Intuition

It’s that song drifting in your ear,

It’s the pattern swirling in your drink,

Where only you can see, only you can hear

You shake your head in disbelief,

You pinch yourself to spur relief,

Yet it won’t stop and it won’t end,

There’s no use in trying, no sense to pretend

Because no matter what it is that you think

There’s something more out there for you

And no matter what won’t disappear

One day soon, something better will appear

And the greatest thing of all, is that until you take the leap,

You’ll never know if it’s truth, in what your intuition speaks

Can't Break Me Down

You can’t break what’s already broken

You can’t take what’s already been stolen

You can’t

You can’t break

You can’t break me

You can’t break me

You can’t break me down

You never could.

When the head hangs lowly

And when comfort’s gone astray

Just remember, it could not have wandered far from here…

And when you need it,

When you need what’s inside

The heart will find,

The heart will find it there

And then, all things

All those dark clouds and shaded smiles,

Will become those shapes, the epitomes of clear

You always knew, exactly what to say

The Connection Between A Rhythm and a Stare

 A floe of Gypsy temptation,

     Thinly skims the apex of the surface,

A slue of dull possession,

     Swiftly spinning from it’s stance

There is a collection of delineation,

     An elementary beguilement in askance

There is a sidling of salvation,

     An impropriety of sauntering proportions

Agog, too eager

     To enliven the mirage that blindly

Inhibits the colluding prescriptions that

Control the signatories of sight

                 

Within the wherewithal of sanity,

Exists a microcosmic spasm,

Infatuated by impossibility and the relics of its kind,

Where, if not attended to, imagination may run amok—

And become rampant, writhing to the contagions of such designs

And in premature conclusion, I must declare, that there’s a curious delusion—a connection between a rhythm and a stare

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I was very honored and privileged to have been interviewed by the very talented Laurie Kolp for this week's Pretzels & Bullfights Spotlight at D'Verse.  I'd really appreciate it if you could swing by and read the interview and learn a little bit more about little old me.  And yeah, she even made me sound really interesting:)  All kidding aside though, she really did a tremendous job with the questions and putting the post together. 

On that note, I'd just like to take the time to send, A big thank you to Laurie and to D'verse for hosting such a great series and of course, for thinking highly enough of me and my work to shine the spotlight on me this week.

  

1…2…3...

Stylized. Chic. Logistically situated atop a precipice that has yet to peak. We are alive, fully functional, yet inherently winded.  We live as we live, ignorant and often ignored.  Flourishing in a sad derangement of philosophy, a tenor trembles, the trebles high, the bass is broken, and the backsides collide in slates filled by worthless plights. We are clustering in collapsible rings, and so the relics flicker to a new decree, instilled anew in 1…2…3…

A high-fructose dichotomy exists. The bling is sated on the side of outdated radio.  There’s an alto sax playing, a barometric drop a-glow with pressure. With the weather here who can know?  Forward marching so shall we go?  Alive, aloof, we are so disbelieving, always looking for that definitive shred of proof, without, it’s all but din and cacophony, a wasted sound spins in 1…2…3…

After and before, before and after, centers of attention, mid-points for disaster, high-strung, low brow, tensions mount, tackle box without bait, we can’t wait, we can’t wait, to be free, to be free, never begins in 1…2…3…

Hi-fi, new wave, Wi-Fi enabled sense of shame, a sentinel, vanguards of tradition take the fall, are decorated with blame, a livewire flickers in the rain, shocking, shocking, mounted atop the roof of mind, finding shelter beneath a tree, electrocution starts in 1…2…3…

a stack of smoke breaks free life’s soot, in stereo, in stereo…history beginning once again, do you believe, can you believe, streaming live in 1…2…3….

Algorithms.  Anomaly’s.  Stars, bars, lines and code, cracking, breaking free, a dynamic apostrophe relates in 1…2…3…

A variety of translucency bleeds light. A latent vibration echoes a shiver. Illustrations and details, set a sail as elusive, it is nature this is not conclusive.  The words are but representations of what could be. They are only symbolic remnants, ruminations of sound, shattering, stinging, stringing bolts together lightning fast, from which an atomic breeze is distinct…sparkling strong in 1…2…3…

Eardrums bleed with potential. Insinuations label the disturbed and mental, a domination of the populace speaks to the decibels herein found, loud and proud, pounding pavement without the soles of shoes ever once touching down to the stone of ground. Lies start their spree in 1…2…3…

Pride, mounted, jib to spar, cards dealt near and far, gonna let her ride, gonna double down.  With a bluff so strong, you’ll have to have the cards to match or else victories pronounced in 1…2..3…

A fire-fight on planet Nero, golden bricks amassing zero, half-life dwindling, flashing fast, quicker than a video blast, sub-cultured species, harnessed-reined, these are but men, yet still heroes of a different dream, sandman strikes in 1…2…3

Another place, another, realm, cast iron, zinc-plated, breast-plate smell. Glistening, gleaming shapes, photons, protons, electrons swell as a neuron’s beam berates us well, pattering upon the trip of wires, higher, higher, the pikes backed up, there’s no way out, doubting the magnitude of what has just transpired, anarchy.  Rioting in 1…2…3…

A turning zephyrs tail-spun wisp, whipping round, made to shift, retching trees up from root. The severed cracks spanning the ground, all is lost, nothings found.  In a place so high, like Kansas singing from the sky, Carry on my wayward friend, one day soon we’ll make amends.  Until then, the past must persist as long as our breaths still mist, gone again, gone again, marching orders coming quick, dialysis is pronounced, the bile’s thick, black in nature, mankind's sick, the bile’s thick, grey-black-brown-green cultivating this damaged scene, action cutting back in 1…2…3…

A serial apprentice in a frost-bit state, alleviating a pressure mostly high, it’s gonna blow, it’s gonna blow, anxiety trembles as tension grows, flames ignite and the tragic flows, every swiftly, ever long, the pastures are a plenty, the iron-work is not as strong as we thought.  We were wrong, we were wrong…our actions erred, our plots are lost, we’ve been caught, red-hands bleed green.  Disgrace curtsies in 1…2..3..

We twiddle our thumbs and hum our tunes, pass the buck and shoot the stag.  There are those that believe in life yet quickly opt for death. These are the yellow that we see, climbing so high up into trees, scared stiff like cats with claws exposing themselves in 1…2…3…

Little green men are arming up. They live below ground, underneath the craters of the moon, some live in fear, others change their gears, holding signs, praying to, whatever probes they will soon find.  Ineptitude reaffirming in 1…2..3…

A lulling gaze is cast, it shines down upon me and you, you and me, and there we are and here we see, a fallen society, reflected upon in 1…2…3..

Fear swims into and out of mind.  Some gets broken; some are bound. Some lose sight; others are slighted before ever being truly found. Numbing in 1..2…3…

 There is true evil in play. It does exist, in the arbors and the groves, in our biases and the hate that grows. It’s danger dangles in the wind, it’s hounds are hunting, the scent is strong, lost soon becomes found, humanity is digging their own plots to lie, worldwide evacuation begins in 1…2…3…

Shingled, shackled, neon sight, jingle, jangle, brilliant, bright, final, finale, fragments, finite, tragic flow, traffic flow, oh so slow, all have stopped to watch the world have itself a go, fireplugs, arsonists, jitterbugs are juking jabs and shuttling stabs, we are as one here in this plan, painful… pain, Houston called.  Problem’s been solved.  Another acronym bleeds another sign.  Abbreviations activate their launch.  They start the clock that’s ticking free. Countdown’s commencing in 1…2…3….

Fireflies in the sky, burning through the night, galactic tumults sure shine bright. The comet’s tail is trailing nigh.  See the ripsaw shredding through its test.  Violating it’s own principles for the camera.  So many are all too eager to show who’s best, itching to dominate all things in view.  Close your eyes and deeply breathe, this may get ugly in 1….2…3…

A conditioned response rings that bell. Sounding chimes, pealing well. The heat, it grows.  The sweltering spells a new communion steeped in heat.  In every nook a glutton hides.  In every shadow there lives a knife.  Greed’s apace in 1…2…3…

1 to 3

1, 2, 3.

One to two

Two to three,

all is changed, yet nothing has. All is through, all is done. Escape routes hatch. Eyes now see.  Eyes believe. What a view, what a view, yet never realizes, it’s simply the same sights they’ve always been accustomed to. Reframing stirs a new beginning in 1…2….3…

For all that’s happened, for all that’s been done, we can only pray something positive from this comes.  Hope commences in 3…2…1…