Poet Ken

The birds are communicating their wisdom to the trees, who are breathing their wisdom to the breeze, which is trying mightily to survive in tact. The artillery shell explodes in fragments as if Bert Bacharach were on the attack, selling falitas at a taco stand on 10th, the whole while importing surplus Xanax from Mexico at a dollar a pop. Stop.

The ceaseless communications from the disembodied entities begins again. If they manifest themselves too much, odd occurrences, like gentle gusts of wind, appear like popped popcorn kernels. The nugget of truth in all this is the transcendental realm of the never dead, who feed this consciousness via electricity or fiber optic high intensity microwave coaxial data transfer, flying through our skies at the speed of light.
KEN JONES