Carving A Pagoda

Carving A Pagoda

by flot

Please don’t interrupt me

I’m carving a pagoda

Looking out around the corners ahead of the curves

The sounds are influencing every move I make

Carving curves and lines

I‘m trying hard to concentrate

Making myself a house of worship

Devoting myself to extinguishing the warships

I’m taking a vow propagating peace

I’m carving this pagoda for weeks

I’m carving for days and years

I’m carving all the blood and sweat

I’m carving out the tears

I would stop and rest

But

I’m not finished yet

I’m carving a pagoda in dark and light

Through thick and thin and with all my might

Sunrise midday and when the sun sets

I’m carving a pagoda

But I’m not finished yet

3.28.2012

Peculiar Julia

Peculiar Julia

Peculiar Julia all wrapped up in patchouli and stealies

A little too touchy, a little too feely

Out in a field or in enclosed spaces

Back flashing back she’s following traces

Back to the daze of calliope races

Only the un-imagined men remained stuck in stasis

Exchanging their glances

Inside their own trances

As everybody like us just dances and dances

The lightning is lazy and so is the river

The bolts never fly from the lightning bolt quiver

The river she lies there flat as a rug

Being cut up by ten thousand bugs

Who realize once they all dropped their stances

They all dance until they find their own kinds of dances

The dervishes dervish and the spinners they spin

Seems like the hand dancers have curious grins

The pyramid peaks at the tippity top

Each instrument stretching out this gnarly bebop

For one moment suddenly they all stop and be quiet

Like they know once they start sellin’ again that I’ll buy it

Each guitar note is a whole tonal sound

As you fly up to space and then back to the ground

May you never be hungry may your soul always be fed

It’s just like I remember my elders always said

“There ain’t nothing in the world like the Grateful Dead”

Sam Flot

3.22.2012

The Now Is In The Know

The Now Is In The Know

by

Sam Flot

Dignified down to the last electron

Signified by the first proton

Graduating from the underground flow

Some sound or celebrated vehicle

The unbuckled buckle

Still softly redundant and supple

Wrist, ankle, knee or elbow

Bending branches

Walking the path that leads to the trenches

Gallivanting along the farm river

Jumping over pools of providential water

Skipping schools of reverential fire

Some beads, a bell and a damaru hand drum

Taken from a Tibetan tree stump

Losing a little on each bump

A little there

A little here

Lost nowhere in the now

As we know it

3.3.12

The Land Underwater

The Land Underwater

Tried, lied and edified in the high tide

Atop the water at the whim of wind and sea

Floating in ambiguous oceans

Sand on the bottom of 2/3rds

Of everything underwater

Meaning we inhabit

1/3rd of the highest peaks on earth

As our homes

Even the lowest valleys above ground

Are higher than any mountain underwater

So many animals and creatures

Never seen before

By anybody

Ever

The land underwater is

The last undiscovered place

On earth

The land underwater is

More of the earth than we know now

Which leaves a majority of the earth’s surface

Undiscovered

Untouched

As much a frontier as space is

The mountains and valleys underwater

The volcanoes and magma

Of the ever-infused energy

The Earth has inside her

When we know more

Maybe we will understand

This undiscovered land

Under the water’s surface face 


by Sam Flot 
February 12, 2012
aka 2.12.12
Cobb, CA

My Weapon Of Choice

My Weapon of Choice

Spinning twisting turned and twirled

As if on cue set off curling around and

Spun off again curling

Wrapping around full circle and off again

Spinning twisting turned and twirled

Faithful only to centrifugal force

Following a pattern without a set course

Never stopping a second a third and a fourth

Never stopping ‘til the ink runs out

Poeticizing the birth

Spinning twisting turned and twirled

Velocity carries this circular weapon in a direction

The hand controls velocity of communication

From pen to ink to paper with compunction

Torn from the mind’s eye to be born by determination

Spinning twisting turned and twirled

It all comes back around shaping itself around sounds

Words jumping onto the paper bound

To meet the jumping off point, the ground

When everything started to find the beginning of the end

All wrapped up ready to send

Titled with love for a friend

Ready to start all over again

Spinning twisting turned and twirled

sf

10.9.ten

Waxing The Wick of A Spine

Waxing The Wick of A Spine

The wick of a spine

Runs up the wax

Of a candle

Nerve center

Nervous system

Fulfilling the mission

Burning for light

Burning for scent

Burning for the visual

Eloquence melts

Down to liquid form

From a solid

The wick of a spine

Runs up the core middle

Nervous systematically

Burning down the body

Never sure

Of his limits

Never sure

How he got so lit

1.24.12

f        l      o t

Pockets In Your Hands

Pockets In Your Hands

In competent sentences

Outside the fox hound’s grasp or reach or

Sanctioning each cell for lack of focus

On the sleeping job

Lying down dreaming on the job

Pockets in your hands and

Feet on your shoes

When the next bus comes through

It won’t stop

It never does

For no pine cone podunk with a sonnet or a prayer

No reductive farmer pulling up roots

No deductive accountant moving dates

With a number processor and

A letter combine

Spitting into the open furnace

With no trace of paper cycling or recycling

Saving face or aluminum trays

Holding up paragraphs for days

Distilling from foggy remnants of

Circumstance and partial timing

Heard before the impartial signing

The pen hitting bard paper

Harder than ten stenographers

Sitting on a jar of capers

Spilt and split wide open

Adding a little taste

To the foolhardy fortune sandwich

Of the prototypical amateur protagonist

1.16.2012

flot