even I don’t know what it means

Back to the spring made for bathing in sin,
and face it, shades of iconography
need not obliterate festivities
as a tale is extra hard to conjure

if access to nervous modesty is
given the old forbidden realm treatment
taking shape as a gate which gold is fake
and where in the dickens does this warped strain

intend to sneakily slither towards
if not to the angelic bathing space
unless the desire is avoidance
and cannot help but reach for gaudy garb

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testing once more

giving in to the pelt’s needy wet mix
of plea and demand, genteel fingertips
play with a glider’s expertise
a rare instrument known as a horny
droplet; said dewy beads

common wherever the sighs that signal
a spring may peal. And if the joy
is as history has assumed and does
truly possess roots that stretch all the way
back to the dawning of mankind, how else

must a misty-eyed mystery lean,
except that this blissful abandonment
setting free hordes of cries
held for ages in dungeon bonds,
is true prayer’s genuine genesis.

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same old, same old

the shock, the fear, is real
(oh no, not this again)
and strikes like a viper

training to be a boxer
and a bold of lightning in the moonlight
(proceed, but with extreme caution)

– the thought taking the shape of sight
and curtains drawn reveal all the words are gone.
Rushing in, shouting, screaming in despair:

I knew it, I knew it, I knew
it – oh let me have the last
year back! Oh but then a sound

that could be nothing but a noun
came shyly from a cloud, and more
nouns came, and verbs emboldened, fell as rain.

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The Annoyance Train Is Clearly By Design

Come To Timmy

Maybe it’s just as well this voice
will fly without an encounter
or a chance to fill a vessel
a fellow wanderer carries

on the path trod by few but we
who know the song long sadly worn
and understand Here We Go Again
with the predictable chaos;

interruption-intrusion game
an absolute necessity,
to compete for phantom limelight.
Forced to ask: was this always so?

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some of the bad, some of the good

Reading articles on the internet
about life prior to the internet
had this mustang’s head going nod, nod, nod

especially the smut magazine lines,
as in haywire action in the nerves;
sometimes angels would leave one in the woods.

So the old moratorium arose
or the old moratorium idea,
due to simple sunsets and sunrises;

lasted a good five hours, and by god
a bunch of them codgers hit a bullseye.
Yet. Blogging kitchen poetry is dope.

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Did I just see the light?

in case this blog is yet visible
(I forget why or how I ended up with two that are about the same – sorry for any possible confusion)

Come To Timmy

am I having a damascus moment?
after forty years in the wilderness?
suckered in by cocky rock star excess?

This is what happens while exploring words
and investigating Commodity.
I was always a horrible salesman

and conventions felt alien, evil.
Talk about branding always left me cold.
Got a mind to put everything here.

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when they mess with my Holy Book

Come To Timmy

On the off chance that I am not the last literature-leaning person on earth to become aware of what is known as #cockygate, I feel lividly motivated to add my mostly unknown voice to the fray. It has roused the ire of this ordinarily live-let-live easygoing gentleman here in these rocky boonies.

Anyone who dabbles as a hobbyist or has achieved a full-time job status in a realm that so much as tickles a relation to the usage of words that happen to fall anywhere on the informative-creative continuum, should consider it chilling that someone is able to legally take possessive ownership of a single word and given power to prohibit anyone else’s use of a single word. This person (and thanks to this person there are more persons aiming to foster a sort of exclusive orgy that illustrates what happens with an indiscriminate mixing of arrogance, entitlement, and stupidity)…

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