"coordinated" poems
There are no right answers.
The sky rejects the birds, turns them
over to gravity,
embedding them in the concrete and dirt.
The grit refuses to become a pearl,
just as the wound refuses to heal
and the flesh eats itself.
The market sees a sudden spike in
sales of Champagne and cyanide.
Coordinated efforts seek and fail
to curtail the rising tide of violence
in the nation's dreaming.
You realise that this crude, barbaric language
that you can't understand
is your own.
Beauty glitches and pixelates.
Frightened, furtive confessions of love
are unheard over proud, visceral
proclamations of hate.
Tongues divorce mouths.
Every now and then, a voice
inside your head says,
'Thud.'
The measures of sanity become
more quantifiable and
totally arbitrary.
The horizon
tightens
like
a noose.
It doesn't matter if this is wrong.
There are no right answers.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 4:40 AM UTC
Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond.
I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre
and said to my wife A gun in every home.
Those devils would think twice
before razing the village and seizing the boys.
A well-regulated militia.
The local militia the most interesting moment
in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases,
fights) and a **** sexless love story.
Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the
community, the young
from the janjaweed. The crop from the ****
Limited scope and defensive posture
but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women)
side by side.
Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain.
Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture.
Great music. Cuba, Africa.
The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat
of violence
No saxophones in the band. The saxophone!
Invented by a Belgian--Look what the Belgians are doing in the
Congo!
When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry
for non-violent acts.
This quiet neighborhood, July,
undergirded by violence, force. That's a given--
any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that.
Without just violence
Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited,
negligible (but not non-existent)?
Regarding King
the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon
federal force to counter the South's violence.
No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be
overwhelmed by southern violence.
Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic.
Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the
British. Or did he?
1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi
restrained but could release which the British feared, and
2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that
allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished--this restraint
was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as
emanating from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and
valued citizen of the United Kingdom (defensive posture).
What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with
community
as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession.
Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the
common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with
otherwise neutral, private acts.
The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is
forgoing deadly force.
But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence,
in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune
violence.
Hence, a gun in every home.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
Howls in the night
cross the threshold of savagery
Coordinated hate
of a hundred jackboots
stomping faces in the streets
Storefronts smashed
Crushed glass crunching
under the feet of unbridled violence
Doors bashed in
Swinging sledges smash
Women and children dragged
kicking and screaming from their homes
Beaten unconscious
then beaten while unconscious
Clothes rended
flesh roughly groped
******* mashed
by laughing barbarians
with teeth made of knives
Innocence of a generation *****
in a single evening
Ransacking hands
strangle the wealth of a culture
One thousand synagogues in flames
light cast magnified in the carpet of crystals
sparkle of hellish brilliance
Ninety one lives snuffed
they were the lucky ones
Avoided the camps
where greater horrors were wrought
in the forges of torment
from the pounding of flesh
beneath hatred like hammers
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 8:27 AM UTC
1.
Eyes, eager fish, in deep Himalayan blue, splash and swim
the ultramarine sky of the mind, gets color coordinated, in resonance
wind from across the ranges, incessantly chant guttural "Öm"
gently spreads waves, that on ears, vibrate as music,divine
our feet get liberated from mind's control, the trek becomes us.
2.
Eyes now, turn swifts, fly to the valley extending to horizon,
teeming with flowers of every hue, profusion of orchids,
rolling white clouds above,create *tantric patterns
of grace, swirls, swoops,scoops, somersaults,the trek goes on.
3.
Melting ice, fits well on the conical brown mountain tops,
a white bodice, perfect cover for her lovely peaks,
angular mounts gleam in the limitless avalanche
of light, an impulse for benediction is palpable.
4.
Simple folks of village, on the way side
in flowing colorful dresses ***** tall poles
festoons of bright colors, joyous prayer flags flutter in wind
proclaims festive spirit, they vigorously wave.
5.
Now heart overwhelms, sings the paeans of
a sky that changes it's face from blue to white
and sometimes, a hue so bleak, deep gloom,
on red brown earth, sun light prances around.
6.
The grass bed then transforms quick,
mind drinks the dense benediction peace brings
that coils inside the soft blue waves, beating within and out
7.
Himalayan blue has taken us in to it's embrace
bird songs ring along the path of ancient sages,
who went in to the forest abode to contemplate, never returned,
became one with the hum of cosmos, they walk within us.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 6:05 AM UTC
Distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness, existentially transcendental's clairaudience clairvoyance. Metaphysical mystique’s evolutionally metamorphic futurity's fatidic incarnate. Due yesterday’s retrospectively retroactive. Protractive analyses' dimensional delineations. Enigma entity’s dexterously tactile acuity and coordinated agility on the identity crisis. Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix to synaptic syntax semantics. Prospectus perplexity surreally sublime. Quagmire quandary’s poshly plush. Who am I to think I can conception of the infinite supply? Even the syntactics of eclectic synectics pale by compare to the atrociously impetuous impudence in pugnaciously audacious. Impromptu innuendo's juncture. Imagination’s immaturities are psychic clarity’s entelechy to evolutional tenants élan vital. Fiduciary principle's financially responsible fiscal policies. Mercenary mendacity's plenary plenipotentiary. Innocuous noumenal verity, mystic symbiotic’s chicanery dynamism fealties. Proximity parameter’s perimeter peripherals, vicinity victuals to vigilante villain, propinquity habitation’s harbingers of harangued. The question remains on the tribal: how can I stand next to the person I’m standing next to if I’m carrying on right through them. It’s the trajectory extant in spatiotemporal's telemetry tactician. Well graspy greedy on the stingy frugal to mingy minion and paw flaw laws claws on it. Get a glove, objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iota’s of self-inductive interstitial extrapolation. Detinue perfective. Traveling down this obtusely overt contusion in my vehicular contrivance convection convolution. Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s aura roan to rainbow mare. Unicorn railway nails. Swarthy ******** swath swizzles on the sweaty swelter swerve to verve.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 12:10 PM UTC
PRAYER IS A TEAM SPORT
[In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.]
We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the pray-ers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push. You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast.
Front row.
Second row.
Back row.
Digging in for the big push.
The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit. The pray-ers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half. Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended.
The pray-ers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of pray-ers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their coordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together.
The pray-ers drive on. The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH.
The opposition's footing is slipping, the pray-ers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses. Oh, that must have hurt!
But there's no time for complacency, the pray-ers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward.
This is a joy to see. The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise. But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of pray-ers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The pray-ers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown.
- Now back to the action.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 2:14 AM UTC
Brackets
Your mum picked you up in daddy’s BMW,
we had to wait an hour while they scrubbed the brains of another son off the roof of the 125
(Why they built a multi storey car park on top of the bus station is a mystery to me.)
You carefully colour coordinated your files and scrutinized your revision schedules,
we watched nicked CCTV footage of two blokes smoking crack and burning down the bowling pavilion next door
(the old boys never did raise enough to repair it.)
You snubbed each other because of different tastes in jumpers,
we watched acid casualties talk politics with football hooligans
(a hastily rolled joint bridged the obvious gap.)
You lounged in the common room in your study periods,
our lesson got cancelled because John had been smashed in the face with a fire extinguisher
(and our tutor used to be a lifeguard.)
You worried about fashion and discussed the injustice of last night’s X Factor result,
we watched Neil’s head crash into his keyboard after he’d scoffed all his methadone in one go
(again.)
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Beauty and ugliness are not in the eye,but in the mind;
Sense is coordinated by the mind.
Discrimination is the tool of mind,
The eye sees what mind wants to be seen.
To awaken the world and the life within
and to apprehend the wisdom of light,
The seeker must see with vision untainted by the memory.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
I am the fire that holds the glow
of a hidden flame that captures
all that fall within.
As all my fire flowers around me
bellowed by every heartbeat.
As many invisible doorways break
open and all is awakened in air of ruby
reds and orange flame, as they
burst and bloom.
I am the fire that swallows all fire so
shout at me more little drill sergeant
for you light my fire.
For I will explode all over your anger
and blow you out like a little candle.
As I am a colossal fiery breeze as turbulent
winds encircle like a forest fire I engulf.
My coat shines and glows with orange
embers fanned by a million life times
of survival.
The power of my radiating heat melts
bones like ice in boiling water or the
hot sun against margarine.
Dare you look into my stare take a dip
a little swim and I will reignite your
flame.
I am the WILD Tiger never in caged by
any shouldst or ought to for I am a free
and my path always open for me to seek
fuel for my flame.
As my fire is never suffocated by conditions
or rule as I possess all the space around me.
Like oxygen I **** it all in while exploding into
higher spaces much greater places.
I feel the taste of LOVE and HATE as they are
both painted upon my tongue and feed my
appetite.
Like two sticks Love and Hate I rub them both
together please give me more smoke and fire.
You rub your soft injustice against my hard wood
I will bring you storm clouds and flames.
As I fight for right as naturally as gravity is
pulling us to earth.
I will transform any situation never stopping
to ask if I can as I throw myself at anything.
I wash souls of petty despair as they bath
within my glare.
Come close to me and I will hold you tenderly
in the nets of my sight like hammocks
in my eyes.
Let me lick and sooth your many wounds
as we together we softly purr.
Purring sweetly together like a V8 engine I can
slowly restore all your strength and power.
I pounce and spring of solid rock that feels
so soft and elastic like rubber.
A thousand coordinated sparks ****** themselves
forward as they blaze a trail to fast for the brain.
You will be liberated when you find my fire
rocket blades ignited we will dance and play
through time.
So much can be gained when running with the
Tiger, caressing air with a watery velvet.
As you slip through a jungle with a silky strawberry
orange flame, how we Love the beautiful
Tiger's Flame
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
The coordinated conjunctions know they have the advantage against
all other conjunctions. I mean, let's face it. The other conjunctions are just spastics.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Three striped cats daily demonstrate awakening:
a) BijaChen: startles by pounce onto bed or banging of sunlit window blinds;
b) BlueMonsoon: prefers annoying whining coordinated with scratching at blankets;
c) LadyFiona: chooses a prickly psychic stare into my sleeping consciousness to disrupt dreams. (she must have been a witch's cat).
Sleep you say?
Mr. Rooster, lover of Flathead Lake cherries,
rehearses a solo operetta while strutting sharp grey claws inches from the screen door.
Doze off?
Thirty small brown-red-yellow-speckled birds usurp seeds at the swinging feeders in frenzied unharmonious clatter,
While the low moan of iron hinged gate closes pale hay and tall horses into the corral.
Rest?
Urgently a growling lawn mower slashes green strands of life and delicate insects from their microcosms of Little Earth,
And calico barn cats dive from rafters onto feed sacks to devour the crunch of breakfast.
Lao Tzu speaks no sound, eyes watch
Two butterflies sweep though moist morning monsoon air.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
I like my frame
They match me well
I wear them with style
Others are hung over
Hide the black bags
Wear them on a drunk night
That's not right
Shades worn on summer days
Watching the game
Performers rock them on stage
Keep them cool and coordinated
Wear them with proud
You could wear them to stare
Look around but look cool
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
Conjunction:
a small class of words distinguished in many languages by their function as connectors between words, phrases, clauses, sentences
- the act of conjoining; combination; the state of being conjoined; union; association:
- a compound proposition that is true if and only if all of its component propositions are true.
- the coincidence of two or more heavenly bodies at the same celestial longitude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am in a relationship.
a colorless word
a word of no clarity
a good one? a bad one?
a professional deal,
or one that makes you squeal
with pleasure or despair
without context or content,
a description of a status,
not a state,
but a quid pro quo
I prefer
I am in a conjunction
*well recall the day
our orbits
more than crossed,
but synchronized,
when two bodies
began to travel
upon the same longitude
one direction
in conjunction
t'was the day we coordinated
on our mobile phone,
co-configured our future,
our calendars*
*nowadays,
I answer her questions
while she is commencing to think,
when her foolishness prevails,
she questions, "did you remember to..."
my answer, a question returned,
connected, constant and conjunctive,*
"and what's my name?"
an answer conveying constancy
*relationship
oft the farthest place from logical,
but you know that,
say I am in a conjunction
and the logicians will celebrate
the end of your lonely celibacy,
well they understand the truth
inherent in and of and about
your compounded proposition*
*what unimaginative creatures we be,
dispensing with beauty for factuality,
but facts are easily misread,
your fact and my fact, relationship,
the exact same fact, conveys neither
an agreement as to what that means
are we unionized, associated, or conjoined
what is the quality of
our related ships?*
so
Dear Mr. Zuckerberg,
amend my status please,
post me
as being in a state of:
a) conductivity b) connectivity c) concoctive
no, none of those
capture
what we have
captured,
so let create a new state,
a new world,
using a very old world word
post us as follows,
"Nat is in a conjunction"
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
Spare parts
Nothing more than spare parts
Nuts and bolts and hair traps
Metal pins and elastic bands
A2 screws and P7 washer nuts
Fasten finger tight
After assembled
Repeat steps 1 & 2
Fixed too firmly
Adhere some glue
A mechanical recipe
The instructions to destroy and rebuild
3D printed
Pasted together
Real feel wood and triple stitched elastic leather
Catalog quality at half the price
Made in China mattress springs
Pantone color coordinated just right
Knock off
Imitation
Advertisement
Product placement
Everything must go
20% sale
Egyptian cotton stuffed with horsehair
Thank you
Come again
Buy one
Get one
Sign up for our newsletter
Refer a friend
buy Buy BUy BUY BUY BUY BUY BUY BYE BUY
try Try Try TRY YOU NEVER GET IT QUITE RIGHT
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
i have so many tabs in the books i read
they are color coded and when you flip open the book
i usually have some sort of comment there
these comments range from witty to cynical to dark to brutally honest
either with myself
or a general statement about the world
no matter what it says
whether silly or serious
those comments are my secrets
the tabbed off sections of my mind that i keep for only myself
the bruises i keep concealed
the words i’m too afraid to speak out loud
secrets between myself
my book
and my future self
who will one day read those tabs
those comments
and think back to the reasons they were left
think about all the obstacles i had overcome
and all words i had once related to
my truest self lies within
the margins of books
highlighted quotes
and color coordinated tabs
that no one knows the meaning of
i am terrified of someone reading those sections
someone picking up any one of my books
and knowing how i really feel on the inside
it would be as if someone had stripped me of my clothes
and left me for judgement
one day
i’ll be able to let someone open my books
to let them observe my truest self
and i hope that person is willing
to show me
their tabs too
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 3:55 PM UTC
my hidden shames
are an excellent source of moral fibre,
nurturing, but not nutritious.
we coexist in a quiet
mutual acknowledgment,
coexisting but un-categorizable,
nonetheless,
among my oldest cohorts,
their singular coordinated characteristic,
they are mine alone,
not meant to be shared.
But they will someday
make an excellent poem.
Mon jan 2 2023
6:47am
@here
———————————————————-
the askew
are my oldest companion,
dating back to my naissance,
faithful, eternal, but single-minded,
with a rueful sense of humor,
of course,
refer to my relatively plentiful hairs
inherited from my mother’ genetics.
a morning chore,
to return their antics
to an adult,
dignified pose,
plenty sufficient to be be brushed,
straight back,
the preferred orderly compose,
of older men
who cannot waste time
with foolishness,
the excessive vanities of
curls, parts and pompadours,
and yet,
every day they wake me with
ridicule, mockery, by presenting
themselves.to me,
as if electrocuted,
each
hair raising itself
pointing to the heaven,
whence
their true Creator resides.
no amount of product
persuasive,
they do what they must do,
akimbo, askew,
with inordinate amount of
malice aforethought and
a venomous sense of
hairy (and now hoary)
absurdity .
a splash of water,
a handful of rigorous brush strokes,
returns order
and the pretense of a serious mien,
an adult demeanor.
But their purpose accomplished,
they have reminded me of the
absurdity of human vanity,
to humble myself
before forces
more powerful
than human self-aggrandizement
by accentuating
our human foibles.
7:13am
same time & place
——————————————-
morning prayers are
always
a trilogy
the rounded evenness of three,
provides the necessary gravitas
of sufficiency,
three being
not too short,
not too long,
not too quick,
just three right,
to impart
the seriousness
of gratitude
for having gained
another day upon earth,
with it,
many multitudes of
chances to share
thankfulness,
kindness,
yes,
& love too,
and to write,
one more poem
encapsulating
all of the above.
7:35am
same day
same place,
same cup of coffee
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
I heard the rushing wind in the calmest air
Loudly whispering
Unemotional words spoken through many tears
Flying freely
With no wings
The present time became bygone
Dedicatedly detached
A light of darkness lit up bright shadows
Well suited
In mismatch
Opposing allies fought for hostile peace
Calling light the same
Agitation dwelled in tranquility
All their calmness
Spoke disclaim
Harmony was found within a tempest
Coordinated discord
The rushing wind screamed out quietly
Time as they knew it
Was no more
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 2:44 PM UTC
Today the last seam ripped
From the veil of purity
I bound myself within
I’ve come to the realization
It was merely a handicap
Masquerading as a noble cause
So adamant not to play the game
My choices left me with no defense
No shelter
I’ve given too much credence to the interactions of chemicals
Falsifying chemistry
Turning a blind eye to deceits
In a way I was always aware
But I eagerly brushed those thoughts aside
Hungry for something else
Aching for some sort of natural connection
But when everything is coordinated and man-made
Manipulated
There is no such thing as innocence
Merely naïve souls unwilling to adapt.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
Distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness, existentially transcendental's clairaudience clairvoyance. Metaphysical mystique’s evolutionally metamorphic futurity's fatidic incarnate. Due yesterday’s retrospectively retroactive. Protractive analysis' dimensional delineation. Enigma entity’s dexterously tactile acuity and coordinated agility on the identity crisis. Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix to synaptic syntax semantics. Prospectus perplexity surreally sublime. Quagmire quandary’s poshly plush. Who am I to think I can conception of the infinite supply? Even the syntactics of eclectic synectics pale by compare to the atrociously impetuous impudence in pugnaciously audacious. Impromptu innuendo's juncture. Imagination’s immaturities are psychic clarity’s entelechy to evolutional tenants élan vital. Fiduciary principle's financially responsible fiscal policies. Mercenary mendacity's plenary plenipotentiary. Innocuous noumenal verity, mystic symbiotic’s chicanery dynamism fealties. Proximity parameter’s perimeter peripherals, vicinity victuals to vigilante villain, propinquity habitation’s harbingers of harangued. The question remains on the tribal: how can I stand next to the person I’m standing next to if I’m carrying on right through them. It’s the trajectory extant in spatiotemporal's telemetry tactician. Well graspy greedy on the stingy frugal to mingy minion and paw flaw laws claws on it. Get a glove, objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iota’s of self-inductive interstitial extrapolation. Detinue perfective. Traveling down this obtusely overt contusion in my vehicular contrivance convection convolution. Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s aura roan to rainbow mare. Unicorn railway nails. Swarthy swastica swath swizzles on the sweaty swelter swerve to verve.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 10:57 PM UTC
Introducing Picasso and Nunez aka ANu Picasso a pair of L.A. poets and painters coming to a gallery near you.
Our first big gig will be at the Nuetra Gallery and Museum on Glendale Blvd. in Silver Lake coming up in September.
Come check out East and West Balanced, it will surely be an art show you'll always remember.
Curated and coordinated by the one and only, Dulce Stein, Dulcepalloza 2018 guarantees a good time.
Just another ditty on who we are, this is a poem my partner Picasso put out:
BALANCED
He is the torch
I am the white
He is the dark
I am the light
We don't impress
to be blessed.
We're blessed
to impress
Hate us or love us
But don't love to hate us
We're the Ying and
the Yang of this Earth
Both with the
same day of birth
He is the east
and I am the west
But together we're
simply the best.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
I started high school with grand intentions of grand friends and grand grades and boys would only be a street-side fruit stand to glance at while I cruised on by.
Intentions never quite work the way you plan.
My first class of the day, a boy with striking blue eyes, an awkward gaunt, and floppy hair sat down next to me and started talking about Pokemon. He had seen my Pokeball pin on my backpack and had singled me out as the person to vilify him the least. I was uncomfortable and unsure, horrified by his brashness. The seat had been meant for my best friend, Cathy.
But the second his mouth opened the teen awkwardness faded from his face and he become bright exuberance. Stunned and flustered, I stared as he passionately smiled and seemed to revel in our one-sided conversation.
This happened for weeks and I eventually became comfortable enough to talk back. His smile widened as he seemed pleased to find another person who was willing to be a little weird. I didn't know nearly as much as him, but I learned because I loved to watch him beam.
Right before the homecoming dance, he asked me out with a poster that said, "I choose you! Do you want to choose me too?" I blushed and said yes, and we coordinated red for our first dance as high school freshmen.
At the dance, though, my blue eyed beamer was someone anew. He was dorky and the way he danced was flamboyant but terrifying. He often ditched me for his marching band friends, and I felt more humiliated and uncomfortable around him than the bright admiration I had felt before.
When he took me home that night, he tried to kiss me and at the last second I ducked away and gave him a hug before running inside. Those lips weren't nearly as enticing anymore when they weren't beaming at me.
The next week in class, he sat next to a different person. A guy from his science class, I heard from my friends. I shrugged and went on doodling on my notebook. At least I learned now what a Gardevoir was.
There we were, back to square one. Guess it takes more than a semi-mutual interest and a beautiful smile to maintain a relationship. And there I was, back to grand intentions and great expectations, but this time I knew things won't ever go quite exactly as you plan.
He ended up dating Cathy later, and he and I are close friends now. He's actually pretty fun when he bothers pays attention.
But this was the end of our love story.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
~inspired by Lar Lubovitch,
gifted to Glenn Currier
who made my eyes water-dance this
morning ~
<>
raise the arms in preparation
for an articulated genteel waving
to keyboard,
an elegant slow descent,
fingers extending, splaying,
but in fine coordinated curvature
for they are 24 carat gold filled fingertips,
word & dance-art~infused
i king and expelling sounds of dancing words,
all over my body
some body part of me,
grasps that the cylinder of ink,
becomes a baton,
single instrument director,
an attaché,
an additive~lubricant,
for all my orifices,
firing rocket-in-the-air bomb bursts
while body in its entirety
motions,
shuckin’ and jivin’
in the prayer~poem first position,
a rock n’ roll motion,
back and forth,
to fro,
holy mesmerized
words run down my arms,
letters drop encased in salt drop capsules,
from the intuition in my eyes,
we see them forming words,
pooling,
without volition,
upon,
all my surfaces, but they
a mere conveyance,
bringing these expulsive explosive verbs
in an ordered fashion,
to your eyes,
intuitively,
asking you
to dance with me,
begging you
to envision me,
hearing the piano maintaining rhythm,
while a violin crys out in a overly long held notes,
concertinas bellowing,
all together quavering,
oscillating, emoting,
and you!
you are reading me perfectly
so we dance in unity
cheek to cheek,
to the song of
our poem,
our words, our tongues,
our entire entities,
rogue kissing
Dec 4, 2023
Dec 4, 2023 at 8:52 AM UTC
Its not the point of killing faith that u will find someone.
Its the action of loneliness and controlling your bonds
Its empty alone and so is pretending to love
You cant make connections not like addiction to drugs.
Save the drug of infatuation.
No reason just meaning less
No selection. Just what drips in your lap
No focus just lenses that crack
The sextant marking starlines that guide your path
is no longer Coordinated calibrated to designate a map
Walk amble climb along to view a moral prefix
to design a way out of a sea just arms length
with the depth of the roots of mesquite trees in the spring
We are all stowaways in a ship waiting to jump to shore.
Trying to find a place to spill seeds in the tilled rows of a *****
The words you whisper are pretty and my minds enthused
tho i know every go at this game i shall lose
Im wandering in a labyrinth
Chasing in a brain
like a rat in a spinning wheel following reflections from a cage
You tricked me. Oh yes. You win
Im no longer a man like all women before you ate the innards left a shell
spit out the hull
Dragged my meat to the floor
One final kiss and i leave, i am missed
You say lies again
i pull off your fist
its on my head
its in my throat
i read words that you spoke
its not my fault
its the blood clot
keeping us unconnected in this note
I am dreaming
secret beaming
red lights blinking
help is sinking
No hope between two
softly stroking
my cross is burning
No fires stoking
On my fore arms
on my chest guard
all is sinking with the funeral
All the voices in my head
are telling me it should be dead
yet the ***** in my soul
tells me that he still pleas for bread
But i starve him
and i lash him
and i strap him to this ledge
for he is wrong
and yes he lies
you're the harpy of my dread
You ******* killed me like i was a lame horse to be put down
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:30 PM UTC
He slapped her
Hard
She lay on the Dirt floor until she heard His footsteps disappear
into the Safety of their bedroom.
She looked up at Her yellowbrown walls.
“I should really repaint them”
They reminded her of Summer
and she hated Summer.
She wanted to cry,
but didn’t.
She wanted to call Them,
but couldn’t.
After all, this was only His First time
She climbed into their yellowbrown bed
which matched the yellowbrown walls
and yellowbrown fridge
which was specifically color coordinated with
the yellowbrown drapes that she had Loved so much.
She fell a sleep,
her warmish body pressed against His.
His being as hot as Summer.
She hated Summer.
She Loved him.
He Loved her.
He a pologized.
She thought it would Never happen a gain.
Never A nother time.
A nother cycle.
Repetition
Repetition
REPETITION
Over and over and over and over and over and over and over A gain.
She began to flood her river onto her too pink Cheeks
Slowly Choking to Death on her own
Self pity and Shame
And all he could do was grant her a hug of Darkness
as she quietly Drowned
After all, this was only his Ninth time.
She still hated Summer
And she still Loved him
He Loved her.
She fingered her bruises
like a well cherished Friend.
Gingerly
Carefully
Lovingly
She refused to buy him another Beer.
She thought he might Stop.
He didn’t.
He Con tinued
To De stroy
PERFECTION
They reported His Death.
She stood in front of grayblack coffin,
Her river Flowed faster and faster down
her emaciated Cheeks and onto His tombstone.
Faster and faster still
until she had to break the cool, cold surface
just to Find her own Humanity.
She still Loved him.
He must still Love her.
Her Mind began to drift.
Is there a God?
A man maybe,
with a long beard and a Wise and Kind face.
She had seen Him on TV.
Some kind of Religious channel about the story of Jesus.
She thought she would
Like to be like Jesus.
She made sure the rope was Tight.
The chair was just tall Enough to reach
with the Ends of her toes. She privately smiled
That Smile to herself.
As if she were sharing a Private joke.
And she was the Only one
who really knew the punch line.
The yellowbrown room was Hot.
As Hot as Summer.
She hated Summer.
She Jumped.
The rope was Tight.
It didn’t take long.
She was just trying to get to that Better place.
The Place where a TV God
with a long beard and a Kind face
would welcome her with the sharpness of a knife.
A Place where there was no Shame,
no yellowbrown fridge
that was carefully color coordinated
with the yellowbrown drapes,
no Summer,
no Private jokes,
no Imperfections,
and no Rivers.
A place of Peace.
Where there were no other bluepurplegray galaxies in the Universe
other than Him and Her.
Because she Loved him.
He Loved Her.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
Cryptic quotation offer shattered self-esteem
No solace for the personality flaws
Not quite the proclivity for annihilation
Yet, every stab at the paper breaks new teeth
Curious is the looker who looks through filtered eyes
Even still, there is no need to protest
An awkward moment of exaggeration
Or a sardonic belittling of subterfuge
Coordinated to change the sided nature of self
Crowned by the masses so intimately
But without a shred of deeper connection
And the line grows longer but no one knows why
Blind are bridge jumpers who love high numbers
Just like you never hear of lone sheep
Is everything so tragic…
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC