"configuring" poems
She, my cutter,
my body, her cutting,
with tongue and finger nail,
any handy human implement,
she sculpts me to
her eye's configuring delight
she, grabs my wrist,
and my face
by her hands embraced,
unblemished once
now becomes scarred tissued,
no guise, no lies, no bearded mask,
no disguise -
all forsaken
hidden hardened skin,
speckled red/white translucent,
she kisses with adoration her
heart designed
objet d'art
*no better blade than she,
with every cut,
transformed, she becomes
my devotee,
I, her escapee,
I am her, she is me,
inseparable, my every command,
she obeys*
for our love cuts both ways
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
Everyone dismisses me as insane,
But I am a prophet,
Profiting,
On the inane.
When I get lost in stargazing
My cup of cardamom chai
Configuring constellations of cream,
I pocket piping hot horoscopes
Right out of the tea kettle.
Remember --
I drink in the universe,
Sanctimoniously symbiotic.
So the next time I offer,
To read your tea leaves,
Left dried at the bottom of the cup,
Don't scoff me off,
Because what I do,
Is translate the universe's art.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
basic arithmetic in terms of punctuation, otherwise? simply the arithmetic of punctuation: what does (,) equal? what does (.) equal? what does (:) equal? what does (-) equal? what does (;) equal? come on, quick! quick! give me a number!
to think, is to not narrate,
much of what is regarded as
"thinking", simply becomes as art
of narration
that is sofa-bound, i.e. so comfortable
that it feels it has no inclination
toward the use of hands as ever
being idle, it simply replaces
hands with a tongue...
hence: idle speech,
hence political speech;
so if the "devil" has work for idle hands,
then "god" has work for the idle zunge
(tongue)...
but most people don't think,
because their thinkling is solely about
narrating,
their day-to-day...
and i appreciate this custom,
in the cognitive realm...
i really do...
how many jokes ushered into
the void of one's silence, neither whisphers,
nor hummings, nor whistling...
wiser still, essentially unchanged...
but heidegger's aphorism no. 285
really bothers me...
the reader looking into the narrator
given the existentialist inverted commas
(iberian inverted questioning
¿ ? that's the first step toward
an iberian existentialism)
said the third person,
with third party sources, the middle man,
the second person, and then the reader
of the writer's original testimony?
if northern existentialism (french / german...
the english were too reactionary, and
too easily bored by the continental drift)
encompasses the tool that's " "
then the iberian tool has to be the inverted
question mark, i.e. ¿ ?,
sitting comfortably? no? how about a wheelchair...
let me just break your legs and your spine.
but aphorism 285: "worldview",
"grounding", "configuring"...
i don't understand this allocation of ambiguity,
and an italic stress on da-sein / da-sein...
aren't all the three descriptive elements /
adjectives the purposive sentiments for
originating the concept of dasein?
i had to counter with an iberian existential tool...
after all i said, 'he said', "we said"...
it's a third party medium
of supposed ambiguity...
if there's a santa claus (satan's clause),
then there's pontius pilate's clause,
found in the existential tool of double-ditto " "
or as the english like to say: inverted commas;
or the ritual: of washing your hands clean
from passing the judgement...
they're citation marks to be honest, come on,
let's be pompous, they donned 19th top-hats
at ascot's horse races! who's fooling who?
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
Drips and drops of lab-tested fluids
pouring lipids in curves all over the place
while pops and pangs of tiny cells
bubble and fizzle in petri disks and flasks
regurgitating out strands of fine DNA
mix and synthesis of unusual entities
bubbling cauldrons of chemical ritual
give rise to spells of mystic creation
boldly configuring new organic oddities
from lab nonsense to ancient theory
mitochondrial splits and caverns
entries into the unknown of man's babble
for the fine and final production of science's silk
that which is life
and undeniable to our being
so creation can forever stand tall and strong
in the triumphant art of recreation
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
It is appropriate to say thanks
To All who have bumped into me
To All that I bumped into
For without you, I would not
Know who I am
Grateful to all who stopped me
Thanking all who aroused a confusion
Believing we were destined to meet up
For without you, I would not
Know who I am
Conscience is busy configuring
Of thoughts, words and deeds
with or without purpose
For without them, I would not
Know Who I am
Overlapping with those of others
Is my conscience, I realize
Indebted to be of service
This I know
For without others, I would not
Know Who I am
Having known this unavoidable
exchange of influences
It would be futile
To move on without bowing
For without you, I would not
Know Who I am
I take a knee before you
With open arms
Imploring to let us be in peace
In all our dealings
For without you, I would not
Know Who I am
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
<>
“Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much?
Have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by Walt Whitman
§§§
*A night of reckoning, calculations repeated-checked, sums divided,
did I use too many, or not enough, words to be understood, verbiage eloquent,
did daytime reveal my poetic meanings, or double-occlude it’s essence?
I have reckon’d Manhattan Isle, circumnavigated its riverbed boundaries, a younger me, by kayak rounded it, from the Spuyten Duyvil Creek to the Battery, 14,500 acres give or take, a lifeatime to complete a dead reckoning, an unfinished full configuring.
but haven’t reckon’d that Earth and I will be entwined/entombed in each other’s arms, until such time, one of us or both, will be reduced to cosmic dust, our pride, our poems, will be equally unimportant and irrelevant, I reckon.
in retrospective rear view perspective, come to understand that we spend every moment of our lives, reckoning, determine the odds of which fork we will take, laugh out loud, for each moment, a poem is titled, the resultant, a poem - who needs a muse, you’ve got choices!
So, yes, Walt, the questing answers you’ve requested:
Aye, yes, yup, but no to pride, for pride and poetry in one sentence is
a death sentence at multiple levels, pride, poetry, ego, suicide,...sins,
so better no proud for it is the entree, the invitation to fall-fail...*
§§§§§
12:03AM Frieday
May 15th
my deadline missed,
but what is three minutes,
but empty pride...
Manhattan Island
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 8:51 AM UTC
The skill of the poetic linguist
is measured by
the reaction of the reader,
how they make them feel.
The use of tender,
imaginative-words
pushed gently from one side
of the written-line to the other
can create the desired effect.
Configuring
carefully-crafted stanzas,
& placing them
strategically
up & down
can sometimes elicit
the most reading pleasure.
Finding
the secret-sensitivities
of the heart can be tricky,
the most daunting of tasks,
but the skilled poetic linguist
can always find a way
it seems,
to create those
beautiful,
sensuous,
fiery-emotions.
And if you can find one,
just ask them
how it's done.
They are more than likely
ready,
willing & able,
to pen you a verse or two.
And perhaps,
maybe more.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 6:31 AM UTC
Your life was a constant
staring contest
with the barrel of a gun,
or bottle of pills,
or whatever it may be.
I don't think you ever
truly believed
things would get better.
I think they all forced it down
your throat.
Endless strings of letters
and numbers
configuring into
teen suicide statistics
and muttering
fine
and okay
whenever needed.
I thought you were nice,
despite your negative outlook
on life.
I'd love to hang out with you
again,
even if it is
just to hear you
complain.
I don't know why you
hated the world,
or why your humor
was sicker than you
ever were.
I don't know why
the stars never shone in your eyes,
or why the landing of '69
didn't spark your
everdying interests.
I'm guessing you didn't
either.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
stringing up a tapistry..
like a spider passively..
sensory is mastery..
emotions fail me tragically..
so if I see the moonlit water..
will nacht in German be my border..
configuring the astro stars..
confiding me in something far..
many miles of spun up web..
so perfectly wrapped up & dead..
admiring a thing so sweet..
we the living, feeling grief..
fleshy fetus, then we grow..
a world so round, is all we know..
starry eyes & energy..
experience will take the lead..
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 7:17 AM UTC
Running around the inbound of sound.
For all to see me deceive what I believe to retrieve,
the neglected objective that's been subjected in this mind of mine.
Consisting of time like fine wine of the intertwined kind will bind the blind line of mine.
The anticipation of the inevitable separation caused from the nations obliteration for youth.
What's missing is the truth.
I melt to help the self,
arose to arise the arisen distant prison crimson that listens with the minds eye.
such as I of the mind for the eye.
Distant assistant listening for missing lies.
whimpers, cries ,
exhales and sighs.
The fantasy in witch I see continuously runs into me.
Articulating fiction contradiction **** injuries.
Repetitive incentive meant to give intensive thoughts.
breaking the awakening making me shaking taking lots.
Monstrous past at last running fast from the masked blast,
new tasks.
Configuring manipulative structured meaning that's gleaming for redeeming intent,
and the time spent when it went bad.
It's sad but i'm glad I had bad dads .
Add a tad of reflection and redemption,
let me not mention,
my intention.
Side note( reading the writing fast helps the fluidity)
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
Activating the root;
over my loving overgrowth
the roots grasp ahold of me
configuring sounds from
timeless throats
into our auric field;
You are closing your eyes
to see, intuitively;
Meanwhile...
I am attempting to understand
the complexity of our enlightenment,
radiating for interconnected
oneness..
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
Love, lies in our emotions
Configuring the chambers of how we feel
In our veins, nerves, and imperfections
That thread to make our curves
Around each maze
The heart senses a new direction to turn
Sensations of familiarity begin to burn
This hurts, not having anyone to love
As I sense myself running in my own maze
With only one mission
To find inside of me, the hope that lies above
Above the darkness in our hate
In the struggles and obstacles we break
And for the moments of glory
That we sometimes cease to create
So I'll swim in this dense river
A body of love like water
And rise above this surface I bleed
So I can rid the hate of this world
And find a way for us to
Truly love another.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
Look at my hands.
They create and shape
Reality on my demands.
These scarred phalangies
contour concepts like destiny
deftly. Meticulously configuring
My Rubix's cube territory
Until the world before me
Is a model of what I wish to see.
I am a god
I will twist this existence
until I find it suitable
for my presence.
Only then my appearance
will be seen as a blessing.
Maybe then I won't have
to be loved from a distance
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Stubborn boy
Always treading mountains
Studying tables and configuring signals
Sending them deep into space
So far gone they will become black again
Reading slow
Maybe even more so
As capricorn’s last noise
Fills the air so clear
Purges the ocean of its madness
And the treasures buried deep below.
Stubborn boy
Will you not forgive yourself
And keep your lexis to you and God
For even now you
Cry a tear nobody will hear
Shake a violet ‘till the last petals whither
And fall to your feet.
Stubborn, stupid boy
And a rotten small thing
As it crushes you into a tiny
Uneven sphere of sadness and a grievance not so
Uncommon in funerals
And a marriage two fortnights awake
Alas a gift given is a gift taken away
A violet shaken is a flower unjustly undone
And a stubborn boy
Is a thing everyone will try to keep away from the darkness
But will not keep the darkness away from him.
Tried and true
You will suffer with the rest of them
It’s written here
In the oath you signed while your eyes
Still knew not the world
And your palms
Clean as a morning sky
Still brushed along the pavement /
Crafted globes.
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 7:14 PM UTC
Speak your wondering mind;
Lost and untold,
Let us unwind the fractured fragments,
Belittled sensed and reconfigure'd, that
Lived there.
Comatose and disfigured,
In absinthe,
Like star shine in a beautified
Distilled ease;
Touched and caressed by the
Breeze;
Calming your disease(s)
Breathing peace, precious, like emeralds and
Opals.
A mind once misused; Now an
Ingenue, configuring sparks of delight, making
Tempered pain among the night.
Stuck with strawberry's sight.
I sip on honeydew and pray
In my mind some
Lavish desires colored
Maroon (on fire); some
Sweet'nd mystical umpire calling my name and
Igniting my life aloud!
With proud, glistening oceans of
Dreams,
I am estranged;
Lost within a living cruel
Misconception of
Fairy tales in my heart
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
my frolicsome feet can only
imagine with their bones
the dream of what venture
requires me to go
farther to reach you.
it is with each step that
these passing trembles
conclude their premonitions.
it is when my hands wind-hover
in thick space that my mind
levitates itself and lifts to
draw with a shaking hand,
its own topography.
(x) is your place
(y) is mine
and somewhere in this
haphazard equation is an
algorithm that makes sound as
all the circles are small
without sides, and all shapes
continue to break without form,
encircling us now are the shards
of this equation's
fervent stridence.
all of this is stellified
without mind's authority -
only a heart's persistent longing
and a trifle of courage,
when these sordid amplitudes
flounder to no swaying,
there will be bridges for me
to stride on so as to
close the distances and
silence the enigmas
with their sought-for answers.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
nebulous galaxies
spiraling forth
stars collecting
in clusters lost
configuring
constellations in
space
and
time-
travelling
through
light-years
duly revolving,
aligning
with the Sun
and the Moon
suspended
in the interstellar
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 10:55 AM UTC
Undesirable words spit poison
Half masks worn on disfigured parts
Covered yet exposed
Dark figure roaming behind the curtains
Instant detest for the meek
An insatiable hunger to outlive
Try configuring the twisted; pointless
As hollow as a decomposing apple
Striving to be as perfect as the golden ratio
Fatuous dialogues; spare me the agony
Inflicting pain unto others as it was done unto you
Perfect concuction of distaste and repulse
**** it with a spear; permeable you ll find
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
The dark spirit of happiness
The cool drift of the wind
Kindness we need in the world
Hatred we have in the world
Fighting and configuring
But we always want more than we need
Blacks and Whites we have variety
We don’t like to meet other races
We rep our hood
In other words que rep nuestra campana
We marry our own race
But why?
We judge and criticize
This is America?
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
I pray straight out my misery
making it my prayer
no-longer asking for release
or configuring just the right words
its more honest and straightforward
when the God you pray to
knows exactly what you need
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
It's a sweet feeling
calm and delicate
and probably not as everlasting
as pain can be
But...
I am an alien in the world
I am not like them
And I never wished such a thing
I cannot help being myself
But...
I'm starting to enjoy, the ride
Never lose who I am
Never lose what I've found
Kisses, thrills, the will to leave!
(It's a naturalness in my life
I never knew before)
I am getting used to this
And I'm seeing life expanding in front of me
And things are sweetly functional
and the dysfunctional shows its face for me to slay
And all the waves washing me out
are part of life
That I'm being myself
and it's working out pretty well
All the pain makes sense, everything is still and moving
Everything is calm and shaking
I'm moving limp, but I'm moving
Optimistic moment - tears will follow
Everything is normal, everything is natural
The waves pulling me and pushing me - natural
Is it for real?
Things start to make sense
My life is configuring itself - the spells work
In all directions, good and wrong
The spell of loneliness, the spell of the house - dead
the spell of a new life
calling out for my name!
I make sense - for once!
Me? A part of the world?
I never had thought it, I would have not bet for it ever before.
But still, I don't feel I am a human or an alien anymore...
I am somewhere still to fathom
I am half everything
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 12:09 PM UTC
Festive and free,
The music echoed,
Emitting constant and positive vibrations.
It was widespread,
Trailing amongst the forest,
Configuring an overflow of desirable sensation.
The light of day
Featured spiritual energies
Brought on by the dark of the mystical night,
Which lead my wandering path
To the end of the lonesome road,
Bringing me to you.
Charismatic and alive,
You made a soulful appearance.
The moment is now,
So we lived for the influential experience,
As if it were never going to end.
All the beautiful spirits
Confined to their happy little sites,
And we were each other's savior
Just guiding each other home.
We rode the starry night
Straight into a plume of incandescent liquid love
Electric
Intoxicated
Passionate
Fellowship
Interwoven souls on fire
Ecstatic connection
Roaming the wavelength wild.
My brother,
My sister,
My lover,
My friend,
We've mended the static oppression,
An ancient philosophy
A genetic transcription for the world.
A freedom of love
No longer a slave to the human wreckage.
One love, baby.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
I loved you, beyond the grasp of words.
The paint brush I used to describe you
Was weak and withering
Needed re-configuring
Cause you were boundless
I loved you dangerously
Even when you hurt me
Scars and scabs
Nightmares in history
Bleeding insanity
Across the canvass of time.
I loved you even when you hated me.
The outsider, with ***** ideas
The spoken artist broken heart with this
Dark daring dreams
To help heal all human beings
When you were already so happy
Being subdued by propaganda
I loved your expressions
Your poetry, your sketches
Your philosophy and science
Your rejection of dogmas
When you had the strength
To reject them.
I loved your filth
Desire and rage
Lustful urges
***** thoughts
***********
Even when you beat me down
Like a trailer trash wife
When you reeked of hatred
Stunk of consumerism and racism
I still loved you
Even when I hated you
For breaking my heart
With all the bombs
And violence
When you turned my hopes to ash
When I watched you flash past
And finally come back
From dark ages to enlightenment
And back around again and again
I still loved you
I still love you
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 6:45 AM UTC
configuring pieces make
me laugh...guess I'm loose
in the dome.
Mikey boy, do me a solid and
tighten up those figures of
yours.
make sure it stays on the up
and up, here's my open arms
just in case.
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 2:14 PM UTC