Don't Forget To Leave Traces

Don't Forget To Leave Traces

flot = 2011

Capturing the snapping dragon gracefully

Amongst savage tagalongs from

Realms jumping metaphors

Still catching up to all the leaping years and

Getting lost while traveling in time’s translucent tunnels

Caught in the crust or shot through the dust

Refined as a belt that ranges free from

Previous iron stove embraces and

Don’t forget to leave

Traces of signature symbols

Chosen to represent individuality in side me and

Calibrating the co-decisions ripe across chasms and

Like a hovercraft hovers over matter’s opinion of physics

Controlling psychic vision seeing around corners and

Through all the different kinds of doors

Open, closed, naked and the clothed

When the eggs hit the floor and

The flowers sprinted into

The un-slid sliding glass window

(which seemed open to all of us)

 We somehow finally stopped laughing

  1.16.11

~~flot ~~

Do Not Fear the Fake Punch (100%) by flot

Do Not Fear the Fake Punch

(100%)

 by Sam Flot

Sometimes

Perfection rising

Is missed like lost smoke or

 Rug-slipped dirt

Swept under the carpet

Cut by the previous night’s

Festive proximities

Moving to the beat

Other times

It’s a lucky fin found

By a lucky finder

Dropped on purpose or found or seen

In the cracks of

The revolution’s walls

Breaking into pieces

Of pie like they always should have

Occasionally

A plateau will be attainable

It can be found

Past tenses and before pretense

A conquered image

Fully guided to be quiet

When we reached that boulevard

Of made dreams

Of dreams happening happened and yet to happen

When that boulevard is walked

When you’ve seen the Mercado

And the hardware stores and toy stores

When you reach the end walking

Cross over and walk back the other side

Past beggars and photo shoppers

Do not fear the fake punch

They are testing your resolve

They are trying out

the fear in you

Do not flinch

It is not anything

Dream moving along

Unflinchingly

1.25.oh-ate

Hurt and Purity

 by Sam Flot   2002

The lighter’s flame breaks the 6 am dawn

As I take the sacred sacrament

Before the Church of Miles

Today’s selection is from Tokyo, circa 1973

When and how does he breathe?

Staccato bursts by definition

But he redefines the word

Soft, subtle nuances slowly appear through morning’s wake

I realize, hearing with prior knowledge, the ordained genius

I knew he was good by hearsay and initial listenings

But now my court knows the truth by proclamation

The evidence has been digested and remains true

All the while the insistent wail urges on

Incomplete of itself

Searching vainly to find

Acceptance

Charity

And Love

His music is his soul in a blender

Minced and chopped

Pureed and poured back out

Through the lungs 

To the cold, cold metal

Appropriated by his fingers

To be sent to the winds

Crying a legacy of misunderstanding, hurt and purity

Through his horn

His pain, our pleasure

I hope he’s at peace

That his soul can rest

All the urgency replaced by contentedness

Happiness and above all peace

I hope Miles’ soul feels peace

I think he does

I hope he does

I Was.......

I Was.......

Running in place in

The sands of time’s morbid joke

When I passed a night light

On the beach blissfully unaware of self and

Long forgetting it’s original purpose

The light of the night worked anyway 

Connecting to contemporaneous coagulants

No recollected memory

Would warn the patrons to

Desire this dereliction of duties 

Reduced to the next best

In the contextual text

With no sense for cold war or leg warmers

With no time to regard the logical incrementally

Modular in short

Intellectually familiar

With the cut up method

Applied to the sand’s numbered legions

One step for each million ideas

Generating electric brain impulses

Gauging the gaps

In an attempt to generate

Equivalent benevolence

For the good deeds

That sometimes succeed and

When celebration asks you for a match

Light that candle 

And

Let it burn!

1.16.11  

flot