By Hart Heiden
Poetry-poetry. Poetry zoom! Who crossed the wire? Throw the tree through the room. Fly in flock, few late carriage that copied the broom. Pitter-patter branches. My word carries tune. I amalgamate liquid paint canisters, and sinister date bannisters. I promise that you will wonder who, what, why, where it all went? I held a dollar broken, kicking backflips I’ve spent. Laced days laid hemispheres. I once held a towel tracing the backbone of an older brother who knew only our lovely mother could actively play atmospheres. No lover could ever take that moment away from me. In time? When you have specified the confrontation of the rhyme? When you have clarified confusion and the sequential shape turns to mine? My consequence is my confidence is my powerful form of persuasion. That knights lost minute dice past push pull the invasion. The click in my wrist demands a vacation. I altered the colors of my incomplete frustrations. I will never forget you because…that’s just the way I remember how things always once was. If you expected more than that, then I should have made myself more clear: I’m after goals. I’m storming fear. I’m here to combat territorial snares and hangups that have ridiculed me from the start. I wasn’t aware. I only open my heart. I prosper the definition of what infamy fosters and loose laid-back? shelved and gold-mockers. Even when bean counters can roll out their coffers. This life is loose-leaf, tight-fitted, hidden-page jeans, and quilts of guilt codified linguistically through hyphened-discreet means. Interrupting the vortex. Salad shakers, shade of black, will activate the aftermath of curated cortex. Come back to the days when servants served their masters. Dead horses reveal they’ve been stuck to come back dark in green pastures. Where promises brush through the leaves of disasters, and somebody owns your whole wall ineffectively made up of trashed plasters. Profound reckoning sacrificed architects are all off-shore. Hypocrites connecting with ocean liners respecting the indifferences of the ambiguous whore. Don’t speak it too loud—cause who hears it more? Defining the walk-alone status makes for rambunctious I’m sure. What it takes for a man in life to stand prostrates. In spite of fates. In rash of rates, cell-mates, and sick of the snakes and the fakes. Not asking for what I deserve is it true? Which one stands tallest? Which one are you?
-Poewem