less enchanting, more real

it's the bumbling rumble of black clouds' approach
it's the nose itching wishing of coal smelt too close

it's the do or don't shouldya of teens' dated days
it's the punch in the arm to scare away strays

it's the duo whose dueling has dragged us too near
to global atrocity afamed in our ear






-
our teles our phones our pcs and drones
calling and shouting to each of us own
to take it in each of our scouring eyes' hands
and throw cast drown kick until each does land

and take it a step in direction said naught.
run away pun away but remember the take away
message
from me, your confidante, your truth and light,
other than Truth and Light.

I've told them today. Told them time heals hearts heavy.
I've told them today. Understanding is mine.
Can I lie? Can I mislead them today?
I can. And I have. But conformity and Hallmark
have got me by the throat.





_
have i made a picture for you? have i created something
beautiful?
i miss beauty. i miss capital letters before words with
full intention.

i have a source, yes one. just one. the simpleness of
one is less confusing, and albeit less enchanting,
more real.

a pebble/an arrow

it's a pebble, sitting on a post, stuck in the sand
a small wind feels cool on it's shell and is welcomed on a sweltering day
it's the briskness, though, that throws it from its hold
back to the piles and miles of meaningless little pebbles
soon to be sand, walked and polluted, rarely polished too clean

so blow with ease, and fair your audience
keep close to mind that each walks a blind path, unaccustomed to sameness and
expectedness

we'll take the arrows of the world, send them forth
watch them wiggle in that soft breeze, switch hard left or right
but left if it's mine
we won't see them land,
but it will give us more solace than the bullseye
the arrow would never choose the bullseye
no more than it would choose the suit and tie
and grey/brown cubicle too close for contemplation

when the game is played by the frequency of sound,
there is no ending, nor beginning.
when notes are pounded until racuous blazes of bass come filing out in no particular order,
when flips are attempted at too short a height to land on the resting note,
when shouting of songs sounds less like singing and more like being
that's when you'll find no point
no dot on a line
no click of the timecard punch

and it's all for the better
for a good piece of this world

to my brother, drew, who danced his life to the sound of nobody's song but his own -
rest in peace.