I believe we are the only animal who may hold their ass at the pit of their being, or at the midway of their person, or as their highest part.
Posts published in “Poems”
And in your sight, all else becomes but sin;
A washing of the mind to wax your image in
A mind, a mind, a hole but known to see
All else becomes but darkness, blighted, the
Worst is yet as come they may, find me, here,
A drawing of the blood in cheek as through fear,
But hold not your wand, your lock, your complexity,
Before your ire; I know nothing less than words to me;
Feeling, the regret, a hold they have upon the skin,
A shake of life, from hair of neck by sores to cl’n.
How low the deep-sought soul, waxing your grace
To be as cook, so bold to know nothing, less your taste.
And, yet, I do not wish you these words as they are,
As they be but mirrors let bubble to, as in wave from far.
I think it best to hold an eye mostly closed, if not partially open, with the other wide, so you may, if through physical means alone, be observing the world through more than a single means.
dropped the pen
, kicked the phonecord
and didn’t give two thoughts.
Smile, you are only owed happiness.
i will not place my wallet near my pen, in fear it may compromise a character trait.
place the moment
within a myriad
of sectors–
one,
the current,
and another,
rhetorical future/in a past sense.
Though you may be beside her, your
hands upon her, your parts–dashed–
inside her, I remain in thoughts, as
though a cherub, scrunched, placed
to be as watchful eye of scrutiny, and
while you hold hand, remember, see,
I will be within her far longer than thee.
The gentle-man, beside his car,
more in front than rear/more
to the engine/motor than to
the doors, but, he was painting,
a much-stroked blue, beneath
the sun, and, though he knew
, from mind, ten ways ’bout which
to onward-go, he paused, in
reflection, brought to cause of
calendar’s wake, a memory/a
fantasy of finger, lifted, raised,
pointed at from drape of He,
and, in this white-covered-brown
tunic, He began to, through canvas
, lift from page, from thinnest
material to a tower, slabbed,
drenched in day’s workings and
the material, the hands of blue-
worker, David, a well-spoken
, gentle-man, whose times
were before him from his
‘versaries, 3 or 4 prior-made,
being worked on from mind’s
softest point, a sharpening
let be blunt to they who may
see but colors without the depth
, the plurals of a wading scene.
Non-violence leads to the highest ethics, which is the goal of all evolution. Until we stop harming all other living beings, we are still savages.
~ Thomas A. Edison
Pasted from http://muttscomics.com/index.asp