Summer

This is not the time of consequences,
This is the time of freedom, of,

A carcinogenic elixir floating through the air;
of heat, of cigarettes, of fried food and beer
swirling together, spun with the odor of sweat
catching you in mid thought,
this is what is right, what is good.
The liver can wait for winter

Philosophy echoes in the bottom of a Barbeque,
fueled by the last drop of chardonnay
as light dwindles, oh so late
and a chill casts a shadow across you
Reminding you
This is too good to last.

Insight

Since I was a young man,
I hated cleaning the bathroom
For, without, fail.
There is aways the moment
crouched over, bristles in hand
you ask yourself:
Is this where I imagined life would take me?

There is a world of difference
between Queen Mary and Queen Victoria
Prince George and Lord Stanley

Moments

fresh-cut, sizzle crisp
crunch, dip and dash
that is life

creamy sweet, silk smooth
tang, tingle, velvet touch
this is love

boom clack, stomp holler
oh yeah, thump and clank
this is suffering

sparkle fizz, gulp
fresh, clean, reborn chill
this is forgetting.

Found Poetry

A bit of a departure for this post. I thought I would share some "found poetry" for you. As you may know, "found poetry" involves the re-contextualizing, presenting or arranging of existing words or texts to reveal poetic expression.

This I discovered on a recent early-morning run. It struck me right away and I couldn't get it out of my mind. Here's how I break it down:

There is someone (presumably male) out there who feels such a level of alienation, such anti-social or anti-establishment frustration that he feels compelled to express it in a form of direct and stark action: crude graffiti. This is, after all, not an artistic piece

Yet, this person does not seem to have the words or the political analysis to understand their angst or where to direct their rage. Their mind has been blunted by, what gramscians would call the "hegemony" of post-industrial consumer capitalism, which has banished most meaningful forms of opposition to the very margins

So what does our author come up with? "Penis"....Penis? A child-like transgression of social taboo. "penis" is something you laugh at hysterically when you are 6 years old, while your mother looks at you sternly. It is not even a curse word, it describes a piece of male anatomy. The author could not even muster a "motherfucker" or "asshole". This person is so helpless they conform even while they are seemingly doing the most rebellious of acts. Of course the theme of sexuality is the only one the author could imagine would truly shock society...but really..Penis? Someone get this guy Das Kapital quick!

Thus this piece really represents a desperate grasping, a cry in the darkness against a world that is not fully understood yet outrages this individual spirit...It is poetry in a single word

Or at least, that's how I saw it. In the end art is, in part, independent of the artist and it is up to the world to derive its meaning.

Four Weeks

Four weeks,
Sli
....p
......s
Slow
........ly
A
.w
..a
...y.....

Maya

Where are you?
I am here.
Where were you?
I was always here.
Did you not come to me?
No, it was you who finally arrived.