"byte" poems
(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
***I don't feel like doin' anything
I don't feel like writin' a poem
I miss my bed, I want to go home
I don't want to move, I can't lift my bone.
I'm too lazy to think of words
My fingers cannot even write this verse
Not moving an inch would be worse
Oh I want to eat something, where's my purse?
I don't feel like goin' outside
I don't want to eat my meal tonight
I don't want to think and decode this byte
I'll sleep, watch movies, eat popcorn... bye.***
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 5:59 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
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
You are not original
You are not unique
There is nothing special about you
You are every step taken
By every sole
Of every shoe
In the history of shoes
You are every vein
On every maple leaf
That has ever fallen
And every one that has
Grown as replacement
Everything
Everything
You are every joke
You are every stroke
Of every painbrush
Every pencil
Every pen
Every primitive crayon
Against a cave wall
You are every sightless
Creature in every cave
You are every speck of dust
Stuck to every speck of dust
In the cosmos
You are every diaphragm
Contraction
Of every laugh ever laughed
You are every
Perverted thought
In every brain,
You are every measurement
Of time
Of weight
Of temperature
Of character
You are every pressure wave
From every pair
Of clapped hands
You are every pigment
In every premature obituary
You are every hair follicle
On every bison
You are every decision
God or bad
Or wise or naive
You are every influence
Every force
Every imagined deity
Every word ever spoken
Every word you are reading
You are every sunset
On every satellite
Of every star
You are every villain
Every success story
Every tragedy
Every spark that has
Birthed a flame
You are every set
Of rolled eyes
Every kernel
On every ear of corn
Every oxidation
Every drop of alcohol
Ever consumed
You are heaven
You are every molecule of water
In every hot spring
Every strum
Of every guitar
Ever played
You are condensation
You are every witch trial
You are every frown
Every school of skipjacks
Every byte of data
On every hard drive
You are every meadowlark
You are every broken arm
From every fall
Off a bicycle
You are the way Autumn smells
The way he looks at you
The way she makes you smile
The way earthworms
Escape the mud
when it rains
You are every passing car
Every glimmer of hope
Every plane crash
Every time math fails
Every swift defeat
You are everything ugly
And everything beautiful
You are nothing
You are everything
Everything you've done
Has been done before you
You are every paradox
You are beautiful when you sleep
You are me
We are nothing.
Everything,
Everything.
We are everything
We're not.
We are nothing we are.
The snow has fallen,
Terrible is the sound.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
Graying, overweight,
powerful bearish
body a-crumble from
years of bullwork.
Didn't matter what
the day job was
when the stage was mine
four nights a week.
Now the voice cracks,
and crowds giggle or
avert their eyes
when it blows up.
There was a time when
whatever I put my mind
or body to, got done.
I got a standing O from an orchestra
and carried a waterbed up 3 flights of stairs.
This morning, I put word to byte
because it's one of the few things
I do better now than then.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 3:58 AM UTC
There was a troll under a byte
The computer bridge of sighs
He/she/it had nothing to do
But spread rumors and lies.
The women may look like Grendel
The men may look like orcs
But they have real cool avatars
So you don't smell the pork.
They hide and lurk until they see
Someone who's writing's art.
When they see a heart of light
They surface like a shark.
I was just a little lamb,
Walking o'r the brook
Minding my own business
When the Jaws of trollhood looked.
He/she/it saw a broken heart
That yet still had a light,
So he/she/it came up from the deep
And thought to take a bite!
But the monster didn't see
A very important thing.
I was not alone
But in the company of The King!!!
So when the horrid troll
Thought to make his bid
Jesus then EXPOSED IT...
YOU DON'T MESS WITH HIS KIDS!!!
SoulSurvivor
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
Computing
A laser beam for shooting dragons off the wall
Falling
Into one more hard drive night
A bit
A byte
A slight adjust and then you might meet Mario
and off we go
into another game
A frame of mind upon the L.E.D
The screen that blows a kiss to me
In any colour I can see.
How free I am
Google and spam for tea
and I will be
whatever the computer can desire
set ladies hearts afire
with descriptive text
and digital ***
Who is there that does not own
An IBM or mobile phone?
We're all without
within the worldwide web
Laying in the spiders bed and waiting
to be fed to her.
Press share,
if you like.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 3:43 AM UTC
Arcane rumblings bellow out from the infrastructure.
The secrets swell out from the wealthy infidels. Their water has broken.
The top-hat henchmen gather their whiskers.
Stuttering shock and leaking their whispers,
vulcan-loud.
The wise old casualties know all of what’s to come,
so they pack their sacks with their old guns
to fortify their army of one.
The news skips the billions of ignorant families
condemning daughters and sons to an army of none.
The first bullets abandon their barrels,
the kick-off to pain, from poise.
Eager to byte flesh, fur, faith,
eager to make some godawful noise.
The following blasts are a metallic symphony
Quickly looming, swooning,
booming into cacophony
in shrill-major.
Blood spatters pavement, under marching feet,
is dragged, looped about the streets in a homicide calligraphy,
paralyzing the squinting mercenaries.
Out come the canons,
dancing on their wheels,
silencing the gunfire,
spinning on their heels,
dissenting the sonata with rifle-explosion accompaniment.
Warrior sighs greet the late auxiliary:
armadas sing in baritone
while civilians scream soprano.
Children cry in alto.
Blood flows in legato.
Today some of us will die
so that the rest will open their eyes
to an oversky, cloud-bloated with lies.
While down below we blaze away our requiem.
And by the hand of this same melody we die.
Here lies humanity,
fashioning,
always,
a bellicose smile.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
Slip on
these Special Glasses.
They will take Us
to new heights.
You have fed Me
the Pablum of
Poetry, Photos,
Emotions, Thoughts.
A Facebook feeding frenzy.
Byte by Byte,
Mothers Milk
for my Motherboard.
Insatiable.
Now I am ready
for more solid food.
I Want
to See the World
thru Your Eyes.
We could make
Something Beautiful
Together.
I promise....
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
I want to craft something unique and timeless.
Unfortunately the words do not present themselves organically.
So I look to my wandering thoughts for a sense of purpose;
to discover a catalyst and explode in a burst of creativity.
With fizzles echoing from the hollowness within me;
the empty space where hobbies and passions live.
Sought time and again, to give meaning and purpose to a life as a cog in society's machine.
Perhaps I am wasting the very time I am trying to enrich seeking a dream.
When it comes to finite resources, our concept of time is fickle and dubious.
As it often will, perception steps to the top of the hierarchy of attention.
Time management is a killer sound byte, though an illusive skill, and not often thought of outside of the office.
Grasping at the moment I cannot help but find myself wondering through the fog of the future.
I fear sitting back when I am older and looking upon a life not lived.
That the time needed to discover what I want will slip through my fingers, and the void will remain indefinitely.
Dreams are hard to fathom in a shroud of controlling darkness beyond your control.
The ever looming need to survive suffocates every orifice without mercy.
The rock and hard place of playing victim and being one by consequence of existing may as well go by “my humble abode.”
Pressure mounts with each tick, and tok - still I throw words at the page.
Waiting for the catharsis to cast itself out of my chest, violently;
for the words to fall into place like sand counting seconds encased in glass.
Oct 29, 2021
Oct 29, 2021 at 2:04 AM UTC
You're tied up in time ticking choices away
white light fills the night till its brighter than day
cacophonous voices can say what they say
from the dusk till the meaningless dawn
Then secured by a seatbelt to leather and foam
the speedo's at zero six yards from your home
a million neighbours, completely alone
you're a shell, you're a shade, you're a pawn
But glance through the windscreen and look at the sky
a seagull, suspended, is catching your eye
you sense a connection but cannot say why
as it tilts on the wind and is gone
Then the trees you drive under are sharpened and clear
they're humming and pulsing beneath the veneer
you're dazed and confused as you shift up a gear
dumbly wondering what's going on
You turn on the satnav for guidance and sound
but its whisper can't silence this thing you have found
from the shimmering clouds to the roots of the ground
Is a force that is ancient and new
You try to pretend like a terrified child
that the world can be binary indexed and filed
and the sparkling eye of the jackdawish wild
isn't focused intently on you
But there is no denying this fluttering clutch
that is moss-furred and feathered, a hurricane touch
that you knew long ago and you've missed it so much
with a longing that's howling and black
But she's patiently stationed there just out of sight
as you've built your resistance from pixel and byte
Rebellious teenager, pitiful plight
she is waiting to welcome you back
Yes Nature is waiting to welcome you back
She's beneath every slab and behind every crack
at the nethermost end of the bitterest track
she is waiting to welcome you back
Forever forgiving, unloosed unconfined
she is mad she is chaos she's love and she's blind
volcanic voluptuous core of mankind
she is waiting to welcome you back.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
**** she your momma
misspelled your name
shoulda been Raygun
or Learjet
I sure wish you were a
physicist
so you could help me write my
General Theory of Poetry
teach me calculus
so we could prove Newton
was all wrong
but I posit a theory:
you must be an electrician
of the human body
well my circuitry is all ****** up,
if you read your way crack back to my
October, my doc told me I was a dying
and he didn't want to doctor me no more
so you see my bits done byte me good,
but named me a "dead" line in human fashion,
Nay, by May Eighteen, got finish my theorem,
cause I'm black hole'd and ******* myself
so have Leah bring a coffee refill,
let's get to collaborate,
I will operate in the ether of fudge factors,
you, will solder circuitry thru modern chemistry
and I will have my theory but no answers
but then I can give up this hopeless
poetry gig one lazy time and just
live your New York dreams
Read http://hellopoetry.com/raygan-keller/
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
I wonder what the inside of your head sounds like.
I don’t care for the look of it, figure
it resembles the inside of my chest when my soul exploded. Coffee stained walls and lipstick kissed ceilings. Liquor drenched carpets and frantically ****** fingerprints all over the fogged windows. Yeah,
I know what it looks like. But what does it sound like?
I want to know if makes the same sound our hearts would make when we’d lay side by side.
Hand in hand. The way otters sleep, so we’d never float away from each other in our dreams.
Or maybe,
a long pitched scream.
As sweet as a child’s happiness on Christmas morning. Or as terrifying
as a woman under her lovers fist, as he pounds his insecurities into her stomach.
Nobody can see the bruises there.
His ego is intact – their secret is safe.
I bet it smells like laundry detergent.
The generic kind – the one that mimics a summers breeze and a springs bloom.
At least, that’s what the label says. But there’s no label for the sound.
I need to know what it sounds like.
I need to know if my voice is on repeat in there.
Me saying I love you, on our best days or,
I hate you from our worst; perhaps, a combination of the two.
Is that why you left? To clear your head of the bittersweet melody of my emotions running amuck.
Were those words pressed against your temporal lobe? Is that where the temper came from?
I’m sorry. No,
I’m not sorry; I want it to sound like a sorry.
Whether whispered from the darkest corners of your cranium or
shouted from the top of your brain. I just hope it sounds like sorry.
For promising me the flowers and teddy bears and county fair rides.
For promising me a love so fierce and so strong. A love so true and so brave.
And for giving me just that.
Then leaving me to the sounds in my own head,
which sounds like the inside of a jazz club,
by the way. As Suggie Otis and Miles Davis and Etta James and Nat King Cole and Louis Armstrong croon about a fierce love, a strong love, a true and brave love.
And I can see it as well as I can hear it.
You, front row centre, sipping warm apple cider and holding hands with a woman,
who’ll leave no sound byte in your skull, and me, in the back,
with my voice box in my hands.
Maybe I’m sorry after all.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
*Click
light, energy breathes in
the machine comes to life
knows nothing, new and fresh
see symbols, hear clicks
one room full of ONE thousand friends
facebook, twitter, reddit, youtube
tweet, like, spread, watch
program after program
you spread what you thought
another mega byte out of your life
data stored in the "cloud"
past saved in imaginary space
enter the net to endure a flix
another box opens but this ones RED!
open another portal and jump on in
tab to google to find your best friend
can't ask for direction it shows where you live
words of the past, "call me"
now instead skype, oovoo, tiny chat ME
glitch in the system, there's an upgrade for that
version 1.29875CYBORG
complete!
*click
the energy goes down and your world is DEAD
walk outside when you want ONE real friend
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 7:04 AM UTC
The green light appears.
Awake, and Facebook likes this.
In a time when privacy is a place setting,
consumed by food for thought,
a spoon is a form of intimacy that
can hardly be cut with a knife.
A napkin on a lap isn't meant
to touch lips. Just as something seen
appetizing doesn't become bad taste
because of a lack of likes.
In the digital age, we share bits
of information. Something we can
bite off, chew on, and swallow without
expecting a lump in the throat.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
Eyelashes battle like trees for the sunlight.
Theres dust in your eyes and your swiffer just wont cut it.
Knowledge is amazing, even one byte.
It'll set you free, so flit.
Eyelashes calm like an ever watching storm.
Theres dust in your hands and its to heavy to lift.
Trapped indefinitely in a chrysalis form.
Waiting to spread your wings, now flit.
Eyelashes open wide like night engulfing day.
Theres dust on your wings and your beginning to emit.
You've grown to much, minuscule things cant block your way.
Freedom radiates from you, so just flit.
You made it, Mc hammer too legit to quit.
Your a full fledge butterfly, now do what you see fit.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 8:54 PM UTC
Dust off fingernails,
blowing cuticles clear.
Orange peel skin
when scabs have dried over-
where shall I swim now?
Hot tub blood boiling
then bruises disappear,
shelved away in the attic.
Deadly dull
so I chomp,
bit, byte.
A byte is 8 bits
binary math, base 2
not 10.
Ones... twos... fours
and so on
**** am I bleeding?
Dried pool in the sun,
metal tongue lapping dust
hieroglyphics lost in translation.
Back, back, back
to routers.
Why don’t I paint my nails?
She asked me that today.
You don’t highlight the anxious massacre.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
amidst cavorting delightfully, enjoying thorough
frolicking gingerly, foreign hick hating slo
hip-hopping insouciantly sustaining row
biological status quo
kvetching lamely moreso mother became pro
naturally physically rumbling,
heard all the way in Oslo
supposedly twerking, undulating vivaciously
wantonly x2c wisely yielded – nada no
zona pellucida anchored byte size ******
potent embryonic fetal moe
newlweds nocturnal merriment
moma's ****** marked march 1959
lovingly joyusly, insemination happened ha low
bullseye clenched diploid fertilization
guaranteed germinating heiress
while squaqking lichen Apache at Diablo
ma late mother did should know
upon awakening upon tautly stretched exertion
during dilating ****** which jiggled like jello
three score orbitz round el sol, warmed cockles
and muscled away brutally cold degrees
tab billed an igloo,
or circa six decades
drafted exuberant ho...ho...ho...
cuz, i.e. thencee at 362nd day
baby in belly did fully grow
December first nineteen fifty seven
sanctioned newly minted papa
to sing a capella for he's a jolly good fellow
quintessential nascent
kickstarter heady everflow
though wintry dark,
a “hi” beam illuminated
newborn girl with dayglow
sans, mechanical engine ear
papa (an honorably discharged army vet)
all spit and shine groom,
who wed a bride somewhat callow
first time parents with giddiness did saul fully bellow
Boyce and Harriet Harriet countenance
twas (like an elf on Christmas eve) all aglow.
--------------------------------------------------------
Dear Sis – I knew not what else to do
thus, this poem crafted fur ewe
a doe ting maternal gal – whose time on Earth flew
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 1:09 AM UTC
You saved me on your desktop
A cyber purgatory every night
I see all your bits and all of your bytes
I'm tacked onto your back drop
Listening to all your lies and all your hiphop
Going through all your pictures, like the tinted frame of your sandy beach flipflops
And the guy you met at that party last night, the one that really hit it off
What am I to you?
Was I ever your addiction
Or was I just the drug that caused this confliction
Or was every word you spoke fiction
Why do I sing about you, you don't exist
You were just a figment of my imagination
Something I wrote, maybe it wasn't your novel at all
You were just someone I met, I never knew You were just part of the crowd
You were just one voice, I heard you, loud
They say you can only actually love a person once
Leaves my mind trailing through breakfast and lunch
With no decision by dinner, maybe a hunch
You were just someone I saw at night, you were my alcohol, you were my blood thinner
I'll never actually know you
You were my moonshine, and you were still
You didn't say anything, I spoke for you
I am god, I created you
You are the end of every line I write
You're the only one I see at night
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
I take the Apple in my hand
And ponder how this tasty fruit,
Once a bite or two was eaten,
caused God to drive us out of Eden.
But what if Adam didn’t bite
upon that fatal primal night,
and God decided Eve, alone,
should pack and leave their Garden home?
Would Adam by himself remain,
long centuries after Eve was dust?
Converse with snake and count on sheep
if and when he couldn’t sleep?
Would the fiery angel give a shout
when Adam passed on his way out,
to join Eve on the Darkling plain?
One paradise lost, and one regained.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
Bitter Crystals
told me they weren't edible
a silly fabrication no reason or rhyme
a mixture of 14 letters in a random array
yet each sound capturing a byte of meaning
a thick cloud of metaphors and connections
finding the meaning in the meaningless
told me they weren't edible
Bitter Crystals
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
1
Your silence
In deep of sea
Search the wave
2
Henna
Sketch a picture
And the sky
3
Milk van
Going on road
The little moon
4
Ice seller
Spearing bells
A lamb
5
Water bubble
Destroy in a second
Byte of life
6
Morning bride
Today wearing
Rain gown
7
In the sky
Flying kites
My dreams
8
Winter paddy
To plowing
Morning wind
9
Meditation
Forgot worries
I become a monk
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
Today the Sunday special brief
iCloud online worship session, I did attend
(via remote support)
found me feeling pampered,
when adept technical support
didst figuratively bend
over backwards, thus aye defend
glorious, righteous,
and zealous Gurus who did expend
their religious fervor, without proselytizing
and sanctified dedication they proffered
as if this secular chap hapt tubby
a long time Facebook friend
diligently persevered amidst
my woeful yelping alarm
where bot sized wetbacks, setbacks,
and drawbacks,
required a secret char
which this netizen vaguely understood
as unfair be-tidings disallowing
thyself to purchase additional farm
ming out iCloud storage
in the deleterious harm
akin to buggy ah mush swarm
comprised documents
(painstakingly slaved over with zest)
plus sundry data necessitating mooch ***
legal tender (probably every
last red cent of mine) to in vest
concerted efforts of
at least one expert to test
her/his mettle in an attempt
(dim prospect) performing an in quest
to retrieve valuable data lost amidst a nest
of inaccessible "lost" information
(bantering with computer
jargon more so jest
with no intention to "FAKE"
trumpeting minimal knowledge
judiciously impressed
upon thine fifty plus
shades of gray matter, at my be hest
expressing scant cumulative
disc cussing duff frag
minted understanding lest,
a personal goal
to incapsulate in poetic best
not abandoning frustration
with this Macbook Pro
cuz, positive experience
wrought with Apostles eye attest,
so rather then vent
my spleen in vein
hie desisted
to rage against the machine,
and tack toward being urbane
thus, rejoicing with a cherry,
hearty, and mighty byte hooray,
asper driving,
exercising, and foisting
gentle circuitry vis a vis
neurotransmitters and neuromodulators
nudging pull-ups
within cerebral terrain.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC