"cellulose" poems
Bees build around red liver,
Ants build around black bone.
It has begun: the tearing, the trampling on silks,
It has begun: the breaking of glass, wood, copper, nickel, silver, foam
Of gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, ***** crystals.
**** Phosphorescent fire from yellow walls
Engulfs animal and human hair.
Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs,
Ants build around white bone.
Torn is paper, rubber, linen, leather, flax,
Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, snakeskin, wire.
The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the foundations.
Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down,
With one leafless tree.
Slowly, boring a tunnel, a guardian mole makes his way,
With a small red lamp fastened to his forehead.
He touches buried bodies, counts them, pushes on,
He distinguishes human ashes by their luminous vapor,
The ashes of each man by a different part of the spectrum.
Bees build around a red trace.
Ants build around the place left by my body.
I am afraid, so afraid of the guardian mole.
He has swollen eyelids, like a Patriarch
Who has sat much in the light of candles
Reading the great book of the species.
What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament,
Waiting two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus?
My broken body will deliver me to his sight
And he will count me among the helpers of death:
The uncircumcised.
21.5k
Donuts, o donuts,
Wheat Flour Enriched
Soybean,
Palm and Cottonseed Oil Hydrogenated
Vegetable Oil Partially Hydrogenated
Cocoa Processed with Alkali,
Sodium Acid Pyrophosphate
Sodium Aluminum Phosphate
Aluminum Sulfate
Salt, Dextrose, Soy Lecithin,
Guar Gum, Cellulose Gum, Tapioca Dextrin,
Corn Dextrins, Mono Diglycerides,
Citric Acid, Enzymes,
Natural & Artificial colors & flavors
Sorbic Acid and Sodium Propionate
and Potassium Sorbate
To Retain Freshness:
Eat 'em up yum.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
We sat in the overlook above the Serpent Mound
in the heat of that garish July afternoon,
sunlight scorching our pallid skin,
like rays through a magnifying glass,
till we could endure no more and
sought the shroud of skyscraper elms ---
halfway houses of leaf, bark and cellulose.
Minutes before we'd signed our names in the visitors book,
like giddy high-schoolers autographing a yearbook,
recording our wayward lover's sojourn
to a site the Hopewell worshipped in celebration of existence.
For what purpose do we worship this ground?
I wondered as we walked beside the curving icon,
that undulated in rolled earthen coils down the slope,
sine-waves loosed from a colossal oscilloscope.
Are these coils symbolic of our future's meandering relationship?
Her exploring hand upon my ****
drew me from thought to evaluation of this unexpected caress.
But for the heat, I'd have shown her what idle foreplay begets!
*Great Serpent, this was not Eden's carnal karma
acted out in a second Genesis!* ---
though a symbolic egg spews from your mouth.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
What is that reality that appears to me in dreams,
chock-full of misgivings and doubt. I counteract my fear of life
with my fears of slumber,
dust in my eyes and stiff as lumber.
In truth - I'm not stiffened
by fear,
by nausea,
post-pubescent sacrilege,
or all of the above.
I'm not up-kept,
grizzly with ennui;
I'm dizzy, confiding my loss.
I feel the lips that kiss
but can't be drawn: from mind,
stencil
paper
pen,
on sheets of thick
pale and
cellulose,
for the heart to mend.
My unsteady hand
is my fearful friend
A soft embrace
from a warm mind
Somber
and so full of Life
clung to by the scent of Death
Endowed
with an eternal promise and regret
from veins of plants
or the glow of stars.
Cold, mechanical debt.
(my heart, so full of...)
(my mind, so hot with...)
(my body, trembling in...)
I am gulf-like
a stream full of trees and glass
echoing a promise of shattering wind.
Will I be published
after my death,
asleep predating, a life conceived.
Will I live to see myself alone,
and to discover
that which I'm not?
Or will I stutter
and wallow a curse,
Up towards the sky,
Until the final verse.
On a boast
or chasing the Rail,
pale as dirt, and shallow still.
Will my true love abandon, break, strain,
Burn away the wax,
or hurry to blame?
Omit my evils from the star-charts,
then just to vacate the void.
From the half-broken corridors of rocks,
nooks, crannies.
Carry laughter through the night
burn the effigy bowed-down,
before dawn's courageous,
ever-splaying light
Angels,
of Carlo and Marx,
plenty by noon
festoon,
again by day
thus replay,
Endeavor to infinity, fair child.
Remold the light by Day
and remold the Day
by Night.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
When CNN monotony breaks my heart,
children wail for candy at cash registers,
and traffic buzz replaces birdsong,
I flee to my garden to water and ****
Sanctuary explodes in miniature chorales
soprano buds breaking through cellulose cradles
last waters from a thousand wilting blossoms
sing tenor at their organic wake above the loam
and endless pneumatic streams drip from leaf tips
as they always have and will.
A googolplex of minute carbon dramas occurs
melodious ballads echo relentlessly
like Buddha’s kalapas of soil and light
as pistil and stamen call the fat brown bees.
Equally marvelous are my hands'
deft fingers fueled by arterial rivers
lymph and blood on capillaric freeways
with off-ramps for neighborhoods of dividing cells
built into my DNA,
this machine of loving grace.
Even the leather of my gloves
once lived thick on a bull eating grass
that waved on a prairie where the soil
let the sun in
drank the rain
and that meticulous ensemble
plays still for the wolf and the eagle.
With the last seed sewn
I sit transfixed by the garden gate
knowing every blossom in every random patch
will arise and pass away like the pointless TV news
and I hear the machinery of this impermanence
crackling like spring frost
when sprouts push through
and Gaia’s eternal trumpets ring.
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
It lies, turgid.
Beneath the seedy mass of microscopy
lit fluorescent, breathing.
Bloated cellulose bricks in syrup
Conjunctive in an extracellular mess,
Ripped mesh and tiny sculpturettes
Freshly bleeding.
Chloroplastic green and iron red
slivers of nucleic endoscopy
A secret glimpse framed by my eyelashes.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
far across the scintillating galaxies,
a dying star fulminated, blasting celestial fantasies.
then, a pulchritudinous nebula was born
and woven constellations she wore.
the moon hung like a chandelier in her eyes,
studded with jewels like diamond stars.
splendor interstellar dust swathed around her ivory skin,
virtue and intelligence she always has from within.
her mellifluous voice sends you to a place full of gentle breeze,
where azure firmament embraced few puffies
made of cellulose fiber and soft creamy cheese.
and with a touch of her fingertips, you’ll see cerulean seas.
she’s someone that you’ll always remember
for she makes learning as her adventure.
and her euphonious words
that shakes your mind and your world.
she’s the universe’s child.
May 6, 2021
May 6, 2021 at 12:06 AM UTC
I miss the satisfaction
of that little lever
advancing cellulose
frame by frame
for an unseen exposure
until developer hits film
producing an image
clicked at 1/60th of a second
in time
Oct 7, 2021
Oct 7, 2021 at 4:33 PM UTC
i came to you for a straight path
with no crossroads and walls at the sides
to lock in my free mind as best one can;
but you built my dreams back up instead
like collapsed buildings after a war
(which, in a way, they were);
you restored me at the start.
for pocket change, you took my soul
and folded it until it was an origami crane
that soared over mountaintops and deep blue seas
and lived off hopes and wishes and dreams;
a tiny piece of paper, flower print
that came to life to watch the foxtail valleys
and toblerone mountains of my mind
and it watched the memories of me riding among the clouds
and swimming in clear turquoise waters
and crying over friendships lost.
we will always remain that way
you form me, fold me, throw me into the air
while I remain, just cellulose, pliant, never my own -
yours to be ripped apart.
it was what i came for, after all.
cs
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
Cellulose, stalagtite, cellular device
Short term abbreviations, quick talk slows the nations.
English language spread so wide,
Multiple meanings for them to lie and hide.
Dumbing down the whole population
Dumbing down the whole generation
Dumb corrupt slavery nation
So many frequencies in these feeble heads
Which ones are they ******* with to make us do something else instead
Drone ants marching all day
Building, munching, texting our intelligence away.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 7:50 PM UTC
Unhappy with eternity
Sleeping in my black veil
My dark eyes match this life-
One big dark room
I watch the cows eat cellulose
With my skeleton key stomach
I want to eat the grass as well
Feed on something I can’t have
I’ll drink blood instead
And do the cha-cha in my wedding dress
While I float above the staircase
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 4:55 PM UTC
Supermarket celebration
shoppers are cytoplasm searching
for cellulose, muscle, photosynthesis.
Oils, petrochemical and vegetable
love: faith and trust
for instance, the Food and Drug Administration.
In America, the custom is
to avoid meeting the other shoppers' eyes. We graze
like cows or wander as zombies to the oldies played over the aisles.
I've always liked it here.
Cornucopia, yes. Also
a place to be alone and depressed, or cool off.
Water and bone
and the known ingredients. Neurons
for remembering, calculating, touching stuff.
I have a favorite bagger
who has the smile of a lover,
wouldn't rather be elsewhere.
Like glamour stars in bikinis
(but unlike tomatoes and bananas)
cashiers and clerks are admired from afar.
Joe says What's not to like? Ice cream, yogurt,
profit, tofu.
To eat your fill is a blasphemy against God.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
I started dreaming in black and white.
you never seemed to
belong in this
technicolour drenched era,
an age of blood
carnations and sapphire Bomb Pops.
***** yellow cardboard boxes in
fluorescent refrigerated cases:
there are goosebumps on my arms and you
hated grocery shopping; I made the lists
and I made the buys; you made the
money, you made love.
we bought a Cezanne print for the
great room; it hangs above the frozen
hearth, grey sunlight filtered through
the cellulose blinds. there is a too tall
glass of scotch on the coffee table beside
a too empty scotch bottle and a too full
bottle of benzodiapenes: I haven't been
self-preservative, and you've been
self-prescribing.
we weren't cut out for this era,
an age of cum-coated lips and
onyx Benzes; we would've been better
in black and white, where our
color-saturated demons couldn't come, where our gem-studded cancers couldn't
eat us alive.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
the leaves on the sidewalk
were reduced to an organic
pulp of chlorophyll and cellulose
under the soles of passersby
who didn't even notice
how the ceaseless precipitation
had leeched out the pigments
from these lifeless cells
creating smears of
****** burgundy
that colored the sidewalk
like a toddler with chalk.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
I wonder if people feel the same,
questioning, pondering,
not knowing in nature,
I wonder if the masses as they walk the streets,
tiny ants carrying a thousand times they're defeat,
see the light refract and carry back,
images form and recollect,
cellulose film with a story to tell,
I wonder if the girl that gives me the smile,
had depth in wondering the same,
had she known the butterflies that ran through my skin,
a feeling of jumping from a formidable cliff,
not for hate, degradation, abhorrence, malevolence or animosity,
but just the opposite,
to show the love we carry
in the arms of adoration,
hydraulic hearts
pumping fidelity, fondness, and friendship,
fueled by breaths of fresh air,
in that smile we shared,
I wonder if the ones who hate,
can also love,
does the man covered in mud,
slopped in filth, mayhem and blithe,
lye by choice,
or is it easier said than done,
would a good man cover himself in blood,
if honest true and to the point,
so I'll sit on this bench,
birds chirp as the children play,
dogs off leashes,
running amuck,
but who can place blame,
as being put on a leash,
restricts our breath,
causing no smile,
not to breath our fresh air,
to pump our hearts,
giving us love,
so I lastly wonder,
had I had the nerves,
to just say hi,
would you have stopped
or just said good bye,
will I be the man I wish,
or am I the man in filth?
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 6:41 PM UTC
Today i viewed multicoloured eggs
And tangled my eyes in a giant grid .
Got angry at the scorpions
For getting in the photons of my stolen glitter.
I contemplated train prices and cursed the wiry cellulose
In sugarsnap peas that catches in my throat.
On a bright pink carpet
With tiny rectangles we talked
About words with words.
Then, later on, i thought about whether
Not saving =
Killing
And wondered why we aren't doing any more. And then
I closed my eyes
Because that is what
Everybody Does.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 8:02 PM UTC
Too surreal, too sweet
metronome heart couldn't keep the beat
fell off the piano, onto the feet
cried a D minor
fell sound asleep
Somewhere there in the dreamy night air
sustained a note that rose from the petals in your hair
broke one toe,
well there's nine more to spare
in the will of the moment, you didn't give a care
You said,
**** what's right, who's to say what's wrong?
Young or old, we're all dying after all
The ride of your life begins at the fall
Keep your mouth open, your shoulders tall
Sentimental minds, they wander in time
The ghost of his love will freeze in the snow
love me now
you'll have fever in the cold
and when spring time comes,
I'll be the one to call
And I'll say,
**** what's right, who's to say what's wrong
Crooked or straight
we're all teeth after all
The bite of the winter melts into cellulose
My girl, you're a flower
been soiled and ******
Lonely cigarettes and scattered notes in your bed
Tawny fantasies of the things he had said
Your rose colored glasses now have a missing lense
My dear, the haze upon you can dissolve in one deep breath
https://soundcloud.com/spiritbarehear/metronome-heart
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
I think if I hurt enough.
I could write forever.
The blood is the words on the page.
With all names drawn in the skin of every girl or soul or body I've written in.
I'm just trying to make something beautiful. Make something that makes me happy.
Seeing these people in the world I live.
I know it's not real.
I know that I'm just music in flux but a different metal designed into the fabric of complexes sewn into the crystals.
I can't sniff from my nose now. Cuz I'm 26
That's too old.
Not old enough to die.
And you're never old enough to die. Nor young enough to live.
Beer by beer we walk the streets in new lights.
All the cities offer new drains to seap into and breathe damp clusters of anathema.
Gaining asthma.
The loss from living is your lungs.
Breathing in is worth the pain of the silica of sniffing the grass spicules after a rain.
Chewing our way through cellulose and evolution of carnassials.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
a quatrain is not a tomb. it's an altar of cellulose and low merchants chanting.
we sell the individual curses of our seldom mirth. songs sting as they must -
for they must not ! if they will not hurt...
if they will not be beautiful, for the asking.
a poesy is a feast.
a revenant of our choosing, unless you had no choice.
i am the receptacle of This voice; and solve ridicule with ranting,
just because.
i fuzzy the logic to inspire the haggard hopes of our refrain; unrestrained.
remaining on vigil,
i mark the stars passing in a waking slumber -
with a fool's mask. and a talent's masking.
i am the urge.
how my mind works is my heart's domain. a wrench in the parsley we hardly; i daily.
i parsnip the rube barbs of a bards assemblage. i revisit Atlantis. Polaroid pics -
with graining. with irony
i photo
shop.
a quatrain is not a tomb, but a rarity,
as we say new the old things
that make us
we.
for i, for one
am one.
i continue
from no sum
and eventually
add up
to something
because -
why not ?
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
Sits between twin bluffs burrowing into neon souls
long to be seen in a future frame of corpses and flipping
through the lenses of the kaleidoscope 1916 or there abouts.
Mr Edison took full advantage of the moment transitioning for all time the boundaries.Maybe Muybrige in1888.
The here and now. The real and surreal. the equation is now unbalanced.
Is seeing now believing? or is believing a reason to see.
The proof is in the putting.
Dead men long digested in soil and ground can still emit sound and point a blame-full finger
Linger if you dare in the baleful stare of the science.
quiet, silence, desist. No
even virtue can not still the burning light.
cellulose spirits on walkabout lookout from the past again and again
flickering things they be. conjure you as well as you conjure them.
The end is sight at the bottom of the hill
steel rails to nowhere still squeal to silence,
The riders swing free and lite on Italian loafers and
skulk away. padded shoulders conceal weak wills and
weaker hearts still.
Silver screen visual refraction
once there for all to admire must now bow deeply.
Curtsy?
Vanish and still remain at the pointed end of it.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
Perhaps it was the blasphemy of lovers and fools
This dalliance of ravens and necromancy
The brush of pomegranate mouths
Amaranthine against the backdrop of ochre and tintype
I dance the silent rhythm
Innate the rush of blood in veins
Salome
I am your feathered death on prism wings
Small consolation you cannot see the soul beneath the veil
Spin a legacy of heretics starry eyed and hungry
For flesh and soft skin
Spills the stain on pristine canvas
The palette of indiscretions
Peep show intimacies
Vibrant I am unfettered light
And you are blind
In black and white and gray
You twist this myth
Ropes coiled serpentine
Hungry eyed you feed on dreams
Cellulose crackling in the heat
Borne on desert winds
I rise to claim you
I am the moment
Pigment and poetry
Alive and fluid in your mind
Inescapable
Whisper my name
Salome
031113
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
*Buried in the walls of an abandoned house
You will find my morality, integrity and values
How can I be holy in a holocaust?
Shame has stripped away my humanity
And left me with volumes of despair
Shuttered into my wrinkled world*
Watching her smile at me from yellowed newsprint
And creased photographs in which everyone looks
The same, except for her. A haunting spirit which
Possesses even the cellulose and ink I clutch
In my trembling hands. Trophies of a brilliant life
That once snagged on a sharpened shard, began to
Unravel amidst Hope and Happiness and Honor
I flagellate myself with memories of walks and
Trips and fights. No amount of self-mortification
Is sufficient to satisfy the demons which torment
Me, nor the angels which mourn her. No penitence
Can relieve me of the yoke I'm burdened with of
Anger, Remorse, and Resentment. No purgatory
Sentence can properly prepare me for a pardon
Volumes of thought left behind in word and
Picture offer little solace to my fractured feelings
Left here to reassemble this life alone
This daunting task of overwhelming breadth
Leaves me with no answers, only the question
How can I complete the puzzle with a
Piece lost forever?
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
careful I was, not to step on the ants
on the trail--a red commando column, carrying crumbs
to their busy mound, on auto pilot
feet from their hidden queen, a felled oak,
infested with termites, gorging themselves
on its dying flesh, a cellulose feast
one day soon, when rain carries workers
off their course, these two industrious species shall meet
and their cryptic *********** will fail
leaving them with the choice of fight or flight;
the former will prevail, for they can run but never hide,
from treachery that comes from so deep inside
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
We share a view (the one I promised you)
in my heart,
so you could photograph the very best
of my home.
And the view this morning, my dear,
looks beautiful,
just like the last day of summer
looked beautiful.
I wish you took a picture of us
sitting on my balcony,
looking over the city, the lake, the hill,
and then, the Cascades!
That was the best day;
I memorized every inch.
But now we are thin memories
printed on cellulose strips.
Still even now, I wonder about you,
the young, wild photo taker.
It seems, you never did learn how to romance
a boy who sits, who remembers.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 3:21 AM UTC