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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, and got in your eye. |
| The Dreamer Of AI With You If I could dream in AI visions of you and me wouldn’t seem so uncertain. Time Machines are concepts in these schemes where I could revisit your every moment, word said, know the heart of a peanut butter and jelly spread — we two, stuck together on soft, thick bread, knowing sweetest moments yet come — if dreaming anew, then version fifty-two, point three of incarnate model me. In summer, post tulips, hyacinth and early crab bloom loss, would take a knee with spade where I’ve sent seed and plant visions of dreams long into our future memories — where a new crab blooms, pink love arriving, renewed and true — and polished fifty-two — experienced, not blue. The eclectic, electric revisions ponder the wonder of you — thirty years for we two, sailing vessels on oceans’ quiver and anxiety can finally forget places of humility scene, whence I did fail and felled. And falling for you, who went along with a dreamer… Heaven was sent. I still have (re)visions for us, when this dream state ends. On love for two, it depends. 6.13.25 22 line of rhymey free verse Who tried to bring a wheelbarrow into this poem? Well, warn me next time I do that.
Written 10 minutes after the previous…edited several times this day. |
| I know you weren’t long for my world, but I’m long for this one… Bard eclectic, it’s so hard to know me. Where even the next line goes? Unknowable as it seems life breathes dreams, huffed out the window on streams flowing any way the wind blows. And under a tree, once we shared an apple. You chose to depart, where storms rolled. I no longer go, but to trees. Bard eclectic since you taught love. Where even the next time it flows? Seems unknowable where wind sends dreams, puffed down avenues, invisibly stream, flowing any way a jet stream goes. It took you from me, I consider with a chosen fruit of knowledge that spoils with solstice snows. When thaw, an eclectic one drenches in rain, sings refrains to the arriving willow swaying, songbirds having sung, flown. If tomorrow I die…you’ll know why; but, don’t let air flow fool you. I’m hardly different, as you’ll see. 6.13.25
as it seems the banner does not ripple, nor metal tether echo-clang, in duty-bound descension. “I was brave enough, passionate enough and got over the stupid.” from “Songs I Don’t Sing To You” because you don’t listen. Less yet, approach. |
| I’m sharing, unedited, fresh off the hot mess… Um These Skitterings, Mid-Summer Today the knife was dull, again. No blade could ply veins rich with iron — but where steel flows, it does not form. It seems wet as thick mercury that knows heat — yet, what lingers inside simmers in colors yet to bleed, should they hue the bright-lit, mead walls of anonymity. Something sharp does prick about, like a bored child with brittle knowledge of a dead, sere stick tempting my mold. I have been idle life long, past hearing horizon’s thunder call. I cannot forestall, nor tell what it has wrought — nor through these seasons what it should bring. I consider four walls from a sagged recliner, bending straight a pale form that does not witness the ceiling in ascent, as eyes fill from imagination-seizures’ mindless skittering. Leaves could fall tomorrow and I would not doubt to question this is Autumn, in equinox tumble of dislodged reverie. Time wheeling past, barely anchors dewed frost — can laugh, as age-bones could ache, without a meditate of curvatures narrowing knives’ vigilant gaze — graphite never flips to orange-rubber-rubble scene, dust a white, with red and blue angled lot, before… another thought cranial-crashes my windowless scene — and how long has it been, with…No! coffee cold? and breakfast…? I have been ‘low this roof thirty-three days continuous. When, what have I ate? What chores…fall was here, right? Or, does summer idle outdoors and not in distant memory? Where have I been that I have not yet seen a crab tree, fragrant pink inhaled, barely clinging as buttons upon a green cloak disguising a stunted, hunched man. Oh, breezes gently again serve natural reverie to ease, rise up, reheat mud cup, sip, consider sun-shunned hues barely dappling a pale paint and one lone pate, now engaging the wood arm, low. Lift my dead wood to gravitate with bird wonder of what blood spills, in sanguine splendor each day that a sunrise fails meet rumination tomorrow, every tomorrow. I’ve got time; let’s not waste. 6.12.25 37 lines of vers libre, punctuation in whatever morn. I don’t know what this is, and yet I know what it isn’t. What need to care? Why the bard speak? Again… She no longer witnesses. One month and two weeks to thirty. I can’t tell time anymore. It tells me.
You feelin’ me? Rhet… |
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