Prose Poem Freewrite

My dog’s greybeard screams “understanding!” – higher than Things or saxifrage.  Unexpectant eyes, glassy glad, content happy. The muscles that carry him are tense, not strong. But strong like baked sandcastles.

The devil never tasted pumpkin bread and I swear my warts grow smaller here. That old dog wrapped at my feet, I am some kind of domain until a million agents in suits come to absorb my great mother. Sometimes it is best for the oracle to never speak. I would never be one

Despite the cunning, I love eternal plastic blooms, the same flowers of my nineteen expeditions. They may have been rearranged. Like pseudo-candles with flashing light bulbs and styrofoam fruit in Longaberger baskets. So fake so fake soooo reminiscent.

Anesthesia photo albums under beds – snapshots that supposedly numb but really I dream. Not a lost conscience but higher in its inability, unable to think hard. Then I am an angelic cherub on baby wings of Ignorant.

If you enter those gates to that hell, then I wont be seeing you. Not until another life time, time enough again. I want you to dance into that Stygian gate – away from me – like you would to your baptism. My anti-baptism sits around the corner, spitting sunflower seeds, only sucking salt on a milk carton. Grasp at that, I ask.

Battle armor bots of big ideas – I tell you, you only need squires of seventeen-or-me year olds. If those bots follow your every move then they are ghost arms – they are not trust arms of carbon bonds. Ghosts get gone, ghost bots aren’t needed, just bingers of big ideas and epistemology junkies. This excercise of mind, an excercise of mine.

Can you walk still with me when you see droughts on my body and cerebellum? When you see that I praise nothing and believe in all. I’ve seen Runners, who flight at first fall. They fall hard and see that I know it, and run far. But I don’t see falls. If I do, not from the top, but bottoms of cliffs. I am down there. Can you tip-toe past those falls of mine? When my body lies strewn and used – is it in you not to run but to dance gracefully over me? I have no illusions.

Squid bots of Academia sucking the Things out of life. You are no object, so be objective on your opinion. But don’t – be subjective-discriminative. You wont have anything to fight against if you don’t decide. And if poetry means anything to you, then don’t write – don’t muse and tell.


on page. The sagacity of silence earns respect but to be infamously loved you must fork your lightning on page or stock markets. If you are at all hated, then you have immortality of Conciousness, seering into the bigot’s brain.

Bantering. The apostrophe goes too far. I could say that women in panther jackets arouse me but I just want words to fork or flow or fester somewhere in me. The blind see with firesight, beyond skin of muscle or meaning. The Buddha Saint on Daedalus Wings jumps like dolphins over electro-clouds  into sunlight avenues, for only seconds. That’s the promise of the gods, to taste saint-time and crave for something better that isn’t, just more human.

Call on the stars for words. They are the last firm unchanger in years, in aeons of emotion. Don’t look to the gods, animals of emotions and pattern seekers, liking only to watch us try. Don’t match emotion with emotion – each one is owed its natural right of one moment. Don’t disgrace through comparison.

Each star might look the same, light-years apart. But they are a populous of individuality trying its shine. We don’t have a million years.


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The reason for all this is not reasonable. The reason, strictly art, Still makes no sense to me.

The Wheel

November 2009
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