"expositions" poems
“Looking for a walking buddy”
The invitation looms as I scroll through pages of personal ads
Filled with sensitive insight, too intimate for idle voyeurs browsing.
The computer’s hypnotic glow, dousing my cheeks in pale light, coaxes me to search
To rummage through human advertisements and peruse desperate expositions
Behavior quite unlike the pastimes that others might imagine me participating in
Behavior quite unlike the nightly activities I usually partake in
Such as sleeping
Won’t I give up this useless quest for nothing in particular,
And surrender my body to the ruthless aches creeping into my muscles and joints?
I’ll wait for assurance that my grazing has meaning–
I’ll linger to assign significance to this arbitrary curiosity, even into the early morning
Eventually, I’ll resolve to the conclusion that there is somewhere an assembly of people squinting in thought, trying to justify this same bizarre inquisition
We the people, hunched over luminous monitors, “looking for something more”
We who have specific and lewd requests for the opposite ***
We nosing congregation, mysteriously drawn to the Strictly Platonic section of the personals
Should try our luck with a walking buddy
And wander away.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 3:47 AM UTC
Books are fuel to the imagination.
Works of fiction pour into my mind,
hours at a time.
I feel the power rise,
as I climb through expositions.
Looking down,
I see the world in the palm of my hand.
Looking up,
I see my face amongst the clouds.
On this high I craft my own words,
some spoken and others in ink.
And as I fall,
I ponder the time until my return.
May 8, 2021
May 8, 2021 at 4:52 PM UTC
Pink eyed words whisper slow.
Lazy layers of smoke curl around her expositions--
marbled collarbones protruding from the recluse
of a crippled child called
Hot ash sprinkled across her duvet,
she feels too heavy
under the dark velvet of the night sky.
Fingertips trace stories across wrists,
catching the rivets of her imperfections with
bitten down nails.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC
*Newbie to this lathe
Don't wince at expositions
See lame gits as dust*
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
Our bilingual illiteracy and contemporary expression of vintage infancy remind me of developmentally mature eccentricities within a complex haven of interpersonal dynamics.
Just like a carnival hall of mirrors, our perceptual disturbances succumb to elaborate revelations and dreadful expositions of what we presume to be articulate prose.
Although the socio-political roots of a seductive striptease may shatter the silence of our audible and urban ecosystems, we can now access realms which connect to the severance of divided collusion.
Our galaxy has established her infinite story, in the same manner as a wrought iron gate interferes with the evidence within our contemporary society.
It is just like an alternate universe.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
Frog 2
*Hey, how’s that in the water?
I saw you dive in
and the water spread out a little;
you disappeared a while
and now I see you translucent
but you seem happy
as carefree
as when we were tadpoles;
tell me how it is…*
Frog 1
*You silly frog;
all the description
and text I can give you
all words and expositions will not suffice:
just jump in and see for yourself*
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 2:04 AM UTC
Oh, migrant solemnity
Take away this moment of horror
From us who wear wool socks
Who present expansive expositions
Within seven seconds
Who replicate Roman gluttony
VIPs of the vomitorium
And **** room
Remove this curse
From which we suffer
A morning of obligation
Expel our fright
Of the morning
Clear away the white light
Millions of beams
Of metamerism
Us
Them
We and our igneous
Lapardian bed
Our feet, callowness
And our shed
Composed murmurs
Delicate sternness
Will reject them
We were once facetious
Had condescending ways
They'd believe us
And remained stranded on unmapped cays
We have yet to gain
The downpour
The desert desires
But have been cast and thrown
Unforgiven and disowned
Enslavement resides in hungry empty pockets
With politics and corporation cracking the whip
In this oligarchy, capitalist catastrophe
Backed by a national
Dry spell
We're laying face up
On the floor of the ocean
Floating to the top
Of a wine glass
We've done what we could
What have you done to us
Here we go
Cold
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
Regarding this sin that I do not speak about
Yet is silence a granted blessing?
Silence works both ways for us
Putting faith together
And breaking noise apart
For seventeen years I lived mum
But on the eighteenth one summer drum
Rang the sound of an epiphany
And jubilation came in voice singing
Love is still love after all
Regarding this sin that throws people off
Yet why is that so?
Why is it easier to look up for divinity
Than it is to look past differences
For difference is not sin
Are you bathed in flames for being
Different from your kin?
Regarding this sin some lives have been lost
And anonymity gives ****** a helping hand
But most flawed are those who pretend
To be a sheep in a lion’s den
To don the crown of power and speak
On the behalf of their conqueror
Yet no thorns to the head they suffered
And for them it is easier
To be vile than to pass vows
Funny how difference
Can be similar in so many ways
Regarding this sin are we not all human?
And conflations have been made about this
And poetry spun with lexis that runs
The course of skeletal rivers
Lungs that breathe in purple air
Eyes that tear at the sight of hatred
Lips that just want to be loved
And skin that warms at every touch
But senses do not prevail
Against the laws that trap these sinners
And heaven knows that schadenfreude has been attained
At their expense
For we omit them almost entirely
Till the moment they are drowning
But us quiet sobbing sinners
Shall exist in different ways
Regarding this sin what more is there to be said of it if we have run the course of debate but yet nothing ever changes?
Perhaps expositions such as these to start
We must be less afraid to speak
Less afraid to show the love we choose
But then again
Did we?
Regarding this sin you have so labelled
Are you fit to give us names?
All our dog-gone days are over
We were not the first to be made
And neither
Shall we be the first to be torn down
Running gets tiresome when you
Are constantly playing a game of hide
And seeking to be found
But patience is the toughest waiting game
And
With faith beyond reasonable doubt we know
Love is still love after all
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
This is a show off off-broadway
Filled with prose and cause
Complicated expositions
Stranger than fiction ever was
I've auditioned a cast of characters
And never made the lead
Odd for that on these footboards
Are where they were conceived
I know this part by heart
Hell, I wrote the lines
Seeking my Euridice, my Juliet
Cursed to never find
I have no faith in critics
They rarely get the point
And in all the marvelous performances
I am still not "right"
It's gone dark inside my theater now
The cast and audience have all gone
The curtains took their final bow
I'll seek you from the balconies
I've kept the ghostlight on
Sep 3, 2024
Sep 3, 2024 at 10:13 PM UTC
when did everything
get so serious?
seems like half a breath ago
we played and smoked
we talked and fought
untouchable.
but the expositions over,
now the conflict begins
as we're heading up
our arc of suspense.
as our self worth starts dropping
through constant comparison
of our backstage
with their performance,
we start getting beaten
and we start thinking that
we deserve to get beaten.
as our cheating and lying
turns from harmful mistakes
to just another part in a
cyclic self destructive
downward spiral,
we begin making the
unthinkably miserable
happen impossibly frequently.
so witness live:
the loss of another generation
to self violence
mental health
and despair.
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
I've heard numerous tales of the apocalypse,
each one depicting scenes
of crowds embodying all that is violence
and blood marking the territory
of the beast known as hopelessness.
They'll send chills through your body
as they detail corpses with unsatisfiable cravings
and rows upon rows of windows
with only dust and vacancy behind.
But in all the accounts of the cacophony,
never will you hear about
how softly the door clicked behind him.
When the screams are chronicled,
never once do they mention
the ones ensnared by my pillow
or even the ones that festered and died
within my very throat.
Expositions of the end of the world
will always fail to broach the benumbing air
that invaded this house that day
and the absolute silence
save for the hitching of my breath.
And while these stories may include
the monstrous shudders of the earth itself,
the trembling of my hands will always be more prominent.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC