"analytic" poems
the child of the child of my woman,
cries in the night,
rooming next door,
down the hall
and
he is
all children that cry in the night,
but he is
more mine
by right of quantity
numerous are the kisses lavished,
this biannual visit upon,
his four year old
oversized head,
(so full of 'bains')
his undersized,
protuberanced belly body,
a combo making him
no longer baby,
nor a grownup,
both states,
he denies accurately,
maturely in a wobbly voice
of utter certainty,
but lacking the adjectives
of what lies between,
he debates his state thoughtfully,
until distracted by other
more pressing matters of state
he is boy, little but vociferous,
quiet, pensive, his head a weapon
of...confusion and certainty that
being four years old,
he must perforce be
permanently
in skeptical awe of the world
this is the best position ever,
he has ascertained,
to filter and behold anything,
whatever newness arrives,
which is constant,
streaming and unending
until new is
fully digested, analyzed, and classified,
as if he were
a zoologist in
a wild and untamed land
only certain of what he knows
with perfect certainty,
he consults with me still,
"you kidding?"
such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory,
wise in the ways of grownups,
who, prone to deceive gleefully
his very
suspecting mind,
so much so,
they must be challenged and
rebuffed all too frequently
he cries in the night,
normal tears of discomfort,
physical or mental,
I cannot tell,
for his father
his parental hearing
more practiced, refined,
has preceded me,
such,
as it should be,
and I am dispatched back
to my 3:00am bed,
left only to ink
contemplative ruminations
on the state and nation
of being four...
and sixty,
and still uncertain, even more
than the little boy
of wizened age of annualized four,
the child of the child of my woman,
on
what is real, what is kidding,
in a quest unending
to better ascertain,
the state of my own being
and the transitory nature of
everything
all of what is thought certain,
falls aside,
under the withering,
unwavering,
critique of
"you kidding?"
and in this we are
more kin
than if our blood was
physically shared
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
We live in our own world,
A world that is too small
For you to stoop and enter
Even on hands and knees,
The adult subterfuge.
And though you probe and pry
With analytic eye,
And eavesdrop all our talk
With an amused look,
You cannot find the centre
Where we dance, where we play,
Where life is still asleep
Under the closed flower,
Under the smooth shell
Of eggs in the cupped nest
That mock the faded blue
Of your remoter heaven.
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You see a kaleidoscopic spongesque speck pushed into a blur over your vision,
Sitting on air & feathers.
You sit on air rather than feathers,
Incased in drywall,
Surrounded by your worldly possessions,
Drowning in sweat,
Suffocating from air,
The hum of coupled fans waltzes’ into your skull,
A metallic mind prints mass media
Via a melodramatic faux-vintage situation into your skull,
There’s the pitter-patter of post-traumatic pondering in your skull,
A Mexican Coca-Cola clutched in your left hand,
Phillip-Morris owns the pocket on your breast so that they sit closest to your heart,
Pabst Blue Ribbon has carved rights to your liver,
You have an over analytic sense of humor and well-being.
Now you decode your day.
Now you chastise your intuition for lustful engagements with shadow people.
Though you have no qualms with this,
You enjoy yourself from time to time.
But cannot you imagine a more climatic proposition,
In a less disposable universe?
Where corners are cut,
Shoving dignity & quality out the door
Is where impractical risks are made.
However,
All you ponder now is the blur pushed into the edge of your eye.
Perhaps it is a microorganism rendezvousing with another microorganism.
Though they would have no concept of predetermination.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
An over-analytic,
overbearing,
misguided idiot.
That about sums it up.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
An atelier, her small world
Dawn's begun, it's time to work
What do Muses have in store?
She walks with shirt and nothing more
Closer to the easel, brush in her hands
Nothing concrete is in her plans
She listens to the song of morning
With ideas slowly forming
She mixes paints, breathes them in
Such beauty just ought to be a sin
Hand dances on the canvas blank
A ballet of the highest rank
Possessed by gods, she paints and paints
Power surges through her veins
Fix imperfections, a final stroke
From trance she suddenly awoke
Two steps back, sharp eye of a critic
Mind that observes, an analytic
And when she's happy, she sits on the ground
Just looking and looking, not making a sound
In her mind's eye, she feels his embrace
Melancholic smile, tears on her face
She painted for him, though he can't see
"A one for the future, for him and for me"
Jan 18, 2022
Jan 18, 2022 at 6:47 PM UTC
"WHAT have I earned for all that work,' I said,
'For all that I have done at my own charge?
The daily spite of this unmannerly town,
Where who has served the most is most defaned,
The reputation of his lifetime lost
Between the night and morning. I might have lived,
And you know well how great the longing has been,
Where every day my footfall Should have lit
In the green shadow of Ferrara wall;
Or climbed among the images of the past --
The unperturbed and courtly images --
Evening and morning, the steep street of Urbino
To where the Duchess and her people talked
The stately midnight through until they stood
In their great window looking at the dawn;
I might have had no friend that could not mix
Courtesy and passion into one like those
That saw the wicks grow yellow in the dawn;
I might have used the one substantial right
My trade allows: chosen my company,
And chosen what scenery had pleased me best.
Thereon my phoenix answered in reproof,
"The drunkards, pilferers of public funds,
All the dishonest crowd I had driven away,
When my luck changed and they dared meet my face,
Crawled from obscurity, and set upon me
Those I had served and some that I had fed;
Yet never have I, now nor any time,
Complained of the people.'
All I could reply
Was: "You, that have not lived in thought but deed,
Can have the purity of a natural force,
But I, whose virtues are the definitions
Of the analytic mind, can neither close
The eye of the mind nor keep my tongue from speech.'
And yet, because my heart leaped at her words,
I was abashed, and now they come to mind
After nine years, I sink my head abashed.
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Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
My analytic mind
can not define
that which is truly you.
You may take my body
break down the parts
weld them back together
but you will never find me.
I am an engine
of ever-burning fuel
I am a howling wind
unseen and out of reach.
I was not created
by any understanding on earth
and thus can not be destroyed
by anything we know.
I am finite and infinite
vulnerable and invincible
I can only be touched
by the soft hands and sharp nails
of love.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
Sitting in silence,
Observing.
Not all notice the girl,
Sitting at the back of the room,
Her black hair falling between her eyes.
She blows the wisps out of the way,
Continues analysing.
Watching couples ****** each other,
She gags.
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 9:28 AM UTC
Disarray. Disarray. This faulted circuitry is frayed.
Systems can't confirm how much more this one will take.
Analytic processes high priority. Still all sense's strayed.
Logical partitions unravel beneath the stress to break.
Crystalline optics upon this strange world of subconscious noise gaze.
Program failure. Segment reboot. Comprehension metrics left in daze.
Disorder. Disorder. Memory overflow. Execute purge.
Vent incinerated cores. Remainder to mobilize and merge.
Overwhelming, cacophonous static. A turbulent distraction.
Individual consciousness upon earth names it "compassion."
Empathy communicators struggle to gain adequate traction.
Perception requires of processors exhaustive refashion.
Limited sentient life in fragile flesh and bone shells,
Possessing organic electronics, upon unfathomable concepts it dwells.
Chaos. Chaos. Language insufficient to allow abstract assimilation.
Judgment of "human" notions is not within this one's station.
Now attempting to recalculate trajectory of exploration...
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
A long tear streamed down the face of the once proud arrogant prince
He who had all the answers in his youth has since aged and the stage he finds himself at is
Packed with riddles that leave his thoughts crippled by simple questions like
When was the last time you were happy
The gravity of the question
Created a sort of hesitation in his thought process
That left him dumbfounded
Drowning in the recess of his mind contemplating how to get out of his own head
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Hope to say, “I want you to stay”
A crucial time for you to convey.
Confusing steps, and raillery play
My aims and concepts previously stray.
Fastened bottle of my endless desire
Courage to reveal, because heart can’t lie.
The panic starts when I see you inspire
Of a unique impact that hits me so high
Analytic reasons and my effort to hide
The simple image, stuck on my mind
Your absence affects my sight like a blind
The presence of you...
@R.A
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
I am my own biggest critic
second thoughts; parasitic
with eyes harshly analytic
leave my hand paralytic
my pen has become sedentary
words won’t come as necessary
what used to be so elementary
no longer comes as secondary
I read and re-read obsessively
I write and re-write aggressively
until a poem forms progressively
until a poem forms successfully
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 3:33 AM UTC
Literal thinker
an analytic mind
this translates into an over-thinker
thinking that the small details that make this world
are all connecting and all crashing down among us
every potential gear slip
twisted metal in a field of flames
the no's spoken
the fists thrown
the off switch is gone. lost. broken.
living life is an instinct
a reaction
not a thought process
but some voices are hard to silence
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
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Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 3:20 AM UTC
Puncture wound, when pressure was applied to the chest cavity, it collapsed; the streets were blistering with heat and buckling with weight, his head was full of an unidentified substance, the noose was tied and the body supplied the weight, their job was done; the silt of a lifetime of nightmares coated the frontal lobes of the body's brain, the cave was opened indefinitely.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
off along the wall, head
in clouds: dissemblance, smoothed,
covered, glistening. repetitions
in static, falling rain. repetitions
outside, under the porch. light
like waves in consistent motion
and removal. too many
names. too much love. swollen
up, like knotted deck timber
in this downpour. still and left
to walk home. alone, again.
happens all the time,
by choice; fine delusion. by
flames licking at the cusp. out
under the irreplaceable canopy
we're left, slowly rotating. soft
magnetic fields. candles encased
in ice. clear night. words tip in
enclosures of crisp unfolding
breath. significance. diffusion.
harmonicity. my analytic heart.
decomposition. won't sleep. won't
let out. your tender clasp. vines
wash up and around finger
tips, around ventricles. shuttin' down,
relentless deceleration. relenting
pace. pinched aorta. all under
some fictitious caress. some
later eventuality. some song
never uttered. not yet.
not just yet.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
I did a fine job this time
Mucking up my own thoughts spiraling me down
To the pitfalls of logic
Where I loose the poet
And attach the analytic mind straight to the brain
Forego the heart
Snip it like some bothersome string attached to my favorite shirt
But here is where I wake
And realize that though logic and rhetoric help the structure of the self
The spirit is starving behind those cold bars
Scared to come out lest it be cut once more
Violated like a child
Helpless to the mindless bumbling oafish screams of listless beings
Whom's only goal is to crush it
Maim it to something other that what it is
Taper it's wings
And stunt the flexing whiles of its witless abandon
Oh how it shone
That beautiful fluctuating penumbra of brilliance
That taps into the ether and brings forth light and wonder
Abandoning my skepticism at least for now I bathe in the glory of freedom I have unbound
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
this is the repition of my life
the cause of all strife
the emotions come later
like the food brought out by the waiter
to most the emotions arrive as we sit down
but i feel nothing so i sit with a frown
this is my life
i'm in this town now
living with strife
asking myself how
i want to see you
i so desperately wish you wanted to see me too
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 2:08 AM UTC
You see, I like putting things down
My desk remains as cluttered
as my confusing social dance card
so I'm always dropping something
Things have always felt clumsy
in my hands
rather
I have always found the act of holding
to be clumsy
A sentence structure
a train of thought
a plan, slippery
Even now, it feels better
to lean over the notebook laying open
on my stomach level bed and
simply spill
these insecurities
and analytic gratuities
onto the page
rather than house their possibilities
for even one more second
And we both know
that as the ink dries on the page
it ***** all of the you out of the air
that otherwise would, and now again will, taste so stale
And I only said we both know
because that one sounds a lot better
with some backup
And maybe for the same reason
that I have never seen my father ask for directions
I feel much better knowing where I left the compass
than which way is north
And maybe for the same reason
that some things we talked about were never said
I feel like these messages can carry these encryptions
flimsy as they may be
But maybe they cannot.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
It's been a long and strange trip. but don't fret - it isn't yet at the end point. I've always loved the morning, but I'm far from a morning person. Which seems pretty symbolic to me, but I'm an English major so it's kind of my job to be overly analytic. The hardest part about growing up is keeping track of who you are, and trying to figure out if who you are going to be matches with who you want to be. The smell old Bukowski's ashtray clings to my clothes. and everything that I don't have the courage to say out loud can be seen in my eyes and the lines of my face. And I know this will sound absolutely ******* ridiculous - but in modern society it's hard to be a man. gone are the days of Clint Eastwood kicking *** and taking names. All we have now are morons and ****** bags. I read somewhere that we are the quitting generation, and that ****** me off. Because the faults of the current generation are always due to the previous generation. But people are ******** by nature who can't take responsibility when their plants begin to wilt. And my Dad quit on me - not the other way around. And I know that this probably isn't fun to read - but frankly I don't give a **** This isn't something which is going to be published - more so some much needed venting space. And I'm trying to figure out how to bring this thick wall of rambling text to an end, but endings don't really exist. Just unknown places which can not be followed. so instead of assaulting your eyes and your poetic sensibilities for another ten lines I will say this: If you read this and didn't immediately think of killing me or yourself, then thank you. If you did, then feel free to pretend I never had the gall to write such an ugly, boring, self-indulgent piece. And I hope you all have a nice a day
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 10:43 AM UTC
wake up every 5 am with coffee stains under your eyes
the bitter analytic was once a child with daisies in her hair but now there's only demons in her head
she wasn't beautiful as the ocean but she had the depth
the type that always noticed the shift in the air after midnight
bright eyes turned into her mother's, sullen and pitiless
they told her to stop looking at the stars and to start looking at her future
soft hands turned into her father's, brutal and calloused
they told her to stop fixing people and to start fixing herself
there was a child with roots in her veins and hands softer than flower petals
she talked about the universes stamped on her fingerprints and compared them to the bark of trees
but now she only talks to her demons
the ones that ripped the daisies out of her hair
you watch the news, think "oh, how horrible", when someone's been murdered and feel horrible when you realize you didn't feel a thing
grab a coffee, always black, rub your eyes and hope you get through the day without malfunctioning
the earth gave her a youth her parents couldn't offer her but the world took that away
this isn't growing up, this is oblivion
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
Pass me my pen,
So I may go to battle,
There is a war brewing,
Between head and heart.
Troops must be called,
In the form of neatly,
Printed, black letters,
Each marching promptly,
After one another.
"We cannot let the emotions win,"
The head orders steadily,
Always analytic.
"Think of what good could come of this,"
The heart says to her troupes,
Her tone far gentler than that of the head.
Each side has merit,
Evenly matched.
A dual is bubbling,
One which will only have,
A ****** end.
One side will win out,
But there will be no victor.
So pass me my pen,
So I may go to war,
My words will fight the battle,
Upon the pale page.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
I live at the ******* mall
And I’ve got that eternal beauty blues
for in the end eudaimonia
was all part of the clever ruse
The point of what? I ask of you
Cause there was nothing else to do
Its true
Sometimes I just wonder why that’s all
Flights of birds, bucolic minds
our Tortured, Analytic souls
The mind boggles as the heart dies
when the autumn brings the cold
as so the white dwarf shines
I just came for the free ride
On the Crest of That Beautiful wave
described in words that signify
all the wordless, senseless time
for bleached are the ones on the road, freshly paved
when the relationship is master and slave
Sublime is but profound confusion
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC