3 in (complete) poems
1/6/2025 Thus the emperors closed the passes at this time of year - the royal WE did not visit the provinces
A Spectacular Prison Con/Jur/d, 1/5/2025 Not about your thoughts about this or that, he says no matter how interesting they may be -- took awhile to get into our viscera, guts, fascia BLOOD, distracted we look at prepackaged BRICKS this news story, this gossip our need to talk, to feel connection -- hijacked, kidnapped, imp - prisoned, by curated spectacle the one opportunity, we have for HEART to beat, MUSCLES to contract and relax, for NERVES to fire, for WORDS to communicate a universe of satisfaction and desire co-opted by penitentiary architects - distracted enough, we build our own JAILS a WORLD founded on guilt by association STOP REMEMBER YOU are the jailed YOU are the jailer YOU ARE THE PRISON (and the ESCAPE ARTIST HEY, loves, do you want to escape together(?
PERMISSION
Con/Jur/d, 1/6/2025
We gave several old friends a book
on WAKING UP, for the Solstice holy
days, knowing, we would be
*embarrassed*
and it came to pass, although there
was no attendant regret; we realized
this was a tract on PERMISSION, as
we get older, as the character armor
hardens, we tend to forget who owns
us, you are more of an unexpected
snow fall and the subsequent
*complaint*
of crows, their murder’s frolic ruined
than of this glassine culture, as we age
the Chinese believe, we grow deeper
and deeper into all of this, and it’s vital
we remember, this morning's arising
was far more of Earth
*deeper*
than the day before, DEEPER than
YOU believe is possible, YOU are
solely the owner of this experience
nothing SPECIAL, a label created
at the shallow end of your life, long
gone now, so why seek PERMISSION?
from dust and colorless
*memories*
LIKE SEASONS
Con/Jur/d, 1/6/2025
This, a momentary poetry
and we move on quickly, yes
we're charmed by a framed fjord
a carefully placed pine, a fallen
leaf floating upon EMERALD
ice-cold well water as it takes
our breath away, an ache in
teeth and head, gone, rapidly
refreshed, as we raise our
dripping head seeing summer
insects, a fog of pollen
in golden twilight air,
or maybe, it was, a RED wheelbarrow
traced by rain, centered amid
an irritated clucking, although
in your experience, mayhap
a COLD argument shattered
by warm embracement, twined
mutual desire, or when avian
logics, tweets and trills
shoot up and down
your spine,
like seasons
like mushrooms, these
words arrive and dissipate
an appearance of impermanence
a fashion, a fancy, while above
and below, on the horizon
the deathless MYSTERY remains.
Much Love,
Con/Jur/d, 1/6/2025
“The prison and the escape artist”—nice.