"formulation" poems
a new beginning starts here.
when we let the absence of words
sink in our skin and flow through
the red and blue veins.
to let silence become apart of us as a whole.
and to be ridden of awkward
and gently colored with tranquility.
when we are consumed with the most
heavenly stillness,
we appreciate the things
that normally don’t come to eye.
a new beginning starts here.
an interconnection manifested in the
deficiency of conversation.
it is an ambience that is better than any
formulation of sentences,
and our unspoken vowels and consonants
playfully roll around
in the quiet rest of the atmosphere;
it speaks louder than your steady heartbeat
and collected breathing.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
so, with israel being re-established...
why do we, us,hit
europeans... even need to bother
establishing authority,
utilißing the new testament?
i quiete like the old testament
logic of:
oculus per oculus
(eye for an eye)...
because the saxon concept of
justice: i rather see...
the implosion of
blackstone's formulation...
the 10:1 imploding to the 1:10
ratio of...
a shawshank redemption...
there is... redemption...
since! there's no justice within
the post scriptum of
the hillsborough disaster...
watching people walk, the lunatic walk,
20 years later?
disorientated by the court
of justice?
re-dem-ption...
the whole aspect of: innocent until proven
guilty is horrid!
this... saxon vernacular of
that branch of philosophy that's
bogus...
namely... within origins
of the forbidden fruit...
i.e. and you know?!
really?!
no... but i'll **** to make
a standing pivot of a pawn
on a chess-board.
savvy?
who, among the europeans...
actually needs such artifacts
as new testament texts, credo,
orthodoxy, sign of the cross
greek exports?
the state of israel has
been re-established...
i don't want anything to do
with this judeo-grecian banality...
you can have you little affair over
n
e w
s...
don't worry... i'll make sure that i'm
watching... people tell a lie...
yeah: hum hum bubbly hum-hum...
am i, or are there any arizona
inbreds?
who, the hell, needs, the news testament,
within the confines of history,
dispossessing europe of it,
of an established jewish state?
one book among many...
hence the scent of a yawn...
when entering a library...
i'll do one gesture, and one gesture
alone... inclined to a replica...
ecce libra!
i wash my hands from
having any investment in it.
**** the greeks can have it...
they can keep it, cherish it,
but they better not spaghetti the old testament
with their... "ingenious" plot...
not when the nag hammadi library
emerged...
no... not now... not ever...
i detest this greek book of overt
symbolism...
their pristine alphabet,
their diacritical application,
with the pseudo-romans toying with: deaf...
or blind... whichever it is...
sandpaper... instead of a kangaroo pouch...
of inflated... soft... flesh?
i'll rip your heart out
and feed it to my neighbour's dog,
beside a bowl of water.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
I guess you could call me
a people addict;
I live for the exchanges,
momentary or prolonged,
the satisfaction of smiles substituted for
verbalized salutations;
the how-you-do's and hello's,
the pleasantries of chit chat,
talk of my oh my, I am not ready for this snow
and how was your holiday?;
catching a supposed-to-be-sneaked glance from that tasty
stranger,
allowing your eyes to meet for longer than
you meant to;
a compliment that drips off the lips so sweet,
its nectar invading the taste buds for hours
on end;
individualized or multiplied,
I relish in the conjugated haze,
in the gazes and the giggles,
in the potential formulation of inside jokes,
in a have a good day to a grin I will never see again,
the whirlwind of vowels and consonants,
of coincidences and sarcasm,
of the impressions we may leave of which
we will never be aware;
I crave the mundane,
I get high off the monotony,
I am swallowed by the simplicity;
Yeah,
I guess you could call me a
people addict,
and I'm cool with that.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
Prayer is like a lottery ticket, but better;
For it's free, but for a mere price of promises:
for eternal gratitude and such — albeit you lie —
you asked freely for prizes: of millions, love, or power
To whom it may concern: the wind, the devil,
the great unknown, whomever, it matters not.
For you have heard and believed it happened;
And only fools will not cry out for more, freely given.
And anyone and everyone can pray, for you —
Each by his own formulation and his own magic.
Chances far improved by numbers and better art.
For the price of asking, artless you too have hope.
But true prayer is not asking, for you have without asking,
And only to be amazed at the depth and wisdom of Love.
Jul 23, 2020
Jul 23, 2020 at 1:55 AM UTC
***perhaps if you are
one of the few
multiyear variates,
still here, still seeking
solutions
to the
equations of
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends***^
yes,
we were social for the humanity
patented in the very word
social
we encouraged,
we critiqued wearing a flag
made from the fine fabric of fellowship,
crossing global borders and time zones,
even planets,
with only a hand-made
poetry passport
constructed from the
tissues of our hearts
each one of us,
A Little Prince,
lost
from other worlds,
but all
found
ourselves together in a
hospitable desert
so strange,
we found companionship,
genuine in ways that
make me weep when I recall it,
so many aviators,
flying low, neath the radar screen,
speaking one language of a thousand dialects
the networking was spontaneous,
friendships formulated,
real hugs exchanged,
no ulterior purpose, no quantity of glory sought,
no favors traded,
there were friends,
not followers,
just sharers
we valued the first amendment of our lives,
the right to speak freely in poetry
***I wish you had been there,
here,
back then***
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
An excerpt from An excerpt from
a poem by T.S. Eliot. a poem by the False Poets
Between the idea no permanence in juxtaposition
And the reality where Falls the Shadow, the shadow
Between the motion. a divisive notion caught between
And the act composition & action, the response is
Falls the Shadow Falls the Shadow
Between the conception grayed outline indistinct, the cognitive sap
And the creation leaks, contradictions irritating birth sac,
Between the emotion whereupon Falls the Shadow emerges
And the response the response conclusive, occlusive, collusive
Falls the Shadow Falls the Shadow
Between the desire juxtaposition insertion, need to achieve
And the spasm *the blurted ****** of spurted letters born*
Between the potency. in the potent white seeds of black words
And the existence coming into existence as a riptorn issue,
Between the essence essences of scents blood+logic foretelling
And the descent birth & death, descent & the ascent, both,
Falls the Shadow Falls the Shadow
Between the desire the desire desired, completed,
And the spasm the latency uncovered,
Between the potency the potent toxins of spit and tears
And the existence the birth fluid of of existence
Between the essence the formulation of the human essence
And the descent from blood dust to blood dust is where
Falls the Shadow. Falls All the Shadows
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
Missing; nope you’re not missing
In; but you’re still in my life
Action; you’re the action in life
With each tump of my heart you course through my veins
Your love is the marrow of life and it drips from my lips with every formulation of “I love you”
Nervous butterflies fly in my belly because they can’t find their nectar
You’re not missing; my heart disagrees
You’re clearly in; but in is a mater of perspective
You’re full of enriching action; but my anxious mind struggles to keep up
You’re not MIA; My pesky friend named “Mr. Self Love” took the bullet this time
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
21 hours ago
received the message below,
from a fellow poet, here,
now somewhat, more disappeared,
resting in the shady quietude of
Elliot's servers
a mere 21 hours ago,
a thunderbolt telegram
of virtual dots and dashes,
well received
she,
whose name
you have forgotten,
even if you knew it back when
and,
I shan't knowingly now reveal...
***perhaps if you were
one of the
multiyear variates,
still here, still seeking
solutions
to the
equations of the
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends,
yes,
if you webbed here back then,
you may have known her too...***
21 hours ago -
"there's a reason
I got to know you,
even though that might
sound silly.
In a way,
you saved me
two summers ago..."
~~~~~~
this message,
teaches me to remember
the power of words
supercharged,
be careful what you
write,
you just might save a
soul...
didn't not ken, well enough
the pressurized curve of her bend,
though read all her private journals,
her thesis academic,
her private ascetic analysis
and poems that milked & masked
the angst of a life
really real hard
today
reread,
tried anyway,
two years of messages
***could not feign
the pain
unintentionally recovered
while looking for
clues to myself,
this purported savior***
all I recall is
a woman near her ends
woman near no means
but knowing the meaning of
the power drink meaning of
"just going on"
that was dug deep in between,
and how we traded poems
for each other,
and I called her,
daughter
but from now on and within,
when I see a message
time stamped
21 hours ago
I'll be
better ready
for the
explosions of myself
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
You think you're the better writer with
Your indentations,
Arrogant alliteration,
Games of Rhymation;
When You Capitalize For No Good Reason
OR TYPE IN ALL CAPS;
When you type in italic just because you can;
With thy ineffectual employment of Shakespearean formulation
Or elongated conveyance of your articulation,
When you type in
funny patterns to
better express the
thoughtfulness and
superiority behind the gemstone
artist,
And, all- your; meaningful, strategically placed' punctuation!
And perpisfuly mispled wurds bcuz yur so ironic,
And your cryptic title that's meant to come off as genius.
Dylan could crack a skull without a hammer.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
This day,
what day?
Monday
that day!
On my way,
the pilgrimage to
work,
It is a sacrifice
which I make
five days a week
and two days shall I rest
one more than God,
quite odd
considering we think
that he knew best
or am I mistaken?
If the proof is in the pudding
'let them eat cake'
we need no validation
for this is
occupation
an occupation,
the formulation of a man.
I wear my armour like
a decongestant,
am I not a contestant
sitting out the race?
spitting in the face of
evolution.
and who cares who wins
anyway?
(Wrote this on the way to work and promptly forgot I had) Doh.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
My mind is racing again
At 4:37 am
I wish my grades were as heightened
As my inability to sleep
I’ve been having nightmares
But they don’t scare me anymore
Sometimes
I find a comfort in knowing
That the monsters I’ve dreamt
Are a lot more pleasant than the monsters
I have left to dream
I don’t mind it
But I mind you
Only because you’re always on my
Mind
I pretend that I’m a solipsist ,
But I could have just made it up
Your love wasn't as real in my heart
(As it was in my head)
I am a shy little flower
Somewhere behind the trees
“There’s really no way to reach me”
But there is.
No one has taken the time to
Explore
I once met a girl
A traveler in that moment
She told me a story about her grandmother
Who was shipped to a boarding school in Germany right after WWII.
At the age of three
The first sentence she ever understood was:
"Everything is broken"
And she lived a whole life
With that silly little thought
Echoing.
Someday
I will find an ocean breeze
Worth calling my home
With sand as soft
As my tinder
Beating heart
Good night
Is a formulation of words
Whose meaning I am still
Unfamiliar with
As I walked along
Your art stricken walls
I wonder if I’ve ever really been capable
Of creating
But hardly ever do I strike an inspiration
I can call entirely my own
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
Dear Mr. Hippie
Where is all this love you spread ?
50 years have fallen by the by since then
I thought the Revolution of Love was on Hand
but still I see the young die
from this thing we call war
Society's now in Dire Straits from the things you set in motion..
Society's Decline has exponentially increased
Its the divorce revolution of the 1960s
Free Love = Death of The Family
rather simple formulation to comprehend
Skip To Today:
Mommy's got a full time job
and daddy just don't care
there just ain't no more family
The Landscape changed, but not the way that you planned
Now the Wheels are turning, driven by the cogs
Turned by your hand
Those Ideals have turned to poison.
FREE LOVE ????
NO MORE WAR ????
Divorce is Up
WAR IS UP.......
YOU FAILED US....
Yours Sincerely
GENERATION X
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
I loved you before the alcohol,
Hourglass to the soul,
hour pass,
days maybe...
in between the formulation of golden nuggets in the mountains silver sands.
You held my hand and through velvet touch,
Electricity meander through my arms,
before the storm calm,
the start of a heart attack -
then the pack of house of cards collapsed.
In a deserts smile,
you flatlined through our favourite past times.
The pastures rich with buttercups
and dandelions like the last time.
When we walked over the train tracks harvest.
Last summer and last spring.
Somethings are everlasting,
and some pass like storm clouds without one droplet of rain,
in casting,
our love grew like tulips,
Yellow, red and blue,
bruises,
but soon come the rain,
our muses loses,
&
rendered useles;
I went away and
It's too soon to explain myself,
For that.
Back,
with cap in hand.
Lost in hearts melted by false starts,
and feathered cap,
Falsetto moods
sharp stilettos,
slap back.
I couldn't let go when the sun came through,
and a calming parting of the clouds where the rain came blue.
I thought I could live without you,
but I bottled it,
again.
Now I've nothing left to give,
but my gift to you.
sinking, sleeping in the land dunes
trying to understand you.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
Why I Kissed Your Glasses (A Love Poem)
I went to kiss your forehead
missed my turn off,
instead, connected,
with a seeing-eye tortoise
made of plastic.
Went to kiss your toes,
but the stunning purple hue that
decorated your toenails
shocked me into limp rigidity,
in-articulation, inactivity
Kissed your lips tenderly, longingly,
but Coco's formulation haunted me the whole day,
Her interference needed, but let it be noted accordingly,
It was you I loved, not her!
I kissed your fingertips so delicately,
with tenderness great,
enjoyed a vigorous nibble,
as your compensation,
received a poke in the eye,
accidentally, of course. (Right?)
Could go on and on,
but decorum forbids further revelations,
worth noting, but not composing,
still laughing at my just rewards,
the bruises resulting from my failed escapades!
All I can say is
En Garde!
I will be coming back soon enough.
because you are my best poem,
and the there will always be another stanza needed...
10:00 AM
Shelter Island
Memorial Day Weekend 2013
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
Cradled by the rock floating round the fire,
nursing the infantile species into god-fearing beings.
evolved from millions of years of careful formulation
discovery of galaxies
exploration of the depths of the sea
and all the fury of nature
scaling mountains and glaciers
drinking from the freshwater spring
trickling down summer's neck.
the domestication of the wild
the birth of nations
and the love of a brother.
We have lived and we have died
here on our Earth.
Must we believe in all our passion
and our funeral ceremonies
to pay respect to the dead,
must we accept the idea
that in all our glory as mankind,
our lives became so insignificant
to others and to the solar system beyond our sunny skies
that life means
nothing?
Have we evolved into the most
complex beings
in known existence
and have we loved with the marrow of our bones
and the iron in our blood
only to die
having never stepped beyond the pavement
to peek at the roses beyond
the garden fence?
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
it must be in my composition
composing lines of opposition
opposing the forces of inhibition
inhibiting me, and my mission
maybe the reason for my creation
creating lines of aspiration
aspiring to give my own translation
translating thoughts into formulation
=========thesis of completion============
i was made from the pavement of places
where faces are vacant of any translation
i interlace traces of those wasted cases
as a way of portraying their lost salvation
i speak from the streets of broken pieces
where the weak sleep in the heat of depletion
i seek to find some peace in my thesis
where these creatures reek of completion
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Long divorced from love,
owned three guitars
and slept with nine women.
Remembers every song,
every poem,
scarcely recalls their faces;
lilt of their tongue
as sleep took hold of them-
not him.
Trigger finger over the snapshot
through each baulk and ****** of passion:
"this is the poem, this is the verse
I can lay down in print
and finally live again."
Night sky too full of uncertainty.
Cannot observe a desert scene
without a commentary
on each unanswered question.
She is dressed in sequins
but what for the spaces in between?
He cannot accept filler,
blank spaces that intercede
moments of ineffable beauty.
Maddening crowds emerge,
bright-eyed and stupid
to each early, pink noise morning.
He awakes, drugged to the eyeballs,
slow to movement; formulation of words.
Each night a battle of sobriety
as the sun does bleed
in the skyline before him.
Each night a generation dies,
subtle points of light
lost in the noise of the modern day.
Screams pointlessly, without need:
"don't forget me, don't forget me..."
would rather leave a scar
than no mark at all.
Lives for the colours
he cannot see, for the common thread
that connects everything.
Tweaks the string of each broken seam
to expose each diversity,
each personal loss
as a collective sigh;
every sleepless night
as an off-white lullaby.
Born for collision
beneath a dying star,
long divorced from love;
he is married to art.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC
Unconsciously
Tears came falling to my pillow
From the deep abyss of the human eye
Drawn from my brain
released from the untapped depths of my soul
Like rain on the windowsil
A formulation of clouds turning into precipitation
Falling to the ground
Finally released
From the Ruler of the Universe
Reminding us all to
just
give
in
and
let
it
out.
to simply
surrender.
May 9, 2010
May 9, 2010 at 9:17 PM UTC
when you poem me,
*and the sudden tumble
into a mesmerizing moment,
is a felling of a tree, that
everyone can hear, anywhere,
forest everywhere,
suddenly, I will know you,
no introduction required...
to be with you, and save my
day, my heart stolen, and to my
captor, I hereby surrender,
capitulate completely, quick quiet,
and we are three thrilled together, a triumphant triumvirate,
for each other and a unity of
1 + 1= 3
is a new counting,
a unique
formulation
a formidable forming
a mutual following,*
a fellowship
nml
Weds.
June 18 3025
In the sunroom
Jun 18, 2025
Jun 18, 2025 at 12:23 PM UTC
Through the glaze of snow falling from ninety-nine cent aluminium, we'd taken the remains of a novel formulation to remove the stars from the sky and plant them in a field. I took crushing endlessness and the heat of leaves growing in moments to make the autumn of a town I hadn't yet seen. This is how I escaped from the sealed-elevator flight plan the first time; talking had failed me, pinned against the face of a fleeing infant. His mother could never find a way to paint him as a forgery, a skeleton, and make it stick, so he coughed rough and eloped from the schematic with his brother as their father remained on the ground, paying out the parking lot tower fees, unaware that he, himself, was only a figment.
and I, just another figment, ventured off into the village, the leaves cascading and trembling, the gold of their hues dissipating as the flight crew shook a lifeless husk, spent lives ago, now, with the clamour of shells dividing, each split or junction or birth yielding arcs of light as my sister tells me how the strings she pulls around her wrists tell metric time whilst I brush my hand against concrete and glass, leaving traces of skin within the grain, sloughing away finally in the small moments as I float through an antique dealership: mahogany gods, carved tall as redwoods, and bathed in mist like the western coast at dawn.
and I, indifferent to the television sets implanted between memories, broadcasting coffee-stain eyes lost midsummer years ago, still indifferent.
as I finally reach the elevator, the last level, the depth below, struck me. I am the test subject, my irrealities are just trying to get out, to survive this feigned life, to be born into the world I frequent. They are abstractions and know it. I have not said a word as I step out onto that plane, amidst the rising roar of engines and the row of the crowds and the swell of my emptiness.
I breathe in and become the field, at last.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
My thirst for conversation has continued to impress me
Fills me with stories helping to shape another in my eyes
Met with friend for a mutual exchange of identity
An interview with questions directed; I asked first
Starting with the earliest formulation of conscious thought
Hers was the return of a sick father
She eagerly embraced him when he arrived home safely
Vividly describes the large red chair present
I transitioned to exchange of reflection most powerful
Searching for a single memory of hers that stood alone
Her face brightened, her eyes shining with nostalgia
Her dog’s name was Max
Max entered her life when she was one year old
On the celebration of her birth in fact
He was the runt of the pack, a ruby retriever
Grew to maturity and average size, with love
Max made his way into her writing in the classroom
His possible harm one of her first worries
He was a cherished family pet, she loved him with all her heart
Being a young child, sometimes she was too rough
Cancer took Max from this world at nine years of age
He was buried under a peach tree in the back yard
The peaches swollen and ripe make death turn to life
To this day they represent the sweetness of his soul
Her early years were full of stress at thought of parental separation
Subject to fickle fears and frozen emotions
Her true panic began in high school days
Developed into distinguishable attacks and episodes
There were never tangible reasons or focus points for fear
Racing thoughts, vertigo chills, imminent death
Creeping insanity and the dry, frustrating inability to swallow
Worsened as college approached and the familiar faded fast
Week one was worse than any panic period yet
Heart flutters, helplessness and disorienting dizzy spells
Friends were far away or had yet to be encountered
Sympathy for perceived insanity ran thin
These experiences require constant care and medication
Hospital visits and appointments with understanding ear
She shared her life with me through effect of anxiety
I shared in turn, but couldn’t help distraction
We did not record the interview so I took it upon myself
Documenting with equal force her story and my amazement
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 4:01 PM UTC
Have you ever watched the stars fall from your eyes?
Not many have, it’s a terror that masks itself as blue
Once the stars fall they reveal the darkness beneath
The absolute
That’s what I call it, it’s an immenant force awoken by madness
It exhumes itself from a dusted space and collects the spare thoughts
It feeds on my lungs, it rips pieces of my soul
Dragging them down to the plunging tides to be washed and preserved into a formulation of unbridled torment
I have not the slightest to why my heart beats in two awful tones
Maybe it’s the excitement, maybe the moans
I need not worry for breath falls short
I always reconcile back to the night it made itself known
A dwelling creature beneath my stomach
Risen from the ashes and buried in self pity
The sad clown of desire without as much as a tear I stood there petrifical in glances
Watching the bottom of the glass come closer, it snuck up on me as it’s fragments plunged into my chest and brought with it the terror
Frozen in silence I heard only the wails of my lungs
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
This twelve year old boy decides
to ****** the syllables and sounds.
Define leisure.
The crowd shutters at
The voice of the voiceless.
Static gazes shoot across the
graffiti living upon the
livingless.
Leisure just means fun.
This twelve year old boy studies
the maroon leaf hinged on a thread
of silk--
of beauty.
Strands of life occupy his mind
with ounces of doubt
and pints of disbelief;
For threads will break
and beauty will fail.
The buses leave in 2 minutes.
Hurry up!
This twelve year old boy waits
for the end of perseverance;
The burning sensation that crawls
along the inner thigh.
Long live the thread…
Find your partner for the nature walk.
This twelve year old boy
observes the confines of the schoolbus
for the remaining human scraps.
His eyes meet with Jason’s
Deep, silky hazel eyes.
He walks behind Jason while
pinching the edge of his hoodie.
Remember to be back in 10 minutes.
This twelve year old boy ventures into
the small crevice of the forest
in search of a place to call home.
Jason grins at the sight of
Squirrels scurrying through the falling
leaves and shifting sunlight.
Jason inquires,
What are you looking for?
I’m looking for leisure.
Jason couldn’t help but let out
this chuckle that causes bushes to
Shudder.
Start making your way back to the bus.
This twelve year old boy shakes
at the quickness of Jason’s turn.
This twelve year old boy stares at
the formulation of sweat on Jason’s forehead.
Jason drops his eyes onto his slightly pursed
lips and propels his head.
This twelve year old boy remembers
the perseverance of a leaf and feels the delicate,
fragile threads wrap around his body.
This twelve year old boy fears
the dangers of this exotic love.
The body of this twelve year old boy trembles as
Jason’s face grows closer and closer.
This twelve year old boy drops his eyelids
to relax every bone in his body.
This twelve year old boy lets go of the
aching apprehension. Jason locks his lips along
the face of this twelve year old boy to
extract the void out of the abyss living within.
Jason wouldn’t stop his extraction until the beating
of his heart matched with his.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 9:35 AM UTC
Hello poetry?
What poetry?
All I see is a bland formulation of "creativity"
Expressing the self?
What self?
Who determines the construction of the "self"?
The becoming?
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 3:29 PM UTC