Fragile Sea
This sea.
The love we give and take, Is the most fragile act of life. These fragile words, Stanzas, Looks abandoned. I’m still in the scene, A moment of that thought pops in my mind. For each and every place has a flory*. A moment of ensuance*, Love, It rides on a horse of fury, Hell hath the glory. Fine - mine - time - line - Frame - man - me - can, I can, As she brings her hand up to hide her tears.
I can’t stop what this is not - She says dropping head down.
I can’t give what is not - He said looking at her sternly. Do you understand - He requited. I didnt ask for this, Fragility. - She said. Some probability - She thought. I dont know what else to write on this cemetery, Speak be spoken, I write. “I didnt ask for this broken mirror, Glass shards all over my dining room table" - She said. Through the reflex’s of time, we voyage. Through the fragile sea, Upon which we see all the unseen. I write.
/////***
Flory: noun - fake glory.
Ensuance: noun - emotional insurance, a bed of emotional comfort. // ET
He's near, but oh - so far
He’s near but oh so far,
I see him clearly
Fading into night’s single star,
Alar, Alas, Asunder, creating roots of thunder.
Night to day,
Day to night.
Let it all be made known,
Brought to sight,
Heaven kept secrets by his side, With all his might, reaching past love at first sight.
What further floof of fluff can one so bequeath my way?
Transpealing the eclipse, Moments of crisp - fade form to clay
Forget the ya, and dismay.
Broken hearted,
Dry dimpled,
Watered eyes,
Forgotten scriptures of fate.
There was always a poem of droite, Moire, fight.
To this resilient kiss of death you requite.
I fake mine own respite. // ET
OBSOLETE - Nick Gentry
His portraits use a combination of obsolete media formats, making a comment on waste culture, life cycles and identity. Using old disks as a canvas, these artefacts are combined to create photo-fits and identities that may draw connections to the personal information that is then forever locked down underneath the paint.
Rolling Stone Contributing Editor Matt Taibbi calling out LIES from General Media
"That’s another element of this modern media thing—it doesn’t matter whether you’re right or wrong, what matters is whether you can get away with what you’re saying for a long enough period of time. And if you have to issue a correction it doesn’t matter, the damage is already done. I think a lot of really smart people realize they can manipulate public opinion in this way and they just forge ahead saying what they say, confidently and loudly, and then worry about the consequences later."
Read the rest at Vice Magazine: GOLDMAN SACHS OF SHIT - Viceland Today
Poeme de Dream de Creek by Erin Tengquist
Last night I had a dream.
I was going up the creek.
There were lots of stones and rocks
Not a gentle swell along the way.
It must have just rained.
It was beautiful,
A slight gaussian blur,
Pale black and white tones,
Spike Lee must have filmed it,
It was like a print that I made back in photo school,
Brought back feelings from back in the day.
I kept going,
I kept trekking, up and over small and big rocks,
Some were sharp, most were coarse.
I gathered some bruisin’ underestimating the currents’ force.
Barefoot, I climbed up a boulder, and saw my shoe disappear between rocks.
I winced. I did not want to dig into the mud.
Yet, “I must continue onward”, I had to make a try.
There was no other time.
I closed my eyes, forcing my hand into the earth.
I could of cried from the slime, all the muck, and the sticks, the sand, the current rushing against my hand,
As I tried, it was deeper than I thought.
The incodelescent of weary made me want to stop,
As I had gone further up the creek than I wanted to,
I thought that I had my shoe,
Pulling it out of the muck,
Yet, where was the other?
It was getting dark,
I looked around,
I was running my luck,
I went back down the creek for just a few.
And there, on an embankment,
Lay both of my shoes.
And I had to chuckle to myself a bit,
For others might not have tried.
It might have been the wrong one, but it was worth the fight.
As the sun had just set,
And the creek was rising,
I decided to float back along the way.
Holding my head above water,
Feeling the water’s sway.
Firefighter's Prayer By David Cochrane 9/11 Tribute
Our training took place on stairs
In a brick-built tower leading nowhere
With glassless windows issuing false smoke
The concrete crumbling to fine dust
With the incessant passage of rubber booted feet
Sweltering equipment to the scene of some imagined fire.
Hours over years spent on such stairs
The action of climbing them so grained into my mind
That the flutter of fear seems superficial by comparison.
And this Tuesday morning
In my heavy gear and helmet
Stairs lined by the subdued and stunned
Elegant in morning pressed clothes and fresh deodorant
Eyes eloquent in their despair for me
They shuffle down as I lumber sweating up
Each stair the rhythm of my mantra
Ah Jesus,
Ah Jesus,
Ah Jesus,
Ah
©2001, David Cochrane
In remembrance of 9/11
“”The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty, and we must rise with the occasion. As our case is new, so we must think anew and act anew We must disenthrall ourselves and then we shall save our country.”
- Abraham Lincoln to Congress December 1862
”
Wells Blog
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