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believe or not
writing this words
****** like a
werewolf on the moon
even can't breath
the air you exhale
full of filth and ****
better for who
******* on the sun
i see a blackhole
calling me, no remorse
i need to drink
 Jan 2016 Wandering soul
Pixievic
Give life your hand
You'll be surprised where it takes you
Enjoy where you land
Push on and breakthrough
Trust in your soul
It's guidance will thrill you
Follow the wormhole
To experiences new
The universe waits
For those who will take it
Go find a playmate
And cradle their spirit
Kiss under the stars
And smile in the rain
Create your own memoirs
Own all your pain
Grab life with both hands
Embrace all it gives you
Obey it's commands
And twist with the corkscrew
Give life your hand
And love where it takes you
Enter the dreamland
And to yourself be true

(C) Pixievic 2016
~~~


every word I write is a tribute


now listen here,
let's clarify the inescapable,
what this tribute thing means,
cause what I'm doing here,
ain't exactly clear

everything we write,
is only a watery-encapsulated
reflection of our lives,
which of necessity,
will always be messy

what the heck does
this guy mean.
when enlisting
this shady word,
tribute?

at 3:10 in the AM,
tribute is dressed in its
more defy-nition sinister,
a bad news speaking cultural minister,
who never fails us
by reminding,
tribute originated
as the nasty kind:

"any exacted or enforced payment or contribution"

every **** word
that I've written
is a **** tribute,
an exacted, enforced, wrung from,
payment
of a pound of flesh,
Shylock's variety pack kind

I'm not bitter,
a touch angry, perhaps,
even brave, ok, unafraid,
to admit, overall,
got it pretty ok

but that I still struggle
to get that satisfaction,
in everything minute and daily,
the tiny and the tremendous,
the cost production load only goes
unicycle upward sloping,
this crisis crazy we call being
alive,
and to you,
who keys and ken
my meaning well


herein is my good kind side
my paying
tribute
to you, your courage,
even me, periodically,
for awakening and walking
into the unknown outside,
and giving it up
in our travelogue of
shared poetry

5:48am
Jan. 21, 2016
NYC (aboard the stationary bike,
paying tribute for forty years of sinning)
for Joel, for Lesli
 Jan 2016 Wandering soul
Crystal
I’ve got my dad’s heavy silence.

My moms daggered heart.

I’m a bit unattainable, but you

can find me in my art.
I dreamt of you again last night, I've felt
more of your kisses in my dreams than
in real life.
Does that make them any less real?
I've been dreaming him almost every night since I moved back
is not supposed to mean anything

it floats like a bubble

and then it pops

and there is

wonder

and then its

over
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