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 Apr 2016 Argentum
mike dm
i feel alive, again, sunrise ---
this is all too strange, noon high ---
i don't want it, early eve ----

i wonder what
it would feel like
to be

alive,

moonfall.
 Apr 2016 Argentum
GaryFairy
he held up a dead coyote
like he had just won first prize
smiling from ear to ear
a look of pride in his eyes

the caption said "predator control"
which brought a question to my mind
if we call survival being a predator
then what do we call our kind?
posted this a year ago, but it hardly got any attention...posting again to remind myself of why i write
 Apr 2016 Argentum
mike dm
i jus now saw
some dude
literally move
the apt. dumpster
so to paint
the wall white
behind it;

a wall, which,
will be completely ******* covered
by the dumpster,
after putting it back
against the newly painted white wall.

plus im pretty sure they're calling for rain..

that happened.

i actually witnessed that happen:
and, then, proceeded to
turn around
-awkwardly-
to go back inside my apt.,
with two full trashbags in hand.

... do you even realize what that means??

somebody actually gave him
that task: "go paint behind the dumpster."
aren't there other things to do?
or is this guy's boss that much of a ******
that he'd tell his employee,
"heyyy soo.... the wall.. behind the dumpster --
you know that wall? yaa
it needs to be painted.."

i mean, it'd be one thing
if, like,
the wall were
visible. and gross looking.
and people were calling
and complaining
about it,
like it was some eyesore
that offended their
otherwise
aesthetic enjoyment
and anticipation
of approaching
the scuffed forest green
apt. dumpster.

but it's not;
so it's not;
and so
they aren't.

or i'd get it if people routinely socialized
hanging around dumpsters,
like a water-coolor
or something;

buuut they don't;
so it's not
like a water-cooler..

... yaaa, unless i'm missing something here,
as far as i know,
there have been no
emerging cultural trends
whereby large groups of people
are routinely finding some
sorta symbolic resonance with
the object of a
dumpster;

it's gravitas
doesn't exactly
prompt frequent and
spontaneous dialogue
around it.

it isn't a known cultural artifact,
representing something meaningful and
bigger than ourselves, creating cohesion
and establishing an intangible commonality:

behold, our goodly trash-bearer!
great eater of things prolly totally not needed!
humble builder of plastic trash continents,
swirling vortex in the middle of the high seas!


nobody says that.

ever.

and nobody
is overstaying their visit
at a giant,
smelly
metal maw
which disposes things,
either unneeded or unwanted,
long enough
to suddenly notice that
the wall behind it
could maybe use a new paint job.

it's not exactly a cafe.
it's a ******* dumpster.

that man,
charged with the task of
painting the wall whiter
behind the dumpster,
ought to be
painting
on a canvass

which we all could see,
visible to the greater public.
and we would celebrate it, with him.
we could all gather
together, and toast
to his mind manifest, his art,
on display for all to see.

i wanna see THAT.
**** the white wall
behind the
******* dumpster.
that **** can wait.

what visions would surface?
how would he render it?

what would
he make?

i dunno

maybe
he'd paint
a surrealist depiction
of a man
charged with the task
of painting white
a wall behind a dumpster
as rain clouds
rolled in overhead,
spelling out

"i am Employer.
destroyer of worlds,
and vibes.
feel my ****** wrath."
 Apr 2016 Argentum
mike dm
pink lady
apple
nom nom
 Apr 2016 Argentum
chris
r
 Apr 2016 Argentum
chris
r
every living creature dies alone
 Apr 2016 Argentum
mike dm
morning!
 Apr 2016 Argentum
mike dm
blue sky
white cloud  
birds mixing sound made
 Apr 2016 Argentum
mike dm
if
you
are
reading
this,

then,

you
aren't
alone.

your
being
-right now-
by virtue of
reading this

is
with
mine;

and mine,
with yours.

and even when
you go

away,
you

are still here,
existing in
my
little
poem,

smeared
light

remnants

rubbing up
against mine.

and even when i go away
after sending this off,
i too will still be here

like you.

all of our weird
written words
penned at a distance are

always connected
by some

strange
residual angle
and spin
emitted,
leftover
from our

small but
eternal

interactions;

alignments of the light which do not discriminate,
nor create hierarchies of strict titanic binaries
that demand and interrogate..

your
big
red
hearts
make my
little grey
lightning bolts

light up:

bright yellow strikes fluoresce

over and
over

and

o v  e    r,

again and again.

your
tiny torch
forever
charging  

me,

even as i
cool off

and

darken,

is much appreciated,
dear poets

of
mine.
i am taking a break from this for a while, or maybe for good, i dunno... to all of those whom i have had the opportunity to interact with, thank you.

forever yours, and yours, and yours, et al

m
 Apr 2016 Argentum
wordvango
just a leaf left
on the pillow next to me
now, a whisper of smoke
vapor tracing your path

out the door
going back to the
limb I stole you from,
the place you must return

I rake my bed for more,
try to make
a place
for you to fall

again, next time.
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