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 Jul 31 Mike Adam
Stardust
I hibernate like a bear, but not from winter, from the world.
This morning we jogged early
I was back in my flat by six-thirty
From my tenth floor view of the Charles River basin,
The morning was incandescently flushed by the peach-colored sun.
The transparent clouds seemed stylistically stained, artfully workshopped, which offered a softened, Tiffany glass effect wholly worthy of worship.

I can’t stop to admire it. I’m jamming things into suitcases.
Cramming things into boxes, giving things away.

I had a second interview Monday afternoon, for Johns Hopkins med school. They put the question to me:
“The semester starts in 18 days - can you do that?”
“Yes,” I replied, and just like that, I'm a Blue Jay.
Of course, I had to withdraw from the masters program but Harvard gave me a full (95K) refund - I think they’re more excited about my med school admission than I am.

I’m not afraid of discordant notes.
They change the landscape.
Take us to new emotional places.
Any major work is going to have them.
.
.
A song for this:
Hang on Little Tomato by Pink Martini
It's Amazing by Jem
when the first line is the title,
when the content is unknown
morning in darkness as if the
sun can’t rise again.

the bulb popped and now we
have a lower light. we have an
understanding, we asked for
explaination. it came via another
route.

i live by the A470.
Glide, loop, float
gulls on a
crisp breeze.

Trudging with
groceries, an
elderly man.

Dim blue glow,
a clock—what
this long in-

complete life
sees in the
wondering dark.

Death, so close
to the mail-
box at noon.

Glide, loop, float
gulls on a
crisp breeze.
I'm drawn to sleep as I age
                Fearless
                 Dreams
 Jul 30 Mike Adam
Mr E
Feckless and without warmth
We have grown to pretend to care
As a new species of man grows
From the septic pools of lies and deceit

Outwardly, we have grown not grotesque
But perfect.
Flawless and divine
Yet no light shines through our eyes anymore
Nothing more than hollow perfect creatures

We have perfected the art of deception
The art of pseudo compassion
Like the light of an angler
We draw in those
We only wish to consume

Surely, we have evolved
From bandits, highwaymen, and thieves
We have become licensed bandits
Licensed highwaymen
And licensed thieves

"All for the greater good"
We whisper to ourselves
Every night before we sleep
Hoping our dreams stop the pain
Hoping our dreams pause the fragility
Of our brittle compassion

We boast as love.
though deep he sleeps sometimes,
combining this exhaustive restorative
of old age, that alternates with a restlessness
rest of old age ~ the brain's nightly self-cleansing,
both necessities absolute

so he be unsurprised, by a parallel process,
occurring beside him, as woman rumbles, mumbles,
all the while reenacting the things we dare not acknowledge
in the waking  hours, much too painful, much to fearfully real unreal,
but, best unrealized

she bolts upright, looks around, attempting to cross back,
looking, investigating, ascertaining time and place, localizing
her orientation, while assessing external+imagined dreamt threats,
till satisfied sufficient that whatever dreamt, realized or dreamisized,
before, going prone once-more

the watch man observes, the critical threat level, doesn't
approach the red line, not requiring hands-on interventions,
and relieved, that she has expunged and expelled the mind's many
molecules of memories, true or false, real or revisionary, making clean
white tissued neuron+cell for the morrow

and thus he reminds himself, that he be watch man, observing, uninterfering, is too, is also, a definitive infinite
only love poetry
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