"buddah" poems
It's quite a feat, walking through the
Graveyard of the Gods.
Buddah takes his time playing majong
Against Thor, his hammer near but at odds,
While Yam keeps ear near conch
Lest the Phoenicians hear his song
And pray his way once more.
They fight over the attention they receive,
A whisper by the heralds
Behind closed doors.
A hint of what may have come before
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
In my first life, I died
The year I turned 25,
And now that I’m in the hours before I taste my second,
I want to make it all the way to
28.27 years
cause when you divide that by 9,
You’re left with pi.
And because the universe isn’t just a
Straight line, you’ve got to use a formula to get around,
Get all up on that pi d because piety just
isn't logic enough for me, where even the repentant
Are told they’re going to burn in purgatory, sweetheart, please.
Being alive and feeling was
sometimes hell enough for me.
In just a few hours before I’m sent through that
Tight tunnel,
I want to be judged by the god of
3.14159, the baker that made me
Mr. Blueberry Buddah
Master in the art of reincarnation.
I want to be birthed **** with just a dab of pure whipped
cream for a soul,
Drizzled sweet with the blood I never watched my
mother bleed for me
on the morning of my second birth.
But I gotta say, this bardo shit's pretty odd,
Here the sky ranges in color gradients too specific like
“violent salmon” all the way to “lukewarm smoothie”
But once I get out, I know things will be strange,
owning a life that’s not quite mine to lose.
And even though I’ll have no answer to give, I desperately
Want someone to ask,
Stranger, tell me, how did it feel?
Theoretically, I’ll respond,
Well, I was kicked back into some ancestral dream
To meet everyone I will ever be, everyone
I have ever been and
Once I’ve met all of them,
Everyone I will never meet again.
And they'll ask,
Friend, is that why babies take so long to be born?
Yes, its because they’re shaking hands with the universe
On the way out of the womb.
At least, the one who will reach nirvana
After this life cycle circles through.
Lover, if I were to meet you again, will you remember?
Does your soul still have my story
Etched on it somewhere,
Or will you be washed clean of me,
The tabula rasa upon which Locke never wrote?
I won’t remember you, but
I have faith that you’ll find me,
Even lifetimes grow apart after too long.
It’s all about the company you keep because
They never stay.
And if that should happen, well,
We just met each other in an inconvenient life.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
I dreamed I fought Buddah
Again. The fat ******* was a
Slippery one, but not as
Heavy as you'd think.
He laughed with every punch
I landed. So disarming, it
Bordered on cheating.
When he finally tapped out,
I lost. I crossed swords with
Christ some nights ago.
A testament to surrender.
Flat slaps against a thousand
Cheeks, I guess crosses and books
Of poetry -alike- are made from
Wood. *I'm the son of a carpenter
Too,* I yelled. But it was Mary who
Had a little lamb. I formed a spear
With my hand and drank the
Water it revealed; thirsty as sand.
Like fighting a holy ghost. Air.
I punched at unbreakable mirrors.
I gave up faiths I never had.
Then Odin came up from behind.
Took out my left eye and prepared
To render Blood Eagle, dagger in
Hand, coil of Man; as mortal as any.
We whispered in unison: *Finally
A fight worth ending.*
Nothing is
Holier
Than
Flesh.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
Bleeding In my own wold
I am serene
I am ******* buddah
An exemplary exhibit of how
To be calm in a storm
How to stand on my own in the waves
That crush my shoulders
That smash my chest
That bring me to my knees
**** the rules
And I defy the gods of this world
I raise my voice
In a defiant hymn
I rebel
I exist through my will
And I will not be brought low
I am flesh blood and bone
I am because I am
And my thoughts roam these
Unsavory waters
I will fight these demons
I will become what I may
And relentless I will purge
My soul
I scream till my eyes bleed
And I know what it means
To eat the heart of my enemies
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 10:48 PM UTC
Temple
gold
sky
blue
Buddah
dwells
inside
you.
________
Photo:
http://beautyineverything.com/5054754830
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 8:07 AM UTC
Thinking of him
She asks
What she should do?
I ask the gods
Ganesha, buddah, G-d and Allah
I think of him and she’s angry at me and it’s my fault
I don’t know if its something I can afford
Now I don’t know what to do
I saw myself cross out the graffiti in every city
Should I figure it out and decide
This other guy tells me something red so I play along and he gets mad and it’s my fault
Unfair and cruel
He just tells me to look at the moon
I take back every wink it stole
I see the beauty before my feet
I’m testing the bounds of reality
Are you angry or man?
I’ll be allright
I’ll be safe and yet I’ll go along with the lights
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 6:50 AM UTC
Red eyes on the morning train
Heads bobbing
I ask myself
*Why do we do this
To ourselves?*
Then I withdraw
And smile with
Buddah
This too is
Poetry
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
playing clue and sorry on the same board
singing into a fan
with a semi-blue tan.
looking at a broken poster board.
with broken tile in your hair
you think the moon has hair.
like james blubierre
making a wicker basket to hold scented pinecones
using guitar strings
with a bad marker scarf.
looking at elenor rigby's doctor
having no sense of direction
you sung a wrong turn
buddah says die
while ghandi says hi
while typing nonsense letters
with the hopes of a secret
though there's only a secret for you
The Typist
he makes a pie that's flavored like pie
and looks up to the sky
to take a cloud and ride it
looking upset
and in the rain he's wet
he walks solemly to his apartment
to type more nonsense
though the crazy get it
and the sane don't
he types for a secret
he doesn't know
he scans the words, jumps the letters
makes them dance in his mind
he wants to know more
out of less
he makes it all up
right on the spot
to sing in a song
for singing the sung
the sung are singing though the sun is hung
looking for their lovers
though the don't love back
they look at the sky for the cloud they will ride
to take them to their lover's side
though his life was in peril
he knew right away
that in the end
it would all go away
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 6:03 PM UTC
Two minutes to midnight.
All my windows open to the gentle
Scents of Summer, and the invation
Of winged insects drawn
Towards the single candle
On my living room glass table.
It's as if a pine stripper is dancing
On my lawn,
All perfume and movements that
Sound like breeze and innocent
Lust.
I want to make love to the outside.
Be inside it. Give something back to
These two magical months between
Winters, and at the same time
Worship; move with tears in my eyes
Within optimal actual love.
I smell green; hear dark blue; look
Into the sunset iris of night time
Posing as evening,
And pull words like aces out of my
Worn poetic sleeves, but this is my
Winter coat, and all I can think of is
*Snow creaking like doomed souls under
The heel of Anti-Summer Herself.*
Meanwhile, Odin and Buddah swing
From a tree in my garden.
All battle muscle and fat carelessness,
And I look out at them chatting
Like little kids on a playground, about
*Everything and nothing, and how that's
All there is.*
Their words sing to my ears like the
Up-beat hummingbird pulse
Of a newborn's heart, to a young mother's
Own.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
A fatal imbalance occurred
Speech slurred
We are only capable of using small words
And God is the only thing that's pure
A foul stench in the air
But not even Judas could find a care
A paradox bouncing off the snare
Deranged and confused but definitely not aware
Muslims morphed into Hindus
Buddah didn't know what he got himself into
ravaged by the dominated Jews
The star of david was everyone's tattoo
We didn't know what we believed
Atheists were the only one's that could see
They believed in themselves but not very clearly
Religion was the beast and faith was the beauty
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
I'm a hack of all trades.
Fondler of the sacred.
Like a roach,
Who turned into a human.
Metamorphosize that Kaf:
I'l have you spinning in your grave.
While darkness ***** on the sun.
Oh Clouds!
Clouds of blue, Clouds of grey!
Mark the evening sky,
With Buddah's laughter
Nature's secret,
What it has to teach:
There is no universal mind.
It's laughable and cyclical.
No wonder the smile...
Simulacra overload.
My mind is a toad
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
Life's too short to hold a grudge,
But that doesn't make it short.
It's quite long, mundane and pointless,
If you gain objective focus.
Some greet this view with grief and damns,
"I'm free to suffer at my hands".
I'm also free to **** my mind,
The ***** where illusion thrives.
But I'm fond of our condition now,
At peace when lost in the Bermuda,
Don't save me now, I want to hurt!
You've got ****** up timing,
Don't you Buddah?
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
a sliver of
moonlight
causes the buddah
to cast his long shadow
across the garden
amid blown down
limbs
of ancient maples
bare against the
winter chill
the obituary
appeared in the Saturday
and Sunday papers
with a picture
and a name
i knew
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
I'm looking for something else, you call it negitive
I call that reflection of self, why you make it out to be so devilish. If I shall perish I envision consumption of wealth. True wealth, the kind I once faced, embraced in darkness, a mothers womb, peace my soul did consume, forced into this world n told to bloom. No one knew they were sending us to our own perceptive doom.
We create it then debate it, because collective reality is to real to face it. Drop bombs n schedule cases, god **** it I hate it but I love what made it. Our own creations n we stand to em. What are we but all the same faces created at different paces. Humanity is our sanity, n we destroy it with vanity. How has it come to be that we no longer see, hate is enough to separate our forces that be. Sun Tzu's divide and conquer, history from a forefather but why bother? They never birthed what resembles your master, direct questions to your pastor. Who's the real parent, at times its no longer apparent. No lessons in direction, off to school cos no time to bother. A system not meant for blessing. Ancestors we fester out of regret of what we neglect, truth in our own history, it truely stays a mystery. Science made humanity defiant. It all Resembles truth in the message, if we could only make each other get it. Stop the ******** and teach the lesson. Its all the same message, only changing to keep us guessing, U'd get it after a smokin session.
If shame was an issue, making momentary thought an issue maybe we wouldnt have to tell our brothers we'll miss you. Send em off to battle, with out facts to go through. They're souls get burnt too. Blood for corporate greed, the same creed that feeds you your feed, controlling the source but ofcourse the conspirators make it out to be worse. All motivated to keep ignorance in our health. Feels like its programmed in fate to prorate hate to make you un equal to a few, who couldn't care if you be Christian, Muslim, or Jew. Buddah never asked to be praised but the love from his words made him more than he was. Spiritually enlightened to a perception, and that's my personal lesson. No judgment only my own interpretation, of what I am and we all are. People created equal.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 3:31 AM UTC
I remember sitting in
Numerous wards
And clinics
With all the madmen
Around me –
Wondering if they are dying
Or whether that
Scratch has turned
Septic.
I think people enjoy
Thinking there’s something
Seriously wrong with them,
It gives them
Something to do
With their dull lives.
But it works both ways,
Doc can feel a hero
And he can tick a box.
God incarnate,
Allah, Buddah, Jesus.
I am called in
I’m sure my diastolic is up
After nabbing a handful
Of pear drops.
“Right, Mr. Hinton, please sit down –
Are we feeling okay today?”
“What can I say, I’m in a
Practice when I could be writing?”
“Ever the pragmatist... Now let’s
Have a look – your blood pressure’s up.”
“You just stuck a rod on my arm
And contorted my arm, I’m sad
It’s not through the roof.”
“Now, you take it easy on
The beer and the women.”
“You know I won’t, see you in
Six months time, John?”
I shake the Doc’s hand and
I slink away.
Immortal for another day
*******
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 10:00 AM UTC
wash it wash out wash it wash out
let it turn
hoot and a holler
bottled up all day
and like bubbly bottles burst
take my toll
fierce, almost fictional
but never hostile
transcend your barriers and let your impulses take you towards the next side of the room
and then back again
its over and over and over
hear the trumpet whail its sorrow
circling, round, round, round
love, a mist, love to die for
unseen unconditionl surrender
ooohohohoaoh
e,njoy a gin and tonic, and ,dress that ,was fash,ionable at ,som, e point b,ut is in deeper,ate ne,ed of ,recur ,,, , , , rence
the glasses are thick and so is t he smoke that lingers above conv,eras,--------tions and weaves be d,, tween the textu--------res of the deep green trees and their abundant philosophical relatab======le language and you fall into their ro000000000ots, you drUUUUUug their holes and youuuuuu lOOOOOve the earth the same way you love a compliment
Ahhh yeahhh!!!,you're looking the best you have in your life
there is a melody somewhere in the background but your attention is on the person in from of you, the enthusiasm in their voice, and how quickly you are able to agree with them
anticipate like disneyt, tpoets businesses, bartenders, bar menders, cleansers inspectors interpreters judgmenters allocate the spenders reaching out for new vendeor whose the best the lesser??
LET ME GOOOOOOOOO
its warm man, you have a smoke?
swomen, lights, some monument sky high lithe buddah lights little u[p with orange with luck on straight spinnings what was that? take another drink, hey whats your name? I'm from california you like surfing politics I odn'tk know I need to meet my friend
fix fix fix do I need to finish that paper? fixixixifiixx what will my mother say????
you met another guy who is dancing with a girl and he is cool and he is gesturing towards you with his glass of champagne and you
tilt up ystaree he cbottole of beer, but his kindness lingers as you stare into your glass andI smile when? wrong time go away fog forward gly He cracks a really funny joke about your smile
HAHAHHAHAAH
The movie, the movie, those time when I am removed from things and the
My mind balloons and its... delicious
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
ive seen, believed, loved and felt,
cried and lied, broken dreams ive held.
ive longed to find, that which is mine.
all i know i have is that which ive held,
that wich is holding my own, for now it will be called a belt
god, allah, buddah and ja,
will hide me.from the hate, and all of the wrong,
i share with them the beauty ive longed.
so wake me up when i have felt my own.
love is what im looking for love is what i hold
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
We have been there
That space between fore-thought and post-thought where you think a million things per minute and you don't know if you could explain it even write it down
The empty dry heaving silence when the person you're talking to is at loss for words and you're gasping on the other end like that nothingness is a black hole ******* the oxygen from your throat cavity
Holding a bottle of Tequila or *** or wine or any poison that never makes it to a cup let alone the table top, thinking its some elixir like the 1900s where they thought it would cure you of syphillius or something
Maybe they weren't half wrong, it's to forget yourself for a while. The biggest disease there is - you. And you're ******* down this bottle hoping to be alone hoping to be somewhere else hoping to be someone else in a different place but no matter how many seconds you can chug after pulling an Ace you still feel like the Joker - and we don't even play that card.
Standing in front of a mirror, turn left, right, lean forward, **** in, pull grab and tug at sides thighs bellies too full and too blatantly open. Buddah is plump, but zen does not come in size 10 or up
From my knowledge you can fill your life with empty faces that you know their name and how much ***** they can drink, and challenge them to drink more, and have them think so positively of you for an alcoholic personality
Laying down on your bed early evenings with plans cancelled plans never made and it’s only Tuesday. Wondering what else you could be doing with your life. There’s people jumping off cliffs, hang gliding, booking a plane to Amsterdam, and you’re sitting here fantasizing about the far-fetched possibility of leaving your bed to be spontaneous and have a cup of coffee.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
I won't lie and say I trust myself because the truth is that I don't.
I will lie and say I'll be there when, but the truth is that I won't.
I don't know what you want from me much less to what extent.
Most days I just push it through when other days I'm spent.
You may or may not have said those things believe them I just can't.
It's hard to pay attention when my mind it starts to rant.
"It's all absurd, listen not, for these words we hear are lies!
She doesn't love you she doesn't mean it, don't look into her eyes!"
Alas though I'll hang my head, to look into my drink.
Thank Buddah it isn't empty, this scotch it helps me think.
The amber cloud of liquid courage I've captured in this glass.
Brings to mind I'm out of smokes and these thoughts can kiss my ***
**** the truth there's nothing there but misery and pain.
To soak a soul in smoke and scotch lest he go insane?
The illusion that I'm living I think will suit me fine.
I don't know how the story ends so I refuse to wait in line.
No materials that I want so much that I'll sacrifice my time.
When I could be here hoping you are reading every rhyme.
Well I've sorted all my quandaries relating to this matter.
Whether or not they give a **** could only serve to flatter.
To know the truth will woo the ego or feed my self loathing.
Another lie to tell thyself a wolf in some sheeps clothing.
I thank you though for hanging out as I wrestle with myself.
Choosing which illusion to pull down from the shelf.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
to recite something
to let it be in your bones
to let it exist outside of yourself
to let it mulch to let it dwindle to let it begin
and to let it roll over
and to let it slip
and to let it die
and to let it roll around in a ditch
and to swim and scream and roundabout
and to control and to gag and to conquer
and to mistake and to make gate and to stand on the top of the curb
to be ahead of the game
to be moxy, merry, maybe just stay the same
imbicile working for a penny a day
while another man in the corner makes marmalade
I’m bouncing, happy, glamourous gratitude
going on around the stratosphere making my own career out of solitude
masked in a gag of reddened retina on display with buddah
large intensinal malfunction on the way towards the retina
the eye, the eye, the eye, the eye
and some may type as quickly as I
and I do dare to challenge them to a duel
as I will take them into the second round
away from it all, away from it all
and down the dark ages crawl, crawl, crawl
and make it work for others to do the draw, to do the draw, to do the draw
and make copies of music on top of another musical entrance music entrance music, entrance, music
make a case out of stereotypes and continue on your own way
inventive and invigorating and invested and afraid
loving and simplifying and hating the mystery
the beauty
the absolute majesty
keep me in check and keep me more for the moon
and I’ll go along to the race track with old hank
and swoon and swoon and swoon
ride the horses
on the way to nowhere
and they will glisten
in the evening sun
and lay out on their own
and lay out on their own
and become what has never been done
and become what has never been done
the ****** is full and perfect
and then the fall is back down
and laughter is part of the question
and it all goes down like that
boom, boom, boom boom
and then peace
easy thought process
a deep breath
growls
beautiful growls
and laughter
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
i swallowed half a bottle last week.
tell me when the ***** will be enough.
tell me when i'll be enough.
i die a little more each day.
a little piece used to erode away from my flesh when i cried,
now there's no more to go.
"Oh, how rude of me to bring my thoughts inside your bedroom."
i am only a Guilty Sadist,
waiting for my soul to float back into infinity.
These problems are only in my imagination.
"We don't even exist anyways."
That's what i keep telling myself but,
this pain seems so real.
The emotional things are becoming physical
and these cuts and bruises on my body aren't fictional.
I am ****** to hell,
but it's not a physical place.
Heaven and hell are only states of mind.
maybe i can escape
and maybe not.
Don't ridicule me because i don't believe in god or allah or buddah or satan,
i have killed myself enough for the both of us.
i am in a whirlwind of emotions and heartbreaks and tears and screams and ghosts and demons and
music.
let the music play.
hear the gentle strum of the guitar and it will all be alright
... but it is still here.
help me
.
please
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC