"hydrocarbons" poems
My days are filled
With Quadratic functions
And Hydrocarbons.
I've had little time for
Billy Collins.
Or sleep, for that matter.
I'm thankful for the little
Moments like this.
When the professor can't find
His power-point.
Or a lunch hour where
I eat something besides text books.
I need time to reflect.
Find myself under all this stress
Take a breath and
Play a quick game of
"Where's Waldo"
With my soul.
Scribble some words
Or a picture.
Or maybe,
Just stare out the window
Contemplating the willow tree
And how her limbs struggle to
Kiss the ground.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 5:00 PM UTC
We are hydrocarbons
We all burn
We are all laughed at
And we all get our turn
We produce our own enemies
We almost smother ourselves in sadness
We all release CO2
When we die from this poem's badness
We all want to be superior
We all want to be the equalizer
We want to be leerier
Without being the sympathizer
We smite and are smited
We hurt and we heal
We spite and are spited
And have a tenuous relationship with what's real
We are hydrocarbons
We are equal despite what we aspire
And if you don't agree
I'll light you on fire
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
Negligible morsel of biomass
my fat belly, formerly abs
insignificant yet it occupies me
hourly while bored or hungry.
Fat is what? a picture
of despair, giving up caring
or man out of balance, other
side of the world's starving
mass, case of the soul's malnutrition
industrial agriculture, television
supermarkets, vacations, hydrocarbons
and the grid. Electricity, urban
traffic jams, photons at final
rest. Sugars synthesized, abundant
plastics to carry them home in.
Into your house and into your mirror.
Memorizing the periodic table
and learning the calculus makes one
no thinner. Walking the mountain
in heat and cold and rain, alone
or in fire crews should inhibit.
And a healthy fear of death. A laugh
a day at *** and pain and fate
which renews the biomass I hate.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
Smile
Cry Leaf
Dance
Sniff Hair
Eat
Tasty Climb
Sleep
Choose Fluff
Fumes
Nitrogen
Hydrocarbons
Fire
Burn
Death
Fall Scream
Cat
Kyet
Storm
Turmoil
Pencil Javelin
**** Save
Love Hate
Dog
Squirrel
Sob
Laugh
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
Age old forests compressed
To thick primeval ooze
Interred between layers
Of sediments fused
By time and tonnage
To hard papa rock
Concealing CRUDE OILS’
Subterranean shock.
Shocking in value
Escalating with time,
Shocking in politics
Which equates to a crime,
Implications shocking
When you stop to see
That resource limitations
Have diminished quickly.
Consider the clout
When a fast world of cars
Without hydrocarbons
Would seize up like stars,
Stars, in the sense
Of their immovable grace,
For a fuel less planet
Would IMMOBILIZE this place.
Abrupt immobility
To bring chaos and mess
And the utter lost beauty
Of a girl in a dress,
And the time and space
To smell a good rose
Instead brittle chaos
Malevolently posed.
Bleak desolation
Of the world we hold dear
And a massive regression
To impoverished fear.
Marshalg
Looking thru the hour glass
4 July 2011
Only way to deliver this poem is SLAM and with vehemence!!
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 10:40 PM UTC
Funny how it is.
A bright light, morphing through the clouds
The soft touch of droplets, melting into shingles
The only time you're really able to look.
Wandering along the roads and banding together, they are everywhere at once!
a political movement--libertines, belligerent against the rule of continuous airs
The princely stream that does not love them
Raised into fists, falling to bombard a defenseless floor, the poor baby of collateral
In it there is hope for the cloud
the ground does not mind being wetted again
Halfway around the world the deserts are still empty and warm, where the sands of oceans taste wind
On islands the land is a pinprick between a cloudy sea, it is green and bleeding and drinks in the light
All the baby birds of earth look up into the raining sky, asking for?
And given no answers with godly warmth.
I dream to show you this world of mine-- the one all too unreal and divine
You are a moment of rain, rapidly becoming Ingrained within the concrete
Lost in the forever of this place
I am greedy and wanting to leave my mark, I invent hydrocarbons to build smarter oxygen drops
they one day become us
They always become us
I am an early storm, violent and unkempt-- I seek immediate retribution,
I ravage the lands
With no further to go, I will dissipate
Precipitate
And give the light space to show.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
When we stopped at the mission
The cracked Adobe was a message from god
Saying,
Centuries are just cracks in the stone, my world runs on diamonds and hydrocarbons
On charming interactions
On moments of synchronicity
On rubbing out heat to be dissatisfied into the void
To give feed for the new ones
In the feral zodiacs.
She frowned at this answer, said she wanted something less ethereal,
Something tight to clutch
Like the Parthenon's Corinthian columns
Or the great gables of a Neverending tabernacle
She was a greedy and godly girl
I was stupified, staring intently at the cracks
Asking what strange beings were created in between
Tracing the canyon routes with my hands, pressing the palm against the grooves
They were warm with lost sunshine, they had dust and life and creatures of God that sought not the gaze of us, but the eternal love of the dark
I have neglected many times this fact of life, pretending to be a stone in a world of pulsating flesh
Wanting to be abused eternally in exchange for experience
To be Boulder--
With granite cheeks and dusted neck
With cobalt eyes and chiseled chest
Tectonic movement, sparring feet
And left forever towards the seas.
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 2:08 PM UTC
i find that the natives, speak such an unremarkable
language of their own, that the language itself -
without persona or
a "non grata",
once in a while: demands
a foreigner to speak it -
since the natives have become
so complacent using it -
turning a fork into a saw
sort of speak...
a screwdriver
into a hammer...
there are these glorious
times in the history of man,
where the natives speak
their native tongue:
so unimaginably dull -
lullaby-prone by some fiction
of their present surroundings -
the english speak the sort
of english that pakistanis acquire -
they're the insipid diatribe
exhaustion of
the most beautifully proficient
allocation of sound: akin
to the sparrow...
at least the german be
stern schoolmaster akin to the crow -
but the english?
you start losing respect
for the natives, when you speak
better native, than the natives.
the last remains of an anglo-saxon
past remain in chemistry -
otherwise it's the optical-ease /
way out regarding the to be said:
hyphenated words -
hydrocarbons - in english would be
hydro-carbons -
you learn your syllable count
with chemical names:
calciumoxychloride...
but then there are the patriots -
native-men-tongue
(heimatmenschenzunge);
by the time i'm dead, i'll know the teuton
inside-out, and make sure to put him
back together: outside in.
- and yes, to reiterate,
the only "thing" about the english
being remotely saxon, is how
anti-german english has become,
optical spaghetti of the elongated
german word -
which in english = minus the hyphen...
the english decided on less:
the german custard word scrabble -
and more on norman shrapnel -
i.e. hydro-philic - or hydrophilic -
stage 1 (oxford) stage 2 (cambridge);
and then the populace can write
a meme, a "phone number" to nowhere.
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 8:42 PM UTC
There sleeps in the seeping ounce
of the tree burned to carbon
that made charcoal
a chance for me to take any
and all scraps of paper
I can find in my room
and put them to good use
There sleeps in the back of my mind
fragments of light
and sensations of summer
crystallizing into thought
"I want to hike four trails, around an island." I
say
but the speedy winding and the great illusion of time ticks me down
"I can only hike three"
The fourth I'll sit at its base, with my scrappy notebooks and sketch.
the burned vine will create trees
what immaculate a thought
to "good use"
the trunk that we took to shred and make this sheet,
to "good use", too
it'll be the paper under the black soot
when I draw
here sleeps my mind in the dark coal
ever luminous below the incomplete combustion of
hydrocarbons and the explosive nature
of untamed
emotions
"But I want to hike four trails.
Maybe, I'll have to come back"
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 12:35 PM UTC