"constructs" poems
I know you.
Sitting behind a screen in your room,
Sipping in the shadows of a coffee shop.
iPhone, iPad, iAm "Anonymous".
The most dangerous word you can be labeled,
The most double-edged of weapons-
Anonymous.
You're never really as untraceable
As the cleared browser history says you are,
Never as untraceable as the chain of destruction you cause is traceable.
You're never really as invisible
As the checked box lets you think you are,
Never as invisible as the scars you direct a hand to make are visible.
One word can't be all that.
Anonymous can't be so dangerous.
Some clicks on a keyboard can't be so devastating.
There's a reason it used to be difficult to avoid responsibility.
Because responsibility for your words, for what you cause,
Is what allows you to see a few steps ahead.
Your signature is what allows you to learn from mistakes,
To vow after you've learned the hard way to think before you act.
To see that those words have two names attached to them now.
The writer, and the subject.
Two traceable, visible people.
Two hearts beating and breathing, now connected.
Anonymous constructs a wall between action and reaction.
It robs you of responsibility.
Yes, responsibility is a prized possession, there to teach and show.
Anonymous allows you to settle.
It robs you of the greater person you could become.
Yes, your future holds more than this, there beyond the wall of cyber bulling.
I hate that I was once Anonymous like you.
I hate that I unknowingly controlled the strings
Of a self-destructive marionette hand miles away.
But I don't hate you. Because I know you.
I know you are more than the mistakes you've made behind that screen.
I know you are more than Anonymous.
So prove it.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Oppression Ownership Poem
1/26/2014
Why do we lead our hearts by the hand
into our lovers' volatile elements
quicksand mixed with fire
Why do we blame it on desire
say the heart wants what it wants,
but mine doesn't want this at all
Stop.
Alleviating your hearts of guilt and shame
because they're doing it perfectly.
to fall in love and be willing to take set backs
Stop.
Let's take a step back.
Give our hearts back their guilt and ownership
over the oppression of a heart beat you can control
but actually choose not to.
Stop.
Hear that?
It is the sound of a heart beating,
barely breathing
but
Stop.
Now we've fixed it
the problem we couldn't solve
but don't absolve
yourself of sin yet
We've got another oppression needing to be handed over
false ownership we play pretend.
rather than play in a playground with each other.
we blame another for our heart's oppression
but right now in this room
I am the only one holding a broom
trying to tell you that you can't sweep it out
out of your mind
or cover it up with doubt.
I'm not saying don't blame society for creating social constructs of love.
I'm not saying that we don't live in a world that is filled with a sickness
a sickness in some to say that like this we can't keep on living,
because
stop.
We can
and we have
and we cannot and have not
given up on each other, just on ourselves
with every breath we use to utter
that famous druther
that our hearts are victims.
needing to be fixed.
that the world wants to see us suffer
that we can't own our emotions they are far too mixed
with envy and rage and the deepest sorrow anyone could never know.
but I do know,
that
stop.
I do know
that stop
that
stop
stop.
I do know
no I don't.
I don't know but that's for you
to figure out
How to feel your heart's oppression
but don't keep it under ownership
instead let it out.
squeeze it out through your soul
before it gets to take its toll
you have too much to do on this planet
or even on mars, somewhere far up when you reach the stars
because you shine brighter than bullets baby.
when they get shot and hit something leaving a lasting impact.
you pierce through the hull of a steel ship
with that wicked bite of your lip
when your silver tongue speaks golden beauties.
to my wicker ears eager to be burned
with the splendid delight of your brilliant vocalizations
shouting, screaming, taming, keeping an eye opening message.
that you do not own your heart's oppression
and thus it does not own you neither.
because you lived it but it is not your life
like your heart
when you felt it
but did not control it
not because it was out of your control,
but because you chose to set it free,
and so too,
you should be,
rise above your society.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
I know there are footprints in the sand as I walk...I just choose not to look back.
The tide will come and wash them away...erasing where I've walked, as I start a new path.
A new journey. One that constructs infinite golden dreams with so much belief in happiness & imagination...enhancing our minds through blissful thinking, supporting the art of insanity, those crazy enough to paint love & passion in their destination.
As we continue to make new footprints in the sand, the ocean of memories past continues to wash them away.
I know I have so many more footprints to make ahead of me...I know I have more memories that will eventually all wash away.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction
the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.
Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human--
looks out of the heart
burning with purity--
for the burden of life
is love,
but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.
No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love--
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
--cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:
the weight is too heavy
--must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.
The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye--
yes, yes,
that's what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.
San Jose, 1954
6.5k
A Serotinous Pine there,
Where winter snows soak into thirsty soil but relentless summer sun bakes motionless
Every plant a tinder held close to conflagration,
in a season's Russian roulette of forest fire.
This pine seals precious seed away from every spring’s promise,
lest burning destroys every one.
Only searing heat during torched consumption triggers the last gentle act,
At the knife’s edge of apocalypse itself,
opening cones of seeds.
Fluttering down to new life on the other side of time.
Tiny bright green amid black ashes.
Swimming Penguins
Birds evolved to fly in ocean.
Wings to flippers, feet stepping clumsily from water.
Yet eggs must still nest, their babies still breathe.
Safety is the very precipice of existence, on bitter ice at 60 below,
Sheltering their young clustered from blistering winds,
fasting from sustenance,
While heaven’s glorious Aurora flame silently over their winter dreams.
So what then are we, on This Earth?
Cerebral Creatures, Storytelling Animals.
Minds created to sense spiritual constructs.
Living is the method of our creation,
Sheltering each other from inherited trials
With contrived joys and sufferings distracting each other
from the soul freezing fearful cold of the Empty Void
And consuming fire of electric chaos.
In the End, our sacrificing gift for our children
is God.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
remember to always follow your dreams.
starting this conditioning early instills the message so deep
that you're never quite aware, that in order to follow
your dreams you must first remain asleep
this is how they've created generation after generation
of obedient, self absorbed, consumerist sheep
where nothing is more precious to yourself then
the possessions that we keep
conforming to what's cool
owning the newest technology
and never looking cheap
join the hottest trends, stay in the loop
you're rising high on the social ladder
a fall from here is awfully steep
the fear of this fall turns you into a materialistic creep
these social constructs we all need to together break
or no one in our western society will ever truly be awake
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
Hip hop. Equals art stop. That crude **** stopped musical fusion
Right in its tracks.
When it first landed, it was still music with a lotta spittle flying.
Not naming names. I listened to a lot of it.
Then Gangsta rap hit. Oh ****
Cant accuse me of blind judgment, I still check it out from time to time
How do you say.Get diverse mud flappers. Know the history.
learn to play an instrument and read it so you can write it. Then come back an see me.
Who am I?.
John Q public.
Pavlov's dog.
Tin Pan Ali.
Long Tall sally.
Sachmo. Scratch less.
Yard-bird.
Donald Bird.
Stubborn ****
Stuff out there is weak as thrice used tea bags. And cost more to get unless you got
a peg leg and a parrot ******** on yer shoulder.
Lyrically, man my six year old says more about less with **** left over. What?
Flame out digitized No talent constructs that make me wanna hurl, url give a dog a bone.
Tin eared, tone def hoochies and synthetic cool cats. Not to mention the rough neks.
Looking like they pooped their pants six times and forgot how to belt up.
There are some real deal talents out there but it is like pickin peanuts out ****
After disco died. Yes I said disco. It has been a circle **** in the cemetery after dark. Naw mean.
But I digress.
.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 4:42 AM UTC
Solemnly and silent
In subtleties she calls to me
Falling into my heart caverns
And running through my veins
Through my body
And where I am she’s close to me
Exuding watercolor dreams
Like a painter reacquainting me
With once greyish reality
And every morn, I hear her sing
In voice that constructs melody
As if to say to newest sun
To shine ever still
All subconsciously
And I would follow lyrically
Each instruction as they ring
Like notes in my mind harboring
This subtle, silent calls to me
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 12:53 AM UTC
She said she couldn't describe how she felt.
Maybe it was like having stomachaches in the Panera bathroom
or ******** about the erred logistics in the directions
or the echo of my *** on the toilet bowl.
It was probably more like asking a friend to explain the meaning of the phrase "social constructs."
It was more like that.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
The flames branching upwards in a spire
It's cruel twists never seem to tire
A dark soul comes from the fire
It's Sam, a kid they all admire
Fables try to claim thee
Through stories of a tree
Branching upwards in a plea
A widow stares at a stain, left by the rain
Constructs a local fane, all in her saviours name
Caught between the fear and guilt
Of living off someone's fame
Knowing the day it all stops, she'll be engulfed by a flame
Abaddon is calling, Ezekiel is balling
Babylon returns
Mathias saw the world, while Belial just watched it burn
With immense follow through
The path becomes true
As he watches triple 7's disciple scamming for a buck or two
Out on a past due lease
The Man Of Peace
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
Writing a poem.
There are lots of things that contribute to the outcome, the poem.
-Certain words hold a hard to describe sensation to them, they're made to evoke some feelings and also give a sense of unique kind of rhythm. Had the writer used a synonym, it wouldn't have the same impact on the reader. He's like mysterious chemist adding proper ingredients to his mixture to make it work perfectly.
-The way a writer constructs the poem leads to rhythm as well, how he decides to start a new verse that divides a sentence, the way he locates words - or even blank spaces - on the surface of sheet - the field of his performance - it all contributes to the creation of imagery. Therefore, we can see that creating a poem isn't just writing words. It's how you put them together, too. A poem that's being created, sometimes slightly wanders away from the realm of plain writing - and goes beyond.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
She constructs by hand
Seven circles in the sand
A seed of life
Part of the flower
Of her life’s power
In word and art
Oscillating vibrating
Harmonic healing
Sent to me
Sacred geometry
r
1 Aug 13
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
The streets are clear, we're hydrophobic
Hoods propped by hats and socks pulled high;
The rain brings peace to the agoraphobic
Puddles form moats and clouds fill the sky.
Splash, droplets hit the window,
chauffeured by the gale outside.
Squint your eyes and flash back
boats tilt starboard, with the tide.
The captain shouts to the decks, paranoid
'Clear the decks and brace for impact'
Without turbulence we are disenfranchised
Boredom becomes us when we're boring.
Shake it off and stare at the dot to dot
the residual carving of water as it slides
Another droplet falls beside it, parallel
it aligns, growling thunder overhead.
Without stirring we are robotic workforces
Without awaking we are left inside
The constructs created for us, by corporate-
conglomerate elitist-psychopaths.
Two drops of water on the window
simmer red with burning anger.
Crash lightening sears the sky
Rage becomes you, girders melt.
The starry night undercurrent, flings
us backwards, never up, as democracies
which seek to serve sink into a sea of
stocks and shares, the wall street journal
sits atop the captains lobby, economies
were meant to tumble as the working classes
fumble for bread, men in suits gaggle
and toast to the millions they left for dead.
Resistance is futile, when eighty-five
of the richest suit owners sit on currency
that was meant for the three point five
billion who aren’t driven by gluttony.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Among the most necessary things
for the survival of intellectual constructs
(such as personal rights, privileges, and information in general)
is the notion of Satyagraha, as coined by Gandhi:
The notion of Peaceful Non-Compliance
to the ******** of your time.
It is truly Compassion manifest.
Civil Disobedience is a Virtue
of which you will never hear in our Schools or Churches
or on packages at Wal-Mart
or from Politicians.
Civil Disobedience is the Voice
that cannot be taken until your Death.
Civil Disobedience is the Music and pulse
of a truly living Culture.
Civil Disobedience is the respectful denial to conform
to the laws imposed and policies enacted
by those who are undeserving of such power,
or those who abuse the power they so grandiosely wield.
Civil Disobedience is necessary
for the survival of a thriving popular Democracy,
and thus is punished by the Authoritarians
who use Democracy as a veil for Totalitarianism.
Civil Disobedience is the only vote you'll ever be guaranteed in your life.
It is Democracy seeking refuge in Vigilantism,
It is Anarchy embodying the greater good.
It is what must be done in the face of Oppression by Authority.
I most sincerely and personally maintain:
Civil Disobedience is a Virtue,
Civil Disobedience is a Need,
Civil Disobedience is a Philosophy.
Civil Disobedience is Peace and Harmony
in the faces of Chaos and Tyranny.
Civil Disobedience;
Peaceful Non-Compliance
Respectful Dissent
Informed Resistance.
Pacifism is not for the faint of Heart.
-\-
*Then again,
the options are few
when we couldn't fight back
if we needed to.*
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
1056
There is a Zone whose even Years
No Solstice interrupt—
Whose Sun constructs perpetual Noon
Whose perfect Seasons wait—
Whose Summer set in Summer, till
The Centuries of June
And Centuries of August cease
And Consciousness—is Noon.
3.7k
Notice how he has numbered the blue veins
in my breast. Moreover there are ten freckles.
Now he goes left. Now he goes right.
He is buiding a city, a city of flesh.
He's an industrialist. He has starved in cellars
and, ladies and gentlemen, he's been broken by iron,
by the blood, by the metal, by the triumphant
iron of his mother's death. But he begins again.
Now he constructs me. He is consumed by the city.
>From the glory of words he has built me up.
>From the wonder of concrete he has molded me.
He has given me six hundred street signs.
The time I was dancing he built a museum.
He built ten blocks when I moved on the bed.
He constructed an overpass when I left.
I gave him flowers and he built an airport.
For traffic lights he handed at red and green
lollipops. Yet in my heart I am go children slow.
3.3k
YOU aint no gangsta.
With a pistol grip pump.
******* underaged girls
For money to buy junk.
You’re a player for sure.
Playin with minds of children is easy.
Capitalist pigs like you make me queasy.
You smashin the man?
Youre jackin off to the sounds of the system,
Beatboxin records while the ignorant minds listen.
To illusions of grandeur…
Your caddy rims rollin.
All the while corporations controllin
Your mind.
YOU aint no gangsta
With a pistol grip pump.
youre just a **** Prick-average guy
Walking a racial divide
Elitist **** telling another whitemans lie.
To the masses of laborers.
Buyin what you be sellin
Your notions of success
Aint my version of rebellin.
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
Someone told me talking to women was completely different from talking to men
Familial desire circumventing physical rationality
I don't ******* get it
Flesh is flesh
There is no separation between this body and the next
No delineation save for my own arbitrary ones
This world is chaos bound by imposition
And none of it is real
I'm not even going to say middle class conceptions of family are constructs
Everything is a construct
Knowledge is anthropic chaos
Don't pretend you can tell the difference between essential existence and our subjective reordering of boundless matter
A gap does not form between a molecule of air and a molecule of flesh
I am trapped in my own sensations but I am not defined by them
So back to the story of material existence reduced to reproductive imperative
Treating all of the other *** as a means to displace one's self beyond annihilation into temporal infinity
Who ******* cares?
Legacy does not carry on after death
Legacy does not even carry through life
Language breaks down the moment we open our mouths
No one will ever view your life the way you view it
Splashing through a pool, ripples morph all reflections into monstrous amalgamations
Hey, tell me
Do you even remember yourself that clearly?
Hollow triumph, grandfather's bones in a grandfather clock ticking past twelve
Sorry, I just don't see the allure of treating half the human race as a means to satiate your own lust whether physical or genealogical
Or even categorising humans into binary dualisms that bored philosophers a century ago
Haven't you heard? God is dead
And there is no meaning to your boring male existence
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
Elephants are the only animal species, known as a fact, to die of a broken heart. Their tough, leather skin can only guard so much; breaking blows from predators and using their sturdy bodies for protection. But surviving instincts and dealing with sadness are on the opposite sides of the spectrum. Social constructs maintained by female elephants, emotional seeds developed from birth; no wonder females are powerful, at least in elephant herds. The social constructs of human species, inferiority is an expectation. Motherhood and career balance, sexualization, acid punishments for justice, “Voice for Choice” since women shouldn’t take their bodies in their own hands, rapes unidentified, and youth more beautiful than souls. Sometimes, I wish I was an elephant.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
♀↵ϖ†∅↨⊕☺☼↑↓
Apples will be cantaloupes
depending on their nurture;
and so I cherish rainbow hopes
for our collective future.
Oranges elect their hue
improving Nature’s seal,
while pronouns stifle what is true
suppressing the appeal.
Fruits may choose to change to nuts
and fowls select their plumage.
Why settle in Tradition’s ruts?
Such rigid roles do damage.
Nuts in turn, may feel like flowers,
picking how and when to bloom.
So ambisexual thought empowers
androgynes to court their doom.
A leopard, too, may change his spots
(or turn into a vegan bunny)
No law’s tittles, neither jots
make Speciesism funny.
If you decide to see it so
the sky above is yellow.
Perceive as pink the grass beneath
and better times must follow.
Gender? Merely social constructs –
preach it to the masses
until tradition self-destructs
and *** takes off her glasses.
Babies need no Dad (nor Mother):
sexist labels, obsolete.
Love is blind. There is no other.
Bats must bark and chickens bleat.
Integrated water closets
show how far we have evolved:
urinary bank deposits
(with no member account involved).
Foolish thinking from the past
(like water being wet, and such)
calls for re-education, fast.
The State will lend its human touch
compelling all to sing the hymn
with genderfluid motions…
so birds can preen their scales and swim
in dry and waveless oceans.
(Yet “hymn” sounds sexist said out loud –
we ought to sing a “her” instead…
no – make that “us”, since we are proud,
lest misconceptions be misread.)
Shake a healthy dose of salt
upon this strange post-modern food.
May God re-set us to default
with human common sense renewed.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
Its former tenant long since fled
to wherever Mollusks go..
Its’ empty shell rests on my shelf
For years that has been so.
I took it down the other day,
intending just to dust.
A mote, or something, caused a tear.
Was it perhaps, a thought of us?
We walked along the Islands shore
As old, practiced, couples do.
We found this shell half buried
And I rescued it for you.
We had a fine collection
On the shelf above our bed
Until your former flame returned
And you, like summer, fled.
Triangles are eternal
constructs pleasing to the mind
But this one proved ephemeral
being the romantic kind,
I raise the Conch Shell to my lips
And give a practiced blow.
Its low sweet song a threnody
For days of long ago
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
30 days in. Now, after, out to the market theatre.
People idling, few wondering who pulls the strings
few investigate who paints the streets
who constructs the buildings
it is a show if you slow your vision you will know
You go to a shop, you pick, you pay and go your way
Calculated activity
Prolonged elasticity
And money extends and circulates the sensitivity
the physical defying relativity
Schedules and plans, maps and structures of time
a defined life as I write
You go to church
the congregation settles, the pastor preaches
the congregation responds, "halleluyah" "amen"
songs are sung
tithes paid and progress of church displayed
soon the bell rings and away to our cottages
Cook sunday lunch and a day blessed by God
and sunday after sunday after sunday
You go to school
there's a teacher and students in the classroom
the teacher teaches, questions are asked and notes are taken
Again and again the routine iterates
until tests and assignment dates
how hypnotic this academic tale
promising a better future, a positive fate
And a mall is a town in a cubicle
a church is a social uprising theatrical
a school is a place of worship for the tamable
...and the World a jungle for those who oppose
a haven for the ignorant, a pacific abyss for the survivors of evil. All in all a theatrical play which is a story telling itself in rewind...
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
When did news parody
stop being funny?
Was it somewhere between
Alan Jackson’s 9/11 cash-in
and Donald Trump’s hair?
Was it BoJo stranded on a zipline over London,
or Cameron’s alleged porcine relations
(bizarrely black-mirroring fiction)?
When did the news
start doing Chris Morris’ job for him?
When did they start
pre-satirising the headlines?
“No evidence mermaids exist,” says US Government.
Swimming pool evacuated after prosthetic leg is mistaken for **********
Robots follow Marco Rubio to South Carolina.
I swear, I didn’t
make any of those up.
The actors on Saturday Night Live
are more statesmanlike
than the Presidential Primary Candidates they’re lampooning.
How the hell do they breed these
creatures? These gurning,
overgrown foetuses with their
conveniently dead ****** sisters to get
all wet-eyed and tumescent over,
their boomingly hollow controversy and
their total, catastrophic
crashes of personality.
These loathsome
organic constructs who would seem
more relatable and trustworthy if
their image consultants made them wear
Nixon masks for every
public appearance.
When did it all become
this strange, sick spoof
of itself?
Is there no one left in Britain who can make a sandwich?
Man dressed as penguin receives more votes than the Liberal Democrats.
Piers Morgan given jail time for illegally hacking ‘phones and gloating about it.
Okay.
I made the last one up.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC