#these
Version of myself, overloaded and caged
by my own making
Covered by layers , sophisticated inside
Moments make me feel detached ,ready to flee
Wavering along winds ,rising through sunsets
Where would I find myself
Lost long before I knew it
Now I ve forgotten who I am
Asking at night ,staring at the sky
Filling my soul with both day and night
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 1:27 AM UTC
these words you employ,
fantastically eloquent, so easy spoke,
images of vibrancy,
striking contrasting chords
that clash harmoniously,
overflowing in colors not yet recognized
officially,
these
meta-phors that spin the head,
gasp with delight uttered in
wry smiles, gasps of cognition,
or whimsy smile at a galactic
connection, once witnessed,
then shared, and a new entry
made in the unofficial bible
of poetic
meteoric metaphors that orbit
our collective consciousness
every first second of the next
momentum momentous moment
11:08pm
Tue Dec 2
2025
and yet,
the colors of plain
Dec 2, 2025
Dec 2, 2025 at 11:26 PM UTC
can I handle the season of older,
took my~love, and took it down,
till the hymnodist laughed,
do not forget,
she shrieked,
old and gold are symmetrically synchronized,
synced, not sink!
what you want to think, is always,
never what you
true believe,
as long as you breathe,
a miner for hearts of love you are,
start in the capillaries, onto the arteries, and deep into the
pumping machine,
which calls out in indignation,
you human, are mine,
and as long as you mine,
for the cup that-is-not-illusory,
always and eternal, l think not,
for you have already tasted love's holy water,
leaving you, leaving you with an undying thirst,
for more,
the gold apogee on our elliptical trajectory,
where the she~sharing-oxygen once displaced
in a race
to be supplanted,
but that must be won,
when/where the golden aura supplants
the necessities,
and the liquid gold will
replace, re-p-aces your almost now used up blood,
endlessly re~circulating,
subject to the the critical cortical critique of
insufficient,
no más, for never enough,
gold and love,
like sync and swim
together in time,
in rhyme,
how could you not know
this absolute
is a
scientific fact?
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 7:32 AM UTC
"These days
I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"
Jackson Browne
<>
these days,
you can come by tween
the mostly soft warming cracking of Dawn,
and the early born-ing of
the first peek of a full grown
but yet
sleepy sunrise,
you'll find me siting on a
asshard dock,
two seagulls staring at the
human interloper,
alone with the threads in my
hardened head,
beating time in casual rhyme,
because that's what poets do,
to warm up their
tongues & toes,
clear their eyes
and
sniffling nose,
their partly opened,
party closed,
throats, eyes and
give up, sacrifice
the longest list of little lies,
that makes (forces) us to get up in the undimming earlies,
when it's just me, the gulls,
& the minnows poking around,
the fluke,
smarter but not wiser,
further out in deep water,
waiting to be caught
and
the cool blood barely flows,
until the rising orb warms
our fragility,
and we review the stories old,
that make us cold at night promising ourselves that
today you'll do that thing(s)
you've been putting off for years,
"Don't confront me with my failures"
Jackson pleads, but I concede,
thinking tell me them
one
mo' time,
make me unrighteous,
make me whole,
then take me,
holy displayed fully,
and the
first poem of the day,
will be my
confession total,
without reservation
and yet muse on
honor
something I thought I knew,
but needing a
closer examination
it might've been
dishonor
that was what
I was truly
knew
<>
Sunrise
July 5
'25
*sitting on the dock
by the bay,
would I*
lay down with a lie?
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 2:52 PM UTC
yes, in full possessive of all the typical, ****** wearing-out diminishments and diminutions
so no surprises, that I’m squinting to see my own personal
street signs two blocks ahead, in case a dreaded left turn be
required
I hear eventually what your thinking, by the second, third rep, I am fully informed of your opinion and am left wondering why people blather rather than win some, with
a winsome smile
but it catches me unaware that my voice, (its tones, notions,and colorations) is softer, though not purposed or so intentioned,this is puzzling, so wrestle for the whys, as is my wont, for explicating my existence be my full time employment and time is overly plentiful and it’s steady evaporation is not the diet I am needing or even
embracing
perhaps, (always a multi-perhaps), mine aging grants an edge-softening, the brain regulates away the shouting urgency of what seemed important, demandy &needy for immediate attention, has a natural implant subtly started subtracting and governs my always was voluble but less-than-valuable insistence to be heard above the raucous din of the world~is~ending~
scarecrows
perhaps, it is something simple physic, but I deny that
escapism excuse, for yet, my bellyful laughter still loudest I know especially, at the ironical, comical of my mirror image rightly making fun of my vanity and even yet today, on a busy city street my senior YO! still summons taxis to appear from
blocks away
perhaps, he flatters himself, his soon to be required stick will be so big, the need to speak softly intuitively concomitant, but that’s a lie as he has no stick as of yet, ‘cept for the one he himself, he hisself, penetrated & perpetrated up his own ****
perhaps, just the intuitive or learned wisdom to think slower, talk lower, excise the waste of haste that plagues the modern life, all that quiet, buttery yet uncool logic persuasion triumphs over the no-reasoned- shouting-pretense to be everybody’s exercised right
to be stupid
so many possible perhaps that this listing is making me too,
list to one side; perhaps, the list is so lengthy it requires a conservation of energy, and sotto voce approach to the so-much-of-everything
yet unanswered,
but perhaps,
I just have less to say and
it comes out of me,
softer and wiser…ha!
perhaps, time has worn me down into a…
a modulated man
Apr 15, 2023
Apr 15, 2023 at 2:43 PM UTC
They say I am the wrong size...
And have things to say about my body...
They say it...and leave...
But do their words leave?
"Can't you see your clothes don't fit in anymore!"
" Oh! you are eating that..."
"Umm...you look fat today!"
It seems funny to them to compare me to different animals...
What do they want!?
I don't get it...should I stop eating?
Should I get insecure about my body like thousands of other girls of my age?
Should I throw up...and then one day end up in a hospital?
They say I am the wrong size...
Then what is the right size?
A thin waist...a lean figure...
They even say ,"everyone is different."
smirks
But...do they really mean it?
Words are said to insult my body...
Every single word attacks like poisonous arrows...
they let out of their bows.
And it kills something inside me.
They say I am the wrong size...
Then...what's up with that!? huh!
I love the way I am...
I appreciate my curves...as they are mine...
And today...all I wanna do is-
Appreciate my little heart...
For taking all of that
As I can't let myself down.
May 2, 2021
May 2, 2021 at 1:30 AM UTC
Life is flashing by without me
Tied up and made to watch the ghost
******* sounds from behind the mask
Slick with oil
Gassed and destroyed
Painful wheezing
Breaths are leaving
Red wet chest barely moves anymore
He's covered in mud and chasing me
Just the energy
Let it out and let it go
No need to think too much
I can grasp the throne if I let him go
I can grasp it
I can grasp the unkown
It's like I forget that nothing matters
Nothing is real
Gas me again
Cover me in oil and blow it up
Scratch another surface clean
Why can no one else see this
Truth is ugly
It has no face and it scares me
Blow it up but nothing happens
Some kind of undecided pattern
Its only beautiful from specific angles
Sporadic and unpredictable
Knotted and tangled
Aug 2, 2020
Aug 2, 2020 at 1:14 PM UTC
No one's coming to save you
Get used to that
Feel so alone
Run out of things to say
Everything feels so empty
When I run out of ideas to share
And nothing excites me anymore
And I bang my head against these walls
And I don't stop
And the cranks are turning
And they never stop turning
And it's getting tighter
And it's getting nearer
And it won't stop hunting
And it won't stop hurting
As long as you're beating
I can hear it's blood travelling
Keep it away please
Please keep it away from me
It has no face and it scares me
No one can seem to name it
Slithers back
Back to where it can't be seen
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 4:43 PM UTC
I scream at the plaster peeling on the wall
So existential I hardly know how to spell it
So I just melt away into nothingness
Become the paint and keep still for once
The answer floats along
Etched into eternities consciousness
Don't worry about it
The functions are complex but the reasons so simple
Let it pass by
Don't question
Let it slumber and snore
And then peace
Just for now
A few more moments
Keep still
Arms open and throat exposed
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 4:47 PM UTC
Second gilded age
malefactors of great wealth
the oligarchy
still GOD USED ORDINARY
PEOPLE just like you and me
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 1:14 PM UTC
Spring feels like dying this time.
I usually feel like withering,
but because of the allergies.
People used to be able to laugh
at my sneezes; now they feel like
quick triggers. How do I know which
it is? My phone says it’s a Friday.
The calendar says it’s April.
I know it’s both, but it feels like neither
because spring feels like dying this time.
When I go outside I can relax for a little
in the warmth, but I know it’s a false feeling—
that nature is living. No one I know is really
living, but the mosquitos don’t care.
I go from bed to table to bed again,
wearing the same clothes; it feels maybe
like being mummified. I know I’m in a
tomb, with the same walls haunting me,
and spring feels like dying this time.
Not even the loose sunlight pooling
in from the window can draw me out
from my blanket-cave where the screen
light burns fleeting images into my retinas.
I let myself lie there until the hours fade,
like everything’s just one big dream,
another reality where my body is nothing
but goo. It helps me to forget the truth,
that spring feels like dying this time.
Apr 26, 2020
Apr 26, 2020 at 3:24 PM UTC
these hard words
are the only fruit my hard-rocked soiled-soul produces,
my alliterations secrete no beliefs, quench nothing,
the poems I don’t write are my most successful,
the songs that comforted, now find no-entry orifice
skin cold wet clammy sweating unsuitable for tilling,
my horizons natural, felled, underground swallowed,
replaced by the man-made barriers, guardrails of words
leaving body, utterances shoutout, exiting non-permissioned
lurch from one guilt-carrying, black leather-straps wrapped,
round my arm, to the ones strapped around my temple,
honorable acts owed, responsibilities fear foundering
unfulfilled lists, griefs, signs of cowardice, badges shameful
deep sighs, open groans, me mean asking questions of myself,
laughed off, city noises turned off, silences of colorless colden,
the sirens loudest inside reverb endlessly, still give nothing away,
a final exam, an all sided, annual checkup reveals nothing but
these hard words
7:48am 10/15/19
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 11:27 AM UTC
You are more
Than the stars
In the sky
At night
You're so much more
Just a delicate
Drop of dew
On my windowsill
Not waiting for me
Too close to touch
You're ethereal
Making the
Planets jealous
You're too close
To evanescence
Aug 10, 2019
Aug 10, 2019 at 7:39 PM UTC
I miss the way we used to sit
How you'd fall asleep on my shoulder cold
How you quietly would look at me, and I at you, because we'd know
I miss the everyday secret things
Which we used to do and could've been
With a oneness and once unified breath
I miss these more than anything
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 7:00 PM UTC
drrry spells
~for the r in all of us~
a normanative condition, a kitchen condiment, an un-relished
I’m-in-a-pickle relish, when there in no hot **** dogged doggedly poem perspiration in the fridge or anywhere to be found; nothing but a top sliced bun, ah, plain buns, old stale dog ones is all ya got left for dinner, during one of them there drrry spells that
no blonde tanned unweathered weatherperson ever
forecast correctly
Normanative? Oh yeah.
the tyranny of the white, white bread, the white, whittle ya down screen, couture-cold water from tap direct, neck bent, jugged to try and fail to wash down that lumpen ball of dog fur brain drain clog that’s backing up the paper words, in a stomach churning brine holding you back from reaching the top of the Mt. Everest,
rite Normanative?
Normanative.Oh yeah. Son of Norma and Normally.
It’s in the bibell, look it up!
she-he is my pooka, (nope, uh-uh, look it up) a six foot tall rabbit,
climbing up my brain stem, strategically strangling my words like
a flea killer collar round my neck, one that actually visually works,
my flea bit words fall to the floor, to live with the dust mites descendants of the ole south, drafts and rejection letters, all whose blessed memory may never die etc. etc.
that was the condition of my normanative condition when I dropped in (yup, look it up),
Norman sarcastically asking, how’s the weather up there,
any rain in that-northern-brain, down here it’s as dry as an southern old dog porch panting in Jewlie, breathiny out summer hottie poems, write out like it’s crazy going out of style, oh yeah, forgot
you don’t speak dawg that well.
so I don’t know nothing about your drry spells, just climb into
the hottest hot tub, staying all the summer months if necessary,
reading old poems about busted hearts, old dogs, unrealized loves that can’t be forgot, promises kept that one never made, other curses,
battlefields of yore, sweatin’ out the toxins till r
sends along a new one, rocking my toenails to my disbelieving eyes,
for I’m a mentally patient person,
whose never seen a drrry spell so long, that was not worth
wading thru, waiting for, till something busted out and
another thunderstorm of a literary good one, errr come along
like I said, I’m a mental patient man, still crazy after all these years...
(yup, that too, you could look it up if ya made this far)
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 12:08 PM UTC
These
Are my knees
And I would get down on them
Over and over again
For you and then
And then
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 10:56 AM UTC
i'm sorry but i'm building this wall around me,
so, the monsters can't get you, too.
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 7:21 AM UTC
come to me,
my beloveds
with long nails
and squinting eyes,
spare neither
claw or hook,
delve and devolve,
critique and solve
the words of this prophet
scribbled on plastic
bus seats
give me
my due,
my comeuppance,
my downfalls
will me
to be better
or worse
if that be betterment
so eagerly
will embrace,
grasp, insert
your benailing fingers,
soften, grasp,
repoint thy claws
taking thy earnest joy
at pain inflicted
as my own
as long as you dare
just say something!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A bus poem
in honor of my invitation
my digital birthing
April 8th, 2015
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC