DishonestBetween what lines must I read to find the meaning that you seed?
And what abstractions must I know to accept the words you sew?
How pitiful, that blank white page,
Sitting by an open cage,
And asking all without.
But in your words I do engage,
As far 's I can without dismay;
Must I fear a lingering pout?
Between what oceans have you run that you can tell me all is done?
And where have you bestowed a kiss without the ink and without miss?
For I do not see any words
Around, about, these other lords;
These sentences and rivers.
And I define in other words,
Not obscene, like all of yours;
The lines that shake and quiver.
Between what notions have you to hide an animal unseen from eye?
And who is hiding there among the sweeping cursive you have wrung?
For one should never stoop so low
As to smite the words we know,
Like children and their slang.
I have no marks, no lines to sew
That cannot be seen unless in row,
For I have already sang.
Un Rebord VertThe sun has a shadow and it is catching up with me.
Granted, I am not travelling fast.
Though in comparison to the rest of those in the shade, I am quick.
Still, I have miles to sleep before I run. I only stop to laugh, which is often, at bodies in the water
And children run over by colours.
The trees have a brilliance and it is arguing with me.
Truly, I have right of way.
Besides, I do have many more hues than they and I am not lazy.
Still, the trees think they are best, for they have quarterly cycles that awe the masses and whoa
The greatest poets of this world.
Life gives me language and it is serving well to me.
Writing, I can poetry prove.
Trees are simple, left behind. Flowers? Dusty, and I am clean.
So I will not fall over roots and bugs and life so green, or the winter's solstice-teeth, because I
Know more than Summer does.
Avenge FieldIn the air; in the hair of the bare fine grass
Of the moor, which proved more to me now than thou has,
I am free.
It is dank it is loving; it is cultured in cunning for it has taken my likes to its half-covered garden.
I've shared them, bewared them, all thought and all sew
So any needle that has seen will know all that I know;
I am free.
The vines and the valley of moist apparitions have beckoned my living to its growing fortune.
For a price; very nice, I can vice my way
Through the truth of the terror that is noon. And all day
I am free.
I am sheltered in hiding, not slowly declining. I am ripe and passionate; a growing fortune.
I have the butter for better, and the letter for worse
That I intend to send along with the hearse and your curse,
(You aren't free!)
Of being not there in my pregnant affairs, and never wanting my eyes or my garden.
I am run, this is fun, into time in the mystics.
And I'm sure you're aware that your blindness has missed this;
So I lay my tea out
Silent Talk-showGhetto trains transport armies to the north end of the city.
Dressed in their Thursday-best, everyone is the same.
They carry no guns. They have themselves
No arrows and no compasses.
Plat forming; halting wheels arrive as others
Scream to leave.
Plat forming unsteadiness another minority group,
This being a rivalry between warriors
Who have left
Their fighting skills elsewhere.
A pause of three hours to sit drinking
Seven-dollar coffee and close unordinary errands.
A stand still for some, chaos for one, daily for all
Others; traveling around on foot and wheels
And tracks as if they are communicating
Through these unspoken methods.
What universally is understood is
Also what is forgotten; covered up with
Good memories and low prices.
The armies, after a day of looking
Into the lines of others' fire (those others feeling intruded,
Though they themselves are the ghettos,
And they themselves intrude) shuffle back to station.
Whichever train and whichever big difference,
Animals are slow t