I take a few hours to write a series of letters, emails, and messages thanking every trite trajectory and voyeuristic vector, every impactful path that came into close contact, or completely crossed and collided with my own polyamorous path.
Every passing, parallel, and intercepting percussion has inspired my life.
(And plus, paths are not primarily paved by individual persons… it takes all types. Many sections and divisions in the venn diagram pie.)
All this introspective inspection is going on in my mind.
That we are blessed and burdened with decision and with various vibes.
And that this stupid and terrible thanksgiving tradition can have a good side. It should be less black holiday of any kind; more contrition and less pride.
And now I’m writing about what I sort-of did.
I quit it quick because it felt exploitive.
Because it’s something for you, in the mirror.
Because it’s all I can do, to be clear.
“You know what they say...” he hears.
So much clichéd poop. Surrounded. Fear.
And why have these thoughts introduced themselves?
hey must merely be deuces, improperly shelved.
My soapbox of cards could fall apart before I even start my art.
That would suck.
The sound of a hard “A” is becoming grating and angry, so tart.
If I'm not cautious I could depart, end my part in this muck
Without my noxious scatterbrain smarts, heart, and self entrusted;
If I focus too much on me and how I’m perceived, everything’ll be a fart.
Wish me luck.
t’s not something I’d want displayed on a chart or data.
You lose as soon as you care about your reputation, the hagiographic arc via media.
Let me take a quick break to condescend
Don’t complain, don’t rush.
It’s not about you, or me, or us.
Art is extemporaneous.
And not, most guiltily, flat out strenuous.
Because any dunce can craft a verse.
With google, chrome, and a u-verse.
I’m doing it now, this is proof, get immersed.
It's easy, heartbreakingly
To be mediocre or worse.
One last interjection;
A story about the reverse.
And how it’s a section,
Of a line,
Based on the pursuit
Of one mind,
And how it happens all the time;
Discovery is a tool,
Use it right.
In a space next to nothing we found the secret to circles.
No sides, no jerkles.
There is significantly less rhythm circumferencing this number than many other’s. It's not cool, it's odd and overlong, and it's a bummer, but its usefulness is rhetorical. It's a stunner.
The numbers between primes and multiples are still important,
Even if they’re dumber.
How exemplary am I?
What level of pretension would you attribute to me?
You see, I ended both of the previous sentences --
The two inquiries into magniloquence --
With different articles.
But they are both grammatically correct.
Am I exceptional for knowing and noting this fact?
Am I doing it to be helpful, ironic, or detract?
Eloquence and existentialism.
Way, way far. Distant and pulled lightly by gravity.
Me, myself, and the other guy who keeps referring to himself in the first person.
He wishes we would stop, lean back, or let everything go. Fester. Allow them.
Go ahead, because I’m a product of my environment, blameless and somehow, I still think I am.
The ego has been blabbing this whole time and he ends with, “Do it. Worsen.”
I implemented a thesaurus to discover that word,
And it’s a flawless jumble of letters to use.
I don’t identify with semblance and find repetition rude.
Look these ideas up. Reference books.
No ideas are new.
This shall conclude soon; I'm killing the mood.
These words're all I have, dude.
My high is neigh.
No, no. Not I!
It cannot possibly be time to say all kinds of byes.
I haven’t much tried to unwind these binds,
Last, let shine this perhaps idea of mine:
The mind is mined of all its light by money and power and charisma and fright.
The light is up,
Up in the air.
It’s sublime to climb where wind does chime in constant rhyme upon the stairs.
But don’t build there, it must be shared.
It's cheesy, to be fair,
But it's genuine, which if rare.
The sun gives life,
Life is a prayer.
Get paid and laid, enjoy the space while you rest. Behave. Fill up, and when you’re ready, leave. Don’t be offended by real talk, feel talk; Honest Abe, address the nation.
True lies from a podium on a stage.
A pure example of decent humanity.
America's baby from the manger, exemplified but stranger.
He told the truth humanely, with righteousness and bravery.
I don’t mean to degrade, or caricaturize, and I’m not here to dissuade, but saving slaves was not his game. It merely worked in everyone’s favor,
And we should savor that flavor that the universe has saved for us.
History is a winding maze.
Who cares who gets praise.
Or gets hella paid.
If humanity gets reappraised at the end of days and receives in majority the universe's unconditional grace,
Then a Cruel Summer is the least to pay.
GOOD music, Bananarama, Ace of Base.
We’re all human, with hearts and spades, clubs and blades.
We stand on decks built with all kinds of mistakes, with paper-thin walls and countless, corroded rot-iron gates.
Leftovers from yesterday.
Realized that there is always choice, there is no fate.
Create, debate, good grades and trades. It all turns into infinity -- the surface of this great ball of grey that gave us weight. We churn with our footprints the earth in a figure eight.
This is the place where good and evil face,
Charge, war doesn’t change.
Be careful, not scared.
Be light, well prepared.
Too much armor, you'll rust.
A flare of star dust, inherent,