0:00 / 0:00

15 seconds

15 seconds

Salute to the Tuck!

1 year ago
152

The "Can A Poet Make it on Rumble" broadcasts Poem in honor of Tucker!

5 Comments

  • 0/2000
  • — the fat man had to keep looking at the thinning script and his disappearing hair, it was sadness, it was sadness, but he didn’t know how hippopotamus he seemed to some of us. He tried and he tried to stir up the old hearts again, raged as he raged and rained on the stage twice more. the people cried for all that he used to be. Me I weptlaughed at the ribs on his entropy. His varicose stories they sung like a vampire lounge, where very old creepies think they're young on the blood of doves. And the music it played on a geetar without no strings, with invisible soundtracks I think we weren’t supposed to see, and all of us mushroomed up, pretending it was God we heard, but all of the “all of the” just summed up the fakenews storm. And I rang a bell so tiny that the airplanes flew, and people whispered at towers in the ash of their little hands, cupping the wind and universe like giant worms, realizing for a second their own death was inside their hands, and that’s when it that’s when it seemed like a leprosy … all of this all of this paint on a painters face. sitting down I sat down for it, this gift of a horror show, realizing and reckoning that I was foolish twin, matched like the ass of a devil or a giant angel, falling from falling from skies where a heaven sat, understanding so simply that time is a writer’s joke, life is a dead man’s dream, skin is hope that goes. And there in that lullaby I cried for time for a tea, a place where the people smiled and hated me no more. But that was a mystery, a space you can’t really go. And so I did hunger me, for a taskmaster gentleplay. A burden so very light, a treasure so small it aches, hiding in open space up where you dream. And Galilee called out to me, said die on that lonely tree, swing like a sailor with no betrayal in his guts. And I grabbed at yarns again, sailed like a monkey’s fool, hoping that hoper’s dream, that Christ was a true one. and things bled right out of me, sleep came all over me, fate lost its

    4 likes
  • and things bled right out of me, sleep came all over me, fate lost its mystery, and the soul began to breathe. And that man on that tattooed stage, stopped from his ancient rant, looked at who rent the skies, and apologized his facade. I waved back a hug to him, said problem none, the ill was mine. I put you up there, friend, and you were none but me. He bent and kissed the stage, not hello but bye for good. And I took out my money pouch and handed him all the score.

    4 likes
  • good poem

    2 likes
  • Nice poem, I like it. Hope your headache leaves soon. God Bless you, sir.

    1 like
  • That was outstanding- great imagery. We have seen a lot of truth come through Tucker. Much awakening. God bless you

    1 like