I can't find words for poems like these anymore for there's nothing I can give you that's not infected with the politics of malice; Not deeper analytics, just sheer ballistics of incompetence, numbers from a world gone awry

for #ds106

if the moon were balloon ...

we'd be more wary of astroids and space debris, of satellites and rocket ships and tying knots so tight they'd never leak

we'd never let go of the string, perhaps, and only sing of moments lost to imagination

the mind, as space station

for #ds106

Is it late in summer already she asks as we wander the path of the botanical garden and wonder what it was like in spring when all was in bloom in full color now that all is beyond the moment of exposure and I replied yes

for #ds106

Words, or Art, or What?

Such canvas collects gestures, of fingers fusing text to image, and image to text

We read this in ways we can't imagine, turning heads for eyeing swoops, dots and staggered lines

as undetermined possibilities that not even the artist knows for sure whether

Words, or Art, or What

— for #ds106 about Asemic Writing https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asemic_writing

Begin at the edges and fold your way in, finding center (along dotted line) before folding the long way out (along creased line) so that wings and beaks and message collide at corners' ending

for #ds106

Chewing on words

a poem's rough edges cuts the tongue, barbed irony abounds, jagged with reminders to go slow or pay the price

the script informs how one must speak the words dense, disturbed, distant, a mixed emotional concoction of removal

this prose tastes abandoned, a story from one age eaten more than morsel, if one cuts the edges off to find the center often hidden

Swallowing these lines

for #ds106 Daily Create

I am shadow in screen-light; the quiet of morning still sleeping, pausing to get each word right, the table beneath keeping us balanced- the computer, the coffee, the poem, and I

for #ds106

All postmodern birds are nothing more than

wings of words feathers of letters talons of tales beaks of books

written and read, but rarely seen

for #ds106

So it sits, all winter: The engine, cold; its ignition switch, dangling by a wire; a small fire, barely remembered from November; when nights, cold, meant grass didn’t grow; Yet still, it waited in silence, ready to break the world with noise

#ds106

It’s nearly impossible to know the movement of Earth, while standing in the center, pondering its invisible pull; Perhaps we see it most clearly in pencil marks of poets, gliding words in motion, on paper - a waterfall tumbling into nothingness

#ds106