"conjectural" poems
To some it’s all conjectural,
Philosophically conceptual.
You think you’re intellectual
But your reasoning is ineffectual.
Reviled both by heterosexuals
Insulted as well by homosexuals
And some ugly issues contractual
We are the besmirched bisexuals.
While it is the opposite of equality
It is the essence of our reality,
A warped straight-centric morality
Based on a Christianist plurality.
The straights tell us we must decide
Then put the other gender aside.
The complaints range far and wide
Even gay people opt to deride.
We don’t feel welcomed anywhere inside.
Why doesn’t tolerance coincide
When nobody seems to take our side?
It’s freedom, get on the bus and ride.
While it is the opposite of equality
It is the essence of our reality,
A warped straight-centric morality
Based on a Christianist plurality.
We know, after years of research
Gender choice is not learned in church.
It can be shaped with rods of birch
But those are better for birds to perch.
Denying us freedom is an ugly lurch
Past including truth in a morality search.
Back to when we were ruled by a church
And any variance was besmirched.
While it is the opposite of equality
It is the essence of our reality,
A warped straight-centric morality
Based on a Christianist plurality.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
Stardate whatever.
The Klingons are attacking and my tricorder isn’t functioning.
Conjectural and anointing the furrows of my phaser blasted brow.
There you are.
A messy image in the transporter beam.
Gleaming and swaying amongst the particles of dust.
“I’m impossible to save,” I say.
“So save yourself, this planet is about to blow.” I say again.
It seems our universal translator isn’t working.
Otherwise, you would have left me.
Trusting is the hardest part.
I’ll do without it.
Beam me up Scotty.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
his breath washed against me
like the sea into a pier
in the brown gloom of his basement apartment-
the greenness of our unemployed summer days
halted by Arsenault's phone call
those deep azure ripples in the mohawk river
tinged with creamy moonlight
brought this life to the shore
here we go lie down, lie down-
a conjectural pernicious crimson tide
we wore black as midnight
like still, ominous birds
shrouded, our eyes a profligate deluge,
the cemetery inundated with pink brio
and the ****** yellows of inexpedient sunshine
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
CONJECTURL AMBIT
The earliest thought- I was a blind rock: mineral feeling of an uncut idol, my pressed wings induce a false sleep. I don't trust me as part of a building because my frozen nerves are still related to ****** business and my stability depends on old things' roots. Like a snail in the memory's spiral I make slow circles in a Levantine tower, living places are overlapping to form an upright native land, a growing mirror with all my moments in a wintery evangelical succession, annular heads raising from a well where peoples' liquid mind mix. I can hardly bear it, wearing fancy clothes I try to cover the mythological Meat, the inhuman side of the flesh, the anatomic stains. Drinking tea I clean my conscience, oh, lovely furniture and fine art objects, do you realize that I'm completely happy in your abstract presence? Do you realize that you keep my eternity in precious fragile eggs? You bloom at the end of the matter, you touch the other sky, the brown heavy sky polished by silvery cats-indefinite slippery ideas about beauty, the intimate effort of a deeply ploughed woman in order to cicatrize herself. The meadow's malachite door is open, I can see the primary glaucos mass of terrible friends, butterfly marrow, the viscous veins of raw angels, my negative steps under the ruined house, our unforgettable bodies swimming in the magma. So, I'm a resting beast between fish and bird, nothing is totally seen or totally heard, this light Protection, the transparent humanism is the only glamour of the organism
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
“I broke with the virtuality yesternight”.
Your hands as numb as the winter of some unreached epoch;
as traumatised as the rays of this moon—
borrowed and leaden.
Diddering by the cold morrows of life,
your soul is already downfallen,
out of the blue,
by this last good-bye.
You are through the endless seasons of fall,
with no spring foreseen,
your spirit at stake;
your fall, an eventual doom.
Your eyes are drowning in the ocean of death,
where even in the best of the boards, you're wrecked.
While, I stand as stiff as mountains,
with the same impoverished gesture of last adieu;
concieted by the delight of pain bequeathed to you.
You are the object of my empirical yet conjectural fortune—
that, I poetise now.
In your heart, broken, lies my dwelling destroyed,
and I would soon find myself mislaid or a doomed grave.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 5:19 AM UTC
Am I winning?
Have I won?
Am I living?
Yes, I am.
Am I living?
Yes, I am
Have I lived?
Yes I have
Lo, and be hold
beholden’ on
this is the future, my future, your now,
you may change what comes next,
but my bit of this idea was thought
some time ago.
----
say stretch, tendere, eh, say stretch
yo’ sorry ol’ attent-attention
three sibling boys march past me
counting cadence, 30 per
hup two three
--- why is this so easy to see
as real in any
boy I ever knew, the boy who leads
is 12, the sarge is 8, pfc is 5,
War, The idea of war, itself, an imagined
anthropomorph
in many fantasy experiences, in tranced
story-wise, tuned to the game
as to life, these see war as game theory,
rage from another age
lurks among the liars, there flattened
on the inner edge of the wall they wished
to form from fear and hate idea viruses.
Yes, Seth’s original strain, pure conjectural
objects orienting precepticons…
Can you see me now?
Am I living?
Yes, I am.
Ecce **** Augmento.
Yah. You may say… whoso ever
or who so
ever or whosoever makes peace
appear
as here, at this point, in time
we think of as then and now, you know.
Wake up, take your watch.
Nov 24, 2021
Nov 24, 2021 at 7:40 PM UTC
some conjectural nonsense on a day
where she is working late
and I'm listening to her playlist
since we are, I mean I'm nearly positive
I am, therefore,
there can be no zero,
I got to looking at mathematical
conundrums, why?
your guess is good as mine.
What is 0 divided by zero, the question
pondered.
I looked through all the differing opinions and listening
to a favorite love song of ours,
recalling in all the detail
our fantastic times together,
the meals together, no one else
around a snuggle on the couch watching Netflix,
(where every movie has Morgan Freeman in it)
the calm contentment of nothing else
to prove nothing left to need, I had
her here,
and some argued 0/0
was one others said it was
undefinable a few said it was infinity,
and before I knew it,
It was seven o'clock and she was going home,
texted me that.
And I played real quick
a song we danced to way back when
last year, November it was
and I had her in my arms for real.
And,
I decided....there ain't no zero.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC