"curating" poems
To those who say I am not enough:
What box of yours did I not check today?
For that is what you seem to be curating with your life
Empty boxes
Except for those tenderly placed checks that don't even come close to filling those boxes up
I do not want your empty boxes
There is enough emptiness in the world without you forcing yours on others
In my life, I want to curate boxes full of love,
Of hope
Of tenderness,
Of acceptance
Of inclusion,
Of forgiveness,
Of unconditional, raw, fulfilling purpose and everything-ness,
That everyone should find at least once.
For it is when these boxes are full of the good and true things of life,
That they become gifts.
And it is these gifts that should be given to one another,
Not these empty boxes with the ghosts of your disappointed expectations
That I will never be able to check and satisfy you,
Or bring happiness to you.
So I do not care I am not enough to you,
That I fail at checking your empty boxes.
Because here I am,
Bearing my giftboxes that I have tried so desperately to fill,
Hoping that you become brave enough to open them and find
You are more than enough,
And you can leave the shackles of your empty boxes and checks behind.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
they always seem to ascribe the stone age
with inventing the circle,
dinosaurs and the loathing of
x-ray via Archaeology -
ᛟ, or an ancient egyptian manuscript...
got the ******* wheelie on that ***** boo yah!
this is even weirder than Wittgenstein's observation
of late Copernicus... ᛟ-ray... huh?
you've been a peasant and you're still
curating a chance sharpening edit?
where's the ******* wheel with romans after
ancient egyptians and the babylonians
and for fuck's sake Hindustan!
O... where's O in Sanskrit? so who got the cartwheels?
the romans? huh?! a.d. b.c. buttered-up ****
if this makes sense... forget the universe,
alien civilisations... my own makes as much sense
as a gram of pepper and salt sneezed with.
hey flamingo! here's a signature in sepia!
banging on the bathroom floor - with Disney - passed
in those days: Lion Kong or King...
oompa loompa ooh ooh gorilla tyrant said so too.
they invented the wheel but forgot to phonetically
encode it with something similar...
runes, right, Scandinavian... ᛟ... i.e. O...
but i'd like to see ᛟ in a roller-coaster... just for gorging
on a regurgitation of jokes - and so i can
slang and slapper quick a blah in Jamaican slang
and say... yah mon' poo daddy do a diddy eff a flex
wit bling bling, cursor vector to noon
and da dwarfin of a shadow.
**** man, they invented the wheel but waited for the
romans to write the O... and it was music by then...
suddenly! huh?! the **** is this? whiskey straight up.
no wonder.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
a medley of mange
this group of misfits
laughing dancing
and grazing the strange
unconventional freaks
outlandish and odd
parroting our priests
and glib of our gods
mocking our trials
poking fun of our kings
curating our flaws
as they jump and sing
bent and dimented
indignant to drones
lippy and pert
these rolling stones
theater people
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 4:31 PM UTC
cartography: noun:
engraving your face onto my retinas
--the angle your jawline cuts into my irises
and burns into a permanent membrane;
roadmapping your freckles, curating my favorite ones
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
an annualized vacation in the mountains with her sisterhood, down in the Mountains of Mexico, hiking (up at daily at 5:00am to drink in the rising sun, climb the mountain literally, and imbibing the wildflowers so delighting), breathing in deeply, yoga-ing, multiple dance classing, and restoring a body/soul impetus that city life makes harder, tho she does do it so well...
yes, she is lucky in life to be open willing and capable of restoration...
arriving at home around 11pm, me in bed, all anticipatory, get a (very) quick kiss on the forehead, and switching my light off, she heads off to the den armed and dangerous with the TV chicheer ( what we call it for so long, I forget the real name), watch 6(!) hours of accumulated TV, with many more hours as yet in need of curating...
which proves nothing
but that she is a creature of the night...
and that nature without fantasy is simply not,
nurture sufficient...
as for me...fantasy is my nature
and my nurture
eye'm happy to see blonde hairs and nothing but
peeking out from underneath the sheets,
and remain
sincerely yours,
Mr. Anticipatory,
but no longer her,
Mr Fantasy
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
We're all sound artists now.
Walking through our chosen concert halls, with or without walls, listening through public spaces, in personal places, curating our own shapes of combinations, constructions, concoctions of sounds and visions, an unwitting contribution to the contemporary audio visual world of sonic art installations.
We're all artists now.
And we're in charge.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 2:38 AM UTC
I maintain silence
I prefer better questions
I sleep I eat
I drink
I *** I ****
you do that too anyways
We could talk better
Some art curating
Or an evolving idea
I wish no wastage of words
no more energy waste
all that is done
All that has been done
Talk is for birth
for new borns
and for infestations
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
Red sky in the morning
and the shepherds are all fawning
Curating combs for the wool
whilst the slaughterhouse is built.
We bleat in high hopes
for the avarice to abate
and so, at a comb-stroke
we cultivate our hate. -
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
electric — conflated with
the doldrum of once ignited feeling
on the russet table work
and the stringing aroma of flyblown
coffee painting the morning something
earthenware;
i imagine
women lounging
and displaying their flamboyant dresses
confessing a dull promenade
parading their attenuated ***** reveling
a queendom on recall and this bane,
merely resolute, gives itself a new
meaning as a hand of forgive
men resigning their bags on the corner,
grunts, heaves deathly serious disallowing tomorrow's arrival into
a throb of being in place, folding newspapers to a club and smiting fervently along with the endless waiting,
verses lying cold on the froth of the tile
and the wind ripening the brew of
contestations — punctuations in their
cupboards still and reserved in hermetic
space curating silence, giving dins
their polished ends,
open for all: churlish boys,
naked girls, faith-used women, strife-torn men, usual suspects,
rebels and the overwrought –
never closes like a hand in cold
or a rose, its face occulted by
identification sideways torn, inside and out struggling,
scrunched to squint on some pale light through chinks on the battered
wall, sipping coffee,
mmmm, that
morning ripple transcending the
heaviness of the city before me.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
Consciously curating the thoughts that stream through
offering a space in mind , working the mind
not just a block of damp cheese soaking up the leftover gruel but a fine fine piece of raw chocolate sweetened a tad by maple syrup and dotted with raspberries
that's me allright.
No matter the folly
It's time to rise and shine
Self consciousness really doesn't suit me
I know I got a few bruises but and I'd rather be amused than some kind of fanatic muse to a ***** artist any day
Humor is the hotline to Unconditioned Love Centers .
Snapping and projecting at other people is really lame self-defense because i'm picking fights with these tactics,
exaggerating anthills with this mindset
and digging graves using two left shoes with this clouded vision
from which
ultimately
I'll have to climb out of
because I'm not dead and no one was attacking me in the first place.
Why is it so difficult to be honest with myself when I'm faced with an error in my judgement or an unhealthy way of life is beguiling me to stay on tap?
Ignorance of Inner life, Inner worlds and Inner vision.
Got me trippin at ego's palace , high on self-pity
Drunk and dizzy on sickly sweet aggression.
It's a scandal that these spaces of inner lands are vastly ignored as children and youth, blindly wondering the world confused
with a rhythm that is skewed
because I know more about the gossip of the evening news
when really, this is where the treasure is, this is
where the wisdom rests
this is where the magic lives!
All inside my beating chest, burrowed back beneath my eyes
somewhere where the 5 senses would be throughly surprised
accessed through quiet stillness or ecstatic joy
known to many as chills along the spine or the tingles of goose bump whispers
access to dimensions unfathomed
all waiting
for the space to become
realized , actualized and known.
I've realized, i'm a seasoned traveller through these Inner pathways and I've been holding myself back for fear I'm not beautiful enough
but
You know, if I hang around and wait for all you lot to catch up or for myself to suddenly be "like everyone else"
I'll never make it back with the goods in time
because
there is something more fun than enjoying depression
it's called not enjoying depression!
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
I never grew tall enough to
confidently grasp the top shelf
cereal box on the first try.
Fumbling, I’d finger its corners—
swiping mercilessly at its edges
until I could feel it fill
the curves of my desperate palm.
It gives in. Gravity assists.
Heels hit the floor.
I won again.
Back then, Persistence was my
favorite professor who always
curved the final.
I never grew mindful enough to
confidently grasp when
I should end the chase.
Writhing, I want and want—
curating the parts of myself
I think he’d like the most, but
he never turns on the light.
I collect dust. The hour hand assists.
Heels hit the floor.
I have this lesson on repeat,
and the stop button is broken.
These days, Hope has become my
favorite form of punishment
who expertly disguises herself
as wisdom.
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 11:49 PM UTC
of this earth i will cursor with octopus
suction a lung in spring
to tame the readied earth
for harvest, should i fail
blotch with soaked feet
in ink a followed route readied
for future grime
known as generational gaping
a form of yawn -
but never leave poetry singled-out
worded with only one word -
craft more syllables to mind -
at least enough syllables to rhyme,
i know that haiku does not rhyme,
but excessiveness of knowing so
will leave poetry without technique altogether...
at least keep what pop music decided
to make of poetry: rhyme -
at lest keep rhyme, at least write enough
syllables to craft a rhyme!
curating syllable usage to make
identifiable a poetic technique -
without enough syllables no poetry -
because of lost technique stressed via
syllable rubric spoken of
no rhyme to be multiplied into echo
for a coercion to mitigate:
i.e. rhyme -e- with please & ease -
mitigated meaning a lessening
with the echoing rather than the rhyming
resound -
for indeed in optics the words rhyme,
but in practice we care for echo rather than rhyme:
i rhyme we eat
and we seat -
but in fact opting for echo to be the curator.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
he always believed god made a mistake when carefully curating his quiet body with a loud mouth
he said
I wreck what I touch
I feel far too much
I never show emotion for long
and I destroy the ones I love most
he always believed I was a symphony
he said
you're perfectly timed
a pretty face with a flawless mind
your heart is gold, intentions pure
you're far too good to love a soul like mine
and yet the perfect symphony fell in love with the man
who was the color of boom
so boom went the love
then boom went their hearts
but when he said
I told you
we were never going to surpass the nasty
she said
darling can't you see how we've bloomed
you're the man I knew you could be
no longer the color of boom
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 8:04 PM UTC
I wanted to control the things I couldn’t avoid.
Growing up, disappointment,
and how my heart gets destroyed.
Pieces shattered in my hands as I tried to hold
moments of my life
created uncontrolled.
Curating a mind grown with unchecked panic.
Thoughts clashing around like violent storms from the Atlantic.
Wishing my words came out less frantic
and more romantic.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 10:06 PM UTC
Just once,
I should like to see
a pretty truth.
I am too used to self-curating
— slipping into silken words —
shimmering golds that complement
my skin just right
(not wash it out
upon the threat
of natural light).
Confessions speed to
halts,
flushed-faced;
pause,
dismayed
they cannot catch the sun
from a gentler angle,
to soften, to lovingly blur
and still pass for the same entity.
From the cradle, I've been
my own ****** half-enthusiasm
borne from rubbernecking thrills
— real-time collisions
at the mirror's appraising edge.
Jan 6, 2021
Jan 6, 2021 at 7:15 PM UTC
Just because the bottles say your name
Doesn’t mean it’s not self-medication
You don’t get to pick and choose
You aren’t curating a selection
You need to throw them away
I know you’re not okay
But you will make things worse
If you choose
To self-medicate
Jan 9, 2020
Jan 9, 2020 at 11:58 AM UTC
Lavished with qualities i can't define.
Admiring the enigma of what can be us
Nothing can compare to you're elegance like wine..
Curating my emotion,turning it to lust.
Exquisite is your nature by design...
Longing for your attention as if it is air,
Asphyxiated is space without you near...
Painful as it may be, i think this is fair.
Unbinding me from you is something i fear.
Zero chance to finding someone so rare...
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
The house bound head
had heard the news
old-money descant
dipped in dog-rose
Tuning forks
for goat-foot Gods
curating song
bedazzled zones
The crown
emblazoned sink estate
retained the annual Pilgrim's rite
where
roundelays
round every door
bore cherry blossom white
Apr 30, 2022
Apr 30, 2022 at 3:20 PM UTC
We are all apart of this beautiful nightmare
The stares never would fight fare
I use to dream under those abandoned stairs
Wrapped up in a blanket from somewhere
I guess I truly never cared
As long as the drugs were around to share.
Do you see me fighting
My demons are winning
I’m unaware I’m hurting
I’m curating my own death
I’m shuffling in the corner
The only light I share is from
My lighter
I wish I could just dream
But my eyes are stuck wide open
Can you hear the demon
It’s laughter
Or is this my own personal nightmare
Do you see me fighting
My demons are winning
I’m unaware I’m hurting
I’m curating my own death
I find solace I’ll be saved
Before I dig myself my own grave
I pray to God he will share his grace
And get me out of this miserable place
Do you see me fighting
My demons are winning
I’m unaware I’m hurting
I’m curating my own death
Dec 23, 2021
Dec 23, 2021 at 7:17 AM UTC
Curating...
To a Curator who Curates Everything
Today one reads that you curated tea
Before curating a bus into town
To curate your job at the coffee shop
And in the afternoon curating friends
Before curating to the artists’ loft
To continue curating the novel
You’ve been curating on for several months
While curating your classes and career
Your life is not a museum, you know
So DROP the CURATING; just let it GO
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC