Only when we are grown up do we understand our innocence is as beautiful as our savvy; we leave that part out.
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PG
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Pa, I know the stubble of your beard. You kissed me goodnight after you missed dinner, working late. I take that stubble to my grave. I tell God about your stubble. Those nights you let me shine the light for you under the car I have absorbed all of that light. I am full of that light. When you hinted I might be another Einstein I am an Einstein so as to fulfill your pride of me. Your insight that I need no other guidance but my own I turn this straw into gold. Pa, perhaps this story is incomplete It is enough. Thank you, Dave
Rumpelstiltskin
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Hard to explain this blubbering ’mid forest woods near silvery stream tugged along by black and blonde dogs hunting twixt moonbeams
Outburst in Emptiness
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It's hard to carry a tune
Some, singing from their youth,
seem naturally talented
We are such picky receivers
Yet, what a delight when some song
pushes our buttons
over and over again
playing ourselves
back to ourselves
Winds up in a mystical collection
Yet no way to share with another
the depth of its echoes through us
the hidden–spot tickle of its touch
Agony unshared
A dread to share
As like it falls on deaf ears
the horror of triggers missing in another
the tip–top registers of our soul
And this some polished piece of painstaking production
How much more terrifying
when we play ourselves
I trip along as the band plays on
I might look queer, but I'm certain
no one holds a candle to my musicTorch Song
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First, the finding of the cloth: something to cling to Then, the pulling, wondering: what will it lead to? Then, an acceptance of its never–end and the assured fashioning clothes from its threads
Magician’s Trick
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Forgive my bluntness
when I insist
I’m eternal and wise as the universe
In perceiving you
I see you in me
There is my heart, in you
You, flapping around,
doing your own thing
When shall we tea in the kitchen?
heart to heartPerceptiviteapot
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Perhaps a mistake
to forgo the ache
making of one’s self a human
With spiteful tenacity
takes herself as lover
A joyful bed
in loving herself, loves the world
Gobbling down gleams of inspiration
indulging strange urges and combinations
to satiate the little one
secretly nursing, growing embarrassing
From a patchwork of snacking and digesting
miraculously combining
into a self–contained story
its own life
Flesh and blood for others to see
critique, abjure recklessly
Perhaps to glimpse fragility
imbibe what magnificence might come
if they too put out
be awestruck and taken–inArtistry
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I’m not sure and my curious desire allows me to be carried away anyway
Faithful Seduction
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GI Senators in the 50s created an every increasing military bases government, leading to a very warlike 2nd half of the 20th century. Actually all the modern wars are result of the explotative capitalist governments since 1850.
That’s what Grandma Anderson and I discuss. I leave to town to pick something up. When I come back grandma has killed herself. A large puddle of bright blood stands on the floor. She lays on the ground. I call 911. I get the hospital’s hold muzak. Then a newspaper lady reporter comes on the phone, one I had met earlier at the hotel. She has come to visit and is at the front door, which explains how she broke into the phone call.
I emotionally yell “Grandma is dead.” She feels bad, apologizes, hangs up, and leaves. Then grandma, with a bright smile, raises her head and says she’s alive. She flexes her body and it seems very taut and fit indeed. And the large puddle of bright blood goes all the entire width of the floor… how and still alive? But this is good. I put my attention back to the phone call. I here a message from a doctor explaining he’s to busy to take any calls at the moment. What?!
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I’m in college taking a losy-goosey class on websites. The technology and students are both so green that students just do anything — kind of fumbling around, but not necessarily lazy — and that’s fine. There is an aspect of student government involved; they have some students from my team pose for a cardboard cutout poster to represent something to the students.
It’s the next morning. I’m busy with little things to get ready for school and I’m late. When I get to school I realize I’ve forgotten my books. I’ve also forgot something of Brian’s. Rather, Brian forgot something and I feel responsible for helping him with it. I don’t want to go back and bother with it. “Can I manage without going back just today?” I wonder.
The Asian in our team committed suicide. So, there are more important things than stupid school. I’m early to school. I have gobs of time before class. I’m still deciding whether I have to go back. Meanwhile, I dispose of the guy’s clothes (or my clothes). I throw them on the concrete floor. This classroom resembles a home depot garden center.
Oh wait, they even have a yellow dispensery for clothes. Good, I can put them there. They’ve put an out of order sign on the cardboard cutout and blackened out the AsianBack in my dorm room, I see they’ve rewritten the html text. It was a big book even before the revision. They’ve added a couple sections on evolution. This is the school’s paltry attempt to address the existential crisis brought on by the suicide. Lame. They are ought give it up and honestly take up spirituality to and completely face the chasm along with the studentry.
Perhaps I do go back. But then, I don’t get the books there anyway or the books don’t amount to much — one of them is for American History (I’m reading Zinn at the moment) .
Grumpy Morning
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