"analog" poems
Do I relate to the post-postmodern
True-life voodoo incomes are hard-earned
If I put a hyphen between words
Does that spawn a new one like lovebirds
Isn't love the same word that I saw
Don't crows live like bandits and outlaws
Don't they have the outlook of bourgeois
Carry stolen crackers in their claws
There's no change that I couldn't change
Every change that I change always stays the same
I wanna sing with a slingshot serenade
I wanna donate change to a masquerade
I wanna die while I'm in the spotlight
I want my death to inspire a rewrite
I want to blur the lines of insight
I want to make them think that I'm their height
So give me all your red green yellow blue
If you can find a pool then I'll refract with you
You're a mirage and your favorite color's see-through
You're my fata morgana from this point of view
Are there any words for my freakshow feelings
Isn't sugarcoated terminology appealing
Wouldn't it be easier to represent the meaning
Of a hard to swallow concept with an arbitrary ceiling
Cryptic cultish crease in the catalog
Paranoia backtrack to analog
I can run much faster than I can jog
Magic circle summoning Chernobog
I can break the barrier of sound and space
With these essential elemental explanations in your face
But it doesn't matter everything I say will go to waste
Because the power of the mind is putting power out of place
Hindsight reflecting, teenagers texting
Late to the punch with the big money flexing
Let's settle this with a match in the ring
Or a match to the rope of a cannon firing
I wanna die while I'm in the spotlight
I want my death to inspire a rewrite
I want to blur the lines of insight
I want to make them think that I'm their height
I wanna hypnotize and paralyze
I wanna make them think that I'm their size
I wanna break their spirits drink their blood
I wanna **** their souls I wanna **** them good
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
We call her name like she's the queen.
Lips quiver with understated pleas.
So this is what "your highness" means.
The analog clock wails 4:18.
Our voices muffled in this cool sea.
We call her name like she's the queen.
You, my own porcelain figurine,
Each tiny chip of you impales me.
So this is what "your highness" means.
No room for time here in between,
All else I've known has been set free.
We call her name like she's the queen.
Quake my pulse like a tambourine,
Let me teach your mouth to see.
So this is what "your highness" means.
Powerless when she intervenes;
Royalty lives between the knees.
We call her name like she's the queen.
So this is what "your highness" means.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 7:57 AM UTC
(Villanelle)
It takes patience to wait for the perfect light.
Glance away and the image can disappear.
And sometimes the background isn’t quite right.
The moment missed is like a face out of sight
That against all logic we hope will appear
From around a corner, bathed in perfect light.
Or a pause in the music on a moonlit night
When hesitating lips touch, and love leans near,
But voices whisper that something’s not right.
Technology offers consolation in its sleight
Of hand: Digitally correct the analog *here
And now*, counterfeit the perfect light.
Yet we want more than the mastered byte.
We want the flash between the waiting and the souvenir,
The instant when self and spectacle fuse, reality felt right.
And so we hold on to what’s passing out of sight,
The collision between soon and too late, the sheer
Thread connecting to the perfect light
In which the background is precisely right.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
claude: battles tabletop.
reaches for maple syrup, into breakfast,
& breaks down puking.
the girlfriend/abortion situation.
the cash
& cream corn.
smells of deeper spring.
grandma & her bible.
to pray.
to eat lunch.
to television &
honey blunt the relief of a sunday night.
lily: into decay.
into dark days of her america.
detox: she breathes on vapor. sweet leaf.
sweats the heat & dead-dreams off. off on wavelengths &
resonance::: sound therapeutics,
at 528.111 hz,
enhanced dream frequency. she falls
into bliss. into
unopened codons & the rigor
of vibrational analog.
love cassette.
achilles: wheelchair-bound & boning
still. gripping ***
the girl & couch.
the couch & modern warfare.
old warfare: harvest of limbs.
he crawls across the lawn to pick strawberries.
thumbs the dirt for entrance
to another world. smokes a jar
of roaches, as monument
to his second generation revival.
cool.
wallace: & the zebra jeep.
red rock monkeywrenched billboards & the ****** of flame upon milk factory.
chemical factory.
fertilizer bomb///return/
to town & grotto.
porch-light wood & breath of bong-rotation.
the babylon journeyman,
embroiled in plots against the order.
to simply disappear.
to portal away.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
One need only look to the four winds
to find four frowns;
eight sad eyes
straining to see
through stained glass tears.
The man said "I die daily" but
he didn't have a constant stream of
status updates
to maintain.
I define myself daily.
Being special has
thus far
not protected me from
the unbearable weight
of today.
All of the analog cigarettes and
old fashioned daydreams
in the world
cannot save me now.
If I'm not seen
am I really here?
Heavy hearts and weary heads
reside respectively in the chests and on the necks
of everyone I encounter.
The gas station attendant
feels empty and
is bereft of a sense of irony.
The world ends
not with bang OR whimper,
but
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful...
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 10:36 AM UTC
Patiently waiting for the perfect light.
Glassy lake, wind, clouds, perfection’s near
as the moment dwindles into night.
Captured moments prove that you’re alive, a height
of feeling between depths of time and fear
that living casts only imperfect light.
But the moment missed is like a face out of sight
that against all logic you hope will appear
from around a corner, framed by the night.
Technology offers consolation in its sleight
of hand: Digitally correct the analog here
and now, counterfeit the perfect light.
Yet you want more than the remastered byte.
You want the flash between waiting and souvenir,
Self and spectacle fused, reality felt right.
And so you wait for what’s passing out of sight,
the collision between soon and too late, sheer
threads connecting to the perfect light
before the moment dwindles into night.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 8:56 PM UTC
~
*The disruptor,
whether digital or analog,
strikes the bell,
bioengineered automaton
—a manufactured life form
given little agency or dimension,
mnemonic to the finitude of life,
and subtle muddling of humankind's
supposed moral transcendence.*
~
May 2, 2021
May 2, 2021 at 10:59 PM UTC
White Noise Static
Hot Haze Humid
Heat Lightning
condensation
compression
******
Peace comma
be still
wait
written
analog interference converts
2 digital Binaries
on shhh off
finished? Thank God
For Today,
close the book.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
Hickory dickory dock
Our phones are now our clocks
Digital has won
Analog's died out
Hickory dickory dock
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
mouth syncing up digital brain,
electrically bounding the physical
with the ethereal analog bond
bound up and wrapped,
in fiber optic blankets,
secrets passing layer to layer
heard only by quadraphonic
receivers echoing out
into a singularity of conciseness,
confirmed by units of two
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:13 AM UTC
Is a realm where alchemy is alive and well
It resides in the aether making it difficult to envision
A place of dreams but if you are imaginative
There is also structure
Dreams without structure are just whispers of nothingness
Quickly dissipating
Without structure, dreams quickly fold back into the aether
Waiting for a less superfluous re-imagination
To make it on the physical plane, there must be roots
When dreams are infused with structure, roots can be found
There is potential that those dreams can wake up
When the dreams are provided with structure and
Are re-animated with function
Then we have a breath of life
Structure and function are what allows Us
To step out of dreamtime and into reality
To find the roots of that architecture you must have vision
Not see with your eyes vision, but a different type
This framework hasn’t always existed
Relations have created it
That’s why it’s recognizable
The framework are the laws, both natural and synthetic
It’s the place where duality and non-duality collide
It’s a place of transcendence
A place of truth
Maybe we can learn to see holistically here
Anisotropica has many functions
It’s art and science fused
It’s poetry and song and dance
And mathematics and physics and chemistry
It is an expression of sacred geometry
An amalgamation of binary and analog
The fusion of dreams and laws
Creates a space that can be mined for transcendence
A place where we can extend past many current limitations
It's a springboard to become who you are
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
~
*find your torch
light me up
brittle and cracked
I like feeling this incomplete
I hope the nightmares don't start
without me
but if they do
let them stir
as the crow flies away
on dangerous days
with a host of stars
fiery god-smacked
in the vast well of night
where I could play king
for an hour
to a wounded land
and a pair of queens
kept in high dudgeon
lest they sing
their burning song
in rich hues
and deep tones
painted on the warm
analog tableau
on my skin
distant
distillation
happiest when sad
with time and space, some
of the intricacies
can be airbrushed out
but I don’t think
imperfect love
can take too many fires
like that, because then
a renaissance heart
would certainly go black*
~
May 24, 2022
May 24, 2022 at 11:51 PM UTC
While I return and slow down
to the classics;
the film analog cameras,
vinyl records,
typewriters,
silent movies,
worn-out pocketbooks,
and other novelties
of the old world charm...
I also enjoy the convenience
of the contemporary;
my phone's one-click camera,
spotify premium,
notes app,
netflix,
kindle,
and other niceties
that the here and now has to offer...
And while I rev back
to the retro and vintage,
I also race forward
to the excitement and danger
brought about by the internet,
of chatting with a familiar stranger.
of exchanging laughters in electronic.
of feeling emotions from a vague, distant, technical, difficult source.
Oh, the thrill and tragedy of technology!
May 7, 2022
May 7, 2022 at 8:22 AM UTC
Took 287 South
to a Borders
Goin Outta
Biz Sale.
Books may be
anachronisms,
relics from
yesterdays
analog age,
but literacy's
bankruptcy
does have
advantages.
Take an
additional
30% off on
any orphans
pleading
release from
the discount
racks.
Snooping down
the literature isle
Samuel Beckett's
somber face
arrested my
roving
eyeballs.
A stern stare
printed across
5 spines of
his shrink
wrapped
oeuvre
commanded
my arm to rise
to liberate the
face from the
dismal shelf.
In mid flight
my reach
was hijacked
by a Kris
Kringley red
snow flaked
trim tome
standing
open face
next to
earnest
Beckett.
It was "The
Christmas
Sweater"
by NYT
Best Selling
Author, Glenn
Beck.
Clasping at Beck's
book, it inflicted
a nasty paper cut
to my ring finger.
My mind recoiled,
thinking, "serves
you right. Like
Martha, I shoulda
chosen the better
thing."
I'll never
make that mistake
again.
Borders Books
Riverdale
2/20/11
jbm
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC
Another haunt is arriving, feverishly fast tonight.
Somehow I managed to delay the feeling, briefly,
as it usually takes the manageable Subway and begins to fester around high noon, but today I skipped lunch,
and the feeling didn't go underground for her mode of transport.
"Maybe I hit the lotto?", I secretly questioned,
and the haunt would forget her requiem, passing over me
like those lucky "Kennedy Husbands" during the sixties' draft.
But I was getting divorced while all the other couples
were on a faster track heading in the opposite direction.
Tonight the haunt is traveling 248 mph,
on the Fùxīng ** bullet train from Beijing to Shanghai, en route to Vietnam.
The conductor yelled, "All Aboard."
and as if that period denoted a punctual mark,
everyone manically crammed into the narrow vehicle.
The first influx of lovely passengers to board were,
Missus Anxiety, Sir Prior Transgressions and Dr. Heartache.
Unlike Dr. Feelgood,
They had been waiting in line from the previous night,
like those idiots for last week’s black Friday sale.
Mr. and Mrs. Payments Past Due cut in front of
Bills Esquire and Judge Job Insecurity,
for the Belmont Superfecta win, I guessed the right horses, just didn’t box my bet.
Congressman Careless and Deputy ******* nearly trampled Senator Surrender on the way through the turnstiles,
while Mayor Moan was flagged by security for groaning
and pulled aside for a pat down and wheelchair inspection.
The Mayor was found to have ******* residue on his sleeve, but legitimate prescriptions for his aches and pains,
so TSA
wheeled him through the crack rocks
Analog veins pump analog blood to my analog heart;
traveling for the journey and not its hasty destination.
My analog heart will eventually be shelved,
as it still salutes the Subway on its journey to my soul,
but like dusting off an old Coen Brothers flick,
my analog heart is still entertaining its vintage tick.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
The Record Store died and the windows, some broken; held the light of day in transparent
tangles, sharp cracks in spiky slabs of glass. Red splints... fissures of bluish tint, silver yellows
glint in shifts, misfit prisms.
An old poster roasting an English Invasion,
facing the setting sun's horizontal furnace. Here and there,
the odd box, coats of dust, strips of beige tape; these
huddle in long shadows of analog. Looking in -
hands on either side
of your father's face,
you can almost see hipsters thumbing empty bins, like
bowling pins in an empty lane.
Bowling pins wearing scarves.
I shuffle my pod and rock on.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
flame in a dark pit
rain on a mountain
ice
in the veins:
blockade
one of these days
techno nightmares will break
through
analog purity, of course
they will but, then
you'll have it your way,
where dust becomes you more
than your electric
dreams, of course,
you would rather be muted
i won't
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 10:20 PM UTC
Our land of stars and stripes, now glows,
with screens that flicker in hallowed halls.
Entranced humans shuffle, with eyes fixed below,
on small gadgets that have us enthralled.
Should the Statue of Liberty, our symbolic girl,
be holding a smartphone up to the world?
While tweets fly like eagles and hashtags swirl,
foreign disinformation trends as fast as it’s purled.
In lunch halls, real conversations take rest,
as influence is sought—in hoity-toity, binary quest.
Friends are backdrops—originality in short supply
as likes and shares make our dopamine fly.
America’s zombies, though *********** drained,
shuffle endlessly on, with Wi-Fi stimulated brains.
Once the land of the free, we’re now the land of tech
with minds wrecked by truths unchecked.
As we rock and sway—the new robot way—
will our old, analog-republic simply fade away?
.
.
Songs for this:
Airhead by Thomas Dolby
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_01.mp3
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 10:47 AM UTC
I found a news article about the most boring day in history.
The 11th of April
1954
Literally the only thing that happened was the birth of a Turkish Academic
Abdullah Atalar
So I looked him up
“His research interests include micromachined sensors and actuators, atomic force microscopy, analog and digital integrated circuit design and linearization of RF power amplifiers. He teaches undergraduate and graduate courses on VLSI design, analog and microwave electronics.” - Wikipedia
He was boring too.
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 2:06 PM UTC
You wouldn’t let my feet touch ground
until side A died out
and the pirouette ceased.
We laid there in our Analog Atlantis
staring beyond the ceiling
letting the soundscape crash over us
and cascade into auricular orifices.
Our bodies lifted from the mattress,
floating up and up—
past the ceiling, past the trees,
past the planes and clouds,
past the stars and planets—
into the ether we fantasize about
in our synchronized dreams.
Til the sound waves receded,
and our bodies washed up along the shore,
our contours molding into impressionable sand,
turning our gaze to one another—
the needle lifts from the wax
and returns to rest,
the platter ceases its cycle,
the speakers die—
and instead of feet touching ground,
I flipped over to side B.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
I know this is what
I was born to do
Electronic, Classical
Analog or digital
Do we understand their meaning?
I find it pivotal
WAKE UP KIDS
From this crazy mind-fuck!
We never have to grow up
Collide, collide, collide
Cause when we come together
We’ll blow up space in time
Cause I know my crazy mind
Rules this space in time
Science, binding energetic mesh
Orb of fervent, atoms, matter
Forever brings the universal commander
Kaleidoscope dreams too heavy to stop
What’s the **** argument
Let’s raise the frequencies
Then drop
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
there's a story on the wind
can you hear it?
an ode to a classic hero
facing enemies at every turn
a ballad from a love struck sailor
to his land locked dame
the lamentation of a tired soul
ready to exit stage left
epics bound in flesh
breathing the same air
walking the same earth
yet completely unaware
of when plot lines intersect
one persons sunrise
is another sunset
riding off to where the sidewalk ends
a stunning view of Mars in all his glory
from another window
an example of an empty vessel
hungry for content
with each step we act our the script
the world's a stage
the plays the thing
let's pan out and take into view
the aspect ratio in conjunction
with our soundtrack
monologues
dialogues
analog has less room for falsehood
than these digital lives
digital lies we lead
rewriting the scope and depth
of the narrative
without changing pace
or thinking to replace
certain key elements
like setting and grace
peace comes when the curtain closes
don't fret
encores are in order
but on the b-side of the single
we must note
with remixed emotion
that the stories we live have no sequel
so we must trust and ******
ourselves into every opportunity
paving the way to success
not just for us
but for those that read the synopsis
and hit rewind
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 7:51 AM UTC
Night shifts into jet black
city escapes
if it's not insanity,
we don't have an answer at stake.
this product of you and me
was never an accident.
love at its peak
signaling and S.O.S.
you've bought me in a surface.
we don't now yet.
analog fluctuations I wanted
you and I cant forget.
Sanctions we break,
with metal palms we punch.
limitations act as walls
our thirst keeps me quenched.
My passion, your fire.
will get us above the wires
ambiguous insights to the past.
Passion and fire, you ignite.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC