We Are by Sam Flot

We Are

Built above cadences

Raised in gradients

By traded winds

On fleeting clouds

Milky ways and the persistent insistence

Of a good foundation

A traditional rumination fulminating in

Practical radicals solut-ing

Not like those prob-lemmings

Selected to direct even more blockbuster prequels

Lost moreso in the vein of

The unseen endeavor unleashed on forever

Chanted like the playground

Is this lifetime’s proving ground

 Treating the loud just like the silky and

When the tertiary become the titular

Fall will roam all day

Serpintine in pathways

Pertinent to the topical terra firma

 Underfoot and in my aura

Silently

Cooperating again

To turn the anxious axles

To gain the cheapest traction

To roll wherever the gravity blows us

1.1.2015

Happy New Year!

Sam

Tactile Co-Existence by Sam Flot

Tactile Co-existence

Life is a sacred ritual

If you make it become one

A gate passing through

Dimensions of tactile coexistence

Straight lines curving

Still maintaining consistent reverence

For the movements of dance

If you animate with sentience

If you practice to perfection

If you forget to memorize

If you know

Exactly which tree on the distant hill speaks to you

Then life is a sacred ritual 

Malleable by Sam Flot

Malleable

The liquefied antecedent

Flowed free by accident

As if the elements

Could change their form

Shifting shapes

Becoming malleable

When uncontained by other mass or matter

Functioning within

Whatever the environment

Presents, constricts, restricts or enhances

Once the precedent solidified

We all had a better idea about what to expect

Or rather, we better understood

The possibilities inherent

In the combination of weather and time

Combining with the above mentioned elements

Directly affecting and effecting

Form and motion

As much as input and output

sf 

May 

2014

What Isn't?

What Isn’t?

Another adherent

Is coming unglued

Under the back porch

Unprepared to return to

The fandango forest forces of the jungle

Lit up with torches by the guides

Traveling through the brush with barrels and tents

At the end of the following

At the beginning of

The moment of coming together

Over the front porch gables

Ready to launch the sky’s first refusal

Of tangential currency

Ready to burst the bubble of

The moon’s great insistence

To retire the past tense

In an instant with a flick of a family finger or

A trick perpetrated

As an illusion

But what isn’t an illusion? 

What isn’t a sidewalk or a road?

What isn’t a table or a stove?

What isn’t lost cannot be found

Go somewhere you may find it

Wait here and it might return to you

s. flot

8.29.2014

Layers by Sam Flot

Layers

By Sam Flot

The original layer of façade beams

Happily split like branches or needles

Flat across the very front

The next layer is opposite a door

Constructed inside a gateway

Limiting the size of the entrance

Capable of opening and closing

At the simple turn of a knob

The next layer exhibits similarities of

A Salvadoran serape or a Swedish Film

In the sense of ironic transference

Thick with symbolism

Yet to be discovered or covered or

Any of the variables available

Down to the gene of the genre’s DNA

The next layer digresses

At the backwards rate of state of the art

Technological advances

Taking a step back

Devolving until the industrial age is obsolete

The next layer is the most confusing

Due to the lack of consistency of distance and length

Widening to unfamiliar quote marks and

Surreptitious question marks and

Sometimes it’s hard to trust the will and intention

Of grammar gone bad

The final layer

Is a simple calico quilt

Patterned like a thousand petal lotus

Opening always in the act

3.12.2014

Butterfly Escort by Sam Flot

Butterfly Escort

I stumbled in the pre-dawn and

Remembered in the aftermath

As the sequences waterfalled

Like butterflies knuckleball or flutter

Over picnics and clovers and camps full of clutter

Winding through the air above the pasture pure

To the edge of the forest

Passing pine cones and pine needles

As if they were lost in the wee hours of dark

 As the songbirds release their songs on a lark

In the morning’s first recognition of the day

Remembering how to ride a bicycle

After seemingly having learned so much

The day before

So many things I’ve learned and learned before

Retroactively pursuing the journey prize of a butterfly escort

7.10.2014

sf                 CFR

Said The Canvas Beneath The Paint by Sam Flot

Said The Canvas Beneath The Paint

Breaking down the easy spirits

Above ground alone to my senses

Peripheral dense in the depths of the present tense

Grinding the halt to a stop

Entirely

Dominating the prophetic illusions come true

Like tributaries form the big rivers

Like teardrops in a bucket

Like one bird amongst all the birds flying over this earth

Said the canvas beneath the paint

To the bear in the pot belly pot

While calling the kettle a slacker

From the worn leather couch

Across the shag carpeted floor

While grinning like a canvas in his blank youth

Unflappably flying

Any flag that the flock floats

8.16.2014

CFR

sf