"commentary" poems
and i am eleven again
feeling like tomorrow
is a couple yesterday's ago
smothered in cayenne pepper
hot enough to take off taste buds
and tonight i am eating a meal
only worth burning
it tastes like my parents anniversary
it tastes like a zinfandel
left on the counter too long
it's a bad story, see
there's no silverware
'cause my mom sold it
to keep the lights on
and somewhere in heaven
somebody in a suit
doing commentary
on this fiasco
is telling someone else
in a suit that
"you have to eat love with your hands"
so we sit, four plates on the table
for the two of us
my brother's long gone
dad's even further away
& he's not the one who's buried
i carry both their names like anchors
that i cannot unmoor from
while she looks at the empty table
and says something about the news
she says something else
but she's not talking
we aren't proud of this, see
my dad likes to wax his car
he's proud of it
and my mom says
she sees a lot of him in my hands
says, i touch the things i find
like they didn't belong
to people sleeping in the ground
she says i touch photo albums
the same way-
you know,
i never used to believe
that history could repeat itself
not until i could
fast forward seventeen years
and still wake up to smoke alarms
how i would go into our kitchen
to find it empty
and the dinner smoldering
& my mother in her bedroom
looking through family photos
like it's a just another summer day
and the sirens are just the birds
i don't ask, i never say a word
in this moment
i am an archeologist
afraid to dig up the past
cause history repeats itself-
you see
my brother is dead
and my father is gone
they have been for some years now
and my mother
sometimes forgets
and sets their place at the table
like they're still here
and in the confusion
ends up ankle deep
in pictures of how it used to be
she let's dinner burn
and douses it in red pepper
hoping i won't know the difference
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight
Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape
Summer again
I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening
For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….
She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…
The queen will be safe here
from the rabble
The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
Among these lofty cliffs
Between the raging circuit of the tide
Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
Here lovers learn
the debt of love’s bad timing
“Drink ye all of it!”
--the potion that assigns our sorrow….
She will not sleep—
while I chew this gum-- GUM?
Roll down the window!
Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings
As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity
…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly
Their hands steady the wheel
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
Of all the super heroes who exist
like legends, or monuments in entertainment,
or essential cultural commodities,
and
my favorite is Moon Knight.
Never met a good reception.
Never had a particularly well done story.
I like Moon Knight in theory;
a superhero with mental issues,
with friends who face the moral challenge
of playing into his insanity,
versus helping him stop serious crimes.
It seemed like a social commentary to me;
why do we hate dictators, but love superheroes?
How is it we understand absolute power corrupts
absolutely,
yet also think having an alien demigod semi-rule the planet
is really in the best interest of our species?
The design for Moon Knight has always been immaculate
to me; directly representing the fallibility of the hero,
diving into the night with a decadent radiance,
he wears all white, and declares he enjoys it-
for his enemies to know he's coming.
Does it make sense? No.
Much like the Punisher, Moon Knight doesn't struggle with
being morally black and white, but does struggle with
keeping that identity intact. His eyes glowing,
no face shown... just darkness.
All the emotion in the world broadcast through
two glowing orbs. sometimes red, sometimes green,
often white.
A visual hint to clouded mind of Moon Knight;
Marvel's true Batman gone awry. Gone insane.
A failed son who won't die.
Here's to it.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Hi, below I copy a humorous hiabun, which I shared as an exercise to mentor enquiring and inspired poets to learn, so they might adopt and try different techniques and then give critique together with awesome comments... Yes, I used the words *** ****** and **** for context the rest was left to an individual imagination as in good poetry!
It included reflective commentary encompasses innocent classification terminology used in the critique, reading, examining, appreciating, understanding and writing of poetry for example: POETIC DEVICES (enjambement, duality, keriji, images, collocation, semantic, oxymoron, repetition, listing etc.), STORY (personification, characterisation, subject, context, voice etc.), IMAGERY (synaesthesia), STRUCTURE ( lineation, breaks, syntactic etc.), SOUNDS (syllables, rhyme, alliteration, pace, musicality, phrasing, beat, assonance, onomatopoeia, mouthed rhythms, patterned) and WORDS (preposition, determiner, verbs, adverbs, lexical, nouns, adjectives) used by poets, critics and academics...
And here it is :
**** tongue-in-cheek haibun - a reflective commentary on writing a popular tanka
Eye lashes flicker
a shared urgent interest
parting - dancing smile
My first inspiration was *** passionate life squeezing screaming *** the thumping wall musicality of *** exhaustingly inventive sweaty and wet.
I wanted to make it a senryu but for duality the female characterisation demanded two more lines each extending to seven syllables.
Arousing images captured her moaning splashing loneliness in unusual collocation.
I was first excited by the placement of a hovering extended enjambement to give life to my final line, whilst also considering the satisfaction in using noisy mouthed rhythms.
I believe I easily hid the wet aroused context with a watery semantic field, that suggested she would choke and drown.
So in my last line I had ‘pleasures’ as a cutting keriji to make clear the dominating ****** context, having previously used a preposition and determiner to maintain duality!
Exhausted shivers
in windowed naked currents
unfolding sinking
then surfing vital wavelets
drowning screams - pleasures wet bite
**
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 7:10 PM UTC
did you know
that the
self effulgent light
of God it self
is **** shaped
as above so below
the inner revelation
******* above...light woven
*** hole below ...flesh woven
does this not infer
a magical operation
perhaps a hermetic
ritual of adoration
perhaps a puja
to the ****
with ornate
kaleidoscopic mandalas
replete with wrinkles
and folds
emerald toilet bowls
silk *** wipe
with full color florals
to be ingratiated
by **** art prints
and to be fussed over
and judged
by certified *******
clergy
then to cleanse
with fragrant ointments
that it may remain
unsullied by its
birthing labors
voluptuous
smoldering
fecundations
for purities sake
as god remains
free of limitation
it too
must remain
free of its forgetful
tarnished children
i build temple of ****
high above the people
the little *****
do they
even know
where they come from
how they may
devote themselves
to the grandeur
of the solar ****
and its bestowals
of clumpy torpedoes
the catechism
of the solar ****
to know
to adore
to prostrate
to proselytize
the glory of ****
to the
for corners
of the earth
to be faithful
unto it
to be obedient
and present
your *******
for ritual manicures
by the true initiates
the fussy
******* faeries
those who have
the secret knowledge
and remain true
to the lore
and precepts
set forth
of divine correspondences
to fully appreciate
its eminence
its glory
and have no
God before it
that mercy
will follow them
all the days
of there lives*
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
[From Fragments, The Following...]
... so it was that the Urth bled less. The Birch Moot was becalmed by the Anvil Cloud of Impending Deluge.
The Young Gods made sport of Their Names, and aimed to Oblique the colony of clever flesh
groping at the tender roots of an insipid devastation. The First Ones had vanished.
But Time was born and the Mortal Whirl released the Hounds of Change. Transition fused -
with the Eternal; and the offspring of unloved Spirits, roamed the Tangible. All Suffering was amplified
in the diamond lungs of a divine corpse, dreaming.
... for when the iron heart of The Cast Out was retrieved, the Legion of Heaven poured unseemly Grace upon the Fathoms
and the High King of Doubt, forced his blade ' Nimue '
into the soft palette, of the First Mouth. The Stars were born and The Void overheard the First Naming.
A solid drizzle of enchantment cloaked the oaken Yggdrasil
and The Pattern unleashed the folly of Pattern
to mask the virtue of succinct Chaos. The Children of The Lower Sky ate their Masters and thereby swollen -
gathered in the underbrush of the Fecund.
They came to Know Regret by Answering Prayers. The Kingdoms of Wane were waning in the fearsome riot of Creation
and not a boy, a man from no woman
and no woman
a man.
... the siege lights of the petty stars, babbled in the wake of yawning eruption and nullification. the ****** theater of blood
was made Holy by way of forcing camels into eyes of needles in constant dystopian joy.
... and that's how the rain gets in.
[ From the ' Kingdoms Of Wane ', a Lost Tome from Antiquity and Dada ]
What ?
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:
overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.
[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything
[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.
[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
I'm barefoot in 46 degrees and I must remember that my perception of things must not encapsulate how I truly perceive. Soldered commentary is bleak but is all I've left, all my years have given me and my years have been few.
To be constantly bombarded with the question, "what is it that I really want?" is fervently exhausting and consistently hypocritical and I'm a hack. The conclusion is always that I'm a hack without a win to present or a failure to fall back upon. As a hack, I've left myself with very few plans to alter or hungry mindsets to feed.
After glistening the only thing that remains is to burn out and the thought of extinguishing so prematurely provokes a physical falter and frequent respiratory failure.
Ask your brother if he lingers at times. Ask your sister if sometimes, she means what she says and she should always say no. Ask your friends why you should be anyone's friend and whether or not the chance to swing into hyperbolic criticism ever affects how they make their choices, hoof their steps.
Their answer should always be no and their input should always be invaluable.
Ask yourself if brain power should always be set to alter mind power and ask yourself is alteration is ever even possible. The answer should always be no.
The conclusion to draw should always be his. The choices you make, always expert and ground out by consistent respiratory failure. Ask yourself if you'll always be an animal and when will that stop. Ask yourself if time will determine whether or not this "thing" is worth doing or this "thing" is worth composing. Ask yourself why you're not the young girl who sings soul on the street, whose tremble sets off car alarms and inner requisitioning. The answer will never be the same.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
I ASKED if I should pray.
But the Brahmin said,
"pray for nothing, say
Every night in bed,
""I have been a king,
I have been a slave,
Nor is there anything.
Fool, rascal, knave,
That I have not been,
And yet upon my breast
A myriad heads have lain.'''
That he might Set at rest
A boy's turbulent days
Mohini Chatterjee
Spoke these, or words like these,
I add in commentary,
"Old lovers yet may have
All that time denied --
Grave is heaped on grave
That they be satisfied --
Over the blackened earth
The old troops parade,
Birth is heaped on Birth
That such cannonade
May thunder time away,
Birth-hour and death-hour meet,
Or, as great sages say,
Men dance on deathless feet.' 0084
4.5k
if you look up, you will see
the bright-eyed and
the wide-mouthed—
the interesting, the casual, the adored
glistening in the warm night
peered at through microscopes and
telescopes and stethoscopes
far and far away
we are so desperate to be close
close and close and
close enough to see the blemishes
the scarring and the peeling
effaced by obvious and biased inner-commentary
they’re just not as red or sore as mine
perhaps they were formed under
a different kind of sun
what does the unfamiliar heart say?
does it sound at all like mine?
will i ever escape the sloppy grasp of dullness?
will the world swallow me whole?
if i count the days on both hands
on toes, on eyelashes—
if i only eat green things and
read tattered books and
pretend that i don’t mind—will i ever
break the mirror?
will i find seven years of good luck
between the jagged edges?
to exist as a reflection
is to not exist at all
there are lonely, dark purple heavens
waiting for you to sever your longing gaze
to stop lying to yourself
to hop onto the back of the cow
and begin living somewhere beyond the moon—
to realize, with closed eyes
you belong to the sky
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:
overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.
[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything
[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.
[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
As I contemplated the project of writing a persuasive essay I discovered that I would have to have a topic upon which to practice my persuasive techniques . After much cogitation and enumeration of my possibilities , pursued with such zeal that it soon resembled pedantic ostentation , I concluded that the most positive prospect I could pursue in this endeavor would be an attempt to prove irrefutably that I deserve a grade of A in this class ; if not for the undeniable excellence of my effort , then at least for the unadulterated audacity of my pretentious assertion .
In order to perform this feat first I must overwhelm your developing consternation , the frozen mastodon of your auspicious judition . To accomplish this I will cite my impeccable attendance ; which although not perfect was indeed a valiant effort in the face of public opinion whose abstinence approached epidemic proportions . I will expound on the effectual and pervasive inspirations of my in class commentary , which sparked many a heated argument or thoughtful conjecture ; and comment on the polished precision of my in class narration . I will reiterate the diversity and intrigue of my subject matter and the competence of my delivery .
Next , with all the dynamic aggression of a wind-up tyrannosaur , I will recapitulate and exemplify my arguments ; until the ramifications of my inductive collusions exceed the boundaries of your psychic phenomenon and you are forced to acquiesce into impunity .
Yes I will indeed proceed to exceed the parameters of your mind , until mesmerized by the multitudes of analogous content you find yourself , disguised as captain corpuscle , floating euphorically down stream in a think box mind gram dingy towards a sea of Colorado cool aid . Then as if all that were not enough to thoroughly torque your ringer , adamant and tenacious I will portray realms of intellectual austerity so intriguing you will be raised to new heights of enigmatism , and then I will leave you , enraptured with your own anonymity , at the edge of the new world freeway .
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
The way of the Spirit is...
Love, the Spirit's essence;
Joy, the Spirit's song;
Peace, the Spirit's rest;
Longsuffering, the Spirit's patience;
Gentleness, the Spirit's touch;
Goodness, the Spirit's manner;
Faith, the Spirit's attitude;
Meekness, the Spirit's strength;
Temperance, the Spirit's control.
©1981 Michael S. Davis
A Commentary on Galatians 5:22-23
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
Me: “Father, I think I would like to pray my own way.”
Priest: “Ha okay (sarcasm), whatever you say, Brian.”
(Priest continues about in ignorance of commentary)
Priest (beginning Vespers): “O God, come to my assistance…”
Me: (beginning Vespers) "O **** here we go again..."
(Grudgingly submits)
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 1:16 PM UTC
the waiting in hallways
lined up on the wall
with eyes following the chatterbox and her
flowing train of rabid listeners
who hang themselves ritualisticly on her
shallow water illustrations
swimming on this thin tide of unpublished lip candy
her bubblegum words are commentary
upon which her followers build temples
to the unfit mothers of televangelists
the chatterbox spills her loud thoughts
on the sun warmed concrete
as the summer lawnmower navigates
around santa and his late december reindeer
and the children's labyrinth of christams morning plans
while i sunbath nearby
she gathers her spilled thoughts
and races away proudly proclaiming that'
my poems are too short for the pulitzer
so she is ready for her laurels
and a fast road to academia
with a neatly packaged version of her inner perversions
spread like *** and lip candy
on the local coffee shop bookshelf's
for the pretty college girl with glasses to drink from
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
To the men who have hurt me, both physically and emotionally. To the men who have sexually harassed me. To the men who have tried to coerce and guilt trip me. To the men who tried to take advantage of me when I was 15, the lowest point in my life. When I was weak. Destroyed from depression, from bullying, from the transition of middle school to high school, from anxiety, from blind parents and others ignorance. To those of you who knew I was in a ****** up state of mind, who pretended to support me when I was crying, only to run your hand up my thigh and whisper "I can make you forget about it." To the boys who abused me, insulted me, struck me, brought a suicidal teenage girl to the point of destruction. To the guy who didn't quite **** me, but who came close. Who grabbed all over me while I shoved and smacked and told him to stop. Who tried to get inside me without my permission and who tried to guilt trip me, calling me a tease and telling me to lay down and pretend nothing was happening if it really bothered me so much. Who tried to teach me to retreat inside of myself at human contact so I wouldn't resist. To every guy who approached a mentally destroyed teenage girl who was drowning in herself to try to get ****** favors, to try to get me to trade my body for drugs, to try to bring me down even further so I wouldn't say no. Because I did say no. I always said no and fought and nearly vomited every time a guy started groping, started making lewd commentary in what started out to be small talk, every guy that grabbed at me without my permission and leered and tried to grind on me without any context other than you had a hard on and I looked weak enough to force yourself on. I hope someday someone rips you all apart. I hope someone tortures you, tries to blackmail you, coerce you, makes you feel like garbage when you're at your weakest. Because as much as all of you tried, even this fragile, broken teenager rejected you. Fought her hardest to get away from attempted assaults and made it, clawing and screaming away from you. Cried silently as angry, mocking messages came in but didn't dignify them with responses. Ignored angry phone calls from multiple numbers and continued to live, even when you all tried to break me into a *** slave. **** every last one of you up the *** with a flaming ***** I hope you all go through hell. I was going through hell and you all tried to destroy me, to incinerate my spirit in the name of getting someone to touch your ***** I hope you go through worse. I hope somebody castrates you. If there is an almighty deity, I hope they curse you for eternity. I hope you all know that the girl you tried to destroy for your own sadistic pleasure is stronger than ever before.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
I've had my fill of llamas
And of all the woes they bring
For though they stop by frequently
They never say a thing
I find it rather ignorant
That a humpless dromedary
Should force on me its company
But not its commentary
I'm getting sick of llamas
My nights are fraught with dread
They wait until I'm fast asleep
Then bounce around the bed
My slippers smell of llama dung
The carpet's had its day
My house is getting crowded
There's a new one every day
I just can't move for llamas
They're piling up in drifts
Relentless in their appetite
I'm feeding them in shifts
I have to clamber over them
To get to anywhere
Would anyone like a llama?
I would simply love to share
I really can't stand llamas
The ******** just don't quit
And if they don't get their pop-tarts
They've a tendency to spit
They multiply quite rapidly
Devoid of conversation
I think I'll have to leave them
And resume my medication
**
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC
What! the What!
was that which I think
were syllables
perpetrating from the sewer
of their open commentary
on my life.
As though it was a live play.
And they were the voice over
scrapping at my thoughts.
Well if I were you!
When did I ask this magpie of gossip
to intrude on my daily reflections.
But no you stain that window
I want to stare outward too.
Mind your own business, I know yours
went bankrupt long ago..
Never paying dues to what you paid out.
But never counting the cost of what
every word cost you.
Now its time to change that channel
to white noise.
All the persistent vocals drowned out.
Now I can watch my life without commentary.
Others should watch themselves not others
just because your is a repeat of a dull life.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
Dear Emma Watson -
Shall we make love
The object of
Our spiritual quest
Together?
Surely an altogether
Better option
Than pairing you off
In a commentary box
With one John Motson
Discussing twenty two
Pairs of socks
Chasing a piece of leather?
If spiritual questing
Is not for you
I will make do
With tightly tied pairs of shoes
Existential emus,
Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.
Whilst hoping you find
Your Sherlock Holmes,
Miss Watson
I will content myself with
Cataloguing my collection of
Black and white combs.
I also have plots on
Which I need to work -
Wednesday Addams's love of
Moon dried tomatoes
Or Erica Roe
Somewhere in Portugal
Growing sweet potatoes
For sale.
Don't let anyone tell you
There ain't no perks
To being an Omega Male.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
What is love?
Murasaki would say it was an obligation,
a sort of duty
where the rules
say to bury one’s emotions
and succumb to the overpowering ***
Mian Mian embraces the sexuality
of her culture. Arguing that love
is the force behind drugs and emotion.
It is not the government’s obligation
to dictate the author’s form of rules
on writing a novel that serves its own duty.
How does Black Jade feel about her duty?
Despite her lover’s sexuality
and his matriarch’s ruling
of marrying well even if he does love
her, the family cares more of their obligation
then of their prized sons emotions.
Coco lived by her emotions.
The sickness of Tian not her duty
as it would have been in the old days. Lui’s obligation
to turn in Shiba overruled by rough ***
and her quest for painful love
in a time that disregards all form of rule.
Peony was one who broke the rules
but was rewarded for it. Unless it’s Peony #2 because her emotions
got the best of her when she fell in love
at the wrong time. It was not her duty
to see the play nor feel anything ******
in the Three Wives Commentary; this, her obligation.
Was it Abe Sada’s obligation
to castrate her lover and make her own rules?
Madame Mao too knew all about ***
and succumbed to her emotions
when her duty
was no longer to love.
From emotional red chambers with rules
on obligatory *** the cycle of East Asian
love patterns has yet to fulfill its duty.
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 5:16 AM UTC
quips scrawled on scraps of paper, written
during a come-down stupor. something
she wrote, and then proceeded to destroy.
(i gathered all the pieces but have become
too lazy to care how she upset herself)
drawings drawn in between sentences,
in between words. in between syllables. drawn
to obviate thought, to put me somewhere
between Zen and poser. (the drugs obviate titles,
but i’d hedge my bets on the latter)
the remains of the Urban Squirrel Hunter –
a mythology of the Grey Fox –
shredded in the maw of a blue heeler-mutt.
written while ****** drunk, and heat-stroked.
poetry of a homeless kid.
ramblings of an alcoholic, ravings of a tweaker,
with commentary by the one who is just visiting –
self-destruction is all we can ever be certain of.
religion created in a notebook while
doing research on a chemical. figured out what
near-death means, found life by dumb luck.
found life via pocket valiums,
gave up religion while sweating in the snow.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC
pieces of flotsam
soak and float on the paper,
jetsam thrown to lighten
the load,
or goad,
the alligator, away
the guttural noises, sound like harsh
commentary the closer the
gator
is allowed to get,
not wanting to look over the shoulder,
but stop in for biting remarks,
the gator's teeth are so large and famous
they have names and voices;
"punctuation or punctures, I can help"
"point of view tch, tch, tch"
"your grammar needs work"
"doubt you will finish"
"no one will read IT"
"you will never find the right word"
"is your audience a six year old"
"borrrrring"
"what a croc"
"are you enjoying what you are doing?"
"successful writers are all published"
"you call that a sentence, keep it up and it will be a death sentence "
"how many tenses can you misuse in a paragraph"
and these are the names of some of the smaller teeth,
the molars, are more than a mouthful,
have polar names, that would leave anyone cold,
even the bold,
and shall not be put in print,
they bring out the PTSD,
imprinted for eternity, by
the gator which
comes at the sounds
of splashing, flailing, and failing,
as the pounding of the heart,
the deepened breathing,
as the ink from
the pen, unfiltered,
leaves nerves and veins exposed,
while leaving to find home, a safe haven, a storybook ending,
away from the gator's keen sense of
overt criticism, intended to gut,
and eviscerate, cutting remarks,
putdowns to hold down and under,
the piece that IT is trying to tear off
while spinning or shaking the head
side to side, which is both NO!
and to bash the will, the self-esteem, into little pieces
of me...
and my worst enemy,
my internal, infernal editor,
with the voracious appetite for self-defeating
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
Self-breed hatred so easily suppressed
Taunted by the world, it’s waiting to explode
No, there’s no true taste, we’re only meandering
Listening to the menacing roar begging
To be given breath to materialize
Subtle commentary begins to eat at the flesh of self-belief
Identity crises momentarily paralyze audacity’s ammunition
True sights of self-aesthetic-beauty tremble
Diminishing that part of self-worth
Looming attacks threaten to pour over and reduce
The value of internal splendor for it’s seemingly of no use
Every praise never given to the self but to someone else
A constant crack at the foundation of self-love, it subconsciously ensures
She and she and she and she are said to be wonderful, but never the self
Realization that from any angle the self is not good enough
Leaves the mind discombobulated for lifelong sentiments of inadequacy
Seems to be the only route
Unconscious self denigration provokes false sense of value
For the true inner wealth in self-worth is sullied and unidentifiable
But the self is not merely self-loath and harboring of inadequacy
For goodness in abundance is found a few peals away from the layers of insecurity
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 4:42 PM UTC
It happened early one morning.
It happened like it always does,
times 3.
Strapped, armed, holding hands
what every loving mother
shouldn't do.
Word of it traveled
like the winter flu,
by noon everybody had heard
of maniacal faithers
who took home her children
lighting up fireworks.
The sun blazed dazedly
evaporating 3 crosses,
not quite melting the ice.
Until it reached my porch step,
it were but distant voices.
now it's here
and real. like it always is of course
but now it's closer than ever
bursting at my door.
Sliced up like a juicy tomato
his screams are muffled by
a screen screening bright information
into the heads of mouths
who offer surreal commentary
disguised as jokes.
We're terrified.
We're hypochondriacs fearing
contamination of a rampant
plague.
A plague we've never seen before.
Our ****** eyes.
So many have already
been ***** by fate.
Faith in fatherly beards
granting wishes to
obedient children
who go tarnishing other fathers' gardens.
What an absurd world
where IS is ice that
cannot melt.
What an absurd world
where children weep
at mothers' debt.
What an absurd world
where faithful supremity
reigns unchecked.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC