandon it nearby a cow pasture?
Strikes her as a puzzling behave
She muses awhile, picks up the boot
Tries it on, way too large
Visualizes what this person may look like
No doubt in her twenties
Tall and slim, perchance red hair, fair skin and freckles

She clearly remembers this odd setting
For she aspires to paint this magnificent landscape
Faded green grass, black cows, dark mauve ramshackle barn
And splash of red to mimic the boot
A brilliant canvas!