Death of the poet III (Santa Cruz, Ca)

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Would that I could pen the oppression of the day,
it might speak volumes, for the ocean, so distant,
flitters away from my visitations perpetually

Eyes of adoring disposition wither and fade,
as I, a man of divine compunction, do meld softly
into my concrete backing, to become sum and composition
of the imprisoning enclave where I sleep

Morality and ruse are little in the way
of pittance for struggles so despondently
fixed on the melancholia of shades
wandering along all the varieties
of gray and spotty green in this city

I'll find a home in the people again,
for now, all is neglible, so issue
death of the poet
PP in Muse Apprentice Guild

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PP in Muse Apprentice Guild
Northhampton, Ma

The grand spatter contentious
of droplets patient caress
to concrete majesty fashioned,
the innumerable content of sand
Solvent, swaths of light
break towards unification
Primrose streaks highlight
the tears in blue nimbus
Amazing grace, the chortles of colour,
murmuring, shatter upon my flesh.

The beads streaming down
my grand arch and hollow
are immaculate conceptuals
PP in BBC; West Wales

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Utopia II

Voi opus, hic labor est- Virgil

Such a strange Utopia we've dedicated
our wakefulness to, thus in
Personally I feel the blemish,
like lipstick on a glass of vintage--
stark scarlet capping the delicate
foundation upon which our years rest;
as the bloodied skie to whom we weep
or the ruddy thresh that seeks testament

Well then, that's to be the course of this,
for, as Baudelaire said best,
"Il est l'heure de s'enivrer!
Pour n'être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps,
enivrez-vous;
enivrez-vous sans cesse!
De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise."
We make no apology for it,
for, in strictest sense, that Socratic sentiment
belies that the finest points of Utopia
are merely inside jokes for those
understanding the implications of an explaination
and for the remainder, the gutter is as fine
a bedchamber to marry intellect
with daily mundane contexts as any

They's peoples is Ho's, yes,
knowing no better than the best
monstrous mechanizations grind dem as
yet genius exists
and shall be demolitionist,
as always it has

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For the last 8 years Tyler Joseph Wiseman has traveled across 47 states and over 60,000 miles hitchhiking in order to disseminate my poetry to the masses, with 80,000 through misc. means. As a result, he has achieved the status of self-publication in every state and a handful of countries by the age of 21, and at 22 found national publication in The Vault: Soul Fountain. He was covered on national television (NBC) reading his poem "When Rabbit Howls" at the 50th Anniversary of City Lights. Publications include Poetry Life and Times, Muse Apprentice Guild, the New Pleiades Anthology, Taborri Press, and The Sidewalk's End amongst others.