"Where is all the knowledge we lost with information?" --T.S. Eliot

One genius to another, sent in a big
purple bow
I've got some words for you that I hope
you won't know.
Brain sipping chocolate, like my momma's
did for two
She told me not to wonder,
but it's something
I'll always do.
My, how I've grown, and sometimes, I'll ask
Whatever's still inside me that burns steadfast?
I'll tighten up the screws, and pinky place infinite thought
Onboard, ready to play, with hands clasp taught.

White Noise

Wrapped in a wall, with such the intelligent smile
Your swashbuckling, suede words on the frameless mantle
No paper hymn to tame or break you
into a being smaller than you

Say, I'll bet you a few rented items for anything you prove
Aching teeth, stitching yarn to soil strewn proposition
I've got my eye on the lamp, but the soles in my feet feel her ground
Wind on the heels says, I'll win this one now

As my steps play the porch, ever so slightly, bending the limit
Rivers have already been sliced like lemons, static in white noise.
Some might say your hearts the coldest when hung,
exposed amidst the icy sun
I hope we'll swing along together then, boy.

There's nothing to bless around here but wrapper or old coins,
We can't forget they're the only things that we can afford
to look down to.

Moss and Plaid

That's the band name. Don't forget it. ;)

Shore

It suffers an expression--

Dangling water, pining for the table covers
hysteric calligraphy, font dressed in liberation
smelling so absolute as dancing in a dream,
and personal and courageous and sunken as cherry nailpolish that bleeds left to the right
on the skin--
as we're moving towards distance, in your plastered, fading van
that serves some new Art, but not me.
Gulping down Brahms through swirling ears, we're lost
like you said, hoping for nothing but no wish to camouflage.
While these rocks, these mountains,
Trees with no Roots
spin down the well to something untrue
We're bad at the knowing, just every man's nothing
What can that say about us?

Every skipping thought births a little, humming boat
always invited, but somehow called
to the shore.

Unfinished

I drink a cut so deep it breathes me wise,
as they tend to say I say
where one might bleed some danger of a truth
in a trapeze city fogged by blues.
Budding in snow's flaking paint, scaled in
Summer's discolored, blazing perfection
and charmingly lost, one Constellation soldier, melted
into wholesome, silent bricks that build a solemn house.
Daisy-chained, a child unknowing--seasons by, you're
afraid.

But lightning stars learn in thunder
A Purity that shines in hearty laughter.

Value

If I had a dime for every word you just said,
well, I wouldn't have a dime, or a nickel, or a penny.
Since your words value nothing, and sum me to nothing.
But pages have turned
I won't despair.
There's better words here than for any you care.