Movie clip from “Shall We Dance? ” mixed with “From A Shell” by Lisa Germano
Tag Archives: Prague
fruit tree blossoms
ragweed and vetch
penstemon, cinquefoil, sourwood
elm, alfalfa, wildrose
berries, chicory, cucurbits
Somewhere inside it is the song of coming Christ
coated with pupae. Constant smoke, a lot of smoke.
Mayan crusty woman would say: Turn to the world, turn der wild, cross as der life, into wild.
To equine vision, who lie by sexless one year old. My heart.
Your two dark barns, who lie to meat and milk, and hide,
who riders ride their horses deep, who stand, by time, awake, who like evolution.
Pregnant mares, who dig where of a time release, that are world hoofs, evolution.
Bee disease and paradise, look at the tree.
The bees first take themselves back to their house to roost on their perch.
House connected into abode. Drove breed. Do not sleep, rest or break.
Assume of man, dear bees, who left at horses, who left is trumpets now,
where are bakery, to might unravel, are who are close to, with me, to Golgotha, a mountain.
Equus…Ass or donkey, Equus asinus; the Mountain Zebra, Equus zebra; Plains Zebra, Equus burchelli; Grévy’s Zebra, Equus grevyi; the Kiang, Equus kiang; and the Kulan, Equus hemionus, including its subspecies, the Onager, Equus hemionus onager.
Move along line near the woods, you will have them busy again, humming like robbers.
Where are they, they’ll soon be sipping honey. They bathe alert and the faithful to me.
A brick and cocking walls, holds his knee well, says the winter knows how long
trouble can be carried out.
KING, when the regiment of light dragoons,
I may the only right I have, the right one, but also the ear lift, and shortest.
By it, a man is footmade significantly a horseman for a soldier.
Do you know how great I stand to live about in my life attention because of you? Winter bees, I do not see, dry men to onto, any mention of theirs lives at night, or rifles in the stores.
Nine in time for morning work.
It can be no more the city in the middle of the park, food dumped, broken bottles, door kicked off its hinges home. door kicked in the doorway home.
Less of that, to none. The fresh.
I live in a world with no clear sight towards a beginning.
But a time for drive time, for school, go there, and not the ‘do it, do it, follow it’,
how you think after some writing.
It right would have led me,
into a zone tho, right? And I would not be here now.
So to what I know a child knows, and has it bent. Tell me then, how you think it right.
Do you know the light that I would out of, for word, for word in a field, in a town for three days.
Three days, and a woman in cancer before a fire with her daughter.
Royal Jelly still began, with news, and a lighter, and sticks,
raiming I man through rhythm without heath, near plants pots, through roses, rosebud, rosebud. Cherry tree, cherry, nearly near Cher, above and peachicks at end, near end, not whereby there are bees, what do you mean. I don’t know where is the lion in this mess. With bees around a blue cloud and a roll. Through bees to bird, to high of a central story.
Because my thoughts is dog, or as a beetles swarm,
with settle, who have the rest in a quarter of my body.
In my mind I would like that rivers, always mind, would right the time,
not that terrible things that happened in my father’s life,
or what I read what happened to Jesus.
It not be lost, that nuts would lost in secret in a rot belt.
A man in a swarm of flies, would write that mics.
How with depth touch, with stinger tips,
which mow with men towards open tongues.
Hard tho, but takes to women all that’s hearts I could,
who takes to women, who’ll step.
I want the broking of the sky, I want down to broken too.
Wet ground don’t intake too much grims to score past Borston (plus posts and comments and reservations)
Wet ground don’t
intake too much
grims to score
past Borston just
clear and advantage
But I have an opposition to calling it poetry.
“So don’t call it poetry. In fact, never tell anyone they are reading poetry.”
It’s like poetry in a way but it’s really just writing
where I want to write short and powerful and beautiful sentences that come together to mean something.
“OK. OK. You’re doing it.”
I don’t have much of an attention span and I
can feel others don’t too.
Sun not retrieving
any light. Sun just
marking on trees but
a love for deep, towards,
without moving skin,
towards plus with
dreaming in the mind,
and fear for not,
like a dog
Poetry is following
fond for your own