"dendritic" poems
She was the rain
when I was spring
but summer became I,
alas it was just a fling
Naked branches in a
dendritic pattern
fastening on to leaves
as Fall fell.
But drives away the soft snow
the blizzards unwanted
a stormy winter
unexpected
Skyward, the dark side of the moon
drawn to the faint traces of light -
continuously teased the edges
of the forgotten surface
obsession consumed I
to start a spin
I grow to become the
hunter only to see
the chamois conquering
my struggle
like an insect trapped
in the strings of
the eight legged
she beast
beating a
rhythmic tune
signalling a
tell
tale
heart
the end of me
no bang
only a cleaver
silently shushing
with an overdrawn
whimper
and
repeat.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
Oh cute little thing
I like your contour
you look pretty funny when you're cold
you get these lovely wrinkles
especially in the middle region
nearly dendritic
more like the cracks in the earth
and your satchel breathes on its own
like a brain if it had lungs for itself
but more like an amoebic celestial body squirming around in some primordial goop
I think that's pretty cool
you're a pink and brown mushroom emerging from a forest of black wiry moss
concentrated around you and
all growing in your direction
almost lifting you up and out
and then further away fading
the way the water gets clearer
above a sand bar
and then a great convergence
a crashing of two great waves
against each other
forming a wall of spindly tendrils
before the whirlpool
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC
You smile black-eyed as
the city belches blue neon
through its steel-glass canyons;
a cobalt factory of lumen, pulsing
through dendritic labyrinths
of sapphired circuitry.
Diodes of cerulean fire,
spreading with virulent sophistry
amid the glittering obsidian dark,
like pale horses of light that
leap from pane to inky pane,
like a Pentium’s ******
God’s own seething fireworks
watched in reverse
as they float in through my car window,
strobing blue against your freshly
washed hair.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 8:51 AM UTC
City limit space expands,
it's threaded through with veins--
grey-black dendritic strands
span
across this moldy brain
of a city.
Our rotting nights spray hits around
the places players play.
The impulses will whitewash all complaints
'til the glaring day.
I wanna spit-shine every storm drain,
stain the cracked sidewalks in white,
take this town to Sunday morning Mass,
though she was born for Friday nights.
We're gonna trickle past addresses
now,
Electroshock through habit streets
these crosswalks sneer with snide expression.
Mildewed thoughts we'll hardly think.
A conversation you're repressing
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow
Another weekend's blurred out
blank confession
melts off the tips of tongues,
I can taste it now.
Circulation space expands,
we're threaded through with veins--
this bio-asphalt plan
spans
all through this molded frame
of a body.
But rotten thoughts, like ships aground,
teach sailors how to pray
when impulses have buried all complaints
'neath the foaming spray.
I wanna shade out every bruise now,
paint the dumpsters all in gold.
Missoula, listen: You're a lady.
I don't give a **** what you've been told.
A moldy brain dreams slattern makeup
for a prizefight town each night
so let's take up every artist's brush,
paint shadows on these barroom eyes.
We're gonna flow right through these boule-
vards.
Electroshock through habit streets.
These dim lit yards and spoiled thoughts
are hyphens placed between each week.
A conversation you're repressing,
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow.
Our city's made-up face is running
off the tips of winter and I taste it now.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
We are Mother Earth
We are the soil into which
ideas grow their roots
These dendritic webs of words reach for nutritious extrapolations,
anchored answers that ground, keeping the rain from washing them away and the wind from uprooting them from the dirt.
They sprout out of us
as we nurture them
until they blossom
into another.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
I followed a writer
up a prodigious tree
Every leaf I brushed,
his poem.
From the crown
I scanned the pastoral
a poetic landscape in repose,
A resplendent chorus of
Glistening verdant wisdom.
O’ vast vibrato of sibilance
slipping the breaths of
Thalia and Melpomene!
Alight by dusk, I lingered.
Comes the long wind of winter
to undress each tree!
So from my aerie,
through gaunt branches,
I could see…
The low-slung place
where each poem fell
I thought, “here so many,
clothed in so much comedy
and tragedy…
recite their odes
of heaven and hell.”
And down I climbed
and away I walked
Over quiescent leaves
while red and russet
ran from their dendritic veins
Moldering into the palette
of dormant memories.
O’ even now
The sweet scent of decay
Reminds me of Spring
when I will climb again.
From the rot of the roost
to the dust below boots,
by the pen of the winter writer
Spring will come again.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
L'heure verte
The mountains. The heaps of their bountiful gravels, and earth, and soil, large oversized masses of half-frozen water teetering on the precipice of subzero masculine ******* Francophilic cleavage jetting out of this deserted white pastoral dressing. The inaugural bawl, wanton fixations of putting the imperialist foot on every spot of tree, each and every shrub, until the limbs' cast reaches each dimple that foliage braves, where that blue eagle of patriotism dredges its claws to form every river, rill, estuary, creek, channel, flume, littoral, and waterway where the iron-rich gullies once brimmed in the interamnian basins, rich crimsony waters riffling through fruitful and extravagant aquifers. Beyond that, where an inexplicably feral wind rips vines from their dendritic housings, where barely an eye can see, this place of exsanguination and abysmal phytocide.
At the end of this lamentable torture, only a desert of human interest remains. There is no reason to laugh, or smile, or cheer, or put a leg up, to call on a friend, or to have ice cream. There will be no more ice cream. There is only the loathsome incredulousness and avarice in the semblances and familiarity of those with whom we thought we once knew. Little can ever be known, for there is much to gain in the absence of knowledge, and even greater that can be acquired in the alms of wisdom through patient examination and thorough silence. Here on the buttes and cornices, the thwacking gavels of evil power deities throw down their lust for more and soon become adjoined to these grand discrepancies greed mistakenly loses to a lack of awareness and to self-aggrandizement.
Power is the weapon of inexperienced wielders. Passion is the immortal frequency that is worn by artisans and artists, poets and painters, it is the business of quietness to learnedly evolve to protect our tomorrows from personal needs, but to instead preserve the integral parts of society. The words of languages, artifacts, and cultures, rather than the skeletons of ****** and the deeds of possession. Each who sleeps knows their bedfellows to equally be at peace. For no wealth can exceed that of comfortable pillows, soft quilts, and sheets. We are all the same while we sleep.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
Her whispers writhe upward, warming my lips
Chased gently by thoughts, and fingertips
Which pulse over keys, sewing words onto fields
Of love thirsty parchment, tenderly peeled
From shavings off banyan trees, twisted in time
Woven from tangles of roots and vines
That glimmer and glide on the twirls of her hair
That coil around dreams as they swirl in the air
And reciprocate whispers that blend into sighs
Reflecting like moonlight in opening eyes.
Honey silk visage and java, like brindle,
Eyes like flint against frizzen, will kindle
Fire in the heart, calling men once missing
To a resplendent nexus, of lost souls kissing.
Arcadian journeys of body and mind
Sing from fathomless depths of space and time.
Geography traversed by her steps, sublime
Bearing piedra de ijada from a far eastern mine.
Electricity leaps in passionate arcs,
from skin to skin in dendritic sparks,
That strobe over rhythm beneath the sheets,
as lovers listen and friction speaks
in syncopation with shuddering breaths,
from sodden mouths that sweetly press,
And I close my eyes in synchronicity,
but even closed, it’s her I see.
Tasting the salt of a single tear
A harbinger, for the moments near.
High on the hum of hopes embrace
as rapture and destiny hasten the pace,
I open my eyes to watch her go,
but once inside it starts to grow
into a poem unleashed in my heart,
By a byzantine kiss, after lost lips part.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
Couldn’t sleep last night
so I did the next best thing
and quaffed caffeine until
cerebral vasoconstriction
set in
I think
I know I have always been embarrassed to be me
but I guess
if nothing else
Humiliation breeds diffident dissonance humbly so
so foggy up here
a tad bit soggy,
saturated with my diseased anatomical atoms
my dendrites retreating
softening like rotting fruit
so much potential so little actualization
synapses overloaded
with drugs
that I didn’t know
Like the lone tree in the farthest forrest
dendritic pestilence is high and corrosive
I’m high and corrosive
and
I sigh for the lovers that never knew I loved them.
I miss the lovers that I never knew I loved.
and
I love the lovers who didn’t don’t and wont love me.
Couldn’t sleep last night
so I did the next best thing
and mirrored the rain until
pillows were
sponges
I think
I know I have always wanted to be caressed slightly
but I guess
if nothing else
creation breeds ****** succulence cunningly so
so sticky down here
a tad bit rickety,
saturated with my diseased anatomical atoms
my elevated coronary coronated erosion
sputters like a misused Porsche
911
so much beauty so little left
arteries caked
with yesterday’s cigarette
that let me let go.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 9:57 AM UTC
The poet is not a writer,
though she uses words,
the difference lies in the sentiment,
when he writes a book,
he writes it in order to educate and entertain,
when she writes poetry,
there is a fleck of the unseen,
there is a dream-like quality to the poem,
chaotic rhythm trying to make sense of the madness,
a maddening landscape as surreal and cerebral as Eloheim,
and still the poet persists,
but it is for this reason that understanding breaks down,
and while the poem is often misunderstood,
still she writes for others,
fighting desperately for a cure,
a cancer that all things dendritic cannot touch,
a wound that runs unabated through culture and the human imagination alike,
she writes poetry for future generations,
for her children to read,
leaving the fire lit aflame in the hearts of the next generation,
but each generation fewer and fewer take up the charge,
fighting the good fight is obsolete,
and so it is for the few to tacitly and tactically,
with a tactile touch,
fix the accumulation of those who came before.
I am not a poet,
I do not write for the greater good,
I write for myself,
for the well-being of the being in my head,
for the scrapping in the derelict corners of my mind,
grey matter splattered on false sentiments,
lies and truths mingled betwixt cortex and stem,
a tree burgeoning upward,
and so I do not write for you,
but for myself,
for I am no poet,
lost in rasping of my own words,
in tranquility I fester,
for I owe you nothing,
and from beneath that pretense,
I hang.
I would say that the death of the poet,
is the death of language,
though art fell victim long ago,
and so I find solace in its falling leaves.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
Her whispers writhe upward, warming my lips
Chased gently by thoughts, and fingertips
Which pulse over keys, sewing words onto fields
Of love thirsty parchment, tenderly peeled
From shavings off banyan trees, twisted in time
Woven from tangles of roots and vines
That glimmer and glide on the twirls of her hair
That coil around dreams as they swirl in the air
And reciprocate whispers that blend into sighs
Reflecting like moonlight in opening eyes.
Honey silk visage and java, like brindle,
Eyes like flint against frizzen, will kindle
Fire in the heart, calling men once missing
To a resplendent nexus, of lost souls kissing.
Arcadian journeys of body and mind
Sing from fathomless depths of space and time.
Geography traversed by her steps, sublime
Bearing piedra de ijada from a far eastern mine.
Electricity leaps in passionate arcs,
from skin to skin in dendritic sparks,
That strobe over rhythm beneath the sheets,
as lovers listen and friction speaks
in syncopation with shuddering breaths,
from sodden mouths that sweetly press,
And I close my eyes in synchronicity,
but even closed, it’s her I see.
Tasting the salt of a single tear
A harbinger, for the moments near.
High on the hum of hopes embrace
as rapture and destiny hasten the pace,
I open my eyes to watch her go,
but once inside it starts to grow
into a poem unleashed in my heart,
By a byzantine kiss, after lost lips part.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
We want heroes,
stars, emperors,
and sun kings
to lead us out
of Darkness.
We want
Mommy & Daddy
to make
the hurt go away.
But what can I give?
I'm just a bit player
like David says
in the pilot
of a new sitcom on
the Comedy Channel.
At first, I make whole
my career a foot
like Wesley's child.
One day, I pull myself
up with a thousand hands
twirling, connecting
in dendritic arbors.
I stand at last bare
face against Absurd face,
naked as a rolling Stone.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
Nosferatu would have balked if not gone bald.
They, too, from themselves their selves do balk.
Circumnavigate the lily pond,
Iron Lady in the swaddling baking egg pies, with spited
Curlers in our fronds and — equanimity's edict — forest green-eyed addict — is
A plumbed plum; a dendritic denizen for the cypress,
Willow that 's hung! Willow that sung! Soothing it hugs
the sights — such sour honors — so smooth-over the boy's club, so you can get in or out whichever youregoingfor;
bring them their rose water which drips next to the
chiffon and the lubricated sewing table — the grape to-
mato-mottled lunar ligament: by dew of the top lip, do lay —
go gray in taut winter
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 6:42 PM UTC
for a moment
it feels as though the urgent heaviness
of my breath were pushing
pulling at the boughs of bright dead
leaves
and then I realize
that it is only the wind
I begin to shake with dry
laughter at the absurdity
of my thoughts
catch my reflection in a puddle
at my feet
my eyes are terrifying
i mean terrified
trees break through the ground
all around me, reaching climbing
endlessly upward as
towering neuronal bodies
erected as extensions of the earth’s wild head and the earth
becomes an extension
of my being
i cannot seem to control this
but that is all I wish to do
i am crushed by my impermanence
yet I flee to its consequence
planning my ascension
to ascend as a tree
my bones a relic of everything
i was
trees break through the ground
i think the ground is shaking
but it is only my limbs
half-barren treetops mock me
dendritic and unpredictable
phrenic and phrenetic
reflecting body and mind
at every level:
nerves and neurons branch out
to relay messages
of pain agony suffering
phalangeal forms diverge
From a hand
limb and head from abdomen
dendrite from soma cell body
a symmetry to which
there is no end.
for a moment
it feels as though the urgent heaviness
of my breath were pushing
pulling at the boughs of bright dead
leaves
and then I realize
that it is only the wind.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
Today I find myself less of a writer
And more of a weatherman.
I’d like to talk to you about the settled snow
In my stepfather’s suburban garden,
That he worked so hard
And cracked his dried skin
To call it his own.
I’d like to tell you of the still air
Crisp with an early-January cold
And the sun that is daring to peek overhead
In the distance on a roof.
The only snowfall now is from the dendritic bark
Of the apple tree in the centre of the garden,
Melting just enough to slide from the branches
And the squirrels shovel snow
From their houses
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Whisper your soul through my veins
so that as it advances
with God and eternity, the Cosmos, and stardust
around, around, around
the dendritic network shines as many lighthouses,
for the shadows to retire
and virtues flourish.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
-an entry from the National Library of Medicine National Institutes of Health-
processes protruding
excitatory synapses
cerebral circuits
dendritic differentiation
growth is s lo w.
a complex dance, unfolding of a blueprint; how do we understand this dance?
stress stress stress stress stress learn grow develop stress stress stress stress stress
the brain is sensitive! plastic changes are not all permanent
permanent
permanent
choose...your...psychomotor stimulants!
amphetamine
*******
nicotine
choose:
gray or white matter
schizophrenia or drug addiction
ADHD or depression
the brain structures will not be changed;
pathological plasticity = pathological pain
not all plasticity is good
just like a sculptor
who creates a statue
with a block of stone
and a chisel
to remove the unwanted pieces
in vivo → cell death
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 1:01 AM UTC
"Gratitude is the attitude,"
the fat priest said,
as he was getting ready
to spready his leggies for you.
He was tryin' to
sum up a hymn 'r two
before he finished suckin'
yer cryin' cockatoo
and I don't have to tell you
that it wasn't nice, dude!
'Cause well, you weren't singin' like you used to,
or how he wanted you to, you bad boy you are
confused and forgiven but no longer can you feel innocent,
you're a sinner you ARE a sinner, and He MADE you that way,
in His image he MOLDED the clay, NO! Not 'He'!
Everyone. Every single one.
You.
**** the use of these patriarchal pronouns in reference to The Great Spore Spitting Blossoming Mushroom Flower that we're all giving birth to and dying from simultaneously and, seriously, I'm a little bit tired of these petty **** terms with which we're supposed to identify each other. You can't define my identity with your silly communication system, that's an internal state that I externalize on command and sometimes not! Sometimes it just comes out, but it NEVER comes from the devil's mouth, unless it's my own **** devil. Give me a new ******* pallete. I pray for a sensitive tongue.
For God's sake we make ourselves and we make each other.
For God's sake if we make ourselves out to be failures, then we are making God a failure, and what's that? Laaame! But what's That?! What's that I feel? Is that some discomfort with the usage of the word 'God'? Is that a lingering connotation from the days of THIS IS WHAT GOD IS, nothing else, NOTHING else? Well **** that too! That's an endless maze you won't find your way out of until you scale the walls! SCALE THE WALLS! I make God in my own image, but I don't OWN the image. You've gotta BE the God you want in this world. Sometimes I do it when I showah 'cause I have the powah. Sometimes I do it when I'm chillin' with the great lake spirit and the great tree dendritic spirit cilia that reach up and out of Gaia like loving arms awaiting a tender embrace from a lover after years of reaching for something that cannot hold them but truly must be BEHELD. And so I learned they are always beholding as they reach.
That there's always more to behold.
And so that's why they grow.
So that's why we go,
it's why we flow.
So let's make it a collaboration.
Let's make it a celebration!
We can behold it all forever.
We can behold it all together!
Well, sometimes. Not always.
We all need space, y'know?
It's healthy.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
Peer into the looking glass
Through to the shadowy pit
There is a figment curled tightly
Just under the lash at its periphery
Look deeper.
Past the mouth
Past even the bottom
Of the crater
Into its hidden systems
Of tunnels, streams
Cellular clusters of caves
Right...there.
Can you see it?--
That which makes you twitch and sway
And grasp at phantoms?
These are the inhabitants of the mind
The cold, pitiless
Dendritic eels
Feeding on the sparks
At each synapse
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
Hollowed echo of blue-tongued screen
Blushing grin behooving trance
Transcendental cusp of ponderings
Lingering in collaborative sweat-knit
And swollen dendritic emanations
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Mangled, bony fingers, groveling
for lapping water, a dendritic rivulet
ceases its division for no one
I powder the amethysts for sand, for
only the sensation of opulence, anywise
the silver tarnishes in abundance
And what's the worst I'd ever seen
if not our maize sun ashen, drained of its
rise and incentive to foster grass
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC