SONG OF THE DAY: Sunrise (kudzu'd)

Oh look, I wrapped up the heroic crown. It ain't the greatest sonnet in the world, but it's a sonnet, and it fits the pattern and rhyme scheme and gets it done, and I did in true freestyle sonnet fashion and wrote it in about 11 minutes with my rhyming dictionary at hand.

Infinite outlook grants this grimy world more grace, 
man's vision hyperextended our reach too far 
beyond what humility should have kept in place; 
star dusted crowns got delusions of grandeur... par 

for the course when dreamers discourse with mad schemers 
who build pyramids of abstractions. These unreal 
realities start to bind, blind to redeemers 
who arrive to remind us existence is wheel 

and not a line chart. My heart yearns for sunrises 
greeted with hopeful joy, and sunsets filled with peace; 
but this compromised world the devil devises 
entraps the spirit in sadness without release. 

Nonetheless, with stealth I conceal behind this face 
planet rock mentality born from outer space. 

SONG OF THE DAY: Struggling Man (kudzu'd)

Back on that freestyle sonnet tip, so as to wrap up this heroic crown hopefully. I really need to cobble together another book of freestyle sonnet heroic crowns.

Simplifying life also amplifies the funk; 
living with spunk and zeal has popular appeal 
but is far less practiced by masses far too drunk 
off performance without basis in being real. 

Ain't no carrying the weight of world created 
by men without struggling in mind from time to time; 
this labyrinth designed to entrap those baited 
with dreams of escape is a well organized crime 

against true pursuit of happiness. All this dirt 
of metaphysical nature which stains our acts 
of building our pyramid schemes will only hurt 
ourselves when it's time to pay universal tax 

of balance restored. At war with abstract wealth chase, 
infinite outlook grants grimy world far more grace.

SONG OF THE DAY: Love Come Down (kudzu'd)

Had to practice some self-love recently, because I'm not sure if you noticed, but the world is FUCKED.

Stay focused on infinity but take it slow. 
Embrace the darkness rather than getting too lost 
in "woe is me" psychology; maintain the flow 
of energy. Stagnant patterns of thinking cost 

chances to scatter experiential phases 
into spaces where your ultimate place is. Stay 
true to heart without succumbing to brain crazes. 
Nowadays is engineered chaos meant to stray 

and lead wayward. Study the celestial maps 
overhead a couple nights a week while seeking 
answers to questions you can't speak. No one unwraps 
this gift of existence completely, so freaking 

out at times is key piece of cultivating soul; 
each imperfect moment is needed part of whole. 

SONG OF THE DAY: I Give You Everything You Want (kudzu'd)

Freestyled this one three different ways before I felt okay with it. Alternate versions available in the multiverse.

Another inhumane day, for better or worse, 
juggling the bills while struggling to chill, mean mugging 
the world with chip-toothed dimpled grill; the universe 
sometimes feels a little bit crooked and bugging. 

It is what it is, as they say, this frustrating  
nature of living inside gridlock which divides 
and conquers weakened spirits. No time for hating... 
just showing and proving upon my short Earth rides 

around the sun. Full-blown Aquarius at heart, 
keep it light despite nefarious nature folks 
inclined to cultivate and claim's parcel and part 
of civilization since start, devilish hoax 

meant to keep people's hopes depressed and spirits low; 
stay focused on infinity but take it slow. 

SONG OF THE DAY: Sweetest Taboo (kudzu'd)

Sonnets about nothing are everything right now.

Leaning into each day's blessing, without a curse 
spoken, step into sunshine to further unwind 
my meandering path, avoiding the adverse 
obstacles others engineered to double blind 

big picture outlook. I'm a Blue Ridge wanderer, 
by way of southside back roads but born from Greater 
Appalachian diaspora - wild ponderer 
of "The Power" my pops spoke of, cultivator 

of lounge, practicing watercourse way to remain 
constantly moving but with most chill ripple 
instead of mechanized hurtle. Hard to maintain 
inhumane desires of ego, which can cripple 

and maim your hope and happiness... gotta let go 
to reverse negative stream of consciousness flow. 

SONG OF THE DAY: On A Sunday Afternoon (kudzu'd)

Looks like I've established the self-rule that I write freestyle sonnets when I post kudzu'd songs. But don't let that cause you to miss the fact this is one of the most bangingest bangers to ever bang, and it's even better slowed.

Though I'm not guaranteed, there's always tomorrow 
for the whole world. But should I not be blessed enough 
to make the next sunrise, I hope there's less sorrow 
than celebration of full me, stripped down to buff 

essence. My presence has always been blemished, but 
never made claims otherwise, keeping it simple 
to the edge of stupid (because I know how). What 
point is existing if I can't flash a dimple 

and chip-toothed smile, freestyling my way through Sunday 
afternoons and Thursday mornings alike, striving 
to find joy while surviving the doom others lay 
out like psychic land mines? Somehow, I'm still driving 

this ragged body while drunk off the Universe, 
leaning into each day's blessing, without a curse.

SONG OF THE DAY: Computer Love (kudzu'd)

Another freestyle sonnet, written between zoom meetings this morning, connecting to the last one and (seemingly) the next one.

Lessons to recognize Universe is sublime, 
handing out blessings daily despite the crazy 
ways many minds spin. Lessons of kudzu, to climb 
towards sunshine, even when the skies are hazy 

from smoke screens; you innately know things that are true 
far beyond the red, white, and blue. Lessons from creek 
to keep internal trickle flowing, even through 
difficult obstacles, since we always must seek 

reunification with original source. 
Lessons from mycelium, keep it connected 
with whole community; this digital discourse 
designed to divide, and have data collected 

ain't respectful of essence from which we borrow; 
though I'm not guaranteed, there's always tomorrow. 

SONG OF THE DAY: San Juan '82 (kudzu'd)

Writing these freestyle sonnets every time I have a kudzu'd track to post. And while I don't love this sonnet my mind just spat out at me, I don't hate it either. And fits the puzzle of the other sonnets. Freestyle practice means you just do it and let it go, don't get too caught up in perfection, because at our root is imperfection.

Fargo strutting forward - from what's passed, we borrow 
lessons learned, sometimes burned into memory banks 
from the fire of trial and error. Tomorrow 
ain't realized without scarring; still giving up thanks 

for the time and space I'm blessed to be impressed by. 
Each day is a chance to enjoy fresh creation, 
practicing release of stress and tension as I 
let the Universe divine my navigation 

of this manmade labyrinth designed to confine, 
even though heart and mind contain innate desire 
to find place to flourish, let water and sunshine 
nourish our existence so that soul can aspire 

higher than superficial plain which egos climb - 
lessons to recognize Universe is sublime. 

SONG OF THE DAY: Electric Kingdom (kudzu'd)

Keeping the heroic crown vibes going for now...

Can't be bothered to be stopped by concepts of time; 
mechanizing man's mind ain't changed my incline to 
resist. Subsisting off cyborg cookies and chime 
of the algorithm, but mysticism grew 

still. Digital devils never could comprehend 
how when they hit send on end times, loungers appear 
and envision gothicc futures which shall extend 
the days like ellipsis. Gaze boldly at unclear 

horizon, devising margins to thrive within. 
Demons drive hard bargains, but broke folks find good deals 
in what mystery reveals... so let us begin 
to imagine our future with hope, as appeals 

to appease our ancestors' quest for tomorrow', 
Fargo strutting forward, from what's passed we borrow. 

SONG OF THE DAY: Rock With You (kudzu'd)

I haven't wrote any freestyle sonnets lately, much less wove a stack of them into a heroic crown of sonnets... so I guess that's what I'm doing now.

Planet rock mentality born from outer space 

dust, encrusted into bedazzled human booming 

from birth across surface of Earth. Twice dimpled face 

full of simple grace grew without proper grooming... 

That wild back road blackberry bush beard that's bearing 

fruit a bit looney, howling at full moons up high 

while scowling at authority down low. Hearing 

what I want, and always nearing the edge as I 

flat foot like a fool staring up at the sky, eye's 

big and truthful. But now that the beard's long gone grey 

and not youthful, it takes a slow minute to rise. 

Though energy wanes, my spirit waxes its way 

into prime squared since I'm already past my prime; 

can't be bothered to be stopped by concepts of time. 

a heroic crown about the power of lounge

[All them previous freestyle sonnets made a heroic crown with their last lines, like magic...]
Overlooking how universe truly provides, 
chasing beguiled dreams of pyramid schemes of gold, 
ignoring ebb and flow lessons of lunar tides, 
indoctrination causing inside stranglehold. 

Outlaw minds don't do well with domestic guidelines, 
probably best practice to keep your bindle light 
while navigating these empirical declines. 
It’s best to follow signs the conscious mind can’t cite; 

fools entrust their brain to overcome lack of soul. 
Manmade world is riddled with manufactured sleights; 
meanwhile, this shiftless prole maintains his aimless stroll, 
enjoying the accumulated wild style sights  

as a natural born loser. I know the deal... 
my human roots ain't ragged but raw, rugged, real. 

a freestyle sonnet about being born to lose

As a natural born loser, I know the deal 
don't always be coming from above the table, 
so you gotta balance your math with what you feel 
at intuitive level, while still unable 

to control the game. Ain't no shame in being born 
without wealth or fame, struggling to simply survive 
the hand dealt with a next day's ante not yet torn 
from our worn out pockets. But, to remain alive, 

talking shit to the dealer is a type of win, 
unapologetic in our born skin - well-scarred, 
scuffed, with ink-stained testaments to a life of sin. 
"If they sleeping on you, tuck 'em in," disregard 

for the approval odds of them fine folks gold seal; 
my human roots ain't ragged but raw, rugged, real.

a freestyle sonnet about being truly forgotten (non-politically)

Enjoying the accumulated wild style sights 
of built up sediments in forgotten spaces 
the rat race has deemed useless; left for troglodytes 
like myself, forever cruising wasted places, 

tasting the grace of man and nature still shaking 
hands, knowing that people and the land is kinfolk. 
Sitting on discarded soapstone slab, sun baking, 
listening to my uncle the river invoke 

ancient tongues from before concrete sprung from the Earth 
in shady clusters. I've got no need for progress 
cemented in the delusions of abstract worth; 
y'all putting on collective airs, which more or less 

manufactures stress which our intestines all feel... 
as a natural born loser, I know the deal. 

a freestyle sonnet about walking back roads and finding old litter bottles to write poems on

Meanwhile, this shiftless prole maintains his aimless stroll 
through his whole little corner of world. Acquiring 
knowledge of each asphalt or gravel foot through sole 
after sole getting grounded in steps, admiring 

all that which tendrils around me, heart pounding thumps 
on steep inclines, which are common in these Blue Ridge 
foothills. Eyes scanning to find bottle dumps 
for diamond-dimpled wino trash, left to abridge 

the decades, left behind in the woods (like I hope 
to be one day). I got a pile of found old glass 
beside the house, to scrub, paint, and kaleidoscope 
my environment. Trash (not unlike my old ass) 

finds purpose. I walk, ignoring property rights, 
enjoying the accumulated wild style sights. 

a freestyle sonnet about being a yard art freak

Manmade world is riddled with manufactured sleights 
of hand (and mind) designed to confound and entrap. 
I'm inclined to not give a fuck - the sounds and sights 
of half-abandoned happenstance entrance. The scrap 

and detritus of industrial purpose (less) 
decorates my simple existence; one man's trash 
becomes environmental blessings once the mess 
is rearranged to be physical balderdash - 

nonsensical contraptions spinning and clanging 
in the winds of change. Rebar clankyjangers bloom 
throughout my yard, greater Appalachian twanging 
of unseen Blue Ridge back road far from highway's zoom 

between far more important places to extol; 
meanwhile, this shiftless prole maintains his aimless stroll. 

a freestyle sonnet about the great pyramid scam we all live in

Fools entrust their brain to overcome lack of soul; 
neurologies of need get manipulated 
by advertisements to feed the greed of grand ol' 
partisans - those denizens of the gold-plated 

top tier elite of western civilization's 
pyramid scam, the foundations of which remains 
regular folks, crushed by crunched numbers, low stations 
ingrained in genetics to replicate  the pains 

of struggle in next generation (and beyond). 
Limited class mobility as the patents 
on wealth's nobility hidden behind junk bond 
called freedom. The top tier engineers combatants 

to be attacking each "other"... culture fights - 
manmade world is riddled with manufactured sleights. 

a freestyle sonnet subtweet to elon musk's bitch ass

It’s best to follow signs the conscious mind can’t cite, 
inviting intuition (which is oftentimes 
ancestral voices) to insert guidance to light 
right path through obstacles  of manmade math, which climbs 

into the back of our mind through conditioning - 
socialized to think civilized means most god-like. 
An egoistic mistake to make, fissioning 
human existence from all the rest with fire strike 

of neuronal delusions. Those before us know 
already since it was shown the hard way, so they 
speak to us still (if properly attuned), shadow 
knowledge imparted to those following the way 

of the whole, free of arrogant rigamarole; 
fools entrust their brain to overcome lack of soul. 

a freestyle sonnet about not knowing things

While navigating these empirical declines, 
obstacles become common as things fall apart. 
We haven’t gone back to start just because the shine’s 
worn off civilized arc; seems we’ve mistaken smart 

for acting without heart. We can’t recalibrate 
as we ain’t machines, but organisms living 
within larger scheme… nature itself and state 
of man aren’t at war; Earth is far more forgiving 

than given scientific credit for being. 
Body’s plasticity of silent self-repair’s 
eternal, in single cell microscope’s seeing, 
as well as whole of shared universal affairs. 

Our “intelligence” ain’t needed to make things right; 
it’s best to follow signs the conscious mind can’t cite. 

a freestyle sonnet about Sisyphus flipping the script

Probably best practice to keep your bindle light, 
as this world pretends to be far heavier than 
it really is; unreal expectations ghostwrite 
failure. Attempting to remain a simple man 

amidst a maze of complications is work worth 
doing (which I don’t say all that often). All needs 
are easily provided when treading the Earth 
lightheartedly, scattering good nature like seeds. 

Picture Sisyphus pushing a feather instead 
of stone, all his failure demons told to go home; 
civilized progress is a blaspheme breeding dread. 
A hewn man’s thoughts and feet were always meant to roam, 

but we staked claims to whole world, which became confines 
while navigating these empirical declines. 

a freestyle sonnet about being hype about drawing the fool card (again)

Outlaw minds don't do well with domestic guidelines; 
rules made by rulers blind to mindframe of dancing 
fool carrying worries in small bindle. Sun shines 
on other side of darkest storm clouds advancing 

in worst times. But end times are a myth engineered 
to manufacture fear and loathing inside brain. 
Gut intuition remains hopeful despite smeared 
futures stained with weak visions hoping to sustain 

insane, self-destructive existence. Knees weren’t made 
for walking on… feet was, so cast a prayer but 
keep it moving, and get going - the past is staid, 
and living there leaves one rather weighed down with what 

can’t be replicated now… that’s the true fool’s plight; 
probably best practice to keep your bindle light.