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54/M/The Exclusion Zone
Married to Mrs. Timetable. Surreal picture by Justin Peters. New book "Exiled to Dusk" available here: https://poetizer.com/book/ba36575e-df93-482e-9279-e97ae0b7bc13
27/F/No longer wandering :)
Joined September 14, 2013. | Changed my meds and now I think I'm back to how I was before my writer's block—will I be writing …
32/F/Batesville Indiana
I breathe poetry it seems.....I love getting lost in it. Pen in hand or reading others art.
Poems
Ken Pepiton
Oct 2018
'Put my hand in the hand of the man from Galilee,
that song keeps playing in my memory, and I recalled
Or I thought I did, I imagined he'd walk with me
and talk with me
Along life's merry (or was it narrow?), way
a light touch, his arm around my shoulders,
as boys are wont to do,
I axed 'im,
help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which I think may have been blind, at that time,
I have memories like that.
packed away in old memes. That mean something...
Gold-something...
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom.
Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled
Google The Global Brain, Howard Bloom,
where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.
And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but these,
heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.
Here a seeing being done, words appearing...
fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,
the point of the story was made,
and there is no end in sight.
Pop. Another apocalypse bubble collapses by mortality. Whaddyaknow?
What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tension-power-loss collapses the bubble?
You should think, you know atoms work, this way.
Touchy bubbles disappear when their form is disinformed,
the wall of a bubble,
one quanta of power thick,
vanishes
as the charge that formed it flees.
That bubble,
not cloud-based, random super positioning,but
elect
tric-magi-tech, a touch screened
at the quantum accounting point of real-ification,
but, probably,
a bubble,indeed,
powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
(I charge thee, son Timothy, go)
That's all an electron does.
It goes, as soon as any sense can be made of it,
outa here, oughta hear it, clear,
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...
No, ah, when I think about that..
Hell,
somethi' from nuthin musta hapt one time,
but ya'll take no heed, this voice,
m'fallin angel, Tantan, droppin' in ol-fren, tricky hybridbast...
Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth
found in wines that moved themselves aright,
slurry tongued, and laughin' but pisstoff.
The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...
Old story, God damened 'em, not me, I just
built the box.
Who told you I was naked? Noah queried Shem.
-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.
Things were said, that maybe could be forgotten, after a while,
But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.
Forgot can't be forgiven it seems, sometimes...
The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.
I've looked so long through that lens,
that I began to see the bubble formed around me,
charged powerfully with fear,
'yond my bubble monsters lurked.
But, my bubble bumped another,
purest of happenstance,
the bubbles merged and merged again,
their power building to a wave,
crashing to the shore and no more
was I bubbled in my safe place.
I found this trail up from the beach.
It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
Did you regret the defeat at Ai,
or were you
Aachen, bold?
No, irrelevant, obtuse allusion to Yahshua,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.
Information unformed begins to boil deep in me.
Somethin', ain't it? All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.
Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,
that was the trick. Elect trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.
Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening as an event, in the Deep Field,
is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.
Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,
to learn. Fifty year'r longer.
Everything that's old and still works is only old, not rotten.
Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the potential worth of all your eyes behold,
behind the curtain,
lies the prize.
If, if, if you are a luckywinner and
you arise when I call your name
to come on down,
fall on your knees and declare the worth...
pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, 'smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize, what's the diff?
How comes a thing to be worthy,
in your estimation? Tell me no lie.
A feeling? What's it worth?
Depends.
Safe? Priceless! Don't shout. There's money to make.
'Got a busy-ness pre-positioned high above the rest.
A super-positioned superstion. The darkness.
See, safety is a human right.
So we sell walls, impermeable. It's always, lights on
within, then
We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened
by those we make
feel safe, from the dark unknowns seeping in.
That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we saw the Power in Myth and
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.
Within these walls workers will work for food and a feeling.
And Facebook.
They choose a place and stand, and do what comes to hand.
Heartily
grip what's easiest for you to hold on to,
they are told.
Attendants bring the meds, settling every disruption
of the peace the patient craves in his comfort.
The price ain't right, m'mouthmumbles...
You are absolutely co-rect-allatime, tekayepeel.
There are wishes being made,
on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters.
If wishes were askings, what if
connecting to the source of haps which,
every expert knows, haps are
all happiness can possibly
consist of.
Oh, consist.
That sticky, gluteny idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand.
Sistere. Shield-wall and all that. Turtles all the way down.
A disruption!
Day room Now! Granpa's shouting,
This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!
I'll drop it. I swear.
Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.
But, maybe this is me interrupted... in my meander.
What if, nothing is immaterial,
as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
If nothing can go wrong, it won't.
Ask the pilot flying by faith in his checklist.
What if,
asking for help helps?
Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea? An answered prayer?
Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.
Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore,
quoth the raven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories,
telling eventualities that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,
Stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,
whatcha learn can change the world.
Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
Grandpa made some sense and we built a fort, of pillows
that song keeps playing in my memory, and I recalled
Or I thought I did, I imagined he'd walk with me
and talk with me
Along life's merry (or was it narrow?), way
a light touch, his arm around my shoulders,
as boys are wont to do,
I axed 'im,
help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which I think may have been blind, at that time,
I have memories like that.
packed away in old memes. That mean something...
Gold-something...
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom.
Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled
Google The Global Brain, Howard Bloom,
where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.
And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but these,
heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.
Here a seeing being done, words appearing...
fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,
the point of the story was made,
and there is no end in sight.
Pop. Another apocalypse bubble collapses by mortality. Whaddyaknow?
What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tension-power-loss collapses the bubble?
You should think, you know atoms work, this way.
Touchy bubbles disappear when their form is disinformed,
the wall of a bubble,
one quanta of power thick,
vanishes
as the charge that formed it flees.
That bubble,
not cloud-based, random super positioning,but
elect
tric-magi-tech, a touch screened
at the quantum accounting point of real-ification,
but, probably,
a bubble,indeed,
powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
(I charge thee, son Timothy, go)
That's all an electron does.
It goes, as soon as any sense can be made of it,
outa here, oughta hear it, clear,
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...
No, ah, when I think about that..
Hell,
somethi' from nuthin musta hapt one time,
but ya'll take no heed, this voice,
m'fallin angel, Tantan, droppin' in ol-fren, tricky hybridbast...
Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth
found in wines that moved themselves aright,
slurry tongued, and laughin' but pisstoff.
The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...
Old story, God damened 'em, not me, I just
built the box.
Who told you I was naked? Noah queried Shem.
-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.
Things were said, that maybe could be forgotten, after a while,
But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.
Forgot can't be forgiven it seems, sometimes...
The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.
I've looked so long through that lens,
that I began to see the bubble formed around me,
charged powerfully with fear,
'yond my bubble monsters lurked.
But, my bubble bumped another,
purest of happenstance,
the bubbles merged and merged again,
their power building to a wave,
crashing to the shore and no more
was I bubbled in my safe place.
I found this trail up from the beach.
It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
Did you regret the defeat at Ai,
or were you
Aachen, bold?
No, irrelevant, obtuse allusion to Yahshua,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.
Information unformed begins to boil deep in me.
Somethin', ain't it? All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.
Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,
that was the trick. Elect trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.
Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening as an event, in the Deep Field,
is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.
Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,
to learn. Fifty year'r longer.
Everything that's old and still works is only old, not rotten.
Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the potential worth of all your eyes behold,
behind the curtain,
lies the prize.
If, if, if you are a luckywinner and
you arise when I call your name
to come on down,
fall on your knees and declare the worth...
pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, 'smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize, what's the diff?
How comes a thing to be worthy,
in your estimation? Tell me no lie.
A feeling? What's it worth?
Depends.
Safe? Priceless! Don't shout. There's money to make.
'Got a busy-ness pre-positioned high above the rest.
A super-positioned superstion. The darkness.
See, safety is a human right.
So we sell walls, impermeable. It's always, lights on
within, then
We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened
by those we make
feel safe, from the dark unknowns seeping in.
That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we saw the Power in Myth and
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.
Within these walls workers will work for food and a feeling.
And Facebook.
They choose a place and stand, and do what comes to hand.
Heartily
grip what's easiest for you to hold on to,
they are told.
Attendants bring the meds, settling every disruption
of the peace the patient craves in his comfort.
The price ain't right, m'mouthmumbles...
You are absolutely co-rect-allatime, tekayepeel.
There are wishes being made,
on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters.
If wishes were askings, what if
connecting to the source of haps which,
every expert knows, haps are
all happiness can possibly
consist of.
Oh, consist.
That sticky, gluteny idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand.
Sistere. Shield-wall and all that. Turtles all the way down.
A disruption!
Day room Now! Granpa's shouting,
This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!
I'll drop it. I swear.
Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.
But, maybe this is me interrupted... in my meander.
What if, nothing is immaterial,
as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
If nothing can go wrong, it won't.
Ask the pilot flying by faith in his checklist.
What if,
asking for help helps?
Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea? An answered prayer?
Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.
Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore,
quoth the raven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories,
telling eventualities that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,
Stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,
whatcha learn can change the world.
Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
Grandpa made some sense and we built a fort, of pillows
This is a reworking of Good news from a far country, I am attempting to rein in my scattered mind. Let me know if you see improvement or parts in need thereof.
Harley Hucof Oct 2014
Naughty Trick 4
Harley Hucof
Oct 2014
(S)ometimes i say i love you
(I) dont really know if i do
(T)o be honest i want more from you
(O)ther things on my mind
(N)ow i think is the right time
(M)any positions spiral in my brain
(Y)ou should be scared
(F)or i intend to get freaky in your bed
(A)rroused by the thoughts in my head
(C)ome let's play and you'll feel
(E)ndless ******* ahead...
Words Of Harfouchism
(I) dont really know if i do
(T)o be honest i want more from you
(O)ther things on my mind
(N)ow i think is the right time
(M)any positions spiral in my brain
(Y)ou should be scared
(F)or i intend to get freaky in your bed
(A)rroused by the thoughts in my head
(C)ome let's play and you'll feel
(E)ndless ******* ahead...
Words Of Harfouchism
....
Matthew James Jan 2017
Black out
Matthew James
Jan 2017
We're stood on a blacked out highway going to who knows where. A floodlight shines on a group of workmen in road, slow. A passive aggressive sign says "Slow, My Daddy works in here". Gaz, Frank and Jim are gathered under the floodlight.
"That ****** lads dad never worked ere! That's bosses lad!"
"Mmmm..."
"Anyway, what's this hole for do you reckon? Gas? Telephone? Electric? Dead bodies? Haha!"
"Hope not"
"Hopeless more like! Why ARE we digging it anyway?"
"We? I'm digging! You're just talking ****!"
"******* Frank! What about owd Jim over there? Old ****** never does owt!"
"Grunt"
"Leave Jim alone! He's seen it all and done it all a million times! Poor guy must be knackered! If I still have to work at his age I'll ope you young uns gi mi some ****** respect!"
"Respect?! *******! Who's getting respect ere?! Not me! I'm in the middle of nowhere at night digging an ole in a highway for god knows what reason!"
"Look, Gaz, 'oles need to be dug. It's not our job to fill em. We just dig em up!"
"Yeah, but don't you wonder why? Like, we seem to be diggin up constantly! Same ****** area of the same ****** highway! Dunt anyone plan it oot so thi can do it all in one go?! Water, cables, all of it?! Its like we're makin work for t sake on it!"
"At least you've got ****** work! There used to be 20 odd of us on this stretch o road. Are you gonna dig or what?"
"Keep yer air on frank! I'll ****** dig, but I'm only doin it for you!"
"Well ****** me! I'm honoured! Shut up n dig will ya?"
Scrape, heave, scrape, heave
Sigh
Scrape, heave, scrape...
"Yer know what else...?"
"Oh, for ***** sake!! What?!?"
"These shovels are ****!"
"You're ****!"
"Nah mate! Look, handles are loose and shovel bit's weak as ****! If you lift too much thi just bend! It's like thi want us to ave to work twice as ard for t same bleeding job!"
"Well there's no worry o that wi you is there?! You lift ****** all!"
"Whatever..."
Heave, scrape, heave, scrape, heave ... crack!!!
"Told you!"
"Shut up smart ****!"
"Don't ya get it though?! We're nowt t them lot! Thi just use us n **** on us! Wi dunt even kno' where this place is do we? We just get a lamp post number and go! Where does this ****** highway go?!"
"Look, I don't give a ****! I just want to dig this 'ole then go ome and watch some TV and maybe get a **** before bed! There's a ****** sign over there anyway..."
Sign reads "He..."
The rest of the sign is broken away, probably hit by a car.
"Jim. Jim?! Jim!! ******* I think Jim's dea..."
"Consarnid!! Thundering eejit!! I int banna be deed, tha ****** loony! I wor banna geet some shuteye! Tha lod banging on abaat ****** why thar ****** shovlin *****?! Carnt tha led an owd bloke sleep?!!!"
"Sorry Jim. Just worried mi for a minute there. Are ta alreet?"
"Nah am nod! I wo avin a reet dree-um befoore tha wakened us! Megan ****** Fox wor sat o mi fay-us!"
In unison - "Hahaha! Tha owd dog Jim!!"
"Sorry Jim, It's Gaz, e's got more questions than a ****** 3 year owd!"
"Shut up ya miserable get!
Why do you reckon we're diggin this ole Jim? You've been doin it a long time."
"Aye... I wor yer wen thi started fixint roo-uds. It wo differnt then. Thi gi'd us reet too-uls n ad t reet ideas. Thi jus wanid us to dig reet. Bud thi dint like us knowin moo-ur than them lod! S thi gid us ****** all n wi started wokin unner leets i t deark. Nah ****** con see us then. Thas askin t rong quetsion lad! Ids nod why aar wi diggin t oil! It's why aar wi doin id int deark?!"
"Why are wi Jim?"
"Because we're expe...."
Beeeeeeeeeeeeep!!!!
Thud!!!
Vrooooommm!!!
"Oy!!!! ******!!!!"
"Es dead Frank! What the ****, What the ****, What the ****?!"
"What?!? Jim?!! Did tha get 'is number?"
"What the ****, What the ****, What the ****?!"
"Gaz!!"
"What the ****, What the ****, What the ****?!"
"**** Gaz, yer reet! ****** this **** I'm not diggin any more! I'm off ome!"
"F..f...fr.... FranFrank?"
"What Gaz? That were ****** up Gaz!! Jims dead!"
"B..b....bu... bury J..J..J..Jim"
"Gaz, tha'll ave t do it tharself, I can't dig anymore. Sorry. Im calling t ambulance n goin ome. You should too! Bye Gaz. Good luck."
"B..b....by... bye J..J..J..Jim..."
Scrape, heave, scrape, heave, scrape, heave
Slow. My Daddy works in he...
"That ****** lads dad never worked ere! That's bosses lad!"
"Mmmm..."
"Anyway, what's this hole for do you reckon? Gas? Telephone? Electric? Dead bodies? Haha!"
"Hope not"
"Hopeless more like! Why ARE we digging it anyway?"
"We? I'm digging! You're just talking ****!"
"******* Frank! What about owd Jim over there? Old ****** never does owt!"
"Grunt"
"Leave Jim alone! He's seen it all and done it all a million times! Poor guy must be knackered! If I still have to work at his age I'll ope you young uns gi mi some ****** respect!"
"Respect?! *******! Who's getting respect ere?! Not me! I'm in the middle of nowhere at night digging an ole in a highway for god knows what reason!"
"Look, Gaz, 'oles need to be dug. It's not our job to fill em. We just dig em up!"
"Yeah, but don't you wonder why? Like, we seem to be diggin up constantly! Same ****** area of the same ****** highway! Dunt anyone plan it oot so thi can do it all in one go?! Water, cables, all of it?! Its like we're makin work for t sake on it!"
"At least you've got ****** work! There used to be 20 odd of us on this stretch o road. Are you gonna dig or what?"
"Keep yer air on frank! I'll ****** dig, but I'm only doin it for you!"
"Well ****** me! I'm honoured! Shut up n dig will ya?"
Scrape, heave, scrape, heave
Sigh
Scrape, heave, scrape...
"Yer know what else...?"
"Oh, for ***** sake!! What?!?"
"These shovels are ****!"
"You're ****!"
"Nah mate! Look, handles are loose and shovel bit's weak as ****! If you lift too much thi just bend! It's like thi want us to ave to work twice as ard for t same bleeding job!"
"Well there's no worry o that wi you is there?! You lift ****** all!"
"Whatever..."
Heave, scrape, heave, scrape, heave ... crack!!!
"Told you!"
"Shut up smart ****!"
"Don't ya get it though?! We're nowt t them lot! Thi just use us n **** on us! Wi dunt even kno' where this place is do we? We just get a lamp post number and go! Where does this ****** highway go?!"
"Look, I don't give a ****! I just want to dig this 'ole then go ome and watch some TV and maybe get a **** before bed! There's a ****** sign over there anyway..."
Sign reads "He..."
The rest of the sign is broken away, probably hit by a car.
"Jim. Jim?! Jim!! ******* I think Jim's dea..."
"Consarnid!! Thundering eejit!! I int banna be deed, tha ****** loony! I wor banna geet some shuteye! Tha lod banging on abaat ****** why thar ****** shovlin *****?! Carnt tha led an owd bloke sleep?!!!"
"Sorry Jim. Just worried mi for a minute there. Are ta alreet?"
"Nah am nod! I wo avin a reet dree-um befoore tha wakened us! Megan ****** Fox wor sat o mi fay-us!"
In unison - "Hahaha! Tha owd dog Jim!!"
"Sorry Jim, It's Gaz, e's got more questions than a ****** 3 year owd!"
"Shut up ya miserable get!
Why do you reckon we're diggin this ole Jim? You've been doin it a long time."
"Aye... I wor yer wen thi started fixint roo-uds. It wo differnt then. Thi gi'd us reet too-uls n ad t reet ideas. Thi jus wanid us to dig reet. Bud thi dint like us knowin moo-ur than them lod! S thi gid us ****** all n wi started wokin unner leets i t deark. Nah ****** con see us then. Thas askin t rong quetsion lad! Ids nod why aar wi diggin t oil! It's why aar wi doin id int deark?!"
"Why are wi Jim?"
"Because we're expe...."
Beeeeeeeeeeeeep!!!!
Thud!!!
Vrooooommm!!!
"Oy!!!! ******!!!!"
"Es dead Frank! What the ****, What the ****, What the ****?!"
"What?!? Jim?!! Did tha get 'is number?"
"What the ****, What the ****, What the ****?!"
"Gaz!!"
"What the ****, What the ****, What the ****?!"
"**** Gaz, yer reet! ****** this **** I'm not diggin any more! I'm off ome!"
"F..f...fr.... FranFrank?"
"What Gaz? That were ****** up Gaz!! Jims dead!"
"B..b....bu... bury J..J..J..Jim"
"Gaz, tha'll ave t do it tharself, I can't dig anymore. Sorry. Im calling t ambulance n goin ome. You should too! Bye Gaz. Good luck."
"B..b....by... bye J..J..J..Jim..."
Scrape, heave, scrape, heave, scrape, heave
Slow. My Daddy works in he...
Not a poem, more of a short story/random meandering thought