A confused sea-bearing cartographer.
To touch pond scum is to be alive. To sense the changing wind is to grow old. To smell a storm is historic— Wiser than the scripts the winemakers roll.
By R.M. Kammabout a year ago in Poets
Stay still the airwaves - Bach Cello is melting - Mixing crater and staircase - The whole show's beguiling - I've driven fold rollers over terry clothes and hand baskets -
By R.M. Kamm2 years ago in Poets
Do you… Expect me to dance? Jump, skip, hooray? Well, watch it, little lady, as I just might, and in so doing, Say forever my goodnight.
By R.M. Kamm5 years ago in Poets
To be unhuman… In all of its forms and stages, Is perhaps the most beautiful thing. Oh, may my Ana come to me.
By R.M. Kamm6 years ago in Poets
The Altruism of my Cinderella's Scordatura Voice, Makes me days ever so less Dolorous. Chocolate-box Definiendums', Soniferous Détente ferries a Fettle Emancipated,
What is your retention in sand vs. clouds? What is your scope of derision in kin vs. bending your scourge? What makes you leave with an oar to cane a native, while your fellow sea-bearer's teeth greet rocks? A child takes his goldfish for a walk. The dog brings you a half-dead opossum round the fire. A man gives his baron wife a white carnation. Just because we care does not mean we know how to. Earthlings are no experts on the minding of others.
Nothing is the answer. We are not one. Born of divinity, scoff. Depravity and blood. Atlas smashed the sins of the world.
A fly on the temple of the fragile stated mind, To live to not impact the world to impact the world, To have many one words and not the power to array,
I happened to be a small child of three and sitting amongst a big rock a beast. I thought I’d wandered, wandered free but loneliness, hunger, and void struck deep.
By R.M. Kamm7 years ago in Poets
I hang on to so little, But I do it so tightly. A loose leaf, a matchstick, some black tea. I used to use spoons to measure things,
I plagiarized a giraffe. It was long overdue. Son, there are things you don't understand. Son, there are things you've yet done.
By R.M. Kamm8 years ago in Poets
A hand poured Human, And a hand poured Human, Roughly one thousand four hundred and sixty Earth days apart, One has airplane metal with bullet holes,
