If we could make it clear to the walk,
make it corner and curb on it's own, make it a nicely formed combat to miss nothing, weeds and all to eliminate greed, greedy edges spoken well of, spoken like a true walk, green though it wants to be, to meander through. Posts, borders at will softly make all the other ways look, look impenetrably, impassably, without all guards down, without a handshake to seal anything, but it actually, really was all the right protocol, protecting us all from virus, wicked in our eyes, right by all others. Then we'll never go that way, the drive, the car stays, drives, all by itself it tells, it wants to make do, expressly, impressions, tired though they mock, as though reconciled to all, to the very next day, how we embrace, seen clearly, seen last of all, we are known as if ever we will see an unforgiven soul. © 2016 Larry Ingram
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What do we do with this darkness,
wanting to forgive but angry at the unspoken, the tourniquet of unspent favors, unfavored by God in this moment - striking stones, snakes coil at that thought of the meanness of the moment when we will strike. But I didn't do it then. I missed out on the opportunity of a life of gall, spreading out among all of the rest of the star-gazers who will likely look past us all; it will take another trial before we can see clear, wipe the glass, the wind that shields us from our feelings. It's all I can do to start here and now. A classic approach to others that will now be molded into the past, into future dates, schedules locked onto whatever we can be last at baking in sun scalded items of our minds, we mind this talk here. It's only so we can reconcile accounts. © 2016 Larry Ingram We'll look at this next,
the trapist conjuring a battle, full of flavor and black paint to cover other foibles, freshly minted to contrast with a car, careening beside what ails truthfulness, truly a depressing anger, unexpressed. If we, I can decide what, will it matter not the trip to the back of the moon, sunlit, but canvassing a deranged look - of trials, of skipping across craters, moons battle across things unsaid, memories lost, hugs not felt - an apology wasted on sleep, sleepless we wait for anger to fill a glass. What will it take to allow momentum to subside on this mountain of feelings, this trial that we will dare to transgress, together, at last. But darkness, anger takes its spot on the planet adjacent to this curriculum, unsaid, unspoken at last, when we will never see I'm sorry or revel in a rocks and crags. © 2016 Larry Ingram If you'll just step aside the rest of us will vote, and soon the splay of candidates take their places, heated chairs, seats by far show we can take this race, this ballot announced by letter, by force or else we'll know you by name, and we'll take it from here. No electioneering, no staring down possible opponents off a bus ride or even car full of those casting their nets across the vast plain or daring them to be known - know that the platform often extends to where we've never been - but naturally we don't know what we'll do this that. As though we didn't have an answer, the crickets tell us to be still so they can take over about ten or 15 seconds of air time that was paid for by many of the best in consulting fees, ready to banish ads important to salt and fat intake - dinners respendant with effort, as though the speech were written by the poet laureate himself. © 2016 Larry Ingram She will donn the black,
bending at the narrow breach of froth, trying to make peace with all the night and into more of the moon, shaded by drenching streetlights, beyond the grasp of the level, full of beer for all, for just the one, staring at chalk, percentage of the many looking back at Sonia. Next down the block, the wooden bar talks to her, shoulders a smile drawn before the stillness of a simple shirt, worn for a customary look into the embrace of dreams, of fog blending into this one chance to remember - weird how it dances before her breath - all together Sonia knows, remembers the story, resting with her in a shadow. What she knows, menus and flavors of the dance floor, Bohemia, Backstreet, boys she knew, boys she knows, in synch with German descent, far from the bar on the corner, street lights shine as the curb appeal knows no bounds, but nicely stays wet for gardens, brews finished for a full moon, unguarded, undressed, she follows as night covers her, dreams until dawn. © 2016 Larry Ingram So long the post titled there,
so remember not the last I wrote, spied the title, spied the target - I crowed a bit before the night, I silenced the fevered pitch of dawn, another rain drop inches toward the next tumble of drafts. It's not so long before summer ends, ends the sweat of tears, ends the yawn of bugs, bugging the terror, the long beating of heat again not caring if you stay or depart, the cicadas dare you to leave the ivy porch. So long the daring dear, dare to make another poet stare in the night, lastly the moon beams, then looks blankly at craters - sure you'll remember this night - taking turns stopping here, there for the rain will end, the rain will end. © 2016 Larry Ingram |
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