There Is No Heart Without ART.

There is no heart without art. I am one; I am alONE. There seems to be no end to my dependence. The seeds sewn, mend, to hide depreciations penance. The sea shores bend; new tides drink in, pressing closer; touches my toes, peeling away, a new skins chance. Piano keys played, a new key; we danced. The seeds, soil covered; beneath, newborn trees dictate roots; kinetic poets, addressing curious children, surfacing towards utopian clouds’ mighty towers; mother nature‘s toddlers, minor today, measured tomorrow; peeking above neatly suspended, like kids changes, crept up. The sense, every day, something‘s coming; voracious exclamations, draws breath; gnashing teeth, gnaws through reasons cut off. Choking breaths, suffocating. True war; destruction; unanimous, it’s atomic clock underneath. Smothering greed takes over. We respected money’s twinkling mine, mine or theirs, divvied, displayed meager askings, subserviently. As king, the tombstones. More rows, masking our reality, throwing dollars, moths swarming to mamma’s paws. Nearer, surmassed pretty torches our tiny plight kisses, sparks christen, adorning, its guests, costumes, revealing parts unprepared for the remark, on kept and unkempt, unable to be swept ‘neath the carpet for the carnival’s crowd, clapping, “Come on down, come on up!, Now!” - Created a circus; cowered, you coin-counting cowards. At work cost will change come? Can country or chivalry, courtesy, competence and competition be bought? Count your choice, come a’courting; cling to her companionship, ‘cause then, common friend, count not all endeavors lost. Count on choice; cry out voice. Conquer our vices; consider others view. Come, overcome avarice’s vice grip. I can overcome anything., Christ victory’s certain….. crashing over; tickle your curled toes, cracking that crooked tongue in cheek smile. For me, makes it all the while. Carousing the carelessly choked tongue of the shore, clinging like the sand between your sunburned skin. Cast your shells in the surf and save the scene for recollection. Reach for serenity when it seems so silly, stuffed in these suburban streets. So no census from Shores of subordinate least shallow streams of soulless self subscribed “ somebody’s”, shrinking poses, striving, posers, straw postures, scarecrows proper, stares, pitch- start pictures so proudly showing properties, “stupendous, pal!” (steep price tags; $ pennies). Seek proof, so people scrolling pay some props; stuck up pinkies support pigslop personalities. Parades still playing same plain song. people see. People long. Part of me praise Poseidon parts to see and purchase its priceless blue pool in the presidents penthouse, pouring its peaks playing in the pebbles, and prying up the dry pavement, drunk up in it’s parched sewers. Drowning in power; doesn’t it properly describe id dollar tree printed digits, index-poking displays, implying puny, degrading incompetences, praying on people’s daily improvisations, providing demands and income. Integrity, Perseverance’s doppelgänger, inches past, determined, ensuring prevailing. Driving, I put down the pedal. I pick directions. I promise, daily, I’ll prepare. Determined, an instrument, playing internally; its drums, pounding insistently. Don’t promote its perish or promote debt in passive demeanors or in institutions’ predatorial dominance intervene , or let it destroy pacts I developed , preserving inviolable discernments, incrementally-pieced decisions, instructions placed deep, insoluble. Dawns ink, pen insignia, personal its dialect. Imperative poems, dreamed, immortal, plunder, indefinitely, drained in prose. And if people don’t interest; please. Digteren, I presume. D.O.G. In a pound. Daft? Punk. Drafts? I’ll pass. Direct. Idiot prophet. Dreamers- imagine; play. “ don’t”, I plead- (dropped to knees)- don’t- imagine pages, devoid of ink, pencils destroyed- immolated, piled; dictators, insisting- “ punishment”- Deposing in pyres, descriptions, illustrated ponderances. DON’T! It’s the part, dragging my pen, dripping blood to my heart drifting, blowing all ‘round, love I’ve lost and found, loud volumes I sound. Life voluntary stick around. These lines vex some; -look-(stomping) - it’s just lines on the ground. Let’s leave . Let’s leap over the lunar lights with The sheep , otherwise don’t make a peep when they make lamb chops. Life’s my big shot; like it or not might be all that we’ve got. Ladies and gentlemen, Lassie I’m not, but I’ll be doggone if I chase my tail, fetching critics mail. I’m eating retch, but it’s mine. I’m loyal to this literature and I’ll bite the page till I lick the line and lay down and die.- Lefty