"circumscribed" poems
words conveyed with a mutual clarity parity for communication
will end only when the world ends first
and the communitas is no more,and words, exist purposelessly
for there is no left with whom to communicate, precisely
but now, of this moment,
write words, sentences multiplied but circumscribed,
verses with mystical aura,
whose utility so suspect and multiple meanings hidden within,
taken by you for the specific utility you uncover and create
ah, to write of things clearly visible to all,
but possessed differently, by each reader, this is the greatest commonsensical commonwealth useful
for and of humans indexed by unique word tendons tenderly
when this passes, when literature no longer
can be messengered to 127 Persian provinces,
each the message same,
yet given up in 127 different languages^
when you understand my poems perfectly then,
*their utility is inutile,
the usefulness is in the* nth reinterpretation,
*a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth wired inner construct,
being pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
a lives paired wine tasting, together believing
in the greatness of joyous frustration
some say, I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our armed embrace at last*
p.s. Pradip, be careful what you wish for....a poet false...
9:15am April 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 9:29 AM UTC
a shredded bath mat, a Dead Sea salted bath, and a cold root beer
you want vino veritas vignettes,
color commentary, stray dog thoughts
time lapsed into a ****** single poem wood,
ha ha ha you can't handle the falsified lies
that constitute a sad man's disfigured truths
nobody cares that failure contretemps
inhabit every other thought,
his own sounds of silence sung repetitiously,
every severed second a new verse
coughed up and cursed,
emptying your verbal purse,
snorting with disgust
at your own claptrap vetted pomposity,
who gives a ****
what I got is the ability
if you can call it that,
to cerebralize verbalize
every eye picture, inputted impulse,
knowing in the fullness of the unwell
that hash for breakfast ain't
suitable for mass consumption
a shredded bath mat,
a Dead Sea salted bath,
and a cold root beer
begat a poem of knowing nowing
a pretend poet meowing what he seen,
what he got temple pounding
Fogelberg sings Auld Lang Syne,
swig down the root beer,
thinking that is one freaking good song,
a life reviewed on the HP stage,
his lyrics modified
with only a tune he can hear
no one will like this,
as it should be,
don't like it me neither,
double negatives for rule busting emphasis,
the only point, ending circumscribed,
curcumsized by children who don't love,
an ex wife hateful ***** man-enslaver,
this close || to losing your job,
*** is the new ***
ain't it pc
to singalong
standing on a shredded bath mat,
fresh from a Dead Sea salted bath,
and having drunk a cold root beer,
Crosby Stills & Nash chiming in
*teach the children well
their father's hell
will slowly go bye*
and this is a poem
that I didn't write,
just reported the here and the there,
and the nothing in between
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
The power of Armies is a visible thing,
Formal and circumscribed in time and space;
But who the limits of that power shall trace
Which a brave People into light can bring
Or hide, at will,—for freedom combating
By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,
No eye can follow, to a fatal place
That power, that spirit, whether on the wing
Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind
Within its awful caves.—From year to year
Springs this indigenous produce far and near;
No craft this subtle element can bind,
Rising like water from the soil, to find
In every nook a lip that it may cheer.
1.3k
Moldy sprocket of time piece.
Stop watching my every crease,
As it folds into my cheeks.
Wisdom grows my crows feet.
Twinkly locket locked in.
Place based on my chest, breast plate,
Sternum pinned beside the window sill.
Watching the sun bathe.
Light.
Bring it to lips.
Hold that picture clutch it, touch it,
Smother with wishes, pictures held of
Long dark hair,
Sprinkle, glitter eyes and twilight of moon, inside,
This prize.
One small 1 inch circumscribed ebb and flow of milky skins.
As you can see in this tin man trinket,
Winks and blinks, under blankets and springs,
Of the bed setting marched upon by dark hair love speech.
To my Juliet, who never sweats, never worries, knows best,
Knows truth, no jealousy, nothing more than a friend.
Living in Austin.
Our paths never crossing,
This entire Texas will always keep her away from me;
But nothing will keep her from me like the grand canyon we've created between each other through pain submitted to.
“Christian. You should leave.”
walks away.
Ran through the hedge row, directly through head bowed,
Crushed it's leaves and vines and twigs, ten thousand mangroves didn't stop my legs.
Rammed my head into a wall with all the force to knock me out.
Collapsed my lungs.
In the middle of the night, sixth street and east.
Hated me for months. Maybe years,
Embalm some dead.
That night, she hit me with an oak board, over 70 times,
My buttocks bruised black and blue hue of the night like broken
Maxillary bone black eyes, the perfect color of sleep.
I Never Flinched A Bit.
I Hope she never reads this poem, I hope my future lover doesn't either.
It will still be just ****
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
circumscribed circumstances circumspect
~
*these then
the circumstances,
that circumscribe
my essentials
the surround-sound orb walls of choices
made and yet-to-be-made delimiting me,
making me wary of the unforeseen,
more circumspect of what I will someday have chosen
recall standing on the now crushed,
destroyed subway platform of the
Cortlandt Street Station,
debating
take this job or that
took the one but a crow mile fly away
(and not the one that didn't survive)
come that day,
me, audience observer then,, not one of the
death undefying unwilling circus performers, and heroes,
when I pass the covered up burial sight,
the many nearby and forever crinkly crape draped firehouses,
or open the drawer where
I have
saved the tidbits of that
particular day's memories walk home,
a covenant reaffirmed,
a circumcision of the soul renewed
a circumcision upon the soul,
the renewed cut, sheds, allows some light
into the circularity of life*
9/11/16
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
“eye now know
the how, when, where and the-why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
memories of past and present...
blending into memories of future happenstance”
what is chosen is believed
though the choices are presented -
I choose among the sacrificial burnt offerings
this, my will is free
though the path is circumscribed, ordained
the bus has a route it follows,
but the speed and timing governed by
chances made by me
and you
me and random things spliced.and sundered
get on me
get off me
get
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
Born you are to sing,
Turbid future beckoning
And your past, it seems, is urging,
This new melody emerging
Circumscribed by your death,
Consecrated from first breath,
This perpetual contortion,
Your vociferous misfortune,
Is the sonorous reprisal,
To the silence and the night,
In seraphic orchestration,
Past is settled, future sanctioned,
Though a voice belongs to you,
It is through harmony construed,
But these manifold vibrations,
Every violent incantation,
Every note new sung must blossom, languish,
Meet oblivion
Now your open wound is bleeding,
Life's full bloom, with haste, receding,
Each maenadic spasm leads you,
Supersedes you,
Life begins again,
So if a myriad of mellifluous moments multiplies,
Anticipate its inhumation 'neath the sediment of time,
For as the song, to flourish, wills each note meet its demise,
The singer is unravelled in a death he lives, but can't surmise
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
Within the bowels of these elements
Where we are tortured and remain forever.
Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed in one self place;for where we are is hell,
And where hell is, must we ever be.
And when all the world dissolves,
And every creature shall be purified,
All placed shall be hell that is not heaven.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
*These flakes that fall - ever so effortlessly,
They bathe my mind with their peace and liberty - tranquility.
They have no rule and yet no precedence found
No law circumscribed - falling flawlessly upon the ground.
They cover the wildest desires of the woods and caves,
Turning these savages into bitterly cold slaves.
Snowflakes times billions, to and fro they blow,
Making fresh and clean of all they forego.
Hidden within the silence - a gentle song they bring.
Listen, listen can you not hear them sing?
They recover every note and they give their best,
Laughter, loving, so cold yet only the warmest expressed.
Beckoning me to play along so they can be obeyed,
I place one keyboard on the handrail I made,
Turn it on and listen intently to what they create.
Yearning to learn from my new classmate,
Random bolts at first with no formal design,
But somehow begging for me to join.
With another keyboard I listen and strain,
Allowing the snowflakes to quietly reign.
I close my eyes and touch the keys with their wise delight,
Saw searing sounds, honest and right.
In contemplation I feel their deepest of scars,
As they cover the memory of all the civil wars.
They moderate the worst of men, now disqualified,
Inclined in the balance taking them to the better side.
With calmness my fingers manage it well,
And my hands find no occasion to rebel.
Listen, listen can you hear the love as it leans,
Be careful Devil, the flakes will erase all your means.
Softly covering all those ill desires,
The good old cause revived, this their plot requires.
Darkness turns to a powdery white erasing all of everything,
Raising up the common-wealth, covering the evil kings.*
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC
I was lost in the Bermuda triangle
It was like Egypt in a sea of flesh
the great pyramid
******* in all surrounding life
A tilted triangle I thought
circumscribed around your hunger
but you knew my weakness
Told me it was a fig
fresh
succulent
sweet
so I bit into its sweetness
leaving my smile on your thighs
Told me it was a grapefruit
You were right
I bent down and tasted it
pink
juicy
kind of sweet
kind of ****
I ate every section
lingering
around the center
with my tongue
There were tremors in your skin
as I swallowed your body
as you swallowed my hardness
as your body
swallowed the milk of my trembling
I came to Egypt
I came in the great pyramid
between sky and sand
The Pharaohs were waiting for us
You were waiting for me
I visited the pyramids in Mexico
and was jungled in
like green-iguana-slowness
like Asian fever
sweet and sweaty
swollen like an anaconda
moving in and out
digesting the heat of a fresh ****
In Sudan, the Saharan winds
shatter the pyramids into pieces
I lick their dryness like a cat its fur
let the heat burn my bowels
Now there are tremors on my skin
I exhale breath of wet fire into your lips
and rain down upon your body
like night crashing into the surf
like sweat pouring into the sea
like sand screaming into the wind
I even became the wind
so as to enter every part of your smoothness
slipping past even your seditious skin
The wind has no mercy
We draw shapes in the morning light
with our naked bodies
while only the birds cover us
with their fluttering wings
made of the down
of your brown belly
I tasted that too
like Indian velvet
like a Bahian feast of papayas
maracaja and guarana
Da danca do mar
In Brazil the sensuous sun seeps
into the scorched sand where our form was
and cuts through the hot flesh of the earth
To the center
where all desire has fused
has seeped through the surface
To the center
where my mouth burns from wanting
To the center
where your wetness burns my tongue
To the center
Your center
I
Will
Return
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
let them see
the way of knowledge themselves
teach them to read and to aspire;
male and female, brother and sister
strangers
the privileged and the children of the streets -
teach them to observe, to speak and to dream
teach them the ways of piercing
beyond the confines
be it each child’s unquestioned right
be it enshrined in the laws and in your statutes
be it inscribed on your City Gates
and in your Hearts and Minds;
let each sit to the sounds of the words and meaning
let each decipher, think and interpret
let each be empowered, guided but not circumscribed
let each explore and discover and capture the voices
and dreams in the very air about them
bring to them the means and the new and the old
regardless of one’s origin and history
each child, male and female
let there not be want and lack of means
let each be fearless
do not hold back any
let none be neglected
and let them be the heirs
to our world -
to freedom,
inquiry and exploration…
let each child live fully the life of the mind
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC
Feminism is lying
It is not driven by equality
It is driven by dominance
And I, a humble observer of what is both beautiful and empirical
Have no argument for the contrary
Their fertile nature and ensorcelling majesty, I am but a myrmidon
To what is the zenith of divinity
that this circumscribed world permits
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
I have found the one for whom my soul implores me to be bold.
To step out of this box of self-deprication, so tired and old.
Familiar ass-backwards comforts and promises to self,
to never be sold.
Be sold *****
Mixed up as he is, he IS it!
Not THE one, for there is no ONE!
This mirage is merely who we pick, to settle down and grow old with.
Who we bestow the honor, to be honored, to be cherished.
With whom we make the most of failed patterns, life's trenches.
He IS it.
Be vulnerable, give it all,
ME, your heart and soul.
If he wants me afterall,
after all mutual deceit, decay,
to be reborn, to rebuild and shine gloriously, in ubiquitous, unified heartbeats..this is love.
No different than any other force of nature, unrelenting.
If his spite denies me,
for all of time,
or at least this life,
I STILL find,
I have lost nothing.
My soul was already lost to him,
so what have I left to lose to him?
Nothing...aside from regret,
eating away at my self-love, my flesh.
I'd rather be full and whole,
in patience, virtue, strength and boundless, understanding love.
I'd rather be all of this,
grown past any dark corner of my soul, grown past any limit I have known before, stretching my hand up to the Gods, flexing the growth of all I have endured.
I love to be who I never was,
rather than a skeleton,
crouching behind a closed door.
A shell for the next man to come, every beautiful gesture inviting moths to perch these broken bones til they fall to dust,
as they did for him,
when he tried reclining into them.
This scene was obscured by a pretty smile, that stood as a remnant of who I was. Glassy eyed mirrors, shining back what might be love, or band-aid'd pride, a shell of who he was. My skin, a tally sheet, record kept of gains and losses. With mournful regret and contempt it'd be again inscribed..if I wandered off, giving up, licking my wounds of pride.
The only way left
to proliferate my cells,
to fill this hole in my chest,
is to give my soul bowed down,
freed from the chains of contempt.
Hold my hand and transcend this madness.
Afterall, you did say you love me. Perhaps you meant it for the fifty-third time. Or turn on your heel and there's reality, circumscribed. Some can say love and never mean it, not even knowing they've lied.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
I hold everything in the palm of my hand.
Choosing for amusing purposes firsthand.
Nothing has ever been so at ease.
Aiming for nothing else but to please.
Give joy to myself and the rest of the world.
Negative emotions are consumed and curled.
Determination is at its strongest point.
Bestowed upon from the universal joint.
That’s blazed and burned down to nothing.
But up from the ashes comes a special something.
A smoke that few have been cognizant of before.
It comes from the winds that blow ashore.
In swirls of color that can't be described.
This smoke cannot be circumscribed.
Because it contains all the energy that exists.
Omnipotent and omnipresent; it always persists.
Sep 15, 2010
Sep 15, 2010 at 7:52 PM UTC
For you my valentine
I can think of no rhyme.
For you, like St. valentine
are history.
As I soon will be, his story.
Let's agree-not to he forced
caught in meaningless circumscribed tradition.
There be no meter measure rhyme nor mission,
which can calm human insatiable desire.
If love be a chess board my fawn.
I do not know what the **** is going on,
here have all my pawns.
Check
My
Mate
Check
Please
Waitress
Capture my king as my queen escapades away, running, fleeing, free.
What possibly more? What other than frail fragile, loosely connected filaments of sin do you see me in? If You deem, what more? My God? My soul weeps for thee as Solomon did 2000 years before a random set of circumstance produced, birthed, this Young soul. Searching gnashing in his forgotten temple.
Attempting to circumscribe with
his own repeating circle of
history
mystery
mystory
my Valentine
my divine
my fine wine.
My God
send a divine flood
to wipe the swine
from my mind.
Bath me in the blood of your
crucified son, for am I not Yours?
What sick Christian symbolism
must I entail to rid myself
from the weeping wall at which I flail.
Why must my words always fail?
Rain down the plagues, hail! There is hale and kale and all.
My blood sweat and tears shall prevail, un-availed, lest pharaoh comes in hot aiming to derail. But with Moses as my guide I will not fail.
I will leave my pursuers in the Red Sea...
Flail,
Flail,
Flail.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
~For Pradip~
Pradip: who yet walks among we useless
<>
this
layabout in my drafts,
driftwood in a sea of
******* poems in a circumscribed
hell
for who knows for how long,
all that is certain is that
summer ending dreading,
is in full force
now marching
forward,
with the end of days
of body chilling whipped winds,
cold so paining no one be bothering
to breathe out white steamy curses
and life is a half a calendar league
too far to be believed
I mate much coffee imbibed,
the cheeks wet incessant,
no error, the death thots~
throes come in waves persistent,
like the monsoons we’ve survived,
it’s easier to recall army of losses
than the few
teaspoons victories,
who cares,
they plentiful companions,
reliable,
and we
share them with cups of black tea,
salted by our tiny tears that this too
shall past
for:
it’s the seasonality of our lives,
and these are the days of
unending unendurable
grayscale
Jan 26, 2025
Jan 26, 2025 at 10:19 AM UTC
Sobriety is overrated
Bottle recess for your mind
Pain and time are complicated
Pain and mind are lubricated
Time and mind in competition
Time and pain aligned
Little drops of consolation
Shiny sparkly pools of bliss
Softly viewed through condensation
Revenants by invitation
Bottle-born in resurrection
Noone else to miss
There exists the true addiction
Passing time with those you lost
Pain is not the real affliction
Loss of love holds little friction
Time can pass in all directions
Overlook the cost
Bottles as chrono-transporter
Meaningless in time and pain
Chosen over bricks and mortar
Home inside the pain exporter
Caught inside the time remover
Genie trapped again
Traps are not a solo prison
Bottle is no picky thief
Locked outside your final mission
Circumscribed to watch and listen
Grasping as the brown glass darkens
Wading into grief
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 10:50 PM UTC
Somebody got some diethylstilbestrol?
Just started my moon
Plus words that rhyme within themselves
Are a super hot turn on
Which is exactly for what this is prescribed
Don’t box it in ladies
May be circumcised, but won’t be circumscribed
Well fancy that, two words
With another little naughty word right inside
Whew! It’s hot and sticky
Hand over a popsicle too, would ya Dahlin’
Havin’ a mind melt
Time for this child to get imbibed
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 12:35 PM UTC
Were you well as sunlight's ascendancy left darkening footnotes everywhere?
Their cerebral pitch and polish--
non compos mentis, were you well?
Stalactited as Nostrefaru's leaking enamel...emergent, crooked shape of a shifting focal point overspread to no more of itself.
Your sun hissed as it plumbed its depth...covert feelers circumscribed the injunction of tongue caught at speak, bifurcated and serpentine.
Wherefrom runnels of india ink ran, corresponded with stones to their haphazard period, numb with duplication...broken down nervously.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 1:27 PM UTC
An enamoring dowsabel at Ib's eve
Zion proclaiming 'hosanna'
A peri lifting the anathematization off
The recusant hand of the eternal by
Dinn of God; within a whirligig of death
Rearing the abscence of perfection,
The misforgiving serpent fangs,
The Herald star. The father of lies
Circumscribed: a Dybbuk
By a ghostly tear, the revealer of truth
Upon the brilliance of the inner most
Flame in the mist of the fire entering
The ecosphere subsistent as a profession
Of the faith; to work out ones
Salvation clothed in pain, to console
A mourning soul within the sovereign
Lady to know thyself.
Life a flame of fortune!
ELEETE J MUIR
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 9:04 PM UTC
as we parted ways
in the early snow
that evening now
so far afield yet
i recall
your casual
hello mistaken for
circumscribed absurdity
that i adore
my fingers
became interlaced
between yours
despite the
years and so many
painfully memories
the lot of which
ferried away
into the broken
oblivion
the innocence
of youth
that had i
from that day to this
known
resilience
that i again
would stand
near you
upon that precipice
that overlooks the
deep summer chasm
where quiet
meetings between
old friends
dissolve in the
soundless yawp
of real and boundless
possibility...
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 7:43 PM UTC
Apparently now
If you end a text message with a period
It means you’re ****** off
Because who needs a period
When each of your utterances
Is circumscribed
By a thought bubble
At least that’s what I heard
On a podcast
(I’m an old)
So if I text you
And use punctuation
Will you take offense?
Will you be able to tell
My old-school emojis
From that punctuation?
I certainly hope so :-/
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 1:53 PM UTC
The scrawny, slump-shouldered kid in the sweatshirt
grabbed as many Double AA batteries as he could hug
into the waiting ***** of his faded, ratty hoodie
from the display rack at the pharmacy down the block.
He made a run for it, slipping out the sliding doors,
into the starless night splashed across that inky empyrean.
It wasn’t necessary at all, he got out of there scot-free.
No one noticed any pilfering until they did the nightly inventory.
But his world was small, and he went back the next day for a juice.
The manager who was being interviewed perfunctorily by a cop
recognized him from his review of the security footage.
The kid got caught unawares, was arrested on the spot.
When he bonded out, he had to repay his brother the surety
so he headed to the other corporate pharmacy across the street
and grabbed armfuls of cartons of cigarettes he knew he could sell
on the corner, for he had no other means of repayment.
He had no job, no car, no degree, no nothing, nada, nada, nada.
His blinkered world was circumscribed, limited, hemmed in,
circled by how far he could walk, trudge in a blizzard.
He made it out the whooshing door, again faced flashing lights.
In that moment, as the booked him back in county lockup
behind the thick slab of plexiglass, the guard smirked,
“haven’t I seen you here before, just like a day ago?”
He then knew it was all hopeless, oh so hopeless, an endless cycle.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 3:48 AM UTC
accomplishment is
often circumscribed by love
of attribution
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
no plea here tendered,
long time are we past
the boundary of cooling
cooing brotherly tenderness
reason has been Joseph sold into slavery,
nary a Moses, who talks to God, is answered,
be seen or heard, to reconcile the divisive souls
of our fratricidal words
a morning’s reflection,
soon to be gone, passing,
of two pockmarked differing clouds,
scratching this morning blue drenched sky
a white, rotund cumulus rose,
one gray, rough, tumbled, worn,
ill tempered, of rain possessed,
but both clouds, each purposed
but this Sabbath day,
as this pale land reopens,
to bitter cries, minor rejoicing,
wise counsel, foundering, ignorance prevailing
forbearance, a weighty silence, circumscribed,
daytime highlights, disregarded, heads closed,
nowhere to found, just, a colorless pallor, a rasher
of fratricidal words
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 11:02 AM UTC