"careens" poems
where am i?
how am I to write when
I am no different from
those gaseous ephemeral words
who lie prostrate upon
the pages of my dictionary
carved plainly into
those battlefields strewn across
the wartorn country
my heart the despotic dictator
whose primal drumming
carries no tune
and no rhythm
and throws of explosions
grenades that
black out the world for
a brief moment
until it careens back and
slams into me
disorientated
i should have been born twice
for how could i have
both my body and that
intangible inexplicable
something inside
it stirs at the molten core
of me
that chasm that forged
those graven images
that first gave way to
a pictographic language
and offered me
a voice
to explain that immutable
all powerful
urge
lust
to throw myself on that
red button and
detonate
burst into a million pieces
and finally relieve that
nauseating pressure
of adipose smushed between
holy bone and
saintly skin
interloping in that space
and separating two lovers
barriers create madness
walls box me in
and yet i grow
an expanding balloon girl
macy’s day parade and
candy littered streets
and razor sharp edges
to steel walls pressing harder
against me than
my supple skin could
ever possibly press
back
i can’t breathe
there is no room
for my lungs to expand
and feel the
fresh sun filled meadow
of crystal air
delivering oxygen to
starved alveoli
and i can’t find your chest
to guide me
in impossible respiration
i’m suffocating in my own skin
from no outside force
but my body itself
turns inward and
shouts its dominance at my
cowering self
sniveling in the corner
of my dusty half used heart
where no blade could possible
land a blow deep enough
to silence the torment and
particular personal poison
a torture to course through
every part of me
activating every single neuron
and making me
hyperaware of my
shame and noxious
venomous corpulence
a reality i
never wanted you to see
but is written plainly
in fiery script across my forehead
and in every fold of fat.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
This cave is my sanctuary; cold, damp, filled with minerals and creatures.
I sit cross legged peering out through the crescent shaped doorway mama nature has created. I have never been more at peace than I am when I’m here.
The water crashes hard on the barnacle covered rocks beneath me. The mist from the waves whirls its way up to sooth my aching skin. The sea calls my name in the way that an angel calls you into the light.
At first it’s just a delicate whisper. The voice is so charming and playful that it begins to lure me in. As i begin to drift further, letting the voice carry my thoughts, the waves pound harder and the symphony the sea has written me rapidly grows in volume and intensity.
The tension becomes so strong that the sky starts to erupt. The clash of the clouds creates a prismatic light sequence leaving the sky looking magnificently iridescent. I sit unstirred, reveling in it's beauty.
The sea is now agonizingly screaming for me to succumb to its cool paradise.
For a while I just sit and enjoy the elegance of the symphony. Once the sky starts to lower its darkened veil, I know it is time to go.
I stand up with more certainty than I had ever felt before.
I slowly take three steps forward, embracing the feeling of the dirt in between my toes.
Two long strides, and then I leap. The thick foggy air caresses my body as it swiftly careens downward.
The symphony ends with a splash.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 3:30 PM UTC
check it out check it out
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's da state of this here disunion
this here bangalore torpedo seeks yer minefields
this here suffering hero
n
crows about strafes
multitudes peripherally
****** blind prophets
exclaim
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's nothing but beginning
of beginning & z end of approximation
time's sweet angry subluxation
universal caving in on U & U
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when was z last time U really loved
i mean really really really loved
ha i could only hold to z imagination
z skeleton z allegory z myth
'cause everything slides & falls
screams careens outta control
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she brought in rrrrevolution.evolution.now
is z caustic effervescence of her wit
eroding my sandy castle of deceit?
ha and repeat ha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
forgive-me-notes are written high
on z forehead of my despair
a cursive flowing interdiction
malediction cruxifiction err-u-diction
en-passant
in each pyrotechnic moment when we don't see I-to-I
on anything relevant to what we once hoped was us
but we continue dance dance dance
perseveration aberration indiscretion cha-cha-cha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she said *** is z engine of z world
like engine like world like ***
like like like
could say no more
oh it's tiresome to go on
describing that chimeric uniting
flesh-to-flesh-in-flesh eliding
we all are guilty of
do not end a line with a preposition such as
that or a proposition such as this:
given angle a prove that old triangle theorem
two simultaneous loves don't make a right
cherchez les angles les anglais la bon mot
ya know
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when i die please bury me upside down
prone to z ground making dead love to earth ya kno
while the centuries lie down next to me
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic!
chic!
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 3:14 PM UTC
The days keep passing, don't they?
Even when I watch with my unblinking eyes
the stoic clocks that only emanate innocence.
Time passes slowly, here.
The languid ways with which the water careens
and sways
-and how even the air stands still
wisping softly between our fingers
and our hair.
The space between then and now grows
smaller, yes
despite the sorrow that comes with
dwelling and indifference.
And each day, I and the sun
will do that which is impossible-
endure
patient
ly
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 8:51 AM UTC
When I was eight years old,
I overlooked a moment of compassion
And challenged the will of a fellow third grader
Compelled by my ignorance
She gave the most astute summary of my life ever uttered.
When I was eight years old,
A frizzy haired girl asked me an impudent question
A question of infinite importance:
How do you sleep?
How do you sleep at night, since you know yourself?
When I was eight years old, my arrogant mind brimmed with resentment
Reaffirming that I,
I, apart from my arrogance,
Was the best person I knew.
I was eight years old, and a prophet had spoken.
Eight years later,
I long to be swallowed by the sheets
Eyes stare mockingly at the dormant ceiling
Clinging to the handrails
As my train of thought
Careens off the tracks
Exploding in a cloud of terror and regret
Eight years later,
I long for the simple arrogance of my eight year old mind
I long to close my eyes
And remember nothing
Because today,
Today I am sixteen
And tomorrow I will be twenty-four
And the next day I shall be eighty
When I'm eighty,
I'll stare at the bleached walls
Succumbing to the force of the past
As it consumes the present.
When I turn eighty-eight,
I'll look to the end of my starched bed
And He shall smile
Saying, "Well done!"
I hope I lie, when I'm eighty-eight,
Because If I am honest
If I tell the truth
I do not know who he is
And I never have
I will be cast away
because, eighty years before,
When I was eight years old,
I was arrogant
But still innocent
eighty years from death
and eighty years from shame
I could have heeded those words
The words of the frizzy haired girl
When I was eight years old,
I could have decided
I could have had him sing me to sleep
I could have died entirely unlike myself.
Now that I'm sixteen,
I still do nothing.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
Slippery insanity careens through marble forests,
trained insurgents capture dragon flies
grinding them up for pixie dust,
cowards siphon rain drops from entangled subatomic particles
inscribing hopeless anecdotes for economical tyranny,
bloated bumble bees bomb pearl harbor,
golden harps sprout wings chasing lost lovers
nourishing their insipid dreams,
homophobes parade **** inside sinking ships,
graveyards sneeze showers of formaldehyde,
nature's chemical cathedrals synthesize
the eleven dimensions of space and time,
summer's daughter bathes in autumn's waters
a myriad of memories engraved in the brain's tissues
trace the tapestry of neural plasticity
Prometheus's pollution and the alchemist's sunset
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 2:15 PM UTC
Movement no.1
Andante con moto
Farewell.
I am leaving you
with the sweetness
and the sadness
of every creature on this earth
draped over my shoulders
as a shroud
We rest now
before the final struggle
looking down upon our lives
from a precipice
The wind calls up
a faint sound
a song
of healing
as resignation
So bring forth the dirge
let dogs and oboes
cue the horns
as we embark
upon a tender struggle
We are whipped back
and forth
between grief and glory
in this life
an indifferent life
lush with raw power
But thankfully
at the end of every day
there is sleep.
Movement no. 2
Im tempo eines gemächlichen Ländlers. Etwas täppisch und sehr derb.
Dance returns
and goes mad
Who could lift a leg
that high?
Not I.
The music careens
off the walls
in a dissonant minuet
of the hours
The clenched teeth
of each and every minute
grind here
as if time itself
took heel
and made a sparkling trace
across the pines
of this exalted floor of dance.
Movement no. 3
Rondo Burleske: allegro assai. Sehr trotzig.
A music major's delight.
Fugues against fugues.
Dense contrapuntal figures
and sarcastic counterpoint
shouting out
from the back of the class.
And then
just love
confused perhaps
but real love indeed.
Movement no. 4
Sehr langsam und noch zurüclhaltend
The violin
noblest of instruments
takes its place
In bitter sorrow
life soon lost
the fruit of the tree
is extinguished
the promise of green days
burned by drought
All is withheld.
There is peace at the end
but no joy
the abyss is only silence
and a taut string
connecting us
to eternity.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
Love is like,
A man born without arms,
He lives his life accepting his disability,
But Constantly jealous of those with arms.
he sees people with arms of every variety; skinny, tattooed, bruised or muscled, and even some like him.
Everyday he watches people use and missuse their arms,
Yet Barely appreciating the mere existence of their own arms.
One day, he hears about a new procedure that could give him fully functioning prosthetic arms.
He is hesitant about the cost and risk,
but decides he must try.
A week later after a successful surgery,
The bandages finally fly free, and so do his arms.
He flexes and bends them every way possible,
testing the boundaries of what feels like a new world to him.
There is an endless beauty in their function.
He feels a joyous wonder,
to experience the touch and precision
of his sweetly sensitive fingertips caressing the surface of anything in their reach.
For the first time, he finally knows what true freedom feels like.
Months pass as he becomes familiar with a new world under his fingertips.
But as time goes on he begins to notice occasional malfunctions in his daily tasks.
He thinks hes losing touch with the connections used to communicate with the main circuits,
But doesn't think it could get worse.
As Weeks pass more connections falter between him and his once perfect partner.
The day starts like any other winter morning,
an icy cold, cloudy drizzle.
He's driving the windy back roads to work,
rounding a sharp bend in the road, when he suddenly feels a spasm ripple through his arms
ripping his hand from the wheel and all control.
His car veers off the roadside cliff
leaving gravity to doom him to an icy river below.
The car careens through the droplets of rain in the air.
His world slows down as the car begins to plummet downward,
only seconds before impact.
The freezing icy rain and air rip
through the broken windshield,
but nothing feels colder than the betrayal of the arms he once held so dear.
And in that moment,
he wishes that he'd never had arms at all.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
Restless in bed, the stir of warmth blossoming in his heart,
the girl he loved has gone,
drifted from his house to the field of vacant stares.
Rainstorms brew in his mind, shifting from one end to the other,
the current forming into a large sheet of distance damp with disconnection.
He thinks of fire. As he rolls out of bed.
Grabbing a cigarette from his ashtray,
he lights up. Old habits stay kept in the roof of his mouth. Fresh air
permeates through his nostrils as he steps out onto the front porch.
He props his elbows on the balustrade,
brushes against the grainy wood
tarnished from the skywater.
The sun droops below the gray cluster of clouds
hanging over a horizon colored with blues, reds, and yellows.
While he smokes on his cigarette he remembers the girl. Her name is a
wrinkled photograph stored in a dusty shoe box.
She has green eyes and curly red hair.
Her body is shaped in an hourglass figure.
She's tall and gaunt, but her
legs are toned from running several miles on her treadmill
each morning before the dark slips away into the fog of light.
He grounds the cigarette out on the porch. He steps onto the driveway. There's a red
Honda CRV parked across from the two-car garage.
He hops in. The key turns.
Booming engine roars out loud.
The wheels churn backwards. He pulls out of the
cul-de-sac. And he drives, drives,
until he can remember the road map, the one
that she stole from him to follow her dreams, and hopes, the aspirations that he had
once shared with her. A thin, white film of mist
belays across the windshield.
And for a short second he wishes that he were dead.
Dead so that he could have the
perspective of an omniscient narrator to oversee everything, and everyone.
But where is his girl? She's not the one who got away,
she's the one who abandoned him, the
night after he ate the sweet nectar,
the fruit, little drops of dew splashing onto the back of his tongue.
The red Honda CR-V careens down the interstate, windows down, subwoofers pumping
with something similar to apprehension,
tense with overwrought poems.
The substance lacking from trying too hard,
for something that wants nothing to do with him.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
no longer careens
along the fringes of life
this gypsy soul ‘s
rampant
nomadic urges
long since quelled
I've roamed
so many hills and dales
crossed oceans and
floral seas
yet
here I remain
serenely sunlit
by your dancing
sky blue eyes
as
our love syncs
deeper into
the loving folds of time
only the bitter promise of death
will part
our paths
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
I knew not what life was
As the assassins fired upon
Wars forgotten
Where even the frogs within fog
Were accused of high treason
I battle my own life
Each knife wound drawing blood
Every day a trek through the mud
And what have I got to show for it,
Except some unknown reason to praise
A God who lives above me
That never seems to show His face -
Maybe I'm looking in the wrong places
Events cease to produce themselves
Once the motion has stopped
The raindrops dropped on me as did
Tears I swore I would never shed again
But the bane of each existence
Is identical to the soul to the left and right
That's right - the darkness knows your truth too
Taking while breaking
Sworn on oaths with undertones
Of rebellion and oil money
Where each world away
Is a land that rests on eternity or
Being buried in repetitious flames
And my alcohol soothes me
Like Her curves bend and flee
In a Fall wind that is just about to begin
I quit with this
All the way down in this
God awful pit
Alone with every bone
As my tomb begins to close
And a new life careens in a swing
Whose motion is as foreign
As the faces of old kings
Calling across metallic membranes
Of a time that holds no prisoner forever
Closer, closer, to a place without forgiveness
I call and hear the echo of my own voice
And know truly that I draw nearer
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
Spinning like a red rubber ball
that bounces and careens
off a hard, brick wall--
I land on the floor
and spin and spin
for hell hath wrought
the fury without and within
and the danger lurks
just around the bend
I hope and pray
the world doesn't end...
(but I doubt that it will--
so I'll continue to spin)...
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
through the cusp of
predawn heavy dark i woke,
one knee too cold to
feel. stars imperfectly ablaze;
radial fractions between
soft fingersplits in overlying canopy.
at ground level, spinning
slowly, i pried a small hole
out of my cocoon of moss. drew
legs to chest. felt clean air wash
up and over me. this is all that
matters. everything. acres alone,
save trapped stoat or the small
hawk in my ribcage. kea call
up at pearl flat; hours later,
i thaw. i rescind no sentiment.
and i dare not take back a
mote of motion. my
hands mend you sweetness on hazy
days the sun careens through
dust and valleys.
endless spurs
on all horizons to clamber to
you, or just to find me. endless
convection to spread wing under.
endless permutations of lovers; but,
of course, nobody else
would near suffice.
down a darkened trail, sleep
heavy on shoulders, i waltz with
torch dying in one hand. beating
heart in other. a fine
day crawls up over
peaks; i sigh, smile,
endlessly think
of you.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC
Have you seen the soft light of her eye?
The speckled dusts that line
the record sheaths
Spinning in the groovy beat of eternity
Somewhere high above the skies
veiled in wisps, her water-bearing cirrus
and looming presence of Cumulonimbus
running the deluge of thoughts into the brain
and giving the gift of loving rains
There she is, the lovely moon--
A pockmarked pearl in distant gloom
A momentary gift, spinning her disk
in shafts of light on fallow eyes
I have been long lost, in varied dream
The boundless world around careens
Empty towards the end of move
But I'll spend the rest of this with you
The moon, Earth's aeons of planetary dance
in loving poise of circumstance
Her writhing storm of life between
the ever-floating nodes of light
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
You gave us this world with opportunity and every ability to build paradise,
Yet we blame You for all tragedy , evil, pain, and unnecessary suffering;
You are the culprit, we charge, and dare imagine you with heart as cold as ice,
With never a glance in the mirror to reflect upon our failures with any misgiving.
So we shake our fist, trample Your words of wisdom and the help You offer,
Content to live as our own gods in the self-made illusion of human grandeur,
While our world careens toward disaster, as in foolish rebellion we take cover;
Your tears falling in the rain for Your children and creation in immortal danger.
How is it the fool says in his heart, “Surely, there is no God, no higher power,”
When with lost divine likeness and shattered image, truer it is there is no human?
More like empty shells with vacant eyes, we walk this earth enslaved by the hour,
Ever too proud to turn to You in the light of Your Love, redemption to summon.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
the brooklyn bridge trembles
all the immigrants are dying
those of the "new youth"
are dead already
------------
asleep at the wheel
the mandala careens thru space
no-body claims to notice
----------
"jus sittin here for awhile"
is all we can say
-----------
the ole images are bleeding
the new ones have no meaning
we sit here an say
"we jus sittin here"
--------
slowly erased
the brooklyn bridge trembles
fornicating with strangers
we are all strangers
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 12:46 PM UTC
Yellow journal
Aged in fondness
Worn by the weight of powerful words
Forgotten upon the shelf
Neglected despite your cheery shade
An artist leaves a piece of themselves within their art
A fateful discovery
Thats exactly what you are
Beaten up, broken,
torn weathered-
By years of dry land and drought of inspiration
Made alive by Christ
And awake in its pages
Your cover is worn
Your pictures dilapidate
But once you open up
Magic careens
Unveiled under your dusty pages is joy
Romance
Poetic trances
Art of divine nature
That is exactly what you are
Worn yet beautiful
Aged and reminiscent
Evoking fond warmth
You are the yellow journal
Beloved yellow journal
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 10:34 AM UTC
*LISTENING
Poetry is so strange;
like a stiletto sharp moon
it shines our hearts
with midnight wonders.
And, by its glow I read,
**"our deep cosmic loneliness
and our starboard hearts
where love careens,
we are listening,
the small bipeds
with the giant dreams."**
***
*Yes D.A., we are listening
to the pulsar songs
played in the universe.
We are listening
for others,
who just may be listening for us.*
***
*Seduction is like this you know;
subtle, uncertain,
even fragile at times;
yet irresistable as Lilacs
beckoning the moon.
Seduction is also a
summer down pour
we willingly get caught in,
jumping greedily
in puddles,
laughing,
just happy to be together.
We listen to the patterns
water splashing made;
listen for others
to hear what they have to say,
even if they were many galaxies away.*
***
*We listen.
We wait, but not idly.
We listen, write poetry
sharp, like a stiletto moon.
And, under its midnight glow,
hold hands.*
*NOTE: the bold quoted lines are from a
poem called "We Are Listening", by
Diane Ackerman found in her book
entitled "Jaguar of Sweet Laughter".*
Aztec Warrior
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
The overture sounds:
A muffled “thud,”
And scraping flesh against macadam.
Un-rosined bows screech across nerves,
Dividing molecules to atoms.
Each neuron fires off, splicing into three
The soul from the body,
and something indescribably between.
Catching fire, he ascends -
"This is what it truly means to be!"
Each piece, each side
Breaking away in-finitely
To somehow become more whole
Through division, and in balance.
Like a reunion, of holy trinity,
Caught ablaze in fissile symphony.
- - -
And like a cork popped from a bottle,
Rewound, and played reversed,
He careens with a whining pitch
And
f
a
l
l
s
From orbit,
Back to earth.
Glimpsing God
Only to be clawed back
To the pains and pleasures of Samsara,
To taste the bitterness of my own blood,
Juxtaposed
With the ecstasy of Nirvana.
This is how I came to know the realm
In which our feeble bodies lurch.
Reborn as a phoenix from the ashes.
From the rear cabin of a hearse.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
.
In the dreamlands of sun,
He streams the invisible rivers
Of lit glories to come,
Careens, lording the beams,
Airs, above the ordinary
Grasses that dry in the gleams,
With eyes that wash over kills,
The forking fowl and mealy vole,
Hare in the runaway hills,
High above the fourth wall, stead-
Fast, stately in his dress,
To commencements of death,
Where eagle strikes with talon,
Crescent as day moon,
Sudden, silent to the cast fallen.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
as the sun comes rushing in
through the cracks in the window, with a Matisse-like sheen,
a witch ponders over her natural, self-made enemy;
her trees are topsy turvy,
her entrails are unfurling.
as she careens into arms unfolding,
her breath mist was captured by Rodin
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 2:45 PM UTC
I want to ****** the ignorance
flowing through your hair
and pummel it to the ground
to keep your eyes from puffing red as smoke
The looping madness careens
the shivered hiding up on chairs
fighting fear, paranoia, and disgust
and the growing tendency to choke
a spider's lair can weep
for loneliness and despair
its reach is only inches
past the horrored lies you spoke
It's hard to find a victim
and a culprit bound in one
its hard to hold you, lover
when fists coil forth from thumb
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 2:22 PM UTC
Nameless voice
Voice not here faceless for the fact of the former self
Is not apparent here to hear
Clear liquid careens through hair through bark tree
Nothing in this world comes free
Not even death
Not even love
Not even the miracle of being born
If you can pull it off
Great
But if you cannot
Make sure the nickels
The dimes
The pennies and the lint
Are all saved up
Because somebody
Will
Be
Knocking
The knocker will not be me though
I will not be rapping at your door but
Through the page
Through the letters hastily typed for fear of the muse
Leaving me too soon
What haste we go through life never admitting that one
Does and will never know oneself fully
Horror holds true only if you allow it
Lines of the lame line up for fame
Their faces glowing with the false sense of accomplishment
Proud for the pornographic pedestrian they think deserves love
Gladiators would weep if they could see
What the audience has turned into
The glory of glam is a sham with only one plan
To get onto the
Next Prime
Meat
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 11:23 AM UTC
Chains rattle through the witching hour
And a tense grapnel around her lungs
Forcing an overwrought gasp,
Beads of sweat moistening her soft skin
Glistening under the moonlight
That comes in through fragmented glass
And the shards of transparency surround her cradling bed.
Her sweat shines
But not the broken glass,
Seemingly invisible, it lures her into a trap.
She steps her bare feet down, touching the shrapnel.
She shrieks in consternation,
Feels blood touching her cutis
And a solitary tear runs along her left cheek.
She careens her way back on to the mattress
And her sanguine feet tag along,
Staining the cloth freshly laid out
Patterned with flowers and autumn leaves.
Afraid to wound herself once more,
She quietly sobs herself to sleep
And sheds the last tear.
Sirens blare and the sun shines ever so bright,
A hundred people surround the scene
Letting their eyes go wild like the rain
And heaving in long breaths.
With pierced flesh and a lifeless smile,
She went out like a light as she wept her last,
And now she's the lurking shadow of the morgue.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
I stand
In the morning.
The water careens off my skin
Cleansed
Purified
body.
I sit right down
And it pelts me
Sliding like liquid hands,
down my back
around my neck.
Liquid fingers,
Life,
Caresses
my chest,
this
daily pleasure.
The kettle bubbles
as I rinse the bubbles from my hair.
I cannot stop
Grinning
My soul,
once held captive
is set free
by the water.
I sink down
in the cool tub,
and I am renewed.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 7:54 AM UTC