Blink

Do you know how long it took
To laugh so loud
Barely noticing the dripping
It hurts to think of times
When it was negative
Though slightly aware
Paintings across shelves
Rearranging rooms to fit in order
Think back to fruits
The way they bloom yet
Don’t recognize the purpose
We are all blooming
No revelation can inspire
Passionate love
Breeds within us
We are creating at a rapid rate
We can’t even stop
That’s how intense it is
Speak as whole
They will know what you mean
When you say that all of us are involved
Whether we want to be or not
Preaching every step that takes us
Closer
Closer
The door will never be shut
Keep open for the appearance
Of the Beginning

Bars hate bars
Simple ideas are born
In generations
To prove that there is love

In the smallest bar
The fool
The recaps
Throw into the bourbon
Of already ideas

Let’s sit down now
Think about just how much plucking one musician does
Wither it’s in their brain or not looking at the keys
They feel compelled in this and in that
To make due of what was really used
I don’t make out
Of walls too together to really count the ways
I love
Through pages
Comes up a lot lately
Inspiration whistling like
Backs of thumbs stuck to plaster
Crispy yet divine
Filled glass of breathe
Fogging and overflowing
Talking about two different subjects
Same timing yet fantastic
In its regrets
Too look back
Isn’t so sad
Said to those that hate when the door creeks

Is there no comfort in what the magic brings?
That said when there was bad typing you can ignore the fact and
You proclaim it?
But if the song was ever written about you
Then it is the worst of things yet to come
Roses spring from the moon
And it is only when it is almost slightly full that there is a feeling of sense and aggravation
That only a typewriter to a poet could bring
When you look around and the people that once were connecting
Are not connecting
It is then that you feel the keys are matching to its favor
Don’t fret love for it has never been so soon
If the feeling is there you will feel it even though
It feels like a soft small shrink of a thing
Too deep for the wells
Though to serious maybe
There are serious people
Made to make love
Sonnets too fragile
For breast nor leg to stride upon
So maybe it was all about that maybe
This was made to be just what exist
In the blanket there are familiar smells
There are remnants too make note
That importance will always lie where it is true
No sorry anymore

9 months from November is February
What does that mean?
There are so many people
You leave behind
Gravitational portions of the Moon
Will you steal?
The portions of forces
Pull away from Magnificent
Ideas
Are you him?
That bring the most interesting
Glasses to
Smack down
On tables

Makes no sense
When nothing really has direction
Sent like a shadow to the back

You are made to sink
You are made to breed
You may be able to catch up

 The other ones
They drink all the water from pails
And leave the ice cubes to fester

To create other cities
To push other carts
It’s all a relative thing

Like an Aunt who shuts the shutters
Like an Uncle who sweeps the leaves
Dodging sleep on the freeway

Who are we anymore?
Is there no sort of make unless there is business?
Is there no sort of rest unless we are free? 

And to those that don’t hear the horns
It means they found the bridge
To the gate To the hill To the playground

Now the step is taken
The perfume smells of our mother’s necks
And everybody knows

Something unknown hides in the mist
There are people walking about
There are clothes to be worn
Loose ends to patch

All aside there is a chair
There are quakes and quivers
So delicately strung so
Precisely importantly true

Ending in patterns
Most usually go home
Feverish chains around necks
Weigh down the barrel of the bottle

Strike!
Do not let the even handed intimidate the greats
It was never meant to be articulate
Rubbish always beats the debate

There is writing
At home
On couches
In rooms

Songs are sung in farmers markets
And the girl in blue
Lost her dime
And scuffed her shoes

Where was the wind walking?
Did it come with an attached article?
Was it convinced to stay till spring?
They think not and sip the tea

Poor problems create short stanzas
Of pocked marked faces
Grunting endlessly
Till noon

The first flower came
In the womb
They picked it out and
Tasted the fruit