Poetry: Philosophy Volume 4

Swelling like good songs, Strummer gone acoustic

spanish optimism, calming a steady breeze

curling inwards, patter past the pit

in your gut still clouds bang horizon

darkness towers forever

over us, all of us, struggle sharply instinctual

suicide, when it’s hard red eyes

frozen by the beat, clear blue

shattered with a ball peen

strike at the center mass, nothing of a cushion

underneath, shards will rain

over everyone on both sides

opposite the split, the river will run

red as the sclera screeching

from the blood shot, unplug in emergency

if at all like this, they’ve won already.

 

But they haven’t a knowing smirk

painted left to right like a comet trail

in the dawn light over the plain, booming a shattering

pulse throughout all reality, it seemed at the time

or must have had I been there, overconfidence

shaky fencepost complicit swaying

this and that, hesitance may be

a symbol of the soul or time ravaging

footprints in the sand, showing the way

enlightenment presents to us

going in circles, seeing blank horizon

everywhere forever on, footpads placing

pleasantly in the sand, it is warm

sustaining hilarious resonant contemplation.

Poetry: Philosophy Volume 4

Poem: After the Bombs

On my back is a backpack, flavored rucksack

holding pictures of the past

canned food and your signature, saying “I’ll see you

again someday,” but it doesn’t matter

much anymore, for the world is fire

poison and knives, no one is

safe even for a moment

anymore, but I promise to you

and my descendants knowing my heart,

that after this is over, I will carry

your heart in mine again, for war cannot kill

the realities of the world, love in desolation

still shining like it’s colorized.

Poem: After the Bombs

Poem: Awareness

I’m a rebound master creep magnet, truth be told,

I guess, it’s rubix to me, ya see too, rolling phantasmagorial

over and over.  And so we all, in time

mind you, in time,

we all do what we all do and no one will

remember anyways.  History is an Ungerer panorama,

Underground Sketchbook collections

don’t have the room, no one does

for somber predictions either, and a microscope eye backwards

is all we have.  Zoom fully and everything is pixel corners,

adding up, to a lie, probably.  This is the red corner,

sitting in like protestors, vacuum pores, all over

friends and faces, expressing a viral soul,

Fela Kuti fanfare, virtual connection flows

my nerves through you, too.  We are one,

so let’s come, together.

Poem: Awareness