"coherency" poems
Your eyes.
I can't stop writing about them.
I can't stop dreaming about them gleaming like sunlight beaming into the windows of my soul.
And I've been meaning to tell you-
Heighten the blinds.
I can't stop fiending to be the reflection in your infliction
The mirroring of eyes, my line of sight in your line of vision
Our pupils don't just collide, they cause a collision
And uh,
The precision of your gaze fogs all coherency to a haze
And it's seeming
There's a thousand words teeming off the levees of my lips
But you got me in a daze and the waves crash silent
See inside I'm screaming
They say the flames radiated from desire are the fires most violent
And I feel your vibes like radiation;
Hazardous to both mind and body.
Detrimental to the soul.
I believe in whole this is not an illusion
They say the eyes never hide from the truth
-and the truth never lies-
See, I've already eyed your eyes
I'm not convinced this is confusion
I've come to the conclusion that
If I confided in you,
Could you agree it's a delusion
You've been opening the window;
You want to be
Inside.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
I notice it, I notice it's flaws. I see its texture, I witness the shapes and metamorphic coherency's. It's all aligned in a wild pattern. Like walking in a catastrophic maze and never finding the ending.
But to really observe profusely, the maze has its own pattern, agenda.
Screaming to myself, aloud, I express myself grandiosely.
It all makes perfect sense
The missing piece is not missing, it never was, it was merely detaching.
Detaching from all life forms itself, like a cell that does not belong to another.
The maze was juxtaposed in its own creation.
People were too simple to understand it.
The jagged puzzle doesn't need another piece, it just needs a new formula, a new path, a new perspective, it needs to stay jagged in order to create more purposeful moments and inventions.
Complexities reach a higher peak than ever before, if you try to straighten the puzzle and find a piece to fit in it, you destroying its true and only purpose.
You cannot mold or fix something, you cannot sand it down.
You just need to let it be.
It's shapeless, it doesn't need a form, or a label.
It just is what it is to be.
And that is the secret. The contradiction needs to stay as the contradiction in order to invent the expedition.
Dec 13, 2021
Dec 13, 2021 at 3:34 PM UTC
Pertinaciously vituperative irrefragable determinism. Inscrutable axis of spontaneities’ imaginative. Perplexity’s prognosis to prospectus. Elan vital’s preternatural perpetuity. Cohesive coherency’s opaque opulence. Space-time continuum’s natural induction expressed as identity. Exponentially tangential imagination’s immaturity. Entropy catalyst blonds. Spaciotemporal telemetry tactician’s tellurian terrene. Protractive analyses dimensional delineation. Reflectively refractive positional empathy. Prophylaxis protocol. Objectified manifest's self inductive diminutive minutia iotas of interstitial edict. Graspy greedy stingy frugal mingy minions. Manumission’s indentured servant sail.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 12:52 AM UTC
I'm sitting in a bar. A place where they all collect. They come together with smiling eyes and open hearts and sit, drink and just shoot the **** They are all noteworthy people, not a boring or reserved soul among the bunch. And they share stories of their highs, lows and purgatories.
One of them, his name's Jimmy, tells the story he always tells when he's teetering between coherency and slop-talk. He tells of how he died. He hopped in his car one day, and boy did he love his cars. And that particular car, the one his heart stopped beating in, was his favorite. He sped down the road, his hair blowing in the wind and his hand beating the side of the door as he sang "Strangers in the Night" as it blasted through his radio speakers. He wasn't drunk, he never really was fond of drinking when he was still breathing (he says being dead is depressing and alcohol is the only thing that "assures" him). His car swerved sharply, it was raining, and he just couldn't control the hunk of metal. His head hit the windshield before he even knew what happened.
Jimmy looked down at his Jack and Coke and smiled. His eyes, now drowning in salt water, glistened off the cheap fluorescent lights. He told me he never got to tell his mother he loved her. Never got to tell his girlfriend that he thought they were meant to be. Never got to show the world that the man hidden behind so many layers of insecurity and recklessness was a man that was going to span time, generations. And I look back at him, my mouth curling a little and told him that he might not have gotten to talk to his mother or his girlfriend... But he **** well made his mark. After all, he's in a bar filled with dozens of people with stories not unlike his own. And he's talking to me. Me, with my chest inflating and deflating as it filled and emptied itself of sugary oxygen. Me, with my eyes alive and blinking and shining with life. Me, who is alive.
At least, I hope to God I am.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
Rocking, rocking
Back and forth like the conversation
Muttered between plumes of
Cigarette smoke.
"They owe me twenty three hundred,
The hotels and motels -
Eight in all."
He's said it about eight times.
Eight in all.
"And the surveillance systems
In the rooms.
The guy in the FBI lobby
Was talking. Said things.
Better have my money
'Cause it's messed up to
Take a man's money like that."
I nod, agree.
It's all I can do.
He's talked about some officer,
The white female down at
Cherry Street Mission.
He talks about the white male
And the black male
How they pass out cigarettes
And one's a mean son of a *****
Who kicks people while they're
Trying to sleep.
I wonder who else has kicked him
While he's been down.
He's checking the clock again,
Doing the math -
Takes about an hour to walk
To get to the kitchens.
Good to get there early to
Get a bite to eat.
"'Cause man, they owe me
Twenty three hundred dollars
For the hotels and motels -
Eight in all."
Nine times, now.
"You get what I'm saying, though?
Isn't it messed up?"
Isn't everything?
Let him *** another smoke,
He's down on his luck
Though the FBI's got nothing
To do with it.
I've seen glimpses of coherency
Here and there.
Mentioned a brother who
Couldn't give a ****
Mentioned working in a
Restaurant once.
But all the while he's rocking
And losing himself again in
His head and the imaginations
Of ****** plots and FBI contracts.
I wonder what his last name is.
I wonder if he remembers what
His last name is.
"And the guy in the FBI lobby
Said they'd scrap up an extra grand
For the trouble.
Just takes time.
Don't you think that's messed up, though?
Don't you think that's ****** up?"
Do I ever.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
Dream/wake
dr
e
a
m
wake
suddenly
there's no difference
stand in front of a mirror
stare at your reflection
until nothing
means a thing
repeat your name
are you real?
is this real or
are you
s
l
e
e
p
ing
sleeping?
ocean waves of oblivion
crash wash away
coherency
hollow chocolate bunny
mechanical robot toy
"big brother is watching"
Big brother
evil eyes
of microscopes
and lasers
wrap barbed wire around your chest
douse your eyes in chilli sauce
in desperation
to feel something
or anything
failed
sadly
you are
awake.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
In youth
It came as a flood
Almost senseless with
the rush of expression
Pouring from my hand;
It could not keep pace with
the ceaseless deluge from my mind
Half-formed coherency
No thought paid to the rules of
Grammar, Spelling, Paragraphs
Just a wrenching of the soul
that demanded ink.
Years later, studies of
Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Tennyson
A mind full of words that
are not my own, I am
Senseless with the inability
to break this learned dam. Now
nothing comes out right.
My mind, it burns
and burns and burns
But nothing ever takes aflame.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
Words of deep love and longing
Are lost on me, today.
I've no whimsy to feed my prose,
No form of coherency in my head.
I'll write for the sake of writing.
Rustling trees swelled with song birds
Are mere echoes of a life outside
To me.
I feel like I'm suspended in zero gravity -
My face tingles,
My head is sluggish
Like a hangover without the nausea.
We've got potholes in our hearts
And the construction's lasted for months
So we just fill them all with sand and
Call it a day.
Integrated into a system
That's forgotten the welfare
Of the human soul.
There's a trickle of sunlight
And it's getting warmer.
Summer's blossoming and
I can't stand it.
The beautiful solace of winter
Melts away with my silence,
While summer months boil blood
And chaos chokes the air.
These words I write are read
Aloud in tremulous whispers -
The only proof that they're real.
Recited every night
When I lay my head down
And wonder about the difference
Between what is evil
And what is just a misled notion
Of Righteousness.
And everything else in between.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
**the depths beyond light
of dark primordial fears
ensnared in a trap of
winding dangerous paths
'tween passion and fire,
horizons like ink clouded seas
of menacing madness and
drunkenness' sanity midst
psychobabble's inquisitions
rushing rampant to devour
an overgrown hypothesis
of imagination's luxuriance
and anesthetics' coherency,
taming perpetual motion
of windswept emotions
lingering in shadows of
moonbows after resolute
mind bending storms of
teeming reigns &
elusive transcendence
amid skillfully evasive grapples
beyond liberated rationality**
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
Meaningless
pushed and pulled
through arbitrary dimensions
Emulating differences in the same,
the Fatal Contradiction
Redefining the sane!
Recombined
fused with idle spinning.
Forging the distorted lie,
these lines in between
with apparent coherency
and ingenious discrepancies
blurring the boundaries
of this new systematic hell!
Put in perspective
these inconsequential banalities
and childish banter
all but shape the future
reiterating the errors of yesterday
Skewed
Conceptualized
Vizualized
Realized
Quantized
... Denied!
how long was it before i fell?
does it even matter?
when even these parallel thoughts repel...
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 7:39 AM UTC
No matter what I do
it happens again.
I start to think of a starfish,
and his eyes come to mind.
Who is he?
I don't really know,
most of the time he has
brown eyes.
But it seems to be whoever
I happen to fancy at that time.
And its not as if that is seldom,
because I seem to find beauty in almost everyone I am around.
But with this, how am I supposed to let him come to me,
when even though I am not looking
I see potential.
They are all so beautiful.
his hair
his writing
his literacy
his coherency
his incarnation into his body
And the thing that makes me pause?
makes me wonder?
space
distance
understanding
intent
origin
All things that must be considered...
Are you up for the task?
Up for the unbending intent
and the unwavering eyes.
Most of us know what love feels like,
at least the physical/emotional level,
but can you tell me what it looks like,
and what it does?
Can you tell me something I don't already know.
Not a fact but a truth?
Can you show me that you're Him,
without even trying,
without it being the goal?
This is what I want.
I want the world,
I want Him,
to be with Her,
and for us to be the vessels of that love.
Can you give me eternity,
without thinking it impossible?
Can you look into my eyes,
and I into yours,
and both see the trauma and the lies,
but to also see the truth that lies behind?
And can we battle the demons inside,
to find that truth,
to know that truth.
Will you destroy hordes of demons with me,
and stand victorious by my side?
Will you push off from shore towards battle,
and fight the very gods
to find me once more?
Will you travel to the beginning
of Thyme
to find each and every form
that love had ever taken?
Will you love me,
in every form that I take
that is Her?
Will you embrace every form
that He has taken,
and see yourself
for the portal of divinity that you are?
Will you travel to the end of the Earth,
just to find a letter that says:
Keep Looking
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 11:49 PM UTC
I told Halie she was beautiful today
And she smiled and said “You’re handsome.”.
I could tell immediately that there had been miscommunication.
I returned that smile as if I could ever hope to mirror the beauty of hers’ and changed the subject
but honestly, she was missing the point.
‘Handsome’ refers to features that are aesthetically pleasing whereas ‘beautiful’…
‘Beautiful’.
It’s a word I try to avoid defining because I don’t think I know enough
but just talking to her…
Putting our foreheads together instead of our lips,
I feel like I could write a bible about what that words means.
I see more than anyone has seen of her yet.
Sadly, herself included.
I love you like a blind man, Hail
Where it isn’t your body that keeps you in my mind,
It is everything you are to me.
You are the symbol of innocence, even after all this time
I still find myself searching for words to say
that could do you justice.
Now I wrote a poem for Amy because of her looks.
I wrote a poem for Megan because of the pain she caused me.
I never wrote you a poem, Hail.
Maybe I was afraid my words would fail
To describe in detail the way your fingertips strike my nerves
as flint strikes steel and throws sparks
into my heart.
I want to let words fall out of the front of my face
and land at your feet
as if they would have any semblance of coherency.
When we’re touching, I can’t make words.
I can’t rush to my first line of defense against the outside world
because I don’t want to be defended from you.
People hear my brazen declarations of love and I know
They’re thinking exactly what I’m thinking.
‘In the grand scheme of my life, our relationship is the blink of an eye’.
But if I can make you one promise
and if I could only make you one, this would be it.
I’m going to remember you, girl.
Life is the tide that washes over the sand castles we've built together
in this sandbox we call an adolescence,
but I promise you that I will always remember
the times I laid my heart bare
for you to see how much I care.
I promise upon this fluttering pulse
I’ll always be
Your something else.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
I have scratched out my journey across a mountain of pages and each and every time I’ve filed away a book, I’ve mourned the trees, compassion is not something I lack.
I have been thankful that they took each and every step with me and as each notebook closes I retreat to my back yard to plant another seed.
I’m happy to give back.
The million litres of ink that have been bleed beneath my fingers and have spread to stain my hands as my life raced across the pages has not been spilled in vain if one day the moldy old box is opened and the dust is blown from the covers and a futuristic version of me delights in the find, and hears beyond the echo of the scratching of tortuous proportions to see a life that was fun filled pain.
So much chatter, most of it doesn’t matter, little tidbits float along on a swollen creek that has never actually seen much rain.
Tiny little letters run across a barren land and accidentally collide into one another because they have no coherency while all the Big words sit in their gilded towers and watch, and wait, drinking the finest Port they can find while mocking the chaos below with ridicule and disdain.
Little bits and pieces have been scattered to the wind...
Thrown into the air, as an offering of peace, to the ancient scourge that is the birds.
I guess this would probably make much more sense if I could only just find the right words….
Jan 9 (two thousand and something)
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
To the crushing of bones
when you implode;
my stubborn skull
was no match for the concrete.
I flew face first-
now I am ground into dirt,
or the dirt is ground into me
wherever I’m bleeding.
I can’t clean these wounds sober.
this girl?
you won't know her.
my jaw is popping-
is there any chance of that stopping soon?
The moon is closing in on the sun,
threatening to collide
and I've grown wearing of hiding in the night.
I'd just like some
medical attention.
My knees,
my knees...
I forgot to mention they're all ******
I don't have the money to call off
for a few days.
can I sleep on my face?
my pain is evidence of my shame-
these wounds just my physical disgrace.
I'll regain coherency
at a quarter till three
with a swollen, puffy face
and vinegar in my veins.
just add it to the list
of blundering strains
maybe some time in the future
I’ll be able to worry about it again.
it never ends.
my new lamp, shattered
my clean sheets
dirtied and tattered.
my left ear is buzzing-
everything has gone fuzzy
and my head is numb and
throbbing.
maybe I’ll sleep well tonight,
and my nightmares will find me
without any fight left
in my dried out bones
and pseudo studio home.
c.m.
draft/original: 8.5.14
posted: 1.7.15
revision/edit: 1.8.15
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 10:06 PM UTC
Speed on the
Mirror highway
Lanes and lines
One after no where
On and off-ramp
Stuck in traffic
Lucid acid
Flaccid masses
Classes filled
With stupid *****
Crooked cops
And ******* crashes
Head-on collision
Illusive vision
Elusive division
Intrusive mission
Through a tube
And up your nose
**** who knows
Where nowhere goes
How to get there,
Why I'm going,
What I'm doing,
Who'll be there.
I have no plan,
Nothing is written
In stone.
I'll
Figure something out.
Of sight and in
My mind. I'm coming
Short of coherency. Free
Writing poetry never works
In my favor. I'm just drifting
Away into the
End of the dark sideline.
Through a tube, spiraling,
Stumbling mumbling,
Blundering blindly and
Mindfully striding
Across infinite tiles
Endless, black and white,
Checkerboards. I am the
Grey area.
Dec 3, 2009
Dec 3, 2009 at 1:21 PM UTC
He brought her along,
only wanting to get laid.
She introduced herself
as awkward, 'though
first impressions rarely
amount to truth.
I watched him flirt with her;
and watched her try to pull away.
But, it's Friday. Gotta get ****** up.
What else is there to do in life?
She drank more,
he drank more:
"Nah, guys, I'm totally cool to drive."
He slurred as he spun donuts
to impress the tipsy woman.
His hands inched to her thighs.
His eyes seized her *******
who needs to see the road?
We made it to the birthday,
a standard college party.
She and I sat across one another
at the table. She smiled and started
small talk:
"Oh, I love Vonnegut,
have you read Sirens of Titan?"
We kept drinking as he went out
to pick up more *****
"Of course I play video games,
they got me through high school."
He took longer than he intended
but neither of us complained.
"Isn't chemistry only
the language of biology?"
Time passed quickly, or slowly,
either way it's dead and buried.
She started to stumble,
huddled closer to me,
tried to move from him
when he returned.
She lost coherency,
she looked at me, muddied;
did she have something to say?
Had she asked,
she would have received,
but silence heralds silence
and unvoiced wants
remain unfulfilled.
He knew she was loosing interest,
that, of course, I'd gotten in the way.
He pulled me aside:
"It's time for you to leave.
I just want to get laid
and you're ******* it all up."
He drove us both home,
hand grasping her thigh,
but she didn't notice;
she was barely alive.
I suppose this is how it goes:
some nights you make friends
that you never see again.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
*it would be easiest to switch the lights off
and bemuse whether there's a light-bulb
in the room.*
but of course psychoanalysis originated
in the upper tiers of society,
where people found dreams unappealing
unless interpreted by third party
associates of psychiatry and put into nice
and neat boxes of theory...
of such people we know as perhaps neither
butchers or surgeons, who's only
obstructions in life were but dreams,
and dreams in themselves also obstructive
because of lack of coherency and soluble
meaning, perhaps even not sexually potent
enough; only now the backlash of
digging into the unconscious greedily like
dwarfs mining for precious jewels,
to have merely woken a flip side of all
that theorising that came from the 19th century,
you hear so much of the balrog that slay durin vi,
this bane of durin: oh it walks among us,
it does indeed - with a cartesian duality whip
of medicinal splinters etched into an almost
dark ages account of knowledge: to have us
treat mentality and physicality of a negation
of ease as equally paired to be chiral -
indeed politicians speak of mental health and
physical ailments as distinct - but gentler
the thought pressing down on the cranium
than an elephant in stilettos likewise - but why
so? for all this previous theorising ambitions
in a safe environment of natural hallucinogenic
encounters of sleep - safe there the egoistic scalpel
of this branch of medicine of a straitjacket -
safe there indeed, and perhaps even more with
a placebo effect acceptable; but by god!
this scalpel wants to censor thinking, even
thought that extend into our ontological bereavement
of being but mortal - even if suicide is a problem,
the more methodological such thinking becomes
the more ineffective it becomes, and for some
strange reason, thoughts of suicide (when trained)
have this strange way of prolonging mortality,
the carpe diem of reasoning, after all, all things
possess the concern for two things that interchange,
and in that interchange the + can become a -,
or as i say... take to committing yourself to
a gruesome end... hara-kiri (seppuku), and you won't.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
"It's not an operation unless its going to be optional" said the elderly *** chap. Not thinking to rational today,
(thoughts in a head) "-for what is a compliment if its given in haste."
(responsive only to ones self)
"I'm not gonna be there always, only some of time and most of the time is gonna be now." (invoking nothing but in a thought)
So it was in-coherency to modern day currency. Perfect in flaw, dried in brown rice while being sentenced to a decorative cork topped glass jar.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
I can feel myself shutting down
Again
And I hate it
I want to speak
But I can't seem to wrangle my thoughts into coherency
My words are
Lodged
Caught
Stuck
In the depths of my throat
My feelings have
Overloaded
Jammed themselves
Into the crevices of my brain
With no plans of making an appearance
Please
Make it stop
Crack me open
Guide me
Help me
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
It was hard
Straining to hear your words
Trying to keep a conversation, not just a monologue
Trying to fill that sterile, silent room
With life and sound and joy
It was hard
Seeing your strong hands
Always creating, building, giving
Growing inescapably weaker
Noticing the windows of coherency
Moments of quips and quirks
Growing inescapably shorter
It was a lot harder
Waking up
and with a breath of bitter
melancholy relief
Finding 5 missed calls
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
Sitting in the dark
Eyes closed not sleep
Resting the body
Expanding the mind
Bring forth the drums
Slow everything down
Crush down emotions
The dreams that might
Any legends of the mind
Tune up the mind
Focus out the body
Ignore it's whines
Feel the blood slow
Turn off its feelings
Let breathing flow
Ears pick the smallest
Another distraction
Tone it down
Relax each muscle
Spin coherency away
Focus on the pounding
Rhythmic, stone on leather
Heartbeats pound, thump
War drums of bringing
And the taking of life
Breath, set it's tempo
Draw that tarot card
See, read the choice
Picked by the drum
Of swords, a nine
Still closed, sleep not close
Bring me fire, bring fight
Give me anything, but this
See inside, see so far
Drift not, stay on track
See the ace, fill your cups
Seek wine, lose your mind
Twist that thought
Thunder drums
Lightning fast
Hear it's crack
Break the sky
Split my world
Falling with drums
Twinkling bits of star
No need to question
Blood pumps the beat
Violent, just beneath
Calm meditation
No movement betrays
Look to her
A queen, regal
In her cups
Then turn away
Apologize, haute glare
Let it fall, let it drift
No need to fight
Carry not for death
Let it out, set free
Close off emotions
Seek plenty, find peace
Find the rhythm seek pace
Don't let sword or cups
Wreck logic or spread
Bind damage to pain
Let darkness fall
Hear the symphony
Drift in silence
Float out slow
Kiss you in sleep
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
She hasn’t left her room for three days. She hasn’t left her house in two weeks. She hasn’t gone into town in a month before that. She hadn’t been rationing her food supply on purpose but it’s what ended up happening anyway.
She’s laying on the floor, now. She’s been laying on the floor and staring at the ceiling for hours. She knows that the ceiling is a muted, toneless, comforting beige but all she can focus on is the creeping gray shadows that feel like a physical barrier between herself and the rest of the world. She knows that these shadows are only really in her head, but four nights ago the angle of the sun coming through her curtains had been just right and all she could focus on was an oppressive mass of shadow that froze her in her tracks and locked her inside her own mind as it crawled nearer and nearer.
That horrifying moment had only been that, a moment, but now that she’s locked away she doesn’t even have the energy to start looking for the key.
She’s been lying on the floor staring at her not-gray ceiling for hours. She has no idea what day it is because every time her mind starts to right itself into something resembling coherency there is another shudder of uncertainty and the physical shadows in her mind slither over her more tightly and she is left again a shell of herself, dead, glassy eyes staring, seeing nothing and the ceiling, both at once.
However, if there is one thing she can focus on longer than anything else, it is the shadows. The ones that wriggle in the corners of her periphery and make up her cage. Even if her mind can’t pull itself together enough to name the days, she can at least count how many times the shadows were at their weakest and instead of reaching towards the silhouette of her body, she can at least count the three times where she felt the light pressure of warmth on her skin. It lasted a little while, she remembers, vaguely, but it was never long before the briefest change in the shadows illuminated their own movement again. Again, if coherency was anywhere near possible she might question how her strict one-way mind can connect that this means that days have passed, but for now she just waits in numb agony for nothing and everything in her mind to make sense.
She has no idea if she is awake or asleep and really, doesn’t care.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 2:57 PM UTC
It don't
mean
nothin'
until we make it up,
lean in to me, we think
we have ra tov wisdom
understanding with science,
we can hold this thought,
we can think this thing
though we see ghosts
roughly speaking gh aha silent
though through ghost thoughts
ghuking unholy common thoughts,
be spoken letters letting us just think,
ritually, just right,
the spin and the coherency, being
on point, this point, perceptual me
happening
in ever after you before me were in
ever after ever before at this point,
right
here, prior to the ritual pending,
the core correction essential for me,
loosing as
some part of me wishes to be ready
to be read and held as true, self evident,
pre-
sent from beauty and truth, to prove us both
here
body and soul, all the people think they know,
but, really,
the word of life, in truth, divides soul from spirit,
the form
between us tonight, the distance sensed
the thought let live in lines I find tying me in one
mind
both hands in flux… dancing letters, keys to this
letting
next experience inside, to know my measure, mete
for me, she who balances he who wished to pray,
letters let us take
and receive, in truth, our daily bread, and essential
other formal additions to daily bread alone, water,
with fire
power, rain and lightning, and ozone smell, or
"petrichor," ichor of stones, groundust wetted
with
gigantic drops, drumming on a tin roof.
-------------------
Look, man, this is what I do. Two hand writing machine
interface taking my worth to the scale
we need for trade,
my best, my easy peacock cry
for help, look
into my eyes,
see we no longer wished
for what we have, so we have it.
Yes, for now.
the time gone riverwise, flows past
into tomorrow, when I go
to the rest and relaxing place
introspecting expecting lost knacks patience
perfect. just in time, not for ever.
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 9:32 PM UTC
A thousand story's in my head,
Twisting, tangling,
Unexpected bend,
Words flying onto paper,
Fingers frantically catching up,
Brain sorting into semi coherency,
Characters mingling, blending, creating,
Sorting into many words,
Describing an image in its whole,
Catching fragments,
Sewing a patchwork quilt of words,
Write on!
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 10:18 AM UTC