"asymmetries" poems
The Quantum Poetry Theorem
from a long time ago,
a thousand poems a priori.
**Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement.,
But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.**
Scruffy, yet ennobled,
my own 99% invade and
occupy all my senses,
in my eyesight encamped
sensing opportunity,
the 99 demand
that each shutter eye snap,
all nominal exhalations,
every quantum minutia perception,
be live streamed,
direct tv to you
Everything I witness,
transformed into an
acoustic guitar rocking vision,
a levitation of poetic expression,
set to a primitive three-chord
rock & roll overture,
and my iPad,
appointed Recording Secretary,
compiles exhalations as ecrivations
a preservation society of the verb,
strings of words emanating non-stop
within my head, from a guitar playing
twenty four seven, ironically,
expressed mathematically
Street strolling,
busy brasserie bar,
a Pinot Noir arrives,
a large pour of
stanzas and a
napkin upon to scribble
mind in ferment but
A Capella smooth cool,
my bossy brain requires
incident reports,
a "write me down, please,"
and
no matter how much I drink,
ain't anti-matter enough to
stop my eyes from seeing
every human interaction
as a poetic, probabilistic,
verbal equation,
quantum expressions of sensory upload
The brain revels and reels from overload,
no mas, no more,
poetry fatigue incurable,
caplets and ointments,
string theory,
can't cure or explain
the compulsion I feel,
and the 1% of me
protests my
overtaxed mental capacity,
and
hear the, see the, masses,
the shouts, the placards,
outside my home,
shut it down, no one cares,
no one wants your transplanted mechanics
in their eardrums
Huzzah, found in my gut,
a Grand Unifying Theory
to coordinate, gauge and harmonize
my internal asymmetries,
yes, a coupling factor required,
but still,
one equation that explains everything!
my fatigued, pointy, index finger
refuses to tap any more,
my Theory of Everything,
and my poetry, forgot, overlooked.
in my library buried,
black holed, forever silence-stored
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
Why don't I meet those students?
I can be a teacher
I am a teacher
not teaching English in a community college
or NYC for that matter
yet a teacher
and I have Freudian asymmetries
I mean I am hung up on women
on old world literature
on promiscuity , racial mixing
tense ****** moments.
I am also quite frank
to myself, to my sensibilities
my self centered world.
I do have students
who seem to be interested in
chitchats outside class
those evening walks grabbing coffee somewhere
learning a thing or two
about life, men.
I mean, their chief complain
they have dated boys
missing pseudo-intellectuals
& everyday enactment of 'Oedipus Complex' in reverse.
I see compelling eyes,
provocative bodies,
keen to learn, waste and start from scratch
yet I don't meet those girls
who would rip apart my three year old marriage
keep me pseudo-happy for the time
have *** in claustrophobic venues in unknown hours of the day
make me quit jobs, sanity and pragmatism
marginalize me to despair and defacement
to
inevitably break up with me
so that I can write a book or two about it
Random House may be interested
and I would have to turn forty,
without a single care in this whole, wide world
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 6:05 PM UTC
The night had brought with it the hush of a thousand homes, nestled in the raw
slumber of soft shadows -
moon cast, in white mist and deep groves of impenetrable asymmetries...
a plume of thoughtful blobs in the shape of trees and dozy chimneys,
crowding the dark knolls
of some beautiful assembly -
An unbearable Elysium, foam-joy and regal
stammering
the eye of our stillness ...
A luminous rush of glories and old plots of dead heavens
shimmering in the dialect
of mute jewels.
The Deep Night, plush and removed; swollen with the dizzy laws that govern such astonishing things -
An unmasked pavilion, stripped of horrors, laying naked in the ether
bejeweled in the common genius of the supreme will...
the extraordinary -
blasting the mundane from it's faint heart into ingots of exuberant ore ~
O'Sacred things that devour flame
to disgorge supernova As tapestry.....
A garden of stars most hostile
to the ignorance of our darker thoughts -
The deep night gathered in the hollow of rainbows restrained by the clouds
Of a desperate mirror
One that reflects; to love better the Sun ~
but hasn't the Silver to shine.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:03 PM UTC
The night had brought with it the hush of a thousand homes, nestled in the raw
slumber of soft shadows -
moon cast, in white mist and deep groves of impenetrable asymmetries...
a plume of thoughtful blobs in the shape of trees and dozy chimneys,
crowding the dark knolls
of some beautiful assembly -
An unbearable Elysium, foam-joy and regal
stammering
the eye of our stillness ...
A luminous rush of glories and old plots of dead heavens
shimmering in the dialect
of mute jewels.
The Deep Night, plush and removed; swollen with the dizzy laws that govern such astonishing things -
An unmasked pavilion, stripped of horrors, laying naked in the ether
bejeweled in the common genius of the supreme will...
the extraordinary -
blasting the mundane from it's faint heart into ingots of exuberant ore ~
O'Sacred things that devour flame
to disgorge supernova As tapestry.....
A garden of stars most hostile
to the ignorance of our darker thoughts -
The deep night gathered in the hollow of rainbows restrained by the clouds
Of a desperate mirror
One that reflects; to love better the Sun ~
but hasn't the Silver to shine.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 10:45 AM UTC
We're from two different worlds,
You and I.
I desire to reach out,
To touch you -
But my hand is swallowed
In the galaxies between us.
Your eyes are cobalt planets -
Deep emerald waves
Crashing upon their shores.
The smoke curling from your lips
Is dark, dreary:
The forsaken Milky Way.
I watch you,
And I know -
I will never close that space.
There is too much in the way,
Too much noise,
Too many opinions,
Too many disapproving, shaking heads,
And furrowed brows.
Our asymmetries are miles deep,
Coursing through
Your bloodstream,
Coursing through mine.
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
don't read me a poem that rhymes
it rings too perfectly
the tuning fork of prose
but if you must to entertain and please
then speak to me in
asymmetries that pull me in
and let me fall into a rhythm
that i can croon to
move and sway for
do that, and we can play
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
I've acquired the dullest of modern memories,
Circle around the complex of life to find its asymmetries,
And I'm hung,
Like calender's past its prime,
Marked into a blockaded day with numb sun,
So now I'm emotionally fertile with moonlight in my gun,
Aim them at the lions that maul the flesh from my sanity,
Turn them into hairy cherubs for bliss tyrannical anarchy,
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
In the deepest recesses of surreal imaginings,
Issireen awaits to appear in lucid dream
--with a headdress made of a jade of
ivory green upon her spirituous head
of purposeful crystalline.
The only gateway to attain the pure excesses
of her beam, and all that she possesses
is the gleaming illumined stream.
To float on by the mysterious ringing spheres
one by one, finding balance in your curious thinking years,
will gently make ripples where there once were none,
and in the hereafter they make still or remove your weighty tears.
The sole visionary can stir a pool of serenity into chaotic
energies --asymmetries of colors, forms and densities;
which reveal aerie little faces which are reflections of dull
or intense entities. But if you try to seize the intangible wakes
caused by the faerie fins that race --*like wings in the wind
of other realities*-they will glide thru your fingers like solacing
rain, casually and without pain.
Motion begets motion here, with a sweet gentle touch, as the
oceans of thought first do retreat before the inevitable rush.
Upon your arrival, Issireen can then emerge materialized full
into ethereal space with her hind wings draped over her uniquely
featured legs --outspread across the landscape.
She will be drawn beyond compare. When her immortal image
begins to take shape, a dreamer could naught but feel, but stare. Her eyes will seem to reveal raging complex colors, within
the borders of the iris is the reel of the engaging onyx shutters --into which you will then be the one drawn, drawn into those inescapable eyes. Drawn into the back of beyond -where tranquility lies unsurpassed in it's attribute.
Hear all the sounds that were never mute, see the banners outstretched
but never torn -instruments playing, stars that shoot, and lights that are forever on.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC