Channel surfing. disgusts me.
The place dreams go to die
attempting to distract
dominating thoughts, failing
blessed by our experience;
I go because it was my
plan, also you asked. if only
you’d say, I would stay, forever
I could say, love, all that
is, yet doesn’t endure. missing
something unsure of what, it is.
not worth effort displayed, despite
what’s been declared. scream of
confusion nowhere, now here
declare your desire, be true to
you, doing you. can I not be there
for, all my desire, you.
Sunshine this morning helps
blue sky mind clears, life breath
fly free, hawk-like even. raised
awareness, heightens senses
chills the bone from the passing
cold, erect nipples. Feelings, soul,
flow comes from good, embrace it.
strength unseen, unknown, renewed
light, dandelion seed like, I feel flow.
turn from, the negative, it fails to
going from, never felt like
I have less to hide, feeling undone
raw, stripped. colder weather
is better a reason, numb. finding unavailable, exhausting. takes
toll, expectations looming
arriving that, not, exciting moment
all fall. was easy, will be renewed.
All trying to prove a point, not even there.
Beautiful lady abundantly radiant
full again, peace love and joy
welcome return, from recent
chaos overstayed it’s welcome
beyond initial understanding
acquired, move toward
the calm of tomorrow
A new creation, expression
even still as is present.
Fucking ego, I see your part
in it now, you will not win
knowing where my choice strayed
choose love, unconditional
feelings be guide to all that is
embrace what is good. Love
having stumbled my way upon half three of
what turns up to be an escape, contemplate clouds
arousing thought like most currently eludes
fear, feeded from dark rock and awake beautiful
reality consumed. Love soul peace brightens-our
illusion show, ways to happiness of choice
desiring more to see truth, clearly before
it, appears a box from places no longer
valid, fearful history consumes, experience
if peering through a dream that clings tight
breeze through sporadic hiccups emerged
understanding of limitations uncovered
unfolding gratitude indeed, naturally.
How long will the illusion of democracy and equality in this country last?
Along the same theme of some recent posts; here is another poem, from a beautifully amazing soul. (Originally published, here.) I have shared it here with permission (and restoration) from the author.
Capitalism Calls Poetry Lazy
Overcast day long slack sleeves pale in February
walking through Feldman’s Neighborhood
Tucson small adobe houses terra-cotta that one’s prune-colored
the rough potholed smell of dog shit and barking of different
sized dogs stop. Traffic signal and cast a shadow in the bike lane.
Last night when we were high upstairs I said, “No one’s their understanding” and step
over broken trilobite shells scarlet
cement flecks brick wreckages the desert’s color alive.
Not easy to get the thoughts they don’t come out real, a poetic imperative
I’m asking whose voice I give my authority
to think inside me and make real my state of truth.
A belief is something akin to
a photograph taken over a forced open window.
Of course, everything in my mind isn’t from my instinct, “isn’t America”
that idea’s an imprecise blank of culture, think
when do I if I do will I know I’
m writing this from my disappointment, not yours.
The New York Times: Syria In Catastrophe, but I
’ve known, The First World’s selling
its immune system
it tears to pieces
I’m eating an éclair.
In this café again, Café Passé, every poem
I’m interested in making I picture in Nazareth, The café
is abuzz with White people’s self-filled conversations,
their faces in pearly gypsum cell-phone lights, they speak
with the philosophy of a pop song
and their politics tenderless,
the ones capitalism calls a poet lazy with
Do any of their sentiments
have sovereignty? Do mine?
It’s my 5th Nazareth poem so I write “I want my mind an armed revolution,”
the self tells my thoughts a map of the room, my eyes riot and leak
of burdened river light lengthening me
because I have always missed the world
a face leaning from off its architecture:
But it’s not that that stops me
stops myself: It’s the thought that
we believe what we tell ourselves, we
live stolen, who you would have been, taken
underground of your culture
and the thoughts
you have are not yours.
by Brecht Welch