"hologram" poems
Middle School
Full of friends and love
Hate and lust
Being thrown under the bus
Doing the right thing
Is harder than it sounds
Harder than it looks, too
Always wanting to be found
Rescued from the abyss
That feeds off of your sadness
That doesn’t know when to stop
That will make you collapse
Needing support
Wherever you can find it
Taking it from others
If it means peace
Life upside-down
Never know how
To turn your life over
That frown upside-down
So when you find peace
Wherever you find it
You never want to leave it
But sometimes you must
Coming back to resurface
After all the sadness
You see the world differently
Then you saw it before.
People can help
But sometimes they don’t
Sometimes they think their helping
But really they’re not
Don’t fall for the lies
The deceptions they place
To try and make you come with them
And do the wrong things
Because in the end, you’ll find
You never wanted to be with them
You just want to be you
And not just some hologram
Embrace who you are
And what you’ve gone through
No matter what it is
Walk up with open arms
Take what you have
And don’t worry about what you don’t
Because in the end, you’ll find
There’s nothing wrong with you
You’ve been through high times
And low ones, too
But no matter what had happened
You found your way through
Through the darkness, you emerged
Opening your eyes
To a new world of color
Without wearing a disguise
Learning who you are
Can change how you act
Change how you feel
Even change how you react
Because now you know
How to see in color
No longer in the darkness
World seeming brighter
Every day can be a good one
If you know how to live it
All you have to do
Is change how you see it
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
maybe the buildings are hollow,
occupied only in facade on the first floor of storefronts
maybe this whole town is a hologram
of neon against puddles
on the pavement.
maybe the citizens are ghosts
floating by
in circles, or squares of city blocks,
around a routine,
or droning through on electric scooters
as if on muted theme park rides
to the next sensory diversion;
to the nearest gastronomical pleasure;
toward the weekend and its next party
celebrating the loss of time,
I see their tired faces
staring out from the glass
of coffeeshop windows
on every block.
I see their piles of beer cans
beside the trash chute.
I hear them singing
on booze-cruises to nowhere
What part of this cycle
that turns days into dust
moves us closer to heaven?
What feast from what new restaurant downtown
will feed our souls?
From which lonely night do we finally emerge
beside the one
whose presence fills
these hollow buildings
to the top-most floors?
Which of the empty lots
between us do we fill
with a conversation
about how this is all a dream,
or how we'll keep each other awake
on a bench
beneath a street lamp before dawn
waiting for the first bus to take us home.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle)
400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence)
red ant drivers (who can forget those little ******
caked fir needles & feather cone
bug hologram & cedar moss
graffiti crack & cut joist
wheel rut & pick
pike stain (s)
sow bugs
electric
blower
purple
fueled
washer
missing
foul bits
and two of
its former pins
somewhere near
the erratic 9th stroke the
side kick (and his sloppy dullard)
fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter
anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems
lacewings (ladylike in their task), third door down windows
old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes)
all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting ~
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
Just a crack in the brick wall
A red rubber ball
The last time you can't remember
When you stood tall
The monotonous hologram
The seaside hotdog stand
The regrets piled higher
than any mountain can
Four stringed guitar
Home in an abandoned car
Courage in a bottle
Wishing still on the first star
Still he caresses the neck
Presses down the frets
Sings three octave blues
On life's reef of wrecks
He's free lost in the chords
The music opens doors
The pathway is as bleak as sin
While inside he reaches for more
He goes off to sleep
He has his dreams deep
About a paradise for losers
And a five string guitar
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:12 PM UTC
There the merry hologram glowing blue purple blue
Cactus human cherry on a stool
Beyond the window he would not look
Inside the sky made of wood.
The barber talks to his ferns
The flowers he understood
The living they earn
Sparkling its rough nails of your barber.
The breath and life he will spruce with apple-pie order.
He listens to
Each one story
Always about a time
A time which was cheery.
He looks piercingly to all their prickly
What he touches intently
To turn the time that latches onto your head which started feeling heavy.
Lifted into glee so jolly and carefree.
A man
Or the boys
They finally stand up easily.
Capes dusted
Top hat powdered
Their voice of fears collected as tips
For pricking up his ears.
The door that opens in the end
The swirling light that beckons
Hair became a way to lighten ---
When times get rough and belligerent
Cut it off, rugged and ruffian.
The barber hears him and all
The others like soldiers
They share their laughs
Troubles leaving shoulders
Leaving like a waterfall.
The barber knows everything
The barber knows all.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 10:54 PM UTC
MA KING AME-RICA GRATE AGIN
( for Brian )
"Your mum's an alien..an...
ha ha ha ha alien!"
the children chant
and taunt.
I see through tears
their sneers and hated
etched upon
their features
like a mask they
could/couldn't take off.
It is like a thousand years ago
all over again.
The Age of the thing
called Trump
when humans were both
orange and stupid.
Now we have computers
built into each whorl
facts at our fingertips
with just a finger snap
we can call up what used to be
called videos
of the Trump thing
teaching humans how to hate.
I, unlike my sisters
am not green
except for
a slight greenish
hue every now
and then.
I am more the chameleon
and can blend in.
I have the necessary arms
and the obligatory number of eyes.
Only my mum and sisters
look like a lurid 1950's comic
"THEY CAME FROM OUTER SPACE!"
yet earth would not be
here if aliens( us )had not come
to save them from themselves
back when earth had entered
the Age of Dictators
as the history apps.
quaintly put it
Now is come again
the hateful hate
ma king Ame-rica
grate again
like a mind
grinding its teeth.
I'm sorry am
the English no good
and the spelling as well
we will
have to hide behind
our mind walls
that we had to build
to keep humans out.
My mother taking me
lovingly in her tentacles
stroking me and drying my eyes
and making tea
With a snap of my fingers
I bring up my favourite video
and a Kermit hologram
floats before my face
"It's not that easy bein' green!"
and I singalong like any human being
"...when green is all there is to be."
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
mid-day showers
i'm grooming myself for another girl
as sweet as fourth of july pie
but i always preferred the fireworks
now you're a notion in my head
a hologram of scenarios that never even occurred
i haven't cried in twelve months
or wrote a poem since april
but still when i put pen to paper
the words have your taste all over them
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
it's all lies, darling.
***it'll be okay,
we're here for you,
i love you.***
it's all lies.
everything they've taught you,
everything you know,
it's a lie.
a hologram.
a projection.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
In a hologram
I am the man you would like me to be
not real
but you see
it is me,
so
why do you want to know
who that I am?
but the man that's an image
a man you would pillage
and keep for your own.
Pictures that grow up and slow up,then show up just who that you are
an image that's far too inconstant
a solent
a side by the sea
aside from you and me and the oceans that we see
there is only a halogen lamp which tramps out these scenes and in the inbetweens of our dreams
I will be forever
the screens on the doors of the more that you want, and the more that we need,
the more we will seed the cameras with film.
and developed could it be
that we see so much more?
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
The apartment hasn’t been cleaned for so long and has housed a depressive in it for the same length of time so that there is a glaze of slime-dirt on the floor, made of dried coffee, hot chocolate, maybe some **** or some spillage from a tube of steroid cream to treat an inflammation that never really goes. The rate of ooze changes?. Clean textiles are piled up on the floor, never having been folded, and mix here and there with ***** practical fatpants that make me look like a geologist and white-white cotton blankets that can be washed on HOT with lots of bleach that I purloined from some mentalhealthfacility. The inbox is full of—is bristling with—remonstrances from Programs for the Nondoer—you haven’t filed, haven’t turnstiled, haven’t had your hologram chip assessed by central CENTRAL intelligence, what is wrong with you. Upon stepping outside there is a beat during which I think maybe somewonder might swirl and buoy but no, just wethumid and ***** sidewalks cruddy and Haitians and quasi-Haitians muttering “taxitaxitaxi” in front of their Gypsy conveyances with their dubious certifications. I should go for a ride in one, a dubious passenger for a dubious palanquin. I tried the library but it was too hot and decrepit and too filled with Books For African-Americans, which always ****** me off; are only African-Americans going to read Wright or Douglass or Brooks? Everyone is overrated, anyway, movies and theater and the moribund beat of commerce, and as the dangerous autos pass, sometimes not running you over, you can see morechange in the pockets of the shareholders of BeePee and Iacocca Coach-Wirx. Any friendliness exhibited seems to contain an underovertone of You’re Not Included Whiteboy White ****** Ghost ***** all archaic names I’ve been almost astounded to be called usually while balancing on tiptoe on some lurching, roaring dieselbus, grinding past off-off-off brand groceries that do a dubious business. While making my police report I wink at a sevenyearold boy and I get a lustrous wink back butalas this is not enough to beat back those slurrycolored brainfazes.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
As the wet wind hums its way through our two tower six-cylinder apartment complex. Birds fall from their naked winter wept branches, braced by stiff bones, mapped out in Alexandria, carrying notes from El Salvador. The corner market is closed, never opened. A hair salon stands in its place, it wrings out the "R's" from a Philadelphia warshing.
And like every night, hot air cakes on an extra layer of indecipherable red dots up the arms and around the neck, minute pustules of hypochondria that steal my finger tips from the keyboard. I scratch and tip them, looking under their fiery scarlet caps for, I-don't-know-what disease. Paul says It's that magic school bus melanoma, typhoid drip, it comes at you from a computer screen and eats at your nervous system until you've got the wambles.
Tuesday's used to be the worst, until I OWNED THAT **** I make a pronoun out of aluminum foil and wear it as a hat on a first date. Tinder is not bad for conceptual art projects. I carry it within me like an anodyne complex, out into the frozenness; into my mouth the air comes around my teeth, behind my uvula until winter freezes my voice and I am breathless.
I abandon my miniature house to enter the pyramidal pinetum to the North. Wild paradise shrubs gather with songless animal noises watching as I take naked photographs of my father to preserve his body from anything less than his great immortal end. He lives on black moss and water from a nearby pond,
he authors the face of Anthony Hopkins, thrown about, another casualty of fervid and blurry dreaming.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
On my way home from work
I passed by a *****
In a tent-sized, plain orange t-shirt.
It was forever-stained
With fossilised fluids;
A chest cavity of spilt milk,
And subsequent tears.
A double-take took me
To the green and brown keratin
That dragged relentlessly over concrete.
His sloth paws were protesting
Every step of grey existence,
In the colourful expanse of new morning;
They were clawing the ground
And submitting to gravity.
He looked right on through me,
Through everyone and everything
As if part of a hologram
That was no happier, but at least
Apart. I re-count his limbs to ensure
Whether he is even human anymore.
I surmise: only partially.
He milks his palms whenever possible
To heal the cracks of wind exposure
And old substance abuse.
This was no doorstep lounger;
He was a stray cat with no freedom,
And only washed his hair when it rained.
Then, as I later adjust my mask
In the foggy bathroom mirror,
Mind preoccupied with dissertations,
Affectations and payment schedules,
I realise that it is I who has lost my humanity.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
High on Cateye and Ghost Sight,
I stumbled through the streets
of Salida del Sol beneath
the watchful eye of Father Elijah.
The roulette spinner cobblestones
clicked as my feet dragged
past the courtyard.
Like an effigy, the homemade martini
between my fingers burned
my gin-soaked lungs.
Sweat and vermouth settled
in the circuits of my collar
as I gasped for relief.
Hologram gamblers tossed golden
casino chips in dried fountains
as they strolled past me and through
the Sierra Madre's gates.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
You, I see, everywhere.
At college, far away, its you, i keep stare.
Even, you, are not aware.
I know, to you, I'm just a hologram, that made your eyes to glare.
Sometimes, you even scare.
For you, I'm just a piece of, your day and nightmare.
If only, I dare.
To declare.
That, you, I care.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
Vietnam, you uncovered my soul
Gave me a song, a direction smog
Looked at the pandora box I held
Unstripped my flames up temples
A hologram of the graded existence
Seasoned in explosions of burnt haste
Decked on buses,ducked in valleys
Chilled bays, overly paddled kayaks
Such sweet taste of the Halong bay
Undreamt mist of the skies stared
Fishing squids and bellied jellyfish
The soil, the sound,an orotund playlist
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
her hesitating beauty
over a hundred days
each a silk thread
each a dark pearl
kissing specifics
in the empty space of a matinée
hologram of the new sun
burning like prime meridian, the hunter's star
ripples of inhibition, making waves
and confessions in
the deep end of a pool
always submissive with a smile
like holding her breath underwater
Apr 11, 2023
Apr 11, 2023 at 12:26 PM UTC
My untrue fantasy,
I fantasize it every day,
Fantasizing how it would be wonderful if I had you,
Oh the world seems to be having summer all year long,
With you and me,
My untrue fantasy will never be true,
Fantasizing is the only way I could be with you,
I am not capable of doing so in the ticking world,
This fantasy
This fantasy will always be the most exciting play of
Hologram in my mind.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
Some wise men have said,
That the universe
Is made of strings, tiny,
Which vibrate in dimensions ten.
Six extra dimensions than
The usual three of space
And the fourth, which is assessed
Using a pendulum
Oscillating in nothingness.
Strings, like the ones of a guitar,
Playing different notes
And different symphonies
Bosons, fermions, electrons
And gravitons to name a few.
This annuls racism among sub-atomics
Since ultimately they're all threads.
Or do you think, a boson
Is superior to a fermion
'cause it swings in a different plane
Or because one of them is called
The God Particle?
Strings, oscillating like
The alternation of seasons
Strings, like the thread of relationship
Which stretches and swings
Between its highs and lows
Strings, oscillating like
The advancing and receding waves
All we could be is a painting,
A hologram, simple 3D information
On a two dimensional plane
Living our lives and executing functions
As the painter intended us to.
All we are, are threads
Arranged in a particular fashion
All we are is a bunch of strings!
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
You're good for me like penicillin.
But I haven't popped enough of you yet.
Sightings of you as rare as an eagle,
The rare occasion I feel like a human.
Your purity is beyond belief,
like the cleanest **** on the street,
Your skin is the smoothest white marble
You're like renaissance art
I would quit all of my bad habits
just for a day in your presence
I wouldn't need another sip of *****
or sweaty fumbling in the back of a car
How do I tell you how I'm feeling
With a keytar and shaker at your door?
Could I win a joust for you?
I would invent electricity if I could.
But that's it, you demigoddess
You're boarding now a flying syringe
******* the life of me with every inch
What's blood for if not for spilling?
To me, you are perfect, love
A hologram i'm not allowed to touch
My tangled heart with stay right here
and pump occasionally for you my dear
10.13.12 1:20 AM
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
Communication technology recognition
Reformation in monopoly contortions
Feel the attuned tunes from satellites
Setting light like an antenna televised
Usher prolific hologram vised in vision
Bid manipulation bye to new world neon’s
Motivation from free thought movement
Commendations cemented in another time-zone
Complement to comment for extra terrestrials
Electrical vibrations moving from wired modems
Floating up above the skies, a heaven end
All life become a past tense lie, come lie
A dead fantasy for the oars ain’t tacky
The most surreal reality, the stability, an ability
Congeniality, this is an alien evasion, adaptability
Figure a boxer on the ring, trenching victory
An agility the accessibility to the victorious flag
Tracing admissible tunes, planking in a cool challenge
The heroic and not hectic hologram check the angiogram
Its not a diagram, but a radiant heart an earthy soul
Am a do anything, buffing myself to do anything
Ain’t a deal rocking the crowd in crazy clouds
Breaking the underground like a Fujita F Scale tornado
Ronaldo tormenting the ball in a field with F clef societal
Social control and orders, tormenting the ****** to extraordinaire, an extradite
Streaming live make you believe like you can live for real
Stratifications, ****** classes and sewn mobility
Chasing dreams in the winds deeply wheeled in a well
Be well as we sink so deep to seek and hold the dense
The essence of the whirlwind, it’s a seep through static
This rollercoaster an aspiration to inspire then perspire
Ever higher, from the root to crown charkra, a tantra
Annata,the ascending holographic magnetic hero
Tuning visions to dreamers and travellers
Hold my hand as we sink underneath the stratums
No sputum, just headphones.... a culture, it’s the new age soul
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
Rapidly writing
his ragged riddles
he giggles
and flips furiously
through his pad
Glad to be in his element
weaving his meanings
out of their words
hides dead drop spikes
and microfiche behind his verbs
Slice him open he bleeds
black and white
like ink and computer screens
The Enigma becomes a riddle to himself
lost in the context of his own twisted reality
he falls into his own textual mazes
and is enslaved, as a hologram,
a nightmare, or three,
the happy family
and the RaceCyst
Scarecrow stands silent
stealthily concealed behind a simile.
I observe
the Riddler weaving word nets
and lines of buried treasure truth
commandeered from the pits of shared despair
The Riddler knows what evil lurks in the deepest black,
even now he is giggling at the thought of it.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 7:45 AM UTC
*i.
He told her
That mathematics was too
Sombre.
Too, too
Linear
To be poetic.
She said that
He had only seen himself
In a mirror,
A reversed hologram
Of his external self
Burned into his retinas with
His subconscious filling in the gaps.
But she had seen him
The rays reflected straight off him
Into her eyes;
Not some half-assed reflection
Off some silvered surface.
ii.
She said that
His jawline was
The slope of a curve
Pencilled on a graph sheet.
His candlewax skin
A wavelength
Quantifiable on paper.
His spine
A number line with
Dashes, to show real numbers
The set of which was infinite.
She said that
A Fibonacci sketch was
A minimalist rose,
A post-modern bouquet.
And that
The reflected pale morning sun
In a half finished cup of camomile tea
Was a cardioid
With fixed coordinate values on the axes
And an algorithmic tangent.
And he
Was a negative infinity
A paradox not sorted under
Quine's classification system.
iii.
She had
Recorded his heartbeat and blood pressure;
Measured the distance between his lips with her own;
Tried so hard, so very, very hard
To put him down in a numerical form
And write him off as an equation.
But all she could say was
That he was more
Than the sum total of his meagre parts
And that she
Was his reciprocal value.*
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Dear Self,
You aren’t too kind to yourself,
You always feel like a hologram of skin and bones, a wasted soul.
Your mind runs ninety-nine miles per hour, yet you’re seated in place.
You’re locked in place, fighting off that weather of weapons, all on your own.
You smoke those cancer sticks, and BAM!
All your stress seems to flow away, like a rushing river across the land.
You stay up all night, you insomniac, you night owl, you can’t even bring yourself to get up in the mornings to slave away under those fat cats on top of society.
I hope one day, you can find the courage to go back to being a motor mouth.
I hope one day, you’ll go back to being that talented show stopper.
I hope that one day.
You’ll stop being such a dust kicker and get back on your feet.
Just know that every chapter comes to an end, but at least we’ve anticipated this one against all the other endings we have yet to face
Sep 11, 2021
Sep 11, 2021 at 11:36 AM UTC
It happened so fast
the blade slicing through my skin like butter.
It didn't hurt as much as I thought it would
but I had just taken painkillers, as many as I could.
The blood rushing out of my wrist like a fast paced river
my eyes beginning to get heavier,
I remember hearing voices outside
I couldn't tell who they belonged to, but they were shouting for me
"Open the door"
I was getting weaker with each passing second
a pool of blood began to form around me.
I closed my eyes, they were to heavy to keep open,
I remember taking a breath, and then I was gone.
As I felt myself leave my body
I saw so much of life flash before me like a hologram
seeing only the good times
the best times
as I watched my life play out I remember thinking where did it go wrong
I was once happy, cheerful.
Looking down at my lifeless body
as my family managed to kick the door down
wrapping my wrist
calling an ambulance
I just remember thinking where was this love when I was looking for it
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC