The man who is tall is happy.
Is the man who is tall is happy?
The man who is tall is happy.
Is the man who is tall is happy?
Simple, but not,
naturalized structure
and generation, and burden
of proof is on the state.
The burden of proof
of law, order, proffesional dissertation, facts
and the like.
Sweet and natural,
yet a constant redux,
and eb and flow constant
and layered
and frequent.
Is the man who is tall happy?
Unconsciously composed
are the truth, the start
of all great coordinations
and compositions.
Composition for the sake
of itself.
For the sake of
rehearsal, and practice.
Practice for practice
overdue but now and
learned.
Make no mistakes
by allowing mistakes.
He who laughs with understands,
he who laughs at
dies alone.
10/18/14
Her name started with B
B is for Beautiful
It was in a book I read
as a child.
B is for beautiful
beautiful, only a word,
who so, so fair,
so true,
could so be limited to the
realm that is only so thin
yet so powerful,
words.
6/8/14
Well now our lies in the bowels
and rags of the cage.
Malnurished and nothing,
He walks in and out
day in
day out
each for his trials.
Guilty with no remorse,
and locked away.
Our hero does go,
for now he is at his low.
No love,
No home,
No woman,
and no allie.
Ours does now live with the constant eye
and knife.
He bleeds like christ,
but he does not die.
He
Our hero
fights.
He cares,
He lives,
He struggles.
Now and forever at these hands and these depths.
He does live on.
Live on and strive and so for another hour
on another day.
Yet, no night did pass when she did not come to mind.
And with every muscle and fiber,
he did his best to hold back the tears.
And so now it begins,
a constant angry
and extensive rank and scroll
of rage and charge.
So of always used words and wards.
Heart and soul
and every poetic truth and cliche.
So cruel in its delivery
So Sweet in reward.
Yet as is and as always,
so uninsightful
yet so.
Shine and mare in bath and baited.
Curious is the fantasy’s truth
and twisted in celebrity and power.
Charged and blocked of the like,
Idiotic in distraction,
blind in rage.
So deaf, so blind in where and what
and how it was lost.
By the matters of the lost and loss,
and of no more.
A make up so corrupt.
Loves accident
so avoidable,
So of these goddamned poetic constants
of cliche anguish.
What a love and lust and drive did live.
What, and nobody.
Gone and dwelled.
What a sweet divine,
such an ache of joy and the like
and listened listlessly through time.
Sit now, and bare to this tale of the latter rambles.
A tale so of no tale at all
of that of a vicious and joyous and loving
and the like.
All about so as and as once again same.
A tale so heard before yet
told or scribed.
So please, sit and bare this story
of the inhibitions, of the lustful joys
of woe.
Damned be our surrender
and rest our treaties.
Peak in the words of your own
and in dignity.
What humble treats are these,
What soft words they be.
Soft which to be heard,
and fallen
on one knee.
9/24/10
