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We are the days that we’ve become.
moments dripping gifted from
the lounging clocks in rolling melted sightings,
given by the gifted madness of a soulmate’s fightings.
Our lives wrapped up in phrases coined
in books like, “best things ever said”.
we are the living words from inside-out each other’s
head.
No flowers petal ever bloomed or fell
without acknowledgement.
Your finger pointing skyward to the sun in magic touch;
Let there be’s, and songs evoked, without the need of
singer,
without the need of anything as such.
we remember the future, the past we mark with stones.
Pay for the day; using each word we heard, in a contract
of misinformed loans.
the day is shaped by nights retreat.
wings upon which we fly,
measured by holes,
in the shoes,
on the souls
of our feet.
Cities of mud spin out of control, shoulders are rubbed
together.
mirrors reflect, all we neglect,
Our need to seed or siphon the hole,
bleed all that protect, feed and vacuum the soul.
laughter the prickled pin sent to the nervous skin
to bear proof
to the living of life.
we cut the mustard, cut the crap, cut the cheese, and
tease
all with the cut of a wounded knife
we are the words that drape with cape, sting and hurry,
work and worry, cover, uncover, and lie.
voices that render, remember, relay, delay, dismember,
and with folded fingers, cry.
walking, moving, mirrors sharpen every image shown.
manufacture methods yet unknown
to manufacture other methods down an endless line;
making walking moving mirrors
testifying we are fine.
some shake the globe and some are shaken within the globe.
your eyes can see them all, watch them stare and be right there,
between the viewer and the view;
the only difference is you.
You carve the angle of the fine; mark the meteors course,
sling your arrows into your very breast and worse;
all of it within the realm of love
written with a warriors glove;
in vain attempt at entertainment.
saturated, situated, God of Trojan Horse this Earth
given sweetly wrapped; a morsel served with afternoon tea.
It isn’t just for you or me, we make that distinction.
it is for us or we.
when will we come to understand
the meaning of the small or grand
chase in cartwheels spinning;
ear to ear with eyeballs grinning;
children of the night or day
frothing at mouths with nothing to say;
inheriting only vacuums of things
that twinkle and pop, and electronically pray.
we are indeed burros
we are the buttons we wear that say care
you are the only one
you are the chosen few
you fractured and featured phantoms
speak to yourself as your life rolls from thundered tongues
meeting the mindless who pray from the fields afar;
this distance created by seeds blowing windless and free
power of choice, the voice in the voice of each star.
my neck will not careen,
my head holds not the ache history yields.
we all walk together each page,
fingers of soldiers release;
we are inside and out ourselves
all the world that pleads
lovingly banded in bandaids of genuine,
made in america, grease.
what use do you have of title or frame
when hammock and strain will endure.
with closed eyes and narrowed brain
insistent rain will down
no gates, no bars, no walls, no jars
pure drown purest thought
but fragments given;
dripping to the curb and sewer
long before the river to the sea.
this is you and me.
this is us or we
this unforgiven marching in totality.
I cannot love more than to give myself to thus
inflate and speculate in wide-eyed wonder,
curtains flung,
naked die asunder,
empty grieving for want the everlasting line;
beauty of it all the rare earth shine
and we are mine.
beauty is grief; torment of distance announced.
you need not word to know this truth.
pain from presupposed separation
what you cannot be:
madman, poet, king, or God.
walking preambles; messages molded of need.
it is their baggage.
we speak of fate as though it were a handbag;
wallet of monies paid for ransom.
it isn’t necessary to inspect your life;
to visit the mirror to see the lovely or handsome.
we will do it for you.
you need not work to know this truth.
it is flowing in your grain; the blood in every vein.
they will speak about the bubbles of his madness
how the mercenary midnight capsules
poisoned every cell.
do tell.
we will write about the seagull passing
name our magazines Life and Look.
oh I could write a book
about it all and they would read and read
ending their look by upward moving chins
in ponderance of something they once read
now lost somewhere in someone else’s head
oh well
we call it claustrophobia or Alzheimer's or cold.
he caught cold
running in the field with some imaginary net
what else might you catch
intelligence or age
all you need is patience and a cup of life
spoonfuls of nostalgia nursing you back to health
read your sports page, turn to channel 5
yes.
you’re still alive
we have given ourselves all permissions.
the title page is blank, the check is in the mail.
there is no fail.
the proof is in the pudding and all we want
is more.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2020
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