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"heroically" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Paradoxical Tendencies
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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47
ah, enslave without compassion bound ancestors you must impale go seek and show no mercy let those who escape carry the tale all the sufferers bearing witness to their ministers spilling their blood staggered screeches from bleak recesses regicide plotters bend to the dust with unmitigated conquest and ********** trample them under your tyranny slimy enshrinement brings into question what's divinely lamented for scatter populations with ruthlessness let them choose sycophancy or sword reappoint difficult commanders for instigation unbroken awaits kept in frenzy, they whisper confusion never quite sure of their fate with unmitigated conquest and ********** trample them under your tyranny let the cowardly unlock the gates for you to heroically claim what's inside crowds you abhor kneeling in wonder all the world is your ****** bride punctuate the roads with tollgates ***** monuments to broadcast your name all your banquet's guests are your enemies entertain them with one another's shame with unmitigated conquest and ********** trample them under your tyranny with unmitigated conquest and ********** trample them under your tyranny under your tyranny
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Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
Unmitigated Conquest and **********
MY LONG TREK ON WRONG LEGS, BEG DYNAMITE FROM HUSH DUDS DAMP CANNONS BILLOW IN THE EAST WIND, LIKE FLACCID DRAGONS GAGGING ON IRON APPLES I SURGE IMPOTENT IN MY WRATH, SUNBATHING BY AFTERGLOW HEROICALLY CONTAINED. DISMANTLED... I CRAFT THE WITHERING OF MY FURY WITH A STEADY HAND; AND A JADED HEART STARK BLIGHT, DRAINS MY CUP OF THUNDER, WHERE MY LIGHTNING CLOTS WHERE SOLID DARK HARKENS MY YELLOW SUN HARDENS; LIKE AN UNSTRUCK COIN BLANK IN MY POCKET SHARDS OF DULL ACHE... UNSHARPEN MY RED SEA DEPARTS MY KELP BEDS DISMAYED.
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Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
EYE TALK...[ ULYSSES ]
THAT crazed girl improvising her music. Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling She knew not where, Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship, Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing Heroically lost, heroically found. No matter what disaster occurred She stood in desperate music wound, Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph Where the bales and the baskets lay No common intelligible sound But sang, "O sea-starved, hungry sea.'
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5.9k
A Crazed Girl
*The blue song bird mellifluous singer admired for her songs that melt even hearts of rock, riding the crust of the adoring wind, swoop,             down,                     down,                               down without a thought suddenly alights, heroically tries to sit, on a high tension power line; yet another of her impromptu acts like before, she labors to convince everyone in a shrill chirping sound that dangerously she lives taking life in her own hands. East wind, her companion tells she is mistaken; he tries to push her away from the lethal wire on which death awaits with its dark hum "young and wayward bird you tell me you learn so quickly from your mistakes, alright from now and the moment next lies an unknown chasm in a jiffy if you decide to fathom it no time is left for unlearning what it teaches and reverse your journey to the winter land  of darkness from where no migratory bird has ever come back" The bird so deaf to wind's words, still hovers above the wire the wind in warning hums a sad tune aloud.*
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Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
The blind bird moment on the verge of the chasm
Though it were bright It is most assuredly overcast now, I basked in the radiance of your love Before you married him. I thought maybe heroically to interrupt the wedding When the Minister exclaimed, "Speak now or forever hold your peace" But instead settled to sit in my car as the rain fell, my tears flowed, And the rice showered upon your exit of the chapel. Years have passed, yet memories still fresh I think often of our young unbridled love And still it hurts, this dull ache within my heart To wonder how beautiful we would have been. Once upon a time ago, you told me you loved me, constantly With the tears that rolled down your cheek when we kissed Today the sun's rays are still radiant Yet I live in the shadows of this oxymoron for the rest of my life. -----ChawzzyScript
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Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
Dark Sun
Southern Icarus by Michael R. Burch Windborne, lover of heights, unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace you climb, skittish kite ... What do you know of the world’s despair, gliding in vast solitariness there so that all that remains is to                                               fall? Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs; you stall spread-eagled as the canvas snaps and ***** its white rebellious wings, and all the houses watch with baffled eyes. Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ... Finally to Burn (the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus) by Michael R. Burch I. Athena takes me sometimes by the hand and we go levitating through strange Dreamlands where Apollo sleeps in his dark forgetting and Passion seems like a wise bloodletting and all I remember —upon awaking— is: to Love sometimes is like forsaking one’s Being—to glide heroically beyond thought, forsaking the here for the There and the Not. II. O, finally to Burn, gravity beyond escaping! To plummet is Bliss when the blisters breaking rain down red scabs on the earth’s mudpuddle... Feathers and wax and the watchers huddle... Flocculent sheep, O, and innocent lambs! I will rock me to sleep on the waves’ iambs. III. To Sleep, that is Bliss in Love’s recursive Dream, for the Night has Wings pallid as moonbeams— they will flit me to Life, like a huge-eyed Phoenix fluttering off to quarry the Sphinx. IV. Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Quixotic, I seek Love amid the tarnished rusted-out steel when to live is varnish. To Dream—that’s the thing! Aye, that Genie I’ll rub, soak by the candle, aflame in the tub. V. Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Somewhither, somewhither aglitter and strange, we must moult off all knowledge or perish caged. VI. I am reconciled to Life somewhere beyond thought— I’ll Live in the There, I’ll Dream of the Naught. Methinks it no journey; to tarry’s a waste, so fatten the oxen; make a nice baste. I’m coming, Fool Tom, we have Somewhere to Go, though we injure noone, ourselves wildaglow.
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Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 3:57 AM UTC
Southern Icarus
Southern Icarus by Michael R. Burch Windborne, lover of heights, unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace you climb, skittish kite ... What do you know of the world’s despair, gliding in vast solitariness there so that all that remains is to                                               fall? Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs; you stall spread-eagled as the canvas snaps and ***** its white rebellious wings, and all the houses watch with baffled eyes. Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ... Finally to Burn (the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus) by Michael R. Burch I. Athena takes me sometimes by the hand and we go levitating through strange Dreamlands where Apollo sleeps in his dark forgetting and Passion seems like a wise bloodletting and all I remember —upon awaking— is: to Love sometimes is like forsaking one’s Being—to glide heroically beyond thought, forsaking the here for the There and the Not. II. O, finally to Burn, gravity beyond escaping! To plummet is Bliss when the blisters breaking rain down red scabs on the earth’s mudpuddle... Feathers and wax and the watchers huddle... Flocculent sheep, O, and innocent lambs! I will rock me to sleep on the waves’ iambs. III. To Sleep, that is Bliss in Love’s recursive Dream, for the Night has Wings pallid as moonbeams— they will flit me to Life, like a huge-eyed Phoenix fluttering off to quarry the Sphinx. IV. Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Quixotic, I seek Love amid the tarnished rusted-out steel when to live is varnish. To Dream—that’s the thing! Aye, that Genie I’ll rub, soak by the candle, aflame in the tub. V. Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Somewhither, somewhither aglitter and strange, we must moult off all knowledge or perish caged. VI. I am reconciled to Life somewhere beyond thought— I’ll Live in the There, I’ll Dream of the Naught. Methinks it no journey; to tarry’s a waste, so fatten the oxen; make a nice baste. I’m coming, Fool Tom, we have Somewhere to Go, though we injure noone, ourselves wildaglow.
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94
We beat the paths that are laid before us with machetes and gunfire Loving violently, loving violence like Roman citizens at a colosseum.Cringing heroically at dismemberment and pain. And we're all just the same.
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Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 9:32 AM UTC
Ticky-Tacky
the nights are growing cold I sat outside to finish reading a book about love and cancer extremities growing numb falling foolishly in love with the pretty girl whose face gave me the courage to sit down beside her on a bench in the sun five minutes before my next class started I found out her favorite author but neglected to discover her name in the sunlight YOLO only says to live and it’s easy to forget that I’d like to have a future my night sky consists of millions of tiny, ferociously burning pin ****** and one heroically loyal mirror reflecting more brightly than ten thousand 500 million year old projections of dead stars I am doomed to fall in love with a girl who can honestly tell me that fear of death and love of life don’t really feel any different I wish I could choose the type of fool I will be but I know that the moon has never been in love with the sun that she has only ever revolved around us as we revolved around him waiting eight minutes for his light to reach us until night falls and we finally notice her cold, bright eye slowly blinking at us doing all she can to be like the light that we love her, reflecting the old, distant light at us seconds after it touches her surface she is the closest thing we have to a companion to a light source yet we still spend our lives reaching for the stars I have no belief in a God I know the sun is a ball of burning gas expelling particles and waves of energy into blank, full space and that the moon is a dense space cloud with a reflective surface covered in craters and darkness and brightness and a few human footprints and I know that the night sky is full of things that can **** me and everyone I know with no warning but such a fool as I am I can do nothing but love the cold, lonely face that looks down on me as a reflection of my source of life she will only ever be my beautiful mistress of untouchable hurt and so I am doomed to love that which will break me if I ever get close enough to touch it I can’t tell you whether my heart is dying or if I’ve finally found a way to live with myself
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Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
Moon
the nights are growing cold I sat outside to finish reading a book about love and cancer extremities growing numb falling foolishly in love with the pretty girl whose face gave me the courage to sit down beside her on a bench in the sun five minutes before my next class started I found out her favorite author but neglected to discover her name in the sunlight YOLO only says to live and it’s easy to forget that I’d like to have a future my night sky consists of millions of tiny, ferociously burning pin ****** and one heroically loyal mirror reflecting more brightly than ten thousand 500 million year old projections of dead stars I am doomed to fall in love with a girl who can honestly tell me that fear of death and love of life don’t really feel any different I wish I could choose the type of fool I will be but I know that the moon has never been in love with the sun that she has only ever revolved around us as we revolved around him waiting eight minutes for his light to reach us until night falls and we finally notice her cold, bright eye slowly blinking at us doing all she can to be like the light that we love her, reflecting the old, distant light at us seconds after it touches her surface she is the closest thing we have to a companion to a light source yet we still spend our lives reaching for the stars I have no belief in a God I know the sun is a ball of burning gas expelling particles and waves of energy into blank, full space and that the moon is a dense space cloud with a reflective surface covered in craters and darkness and brightness and a few human footprints and I know that the night sky is full of things that can **** me and everyone I know with no warning but such a fool as I am I can do nothing but love the cold, lonely face that looks down on me as a reflection of my source of life she will only ever be my beautiful mistress of untouchable hurt and so I am doomed to love that which will break me if I ever get close enough to touch it I can’t tell you whether my heart is dying or if I’ve finally found a way to live with myself
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76
His mouth was a nuclear leak (he fried his brain when he was 17) And I can’t get the burning toxins off my skin (and that is as far as he ever grew up) Some of them have seeped in deeper, I can (he’s amused by stick figure animation) Hear them rupture the seams of my insides (and the shuffling photos of his obsessions;) My brain thankfully, is still intact (his car, his clothes, his kids…and me) Fighting this fight heroically (my god, to be one of his children) Anxiously looking over my shoulder (he can’t keep a nanny for very long) Refuting his demeaning accusations (no one stays in his life who is not on payroll) ********* Narcissist (but even they all quit eventually) Still forgiving myself for letting it happen (oblivious that his entourage disrespects him) This antithesis-of-me-toxic-bath (he is incapable of giving or deserving trust) Disdained my beliefs and philosophies (he still wishes he had his mullet of 1986) Demanded my selflessness without return (and the older woman he ****** in high school) Reduced me to dismissible arm candy; (immature alcoholic tantrums lie just) The missing feature of his pride (below the surface of every conversation) And I can’t shake this feeling (which speak exclusively of himself and his many impulses) That I have truly met evil face to face (or the stupidity of humanity who serve his whims) Afraid to realize how narrowly I escaped (his highest dream is to own a personal servant) Except for the residue (explains his demands clearly and concisely) Adhering like burned on soap **** (believes money and a big **** make him a man) I feel like he will never, ever really be gone (his reptilian brain controls every move) That he will still try to own me or make me (“I don’t want to be an ******* I’m just really good at it”) Pay for refusing to surrender my soul (funny, those words almost make me feel sorry for him)
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May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 12:21 AM UTC
Psychopath Residue
His mouth was a nuclear leak (he fried his brain when he was 17) And I can’t get the burning toxins off my skin (and that is as far as he ever grew up) Some of them have seeped in deeper, I can (he’s amused by stick figure animation) Hear them rupture the seams of my insides (and the shuffling photos of his obsessions;) My brain thankfully, is still intact (his car, his clothes, his kids…and me) Fighting this fight heroically (my god, to be one of his children) Anxiously looking over my shoulder (he can’t keep a nanny for very long) Refuting his demeaning accusations (no one stays in his life who is not on payroll) ********* Narcissist (but even they all quit eventually) Still forgiving myself for letting it happen (oblivious that his entourage disrespects him) This antithesis-of-me-toxic-bath (he is incapable of giving or deserving trust) Disdained my beliefs and philosophies (he still wishes he had his mullet of 1986) Demanded my selflessness without return (and the older woman he ****** in high school) Reduced me to dismissible arm candy; (immature alcoholic tantrums lie just) The missing feature of his pride (below the surface of every conversation) And I can’t shake this feeling (which speak exclusively of himself and his many impulses) That I have truly met evil face to face (or the stupidity of humanity who serve his whims) Afraid to realize how narrowly I escaped (his highest dream is to own a personal servant) Except for the residue (explains his demands clearly and concisely) Adhering like burned on soap **** (believes money and a big **** make him a man) I feel like he will never, ever really be gone (his reptilian brain controls every move) That he will still try to own me or make me (“I don’t want to be an ******* I’m just really good at it”) Pay for refusing to surrender my soul (funny, those words almost make me feel sorry for him)
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46
Carefully caressing your cheek Fretting fiercely over fig cake Greeting gracefully Gorging gloriously Happily humming hyms heroically While finishing fig cake ferociously Starting in p ending in y Plainly pointing the position The poppies placed with percision Deliciously devilishly delightful Boy! Fig cake filled me up... Sitting, satiating sizable crumbs Placed on the poppy plate Suddenly the slightest smell sinks my sore eyes I decided to rise to go to bed Ahhhhhh....
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Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 1:56 AM UTC
Tonight
I stopped being a story teller when I learned to read. I don’t think I ever learned to write. I think I was a story teller long ago, before the truth mattered. Before the truth became an obsession. Truth can get in the way when we want to tell a story. Truth has a way of narrowing the walls around us,  putting the pressure on us, and sometimes squeezing the blood from us. When I look at what I write, the things others would call poetry, the truth is nearly always inversely related to whatever value the words have. You see, there will always be someone who has felt more intense pain or joy. There will always be someone who has behaved more heroically or shamefully than any person about whom I can write. There will always be some common man or woman who has transcended his or her circumstances far better than anybody I have ever met or observed. If I feel compelled to write about things, acknowledging that whatever great stories I might have had inside were long ago flushed from me by the waters of truth, then I must create people and events. I must conjure them up like ghosts. These apparitions have no form to be washed away. The people who follow my words like tracks of an animal--predator or prey--should know I feel closest to being one who says something of value when the words are the greatest distance from the texture and grit of events. If I were to tell the truth, it would hurt. It would hurt me to write the truth, and it would hurt the reader who reads it. That reader has often rested complacently with the belief that the words are true, that history is really history rather than one of an infinite number of versions of the truth in this thing one might be inclined to call the book of life. When  you read my words, please don’t forget I don’t like the truth. I avoid it even in my stories that I believe are based on "real" occurrences. I avoid the truth. Yes, I may have seen the eyes of bloodied Vietnamese children when I was twenty, and yes, I may have sat in a bunker and listened to someone tell me they saw innocents slaughtered on the Mekong,  or what the young warm blood felt like on their hands, and yes, I may have heard someone’s last words before hospice sleep, but all these things are only shadows cast by some light whose source I cannot see or comprehend. Truth hurts. If you have read my words before, and felt something, there is no way to rob you of the feeling. Please, however, know that I was doing my utmost to hide the truth, because trying to reveal it would have been even more futile.
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Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
I will try to lie
I stopped being a story teller when I learned to read. I don’t think I ever learned to write. I think I was a story teller long ago, before the truth mattered. Before the truth became an obsession. Truth can get in the way when we want to tell a story. Truth has a way of narrowing the walls around us,  putting the pressure on us, and sometimes squeezing the blood from us. When I look at what I write, the things others would call poetry, the truth is nearly always inversely related to whatever value the words have. You see, there will always be someone who has felt more intense pain or joy. There will always be someone who has behaved more heroically or shamefully than any person about whom I can write. There will always be some common man or woman who has transcended his or her circumstances far better than anybody I have ever met or observed. If I feel compelled to write about things, acknowledging that whatever great stories I might have had inside were long ago flushed from me by the waters of truth, then I must create people and events. I must conjure them up like ghosts. These apparitions have no form to be washed away. The people who follow my words like tracks of an animal--predator or prey--should know I feel closest to being one who says something of value when the words are the greatest distance from the texture and grit of events. If I were to tell the truth, it would hurt. It would hurt me to write the truth, and it would hurt the reader who reads it. That reader has often rested complacently with the belief that the words are true, that history is really history rather than one of an infinite number of versions of the truth in this thing one might be inclined to call the book of life. When  you read my words, please don’t forget I don’t like the truth. I avoid it even in my stories that I believe are based on "real" occurrences. I avoid the truth. Yes, I may have seen the eyes of bloodied Vietnamese children when I was twenty, and yes, I may have sat in a bunker and listened to someone tell me they saw innocents slaughtered on the Mekong,  or what the young warm blood felt like on their hands, and yes, I may have heard someone’s last words before hospice sleep, but all these things are only shadows cast by some light whose source I cannot see or comprehend. Truth hurts. If you have read my words before, and felt something, there is no way to rob you of the feeling. Please, however, know that I was doing my utmost to hide the truth, because trying to reveal it would have been even more futile.
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6
How did you find your faith? did you stumble upon it was it discovered on a beech was it heroically sought after in the fissure of a breach? Did you ever lose faith? did a great expectation dwindle was a deep held trust betrayed did a dear friend disappoint you ubiquitous suffering and dismay? Where did you find it? in the grandeur of a sacred place in the contours of a beloved face in the splendor of anointed grace as balm to salve a deep disgrace? were you riding a subway or floating on a pink cloud were you kneeling in a church were bombs exploding loud? was it the embrace of a lover was it a crisis of deep plight was it a soul stirring chorus did you lose an awful fight? in the glory of a painting dripping petals of a desert flower the majesty of mountain glaciers a surging river filled with power Could you lose your faith again? If you did, would you know how to find it? Where would you look if it happened? How will you know its faith when you find it? What does faith feel like? What do you do when you got it? What do you do when you get it? How do you know you got it when you get it? How do you know you get it when you got it? Or are you formally faithless in a formal sense? Signed, Trying to Keep the Faith Music Selection: George Michael, Faith Art Selection Caprichos Francisco Goya 101098 Stamford, CT jbm
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Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Dear Formally Faithless
This is the first breath that I've ever cared about. Please abandon your everlasting doubt. We've opened up a magic portal through an alien route, exposing you to my internally dying dehydrating drought. I'm like a waning foreign phoenix finding fairness in its contaminated ashes. I still get flashes of post-traumatic emotional rashes, from an abstract haunting nightmare  that I don't care to wear on my not-so-bare chest anymore. Be aware that I don't always do my share, and that I am made of skin that has been known to ware and tear. If this is just Truth or Dare, I don't want to play anymore. Please be fair. Please beware. The snow has suddenly stopped straining my spiraling somber sorrows into silent sirens sounding seasonal surreal suicidal scenes of secret sappy solitude tomorrows. And though the weakening leaves outside are withering, and my feeble frozen bones are quietly quivering; my shivering insides are shyly shifting into brand new hues of brighter blues that are constantly turning into a lighter and mightier muse, like the autumn leaves that heroically live beneath my yearning Red Wing shoes. I'm on a blissful beach of elated snow, burying my feet in what we both know; that our doubt has been put to rest below.
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Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 4:54 AM UTC
Magic Alien
~*a companion poem to Marry Me! -(I am-in-love-with-you) (1)*~ wherein was writ: **“here I stop lest I die of  bursting, and yet I weep for us, for you, no longer read my poetry”** <> another winter’s day cruelty, for this wretched refuse of a former man who once could, who even deemed owner of a loving teeming, who adored kneeling, before love’s altar, sacrificially, heroically once in possession of amazing grace, (2) but now no longer such in his scriptures deeded, for our save-by-day , appears, before my eyes, so informing my love permit has now time~expired I once was found, but not once more, but once again, refamiliarized with loss wretched and wrenched, so I punch up at the sky, and the sky, like you, my love, doesn’t punch back, and now we are in aggrieved agree: there is no returning to where we graced each other, so one more poem I’ll prepare so let it be, the “we” will be momentarily - but not ! ever lastingly but for a well~timed very finite infinity be returned to coexist and let grace be extended even surreptitiously for we to separate, sub divide our souls, in a graceful manner: *why this last act, a hallmark of what once stood for us, was, and perhaps then, you will read:* my only love poetry once moreover, with com-passion and even tiny teeny seconds of memorized affection, and that would be an amazing grace
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Dec 13, 2024
Dec 13, 2024 at 3:17 PM UTC
Divorce Me! (I’m in love with you)
enveloped within the familiar creases, the sweatshirt faithful to me in each weather forecast it heroically resists whose sleeves have been left frayed and abandoned since spring winter brings the old heater down the narrow steps from the attic its red switch illuminated, the whirring fan exhaling warmth throughout a reluctant room and the shades quiver and melt to the floor, their edges skimming the wood surface that is resentful and ruthless at sunrise on my bare feet
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Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
Bare Feet at Sunrise
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling She knew not where, Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship, Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing Heroically lost, heroically found. No matter what disaster occurred She stood in desperate music wound, Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph Where the bales and the baskets lay No common intelligible sound But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea.
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Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
That crazed girl improvising her music
In the third eye of symmetry Never mind the strings of beauty (words) If the outcome is poetry Artistry So long as man dreams Never mind hymns of danger If you're moving on heroically Such is a poets causality. He knows not the construct of words from ordinary men. They lack structure, rhyme and purpose. They are the ramblings of those who can not see, Those who cannot feel And those... Those he cannot be.
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Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
Poets creed
I know the pitcher got A Hell of a fastball And one mean curve But we got 1000 hitters Crowding the on deck circle....... SOMEBODY! Get up there and try to hit the ball WILLYA! •• ("I can't Me good **** gone and me be sad! Boo Hoo") •• •• RAIN Is the name of the song In the shadows? Is it you I see?!! Standing TALL heroically TELL ME YOUR NAME AND I'LL TELL IT TO GOD for on you All trust is placed •• A Little child is Lost on the Street Won't you help me find him Please?
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Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Step up to the plate or put down the bat
Heroes and Heroines hold to what they know Honing, as they refine maintaining, status-quo No greater mission or quest protecting the innocent, and weak Passing each, and every test as honor and justice, seek Ever will the plague be passed as each and every time for damages, present and past the bill, for others crimes The cowardice and fear, of masses as the resolve and bravery, of the few for the dark, the light, surpasses persevering, and always coming through
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Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
Heroically blamed
Fingers wrapped around throat Words pricking your soul -- little thorns that ebb into your heart, into your mind. The image forever framed in gothic black; Hung in an alley of my darkest memories.                                    ***"I'm not *******                                          playing around"*** A scene from a movie -- an extra reel of their life that I heroically,      no, tragically stepped into. Only to be told kindly, to **** off*** We no longer wish to carry the burden of other lives. But some things have been ****** within the view of my eyes, whether I wish to see them, or bid them farewell.                          911, what's your emergency? I think our souls are falling apart.                                            -lf-
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Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
permanent accidents
I love heroes. They make the world a better place. After the bad guys, they save the day heroically flying in the bright blue sky shining in their pride and grace. It makes sense if the world has heroes to give the weak hope and the evil a conscience. but heroes, the very ones that save my cat from the high tree, rescue the feeble from their fears, and save this horrid society of it's the omnipotent ongoing evils, are nothing more than heroes. for heroes, as they glow and glimmer in all their glorious ways, being the big brother judge from one side of justice to the other, don't exist to save me to exist to try to save me and make me they leave that to me. that's why
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Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 2:48 AM UTC
I hate heroes.
Ruminating epoché, ‘I am…’ ‘Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay. Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay Initiatives imperative consolidation, Civilly disobedient in expedient disarray. Practicing semantic contemplation, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, Forecast in vague extrapolation, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating the linguistics of silent enclaves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. Probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, The Apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging Aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
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May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 1:24 AM UTC
Linguistic Illusions to Probable Solutions
seldomly "random" at all choosing whether to choose or not we seal our fate with ribbons and symbols of something or other with postcard pictures of eachother and our phantom....god seldomly "random" at all heroically rising after the false belief in "the fall" (hardly "a rising" at all!) we are who we decide to be free or a slave this is the only choice we make (hardly "a choice" at all) nothing random about it at all nothing random at all
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Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 2:00 PM UTC
random
A                                                                        heart is where its                                                                        gaggle of appropriate nerves                                                                        tingle singing nerves                                                                        single teeming nerves                                                                        a tumult of aching skin                                                                        towers correctly sublime                                                                        a balmy twinge of evenings                                                                        who curl with clearest scent                                                                        about the firmer freshly body                                                                        of the thighs quaking totally                                                                        (a face that twists heroically                                                                         churns adroitly                                                                         in adoring pleasure                                                                         wreaking fragile sturdy                                                                         crescents                                                                         limping on the hotting                                                                         chalice of her febrile                                                                         brink. she totters just almost                                                                         at it. right at it fiercely.                                                                         her flush groaning                                                                         her garden parting                                                                         ),i flay the difficult ugly                                                                        that wears on her this                                                                        common uncanny second                                                                        i turn her sorely into naked                                                                        flavored robes writhing                                                                        between her thrashing together                                                                        i stab her forever giddy                                                                        my placid crashing”
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May 16, 2011
May 16, 2011 at 1:24 AM UTC
Untitled
A                                                                        heart is where its                                                                        gaggle of appropriate nerves                                                                        tingle singing nerves                                                                        single teeming nerves                                                                        a tumult of aching skin                                                                        towers correctly sublime                                                                        a balmy twinge of evenings                                                                        who curl with clearest scent                                                                        about the firmer freshly body                                                                        of the thighs quaking totally                                                                        (a face that twists heroically                                                                         churns adroitly                                                                         in adoring pleasure                                                                         wreaking fragile sturdy                                                                         crescents                                                                         limping on the hotting                                                                         chalice of her febrile                                                                         brink. she totters just almost                                                                         at it. right at it fiercely.                                                                         her flush groaning                                                                         her garden parting                                                                         ),i flay the difficult ugly                                                                        that wears on her this                                                                        common uncanny second                                                                        i turn her sorely into naked                                                                        flavored robes writhing                                                                        between her thrashing together                                                                        i stab her forever giddy                                                                        my placid crashing”
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