Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Jesse S. Mitchell


Swing your fists at me.
…..(this dead yellow grass)
There is only one way to get free
…..(this dead yellow grass)
Turn your radio up
All the way up, full blast.

And everything is electric 
And everything burns.
…..(this dead dry yellow grass)

Believe in the tree, for it is made of light.
Believe in the forceful wind, it is made of light.
Believe in the creaking limbs, these are made of light.
Believe in the root ball, it is made of light.
Believe in the earth that contains it, for it is made of light.

There is only one way out of here.
…..(this dead yellow grass)
By the light reflected back towards the eye,
…..(this dead yellow grass)
By returning the stare.



Art brute
Tia hormiga black Madonna
Cocaina y codeina
At the table at the Dystonia Bravo
All hell breaks loose when I open the shutters.
Breathing apparatus, rolled up sleeves, iron lung.
Diver bird.  End of the world.
Better off today but still far from perfect…
Big stone spirals gonna pierce open the sky
Temple-needle-eye, gonna let out all the rain
To the last grasp.
Stranger still, tiny things populate our world with us,
Microorganisms inhabit everything we do, every word we say.
And we are still waiting
Carry home the moonlight in buckets, what does spill over, the shadows down the mountain. 
And light the fires
The burning fires
With the
Tiny men, tiny people, with tiny movements, and the tiny sun, tiny little stars,  and tiny tiny eyes
That shine in any kind of light.
Fever pitch
Coughing fit.
And respiratory fluctuations
Solar flares like brainstorm, that swell up around equatorial distances. 
Prime Minister forget-me-not
Proteus-head, caught me on a bad day and the bridge is out
I know a lot and forget a lot
And dizzy in the details, King Asoka, he had the hands for nation-building.
Alleyways to pathways to avenue-neurological disorders, makes it hard to keep hold, slippery, knock at the door
And the misfire will let you in. 


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