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	Patrick Fleskes
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Patrick Fleskes, 21 lipca 2012

Riding the Max

Shiver the twisted hither,
As jazz beats by on the wings of flies,
Crusty swirled patterned ties,
Waltz down broadways st,
Looking for, an intoxicating new bore,
Of a place where they can drink their soup face,
Oh what a taste! What a waste,
Of non-existence, that silly textbook phrase,
S P A C E
Oh hum on by, my own kind of fly,
Zooming around in giant tubes, we’ll call max lines,
They scalp nature with electrode snap of powerlines,
Gee wiz, what a biz! Transport, cohort,
Money into funny, metal caskets,
So you can be swept away, for dollars a day,
To see the mad taper and escalator,
Caper, the city slaves for.

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Patrick Fleskes, 21 lipca 2012

I Ride my Bike with Both Handle Bars

Rolling, the thundered energy,
Extended and converted, half pipe glide,
The glossy swath of air, thick,
Nestles into the pores, hands tight, locked,
To gears a-shifting and twisting,
Metal chains like messy first love,
A cascading avalanche of work.

The eyes, they’re set, piercing through,
The light spectrums, summers delectable’s.
Blue sky, white tarp, no tent,
No breathe wasted in humid life.

And the pavement, laid down attainment,
To those who’ll rub the sticks together,
And shelter the birth of their ember,
To erect the eventual flame,
Of a soul, elastic, untamed.
True freedom, if we must give this a name.

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Patrick Fleskes, 7 lipca 2012

Roadmap to the Heart, Nasy Detours

The investigation raises the steam,
That jostle the kettle into an unsteady rhythm.
Its exhale exudes a well-bred nervousness,
A jitter, jumbled into stirring, purring,
Music of the air.
A poorly choreographed dance flutters through,
The vocal cords,
They’ve been caught an idea they must express.

Love proves a difficult case,
When compared affections must be weighed,
Feathers are a poor anolog for the heart,
And the tails have no marks at their heads
While breathed thoughts lay hidden ‘neth a sprung trap,
Childish smiles drawn unto the face.

In this theater we take our own seats,
So the screen can yell some new obscenities.
We lick the plate dry and move on to the next thing.

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Patrick Fleskes, 16 kwietnia 2012

Goodnight

Drinkin' bedtime's farwell kiss,

The herbal concoction believes in,

Only bliss.

Whose essence,

Can be neither believed,

or denied

With,

or without,

We chose the perception,

but we forgot the door

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Patrick Fleskes, 16 marca 2012

Words I meant to say in Conversations Long Past

Writing what I’m seeing,

On behalf of disbelief,

What I do see, I see,

What I meantosay, I jumble,

Words scrabbled into their alphabetical soup,

It’s all broth, no noodles,

And those feelings attached,

(Oh how needy those
pesky feelings).

Are all narrowed

down

to
its conversational bone marrow.

So What I meant to say,

I’ll engage now.

That there are black holes in-between all living
things,

To which all light bends around the spaces they stole
between us,

(And this universe has plenty
of light to go around),

And every so often, as I was often told,

Brief flashes of beauty, leak through these,

Grids of space/time.

Ring

around this

rosy.

MADE
IN VOID

Oh yes, with great delight in his heart,

No doubt the devil remembers,

With a dismembering grin,

Those unsettled ripples,

Expanding on the surface of the mind,

Soon will turn tides into whirlpool’d un-certainty

And
the world rushes by,

As
if our physical selves are city transit buses,

With
all of the mind stuck on the inside,

Looking
out at the present,

With
the slight dips in broken concrete

AND

With the gentle tug of
the engine

----SPEED
35---

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Patrick Fleskes, 12 lutego 2012

Static Thoughts

Condensed is this cigar box heat,
That Seeps dreamy death sleet,
On Measured notes, to hot water beat,
make this polygraph admit defeat.
Oh so whose to say, whats to say,
As you may, disarray, this ship’s gonna sink anyway
Ticker hearts rusty strings need,
Replacement now, and so they’ll ring, a finite sting,
Shiver now its stormy complication brings,
Inner demons to the mind’s pulled back sling,
A shot of unleaded, raw gasoline,
Whose sordid thoughts bathe blood in whiskey.
Back in, traveling, washed down, this sin, damping,
Weight of yin, has drowned yang, or so they sang.
Clang, clang clang.
Sounds out from the cold iron of this chain gang
Oh so whose to say, whats to say,
As you may, disarray, the ship’s gonna sink anyway

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Patrick Fleskes, 21 stycznia 2012

The Drunched and Downbeaten Streets of Portland Speak

The city hisses Leather'd serpent cries,
An icy reminder to the proud Native American graves,
Paved over,
Whose voices still haunt us,
Like velcro slowly being ripped apart,
A sound that clinches the jaw,
In agony of unknown,
Is merely a pan we'll hold under the water drips,
Leaking through the roof.
Each drip pluses with your heart beat,
While your eyes adjust to the dull tick of time,
On old clock strung over head,
5 mintues late,
It's counter broken,
To live here is to always be present in recent past,
Lookin' out the window into the present future.

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Patrick Fleskes, 29 grudnia 2011

River

The river is enlightened flow of matter in physical form,
OH COME ONE! COME ALL! See the way atoms sway without,
Microscopic introspective help, without a Discovery channel,
Overdubbed voice actor whom knows not the things said,
Only really chosen as a means of pretty voice filler,
'Cause knowledge is purer when spoken in ignorance t' fact...
Perhaps? Never purer than matter, surely, river water will never,
Act out political campaigns, or sell ya somethin',
Truth is free, free is truth, truth lies in mind's,
Spaghetti’d mess of neurotic receptors an' receivers,
Chemical response, negitive/positive, input/output,
Binary trail of 1's an' 0's are deceptively simple,
Need t' break mold of over thought, uncoverin' greek sculptured form,
The holy AH HA moment innate to all art's completion.
Lovely, for the sake of bein' lovely. Perfect, 'cause why not?
The Universe.
A self fulfilling prophecy.
The river in the end is just a river.
My mind, just a mind.
Its got a couple spots were thoughts leak out,
Those never committed to memory.
Blacked out with sharpie, a product of the void,
Delete key or formless form that can be bought.
Delete this.

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Patrick Fleskes, 29 grudnia 2011

South Jetty

Quilted pattern'd sea under draped curtain cloud, drenched in sunlight,
Carrying the halo’s plusin' from Sol, in hypnotic twist,
Lullin' all those existin' under it into soft consciousness,
While my flat soled foot, shoe'd feet, stand in bemused ecstasy,
On landlock'd jetty of log an' rock's demand, where the ol' Columbia gaves way,
T' the sea, a vein flutterin' blood t' the blue heart,
Spread like butter over wheat bread, dirt land.
Air is thick illusion of “fill in the blank”,
Pictured invisible forces, made salty,
While waves clashin' boulder-jetty-construct with venomous Neptune spite,
Unlashes a cascadin' rhythm of robed monk chanted OM's,
In the cathedral stain glass mirage muddled in watery reflection.
South Jetty, your misplaced directionally, as you cling higher up the shpere,
Than most account for south, with chill'd winds, beltin' like bitter cough,
But nature neither excepts nor denies its labels, humanistically attached,
It is impartial t' all things, a true moderate!
The middle way is the only way,
We'll feel comfortable in this flab of structured flesh,
The middle way is the only way,
That us an' the sea lie these burdens t' rest.

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Patrick Fleskes, 29 grudnia 2011

Every Street, a History Whispered

All aboard,
Deafening tracks we’ll make,
The one’s silhouettes take an’ never,
Breathe back, wordy breathe of tenderness,
Never eyes of respect, I detect another white noise will,
Carry us, the sail,
This city, the port,
We’ll drink cuss an’ smoke the world dead in an instant,
Lose ourselves completely.
Vomit on the curb.          < As good of a symbolic message if any
Damn the medication.
                                We need a new sequence of rhyme,
                                                                                While we pick apart this pocket watch.
A looking, an’ a hootin,
Like that slow train-a-coming.
All relating and being of the essence.
Time.

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10 - 30 - 100

Pozostałe wiersze: Riding the Max, I Ride my Bike with Both Handle Bars, Roadmap to the Heart, Nasy Detours, Goodnight, Words I meant to say in Conversations Long Past, Static Thoughts, The Drunched and Downbeaten Streets of Portland Speak, River, South Jetty, Every Street, a History Whispered, Mediations on the Bhagavad Gita, Wasted Motion of Decay, The Somber Tick of Fall, Tom Waits, Proof, Sunshine Sutra,

Najnowsze prace:

Poezja

Riding the Max

I Ride my Bike with Both Handle Bars

Roadmap to the Heart, Nasy Detours

Goodnight

Words I meant to say in Conversations Long Past

Static Thoughts

The Drunched and Downbeaten Streets of Portland Speak

River

South Jetty

Every Street, a History Whispered

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