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The Color Of Bruises

For most of us workers
Payday comes every two weeks

The emerald grass
Takes time to grow

And loyal landscapers
Are going from lawn to lawn
To fruit tree

-- To cut them down to size
Or trim them back
So they can produce
Even more fruit --

The careful accountant is crunching
More and more numbers
The avid artist applying
Layers of paint

They know
It takes movement
To create a still life

Hours of effort
To finally relax

Yet for the sake of what ?

in light of a new days dawn there's a happy song
through vast emblems of dust like a car it rusts
in every attempt to get noticed far from the tropics
its universal it seems to do your very own thing

ideal to the notion of grace spread out upon your Peyton Place
there are poets in the Autumn hours undiscovered
we will relish in a Cohen tune of, "Suzanne"
we think of the late Anthony Bordane

Medusa In The Abstract

Medusa In Abstract

Smoke signals & Shadows dance

shadow is to light
what smoke is to fire

by the same token
a poem should leave
a trail of imprints on the sand

Unforgettable killing:

Former errant political couple
Attacked their perceived critic’s family
Secured living in pervasive bubble
But fear of crimes past wont fade easily

Not content with just their initial sin
Using their servile support to harass
And ultimately kill the critic’s kin
Relying on their elite carte blanche pass

Enlisting an amoral talk show host
To keep tabs on target’s interactions
Minority underlings used to post
Constant espionage revelations

ISM

ism is not a prism
nor is it a prison
it's not established
until it's finished

if all I knew were isms
I would more than likely
be solely alone and unlikely
like if I was into Marxism

which I am not however
so I say to those whomever
pull up your trousers and be aware
it's coming from over there

the diabolical aneurism
antidisestablishmentarianism

Excavating A Past

nic-nacs and what-nots
stored in drawers,
rusty tins,
and bins galore

once again
I'm back with them
and all the things
that might have been

a snapshot
ah! that day on the beach
what ever happened to the two of them?

a set of casters to a broken chair
it seems funny now
but was deemed a disaster back then

why was my first coloring book saved?
I see, I stayed within the lines
what the hell was wrong with me!

"ISMS"

awash in muddled isms
slung about
like turd tossing monkeys

a stench

saturating the senses
smearing reflection
polluting all elixirs of hope
into potions of despair

who is immaculate enough to be immune
who is slippery enough to come out clean

The History of Bridges

It was not what I would call a lazy day
Because although we were driving
Through the country
Without a destination
We were determined to find something
That we could remember forever

The date on an old covered bridge
Captured with a camera
The sweetest strawberries
From a farmer’s market
Just across the state line
A goodwill store and hiking boots
That would last a hundred more days
Than that hike through the Adirondacks

Summer Shadows

Summer.
Drunk on the abundant treats,
birds and frogs chirp, shriek and drum.
Hidden in deafening shade
the invisible orchestra rocks.
I don’t hear my steps anymore.
I don’t hear my own voice.

Jumping
on the soaking wet tufts,
summer startles away pearl-green bugs.
They freeze like toy zeppelins
in midair and slowly glow.

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