"caches" poems
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds.
Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass,
as fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon.
The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view,
chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun.
Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind,
down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls.
Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches,
their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns.
Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
There's a private, invisible flock of comedians chanting soapbox knock-knocks in my parking lot
Noisy, clang, boom thingy aloft and clipping the air around the slimy snow
And why does ajax keep butting its nose into everything I’ve got?
They’re all just boom-lost facades in a canonical, sly-faced rant.
So slanted, frankly, and poised toward a milder pace that the clang clipped the frosty branches beneath a drunken frat-house party.
Ah, the dandy-clang : native to the sandy graves and morose olive branches.
But only on the night of the dandy-clang, candy dances
for the branches are not partial to missed solid caches
of want and woe
of tongue and toe
and seldom shaken beneath the overbearing heat of a white-faced predator
for times it was that here and now, because
the wind had bitten harder
What am I saying?
That if the dandy-clang came. And if it produced the branches of the dancing eve fame...
with but not together. The clouds up in the ether
that lake and earth should wither
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
Run... run while you can
before the envelopment entraps you
encapsulating escape with leaden clouds
skies darkened by searing missiles
unburdening caches waiting
for the stirring of conflict
so easy to hijack
as hatred
screams
loudest
drowning
out the pleas
of nursing mothers
as children's faces fend off
old feuds and avarice of arms dealers
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 4:59 AM UTC
We lie
It is in our nature to deceive
When among apex predators
We hide our true intentions
Constantly camouflaging
In our minds
We make enemies of friends
Wary of what games they play
Friendships becoming wars of attrition
Subvert each other's eyes
Cloud each other's visions
Readying blades
And building intelligence caches
Waiting for the moment
To air out ***** laundry
To manipulate
To puppeteer
To instigate and spread propaganda
A new era of Cold War
As if social interactions
Are but chess games
Who will sacrifice the pawns
Who will take the queen
Who will **** the king
Or are we but pretending to be jesters
Or rooks silently waiting in the corner?
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
I've been contemplating suicide,
as of late.
Not your standard,
bullet to the brain,
ending ones physical existence,
type of suicide.
No,
I'm considering something... more direful.
I'm going to commit a writers' suicide.
I'll start by deleting my various internet caches,
like the bat of an eye they'll all disappear.
Blink, blink, blink!
For extra measure,
I'll stick an Ice pick through this computer,
then sink it,
in the lake.
I'll follow that up,
by dissolving my pens in a vat of acid.
To the wood chipper!
Go the pencils.
I'll have a bonfire,
burn all the physical text I have,
and every single scrap of blank paper,
within reach.
To finish it off,
I'll break my thumbs,
pull out my own tongue.
Is a writer really alive,
without his word?
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
Douse ye flame snub thou to ashes
Bury well thine reserved stashes
...and plead tears hath no mercy
CURSE YE!
Sir, see your deeds cause pleurisy
Neural’s feed off chaos’s vitae stench
whence did ye awaken as a corpse?
Denounce ye faith scrub scour ye caches
Hurry, Hell’s cries serve blasphemes
...and in thine end a fury
WORRY!
For ye shall be judged and juried
Scurry til ye nails wear to a dusting
lusting for a life once lived no more...
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 4:01 PM UTC
What a wonder,
Lost in the hills
Trudging and slipping
Through mud and snow.
Ninety minutes,
A dozen dogs,
One and a half 'caches,
A single candid horse.
Racing to beat the sun,
I find a sack and a tub.
I'm happier than mother, though -
Left with a rather muddy rug.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 4:26 AM UTC
Wanted to write fluently
About million worlds
With beautiful wovs.
I couldn't.
There's a dark pressure
In gloom. Doomed mind.
They do. Me.
I'm transmitting.
Harmonies. Cacophony.
Endless caches.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
Sur le bord du chemin, que j'aime à voir l'oiseau,
Fuyant le nid léger que balance l'ormeau,
Prendre le grain qu'il porte à sa couvée éclose,
Les premiers jours de mai, quand s'entr'ouvre la rose.
Sur le bord du chemin, que j'aime l'églantier,
De pétales dorés parsemant le sentier,
Disant que l'hiver fuit avec neige et froidure,
Qu'un sourire d'avril ramène la verdure.
Sur le bord du chemin, que j'aime à voir les fleurs
Dont les hommes n'ont pas combiné les couleurs ;
Les fleurs des malheureux, qu'aux malheureux Dieu donne,
Du Dieu qui songe à tous, aimable et sainte aumône.
Sur le bord du chemin, que j'aime le ruisseau,
Qui, sous le nénuphar, sous l'aulne et le roseau,
Me cache ses détours, mais qui murmure et chante,
S'emparant en fuyant de ma pensée errante.
Sur le bord du chemin, que j'aime le berger,
Son vieux chien vigilant, son chalumeau léger ;
La cloche du troupeau, triste comme une plainte,
Qui s'arrête parfois, puis qui s'ébranle et tinte.
Sur le bord du chemin, que j'aime mieux encor
La simple croix de bois, sans sculpture, sans or ;
À ses pieds, une fleur humide de rosée,
Par l'humble laboureur, humblement déposée.
Sur le bord du chemin, la fleur se fanera,
Les troupeaux partiront, le ruisseau tarira ;
Tout se flétrit et meurt, quand s'enfuit l'hirondelle ;
Mais la croix restera saintement immortelle !
Sur le bord du chemin, tout varie en son cours,
Le ciel seul, à notre âme, osa dire : Toujours !
Et quand nos cœurs brisés s'agitent dans le doute,
Qu'il est bon de trouver une croix sur la route !
Sur le bord du chemin, les paroles d'amour,
Murmure harmonieux qui ne dure qu'un jour,
S'en vont avec le vent, aussi légère chose
Qu'un chant d'oiseau dans l'air ou qu'un parfum de rose.
Sur le bord du chemin, on tombe avant le soir,
Les pieds tout déchirés et le cœur sans espoir ;
Pèlerin fatigué que poursuivit l'orage,
On s'assied sur la route à moitié du voyage.
Sur le bord du chemin, ô croix ! reste pour moi !
Mes yeux ont moins de pleurs en se levant vers toi.
Tu me montres le but ; une voix qui console,
Dans le fond de mon cœur, semble être ta parole :
« Sur le bord du chemin, si ton cœur affaibli
Souffre d'isolement, de mécompte et d'oubli,
Ô pauvre ami blessé qui caches ta souffrance,
Viens t'asseoir à mes pieds, car je suis l'espérance ! »
Sur le bord du chemin, ainsi parle la croix,
Consolant les bergers et consolant les rois,
Offrant à tout passant son appui tutélaire...
Car tout cœur qui palpite a souffert sur la terre !
1.1k
Black shoelace, tied in knots
basks my face with paltry plots
stole my heart like summer's sin
heat is threatened by cool wind
Rear view mirror, burned by glow
reflects a frozen, fragile soul
they appear, my warm woes
white lies, turn from ash to coal
Crave smoke rings, periled fade
round' my solo fireplace
truths can't find their crumbs to trace
her sparrow, sings a love charade
All my years, i'm alive
caches in my brain's hard drive
my White lies, wear a Black shoelace
they delve deep, digest disgrace..
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 11:59 PM UTC
The great equalizer
stood by the bed
watching his laborious breathing
and the pain quaking the emaciated body.
It's almost time.
No more layoffs to increase profits
lock-outs to break the unions
hidden caches to avoid taxes
mergers and acquisitions
under the table payments
price fixing, loan sharking
no bribing and extortions
no naive women to exploit
The great equalizer
stood there watching
with pity and loathing
patiently waiting
The end of the line.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
RECORD: I LIV)E}D] ON THE MOON
FROGMAN: KWOON
RECORD: UNGODLY Froot
frogman: wax tailor
YOU'all are just like other people
We love to sting
sHe loves to trance
he admires b-e-a-utiful twoomen
Us're whoman
And most-times, twoo whomans
:Now I know my ABC'S
watch me confuse'em like the bourgeoisie:
-"but he pronounced it like Bilgemonkzees"-
( . . 3 . Oh dear, I hope you don't forget to feed me . .
2 . "I am still learning,"
and I've Dear'd to Remember to Forget my Confusions . .
REFORM: WRITE FOR SELFSE
{B-E-A-Grateful no-s1: "Read DeadHeads to BEGIN,
or Blue Tails to END"
-flips coin- }
}
1 . .
CONTINUE: DON'T FORGET
RECORD: curiosity's and imagination's
FROGMAN: selfse
program: INTROFLECTION,
I think "We've thunk it once before,
but it Bears repeating,
now"
LISTEN to us, all of you.
Que'Sera!
-caches Bit-
HA! VV !AH
S A Y
HAHAH
-Opens Mind-
"MY FROG... we're full of chars-"
- [May{jor(+/-)To}m] = E.ven-One
-- 1999-2001, a Race Ode-vent-you-See
[END OF LINE]
for those who may be hamyoung-us for the first time
{END OF MY RHiYMnE}
And Whu-may-n't be pondering what isn't going to clappin now.
(BEGIN TO /S/hEwE TiME)
It is of Coarse : Smoothing for the Mind, Body, and The Selfse of us all.
So,
SPEAK/ . 0\UP
|Whyever needs Bee? Wills Bee.|
Oh, you're di-vidend?
Oi've got these Two Mackszillery Tired Molaz, Whight.
whand day I was cwussin'a peace'a fwaery'dandy
and tay cwacked, whont down ta cagey'mentals.
now ta twooe woots is eckzpozed.
and i sding'em evewy dway
. . .-inserts troothpic-
jrus'tho da gwhothet OH's it's thrill'a jlive one up'teir
-- prole
/and the ghost speaks:
?_
/\
/
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
With snowflakes in Her eyelashes,
crystalline shapes past window's door,
piling into berms and caches,
seek to fractate soil and moor;
What passing phase -- full of longing
for endless Alaskan days, so white and pure,
when silence met the sunset, dawning,
dusk, and midday -- shall I endure?
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
enlève ta peau & viens avec moi à la lune.
réveillons tout ce qui dort dans nos squelettes,
montre-moi ce qui te regarde dans le miroir,
& puis raconte-moi qu’ils te chuchotent,
as-tu peur du noir comme moi?
te caches-tu dans l’ombre comme moi?
sais-tu qu’un jour, on sortira d’ici?
english translation
take off your skin & come with me to the moon
we'll wake up all that sleeps in our skeletons
show me what looks back at you in the mirror
& then, tell me what they whisper to you
are you afraid of the dark like me?
do you hide in the shadows(the shade) like me?
do you know that, one day, we'll get out of here?
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
little pockets hid inside big pockets,
storage units with keys
purposely misplaced,
envelopes of documents,
labelled, saved for a purpose
that is no longer memorable,
but still instant recognizable
scenes from a marriage
violent hatreds so great,
that years of a single silence
were successes celebrated,
secrets never secreted
the taste of them
from your gorge
can't be easy erased
once the bile comes up,
you can't stomach the notion
of choking it back down
well past
the limits of inane,
voided arguments
left your bowels cleansed
but your mind throbbing pain bombs,
your body
floored in an exhaustive state
the limits of inane,
voided arguments,
left your bowels cleansed
your mind lobbing throbbing pain bombs,
your body
floored in an exhaustive state
and you dd this to yourself,
so no one helps you up
caches of glimpses of video snatches,
trailers of a life woeful misbegotten,
sudden asunder ripped to the fore,
you know you were there,
know you took part,
is that a younger sadder version of you?
the backyard of your brain
where the cache was dirt buried
kicked open foul odor and
well you smell the screaming hatred fights,
and the reel to reel breaks but you see it
anyway in the orangey brown colors of
time decaying, burnt-edges of video tape
you think your life is tough.
**** you.
did hard time, 30 years,
in a prison with no air or light,
a cell the size of my brain
just when the stench is mostly gone,
the cache ripped asunder
and stink so profound
you gotta lie down,
cause a reflection in a mirror
is ample excuse to put your
head or hand through it
and all you did was go see a play entitled
scenes from a marriage,
and afterwards you keep both hands in your pockets
lest you start choking yourself
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
Nuit, des amours ministre et sergente fidèle
Des arrêts de Venus, et des saintes lois d'elle,
Qui secrète accompagne
L'impatient ami de l'heure accoutumée,
Ô l'aimée des Dieux, mais plus encore aimée
Des étoiles compagnes,
Nature de tes dons adore l'excellence,
Tu caches les plaisirs dessous muet silence
Que l'amour jouissante
Donne, quand ton obscur étroitement assemble
Les amants embrassés, et qu'ils tombent ensemble
Sous l'ardeur languissante.
Lorsque l'amie main court par la cuisse, et ores
Par les tétins, auxquels ne se compare encore
Nul ivoire qu'on voie,
Et la langue en errant sur la joue, et la face,
Plus d'odeurs, et de fleurs, là naissantes, amasse
Que I'Orient n'envoie.
C'est toi qui les soucis, et les gênes mordantes,
Et tout le soin enclos en nos âmes ardentes
Par ton présent arraches.
C'est toi qui rends la vie aux vergers qui languissent,
Aux jardins la rosée, et aux cieux qui noircissent
Les idoles attaches.
Mais, si te plaît déesse une fin à ma peine,
Et donte sous mes bras celle qui est tant pleine
De menaces cruelles.
Afin que de ses yeux (yeux qui captifs me tiennent)
Les trop ardents flambeaux plus brûler ne me viennent
Le fond de mes mouelles.
737
She plays with razors and traces her scares
And counts her flaws like her counts the stars
You would think you know her
Until she goes home later that night
You don't know that everyday her thoughts get darker
And her hope is sinking away
Her mind is so tired of thinking
She wants to be anywhere but here
To everyone else she is a happy girl
She was never understood
They never ask why
No one caches her tears
Nobody holds her and tells her things will be alright
She thinks a gun will solve her problems
But a blade will do for now
She is alone like the moon
And it will all end someday soon.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
**Hide the matches
Hide the gasoline
Hide all of the caches
Of guns and magazines
Bring about the fiction
Hide away the facts
Of where it is we're going
Of where it is we're at
Hiding in the neighborhoods
Hiding in the hills
Keeping up with the Jone's
Counterfeiting bills
Terror in the cities
Terror in the towns
Down to the nitty gritty
Living underground
Sealing off the borders
Feeling safe at home
Not sure if your aware of this
But home is where we're grown**
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
No, I never stay long
but you'll always know where I've been.
You'll hear my favorite song
and feel my presence within.
I've been so many new places,
an extensive list of things to do-
always leaving my traces,
Maybe one day you'll stand in my point of view.
Clover patches spawn on the outside
whenever I show up anew.
Do they remind you of times
when I've lied,
or all the silly dreams I confided in you?
I always seem to leave my mark,
flecks of green where they ought not be.
Bright neons light up the dark,
recentering some focus back to me.
Or maybe it's more of a haunting-
to be reminded of my soul,
to always be found is so daunting
when vanishing fully has been my goal.
What if I don’t want to be remembered?
I want to fade away in the void.
All evidence lost in the embers,
my sounds fading into background noise.
It’s not really me they hold close,
just a version that once was truth-
a humorously passionate nostalgic dose,
forgetting how I’m so uncouth.
I don’t want to be a good memory,
for those I’m trying to forget,
a snippet when I was the remedy
until I only made them upset.
Now I live in signs,
subtly in dreams,
even déjà vu at times-
things aren’t always as they seem.
If I am to be unforgettable,
if I must cross your mind,
I hope the thought is regrettable,
and slowly eats at you for a period of time.
To haunt is to be haunted,
and tortured I have been-
false futures, I’ve been taunted,
clearing caches within.
Never once have I destroyed a
pathway completely,
but this one must come down.
I’m drunk and rambling quite indiscreetly,
and your memory makes me frown.
I hope the thought of me spoils your day,
stirred up from a simple coffee -
looped in remembrance like
cursed decay,
and I the leading zombie.
Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 11:17 AM UTC
for her.
<>
“you will laugh with surprise, as the anointing oil of relief
crowns your head, slicking down to caving cavities,
river running in crevices, that feed the buried places, replenishing the almost forgotten secret of letting go”^
~
the mind caches certain skills, once learned, never to return,
but tucked away, just in case, maybe, in the nightstand junk drawer of: “don’t need it now but, **** you never know”
kept around in the lost and hopefully, not to be searched for & found,
a skill set painfully gained, a muscle memory, flabby from no use
but quick taut tightly, snapping back when **** here we go again
I loved you in ways theoretical impossible till you enabled the possible
lost you for no good reason, in an act history labels beyond belief,
refuses to record, lest by memorializing it became/becomes re-realized,
this intolerable, would be past the ****** eroding barrier reef
the difference between junk and treasures is in which drawer placed,
the steps to letting go once learned, cannot be forgot, the cost,
way way too high, kept around, in a damnable place beyond grief
not to close, handy, findable but easily, avoided, but strange, when
living in the epicenter of the virus, you do some cataloguing, ridiculous,
this touchy-feely escapade, nothing ****** to be gained, all-too-brief
head shake, took a pandemic to make you go back, rustling among
the ancient, old hand-writ poems, another keepsake kept for reasons
known and unknown, to be **** sure you once owned it, survival skills
*In the Pandemic Days of Almost,
somethings will die, some go forgotten,
but the almost-forgetting-skill will survive,
a necessity of the how-to’s:*
***how to grieve,
how to believe,
how to leave
but live on,
hoarding
all the **** necessaries
ready to be retrieved***
<>
Tuesday Mars 24 Twenty Twenty noon
In the Epicenter, New York City
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 12:13 PM UTC
I knew I would be leaving soon.
Religiously I felt out the contours of the land
Tracing my fingers up and down the ridges of the mountains
Grasping at strong stone
Trying my hardest to map out
My home in my mind.
I knew I would be leaving soon
So I tried my hardest
To ingrain the velvet moss of your skin
Into the memory caches of my fingertips.
Sometimes I can remember
Still warm in my mind
The packed path made worn by my bare feet.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
Work and pay taxes get lucky and might make millionaire caches if you step on enough of the masses
A public school fairytale in other words a classic
A degree only guarantees an inquiry
Into the job market not the key to a home as history taught it
We need an audit on who making the real profit, cause the the deposit is getting microscopic
While Garfield’s constantly getting dividends, I’m barely making ends, so when does the dream begin?
Got clips telling me to keep “grindin”
The more you hustle, the more you’ll be buyin
Skip the ad, back to the methodology on how to win at poverty when your effort considered second round, should have gone lottery
Itemize your body for somebody’s hobby, you can’t frown in a five-star lobby
Orchestrate the take from another families plate but when I bankroll too great
the feds wanna play Drake like the family matters to them outside election dates
Turn my life into a stalker dream, and access me via a stream cause I need more green
Even with the increase, the pain doesn’t cease now I’m looking for a new release
Fill the void in my account with mental health taking the mound, at full count
I can’t miss or end up on a “Where are they now?” playlist
Jun 9, 2024
Jun 9, 2024 at 6:02 PM UTC
no man has yet
found a healing treatment
for the sore of war
the scab's fissure
can erupt at anytime
with its deadly pus
bringing the loss
of life
men who wield power
over caches of arms
have not the will
to remedy
their differences
so the sore
continues
to bring
trauma
to the world
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
Often,
Life is like a
Falling object. But He
Caches us just in time--that we
Are safe.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 5:14 AM UTC
The weight, the tug
The pains which lace
The thoughts which peck
The eyes which thwart
The inner caches
Shift under light
Collecting change,
Giving more away
~A window,
A candle aflame
A breath of summer sweets
Rushing in the chest
Still under renovation
Paint the walls anew
Settle in down with wild flowers
A buzz of bees,
A trickling creek
Build a skylight
Allow the night to heal
A heart to be
A heart to grow
A heart to cup
With warmth
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 12:18 AM UTC