My process is like dots.
Not stars, just nothing dots.
Rearranging.
Tangled netting and dragonfly parts.
Whatever I can grab and throw in the shopping cart.
That sinks through the tile.
I thought things were solid for once.
Then the holes got torn up.
And the dragonfly eyes too.
Disintegrated.
In such a poem which is made of sentences and more.
My process is like dots.
Spiky, horned dots.
Maybe a few blobs and globs enticing.
The end of a poem isn’t scary.
Or strange.
It's thirsty, but the end is that drink.
My process.
Like a pen that doesn’t worry about anything.
Nothing dots and dragonfly parts.
Wheeling me away.
Like they did five years ago.
The wormhole led them to a desert,
where they could see dunes ahead.
The elf looked at Alice, nodded, and smiled.
She understood what his smile meant.
A few hours later, they stood in front of the dunes
When suddenly sentinels appeared around them.
Alice looked at the elf, and he smiled at her again.
She wondered why he smiled at every encounter.
The elf whispered some words,
The sentinels merged into one another and disintegrated.
He stretched his hand toward the dunes,
and they all flattened out.
Alice's eyes widened in amazement as cacti sparkled like diamonds.
As they approached,
The cacti grew tall and large,
and water gushed out from them,
And Alice and the elf were carried to the shores of an island.
They were lifted by giant birds to a rainbow castle.
There, Alice saw the book of seven seals,
a powerful book that restored the seven lost kingdoms,
where Alice would continue her adventures.
July 21, 2025.
A vein in me narrows a little bit every day,
I have tethered myself to shallow promises;
strengthened my organs of clay,
and deceived them to believe
Forever is either momentary bliss or death.
But then I heard a call in the blinding dust, echoing;
I saw you assembling pieces of my skin,
meaningless, disintegrated, ignored-
And sewing them up considerately;
A new form generating in creases of cordial hands;
a miracle stitched up all together,
by an artist devoted to life.
Three days ago.
43 minutes began.
To count down.
I hear it.
Time continues.
And holds on.
43 minutes ago.
Was when I started my day.
Days, and days, and days.
Eyes endlessly blinking.
Then the prodding continues.
46 minutes ago.
I remember things.
Like hanging up my coat.
Again, and again.
My coat is probably disintegrated by now.
I hate how minutes.
Are trying to deceive me.
Five days ago.
I ate breakfast.
So clearly, I had pancakes.
I ate a hundred pancakes.
I’m convinced that a pancake is following me.
Five days and four hours ago.
I was driving in my car.
I didn’t die or something.
But something happened.
The eclipse or something.
It followed me home.
43 minutes.
I stood a few feet from here.
Looking at myself hanging my coat, I am glaring at my future self.
Getting nothing done.
My feet are holding me up uncomfortably.
Feet going numb.
She gave me a call.
Two minutes ago.
When the 43 minutes started.
I let it go to voicemail.
I think they are evil and about to come through the portal.
43, 46 minutes, 4 hours, and five, three days.
And I still haven’t hung up my coat.
Does your world hang low?
Does your humour ebb and flow?
Do you feel like you’re a flop
And you’re drowning down below?
Are your moods like running water
Won’t stay stable when they oughta?
Does your world – hang – low?
Is your life a drag?
Do you feel like a rag?
Does it seem as though you’re flound’ring
Through impenetrable slag?
Is the whole thing never right?
Not worth keeping up the fight?
Is your life – a – drag?
Do you hide your face?
Do you feel a disgrace?
Are you constantly avoiding
Being with the human race?
Has your life degenerated?
And your world disintegrated?
Do you hide – your – face?
Are you fighting back?
Are you taking up the slack?
Will you give in and surrender
Or go back on the attack?
Tell the world it hasn’t mastered
THIS unconquerable bastard!
NOW you’re fight – ing – back!
the abandoned shack looks miserable and forlorn
standing amid brambles and weeds in an unkempt field
her porch boards creak ominously as we walk across them
Some of the end boards have disintegrated
she looks sad and gloomy; her front door is gone
she has not been cared for in a number of years
the upstairs windows are broken probably by rocks
her kitchen has been stripped of appliances
wires hang where her oven used to be
the floor is brighter next to these wires
a tiny creature scuttles across the floor
She smells like animals
She has probably been a haven for squirrels and mice
Maybe raccoons take up residence during the winter
Do you want to go upstairs? My girlfriend asks
I shake my head “no” not wanting to see any more
The paths of my mission would be rows of roses, I thought.
To my shock, in tipsy turvy twists and turns, I got tossed
Didn't I desire to know the known to know the unknown?
Each wish of mine, like worn-out shoes of a nomad, got torn.
The moon of joy in my gains should have been at the zenith.
Struggles, like palms, tall-grow. Bliss, like dried grass, peeps from beneath.
Like iron-rods in saline waters getting eroded
The weakness of my will, like pumpkin buds, is unfolded.
Virtues, as fallen scaffoldings, are disintegrated.
Absurdity, like the blood red moon, is reiterated.
My vigour, before my puniness, like a dewdrop, fades.
Apprehension and anxiety, like gems, I adorn.
Pessimism lifts its head like boom-slang cobras from burrows.
Coffins and graves compose knells. The deceased have no repose.
Death and decay have become the blessed norm of the day.
Despair and disappointment, like thorns, pierce through every way.
Self-confidence is erased like mud paths during monsoons.
Will the Times, like the rainbow chromas, bring multihued boons?
I am going, leaving to another world, my old and new world
You are staying, enjoy here, and remember, time is not coming
Time is far and gone with him. Don’t keep me in your memory
Just keep this, “ In loving memory of our lives, the future”
Our future is far, it’s disintegrated in a space of infinity
Yes, say thanks to your sadistic psychologists, and don’t cry
Don’t cry and don’t be sorry, I am already far, my soul flies
He said, Goodbye, goodbye… Enjoy your psychologists, bye
I follow my soul, he is alone and searching for a new mate
A new mate, a soulmate, a lady, who will be a good playmate
A playmate in our life. I will love her, the same as you or more
Bye, I am gone intelligently, sensitively, and elegantly. Bye.
Read Ted Kooser. Save your egg cartons until you have a fitted stack tall enough to be mistaken for an art project. Melt them down in a bucket of water. See how the float at first, then slowly succumb. Do not tell anyone about the egg cartons until they have fully disintegrated. Drink Rhubarb wine. Buy the straw hat from the old Vietnamese lady at your local Farmer’s Market. The smile she gives you will sate you for years to come. Fall in love. Do not be afraid to slap the five pound bag of rice in the supermarket. You will get looks, but you will be more alive than those watching. Write for someone else. Make them up, or pick someone out of a magazine. They can be your age, or not. It is up to fate more than your own brain. Understand that you are doing very well, and that there is value in waking up. Do not be afraid that you can’t remember dreams, or that you dream of a huge black wall moving in like a season. Read some more Ted Kooser. Laugh often, and easily. Die on a few small hills. Create a list of advice for young poets to discover who you really are.
Please don’t leave me hanging like that that, I hate to be in suspense, you piqued my curiosity and it’s so intense. Artfully teasing you know how to play, always one step ahead, leaving me dizzy and frayed, My head is spinning you think you’re winning, who’s got the last laugh? What’s all that ringing must be in my head, it’s giving carnival vibes, Clowns with balloons and daggers, cute little kittens with menacing eyes. Your destination, my fears, pulling me in and giving me sneers . What’s going on with the goat he just fainted, he stuck his tongue out and said blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah screamed and disintegrated, he looked kind of evil did I just use past tense? Is that mirror melting? What happened to his head? It’s so small and stuck to the bed. This ride is spinning down to the depths. I realize the ringing in my head is the alarm clock to wake me up. I turn over and face the clown in my bed. Oh geez, it’s just my lover Fred. What a tasty bit of drama, a midnight abracadabra.
Golf Cranks tried to see where his ball went on the course
The bird on his head was looking another way, his tweet hoarse
Which way did you flick it? His golf partners asked Cranks.
If I knew that it would be easier he said, not knowing their pranks.
They had given him a trick ball for his birthday, for fun.
It had disintegrated immediately as he started this run.
They finally confessed and had a laugh together too.
They are despicable friends said his golf caddie Bird Dew.
Trying to understand at such a young age,
She will have to know at some stage,
Transformed, changed, different identity,
Pleasing and pleading, needing to flee,
Good friends, more than friends,
Touch of lips into heaven it sends,
Trying to grasp tightly on self-control,
All a lost cause, swallowing me whole,
Key in the lock was hurtful,
Like banging your knee on a stool,
The betrayal lying right at my fingertips,
A lethal haven, tanks and battleships,
Muddled words on the tongue,
After that, it’s all just sung,
Banished from the Estate of Emotion,
Thrown to the sharks luring in the ocean,
Curses while on stage,
Into the microphone, caged,
Hateful glares pitched my way,
Soul disintegrated. Gone. Decayed,
Acrylic paint and dust. I can taste sunlight. Hear wind-chimes that have not been invented yet. That have already disintegrated into the deserts of the apocalypse.
I am at home in this living room. Even if i am not welcome.
St. Ambrose’s hymns are sung by children whose faces i’ll never remember.
Whose voices will weave into the river if my mind with grace and an undeniable sorrow.
Ripped dresses, burned houses, and tax audits late into the spring.
I find divinity in my shoelaces.
There is beauty not only in creation,
but also in the act of letting go.
The music muted
the poetry has disintegrated
the inner voice trembled...
The beauty flower withered
my soul cried
my heart broke
my faith got discouraged
my step lost the way
I lost myself without you
without you I am not me.,,, !
Drained by the healing solution
this vertigo subsides while
the end rises like a new year’s
resolution –
singular goal damned to failure
as there was something faulty
in the process: the lack of habit,
commitment, integration.
It disintegrated before my eyes,
the flash a phenomenon
that taps the brain’s store of
autobiographical memories
as hypoxia and blood loss
offer new traumas
to be lived down
or up in poems.
Lies or fictions
depends on one’s point of view –
character assassin (you leach!) or
authority on nothing
save the goodbye.
You become dramatic.
Drama doesn’t become you.
One last gasp:
I am, indeed, sorry.
Can you forgive?
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