u/Low_Type_331796

Never has there been a time am I more proud to say “I am a son of the empire.”

For sisters & brothers did she not feed us her breast milk as babes.

She dipped a pinky in honey for us to wet her finger.

From those amber waves of grain bake a hardy bread from which we grew strong and knowledgeable.

It is inalienable when I say from sea to shining sea the purple mountain majesty rings freedom.

That it is under God all mighty I entrust this great adventure in this land of ours.

Sincerely, A Low Type Poet.

Send word to Agrippa, I need your fastest runner.

(MARS UP, PARADISE DOWN.)

Ole Glory firing all cannons bellowing smoke on the bottom of the clip.

Lady Liberty As Mother

Never has there been a time am I more proud to say “I am a son of the empire.”

For sisters & brothers did she not feed us her breast milk as babes.

She dipped a pinky in honey for us to wet her finger.

From those amber waves of grain bake a hardy bread from which we grew strong and knowledgeable.

It is inalienable when I say from sea to shining sea the purple mountain majesty rings freedom.

That it is under God all mighty I entrust this great adventure in this land of ours.

Sincerely, A Low Type Poet.

Send word to Agrippa, I need your fastest runner.

(MARS UP, PARADISE DOWN.)

Ole Glory firing all cannons bellowing smoke on the bottom of the clip.

I just want to fumble ice out a foam double cup so y’all can’t lie & say you didn’t see me lean into my peek, but right now you gone have to get me off my face cos I done fell in love again. I don’t know if it’s just me. I might be dreaming about these lyrics I’m stove whipping are gonna get me rich or arrested, low temp, got a slow it down. it’s like I’m living separate lives till the door kicks in, I’m a keep knocking out the lights, pop my sauce an wake you up with it. It’s like fuck if I know, it’s like you can just set it down, you don’t know if I’m gonna call you out or maybe just go around. It’s like okay not o.k., I’ll get up with you, yeah it’s like I said, idk I might put some more in it. If you looking for the smoke you can get it, I won’t forget it.

When I first hit the street. I thought my friends were all in the same gang. So I went and joined. When I told them it’s official I’m in the gang, they all told me “no we’re not a real gang”. So now I call all my friends fake bitches.

I just wish it were fancy again a more savage Christ to stamp out the watered down wayfarers blight I experience in a trudge of aesthetic posts about pics of your animals or makeup tips.

Oof!

So I shook winters crystal to melt in muddy waters as it’s summer pressed to land with a kiss from an orange capped applicant.

My pupils sweating brow clinched await a prick self ministered thy papal seat the rails where a new rose thorn grew between the main line register.

The same color crimson but now both lie flush-n-flush.

A lone flower crushed under foot stands bent, morning my rigs final resting place.

Beastly I ran like a mad naked child.
through the thrush under city moon light as the stars fell weeping from the short period of my time.

The allegory of thousand suns like that of past life's lived on this rolling bolder in the cosmos.

Brings up foreigners gods on alien walls whose majestic governance flips a backwards peace sign out of frame stepping away.

Left its vacuum of wind pushing us daisy men around for the fun.

Enshrines my wispy heart to drag out existence on a paisley sleeve.

The Dead

lore music and a van 

I didn’t grow up on no farm.
You see.

I never been off this reservation.
I was reared in the weeds.

Free range and feral now listen to me.
We’ll shoot him in the back.

You take the silver & the gold, gold, gold.

But the rye & the lady, huh is going with me.

An if that don’t suit you, my brother.

Then I guess nothing will.

And if the thunder doesn’t get you then the lightning sure as hell will.

His corners split skinning teeth.

They looked to me.

Eyes shining like diamonds from the mine.

It’s one-man dead.

Or two men out either way I couldn't do a god damn thing.

Because it’s thirteen hours from here.
Clear to the next state.

That’s where he got rid of skinny teeth.

While he was busy, I made it three.

And it’s been a few years back.

When last I sent his momma roses.

I got an old van and my first nice heels.

With a fine matching set.

Now I’m rolling Midwest thinking about Sunday dinners.

Crying over never settling down.

To a white picket fence.

With a man whose god fearing.

Ramble till I pass away.

I like to think, some sun shiny day.

A kind stranger would foot my burial.

It was east of Indiana when the purse run out.

So, I got a new tattoo on the bridge of my nose.

Along with a dirty face.

But I grin like the devil when I wipe it away.

With an olde black bandanna that I’m given when I come into town.

As of right now I’m thinning down.

My soul drinking swill.

About to hop out again.

Right after I busk the spange.

You might hear it in a song on a stranger's face.

See it written in a story with a different hand. 

I should really put it down in a crusty journal and leave it at lines end.

on the tram.

I'd put smack dab in the middle.

So, the lazy would miss it.

And the nosey would flip to its page.

I wasn't goanna give her name.

.-(Molly No Love)-.

But I didn't grow up on no farm, farm, farm.

Fumbling a label of lament I poor out here in writ.

A shot in the dark of over all departure that of my salty sour rimmed lashes splash over in thought.

As if to wet my beak to mention drowning my sorrows in meager anomaly.

The end bar seat a cherry red coal light in the eyes center reflect back in the dark screen of the TV.

As I drift back and forth, left to right of boredom.
Between masturbation, drugs, Jesus, & work.

Life in the under belly of monotony with monetary wimbels floating ED functionally impaired.

Old crows cawing in corn rye sucking down cancer with Irish coffee to loosen my gut.

Turning daylight outside in the distance of my mind.
I watch other people live their lives & think what evils they might conduct.

Or try to guess their secrets kept by the interactions inside the small circles of habitations.

With small talk, hand jesters, wave offs to answer phones in the dim twilight of neon tube vesper from the dance floor.

Spent loneliness between ice melting and rift the time & maybe go home with somebody.

As always another sibling of the universe bound to human migrations & mating rituals.

With love from a monotheistic Hobo Rehab where they want me to stay off social media long enough to pray the gay away.

Yours truly A Low Type

When it grows dark in my sky’s & I need shelter from thought.

I always wait till the last minute caught in its fall melts into my clothes.

On the outside I’m the stranger my mind wonders around with- every bit as wet as trying to escape it.

Raining outside, inside wet.

The world taking a drink of sun set as the train blares a horn rucking by slowly.

Just passing the time today under the overpass with the crumpled signs a previous life discarded.

Shopping carts, suitcases, food wrappers.

I’m no different leaving syringes in the red clay & marble mountain granite packed tight around treated timber planks the rails ride out of town on.

Looking up with no where to go or into the faces of the others lost in heat bands of Alabama desert asphalt the ghost of an august Mirage.

The former inhabitants of the badly on a thin line at the bottom.

A collective of dirty mental illnesses, the drug water to its wine.

Buying a dime off a guy, my all black Steve-O fat bitch hat with the bill bent back Nirvana shirt plaid long shorts and Puma’s.

To his lava white and orange crocs in loose waste jogging pants one hand holds up. With a skin tight rusty dirt covered lady’s white strap top. Me talking in clipped simple direction he’s talking in slow manic slur.

It isn’t the dream we had of America it isn’t the lack of love or environment it isn’t what hetero Christian couples or the republicans wanted.

But it’s my America it’s his America, things will get better when dad shaves and gets a job again mom won’t take too many of those yellow pills for her nerves over the worry.

The country won’t go to hell over two bums on some corner picking through the grass smoking the same cigarette for six hours.

When you wash away the makeup of normal life’s and the crows feet sag. In every corner’s wrinkle.
Of small areas towns they try to hide us.

THE BAD SIDE OF TOWN.

That’s what grandma use to say when we would go over to Walker Co and grandpa would come back with milk jugs of shine.

Right now the crickets are rubbing their legs together in the wood lines and I’m thinking how I missed my time.

Those rose colored cheeks of sun leather train hoppers stealing a hot apple pie of the window seal of ranch house on the out side of town.

Pulling in to the delta on the back of a flat bed to pick up work in the cotton fields when jazz clubs were off limits.

The ideal of the great American hobo is dying and I’m watching it because I’m the new one and I’ll ware any type of craziness that I might get away with.

Or at least my friend will, I’m not at all put off by the way someone looks or is acting but I will say out here you need to keep a grip & be ready to get just as crazy as the next cat maybe carrying an extra towel thanks Douglas, yours truly A Low Type. Poet.