Poem-A-Day: Day 573

Cycle 1

The whole idea, the whole project
conceived accidentally;
marring vision of disaster
breathing subtle fuck the worlds and excuses
into the cellular core of greatness
with growing steam,
steam built on a grain of salt
wedged between the oops and don’t worries. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 572

Cycle 2

The whole idea, the whole project
was discovered on the brink of madness,
destruction historically recorded
in green skies of falling trees,
broken glass memories,
and one simple brilliance
that shares the same disastrous omen:
nature knew better than to let it slip idly by. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 571

Cycle 3

The whole idea, the whole project
grew, as things will do given chance;
chance marking spots of indiscretion,
of marring jolts dripping electric bolts
smashing wave after wave
of portents, poor chance,
and the sweet aroma of resilience
given circumstantial evidence to convict. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 570

Cycle 4

The whole idea, the whole project
was a concept in the making,
surpassing tense to see the world
as it seems from one minute location
shooting blaze and rage in all direction;
stopping to scoop the earth
among the desperate faces yellowed
with damnation petals and withered hearts. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 569

Cycle 5

The whole idea, the whole project
was never fully understood,
or truly realized,
given electric dreams of electric sheep
and some computation adding;
replicating through the past
straight past the future gone back again
before returning to a point left vacant. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 568

Cycle 6

The whole project, the whole concept
was never meant to be anything
but a sore scraping through the meadow
drenched in one dollar crapulence;
muttering repetitive shits
left to sink to the clouds
and racing forever higher to inevitable splash:
the distinctive beauty of a soaring bird. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 567

Cycle 7

The whole project, the whole concept
fashioned historics from hysterics
and spit down from the ground
somehow leaving the sun sizzling
and dreaming of black days passed;
black rays balking at basking divers
able to take the plunge,
not wallow deep down in shallows. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 566

Cycle 8

The whole project, the whole concept
was beginning to move in ways not understood,
not easily understood by time;
no essence of thought or deliberation,
reflections bouncing signals off screams
and the jealous panic of what will,
but not the what hasn’t, not has it,
what was hasn’t always been so forgiving. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 565

Cycle 9

The whole project, the whole concept
was for giving the purpose away
under the false claims of artistry;
no future can be had chasing waterfalls
or anachronistically dancing anarchic
to every passing fashion, fad, and dance,
but the tango skipped, hopped, and tripped;
landed face down in copper wires. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 564

Cycle 10

The whole project, the whole concept
laughed out loud, rolled on the floor laughing
and clapped thunder blasts from fist;
pounded table after table understanding,
physics is everywhere they said,
physical never tears down the walls
or scams that fine dining shine of prime
gone whistling through the shallows. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 563

Cycle 11

The whole concept, the whole aim
wrapped tightly in wire basket woven dream
leaving nothing left to imagine
except numbers and lines;
codes drifting in and out of reality
and virtual tenses past and present
gone horribly awry, aware of blisters
grown faster on brains drum destructed. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 562

Cycle 12

The whole concept, the whole aim
marched in single files
one after the other over under white;
screams and rhythmic patterns tapped,
danced into the night and up a stair,
some case in point that rendered files useless;
the useless grasp of grasping at straws
left reflections rejected, splashed on bliss blown
     dread.

Poem-A-Day: Day 561

Cycle 13

The whole concept, the whole aim
plastered rafter scams dripping coiled chips,
and flipped cups up the down gullet cram;
the wistful tornado nights green with envy,
every night gone dreaming
at simple dribbles down spinal chords;
the same note struck each time:
be sharp the sayers often said. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 560

Cycle 14

The whole concept, the whole aim
drained rivers clean fish skipping drips,
just effervescent gushes pushing wired memory,
pushing thoughts astray,
a stray vision brought from nothing
to be gained but something dancing black
gone red, the read was nothing scoffed
and so the notion doffed a sallow cap back. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 559

Cycle 15

The whole concept, the whole aim
shifted course, of course the coarse road
scraped and scrapped the sacred and scared,
typed oohs and ahs that rapture blasted
clean through and under roof;
raised the bar and shot cards all far and away
better than anything ever tied by binding;
and the aim left biding time away. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 558

Cycle 16

The whole aim, the whole movement
was a symphony of growing numbers lost;
the numbers cast aside; drunkards’ pleas,
they thank the simple nickel and dimed dropped
at foot into the cup gone from notions
and bumpy blustered wind storming;
a voracious, often vicious viscous vigor
limping dimpled into back seat love and heat. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 557

Cycle 17

The whole aim, the whole movement
started growing wild;
controlled uncontrollable tornado dreams
lashing back over black and green,
balking, it would seem, into the face of dodging
     steam;
the grain of salt and mystery that popped
and left remains: charred tinder whispers
and one gone blistered dimple sentence. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 556

Cycle 18

The whole aim, the whole movement
became a game unending tragedy;
the catastrophic melancholic whining
of a dream cast back to past shadows
left dancing and tripping over stairs
leading down from ground remorse;
back to a Morse code tapped into brain:
dots and dashing clapped thunder blasts. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 555

Cycle 19

The whole aim, the whole movement
lost in a sea, heightened sight to see
no steam on the horizon,
no amber waves or majesty;
the tree lined fog left crippled legs
black and gangrenous amorous vapor daze;
hazy memories of crap lined backwoods traps
and a jester clapping past from passed shallows. 

Poem-A-Day: Day 554

Cycle 20

The whole aim, the whole movement
was a symphonic spree come to coda;
an epic faith no more relying on the relay;
drenched dancing misfits monster smashed,
and two by three the demon laughed
into the crashing night, waving simple stride
from wiry arms and sinew blended brain;
the only thing left, laughed laughable.