PMPope

 

of cruel winter hinted by diabolical agents  trying to incorporate miserable  lives stitched in   like your mouth stitched shut  with metal staple shards   if you ask for me  you can ask for glorious  who saw me wander alone  who knew when i was hungry  i didn't have to learn no damned eubonics  to write out my blues  with a tangerine sun sinking  into the far horizon                                                                                                                                                                        PMPope 2020

 A bit of liquid Falling from the silver ceiling  Grab your hoses  & breathing tubes Helpless at the merest whim Of a whimpering, cock-eyed whip-or-will  Threading saturation through this new decay Running counter clockwise around   the color wheel 

Unless those days were shortened,  no flesh would be saved; but for the elect’s sake  those days will be shortened  Moving between points of time  Without strapping a rocket to this frail frame  the reality, however; is through that glass darkly  breaking through the gauze of sunsets, concertos, prismatic visuals,  forgotten refrains, moments, hours, seconds (stretching),  the rails of trains,...  though dared through quarantine  with the world watching and waiting  the light to fade  an attempt would be fatal to any human time is an illusion; it is relative  all plastered out  spread eagle  embroidered into this four-dimensional fabric of space-time  tear it down  rip it out  FSU  burn it to hell  the ashes return to Earth  ever so slightly younger than  their identical twins that remain  OR to travel wormholes between the fibers in the blanket of time  while socially distancing one's self from:  Infinite cylinders,  black holes,  or cosmic strings  much more difficult than ri

Not one of them knew the color of her smile.  Their eyes stared level, fastening upon the inevitability of the day.  The rushing approach of darkness and the glorious mortal weakness of sleep. Who could ask children to know the fine porcelain of her cheek or the anticipated thrill of her lips? Just as the sand shifts beneath the rolling tracks of an armored personnel carrier, the minutes drip through the hourglass and we all wake with revised expectation and heavily edited, lackluster laundry-lists of realizable daily tasks. You could check out at anytime you wish.  You could throw your trousers in a sack, grab some greasepaint, & hit the open road.  This is what killed Kerouac, inevitability. It wasn't the road. All the intrigues, adventures, romances, late nights, early dawnings,... ad nauseam  weren't the culprit of his demise.  Same as Cobain & Elvis.  Our eyes are opened wide before they slam shut.  The hardest thing is to unsee.  It's harder to un

Being that Bejing never cared to send a crate of beans A ukelele skeleton sat zebra crossing Late night at the dur dire Von wire tire site That was enough for any body with anti-microbial anti-body skills to kill The official office status of squish squashing Stash bashing on a hashtag of jet lag Easy like M onday Morning She'd never say 'Hey, hey-hey!' the way she played an Oxford hound home bound on the Down low hassock classic live and let live on life's pipe pick a poke of hokey jokey dribbling juke jotted Rotterdam joints of the finest Dutch druthers \weeping and creeping in the bird Aire all night long at least until Tuesday welds it up for Ruby And Lulu runs uptown Flight 8:30 came and went got bent then spent on the ghost toaster of incindiary cinnamon goalposts between the kicks were all up for in the over under past of passing psylocks that pass what it was when the fuzz found out (no doubt) all about that arthritic laced gout joust

This is a space where the old meets the new this road we traveled daily in hopes of finding ourselves we wave and smile and say nice things 'hey! how are y'all?'  'it's a lovely day!'  but somebody is opportunity minded  Writing it into contracts  serve it up as scripts  online  if you could see what I see  you'd know my eye  is true  you know my heart  yet still you ask  what it is, in my eye  a piece of music?  a leg of poem ?  ripped from hot summer asphalt  the time we both  went to our respective homes  at the same time  bored to tears  with all the mo-not-o-ny  of our non-corporate adventures Speed is the beat of the heart which is beauty too fast or at least faster than the paper production process 24 for 7 is pretty fast considering that 90 is too fast Where 70 is regular sending electronic mating calls throughout the digital frontier is there one hand to hold

Whatever it takes to get you  there and back again  this would be a good place  for a marsupial pouch  weird psychotic life dragging groceries  up a hill called California  Out here on the Barbary Coast  poor slender bicep  with personal trainer  just want definition  not bulk  well defined  weaker than baby hamsters  a gallon of milk,  a loaf of bread,  a dozen eggs.  Plastic handles that cut off the circulation  to the fingertips  and subsequently  the brain  or...  'brams mang!'   voiced in the Puerto Rican dialect   of Louie, my friend   From over 30 summers ago He who is also very fond of the idea Of being directly descendant  from a tribe of Indians  somewhere in the Bronx,  but nowhere just somewhere  a magic tribe  Of round, cuddly, curly headed Louies  All smoking peace pipes filled with Avenue A skittley-doo-dop  and pineapple flavored  malt liqours  they built the Brooklyn bridge  all the high-rises on 5th avenue  Hell, man Wa