"conversational" poems
In a time,
when men were the superheroes,
born in an unconventional location,
a young girl, unknown to the future
she was destined to,
was born with a uniqueness
unfound in all people, a superpower
of empathy
and as she grew,
the world knew
she was imbued
as a living embodiment of legends:
Athena's wisdom,
beauty that surpassed the goddess Aphrodite,
conversational skills that made Hermes envious,
and strength that Hercules
could never attain.
As she approached an age, when her parents would
trust her to be guardian,
her powers manifested.
This incredible child was now a woman.
With the ability to heal those in need: she could expunge
poison that had afflicted a person,
even their hearts,
a God-given gift for those most sacred;
her correspondences exponentially developed,
able to connect in all languages, fueled by her empathetic nature,
this allowed all who interacted with her to trust her for she radiates sincerity.
Now, fully grown, this super-no-
This Wonder Woman had retired her duties
to save the world, not forsake it, but,
to train Wonder Girl, her daughter,
to unlock the latent abilities her mother had passed on to her.
She still looks up at the Higher Power
and realizes her duty to provide
the world justice is not over
but only beginning.
Her holy spirit was not unacknowledged
and was gifted
a bulletproof bracelet,
forged by the most skilled craftsman by direction
of all that is wise and healing.
Given to her to wear
so that nothing could halt her
as she continues
her fate to provide the world a humanity
that could only come from
an intrinsically true
dear heart.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
The butterfly of many talents
talked nothing but of himself...
and never stopped to Listen
or gain true conversational wealth
cloaked in flamboyent colors
his butterfly wings so huge,
captured a little lost lady moth
(looking for the moon)
and kept her as his muse
just as the wings of the butterfly
so was the moths heart large
and so she inspired her captor unconditionally..
and loved freely, fanning him...
& flapping her wings too hard...
each time they would tear ,
she'd ignore the searing pain
for with all of her inner beauty;
by no means was she vain
the butterfly misused his muse
did not reciprocate emotion
so her wings drooping stupidly
with blind devotion
were as lost shadowed in his coloring
as before.......
searching for the light of moon in black ocean
he had never saved her from the vast
sky-sea & empty Galaxy
But used her flutter as a tool
to satisfy his selfish artistic needs
the little lost moth lost flight
As she began to understand
the light butterfly provided
was a stage light made by man
all the time she lost
robbed her spirit and stole her grace
so she rubbed the powder off his big bright wings and thought
-what good is his outward beauty now that he can no longer soar in space-
Disenchanted but free at last
moth tries but can never trust color
won't inspire art or music
and will never love another.....
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
all my life
ive only thought of one thing
YOU
you are why i got an education
why i tried so hard to make beautiful things with my hands
why i got dressed up
why i learned to sing
and dance
why i never stopped trying to make a living
why i always went to the gym
and worked out to be diamond hard
why i was polite or inconsolable
why i ran seven miles a day
why i tried to be charming
why i could never stop playing with myself
why i got through james joyce
why i learned
conversational hypnosis
neuro linguistics
magick
and
witch
craft
to invoke a spell
that would compel
YOU
to dance
the wiggle wiggle
naked
from hot rhythms
and slow melodic
sways
as i prayed
burning
blood red candles
during the darkest moon
for adorations
with endless masturbations
to your beautiful *** and feet
for tender red lipped mercies
kisses kisses kisses
because
you are beauty piqued
from your golden angelic head
soft silken hair
to your sweet pink arched feet
and twinkling painted toes
magnetized
to yank my eyes
and be your
**** boy *** toy
my goddess glitter ****
queen of heaven
all paradise any man needs
BUT
sometimes i couldn't have
YOU
and
it velvet crushed me
taught me hopelessness
broke my will
gave me fear
made me cry
and shiver inside
tore my heart to smithereens
twisted my in-nerds
like jagged metal
melting me
as i spiraled
down
into madness
all burning veins of fire
until inferiority dragged deep
suffocating me
shuddery
like
winters
midnight freeze
and howling winds
through
hollow desolations
marrow-less
bones
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
Inertia the process of doing nothing
Contradiction the art of jumping intellectual rope
Intellectualism the active engagement in educated debate
Spinning the result of which is dizziness
Dizziness a state of uncertainty
Debating the conversational to and fro
Art is conversation nothing more
Conversation a non productive but necessary social engagement
Formal education
Relative information specificity
Consider the ****** lilies
Consideration Debate Intelligence Conversation Inertia
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 8:03 AM UTC
(a conversational collaboration with Chris D Aechtner)
"remember the dream I had when we were 10?
(waves and waves of cornflowers everywhere)
about the boy and the closet?
(sunflowers, circle, glass house?....closet, yes)
cornflower blue
(the closet was cornflower blue?)
the light in that dream was cornflower blue
(the air, the atmospheric light?)
yes, especially in the closet
I had that dream for so long
I'll never forget
little boy blue and the kingfishers --
the blue and white china plates
with the bridge and the lovers; the two doves in the willow tree,
that made me look for japanese letters....horse.
the funny things we do as children
(you are writing a poem....)
catch the words, my love
*(you already wrote a poem up there; bridge it together --
I dried cornflowers with dandelions in a blue and white book; but it wasn't a dream.
Well, in a way it was, because at the time, I was floating in the clouds)*
he wore a blue and white striped top in my dream
and I remember him
when I look at the sky,
the clouds and the golden sun --
I caught the words!
(yes! did you string them all together?)
not yet!"
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 4:21 AM UTC
The bar behind the theatre was nearly empty apart from a couple of gay boys.
Well, it was a gay bar, so no ******* surprise there.
I glanced at the fat one and decided, 'No thank you very much,'
as I have noticed fat people often smell unpleasantly,
maybe it's the sweat trapped between their ********** that does it.
But the other one was very cute and I decided I would have him.
In those days, it was regarded as 'de rigeur' to buy a lad a lager and lime
before dragging him home with you for some nookie,
so I coughed up for a half pint with charm and grace.
Sadly, he was no great shakes in the conversational stakes,
but was I after intellectual stimulation? No, I ******* wasn't.
Anyway, once I'd checked his passport to ensure he was over-age
(no one wants any ******* trouble from the bigoted morality squad)
I dragged him back to my elegant bachelor orgy-pad
and stripped him off to investigate his lithe little body;
a nice smooth little **** and a reasonably clean ****
What more can you want from a one night stand?
After a bit of a damp snog and a good old *****
I lubed him up and gave his *** a right good poking.
He moaned a bit, but then who wouldn't moan,
with seven and a half inches of thick gristle shoved
all the way up their sphincter? I know I would.
After I had filled his rear end with love juice a couple of times,
I felt that kicking out was the name of the game.
Generously, I gave him a half-crown for his bus fare
as he said he was a bit short of cash, being unemployed.
It was the least I could do, as he had three miles to go home,
and it was raining cats and ******* dogs outside.
After he'd left, I checked out the bed sheets (as you would)
and was irritated to find a few skidmarks there,
or they may have been where I wiped my fingers
after having eaten a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk.
A quick sniff confirmed my worst suspicions though.
'Ah well, true love always comes at a price', I reflected,
as I scraped the worst bits off with a nail file.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
"I'd like to be a fly on the wall," you say.
Would you?
Would you really like to be privy to all
that drama and intrigue, without ever being noticed?
Sounds nice, I suppose.
But I'll let you in on a little secret-
That, my dears, is false advertising.
Truth is, people always notice flies
They just choose to ignore them
And lower their voices when you buzz by on sugar-spun wings of self-confidence-
Maybe it's just all in your head
Maybe you've misinterpreted things-behind kaleidoscope eyes
It always looks like there are more of them than you.
So you gain confidence
You hover on the fringes of their circle
And drone out a low hum of 'what've you been up to today?'
Or 'how're you?'
Or 'long day, huh?'
The response is offhand
A verbal flick of the wrist
Batting the ball back into your conversational court
Because coming at you with a fly swatter
Or a rolled up Cosmo magazine
Takes more effort than they're willing to give.
You buzz about some more
Hoping maybe the silence will entice them to engage
But no,
They can't hear your buzzing
Or they won't.
So instead you stand
Fly on the wall
Content with watching the light catch your wings
Repeatedly wringing your hands near your face
In a way they probably think is malevolent
I promise I'm not plotting-
I'm just juggling the weight of my loneliness
Maybe if I shift it from one palm to another
Somehow I will lighten the load.
Take comfort in this, little fly-
The sun makes your wings iridescent
And even though they'll never get close enough to see that, you can.
It's not a trick of the light
Your fractal eyes do not deceive you-
They are duplicate.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
across the pond,
I lived off the diet of
some 55 year old bachelor
racing towards the past
only, I looked forward to
so much more than
my mother's improved health.
I would find books and read them
laying them vulnerable and bare
to my devouring mind. *(I swear
to god, there's an approachable
Minotaur among my grey matter.)*
I skipped Barcelona with an alcoholic
to research gay fascists and history's
slaughter benches. I hand-wrote that paper
just so I could feel something at work besides
strong coffee and false anxieties about projected moments.
I raised my hand, countless times
in foreign classes with tobacco residue
creased to my sheet paper. While others
slept or day-dreamed about the pigeon **** outside
*but I smiled at the professor, & mommy and daddy sent them
capitalist notes with the appearance of life.*
I met a girl, who got to know me through
all five senses, at once. Speaking more languages
than half this world is aware of, I danced til my flight
departed and I knew which city was my favorite, because
I knew nothing of it going in and having no expectations
opens me like an oyster whose made multiple pearls.
I lost my scarf there, in Italy,
a beautiful one with conversational brilliance
falling to disappearance on my final night, after the rains
of Tuscany had drenched away my need for movement
and the winds of Ventotene had me sailing with
men, I knew nothing of. *After I cried on the floor
over the beauty of Hegel and Marx and fell into
Nebulae of epiphanies.*
across the pond, my life had verve.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
in choir, we sing a song about the death of children,
all latin and deep and dark
in my head is a forest with the song always playing, deep and latin and dark
imaginings of trees and dead children,
this is what I am singing
Of course, everyone else is singing crescendos and diminuendos and harmonies and their parts, but I
I am singing trees and dead children
on second thought this is maybe not the best plan,
just as this poem is maybe not the best plan
here we go breaking the 4th wall again
trees and dead children
in choir we sing a song about marriage
someone said no
the piece is conversational and relaxed
i am not relaxed about rejection,
regardless of performance markings and instructions
in choir there is a workshop, where a man tells us about feeling the line of the song.
I understand all about these lines,
pulling and pushing and carrying us through the music
he says we have to control it,
but no one has ever controlled the line of music
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
I have everything - what do you have?
a loving wife, possessions - how about obsessions?
wishing for a younger woman, unlimited ***
conversational recognition to give you ignition
Put them aside - you had so many opportunities
they're gone - now grow up where you belong
you have dark moods, impatient, wished you were elsewhere
It's not the amswer - the answer is right before you
Transparent as the air that blows and caresses
your shoulders - only you have to take it under your wing
before the time is gone - even then you will be
holding hands walking together with your old smiles
You could start again - but it's best the way it was
there are no reasons - great love is simply because
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
She was our first grandchild
And naturally
We loved her dearly
And I adored her
As only grand-dads can
And she latched onto me
She used to come to us every Tuesday
At a time when kids are most interesting
She was fully conversational
(Didn't we all know it)
Her personality was emerging
And she was still young enough
To have her originality and imagination
My little gold mine of joy
And this is how it would go
"Grand-dad, you be the shop keeper
And I'll bring my dollies in for clothes."
So she would lay out her doll's outfits
And bring her dolls forward to buy clothes
She would haggle over the price (and win)
And pay me in cardboard coins
"Let's watch a video, Grand-dad!
Let's watch Barny!" (Again)
I hate that ****** purple dinosaur
And Katie thinks he's wonderful
That smarmy voice of his
"I love you and you love me,"
I bleeding don't you know
I wouldn't let him within a hundred miles
Of any kids of mine.
In the course of the day
I would be called upon
To play multiple parts in
Everything from The Three Bears
To Little Red Riding Hood
In which I memorably became
Big Bad Wolf and Grandma
And presumably ate myself
But the highlight of the day
Was the last thing before she went home
The weekly show
"Introduce me, Grand-dad!"
In my best showman's voice
"Ladies and gentlemen...!"
To my wife and dog
"...The moment you've been waiting for.
Fresh from her recent tour
Of our back garden.....
Miss Katie......."
"Katie Spice, Grand-dad."
"Miss Katie SPICE!"
Into some popular ditty of the day
Issuing from her at full volume
Then she would stop mid-line
While she did a little dance step
All greeted by thunderous applause
In her head it was Carnegie Hall
Rather than my wife, my dog and me
So, a happy end to a happy day
Then Katie went home
And I slipped into an exhausted coma
By Phil Roberts
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 4:47 AM UTC
so... it's no longer enough that
i learn your language,
into a p.s. of conversational
etiquette -
addressing the confrontational
assertion of the existence
of orthography,
minding your, Germanic,
metaphysical ********
and then...
i'm, supposed, to,
listen to your average citizen,
dictating rules,
like some sort of king?!
i'll drink a beer, walking
past the east ham central mosque...
and i'll be like:
getting the **** eyes ******
you stare -
in reply: you know what?
do it... **** it... do it...
make me a ******* martyr...
but i'm going to drink this beer,
feeding a solidarity of the 7/7 commuters...
hence my teasing...
once i'll burn scissors and
craft a tattoo on my arm...
once i'll put out a cigarette
on my left hand's knuckle...
the everyday englishman who "thinks"
he's king...
i'm thinking... plum hues
to replace mascara... with a *******
fist...
no... private property,
is private property...
now i'm gagging for a fist
frisking! i'm less trigger happy,
and more, european,
i.e. knuckles itchy!
i want to juggernaut something
down...
and then start biting into it!
any obnoxious englighman,
being a **** will satiated my
palette.
GNASH GNASH GNASH...
i want... a chance...
to scoop clean...
the "riddle" of meaty chicken
schnacks of drum-sticks...
fiddle fiddle, fiddle me something...
i want to engage in a 1, 2,
punch & bite something...
attempting to relieve itself
from physical confrontation,
having exhausted its verbal allowance.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
It's much quieter around here
in these once conversational rooms
and in the crackling fireplace
that was lit
to keep our shivering bones warm
It's much colder around here
without the sparks flying between us
and no wandering wondering hands
to keep us smiling
It's much lonelier around here
where the only other hands here
are the ones reflected in the mirror
made up in its shattered pieces
that scatter the floor boards
Shattered and Scattered
Sounds sadly familiar
With red lip stick,
the mirror's edge kisses my hand
then my chest
my stomach
and thighs
and bites playfully at my neck
You loved this colour on me,
you'd once said
But maybe it was the wrong dress?
This one fits me much tighter
almost suffocatingly
to my skin
it flows nicely
Maybe now you'll take me back
into your cold, stiff arms
I'll join you for dinner tonight
in my flowing red dress.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 9:55 AM UTC
He stared into the eyes of Persephone
Mesmerized by the reflections concealing
A broken spirit; those beautiful
Blue eyes drawing in his
Struggling soul.
Doubt polluting clean air;
His instinct deceived by
Her notions of favor.
Intimacy shared within their
Conversational delight exposing
His veins, sliced by her
Blades of desire.
She was unresponsive,
Numb to his plasma discharge;
Darkness chased away the light
Night consumed his day.
So much calamity beneath
The surface of serenity.
Absence of closure; misinterpreted
Memory lapses. Broken beginnings
irreparable; shattered petitions
Severing their nerves.
Scent of pain and sorrow
On the sheets; raindrops
Collecting on the glass.
Inhibitions washed away
By drizzling expectations.
He wants to send her a rose,
A small token of hope
In the midst of demons.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
Dear Gentlemen,
May I share with you a secret?
Some of you have already known,
some might overlook it.
No matter what your Lady says,
she loves it when you call her.
Her "If you're busy it's ok" is really not ok.
Your "I'm too busy to call" is definitely not ok.
No matter how busy you are,
you can always make time for your beloved.
A phone call, even with no conversational substance,
makes her believe you two are closer.
A phone call, even just a quick "I just miss you that's all",
strengthens her devotion.
A phone call, every now and then,
lets her known she is on your mind,
reminds her of you,
makes the sense of togetherness shine through.
So, Gentlemen,
no matter how much poetry you have written for her,
how much love you dedicate to her,
how many flower bouquets you send her,
every now and then, do yourself a favor,
put everything else aside (no multitasking!)
to call her on the phone.
If you are married,
call from work.
If you share the same place,
call from outside.
If you meet way too often,
call when you do not.
The more frequent your name appears on her little screen,
in her smart, love-coated mind,
The more grossly exaggerated your time of devotion will be.
Dear Ladies,
sorry that I slipped out our secret.
It just ***** not hearing that special ringtone
(you know, the one only his calls make)
a little more often,
doesn't it?
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 10:03 AM UTC
conversational tones too often
tumble into sloppiness, leaving
my words marked with fumble
-d caresses and stuttering half-t
-houghts. i don't leave you with
my leftovers on purpose, they d
-ropped into my purse when i c
-ame to see you today. a lot of th
-ings drop into my mind when i
see you. but it's mostly your wo
-rds. perhaps my only love affair
was with the letters you placed
under my name. i never wanted
to be beautiful until you wrote o
-f it with a ball point pen; never
dreamt of living extravagantly u
-ntil you dusted me in spices and
sparks with flecks of ink and the
marks of your fingers. you crafte
-d everything you loved about m
-e. you are the only reason i am e
-xtravagantly in love with the fle
-cks and sparks under my skin. y
-ou planted whispers beneath my
eyes and called them dangerous.
but only you were dangerous
to me
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:17 PM UTC
’
there was a comma
which was so light
it started to float;
the other down-to-earth commas
ganged up and banished
that comma that dared to cross the line
and so that deviant comma stays there in mid-air
like a feather
and you can see it if you
keep your eyes open
’ ’
and since its fall, or rise,
it’s been called the apostate -
I mean, the apostrophe
Mind you, it’s not to be taken lightly
for it can settle legal cases
as it indicates who things belong to
(like if it is John’s money
or Nicole’s )
’ ’ ’
and in matters of communication
it can abbreviate things
and make the style more conversational
’ ’ ’ ’
But I'll tell you when it’s not so happy:
if you say, for instance: “Its Monday”
or “The dog wags it’s tail” -
ah, then the apostrophe hates you
and it really wishes it could land on your head
like a bag of lead
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 11:35 AM UTC
kneels in gravel—
paws folded under,
claws hidden--
sometimes for hours.
In dark, in day, in rain,
in gray growing gloom
same color as her coat,
she genuflects to her goddess,
twiddles razors with feline ennui,
rules the empty deck like a furry
Queen of Hearts.
Her benefactor borrows her boredom
From time to time--
the lady with the cream,
red hair, and quiet conversational tone.
It took a week to coax her in—
the elaborate kabuki of cats--
and the lady laid out house rules
in that voice.
No names necessary;
friends forging a contract.
No sharp kneading in the belly,
out at night
no pregnancies
no fights.
Agreed.
Appearances are regular now.
Screen-door meow for entrance,
purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers
and soothing human talk.
Food dish is usually full.
The lady neglected to cover
the topic of gut-piles
on the welcome mat. Porch Cat
is most proud of these,
offers them as evidence
she’s keeping her end of the bargain--
with one exception--
in the dungeon of night
low dark howls rise to screeches:
ancient instincts, modern setting.
Lady flops in her sleep,
winces in her dream.
Lightning lash,
Soft, sharp tear of flesh.
Porch cat has new wounds to lick--
a task to occupy her time
waiting at the door
for morning to filter
into the city.
11/5/10
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
We sit in a café
Ceramic mugs of
Seasonally appropriate beverages
Wrapped in our grips
Surrounded by folks who also have
Ceramic mugs of
Seasonally appropriate beverages
Wrapped in their grips
But we are not here
To chat on about the weather
Our significant others
Or careers; no
We certainly are not
You glance at me
In a nearly
Conversational manner
“So you had your heartbroken”
You say, a combination of an
Unsurprised sneer and a nostalgic frown
Upon your face
“So I had my heartbroken”
I repeat, my lips cracked and my mouth
Blistering slowly from the heat
Of my seasonally appropriate beverage
“Are you, like the good little kid you are,
Doing the things
That they tell good little kids
To do in order to recover from such an ordeal?”
“I am, like the good little kid I am,
Doing the things
That they tell good little kids
To do in order to recover from such an ordeal”
“I haven’t even given into that
Deep, gut wrenching temptation
To do something terribly
Terribly destructive”
I state this in a mockingly proud way
Before pinching my chapped lip between my teeth
And gnawing on it until a swell of blood
Dripped into my seasonally appropriate beverage
“But what I have found”
I say, slowly, licking my coppery lips
“Is that despite all these
‘Coping Mechanisms’”
Your expression is inquisitive
Brow raised, eyes lit up
Like storm clouds with lightning
Stirring somewhere behind them
“I suppose you’re wondering why…”
I state slowly, before sighing an a
Somewhat irritated manner
"I’ve thought this thought too many times before..."
“Because no matter what
My mind refuses to even ponder
The thought that I am meant
For anyone but her”
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
My head spins, twirling in colors of essential essanance
the barrries fall onto
floors non existant ground
and simple pleasures
of conversational munch
are triply seductive
the nature that has been robbed will be returned
the love that has been lost will be found
the trees that are cut will grow
and the souls that are condemened will be freed
but it must freeze
what lies at the core of fools
tell me ,
if you could be so kind?
kindred spirits of the philosophical type
who have seen the darkness and fight the flowers fall ,
the tree of universes shakes
and breathes a sigh
all the wind orginated from this spot
eminating out of the simple
simple stop ,
cat calls - forest walls
honest bums
sit
no place like home they say
i say no place called home
no place other than home
as it walks with me
side by side
unto the power places
chakras glow and merger
connotations
******
but the defenition is flexiable
determine the point ,
touch the joints
heat the fall
and ***** it all
you only have this time around its all we've ever had.
who is it
that defines the love in our lives
but parent hood figures made out of wood frozn in time and we watch at the spirals unwind
and the lemons
are zingy and the mint is fresh
and i sleep on a bears bed
baby bear , mother too - wolves out alone standiing o howl at the mooon
and awoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
we've come so far
on the riptide of loves handslide
handshake
discovering for oursleves what we deem humanities race
and what we deem fools and tounges
and what we deem to be the runner out run
who comes first in a race
who comes fist before the fired gun
who sits and the hollow has come.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:26 PM UTC
Cold, wet footprints of drowned ghosts
leading you towards nowhere, a heat-blurred unreachable zenith.
Unlit candles, china white on a china plate,
shots of ***** shots of bleach.
Ambling along dusty corridors,
hallways with loose floorboards and memories you're not sure you ever had.
Desert haze, his brooding gaze,
conversational Russian 101 and irretrievable moments
alone in bed together while Sean Connery distracts you from the press of his fingers.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
“The atoms that comprise life on earth are all traceable to the crucibles that cooked light element into heavy element.” —Neil deGrasse Tyson
And up here we have Vega, rigged to a few older men,
Jupiter’s herd of moons. Look through its eyepiece,
convince us there is no such thing as reconstruction.
The right time to return light, the path to earth. Yes,
we are part, living or real. Such is the layout
of this cosmic ballet. A naked man and woman,
a map of earth’s location, unstable in their older years.
He spreads himself so wide, hard at the heavens
for two reasons. Fairly often, someone would call the police.
Handcuffs came from stars, next generation solar systems
quantumly entangled. Size is only development condensed
into a singularity, enriched guts against gears of war.
So what does this mean? The breadth of the actions
taken, meaning limitations, meaning sky was worth looking at.
He charmed the cops with conversational boom, dozens of people
crouching in the dark. Their common center of gravity:
darker barrel shaped streets with long rows of sold-out houses.
It’s not a lecture—how to calculate latitude, one neck cramp at a time,
an extension cord across Merlin’s Tour of the Universe
to satellites gliding in low orbit, nine years to work its way out.
The voice is deep and rowdy—from a man at the edge of the crowd.
The other reason is down here on earth, down the handle of the Big
Dipper. An artist will tell you—crank it some more, until it begins
to glow blue. Red-hot is the coldest among all the hots.
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
Little Bird – (Forever and Always)
When I read to Tony at bed time, there are times his little sister Lucy is there for our nightly ritual. When all is read and eyes are closing, I say to Tony, “Good night Tony Boy. Love you forever and always. See you in the morning.”
One afternoon Lucy (2) climbed up into my big chair and positioned herself just so. When all was snuggled in, she looked up at me and said, “My love you grandpa.” Of course I do what all thinking grandpas do… I said, “I love you too Lucy.” A moment goes by, a little shifting in the nest occurs, and I hear, “My love you grandpa!” Now the reasonable thinking grandpa would say, “I love you too Lucy Girl.” Which I did. But that was not the end of this conversational delight. Then she looked up into my face with some consternation on her’s and said, “How come you don’t say ‘forever and always’ grandpa?” “Oh Lucy Girl. Grandpa does love you forever and always. Yes I do.” With that affirmation of love she settled in with a smile on her face and snuggled up tighter.
What may seem to be a small thing to big people is a really BIG thing to the small.
I have reached the pinnacle of joy when Tony Boy and Lucy Girl are snuggled in… one on each side. “All is well.” At least in my world it is.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
dreamt in strange shifting blocks, interwoven and with startled faces, sentencings spoken wordless. woke up to the blurry thought:
sometimes in talk, i am confronted with ideas that in no way reconcile with my own structures. in response, i often choose to not say anything, or let it uncomfortably sit in my gut. in cases where the opposing point won't be heard, i suppose this is alright. but, when my own rooted beliefs are challenged in a valid manner, it is more akin to the silence of shame than of dignification. is this symbolic of the internalisation of a more sound philosophy, or inability to process it against the grain of my own?
avoiding argumentation where it is of little purpose is one of my prime conversational aspects, and in an overarching paradigm avoiding unnecessary speech in general. but what internally portrays as tact can come off as indignant coolness, or bitter indifference. so, do i continue to speak in only the meaningful outer lashes, or let down the floodgates to some degree?
human interaction doesn't need necessitate grave importance at all junctions, and sometimes the most comforting talk can be of nothings (which i still find myself often party to, despite my self-portrait of filtered short-spokenness).
how do i open myself more to accepting or understanding when points are more sensible than my own, and integrating them into my consciousness? for, surely, if i disavow myself from giving up dated sentiments, i shall truly stagnate.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC