I know why my mojo goes away

Scram, skedaddle and shoo oh ye
mood polluter annoying and vile.
Well rah-rah you are preaching
for your team – as do opponents
whose numbers compete. Must be nice
to never fret or second-guess
every aspect of everything
from the ant to yourself to Pluto.

Now if you will excuse me
there is an evil egret
in a partial form
and begging to breathe
and yes my evil egret
will speak Human and may reside
in a swanky suite with walnut walls.
Once alive we will discuss it with tea.

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doubting revelry

Excuse me for my wayward
attitude. You see I missed

seminary ivy. You know there are
such things as libraries;

encyclopedias; or a sleek swift
perched on a line, trilling,

while watching the river slide by.
And how do you know he doesn’t happily

swim in a memory
of hopping on his chick

or maybe in the feathered universe
he goes by a name other than

a Swift? True he dazzles
in acrobatics, and maybe

he is an acrobat bird.
Imagine that. A silly swift

knows more about himself
than any of us will.

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soppy supper

the diner drooling regarded supper
grateful the haunches were very tender,
saying with gravy diving off the fork
absently held aloft – we are lucky
our chef is not cut from a poet tree,
as in being moody when serving us,
letting us know we may know to expect
juicy experiences
coming each evening on the platter –
rather I mean a not-so-moody chef.

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fated for poetry?

When really getting a good look
at the magical actions these buttons
are capable of – as in dimension
crisscross and zigzag; sober or highly
inebriated, well yeah, fireworks
ensue – brightly and loud they do
ensue. And secrecy is the cherry.
But sometimes the customized mojo crew
loses the way, tumbling in a hole;
a notebook is glum, waiting for a word.

 

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the river is its own mind

the emeralds melted and are
sliding as a messy mass
towards a mental destiny
which width forbids the journey
from proceeding unhidden

– and if unbidden or given
unhindered freedom to pass
is at this point immaterial
as well as nearly impotent

when positioned nude alongside
the muscular truth a local
magpie gets preachy about:
predicting the future should be
just another casino game.

Come to think of it, the water,
so green, could be symbolic felt.

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redo repentance

for no particularly conscious reason

Timmy the Scribbler

then came along while whiling innocently
as an innocent by a softly flowing bank,
watching birds bathe downy secrets,
the concrete image in a witch caricature
bearing brutality in three-dee

photography and bent on spreading
all over all saucers born
golden, banana boatloads of butter
hired to pour pure sour all
over a harmless party
of gents gazing at what gents

naturally enjoy
gazing at,
like chicken
stuffed in soft
tacos leaking poultry
drippings, a simple cuisine whipped to
expressly whet the whistler’s
balsam reed,

agitate the appetite
and bring the moral smile for
a vessel otherwise
woe-saddled while on
weary sojourn
– you sanctimonious, hypocritical,
fuckheads and bitches – hey you never spoke
or fought for me, oh no one ever

did, and so I gaze oh gaze do
I so hard at every pretty
piece I can and I ain’t hurting no body – so
go fuck yourselves,

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damn duck mortals

She is a phantom favoring feathers
though souls wiser may have had more practice
in getting started well before the dawn
and in scoping the local eateries.
Maybe she missed the river hatchery
and maybe she shed a tear when she flew

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