"coordinate" poems
It all begins
With pronouns
I becomes the subject
Of my project
Adding you
And collectively we
I choose you and me
And I exclude the he and the she
Until I am certain of we
You and I pick verbs
actions
Inflect them to match
fit
begin narratives
Transitive verbs take objects
You touch
tickle
tease
taste
take skin
*******
lips
me with words
Words have become a clause
But still a simple construction
So, you tickle me where?
For this you need a preposition
To position your tickling ammunition
Do you touch
tickle
tease me ON my *******
*******
thighs
buttocks
****
Do you feel me INSIDE my mouth
****
soul?
Positioning is envisioning.
Then you use adjectives
To modify descriptions of
Sensory inscriptions
So, gentle complements touch
Soft and passionate kiss
And you become superlative
And adverbs elaborate experience
expression
exploration
You fill me deeply
thoroughly
violently with all that is you
But adverbs can also mean time
Not sweet or cursed time
Or time denoting age
But timing is always important
And grammar dictates
That
Time adverbs are placed
As a beginning or an end
Like a lover's embrace
Thus,
This morning, you woke me with
A demanding "here and now! " and I will reciprocate this, tonight, I vow.
Conjunctions are sentence connectors
And sentences behave like detectors
Bodies balancing with and, but, or
Otherwise subordinate
And the scale tips towards
Conditioning hypotaxis
Making actions a complicated praxis
(before my mind can connect, you will have to pursuade it /pursue it)
But we coordinate conjunctions
Equally
I touch you
You touch me
Exploring
Exploding sensory functions
So, together we cry imperatives
Completing our ****** narratives
Moaning
Whimpering
Begging
Yelling: Please... bind me!
touch me!
bite me!
take me!
come!
Oh! Please, come!
I love the English language... ;)
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
I've let myself uncover from the bitter truth and false promises.
I've let sarcasm drip.
Like a river full of diamonds,
Shiny,cut and pointed.
I've liberated from your nasty attitude.
Cigarette butts scattered everywhere.
I've rise like a phoenix,
Like a tall skyscraper.
As a tear tricks down my barren face,
My fingers struggle to coordinate.
Maybe because this heart has bore too much.
Too much of pointless high emotions,
Of love,life and jealousy.
I was a simpleton indeed.
And you were the destructor
But no toxic people,
There ain't any room for you this time.
Coz am rising now.
Rising-above all your ****** crap.
I'm your worst dream this time.
I'm your NIGHTMARE .
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
If you're OCD,
You're going to hate this poem.
Because it's not what you're used to
and it can be infuriating
I know where i'm going and i'm laughing in enjoyment.
I wish i could take some comedians out of sheer unemployment
And take damaged soldiers out of deployment
But you know that drill already
We're just trying to keep the Earth's rotation steady
But i'm up for going steady
If that's what you want
We're all about want
I'm all about yours
Trying to coordinate each constellation
Is like arguing with a woman
You won't get the result you were looking for
It's beautiful in the tension
And it has it's suspension
But it's infinite
Meaning it will go on forever
So just try not to.
I never liked arguing
I know i won't later on
Your passion and support is all i need
That's what i look for the most
Someone who doesn't see me as some sort of ghost
Or lifeless party host
But someone that means the air they breathe
I get tired of my mistakes
But to know someone will try to help me prevent them
Is what i like
There has been a couple of people who tried
But i pushed them off the deep end
And i'm terribly sorry for that
Zero fault on you and all for me
I say that with a smile
Because it feels good to be honest with myself
You think it would be a brain-dead thing to master
But it only seems that way
I know from experience
Trust me, I've been there.
My trails go in multiple angles
Just like my nature
But if you're crazy enough to stick around
You'll get a warm welcome
You'll know how to feel special
If you never have before, i'll be the first to show you
I mean every word
With full fledged honesty
I wouldn't say useless, empty words
That's inept and not worth it.
If you're confident in yourself
Girl, you should work it
I heavily value strong traits such as that
You're going to turn all my bumps in my chest flat
And make me enamored just like that
The flick of the switch
No more wishing i would with other male persons.
To get a chance
That's why most men do a celebration dance
Consistently catching me in a trance
I got more lovely words than France
Okay, maybe not
But the ambition doesn't vanish
I'll still try
To keep you mine
Time is precious
So are you
If Time was a woman she would be in disgust
That it's not her in your shoes
You brought your sparkly ones?
Just making all the check marks, are you?
Champions aren't limited to sports
I can assure you.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
Independent clauses never see cause for a
But, we coordinate conjunctions like its our job and,
So we work independently to avoid fused run-ons since who likes those anyway?
Pause,
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
Derive the joy, magic and warmth of addition by connecting your soul to another's, yet remain independent as singular souls.
Meet the interference of envious, bitter and resentful subtraction which gives the process of separation from the souls you have connected to.
Both opposing forces with obstinate motivations coordinate unconsciously for the creation of an entrance-exit cycle in human interaction.
The pinnacle of human interaction is interceded by multiplication who compounds the congregation of the independent souls into a cohesive unit called groups and eventually society and nation.
Nevertheless met by the malevolent, destructive energy of division which ruthlessly breaks apart the products nurtured by multiplication, smashing them with propaganda, discrimination, and segregation.
O' how I exclaim that division is the truly nefarious power.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 8:22 AM UTC
When you can't divide a number by 0
Learn mathematics and you'll be a Hero
Infinity, proportions &
coordinate geometry
you can get a headache, I cannot guarantee!!!
maths full of + and -
Beware! you can suffer from memory loss
Even though the probability is very rare
think your way, a headache-nobody
can bear
when the headache comes to maths
unlike physics, chemistry or anatomy
I advise you to relax
And think about the solution slowly....
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
All this room to fill
All these emotions to feel
Emotions coordinate with velvet
Sensitive to the touch
Warm to the heart
You can never pull the two apart
I oughta keep a hold of my helmet
Before I go falling for your stunts
I won't stay waiting for the snow
Instead I'll pray you'll meet me under this miseltoe
I will always think your Gold even without a show
All I ask is stop making me look like a fool
You hold my hand like glass
You kiss me with no pressure to the lips
You make me think we won't last
You have put me where I'm frozen at my hips
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
In March of 2010 a 46 year old white male was brought to this hospital after a severe 'episode'. He was placed in the Mental Health Intensive Care Unit . He was diagnosed with " Major Depression ". This is considered Slow Death , a treatable disorder by the AMA currently . Artist and Architect will lay out Hallucinations and conceptual designs , Engineers , Mathematicians and Surveyors will coordinate more pills at higher doses because minute details to within fractions of an inch followed by schizophrenia by Earth moving equipment , graders , bulldozers , psychotic episodes , dump trucks , Carpenters and Concrete , bi-polar disorder and Bricklayer will labor different Help treatment methods because the drugs are having absolutely no piece by piece constructing form , pylon , shoring embankments for Steel Worker and Welder ,Pipefitter and Increased risk of suicide was reported for Plumber and all manner of tradesman , supplier and Pharmacist ........
Psychiatrist and Psychologist will formulate a treatment plan which will include drug therapy and counseling sessions with Electrician and patient and Spouse plus other family members if needed in order to reach the island Drowning which will be a difficult task . Emory Hospital is conducting new research because they finally admit to depression drugs not working in Freak more than half the patients today , like every other building bridges in hopes of getting to the island that is depression .
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
The Quantum Poetry Theorem
from a long time ago,
a thousand poems a priori.
**Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement.,
But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.**
Scruffy, yet ennobled,
my own 99% invade and
occupy all my senses,
in my eyesight encamped
sensing opportunity,
the 99 demand
that each shutter eye snap,
all nominal exhalations,
every quantum minutia perception,
be live streamed,
direct tv to you
Everything I witness,
transformed into an
acoustic guitar rocking vision,
a levitation of poetic expression,
set to a primitive three-chord
rock & roll overture,
and my iPad,
appointed Recording Secretary,
compiles exhalations as ecrivations
a preservation society of the verb,
strings of words emanating non-stop
within my head, from a guitar playing
twenty four seven, ironically,
expressed mathematically
Street strolling,
busy brasserie bar,
a Pinot Noir arrives,
a large pour of
stanzas and a
napkin upon to scribble
mind in ferment but
A Capella smooth cool,
my bossy brain requires
incident reports,
a "write me down, please,"
and
no matter how much I drink,
ain't anti-matter enough to
stop my eyes from seeing
every human interaction
as a poetic, probabilistic,
verbal equation,
quantum expressions of sensory upload
The brain revels and reels from overload,
no mas, no more,
poetry fatigue incurable,
caplets and ointments,
string theory,
can't cure or explain
the compulsion I feel,
and the 1% of me
protests my
overtaxed mental capacity,
and
hear the, see the, masses,
the shouts, the placards,
outside my home,
shut it down, no one cares,
no one wants your transplanted mechanics
in their eardrums
Huzzah, found in my gut,
a Grand Unifying Theory
to coordinate, gauge and harmonize
my internal asymmetries,
yes, a coupling factor required,
but still,
one equation that explains everything!
my fatigued, pointy, index finger
refuses to tap any more,
my Theory of Everything,
and my poetry, forgot, overlooked.
in my library buried,
black holed, forever silence-stored
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
I saw this specific denim vest
There was only one left
The look of it being priceless
It was just the right size
It definitely caught my eyes
The denim vest had this certain look
All you have to do reflect on took
Of course I had to have the jeans
The one’s that make your legs look lean
I didn’t want the jeans to be tight
But have the look that will be out of sight
The denim vest being blue
It stands for my heart being true
The denim vest setting off the jeans
A crystal clear look that just looks clean
Being rugged and demeanor
The thoughts don’t even compare
Coordinate being more than a word
Then in a message, “Have you heard?”
Denim vest and jeans that look so nice
The upcoming look not needing any fashion advice.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
lennon gazed upon the mound, forming an epiphany.
the beady brutes worked in perfect unison:
a communicative, coordinate artistry.
his foot reigned down, crushed and maimed.
while in his mind, the thought became:
i am these ants as they are me as our pain is all the same.
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 7:42 AM UTC
we were each other's sunlight
shining brightly upon each other
as we give each other
a touch of earthly warmth
we were two celestial bodies
bound together by each other's gravity
revolving about a mutual coordinate
moving in universal synchrony
but it looks like all our hydrogen
has ran out and we collapsed
into a white dwarf—dim light
no life, no soul, cold to the touch
we are running out of light
and you gave up on emitting yours
yet i force myself to keep on shining
like i'm milking stone, it's hopeless
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
*i.
He told her
That mathematics was too
Sombre.
Too, too
Linear
To be poetic.
She said that
He had only seen himself
In a mirror,
A reversed hologram
Of his external self
Burned into his retinas with
His subconscious filling in the gaps.
But she had seen him
The rays reflected straight off him
Into her eyes;
Not some half-assed reflection
Off some silvered surface.
ii.
She said that
His jawline was
The slope of a curve
Pencilled on a graph sheet.
His candlewax skin
A wavelength
Quantifiable on paper.
His spine
A number line with
Dashes, to show real numbers
The set of which was infinite.
She said that
A Fibonacci sketch was
A minimalist rose,
A post-modern bouquet.
And that
The reflected pale morning sun
In a half finished cup of camomile tea
Was a cardioid
With fixed coordinate values on the axes
And an algorithmic tangent.
And he
Was a negative infinity
A paradox not sorted under
Quine's classification system.
iii.
She had
Recorded his heartbeat and blood pressure;
Measured the distance between his lips with her own;
Tried so hard, so very, very hard
To put him down in a numerical form
And write him off as an equation.
But all she could say was
That he was more
Than the sum total of his meagre parts
And that she
Was his reciprocal value.*
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
This morning breakfast was two coconut macaroons
and a novelty- sized pecan pie.
All from the cafeteria.
When you’re going it alone, it’s the small things.
I can still hear the echoes of sleep as it recedes,
8AM, throaty yelps - panic -
and it slurps down the drain.
**** I’d give anything for a drain snake.
**** I’d give anything for black coffee
and a hood on this ******* coat.
Just above the below and below the upper,
I’m hovering somewhere in midfield.
But we didn’t cover this coordinate system in geography,
or what to do when you’re drowning
in waves of self-righteousness and the desire to be hip.
I need that hood. And probably new shoes.
When your roommate is an egg-shaped vampire
optimism can be hard to come by.
Her munching marks the stroke of midnight,
and I reach for the sleeping pills.
Oh for the perfumed winds of personal space.
Oh for the prairies of carpet and private bathrooms.
Oh to have hot water at 9PM.
Sing sweetly of home ye golden-thighed youths.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
~~~
*to whom do I address this?
to whom do I
forward fling, weep and sing,
this bequest~request,
prayer~cum~worship~cum~blessing~cum~
howling
to and upon?
where shall I commence?
for there is no beginning or end,
resurrection,
a continuum,
a progression permanent,
from inside out
to harmonize, coordinate,
what the outside has taken leave to
inject, insert,
to our selves query,
our life hood very,
impoverish our senses
and still, and yet,
to ever inspire and seed
relief
do you possess that requisite
belief?
that all
that is illogical,
beyond sensory comprehension,
that all
is a steady running creek
of fluid starting points,
none that can be deflected,
nor forever held
that all,
being demands unchosen but acquired,
that all,
demanding constant reflection,
and realization
that the acceptance mystery is but a
molten crucible
wherein wonderful and awful
must of necessity,
coexist
so you alone must construct,
what chance desires to destruct,
weld the joints of new iron works that
require the bonding of a special solder
of asking and acceptance,
to be the special soldier
of acceptance
overcoming that which we can never accept,
yet must
be purposed to build high the edifice,
to stand upon the crane,
to look down on what
has been lost as well as
not yet gained,
and that
requires saving
to see the far, observe the near,
merging both into a single point ring alloy,
manufactured in order
to never forget
to be forever certain,
it is within our assured power
to comprehend and apprehend
belief in blessed resurrection
where there is no birth nor death,
no start nor finish,
just the
munificent satisfaction
of lawful acceptance,
that all we build of any matter,
that which we create,
cannot be destroyed,
but will be recreated,
for that is the purposeful meaning
of resurrection now
and every day forward*
Atlanta, Georgia
Nov. 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
Open your eyes
“...”
Look at me
and tell me what I have become.
I cannot see for myself
My reflection melts mirrors
and turns puddles into vapor
I glare into the abyss
Hoping to catch a glimpse of my own pupils
I don’t know what I look like
Tell me,
How will my eyes look
when our stares meet for the first time?
“Empty”
Yes, I tore out the soul
Behind the doors of flesh covering my eye sockets
I have scraped my nails against bone
As my fingers pressed into my eyes
and carved out the consciousness that possessed me
Open your eyes
“...”
I need to know how my skin pulsates
What undulating form has it taken today?
Can you hear it?
Gurgling restlessly
My shape refuses to remain consistent
Tell me,
What will my body look like
when you lay eyes on me?
“Damaged”
Yes, I am wounded
The color crimson oozes from my pores
It sticks to my flesh possessively
I collect chunks of the liquid on my skin
As I imagine it decorates me nicely
Open your eyes
“...”
I need you to describe my limbs
For I always feel that I am reaching
for something I cannot obtain
My fingers squirm
into tight crevices and holes they are unwelcome in
Like curious, thoughtless insects
Unaware of the consequences for prying
Tell me,
What will my limbs appear as
when you set sight on me?
“Demented”
Yes, I have fought against conformity
by twisting my bones out of line
Listen. Hear each splintering cracks
defining how I am different
Open your eyes
“...”
You have to answer what my expression looks like
I can never seem to sync my face with my emotions
It’s tricky to coordinate such complex ideas
Tell me,
What will my expression be
when you finally gaze upon me?
“Grinning”
Yes, I’m afraid I can’t change that
I carved my smile with a butcher’s knife
from ear to ear
So I wouldn’t have to fake it anymore
Now open your eyes
“...”
Tell me what I have become
Shackle me to my image
Let me stare back at someone
who sees me for the first time.
Look at me.
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 10:25 PM UTC
. *and today's prime concern of the day? i can't access the recipe site for Australia's master-chef... maybe it's Australia, and their restrictions, or it's the ******* E.U... but... come to mind... last year i could access Eliza's triple-fried tamarind chicken... my god! they're going after restricting access to food recipes!*
could i ever think any woman as being, "ugly",
neglected, yes,
but... "ugly"?
please...
all manner of things become beautiful
around the mandible zenith upon
the grinding wheel of the big O...
nothing quiet like deathly screaming
in the hollow of the night,
but some drunkard loser -
speaking in tongues and recollecting
a myth of a patriarch
akin to Abraham...
'it's just the moon, you shit-face!'
'yeah, and my grandmother sees
a Herr Tvardovsky in it from
time to time, riding a ******* cockerel!'
which equates to a banality of
two things (well, three):
1. she shouldn't have been given
opiates during WWII to shut
the **** up, as a baby, so my great-grandparents
could hide in the Polish countryside,
i.e war zone....
2. i shouldn't be drinking and reading
religious text /
listening to Finnish folk songs...
3. about that Hollywood thing...
how movies are getting ******** and
******** by the day...
see... in philosophy there's this point,
not a Hegelian dialectic crap,
a Kantian coordinate,
a starting point,
zee: res per se...
a thing in itself...
blah blah... noumenon...
i hardly think t.v. shows will reach this
level of "self-consciousness"...
i.e. will be making t.v. shows about
making t.v. shows...
English soap opera tide barrier...
but movies have certainly turned
to focus on this, "vantage" point...
the disaster artist for starters...
birdman?
eh...
and like any cascade of falling
down from an airplane akin
to the opening image from
Salman Rushdie's the satanic verse...
mighty fine looking up
and cackling while flapping your hands
in imitation of a Canadian goose.
ha ha ha... ah... **** never gets old.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
*where cello was semi-colon, where violins (always plural, no one's weeping or playing to beg) are colon, where Bach's (church pianos) organs / castrato livers kidneys hearts... where comma was the trebling silver triangles... where full-stop was the composer turning into a conductor, to detach himself from the act of composition and into a drama, a staged drama, a Sisyphus ram against the stable coordinate of perpetuated slam dunking bullseye for only a: knock knock. who's there? knock knock nowhere. nowhere where? here. where what? knock knock open the ******* door!*
i lived to the age of 70,
i loathed hating people,
and i loathed loving them
hence the reason i never married,
i could have lived alone
but the monetary system absolved that
wish...
tribalism would never give us
mozart's symphony no. 40 because
we would be exchanging favours
instead of monetary funds...
via solipsism and the ugly synonym autism...
****** instead of wives... well, there you go...
her eager libido explains much,
as a teenager ****** eager (rhyme rhyme rhyme)
explains her escapism into outliving man;
her satan's bargain truly did favour hair,
oh **** her, while he died a splendid death
aged approx. 30, she with a **** salute
saluted him: i'm worth 90 autumns!
yeah, 90 autumns and arthritis.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
I woke up in the morning only this day,
from an infuriated dream,
where I have been for years, I think.
A dream where the smiles smiled for every truth,
and the cries cried for every lose.
In that place, love will be the one to seek,
hearts and minds always coordinate,
like it was you and I, remember?
There is no such thing as, “edges of forever”,
memories will never be cold as fire,
and revenge, yes, revenge is beautiful,
like it was you and I, remember?
It was a pure and vivid imagery
of a perfect world,
to where we want to go together,
a world far from what was ours,
a world with which hatred never remains
after death comes alive.
But I still woke up.
Then I looked at the window,
and remember,
that even how many times I tried to hide
and close my eyes in order to go there,
we could never be back
in each other’s arms again,
for you used to believe in the morning.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC
****
Eddie Eddie Eddie.
I'm just at this stop sign.
Minding my own radio stations and avocado smoothie.
Of course you pull up next to me.
Of course you look away casually.
Of course you're wearing a plain white tee.
And don't you look so good in it Eddie.
****
So unfair.
My car is here and yours is there and
I'm trying not to stare but
How can I not be aware of my biggest crush? EVER?
With his blonde hair.
It never was fair how this black girl
Yearned for green eyes that never cared back girl.
While the sun is always on my mind
You come up sometimes and it's stupid.
"You stupid
****
I think, sometimes.
Because she's little stupid-
The little girl who followed boys home.
The one who would wait for emails before we had phones.
The one who grew up and still doesn't know what the **** to do so she calls her mom in the parking lot asking for advice because she desperately wanted to follow him to his destination and learn everything about his day so she could better coordinate her outings in order increase her chances of seeing him again but she knows that's creepy and her mom says so too.
That girl, is dumb.
Eddie.
But you're dumb too.
You dumb ****
No, you're smart and funny and so **** **** I want to **** my self.
I hate being so beautiful and so clueless that it goes to waste sometimes.
Eddie Eddie Eddie.
You make me really nervous.
So **** you.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 3:44 AM UTC
A girl kicks her legs while sitting on a swing,
unable to coordinate her young body to move forward.
Her small hands are wrapped around the chain links,
holding her high so she can only touch her toes to the ground.
Her stomach hurts and she frowns.
It always hurts when she tries to play, so she stopped trying.
A teen kicks her legs while sitting on a swing,
not having the energy to move herself forward.
Her bitten fingernails pick a the ridges of the chain links,
holding her now that she is far to exhausted to do so on her own.
Her whole body hurts and she can't even frown.
It always hurts when she tries to breathe, so she stopped trying.
A woman walks up to a swing,
allowing her own child to tug her towards it.
Her actions are careful as she pushes her precious cargo,
cradling it yet letting it roam far enough to find happiness.
Her whole body feels light and she can't stop smiling.
It always was a struggle to keep going, but she never stopped trying.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
I struggle to stay balanced
my asymmetry is well established
my to-do list is longer than my hair
which I need to cut, by the way
So many dead ends, so little day
So many tasks, my schedule cannot sway
the gears are moving, the thoughts invasive
the fears are proving to be quite abrasive
too much, cannot face it
so I meticulously place my crystals north
so I ridiculously colour coordinate my clothes
anything to escape myself mischievously
I struggle to stay in one place
I struggle every day
Aug 25, 2021
Aug 25, 2021 at 3:51 PM UTC
that place with comforting as theme overriding,
essentials of dream, complex, shelter, cocoon,
which/whether, almost irrelevant,
if and or,
don't matter when you are at home,
light, fierce sun rays eyes filled,
moonlight stars invading one's composure
now!
time
to alight, feet on the grounding,
rain,
pelting, not an inhibitor to the poem
in me, its resonating drumming me up,
to a beating, a lyric, a thyme of rhyme,
fragrantly repeating in my head, home,
home is where the flagrant poems are
born, delivered by no midwife, from
the ***** of my entirety, all five sensoria,
commanded by multiple generals on
different battlefields, coordinating a
battle plan, exhale, attack, coordinate,
brain, eye, smell, movement, urgency,
taste, words gushed, light emitted from
the fingertips, you cannot write as fast
as required, you, self, afired, and afeared,
losses will be greater than expected, but
no matter when we carry the tide behind
us, sweeping the obstacle of ego, pinging
pain, the hesitation that collapses courage,
oh god, oh me, be brave, lead me into the
breach,
the hole, the aperture that will allow a totality
of me to exit, to escape, to compose, p r o p o s e,
the confines of my uncontrollable uncontained
unconscious natured being and fervent annouce,
on this day,
*this poem shall be
written in its fulfilling, exiting fulsomeness,
&
entirety,
and let me rise, raise up, lift and shout,
one more last time, like the first time, praise and glory,
hallelujah to the parts of me that gifted me this
poem in-the unity-of-unison, uncensored, un~
inhibited and finalized momentarily perpetual,
with an amen amendment offered up too all and to
me…
amen, amen, amen
and let us rise up to morrow and once more,
write up to ride to birth the essentials of my next
homebound
be-ing
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 5:15 PM UTC
I, a Sun casting light
All direction so bright
In search for my Moon,
But the mass of the Earth
So vast in girth
Eclipses her from view
Distances inordinate
A mysterious coordinate
How far is soon
Spacetime is bending
Her presence pending
Great discovery overdue
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
we were in mutual coordinate
in natural synchrony of our own microcosms.
we were bathed in showers
of the starlit cloak that greets us before the morn.
we were slowly revolving
around our own mutual center of gravity.
we were slowly spiraling
as we near each other's force of attraction.
we saw each other spiraling toward
an event horizon, of which escapes are to no avail.
we were hurtling towards each other,
bracing no impact, but with arms wide open.
we danced 'til the night has passed,
and slowly have i realized the truth of it all.
we danced a moonlight dance,
but it was i, alone in my mind's delusional figment!
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 5:05 AM UTC