PMPope

park(ed) @ a park                         (ing) space out_side  a new-ly (ish) craft & ed community  peo(n)ple(d) UnKnown without histor(i) Calities & City(less)-ies (not yet)                hid-den be_neath  a steel (re:gray) sky                a-mid au-tumn's finery  this                {is a} dream mill _ions of mi_les away a_tro cities & exhib!tions              tick,                   tick,                         tick  the ch!ld's plas                                -tic                    ...

Not one damn person stands to offer A ride or a fine 'how do you do?' Out on the stretches  Of those long and lonesome  desert highways Young and rangy  Not yet a tattooed canvas And not quite any longer  A multi-colored, spiky haired punk Not that you could tell (from a passing vehicle) Wrapped in an Army Navy store field jacket Black, of course, my leather  with hand painted longhorn skull Long since abandoned to storage Or some ex-girlfriend's domestic care Wouldn't do me any good anyway The heat of crossing a desert alone And on foot equivalent, at least to my urban mindframe, to walking across a lake of glass on fire And inside of a microwave oven I'm going to give y'all  the benefit of the doubt It was the  80s on the cusp of the 90s And maybe you didn't have your internet  set up right, at that time.... So you couldn't see the injustice The complete uncaring, The disregard for your fellow human being Be he (or she) white, black, brown, yell...

 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 ...

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...

it was the morning of the spring. As unpredictable as the weather patterns  of the Mid-Atlantic could be,  during this season, they would be this morning. What kind of southern hound, who enjoys the growl of rubber and asphalt, could stop himself from jumping in his car  and taking in the music of wet asphalt and breaking clouds?  Not i, gentle sleeper, not i. To let all the joy and misery of reality wheel about you,  while the eye speeds past the clumping Wisteria,  this must be what Morning from Peer Gynt is all about. The lilt of the flutes  while the k9 task force SUV is situated in a hiding spot  down the stretch of Old Statesville Road  between Oak Drive and Gibbon Road.  Of course he would give you a ticket  if you accelerate to pass the crusty eyed drivers  with no love for the visual paradise being offered. The mornings of spring are quite different from any other season....

Finding the bottom of the pot As rushing between necessity permits Babble on Babble you glorious heads of beef Sing every moment you have left The Spring really needs to know Your law is held in reserve for higher profits Price per barrel; priceless The cost of love When you need to eat steak Or gnaw off your arm Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.7