"calculable" poems
Confrontational,
dude’s really quite sensational,
but there’s very little matter
found inside his dome.
Confrontational—
it’s the opposite of beautiful.
Then again, he never worries
about whether he’s attractive.
Confrontational—
really not that calculable;
however, he always seems to
tip his very ****** hand.
Confrontational—
not quite the same as sensible,
but he is usually the one that
tends to buck the norm.
Confrontational,
doesn’t think that he is beatable;
nevertheless, he who hands him his
lunch has other things in store.
Confrontational—
it’s the converse of lovable,
yet some tend to insist that this
is his fancy way of flirting.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
“I can calculate the movement of stars, but not the madness of men.” Sir Isaac Newton
I can, but only of my own,
the orbits of the stars
within my envisioned mind,
this anti-expanding universe
this black hole of anti-matter
collapsing inward, the gravitational pull calculable
where I, madman creator,
am the sole witness mine self-destruction
I summon fate, luck, random numbers to the dock,
but all pleadingly state it wasn't me,
"I was somewhere else, had to be,
you cannot see my mathematical probability,
ergo i am definitionally
not capable of being guilty-
my orbit of madness
non transferable to you-mans"
who then can I blame?
for-seen poems every where,
upon on every face lay dime store words of bad novellas,
awake to work in dread,
return from it more deadened
and the piety pointy poetry pills
refusing to cooperate,
and the madness equation
has too many answers viable
what shall I title this poem?
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC
**It's 5:00 pm,
any poems to share?**
*my watchwoman, Seamless Siri,
my conscientious conscience,
gives said inquiry daily,
at the precise heure de rigeur,
with the perfection of a
mechanized soul attending to her
imperfect human programmer
poetry, a sometime thing,
comes when it comes,
what the query,
my godmother faerie,
truly seeks knowledge of is
something she cannot measure,
like my counted steps and distances travelled,
what this overseer mine truly seeks to know*
why am I here?
*Here. On this earth. On this site.
have you any new written proofs,
your existence on this day to justify,
were your failings and flailings,
surpassed by any acts of kindness,
this new, freshest penmanship, a reflection,
an accounting of grace and worth,
blogged and logged here
as if only I had
one day,
one poem
left...
at tabulation time, the incisor bites,
are you juiced or morbid,
this, your essayed life,
are the words,
deemed shareable,
is their value,
calculable palpable?
Siri inquires but you are jury
at the late afternoon
trial by fire,
wherein my singed bunt offerings
are produced
at the
wake of when,
my nom I do append
am I deserving
of your recompense
of one more day,
one more poem?*
~~for Harlon~~
5:13 pm
November 21, 2015
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
It’s only a short straight hill
(First Poem.of the Year)
“I'm 69, newly homeless, and can't wait to start the journey of a creative life after being asleep for so long. It's only a short straight hill and I'll be on a path into a new life.”
Jeremiah B Xxxxxx Jr.
<?>
it is
4:11am
on the
first day
of a new
year.
a year
is a unit;
mathematically
measurable,
defined,
calculable,
divisible
by seconds,
minutes,
hours & days,
all artifices,
mutually
acknowledged.
you,
& others,
remind
me too easily,
that the
creative
is the only
path
to endless,
(a unit immeasurable)
reinvigorating
life.
your fragrant
optimium optimism
is stun
gun overpowering,
the ill defined,
but instantly
understood,
immeasurable
distance,
you foresee
to life better is
conquerable!
”only a short straight hill”
imbues me to lift
head, heart, arm
& unloved dried ink pen,
to pen,
to unpack,
to speak,
of all that
needs climbing,
over the
artificial lines
of the first unit
of time:
a new year.
thank you.
Sun Jan 1 2023
NYC
Jan 1, 2023
Jan 1, 2023 at 7:54 AM UTC
A bustling of noses and wind blown hair
gloating over goats which bleed
calculable blood.
One pence, two pence, three
and there’s a crowd surrounding
a tunic at the top of the stairs.
Oil was discovered, covered
by a man in a tunic
sharing meticulous dreams, dreaming
in the gear-grind way of life. Hoarding
lubricant beneath stands and markets,
and marketing water.
Turn to Piegans, Bloods, and Blackfeet proper,
prop her against the boards
and rest the nail against her temple,
temple where a man in tunic
flipped markets like gear-grinds
unearthing oil in fire
exploding jelly purple dye,
dying is the goat upon
the stage
on page one hundred and three sun-blisters burst on screaming merchants
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
We're on single bench,
across in a single mirror.
I'm learning by heart you're curve.
1,2,3,4,5
TURNED.
Staring vacantly again,
5,4,3,2,1
LOOKED.
I smiled exclusively on my thought,
I can't make it detectable
Mirror will spy.
Gauged,angles estimated and quantified.
1,2,3,4,5 and STARED.
Our eyes bumped.
5,4,3,2,1
Ohh,beats accelerating
I am freezed.
My heart jumps out.
Sorry,I can't make it,
I am evaporating,
or falling to million microscopic pieces.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 6:34 AM UTC
1.
I once met a rich poet and asked him
What we writes about?
“Nothing.” he answered
2.
How many poets does it take to ***** in a light bulb
One
3.
The difference between a great poet
And a ****** poet
Is mathematically calculable
To how recently they’ve been laid
4.
When the pen ran out of ink
The poet gnawed of his finger
And wrote with the blood
5.
The lake froze over
The poet wept
6.
If you took all the poets that ever lived
And placed them in the same room
There would be many empty seats
And not nearly enough pens
7.
When a man asked him what he did
He answered, “Teacher.”
When a pretty girl asked him what he did
He answered, “Poet.”
8.
One day there will be no more poets
And a great silence will cover the land
9.
Cain was a soldier
Able was a poet
Look how that turned out
10.
Each day is a poem
Still being written on tombstones
11.
We fell in love by showing each other our poems
We fell out of love when we stopped
12.
The children Laughed and mobbed
After the soccer ball
The young poet stood
And watched a blackbird
13.
If you dream
And can remember it in the morning
Then you are a poet
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
.
Oh! Fragile martyr man--
your word play is so electric.
Therapy pulses magnetic
power
to your malignant
deformities.
Death becomes
your golden ticket
to enchantment.
The freedom revolution
evolves
from a badly broken,
bleeding humanity.
Certain
faces simply
whisper power
which question the spilled--
blood of thousands
on a daily
basis-
Another cliche war is
refilling the inkwells
of the blank page,
starving artist.
Delicate tragic fairy tales remembered--
Layers of rust
encrust the tick and the tock
all throughout the grinding
gears of the clock.
Paintings of the Thinker
sit thinking in the
keenest calculable clarity.
The dreamers of darkness
bathe in the cold,
blinding sparks
of falling starlight.
.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 9:51 PM UTC
how can it be,
the mathematicians,
the statisticians,
can so well predict
the curvature of my day;
is my life so impoverished,
so undifferentiated, my course;
the climb, the leveling, the
ultimatum gliding, a summary
path to an unremarkable landing
probable outcomes of my
statistical profile so calculable;
my dreams, their peculiarities,
essences, massaged into conformity
hatch plot, deceive, it’s cool,
write a poem, unpredictable,
who could foretell, this scheme,
let’s keep a secret, tween us only,
cover the keyhole, so their eye
cannot peak inside the you and I,
two twice ten thousand indecipherable,
writer and reader, we one, inseparable
only we can decode the true meaning
Jul 30, 2020
Jul 30, 2020 at 12:43 PM UTC
I don’t know about those pastoral scenes
Those bucolic and primordial endless greens
Unspoilt trees and murmuring streams
I know the concrete and the pavement
Uneven cobblestones with cracks in them
With dandelions growing through
Only sometimes
I love the later more
I’m in love with the concrete behemoths
The back alleys of life
The gnarled bouncers (unreciprocally)
The curious glimpses at weathered flyers on the floor
I love the sterile street lights and the worn faces ILLUMINATED by them
The ushers and hustlers and cautious taxis
The drunk geniuses
The night-swimmers
The nudists
The opinionated
Etc
Yet life whittles down these loves for that of the
Calculable
The
Regimented
And
Controllable
Etc
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
I'm not angry I'm calculable. I'm a fathom.
That phantoms
are things that people would wish in themselves
alludes me.
We can talk past midnight and our hairs will grey
and our all else will dust. But if the brain remains
then we will have achieved something. And with a computer, too--
as if that time Jesus ascended-- we can travel somewhere
that is not a country and it won't be strange, it will not be
new. It will be as the same thing as everything else has always
been: chance, calculable, a fathoming-- something called for a while
ago by that first big thing with all the light, that first wiggling thing
splitting into two (I skipped a few seconds), that fish
walking, that ape talking
this. Will you
talk to me as if called for? It is not hard. It is any
such kind of speech. You open your mouth,
a sound.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 7:28 PM UTC
This is important information for all humans and id ask you take it as seriously as you are able, keeping separate in your mind were logic is trying fight it as we would want from the simple emotional responses that are inevitable with such heavy information. To start you are moving forward in the dimension of time at a rate you can with focus modulate, you make tools to help with this and call it entertainment, you are able to pass through dimensions in space with much expenditure of energy and have tools to help with this you call transportation, you know how vast space is not in spite of your inability to comprehend it but because you cannot, time is equally vast, I put it to you that potential dimensions form to make actual any possibility from any point and so if at every instant (F/s=I{F=fastest thing, s=shortest distance, I=Instant}) all combinations of all potentials manifest themselves we have an infinite by exponent, if in the first instant there was a finite set of possibilities there would be a finite set of potentials from any instant despite their exponentially diversifying it would be a calculable infinity, now If time and space are part of the same fabric and gravity warps that fabric distorting time and space in a quantifiable manner then geometry could be established to transgress the natural flow with the application there of. if and I believe it to be so if nothing else, gravity is a manifestation of cosmic forces, quantum mechanics that is, with the Plank being the primary force of gravity, gravity A, then the planetary forces being secondary, like a radiation, a side effect, gravity B, then these forces could be manipulated at a lab like CERN, I'm not big on the Mandela effect but there's something seriously wrong as of late and this information is prudent, please share it if only to attack it, consider it if only to attack it, bring it to the table if only as a snack.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
~
2/7/25
<•>
the price of eggs is mundane,
controlled by supply and demand,
and the human need for
pleasure and pain,
delivered by merely breathing
what you are sensing
is a staple
that is unique and yet-ubiquitous,
entree always calculable
with math
With X being your financial
limitations, you can/cannot
afford
the pleasure or the pain
of eggs, especially the
Omega-3 Cage Free Vegetarian
Growth Hormone-Antibiotic
and Pesticides Free,
you so
Lazarus yearn to be free to buy,
but you’re free still
to buy and swallow the cheapest
eggs and still live another day
BUT THE PRICE OF POETRY!
Dear God, it’s beyond costly,
beyond mundane
it is pleasure and the pain,
in combination,
irreplaceable and un substitutable,
and happily
affordable and free
Incalculable and Unlimited
so unlike eggs
for I speak
of & to
your very soul
I would not die if I
never was to enjoy
an egg in any form ever;
but
*if I-would
never write nor read another
poem, even then, I still would not-die,
but if only, and yet,
one could, one must
at the very least*
live a life poetic
*seeing and appreciating
the mysterious in/of life
the simplest complexity
of a stolen kiss,
the inescapable high
of one more spectacle
of morning sunrise
and the mourning meaning
of an evenings sunset*
*the precise mathematics of life
that is imprecisely inherent in it all,
of all that is
inherent in out
be~ing
and all that is
with~in
& ab~out us,*
is recorded by our senses
preserved by memory
sometimes well, and sometimes not!
so we write to preserve it
better
in poems, music & paint
try to keep
the quantity of love and truth
given to us by family and friend,
in your heart+soul
but perhaps somethings
mathematically unmeasurable,
are harder to keep close by,
but this element of
the life poetic is corporeal
is measurable
determinate
effected
by the
*unlimited availability of the
poetic life you
can choose to live
and the words
in your possess
you
can choose too*
if
*one has
to keep it
closer still*
if you so choose to record it
with imperfect fallible
but yet useful
words
you live forever
<•>
(^And the muse is laughing at me,
She, giggling, saying
“you see why you rise up at 4:45 AM,
Only then can you see and love
and write of your poetic life!
and you willingly would die
when egged on to the beyond-you
on that day no longer do you ask
why, where when
and how”)
Feb 7, 2025
Feb 7, 2025 at 4:34 PM UTC
hands that caress craving curves
complementing carnal desires
hands that inspire this crazy notion
that ******* her husband’s friend
is reasonable, acceptable, calculable?
Oh but to blame these hands
Would be unreasonable, unacceptable
Unjust
For these hands could be any hand
That lends this chick some attention
See there’s a void she trying to fill
A hurt she’s trying to ****
And the hands are the *****
She hopes will fulfill
This aching need
Seems like greed
when she constantly feeds her flesh
with that which doesn’t satisfy
but for her hurting soul
rationale doesn’t clarify her pain
yet she knows there’s much to gain
from breaking this cyclical game
but the road to heavenly fame
means handing over the reigns
to the Invisible force
but of course, its hard to trust
when someone’s **** was ******
inside ‘fore it was time
the clandestine crime
committed in the prime of her youth
aint that the truth
boys living out fantasies
tearing off the *******
of victims too scared to scream
trapped in this horrid dream
so her whole life its seems
gets crowded by this scene
strangled by the obscene
so trying to live clean
seems an unlikely esteem
so she has hands caressing
craving curves
trying to settle her nerves
while they have their way
what more can she say?
When from this road
So many times she’d tried to sway
Now her strength is gone
and as she lay
on forbidden sheets
she prays that someday
He'll take her home
justified and clean
with an ocean of distance between
the girl craving hands
and the woman who landed
in the only Hand
that could make her see
that she was always the queen
she so hoped to be.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 6:40 PM UTC
In starting off, let me just say:
I don't love you because you are a beauty I can hardly touch with my finger tips.
I don't feel the urge to contain your body by caressing those perfect molded edges.
I love you because you are greater than the flesh that contains you.
You have this ability to transcend the constraints placed on by matter.
You are almost terrifyingly free from those chains.
I cannot measure you.
I cannot contain you.
And you of your own accord kiss my lips and accept that I am merely that of flesh.
Finite and calculable.
Flawed and visible to the naked eye.
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 2:55 PM UTC
physics has it
that
space came from
spacelessness
that time came
from before time
while we have evidence of a past
old movies and old bones
we have no evidence of a now
what is
a now
a minute
a second
a one thousandth of a second
is it calculable?
perceptible?
they say
the universe is 14.5 billion years old
an ever expanding
eternity
in a population
of infinite universes
occupying multi dimensions
with
unimaginable realities
so why is it strange
if i go trans-gender
in my black lamet dress
and ziegfield pearls
pantilesss
dressed to the hilt
a glitter queen
in pumps
to an all lesbian
***** drooling
lip licking
***** bang bang
****
and surprise the ladies
with
my
big
succulent
pork
sausage
gooey tipped
curved
jewish
skinned
bulging
buttery
throat gagging
kabasa
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
Before the canvas used to be,
two single shades of blue
with an infinity of glinting lights
but as man went on tainting the painting
the shades of blue concealed the light
the infinity emerged calculable
Nevertheless, the painter went on
the canvas growing darker and darker
painted blue on blue
Nevertheless, man went on
throwing his debris onto the canvas
the infinity emerged calculable
With every stroke of man and time
the canvas emerged darker and darker
the light becoming slighter and slighter
but man went on
no glances spared at the painting
the infinity emerged calculable
Focused on adjusting the canvas
man continued to taint and taint
he then looked up towards the canvas
and felt reality fall
he gazed towards the first stroke of time
and wished to remake the world.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
I wish you all
most pleasant days
no matter what the virus says
and thank you
for your kind support
now over several years
of my assorted verse
which can at times be very terse
and maybe disappoint your expectations
it's just that recently more often
instead that politicians soften
their people's usual competing claims
there come these guy who obviously aim
to sow divisiveness for their own good
something no politician should
and then blame others for their oversights
such blatant attitude my ire lights
I then may harshly
maybe unpoetically
let my opinion on the topic fly
'cause I believe
that poets should be anything but shy
and throw the power of their words
behind good causes
so far, dissenting voices have been few
discussions I enjoy and always do
engage in them if the exchange of views
strolls not too far from fact-based arguments
And between all the daily politics
I often try to stop the ticks
that measure calculable time
try to find words for things sublime
that go beyond the noises of the day
find meaning not in what
but how they speak
in vivid images try to present
life's clearing moments
that may lead readers to some peaks
of insight provoke comments
or make them think outside
their usual frame of mind
reflect upon their role within mankind
if I can work such wonders with my words
I am content and know
my lines are not just for the birds
I wish for us
the year twothousandtwentyone
fulfill at least some of the expectations
we all have
secretly or not
after the lousiest year of our life
to put it mildly
as a colleague from India
recently put it in his Christmas greetings
think positive, test negative
A better New Year to you all
reach to the skies, avoid to fall !!
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 5:23 PM UTC