"imprecision" poems
Recto:
One of those days. The snow is falling soundless
out of a grey and uneventful sky.
A day for calling friends from times gone by?—
each one I try stays hidden in the boundless
wilderness of restless Sunday si-
lence. Floods, a sinking pound, less job provision—
the usual run of news on televison—
groundless reasons for concern or high
time for despairing? Or decision! Reach an
arm out, you can fly, your spring is wound! Less
imprecision! Let the word resound! Less
fun, short -term, maybe, but clearer vision.
Verso:
One of those days. The snow is falling
soundless out of a grey and un-
eventful sky. A day for calling
friends from times gone by?—each one
I try stays hidden in the boundless
wilderness of restless Sun-
day silence. Floods, a sinking pound, less
job provision—the usual run
of news on televison—groundless
reasons for concern or high
time for despairing? Or decision!
Reach an arm out, you can fly,
your spring is wound! Less imprecision!
Let the word resound! Less fun,
short -term, maybe, but clearer vision.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC
for Eléa
<•
feel you my love, between my thumb and forefinger ,
beyond obsession, have rubbed them,
thumb and forefinger tips pebble smooth,
lying there, lying to myself, saying don't know why,
probably the standard ****** busybodies annoying,
no big deal, just the chocolate stuffing of day to day living,
but I know better, I'm home after 23:00, in bed alone,
you love are at a milonga ce soir,
and I, still rubbing them glossy shiny,
unconsciously, subconsciously, consciously, stubbornly
my light, shut off, grab the silky top sheet,
between the same thumb and forefinger,
pull it up, to under the neck,
comfort covering my chilled bare chested unheated heart,
and the rubbing yet, gets stronger, the sheet sensation,
an unforeseen, trigger warning
the sensation, at last, dulling and in the dark,
the fingers worn, body worn, and the worn cold admissions
easy slip out, worn by denial, a sash across the chest-ache,
the fingers instrumental, now more useless from imprecision
I know, I know,
fingers are memorizing touch, memorizing memories,
at the crossroads of two Burgundy country roads intersecting,
because when no one is seeing, no one you want,
that no one won't be joining you later, ya see,
just the normal nite dreams
with that self-same tireless thumb and forefinger,
pull a tissue from the box hid in the second drawer to blot the
wet spots on the pillow, can't be having that,
no one, no,
she wouldn't like that,
and you
nonetheless and all the more,
surprised
cause no one told you,
you didn't know that,
fingers could weep
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 2:14 AM UTC
Atomistic projections birthe free out of a thick and porous shell, candid with light and bleached from the inside. And it fractals out into zero, infinitely. But how we collapse is imprecision. What function spits your mortar out? Or are you unawares of the gaps left in your voice? This is the decision to systematically disassemble yourself. No one else. And it won't be where you look, or even when, but it shadows every thought, and lives off feeble grasps in its direction. How can you know a river when the river is yourself? If a door is always closed could it be called a wall? A man cannot step into himself more than once.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:32 PM UTC
My love, I cannot write to you a word,
For any word requires a treatise true,
Each chapter, then, a jury for review,
Whose jurors must be scrupulously heard--
Each letter would be faulty in its sound,
And seem to need another or one less,
A clause to justify would just digress,
And never would the proper print be found--
To write to you a play descends to plot,
A choir, perchance, would make an honest show,
Yet shows are sharp when high and flat when low,
So base a stage cannot portray my thought.
In love, I must allow mere words to err,
And credit them for carrying us there.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
A mark of good times
Why am I still alive
Contemplating life
In this illusion
Makes me think twice
About dreams of imprecision
Held down by unjust benefits
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
Autumn's hedges weep blood again, the eternal mystery of red leaves confounding reason, protecting and surrounding us either in gentle beauty or concealed sorrows we never knew. Theories of our own existences are proved certainties only by the imprecision of tears as we've lived. Rage the year. The dead season, still, nears; we too, should paint it anew in bold color and embrace it without fear.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
she is wearing some chemistry
an old dress for a bluestocking
she turns her face towards a green sea
new rhymes for blazing verbs lurk
in the definition of imprecision but
everything is falling into place
cell to cell conversations afloat
shards of mystery smooth
rounding out the caves of night
mirror wars meanders
mitochondrial Eve confused
into this new creature
saturated with radiance
questions not asked
but answeared
how you love her
do your hands chase
her tango shoulders
is there music inside
the shade of water
waste inside nails
naivete in knees imprisoned
vibration self-asserting
a devious sweeping world
of unthinkable gestures
your hands a seismograph
for the cataclism of shiver
no need to search for
her selfless sense
as you ravening negotiate
the fossilized song of you
the depth of this tympanum
this membrane
time itself this creature
zoon erotikon
levellling up resurecting
ravaging enchanting
all the rites of passage
for the overwhelm of flavor
she breathes in prehistoric gills
nirvana dance inside DNA
you redefine your sharpness,
delicacy tears & tearing
she dissapears in a snare drum
sanity evaporates as mist
over arched forests
in the pulse of no air
in between skin and akin
in the bewilderment of bodies
searching for their lyric
manna for beautiful beasts
over the sargasso sea
she wails genuine
metanoia, love's dianoia
no disambiguation
Feb 13, 2023
Feb 13, 2023 at 6:06 PM UTC
***** and giggles.
Thrills without frills.
My god, the things you consider
mantra.
How have you become this
sad, blind, pathetic person?
Where is your animal force?
Your keenly tuned force of nature smile?
You never had a chance.
Never.
You scream in shades of
burning gasoline.
You cry in tuneless guitar strumming.
You move with mechanical imprecision .
The very soul of you is the very sole of you.
Was it always so?
You were never so repulsive as when
you begged me to stay.
You couldn’t keep the dawn lit,
and I refused to be your book of matches.
The things you said, the things you did.
Phone line regrets paid in full.
I know you have the strength, if only you
would bend without breaking.
If only you would dream without
having to borrow.
If only you could remove the sepia
tone from your expectations.
We were only children.
Kids playing pretend at happily ever after.
Now you’re gone.
I never told you that...
“If only” right?
May 14, 2011
May 14, 2011 at 5:31 PM UTC
they don't know about reality
they are trapped in a place that only has television
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
can you love me for what i am,
with all my complexity and indecision
with all my faults and speckles,
my near-sighted imprecision
could you not put me on the social stratum,
looking through the lens of meritocricy
not to count my posessions and achievements,
level me with bittersweet verbosity
can you spare me of doubt, that clouds your relative judgement
see with all my ugliness and ridicule
love as days go by
as joy subside
as colors turn bleak
and darkness arise.
can you accept my immature writing,
filled with ill-arranged words
or the way i talk through stutter and occasional sighs.
forgive my incapacity for kindness,
awkward attempts to win your heart.
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC