PMPope

 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 ...

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...

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...

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 ...

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....

Feasting on Both (Fast Food & Organic) Freedom & Liberty Fed on a steady diet Of river rats lashed together On rafts moaning to escape Persecution by dictator  & political factions 'Give me your poor... Yearning to breathe free...' Peopled by the under-appreciated Cast out as slaves by their own Kings & rulers 'We saved our last monies For passage to America...' America is paradise for the persecuted This stronghold of democracy Why is it As Americans, when we visit Other countries, We notice what they DON'T have? "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" They come HERE! Everybody & everything We have it all Wall-to-wall I doubt whether 99% Of the world would allow Their country to be populated In a manner so thusly inspired As if some dream...

Against the Grain At times in our lives When everything spirals Out of control & beyond any semblance There seems a gnawing, nagging dread Egging us on It is alright to call me later on I am not in a bad mood simply typing with my voice while we're talking yes, audiocontrol I'm putting the words into the device hopefully the words will turn into something to help help people to defeat the negativity wow, they're going through the hardships of life The words in my room in my room and im pretty weird but true the word my room my room spirals and embraces old old also phone phone old home, who would hear it ? we know who Who would share it ? moon doom aurora massacre who would find Scrambling in front of them, know inside of them, sew them in so, Not let them go, Wh...

One grain falls in slow motion One teardrop explodes with the force of Armageddon We wait With breath imprisoned Our lives flashing before our eyes We wait As spectators do Watching familiar specters Etched into celluloid Performing super human feats In front of a camera lens With nary care or conviction Before the shot goes to post Before the render farms grab hold Before the animators & colorists The Foley guys... Who will type up the credits For your masterpiece? From the very beginning The first jot of a note Which birthed this spectacle Was written before your birth ... not that you don't possess freewill..., Epic battles have waged & left landscapes lying ragged On the floor Like a crumpled chrysalis For the fact that men will wage war Over ideas & power Or another attempting to force Either of these upon the other They are lovers of themselves & ringing the bells of hell Do not go gently Into that long, dark night Why sho...

Not about how many times you try nor is it all failure it's not always open skies to spot the trail time: time: times unaltered rhythm Congested in our human growth But never our desire for expansion Yesterday you forgot about the fake leg Proping you up in this dramedy How accomplished you now seem How earthy How real As much as the joker Who left his prosthesis In a barbecue grill Now he's as rich as Trump Because he got drunk Or alzhiemered out of his mind To the point where he just let go Of trying to keep up Or making pre-fabricated grades & points with the people That don't add up To much In the grand scheme Of things God was looking out for that character Best thing he ever did The way you hear local folk tell it There isn't a failure That can't be turned into an out and out victory Or a single lovin' one of us Without the worth Of life & liberty & the pursuit Of unending joy ~ PMPope 2015©

A Work of Prose Poetry In Installments A Collaboration of Light & Love Ladies & Gentlemen, I joyfully present The 1st Web Installment of... Wanting so much more in life, other than his 100k lifestyle He feels his failure inside and squeezes it into a little pill, Swallowing the bitter pill and leaving reality for a dream. +++++ Here I am, looking out the window as the sun surfaces, In awe of such beauty from above, traveling afar On a venture to find oneself betwixt the mayhem – chaos How I so long to roam this new road I now journey I hear the bustle and commotion, as we now descend The landscape below entices the desire even more so As we now, approach land and I see my destination I can feel the rush of the adventure, racing passionately How it seemed forever, so distant, the dream I envisioned Time has now come, to initiate this new course of action All my earnings spent away, to live, as I have never dared Breathing now ...

driving down through the greenest section of town when its hot... it's 85 degrees out! Driver's window is down. Left arm resting in the frame. 'In 600 feet, turn right on Poplar Tent Road' she states with soft emphasis. You concede to her voice command. you smell honeysuckle PMPope Shared from Google Keep

Which name these flowers go by, under which guise of man-made beauty, is for finer machine-heads than these fingers typing into this note-taking app. How to expulse this beauty in electrons,  while remaining relevant to the tedious mindex (think: roll-a-dex of the intelligencia)  in applicable wordings, to make the superbly gifted children of these times realize that,... beauty is more than a pricetag or an employable designation. When simple poet  (such as am i) can not even raise one adjective for such a fineness; such a fondness; without finesse or any other co-conspiracy  the public & the publishing industry has come to honor  as worthy of particular accolade, heavy-laden with accomplishments  to entice & incite one the other  to eXplode with the furious abandonment of right and wrong. To me, the birds, the bees, the flowers, the trees,... Ad infinum, are creations to, for mere & unadulterated mom...

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Not as one would suspect (I most assuredly am able To acertain) Is the love of all the flowers; Hair & nails; Shoes & fabric; Fine food & things Printed on green fiber Dug from the soul Deeper than the earthen Clay pots of hieroglyph Her's is none of these. She wants to run & watch them bleed. PMPope 2011

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