"habituate" poems
A Solemn girl, in a red faded hoodie,
Sits outside the door of her classroom.
Crying by the hasty tapping of her foot,
Her head hangs low enough to kiss the ground
Her tongue as a net, fights to capture
Oxygen streaming the air.
But it descends a heavy weight
Into the core of her stomach,
Where the last of her exuberance
Awaits a dismal death of acidity.
Sentences habituate themselves
In the dark spaces between icy eyes.
Relentlessly reminding her ears of the reasons
Why she will never be like all the other
Fluffy cotton clouds
In the immeasurable crystal sky
Why she doesn’t gracefully float
With them, in packs of cloudy friendships.
What she cannot see,
Is the reason she cannot be a cloud,
Is because she is destined one day
To become the sun.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
(Commemoration of Earth-Day, 22nd-04-09)
Earth hath
Been Weeping!
Nature lacerated & pleading?
Extinct species beseeching;
Antarctica mercilessly melting,
Noxious gaseous emissions heating.
Have you ever wondered?
“Of the Greek mythology!”
women warriors of Scythia astray burned off the
Right ***** to try
to habituate the bow and arrow in sly,
arsenals of terror abound harsh shear ploy!
Hitherto, the atrocious force upon Nature ne'er stops.
Wherefore-now the lost leaf of the conifers?
Searching for the nearest route to the Savannah Plains,
Waiting pro the long anticipated cascades of the tropical rains. Babylon wrests & clinches intimately thy adored hanging gardens that black slaves tend no more hasten. Euphrates in the Persian Gulf wanders uncertain; Everest looks down in pitiful scorn…
As it wobbly looses its molecular activity in pain.
Humanity squirms in an enamored Trance
to heave a foundation Of conscious Purpose
That Earth day waits Upon us
To elucidate a divine Hypothesis.
~~/|\~~
Namaste'
~~\|/~~
Sep 17, 2009
Sep 17, 2009 at 4:49 AM UTC
I.
There was a time,
remember?
My God how you smiled.
Your perfect crooked teeth,
the freckles on your *******
All of it, designed to keep me.
How I love to be kept.
II.
Some nights, when there is no
noise in the hall, I think of you.
I wonder where you are, if you're
sleeping, if you're laying awake,
as I am, thinking of the other.
Even in this time, where conversations
are carried out blind on airwaves
and in text, I dare not call.
I don't want to wake you.
III.
Ours is an odd kind of courtship,
this dance we do. Around each other,
around city limits and state lines.
Two drifter souls, trying so hard
to find intimacy.
Trying to find one another,
no matter how far our feet travel,
no matter the distance we put between
ourselves. We search for one
another.
IV.
We lived together. Tried to
co-habituate,
remember?
It wasn't the disaster we thought
it would be. So long as we
had each other. So long
as we didn't bother each other.
We feel like we bother each other now.
We keep our distance.
How we love our ******* distance.
V.
I reach out for you some nights.
I try not to tell you that.
My hand, moving
of it's own accord, feels for your
warm body next to me. Searches
the cold, empty, silent sheets for you.
I try not to tell you that.
I don't know whose benefit I'm considering.
I don't want to hurt you, or
destroy us. We are too wonderful
too magical to mess up.
I just can't keep my feet from wandering
away. From bringing me places
I've never been.
I'm not in control of my hands and feet.
Not anymore.
It wasn't always this way.
VI.
Remember?
Jun 3, 2010
Jun 3, 2010 at 10:00 PM UTC
1. I live in constant fear
of the goose bumps on my skin, waiting,
expecting the hair on my arms to stand on end.
Pinprick needles
pushing up through my skin.
2. My mother can’t sleep through the night,
constantly checking for some visual sign
of telepathy, her cheek permanently frozen
to the screen of her cell phone as she lies in the lightless room.
3. My sister’s habits habituate
into those of a lightning bug in the daytime.
Unusual and unexpected, five toe touches
on this carpet’s edge, seventy-two
fingertips on her own eyelids.
Idly fidgeting until it is time
to zip around in blinding light.
4. Day after day I am weighed
down by mountains beneath the ocean’s surface,
chained, hovering just above the break,
gasping for dear life and
screaming for salvation.
5. I can’t control my thoughts
(my thoughts control me).
6. Thought bubbles in my head
only float for a little while, clouding
my vision and crying for their lightning,
as thunderbolt after thunderbolt stikes—
anxiety sounds like the color black.
7. I lie on cheap sofas spasming and sweaty,
skyscrapers of disappointment
looming over my miniscule banged up
Toyota of a body. There’s a dent on my side door.
8. When I sit, still as a smudge of black ink
left over on my thumb, I pray that the vending machine
won’t steal my money—I only have two seventy-five in my pocket.
9. I call my dad. He is the messenger.
10. Any two words can spearhead a revolution; my eyelids always lose and the floodgates break down, the people in the streets scatter for safety.
11. If I think about the future, the sky becomes one gigantic storm cloud, the world becomes a tornado, and everyone survives but me. The heavens turn dark and I am thrown
into a world made up of a computerized font. Courier New.
12. Courier New is very monochromatic. An angular typeface. My face is pretty round.
13. When the storm ends, I am black and white with exhaustion, a pressure washed pane of glass, waiting
to again need a thorough cleaning. The pressure washer comes every few days.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
Where are the saints in white?
Failing their master judging profane
Pious is not requisite to honeyland
Sin guarantee no hell all are sinners
Masquerading falsehood a real sin
Greasing your imperfection a greater sin
Sinners are forgiven, good are
rewarded
Some one has to habituate hell who are they?
May 28, 2020
May 28, 2020 at 7:27 AM UTC
Sometimes it happen
You have to be alone
Carrying your hope as a torch light
You have to take decision right away
Either yes or no
No one will be there to guide you
You have to habituate this
Someday you will be all alone
So get ready for those decisions
Like a soldier
Who is waiting for the battle
You can do well
Believe in yourself
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
You remember green, but you don't know if
it was present in the trees, or maybe the color
of her eyes? (it's been so long...)
You remember hoping for
something to drown your fears on, but you don't know if you found it, or if
the time apart just killed your perception of anxiety because
when you stare at the wall and bite your fingernails 24/7,
you begin to habituate, it becomes
routine to feel
like your hands should be holding something they're not and your eyes
shouldn't be so bloodshot from crying.
You remember the words "I love you", but you don't know
if you ever really wanted to hear them
from her lips in the first place,
because she feels
so muted and distant now
that you wonder if it ever mattered
whether she stayed or left; it feels a little
like your heart has been etched into a slab of
***** concrete,
glossed over with a fresh coat of
graffiti and **** yous" , because maybe
she didn't ever belong there to begin with, and you were just trying
to make up for the void left by the changing seasons, or
the fact that your self esteem was running
a little low and you just wanted
a warm body when the nights got cold.
It was never really about her, it was
the thought of what
she could have been
if she'd been the right somebody.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC
my mind again returns to these thoughts of mouth:
the parting of seaways; the excellent bridge
of its voice; the smothering intonation of
its warm and bossom cloister.
i remember it in the new morning; naked and shifting of limbs.
it kissed down the back and tasted
between its thighs of sighing and saltsea–cheek and blushing.
i remember and i move:
the winsome drove of its dull dream
catch and habituate me. i am alone in its fingers; and even from which other kisses cannot wake.
occasionally there is laughter–i can hear–from way off.
there is the curving tremble of its arc.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
Chaos is constant,
Liberties are lies.
The volatile nature of the ever shifting storm,
Beats life into a reaction.
Adapt to live,
Concede, change or die.
The rigid line of order,
Keeps the coin from flipping.
Exist within the lines,
Habituate, acclimate or suffer.
Fall through the metaphysical event horizon or crawl the grey production belt.
Both paths converge and blacken,
The same rust stalks the journey.
Stepping outside the picture,
So vast you could not see.
Always growing larger;
The unstoppable progress of infinite possibility,
Could there really be any consequence?
As a fog within the mist,
A lake under the ocean.
Should we quantify significance?
Pushed or dragged from cries to silence,
No man has had control,
The stream within the river,
Ignorant in its role.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 5:28 AM UTC