Blog Title Photo

Blog Title Photo

Saturday, June 8, 2013

The Wind of Fortune

At riptide in a town that was tawdry and dark
I met an old fish with a guitar made of bark.

Ego loves the fox, sunlight tries the dark . . .
Should we lie down in a forest? Or go to town in a park?

Whether any Euro members mesh,
Germany will take a pound of flesh.
Printed funds from a paper sock,
To buy Grecian homes on a bare white rock.

Medicine or poison, overdone, or done just right .
True I’ve drunk so much, I've almost lost my sight.

Caffeine flows, I pee it away, Poisons created unfortunately stay.
A fair trade from coffee black, Kali’s drink, welcomes me back.

A lofty spire makes a crow come inquire,
And perch to look out below.
The heights of empire shall not equal a flyer,
Such as the most humble crow.

Who from the Crypt does first appear?
The Raven or her Master.
One drinks and feeds, the subject bleeds,
Death comes on so much faster.

I write what I can, and ink what I may,
and think that I'm fluent, in the news of the day.

Five hundred degrees, too hot to open,
Unless you're a potter, crackin' or dopin'.

A poem's a sandwich or an equation solved,
flowing from language, no reason's involved.

If poetry was wed, to symbolic mathematics,
You'd see verbal solutions to metaphysical antics.

Some says fate is history solved,
All that's done, and can't be shelved.

A romantic wander, through the streets of Queens,
Poetic plunder found some Keats of dreams.

When she grants a few more years,
I'll live and rant without frontiers.

Then she tendered blood for paint,
From poetry, a heart that's faint.

She's a mystery, tied up in code,
So much history, forever stowed.

Above the streets, above our tears,
Over all beings, loom all fears.
Horned beasts that trample lives,
The moveable feast of art will die.

Presume as true that those you miss,
will bloom anew with a makeup kiss.

Wherever you've parked, wherever you've backed it,
Your cars in the dark will one day be compacted.

I awoke to the stink of avarice,
that took us to the brink of precipice.

Ordinary life's full of mad dashes.
At the end of our strife we’re burned into ashes.

Shall I fly to the Yucatan, to play on sand while nude?
Though it's changed to black from tan, by all that BP crude.

To a scattered mind, a pile of rice.
Is a soul contained, but reminded twice.

All year I potted, now I glaze,
Got to fire, just one or two days. :)

Fired mud in temoku, A bowl for me, a bowl for you.

Playing Dylan, glaze re-fillin'.

There is one who lives in me . . . both when I dream and when I see . . .

The Wind of Fortune often blows,
Through wings of Ravens and humble Crows.

A stein of Beer, or a glass of Wine?
Germany or France, either's fine.

The wolf of need versus the wolf of love.
Which one to feed and which one to shove.

Grace looking west at the setting sun,
Is placed to show best her prettiest bum.

After a rich meal with fabulous wine,
Regale me with bitchy tales, as I get into Thine!

This firing's an experiment, who knows how it will turn.
That with some accidents, a fire sale after burn.

What hurts me most about vampires feeding,
Are fees for shirts I post to dry cleaning.

One of the problems with feeding on blood,
Are the troubles of sleeping in a coffin of mud.

The clay on this Earth in the not distant future,
Portrays man with some mirth as a planetary moocher.

Search This Blog