"carbide" poems
A heart that’s filled up like being buried alive |
“Occupational hazards” that slowly poison you |
Bruises getting sourer than
an astronaut’s vertigo |
Bruises are left to be unhealed |
Sorry, Doctor! Your medicine isn’t working
Looking so sipped off and drained
Devoid of any humanity’s stain
Thinking of drowning down
the system that’s already dead and down |
We haven’t heard from them longtime and again |
But please let me take a more cautious,
loyal approach to you all over again |
A slow poisoning of carbide, formalin
to finally having pure, clean cyanidical mayhem… |
No vertigos and no more spinning please |
No vertigos and no more spinning please |
No vertigos and no more spinning please |
Peace with myself at last |
Peace with myself at last |
This is my final epitaph | my choking heartache |
No vertigos and no more spinning please |
No vertigos and no more spinning please |
No vertigos and no more surprises please |
But still what a wonderful feelings I had I remember now |
Such a wonderful heavenly bliss it was |
No vertigos and no more spinning please | (let me steer up to eternal bliss) |
No vertigos and no more spinning please | (let me steer up to eternal bliss) |
No vertigos and no more spinning please | (let me steer up to eternal bliss) |
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
a shape with three sides is a triangle
a useful way to represent the plane
geometrically, at least, besides
a lie is method of deceipt
but transistors can decide
based on where they feel the heat
that strange silicon carbide
makes circuitry complete
a puzzle is a truth that you untangle
a useful way to escape the mundane
a triangle is a shape with three sides
yours, mine, and the truth
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
I’d never mark my stamp on you
even if I thought I could
and with lessons drawn
from father’s “tool and die, ”
I know I’ll never try.
That stamping press Dad used
left only negative impressions,
crushed in carbide steel,
to mark the owner’s brand.
No, I’ll have none of that
I need your free undented souls
To sing both “I” and “we”
in mystic synchronicity:
drawing life from the speckled pages.
But like my father at his lathe,
I’ll ply my studied craft
and bid you do the same with yours
so that you and I
can find our truths among the spots
and, with mysterious synchronicity,
breathe radiant, illimitable life
into the freckled, speckled pages.
June, 2009
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
What percentage of the time
do you lie in that bed?
the rest a waste
of the metal springs
forged by
factory workers
pouring in their
unpaid overtime
to meticulously
shape the steel
into just the right
comforting bounce
a waste
of the soft cotton cover
picked by
(slave-descended) hands
white fluff
still echoing centuries
of black oppression
spun on foreign looms
shipped back
across the seas
dyed, woven,
stretched taut
into just the right
soothing texture
a waste
of the foam stuffing
made from...
whatever goes into
foaminess...
how many hours wasted?
daily
weekly
What percentage of the time
do you write with that ballpoint pen?
the rest a waste
of the clear plastic casing
melded from petroleum
by corporations
extracting black gold
in exchange
for greenhouse gases
a waste
of the tiny perfect sphere
rolling smoothly along
tungsten carbide surface
exquisitely crafted
for maximum efficiency
by man's finest machines
factories churning out
thousands by the hour
a waste
of the bright blue ink
the mysterious mixture
of dyes and pigments
and oils and surfactants
spilling onto the page
recording your
delicate thoughts
in desperate
existential hope
they won't be as oft ignored
as that device
from which they pour forth
how many hours wasted?
monthly
yearly
What percentage of the time
do you sit in that reclining chair?
do you walk in those polished dress shoes?
do you eat with that bent spoon?
do you style your hair with that fine-toothed comb?
do you turn the pages of your favorite book?
do you see by lamp's light in the guest bedroom?
how many hours
sitting unused, wasted?
in a life
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
Shadows craft the bus
Shuffle the feet inside
Earmark the conversations
Earth barrel rolls beside
********* minds, mining
The rhymes
Of heartbeat and tide
And isotopes; and pride
Salesmen; teachers; Union Carbide
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 12:18 PM UTC