"condenses" poems
See how this Trodden Commoner invites
With his Self cheers the Hero on the Board
As he predicts his proven Time and Sights
Another Inscrutable Win absorb
So much so it becomes the Nation's Theme
With Married Saints you dear Prince do us Proud
Even if your Light condenses to meme
At least those close to you will share your Cloud
I would only wish for your Halo's Morn
That a Wee Signature you could offer,
Poking your eyes from Dimensions and Form
And just see the Heart which knows no other.
Yes, I know. Seven-by-Ten Digits speak same
Most by Tradition. By nature are Dames.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
Tim O'Brien had the right idea
about carrying people and ideas;
we all have experiences that live within us
like a stain on our grey matter.
I carry with me every insult hurled at me,
caught by my web of sensitivity;
I lift them onto my shoulders,
my back creaking as I trudge on.
My insecurities are shackles at my ankles,
the chains tangling themselves and chafing my legs;
my knees knock and pop and shake,
my back creaks and groans.
The ghosts and spirits of the self-departed
dance their ethereal ballet about my soul
and howl their eerie opera through the night,
begging for forgiveness and understanding.
The heaviness of the future rests
inside the caverns of my cranium,
latching on to my thoughts
and chipping at my hopes.
Past loves plague our emotions
and rest in the deepest corners of our hearts,
reminding us of who we once were
and asking us what could have been.
A cloud of sadness condenses in my body,
little drops of dejection slide down my lungs.
My chest constricts and grows heavy
and pointlessly hopes to see the sun.
Everyone together carries the weight of the world,
but I'm not sure what is heavier:
the mass of the planet,
or the things its people carry.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
rain,
peaceful, calm
pouring, pounding, dripping
cloudburst, drizzle, vapor, condenses
murking, glooming, falling
shimmering, thin
mist.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
The misty fog outside,
condenses into a speckled bedroom glass.
Through which,
nestled deep under the blanket,
I hear the orchestra of a rainy 8am life.
Bothered by the unconducted iso-rhythms
of dripping water droplets,
dropping onto the metal window sill,
I peak my head out from under the duvet
and yawn out the stale air from my lungs.
I notice the coffee left for me
on the bedside table before she left.
I grasp the warm little blue cup.
I hear the birds in the trees somewhere below
warming up their sleepy little lungs.
I close my eyes and feel the cold air
through the window.
Hiding under my duvet,
I drift back to sleep.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:47 AM UTC
not the milk, you see, is too sweet,
thick, which will rhyme if i write,
for me.
thick like the wool that filled
breaches in the wall, saved the lives.
save some with shelter, needing shelter,
while others lean to watch the birds fly,
talk of the bell tower, and all the implications.
the man parked his car, tidily went to poundland,
bought cards.
sbm.
*notes verb
verb: condense; 3rd person present: condenses; past tense: condensed; past participle: condensed; gerund or present participle: condensing
1.
make (something) denser or more concentrated.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 2:44 AM UTC
John Scalla remembers
plain–clothed white coiffed nuns
in sunday school classes
who were the sweetest things
you’ve ever seen with a razors edge
carried proudly from an emerald isle
John Scalla spent his sundays digging
through big soft Bibles discovering
a father who loved everyone
as equally as he was thorough
a son born to wear a crown of blood
but never lost his most sacred heart
and a universal spirit’s open-armed
quiet embrace of your trembling frame
John Scalla was born to hold a communion
with something far more complex or
precise then our poor sweaty coils
wondering how bread could be body
and blood so eagerly consumed
John Scalla stole from complex pages buried
deep beneath outdated expressions
and miscommunicated messages
a simple cypher that condenses
all the rhetoric down to it’s square root
love
John Scalla locked the cypher
in that secret spot between heart
and stomach holding it close
dreaming on distant playgrounds
where it was slowly worn away
by bullies still casting long shadows
like limestone sphinxes now noseless
John Scalla’s distant playground dreaming
of a personal relationship with God are gone
because if He was there then that makes him
a single string of an infinitely intricate
vast woven narrative where he is only aware
of adjacent pieces unable to take a firm grasp
of the situation continuing to grow
John Scalla weaves narratives through
his prayers sending them nowhere
because they wouldn’t know where to go
with so many far-off stars dead and leaving
cosmic vibrations both here and everywhere
making it hard for them to escape with
their best intentions unmolested
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
10,000 steps to a poem
<~>
walk to save my visions, my subterfuge-self, trying to
encapsulate the moments, seconds of nano-instances of a
tableau of histories, of actions becoming interactions,
a physical mitosis, ground into one human paste of word-cells
by a singular mortar and pestle that more than blends, but condenses
walk in Whitman’s footsteps, prowl old cobbled
streets seeing them anew, listening to the patois
of each skyward pathway, a commingling of
catechisms, Tefilot, Salah, Stuti Karana, into a stampede becoming a tornado funnel of a multivariate alphabets singularity - a prayer|poem returning to birth-mother
rush homeward desperate to retain the holy mess of verbal music,
before aged eyes release the visions, into a heavenly lost but found
depot of single lefty gloves, snatches and refrains, hymnals, phrases,
10,000 preservation band steps keeping but scraps, weeping
for the so much lost, yet blessing-uttering thankful for this one,
to a one
*who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to
this moment, to this season.*
4/4/21
1:50pm
~writ by night, daylight born~
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 1:57 PM UTC
I've never felt so cold as when you taught me how to feel-
As each stagnant second pushes
The great pulsating vibrato of life
Further and further into
Yesterday,
Until nothing is left but memories
And stale tap water in a ceramic coffee cup:
The trembling scale by which we measure happiness
That is only felt after it becomes a memory.
Who determines the expiration date
Of emotion?
Your warm pulsating skin
And the hottest month in August
Can only be felt in photo albums
And subtle murmurs only heard
Past 3am.
I never meant to get this caught up
In life-
Breathing in the bitter reality
Of fragmented testimonies
Warning me of what's to come
And fragility of time.
Selfishly I **** the marrow out of
Every fleeting moment,
Scattering the bones across the graveyard of my unrequited mind-
A self proclaimed martyr of suffering
And good intentions.
The confinement of my sordid thoughts,
Condenses reality,
Into the tangible.
Freedom is only felt
In the aftermath of an earthquake-
Crumbled barriers now bear remnants of security.
Is this how it is to feel?
The nerves in my finger tips
Are hot and trembling, as I trace the
Faded outline of something too real
To ever be strained out into the world
Of the living.
Time and time again, I remind myself
Of the ineptitude of anything
That isn't born
Within the sacred hours of
Insomnia.
A distorted image scatters across my empty mind,
Casting shadows on the times where
Nothing mattered beyond the moment.
Life breathes in and out
To the rhythm of the broken record
That we relentlessly cram
Into our vacant hearts,
As if trying to drown out the hollow drone
Of the love
Manufactured in Sunday night sitcoms and materialized on Broadway.
Simple actors, we betray our inner wishes,
And sell them in the form of words
To a greedy audience, yearning to be reassured
That they aren't the only ones who mistake pain for something
Pure.
Time and time again,
I repeat my cynical mantra
Through the motion of my feet upon the ground;
Because, history repeats himself
Until emotion can no longer tread
The freezing waters of existence,
Leaving nothing but a trace of
Something that we foolishly lament with the names of a lover,
And drape with the revealing veil of time-
Mistaken for the truth,
And worshiped at the alter of God.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
Confessions of a dull blade, it tasted life as it
seeped and sealed death with Its last ******
It was inanimate but had existence of life seeped
in to its hilt,Voices silent trapped under the hand
Their grip soaking sealing in fallen silence, looking
in to the eyes of so many and then kissed there forehead.
A last rite the au revoir as the dull blade made slow
Work of a mummer, words bleed silence out.
They cherished this moment of intimacy, this personal
Exchange, of life and death, slumped on soiled ground.
Dull blade, tainted handle, of voices silenced this inanimate
Object of desire that crafted by another's macabre thoughts.
Blood congeals as life condenses into nothingness, walking
Away the dull gift takes it now pride of place.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 7:26 AM UTC
Spiralling downwards,
Bitter taste of coke slipping in between the bumps on your tongue
And months from now when I try to think about you
I will remember the way you looked at me
And how time stood still
So it felt just like you were standing across from me
Throwing your unsaid medals at my throat
I let them slide down to my chest
It burns
Like the acid streams of coke surfacing my lungs
And I cannot breathe
All I can think about is why do I cross paths with people I am not supposed to fall in love with
Coke sliding down your throat
Swallow your golden apologies you never were brave enough to say
Crackling fizzling drink
I have been in love with you since May
And every look out has been a habit, I still try to find you in a crowd
I still try to swallow the bitter fizzy only slightly sweet taste of coke down my throat
The same way I choke
On every apology I never said to you and how I almost but never did tell you how much your cheekbones remind me of the sunset.
Timeless
This drink will never age and neither will your eyes
Visceral bubbling youthful
I have been waiting on nothing
I feel the acid burn in my throat in my chest and it erupts as I ***** every scent I’ve had of you, every gaze we have exchanged while she looks at you and smiles
Electric
Like the fizz that touches the insides of my stomach
I want to look at you and smile
And all you do is watch me
Sipping through your straw
I am drinking coke
And your eyes say it has been a while and look at me, look at what I do I want to show you what I do because it has been far too long
Child
I am not a child I am a hazy incense drifting through hollow walls, corridors and people infested places
Everywhere I turn I cannot breathe
I need something to quench this thirst of longing
I have collected from every instance I never get to see you, every moment you look at me and she is with you
I want to keep these aluminium tabs
I want to push the bubbles down your throat, tell you this is how I feel every time I look at you and you look at me and we say nothing
I want to tell you I have been doing just fine
And that you are wearing the same shade of red I’ve been feeling and this coke can shares the red we are crying
I want to say I am sorry I looked back and I wished so very hard
Sohrab
You are between these lines the coke can holds, every droplet that condenses on this metal surface, cool
I have something to hold and I don’t know what to feel
Only the acid taste of coke
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
I miss you and my skin shivers
The heaves of the flying engine
The sky of our heavens angel
Amiss and my soul webbed in a bay
As the mist of the dew condenses
The waters flows in our artistry
Our chemistry a fizzle unreactive
Our feeling dances as a spirit of its own
The miss and want to walk my finger
Rest it on your bare hairless chest
The miss to walk and pluck a hair
Resourcefully induce a prickly pain
I miss you and my tear flitters
On the trail of the cave I touch
****** the walls that hang your heart
I miss you as we shield our soul and shell
At the crossroads where the devil turns
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 4:20 PM UTC
you chew on coffee beans to cleanse your mouth of this
one long silence
it is open like a wound
it festers
when your breath condenses in the cold air you feel its presence
with icy hands it holds yours
it is patient
it is strict
chewing gum is not sufficient; it is sweet, it makes you wonder
about sugar crystals
they grow like bones
they are brittle
but the taste of blood, of coffee, of chocolate with no milk is good
you can remember without remorse
you can sit and think about dreams
without letting them in
and all your pain can stay subcutaneous
as long as you don’t speak
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
The moisture congregates on the surface,
and a single drop condenses quickly.
With a blink, it is released.
This salty drip of anguish,
it will crash to the ground below,
or absorb into my clothing,
Until I am drenched, in tears of woe.
One after another, emanated from each cavity,
each oculus becomes clouded, with liquid distress,
as I sit here reduced, to a beautiful, rueful, mess.
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
I cannot fit in these circles they build me
I cannot be bullied outside my reality
I cannot be dragged in their dark tunnels
I cannot be drugged inside their quarries
FOR
When all fades away the 'self' has to be whole
When all shades the 'self' within has to reconnect
The 'self' has it's own shell that crowns it's life
The 'self' is an open field shielded from the storm
My 'self' will not indulge in the mediocre cranes
My 'self' will not be spotlighted for egoistical tunes
My 'self' redeems as it condenses in the mist of the dew
My 'self' is my ultimate repentant, a repellant from the norm
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 7:43 AM UTC
Deep perfume seeps still from the fallen rose Down down endlessly
filling the air with all that is pure, and soon all that is not
diamonds glisten upon its skin Sparkling in the summer heat, he
knows this won't be the end
moisture condenses around his roots, the tree growing up into
heaven, life surging around him, springing, growing, ripping
through the thick and crusted earth. Pun i ca gra na tum is such a complex word for what here has come to pass. the roots shooting down and spreading, their mirrors filling the sky, soaking up our
shining beams of phantasmal brilliance.
Only those loved have names wouldn't you Agree some are special
to the producing world, and Others are left to rot, take the fruit of a morning lily, no one loves her, yet she bears all the same
something stirs within his being, some new body grows out from
inside, some new some new some new something new. The sky fills
with blood espousal carillon, their pods filling rich and new,
chiming out for all to hear the dawn rising, the birds flying, yes,
hear them fly above as you watch their song paint the sky in cool
purples and blues.
Color is so trite and love is so outdated and there are those who
wish for the end of the world as well Creation falling to the Ground
as the rosebud does in winter
united in final ecstasy, the bells descend as dying mistrals unveil
our sinking crown, sound-bow dripping away
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 8:19 PM UTC
Step 1
"I love you."
Get your ready-made heart
Tender from the bruises
Because of last night's dream about him
Step 2
"I still care for you, as a friend."
Season with salt
Not the type that comes in a box
But the special kind
That comes from his warm breath
And magically condenses on your cheeks
Step 3
"So I like this girl now.."
Let it sizzle
From the uncontrollable jealousy
Let it spit
At that innocent girl
But let's not kid ourselves now
The only thing getting burnt
Is your heart
Unexpectedly
A layer of frost
Surrounds your heart
A defensive mechanism
Now an ice box
Exhausted
From the painful bruises
The salty tears
Burning anger
The icy numbness
Darkness takes over.
Repeat step 1
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
it was a magical moment
cottonwood falling like snow
sunlight catching the edges
adding halo's glow
gentle floating angel feathers
drifting about from above
we sat enraptured, quiet
basking in simple pure love
moments come to us like that
blink an eye, then they're gone
yet lasting forever, eternity
forever that moment lives on
all of time, of human existence
condenses into that single space
treasure the gift we've been given
experience a moment of grace
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
We are not the ******* first summer rain, anymore. When heated water vapor condenses and unstable airs break through, we are now as dangerous as thunderstorms, cracking and flashing and desperately wanting to burn the whole sky down.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
Anticipation tiptoes from table to table.
My Jelly Roll Soul
Sets sail for Alice’s rabbit hole.
In front of a hushed, hip crowd,
The music condenses into a scarlet cloud,
And originality speaks aloud.
A trumpet sounds,
A subway car rumbles underground,
Signaling all the cool cats
That it’s time to get down.
A virtuoso teases black and white keys,
Shaping notes with subtle expertise.
The closest I’ve ever seen, man come to mastering machine.
Slowing the frenzied, fractured step of the East Village above,
To E’s. Legato ease.
Optional Z’s
Leave many without sleep,
For who could snooze
At times like these?
The alto-sax
Is bending C’s!
Just listen in, on that wailing bassoon,
Who howls to the moon.
It might be noon,
Up there.
But that’s up a flight of stairs,
And I’m enjoying my jazzy state of affairs.
There will always be time for Nostalgia in Times Square.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 2:57 PM UTC
i’m awakened by the
climb of the chime of your
mirror bell as you zip
above me like the shadows
of the golden metal that echo
in my ear.
but it seeps so strangely under
your clenched fists, as i watch
you pedal and ascend
one knee after another,
as sweat condenses on the
handles, and streamers sputter in the wind.
all i recognize you feel is blur,
and the substance we need
to pedal, fill your mouth and
choke muscle and tendon,
as our cartilage crammed turbines rise and fall
like the pant of your lung as you tricycle
away from the choker covalently
bonded to the first of all that matters.
yet we giggled - we snorted,
while printing the memory
on your chip as the disc swerved away.
rue had let you run over my
toes with our red.
you rose and fell over
the unseen ivory bones; and i pleaded for
a motion of cyclical squeeze more
potent than a chip and a
wheel gone awry.
such as our disc shattered
in two, i stooped on our
step with palm under arch,
limp from the stubs of nails
that bled out like thorn bush
creaking to the zip code that a
tricycle is no bicycle when one
wheel decides to drift away.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
Top down on a rented convertible
The directors, the tabloids,
The husband and kids— leave them
with the city traffic.
The humming of the engine
makes my toes vibrate
as I nudge the accelerator with my
size 11 foot.
I want to see
Azure skies, desert landscape
Lizards basking on rocks.
I’d adopt a coyote
He would teach me how to sing
Because he admires my long nose.
On the road, I feel the
power of abandonment—
Infinite. Priceless. Immortal.
My excitement rises with the speedometer
I would make it to Mexico City by nightfall
The birthplace of my mother.
I write her name in the sky
It waivers with humility
Condenses into streak marks
on my windshield.
Her reflection winks back at me
in the rearview mirror.
Ahead, I see dusk and
the milky colors of city lights.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 8:21 PM UTC
Tamir is Israeli. I don't know what that means beyond he speaks Hebrew, came at one point from that area, and keeps dark-skinned friends.
I'm trying to cultivate a lethal talent
because one day I want to **** people
by painting them as they are
(and when you're known
as yourself
you have
nothing else)
but all my days are micro montages, characters
grandiose, come and go
drink a beer, do a line, perhaps
chat about the politics of
Germany France UK Belgium a
little high.
and then they go.
this is a great city on maybe
the world's longest coast
and odds are tomorrow, 87%, the whole day will be
grey and fog and a halfdark cloak
with a sort of haphazard mist that isn't rain, but
somehow in the grey condenses enough to
slippen tiles, dampen jackets, water roses
where everywhere it blow.
within four weeks men in black jackets, ties
sunglasses and training will come for me
and though I have accomplished much and
in a way am capable I
will try and throw myself from a nearby cliff and I
dream at night of the slope, of
wonder how far out I'd have to leap
to hit the highway below.
(and honestly politely hoping I
don't disrupt too much traffic when I go)
because there is a life lived and a life worth living and this
molecular decomposition holds
no loyalty on me. but I guess I had some
faith that I would live to....
that I would live.
I saw my life a grand tapestry. thought my
idolatry would eventually
coalesce into at least one great novel, Bildungsroman, tale of
development and
I guess that's been taken away from me.
and I've prepared ill-ly only exercised in
beat/postmodern poetry. l will
maybe soon stumble from the cliffs or
handcuffed bite my wrists, and
take any artery I might rend open
and all particles, unfettered, heartless bits. nonwritten novel, this is it...
there is the west and then there is the ocean.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
watching in amazement
dumbfounded and oooh,
the wonder of a cold chill shivers..
upon my spine
down every bone
changing my tone
from wonder
confused
to highly amused
the gears turn so slight
just past twilight
the growl, houls..
of my midnight swoon.
watching with the intent
seemingly full of ideas...
just whisper what you like
you'll see the kitten come out tonight.
little purrs
light loving scratches
watching the toes curl
eyes roll back and close
all of your triggers
to suddenly...
STOP.
end of line,
the thought of you on my mind
as a pair,
the air heats and cools
and the moisture condenses
thrown off
feeling sky high
or a few miles in flight
realizing that hearing the birds
outside..
we're up all night
playing online.
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
We dine off of hearts
goaded from the sea.
Hearts drawn to dead promise
and
cold hooks.
The gills
taste metallic
and the flesh is sweet
with mercury.
The haul is yanked overboard,
and the tuna fly
like angels of vengeance
to our dinner tables
where wine
condenses the poisoned bodies
into forkfulls
of pleasure.
The meat is sweeter
than anything we have ever tasted,
we hope that it puts us to sleep.
Not wanting to ****
or cherish
the bones of each other's bodies
has led us to gorge
on these fish,
these harbingers
of comas
that we are too awake
to realize
are the dreams of the stars
filtered through the
diamond-studded
rollers of the Pacific.
The blue and cold Pacific
it pumps out
the fuel for restaurants.
Restaurants
where we gnash our teeth silently
against oily meat.
Restaurants
where I have a drink
and you have a drink
and we have our fill
on vicarious oceans
that decay in the parties
of our bellies.
Tonight we will sleep
because we are drunk
with poisoned meat.
Robbed meat.
Catastrophic
is the grinder of your mouth.
A goaded heart
is an atomic bomb
and we have our fills on them.
Until we no longer want to ****
The mercury
courses.
The waiter
dashes back and forth.
The cook
slices and dices.
The fishers haul in a line
ten-ton lines of bycatch.
All for a single forkful
of the most sugary
thing
two people can share
when their bodies
are useless
and wheezing for the oxygen
of a purified love.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC