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Monthly Archives: January 2011
190
Do we measure our rounds in seasons, signsor sounds? Does the poet sound out sonnetsin yams or iambs, in sines or cosines,in loans or in tender maids in bonnets?:It’s all still the same; you are who you were, until you let the songs sing from the … Continue reading
189
What am I doing? What am I saying?How is this helping the world get arounditself? The darkest chocolate is cloying!Erratics surround the surrounding sound:Quite a mellow man, quite a mellow could, the obstinance is undressing the space,and my hope… Continue reading
188
The word is dangerous when it touchesthe spirit of a time that lags behindahead, across and over the rushes,the reeds that cleanse the smirched feverish mind:Escape is the instant, the potential of smoke clearing the air, bombing the skytearing aw… Continue reading
187
My feet were throbbing from the energyof the night and day collapsed into fulltime, spherical and tenacious; dirgywails crested through me like waves when they shoal:No shallow urges, just profound urgings before linear time falls down the plug;Th… Continue reading
186
It was a weird dream, in that there was merg-ing with past selves in the dark of the light, while present bereavements cold as IcebergSlim’s professed persona’s gangly nearsight:This is not a trite moralization,but rather a tale of intoxicantexpec… Continue reading
185
I had a dream last night of old teachers,senile but supported for sacrificemade in youth, when the uncertain creaturesof mental cosmography did entice:My world is quintile, and the torrid zone of fragrance and emotion lies betweentwo tropics of pi… Continue reading
184
After ripping away the bandagesfrom his heart and mouth, the young truth-seekerscreamed and drowned in a flood that ravages oppressed minds and makes noble thoughts meeker:But as the water pulsed out from his woundssomething quirky happened: the r… Continue reading
183
Composure and peace feel like butter rubbed(after melted) on every cell I have,every impulse that could quiver when loved,in sheer delight, each tremor is a laugh:There is sweetness in the unprocessed thought that lies on the edge of the fragrant … Continue reading
urbansonnets 