Atlantic Eel Ground Whole


Akond:
she was an eel & slipped out of my fingers. i was a shark clapping making chattering noise. the whole world was going on too. i hold there is a reason to dance at week's end, if your ass stays above ground.
i find the wind nutritious. my new companions are trees and shade.
maybe i never thought i was worthy of her. i get emotional at parades. buddha dancing when i was 6 in the sand from europe across the forever atlantic. . where's MY dali lama?!
unenlightenment saves me today maybe today i die!

Me:
Something happened. Here it is. Hope you like it. It's entirely derivative of your own work.
===
-Atlantic Eel-
She ground unenlightenment whole.
I, forever buddha ass wind and a chattering Dalai Lama, was worthy of her emotional stays in parade across Europe.
Maybe the thought never saves me, today.
Maybe I find dancing companions are nutritous shade trees I get at weeks end.
If your reason I hold, a shark, making sand, going on to dance and die from the "where's" and the "there was."
My new world noise is slipped out today, at an clapping of my fingers too.
The atlantic eel I was, when .... was above MY 6.
Akond:
so...when cut up works, it's cool; not everyone's coltrane and some notes that aren't there you can't hit like he hits it. we can find lemons everywhere on the internet. what's missing is the hissing - when i read in public, it's a tad broadway; so the sound too, you haven't made. you haven't made a sound.
Me:
Ground Whole Again [Trying for a D minus so I can at least attend the prom]
One starts a drunken bastard trying to move a lampost,
On to light, too light, moving its self, unable to move others,
The restrictions of its mass and velocity having no intertial umph to push.
Bouncing off tile mirrors. Riffing off athletes straining in the gym, and the john and the `ed, guv'na.
Red faced, trying to lift my own rock, straining back and forth, fith, sixth attempt to make a sound.
Can light make sound?
Swinging steel in Newton's craddle crash, one sparks against another, the 'clack' screams out into a vacuum, faceless.
Am I the steel?
Do I steal? Struck by some bastard pushing weight in light, throwing stones,
Is that a 'clack' on bamboo?
Is that what 'enlighten' meant?
Ground whole, backwards through the mill, I am grist again.
Akond:
no prom for you. come back - one year!~
(((the voice, where is the sound?!!))) poets fuss over caps, fuss over edges, not just clever or noble thinking. but breath line. hard to take a sculpture and mash it into something like it but not like it. the poet said]]]]]]]]] bars of time,. i give you my fork, my spoon, in which your heart rests.

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