"captioned" poems
She captioned his heart like she captioned
her own pictures of herself:
seemingly profound but obvious
and unrelated to whatever
touch-screen-camera-phone-app filter she used
to unshade her blackness,
his blackness,
their blackness; with digital
skin-lightening cream.
As if to be dark was a sin.
And so she edited herself
to forgive herself.
Because Jesus had eyes the colour of her contact lenses.
Blue.
Because to be holy is to be arbitrary.
Because to caption his heart like she captioned herself
was easier than to just ask for his soul
through a no make-up selfie.
Or whatever else she thinks is actually her,
but still isn't.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
And the fish swim in the lake
and do not even own clothing.
– Ezra Pound
How would they style themselves for the net,
the little fishes of the lake?
Not robes of purity, Ezra,
but sequins cut from trash,
brands bright as lures,
fashioned to catch the eye, a glint of sun.
Would the big ones strap on knockoff fins
to flex in shark cosplay near the shore,
snapping reels in the reeds,
captioned #greatwhitevibes #apexpredator?
Would carp veil themselves in algae,
funeral couture,
posting stories of their grief in green?
Would they admire the fishery tags:
industrial piercings they can’t remove,
or the hook-slit scars from catch-and-release,
each one a verified badge,
proof they were trending once, briefly,
before sinking out of frame?
Would they tilt to the water’s glass,
checking which gill looks slimmer,
tails arched like influencers at golden hour,
the shimmer hiding shame,
the shame we taught them to wear?
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 2:34 PM UTC
Forest inquires:
How do you decide, choose your design, find its guise,
give it a face, surrender to the poem's own
vanity,
and choose the poem's alignment?
an answer forms:
this alignment idea,
you think it simple,
everybody understands
what your inquiry means
alignment - the appropriate relative position
we live in relative position to each other, our poems too, for they are but written synapses of our close captioned interactions, seemingly random, but assuredly not, as we invest in ourselves, seeking the mysterious appropriate answer
from the Theory of Poetic Relativity
i love your question; hold it to my nostrils,
smell the coffee aroma wake up blast inherent;
kiss its robust childlike cheeks for the simple soulfulness essential arousal;
for you see sir you have found
the appropriate position that relates us, our mindful words;
answer no good, wholly insufficient?
perfect.
as i close this quick cooked to perfection laboratory solution, take note
the earth has moved
our hearts have beaten a measly thousand times
time and space have appropriated our prior
relativity
when you return years hence this poem's shape will perforce have moved. for words are weathered flux constant and yet inherently unchanged except for the part of us that changes with every re-reading
and what was
right before has left and the center has moved again
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
I saw a picture on the internet of a sign
That said “Welcome to Amsterdam. When it’s hot, please dress for the body you have,
Not the body you want. Thanks"
In the vicinity was a large woman wearing a pink crop top and leggings and the
Image was captioned
“Look who didn’t follow the rules!”
I assumed this rogue internet commenter assumed that this woman,
This beautiful, curvy, confident woman,
Didn’t want the body she had.
Why is it always assumed that fat people hate their bodies?
I’m fat and this IS the body I want *********
I love this body!
This body has ******* privilege!
This body has enough melanin to tan easily in summer but not enough
That I’m going to be unjustly persecuted for my skin tone.
This body doesn’t get too cold in the winter.
This body has a home and a family and food to eat!
This body is ABLE to run and jump and walk wherever I want
This body is disease free.
This body can fit into a variety of clothing and look good.
I mean it isn’t perfect -
This body has had an eating disorder.
This body has self harm scars,
This body doesn’t always feel like it’s the right gender
This body has lived through 4 school district changes, a cross country move,
Depression, anxiety, a suicide attempt, high school graduation,
Bullying, finding out that I’m queer, finding out that I’m loved,
My first week of college, 16 days of living on a hiking trail
Thinking I’m ugly and realizing I’m beautiful
But I still want this body!
It’s the only one I have
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
if ears had lips
mine would gladly tell you all the things
they can and cannot comprehend
they would explain the difference
between hearing and understanding;
just because they hear a sound
doesn’t mean they know what it is
or where it’s coming from
just because they hear a voice
doesn’t mean they discern words
they would ask you to please speak louder
and tell you that even though volume is their friend
if you take a jumble and turn up the juice
sometimes it becomes clearer
other times it’s just a loud jumble
they might tell you that writing things down saves time
or that texting works better than voicemail
they would tell you how much they miss
the rain’s incessant song
the wind’s sweeping whistle
a dropped pin’s pinging ping
earthy crashing blue green wave sounds
a lover’s soft whisper
eavesdropping’s noseyness
distance’s subtle sounds
footsteps’ proximity
a fire’s warm red orange crackle
freeway traffic’s rushing background noise
a phone call’s lively conversation
a tv show’s clever, non-closed-captioned script
a radio’s soulful catchy lyrics
live performance’s vibrant voice
the timbre of each note in a chord
as I strummed my guitar
they would tell you
how the ringing tones inside my head
compete with your words
they would speak of their frustration and indignation
when you ignorantly accuse them of selective hearing
they would apologize for asking you to repeat
and laugh with you at my disability
they would thank you for dealing with me anyway
they would smile in appreciation
for your exaggerated syll•a•bi•ca•tion
if ears could see
mine would overlook your rolling eyes
and exasperated sighs and expressions
they know it’s not your fault that they don’t work good
and hope you know it’s not their fault either
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 3:21 PM UTC
Vapid people
dribbling vapid shxt.
A society of fxck-eyed,
drunken infants
debating politics memorised
from Fox News.
We, the awakened,
plastering social media
with doll-faced mannequins
captioned with some Eastern Philosophy
we read in Cosmo,
enhanced with a filter
titled "Who The **** Is Lao Tzu?"
Comments read: goals af.
(Insert emoji here)
And praise the Indigo Children!
It's a true gift indeed
to talk about activism
until blue in the face.
My, what a spiritual hue, are you.
Are you?
A generation of craft makers,
weaving their way
through the alcoholic labyrinth,
drawing the Hungover Man
from a Rider Waite tarot deck,
for another episode of Dull and Duller
next weekend.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
Images captioned by darkness,
My eyes closed...
Invasive thoughts -
Somber mind,
Silhouette of those lips...
Your taste on my toungue -
Our love entangled,
Us; Together...
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
The recognition of becoming great...
and having the fortitude -
The determination to strive after your hopes and dreams...
Hopes and dreams
that link your mind and soul to the captioned greatness looming beneath your skin...
Illuminating to everyone -
even illuminating time itself -
Etching your name in the realms of another dimension -
A dimension unseen, yet greatly admired and feared....
Filling the spaces between the foundation in which we stand and the ceiling over head...
Spaces which were once defined as "potential,"
but are now simply known as....
common ground...
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
Good friend,
You held my hand when I grew weary,
You held my hand when I grew teary,
As I scraped my knee,
And it began to bleed,
You grew nauseous,
I grew cautious,
And only just moved out of the way,
Of the lunch you had today.
Ew,
That was gross,
You,
Proudly boast,
It was like two feet!
I condescendingly reply,
Yeah...real neat.
(I kind of lie)
But you knew,
Right away,
You saw through,
Without say,
And before I knew what happened,
Pillow in my face, close captioned;
KA-POW!!!
For the hearing impaired,
As I politely tossed you down the stairs,
But you wouldn't dare go,
Without a handful of my hair,
A smile on your face,
You stay in my good grace,
As we stand together in explanation,
To your mother about the breaks and lacerations,
Truly,
We shocked her,
But not quite as much,
As the nurse,
Or the doctor.
I loved our quarter-dimensional world,
I pray you find this poem in good grace,
And continue to let your crazy mind unfurl.
Aug 3, 2010
Aug 3, 2010 at 2:39 AM UTC
I posted a picture on the internet today,
after handpicking the best of all.
While she is left with no choices,
so she walks on the roads that burn
carrying herself upon her feet that bleed.
I took my camera and checked up the lighting,
as I wanted the picture to look 'natural' and 'candid'.
A cameraman rushes to her to click a picture
as he is a magazine photographer searching for stories real.
I sweated and protested about the scorching heat
while I set up my camera.
She wipes the sweat off her father's forehead
on which the glabellar lines cease to exist,
while hers is carrying the roots and branches of it.
I held books in my hand to strike a pose
as my fingers laid in front,
whose nails I painted yellow for this summer.
She holds the handlebars of her bicycle she can no more hold or paddle,
her nails have painted themselves with the colour of mud.
I clicked too many pictures for me to count or recall.
Even after thousands, she remembered how many miles is home.
I captioned my picture
'No more lonely quarantine',
She hardly knows alphabets or words to even ask for help.
I swiped from filter to filter
selecting an 'aesthetic' one.
She drinks the pitch-black liquid,
they tell her is water,
without even demanding for 'cleaner' one.
I finally edited and made a perfect picture,
with my wide grin sealed with a gloss,
And the cameraman too asks for her to smile for once.
She with her deserted lips forms a curve that makes the cameraman frown.
He deletes the picture from his camera
as it would be disliked by all,
It got 1.9k likes,
The picture I posted on the internet today.
May 26, 2020
May 26, 2020 at 1:10 AM UTC
Portrayed with passion across a brass canvas
A beauty captioned with essence of the heavens
Elegance embraces her every heel to toe movement
Grace is expressed as overly exuberant
I'd steal her every everything as long as the heavens say so
But until that time ill just admire this angel's Halo
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 3:55 PM UTC
Photographers step out of hazy stairwells, tired eyes adjusting to dim light, looking for
their next muse.
“Works of art take time” they tell themselves
they look for the next spark of intrigue, their next fix.
You’ll find them on public transport, in old cafes:
cameras slung around their necks like billiard boards captioned ‘the end is nigh’.
Buzzing with anticipation of their next good catch, biting the lips of their disgruntled
faces like ancient gladiators biting the dust.
Castaways, oil paintings once brilliant and beautiful thrown into apartment blocks and
grey buildings,
ruins of art cast adrift by time.
Haunted by still frames and possibilities, all burned onto retinas, they stumble across
traffic jams;
finding beautiful people, forcing themselves into their lives.
Fleeting whispers rotate into double takes and flickers on the film of a Polaroid camera;
the subjects become muses,
cities are reborn as golden
flood into spotlights:
vibrant, reckless, insomniac.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
Dear Mom,
I know I shouldn’t have been
snooping, but when looking
for some socks on a day when I was
still living with you and had neglected
to do my laundry, meticulously paper clipped
in your drawer, I found a 26-page document
that made my insides curl
when I saw the name of Dad’s mistress
printed blatantly on the front cover.
Yes, I looked through it
(and I know I shouldn’t have) and I don’t know
what made me more disturbed—the fact
that you took the time, ink and paper
to look up the woman who
destroyed your marriage
on public records,
and neatly annotated the highlights
of her messy divorce
prior to meeting Dad—or that this
26-page monstrosity sat innocently beside
his old Valentine’s Day cards,
still painstakingly arranged by year, mixed in
with your daughters’ decade-old crayon drawings
captioned by the loopy letters of a child’s handwriting
next to little plastic baggies with worn edges
containing baby teeth,
the roots yellowed by age and decay.
You never let anything go, do you?
You hold time captive by the wrists
until the soft skin bruises, and even when
it finally jerks itself away, you still manage
to sweep up every speck of dust
its presence
left behind, and store it
perfectly labeled in your archives
like some neurotic historian,
where you think your daughter, who was
only looking for a pair of socks,
would never just happen to stumble upon
this hoarded material record
of every ******* thing
that torments you.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
**media holocaust dumbing down society
matriculating detachment's spineless dump,
weapons of mass distraction's convergence
assimilating adaptation's explored transmissions
in conversions of auxiliary's pseudo-redemption
anxiety cast in embittered expulsions of
ubiquitous foghorns flailing in numbing flat notes,
off key in theatrical productions' translation
failure to cease & desist standby sub-humanity,
close-captioned in radioactive hieroglyphics
on the walls of expectations' exasperation**
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Looking at
her photos
on the internet
captioned as
"Finally an explorer"
I also became
An Internet Explorer.
©Rpan
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC
Now that we are lungs of our own,
no longer governed by each other
or good-humored light,
angled to make us beautiful;
I leave, tightly grappled within,
as if still in genuflect
still spinning
inside our billowing confessions,
two bodies conquered by cool
curious, cunning damnation...
A friend,
in her venues of Valentines,
a countess of stones thrown
proffers me the hangman's colloquial
"You still feel him...?"
nodding, I recall
the contours & colors of love's collision
*"You just keep feeling it,
however much you wish it stop.
Feel it--feel it all,
there's no prompt drug
to make it go away..."*
She coddles my sloth of shoulders
with ginger wisdom of grandmothers.
Nodding, I give in
to the germinating futility...
I still remember him
blowing out the candles
at our small table
with our unfinished meal;
how we thatched anger-strangled hearts
with saffron sauces of exasperation...
each etching kiss
close to a divine cure,
each curve of our crude pose
close-captioned
for the appetite-impaired...
Each saline scurrying tear,
each lonely-wilderness of day,
I force a sort of Nut-cracker's strength
not to feel
that barrel-hollow loss
that gallery of Use-To-Be's
and my friend,
in her Carmen wisdom,
is surgeon savant
stitches me up,
I am less in swarms of his tangibility;
I breathe less of his fetch
flooding
I am slowly becoming
just a single prefix,
my own word and crutch
no matter how often I recall
the music of his touch
or all the colors
we felt so much...
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
Small, dark and cramped
Smelling of old wood,
Murphy's Oil Soap,
And Old Spice,
Here I kneel.
A closet, too small to be a room
Like the dark of my heart
Where my sins think
They are hidden.
Here I confess.
In this dark corner of His home,
My home, our home, the sins
Feel safe to say aloud
To admit, to escape.
Here I repent.
The small white lamp burns brighter,
Goose-flesh covers head and toe
The darkness is pierced
By one drop of blood
Hear, He forgives.
Great blinding light explodes about me,
The Joy of my salvation returns,
Never lost, just forgotten,
Hidden by soul's stains,
There no longer.
Sunlit colors of mercy and love
Colors of water and of blood
Of being born again
And sanctified
Captioned:
"Jesus, I Trust in Thee"
Jul 26, 2011
Jul 26, 2011 at 7:00 PM UTC
Photos from five years ago
I captioned them
"My yard is blooming!"
And it was
bursting
with pastel purple irises, cheerful snow ***** and cunning wisteria
Photos taken the second month
we lived on the island.
I love Baltimore, my city.
I don't want to move
but I miss this place
and the place before that.
And there are so many places
to see
to live.
Happening onto this set of photos
and my stomach twists--
to be there again
with the smell of *****
steaming at the little shop across the street
with the marsh grasses swaying
and the peepers starting their evening chants.
Is my neighbor still out there working on his truck
or selling tomatoes at that flimsy wooden table?
At 30-ish, I already find myself missing
about four different places and sets of people
How many places will I have to miss at 40--
at 80--if I should be so lucky?
Pieces of my heart and stomach
are scattered across this little patch of East Coast and Appalachia.
How many times can they be divided?
No, not divided.
They're multiplying.
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 10:06 PM UTC
I buried you
six feet under,
in a coffin of bones
your name
etched into the front;
captioned: “Buried Alive”
You begged and begged,
pleading, “please, I can change”
A salty tear slid downwards,
wiped away,
“Drop dead”
And that, my friend, is exactly
what I did.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
It’s a tail where Batman and Robin are the victims
Its goes beyond Gotham City crime comprehension
However, Batman and Robin are captioned in sublime
The Batmobile wants to fight crime alone
The Batmobile ejected Batman and Robin and let it be shown
The Batmobile is more equipped
Batman and Robin just didn’t fit
There’s no room with a backseat
Batman and Robin will have to sum up a defeat
Gotham City crime waves will be justified by the Batmobile
Yet Batman and Robin are concentrating on is this car for real?
The fact remains that the cape crusaders just can’t deal
The Batmobile being the new avenger being the feel
It’s the car with electronics on wheels
The Villains don’t stand a chance and will have to deal
The reel could very well read
“The Batmobile Crime Stopper intends to succeed”
Batman and Robin have been replaced
They are no longer the ace
It will be the Batmobile and Villains face to face
Batman and Robin are now a erase
Imagine the TV fate slogan, “Batmobile caught by surprise, and didn’t realize. The wheels being anchored down with chains and no movement bound”
Same wheels tomorrow and will the Batmobile overcome its ordeal?
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 12:27 PM UTC
you make me melancholy
you are here and you are whole
my initials are printed on your cellophane skin
you paid to have someone else mark you to say
"this is the last time"
"this is my home"
you have made me into a saddened poet
and nearly a mother
our names used to run together justlikethis
now they are separate creatures
ensnared to each other by &
and that is better
we appear at parties, an institution
wedding guests in patchy blazer
and swollen dress
people take photographs of us
i hope someday to see them captioned
by someone who never dwelt in that moment with us
you are thinner this time around
more delicate, i worry someday i will cling so tightly in need of you that you rust beneath my fingers
like i sent you around a carousel and you came back astride a horse and in an ill-fitting suit
longer hair, thinner face, fuller beard
sunken eyes
i made you into a watery corpse
and i'm sorry
i lie on my side and bite sea green glass bottles
think about the child i'll bear you
suffocate and cannot dream
i cry tears of frankincense and battle the dead inside me
calling for me to join them for a day
boy, pray for my life
i can be cold and altruistic
and all i want to do is pen songs
that is fine with you
you have become a mortician now
in dress, in manner, in aspiration
i missed you terribly
i know i am incessant
you stumbled through a curtain and onto my doorstep
i welcomed you with flat palms and clenched teeth
i love you
and i'm sorry i smoked you out the first time around
i told you in a rainy place we've been before
we took it as a sign but i'd already made my mind up
when we lay sunken in my floor, and i breathed with you without hesitation
**** it, why'd i ever let them take you away from me
i'm sorry, friend
we blew kisses to our stars and now i'm making you a father after all your friends
in your veiny hands you'll hold our only child
i'm so sorry for what i did, and what i'm bound to do
you'll be back soon, i miss your sunken cheeks and the way you say goodbye
i need to rest my bones, you make bitterness taste like home
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
I feel, in the soul, in the belly of the beast.
Flaming coals burning holes in canvas paintings of the East.
At least I know I've been learning captioned lullabies.
Uncovering truths as day by day the lyrics have come to unwind.
My dad is a rock,
He is tough, and I've tried.
But I hope that someday we'll find crystals inside.
Or he'll stop punching holes through the walls of people's lives.
With bleeding fists,
I wish his anger would find a cave and go hide.
My mom is like magma,
she sits and she steeps.
She takes rocks and she melts them into pools around her feet.
She erupts in spurts of vulnerable untruths,
And hot anger that scars, chars, and burns anyone standing close to her.
But when lava sits, and when it has dried.
From the infertile past battlegrounds,
Forests will rise.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC