Every step the bones spoke clean
A woman and her child, a skull open
Everywhere they wore flesh of illusion and could not hide the joints of dusted
confusion…
Today, the minds were hostile as they embraced the pleasure
Grouped with one and one and one with more added in speak
Glares and the middle finger, righteous of self
even mock tears of anger
Moments where the skeletons actually think they matter
and yes
for in grinding their bones to make my bread
gives the giant
pleasure.
Trust. A powerful word.
On U.S. currency it is written, ‘In God We Trust’. That is nice and simple and mostly unimportant to 99% of the people earning, borrowing, saving, stealing, and spending it on whatever it is that people have trust in.
In my life there have been barely a handful of humans that have earned my trust. Lucky in that though as some people have no one they can trust in.
Inspirational for a poem thought that comes to mind.
***
Hounds bay the hunger mood; seizing morsels divided
lapping the bowl clean without thought of before,
or
after
Pearly beads of oyster firmness with filaments beach play
contrast against an Everest peak
yet
they believe in themselves, this folly of friend and fool while playing the excellent name… actor
Trusting only in God, inside the feeling, a few men, a woman called wife, and my best friend
the Wind.
Today the sky was clear so took refuge in the clouds inside
There the birds all wore top-hats and false beards
Had tea with a hive of honey bee’s
Laughed with a turtle being joked upon by frogs.
Watched God play with glass and sand piled high in a galaxy
Watched the Devil bake pizza and cuss
Played poker with an Angel
Stubbed the toe on a mountain peak.
It was a good way to pass the time
and then, when it all got calm
returned to the clear sky just in time for the evening clouds
it was my kind of day.
When the wind speaks, few listen
When people speak, the wind listens
A man sits with his dog, a smile of mockery signed across his face
Mixing signals
with his dog
Another man points his finger in anger as it is in his belief to be right
balance tilted towards the wrong side
A woman screams a rant of oil, three times trying the rage
her mentor tries to escape the situation with appease
This talk so many speak
about good and evil
and what it means
means nothing in a whirlwind of humanity
and so,
the wind speaks
Evil cannot be fought or won
it cannot be broken or fixed
Evil cannot be educated or changed
Consoled, consulted, controlled…
The Wind is free of evil yet watches the evil in mankind’s heart
…
There is but one way for humanity to come to terms with what grips a world
this is, it is
to know evil exists and that goodness exists, separate and different
and yet, so simple
so simple the solution
and then, when ready to choose a path
in this
the Wind has spoken.
Ha! Fun to have with titling titles to thoughts brewing inside deep
Left last night lost in levitating lights leaping across a wind tossed sky
Sounds simmering slightly so the insides cannot deny, nor the mind ignore
even the eyes closed, they listened.
Mechanical functions it seems, this the bodies deem, filled with piss, shit, and sweat
covered in social graces to look and smell ‘sweet’.
So clean though, aloof and up high
Sparks sounding crisp and demanding; sounds of electric smashing
Lightning bolts all a part of the blanket, the fabric, the insides…
It truly brings peace this Wind that travels the air
Whooshing. Carrying. Bringing friends to play.
And what such fun! Touching the mind with such wonderful flashes
Bring such tranquillity and peace to what sparks in the mind.
…Eating burnt pancakes with sizzling pork belly bacon
Listening to AC/DC
Man, life is fucking great!
Sun shining through a bug tracked window
Birds singing in the breeze
Parasite out fucking with dolphins…
Man, life is fucking great!
(silence)
and why can such things be?
In countries around this shit hole planet that love to play war
It is the members of their military dying in service
that make respective countries
great…
Rome
Germany
Poland
Sweden
Zulu
Timubuctoo
and even the gender confused, politically correct, sleazy country currently going by the name
U.S.A
It is in memory to those men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice
that gives all of us
the ability to eat burnt pancakes
listen to AC/DC
protest a fucking broken system,
and get a restful nights sleep.
(to those souls of the United States Military now lost in eternal sleep, i for one, give sincere thanks)
Burping of evidence so full a belly
Consuming a meal of porportions
So to, ashes from a fire. Bubbles from soap. Laughter from tickles.
Blank stares though, from what? A lack of notions? Fatigue?
There is ample room then, for many questions.
Anger though… Ah, now there is something from somewhere, someplace, sometimes…
to savor.
For all actions of all. From which to and to when and for all… a reasonable expectation as to why and how or even question…
But ANGER! Yes. Such a lovely word. To say “Go fuck yourself!” All without reason, without warrant or question, all because…You can.
Thus, it is
this feeling of being alive, as when to feel anger really means the world is not yet
dead.
As a child it was come to be known; a simple flower called, Indian Paintbrush.
Such simple days with such simple ways. So easy to see a natural painting alive and breathing.
Today, so much in a world a man working the insides of building a home while outside, so much life blooming, growing, showing, speaking, laughing, singing, breeding, dying, sprouting, being…
Nothing of man lasts forever. Nothing of man is needed. Nothing of a world filled with such fervor of self of being could ever,…, to think though… ah yes, to think.
And why?
Growing brightly as if on fire, so many Indian Paintbrushes.
Beautiful and as so many wildflowers, actually a smell to boarder on stinky.
It started this day and it ended as well. So much beauty, so much life, so much, so much, so much… and then the smiles.
First the Paintbrush. But that was only a start. A beginning sentence in a paragraph, a chapter, book, library…
And so many other flowers with spiders, worms, birds, deer… The volume of vibrations… almost overwhelming.
A hummingbird with another making mischief and looking guilty.
A Sun almost obscure in smile and hiding
Tree’s that would never be silent again until the next Winters cold weather.
Everywhere.
Everywhere i looked and listened…such a great pleasure.
Finally, those moths who were so frisky and pretending to be butterflies… the moment truly
a
treasure.
(silence)
and to think, it all began so long ago in so many lifetimes of yesterday
the pleasure of such simple treasure
such is the real magic of the Indian Paintbrush, sentinel simple beauty of simple nature, painting me a map to what is real, what is true, what is needed. A painting still being painted and when finished a painting i will forever be thankful.
Absolutely this feeling of absolution
Inside
Outside
and in between…
It is funny while sad while exciting while boring while whittling the stick of time
away…
It is, you know, it truly is…
Only, who gives a shit?
You?
Me?
Thus and with steadfast admiration
Thank God
For the
Fucking
rain!
(this bit of trivial ‘poetry’ has been brought to your attention by the company making Lay’s potato chips… So yummy you can’t just eat one)
Written by: Citizen Buggery
Oft this motion of redundancy
there, with a wave of hand
Sweeping aside habitation, this thought
comparison
and try
Tickled podiatry, ha, even with a sign
and yes, justly given,
therefore,
salutations in same.
Robin Lipinski 