The People cannot, must not, tolerate yet another cleansing by the scrub-brush of a punk fuckhead, I'd rather go up in a puff, die trying, than sit around atop pious pretense Give it to me! I'll press the button cc: Chagall 2022
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Is the pen more mighty, or do blades cut deeper, in the real? Imagine the cursive stroke against the parry and lunge of cold steel Pencils, like people, from carbon to carbon, add dust to the dust A swordsmith, her forge a star, strangely like a wordsmith, who shapes blades on heaven One burns in hell, the other rises above, to count down the days These last days, this paschal time, witness eyes upward, to seek what ascends What goes up... Diamonds from carbon, intense heat and pressure, crystallize everywhere People, words, and swords, people's words and swords cc: Michael Chagall
I do not feel, have no sense of the plight of each the many, instead I am overwhelmed by the singular sorrow of we as one cc: Chagall 2022
micro-reactions, aggressive and other, are what We are it's the macro should concern You more cc: Chagall, Michael 2022
These days I live for the light of the moon, shun the rays of the day, find myself waning, though you'll think me waxing here near- philosophic, removed from the poetic arrhythmia I stutter, forgive me for I know not what I do, in the full glory of the round orbs all around us but not about us, where there is no horizon to rise above, no sun would dare frequent this occasion, this milieu, this misery deserves nothing less than the drone of the pavan to which they dance, a macabre step, one-and-two-and...tread upon for vantage, to better see how one is outdone in the creative of evil, each night their will be done, on city streets, in foreign fields, behind doors wide open, stick their tongues out at the blind, scream to the deaf to put words into the mouths of mutes, never to touch the sensitive, except with fire In the light of the moon that I love, is a stark gray warmth amid deep blue, I pray for perpetual night, for with it comes unbridled hope, astride the unfulfilled outcome, not knowing whether breaks the day cc: Michael, Chagall 2022
I Love is somewhere between sorrow and sympathy II Five is the new 20 cc: Chagall, Michael 2022
There were just so many verses until there was none cc: Chagall, Michael 2022
Train rides once through wooded lands left me breathless to see God's wonder; straddled between cars now, crisp, cold air begs peace - Amen please see David ben Alexander's site for more on this poetic form cc: Michael 2022
When I would leave for school in the morning, my mom gave me a tissue for my nose, a dollar for my lunch, told me to put the former in one pocket, the latter in the other, so as not to lose either She said so long, never goodbye, be a good person, never lie, unless it's bad news, like when people die, and it makes no sense for some to know And always don clean underwear, for God forbid something should happen to you along the way, someday you'll take care of me, she'd say At times nothing amounts to something and sometimes nothing matters When you are born, God twists his finger in the center of your body, your belly button, exclaims This one's done She laughs when I ask how she knew it was me when I was born One star for everyone who has ever been, is here today or will be I understand now the dream where she comes to me, kneels to dip her hand in a pool of water, lets it cascade down her arm, over and over, and I ask her if there is a heaven She nods her head yes, looks up at me then adds but everyone here is starving Never for the last time say so long, nor for the first time goodbye cc: CC, Michael 2022
Anyone else following the Davos agenda? Or are sound bites more your thing? cc: Chagall, Michael 2022
Alphabet City 