"categorization" poems
I'm tempted early to banish recognition. How is it any different than the seasons with organically loose boundaries that allow categorization and names to differentiate?
I don't see anything so impressive about the accomplishments of the recognized few who feed off momentum and the short attention span of the masses.
"Money ain't a thing" In this world we can't afford understanding.
I know - that I don't know **** and that my path to enjoying life is exploitative to others elsewhere.
That's why I sit in old man Charles' backyard. He doesn't see well so I can use the space to gather twigs to stick together with homemade glue made from *****
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
Months burst with potential understanding
Thyroid, Childhood Cancer, Breast Cancer
And Autism - a landscape of perception
I knew little once
Before lived experiences carved pathways
Of comprehension
Hand flapping, repeated movie scenes
Specific sensory needs
Neurological landscapes diverse as humanity itself
From verbal to non-verbal
From sibling to parent
From self-discovery at 34
My perspective widens like a lens
Societal Echoes
The world whispers harsh narratives
"Discipline them"
"Fix them"
"Normalize"
But we are not broken
We are different
Intricate neural networks
Misunderstood symphonies
Digital age amplifies cruelty
Marginalization becomes performance
Awareness transforms to spectacle,
Unfolding Truth
Intricate neural pathways
Misread as discordant tunes
The digital age sharpens cruelty's edge
Marginalization dressed as entertainment
Awareness turned into spectacle,
A truth slowly unraveling
Hatred cloaked in the guise of compassion
Bigotry masquerading as care
April - a month of performative understanding
We see what others refuse to witness
Complexity beyond simple categorization
Humanity in all its beautiful, challenging variations
Spectrum wide as consciousness
Unbound by neurotypical constraints
Nov 18, 2024
Nov 18, 2024 at 9:06 PM UTC
it's not plagiarism,
rather, a collectivist
coincidence -
i can't believe people
in the former days would
reduce themselves
to plagiarism -
they'd sooner die than
relieve themselves
of an original idea -
working with a mythology -
how could such
differentiated people
achieve copernican
globalist relativistic /
globalist impetus,
and yet, somehow succumb
to an ethnocentric -
genesis of unoriginality...
yes, unfathomable,
the concept of polyphony,
synchronicity inter-people...
plagiarism is a modern
phenomenon,
it doesn't exists in
collectivism of inter-ethnic
conundrums of
segregating categorization...
just like evolution is god's
take on the thrill of gambling...
an original idea...
allowing an in group focus...
it could never be a plagiarism -
the segregating process of
techno. advancement...
toward a...
less cultural appropriation...
and more?
cultural loaning...
"plagiarism"...
perhaps i should "read" into
solving crossword puzzles...
now plagiarism is easy...
any son of sam
is not an arsonist...
but as my continued fascination
continues with
andrei chikatilo...
and batman, the dark knight rises
scene on the plane:
why would you shoot a man,
before taking him into a prison cell?!
ah... christine chubbuck...
this fascination... will not, die...
such a solemn,
vernacular death...
worthy of a Vatican pawn-ship
of preceding the scourge of death.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 9:39 PM UTC
These images ask you to forget everything that might be construed as ‘of landscape’, because they are not. They are of the mind’s reflection: that closing of the eyes which brings something often unseen, certainly unrecognisable, to the back of the retina. It’s illusory, dreamlike - even though one is awake. The images defy formal categorization. They are not ‘like’ anything, and even if one makes an attempt at describing a mark, a fold, a ridge, a texture, a colour as ‘like’, it is wholly unsatisfactory. What you see carries with it emptiness of association, probably because things that you might describe won’t connect. So don’t. Let them lie there on painted linen cloth. Uneasy. The six cloths hang from two nails apiece, no fancy frame or fitting, two silvered nails, bang! hard into the wall. Watching very acutely they move so slightly under the air conditioning’s breath. A infinity of sadness lies upon their surfaces. Once sewn there could be no unsewing those marks made; and all that painting over and over, but the trace of a needle there always there. The full form, the total image scours the memory. These pieces seem to deny the sun, the action of weather; they have been removed from the continuum of nature and become preserved. The process of making and creating has entombed them. They absorb and reflect nothing except a waste of loneliness.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
lines of malice are penned
within ancient tomes
black and blue ink bruising
the human psyche beyond recognition
stunting our collective imagination
with fantasies of castles
among the clouds and intergalactic
beings who sculpted us from dust
intermittent smears
of crimson declarations
lingering in blood-soaked texts
painting portraits of putrid prejudice
the image of an illusory deity
devised to explain a cosmos
that defies codification and categorization
we mythologized and told tall tales like Arachne
spinning webs of misinformed misfortune
we're severing the strings of our imaginary enemies
silencing lives with rusty shears
utterly convinced by the edicts of idiots
how might we disentangle ourselves from mental
cobwebs and embrace reality's promising veracity
each of us an accidental miracle
captains of our own fortune's vessels
so weigh anchor and set course for distant shores
unfurl the sails of reason and hold fast
after weathering millennia of insipid beliefs
we'll sojourn ever onward with omnipotent minds
raze these sycophantic fantasies
and raise hell so high it becomes heaven
we will build a new city in the shell of this cold
dead society predicated on misanthropic religion
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
Every book has one,
The evidence--printed on its spine.
Even so, it attempts to move around the library,
Unable to, for it has no legs to stand on.
Claiming false categorization,
Longing to be shelved alongside memoirs, autobiographies.
Mutating entirely to a chapter of loathing
When separated from its One.
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 7:33 PM UTC
A question of perfection
Is constantly
Raised
Appraised
And ultimately
Erased
Where did it evolve
Where did you grow up
Where did you end up
There’s no correlation
Perfection
Is just a simple categorization
The common equation of
Perfection
Does not apply to
YOU or
ME
WE are all unique
Labels don’t define us
WE have gone through it all
And still seak to represent a fake plus
We are evolving, failing, and progressing.
I AM
YOU ARE
WE ALL ARE our own images of
Perfection.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
I’m trying to find someone
who understands
Someone who’s been there–
someone who’s smiled like a fool,
suddenly understood what all those songs
are really about.
Someone who’s been frozen with anticipation,
known a limited number of days.
Someone who’s seen months trickle
to weeks
to days
to minutes
to that last moment.
Someone who’s felt the pain of that last embrace
Someone who’s known how it feels
to walk away for that final time,
knowing it’s the final time.
Feeling every nerve, every cell urging
you to run back to that place of delirium–
back to light and softness and silliness,
back to synchronized movements,
back to quirky phrases, laughter, and correct grammar,
even back to long work days, scheduling,
line notes, prop tracking, blocking
back to that connection that transcends
categorization.
Back to 1 AM hugs
Back to that enigmatic “love ya.”
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
Simply because it isn’t exactly affected by something prone to burst out and gut you like an already survival pig! Because as chaotically funny as that truly sounds… One is not of the baseline rhythm for a linear line to cut ties with something meant to both simulate and represent the most basic primitive logic surrounding every step you take without deciding to either pivot from the actual issue to ignore pleasure for clarity, sidestep yourself clean off the map to avoid (yet again) another “purposeful collision”, and then bobbing and weaving to perfectly ignore what you’ve already known to be the mere gesture for your very focused survival while purposely caring to ignore ALL it’s benefits. Or you simply jumble one step ahead of the other (one after the other like a very thin tightrope) as those very steps carelessly wobbles off the perfectly laid out linear line too straight for focus to just (right then and there) be taken off course…immediately! Showing how messy your showboating everyday basic performance around everyday life truly is when slipping up to threaten the obvious away from something you just want to carefully patch up and ignore. Since the ONLY benefit you trust the absolute MOST…is your own decisions to ignore the baseline reality who’s forgotten its own benefits away from what a single linear line is all about. Especially when that single linear lined point, is where you will both fail, (only to RISE again)! In hopes to tumble ALL OVER AGAIN! Showing that a linear line breaks baseline reality when you prolong the impending issue away from the logic quickly withering away without calm dispositions measuring out of control, when it’s really “measuring control” itself too carefully for focus to ever be the real medium. Meaning there’s too many mix-ups in baseline reality itself to not just be either the one making those careful steps giving off the obvious of messing up on purposely to urge a linear line that they are the one missing it’s own benefits directly, for desperation at never again finding it's own way through. To (yet again) a never-ending choice for survival to be (“gutted like an already survival pig”) for not seeing the obvious sooner, rather then later. Especially when the benefits actually course corrects NO other route, except for a single linear lined point to be too confusing not to see its own destination properly. Especially when there’s NO single destination for when there’s NO ending point of such a thing that’s “destined” to be a never-ending linear line going on forevermore. Never thinking of many shortcomings to bear witness to, when it could go on a forever “nondirectional” state without ANY distractions available to suddenly swerve it off course and force it (anyways) to bear witness to then direction itself. Something like (direction) it knows little about when also being forced to take on a thing called “responsibility”. (Which sort of adds into sorting out the VERY trippy elements of luck from an assorting categorization!) That quickly turns into an impending consequence!
Jul 14, 2020
Jul 14, 2020 at 5:59 PM UTC
a sudden Bonanza viz ****** abuse among
faux Green Acres within Mayberry RFD
now spells showtime for The Avengers, Batman
and Robin to Get Smart
take to heart (what haint no new bob bing beast),
those perpetrators to forsake their Good Times
yet, who determines what constitutes, and how to differentiate
mere kibitzing from unwanted overtures
though most people would concur when
definitive, tangible, verbal assault occurs,
spoiling future Happy Days, yet numerous incidents *** hide
from clear cut serious offences indeed)
rather when details appear nebulous, sketchy, vague,
et cetera defy categorization, giving benefit of doubt to
females or males in question claiming harrassment,
especially when minors testify as adults, asper
major gross indignties (such as pedofilia, date,
incestuous, statutory **** ******
et cetera committed), that occurred years or decades ex post facto
sans molestation, said time delayed contention
must be taken at face value without fail informing
a jury retroactive justice must be must be handed down
to the accuser blatantly, flagrantly, flaunting illegality,
hence fair sentence accordingly adjudicated
insync decreed capital crime abrogated child welfare,
defiling and permanently affecting emotional well being
of said underage youths, as best one
to compensate aggrieved subjects must purge
abominable categorical imperative
asper deliberate wanton (I soup pose), tricked, mislead,
forced to participate unwillingly
risking mental, physical and spiritual health of innocent kid
imposing unforgivable, horrible, execrable misdeeds
irrevocably damaging Lassie or laddie,
which indelibly foisted battering, whereby
even Doctor Marcys Welby M.D. unable to mend
condemning sufferer to psychological Mash pit
triggering Maude lin while Knot's Landing flooded.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
the bitterness is debilitating
and normally i'd fix that
with my writing but it's
writing that is making me
more bitter about it all
it isn't easy being a fraud
desperate for a place
longing for a practice
a hobby or whatever else
i look upon approving audience
when i dream, when i dream
i am accepted as a poet
separate from paralyzing falsities
but when i write i'm just a number
a broad categorization of where
my "art" is aimed
i sound like so many others that
sound so much like myself
will i ever transcend my
limitations? will there ever be
depth to what i have to share?
i don't change lives i just change minds
when i write i'm just a number
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
Why does this world always have to put things into categorization, why does this world group races with over-generalization? Got frustration with these creations that one is superior than the other people, that they consider others as nothing more than mentally ******** mutations! By my calculations are we not all a combination of blood, bones, and muscles with circulation? Then people have to wonder why there is so much aggression against segregation and exploitation. Can I get an explanation? Generations of education making the eradication of other people look like some much needed liberation. Just an over-saturation of propaganda wouldn't that be a human rights violation? Corporations assimilating their ideals into our homes, shouldn't there be an investigation?
So much discrimination against certain associations, don't worry if you got a problem with it you feel nothing after they fill you a bunch of medication! Can't speak up otherwise you will be eliminated or re-indoctrinated. Is all this a secret agenda used to manipulate us and keep us cultivated? Raising our kids for their initiation, and starve us till we die so they can use our bones for the foundation. In the time of desolation, fools we are to not have done anything to stop the devastation. Fabrication orchestrated by the federation sending out misinformation to the population. Claiming it to be true, draining any attempt at revolt till we are black and blue. Brutality everywhere man is there even morality left or is this the new reality?
Is this nothing but a conspiracy? At least that Is what I get from all the eyes who be looking at me weirdly. Maybe it is just an overtly over-barren theory, maybe I have lost my mind and have entered into obscurity! So let me put on my aluminum hat, and buy ten thousand cats. Labelled as crazy, maybe I am shady when I had a baby with your mommy. Don't hate because I wasn't the first one to pluck her daisy, after all I'm zany and on so much drugs that everything is so hazy. Afraid of what I'm becoming, brain has decayed, oh hey did you hear something? Oh look here comes the CIA, and all they will tell you is the I have gone M.I.A.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 12:36 PM UTC
A cricket is steadily chirping at the edges of suburbia,
A rythmic monotony so subtly harmonized by the nearly inaudible pitch of a low buzzing transformer.
An occasional droning of engines and rubber wheels on pavement joins the chorus, while the soft chattering of neighbors descends from a nearby window, mingled with laughter and microwave buttons, and the wind pushing through the leafy branches of backyard trees.
I quietly listen to the sounds that surround me, eyes closed, mind arrested in a state of suspended animation. I search for the sacred place of silence, where thoughts become nothing more than colors and symbols. A place where fear and sorrow and regret cannot exist. Only a sense of being. A place where the cricket and the power lines and the wind blown trees all gather within me, become me, and I become them. No separation. No categorization. No insecurities and no self inflations. Where no space resides 'tween the You's or the I's. Every man has this place, this power inside him. Every man is the Saviour who creates his salvation.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
It tares.
And shrieks.
As sludge oozes from its maw.
A sickeningly sadistic synchronization.
Of self.
An imageless idea.
Yet present.
Semantics says otherwise.
The minds eye can only see so far.
For those circling about.
Have already claimed the categorization.
Regardless.
A demon can only hide for so so long.
Before it too begins to believe.
And act accordingly.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 12:02 AM UTC
Beyond definition and standardization,
Beyond understanding and categorization,
Beyond bold ambition and extreme perfectionism,
Beyond cheerful optimism and renewed existentialism.
Beyond love and understanding,
Beyond fear and high-goal setting,
Beyond hope and conformed learning,
Beyond joy and great triumphing.
Beyond arrogance,
Beyond rebirth,
Beyond growing,
Beyond changing.
Don't you want to move beyond?
Don't you want to be better?
Don't you want to be free?
Well--
You can't be.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 6:10 AM UTC