How To Store Poetic Thoughts

In an

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 abandoned garage over on River road.

In a left alone box…I keep the sacred thoughts.

In an upholstered chair from 1972, all velour and static, covered in snow.

That is where make-believe takes a seat.

It is where poetry goes.imageedit_3_3337571397

Around about, midday, most days, when the sun quenches the sky.

I take time out to visit a graveyard Sage made of stone and bone.

To amend the playful wrongs…make them…right.

Everyday…a fortunate spirit on an infinite flight.

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Poets and Schizophrenics Band-Aid

“If we took all the poets and banded them together.  Could problems arise or self-solve?”

Lyricists to our own plights…Could prose set a tilted world right?

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“What of my yet undocumented pain?  Would my own words make me sane?”

‘It is always something’…I heard a philosophical schizophrenic say.

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“Living well and beautifully and justly are all one thing.” ― Socrates

“What if we all banded together today?”

Random Wordsmith

It rambles.

It rolls.

It changes from a pedigree to a troll.

Never is it about a walk in the woods on a cloudy day.

Never is it lessons from leaving a cake out in the rain.

Creations in the mind…often weary.

Word pies for the leery.

Leaving the creator with no true sense of destiny.

The rations for the irrational…never a luxury.

I assume there are worse things than rolling words up hill and letting them tumble.

Letting them go.

Silly idle hands for hyperactive thoughts…crashing into trees down below.

But I am just a laborer and pushing random words uphill…

And, that is all I’ll ever know.

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Small Town Voyeur

Through a lens,

nothing but a small town voyeur.

An inclement, practitioner, seeking a cure.

If raw or edgy could suffice.

I suppose there would be a way to sleep away the night.

Indeed it is the dark side of an allergy that watches for more.

Mine is not a sexual exercise.

Mine is being witness to the other side.

The soil.

The soot.

The broken down by time.

Mine is baring witness to unwritten signs.

Anxious Commentary

Around or about…the tightness.

A spiritual choking.

A breaking down of matter.

Chomping, chewing, relentlessly.

And, spitting me out.

Here I am…’do not leave in doubt.’

Cigarette burning into the middle of night.

Supine vertigo…prompted upon an endless fright.

I awaken to a self…basquiat

Self, as a victim viewer.

I am there in her eyes.

All my sentences a scratching post…Tainted with compromise.