street saint poets

[revolutionrabbit]

too much history
as Whitehead said
and not enough poetry

but the poems fall like leaves
and the autumn of the poet
falls like underground trees

like Moorish sewer systems
that once spoke the deep language
of Sufi branches, like libraries of
Egyptian fingers reaching, scratching
forgotten windows of thunder tears

down the road painted by the old masters
flame brushes like Russian workers who write
like drunk masked blindfolded dancers aware
like revolving whores of red roses of petals of years

and the flood flowers like crossroad prophets
but can't roll these broken toy dice cities any more
but the wine rains of romance philosophy wash over
before the hidden mountains sing in the gypsy town
moved through the empty museums of lost forests
and the pink sea shell recited sounds follow
their fallen silent foot steps for free

[mindbum]

follow their fallen indeed.
into the roots.

bravo.