“Deactivation”

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“Deactivation”

I achieved a mild milestone:

When I deactivated my Facebook account.

Saving face,

More space for wonder.

Thoughts replace reactions,

And newer sincerity brews cautiously in my percolator.

Eventually, the contents of my vessel will be infused with renewed hope.

If not, I’ll just add sugar and cream.

Stir it up.

I’m sure I’ll fall into a library and get lost among the stacks.

I’ll look for a reference book on methods of discourse and logic; likely the Greeks.

Embracing the choice of unlearning bad habits.

Then, putting that book the fuck down,

And speaking with a fellow human.

Engagement.

Not virtual, but real reality.

The art of conversation has been lost,

And we can’t wait for lingual archaeologists to explain the WAS of it.

It’s needed now, most especially.

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“I Would Rather Be A Mystic”

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“I Would Rather Be A Mystic”

In a world of vanity,

I would rather be a mystic.

Deranged politicians espouse morality while acting immorally.

Intellectuals are derided for pursuing knowledge,

And uneducated citizens take exception to discourse.

The asylum is being run by the inmates,

And apathy grows prominent by the minute.

Human blight, cheering on the failure of progress.

Twisted hearts hate for hate’s sake.

The truth is right there at the end of our noses,

But the comfort provided by cowardice Trumps reason.

Grow up!

If you keep going left and right,

You will be traveling in a circle.

Immobilized.

“I Have No Pride In Being That”

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“I Have No Pride In Being That”

 

I have no pride in being that.

So stop trying to remind me.

I left that torture years ago,

I put it all behind me.

 

You dwell within the insular,

A stunted point of view.

The walls you build to keep those out,

Imprison only you.

 

You self-deceive and stagnate,

Refusing to evolve.

Choose ideas that reinforce,

A world view unresolved.

 

Your ignorance a well worn shield.

It guards against new found knowledge.

Your staunch unwillingness to yield,

A self-inflicted bondage.

 

You wine and gripe from privilege,

Blind to all advantage.

A patron saint to victimhood,

And mealy mouthed antics.

 

It is a shame, you reside there.

On land, storied in struggle.

Complacency, and abject fear,

surround you like a bubble.

 

 

 

 

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! – Day 29 – “Life by the Drop”

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“Life by the Drop”

 

Where were you when you heard “the” song?

Moments come and go, all life long.

 

“the” song, “the” song.

 

Rich with meaning, articulate view.

With words totally related to you.

 

“the” song, “the” song.

 

A universally shared secret,

A cold clarion beacon.

 

“the” song, the “song”.

 

A well thought out lyric,

a chest puffing pyrrhic.

 

“the” song, “the” song.

 

Forging a memory,

Melodic indemnity.

 

“the” song, “the” song.

 

Living life by the drop,

Don’t want it to stop.

 

“the” song, “the” song.

 

 

A very special thanks to Brenda A, because the discovery of a good can benefit many, and it all starts with a musical mantra that finds you caught in an unsuspecting moment.

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam is a project in which people have joined me for 40 days and 40 nights of on-demand poetry. They have submitted the concepts, ideas, and subjects; I’ve done the work.

 

 

 

 

 

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! – Day 27 – “Low Hopes”

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“Low Hopes”

I find it curious that people put an end time on a party invite.

No room to breathe, extraordinarily inorganic.

Restrictive and lacking in color.

Party end times should always remain open-ended.

Don’t you think?

Sometimes my best work is accomplished in the waning energy of a social gathering.

I feel no pressure from the ticking clock as it advances.

My job is to break through that wall, become unmoored, and push all envelopes to the point of excess.

I am the progeny of Bacchus.

In fact, a direct descendent by blood.

Bloodlines, red wines, dancing divine.

Party is my middle name,

and  I prefer engagements that weave endlessly onward toward dawn,

then onto brunch, wrapped up in giggling walks of shame.

Debauchery mystifies and beguiles my smiling eyes.

Mischief is to be masterfully made.

Do me a favor if you are having a party,

Have the decency to let the party determine its own life.

Definitely a start time, but the end time should be less finite, and stretch outward like an expanding universe.

Until, there is no light or energy left, but the void of space, and false burping hangovers, punctuated by piercing headaches in search of more excess.

A very special thanks to Sir Christopher Coxen. The future may be queer, but it is certainly bright.

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam is a project in which people have joined me for 40 days and 40 nights of on-demand poetry. They have submitted the concepts, ideas, and subjects; I’ve done the work.