m o n 222

m o n 1 4 6 it really is a mood it really is an exercise, a visualization masterpiece a correspondence between visions, between limits between finite obstacles and infinite possibility it’s an abstract conceptualization that inspires it’s indefinable an incorrectly capitalized with fewer enemies than allies unwavering patriotism to a nation without boundaries without dictators with floating feathers and winged theatres symphony yes symphonic melodies yes melodies inspire they inspire m o n 1 5 1 m o n 1 5 2 I am not afraid of the ticking of the timing of the tables on my clock of the automatic spell check which seeks to make me perfect corrects my errors my errs the program tells me when I get it “wrong” I got it wrong again m o n 1 5 3 m o n 1 5 4 this is a true story no allegorical allegory I like to hear the words dance in my head this is narcissistic entertainment this is what I do when no one’s watching I dance in my mind behind pulled curtains of confusion they hide the magic they keep the magic from the prying dying eyes of non-believers clapping silent for the latter for the latter for the latter M o n 1 5 6 M o n 1 5 7 new arrangements are always at first uncomfortable even programs with their interfacing technology can’t manage the concept of evolution they don’t grow in each passing moment as does this poem as does my heart, and mind and the roses, and the lilies all the lilies as they reach for something different, some place higher and closer to the sun they have ambition, and honesty, and not a penny, not a farthing, brass, or otherwise bark they don’t have a bark to pay or say about it they drink with abandon and they grow without remorse pulling their brothers and sisters from beneath the dark mothers grasp her loving loving grasp to either fight and live beside them or perish in the glory of their birth. m o n 2 0 1 m o n 2 0 2 bruised articulation of my purpose battered lightly out of spite wounded deeper out of contempt it aches its sore and hurt and if it ducts and tears to say so then it would my bruises and my beatings self inflicted never visible to any eye to any eye trained or laymen just to my loved one my dearest loved one who has to take them who has to see them in my heart m o n 2 0 4 m o n 2 0 5 again with moods im hardly sullen rather pensive and repeatedly wordy I’d expect I often project - astrally and otherwise to cottages and castles of my design and my disguise dancing fairy magic can play tricks on children’s eyes but not on your eyes right, hello, and how’d you do there Mr. Wise? I’ll be sure to narrow mine in due comprise To yours, your humble fry. (wink with mine says I) m o n 2 0 8 the sky was grey it was gray it was blue m o n 2 0 9 this one is entitled my fairy god mother, in french ma mère féerique d'un dieu, en français it is my favorite poem the best I’ve ever written but you can’t see it because I don’t like humans, in french Je n'aime pas des humains, en français m o n 2 1 7 *Just a note. Once my poems are completed, which happens when they are entered on my blog, they are done. Forever. I do not attempt to enter back into a space that I am no longer in to change something that already exists. It is not how I write. I believe that art and poetry should never be contrived, and therefore, I allow my pieces to exist in their entirety, usually unchanged from their original conception. Furiously spun from an aching, anxious hand; intuitively driven and demanding to be born.