The Process

What is the process of giving poem breath? I don't know. It's never the same twice. Today it's the scrambled kind though, and it looks like this:

 That's how blurry my brain looks. Here's what it looks like clean:

Valleys of death walkers,

sweet talkers

influencing mind and body,

unbeknownst to spirit, 

carry my gentle lyric on soiled sweaters

open-armed and empty.

Them, conflict resolvers,

bone-rattling derelicts.

We, demised elixir.

Revolution with a side of evolving

for apple pie encrusted robbers

semi-automatic-sweetly sneering

matter-of-fact belligerent bigotry.

Deliver your trespasses carefully.

Mothers hug your children,

barricades when thin will bleed.

Drill Sergeants,

drill your targets deep, pay no attention.

Pay no attention when the crosshairs

drill sergeants. 

Drill. Your target's deep.

When the crosshairs set on the very sun

the lone crow overhead will announce good news in the morn

and retrospect will gleam on the hilltops 

for the survivors to see.

Thought this rant might pair well with a little diddy I dug up in the car the other day, so I made this video. I'm trying to evolve though wordship, and this is the process.

1/7/13