Tag Archives: Gun

Comedown


flower

i don’t pay attention to the weather forecast
for its broadcast with the same gas I pass from my ass
on a perilous day my awareness grew vast
like dead hands of the past
immeasurable as the ethereal dimension
i can feel its attendance traveling on my skin
directing connection perplexing affection
i can feel the invisible ones watching on
in the shadows of dawn

and when I wake from a slumber grave
and when I lay to sleep off consciousness
i can feel the various factors of providence
i can feel the different ghosts from every consequence of yesterday
i can feel the young man’s murder on Sixth Street
when I heard the gunshots that night
and how I read about his death from a corner away
from where it happened with lack of astonishment
and yes, he may be gone in a physical sense
but he’s not forgotten
i can smell the hot blood of the junkie
the authorities in blue left on my doorstep
and I’ve never felt so powerless;
veracity can be so flowerless

i’m close
i can feel the edges of supernatural empowerment
aerial contact prose
i can feel the rush of the present
a spiritual meadow under my perceptive nose
a subtle pulse of anything goes
echoes of unapproachable distance
feelings of insurmountable brilliance
i undergo glimpses and experiences of a concluding death
i hope won’t arrive catastrophic
and it makes me cold
there’s a blinding light bulb out in the crossroads
it shines and speaks of all the lives I owe
how time is loan
and I must return to where it’s infinite on each of its matchless codes
revisiting a question mark, a veil I failed to recall

-Pennington

Nitty-Gritty


2 (2)

Your cigarettes crowd my air.
It sickens the oxygen the flowers breathe.
It haunts the fabric of my clothes.
It leaves the depression of your reminder
Ill at strong will.  I stomach your fill.

Your book Art of War sits on my permeable crate.
It signifies new habits of homecoming and comebacks.
The page sits lifeless – it waits and its intelligence is in the
Heart of archaic art.  It tarries like Tarot.

Your gun control in the closet speaks stealthily.
It lusts with its silver:  Look at me!  Look at me!
It’s built soulless.  Two-faced coughing Gemini spryly.
It’s all or nothing.  Great responsibility or irresponsibility.
Pity, no.  Pithy, yes.  That is the nitty-gritty.

-Pennington