"correlated" poems
Deep down in the inhospitable gloom
Monterey Canyon welcomes an expectant mother
Unnoticed in the distance a whirring sound
and two parallel laser beams
Miss Cellania finds a nook
That instinct suggests is right
A place to nest and brood
A place to guard and wait
1.4 kilometers up a research institute
Guided the unmanned submarine
Correlated masses of data
Stared at live video feed
A unique event unfolded
Capturing such a moment
in this dark abyss
Clinging to a vertical rock
Her precious babies waiting to hatch
Her final duty to
Wait
Wait
Wait
Wait
Wait
Protect from predators and the icy cold
And so she began the
Inky black wait
Detached
Alone
The research crew returned later that year
Miss Cellania dutifully kept her vigil
They returned again month after month
Still she stubbornly stuck to the task in hand
The months turned to years
And still she protected her unhatched young
Clung to the same vertical spot
With nothing to eat
Alert, defensive
Motherly
Patiently waiting
Wasting away
Waiting
Waiting
Untill
F i f t y t h r e e m o n t h s l a t e r
Four and a half years
Finally her wait ended
With a flurry of independent life
Then death.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
In grammar, a correlative is a word that is paired with another word with which it functions to perform a single function but from which it is separated in the sentence.
In English, examples of correlative pairs are both–and, either–or, neither–nor, the–the ("the more the better"), so–that ("it ate so much food that it burst"), and if–then.
Correlative
-----------
the word intrigues,
not for its functionality,
but for its relativity
we are neither relatives,
blood connected,
nor are we correlated,
in fact, quite the opposite!
my love for you,
from afar,
if not, then,
not at all
you say
never,
and I say, even better!
causing you're confessing,
we are special together,
the more, the better,
our relationship contains
a scriptural clause elemental,
an unconditional
correlative,
for
every
for
e v e r
you
never
utter
……
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 2:39 PM UTC
If the Sacred Fire of Vesta went out, it meant one of two things:
meant
1. Rome was in danger;
meant
2. A Vestal ****** a guardian of the flame, was having ***
Chastity and fire
are two attributes that are directly correlated. If one is lost,
the other will follow. Trust me. This is fact:
only ****** women
can be celebrated.
The ****** Mary,
the ****** goddesses,
the way **** was seen as a crime
against the father, not the daughter:
women
must
remain
pure.
Do not eat the pomegranate seeds,
do not touch the fruit of knowledge. A
statue of a young boy
holding an apple
does not hold
the same connotation
as a woman holding an apple. Offering it to a man who
could have refused. Getting blamed for the fall from Eden.
A woman
with a snake draped around her body is not Eve,
is Lilith, but it’s close enough. They are both to blame for
all the evils of the world, so what does it really matter anyway? Women
are more susceptible to wavering in their faith in God,
to worshipping the devil, to practicing witchcraft—
The flames are out. Rome is not safe. A ****** is buried
alive for her sin. Lilith is slaughtering women in childbirth.
Babies are dying. A man is celebrated for his multiple
lovers. **** shaming in 79 AD. The beds in Pompeii
brothels are made of stone. St. Cecilia is face down in the
dirt. Women on the same level as slaves, if not lower. The
goddess Vesta as a housewife.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC
“Put pressure on it, it needs more pressure”
Holding your wounds shut
That senseless force is what took you away
Pressure- to be... whilst not desiring to be
You saw the clouds moving in greyscale
I saw the hills below scattered in shades of green,
Cavernous, shadowed, cryptic, familiar-
We were advised to go as the crow flies
I cried to a nameless God that your crow’s feet
Were from insurmountable happiness, not the pressures endured
I’ve forgotten much since the storm some-178 weeks ago
Though my body remembers yours over and over again
My skin has yours imprinted, correlated
Forged into one point on the axis between here and there
You the X, I the Y
The Earth crept between the crevices, curling
Through the distance between the Right radius and ulna
Elbows breaking knuckles, blood remains to be spilt
Blood doesn’t connect, if anything it merely separates
Scarecrows don’t help much when the crops won’t grow this year
Ants crawled out of the barrel of a shotgun
Observing the process of cleaning bones after tragedy
Follow the moss to find your way North with no direction-
Sometimes on the other side it’s not greener,
It’s more terrifying than ever before
Terrain untouched, unspoiled, sacred-
Climb up the trees with me, find your quiet
We won’t carve our names but we’ll find our niche
You’ll have quills and I’ll have armor
Not even the thought of stolen arrows,
Lost time through distance,
Or perhaps a slew of chemical imbalances
Can reach us up here
I chose to glue your pieces back together with mud and straw
Taken from the fallen, the loved and now distant memories
You may be an abandoned military base offshore
What was once used by many-
Witnesses life again, life of a different kind
The vegetation will ease its way into the cracks
Constructed when the foundation began to decay
It has a beauty of its own, one of self-sustainment
An everlasting beauty that connects itself
To the surrounding extravagance, often times ignored,
Death isn’t the only way to be forged into nature, remembered
Fear doesn’t always win, nor death do us part so soon
I hope your skin and bones remember before the end
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC
<•>
Good Acts are like Good Poems
*"Good acts are like good poems.
One may easily get their drift,
but they are not rationally understood"*
Albert Einstein
Ach, mein guter Kumpel!
Ach, mein bester Freund!
how could I not have known,
the syncopation, the synchronization,
between what I write, and the impetuous impetus within,
that caustic sense that burns words
from my chest
directly onto the paper
are more than correlated,
even causation-ally related
after all, you, naturally, the master of relativity
but you know me Al,^
I, the quibbler from NYC*
have to have a slightly different take,
in my gemeinschaft city of eight million strangers,
we always must have eight million and one
opinions
true dat, when I am on the fifth or sixth stanza,
realizing got no clue what the poem is rambling about,
but it sounds so good, lovely, pretty words,
why ***** it up with scientific rationality?
but good acts are easy, uber understood,
rationally we live to survive and
do what we to
make the species survive, common sense triumphs,
disguised as sacrifice, forgetting to roll the dice,
doing what comes like a good poem,
and what needs doing or writing
is so intuitively obvious,
just love poetry,
a global necessity
so check out Houston in two thousand and seventeen
here's hoping life in heaven ain't boring
know that you've seen, peeked, peaked,
at the theory of everything,
resolving the contradictions
between general laws of physics
and those pesky tiny quantum mechanicals,
even solving that 'other' equation
GA = GP
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
I wrote this in the dark.
Because the last poem stripped
from the book binding and ripped
from my chest was not valued at
the utility company's worth; a two-hundred dollar bill is not easily disbursed when each
poem nets zero cents per word.
A candlestick will
dematerialize faster than
a wax seal on parchment -
one that establishes the epoch of
Civil Rights -
this is a correlated falsehood
of fixed rents in a gentrified neighborhood.
The plus-side of *******
the poor to cater to the wealthy
is that when the new occupants
move in, and the stainless steel
refrigerator is moved in, the empty
box is placed at the curb, and with
the right imagination it can easily
become a home for two.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC
You blew dust in eyes so I couldn't see what I was doing
the mistakes I was making
you were pulling the strings and my movements correlated
I was following the choreography you scripted
I didn't realise the life I wasn't living
until you let go of those strings and I collapsed
I was the puppet you were puppeteering
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 7:56 AM UTC
Exists
All the time
Everywhere
Maybe not in your mind
All the time.
It strikes at unprecedented moments
and it hurts as if sand paper was rubbing against your lungs
You are deeply hurt
and shut your brain off temporarily
your mouth may not be correlated with the nervous system.
You say things you will regret.
The overwhelming feeling of not being good enough
washes over you, your life, your existence
like an enormous wave eroding away a mountain of self-esteem
that took you so long to accumulate.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 9:49 PM UTC
Beautiful women and beautiful girls,
Your hips were made to rule the world
To knock it off center with one switch in your step
The power you possess many people forget
Including yourself, other women and too many times men
We build ourselves up, they try to break us down again
I just got one question for them:
What happened to chivalry?
To women of the 21st century
You were their heart always worn on their sleeve
And a man that cheated but he didn't leave
To many young girls you were nothing more
Than a broken frame on a kitchen floor
Mixed with their mothers tears
Because that's the only form that their fathers appeared...
Tear down the walls that make your word night
And look to the sun and make darkness into light
All you need in your life is a beautiful smile
Only to know that you're worthwhile
You're so much more than your *** and your *******
You are defined by your intellect
You are not the measurements that lyricists impose
You are not correlated with the amount of skin you show.
But rather when you show what you know.
Beautiful Women and Beautiful Girls
Your hips are made to rule the world.
Challenge the world with your beautiful mind
Words of wisdom as numerous as stars that shine.
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 6:47 PM UTC
you serenaded a soul with words my ears have never comprehended,
overused the concept of love, wringing the word out until it was left dry, there was a hope in me that the author in you would display himself for me as well, that your stanzas correlated to the feeling between us.
i was searching for the words in your mouth, my hands sinking in like a dentist on a mission, hoping to pry out the sudden surprise of a few letters from between your teeth, something to make me feel like there were still things to discovered, that you were not going to be like the others, but everything fit wrong, like when i had not worn my retainer in a week.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 12:15 AM UTC
I hate you,
I feel more passion with these, then the other word.
With the same amount of letters.
The same amount of ink to write down.
They are closely correlated.
Just from different spectrums.
I want you to show me how much you hate me.
Push my body and take control.
Fire up my burning passion of the world.
I love you
Like sun rises and falls,
Without a fail, alive every morning.
The sight is short lived.
And almost always ignored.
The beauties never last for long.
Kisses the clouds hello.
Then disappears to the night.
But fears, if the passion will return.
As long as the earth is still round,
The sky will be lit at dawn.
Maybe that's why I feel more when the words slip out.
You tell me that I don't.
That I couldn't possibly hate you.
But if I hate you, then I guess I love you too.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
Would you still love me if I wasn’t classed as
“more to love”?
If I wouldn’t count as
“plus-size”,
If I didn’t have to shift through racks of clothes looking for the ones labelled
“L”?
If there was no
softness
to me,
if the curves of my hips were interrupted by
bones
jutting out,
if I was angular enough for you to
cut yourself
on, if I was
thin
enough to be
pretty?
Would you still love me if you knew that
every chip you fed to me,
every chocolate you bought for me,
everything you ever saw me eat was being
written down
and
calculated?
Would you still love me if every time you heard the shower running, you’d know that I’d weighed myself just before getting in
every
single
time?
Would you still love me if you walked in on me
clawing
at the back of my own throat in a
desperate
attempt to bring up
everything
but the conversation about how I wasn’t eating right?
If my skin got worse,
If you could taste how hungry I was every time
you kissed me,
If the only way to hold me was catching me
off-guard,
If when you pulled me on top of you, I
immediately
stood up because I knew I was
too heavy
for your
fragile hands and
perfect ribs?
Would you still love me if you’d have been the one to hear
“She can’t have an
eating disorder,
people with
eating disorders
aren’t fat”?
If at
every meal
you’d become acutely aware that my father’s side of the family was watching me eat,
just to see if I was,
If I went from hearing
“Wow, you look great, you’ve lost so much weight now”
to
“Oh my God, are you sick?”,
If I was still fourteen and thought that the
numbers on that scale
were directly correlated with how
happy
I could be?
Would you still love me if you knew me at fifteen?
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 6:07 AM UTC
James, you make my eyebrows feel so heavy.
To think: if I never find the one and one make too many empty glasses were broken in the mud-
dled my words when she asked for the time for bed –
All during my morning constitutional.
Take your ***** on the Mount and your Sin of the Farter
Because I know there’s nothing behind the artist except falling towers and furniture-sellers.
But can the deaf still listen?
Or should I care what’s inside a box I can never open?
And how many carriages will follow my coffin
And who will be my wormeaten neighbors
And which tongue will be employed to engrave the epitaph
And topped by what symbol or none?
In the beginning the first two words began to breed
And each generation issued reduplication
Evolving vestigial verbiage and new punctuation
All the way down to a young Poet-Hero-Creator:
Use illusory contours to paint the gravity between heavenly bodies, and use
The shared human experience of multistable perception to imply the gestalt of Dublin
(and be sure to use that German term).
We are the artificers of meaning.
Item: the location of the key.
Cat: things I should be thinking about but am not.
Item: the *** organs of strangers and acquaintances.
Category: things I should not be thinking about but am.
Item: the autobiographical component of Shakespeare’s later works.
Cat: things I need you to know that I think about.
Item: the possibility that my presence is not nearly as commanding as I’d formerly assumed.
Item: the increasing inebriatory similarities between myself and my father.
Item: the fear of losing my memory of Mother’s face,
as directly correlated to the expanding passage of time.
Cat: things I need you to think I don’t think about, at all.
Picture a symphony.
Hold the moment when the lights first fall and the cacophony of tuning
Floods into a single, synthesized vibrating tone. After the silence and before the song.
Write what you hear.
Write the chords in semiotic rhyme; transcribe harmony as memory:
Sing lived and unlived love and stride through on inkblot feet.
Now add the missing notes.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC
An empty page. The insufferable debate.
An infernal task? The everlasting trait?
A blank check? A clean slate?
The inkwell pond. Pen and nib. Rod and bait.
Over-caffeinated.
Under-appreciated.
Anger encapsulated by the shortness of my replies.
I'm exasperated by the amount of attempts and all the tries.
Code Scrambled. Wires crossed. Software and hardware not integrated.
Emotions and objects being wrongly correlated.
Places and faces being traded.
Thoughts and feelings segregated.
Process of progress imitated.
Utterly inundated.
Brain cells being immolated
So that my mind and my soul can become assimilated.
Self-worth: Underestimated.
These points are not to be debated.
Swoon confused with brood.
A smiling clown dances around the center ring.
Inside he's centering his self around the latitude and longitude of
The highest hilltops of Mt. Pisspoorattitude.
Without the slightest shred of gratitude towards any good deed done for him past the 5 minutes of thank you that he spouts off at the peak of the mountain.
If at first you don't succeed, just cry and cry again.
The concept rocket pulls the cap off the the pen sprocket
Ink spews everywhere. A shiny black geyser erupts from the rig.
Men shouting back and forth to one another. There's no way to contain it. We've sprung a leak, the oil is in our water. The oil is our blood.
Erasing, no, smearing. No control. No Z's either. Analog fuck-ups.
Chasing my tail, driving the same circuit.
Racing as Yoshi with a broken control stick
I've had a hell of a time on Uncle Sam's dime.
I disappeared behind the words written on my mirror long ago.
Am I a wreck or is this the requiem of my dreams?
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
I am an accumulation of stories,
An amalgamation of myself and others,
Shared experiences lessening cultural differences,
Secrets and fears;
My own and those I hold near.
Joy and Sorrow;
What I say today may not hold true Tomorrow,
I am not constant
I am ever-changing,
Adjusting, evolving, ameliorating,
Tomorrow, I am the people I met Today
And part of the person I left behind Yesterday
What I am is Who I am,
A correlated concept, every day an elevated stand.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 6:05 PM UTC
Idiosyncrasies.
Convincing oneself that two very uncorrelated happenings,
phenomenons, even, are correlated.
See, like the dry skin around my mouth appeared the day we met.
It lasted throughout the summer and is clearing up, now.
Now that we are all clear.
Or, perhaps, there's been a mind-fog face-fog correlation sans
romantic relationship.
In that case, I've been blind.
Blind as a bat.
I mis-read, mistook, misinterpreted my own dry skin.
It's almost like,
at least it can be compared to the time when I went to the Urgent Care because there was a rash on my back and the doctor said it was shingles.
In some of the same breaths he also mentioned that usually only old people get it.
And, he said, he said people who are stressed, too.
And I said, "but I'm not stressed."
And then I thought, am I?
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
It is not to think, as much as to shape this process i have made of silence.
Hush now.
It can never be okay, and the illusion is in your need to relate, because you correlated once, but it will never be the same.
It is chasing dragons for the same fate that you strayed from.
Its rubber bands, and band-aids for the game.
Check mate.
Check your mates for tics.
It is whats inside that itches for escape.
It is the day to day lies displayed from your hate.
Its whatever the **** you place your mind in.
Be this way, go that way, get out of the way, just stay ..
Right there
In yesterday, but i am late, and dreaming of the place i belong.
If seeing is believing than it shouldn't be too long.
Visualizing the realizing of what wouldn't have gone over so well, before the crash that befell my Orwellian signal from a well, wished for a hell dismissed in simple mindedness.
I am still unsure if it is a death wish, or a romantic kiss in the darkness, i inflict, as its burnt out of moonlit dominance in a prominence that smashed on the hull of my ship, full of not giving a **** as the light shifts around my presence.
My open hand is out but the other grips the severance package, of the stacking junk mail.
Dispel the formal, and embrace your former self, in unblinded wealth, accepting what you always felt, for the first time.
It is all ******* gone, and its mine.
All mine.
Standing on the corpses of my kind, i cry..
In happiness.
Its nothing.
I am one of many.
Gone.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
Dear good friend,
Perhaps acquaintance.
To the masses we pass on a daily basis,
The worn out souls and weary faces
Painted in towers of glass.
Ladies and Gentlemen,
Distinguished guests.
To those indisposed
By inexorable quests.
To the ones that were left
To search for what was right
Till there was nothing left
But memories of light
Blindfolds applied at night.
To the torn shoes,
Blistered feet.
The poverty we choose to greet.
It is pain, vain,
Somewhat plain to mention
That conversation's become outdated.
Sedated, restrained and correlated
To the denizens of a distant past.
We pass the world in silence.
Ignoring blatant acts of violence
Then claim that it is art.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 6:45 PM UTC
"try a few more," i encourage
i’m doing a breathing exercise
with a young multiple GSW
"you ain’t no doctor
and i’ll stop when i wanna ******* stop"
an amiable attitude
directly correlated
with multiple GSW
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 5:18 AM UTC
I forgot how it felt to be hungry
How your bones rack for crumbs on the bottom of your heart
My bones feel like brittle; ready to break at a gush of wind
But Brittle is candy
Candy is a sweet delicacy of whom people like me refuse to have
Candy is what I believe I can be
Only if I change into one of those target plastic models
Perfect and pristine, standing as if they are mocking me
Making fun of my creatures in the dark
And my not-so-ideal summer body
I just want a summer body
I want to see what other people see in me
I want to be all that I could be if I was pretty
So I start dropping things off of my menu, drop by drop
First a side dish, then my sugary drink
That drink should go to hell for how much weight it makes me gain
I reach down my throat until my regrets come back up
Reminding me I cannot be pretty the way other girls get to be
Ducking to the restroom after a meal
Anxiety overwhelming every ounce of me as soon as I eat
There is beauty in pain, right?
Or beauty is pain?
Either way, they are correlated
That is good enough to allow me to turn myself in who I want to be
I was over this, I thought I was over being hungry
But then a man stared at me while I was walking to Walgreens
I do this to be beautiful for just a moment
But I also do this to disappear
Don’t look at me like that flesh of meat that day on that broken night
I want it to go away even if it means my bones shake on a sunny day
Even if my soul weeps at night
Even if my friends pick up on what’s wrong
Oh, please don’t pick up on what’s wrong
Can’t you see what you’re doing to me?
Let me be in control of my body
Watch me clatter to the floor and please don’t help me
Let me shake and quake
Watch me wear a heavy sweater and get out of breath walking
Let me substitute food for sweet vapor in my lungs
oooh it tastes sweet like brittle
Let me disappear
Please just let me disappear.
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 11:46 AM UTC
I know there are others,
Like me
They are there, searching for each other (and themselves),
Like me
I know they are slowly learning the truth
That, like me, they are not like you
You
Are you like me?
Maybe not, or maybe yes
Maybe, you’d like me, because I am like you
But perhaps you aren’t
Maybe, you aren’t like me
And that’s okay too, you
You are not like me
And you are everywhere
And its just like me, to want to be like you
You want to be different
Unlike me, I want the norm
I want to be common...but
If you were like me and I was like you
You’d want to be me and I’d want to be you
And, like you, I’d be connected
With the world, related
I’d be like you, associated
With the world, correlated
Like you...I want to be “different”
No,weird.....”Unique”?
Like you, I’d want to be “special”
But isn’t that just odd?
You know what
Let’s just stop
Tiring, isn’t it
Confusing, silly
Foolish, completely idiotic
Midway, Let’s end
Let’s just be
You and me
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
If my mood is directly correlated to the weather,
and you are a man made in the likeness of a long winter,
how did we ever plan for this to unfold neatly?
As the sun comes back to me,
you retreat to the corner of my closet,
tucked behind downy coats and borrowed sweaters.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 2:39 PM UTC
, and so weather patterns are not correlated with (mis)trust because there is collusion.
V. Conlusions:
Any meaningful exclusion will compensate restitution.
Material, though, wears thin as your heart wears my skin like your favorite shadow.
Plants don't operate like this because they have common sense.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
did i ever tell you, your eyes tasted like my mocha coffee on an early friday morning?
drizzled with anticipation and dousing me with caffeine,
i needed you, to wake up.
i needed you to wake up.
(you didn't)
caramel was your favorite flavor
and well, I grew to like it too.
(I always did but… more)
your eye lashes were longer than mine and i was jealous
i adored watching you blink
i remember noticing that the more passion within your voice,
the more it correlated with your wide eyes, that was so human.
so real.
did i ever tell you,
your lips accentuated every word you spoke
and no matter what you said, it was pretty
(more or less)
i liked your teeth because you didn’t
a secret hidden part of me hopes you’ll never get braces
did i ever tell you,
your hands were firecrackers, but
familiar fire crackers. the ones i set off in my own backyard.
it’s the twentieth day of the month and lord do i wish sixteen days ago
i was sitting with you on the sand again,
sipping my dark mocha drink
awaiting the sparklers in the sky.
(i think you were with her)
see I told you,
you came along with anticipation
and i kind of liked that. but i grew to know you too well
i’m growing to think that’s why leaving you was so inhumane,
unreal, just downright painful
you were my left arm. and
no matter what i ever said to you,
no matter how bruised, broken, damaging you were to me,
cutting you off was not ideal.
the after shock was worse.
and if you ever have the opportunity to amputate your left arm,
don’t.
the things you need- you need for a reason.
no, things don’t get easier with time
the empty void just becomes a bit more manageable.
i'm learning to manage passing your neighborhood without turning my head
i'm learning to manage not opening your text messages
(more importantly, to not emotionally react whatsoever)
i’m learning to manage with a large part of me missing
and, some days I still search for it
in hidden parts of my house but
i cant grow a new arm,
or a new home,
(see, things don’t work like that.)
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC