"incomprehension" poems
It’s just easy for them
Isn’t it?
This couple on the train.
They walked on laughing together
Holding hands
And I felt that familiar something-
Not jealousy
Not envy
But...
Chagrin.
Astonishment.
Incredulity.
Incomprehension.
Looking at them feels like looking at one of those
Impossible pictures
Where the stairs keep going forever in a loop.
It’s just
Easy for them.
It doesn’t hurt anymore, that thought,
But thinking it feels so odd in my mind
When I can’t imagine loving someone without
Shame,
Without pain.
They fit.
These people,
They fit without having to carve anything out.
They fit without punishing each other.
They fit like puzzle pieces cut from the same board-
No worries, they just go together, and that
Is that.
They fit like
“Of course.”
Like breathing.
Neatly.
Simply.
Carelessly.
I can’t imagine what it’s like
I can’t comprehend it-
To fit
Somewhere
Much less to fit somewhere
With someone.
I am always trying to corset myself into this world,
Lungs burning,
Trying to remain small enough to squeeze by
Catching myself by the wrist to keep from reaching
For anything.
And if there seems to be a spot where I might be able to exist as I am
It is always
Occupied.
Like a shiny pinprick
That thought hurts-
Not like the others it is newly cut
And still ******
The idea that maybe there is a home for me
And that maybe I was too late for it.
They’re laughing.
He says something clever,
Passes a hand along the small of her back
And she leans into it,
Smiling because she loves that he wants to touch her innocently.
They seem to exist behind glass.
Not for the first time I wonder
If I could just slip into that life
Like a drop into an ocean
I want it badly
I want it stupidly
And I examine all the parts of myself,
All the edges and cracks,
All the things I’ve worked so hard to protect and repair.
It is not a welcome sight-
I am not a home
I am like an old ruin
Full of murmurings and cold spots
Full of dusty sunlight.
I sigh,
Knowing the secret I keep so poorly-
That if I really had a choice to be otherwise
I would have already made it.
I couldn’t reach them if I ran for a thousand years,
They are too far away.
They walk off the train, arms linked
Talking about nothing
And I watch them go
Like a hallucination,
Like a mirage in the desert.
Her perfume smells like forgetfulness
And it lingers.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 12:48 AM UTC
2 cups of insecurity
4 ounces of comparison
1 cup of dinner not eaten.
5 cups of a mind in shackles
6 tablespoons of incomprehension
2 ounces of oblivious peers
3 cups of dinner not eaten.
3 teaspoons of phantom numbers
2 cups of anxiety
4 cups of mirrors smashed to bits
1 pint of self-hatred
4 cups of dinner not eaten.
1 tablespoon of depression
6 ounces of anger
2 pints of hopelessness
3 cups of self-inflicted scars
4 teaspoons of ribs in the mirror
5 cups of fainting on the stairs
1 gallon of dinner not eaten.
6 cups of grieving families
4 tablespoons of words unspoken
3 teaspoons of tears unshed.
2 cups of dusty belongings
4 gallons of friends never made
3 teaspoons of kisses never stolen
a lifetime of words left unsaid.
Melt insecurity and comparison and mix thoroughly with dinner not eaten. Mix a mind in shackles, incomprehension, and oblivious peers and add three more cups of dinner not eaten. Crush phantom numbers and anxiety and sprinkle over batter. Take each piece of mirrors smashed to bits and poke them carefully through self-hatred. Mix with four more cups of dinner not eaten. Melt depression, anger, and hopelessness and spread them thoroughly throughout the batter. Meticulously place self-inflicted scars visibly on top of the mixture. Cover with ribs in the mirror and fainting on the stairs. Mix with one gallon of dinner not eaten. Haphazardly toss in grieving families, words unspoken, and tears unshed. Mix with dusty belongings, friends never made, and kisses never stolen. Gather a lifetime of words left unsaid in a separate container. Take it outside and bury it. Do not mark the grave site.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.
What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.
My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.
Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train.
Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.
Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.
Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.
Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.
My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?
I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.
Jun 20, 2025
Jun 20, 2025 at 4:45 AM UTC
majestic adjectives
of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity
that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes,
scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable,
incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed -
what is sweet -
what is impossible.
my days ending is
nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of
what I’ve got left
stale panko crumbs,
here come they in
1000 radium-tipped
projectiles of
serious humorous
self-destruction,
gifted to you!
my few
itinerant followers
peddlers brave enough
to offer shelter,
to follow me
into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
of no particular disorders
a thousand times
bless you
richly, eachly,
name announced, pronounced,
we are all proper nouns.*
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 5:29 PM UTC
I look up at the chaos around me
and see.
I see people saying their last prayers,
Waiting for their fateful endings,
I hear the church bell toll in its last call,
I feel the suffocating heat from the burning buildings,
I smell the smoke from the ignited city,
I taste the desperation in the air and the bitterness of regrets.
But in the middle of this tumult,
One thing stands out;
One person.
A little boy stands there in a tan attire,
dark gray ash contrasting his almost-white hair
and tears stains on his ivory cheeks.
A grim expression marking his features,
He shakes as if freezing
and although the heat has almost become unbearable,
he stands in the middle of the flames
barefoot yet unharmed.
A scythe lays at his feet,
and a pale horse stands by his side,
making his small body look even smaller.
As if feeling my stare,
he locks eyes with me.
And as the world burns down,
the reflection of the cataclysm in his brown eyes
and the look of innocent incomprehension he wears
is the single most heartbreaking thing in the moment.
Suddenly, I do not care about the screams and cry of the despondent goners.
I do not feel the harsh scorch of the burnt remains under my bare feet.
I do not mind the tears welling up in my eyes due to the fumes.
They are but a distant reminder of the atrocity surrounding me.
I can only focus on the strange guilt reflected in his warm eyes.
From those same eyes, a tear rolls down his cheeks
And as it reaches his dimpled chin,
he raises a little hand to wipe it away
And then waves at me.
I do not wave back,
too stunned to move or react,
But I could tell he did not expect me to anyways.
With one last look,
he picks up the scythe with an unusual easiness
and turns to walk towards the flames,
the horse close behind him.
And soon, they are one with the flames.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 8:47 PM UTC
***“Who will judge, as many trudge
through mud, mucking up the rug,
a coating of clay formed by God on a particular day.
Yet talent is ingrained, whether sane or insane,
and verse is treasure or a curse, unrehearsed, dispersed for all to see,
will they applaud or disparage, this marriage of mind and rhyme,
by design aligned, a sign of the times...”***
ms. patty m
~~~
once again a thunderbolt command hits between the eyes, on-right
the precise spot where the head aches with desire to fulfill the write!
but to what can I add to this encompassing question already
better answered by the questioner?
who will judge indeed!
all the time and far too often,
the flotsam rises to the surface, when better left ignored,
while the jetsam jets nowhere, buried deep though breathing yet,
on unseen sea bottom of ignorance,
luck of the draw by one who designs, who aligns,
a capricious starscape in the firmament
as well as
the infirmity & ignominy of caskets lying quiet in sea trenches
that the answer herein contained, a supposition,
a poor poets speculation, a soul’s lactation,
the very question is a cyclone bomb by competents
who are blinded+bound+blessed by
incomprehension
the only judge and jury is
your forefingers tip,
if it tremble a-slight
when caressing the key called send,
your cellular fiber
has adjudged worthy,
and no dare disagree
talent and distinction
randomly and irrationally distributed,
but the courageous caress of a send key pressed,
is all that is needed
to impress the only judge and jury
that
authorized you
in advance to
love yourself insanely well enough
to write
and
to send for
a request for sentencing
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 11:31 AM UTC
pride
falling from a
suspension
bridge
easy
death leap
sparks
a final
thrill ride
splashing
down with
conclusive
thudness
an epic
detritus
skimming
along the
heave of long
regretfull
rivers
buoyantly
bobbing
atop eddies
of hubris
cresting
aimlessly into
nothingness
one way ticket
expiration dates
are strictly
enforced on
leapers
but the final
gulps of
briney pride
swallowed
by loved ones
chokes them
in welling
floods of
unresolved
incomprehension
forcing the
bereaved
to forever swim
in a churning
flotsam during
unexpired
lifetimes
Cab Calloway: Jumpin Jive
Paterson
10/24/13
jbm
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
You're always saying how you want to understand me
But how can you when our conversations remain one sided-
My speech is broken by a silence that should be filled with your own
Yet I continue to speak to myself, never pausing to hear the sounds of silence
My words stringing into sentences, rolling off my tongue with such poetic rhythm
They cannot possibly make no sense, because they make perfect sense to me
I must be speaking in a foreign language- yes, that must be it
But surely in misunderstanding you would call a stop to my ranting
Instead I am met with a blank expression followed by suspicious looks
i don't understand
Yes, you do.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
I sit before you a shadow of my former self, where once I would have reflected all that is you,
Now I absorb your freely beamed energy, hoping to feel the way I did before so long ago
My strength is my inner wisdom, not the outer shell; although still handsome some would say
A depth of character resonates from “those eyes” dark black/brown still smouldering, still alive, knowing
The delights of the body still wanting, occasionally satisfied, the mind plays tricks, for a while young again
Ambition becomes survival; action becomes interest and discussion, finally knowledge and experience
A struggle for acceptance or a path cut into my psyche through the ignorance of youth and inexperience or
Was it the innocence of not knowing and the eagerness of an open mind with a thirst for facts and the truth.
The incomprehension of reality continues to acceptance “I am older now” my life thus far an adventure,
Limited by health and financial restriction, inventiveness rules the day, a shared belief a shared involvement.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:55 PM UTC
Writing is easier than yelling out every emotions
Writing is calming, a soothing voice –your own- dictating what to write
Writing is an escape.
Your thoughts move from their dark place inside your head,
Travel
Down
your neck,
Down
Your arm,
Feel the tension of your wrist as they go up, up,
Up into your waiting hands, fingers ready to translate the vague into the precise
Words tumbling down the ink of your pen.
Writing is the blade I slash across my wrist to feel the pain
Writing makes it visible.
My emotions.
Raw.
On paper.
Right. There.
Like a line of blood dripping down the numbness of a hand rended useless by the power of sharp blades.
My blood is my ink, and each day I bleed a little bit more onto the page, a little bit
l o n g e r
Each day I shed my invicible suit to put on my poet cloak
For a few hours I pretend I'm a writer
I bleed to death everynight and then come back to life the next morning
I die everynight I peaceful sleep and when I wake up the blood is new.
The blood is fresh.
The blood is black.
And I bleed again and again my anger, my sadness, my incomprehension, my fear, my love, my hate, my loneliness, my grand feelings
I bleed them out
My blood is my ink.
My blade is my pen.
My pain are the words.
My redemption is the beauty of my pain
I lie down and realize my blood doesn't disappear, doesn't wash out.
No one can erase my death.
Because I am once again alive
And I will bleed forever.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
the passage through time is quite uneasy
imbedded in concrete; consciousness dreamy
faces skewing, anemic monsters
intricate patterns, enhances, obscures
repetition, repetition, repetition, repetition,
incomprehension, incomprehension
i can't continue, can't vacate
i'm only human, my souls to take
i discovered what it means to be
when you can truly see
the epiphany of heavenly monstrosity
visions of a black hole theory
i've seen all of time in one moment
the future, the past, times of atonement
lucid and frightful
enlightening and grateful
heartbeat steadies
i think i'm ready
to explore the world from a different standpoint
and fully know this is not an endpoint
it's forever changing
and we're made for adapting
our primal nature's to live
i will never be held captive
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:33 AM UTC
Two goldfish in an endless game of tag.
They rely apon unknown entitys for food, life.
They do not try to escape.
Knowing no better, they continue their lives in a state of incomprehension.
Unaware of anything other than that which they know.
Their memory spans moments,
Washed away with the flick of a fin.
And yet, I am jealouse of them.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC
underneath.
underneath my skin.
incomprehension coils.
occupies residence in.
my soul.
this soul.
pettily grim.
quibbling and nibbling.
depleting sanity thin.
my youth.
this youth.
a burden again?
whimsical fallacies.
maintained by the wind.
painted by the waves.
the echo of your name.
fissures through my flesh.
parallel to this vein.
seeping.
bleeding.
pleasurable pain.
but no wound to tend to.
no one to blame.
just this plentiful.
bountiful.
incomprehensible.
stain.
underneath.
underneath your reign.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 1:19 PM UTC
You heard all the things I never said in the empty silence between us.
It's funny, when I say nothing at all I'm telling you everything.
But when everything is nothing and nothing means everything,
the words you don't hear can't exactly feel empty anymore.
And it's not empty space surrounded between us,
there are ghosts of the past flying by
whispering chills down our spines.
Our weak, foolish spines....
We are a throng of bones and blood that we tried putting together
yet standing here in front of you I find I am only falling apart.
The dissonance of our energies is weakening us,
as are the futile attempts at mending something
that was always broken.
And what broke gave us scars that burned
brighter than what we once had.
Like the air between us, we are hesitant to move.
Moving past and moving forward is as hard
as two pedals on a bike going in opposite directions;
we are broken but stuck chasing after one another in circles.
We can get so close but never touch.
I feel the swollen heartbreak from these missing puzzle pieces to our masterpiece
We merely have pain and incomprehension of what we know but can't say
To console the absence of space that will nevermore be complete.
Wavelengths slow, saddened by our disconnection.
Fighting no longer, all that is left to say does not need to be spoken
And so we stand here in silence.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
I can’t help somebody who thinks, or thinks he thinks, that editing a newspaper is censorship, or that throwing bricks is a demonstration while building tower blocks is social violence, or that unpalatable statement is provocation while disrupting the speaker is the exercise of free speech... Words don’t deserve that kind of malarkey. They’re innocent, neutral, precise, standing for this, describing that, meaning the other, so if you look after them you can build bridges across incomprehension and chaos. But when they get their corners knocked off, they’re no good any more, and Brodie (a character in the play, a would be writer) knocks their corners off. I don’t think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little or make a poem which children will speak for you when you’re dead.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
The complete disarrangement of all my senses, myself my I
Is threatened with the bitter sound of uncertain rumour
That possesses an urgency of unwillingness
An incomprehension of thought
The improvised mediocrity of relished indignity
Asinine questions, absurd and ludicrous probing
Accusations and primitive propensities
The deformities of exaggerated obscenities
That blame and brand myself my I as mad
They have stolen liars tongues
Apr 16, 2012
Apr 16, 2012 at 4:20 PM UTC
Blank minds offer anathema
The usurious are sainted
Devout all unknowing
Indoctrinate fragmental ribonuclease
Intentional homogenization
Transfection for incomprehension
Idiocracy I like it willing slaves
and none the wiser
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 10:38 PM UTC
And Jesus said, "He who drinks from my mouth will become as I am and I shall be he"
Gnostic Gospel of Thomas vs. 108
*1
They sang and
they danced in
praise of the
Savior
And I left the church
I walked quickly
and I was at the
water's edge.
A man waist deep
offered to baptize
me in the name
of the Lord...
And I did not stop
Further on, a sorrowful
Mother asked if perhaps
I knew of her son
Jesus…
But I pretended not to hear.
In the forest
the twelve
approached me
with a message
of good news...
But I paid them no mind.
2
And when I came
to a clearing I met
a young man whom
I had always known.
His beard was unkempt
and blood was dripping
from wounds in his hands
and feet.
A crown of thorns sat
upon his head, and blood
trickled down his cheek.
'Do you know me?' he asked.
'Of course I know you!' I shouted.
'I left you behind at the church!
At the river, one of your followers
sought to baptize me and along the
road a Mother spoke your name.
In the forest, your apostles
confronted me with your
message.
Did I not take my leave
of them all?
I thought I was rid of you,
yet here you stand
Tell me! Why do you haunt me?
Why can I not leave you behind?'
3
He grabbed my shoulders
and I felt the pain in all
of my body and in all
of my being
and he asked me again:
'Do you know who I am?'
'You are the Christ!' I cried
'And I have heard your
story from every church and
holy man in the kingdom.
But I want nothing to do
with you!
I want only to leave you
behind and live my life
At this he looked into
my eyes and as his
penetrating stare drew
my senses to his being,
his face began to change.
He was one of the
singing parishioners at
the church.
Then another,
and another until the
likeness of each one
was in him.
Then he was the
man in the river
and the Mother,
and every one
of the twelve
and I stared
in disbelief
He began to take
on the appearance
of everyone I had
ever known and
even those I would
never meet.
His face was changing rapidly:
African, Asian, Spaniard, European,
From every race and every creed
he became everyone who ever was
and everyone who ever will be…
A few I recognized.
Mohamed, Caesar, the Buddha,
Pontius Pilate, Krishna, Herod,
Moses, Pharaoh.
Faster and faster he changed until
I was dizzy with incomprehension.
Then, as quickly as it had begun,
the celestial parade ceased.
He was Jesus again, standing before me.
His hands and feet caked in blood.
The crown of thorns still resting atop
his head.
4
'I do not understand,' I said.
And he smiled.
And again he looked into my eyes.
'You can never leave me behind.'
And as he spoke he began to change again,
And I found myself standing before another image.
One I surely knew well.
There…
In the clearing of a forest
that existed beyond the boundaries
of space and time,
I looked into my own eyes...
And understood.*
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 5:16 AM UTC
When I was in primary school
An old friend told me that I was gay
I didn't understand it
'I'm not gay', I denied to the last that it was true
Even though I knew it
But every time I thought of that sentence and took that with me
A few years later I had a relationship with a guy
Only there was something missing
I didn't know what it was
But during that relationship, I had feelings for a woman
I denied to the last that I was in love with her
Even though I knew it
That made me hesitate
Who am I?
Then meeting one girl was all I needed to comfirm
That I'm bi
I was so in love with her
Because of her I told my parents and all my friends
I was never so beyond all doubt
But then she became more and more doubtful
Even though she is hurting me now
I don't want to lose her and her incredible love
One of the worst feelings in life I think
Please, someone
Wake me up from this big nightmare
Because I don't understand love anymore
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
bathtub overflowing, the kitchen sink a-running,
water water everywhere, everybody, getting a wordy
Saturday po-em, ahem, so only, lonely, love poetry,
high pitches, whimpering, like a three year old chillun,
why not me babe? why not me babe?
words uttered somewhere, everywhere, hourly,
maybe even screamed, sung, shouted outed,
with total justification, incredulous incomprehension,
my ticket unpunched, this fate, an indeterminate sentence,
if only I had a penny for every utterance, be a multi-billionaire
and still dissatisfied
*the isolation au courant makes it a thousand times worse,
sometimes, I hold my own hand, remembering what is touch,
just not to forget, like a lazy eye, a missing limb needy for
scratching, a sensating, sustaining pleasure that sorely
disappoints, for the brilliance of it, is in its eclectic electric,
and a solitary spark fizzles, swallowed up, into disappointing reveries
my eyes wet themselves when I see letters airbone, floating, reforming,
why not me babe?
if mine eyes cannot catch another’s, no across-the-room thermometer saturating stare of farenheightened heat, what good this vision?
left with a single despicable desperate cri du to my conurbation,
why not me babe?
my banana bread aroma flies out the open window to meet
and be greeted across the street, with applause and affection,
but our nostrils cannot taste, our lips forbidden, in this hell,
why not me babe?
the quietude so great, I hear the rhythmic breathing of one who
could be my chosen, my one and only, my love poem, exhaling too,
why not me babe?
but the see-through curtain prohibits strangers exchanging ****** fluids, glances of possibility, and enraged, unengaged, smash all my mirrors, cause they don’t answer my question,
why not me babe?
it’s a reverberated echoing, a slap across my face, married to my cryout, a singular sensation of exasperated silence*
pick up my brass decorative magnifying glass, with twisted ivory handle, examine my hands, my lips, my nose, my credit scores, my personal spaces, my declining weight and bank balance, each excuse, belief,
the white spots decorating my sticking out tongue, thinking there’s another sense I’m forgetting, but all I recall is,
why not me babe? why not me babe?
and that is why only love poetry did not get a love poem today...
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 11:00 AM UTC
Unforeseen flowers bobbing a wind's forever heyday...
submerged as if coral.
I could fit my valley into the shadow, and shadow into
its death with such balance.
What's overcome is sworn to secrecy...formulaic, rotund
and malignant what was prayer...even by all the loose
interpretation it suffocated the uneven, as unknown
factors of the life it's put to.
Here, as here is always concerned--it seems fruit of
Garden variety grows as to confine its worm.
It is here, as here is always concerned--I turn worm-ward...
to ultimately reveal nothing--linger coolly and repulsively.
We've an aversion to things that burrow and avert grasp--
a reward goes out for the head, or piece of such a thing
from the selfsame head.
Why is it our prayers are sent forth to expel the evils
we've gathered?
Prayer's construct is meant to be singular as it stands...
heartfelt--airtight in its sentiment.
Thus, by such definition I believe prayer is no longer
prayer--as it is here, as here is always concerned.
If you were to visualize such a prayer, the object of
devotion would become the objects of devotion to
overcome, conquer the God appealed to.
As an egoist is devoted to the objects of his/her nature...
as it were, an object may slip, avert the worm of such
prayer.
Hence, what does prayer become when its clasped
fingers curl under the spell of a blackening ******
Power lust, the bending, curling of will in prayer form
shape-shifts, and is submitted to God as prayer.
A loathsome possession of plummeting powers feeling
for themselves in adoration at every odd, and odder
angle.
As prayer was meant to be the prodigal son/daughter's
offering to the disclosed, yet undisclosed infinite...
here, as here is always concerned, the line lies to its end
to forego what is endless...unforeseen flowers
bobbing a wind's forever heyday...submerged...as if coral.
Of prayer, now--clasped hands die upon one another,
come to separately...without even the capacity to unify
such experience.
O hands of duality--meant to meet of prayer...kiss of life,
for kiss of death.
Such hands are fit for a prayer viewed by a shaman upon
the deepest cave wall, fireside.
As if two serpents deeply kissing, open-mouthed...world
to world experience is offered up...volleyed, interlocked
by and by...till God intuited as to appease such intimate
impossibility.
Who, or what could wish to keep at bay such words of
being...thereupon to release them to The Word?
Why...none other than we, so cherished by our
incomprehension it's founded us...and thus we must pray!
These two hands taken as token...as it is here, as here is
always concerned--I could fit my valley into the shadow...
and shadow into its death with such balance.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
preface.
majestic adjectives of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes, scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable, incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed - what is sweet - what is impossible.
my days ending is nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of what I’ve got left,
stale panko crumbs,
here come they in 1000 radium-tipped projectiles of
serious humorous self-destruction,
gifted to you few itinerant followers
brave enough to follow me into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
in no particular disorders
a thousand times
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 12:16 PM UTC
I can clearly remember
the moment I realized my daddy wasn’t perfect.
We were in the kitchen,
and it was dark outside.
He said of course gay people should be allowed
to see their loved ones in the hospital and such,
but he wasn’t sure they should be allowed to get married.
It was disorienting in ways I can’t begin to describe.
You just expect things, think there are
things in life that are certain,
and then your dad isn’t sure gay people should be allowed to get married.
There is not a measurement
to explain how much my dad loves me,
It is without bounds.
I know that.
Of that, I am still certain.
But I’ll always have that memory of incomprehension,
when he separated people into an “us”
and a “them”
and I think maybe I was supposed to be in the them column.
We haven’t really talked about it since,
because if he still feels the same,
I’m not sure I can handle knowing that.
To this day,
that’s the only part of him that I’d change.
May 11, 2011
May 11, 2011 at 12:55 AM UTC
I was at a bar,
Against my will,
I don’t drink…
Alcohol.
The people laughing,
Hollering, Wallowing,
And swallowing the
Brew to a counterfeit
Reality…
A reality of invincibility,
A reality of incomprehension,
A reality of abstract visions,
A reality of indiscipline,
A reality of the minds,
A reality of blurriness,
A reality of sheer…
UTTER Stupidity.
They stutter and stumble,
They rock and ****
They slam and slam
More brewed bogus
Reality.
They call it an escape,
But while in that faux-reality
They forget;
There is no reality
More genuine,
More intricate,
More perplexing,
More marvelous,
More sobering,
Than one within sobriety,
Made from all
Natural ingredients.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 5:15 AM UTC
Somewhere in between right and wrong
decisions fall into rain
dissipating delusion
into starry nights of understanding
bringing meaning to abstraction
drawing love from attraction
eradicating hybrid thought
from incomprehension.
Only through what is not meant
to be understood can a man
hold his emotions
like pressure points drawn on dolls
rising like the bubble
that almost made it to air
but burst on the surface
of silence.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 11:12 AM UTC