"concurrently" poems
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set
orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till
spring"
the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
too much insufferable
having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit **** u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run
concurrently
there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****
tests and hunts,
I have successfully
failed
of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader
men
maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted
where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in
immediacy
heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
smothered life
but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a **** you
mirror
there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
You should know
You're just a temporary fix
She's a ****
An obscured partial eclipse
She runs and hides
Behind a mask of addictive scripts
She's the game
You just feel good against her melanin
You should know
She's incoherently captivating
She's a naked lady
Amaryllis Belladonna
Poisonous and pink
She'll hit a switch you can't describe
Concurrently splitting your spine
Yet enhancing the fruits of your mind
She's a ****
And you're just a temporary fix
Where she lives
Love does not exist
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
mvp arena
s pearl st
albany, ny
8/30/22
*(to summarize how
we got to this point
i was in the
darkest year of my life
and in my pragmatism
self-inconsideration
i gave myself
an out
the only way i could
survive was to
tell myself it was
going to be over soon)*
i’m screaming
the words into
currents
of noise
i should be
happy
still hearing the ringing
in my ears and
seeing flashing lights
in my eyes
*(9/25/16
was the day
it was going
to end for me
concurrently
i discovered
a genre designed
for kids like me
spent hours
in full blown panic
not at the disco but
twitching on the floor
trying to drown it out
with fall out boy
nights that didn’t end until
dawn picking apart
twenty one pilots theories
in razor free showers
and then
my chemical romance
was back from the dead
10th anniversary album with
new tracks
coming 9/23/16)*
things have changed
i’ve changed
and yet still
traumatically
dramatically
the same
”what’s the worst that i could say?
things are better if i stay?
so long and good night
so long and good night”
*(and i realized
there was something
out there to
look forward to
maybe
just maybe
i make it through
just for now)*
”we’ll carry on
we’ll carry on”
i did
and i made it
all the way to here
found a way to
scrape myself through
every lonely night
but in that
moment the
crushing weight
of my own
insignificance
caught up to me
i should have been
happy
to have made it
to here
but the only thought
in my mind
was that
if i hadn't
made it to here
this moment
in this sea of
misfits and margins
in this sweaty stadium
four hours from home
**if i hadn't
carried on
nobody
would
have
noticed
my absence**
i'm reduced to
a face in the crowd
twenty dollar bills
in a merch line
a scream in a stranger's
snapchat story
**and the world doesn't
need me
one more person
to add to the chaos**
i should have cried
happy tears
but instead
i began to regret
what makes me
strong
what got me
to this point
would it be better
if i had ended it?
would it be easier?
does it even matter
either way?
because i'm
beginning to think
it really doesn't
and i know
i made it this far
i have his hand
around my back
and don't cry
alone at night anymore
but in the cosmic
scheme of significance
(which i want there
to be and i want
to be in)
i just don't
think
i don't
know
if it matters enough
what's the worst that i could say?
are things better if i stay?
"so shut your eyes
kiss me goodbye
and sleep
just sleep
the hardest part
is letting go of your dreams"
Sep 5, 2022
Sep 5, 2022 at 11:34 PM UTC
When she says she hears voices rattling and battling in the deepest recesses of her mind, then it's time to beware, take care, and make choices saddling you and leave her behind.
Shes a case study of its kind. That even Freud would throw up his hands, make a grand stand in his frustrations and demand a vacation to unwind.
She's all that and more.
She'll wrap a man around her fingers make him putty in her hands,
leave him babbling in his mirror
trying so much to understand.
He should feel something, but just can't comprehend,
left a mute, numb, mumbling...
carcass, of a man.
She's like an itch that becomes a
scratch that's becomes a pestering,
festering **** till you look down
horror bound as the ****** swollen
thing has taken on a life of its own...
then it starts maxing out your cards,
throwing your clothes out on the yard,
yelling hard. Snooping on your phone. Won't go home. Won't leave you alone.
Is it a wound or a woman or a woman or a wound or both simultaneously, concurrently? Yes and no.
Oh the trials and tribulations I've known!
You can really pick em.
Daddy used to say, in his haphazard way, and really lay it on me in the harshest of phrases, meant to dazzle and daze me, rile and faze me, knock me a kilter off my normal day.
Son, you stimulate and exhilarate the
spirit of an untamed, pained, wild
child woman and it'll be the same, and here this,
as an insane drain on the brain most personally and certainly and most notably and you can quote me. It'll leave you feeling like the beach storming at Normandy.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 5:38 AM UTC
We live for the fat free vanilla cream coffee cups on mornings when we wake before the sun is up, and nights when the silence is trickling icy though. We live for Life. Such a small word, yet remains vague and unanswerable to many people.
A word which concurrently brings upon curiosity and fear inside a simple mind that continuously runs wild with questions. A word who’s meaning can only be defined as a never ending cliffhanger, leaving you with the gut aching suspense of a never resolved story.
We are all blinded by the light paved into the road we created ourselves. Some people look at what a flower has brought into their lives and cherish it, while others hide around a dark corner with harsh opinions and rationalizations. Around that corner a cold reality is approaching, causing a cherished life to be cut short.
That life though, it never dies. For before it shriveled up, it did something amazing. After that flower blossomed, a gust of determination carried it’s knowledge throughout the world to be seen as inspiration. Inspiration, and to once again ambitiously sprout.
We live for the little things that make life worth living. The people. The places. The words. The temporary confidence in knowing what comes next. The cliffhanger. The unwritten ending you’re so eager to place punctuation.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
A querulous cry
from my peckish feline
failed to rouse me from sleep:
thus,
teeth entangled in the meat of my palm,
this hideous beast
bucked conventional wisdom in
deciding to bite a hand
to prompt a feeding.
Concurrently
I am considering the adage
of there being more than one way
to skin a cat.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
the wine
the words
the screaming torrents
all
groove cutters
some sharp
unripened, immature,
but drag marks made
because they,
rain rutted, sun baked
features permanent,
landscape of and on
parent child
the one
the same
some seasoned
accident chanced to breathe,
some ingenuous clever,
fully formed,
immature only
in the
youthfulness of the pain
for a lifetime
always on the tip of tongue
lingering
the child struck the parent
seventeen stitches on the head
the parent struck the child,
pleading mocking begging
his life to take
charge
neither pressed
charges
for
the wine
the words
the screaming torrents
all
grooves cut
had charged them
both
had changed them
both
thirty years plus
of immaturity,
testimony,
their sentences
are being served concurrently
nothing has changed
only the depth of the grooves
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Life. Such a small word, yet remains vague and unanswerable to many people. A word which concurrently breeds curiosity and fear inside a simple mind that continuously runs wild with questions. A word who’s meaning can only be defined as a never ending cliffhanger, leaving you with the gut aching suspense of a never resolved story. Controlling our lives like a marionette puppet with the strings being attached to the four characters L, I, F, and E. But alas, we are all blinded by the light paved into the road we created ourselves. A cracked road filled with the seeds of our generation, aided in growth from our blinded light with ambitions of reaching the sun. We give our seeds a warm reality, which sparks the blossom it’s wanted to expose to the world, the reason it was given a chance as a seed to begin with. Some people look at what that flower has to brought into their lives and cherish it, while others hide around a dark corner with harsh opinions and rationalizations. Around that corner a cold reality is approaching, causing a cherished life to be cut short. That life though, it never dies. For before it shriveled up, it did something amazing. After that flower blossomed, a gust of determination carried the seeds of it’s knowledge throughout the world to be seen as inspiration. Inspiration, and to once again ambitiously sprout from the crack in the road we’ve so blindly created.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 8:30 PM UTC
Writing a poem is about locating self.
Every facet within what you’re about to create
blooms from your consciousness, your subconsciousness
your ego, your mind, your heart
But where are those elements planted?
Where are they rooted?
They are rooted within:
your ethnocentric illusions
your lived reality
your privilege, your pleasure, your pain
your abilities, your disabilities
your socioeconomic status: have and/or havenot
your fluency, your empathy, your sense of humour
your vices and your storytelling devices
Now we've got some roots, what are we going to grow?
Let’s begin by observing, using our senses
Maybe, let’s use our eyes
Consider, the reality of how we see and sense the world
Is different for each and every one of us
Everything is tempered by the lens we use
Which is informed through the roots of our synapses
Which empirically flow from the subjective ground
On which we stand
And what does this have to do with poetry?
What you describe in your poem,
Is an interpretation of what you see (and feel)
Interesting poetry comes when
there is exploring to do
It is a poet’s imperative to
Explore the edges
Out past the boundaries of the visual and audible spectrum
If we were fish poet’s
Would we write poetry about water?
I like to toy with my teenagers on occasion
So I asked my son the other day, what his worldview was?
And I have been enjoying the vacuous silence ever since
To be fair, I have been asking myself the same question for many years
And this might have been the inciting incident leading me to storytelling
As we began this journey together, it was stated that
Writing a poem is about locating self.
Can you describe your context?
Let me attempt to describe mine:
Here I am on the stage in this ocean of air
At the Owl Acoustic Lounge
On a Wednesday night in May
Popping air with rhythm, nuance, and a certain je ne ce quoi
Although this poem is not objectively true
Let me attempt to share that
this poem blooms from my developing cosmology
From the overtures of my Overself;
from the undercurrents of the Monomyth,
From my ***** and through my groans of intercession
This poem blooms from oblivion
Threading through philosophy, to worldview, and into a budding cosmology
For myself:
Worldview fell away when I found cosmology while reconnecting with the night sky
That night sky took me places while grounding me concurrently in inner spaces
Where locating self flows into meta-cognitive health,
Well ... that is something to write about
May 24, 2023
May 24, 2023 at 8:25 PM UTC
Nights like these
Accompanied by the howling
Not of the wind
But of my cranium
Slowly caving in
We are swayed constantly
Like willows in the breeze
From perception to perception
Until we know not
Who we are anymore
What is to be believed?
Who is the enemy?
My thoughts have long formed legs
Not two, nor four, but plenty
But more is not always merry
They struggle to keep their balance
But fail
So I am
Traipsing with tangled feet
C l e a r
M y
M i n d
For me
Please
Buy me sympathetic placidity
Buy me apathetic innocence
Buy me antipathetic ignorance
Anything but what I am now
Would be good
I dream of blue lakes and clear skies
But do they really exist?
I sleep in a labyrinth
And wake up
To the hustle and bustle of escapees
We are all but only human
We are lost souls
We are amateurs grabbing tightly
To the manual of How To Live
While concurrently
Playing God
As if we are all that holy
I know not what I am
I know not what we all are
I sleep in a labyrinth
And I awaken
To a stampede
Of people rushing back and forth
In a desperate bid to reach the top
But the way out of the labyrinth
Is not the top
Is it?
Perhaps I am too easily shaken
Too vulnerable for my own good
But I could grapple with the notion of self-control
And perhaps I really should
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 4:36 AM UTC
my ears rang for hours like phone lines leading to diamond mines. my breath stayed trapped in my lungs as stars flickered into view above our heads, lightyears above our heads. our veins flooded with spirits, our skulls clouded with smoke; we made lopsided eye contact and smile crookedly. my hands rested on your knees, itching to drift north. there was not space enough for words between our thoughts that linked with the brushing of our lips and it was known at once that our hearts nearly exploded concurrently, our hands were still, locked together like a riddle with no vowels, with no punctuation, we stayed, together, like that, until the air around us stilled and our ****** beats were so loud, the weeds were bewildered. and then we stood, the riddle of our palms still unsolved, and our legs took over, propelling us through a parking lot so dimly lit our pupils resembled dinner plates, and we got into the car to sit, to revel in our veins that seemed to connect at a point not visible to human eyes. our smiles askew and our brains charming each other amongst the crackling, we left.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 8:46 PM UTC
*Night falls through a brooding glass
Owls carries the fear of the day through an eerie sight
Moon shines on and consoles the forgotten souls
A Wolf howls from a Fearful hill
The night takes its form and structure
Ends and a new day begins*
*A child is born and cries, he begins to die as each day fades
Setting sun fades into* COSMIC DEPTHS *to rise again
Sky turns from grey to silver, then black, then silver again
DNA encodes within a man to start another clone of his Father
Heart beats over and over again
Yet the heart gets the smallest amount of blood
All these
Ends and a new life begins*
*Birds tweet away the night's sorrow at dawn
Rain cascades and falls on Earth's landscape, as it romances the air and kiss the window pane
Families on sundays visit St Patrick's Cathedral and pray to God
As they did four years ago and still do concurrently
Women go naked to feed their damaged ego
The little children watch them on TV and go with the pace
Evil Fathers behind close doors
Romance their little daughters
And shut their mouth by threatening them with the knife
While Mothers pray and intercedes for the world on bended knees
While the moon hides and shy away from earth's darkness
While no* STARS GUIDE AN EVIL NIGHT
All these too ends and begins in a never ending stream of continuity as long as we have breath
ENDS AND BEGINS
EVNA-LUNA©
2016
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
time moves forward
winding through galaxies
coursing through milkyways
pulsing through universes
hanging on heartbeats
yesterday, today and tomorrow
happening concurrently
burned onto disks stacked on top of each other
lifetimes skipping tier to tier
peeking through veils of reality
scoping inward to Brownian motion
zooming outward to life’s whole
energy flowing freely through meridians
navigating congestion and voids
finding balance in life’s peaks and valleys
like electrocardiograms
my lifereadings on paper
lately I’ve been flatlining
routines can be boring
drudgery stagnates
maybe I’m just physically tired
maybe I’m tired of life
caught behind a rock in a river
awaiting a cataract to break me free
and restore the song of life’s flow
maybe I’m an insignificant speck of dust
a blip off life’s radar
or maybe the smallest piece of jigsaw
is an equal part of the whole
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 10:41 AM UTC
It boiled out of me
like a sharp harpoon,
pinning me to a wall
of certain destiny.
Swimming in the fate
I thought I had
tipping into a jar of vanity.
The transitioned lenses
seeing past and future
concurrently,
Shake their heads in protest
with confidence to be feared.
What makes one doubt,
to question the path of inconsequential,
Who gathers the berries
and decides which are sweet
and which are bitter?
Only to taste is to know,
to experience and to feel,
to revel and relate,
to touch and know.
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 11:37 PM UTC
The quest for both burial and resurrection are significant, as their flickering shadows of the self-depreciatory abyss chant their silent and hauntingly audible presence under the canopy of the ancient forest.
Let us celebrate the night together, as we are traumatically enveloped within an exposed and dialectical pronunciation during this classical and acoustic daylight romance.
Although I truly hate your love, I also reject your evident indifference.
This is the essence of feeling like a fake within the genuineness of our actual and perceived realities.
It is heaven-sent, like a feathered breed of unresolved investigations within our socio-political climate of assumed advancement, where the intensity of the beat gyrates her percussionist hips across ******* expressions of the cosmological sound barrier.
Concurrently, the tangible rhythm of nature’s pulse considerately consummates her forcefully placid interactions within the context of gender specific diversity.
It is all in the name of discriminatory wholeness, my friend.
Our ambivalent connectedness to that which is catastrophically uncertain reminds me of drawing curtains across this conglomerate dawn of darkness and uninhibited concealment.
Just look at our ornithological formation, where leadership spreads her wings with censored zoological resignations and simplistic wisdom.
You have truly lifted my soul within the complexity of this circuitry, and I wholeheartedly acknowledge that we are a myriad of expressions which cannot be adequately articulated within the thermals of our cosmological stratosphere.
Yet, there is a certain finesse to delinquency, and I have bridged the metaphorical gap across the chasm of divided entities, where we can embrace the cool and gentle breeze right at the fulcrum of unforgiving landscapes and shamanic pastures.
Like an artistic depiction of woodland serenity, we are engaged in this wonderful neutrality where it is all about the dance – otherwise known as the energy of modern choreography.
Epistemology can be questionable, where assumptions are sickeningly grounded within the soil of egocentric perceptions of supremacy.
Trust me, my seasoned partner of those astral plains of Nirvana: my lips are sealed in this putrid reconciliation of proclaimed opposites, which are said to mutually attract.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
Silence, please be quiet
Pay attention and listen carefully
To the silence within
So many things going through my head
An analytical mind doesn’t rest
Hardly trying to silence all the cracking voices
Asking and answering concurrently
As if everything should have a logical answer
For the mind to take it easy
Silence, please be quiet
Pay attention and listen carefully
To the silence within
I must be careful with what I think or say
As I know that thoughts and words create
But regrets don’t undo and sorrow isn’t a fine ally
Silence, please be quiet
Pay attention and listen carefully
To the silence within
I don’t like what I see and hear
The silence is too loud to bear
Stubbornly I kept quietly observing
The mind attempts to complain
But contentment appears
After that there is nothing to fear
For silence becomes a friend and nice place to be
Silence, please be quiet
Pay attention and listen carefully
To the silence within
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 12:24 PM UTC
Everything that happens,
does so concurrently...
it's just the same energy
in a different happening.
If a single clap is meant
to break a trance, the
energy of the clap and
the energy of the trance...
wave and trough for the
love of sameness.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
A volt or amperage an ampule injected not grounded
a spasm or epiphany a reckoning
encompasses
I melt voltaically into
warmth and jolt
concurrently metered
by hair standing on ends
legs arms nethers
convulsing
like two phased
polarity
not grounded!
I short out,
positively!
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
I fold in on myself
Like the wadded origami designs I could never fold quite right
Layer upon intricate layer, receding
Into a crumpled relic sheathed in dust patina
Taking up space, a relic to my past
I surrender to your guiding hands
As you carefully unfold and gently press my form
Unfolding myself to you
The desire for new edges
Shapes us –
Convening at the crux
Our vertices press into transformations
And I fold into you, unfurling concurrently.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
The bar was crowded
hanging were the lights
that will absorb you
into the night
because you stared so bright
It reflects
the animosity your eyes
was speaking to me
perhaps it was unicorn,
speaking concurrently
I am pulsating
the beat was at my throat
very much like my heart
on the edge for you
Tell me, hang - man
(I died, hanging for you)
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 3:59 AM UTC
let me first
apologize; it is neither
fair nor right, that I have placed
you, human that you are,
upon a pedestal, made you
object of my affection,
concurrently greater and baser than
all of your peerage.
second,
let me apologize again.
I've been ****** up for
a while now, mentally and
blood alcohol levelly, and it is
not fair
that you have to deal with me at my worst.
third,
let me
apologize
once more,
because even at my best I was not
worth your time, yet I persisted
insinuating myself into your life when I
had no right to and that,
that was my cardinal sin, was it
not?
that I had the audacity to
love you, and then
to demand you
love me back.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
On a cold, bitter Christmas Eve, I wandered down an unknown path and at its end sat a small, isolated tree; it's branches – leafless and frosted with ice – shimmered and twinkled in the moonlight.
From that tree fell a frozen tear that shattered into a million pieces against the snow, concurrently with the resonating ring of a bell in my ears.
As tears rolled down my cheek, I whispered,
"I am too..."
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 1:17 PM UTC
Confined to this space, where nothing is clear,
suspended under the blue canopy of stratosphere.
A window stands between time's span and space,
unearthly wisdom derived from heavenly grace.
We fly on through like spray across the sky,
with our broad wings open to stifle the cries.
Above the equations, riding rivulets of jet streams,
we catapult into tomorrows, on wisps of dreams.
Soaring expanse of blue fluorescent universe;
There are times in solitude, we all feel the curse,
of fortunes missed, loves lost, or led astray,
concurrently violated by the vices of yesterday.
Confined by infinity, another day, another year,
suspended under this umbrella of stratosphere.
A window stands between time span and space,
unearthly wisdom furnished by heaven's grace.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
there's no instruction manual
for the day that cotton and
broken ceramic sentimentality
both lose their argument
and the bedsheets bleed
a blood better resembling magenta
than a dream-filled agenda.
there's no escape when
night time travels
come to an end.
there's nothing to knit.
Enough of the yarn
has covered cortexes,
capitalized on insomnia,
and nullified touch-
the only common sense.
it's common sense
that bruises don't heal
by applying pressure.
and brown eyes
and blue.
formerly, there is
underrated hue.
(If underrated could ever encapsulate oceans and the stars giving us light abundantly and concurrently from millions of years away.)
i unravel years as I lie
not sleeping,
reading up on different methods
to stop the bleeding.
of all of these shades of vibrant blue,
I choose the one that is brown,
but true.
i see these shades in unison
and when they inexplicably combine,
they are you.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC