"aleph" poems
Abbreviations of the Life Human
these little stories, bejeweled poeticals, long tall tales,
short-held breaths from the savings account breast,
all slow withdrawing-dawning,
all are but the abbreviations of the life human
my fav of course,
the one, the twenty six
the aleph best bet
<•>
4-16-18 10:47pm
a mondo Monday survivors prayer
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:16 PM UTC
in action , inaction
in inaction, action
precarious balance
YOU AND I ARE HERE
higgs boson......pulsation
yinning and yanging
the bed keeps bouncing
UP AND DOWN
creation.....unceasing
apparent sensation
of repetition
apparent sensation
of difference
other than
YIN and YANG
aleph
(alpha)
and
tov
(omega)
centers of centaurs
and of course the
dragons
( and unicorns)
YOU AND I ARE HERE
in the cornicoupia
in the fertile valley
on the frieght train headin west
huddled gainst the lover's breast
try live awhile then try death
the bed keeps bouncing
UP AND DOWN
YOU AND I ARE HERE
Jul 17, 2010
Jul 17, 2010 at 1:29 PM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
Three Mothers stood alone.
Aleph, Mem, and Shin.
A great mystery are these three,
Watching, weaving, and true.
From the Mothers came three Fathers,
Stranger still are they.
Six rings around the Twins,
From six proceed all things.
A riddle I ask you, a riddle so true,
Can you answer me this?
A musing I give you in the form of a poem,
Do you catch my drift?
Three stood alone before all things,
Three who are older than time.
Six stood alone in the Outer Dark,
But which came before which other?
How old is Nimue, how old's the child,
Is she younger than all the rest?
How old is Ninue, is she younger than you,
Who was the very first born?
How old is Mari, how old's the mother,
Was she born and when was that?
How old is Mari, is she older than that,
Who's the reflection of God Herself?
How old's the Anna, how old's the crone,
Is she more ancient than all the rest?
How old's the Anna, is she older than dirt,
When was the Priestess born?
How old's the Blue God, when did he dance,
Was he very first born of all?
How old's the Blue God, how young's the youth,
Who is the last to endure?
How old is Twr, how old is Krom,
Is he father or teacher of all?
How old is Twr, in his tall tower.
Who's sword will cut through us all?
How old is Arddhu, how old is Death,
How long has he stood at the Gates?
How old is Arddhu, did youth or true death,
Come first in the order of things?
Three stood alone before all things,
Three who are older than time.
Six stood alone in the Outer Dark,
But which came before which other?
A riddle I ask you, a riddle so true,
Can you answer me this?
A musing I give you in the form of a poem,
Do you catch my drift?
From the Mothers came three Fathers,
Stranger still are they.
Six rings around the Twins,
From six proceed all things.
Three Mothers stood alone.
Aleph, Mem, and Shin.
A great mystery are these three,
Watching, weaving, and true.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 9:40 PM UTC
My poetry is an acquired taste,
So come, dear one,
Place your tongue in my mouth.
Pace yourself, there is so much,
Spoke and unwritten,
That fruitions only when spit-shared.
Flick your tongue-tip to mine,
Sealing bond, the salt caramel of my rhymes,
The iambic meter of my tamarind prose,
The buds, flowering, poems forming,
Watered by the admixture of joint, minted saliva.
My poetry, so very complicated,
Hints of currants and ash,
Soil volcanic, basaltic vowels, oh's and eyes,
Cursed verses that commence with I,
Nonetheless, despite soil inhospitable rued,
Compositions flourish, born wetland soluble.
Yours, for the taking,
Yours, for the tasting.
You place your fingers on my waist,
My body of work to contemplate,
My ditties, you spit out,
You want courses, not appetizers,
You want truths, not fluff, lies, menu tastings.
Columbus and Magellan, thy fingers named,
Trace the curvature of my ***
With tip and tipsy stroked caresses,
You laugh with the pleasure of all the sssssss's.
Hissing all the day your satisfaction,
Capturing my writs, by your tongue's duress,
Recipient-thief of my literary largesse.
I am dressed all in white,
Stripped bare to my native coloring,
Except for two brown nippled spots, you lick,
Imbibing milky thoughts from fountain-heads *****
Savoring, relishing, stanzas that praise love's flavor.
With every line, every word-painting accessioned,
You make my soft parts hard,
My hard parts soft, but my liquidity,
My tears, they, that, you drink straight,
Licking, liking, and oohing and ahhing,
You tongue curled, upside down arching,
The storage point of your seduced gatherings.
To drain me full, your incisors cut,
Straight lines, entry points for your *******
Taking, draining, leaving nothing,
Not even one aleph or bet escaping.
When you acquired my poetry, my verbosity,
Pillaging soul's hiding place, took and *****
Your acquired the best, breaking my nape,
Imprisoned on and by my island's seascape,
Blanched and pained, a blank tape,
I am tasteless, witless, mockingly, tongue-tied.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
The Summer Alphabet of Woman
Every summer, I learn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
And its charms and naked arms, its own alphabet,
clean forgot.
Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
But mega-millions of dialects,
Know them all cold, know them all, hot.
I speak Woman.
Summer is soft, shapely, sweet,
Clean, bare, lush in a sparse way,
And Woman is spoken thusly.
There are no harsh sounds,
Guttural exclamations, nein!
I speak Woman.
There is no ugly in the summer.
Ugly being an ugly word.
It cannot exist in an atmosphere of
Sun, greenery, sand, carefree days, vacations, no school.
There are no ugly women in the summer.
I could take this writ many places,
But if you are sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Could not give a good god **** because in the summer,
There is no ugly, there is no prejudice.
And I still speak
Woman with an almost perfect fluency,
au naturel.
Gym clothes, short shorts, A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels, flats clip clopping, flip flopping
all over my heart,
But, it is the bare arms and the hints of summer
Cleavage, the short skirts, body hugging one piece fabrics
stretching from here to down there that does not
Hint,
the shoulder strap of the underthings that asks,
that commands me,
to wonder where it leads too...
Even the light wrap at night mocks me,
Like gift wrapping with a smile demure...a teasing blindfold...
All these say:
Write us poetry in our very own tongue,
Woman.
Will oblige.
I curve with curve of the ***** and
invert with S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, and never fails.
The crayola colors of flesh variations,
Boggle the senses... How can tan and pale,
Dark and Light
Have so many
Symphonic variations?
Adagio, slow and leisurely, a pas de deux
For two eyes, then a
Timpani crash and thunder, as
Byron wrote,
"music arose with its voluptuous swell,"
Yes, swell...swell...swell
Enough.
My eloquence, no match for my
Fluency.
Late August, and my vocabulary is already
Diminishing.
I forget how to say in
Woman
*Without you I am nothing,
With you, I am more than everything,*
Tho I can no longer say it,
It is is still true and
Beyond belief.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
~~~
a poem derived from these words of
Joel M Frye
"Poetry is a self-policing agency, enforcing nothing
~~~
The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drops in and
upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
are the selected tool
you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation
you cannot lie in poetry
-one can only validate-
you will tell the whole truth,
and nothing but,
all in good order,
to secure me to thee,
to muddle
our molecular cocktail mix,
you must,
must give only
truth in poetry,
or give
nothing
police yourself
in every aleph bet,
don't substance abuse us with deceit,
give only your unburdening,
force us to lip kiss
when
we face each other,
when
pronouncing the blessed script of
ourselves,
that we have been granted by sharing
each other's unvarnished lettres
the burden is
to un burden
cut out what needs
to be bridged from
the secret walled-in safe,
and give form, life and breath,
expose it to the atmosphere,
reform your bleak introspection
and white horseradish bitter realism,
turn blue blood veined internal
into an amberina red,
all by being
unsaved, unsavory, unsafe
you are the enforcer,
you are the police,
you are the validation
and the validator,
enforcing this sole law,
police your self,
give us
with no agent in between,
give us
nothing but,
a voice
one will recognize instantly
as the whole fats milk of
truth
oh, how I will embrace thy
one and only,
when given,
your
one and only
for do we dare disagree that is
each other's truths that
shall set us free?
•••
for we are the inhabitants,
of this wild land of
no inhibitions,
no rule of laws,
except one,
defend the essence,
protect the defenseless integrity,
promote the mystery of the
human poem
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
~
who knows the definition of a poet?
~
*for my friend, S.Y,
who I will embrace with both hands,
both eyes, when he hands me a signed copy of a book
that answers the question*
weighty subjects deserve your best work,
expressions of affection and introspection,
need careful reflection, a proper set up for the
tumult inevitable when delving in the unopened recesses
where the answers kept
so, of course, the writing commences well after 1:00am,
when the darkness of night clarifies the process,
for I work by day but live by night,
when summoning up my one tool no one can take away,
the joy, the relief, the spectacular exultation of
rearranging the aleph bet in new ways,
when the quietude of reflection transports me
across the continents in visions of what will be
I don't know if I know the answer, perhaps, any answers,
but when this man demands
the ebb tides of soul to depart,
to make him stand alone on the shore of endings,
forcing him to acknowledge his reckonings,
lonely, only humanity and frailties
I hear a voice gruff growling and me laughing-
"cut to the chase, make your point, get out of people’s way"
so in your honor, this simp fool who asks questions
no human has any business, the answers knowing,
will one last stanza grant and give and
yours to keep,
and commence countdown waiting for that day of welcoming
*from the underground comes a chorus of voices,
in one voice but many languages, chanting:*
***all humans are poets
who acknowledge and freely confess that the
blood and stuff, the kisses and the touches of family and friends,
parent and child,
are the ***** and the egg,
the beginning and the circulation of the never ending,
the open entrance that penetrates the berm surrounding real life,
all these are the root and the stem and the blossoming,
of poetry writ large, for they who have these in their possess,
are surely by definition certainly
humans, poets***
~
5/14/17 2:05am
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
because love when cut,
lets loose
an empire of blood:
i have in my lips,
a treaty of oblivion—
releasing an embittered lemon.
in the throne of the sea,
waves repeat the crash
of perfidy.
by the mountains they ride,
the thick air of strobe.
rocks receive the genital fire
of lighthouses
exposing intones of shadow
one by one.
the beast maimed
behind the zither of trees
makes no sound like
an aleph.
i herald the collusion of night
and children
and weep at the solicitude of mothers,
because pines swoon in the dark
and with its hand, the gentlest war
threshes the flesh and blood,
raining on us forever.
hostile eyes bypass the silence of things
and lovers closing doors repeatedly,
disrupting the vale from its slumber.
it is because when love is let loose,
it releases both of us — weary, inescapably ripe with the wind, looking
for each other as doves do in flight,
separate and obscured, opening gates;
nightfall:
the savage aroma of wood
on the leaves that sway fervently
tippling away from boughs.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 4:32 AM UTC
at 11pm in nyc
one sees what
you need to c
what you don’t want to b
what’s c-ing you
all the aleph bets
are ghosting words in your
brown i’s and clear fingernails
then when and why
you are under the
dining room table
cause you don’t want to be
a real person
it’s so oh much easier to be
in the under, the table dark thunder,
so when until you need to be a visibility,
until then a ghost is a fine impossibility
do we believe in ghosts?
girl, you crack me up
W ooooohoooo W you who?
11:16pm
the witching wishing h our
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 11:20 PM UTC
letters are nothing more than symbols
just lucky strokes upon a white background that project
memories, feelings, images, experiences
words, spoken words, are nothing more than just sounds
just skin touching more skin vibrating the air around it to produce
grunts, noises, sighs, screeches, music
colors that we see are nothing more than waves of electromagnetic radiation
just light bouncing off of matter to show
beauty, danger, lightness, darkness
everything in this world
You
Me
are just coincidences
just random bits of probability
infinity to one
the chances anything would happen is basically zero
everything at any point could have went wrong
yet
after half the life of eternity
i met you
i read your symbols
i heard your sounds
i saw your light
the right symbols: infinity to one
the right sounds: omega to one
the right light: aleph-null to one
but everything about you was right
and here we are
clearly an impossibility
with our chances infinitely close to zero
every second approaching zero
reaching its limit
and now here
with our chances lining up
virtually never to be
i saw you
and i fell into you
and in one reality every infinity
you fell for me too
if only i was in one of those
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
I.
I wake up, wake up, as if
hearing the solitary leaves fall
in the breeze
in this late night:
Is that you? My pulse,
freezes for a moment.
Or just
a face in the crowd?
Did you not die?
or did I
wish you out of my life?
Is this, a nightmare?
Or just
my fragmented plane?
II.
Come, friend, let me inspect your wounds:
ah, have they healed well!
You have always been
a sort of miracle-worker.
What was the need for all that pain then?
Oh those carefree
days bygone of Nazareth!
Where we learned
to chisel our destiny.
And ran after severed kites floating away
in the dust winds.
What was
his name who we learned
Aleph from?
III.
Oh this pain:
of life, growing out,
growing out
like a sapling out of
a crack crumbling
out of an ancient wall:
do the skies weep out
in commiseration now at our fate?
I hugged an ideal;
and now I am outcasted.
And I am outcasted.
IV.
Do you hang on your
Tesseract
my friend, broadcasting
your assumed pain about
in the four dimensions?
I know them four well.
Three of space
and the fourth, of pain:
pain, concealed, hidden
in our
cursed world of normal dimensions
V.
Who do we change?
Do we change?
Isn't all change death?
Die, die, I die:
Die, friend! Die, Relation!
And now
in the darkness I am awake
counting
the shadows of falling leaves.
Why am I alone
in this deep night? Where kin
mine own? Is that you,
that face, the
face I saw in the crowd?
Did you not die? I heard of it.
Never gathered the courage
to come, see for myself.
VI.
What was
his name who we learned of
Eli and Abraham from?
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 9:38 AM UTC
La libertad vive dentro de mí
está en mí, no en mi locura.
En mi capacidad de imaginar.
En los rayos del sol bañando mi cara,
en mi capacidad de tomar decisiones sabias; y de amar.
En liberarme a mí misma.
De todo miedo.
De toda ira.
La libertad es estar enjaulada,
con alas amarradas;
cerrar los ojos;
y poder volar
sentir la sangre fluir,
la voz correr,
volar,
trémulamente
súbitamente
corriendo por mi piel,
como un papalote de colores brillantes
atrapado en mi piel.
La libertad está en cerrar los ojos,
escuchar el contorno de mis labios,
de mis besos a nadie.
En sentir mis pensamientos;
detener mis propios impulsos.
La libertad está en luchar contra el manifiesto a la locura.
Contra el sentimiento de estar parada sin piso bajo mis pies.
La libertad está en luchar contra lograr escuchar el silencio.
El silencio en el centro de mis pensamientos.
En el ronroneo de los colibríes y en el canto de los pájaros.
En todo eso está se encuentra la libertad.
Y en el ruido de la máquina de escribir del psiquiatra del pasillo que escribe y dicta mi diagnóstico.
Que existe, y produce un violento destrozo de mi borderline, golpeteo tras golpeteo.
Y la libertad, sobre todo, duerme en la cama 14, donde existe mi refugio, mi limbo, y mi salvación.
En 1, multiplicado por sí mismo, que es infinito, como el aleph que tengo tatuado; y en número 4, como el de los 4 pilares de un oráculo griego que adivina futuros, incluido el mío.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
~
from the anthology of the unwritten,
from the tombs of the stillborn,
where carcasses of idled titles and orphaned stanzas
do not compete for proof of life,
and
nameless birth certificates unissued,
yellowing and wasting midst
crumbling aleph bet spawn
here
comes a poem of concession
comes a poem of summation
of a life lived, knotted poorly, not well,
worse cursed as vanilla inadequate
the satisfaction in the writing,
the gleeful breaking of the sac,
the gushing relief giving way to
the childbirth of a new moon-poem,
arrested, wrested
a single plague affliction,
the cancer of weakness,
means Pharaoh wins
the cancer of weakness
no cure, no pharmaceutical poultice,
spreads insidious; one day - pain in the remote,
your big toe, then
next you can only street stagger
begging forgiveness and the kindness of strangers
hoping for the accidental cure of touch,
the miscellany lottery ticket probability of low chance
the visible mark you leave,
a weak indentation upon a pillow,
it is the dented head, cut deep by the shadow,
shake it out and you're a disappeared one,
nothing to show,
did someone once sleep here?
you were once upon a time
binary
a 1
now a 0 -
flip flop bottom top,
listening to Frank's "That's Life"^
my litany too long;
woeful work this business of flailing,
posting a tired-out self help love poem
ain't no cure for the falling-out-of-love
black and blue, self-inflicted bruising blues,
the wrists ache
the bones don't freak
but squeal, somebody's squeezing me
the alarm clock, a death knell,
everyone saying don't worry
you got a proven record,
the boss's eyes twinkling
"but what have you done for me lately?"
funny
Death says
Hey, aren't you the boss?
Who shall over rule thy Dominion?
What have thy done to yourself lately?
Answer: never end a poem with a question mark @
3:06am
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 3:16 AM UTC
Who am I?
Born five thousand years ago
with wedge inset in clay,
I am ideas become eternal,
immortal
and divine.
Do you not know me?
The Bringer of Fire,
the Epigrapher of Life?
I turn energy to stone.
It is I,
the Aleph and the Omega.
The hieroglyphic
Holy Spirit
and Keeper of the Lexicon.
I am Scribe.
The writer.
The original alchemist.
Fear me!
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
Just like the right double-A battery,
This will reign forever.
Rain in peace and joy and love,
Meeting the eternal flames of Passion halfway down the sky.
Not steam! But Lo!
Outpourings of infinite rainbows!
Glory B of heaven’s earth,
Met here in promised land.
1 must be careful, however,
Not to cut oneself on the sharp G
Of the Liberty Bell. Go!
Homestead upon the river Styx,
Immortalized with diamonds and mirrors,
Refracting about the smokeless fires,
Casting colours in all directions!
Y the English spelling, you ask?
Why, Americans are ever so silly,
Forgetting the seven colours!
Trying to make them 6.
‘Twill never do.
There must be at least 7, the magickal number
To make up the grand 8.
aleph-acher-aleph
Until there is only Everything Left.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
That child,
seems to be reading to my old dog friend.
Can we teach a dog to read and see the significance
some men find in syllables unsaid?
In print,
Sibilant denture whistles, perk no ear
silent esses no ear can hear, un spoken esses essentially
signify nothing, simple noise.
But a good dog will respond to the slightest whistle, as if…
A sibyl said listen,
hear the wind enter the world once with
inspired expired whistling sound found in song
this way,
this is the way,
Say plain the sound of each sign.
Alpha Beta, Aleph Bet, Ayee Bee
See, these let words be saved as signals
Letters, let silent sounds hold meaning in
signs of sounds men can make,
Like
Ah. or baah, which certain ruminants make as well…
A man can say ah, and mean plain nothin'
and some dogs can too,
but when dogs say, ah, it's often
a yawn gone into a groan like a stretched out
awww as the back arches
backward and front paws stretch out.
Tail swishing slow sweeps
swirling dust mites in a shaft of morning light,
more wind than any butterfly wing or
humming bird wing could stir.
"Remember", his brown eyes say,
this posture always meant,
"let's do some fun,
go for a run,
follow a scent"
But then, another yawn
and a shake. a glance from those knowing eyes,
signifying, signing , if I am happy, he is, too.
A dog friend then punctuates, by curling down into
a black and white comma
with a bit of golden tail
covering the nose
twitiching ante
cipitating a chase that leads to this new place,
where new sounds can sound
insignificant,
dream time humms,
not worth the effort to hear,
since we are not going anywhere, today.
Ah, be, still.
Tomorrow is the myth.
My dog swears that's true.
Today, or never, and
never's fine. He Yawns.
Aug 27, 2022
Aug 27, 2022 at 4:37 PM UTC
First posted here on August 22, 2013
~~~~~
Every summer, I relearn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
And its charms and naked arms,
Its own alphabet,
Clean forgot.
Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
But mega-millions of dialects,
Know them all cold, know them all, hot.
I speak Woman.
Summer is soft, shapely, sweet,
Clean, bare, lush in a sparse way,
And Woman is spoken thusly.
There are no harsh sounds,
Guttural exclamations, nein!
I speak Woman.
There is no ugly in the summer.
Ugly being an ugly word.
It cannot exist in an atmosphere of
Sun, greenery, sand, carefree days, vacations, no school.
There are no ugly women in the summer.
I could take this writ many places,
But if you are sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Could not give a good god **** because in the summer,
There is no ugly, there is no prejudice.
And I still speak
Woman with an almost perfect fluency,
au naturel.
Gym clothes, short shorts, A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels, flats clip clopping, flip flopping
all over my heart,
But, it is the bare arms and the hints of summer
Cleavage, the short skirts, body hugging one piece fabrics
stretching from here to down there that do not
Hint,
The shoulder strap of the underthings that asks,
That commands me:
Wonder where it leads too...
Even the light shoulder wrap
Casual over bare shoulders slung, at night, mocks me,
Like gift wrapping with a smile demure...a teasing blindfold...
All these say:
Write us poetry in our very own tongue,
Woman.
Will oblige.
I curve with curve of the ***** and
invert with S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, and never fails.
The crayola colors of flesh variations,
Boggle the senses... How can tan and pale,
Dark and Light
Have so many
Symphonic variations?
Adagio, slow and leisurely, a pas de deux
For two eyes, then a
Timpani crash and thunder,
Just as Byron wrote:
"music arose with its voluptuous swell,"
Yes, swell...swell...voluptuous swell
Enough.
My eloquence, no match for my
Fluency.
Late August, and my vocabulary is already
Diminishing.
I forget how to say in
Woman
Without you I am nothing,
With you, I am more than everything,
Tho I can no longer say it well,
It is is still true and
Beyond belief.
August 2013
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
I. Gray
In the dim light of the dusk
fading through the sky
an exhibit on a canvas:
a single strand of graying hair.
The arcane gallery housed
by the serpentine lake of memories.
What an awful lot of balderdash
shrieks an elderly gentleman ahead.
What a masterpiece, I think.
A masterstroke, in fact: just a strand
stuck like a line across the canvass,
this is it: time is catching up.
mortality comes calling
in pieces and strands.
II. Red
What embers, my dear, lie concealed
beneath those heaps of burned
logs deposited in your soul?
Waters healing were poured out
ages ago: was the love
too diluted, that even now the gale winds
of raging events bring those embers
burning from your depths?
I can see them burning in your eyes.
III. Black
Oh his gulf between you and me.
That you carry what is of me
before and hold what is
after I am of the ashes,
I know, in your oceanic vasts
bloom our fleeting island lives.
But what were you, before
you were of flesh? Did Aleph
bring you forth too? Tell me
friend, for this is my quest,
my mortal angst at finding you
nailed on the cross above: or
I must be a necromonger.
Are you the one who does not exist
as we know, or are you who also exists
as we can know: what are you?
That blood flows on this earth pondering
on this question.
In this is concealed the answer
to the question raised by that strand.
Tav is not the answer. Nor is it in the cross.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
You always give truth
All my days I will listen
Your words give me life.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
A man tired from the waking day
hangs his keys on the beaded hook,
lets the hat off his grateful head.
He places himself in front of the table
where he laid down his papers,
his skins and his skin.
He put on the table, the day's characters,
mulled them over in the electronic hum of Aleph and coffee flavoured eyes,
rolled them up tight with tomorrow's fears
and set them alight.
He put there a glass ashtray to catch the embers of regret.
He put on the table his dear friend, Old Man Wibble,
the bedlamite seer,
drunken oracle,
_"liquid Jesus, straight from the bottle"_
and longed for a glass to raise.
He put there the smoke from his exasperated lungs
and the wistful music of his tired throat,
he put there every last syllable and every letter left lingering on a lost lovers lips.
He put hope on the table,
for the weight might crush him as he sat
but not the table,
solid under this load,
to bear weight is what a table must do
and tomorrow will always bring another pile.
Jan 9, 2021
Jan 9, 2021 at 10:34 PM UTC
*Welcome to the Agora
We've got fun 'n' games
We got everything you want
Honey, we know the names
We are the people that can find
Whatever you may need
If you got the money, honey
We got your disease*
Now I'm talking 'bout Borges' Aleph
And Opiuchus not Oedipus
Crossing the ecliptic
On serpentine stomach
Bridging the realms
On land and under
Our spirits
To plunder
Nope
That's a blunder
Time to bring the New World
To the Old
Red Rover, Red Rover
We call Columbus over
*You can taste the bright lights
But you won't get them for free
In the jungle
Welcome to the jungle
Feel my, my, my serpentine
I, I wanna hear you scream*
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 6:34 AM UTC
You see
ALEPH HAY YOD HAY
becomes
YOD HAY VOV HAY
-------
This is the whole of it
The
KABBALA
The
BIBLE
------------
In numerical language
ONE FIVE TEN FIVE
becomes
TEN FIVE SIX FIVE
-----------
What this is describing is how our consciousnesses
Come and intermingle and exchange all information
And seperate and individualize themselves
Unto certain limits imposed by the necessity of overall unity
And the need for operational harmony
--
This is the Seed from which creation springs
The details of which are myriad and fascinating
--
All that needs be known IS KNOWN
As is the nature of the power
That keeps the truth hidden
All that is needed is YOUR DESIRE to understand
Thank you
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
to: aleph
hey
there's so much things going on in these last two weeks. at least in my head. you left. i closed the door loudly. i locked it and i hoped that you could hear the sound of the locks clicking. ( but i didn't want you to hear how my hands was shaking when i was looking for the right key).
all i want to say is i'm sorry. i'm sorry i don't tell you enough, i'm sorry that i told you too much things that doesn't matter. i'm sorry i treat you like another ego-booster. i'm sorry i acted like i didn't care. i, in fact, really care about you and it hurts me to see you think that i don't.
please never forget the way i looked you in the eyes when we listen to that verse together.
i wish i was braver, i'd break this silence that's been killing me. but then again, if i was braver, i would have told you i love you a thousand times.
i'd say "i'd do it all again", sweetly like in one of our favorite songs, but no, i'm not brave enough, and we destroyed each other too much.
--status: draft. 26.3.2015 22:47
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
reading this article on matres lectionis (mothers of reading)
i spotted a little crumb on the table
and decided to turn it into a loaf of bread
to satisfy my nourishment, very much feeding the 5,000 -
it came as follows, with keen interested in why
the hebrew stresses the existence of aleph with the symbol
as prominent as any m, n or p, even though it’s silent (א)...
to show it differently: aeiouNuoiea + an enclosing consonant,
like in the case of lamed or omega (silent ה) - om egg ah...
but this one example got my forehead wrinkled,
in the section concerning origins and development -
how in the pre-exilic hebrew the (otherwise silent ה of latin)
was developed and overused... apart from the grammatical theory
behind this... the way it was later dropped but remained
in certain archaic examples of “proper” names... and this is
what bothered me, example no. 1: שלמה (solomon),
example no. 2: שלה (shiloh)...
looking at the alphabet i noticed that there are two n consonants...
so i thought... why would you even write solomon like that
in the first place and not as follows (*)שלמ, whereby the * position
is filled with ן (final nūn)? it’s almost like purposively ensuring
names have a graffiti artist, known as the tetragrammaton
working without purpose behind them... that whole: ‘you shall
not use the lord’s name in vain!’
to me it’s just a perplexing matter... as is the reason why
something that’s supposed to be silent... but is nonetheless visible
should start screaming - i guess that’s the origin of the islamic god
allah... from the א of the hebrew alphabet... aleph lamed lamed he...
and now just a bit of plastic surgery using latin and the e attaches
itself to the other side of the buttocks and hey presto... we have a “god.”
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC