"indicators" poems
Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. A good day to die, the Apaches say.
Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing about the effects of your anger
unless you want to be an angry man forever.
Becoming knowledgeable is the best defense
against your insignificance. OK about being alone.
Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.
Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
In last night’s movie, a young writer
and an older, married with children French woman
fall in love. They did not meet during a village massacre
and money is no object, Manhattan.
But after everything has happened
she cannot leave her children, not even for love,
because of love, the love that brooks no serendipity.
In the subsequent late night movie, a wealthy
altruistic doctor arranges for the ******
of his neurotic concubine. His guilt
provides us with an opportunity to consider
the concepts of faith and forgiveness,
that all will be well in the end
after a period of meaningless suffering.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
What if love became so overwhelming, such an inextinguishable force that its true purpose betrayed itself completely?
To the point that even the utterance of those three powerful words, that at a different junction had held such promise, now left a distinct taste of uncertainty on the lips and a ringing of insanity in the ear drum. What else does one say when the most pure form of expression and commitment echo with distain and regret?
Even as I slide into introspection, diving deep to the point of no return, there seems to be no logical path, no penance for the monster I have created. Through my own autonomous actions and neglect I have reached this dark place. Perhaps I indulged beyond a point where thoughts and actions have boundaries. A broken compass , spinning without meaning. All indicators in tact, every cog and point in place, magnetism lost to exaggerated memories, fears and regrets.
Self delusion is a drink that is best served with company. With companionship the mind tends to believe its own meddling. Delusions are mistaken for truth and biased opinions blur with reality.
All roads lead to pain. Every so often a spark jumps to the surface of my consciousness. A pin ***** exclaiming hope. It’s a glitch of my own creation. The belief in happy endings and love prevailing. That love is more powerful than any disappointment, mistake or breech in trust. My reality had been resurfaced and augmented by the media. Love stories are just that. Stories. A wave of manufactured hope, washing over the beach of the human psyche. Every grain of sand is washed back to the sea just as it has arrived.
Happiness, a flame burning on a tiny wick. Enjoy the heat while it lasts for it is going to be a cold winter. And the power is out.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
Clicketyclick —
sickly screens,
shooting
sixty
picture-frames
per second
Tickety ticktock, rapid-fire
photon cannons,
ripping holes
through our
faces
rectangles,
riddled with anxiety ridden
read scripts
the resultant
retinal scarring
Wicketywicked, weary eyes,
dripping with serrated pixels
triple dotted,
typing-awareness indicators
create silly suspenses,
inducing temporal
dramas,
emotional
micro-traumas
every second a slice
through my,
now practically nonexistent,
patience
Am I a server,
or am I a servant?
Eyes, sunken, with
withered skin
I'm waiting for my fix
Ding-ding
Bloop!
Pinggg
Here comes the dopamine! —
—Clicketyclick
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
a lupine prayer
to bear and bull
cry wolf
cry wolf
cry wolf
now look into his eyes
until you think like I do
and then take a desperate man
for his last penny
(finance options available)
go long on a cheeky Nando's
followed by
no
inflation
constant
expansion
short the small print
and profit from the fight
against pollution by
investing in the future
but as returns don't come cheap
diversify and purify the self
the Ganges is so polluted
it has gall bladder cancer
the main economic indicators
are telling us that
inflation is set to jump, while
British statisticians are optimistic
that the housing ladder
will continue to defy gravity
as it is an export barometer
with a blue eyed quant inside
crying wolf
crying wolf
cry wolf
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC
It only takes one step to walk over the edge
And if your heart is as cracked as the canyon under your feet,
I suggest you back away from it
Because the split rocks scattered around you
Are not good indicators of
The split seconds it would take
For your hands to reach the heavens and
Your face to connect with the ground beneath
And although your only thought is
Whether you would finally be able to fly
And reach the other side
You are only a human
Standing with your barefeet pressed into sand
And your toes kissing a ledge
And although you can't fly right now
That doesn't mean you never will
But it only takes one step to walk over the edge.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
You left me with scars
Deeper than those I’ve given myself
With only your gritty hands.
You took a beautiful act
And stained it with grease
Ruining it for any future lover.
Yet, you used my experience with others
To justify your actions
Because you “love me so much more.”
You abused me like a child;
Expecting loyalty
And punishing me regardless.
But you “loved” me;
You manipulated me
Into thinking it was my fault.
If I stopped letting you explore
The body you felt entitled to
You threatened suicide.
I was poisoned into believing
That you actually cared for me
When you were breaking me slowly every day.
We were best friends
Until my mind caved in on itself
And my body was too broken to love.
I chose my life over yours.
You’re suicide instead of my repeated ****
Yet you’re still breathing.
Parts of me died every time you touched me
And when I felt incapable of continuing
You offered money in return.
Considering my financial situation
You knew I couldn’t say no
So I sold you my body.
Emotionless you left me
Stealing breath from my lungs
And life from my veins.
I gave up
Once paid, I left you
But I’d see you anyways.
On the bus.
In the halls.
That day of the final payment.
An envelope full of money
Left me feeling even more empty
Realizing what I lost for it.
With it you left a note
And your prized possession
The indicators of your impending death.
You said you were sorry.
You said you loved me.
You lied.
While I’m happy you never took your life
I’m dead inside still
Because of you.
You took ownership of my body
Without my permission
And you left it broken and incomplete.
Those pieces of me you stole
I will NEVER get back
And you don’t even know you’re a ******
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Debtors and creditors
Declining stock
High sales
heartless flock
Profit is aim
Impractical gain
Weather is good
Never cared to enjoy the rain
Captured soul
Under the debris of files
Running one after the other
Honesty dying in front of lie
Stylishly tucked in suits
And heart tailor made of wood
As only then will justiy
What we did and what we should
Hitting hard with financial indicators
Stock in hand or sundry creditors
Breathe out this craziness
Seek pleasure in the little things
And make life a lot better
Manisha
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
I wish you told me that wounding my knees was a part of the joy and that my hair already looked perfect in waves, and that bedtime stories weren't lame. I wish you told me these when I was a kid, instead of giving me the cliche ******** — those spilled stories over spilled beers about how you were forced to marry Mom instead of that girl named Beth.
We were caught in a story, the one with that school money thoughtlessly flung on the floor, road trips arguments and drunk-driving over eighty, and nonexistent goodnight kisses and hugs. As a kid, I believed those were the indicators of affection and love. But they're not and had I known that earlier, I wouldn't have stayed with someone who walked all over my mental health
with someone who took me on a desk and spit knives in his drunken slurs,
with someone who dialed another girl's number while thinking I was asleep,
with someone who only dialed my number while he thought his girl was asleep,
with someone who faded in the curtains after he saw my razored wrists,
with someone who said I was his ***** and called it his idea of love.
Had I known it earlier, I wouldn't have trusted men who hurt me just as you had. Had I known it earlier, I wouldn't have stayed with someone who had a ****** up notion of what love was. Had I known it earlier, I wouldn't have stayed with someone who was exactly like you.
Dad, had I known earlier that abuse wasn't supposed to be confused with love, I would have stayed alone.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 10:43 PM UTC
You can learn a lot about a person just by looking at their hands.
Is the skin picked off, do scabs and blood surround the nails?
Are their fingernails bitten down so much that small slivers of blood show atop each one, where nail should be?
These small indicators can point toward anxiety, and troubling lives. You should always remain respectful, because you don't know what a person is going through.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
I see the road sign for Memory Lane,
I made myself promise I will
Never take that road again.
It's overgrown with thorns and hedges,
Filled with potholes and jagged edges
of the beer bottles I smashed last time I was here.
It's hardly paved with good intentions,
Now I'm stuck with interventions,
The indicators in my car
Do I go left? Down that lane and face destruction?
Or do I go right? And have new introduction
to life?
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
Listed bookmarks of old, and baited non-benifit of the doubters.
A kind rewinded word of advice heard, pattern of choices and actions made a bested resounding thunderous sound,
near then , how come the doubters tested and warned to the trap not come, where graced benefit of the doubt be a stated consideration on that very **** day?
To the impact indicators blinking a sudden turn of the coat or is it the tail wagged the dog in the fog of a psychological electronic war that must be raging in the minds of the internet cheerful happy people as not it has in the walk and mind of mine, for i laid bare so as to share the scare i knew to find , and thus almost lost it all , wit correction, but you cast a guilt-ed hazy trash to one more that willing to best you and test you for the proven faith and trust he already gave, oh wait, or was that simply entertainment for the view of you ? so, um, sit down, you could have listened to me and gave benefit of the doubt, or did you forget what all this is truly all about? saving those whom have and are being manipulated into utter turmoil and death by these blood sport games in these windows... remember there "friend"? or is it ol craig and his lists are totally as bad off as little ol me, for shurly you see, that even she is free to some degree and will as i have walked all through , forgiven, yet my dear friend, do you think such grace for me? considering,most forget why the hell we have been doing all this and i walked you all through such ******** things... oh, sorry, i am sure you were getting around to that human trafficking thing, right? well, at least there are good people doing that as we speak, and for them we are grateful, are you?
Oh and no i am not mad nor upset, just disappointed, i always tell you what is coming and to choose. and still i harm you not even if it harm me.
The Unforgiven I,II and III - Metallica - (LYRICS)
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i-HiAEXQP38
Motörhead - Ace of Spades (slow Acoustic version)
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tc-PVTj9UCk
AC DC - Who Made Who lyrics
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuFq3ynnBo8
AC DC Ride On
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugwlIQ8K4Vs
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
We're like two subways passing each other in a tunnel, you and I
There are lights that dot the sides of tunnel,
attempting to guide us through,
but we hardly acknowledge them.
We can see each other in the darkness,
the subtle outline of metal,
the red and white indicators of our existence.
We're carrying so many people in our cars,
people from our past that sit in cars,
each representing different stages of who we are.
And we try and steer these subways through the dark,
searching for one another.
Yours just as full as mine.
The rickety tracks push metal against metal that ring through the hollow of our ears.
And we become distracted by this screeching,
this friction between the rails and our wheels,
and lose sight of each other.
Every station we pull into -
Museum, Queen's Park, St. Patrick -
we expect to catch a glimpse of one another -
going in opposite directions but comforted by the fact that we are in the same station.
We might pick up the same passenger but at different locations,
at different times.
Our paths cross haphazardly.
But I keep wishing that one day
all the lights will point towards me,
and your wheels will stop inches from mine.
And you will look into my cars
and see all those people that have made me,
and I will look into your cars and see all the people that made you
and you will realize
and you will say
"I don't want to keep going from station to station.
I've found my passenger."
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
A speckle of light in the dark
a thought, or is it a feeling?
I approach it cautiously,
protective gloves, sterilized tweezers, chemical test kits
Douse the specimen in iodine, apply indicators,
flatten, view under a microscope, put the images through filters,
Compare and contrast with previous samples.
I strain myself to determine its nature most accurately.
Is this feeling irrational?
Maybe justified, yet exaggerated?
Or real, true, pure...
I can't tell.
I bend, I break, I wring what's left of my mind dry
but these methods are proven insufficient.
no way to differentiate
I take off the gloves.
ELIMINATE
So there's nothing in the way
THEM
As I crush their wriggling bodies between my fingers.
ALL
All I do is turn life to dead silence
It's safe after all. unchanging, stable.
Pure black feels almost soft.
Nothing but void. Just this.
So simple.
Sane.
but next time, I'll try again,
there must be
A different way
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
Contradicting indicators
Past experience
Scraped away
Accumulated iterations
My a priori
Yesterdays
Final augmented reality
Melding of layers
Cleansing clay
My hallowed now where pagan past was
Empty white parchment
For today
r ~ 27Feb14
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
Concise, smooth
... in the mind's motor
Change the gears
... in the mind's motor.
Smooth transition
Up & Down
Forward & Reverse
The clutch
is not the crutch
the crucifix logo
on the bonnet
covering the forehead.
Pain on the dashboard
Diviners, decals or designators
Inflictors, innovators or inflexions
Pain on the Dashboard
Ignition, perception, cognition
waits for the turn key
in the soft tissue starter motor.
Turning indicators
flicker flash
amber red
there is no green.
Headlamps a dull glow
in the white hot agony
of the parking lot.
Robyn Youl.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
In a growling, mixed parts automobile resembling
A scrap-metal Frankenstein
A driver pauses at a green light
Stalling parking lot traffic on its steaming blacktop treadmill
To greet an old friend through a missing window
A father in full camo and combat boots drags a nic-stick
And guides his wife and children through sardine walkways
In ninety degree June heat on a Boston street
His daughter swims in his thick wool, long-sleeved army jacket
Beaming
A lonely teen with fear tears and a pay-to-go-phone
Calls for help, and receives no reply
The frustration drains from his cursing voice
He shakes the hand of the silent one who was with him all along
Sirens wail, cars clear, leaving an empty trail
A snake pilot shoots the gap and ditches his stagnant lane to tail
The ambulance turns off its indicators; the patient didn’t make it
Their apparent apostle gets home a few minutes early
A blue peace keeper sleeping in his loser cruiser
Does not stir as tax dollar drool dribbles from his lips
A speeding truck nearly creams a pink backpack
Somewhere, a woman is *****
A husband and his frail partner leave the office of a medicine man
She walks aimlessly towards a wall before she is redirected
Careful Magoo, he says with love
He spoke with the patience of an ocean
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
With fickle Freddy Frosts first showing
and the rising of ******* and
limbs fine tactile hairs, laguna,
filaments of sensation *****
quivering and striving
stretching toward a now absent warmth,
she always did have her sunny side showing, bare legs tucked under her
buttocks, leaning back on her hands
under that big Totara tree, face tilting
skyward and sandals kicked aside,
searching out her brighter sunny day
even now, with leaves falling down
the autumnal mix of ambers
Loamy greens and wooded browns
the earth cool and damp underfoot
her naked legs, arms defiant, barely crying for freedom!
Shivered morn's and eve's descend quickly
winters first indicators bringing
a refusal to employ blankets
hope tightly clinging to summers
silk sheets from Portugal,
feather light, soft as air,
just how she likes her thread count
high and expensive, sumptous,
(her pedantic obsession with fine linens)
totally ineffectual as calefactor,
so, she shivers on stubborn as ever,
Stay summer! Stay!
Even her loyal steadfast cicadas
have fallen silent now, summers last guard fallen to shortened days
and longer lonelier cool nights,
it is now she starts to miss a warm body
companionship, a worthy bedfellow
one who will not protest her cold toes
vicious advances on their warmer flesh
The sacrifice well worth the reward
of her warmest, ardent affections
tender embraces and softly spoken
murmurings of love and passion,
her full surrender to your body
with hers, she gives good, good love,
both body and mined soul deep too.
The countdown to clocks pushed onwards
pulls a wustful sigh from blueish lips
she is underdressed, flimsy chiffon
on a day made for heavier cloths
persists with summer daydreaming
of warm strong hands restoring her joy
under cold nights cloaked bed covers,
hot stolen kisses from a winter lover.
J.C. "littlebird" 05/04/2019.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 5:19 PM UTC
What does the rain sound like?
Sometimes if it's quiet in the house
I can just hear a faint
Drumming on my ceiling
During the worst storms.
But I want to hear the quiet of a spring shower
Warm soft sprinkles of rain
Not just the thunderstorms
What does a cats a purr sound like?
I can feel it's soft vibrations
Under the soft, silky fur
But the sound has never
Not once been interpreted by my ears
What does my lovers breath sound like?
As I feel it tickle my skin
And see his chest moving so slightly in sleep
What do footsteps sound like?
Sometimes I can feel them
The vibrations on the floor
The indicators of coming and going
What do these little things
Little bits of life sound like?
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
┈┏━╮╭━┈╭━-━-━--━╮
┈┃┏┗┛┓┃╭ⓞⓘⓝⓚ┃
┈╰┓▋▋┏╯╯╰━-━--━━╯
╭━┻╮╲┗━━━━╮╭╮┈
Fata Morgana !
Crunch the numbers and look at the data. I’m like:
Measurable outcomes for pleasurable incomes—
incorporate outsourced inhuman resources in-house. I’m like:
indicators for vindicators.
It’s all about the data, mama—
so man up, sit down, and move forward
like hard apps on software, like ram on a gigabyte. I’m all:
sit up, move down, man forward;
benchmarks as milestones, stone benches as mile-markers
measuring the change-talk: obstetric metrics
played out for pregnant pauses.
It’s about throwing out the carry-on
It’s about unpacking the lost luggage
It’s about documenting best practices of undressed actresses
until the data-driver fails the breathalyzer.
The data tells a story: memes of mastery cast in plastery.
DUCK the FATA (morgana) !
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
My sunbeam in the morning -the field of energy that circumnavigates the past . The tenon securing thoughts -preventing miscommunication , reticent , careful what to share ...To remain steadfast in private battles devoid of fear , the molecule in the scent plume that wolves can lock in on with uncanny precision inside the odor gradient ! Look malevolence in the eye and not blink .. To be cognizant and intensely focused as opposed to haphazard , omnipresent ...Receive indicators and triggers , process them in their totality , exercising their potential benefits with caution at whirlwind speed ...
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
The dark crescents
under your eyes
become
indicators of
stress and wear.
Wrinkles line
your forehead
where smooth skin
once presided.
Cracks
in your heart
become visible
to those around you --
it's the absence
of light
in your eyes,
it's the lack
of enthusiasm
in your laugh.
At the end of
the day,
you find yourself
staring into the mirror...
Wondering when life
passed you by.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
In a panic, having lost control of the vehicle at high speed and swerving off the Data Highway, I assessed the impending impact and made quick mental notes for a feasibility study as the stationary tree moved closer rapidly. In a flash, ultimate outcomes passed before my eyes, like the newest edition of a celestial Clearslide/PowerPoint/Prezi presentation tool:
• Data drives performance as winter wind whips the data-driven snow.
• Real-time numbers are to outcomes what God is to Heaven.
• Data supersedes Life as Christ supersedes the angels.
• Vigorous data collection enhances and informs rigorous data selection.
• Data is to outcomes as outcomes are to income.
• Objectives tied to measurable outcomes bring numbers back into the game, turning benchwarmers into real-time benchmarks.
• Data quality ensures accountability, facilitates transparency, reducing redundancy.
• Performance indicators are ultimate vindicators, turning competitors into partners and sustaining creative growth by creating sustainable change.
• Data are plural – but only to the Brits…
These bulleted staff-development phantasms surged into my mind right before the massive, jarring crunch when my vehicle smashed into the Tree of Life that grows just off the Data-Driven Highway. I cannot recall the moment of collision, nor the impact assessment study that preceded it. It seemed many, many Continuing Staff Improvement sessions later when I awoke to the soothing pastel shades and muted color scheme of a projected graphic full of squiggly arrows, cyber-hieroglyphics and professionally-presented slides filled with corporate jargon. I was finally in Data Heaven where the numbers never lie but rise to live forever.
I had achieved my final measurable objective!
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 11:34 AM UTC
I lay here watching
Which layers are spinning...
And what direction?
My mind dissects the clouds
Like a fog being burned by sunlight...
During the late morning.
This pattern above me
Rather pleasing... yet confusing...
I'm on the right,
I find it yielding left...
There's designs I can't name
Animals I can make...
Yet they all run away as I move
And the clouds spin trails...
Watching them evolve
Like a lifelong time lapse.
The drawn up moisture....
The streams of steam condensed...
Swirled and forged into cotton-like pillows of uncertainty.
The colors are the Indicators of moods
The light and mysterious
White and normal
Green and envious of the oncoming destruction
Black and gray depicting ends of sunshine filled days...
The life underneath grows, quivers, and in series of decays...
Some offer condensed clouds as flavored swirls in mugs...
But I rather watch the ones that love
Carrying wind and rain...
Have swirls of their own and a Name.
Though subject of objections
The will of nature has a forge...
To churn this stream of water around
Like spun sugars of cotton candy.
Much like a carnival, life is a surprise
An unyielding wild ride.
Directions are unclear
If i will be here
I have watched the life of
The swirl in this giant mug
Smack the coastlines with giant hugs...
Some rough love...
Though oddity
Have you seen what clouds can do
When spun around oak trees?
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC