"excised" poems
“the simplest definition of our learning to count to infinity”
*wrote those words
to a stranger in pain, awful pain,
asking him to count his blessings*
*now awful pain
no stranger to me
a pain four decades long,
that the surgeon promised was fully excised.
but today was triggered,
chest pain dagger ingredient emergency room
so I am counting for,
but not to,
counting on
infinity
when the wounding cannot be recalled,
only a minor scar to struggle from wonder whence
came it from
which is the definition of reaching the
infinity place,*
where finite comes to rest
Dec 10, 2019
Dec 10, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
in the river of good company
***I dedicate this poem to
Mr. Harlon Rivers,
one of the best poets (here)
and from his good company,
i could drink all day and
never be quenched***
~
Preface
sometime, the heart wants it wants,
denial, temporarily from your vocabulary, excised
sometimes, beauty keelhauls you, gets you
awestruck inspired, then arrogance overcomes
the brilliance of common sense and you go ahead and
mess with perfection despite every sensor flashing
uh oh, duh, oh no, fool on the premises, lockdown needed!
do believe this condition can be found in the medical books
under I, for Inspiration, Incantation, or S for Stupidifacation
my heart wants to write a poem,
cause I was a witness, sitting twenty feet
from the heavenly crime scene,
and every intonation swept my brain into that secret place,
when I heard KD Lang singing "The Valley"^
~~~
in the river of good company
simple sentiment but good god
all I ever wanted and so oft lacked
such was my fate, one I made,
had plenty good words for boon companions,
the occasional touch of a woman rippling waves
cross my face, a love lapping slapping
of concentric pebble rings,
till like most good things
gone good goes bad,
it just happens to evaporate and
you think someday, maybe,
you will walk again in good company
the brain says quit right here
but the heart brooks no damning tantrum of sanity imposition,
for those handful of deepest, not quite six feet under
palpitations of insensible, cutting glimpses of that word I hate so,
memories,
of when
you walked in good company
men women no different - it is that heated aura
tween bodies that confirms that you are once again
a human being, just a being, temporarily
enhanced, elevated, by good company
so go ahead sweet talks ya, that devil id a/k/a desire, says -
one more for the road can't hurt ya,
write that poem -
and perhaps one good man, glory hallelujah, a good woman,
will read it and you can stop weeping you idiot,
do it so you will be back, nuttier but nurtured,
drinking from the river of good company,
mouthing not even dare whispering,
satisfied satiated, loving and loved
~
all reposts greatly and grateful appreciated!
4/2/17 9:24am
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
Things sometimes fall apart
Among sisters and brothers,
No matter what they once were.
Childhood picnics and dreamy games,
Memories of trips with Dad,
Since Mom was tired of us.
We would climb Appalachian peaks
Or drive to look at the Mayflower.
Every summer there was a golden week
A lakeside cottage and all-day swims
In crystal water, becoming mermaids.
But time passes and bitterness accrues.
Imagined slights grow like slow tumors,
Never excised but nurtured by some.
I go to college and am freed
From the poison of ignorant rage,
From the creeping depression left
Like diesel fog on an endless floor.
Four or five years of delight pass
With only hints here or there
Of a sibling’s misery at home.
Of a once close sister, Maggie,
Who is ignored and never loved
By any man she pursues.
She blames me for it, for reasons
I have yet to fathom.
Of a brother, Francis, deluded, drugged,
Steals the family car in a rage
And drives to New York City.
Of Deirdre, the middle sister,
Whose friend who knows men who feed
On her ignorance and rebellion.
Only Susannah tries to rise above
The maelstrom of misery.
I send her to a school far away
And she sheds despair, at least.
Decades drawl, children are born to us,
While the bridge between us, obscured,
Sags and frays under weight of rancor.
Christmas dinners and birthday parties
Turn into chores, invitations kept as scores.
Petty grudges, like acid, sever the bridge
At last, all ties are abandoned.
When we are all grown and scattered,
No one speaking to anyone else,
Unaware, uncaring about the others.
Only Susannah visits me and smiles,
With no ulterior plan for insane revenge,
Or accusations for errant slights.
Her once dark hair is grizzled and wild
And her girlish skin now creased.
But her treacle eyes, “black aggies”,
I used to call them, still shine.
Only Susannah writes a letter,
Wishing us well and
Healing scars made by others,
Returning the word “family”.
To my basket of small treasures,
I carry with me
Into the twilight.
Oct 10, 2021
Oct 10, 2021 at 10:52 AM UTC
All that's left in her cold veins
Is what hasn't been excised
She stares off into the crowd
Wondering what it's like
To have a soul.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
<Sun May 14 5:00 AM PST>
Let us be smart about this departure,
time unscheduled, yet leaving inevitable,
the sound of fabric torn, a rent performed,
a ripping, a release of the gripping, connecting
tissue of weft and weave tying parent and child
*(All of us poets, all of us comprehend,
there are two points, two buttonholes
that offer escape or farewell, when we
commence on something new, when we
pen our chest’s demands to exhale, cease the hammering*
*Perhaps, here, just after the third stanza,
the brick enormity of our selected task, on chest,
weighs heavy, boulder difficulties ahead, now fastened
and faster and faster realized, begs us, quit this essay,
return to placid, from an arrhythmia of imploding loss)*
So many fabrics, so many tears, wet and dried,
but upon commencement, the only finish line,
is another commencement, when the (mine-own) rendering
is finalized, beyond repair, when guilt gulfs overflows, flooding
plains of forever pain officiated by signed scar, “here was”
So many separations, varied and variegated,
surficial shallow surgical or plunges, widths of trickle,
depths of deadly plunges, records of inches, dates,
names, new heights inscribed, measured on a door jamb,
lost, erased, when child’s door closes permanently
Came today to the West, to Pacific Ocean entrance,
to celebrate a good boy’s ritualized threshold crossing
over into manhood, both symbolic and and realized,
but tear-up seeing the small child-man leaning in and on
his father’s larger frame, a coinciding giving & taking
no bonds are eternal, for such is life, the weft must be
warped, sundered and separated, so many reasons,
experience speaks, scars are like bandages,protecting
but deceiving, what they cover can never be excised,
a space created, that only oxygen can touch both sides
but never, ever be reperfected, mended,…or finalized
2023
San Francisco
May 14, 2023
May 14, 2023 at 10:07 AM UTC
when you're out of work
a new kind of dictionary defined,
old filters replaced, perspectives refined
take the respite resort word
the "weekend,"
when you are unemployed,
it starts on a Monday,
and runs seven days consecutive,
and the words
"week"and "end" can no longer be married,
for each,
just a new cuss word
when you're out of work,
the sweet small spaces of your home,
revised by the architect
of the mind,
somehow sudden, two sizes smaller,
fewer doors and windows,
light and air, hesitant to enter,
no Vermeer here,
staleness re-covers everything,
new is worn, and worn is
you
when you are fired,
you comprehend the word's meaning clearer,
now, your every thought feels like twelves cylinders firing,
you've become
furnaced, tempered,
dressed daily in an orange yellow colored
jumpsuit, with UNEMPLOYED
across a bent back,
self-censoring the spoken and the unspoken,
when you have no work,
everything important is twice the work,
believing, now a chore,
loving, a labor lost
when you're unemployed
a new kind of dictionary defined,
old filters replaced, perspectives refined,
many words excised,
so few required,
so few desired,
they as well,
rank, and unemployable,
and everything reads
left to right
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
The flesh may still be fine...
One must just pare bruised
And bad spots away,
As a razor once excised mine.
A blurred mind mused
At the slowness of life
When it oozed,
Crimson's contrast
On pale skin,
Like paint
Escaped my palette,
Or red roses on canvas,
Mute shouts of color
Wasted in slick puddles
On the floor.
Red too soon fades sepia;
Wounds become scars,
Their hardness protects,
Forever reminds.
Though grown timid
Of assaults from steel,
Old psyche still yields
To lancet's probing,
Words released fall,
Now as drops to paper.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 3:59 PM UTC
A spring was dammed in long ago
to make a pond their business.
warm water glistens in the sun
even seagulls circle, speak
It felt all wrong.
spring still gives forth
with no place to flow
held cruelly still by walls cement
boundaries of man
I mourn this water soul excised.
I could not enter water dead.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC
In my dream he wanted to know why
I want to think he'd care with my eyes wide open
This ghost that dwells in the wells of slumber
Deserves an answer
I feel compelled to spill it out
Before he melts, fog-like as the sun rises
And returns to more comfortable depths
Far away from memory
Into the bigger wind to which no one knows
From whence it came or where it goes
Would that the Wind show me a reason
I could pass on to him
That it would blow through the hole in his soul
Indifference punctured through
Take heed
Before experience proves the truth of my words
If love dies in your heart and your mind
Dare not believe that the ones left behind
Will heal any time
Soon
If you have ears to hear, Know
The love you refuse to mourn
Torn
You believe was stolen from you
Ripped from your fist
With violence excised
The love you choose to deny
Time after time after time
That with cruel alchemy
Melts into molten gold
Glows
Grows like a Rose,
Resonates with beautiful Music
Shines a most brilliant Light,
Feeds the Breath of Life
At your peril clip it's petals (with your "loves me-loves me not" nonsense )
At your peril drown it out (with your arguing and fighting)
At your peril call down darkness (call it down, down it will come)
Try not to breathe and fail every time
Only violence, desperate to have it's way, should wield the power
To break a chain of love
Sleepy ghost, you know this is true
On my life I would not do it to you
If a link in the chain were so weak as to break
You'll know which one before I'm awake
Though you'll never know why the metal was broken
Neither will I
Once I've awoken
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 6:47 PM UTC
the hardest surgery is the one you perform on yourself.
Steady?
Ready?
No anesthesia but a chuckle of nervous humor
the first incision across your heart.
When you finish (many months later)
you put the scalpel down, wave weakly
to the clapping colleagues hugging each other in disbelief
from the observatory, sterile and eager
you give them a wan grin
and hope they've watched closely
so that now they know how...
how to do this.
At twenty-something, I was taught by Fear
who said nothing matters
and then at twenty-something-else I was taught by Faith
who said anything matters
And she wasn't the Sunday kind of Faith that you find
clasped between your palms, clasped like you're afraid
that if you let go the Faith will just tumble out and break.
No, she was the Faith that was bigger than God and so intimate
that sometimes I was the Faith, sometimes you were the Faith,
and sometimes the Faith was me.
So really, Faith doesn't have a name.
But Faith and Fear, they both breathe, they're each lung
and when I fill one, the other billows, after all
you need two to breathe.
And so then I, feeling bold, learned about Bravery.
I had heard about it in newspapers and history book indexes
and in our local volunteer firefighters.
Wondered if I could buy it.
Wondered how much it goes for.
But I couldn't find Brave until the moment I gave up on it
and said, ***** it, I'm so scared but I don't care anymore,
I'll just do it, Brave be ******
And surely enough, it was hiding beneath the tremors.
So really, Brave was the Siamese twin of I'll Just Do It.
which, by the way, wasn't in the glossary of this or any history book.
Everything changes, you know?
I'm changing, you're changing.
Oh, it storms me like the sea!
I secretly raise my glass to stasis, my faraway frenemy.
Don't tell the other Sagittarians, they'd exile me surely.
Change, letting go of my old faces
feels too close to dying,
feels too close to leaving you behind.
And I'm not ready to leave you behind.
Oh the West, keep your Mountains.
If only for a little longer.
I've excised my soul again and again
transplanted and sutured
but there's just no time.
Even with these visions from under the knife-
there's just no time to heal
before I'm laid on the table again.
*Faith hold me-
Fear teach me
so I can...*
Steady.
Please- stay with me.
Ready?
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
*from now on,
all poems will,
that yet reside inside,
shall be here inscribed
why?
the line between music, song, lustrous life and love is indifferent
do not misunderstand - indifferent is not meant as uncaring but more as undifferentiated and interwoven into a singularly
so oft lives de-track, de-tract as threads become frayed and
the dye color fades, but once loved, cold is an excised word
from life’s Merriam Webster rulebook
in all my pain and sadness the embrued, embered kernel
yet faint glows
off and on, even a glance somehow brings it back, for of all
life’s lessons learned in everything, loss and grief,
the single thread snakes back, and there is love in everything
and in every unborn scream and script
so a journey ends and commences
in the same locus and locale,
the quest;
search and seek that love seed*
for there is only love poetry
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
facebook
told me yesterday was
national donut day and I had to
admire how something that's had its
center cut out still has so much good
to give. and it made me wish
you would see the remainder
of me and find me worth sinking
your teeth into but you don't. now that
you've painfully excised my heart
you toss me aside
untasted.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 4:09 AM UTC
****** again,
Post-hasted doubting and raving,
Confused why I torture myself so –
Truer words never spoken as lies,
The dull, pumpkin-glow of the broken lamp casting ghosts,
Filling my visions with demons I’d thought excised.
****** again,
Alone in its tendrils again,
I travel –
Travel through ideas shattered and plexiglass melting,
Singing and burning as it covers my senses like a myelin sheath,
Conducting protons-only,
But my brain is slow and the receptors dull,
And the raw input manifests only as trails of spirits.
****** again,
The madness thick as bog sludge,
Stinking of scorched sulfur,
It kicks corroded and dead gears into spin,
Generating false ideas and wild delusions
That I know aren’t real but –
Nothing else here is, either, especially not you,
Disembodied you, listener.
****** again,
But not alone this time no,
Her idea ghosting simulacra,
Taunting me with her shortcomings and spitting like venom
Those thousands of details I’d always hated while
Refusing acknowledgment, but
Like a brick golem she’s got a core,
A conduit of last-year’s hopes, and I flee, panicked –
****** again,
The clouds high above the ruined October grass,
Laughing like spaceships, and returning me to boyhood fancy:
I’ll never be an astronaut.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
~
for T.M.R.
~
*We find our poems in many different ways. Of late,
I keep finding inspiration in the public and private messages that many of you send to me, regarding poems I choose to publish here.
So I repeat my disclaimer,
"any message you send, can and will be used as a poem."*
~
instant recognition at levels so deep within,
what are the odds, given the enormous differentials,
that the kin in kindred, would blossom across two lives,
where the oppositional factoids are exceptional
as if seeded in the fertile soil of the blank spaces,
between each of our poem's words and verses,
there secreted for each other, but gleaming visible
for all to see and uncover, even join in,
uncovering semi-hidden insertions and assertions of affinity
I confess
she stands behind me ofttimes in my mind, silently,
suggesting, reflecting, critiquing a word choice,
a nuanced pressure upon the hand redirecting,
with infiltrating suggestions imaginary
oh wordy me, four stanzas excised,
abstracted from the memories contained within my fingertips,
this, an accolade to the pleasuring of humanizing mystery connectivity,
when she, in the depth of her stylized brevity,
captures more than I, after hours of exercised trying,
in the succinct excalibur of her comprehension
"We are an unstated understood"
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 5:40 PM UTC
the third mate last,
lashed to the helm,
a punishment, a lashing
for having
read and let
the taste of words unkempt,
hash my essence,
thus pelted,
excised, my flesh,
unto a wearied
death by a thousand cuts
my artistic force bleeds,
I am realistic,
there is no
superman savior,
there is only
life after death,
where dear god,
last wishing, it is a world of
silence perfected
I know I promised no more
on this shopworn, discounted topic,
but I read and I weep
my essence seeps, pores pouring,
tried the ancient cure of ignoring,
but anguished curiosity begs
for bliss
asking,
just try once more,
knowing that ignorance
can never be blissful
confounded, words indelible,
the poems tattooed trite,
with an unheard last sigh,
what makes them think
every stray dog of a thought
deserves sharing
tender each with word
with such selected caring,
arguing back and forth,
and always losing
and always winning
the argument over the
Final Selection,
the process holocausts me,
I am not a survivor anymore,
just an over killed victim
to tattered ribbons sliced,
no seamstress can resurrect what once was,
endlessly they celebrate their flesh's cutting,
they cannot know their words,
alpha beta me to where,
the ink is drained and flushed,
and withered fingers lose their moist urgent,
discomfited composure
and
all the words I know are a plague
upon my shotgun house,
I am bleeding, but that does not mean
my poetic permission lives,
it only means my blue blood
surrenders it oxygen upon contact
with an atmosphere of trite
and I swear to you it hurts to much to
write,
hurts more than breathing
do not write to me of your pain,
write instead with painstaking care
and let me read thy crafted composition
and say this,
*thus I am staked to you,
penetrated in ways ,
that each cut of thine,
ready welcomed
for it is sublime,
a human humidifier,
putting back the moisture lost
by tears shed over wastrel poems*
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
The cancer has spread too far,
the mass is too massive to be excised.
The chemo bag is secretly filled with carcinogens.
The pills they charge us a fortune for
are only placebos.
The last doctor died in 1963,
and the man in the white scrubs,
who rubs your hand, and says it will all be alright
is a card carrying servant
of the very cancer he professes to fight.
Nighty-Night little ones,
its time to turn out the light.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
Slice. Suture. Repeat."
[How many times has it been now?
Three or four? Three for certain. Or maybe this is four.
Smiling is just... plastic and puzzled. Sordid, *****
..this is my face!]
"Slice. Suture. Repeat."
[Stiff. Arthritic. Brittle.
Plums taste of plaster. Chewing is almost impossible -
congealed chalky paste. Chicken or stew?
At least she is still with me. I don't remember much...]
"Slice. Suture. Repeat."
[Feeding time now requires intubation.
the scar-tissue will need to be excised again. sigh
so it was an accident, I think. Wasn't there someone... else? ]
"Slice. Suture. Repeat."
[is Everything diluted. blurry are Faces.
with me One was... I think...
I don't mind much...]
"Call it. He's gone."
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 6:31 AM UTC
Promises made by diviners: first,
the month of my undoing dissected,
uncertainty excised. Fingers splayed,
the prophet makes a pretty ritual
out of ribcage. Says: any bone
can be an oracle bone, given time.
Unhook the vertebrae, then.
Plate apart the musculature
and there’s fate, that red spool,
that hungry spine. Ask me if I
believe. I believe all prophets
are butchers. The small chime
is her fingers at my glass rib
and not my leaving. Ah, fate,
that tangle of guts, of chyme.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
How can a hollow ache?
Or a poet write?
When the part that felt is cut away
Excised with a razor of reason
Bandaged with the dressings of the Sensible
To be healed, so it is said, with time
Yet like the morbid curiosity of the child who picks at the scab
Or perhaps more akin; the itch of an amputee's phantom limb
There is still an ache
How can that be so?
How can a hollow ache?
Or, come to that,
A poet write?
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
~for those who can’t sleep, and know why~
***you say “how much is too far?” and I think yes, more scars,
a man surveys a lifetime of errors and cowardice,
my soles, scarred from nite-walking new york city sidewalks,
days of haven’t slept in years, weakness is my prejudice,
tally sums-ups as no forgiveness, the pavement paying is a
continuum of paying on, there is no atonement for wasted life,
the concrete cracks wedded to my body, stepped on each one***
**marvel at the disastrous disappointment that I’ve engineered,
how creative in disguising a life of accumulated self bruising,
applaud my season’s greeting card, 2020, me meeting me,
in a laptop I am contained, global boundaries thus defined,
crumpled coffee cups, emptied wine glass, zoom loops of repetition,
still I wonder why, every day, how, so many missteps, wondering
not at the lackluster will that carried me; every minute sorrowful**
*so much hidden begs for revelation, murdered souls, theft, jealousy,
but the punishment is brutal; a conscientious conscience continually
punishes my blackened hours and there is no retrieval, retrial,
just a grounded plot with neither headstone and grass,
for I’m marked by no marker, and the wounds inflicted are my
afflicted leavings, my bones+soul confined, and the hallelujah
word excised from my vocabulary, forbidden me, justifiably so*
————————————-
Mr. Tambourine Man
Song by Bob Dylan
“Though I know that evening's empire has returned into sand
Vanished from my hand
Left me blindly here to stand, but still not sleeping
My weariness amazes me,
I'm branded on my feet
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming...
And take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind
Down the foggy ruins of time
Far past the frozen leaves
The haunted frightened trees
Out to the windy beach
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky
With one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea
Circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate
Driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow”
Dec 5, 2020
Dec 5, 2020 at 4:33 AM UTC
stoking and stroking
very, very often, but not every day,
she wakes me with a tonguing
on my clean shaven heart,
I ask not why, lest it break the over ten year,
she be magic spelling, a hexagonal licking put on me
after
ten years she gets cat curiosity bitten,
asks me if I want to know the wherefore,
pretend not to hear, re-awarded with an elbow
between the ribs five and six, grunting me a ‘sure’
(that’s a surly unsurely, no - not really)
“you don’t take care anymore enough of the body I embrace,
so I am my own your health plan, licking your chest cavern,
one of a defensive medley of many medical techniques,
stroking the heartstrings vibrato, stoking the hearth fire,
purely selfish you see, all I ask is you purr as you do,
lay still, accept my pill of vitae min no-calorie surgery,
for ten more years, let your heart be stirred,
keep the bad stuff excised, and let the desire of returning fire
of your taste buds, be forever for me...”*
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 6:14 PM UTC
~ encore un autre, inspiré par Sally B.~
another poem excised from an
interdepartmental message from
The Dept of Poets, (Global), a
ridiculous thot mine, deserving of
removal, remorse and regret,
(modern human’s woke 3 r’s)
nonetheless deserved of exegesis,
mainly because I think so…
Surficially, I comprehend that of the bones,
of the billions of those who have gone to
their where~ever, if could speak. we would
require a huge commitment to building out
our cell phone networks, the best comm
tool, for portability between differing
dimensions, times and spaces
let us cut to the chase (thank god),
my bones shall be without a doubt
return to a granular dust, my minerals
contributing to some future breakfast
cereal, thus assuring my recirculated
inspiration for generations to come(?),
acknowledging that my “gifts” are
the product of apriori Jews who wandered
this planet, forever rootless and semi-
displaced by their haters for reasons
that have nothing to do with reason
By way of my gratitude that you have read
so far, hopefully to continue, let me assure
you that this P. will not trend, nor spit or spot
or high lighted, as it’s worth is as fleeting as my bones, when one dwells on the size of space expanding and the time & space
continuum
that disclaimer claimed, we breathe easier,
and I happier, and now at last to the meat
of the matter:
My poems will wither, and eventually their
ions will be erased when the internet servers
undergo the many purges that yet will come
(better this than purging people)
yes, my ego’s cells, which one of you will
no doubt will imbibe and perhaps????
imbue, may actually reappear in a newness,
in a refreshing refreshment, that some Believers will think is absolutely brand new
(which it won’t be), for the new treads are on
the old treads, only now, dug a little deeper,
and I, in my ionosphere, inside my cells
yet within you, will muse amusedly,
“there is nothing new under the sun” (1)
but the sun will be shining and that is
good enough for all of us
Nov. 23
9:04 am
nyC
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 11:26 AM UTC
Take every one you find,
you data mine from minds
excised, exercised, exorcised
from details emphasized
and breathed here between
pretentious pixels and
the utter necessity to
write the worthwhile,
transcribe tomorrows into thoughts
louder than action.
Sentence sentences that lied on the stand,
judgmental Judas crucified on land
and two by his side in the sea.
Read the series bible, the rough sketches
of predetermined lives written in fibers
thatched into cardboard,
folded into boxes, stored and shipped
into some great beyond
(Maybe the back of it is nicer).
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC