"curated" poems
Fragmented lives entangled
but asunder in our journey
as our paths cosmically connect
in a romance of the arts
And who's to say what's real
to touch or deeply feel
what will truly last
or simply where to start
So I’ll
paint you alla prima
as I feel you playing me
in warm colors of merging ardor
a wet blending of artistry
my brush strokes of your body
painted in my mind
of impressions blushed in passion
in hues I can’t describe
Suspended in the moment
floating on a breeze
I revel in this picture painted music
almost in disbelief, unthinking…
knowing every nuance of our love
found only in our dreams
Like children in parallel play
I’ll finger the keys
and slip the locks
of all your orchestrations
filling the walls
of my concerts halls
with deep
splattered tones
in pinks and blues
the hues
that forever
bind us
And we’ll not look back
nor forward
but hang here in the moment
to display our
Painted Song
in the eyes
of giggly children
both doing
our own thing
together
on a string
curated
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
i am not a curated list of
the top songs,
the best songs,
critically-acclaimed songs,
picked with so much care
too much care
the others cease to matter
i am the songs
known and niched
borne out of an artist's dream
i exist so they could dance
in the kitchen at 3 am
i might not expand the world
in which i live
but i will persist
in careless dancers
dancers like me
the dancers after us
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
#
Sitting here in front of this screen
my Artist Peppino, across my thigh—
(the greater, for the time being,
giving way to the lesser)
One day, I will be able to breathe life
into your strings, my love…
the way I do words onto paper.
And on that fine, glorious day
I will no longer need these cheese-dick,
stupid ******* online poetry sites
to bring forth the music of my soul.
Nor will I continually need to wade through
this never-ending barrage of classic hiders
and their bastardization-like misuse of poetry—
in order to hide behind the very words
that should be given the permission to make them become,
truly known.
There are those who thrive on this..
this currency of curated words,
seduction dressed as scripture,
all twisted into the soft ropes of poetry
to bind the vulnerable,
to rob the soul of its own infusion..
the self from the soul,
the soul from the self..
*--until all that remains
is the quiet, starving shell
of a heart displaced,
an identity diluted,
left wandering inside
the sociopathic intent
to truly bastardize poetry’s
life-giving potentiality
into nothing more than self-indulgent gain--*
always at the cost of the reader,
who, starving for something real,
somehow falls for their twisted game.
****
eh..
There is no alone-ness within the magnificent resonations
of the perfectly plucked string
of the most perfect, of guitars.
Like this one, sitting right here
in my lap.
#
Feb 4, 2020
Feb 4, 2020 at 9:40 PM UTC
I was sixteen when the machines came.
The letters “C-A-T” screamed at me from across the street
As the harsh yellow tore at the roots of the
Cherry trees across the street.
Of course the orchard had never been mine,
I had not planted the seeds and curated the
Beautiful blooms through their short lives,
Picked the cherries off the trees myself.
But what about all the photoshoots I’d done
Among the gorgeous white blooms,
All the times my friend had walked through
The rows of trees to get to my house and
Left paint splatters of cherries across the kitchen floor,
All the sunsets I’d seen through the leaves
That made me nostalgic for things
I had never experienced?
What if I’m growing up and moving out
And can’t seem to wrap my head around the fact that
These plants that have smiled at me from my
Window for over a decade have returned
To the Earth?
What if these days the
Weeks are crying when they should be glowing and
The absence of trees is simply the target of
One of those odd tricks that sorrow shoots out of the mind
That remind me that change is the only thing that’s
Permanent?
I wish that the emptiness of the field could be replaced by
Happy little white blooms
But instead the CAT machines screech and moan
And all I can feel is
The ache of old nostalgia and the
Peculiar nostalgia of the unknown.
Sep 27, 2021
Sep 27, 2021 at 6:13 PM UTC
Countdowns have always seemed bittersweet to me..
The steady ticking away of time
The trickle of sand through the hourglass.
The fading of connections not curated.
I’ve always been morbidly aware of my own doomsday clock,
Slowly beating, decreasing, releasing my
Seconds into the atmosphere around me,
As I wait, sometimes impatiently, for it to hit zero.
Some days, I hope for my hourglass to run dry,
And while I know that that isn’t a healthy mindset,
Some days it is all that I can do to not hurry it along.
Not to take that revolver in my dad’s lockbox,
Not to take those pills in the medicine cabinet,
Not to take that rope and the one wobbly stool
that has sat at our bar for the past five years…
Just beckoning me.
Just wanting me to take that final step
into sweet, sweet oblivion.
But.
If I do take that final step..
Who would be there to pick up the pieces for them?
To clean up the mess that this disgusting body left behind?
Who would be there to finish my paintings,
To sing my unsung list that is ever-expanding,
To write these words that have seemed so forced these past months?
Who would be there for them, when I could not be?
Someone, I am sure, but I have been told that I am irreplaceable,
And while I may not believe that,
I am scared of leaving a mess behind
That my mother cannot bring herself to clean up.
I am scared of leaving behind a mess that would irrevocably break my father,
A mess that would torment my brothers,
A mess that my sisters would never even remember.
And maybe..
Maybe I am scared of the call of oblivion..
Or scared of the unknowingness of it all, rather.
Or perhaps I am tired of thinking
of myself as a mess to be cleaned up,
Nothing more, and nothing less.
And maybe
That is all I need
To survive one more day.
Apr 18, 2023
Apr 18, 2023 at 11:32 PM UTC
“What can a poem do?”
—————————-
***”A poem
is a not a tourniquet
when you’re bleeding.
It’s not water when you’re thirsty
or food when you’re hungry.
A poem can’t protect you from an airstrike,
or from abduction, or from hate.
It’s hard to write when our words feel
like they’re not enough—they can’t do
the real, tangible work of saving lives,
or making people safer.”***
(see (1) Maggie Smith)
<~>
as is my wont,
I write,
as is my Natted~inhabited,
retiring to the local watering holes of
Cerebrum & Cerebellum,
them regular haunts,
where all requests are mailed, processed, satisfied & marked;
‘return & render to the sender, who’s on a cerebral ******
and that request?
‘give me the words’ (2)
those ‘to do’ words, floaters, direct to top of list,
those ‘can do’ words, that can effect the affect,
spare the despair, realize the fungible, concretize cures,
soften hard waters, giving a worsening worn life fabric a
curated baby blanket feel, a 4-ply human tissue of
‘words that tell me everything’ (2)
salve solution verbs that bounty-wipe spills in entirety,
vacuum up spillage spoiling of 17 days of terrible nouns,
uncovered-unknown rages caused by inflicting prepositions
released a hatred rising,
safety rebury it deeper, drug & destruct the sleeper agents,
and let me start over again with
‘telling me everything by saying nothing’ (2)
the pausal silence, the quieted spaces tween the heartbeats,
where ‘reflection,’
the noun,
and its world of alternations,
reflection,
the noun,
look inwards, but shining outward,
this, this!
is where the poem goes to do!
enervating & arresting
its contradictory powers
rock you into wild docility,
possessive and submissive,
contradictory interferences,
smoothing the roughness,
closing the gaps it opens,
healing the caused truthful cuts,
with words that tell you
everything and nothing,
open the holes, filling the gaps,
that is what a
poem do,
in and by
the manner it is spoken…
<~>
“Sometimes a poem is the stone you carry in your pocket—the one you rub when you’re worried. Let’s fill our pockets with poems.”
(see (1) Maggie Smith)
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 10:10 PM UTC
If you get it, you lost it.
I am here
(On this platform it is evident for your reading now)
I express myself
(Heads scratching, wondering what and how?)
I share pieces of me
(A defragmented glimpse of an experience deemed ‘worthwhile')
Callous, sensuality?
(Or a traitor in sheep cosplay?)
A dead-end hi-way?
Or this pawn from yesterday?
Here, your final say
This family we never asked
Amontillado without it's cask
Dry and cheery
Heart’s are bleary
We own this laborious task
My sins are scrollable, thumbed in haste,
Wrapped in ribbons of curated taste.
A gallery of masks, all timed just right,
My shadow dances in the ring light.
What of shame when shame gets likes?
What of thought when thought’s in spikes?
I weep in drafts, but post a grin—
The world won’t wait for the shape I’m in.
So brand the bruise, then sell the hue:
A wellness tip in sponsored blue.
This self I host in feedback’s cage—
A pet, a post, a digital page.
I bare my soul (or just its shell).
You’ll never know. I sell it well.
I logged on seeking something undefined,
A tether, maybe—some reciprocal ache.
But all I found were mirrors misaligned,
Each smile too wide, each word opaque.
The comments pile like leaves, not read.
Applause from ghosts, replies from ghosts.
I feed the feed, it feeds instead—
A hunger that consumes its hosts.
I draft a truth. I dress it twice.
Add polish. Then delete.
I write in blood, convert to nice,
Make trauma fit a beat.
No lesson left. No higher shelf.
Just one more version of myself.
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 10:16 PM UTC
the server (waiter) raps
praise upon the sushi,
its integrity,
the harmonic
of its construct,
the curated singularity of
each rice grain
the innate elegance of
the thin sliced,
nearly translucent,
au naturel, organic,
ginger root
the skin smooth paste of
green wasabi,
grown naturally
along stream beds in
mountain river valleys in Japan
genuinely puzzled,
when he,
the old erstwhile poet
unabashedly weeps before all
no hero he,
just an overcome one,
his tears flavoring his food
mourning the
celebrated abuse
of his verbal children,
those natured nurtured babes
the stuff,
the words of his definition
each weird word,
loved for their cultured,
unique quality of their history
grown in languages's
perpetual petri dish
asked if something was a matter,
answered yes,
"this plated performance,
such an extravagant essay
on the beauteous wonder
of life's bounty,
left me wordless"
and she, burst out loud in laughter
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:03 AM UTC
A group show in a city church.
Nothing religious,
but selections from an evening class
occupying otherwise vacant space:
only a tomb here, an extravagant memorial there.
These are 'advanced' painters,
and decoding their statements,
examining their work,
it's possible to imagine daily lives
where art lives in the spare room.
Lewis paints you know.
After Laura died, and with the children distant,
he did this course in Norfolk - oils I think.
That large landscape in the sitting room is his,
all sky and salt marsh.
Jayne is studying the disorder of ******* dumps,
the contents of skips, what's left after a fire.
Her photographs she prints herself you know.
She says she loves to control the image,
chemically, and you can tell.
And more and others,
their 'work' holding stories,
other worlds of imagination and
depths of looking;
the silent collecting of things,
photograph after photograph,
the tidy sketchbook
(with last week's life class experiments).
And yet and yet
at the group show the finished pieces glow
in this badly-lit corner of a city church
where few visitors venture - but you must see this.
It's good, arresting in conviction and purpose.
This is art without artifice, reticent with meaning,
intense with intention, good, affecting, good
well-chosen tutor-curated;
good enough to come back to.
Consoling? Yes, consoling.
I needed consoling.
It consoled me.
I was consoled.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
I’m tired of influencers faking nervousness.
my generation wants to care less
these days.
it’s a counter-current hack.
we want to be less defined.
we can search and reflect for ourselves.
we’re sick of the emotion
that’s all over everyone’s faces,
the unsightly splotches of opinion.
the entire election machine,
the process of getting there, is smudged.
It’s a curated mess, an advising spin,
an incomprehensible hex:
“Oh profit pondering,
contradictory means to an end
- bless weave, and conceal,
bloodless dollar debt options,
painful penny pincher paradoxes,
and deadly debt bliss dilemmas..”
“Is this a witch or an arbitrager?” Lisa asked, after rudely leaning over and reading up to this point.
“I was shooting for a numinous type of beat,” I revealed.
“We’re supposed to be working on our thesis definitions,” she said accusingly.
“Are you not challenged, here, hour by hour?” I asked sarcastically.
“I need ideas - well - I have too many ideas, I need some focus, I wanted to see what you had.”
I deadpan looked at her, “Well, you broke the spell - I lost my train.” I complained dryly.
“Don’t put me in a situation.” she said, waving my gripe off as insignificant.
.
.
Songs for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
drive ME crazy! by Lil Yachty
Melt by Nilüfer Yany
Oct 14, 2024
Oct 14, 2024 at 3:06 PM UTC
Over the holidays, I was watching Lisa’s sister little Leeza, she’s 14.
She has a rebellious fashion sense and a joyful innocence.
She’s still fearless too, and on-God, I hope she never loses that.
Too soon though—the disco’s coming to town—the world’s coming for her. It’s the same for all of us, I suppose, but in Lisa and my cases, covid shut it all down.
It’s a rite of passage—the shoes, the bodycon dresses and the makeup. Those carry negative connotations, I get it, but there’s an excitement too, about finally getting to dress like an adult—a woman—in one of those bodycon, cut-out dresses.
I know the pressures on women and their bodies, but at her age, it's not all stress, cattiness and comparisons—it’s just innocent teen fun. She and her posse can take hours just dressing and doing their make-up—together. It’s probably the best part of their night.
Leeza’s dad (Michael) saw the little group of teens, all dolled-up and launched, like a SpaceX Starship. Pacing the living room, he quietly opined to Karen (her mom), “I don’t want her going out dressed like that.”
Karen was right there with him to cool things down, “No, *** at her age, it’s about self-expression, learning and girl bonding—these connections are really important in the girl-world.”
I’m not worried about Leeza’s physical safety. These girls are watched over and gently curated. Their every movement is orchestrated and security escorted—hell, Hamas couldn’t get to them—much less some gropey boy.
There’s just this new awareness these days of how unhappy some people are—and a lot of them are teen girls. I wouldn’t want to see Leeza mired in the sad, brain-draining social media pressure and self-esteem traps.
Teenhood is scary—I was feelin’ positively parental.
Then I looked at Lisa, and I was reminded that they’ve done all this before, and she has a big-sister, role-model too.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Time Girl (feat. Charlie Barker) by Sofi Tukker
Dance To This (feat. Ariana Grande) by Troye Sivan
Jan 23, 2025
Jan 23, 2025 at 11:12 AM UTC
is this how we fix bad photographs?
saturate the focus, craft the perfect banner,
grain enough to feel the gloom
in between the curved lines.
then before our eyes -- perfection
of disgust & delight
if so, then i am just a bunch of
bad photographs
loading
unloading
still
load
- ing
to be curated, and
to create its own color corrections.
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 10:20 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
what happens when i no longer like your pink, sweet, version of me you’ve curated?
what would happen if i erased all colour completely?
no, i’m not talking about choosing blue over pink or yellow or green
“gender neutral” clothing isn’t any shade on the colour wheel
i’m talking about if i never associated the colour pink with femininity
and blue with masculinity
and yellow and green with “gender neutrality”
what if my life was just void of colour?
like if i were to say i didn’t feel like a girl nor a boy
nor the brief possibility of both
i just feel
like that grey space in between the most diluted shades on the colour wheel
would you still force me to call myself “daughter”?
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 3:26 AM UTC
Dammed,
The vault of his mind was laid bare
A barren stream with only fossils visible
At the mouth, buried under silt he found unspoken words
That he had left to the undercurrents of political correctness:
"You do not own my mind
It is mine and mine alone
And with it I shatter
Your rules and ties that bind"
As if in response to the unearthing
The dam began to crack
Releasing a tiny rivulet that began to push downstream
Splitting into two distinct eyes that have for too long been blind
Where one stretched long and far into the past
While the other ebbed and flowed in the whirlpool of the future
Where endless possibilities competed for dominance
Against any attempt to join the relative calm of memory
The dam shuddered again and the gates flew open
The river of life rushing back to fill the void
Deafening the ears
Which for so long had only heard the carefully curated lines
Repeated and indoctrinated since his birth
It was in this moment of flood that freedom came pouring forth
His eyes were opened
He saw the sight
His ears could hear
His tongue could fight
His raging river returned to him
Liberty in the light
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
It was my first visit at his place
We were meeting after so many days
With the mix of excited and nervous face
I finally entered in his curated space.
He welcomed with a smile and embrace
We sat on the couch, I kept looking at his grace.
"So all our pending chats for later we can save
First of all, tell me what would you like to have?"
He asked.
"Always Tea!!
In the morning with the first ray of sun
When I wake up every day for the long day run
I love to have a cup of tea strong, lightly sugared,
Hot, extra milk with sometimes ginger well figured."
"Aaahh! Tea lover, I see
So you start your day with tea
Well! I seek my big cup of coffee roasted dark
With two shots of espresso, brewed in french spark,
Nutty and a lot creamy.
Like you, hot and steamy"
"Oh my God!! Steamy and hot.
In flirting you never miss the shot
So you are a coffee guy, but I like my chai!!
Why don't we exchange our mugs today
You have my tea and I will have a coffee day
What say!??"
"Okay so done! Your all the tea parties you will forget
This is my special coffee dear, you will never regret"
And we went towards the kitchen to make our brews
Knowing that we were from the two different crews
"Don't secretly stare at me like this
Look at your coffee, else it'll be a miss"
I said.
"The same long hairs and oh that bliss
You didn't change at all, my shy Miss.
It has been a long time let me see,
And you just concentrate on your tea!"
So we finally sat with
His cup of coffee and my cup of tea
With the scent of fresh brews, he played smooth jazz song
His voice whispered in my ears, ringing with the beats along.
I found myself tangled in those strings of little infinities.
Listening to him constantly I was feeling special affinities.
Surrrp! We took sip after sip at a very slow pace,
He started praising me with a big curve on his face,
We discussed how we got lost in the life's rat race
And reminisced old time with a bunch of memory retrace
On this perfect scene of tea and coffee…
I look up and see a smiling face staring at me
With that sparkle in those eyes of something new.
Something worth the tea and coffee brew.
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 8:42 AM UTC
Your Marilyn Monroe face is coating me in nostalgia.
There's old school Hollywood appeal about you that's keeping me still and set in my ways, because how could I be mobile looking at the iconic images of you?
For you gave me refuge from my purgatory, I'm stuck here in my bedroom, your scenes each carefully curated by Billy Wilder or God...
I've heard you're a dying breed but you're so full of life and charisma.
Oh, I know it's hopeless,
But it's been remastered time and again,
1080p being the latest format to get my heart racing,
Letting your DVD spin to the point of exhaustion.
It's very consequential and I'm still betting on this,
I can't take your word as gospel when I feel you in my ribs...
I'm painfully asthmatic and respiring on your sighs.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
We went to museums,
Curated our own desires,
Provided our own insights
To brush strokes
And pencil thin lines
While the world around
Tried to decide
What colors matched our style.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
everything hurts
but not in the sad way you think
everything hurts because nothing wonderful is curated without a little bit of pain
the pain is the fuel which leads you to light
or maybe that’s all my life has ever been
a journey back to heaven
i always mix up anxiety and adrenaline
everyday is another day i can’t believe i made
i was born a melody but life transitioned me into a serenade
love is the only thing that overcomes the pain
i live for glimpses of it
it passes through fast like the sparkles when the sun hits the sea
and in those moments i feel free
the warmth i felt for all the times my heart sang
it hurts to use my senses at times
i ache and i cry
but i know bliss will soon tell me why
a kiss for today, and a kiss for forever
for now i love the universe until he tells me it’s time
Jun 29, 2022
Jun 29, 2022 at 8:02 AM UTC
My weekly downhill drive past your flat
And your static life in your static flat
Briefly synchronise courtesy of your mirror's angle,
Opening a brief view into your lonely life:
Your brown vintage sofa
With it's vintage orange cushions,
Your formica TV dinner table.
A retro combo,
Reminding me of the set of a 70s sitcom
Minus the laughs.
Yes, it's a terrible thing
That I can't help but gaze
At that speedy reflection
Of your Thursday nights
Above your anachronistic Everything shop;
The shop *** museum that you've curated
For forty years or more.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 4:44 PM UTC
I can feel myself fade away in a cycle.
Thin skin never did suit me well.
Each day broken up into tiny manageable parts.
Built to be a curated filter my personality must fall through.
This is not repair, but maintenance.
An entropic form that must dilute to remain safe.
I am a capillary of my years, resentful of oxygen.
No pulse can sift through me now.
I'm alone in this vena of an apartment.
Certainly there is no breaking of barriers here.
A refusal to spill blood for the wait makes this almost
pleasant.
Nov 10, 2021
Nov 10, 2021 at 4:32 PM UTC
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Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC