August Poem 38: Woman Cutting Truth

The holes in the wall for electrical

Outlets, the light switches. Always wrong. You.

White walls cut and cut again. The you. The

Adjustment of white walls. Raised and installed.

Pulled down. Cut again of a pan of hard

Work. Timed. Protected. You sweat in the house.

Beat. All the sudden. For no reason. The

Celery, and peppers. Tonight. They’re just

White dust dying in your hands. Her cut. Truth.

A suitable piece of scrap that you cut

To fit the spot where the wall crumbles.

It gets on the floor. It gets on your clothes.

In your hair. In your eyes. It gets on.

Because even in your eyes it gets on.

August Poem 29: Speaking Meditation

Worker who has to make up the public

Violence. Words are not sticks or stones. They are

That glass’s condensation as working.

President Trump. If he were eloquent.

Wouldn’t be bad if the poetry gets

Cold. Speaking meditations. On things owned.

Directed out of the static essence.

Pine trees. Pickled pig’s lips. Anything sold.

Solid. Delusioned. Private. Growing like

Weeds. Walmart garlic flavored racial strife.

Once gave the mid-morning the second day

People that speak those vile and evil words

Fried emotional nature. Destroyed.

This as a work for you to recreate.

August Poem 27: Never Over the Line

To be triggered at your lectures. Doctor

Peterson just say our words. To threaten

All reporters. Can we get some muscle

Over here? To break windows and burn trash.

They’d run the bases, if not they would shift

Their heads as they left early. And the game,

That rambling word salad they might have.

Supremacists. Asses with adaptions.

And I really hate to think that in all

Places all over the world they are there.

With lefties just a bunch of anti-speech

Storm troopers, aren’t they stronger and far-

ther righter than the Nazis that they punch.

August Poem 17: Togethering

Dear Sir or Ma’am, I’m writing in response

And to experience togethering

The Assistant position. I’m int’rested

Oval with coins out of mourners. The grubs

Have lived in several different parts of

Blooded murder. Between one-thirteen and

The country. And I have special love

For them. The think and Means. The wall a black

To your add for the Administrative

Experimental experience. One

For the charm of Mississippi life. It

Of black hospitals and hallways posted

Enthusiasm for Mississippi

In him. Consistent of only the first.

August Poem 15: Is as a God of Love

Up to my face like not knowing the grain.

Warn of God’s love and lifetimes of risking

Unwanted caressing of my new love.

I don’t mind experiments of living

Love in a rush to make it into Heaven.

But Hillary is not all love and peace.

She is cunt Jemima. Is living God.

Is this problem surmised. Is as a God

Of love. Love of a beautiful woman.

Love to spot a beautiful woman. Love

On her means. On her fire door. On her

Attempting knowledge. On her beer people

You wanna know. On her Saturday vote.

On her ceiling of black shame. On her meat.

August Poem 14: Town Punch

Zinfandel servants write of the black. The

Black. Because of minimum luxury

Insulation. Opportunity. Black

Reader knows how to spot the adaption

They turn like television gangsters

The Colonization view of open bails.

Neshoba Central softball team captured

Candidates who have a ballot Tuesday.

Convinced voters cast absentee ballots.

Time willing recount these madly in love

And the adaptations cause directed

Our love, ourselves. We love town punch. We are

Blue Bic, your black butler with years of

Audience while all unknowable.

 

August Poem 6: Dim as of the White

Just well with the truth and enlightenment

They the third with you my logical words.

Spray Goons. Being played mixing guide coffee

Through white. One toga walked down the stone

White characters, and the former must be

Light. The they were dressed sane in same theme.

Of fossil. Dissolved tissue. A white steam.

One adjusted the kite slightly back and

Right. White characters think about keeping

Cold reward Cleveland steamer earth laid up

White. Want the grisly black and white and looped

Streets beyond boundaries of simpleminded

Others, dim as of the white in front of

Lights abutting a busy street pocket.

August Poem 5: They Honor His Tax Return

I do not tell tale of us. That they, the

Cry of clay bricks baked in the sun, reclaimed

Move. This I shifted. And so judges would

Three miles down, under the lightning split

Of Road three hundred and forty and eight.

The screen time of The Plantation, the bar,

And the name of the bar in Big Beaumont

Is designed to be one of my keeping

Grains of the shoulders. Debra usually

The wraith elm. Tattered rags flapping the breeze.

But since the learning, the part of chairs, she

Could move what breathed brown my light. The first strong

Lower part of her intimidating

Need. The black entrance masks of Purell Gods.

August Poem 3: The Boundaries of Life

The army of eclectic floodlights on

While Melanie waits to receive the show

Breathing unworthy of the rewards. Of

Clear-cut rainforest. Of The agenda.

Of rules of living words in revision.

Let’s face it to the room full of people.

Conversation. Its lower typical.

Holding discussion to fight criminals.

Eggs on clay. The frost line. To look good, they

Rue the day. Time to transcribe the story

The senses are heightened in shortsighted

Swing. Sight is the only religion. Shoot

The deep. The audience with a lunar gong.

The boundaries of life are blurred. Licensed. Spent.

August Poem 2: Crumbling Brackets of Black

Looking strange, he legged to the bathroom stall.

Corona.com caters to his mind.

Characters’ minds: Crumbling brackets of black.

Lost. Your other last time. The sense of smell.

The sewer rooms cannot exist. You were,

Vestiges on the gold age of highway

The life of watered ice and liquored drink.

Walked stiff from the balcony. All corners

To try the manuscript book. The mounting.

The driver drives the registers and lives.

The glover gives the register of loves

Ambiguity lay. The transfer of

Industries. Of the poem. Of my old balls.

Out of the one side and out the other.