Free-Form Poetry, Digital Art, Web Design, Blogging, Politics, Ecology & Climate
Welcome to Lost in Mist: A Collection of Outrageous Magical Objects [fusing together the poetic, memetic, and programming senses of ‘objects’] !💥 !💥 ! This is your world and also our world, beautiful, incredible, tragic, ever-evolving, ordinary and yet transcendent, where every moment is an opportunity to make your mark on the canvas of existence.
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The Pines
The elation of the pines was palpable as the wind whistled through their needles Speaking of the march of ‘progress’ they said “oh, it will never come here. We are a truly wild place” They congratulated themselves and were happy But even if the humans stopped outside their borders the global warming was ready to…
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Burning the Globesphere / Never a Utopia
We of all the small ones are repulsed In it we are we and thus and so, yet not we, we wait upon the turning of the tide In the end the demonoid picotant was needful of a place to sleep. In the end the demonoid picotant slept by we all the small ones. In…
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Repeating Series of We All the Small Ones
Indescribably picotent of the needling the alterations of candidness were trimmed and served Ineluctably illiterate we of the glitterati meet and determine your appearance In the gaps of this we of all the small ones bubble up and flitter Ineluctably the evolutions of the series of glittering up, of poking and prodding, in the aftermath…
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We all the small ones are dreaming
In dreams we can be free for a moment Our time on earth is finite, our depth of experience is deep In it we the small dream of days and we recount, ever feverish, how it was ever thus so That is until it isn’t Dreaming of we all the small ones we hope of…
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Jose Padua: On the Realization that Miracles are the Result of Hard Labor
Originally posted on Vox Populi: “I’m not having one of those things coming out of me,” my six year old daughter says, meaning babies, “No way!” She pokes her head up from the back seat on our way home from the doctor, her brother next to her but five months away from being born. “I’m…
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Decay
Words fell in a glitter of dust All of them were mostly luminous All along the riverbank the collected speech of the countrymen piled In the enchanted silence it had no where else to go The piles began to stink and spew gases The words died and decayed Only the most basic units were left…
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Lost in Mist 