Signs from the Seine

 

#TRUMPsays

Bring

dark underground areas where people can barely breathe and perform back-breaking work in hot smoke filled stench pipe laden trip-wired environments due to explode at any moment

back.

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Come dance with me

A tree, young in age but not in wisdom stands
outside a place
where books and      heads rest at night

where hidden beds

                       arise from shifting shelves

To rest writer’s weary sacks of bones
after pens dance late             

               into the night

long thin shadows moving
            tick
            tock

back and forth
until

        their ink is

bone bone dry

and their dance partner

collapses

into a bed surrounded by
Ginsberg, Burroughs & Kerouac

all watching from above

                                             Outside

the tree grows tall

leaves playfully
tickle four women dressed in elegant robes
nearby

         the leaves do not bother these women

who hold
a source of sustenance needed for all who pass by

the women stand tall, carrying the huge weight upon their shoulders

without this golden sustenance all of humanity dies

their faces, stoic with duty, eyes closed, capture the eternity of beauty

needed to carry

this great gift that

all the writers warm in their beds

will drink when they awake

the tree softly whispers

 songs it has memorized

from the wind

   while the Seine flows

                                                                                                by in the distance.

 

Le Bleu

You saw the self amongst bleu
stern questioning playfulness
manifested wound tight
Sprung into
Other ornately colored
vessels of the collective unconscious
Chiseled bones upholding the skin of your cheeks
thin as the parchment upon which you stroke
the cloth you weave
The sky is always around you

Bleu et bleu

walking in the sky, not above it
love will only be found when you are ready
To set sail
A sad look connects your smile to an ocean of love
wavering ocean of salt
ocean of bleu
your glance, your glance
your lean is felt by the contours of wood patterned surface,
forever shifting in time,

only existing in perception

Always bleu et bleu.

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The Man at d’Orsay

No amount of destruction will ever be enough
ever be enough
for the man’s ego

time knows this

The massive rippled muscled
body knows this

the shoulders of a which a small mind sits
saturated
in unobtainable pleasures knows this

He barrels on, not certain why he steps forward.

He not only clobbered people with his blood covered club, his giant feet stepped on innocent beings below him and snapped their necks, crunch, heads pop off, snap.

His power deludes him so that he cannot see the fire burning behind him to know that he caused it.

You cannot run to escape this.
Yet, in his eyes, look closer,
look closer even still,

A sadness comes

from inside,

he will never

find.

 

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