Wine and Vinegar

Little Spud in the Big Apple

“At the end of the day all my conscience can experience is limited to what is in my own mind,
why should I care at all what happens inside the minds of others?”

penned quietly with the pads of fingers unknown to my device of primary communication,
“I can’t say that you need to care, I’m not one to always care either but I think it’s important for something deep inside.”

Letting the words steep like wine,
age with the settling dust of time,
and after years,
softly popping the cork out,
noting how the tannins have developed themselves,
and though this has taken so long in my world of words
it is nothing to the ticking seconds,
to your mind,
you have forgotten,
will more likely than not forget again
upon reading your old thoughts:

“why should I care at all what happens inside the minds of others?”

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Over Thought Over

Little Spud in the Big Apple

Trying to break down the patterns of the mind,
the looping,
wall of thoughts,
that which builds up.
I often see patterns in my writing,
the looping,
even now with this pen to paper,
paper and pen
and paper and
pen and paper
and pen and
paper and pen,
I see the half
life of it all.

And I wonder, Dear Reader,
Dear Reader, I wonder,
the looping,
patterns in my writing
Do you, do you, Do You,
And I wonder, Dear Reader,
If you can see
my hand
Do you see?
my hand


the blue veins shrinking away,
blue, pink, where is the oxygen, blue
blue, red, red, oxygen, color
oxygen escaping to nowhere,
building up,
building up
buildingbuildingbuildingbuilding UP
popping underneath the greying skin,


the ink
the loops
the loops
the ink ink ink ink…

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Smelling Smoke

Little Spud in the Big Apple

somewhere among the
crashing and burning
the forest,

Far off from my
on Meadows
but you can
the smoke
over the flowers
the clumps of
long-stemmed grass.

Far gone,
lost to dreams and paintings,
Summer burning away everything,
Apollo too close to sage,
an attempt to naturally
pull more carbon into the world,
cycle it back to the roots,
to reestablish lost updrafts of life,
billowing clouds of ash and spark
into heaven,
tickling the feet of God.

I smell it,
feel the once strong roots
tickling my nostrils,
the bugs,
the clay,
the stems,
what could have been a haven once,
now reduced to ash,
like a red wine sauce over steak,
I pay through the nose for this too.

Unwittingly at first, I eat
Unwillingly then, I breathe,
being forced to notice that I’m
sitting here,
an artist, trying to fight

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