This is What Happens

This is what happens when I read babble flow, experience an election and feel baseball everywhere. And then, I still have to deal with my own stuff.

This is What Happens

I’m writing through the pain of a migraine
Writing thru the chronic pain
10 Indigenous MPs
Thank gawd
as I mop the wet puddled floor with dirty white towel.
Touching my face makes the pain worse.
Organized crime to keep Carrie in.
Women in politics where once they where is she
I can’t feel my face
No it’s not about that pop song I can’t feel
my face when I’m with you
I can’t feel my face
I write through the pain.
Can’t feel my face but can feel the pain when I
touch my face.
Touch myself. Well stop touching yourself then mother
said.
Trudeau is our prime minister. Harper had to go an American said.

I want a change for my community
Creative people are the geniuses of genetic art of

    word-of-mouth out the sound teacher
    of poet sitting in a house of writers

I was a hippie when it was not the 60s
The garden of love and listen Ginsberg singing

    makes me look around for my parents on
    is it cash I’m looking around for acoustic
    as a guitar Berklee piano lessons at
    4:30 p.m. Will I remember? She wasn’t
    Won’t she.

Desires for NDP for orange take the sign off
the lawn
context of recorded neighbours and friends
intrigued by chanting about their conservative
dirtied mired politics of crime backings
Recorded that we should have could have
would have been orange singing weird songs.
Putting it out on Twitter not caring that my
friends and I are already on some list of irony
on University Avenue and or Parliament Hill, Ottawa.
Trudeau again decades later. Proud? We’ll see

    the gossip grants go for debating debaucherous
    tandem tricycles dimensions

need caffeine to write the poem
ambiguity and irony in the pain in
my face
a friend sick
conflict
challenges
content
singing hurts my eyes of
innocence why binary
why forums of feminism
the jays are on at 4. I can cheer chums
for that.
Sexualizing the race relations of rats in
The vote votive verbs can can dance the hip
hop
The face is losing feeling.
Can smile no stroke folk story reaching arms up
social evils down and up the street
Window closed dog barks bad otherwise guys
Praying for votes thru gates voting in the basements
of churches or big rooms ranting the echo of
scribbling a vote with pencil
Red rum murder rum red is shining O Stephen.

Obscure that a union town is blue, almost
depressed oh just wrote on a facebook
post that I shouldn’t have here comes the
vice, the political rant, the flarf from the
friend the rolling of eyes on the train of thought
about him
Politics everywhere, wanting to calm down wanting
to sleep curl up in a ball a fetal position
husband in KY so I parent
thru the pain of my fucked face physicians
forever not helping once with my performance
on video when I can walk away over there
substitute my experience with something else
then fuck it all.

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