Lord, let me one day be a content provider. The artists, musicians, writers, poets, journalists, professors (to a lesser extent): they create stuff, people buy and enjoy it, or look at the stuff, then look at advertisements. Lord, let me one day be a content provider.
Poem for You
I have spent hours in your circadian rhythms
Blissing deep and large, w/ perceptions of
Lights in distance, far-off pangs of possibility,
Forgetting the here, witnessing burning bushes
And mother's milk wasted.
I wrote this for you, in between sufferings of transitoriness,
Rough-hewn humanity in movement, plans for the future
Merely signifying inalterable mortality,
While hearts pump and legs step,
A thousand looks and a thousand words for each,
Some in pain, some not.
Look at that man's hand. Born Africa, 1939.
I can tell that that older couple was happy once,
Now encumbered by the accumulation of self-directed deceits,
Sad places I lived in for so long. But no more.
She hates and loves you now. She is reimagining fear,
Damning herself for loving too much, saying "Never again"
Four times per minute, and in sleep, too. You've
Fucked it up major this time, dead man's pass
'Til happiness again, you ingrate bastard.
All the Pretty Girls
seem to wallow in my space,
a tiny sway of hair, everything so easy,
no conniving in their hearts,
they go to grocery stores and shopping malls,
but not really: ethereal souls, wisps in
mild and patient wisdom, heel-toe, heel-toe,
chin up, eyes forward, confident enough,
futurity in check, vacuumed carpet days,
hair brushes, ideas for lips, imperceptive men.
her i must have...i love all them pretty girls.
her i must have...baby, i can tell that you
feel things deeper, just like me. her i must have.
i love all them pretty girls.
(I'm still working on the end of this poem, which doesn't work as of yet.)