"indexing" poems
Late night. Footsteps.
Crane necks and girders.
Fog lifts. The wind cries.
Steel bones in moonlight
I'm out
so late now
and it's Sunday night and Summer's ending
soon.
I'm aging
with questions
fermenting in my mouth
ignored for years
Fenced off. Unfinished
project shelved and waiting
for next Spring.
Cool night eclipsing
years spent indexing,
answers mislaid and
blueprints unrolling
Components rusting,
crane necks and girders.
Steel bones in moonlight.
Tight lipped and staring.
Fall comes
construction
halts now and the walls stand half
complete
And outside
the chain link
shrugging off the cold and
still wondering when
Step through unfinished
building. Get home. Shelved
until next Spring.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
i am a robot
a cognizant machine
powered by electricity and
programmed from birth
regurgitating how to think
dress act talk
by television monitors
Salvation is dividing by 0
Originality
404: page not found
Error
Err0r
The perplexing complexities
To translate in text
unnerving absurdity
Indexing apex
If ever I were so politely inclined
to initiate self-destruct sequence
in 5... 4... 3... 2...
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
“Rolling Rock” it reads, fatefully so, so I’d hope he’s no Sisyphus. Bringing corner markets drought with pocket money, he’s perhaps overlooked by the commoner a proletariat. dating me in simply ways, peeing from the next room, my alone time, and indexing my forefinger: canine and biscupid, telling me to feel the ****** up’d-ness inside his skull. I claim otherwise but I suppose within fingers lies fallacy!
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
poetry is gymnastics, plain and simple, it requires a good stash of words and a tongue like the skeleton of an gymnast, each part mandible, nimble, snail goo; or at least a pair of eyes like a kaleidoscope content with crude images that phonetic symbols are. oh the day when you're kicked out from the garden of the dictionary & thesaurus rex (the tree of good and evil that you have to eat from) - once you've abandoned that canonical foundation of the indexing fruit that keeps you aligned and in formation with a lazy vocabulary, once this ejection takes place: you're basically skydiving.
why do philosophers have this
rigid and predictable
vocabulary? god they're so rigid
with words when they
begin their so called "adventure"
into systematisation.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
i know that the song
replicated by the doors
of howlin' wolf's *back door
man* is about **** ***
but girl, and why ain't i eager
to please that department of yours
and instead applaud homosexuality?
мама pоссия would
care to brief me in education
for a ballet or an opera
of tsarina catherine ******* a horse?
well watch my welsh ave of the two fingers
**** you... one up your **** and
one of them indexing civility, looking cool
so the sun might shine.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
These are my words,
That is all I have,
My words,
There's nothing much I can do with them beyond,
The fact that they are my words,
Words in every which way and direction
But they are only just words,
I can't say more than, that these are my words,
It's like saying these are my *****
That's all there is,
Cats in the kitchen,
Dogs in the den,
And words in my pen,
Is all the words I have.
I will go on about words,
And word a worded string of wordy words,
Pointing to more words, about the words
In Sen ten sing the moment.
With only more wording,
Wording my way around the tongue twisting,
Rugged rocks,
Around which I ran these words.
Death in these words I find,
Of words that fly in rhyme,
For the well organized mind,
said Dumbledore,
Death is the next great adventure.
So death of time,
A moment in time,
As the charcoal crumbles,
In embers of the fire place,
To lace up those shoes,
And dry up your face,
As you try in this race,
Foot toe and land,
Arches and soles in arcs untold,
Tales of old,
For they unfold,
To behold, the mold of a worn out idea,
Scrambling around ikea,
More furniture than choice can bear,
You there, you stare facing the fact that these are words,
They're just words wording their way a long
In formation,
Formed in the foundation,
Of the crustacean,
Serotonergic endocrine **** sapien.
You were warned,
Wordy words, like thirsty birds that sing by the pond,
Or squawk at the wondering herd,
A floundering scourge,
Casting the turn of the word,
Spelling a wizards wand in firm,
Hands that squirm.
Wands carved from the branches of falling words,
As they tunnel through the synapse,
Into the time lapse,
words that take up time and space,
Without the forethought for time and place,
Or rhyme and grace. just the chase,
The chase of words tailing words.
Hold your marks,
Get set ready,
And they're off, racing dogs out the gates,
High tailing it down the tracks,
Number four nudging ahead of the pack,
A smooth burst of sprinting acceleration,
Like sprouting leaves, of spring growing trees,
Time lapsed for precision contrast comparison.
Across the horizon and into the fly zone,
Switching direction at the swipe of a hand,
Key board hopping digital indexing,
Words that take the flip side of walking upright hips
You will see here, that.
Word over there,
This words over here,
Words from way back then,
Or words from in the now.
Maybe words to become.
Infinite motion in a limited space with experiential time at speeds of grace.
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 12:11 PM UTC