"granular" poems
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.
15.4k
vexed by the solidity of the granular surface
of this rough and tumble dream
i awaken to a forest of sunlight's in a dark world
to my sleep numbed mind
it resembles
the artwork of french revolt era
royal court damsel in distress figurines
dancing with dark-ages statues of plagues death
the starving meet the fed
and they struggle for who leads this dancehall of the marcarbe
burning the ashes of the old worlds dead flames
i look away to find her face
near mine
cut into shadowy sections
i hear within her spoken thoughts
the contortions her life has suffered
at the hands of grey faced strangers known intimately by her
i wish with heart and soul to reach out
and comfort
to remove the burden
the shadows of her face
are reflections of the world as she sees it
she is mesmerized by its ugliness
and she cannot close the door to her past
it lay like her childhoods bedroom
filled with broken teddy bears
and soiled sheets
if i could heal you
if i could even ease your moment
i would trade my living soul to have your smile
you are loved
you are so loved
a lame beggar in the rags of a monk
limps slowly from the effigy of a old world
as it burns with unspoken rages
white smoke from the roof
another chapter of history closed
with too many secrets
too many
but the beggar takes consolation
that she was given a second chance
a dove birthed from flames
here in the dust of the old world
you are loved
you are so loved
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
”against your will were you created,
against your will were you born,
against your will do you live,
against your will will you die, and
against your will will you stand in judgment before the
King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.”
Rabbi Elazar HaKappar (C.170 - C.200 CE)
(Ha Kappar: the one who made and gave atonement)
<§>
***in these, the years of my erosive declination,
when the noble prize, time for introspection,
once was a chore of delaying, now no longer can be off-put,
the certainties of Elazar, offer guidable satisfactions***
***the nighttime review, resurrecting my life, the gaps,
the untaken actions, those dream-schemes speak loudest,
memories of what should have been, are a litany of what ifs,
prosecutorial accusations of crass wastage***
***against my will, the charges brought,
against my will, plead guiltily my innocence,
against my will, knowingly, time’s erasure judgment,
secures my fate, all the granular cells causal dissipation***
***my warped willingness to be a coward,
it was my meditative, to natural be the lesser man,
choosing the safety premise, the road most oft trod,
the addition of my meager totality, willing given***
Even if all these land mine/roadblocks
and summary judgements are against my will,
willingly do I confess, in all innocence, my guilt,
“if it be my will”
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 2:45 PM UTC
a quote from the movie "The Big Short"
~
*a screen provocation,
you laugh out loud,
mime hating yourself
that you are joiining in
tacitly acknowledges the truth
of abbreviated wisdom
you,
disguised minority of
modest disagreers,
c'mon, admission submission,
more truth in it
than deserving of argumentation
a one liner throwaway,
neatly designed,
leaves you disturbingly
probed,
thoughtfully tormented and
aroused
poetry just a vehicle,
your vice for revelation,
the critical door to open is this:
do people hate the truth?
inescapable reality
ironical probability,
truth well disguised,
in plastic shell of lying
from the Hollywood's would be poets,
an escapade from the escapists
let us not pretend
that you and I
uncaring, for by virtue of
your reading this, you are
poetry aficionado,
required to deny the lie,
and yet,
accept
the
granular view
that we are rising writing thru the wronged end of
a telescoping microscope
so I scare scar a tissue sample from my tongue
and the cells spell
this rejoinder:
all your lies are poems,
incomplete truths,
and that's why people hate poetry*
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
count each and every grain i
cherish them all the same
they're the only friends i have
across this endless plane of
granular particles kicked up
every so often by a storm
that shifts this desert from one
spectrum to the next like
filtering time through the sieve
of some infinite hourglass
i will drive this lumbering beast
across theses seas of sand
reclaim what they stole through duplicity
coax this hunk of junk to life
if need be to outrun the
lingering fear of inadequacy
i don't know god but i met the devil
i've been his captive for 7,000 days
a hostage of hellions obsessed
with a decadent religion of misanthropy
the shifting wind-swept dunes
my only markers on this winding road
a roguish rebel defying hegemony
manifest in maleficent misogyny
i'll strive to live not just survive in this
endless wasteland hope may yet arise
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
~~~
“La natura è piena d infinite ragioni che nò furò mai in isperiètia”
Leonardo da Vinci
~~~
think
that the very next millisecond blink
will be, reveal a, theater curtain rising,
a play of your composition,
a painting of your composure,
a newly cresting reason,
infinite in number,
infinitesimal aggrandizing majesty in granular shapes,
a shock so grand you say out loud willingly,
therefore, I am
the first word
of the next page or poem you turn to,
will change your No. 1 reason for living,
to your knees dropped trembling,
comprehending the renaissance of his
isperiètia (experience)
there are infinite books and infinity words,
do the probability calculation of inspiration
and confess
every sun rising, every rainbow unexpected,
every moonlight solstice,
every glance freely stolen taken,
is nature,
your nature, revealed,
unsealed
these are your unveilings,
revealing the fullness of you,
the likeness of discovery
how what we see in our uncommonality
is our communion
~~~
This year marks the quincentennial of the death of Leonardo da Vinci, the Italian Renaissance master who died in May 1519.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 4:25 PM UTC
The granular spittle that remains in my throat
A long day between winter and spring
My state known only by friends few of them
My Love felt by every creature
The ******** that sprinkles with their hatred
And those that converts their names and faith
This suffocating visible plurality of creatures and bizarre manifestations
My spiritual nervation has strengthened
Soul cells are dancing the muttered nation’s dance called Love
Those who make *** in the air as flies’ foals hatred babies
Can you **** babies is our question
We the invisible plurality of divine creatures and manifestations
We the perpetual Theophany coruscate in pure hearts
As Sun in the dews of mornings full of vetyver, ambergris, limonene, fragrance and a slight skunk of civet, moschus and the sweat men by labor exhausted
We speak we sing we paint
With the act without exhaling a syllable from our holly mouths
We sprinkle with the aureate dust
Straight we look at Saturn ring color eyes and the color of peacock tale feather
We built a cube temple and play chess in cube
We love the terrain where the guests of Moses and Lot before him had passed through
We sing with Seraph of high realms we sing in sync
Here we bring joy in hearts of those who encroached in procession through emerald macadam
Where you seldom pass
We know by heart the Al Jaffr and ten Sefirots and we read the Liber Razielis
We accompanied Adam Kadmon in his solitude prior to separation and embodiment in terrain that will be bloodied by human through centuries
We have said to John to go in the river Jordan baptize the Christ and lead him on
For those who knows a little
We said to Waraka to prepare Muhammad to become the leader of those who seek the truth
We said to Bahaullah to explain men to take after women and the mother Earth
Otherwise in upcoming millennium the solely food of them shall be kernels and water
We said to Gibran commence the Theurgy for upcoming millennium being as solely artistic repose for creative men
We said to Fahredin write as much as possible and hush as a canyon stone
Until he finds his echo point
We…
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 7:37 AM UTC
Buddha was the broken hourglass
that spilled seconds across my backyard.
Mother Earth scolded him for his slipup,
so I smoothed her over with my minute hands.
She told me that he who skips an interval
needs to double back his ticks
so, grain by grain, tick by tock.
She rewound my hands to round out
the stonewashed garden that was being fabricated.
So I steadily swept shards of seconds
under the rugged rug of ill will.
I riddled ripples within her granular skin,
skidded stones across her carved clock
face fitting ****** features together like cogs.
Buddha shook the soil off
and fixed his gaze on my clockwork.
He explained that patience is key
if one wants to harvest his feast.
Before the goods go about,
pivots and rivets need to tie together.
Mother Earth collected her thoughts
and agreed with his concept.
I finished my work, stepped back,
admiring the hourglass I rebuilt.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
the hi-fi plays solace to the
granular lobby upon the television screen;
as it flickers from camera angle to camera angle
(tech step moving company,
breaking down to
a white beat)
and i *****
as a panorama of ******* spasms
discharge throughout my entire skeleton
and my pulse beats lightly, kilometres
below a curtain of bloated flesh
tonguing lady lucky's aluminum lips, i'm
pickled in sea of apricot floral: meteor bursts
searing behind goo-goo eyes
and i *****
unwanted sentence structure, that gets
caught between the chesterfield and my square saturn venus
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 11:43 AM UTC
The double chamber,
the grit,
the granular source
and collective pit
of one's corporeal time
accelerating
each instant
through
that check valve
of
now/then,
.
.
.
that
drop
zone
below
the present tense.
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 12:59 PM UTC
Hideous static,
dreams orbiting,
a dark planet,
granular daydreams,
gasps of conversation,
footfall drowns out conscience,
layered chatter to infinity,
that which is not man
......bleeps.............
a regret rimmed thought,
............afternoon's perpetual zombies.........
plucking at a keyboard's harp strings,
evaluated,
numerical data streams
no contemplation will set you free,
from 8 hours dragging on,
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
I am water. And you a salt. You see me clear and crystal, flowing and deep. You dissolve yourself in me. I flow on, with you, indistinguishable, but for a slight haze and the weight you bear me. But I remain untethered; the day is inevitable that I distill myself from you, you, a granular residue, clear, crystal. Stationary. I float away to join the clouds, but never clearer, never lighter, my essence untarnished.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
You gently pushed me
into a wall
with your frame on mine again.
A wall –
Painted so long ago you –
could no longer smell the volatile compounds
Acutely confined - my frame
between yours and its.
Palm frond muted light spilled
into imposing window
from New Orleans street lamp
Diffracted in dappled condensate orb.
Condensation drapes into pearls - collapsing
on themselves, and dropped
in unison
with – our - shifts.
Uneven wooden floor panels echo
our obsequious rhythm
of physical appreciation, settled
into their granular responsibility.
Your pulse
embodied in your palms and hips
lilts in soft gasps
as I drape my forearm over your shoulder –
sliding body forward - I dip
into the crook of your neck
finding your pulse on my nose.
I prop my chin into
your
Collar bone crook
glancing into
your deepening eyes,
and press my lips into the
grooves of your neck
as you arch - into
the delicate moment before reciprocation.
I do not wonder what it would be like if walls could talk;
I would love to see them show impressions
of those that have touched their surface –
revealed in smears of paint.
And feel
racing pulses echoed
within those who pressed
into these corridors --
listening to secrets of one another’s bodies.
Grind deeper,
the wall will record our pulse tonight,
and perhaps –
our next encounter
will entail
our bodies
in paint
telling stories we could never capture
in our eyes locked into one another.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
Cold, black and oil-like,
The monster flows quick and all-consuming
Between steep jaw-like banks,
In the dying light
Of the shortest days.
Edges were bordered soon
With slowly-gathered cut-crystal shapes
Like collected puzzle pieces
Sharp as razors, and finely decorated,
Like discarded dragonfly wings.
Soon myriad tiny folded-tissue flowers
Floated down in the stillest, icy air
And all signs of the malevolent depths and currents
Were hidden under a cotton duvet.
With the rising winds now
Great granular dunes
Tumble and sift across that place.
And the whistles and howls drown out
The tiny gurgling calls,
That are all the monster can muster
From beneath its white sarcophagus.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
Who gave you that name, Cinderella? Grey
Like the faded ashes they make you clean.
Strict as the hour-glass, they haven’t seen you gleam.
Granular vision curtails them to day.
Cursed curfew; trickling sands serve time’s keen gain.
Chandeliers and red wine, the ***** a dream.
Midnight’s starlight in your slippers, you flee.
Shatter all the glass; then, with me, remain.
Sharp as its edges, coarse time vanishes,
Like the bacchant’s memory, your form’s bare.
Soft feet brushed by sands, lips seal promises.
Exiled, like your gown, we don’t belong there.
See through me, Cinderella, take my hand.
Your name’s gold-dust; I’ll sign it in the sand.
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 12:50 PM UTC
Life is war,
my hands are hypnagogic,
so far from refuge.
The purgatory salesman,
an enemy with antlers,
speaks in hostile slogans:
create, destroy, rebuild, repeat.
My friend coma,
blunted and paranoid,
has lost her vital signs.
But Television says differently,
calls this an elegant demise,
you touch the screen
like you're touching God.
The immortal world
I'm hoping to collide with
is beautiful and closed to resistance.
But there are cracks in everything,
the snowglobe army
granular and brittle,
the constant uncertainty
of your universe
becomes a hiding game.
Take me with you
my halation angel,
to migration salvation.
We made our history
into mythology,
a mass of disconnected facts,
the stars may be dead,
yet, we're here
and we've stopped time.
Tonight I'm breaking
through the gates,
tonight I can see around corners,
suddenly, forever makes sense.
Feb 25, 2024
Feb 25, 2024 at 2:51 PM UTC
The red sun rises, over this hopeful land of second chances.
Deposited from the darkness, out onto the desert sands,
I soak in the silence like a thirsty dish rag.
My calculations had been compromised
By a malfunction deep inside my sickened mind.
The wicked ways of the self-depraved,
Mutated my world to Papier-mâché.
A mirage of vanity and technicolor blooms.
Folded and twisted, while my motionless eyes were mused by the mist.
Oh,
How much I have missed, of life and of love.
Even these sands blossom with their own granular beauty.
And I am here to bear witness, to myself,
And to the many footsteps that wait before me.
Jul 30, 2021
Jul 30, 2021 at 10:22 PM UTC
Pop the pill
slow the swelling
feel the granular texture against the tongue
white heat dissipates
the scene quickly morphing
once a chaotic tempo
slows to an indifferent shuffle
the agony melts
confusion lurks in shadow
****** lips oh in ecstasy
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
The exorcist spat out unsatisfied souls,
Steadfastly chained to breathing bodies,
Convincing the living that,
The dead haunt us.
But, when I examine autopsies,
I observe granular goosebumps,
Rising from sunken skin,
Scientifically speaking,
Corpses confirm the opposite:
Life haunts death.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
** good lad!
Say, do you seem to remember where I have left my slab
of glab,
Stop. The glabular slab appears.
Granular cartography.
Marsh, swamp and boggery,
all over naught but a slab!
Aug 21, 2011
Aug 21, 2011 at 12:51 AM UTC
I can't stand
Smooth sidewalks,
With their smooth skins shedding smoke
Like a deer sheds velvet,
Made up of the leftovers, liquid rocks
Made to pool in little, wooden rectangles -
It's not real.
I prefer the crumbling, the cracked
The spiderwebs lacing up grey arms
Like deep, black veins - granular and gritty
Like the air I take in against my will.
That is the earth I want beneath
My calloused, weary, walking feet
Because then I shan't fear
It fading into emptiness,
Leaving me to fall -
A fool.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
In the way that sugar
desiccates fresh ginger,
pucker for me dear,
and receive my good knight kiss
========
Footnote: Try this at home. Ingredients; a seal-able jar, thin (1/16th") slices of fresh ginger root, white to medium granular sugar. Place sliced ginger in the jar, pour sugar to cover ginger by half to full inch. Seal jar and vigorously shake. Let stand 48 hours. Stir liquid and add a very small amount of hot water if liquid is granular. Use liquid syrup like Vermont maple syrup. Honest.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 11:08 PM UTC
In a grain of sand
where timelessness and all time would stand
linked
in a semi permanent embrace
for we would be not of an age, to watch as grains build up the Cities, where our children's children would face another mountain that crumbles away
to be washed out to sea and one more day
we,
cannot comprehend another grain that would end in an ocean of sand by the shore
is this what it's for?
the eternal rebuild
the world to be filled with the scents of the past that have passed through the sea and then built up again
so we can see and be the futility of what is not timeless
where time means no less than the time that we take
to make offerings to urchins
and...
..I perch on my post outside the temple of another most holy one
and watch as citadels rise
and watch again as in a blink of a terrapins eye they are gone
and where do I belong
in the ocean,the sea or on land?
in one of a three and in all, I am but a grain of sand
timeless and not,
broken to rot away in one more day
but not the same as the last that has past and passed the point of a no return
to burn in a desert
or to become and be made into an obelisk
a risk assessors nightmare
where
at each turn of his hand it turns back into sand
and again to the sea
to the mountain, to me
and in time it will be
a place where all children play.
Not in our day
we stand as we stand
or we sit on the sand
and are all washed away
in granular form, born and reborn as the tides take their time
and one day
one
day it will come that the sign on the beach reads
'Minefield
danger to life and limb
entry forbidden do not enter in'
but what is seen is not hidden away
and the grains have a way of ignoring what's written
smitten with time
another sign reads
'ignore what you read it's only put out to feed your dreams'
and everything seems as it should
in the timelessness that isn't,
isn't it all so very good?
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 6:04 AM UTC
Wallowing inside the blackest sleep
I see images grow large and transform
into what feels like reality. Each night
my brain is transfixed on tragedy
and the loss of a loved one, as though
my soul is craving tears, lucid dreaming,
a haunted atmosphere.
These moments remind my body
that is alive, full of breath, a moving
corporeal skeleton. The wilderness
of my bones hear the dark silted thoughts.
Each wave comes with white spinning stars
as a granular moon sinks into my spine.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
Icicles crack
& the sound is carried
like zephyrs
over granular snow
whispering good tidings.
They taper off
to the green sprouts
crying out,
infected by
the warmth
of the horizon-sun,
rising in reverence
to greet
the barren day.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC