"asymmetrically" poems
In my absence
My mind has been doing back-flips,
back-spins and hand-springs.
They really should be called head-springs.'
Off a spring board I began vaulting.
Trying to spin, tumble, turn des pairs
of thoughts stuck in the landing area
Threw a little french in there for ya.
Grasping at hysteria asymmetrically with sanity
must be stronger than anxiety. Like a glass coat, it blankets me
however you can see to the core, translucent rings of a tree.
Walking the balance beam
between life and suicide sporadically.
Being pushed on both sides by a jet stream
Surviving is a pipe dream because we are all dying.
Once again I am on the floor. However,
I am implored to look forward by poetic neighbors.
All I gotta do is knock on their door and they'll gladly give me a cup of esprit de corps.
More french, Au revoir
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC
Light the funeral pyre.
The fleeting fire of desire
will never keep you higher
than a space devoid of ********
or the clever whiff of wit.
(whether or not I deserve it)
I looked you in the eyes; I shook.
The embarrassing strength it took.
The longing I have for you
is asymmetrically split in two.
A love for the rendezvous,
but a run from the morning dew.
That's you.
But realistically,
I'll be me.
And to be free,
I'm finally happy.
And she's out there-
a heart of care,
soft, translucent hair,
some lacy underwear,
a smile to defeat despair.
Every time I doubt,
I see you there.
And then you're everywhere.
You're my sturdy, wooden chair,
and the cowlick in my hair.
And to be fair,
I've got some pretty sweet underwear.
But **** when you’re there,
you're there.
And for me,
you're everywhere.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
They punch me in the face
Until it is apparently asymmetrical
They call me human waste
And tell me not to be sentimental
When they're insistent
On our difference
I begin to see asymmetry
In the way they're treating me
Does anybody remember or even care
About what happened in Nisour Square?
A Blackwater slaughter
Killing sons and daughters
An unprovoked
Macabre joke
The militants were convicted
The victims remained deceased
The locals were livid
When the problem would repeat
We don't mind taking innocent lives intentionally
When we see their value asymmetrically
Does anyone remember when the city of Fallujah
Smoked like a hookah?
Thermobaric rocket launchers
That used depleted uranium
To melt insurgent craniums
Left behind waste
That is radioactive
The citizens could taste
The shame of being passive
When they couldn't reject
The spike in birth defects
A child is born with its heart protruding from its chest
So we can more easily grab it
That child was born with an asymmetrical breast
Because of our capitalist habit
Contractor corpses hang from a bridge
While we stand on a ridge
Separating chaos and order
A symmetrical border
Order oppresses
Chaos undresses
Both cause messes
We need to see each other equally
Or we'll continue seeing sequel sprees
We need to stop seeing asymmetrically
And adopt a completely loving creed
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 6:24 AM UTC
I felt your breath and smoke like
adjacent trains.
------------
I lost my heart in the war between
what took place in normal Syrian towns
(just like the ones I learned how to read in
and the ones I danced through your hair like
asymmetrically curling waves in,
and the ones where
I saw love die like a
half-lit cigarette still burning)
and
what your skin looked like when the wind blew off the sheets so softly that mice could have ran marathons-
where shrouded shadows cleared vision like your cornfields of tightening nerves,
forever unwinding mine.
It was hiding in between your teeth and all of the other places that were too brightly shaded for me to sun-tan under,
where
you are sixteen acres of magnolia trees donning the darkest leaves that forests will ever see,
and we mirror each other's company so tragically.
----------
Inside,
your fireplace warmed our souls like
Phish Food
and whatever chemical reactions occur when love overpowers self-loathing.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC
_Up
At five,
Rummaging
For matching socks;
I meet my train, asymmetrically dressed._
Sep 16, 2019
Sep 16, 2019 at 1:34 AM UTC
not a morning person
she’s content to hide in leafy shadows
wildly overgrown purple and green vines
surround and ensnare her
beneath a canopy of pink antique tea roses
she stands inside a maple platform
designed and handcrafted with care
three asymmetrically positioned 2 by 4 risers raise her
about a foot off the ground
two golden plaster cherubs hover above her on either side
fine grayish wood grain, like carpenter’s fingerprints
peek out through faded cerulean backboards
a painted backdrop made translucent by exposure
fresh cut miniature roses in miniature vases
brighten the stage like foot lights
behind the platform, at the back of the cave
clumps of ferns intermittently reveal
mud swirls splashed on a mint colored wall
up front, a row of marigolds and strawberry plants
embank a retaining wall border
of cabana-like sculpted brick
glistening white quartz stream before her
like a river of rocks at her feet
completing the grotto
she comes alive as the afternoon sun
brings out the color in her cheeks
she steps out from the shadows
and stretches her arms out close by her sides
palms facing outward
fingers pointing down
as if something were emanating from her hands
while she blesses us with peaceful contemplation
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
Cruelty was never the point.
But it happened anyway.
It was never scripted. Just lived.
Instinctively, asymmetrically.
Unscored by safewords
or symmetry.
Where dominance wasn't roleplay
but a structure the other bled against.
And neither one called it love.
Because love would have demanded
less elegance, more responsibility.
And some part of us needed it to stay
as ritual, not reckoning.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 9:00 PM UTC
We
asymmetrically connect,
yet,
perfectly fit
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 7:34 AM UTC
my life ends here / on a Sunday’s evening
after the cross and the globe on the church’s steeple became cooler
I have never felt more non-pain non-love non-fear
the asphalt feels empty and dull for my soles / the resounding box lost its echo
I step further asymmetrically / my soul is slanting / I have no better thing to do
than to stare at people right into the whole / the full of them
without any thought
only the shadow of my elbow embraces other shadows
en passant
silhouette after silhouette
Modigliani’s women / Brâncuşi’s magic birds
la dolce morte della luce
everything flows into thoughts / thoughts into other thoughts even Charon’s boat
and right now my lips paralyzed to stop me from proving something
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
the words of
a lie
were true.
they truthed
uncertain territories
backtracking forwards
through the blurred
clarity of certainty
the words of
a truth
were untrue
and they too
believed facts which
made fallacies
masks and surfaced this-
these ties twisted
into lies so they created
straight lines
geometrically
doing the undone
connecting synapses
making constellations
for mapping the brain
asymmetrically, star gazing
blindly when similarity
fades boldly, what is
indifferent to the the same
what is more contradicting
than comparing
the insane to the sane?
yet this tangible diversion
is simple and complex
in validity
and so. truth be told.
a lie to be,
is a truth to me.
a truth for me,
is a lie to be
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
I am lost
in my mind
swimming in a sea of personal perception
two wrong turns and a missed stop sign
two bad moves tied to an overreaction
two eggs cracked into the void
and a radio tuned to nothing
spewing out more snow than a polar vortex
gone astray in a mental cosmos
a suburban galaxy illuminated by the yellow luminescence
streaming from the neighbor’s windows
a cast glow from a television’s screen
that passing time pales blue
Where do I go from here?
Do I take a proverbial Greyhound
a Mass Move system
1 am carry me away
Sunrise floated home at my heels
the streetlights a row of orange soldiers at attention
fighting the stars
for opacity
2 hours
each way to see your lovely face
down a shot of moonlight
drench myself in it
overlook it in favor of the harsh fluorescence
of an overhead reading lamp
miles and miles and miles and miles
3 books annotated
underlines like bicycle wheel spokes
skewed and rippled
skimming for pure emotion explored
through poetic musings of times long past,
of eating mangos in winter,
of cryptocurrency,
of best friendship lasting forever,
of an Alaskan’s cold heart,
of a San Fransisco balcony
that overlooks the best gay punk club
in a two block radius
4 eyes
worn and felt
asymmetrically weighted
tugging at my sleeve
envious of scattered sleepers
curled in knots and left at peace
left over right
right over left
pulled tight and left to fray
5 texts sent
to different loves
holding conference for validation
collecting feelings like space collects over-illumination
and they are trespassing light pollution
and I am a cosmos
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 10:19 AM UTC
the build up of silt
in this riverbed,
primed the overflow.
as a hit nerve channeling
itself, scribe to nuances
of ground.
in a rush of emendations
attempting to free will.
sharp as an accusatory
finger point, then handfuls--
things get asymmetrically torn
in half.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 12:50 PM UTC
She smiled asymmetrically
Challenged a stroke that paralysed her
Then lifted up dramatically
The broken hopes i had for her
I had strived to help her recover
But it was a single raindrop on a barren land
A decent yet so frail endeavour
A spark of life lost in dessicated sand
But life is not in the sparks we achieve
It's an imploding light
In the minds of those who truly believe
It's the persistent fight
The will to throw yourself on the battlefield
Against the illusion of fright
And the fear that you will eventually yield!
and even someday, you might
Rise up then and hold again your shield
'cause if you don't survive this everlasting night
It is also me that you will deceive
It was rather my mind that paralysed me
And rather her smile revascularised me
This dope I received
was the hope that I need
An inspiring pill
For an expiring will
A lifelong set of treatments
for my postponed disappointments
~Epic Monkey
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
It gets quite ridiculous
When you compare
Our uneven efforts
I thought we could make each other
asymmetrically
happy
I was wrong.
There was no
_thrill_
There was
a c t i o n
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 6:47 PM UTC
Since it was such a beautiful day,
my high school art teacher had us go out to sketch a section of the school.
I have reason to believe we were faced away from the scenery the entire time.
Someway,
somehow,
the sweet sublime of noontime in spring was consumed completely by unbridled,
uncleansed boredom.
We stared down the ugly,
open hallway that our teacher almost tried to persuade us is pretty.
The dirt between the two sidewalks had been so pressed down from rain and being trampled,
it would often be confused for the sidewalk when students didn’t watch their step.
The pebbles by where we sat were covered in dust,
about as dry as the spot made me feel.
There were a few trees that stood like awkward,
gawking freshman boys.
The hall was lined with faded paint,
and asymmetrically placed doors,
windows,
and polls.
Altogether it was an urban obstruction.
Apr 12, 2025
Apr 12, 2025 at 7:53 PM UTC