the hand, that flys…goes where?


The maiden firmly grasped the handle of the fly away umbrella forgetting that she had ever been afraid of heights…in this way she flew into the blizzard…to the somewhere else that there was to go…

Let the peasants be in charge of parade bunting…paupers the rain, and the char woman the ingredients for how to clean up the mess…left by our drunk for power but ultimately still at core, lazy fathers

I can imagine this poem with or without me in it. I am both here, by that I mean here in the poem, and over there with you in your room staring at your screen, wondering what I might write next…about what either of us might do.

Knock on a mediums table until uncle billy or aunt marge knocks back; “the treasure, the one I buried” – Yes, I am listening, but that connection like it always does in a dreamĀ before you reach the something you wanted…fades.

(A 10 Minute Poem)

(Image Came From Here: Natura Picta)


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