Poem: What Next!
I was there in the first hour on the first morning.
The air clear and about all, and never breathed before,
never seen and cool and soothing about my face.
And I looked up
And the sun and the moon fell in love as I watched.
She sat, as a blushing pearl against Cerulean blue.
And I turned, and my father's light shone into my eyes.
I walked along and watched it all wake, from a long and cold dark sleep.
Further on I saw eleven great birds in flight...
and wondered about their defiance of the ground and the air.
How had they separated themselves from all the rest?
That air first breathed deep returned warm from my lungs,
and caused a mist to drift about my mouth...
It seems that after a period of five months of wearing masks, they are having a detrimental effect on users, on our voices and the shape and size of our mouths and lips.
Our mouths are shrinking and this is mainly in the region of our lips. In a new study funded by three International organizations dealing with the ears, nose, throat and mouth. Our mouths do not like to be covered and should not be covered continually. Open and uncovered faces are needed for a more normal mouth and lip sizes, along with robust mouths, lips and healthier lungs.
Disorders that were extremely rare before COVID-1984 are now jumping to the forefront of medical disorder and disease. Shrinking Lip Syndrome (SLS) has gone up some 15,000% in a matter of five months in the world. Oral Cavity Collapse (OCC) has skyrocketed. Everything from tooth loss and tooth color dulling. Tongue atrophy and fasciculation is epidemic in some places and has risen some 1400% worldwide.
Rushed in wet wool, mad mud underfoot...
Left the house at three, it was dark and I was heart-dipped in honey
Courage and other belongings stuffed in an old pillowcase,
my mother's swollen eyes and her smothered kisses
It is the sickness that is the worse for me, moving always moving
I drown in this smell, of vomit and the urine.
I am so afraid...I have never been this afraid
I tremble and am banged about the broken world outside of me
It is always the same
The convent burned down last night. It's end had already started with collapse, in forgotten areas of the building... and waterlogged ceiling, and weakening sections of the roof. Caved to slowed fall. Wallpaper peeled as like old skin -- walls were surrendering to age and the mold. The ghostly revenants that occupied it for the many decades were forced to ascend and reach for heaven's gate. I stepped on careful legs, bearing witness of its dying. Parts gave up, like vital organs surrendering to exhaustion...
A thousand years inside a stone, at the bottom of a frozen...lake.
Glacier slow the earth reactors warmed it,
the sun dried up the lake.
New green showed it's tender leaves.
And crowding in around, and thought it theirs.
Years flicker in time, like bubbles in clear glass.
Images from one brief life, onto the next.
I've lived a life of just one day and lived also a hundred years...
Eight-carbon molecules in rivers of waste, and the sun in a sack cloth hauls itself up again into the sky. And looks down in disgust at what was…a good idea.
These mayfly lives, passing through and piling up, one upon the other as sediments on the basement of this world. Built up in that wake of seconds upon seconds. Relent.
Red cushion for a place to sit, amidst rancor. Nihilism for a heart, and reluctance. And crazed mystics still keep pushing shopping carts up hills of abuse...
I was painting ten paintings the other day. In the music studio and lost an idea among a pile of dead poems sitting on a shelf,
it was a good idea!
It was something about the sound a bird makes after a terrible storm;
for the world is stilled and made over completely in that single solitary second.
This is not the only world…by far...
by Michael Burns
The versions of old stories took on a life of their own. The sheer amount of time involved, expressed itself as well. It began to no longer be a campfire tale, an interesting thing one speaks about on a long voyage. It seemed it became the most logical answer to that age-old problem -- well, wonder that is...many people tried to exploit it, they push mystery into what otherwise was a simple thing. Claimed they had inside information. Claimed all kinds of things. Swore to high heavens they knew someone who, knew someone...told lies, to impress their friends or lovers. And some were, genuinely delusional, or crooked, or just plain old lonely, and looking for attention, swore they knew the real truth of it. It was in fad, and then out of fashion. Some even threatened, to eradicate that curiosity for good. Others, went to war over it -
There's a hospital for poets...
End of the road for a broken dreamer, and an artist with tarnish on his soul.
There's no line up there, you just walk right in and get into a bed.
Dead dreamers are wheeled by on gurneys on their way to reincarnations.
The place is filled with unspoken words, and half filled remnants of...those angry hearts
Ghosts walk the halls of the unpublished, asking you for a word...ah, "Please will you listen."
The great Dylan Thomas died here and the place reeks now of a writing shed. Corso walks by holding an antiquated toaster and speaks to him in tongues about the substance of a symbol
"I was born here and I will die here." He exclaims in the accent of an Italian Hamlet, on passing...