travel poem (1 Viewer)

F

Free Jones

I deleted myself
wasn't sure if it fit in travel stories so I put it here...

My Mad Garden America
...banging my forehead with
poetry books
my black flag
blinding my eye
piercing my flat veil my minds
own fascist, persecuting my self
with options that don't exist

I exude magic of no
magic;
creative of no country
I hold to myself in bars
books of truth and also obscene
ejaculate
I touch the bellies of the saints
caressing my own dirty
navel.
my dog is dying
my brain is dying
my seed is also dying
so maybe is yours.
The fatherless children
have all died
have copy edited memos for
yesterdays snacks and meeting

What walls hold I now?
Disabled or boundless?
How has mundane matter
convinced these cells of Divinity?

In copses on the dark edge of
the real do I wish for dogs to
come eat me of my alone
or do silver ghost
sing me lullabies?
How many cans of beans have I ate?
cold sores have I caught
in my
Spirit?
Have I flailed and flown or
been buried since the birth of this country?
And does this sidewalk hold the answer?

What I have wrote I no longer digest;
spit out the poison of these questions
birth joy on a hill with a friend
overlooking a train yard
like kids
friendship with a superhero
my past
a ramp
to nothing
that I am now.
 
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