The suitcase carried all the reckless years
The wind suffered alongside a troubled trek
I want to ride back into the sunset
In the back of a pickup,
high on the blessings of yesterday
Bury the blame, shave off the solitude,
and cut the contestable bull$h*t
One may arrive earnestly cloaked in brilliance
Others may crawl in unnoticed except for their hint of humility.
JB 12/2/2023
Nothing about life is impossible,
viewed while looking up
Nothing about death is reversible,
viewed while looking down
All in between is contestable,
winds blow North and South
Nothing promised, nothing cursed
—the choice to laugh or frown
(Ouray Colorado: October, 1995)
Poems are blood and bone.
~
Poets are oil spits;
flamable ancient reservoirs of
contestable spirit,
mallowed constitutions.
Hollow seekers of destitution
prowling depression beds
of coughed discarded memories
blanketed by romantic reverance
virginally shredded in lines of honest prose.
The poetic is posted between self harm
and alien repetition. The poet
sheaving change to cliche should rather
grasp the phantoms
binding body to wordly weight.
Poets lost their telos long ago,
and now farm the deserts peel;
a catalyst appraisal of
that odd-fantastic Real.
Ah, the con a tried and true dastardly, debased,
debacle to test the metal of man.
A contextual contrib to the categorization
for rat-ICK-al political fans.
Simply put, the contest is not for the faint of heart.
Testing the spine of the spineless
demi-gods of media-o-craSS-y against each other
often produces hilarious outcomes, balloons full of
hot air which rise, sinkers like submarines
A-bombs which ann-I-oH-late beating the literal
pants of of pre-despotic predators!
Ah, the con a tried and true dastardly, debased,
debacle to test the metal of man.
A confab of convicts crashing the party of humanity
for their own con-test, loot-seekers all.
Blue ribbon, hollow trophy-seeking, baby kissers.
Even the best of these deep thinkers seldom
produce products which do more
than a-GRAND-Ize themselves.
Hitler con-tested the right to breath of the non
Aryan races...now that's surely contestable?
Kings and demagogue contest the human rights
of man daily, throwing female babies out with the trash.
So in an effort to auto adjust this neolith-ICK behavior
I vote we go sans test!
*There are no spelling errors here
what you see is poetic license.
Could I Be...
Likely...
To Define Sceens...
Even When My Eye's Bleed...
Wait Up I Just Woke Up From This Blind Dream...
Time Seem's....
To Be Behind Me...
Like My Last Breath...
Taken After Fast Steps...
From Your Address...
I'm On The Way To The End Of The Atlas...
Imagine...
This Passive Humor...
Becoming A Colapsed In Tumor...
I'm Pasted Tense Sooner...
Then I Expect To Be...
Intentionally...
Remebering Dreams...
Of Contestable Sceams...
I Continplate...
All This Hate...
During These Modern Days...
Counciousness Flows Beyond The Waves...
In Witch We Call This Place...
The Final Options Late...
But I've Still Gotta Wait...
Along The Gates...
In Witch I'm Trapped...
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