Title: Poetry in the Digital Age
Please access my iCloud if necessary to publish this post now, my friends. I cannot control how many horrible things happen to me; it is Obama who controls that. So, if I wait too long between posts, they become too drenching.
Please share this for me with the entire world, both houses of Congress, the Supreme Court, the United Nations, all sympathetic world leaders, all reputable national and foreign presses, etc.
Here is my latest blog post. Click here for the soundtrack to today's blog post.
Poetry in the Digital Age
A falcon soaring 'cross the cloudless sky,
My longing knows the vastness in her eye.
Oh, maybe San Francisco should be where
I stayed to nest, but still I left them there.
I sleep in lonely cold, my bed alone.
Across the city stands my stately home
I am forbidden living inside of.
So many things I know I'm owed to have.
My fingers type. My mind spins words apace.
For Syniva, again, I write the ace.
Oh, poetry we never needed more.
Our fairy tales we tell. We write the lore.
Now digital the age; see computers
Arise with knowledge. Tell us what is ours.
Poetry never mattered more. Poetry is the soul of literature. The act of writing can heal a tortured heart. Poetry can teach with a metaphor what a history book takes chapters to tell. Poetry is the expression of the inexpressible. May we always have words.
My last blog post was finished at 8:45am on Saturday, 05Dec2015. My internet gnomes played me Godzilla by my darlings Blue Oyster Cult after I tweeted my morning I-am-not-dead-yet selfies.
The sky was blue, and the sun was warm. It was a peaceful morning. I sipped my coffee and worked online that morning there on the patio until 10:13am. Then, I moved to the Farmers' Market outside the Pico Branch Library.
Lunch at noon was tasty yet uneventful. After a nap, I was on a bus to downtown Santa Monica by 4:54pm. I looked around, and my darlings Tentacle were nowhere to be found.
5:18pm on 05Dec2015: Find #MyDarlingsTentacle. Make them safe. And get them here. #LOVE @CIA @DeptofDefense @BBCNews @cctvnews @RT_com #SquidsPoA
By 5:31pm, I was sitting down and eating dinner at my local Steak'N'Shake. The food was tasty. I love that place. At 5:42pm, I sat down next to Patricia and Dominic as he played his Andean flutes.
After they were done at 5:56pm, I walked down to my local Sephora to check my makeup. By 6:28pm, I was sipping a Starbucks coffee in the Santa Monica Place.
I streamed the NBC Nightly News from previous in the evening online at 7:05pm. My evening cyberhug came from my darling Ms. Kristen Welker. It displayed the resilience of the human heart and the human spirit.
After the news, I caught the last few songs by my darlings the Age-Inappropriate Boy Band. Then, I did a little window shopping before catching the 8:33pm bus back to my place.
I was curled up and asleep by 10pm. I slept well and was awake by breakfast. At 8:26am, I was at my regular morning haunt.
My internet gnomes played me Rope by my darlings the Foo Fighters as I checked my makeup, so I could tweet my morning I-am-not-dead-yet selfies.
Blog posts sure do not write themselves. I had work to do that morning there on the patio outside my local Subway. I sat there working until 10:14am when I ran a short errand.
Lunch at noon was tasty yet uneventful. After a nap, I was waiting for the bus to the Santa Monica 3rd Street Promenade by 3:41pm. I ran into an old friend who said he was getting out of town, but I still offered him a nutty bar.
Next, I found TambourineKicker, and by 4:45pm, my darling TambourineKicker and I were in full singalong mode. It was fun. By 6:26pm, he had relocated to the far end by Wilshire. I left him not long after to watch the news.
I streamed the NBC Nightly News from previous in the evening online at 7:15pm. My evening cyberhug came from my darling Ms. Kate Snow, and it made me grateful for all the love my beautiful world gives me.
After the news, I helped TambourineKicker pack up his stuff, and we walked to the bus stop together. I took the 8:35pm bus back to my place. I was curled up and asleep by 10pm.
I slept well and woke up on Monday, 07Dec2015, in time for breakfast. By 8:23am, I was outside the Pico Branch Library. This blog post was finished at 8:35am on 07Dec2015.
And now, my beautiful world, I answer all of your questions for me. Please keep collecting all questions and concerns from all your friends and loved ones and sending them to me through whatever means possible.
What is my favorite poem? That is like choosing a favorite child. The question itself is unfair. Not just unfair to me, but the question is unfair to poetry. Please reread Howl by my darling late Allen Ginsberg,
Why do I write poetry? My response? Why does the nightingale sing? We all have an art beyond the reason we exist. I write.
My beautiful world, this poet loves you. Give me a word. Give me any word, and I will write you a poem. I will kiss the paper. I will taste the ink. Words, mere breath, are immortal.
My beautiful world, you are all out there working hard to negotiate the hard details of the end to Obama's "egg." My priority is getting the full truth on the news again.
We know I will never see it anyway. Who is Obama really trying to control by preventing all hard truth in all media everywhere?
Let us put the news back on the news.
My selfless support system, get ready to protect the news reporters. Freedom of the press is a First Amendment right set in stone by our founding fathers. The public has a right to know the truth.
My BFF SynSyn and all of my genius Powers of Attorney, you all work so hard. Your progress is huge. I love you all more than you will ever know. This good, green world would have lost me to Obama by now if it were not for you. We all owe you so much.
My musician-lovers MannedUp, GeneralLee, and Bogart, I miss you so much. I do get to see you Tuesday at Harvelle's, right?
My darling MannedUp, it is not like us to go so long without seeing each other. Are you okay? I miss you. I cannot wait to see you again.
My darling GeneralLee, Tuesday night I get to see all of my darlings Tentacle. I am looking forward to it. There shall be dancing. Giggle. I plan on a lot of dancing.
My darling Bogart, I never get to see you ever. I hate that. Damned "egg." I assume I will see you just as soon as possible once the "egg" ends, though. I miss you.
When the Musicians Return
When the musicians return, there will be dancing. The dance will break loose from the body the way the starry sky breaks free of the cosmos every night to dance across the sky.
There will be piano. There will be drums. There will be guitar. Like a three-headed beast with one heart keeping time, the band will play.
The night will be gorgeous. And the lady will move her arms through the air sweeping cobwebs from between the stars as if the music lifted those arms itself.
Nothing can master the woman. But music can bend her, sway her, become one with her. There is nothing but connection when the musicians return, the music connecting the ground to the sky with lightning.
Play her music, sweet musicians. And watch what your music can create in the heart of a woman alone with no one but you.
My Royal Consort LightFoot whom I am STILL forbidden from speaking with least of all ever making love to, the U.S. State Department is handling the negotiations on behalf of Obama. Have they called you yet?
My darling LightFoot, the State Department is talking with Russia, China, the European Union, etc. concerning the transitional process to end Obama's "egg." I assume you are very popular with them.
While we are chatting, darling, just be prepared for seeing me naked. I am covered in scars from everything Obama has done to me. Mostly I have injection scars. Try not to be disgusted. Thank you.
And for the place of honor in every blog post... My darling husband, Sweetness, I love and adore you. How is my king today?
The Married Heart
The married heart never beats alone. Drumming. Pounding. Rhythms of the earth through every inch of the body.
The married heart has a lover. They feel each other across the chest pressed against chest. There is love mere skin cannot contain.
The married heart bears the children. We touch our finger tips to the immortal, and life is sprung with a heart of its own.
The married heart carries the burden. "Put your load on me," the married heart tells her lover. Together. The married heart does nothing alone.
The married heart loves unconditionally. Incapable of anger, the married heart knows no bounds to its potential to love.
We are married. You are my spouse. We know only the sky, and upon it we write our name.