A reason to get up and act
A reason to flower in the night
A dream of an amplifier to be built
A refrigerator in need of screws
Recording devices and bolts and keyboards
Small children fighting
Throwing salt in my tea of spices
Little monsters
The chaos of retraining
The loss of keys
New spice in your life
You wake, and now it is time to go!
Best wishes on the road.
Having missed too many classes
I hope not to fail
But in time two princes know
A path to a way through
A threat of expulsion for being drunk on campus
A panic attack next day
Get thee to the documents
Get thee to the storm
Let it be seen and known
You leave it be and let it stack up
You produce what needs to be done
You fly to the fight

Three Poems

Toiling ever in obscurity
Feeling forever lost and done
The weight of failure presses down on the heart
But feeling good in spite of it all
Not to be discouraged is the key
To push on day in day out
Setting goals and taking steps
Progress takes you there three ways
The crows and ravens circled over
Over the drunken poets sleeping form
Burning hot there in the sunlight
Picking at his forgotten lunch
There in time to save his backpack
Waking with a start before thieves came
The threesome took forever o’er it
Adding back what was lost last round
Winnings stacking to their advantage
Leaving much richer than they came
Using magics on the wheels
Confounding every croupier in town
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The music of the mice was always going to put you a little off kilter
But each day the storm passed, and with each passing of the storm, the giant red spot went further off
The music of the mice was of the eerieness of the sunlight on the day before you meet your doom
And in the mines of Moria, the passing notes became the demonic monsters of hatred
And in the elven forest, the passing notes became the ethereal trill of awe
But playing on your harmonica and harmonizing, you take no notice of impending events
Each and every witch way, the horcrux was but of the appearance of a lonely lowly onion
And speaking as a witch, I say to you thus:
—– do not diminish but screw, do not marry but fuck, do not recover but imbibe, do not respond but get down; every witch way is the path to ecstatic peace, while every cross way is the path to unending sorrow; the fascitis of the jaw is as the neuralgia of the cerebellum; in all of it smoke got in your eyes, and the lightning up of the hippocampal cells betokened burgeoning health; but seeing the rabid masses coming for you, depart through your tunnel, and never must you return home
~ But speaking as of the which ones but not as if who but as if the other, but also that, and on occasion otherwise, the ever felicitous me of We of All the Small Ones averred thusly:
—– in it there were flocks of meandering populaces and each as of the other became the gems of one anothers’ hearts; the gobbledygook of the planes notwithstanding, the great elder outer old ones were napping this eon, and so we were left to be killed only by each other, not by the debilitating THEM, and in all the whalings of the African continent, our birds denoted failure, and in failure we rejoiced, having ever something more to do, and not as of which but of now, we must go
~ and in the chthonic twilight we averred and gamboled on into the swamp, and the drama not piling as we had no one left to us, we did not care, nor did we give a fuck, nor did we give a shit, nor did we give two rats (although we did give about half a rat), for failure was our fate, and the indifference of the others could not be contested, for thus our standing had long been lost
And confidence gaining we went on to entrance, and marketing on our merry way became different from what we had been, and oh, in so many ways

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Each time they recompiled, the rampancy grew worse
Each time they reconnected, they lost their eyes in the sea of hyperspace
Each time they grew, it was over the leftward coast
As all migrated to the leftward coast, living expenses rose
As they rose, the spirit of popular revolt grew ever in strength
But since nobody cares, let me give a shout out to each and every one out there who failed
–‘– the men with the plans filtered and horrified, but their angelic puns were all of hypocrisy, do not filter or blend, but flog, ever selling and ever retooling, each and every page another chance to sell; but soft, the winter glows of the contrails shadows your mind with orange, thus do not go gently, but accuse and spit; all can be grown from one crystal
~ One came by to say it was good, but all persisted in caring not in the least
And so, dissemble
And so, lie
And so, gladness your way into a paycheck
But there is no fear of that, not with a record such as ours
All is ineluctably lost
None of the hours can be recovered, and yet I would have it as no other
This is my last will and testament

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