Jazz by Michael Stang
Inaudible skies show off shape canopies, covers shaking with existence under clouds we sprinkled forgetting they exist because we thought them emergent.
Huddled wall paper moons where the bones meet bones walk the one foot in front of the other that takes our years. Flush to it until we can’t let go. This spirit life gives nothing. A blank page in front of a writer, to make sense you have to bring it to yourself. No promise, none taken, we are simply on our own.
Suffered damage molds the corners, characters discarded from the play, children’s toys left to dust tridents in their glory days. Baggage dragged around because we don’t know how to put it. Alley dumpster — but then we lose that sweet against — always the case with universal balance.
Spartan is not revival, it’s honest and steeped. Spiraled in tradition a stated cast. Lives run simplicity that separates us from others. Seamless invades as the blood in our veins. However this goes we are all one.
Doesn’t take much to live. Life takes everything. Rules given to ourselves by ourselves. What we know has cracks we fall into. Nothing is secure, the race has lived for thousands of years the ghosts hang around to see how its going,
Michael Stang 2021