Poetry of Jonny Alexander Nay

The arm, that moves, to wait. is harm. The light that shines is day. Part of this, is true, but who will dare to say?

I, bomber of an ancient rhythm, the fallen sun, and the sunken rung. And the hurt, and hurted, mastery. I am can undergo. But I cannot undertake, my masters wishes. Because of the faith, that it displays, on itself. The master is the best of the best, and it's not within me to judge, his curtailing, and forgoing. I am the messenger, of the old, way. I am the esteemed, and the crop, and the cream. And I candidly, decline. I do not shake, or shine, my way, Like so many of us had, their holdings, displaced, and had their lives most completely, and totally, and utterly, destroyed. I am the light, that falls, on walls, and the only thing, which stands in the way. I am cursed, but I am fair, and I lost, and Sig-none-Fair I am in my mind, a lot these days. I am not but I can dare.

I want to sing sonnets to myself. Even though I know, love, is burned in the light, and spread out in, curled, like a river, in silence: love finds darkness.

Down by the river banks, by the medical bag, and the white pots. I think, I see, a black owl. That is looking at me through it's eyes, through me? (I'll never forget.) Into it's eyes? Why me? I am not here, I say into the water. That glides, and blurps, beneath itself? Am I more than, this moment? Thank god, I am not. I am keeping a journal, about how the thunder claps, and the freaks, come out: to make orgys, in the rain. I am a husk. Poor me, all burnt out. I can't be what I want, And what I am, is in the for-sale window (he means display window) down at mister Oh' Malleys. Do I become the death, I wish into see in the tall grasses. Where, the fox, coos. Lord knows I tried. And did not try.

for my life, comes, the end of climate change. I will spend it in quiet reflection, with my back, I will dig graves. and with my arms, raise, the pick, with my mouth, taste, the shout.

Faith is the movement, to move.  past the chimes, at windows,  or the floor, the carpet, I saw in the courthouse.  past the hair on their neck, past names... past blame... into the furniture of life, where we are waiting, past the cotton, and the chimes. past, the guard, I suppose. into the cup, that's drunk by everyone. I am supposing. 

Children need to live, and the old need to be. But they also need to speak to one another. wisdom, and wise men, don't belong, in society. But realizing, this, and giving yourself. the time to recognize this. Is, part of learning to dance. Which is a gem of a life. To sleep in the streets, is the only way to know the world after-all. and people that come to our door, we know, are dressed for the occasion. Whether they are selling, perfume, or carrying a casserole. After-all, church is just good company. Like, a paradox, that breeds in shadows.

Ideas, come out, from underneath us, as if we didn't, know, at all.