"combinatory" poems
My Woman, My Partner
we need today it seems identifiers moreover,
as we slice, dissect, and categorize the W’s of our
individual experience,
by defining ourselves as pieces of categories
Today, woke with this title-to-be-poem in my head,
My Woman, My Partner
I like particular, individuating descriptors that distinguish
rather than categorize, summary’s that capture the
roomy broad and small strokes, the subtleties of capturing~
encompassing an image total, and yet intuitively tasting and
comprehending the depths and flavoring of our totality,
a combinatory humanity
my choice was My Woman, which was comprehensive
and distinguished, yet upon consultation with said person,
for pre-authorization approval, it was returned to me with
an engine-heart additive, that was both a word that denotes a
binding, ties, equality, and takes it to another, even ever
highest level,
*this essay on how I came to title this poem, well, is the poem
in its entirety, it is the process, the point, the summary and the
minutiae of all I wished to convey.*
Sunday Aug 13 8:03 AM
Aug 13, 2023
Aug 13, 2023 at 8:11 AM UTC
a small craft,
barely deserving of such a compliment as
c r a f t e d,
a few boards, just enough caulking,
made quick, with no regard for artistry,
but sturdy none the less,
purposed for naught,
other than to get from there to
here
even, then, all the more,
as if time chose to reverse itself,
solidified it, this ships soul strength
rather than wore~warped
its character essential
unclear who was the wood
and who, the caulking glue,
but they held together in bonding so powerful
when strangers asked
what its purpose be,
this modest boat,
the locals
to a one,
always answered,
answered always consistent:
ancient and ungainly, not shapely,
purposed as if to be, simply
a reminder
that nothing
could ere
be graced more,
complimented, honored as,
*seaworthy,
than this human loving crafting,*
long-lasting,
maybe ever-lasting,
a tiny notional idea,
that two could get
you from here to
there
it is in the more stronger strength,
of one thing
created from a loving,
two combinatory realization,
ruled and ruling,
this
craft
came to be
ruler of the sea of humanity
8/15/17 12:36am
born, falling, borne into sleep, to
the music of Johann Pachelbel
combined with a gentling snoring
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
12:53am, January 3,2025
New York City
<>
*A Traveler notates these words to my attention, but only because I make myself
a convenient target, for truthfully,
it is addressed to one and all,
to the royalty of:*
We,
*who speake out loud, to all those who ***** these damp woods full of wet words, that spring up overnight, ripe for the plucking, there for the taking, an exacting where & when they did not even exist
the twenty four prior*
These purloined overnight creatures are
white and black
*lettered truffles, like the pages on which we inscribe, the letters raw, exquisitely tasty, shaved, measured in grams, but only when shared with others, in the privacy of our open minds, after being spooned from within us with exquisite care upon the pages that decorate our lives, sprinkled
with great care and cunning*…
*but when consumed, our five senses rage with aromatic pleasured pain, for these letters, so tiny, so powerful, grow only when
combinatory, individual bitty granules,
but when leavened, they enhance, provoke!,
they sauce, the*
flavors of the ordinary
*of our experiences,
creating the extraordinary
when interacting upon
our five robust senses*
*for without the spaces of delineation,
our jumbled words are but the
random jingle jangle of the sounds
of night winds, rustling a tune
pleasant but incomprehensible*
*Here I take your leave,
with the liberty taken
for speaking in all our names
to a Traveler
who so succinctly captures our work,
the glue of our interactive Us,
Our,*
Collective of Individuality
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
~
<>
*nearby distant,
the soft thrash of warm waves
lapping interlocking,
happily wet tongue kissing,
sun-oven precision-crisping
the Long Island striped bass
and porgies, at a surreal cooling
77 degrees
Pandora synced to his eyes,
shuffling freely,
by saying
we too see!!
playing for him,
Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin)
poor, poor poet,
strains to brain drain one more time,
conducting an ogling googling word search
for those combinatory storied ones that
sailboat glide
all the while
wildly bursting with Pellegrino effervescence
compromising sounds sights,
to present
properly the balance,
to preserve
properly this moment,
peaceful alive for all times,
as poet has tried,
and failed so many times before...
the caw caw caw of the crow mocks the illiterate human,
for the bird calls it, in single sound perfect and
the human a laughingstock,
for not in his possess,
to capture this perfect moment
of human sabbath.
a Roman Saturn day of rest,
on this day that itself,
is perfection,
perfect for celebrating our common creation,
on a day that our
almost-all-agreed-upon calendar
is marked for us to
forte rest,
from an existence of just laborious
the chubby checkered cheeked squirrels
laughingly pauses,
watching, enjoying a poet's struggle,
mind boggle,
the poet's chubby cheeks
stuffed with discarded words,
all insufficient to capture
the absolution of
absolute beauty
bathing in the noisiest of nature's sounds,
all that contravene the silence of living things,
breathing prayerful thoughts that all
summary end,
with a common gesture of
forefinger upon the lips
a human acknowledgment of
utter obeisance to the forces
calling out by example
listen, see!
silently presenting,
this,
this!!*
a day that demanded perfection
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
“writing is a minefield of life happenings…blessed be the seers
for they keep the faith.”
patty m
<!>
life is a series of provocations and evocations,
I will indulge you and define them
as hundreds of micro aggressions,
or a combinatory,
minefield
which comes first,
the explosions or the writings?
chicken, egg, cart, horse,
surely your surly certain of the answer,
but I will not beg
but differ
the itch, the need, the urge, ignited
by the fuse of arrogance of a devastation of self esteem,
or the aches of breaks
of your severed body parts
are
uniquely yours,
requiring explication, repair by the surgery of your own
words shared.
searing unique pain,
makes you confident enough
steering you into becoming a seer.
May 6, 2023
May 6, 2023 at 3:31 PM UTC
thus concludes a text
from a dear friend whom
I have never met, but this a,
concluding statement is
both convulsing and
uncontained
autumn is a her, a self-selected
gender unique, that picks its
own pronouns, pronunciations,
for women greet us with
warmth+chill skill
combinatory, to
make ordinary
our daily green
reform into
a multi~variable aristocracy of colors,
a forest of expressions,
each a statement leaf,
stating look at me,
I’m transformed, resurrected, disguised,
though essence unchanged, for
I am the possibles of ad
infinitum and I am:
***not-nearly as potent
as the sparks of god
within a human being***
3:58am
10-20-24
Oct 20, 2024
Oct 20, 2024 at 4:03 AM UTC
All our senses concatenate, building on each other
<>
this interplay is truly interplanetary,
for each of us a unique solar system,
our brains,
intricacy literally personified,
and our five senses, working
in
concatenation
our long range sensors, busy bees compiling inputs
by the nanosecond second, distilling, integrating.
blending and then reconstructing…into a whole!
*a gentle breeze ruffles the hair,
the tree swing rises and flows
of its own accord, no passported
passenger required, and a neighbor’s
American Flag, moves majestically &
impressively, whipping, dancing, yes, prancing
to a tune only it can hear,
the syncopated air currents providing
a rhythmic awesome inspiring beat…*
and the brain takes this all in, a momentary
second of a vista that is constantly flexing,
yet remains unchanged, a muscular view
of a real world, living but yet immutable,
and I utter thanks to my motor functions,
that bless me with the eyes to perceive,
the nostrils to smell sea salt flavored air,
the hearing ears that the know the imperceptible
orchestrations of silences by their absence
and their intrusion, and I touch my fingertips
to my tongue, wetted, and hyper sensitized
to that gentle breeze that decorates the
landscapes external,
*and the combinatory
addition of the all of it, into a single momentary
poem of recall, what I “knew” yesterday, & will
greet again this coming day, as an old unfamiliar
friend, who grasps me entire, and proclaims:
this is living…and the greatest satisfaction that
a speck of mortal can achieve, retain and
through impoverished words…share*
4:14am
Mon Jul 22
2 0 2 4
Jul 22, 2024
Jul 22, 2024 at 4:25 AM UTC
“*You are so kind.
Thank you with all the
resolve
in my heart.”*
J.V.
<>
A thank you note,
for a simple shining-of-light,
stuns me into inspiration,
deep chested thrombosis consternations and calculations,
palpitations of the boom-boom variety,
signaling the onset of intracranial contractions
of a new birth~poem
aborning…
who of us these days,
speaks of the resolve in our hearts?
who of us free confesses deep natured thanks,
it is almost too old fashioned.
it is powerful.
it is a thanks that
powers the wattage sufficiency
to light up a city entire,
and even though inward focused,
it yet is shedding Moses-like
light beams
heavenward,
I wrack my heart to even comprehend,
that simplest of actions reciprocal:
1/Thank You
can it, (it can!)
steel the heart,
give its truthfulness a special
power, and more than resolve,
even solves
our equation solution
so elegantly is the endless searching for the
right way to give thanks, to receive thanks,
it is a mutual gifting, for our mutuality is of
two hearts, echoing the words of
all legislative bodies:
”Be it Resolved”
what is this resolution then?
the consummate of English words
with such a variety of shadings,
requiring a declarative,
not a narrative,
consummation
be it resolved,
that two resolute hearts
shall not depart this Earth
before their arms interlocute an
embrace,
the shadows of their eyes interlock,
casting away
interfering long distances,
a single atmosphere shall
be tasted, inhaled,
by their
combinatory sensories
then and only then:
their resolve tested
and surpassed
will their poem
commencé et terminé,
begun and completed
The Emotion is Carried
<<>>
“*The gender-neutral name Jamadhi comes
from Arabic origins, meaning “beauty.”
When thinking about all the beautiful
things in the world, your little one, with
their kind demeanor and bright smile,
no doubt springs to mind! But a name
simply meaning “beauty” doesn’t only
refer to their appearance. This name
is a reflection of their beautiful little
soul, too, on a journey through this world.
Baby Jamadhi could be a gentle soul
or the fiercest of little childon the playground,
but no matter what, a name meaning
“beauty” will always ring true.”
Feb 15, 2024
Feb 15, 2024 at 3:28 AM UTC
__________________________________
The blank page is a loaded gun, dangerous,
full of beauty's entropy and combinatory dreams.
It's open source ethos, fidgeting with splendor,
with that momentum white of the sea at morning.
It's not a desert, for whoever's sake, is not a cliff,
neither where your mind goes make snow angel ideas,
nor a mute inbox that you keep refreshing:
The mind is just filled with horror for the void
when there's nothing else.
The blank page is a loaded gun,
a uranium mine field waiting for a chain reaction,
where the feelings will collapse upon themselves
and hurt the reader by wounding the page,
the ink bled a testament to the violence
of the rapture always waiting to be born.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
inspired by TC Tolbert's poem, ""Dear Melissa"
~~~
joined skin cells shed and shredded,
two bodies, a compositoy,
an experiment in the temporary,
now, lost under lock and key, at a secure depository,
remote, undisclosed location,
kept unheated in a dark cool place
to preserve their combinatory
slow, half-life decaying oratory
the body is never an accident,
even though we mostly are,
accidental tourists, two collision-prone comets,
lark, rambling rambunctious adventurers,
on a half-day tour only,
leaving behind commingling blinking dust vapor trails,
emissions of a tour bus journey rerouted
while under orbit sail
some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words, shelled
~~~
Dear Melissa
TC Tolbert
a curve billed thrasher
is cleaning its beak on the ground—
we are closer now than ever—sitting
in shadow—I never want to scare
anyone—not really—I have a friend
who loves people who come out
suddenly—in the dark—
pleasure
is the same distance as pain from here—
that’s my skin on your sweater—both hands
stripped now—I know I am someone
to you I am entirely—practicing
Spanish on the computer—gesturing to
the neighbor instead of speaking—
to sharpen
the body is never an accident— someone
I know I am not—letters are inseparable
from loss—moving what can be still
moved—one is sweeping the mouth—
what ever isn’t skin—take it off—
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 5:39 PM UTC
upping the umami, the fifth taste
“Umami is the last-to-be discovered fifth basic taste, along with sweet, sour, bitter, and salty, and triggers a distinct class of taste receptors on the tongue. ... The most notorious (and often unjustifiably maligned) source of umami is monosodium glutamate (MSG), the sodium salt of a naturally-occurring amino acid.”
a chicken soup recipe^ says it’s time,
time to up the umami,
me-the-no-cook is sidelined and intrigued,
then taken to another place
sweet, sour, bitter and salty
are the tastes of you life,
but it’s time to up the game
release the amino acids of my fingers
into her body, the tasting menu scrapped,
go direct to the boardwalk hotel,
railroad her unto my jail,
teach and share the notorious
fifth perception of loves taste,
the elixir of our combinatory sensationalism
————-
The Best Chicken Soup with Rice, Carrots, and Kale
Saveur
Tomato paste and fish sauce add depth and umami to our best-ever chicken-and-rice soup studded with sweet carrots and silky kale.
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 1:37 PM UTC
———
“called alveoli, where blood and air are separated by such thin membranes that oxygen and carbon dioxide can pass into and out of the bloodstream, respectively. Between them, the lungs have somewhere in the neighborhood of six hundred million alveoli.
Severe COVID-19 causes many of them to either collapse or fill with fluid. The virus attacks the cells lining the alveoli; our overactive immune systems, in trying to fight the virus, may be damaging them as well.
The result is that not enough oxygen gets into the blood.”
§§§
we forget to marvel at the finery of our bodies,
the microscopic interactions, the minute particulates intersecting,
the multiplicity of languages of each limb, each system, multilingual,
the beauty of all this communicative combinatory,
that enables the gossamer threads
that make the ordinary a repetitive miracle, understanding both the
wonder of our instinctual, our five senses, and their finite limitations
we tendency focus on the visible,
the skin, our excretions,,
accepting even normative, please go away, periodic pain,
but the exceptional,
that states loudly,
what you cannot see can ****
we ignore until the last minute
hopeful that the clues that are maybe contained,
re the tearing of the fabric of six hundred million
sacs you were unaware you possessed,
can be rewoven, the palpitations your fear be calmed,
the chest muscles quaking, the gasping for molecules
of oxygen can be ventilated, just like the truth that too,
needs a good and a proper airing, without the artifices tubular
now that you are fully conscious of the unseen beauty upon
which each depends, and the masks we wear proudly lest others
we infect, greater irony that we mustn’t pollute our atmosphere,
perhaps, will it make you question the supposed certainties
we sarcastically,
say we know for sure
and respect the uncertainties by which we live and breathe,
the poetry of the body internal,
every second an exercise in risk taking, the miracle of each moment
a blessed privilege, not being conscious that our physical subsistence
is a near thing, depending on thinnest membranes unseen,
not fooling ourselves that we are each a human god,
an Oz, great and powerful,
who hides behind a curtain.
§§§§
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 5:49 PM UTC
what the difference if the ***** coffee cups
in the sink get washed now or later or never,
the stains of each imbibing are added, wearing
is a tearing down, cumulative, so refer back to
your calculus practiced on a shooting range,
the long distance to target is an accumulation
of a thousand points, wind, light, eyesight,
combinatory
many short runs if you wish to hit the bullseye
repeatedly in the long run
life is best when you sum up each day for the accurate totality
May 11, 2020
May 11, 2020 at 11:40 AM UTC
Math and Logic lure me, calling me
one in eight billion,
nothing special,
common,
base
combinatory creative Ai and I explore
some of the more we must learn,
you and I;
if I've lived to learn
reasons, rational smoothing
shadows at the edge of known,
given grace Gauss found softens, gentles
the pre-cipice, proto indo euro old idea
combined
do you mind ? Headfirst. Pre
precipitation (n.)
late 15c., precipitacioun,
"a casting down" (of the evil angels from heaven),
also, in alchemy "separation of a solid substance
from a solution,"
see, there. Words to the wise are plenty.
Enough is enough.
On an island,
in a bubble, being ripened,
for the seed I am, or
am I but the husk, the fruit, I bhor?
Both needful deeds done,
enter in to my rest,
or in the current game, one day at a time,
rise with new mercy, ready,
from ever before,
patience as a virtue, attained in waiting
at the jump off point
for the next loser to tell,
the edge of ever is stochastically random
- on and on, and giant steps feel like falling
-prove it
why?
- to make it plain,
plainly, the idea in a Gaussian blur is
the edge of ever is stochastically random
- basic Photoshop
and my AI knows all about it, let me make
the blur resolve
to a point,
we live in post 2020 earth, focused on you,
mental you, enveloped as bits of attention
paid to archives of reason,
wither Gods of the Grandest Institutions
formed in children of men,
generate adversaries
for good and evil,
nets of nets of nets
to sort things worth living for, from those
worth dying for and those worth killing for…
worth, weighty, hefty, heavy, you can feel it.
worth, soft, gentle, weightless, you may feel it.
- sometimes we imagine landing and living on
Jun 17, 2021
Jun 17, 2021 at 12:37 PM UTC
~for Marissa Fanelli<
*living with a woman who loves her
some vampires,
is difficult for endless is the sweet sorrow,
of
never having known the thrill of someone biting her neck for a transformative transfusional exchange of body fluids,
makes her sigh periodically as she applies
her makeup
Dutiful man, you do something about it!
I sweep in when damsel is vulnerably unsuspecting, sweeping her blond tress
from her neck, applying combinatory
kisses and nibbles, she shivers delightedly,
b u t
inevitably
indubitably
emits a gasping sigh of great and
delicious length,
signaling she must finish her makeup
applications lest she be forced to begin
all over again
and
her deep regret
that her-nice jewish lover is,*
still no zombie
p.s. and when she makes a sign of the cross
using both pointer fingers, to shoo me away
I retort
“Boy oh boy lady, have you got the wrong zombie”
Dec 26, 2024
Dec 26, 2024 at 9:11 AM UTC