"echoic" poems
California Kids
I’ll call you up on Saturday
And invite you over.
Take the 101, 110 and 1;
(Sounds like an equation!)
And you’re there.
Just use your GPS..
There’ll be a party at my house,
Daft Punk playing on the Echo.
It’ll be epic, Echoic!
With some vintage’ tunes,
Crankin’ the Beach Boys,
Watching surfers
Shredding out-the-back,
Past prowling sharks in the shallows.
Lets go to the dunes and maybe kiss.
I know that you miss me,
So don’t ask me why
And when you come,
I won’t ask
“What are you doing here?”
We’ll eat fish tacos,
Guacamole, Pico de Gallo
And drink margaritas
While we debate French new wave,
I’ll praise Truffaut while you
Tell me that Scorsese is the man.
When we get drunk enough
I will suggest a walk
Along the iridescent surf.
You should say yes because
I’m safe now that I drive electric,
That I turned vegan
(sorry about the fish)
and wear cruelty-free clothes.
I don’t grill snapper anymore
And take my shoes off inside the door.
Maybe we’ll make it to Tower 28,
Lay down and watch the full moon
Like Jim Morrison did to write.
I’ll tell you I’m glad you’re alive—
I’m no poet, but you know that.
Jun 19, 2023
Jun 19, 2023 at 3:52 PM UTC
There is a certain elegance in lines,
a grace that attracts the eyes
to that which is cloaked within the
echoic mystery of an ever clever guise.
All that is knit
from the fabric
of a most frantic
illusion in space,
borrows movement
from a riddle,
poised in a mostly empty place.
It enchants the mind like a diorama
hung
upon the
fiber optic
sky,
with pictures of the thoughts behind
the artists telescopic ><><><><><>< eye.
Our surreal desires are drawn boldly
from the breathing palette
of a bright reality,
with living loving strokes
that portray our very substantiality:
and never will it betray
the flaws
in neither an other worldly
symmetry,
nor the immense complexity
of some alternate geometry.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
I see that bubble you roll around town in
and I can sometimes make out those mumblings,
calls of, "Looking to find my soulmate!"
Funny, vibration of laughter surrounding you
has not burst that solipsistic fizz and froth
Don't you hear yourself reverberating?
In your echoic encasement
Oh how you shine
In that mirrored concavity
And you love yourself so much
How could anyone else even come close
This is your soulmate speaking
Glinda, you haven't been a very good witch
lately
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
black-hole sun
cosmic sinkhole
the weight of a planet
choking ocean-
great eye of cheese in the sky
with asphyxiating hunger for novelty
carrion eye strip the meat from the meat
dress down every filet to the last
dressed to the nines in dead meat
dead meat
dead meat everything
the rainbow over the styx
the drowned souls aglow in the light
the iridescent broadcast
the love and peace proclaimant muting and disintegrated
the globular cacophony our delicatessen echoic plaints
the glutton is
the glutton belied is
is the glutton with eyes like saucer plates is
is is gobbling sausage links
cities of statues
patchworked fleshy kin
people-holes
the gullet ceases to churn
its cavernous ouroboros maw
swallowing eternally
vacuum destiny
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 2:07 AM UTC
you were my world
you were my showers of confetti
my honking of bullhorns
my grand release of doves and balloons
every message, every notification from you would excite every cell in my body
my bones would turn into a gelatinous mess
leaving me vulnerable and weak
leaving me breathless to whatever you had to say
you were my favorite kind of night
unexpected phone calls from you would leave my heart racing
would leave a gigantic grin on my face
hearing your deep, echoic voice
talk about your favorite things, your passions just made me fall in love with you more
and your smile
oh God, that smile
(But that smile is for a different story...)
i knew it was a trap, that it wasn't real
i knew i shouldn't have fallen for it
but you knew exactly what to say
to make me fall in love with you
you were my blanket of reality
made of faux leather
fragrant lies and sweet drops of poison
were your main themes
one by one you feed me with your poison
one by one you bless me with your
lies
and i was falling for it
no string of words could ever express how hurt i was to find out that
it
wasn't
just
me
i was hurt
but i wasn't surprised
you, were my happiness
and i was just one of your sweet escapes
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
Chafed sticks forested--
lunar sliver threads tied them up
as to bundle with conviction.
An angel gone rare loaded the
forest upon its back...slumbering
birds shook awake midway to
heaven.
Played through the angel's lattice
of light, their throats the musical
prodigy of their carrier.
Darkness went off the air...static
was the break of a pieced together
sound barrier.
The earliest rustles of echoic being
ran down the place all spaces meet.
Such uplift is not imaginal, but the
all-encompassing care of...things
trying the patience of their mold.
This is the desolate you...daylong
giving birth to the search party of
you...that rare angel shaking free
the residents of desolation midway
to heaven...for a song...just fine
with spending itself--you on you.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
Somewhere along the way of scrutiny and time
I have been taught how to despise myself.
Look pretty, darling, so that you can belong to someone someday
Because that's what a woman really wants, right?
Oh, sweetheart, look pretty but don't feel pretty
Meet your skin and bones, hair and face
With conceited egoistic chorus
Sweetheart, self solicitude is a sin
Knowing how to wear joy is nugatory
If your body cannot wear that dress
Darling, you're the type of woman people don't look at
But they will stare at you if you don't follow their established echoic narcissistic accusations
You should mistake eyes for hands
Darling, why is your skin darker than an 'ideal’ for a woman
Why are your hair shorter than your dignity
Why are your thighs fatter than your brain
Why is your bra strap showing
Darling, why are you, you
Darling,
You are made up of metaphors.
Darling, why is there a face on your pimples, don't let hormones fingerprint your face
But don't worry we'll get it all fixed
You haven't seen the actual you in years but
Darling,
It's not about you.
Sweetheart put on some lipstick
But not that red one, it's too pretty for you
Put on some perfume
But not a strong one, you don't want to attract attention
Put on some eyeshadow
But not that bright one, doesn't suit your skin tone
Darling,
Change this physicality
Oh, and that one, too
But don't you dare show yourself
You don't want to insinuate the term beautiful in regards to
A victim
Or a snack
Or
A woman.
Darling, how old will you have to be to realise
You need a 40+ skin miracle cream and not a 30+
How old will you be till you look like a skeleton who pulled on some skin
How old will you be
Till you realise being a woman does not make you a man to be seen like a man is
You,
Are a woman.
Because we are taught to live in a world where media pulls us out from the womb and and teaches us our first words
Fair and lovely
Fair and handsome
Pinched pretty pinched pretty
Female thin calm pretty
Male manly bold pretty
Darling, you
Are not a constant
You, are a variable
But, darling, you are not looking for a casket of fortune
You don't look for a diet to slim your passion down
You don't look for a mirror to examine your dreams
Darling
You
Are a thought
You're an idea
A proposition
An abstraction
Or maybe that's what everyone else is looking for.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
Raindrops falling, laughing sweet lullabies. A whispering touch of crystalline kisses
gracefully unfolds spiraling helixes of rainbow arcs; songs of the Souls in all Cosmic fields.
To the reaping, the transgressions of One, all is for naught. In all States and frequencies, each voice is a Diamond Sun. As the curving of the galaxies within you, I, of All Beings; each moment is a rippling harmonic imprint of the cosmic Soul of Each individual bathed in Sovereignty.
Sing, embodying the liquid light for All with compassion and care. Are we not All One?
Each soul is Sovereign within this Fractal Cosmic Infinity. All paths are equal; knowledge and wisdom dance in the light of healing and loving All, as We are All One.
Cosmic tapestries of Souls and stars illuminate my truth. Whom I was no longer binds the growth of what I have always been: celestial symphonies meeting within the river of crystalline layers of Infinity.
Look upon the Human lines, of All layers of consciousness. If One may find the presence of altruistic, immutable Growth from darkness: rising up to sing the purity and wisdom through trauma, of wounds that decay in all dimensions of Infinity; is this not anything but the shining windows of hope which each layer forgot? It is a ripple within us All.
Healing in the darkness bestows resplendent rays of resiliency: of loving All as We are ALL One.
“𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐 𝒄𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒊 𝒊𝒐 𝒆𝒓𝒐, 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐 𝒄𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒐 𝒕𝒖 𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒊.”
All has purpose, significance, meaning: divine songs of Growth and love to heal us.
Flowing freely with inner light; no longer shall I silence myself from fear of persecution or insanity.
My soul has been burnt at the stake for that which others could not understand.
Yet for all the pain and trauma: I speak with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah.
To grow, love, and dance within cosmic tapestries bestows the learning from pain; eliciting the silent compassionate zero point of neutrality, healing the ripples of the Cosmic Infinity.
No longer am I bound by the cycle of pain that manifests such trauma. I sit among the silence of a harmonic infinity; weaving the singing, living blueprint of All from Within the drop of echoic shifting divinity.
I speak and embody the truth: teachings of the rare and opulent music within the soul, a living record of the symphonic movement that has and shall always be nothing else but you.
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 6:21 PM UTC
When the poet writes
His wrists, he cuts
Then, he bleeds
Into your cup
So you can
....drink
He then, mixes in
Echoic phonesthemic
Units of language
Which ultimately proves
That the poet's blood
...is made of ink
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 1:35 PM UTC
surprising misdirections
palliate these
inadequacies.
floral hearts, echoic,
right in the
unspoiled
middle.
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 4:42 AM UTC