Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋

Me, Oz

Me, before every poem I post…nipple bracket left, font, colon, times, nipple bracket right, nipple bracket left, size, colon, four, nipple bracket right, paste, title entry, chose view setting, save, hope internet works, post. Do I share? Today? Coffee then write another, offline. Don’t want to lose precious words that never pay anything while collecting my self-worth. My flesh for a machine made of human flesh, deceitful, manipulative, incentivized black souls who feign friendship and sever, sever, sever…sounds a machine makes in its systemic purpose. Sorry I couldn’t stoop low enough to feed myself, but I did come up with this arrangement of words.

Here’s to all the energy, vitriol, indifference, sanction, demonstration, that fills your lungs like the black balloon, so you can feel the weight of one small bird.

Shall I never write poetry again?
Wing-clipped & and burdened
under a white cape. Buzzing
shears the head of hope
I’ll ever be beautiful again.
Winter death dreams not
of eternal Spring, silenced,
sputtering, inhaling morbid
dust, strapped in leather,
collecting all aspiration
of chasing them through
the wild grasses of Summers past
to get to Fall, get to fall,
fall, fall, fall…no arms
to receive fleeting, particled
white slowly painting
my green home going down.

Let this be
the last one.


10.29.23

Bookmark a life this late, risk
sleep without knowing
if I’ll wake to realize
the chased, happy ending?


I prefer silence AND stinging words. You-just-can’t-stare-at-me directly in the face with those tanks…at your ‘little man’, two arms weighted by shopping bags. Go ahead. What do I car-ry? It’s collapsible. If released, immeasurable.

What did you bring besides metal mud-packed, tread propelled by factory machines, sheathed projectiles that never deploy; silenced by rust, daisies in your turrets, gritty orange streaks have run down the flat green camouflage? Buffalo stance. There’s nothing inside, not even Oz.

Be Real?
It’s not rejection I mind, but the lack of a sense that I’m part of a community.

We decry government for bureaucracy, to self-audit; but the components that you rely on, that you build upon, can not feed you their flesh and bone without TRUE renewal.

I’ve tested your flawed systems, and…black smog. You should have inhaled some. Sorry. Cryptic. Isn’t that what poets do? How can you know what I mean, if I don’t come correct, if you are not a poet, too?

Another morning wasted in blog in this way, hiding the little gems, because what you want is my unquestioned fervor and a few bucks. I could spend so much more, but have learned how false some people really are, can’t get one sense as arrogant, indifferent, narcissistic and poorly incentivized bottom feeders, how really incorrect and lacking in morals each of you are. Poke.
Poke.
Poke.
Poke.
Bruise bitches.
Bruise in those domes.
So dumb.
So, so dumb.
You really don’t know what you are.
No faces. Smiles are emojis.
Poet pretenders with fake, fat community recognition.
No value, zero to me, when you show how you truly are, without having to resurrect S.G. propped up like a stuffed Stalin.
This ain’t no revolution, baby.

Bullshevik