"graphing" poems
In this trigonometric love equation
You're my arcsin,
You're my special angle,
Secretly placed
In that unit circle of feelings.
You may arrange my major arcs and diameters
Inside of it
Perfectly triangular,
Love will always have
The same ratio pi.
Our equation of love
Is seemingly incompatible.
It has philosophical numbers becoming
Common geometric shapes
Of love itself
Like hidden spheres
In triangles,
But in real terms of graphing
Our parallel lines of life
Went on forever not crossing at any point
Of this imperfect world.
Our love is, in fact,
A complex system of equations
With the same set of three unknowns
Searching their own values
It has a narrative statement.
You're my C.
You're mister C,
From c'telzing
From caleptikide
And from cataguerrillaism,
In this beautiful madness of love.
You know, our love is getting old
In concentric circles,
Those circles of time.
Extrapolate it to infinity, sweetheart,
You may be my semi-infinity
Until the end of the time,
That semi-infinity,
In which I lose myself
From time to time
Each time coming
From the same unique star
As that already existent
In an old Romanian novel,
Which is called
Lorelei.
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC
I don't like quadratics
And it really doesn't matter
It won't help me in life to know how to factor
I don't like quadratics
A formula for disaster
negative B plus, minus
Doesn't matter
I don't like quadratics
And I don't like graphing
Rather spend my time with my friends all laughing
I don't like quadratics
And I don't like math
I hate this parabola
I hate this graph
I don't like quadratics
I really don't like quadratics
I hate 'em I hate 'em
I hate all of mathematics
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 8:33 AM UTC
freak of nature
"selfish" screaming in my ears
I digress violently now
Whitman bleeding out of
my ears
I cannot bow
seventeen and furious
I am the poet of the
human skin; of violins
and softly fingered clarinets
singing of the dirt under
my fingernails
self-loathing--the evil twin
of guilt--is blinding
I cannot read graphing
calculators or the
future
but both seem empty
like the box under my bed
that used to hold pieces of my
soul (or I thought it did)
now I am scattered
I would like to
hold onto your hand
(I will be less abrasive this way)
instead of purging myself
of every doubt that
has rudely accosted me
in the marrow of
my simple human
structure
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
God
Might move the deadline
For our Chinese script
But I'm still mad at him
For keeping me up
At the grand hour of 11
In the evening graphing
Over (and over)
Again business charts that
Have crooked smiles almost
As blank and bleak
As their returns on investment.
And speaking of which,
This extra eighty grand I spent
At this school, ogling at textbooks I could
Never work up the courage to read,
Is finally starting to break my back.
Weakly, I'll tell you
How much I hate school—
How her consonants sound synonymous
To "scoliosis,"
And peel off my shirt and prove it to you
But that would be careless.
And careless is something in me hand-bound
By iron clad futures and
Graying dreams,
Perhaps that of a dead stock broker
Feet dangling off the roof of
The Philippine Stock Exchange,
And even then that's
Straying too far from home:
A cardboard box business
Resting by a
Tuberculosis-riddled sea.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
There is a blue stain from my pajamas blotched upon the white wall from where you pushed me up against. From when your hips gridded against my thighs, a graph with linear equations that doubled and doubled and tripled. From when your fingers found the furrows inside my skin, planting seeds I am eager yet scared to see blossom.
There is a blue stain from my pajamas specked upon the wall, from when our hunger was too ravenous for even the wolves I tried to suppress. From the sweat I licked off and tasted sweeter than gumdrops coated with honey. From when my legs found your waist, squeezing, Medua’s hair demolishing a man too good, too tasty. From where your palms collided with my wrists, blacks and blues and yellows shooting through closely knit pores.
There is a blue stain from my pajamas splattered upon the wall, and I pass it with a smirk, feeling the presence of you. What will be our next victim, I wonder
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
from the plains drawings of smudging hands
and the palms of warriors
whose caves glittered in symbolic otherlands
flowing into yesteryears with shifting tones
abstracting melodies awry
in the songs of language growing,
from the blood of worldly pains
and passionscapes of grounded glees
which surge in transtemporal veins,
to the gifting of a poem;
cosmic movements
ever novel
in the constant flux of fleshy presence
follow us in meaning—
every dot and cursive plane,
carries more than caligraphic feeling
beneath the graphing of our patient, formal, brainy gestures
(often blind to fools in Spring and better fates
of wholly kissing lovers over flower-oaths)
whose blindness in such sightly feeling,
graph so many moments black:
syntax, manner, unformed poems of wisdom’s grandeur;
stifled in the academic dust.
9:30 pm
above: praise gone awry. 12:52 pm
still, this universe expresses its possibility
through this minute verbia;
prolix trivia swinging by
the inquiries of existential mania
and the hope of solid, open value.
1:29 am
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 2:52 PM UTC
Take her sidereal night,
its darkness
and the shimmer in it.
Draw a co-secant,
a beam,
in your full-light trace.
The script is embedded,
it runs on its own:
see?
A pulse,
myriads of whirling suns,
a blaze within her,
a firmament
for a cotillion,
a constellations' jigsaw.
Her night breathes,
in symbiotic pace
with its aural lover
and, within its velvet,
darkness is an indigo,
drunk on orgastic throb.
15.5.2015
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
the pages of my notebook are probably more lovelorn than i'll ever be
idk
i never longed to be a tree burying my roots deep into Her soil, moaning
okay maybe i did because sometimes i only exist in crumpled up shreds of graphing paper between my awkward handwriting and
things i wish i'd have told you,
residing at the bottom of the ******* bin
(we're all writing about somebody)
fundamentally, i only exist between the blue lines and the margins
i want to be a tree again
Mother Earth is a **** (i mean, dang bruh, she's beautiful)
want my roots reaching as far into her as they'll go / want her attached to me in every way possible / want her in every way possible
i want to stay here forever
if i fall alone in the forest **** right i'll make a sound:
symphony of the lovelorn branches in C-minor except it's not really a symphony i'm just giving an impromptu solo to my ******* bin,
i have played the viola since 6th grade and
heartstrings since 7th
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
Spinning and spinning
Six little circles
Flushing a life down the drain
Naught but a smidgen of straining, my pidgeon,
A blurr to the vision, euphoric, no pain
My brain,
Will just shut down
I’ll get
Out of this town
The rain
Gonna pour down and wash me away
Whirling and twirling
My heart in the middle
Graphing the pathway to get the right spin
Crisp calculation, the subtle equation
Causing elation, at last cashing-in
Your brain,
Will just shut down
You'll get
Out of this town
The rain
Gonna pour down and wash you away
You must be THIS tall to ride this ride
It’s your human RIGHT to a nice
suicide
This celestial plane, ...and all of it’s
strife
We can help you jump past it,
It’s YOUR ******* life!
It’s all in your hands.
You know what to do.
Now is the time
To become the late YOU
Your brain
Will just shut down
You'll get
Out of this town
The rain
Gonna pour down and wash you away
My paradigm’s shifting
The veil is lifting
What was I thinking
My heart rate is sinking
And something is stinking
My consciousness shrinking
And what is that ringing
Do I hear choirs singing?
-
Julijonas
Fancy yourself the angel-reaper?
Julijonas Urbonas
Aren't you your brother’s keeper?
Is this just a "what-if", ...for fun?
O Julijonas
Julijonas Urbonas
…What have you done?
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
Here all of the walls are dead.
Here I am a noose in the crowd,
and I am scalding in a puffed winter jacket.
On the subway there is a girl I recognize;
she looks like the nightgown I had
when I was three years old.
It was blue threaded with white.
I wore it like a second skeleton.
Sometimes now I have dreams in which I am
standing outside wearing nothing but the nightgown
and I am trying to find the moon, but it is gone,
it is not even night, it is not even anything. Then
it is morning and I am sprung up panting
like a motorcycle, my skin turned to waves.
I get off at Chambers Street, accidentally
bumping into the girl before graphing
my way onto the platform. I forget
to apologize, I forget how to speak,
mostly because the nightgown is still
stapled to my waist and won’t let me go.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
He's different, I think
When I sat down firstly
I barely gave a blink
So did he, none did speak
But then he asked me
"Is that x over y?"
And he smiled so gently
So heavenly, it warmed me
I said, "Yes, yes it is,"
And returned the smile
half-heartedly
In hopes he'd return one back
Everyday, I sat beside him
Everyday, I hoped I could to to him
Everyday, I psyched myself
Everyday, I believe fate would bring him to me
I think I started to fall a little harder
in my mind, so much thoughts to ponder
"What if we fell together,
or would he treat me like another brother?"
His friends are vastly... different
Egos blown, language ever so sharp
They'd play and frolic around
But he, no, he'd rather sit and look around
Unlike them, he liked to smile a lot
Unlike them, he'd give and opt not to take
Unlike them, he'd speak with his eyes filled of genuine interest
Unlike them, he'd make you feel... warm... understood... human
Time passed, I did nothing
I was ever content with small talk
We'd have hard time graphing parabolas
But when will love come around, my own graph?
The last day came, and all we ever did was write
He'd make jokes, and I would laugh
The hour passed, now time to say goodbye
"Dart sa heart", he utters, leaving me to ponder
Time for judgment day came
I utter my wish for luck to him, him to me
A grueling hour or two ran by so fast
I sighed, was relieved, was done, but could not afford a glance.
"3 minutes left!", the professor says
I nodded sassily
He chuckles
He nods as well
I think
I ponder
I feel
"Did he even feel so differently about me?"
The day is done
He walked off first
I followed
But there was no goodbyes
and neither did close the door
so I was left open
"When would I ever see him again?"
But I'd like to meet
but the answer is never
maybe pain is part of this growing...
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
what is the measure of sorrow
is there a standard unit
against which we may rule
an overladen mind
and a heart demolished
graphing with infinite precision
each shattered hope
and marking the dimensions
of dreams ground to dust
are tears numbered
or more properly
and accurately accounted
by volume
or weight
shall we assign a value
on a sliding scale
to the mutilation
of a human soul
can we make comparison
among various torments
or attempt to visualize
in a chart of bright colors
splashed on a screen
the lifelessness of one person
to that of another
is despair loss
or hope denied
might it be joy withheld
does suffering
have weight and volume
that we might
determine its mass
is it instead a void
where something which
was present
has been removed
is it possible to create
an image of wretchedness
a ruined and rotting
playground of lost innocence
a charred and crumbled husk
of a home shattered
an arid uninhabitable waste
of aspirations unbirthed
with what pigment
shall we produce such art
which color wheel
will be used
in what earthly perdition
are the gauges found
reading the depth of misery
or the height of anguish
what is the magnitude
of the grief
the touchstone of devastation
against which all other grief
must be measured
Mar 8, 2022
Mar 8, 2022 at 9:45 PM UTC
Wow graphing calculator.
**** you.
I could spend so much
time tracing a function
up to infinity, but you will
never let me get there.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
Last year I had depression
Last year my grades weren't so good
This year I'm recovered
This year I'm doing ...amazing
So, mom,
It's not that I was lazy
And I've "Gotten my act together"
It's that
Last year I didn't do my homework
Because I focused more on not killing myself
Than I did graphing 3D objects
And I was too busy summoning the energy to shower for the first time in five days
To even glance at my biology notes
You don't understand, ok?
Please stop
me.gs
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
Our realm of life is a queer one to dwell.
A world full of color, beauty, music, light
Dancing round, causing our hearts to swell
With a hope for peace that seems out of sight.
Our realm of life is a queer one to dwell.
A world full of numbers and graphing pies
Tools for us to calculate and tell,
Tracing the dances if the starry skies.
Yet we portray them as antagonists,
We rip these whole beings, and slash them apart.
And the path of pain in our souls persist.
But in our souls we long for a new start.
A place where both spheres could dwell at peace-
A place where the right and lefts’ strife would cease.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
Oak trees mount mossy slopes… graphing the thin-shrub, need not much light.
Fallen comrades stretch out up the valley, their armor soaked with dew-mist and stuck leaves.
Dry foliage rings around their plinth, daubing their place in the social order.
Dark shades cut short, amalgamating a bond between what is and what can be…
Willow wood leans forward, observing last year’s crop… its focus grounded by fleecing strands.
Bunches shivering in the cold wind, undulate neighbors to tripping the light fantastic.
A swaddling creek serves both life and death, kissing the feet of giants above.
The water flows white off the human path, babbling past a lean-to, set on the lea’s bottom.
Flaxen wood guards the gate of Stygian timber, dark as its cousins ‘round.
The house sitting with the wood, dormant in its lot, thinks nothing of the past.
The forest soon to sleep, they Shiloh* amongst themselves… Next to the graves of the first to go.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
Those three, none of now, {3 acts rerun}
not possible, some how,
you know
what I was thinking is, what I say?
Hey,
remember, hey, hey, what I say?
We all said what I say? Like we heard it said,
Daddy,
on TV, maybe so, not in some momma's house,
true told.
Blue-eye black boy looked at me and said,
"Maybe news for a twelve-year-old white boy."
Guiled was I, got me good, I understood, y'know
nothing of my function
at this junction, 11-04-2022 @8:08
an infinity piercing point returned to the Bud,
type 2, we think,
we are graphing the wholeg-stalled uphill and
a yodeller, Gestalt, halt, religion has some pull
yes, confirmation in the spirit, the Friday night spirit,
vibe, post Halloween, lotsa sweets,
right usual, ritual,
spirits rise, and near the edge, one warrior watches,
warnings, seen in stars told tales so wild a child scorns,
old man, did you never dig?
Oh, I dug, I dug a plenty, never dug no grave,
but I doubt any story with a grave needs diggin'.
- I double mind, my kind of mind, take it down
- to reptilian for decision,
- to limbic for reaction to infectious ideas
War stories make money and we use money to make peace,
does that make sense to me, no, so who has my reins,
ai asked, if this made sense to whom it may concern,
sift through the dust, if there is no diamond in this dust,
we are all clouds of hot air interacting with water in time.
What are these montages, standardo?
Trace the curve, and follow the wave, if it were Cartesian,
flat out. LO, no, not lost, I can read.
I cannot make Ubuntu boot from USB, but that's on me,
do I care, years of this is on those hard drives,
precious as this in ten years, as times continuance clause
is disputed in samsara cultivars sprouting food for war,
with good reason,
crispered in, like the sizzle in a sale, seals the deal,
Pop. Leak. Enuresis I spelled that right, and remember
Sgt. Whykill, I have not called,
because
I made a character of you, I told you, when I did it,
you can't remember much
it is strictly confidential, with faith, alone, no wu wu, fi solo fi
fine, we good
call me t'morrow, next time you get there first/.<)
Nov 4, 2022
Nov 4, 2022 at 11:34 PM UTC
gentle smiles
holding open the door
so many band shirts
craving his graphing calculator
extremely complicated physics
low smooth singing voice
curly hair i just want to touch
kind observant eyes
noticing everything (even the things i always try to hide)
asking me if i'm okay (he always knows when i lie)
insisting i'm pretty (especially when i'm down on myself)
(apparently, my romanticism is a turn off)
(i'd stop being a romantic for you)
(i'd do anything for you)
(if i could kiss you)
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 10:11 AM UTC
A hawk across swiftly sweeping clouds
Nimble nimbus, left to right, north to south
Fluid spraying out of mouth, moths meandering
Slandering ourselves, shelves growing empty
Last piece in your puzzle heart fitting gently
You lent me, a spark of empathy
A chance to see things differently
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 4:20 PM UTC