Letters to the editor

I noticed how we create these different sets of ideas and these different expressions for the audience.

I noticed, again, how my mind interpreted what you might think about this new piece of work.

Is this going to be another one of those self portrait pieces of work?

Is this going to work with the feedback in order to make us feel small again?

Is this going to work this time?

What category will this piece fall into?

Can I bring out the shades of grey this time?

Can we stop branding the moment as we know it?

I think I can give this one away this time, I think I can find my philosophy to life in this light.

Can I find enough precious metals in the record this time?

Can I find something that won’t act so harsh in your gears?

Can I gain something special from this gamma night?

I heard through this channel that I wasn’t crazy to call out my notes on the frontal lobe, I heard that my inferences in telepathy could drive us out of madness this time.

It’s secret for a reason and our euphemisms should suffice I guess, what happened to subtlety in the golden age?

I think the silver lining was at the edge of the page.

I think I found what you were missing for all these days.

I think I thought long enough about what inspired me to write, it’s not about getting what I want this time, no this time the cause is more noble than calling out the wrong industry for selling puppies in cages.

I guess this will work this time to make me quit playing the page.

Quit dialing in to the call center without knowing what’s in the air, good Lord am I happy that the beaurocrats enjoy poetry for once.

I’m sure they hate the dry statistics and semantics that come through with the dog days of the quarterly.

One time I presented the wrong quarrel to the wrong boss and it was relative to telling the president that he had no sense left in fighting the wrong war for this was a simulation of a still life and recreation of a dream. A re-enactment of the civil war they said…

Are your dreams dark?
They asked me about that one time, and I s told them I don’t hold on to nightmares any longer now that I’ve seen death ride, he knows no man who could end his swift kick.

Death ends his rites of passage with a signature trick of the flicker of light, making the boy see himself die in the future, not as a warning, but to ease the worries of flight, now my astral body dives and ducks and dodges out of sight.

Oh foresight how your cursed cold wisp in the night proves how I write about the things I cannot find on paper sooner, and how I tend to bust through the forth wall if only to answer the question,

“what does it mean to blow the whistle on a puppy mill?”

I answer with a cold breathe in the frozen air outside,

“well, it means risking death’s lick before an industrial giant, and knowing I’ll survive is why I sacrifice my own freedom, if only for a moment, to save an entire litter, from getting turned in to waste, cause these little lives and these little gods deserve more than the cages torture”-

Patrick Michael, a channel from the communications engine for the spirit, TaurianTorus.com

Sent from my Verizon LG Android