"endogenous" poems
The flash flood of euphoria,
is swallowed by the thirsty ground,
eternally unquenched.
I will smile,
and fix my eyes on the desert sun.
I will grow roots and bloom,
an endogenous cactus,
while envious drifters lick the sand,
desperate for a drop of rain.
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 11:58 AM UTC
The Picture Window
The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.
The subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.
Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.
My soul?
Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..
The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.
Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.
But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy, where disorder minimal.
My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.
Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.
5:50 AM
P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
Your tidy soul:
No horror, no fear
No emotions,
No colors,
Only white walls
All sterile
No infection of feelings
And the stench of chlorine
Everywhere, everyday, every moment
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
You are commanding the presence of an audience of children
Who do not, for a couple of hours, feel like children.
They feel like lightning bolts, and lovers,
Congregates of "The Broken Axe Handle",
Even if they hardly show it.
You’re telling them their own story
For which they haven’t yet learned how to form the words.
And after it all,
The crowd moving in a waking dream cloud,
You come into my focus,
And you practically whisper, “Seeing you there, you made me feel
Centered”
And I felt humbled by the honesty.
What a surprise to have such a weighted job!
How impossible it is to take crumb of credit
For the beauty of your poetry!
I, entirely teenaged with endogenous anonymity,
Someone’s fulcrum!
In a decade since,
I, (un)entirely grown and still ontologically unknown,
Still live your language,
Still aim to be the rock or
The hook on which to hang a hat.
Even when I don’t think I can
Even when I don’t know I am,
You make me feel daily that
In just receiving someone’s truth,
Eyes up,
I can make the return to be
Someone’s somebody.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 11:08 PM UTC
Golden Radiance met in Reflection
Penetrating all areas of Infection
The warmth and the love of Affection
Altering Perception, Mirrored Perfection.
Silver Light, Pacifying
Little Child, I see you crying
Silver Eyes Dancing Rain
Droplets of life: escaping the Vain.
Though like a Vine you Tilt.
Though like a Flower you Wilt.
My Will is Endogenous.
The Light of my Soul is growing within.
And as I lift your spirits, With my Consolation
My Comfort grows in you to hold your weight.
My little Blue Spirit, what shall you create?
In the Nous, that is your Space?
My little Blue Sun, what shall you create?
Your Dawn of Dreams awaits.
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 8:35 PM UTC
Let me tell you once more about the first 24,
The lackadaisical blossom of a devilish spore,
The immemorial black of hearts lacklustre and cold,
The sensual grimace of an ordinary soul,
The last ember of coal within a beauty unknown,
The voluptuous shape of effeminate stone,
The incantation of the sun giving birth to the dawn,
An insomniac’s battle against the army of the morn,
The poetic holocaust of a mind tortured and torn,
The endogenous torment of thoughts when a man is alone,
The sorrow of kings after ascending the throne,
The desolation of spirits failing to protect their own,
The pessimism of those afraid of leaving their zone,
The transparent mist in the eyes of those who intellectually mourn,
A simple metaphor for you to interpret and me to know,
All that and more, simply the first 24.
Its the deepest secret i hold, it is the key to my soul,
It is my rise and my fall, the darkest story ever told,
Add a beautiful 3 and my spirit is whole.
A divine metaphor.
Under a tree of sycamore,
A new story began called the first 24.
The accumulation of all the hate that we love to condone,
But also the strength we unearth when scares galore,
The falsely euphoric solitude of those who do not implore,
A dementia that is cause by the degradation of truth,
The delusion of humans, trying to hold on to their youth,
The illusion of art when sanity is loose,
The ambitions of an addicts fighting, escaping abuse,
It’s the elixir of life for those who denied unethical truce,
Its the umbilical cord by which mental growth is produced,
It’s the force within those who fight without an excuse,
Its fluorescence of essence, its the efflorescence of spruce,
The greed of adolescence, asphyxiating your roots.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 7:53 PM UTC
call it, cell division restrictions
with heavy implications
on age limit correlations
old and decrepit
one day your fingers will become brittle sticks
wrapped inconsistently in thin wrinkly papers
approaching uselessness
every page gets turned slower
understood less and less often
as everything begins to be forgotten
watch out now
here comes genomic instability
aka the road to an old death
or a cancerous death
or a radiation death
maybe a chemical death
or from sharp metal or heavy stone
perhaps from the claws
or teeth
of another clever beast
(an inaudible noise)
whatever's clever, it's all ******* death
when it starts...
it progresses (pray for quickness)
please dear
have a little neurodegeneration
with that
it won't matter, you'll forget
and **** your pants
eventually
maybe she's born with it
maybe it's recombinational DNA repair error
either way we're all on our own way into cyclic deficiencies of repair
that night shift mr. fix it staff
the stupid intern who makes the copies
gets the coffee
eventually, the manager hires his nephew
and outsources the night shift to mental patients
things then start to unravel
as all things fall apart
sometimes it's exogeny
other times from within
endogenous like
anyway, it's all "whatever"
("it's not a tuma!")
these things that are eventual, tend to be tragic
universally so
the upper limit to individual "forever's"
this could be law
when that which you cannot see stops doing what you cannot believe
you tend to die
and everything has it's time to die
everyone of us becomes due in time
to become one spectacle of a tragedy
or another
like you've never seen before
like you would never believe
until it happens to you...
when you go,
when you hear,
ha... that,
(inaudible sound)
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 10:07 PM UTC
Emotional breakthrough
Strains at my insides,
Physical and mental fatigue
On a roller-coaster ride,
Lost, wandering souls
In a bookstore at night,
Rampage through the writings
Of love, death and fright,
Titles blend
They all become one,
The moon will give in
To the rising sun.
Mood altering chemicals
Endogenous dreams,
My heart cries in agony
A nightmare of screams,
Who would pursue
Such consummate pain,
It may appear washable
But always leaves a stain,
And after a while
The background just fades,
Personality tinted
By several gray shades.
Thank goodness the sun
Rises each day,
Because the night of the soul
Can hold the heart-song at bay,
Squelch the fires of love
And the passions of pleasure,
Effectively burying
The beauty you treasure.
Jul 14, 2023
Jul 14, 2023 at 1:55 AM UTC