"instinctual" poems
I have a special talent.
I have the ability to taste peoples personalities.
It sounds weird, I know.
But this is not a fictitious writing.
It happens only on the very first interaction with someone.
Only in person obviously-
Not through text or the phone.
I feel it-
Rather, I taste it in the first words they speak.
The first time our eyes meet.
And in one instance, the first hug.
I guess I don't "taste it"
Its more instinctual-
It almost feels like a memory.
Not like I just imagine it.
Its more like-
When you think someone said your name when they didn't.
Sometimes people taste like the smell of rain.
Some, like salt water.
some, like cloth or toothpaste.
On an occasion-
Sweet Orange Soda.
I guess I don't know if its actually personalities I am "tasting"
It just so happens that the Fellows that taste like burning rubber, or rotten cheese end up being the ones that just cant get along with me.
Its hard not to judge-
When my body does it at the instant.
Maybe its all about mannerisms, and subconscious memories.
Its odd.
Ill stick to my friends that taste like Mint and Orange sodas-
Fruit and cake dough-
Than those-
who taste like moldy bread.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
Amid the verbose magicians
Seeking kinships
And sailing deep into their arduous mists
Watching them peddle their afternoon
To a handful of smiling children holding their breath
Amazed in gentle body trick
The older men of age
Leaning deep into their creased chins
Stroking the grizzled fat
Blinding light of soul
Staring down the barrel of life
Striking the enemy one last time
And yet smiling
sober,
Met of match,
taking care of their kids.
Then there's the cold-clocked dudes
On the phone pushing buttons
In a button-up raglan
Lost indistinct
the promised land
The golden shores swept away by
inconvenient time
Left shopping in an auto mall
"Won't you look at the time?"
7.07 APR
Boy what a steal!
And Steve maddened and screamed
As the lines blurred instinctual between opposing teams
And the oven dinged a great alabaster slant
Leaning towards the new millenitants
Rise up!
***** the wheel
Turn the axel from pistons
To alkaline metal
And doubt with great monumental
Quality
That the machine borders all
And we cannot retreat
And while I sift bouyantly between the waves
Searching the puzzle piece within the molecules
Reconnecting with the things
And representing
dreams on a 66 hertz screen
I call rather failing
Towards a black rocked shore
Towards the sweet Dorigen
Of my dreams
Finding an integral of time
And space
And calculating the intangible slope
Of my desmise
With the imaginary constiutent
Of that lighted mind.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
a man privately asks, can you help?
you say, sure-no-hesitation
let me think on it for a day or two, he says
yet you act even before he comes back,
too late, you say, when he returns,
too late, he repeats in puzzlement,
yup, my check is in the mail,
cause one senses the need is dire plus,
plus you well recall the immutable obligation when
a vague commitment of “just ask” was inked in a long ago message,
a poem born from/in the days when you slept in the car on the street
this vague promissory,
a more enforceable judgement in your own court of law
than any state construct or the judgmental eyes of a silenced god
word, honor, do.
thus it begins, an unwritten contract inked,
an egregious interest rate of 0% proffered and agreed,
commences a plain white envelope trickle,
a check inside, by postal mail, slowly it came,
month by month, inch by inch, Niagara Falls ^
years go by, and then comes a day,
when the accompanying check and its gift wrapped note says,
Paid In Full!
and so much for the tedious minutiae...
*like kindness, I do,
Thank You and Your Welcome
are high on my list of proofs of
daily human extensions existential,*
Paid in Full,
*now rests at the top of the list
let me be blunt, the thrill of being a party
to a deal with no handshake, just coated in the
honorable words waterproof sealant,
with a person I likely may never meet,
made me so better assured of whom many claim I am,
a mathematical proof revered and kept mind inscribed,
it was an aspirational **** an unforeseen monthly blunt,
the best feeling good smile,
a kick in the pants about what really matters
being paid twice over and me,
getting by far,
the humanity confirmation,
the better half of the deal
write too often of honor,
and yet, will instinctual do again,
again overpowering my rays of will,
for there is no deflection, only reflection
for the glorious riches gifted and received,
without compare
the return on my honorable investment the best ever*
oh brotherhood, oh brotherhood,
I am paid in the currency coined from brotherhood...
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 11:30 AM UTC
*chaste pecks from the super-sonic youth
numb lips flutter to the hollowed cheeks of normality
no longer the hand-prints on the guide book to hostility
a pamphlet of rudimentary teachings;
the principles of tolerance and rebellion and acceptance of human beings
a concoction of suppressed psychotic behavior, quick wit, and center of satirical tease
constantly moving with heavy footsteps and heavier hearts
their minds and bodies plagued with actions from a deserted youth
soul lusting over the naivety of people before self-actualization; how crude
do they call it an existential crisis or the daily life of a agoraphobic nobody
shouts from the depths of caged fears that scrape the oblivious flesh in their brain; a bit gaudy
mother, sister, brother, father how your words crush the knots of comfort that line my internal organs
bleeding from the pores of my screams; streams of moon-beams shooting out my eyes; oh, not again!
stomping our metaphorically spiked toenails against the idealism of pop culture
oh, my, how adolescence is the worst kind of torture
cherry slushies lined with cigarettes to create a whirl-pool of nostalgia
recreational drugs and ironic situations to ease our instinctual sense of proverbial nausea
loud-mouthed demons spawned out of clothes-hangers and emotional turmoil
show up in our nightmares that we nick-name ‘a good place to contemplate suicide’
repeated imagery stacked like flap-jacks in the mouths of blissed-out sociopaths
too self-indulgent to include us in to their personal stories so we can observe, record, and assess
i don’t perceive doctors to be particularly and predominantly just and true
but i one time met a doctor who told me ‘being a teenager is perhaps the hardest thing you could ever do’*
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
for Lori, Riley and Kendrick
the questioning words jump off the page,
into two hands transforming,
words shape shifting into
multicolored ink stained fingers,
now, all a chokehold on my brain,
my throaty gasps rasping from
a simplistic convolution -
single questioning deserving an answer
what are you made of?
the obvious answers left in the slow lane,
bone, tissue, rivers and arteries of blue bloods,
just oil and fuel of a containership,
but the cargo carried, that’s the real stuff
you have insight inside that cannot be seen,
self-survival instincts that morph into morals,
our shared air affects you differently,
a sense of defending, caring,
costless and costliest simultaneously,
spaghetti strands strong sinewed intertwining,
into a better human than most
to call you hero is wrongly insufficient,
but the thesaurus lends me no substitute,
weep, I do,
as the spring and summer blushing green
will not be seen by you at all, and by me,
seen now so differently,
when thinking of
soil-born courage instinctual that has no name,
but grows only in nature
what are you made of?
we know now, but knew not well,
that thing that makes you leap first,
was all you, the entirety of the best,
that exists, existed, as reminders to us,
to mine it, wear it,
medal it upon our fabric
*you three,
breathe it back, exhale it from where ever you are,
that trace chemical odor in our atmosphere,
of life-giving sweetness, a rebirthing chlorophyll freedom
that we humans all desperately need,
even just to know it exists,
and inform us*
what we need to be made of
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 5:43 PM UTC
truly make believe
The Sign of A fine mind
The Intellectual, the instinctual, the imaginational, the three dimensional
A trinity forte
The Sign of Insanity
This Absent flesh left behind
Mumbling def and blind
That rare gaze into the day after
I want you to know I remain intensely aware of you
I may peak into tomorrow without ignorance of today
But
You already know I can see through my eye lids.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
1 Kings 15:24- "Then Asa rested with his ancestors and was buried with them in the city of his father David. And Jehoshaphat his son succeeded him as king."
Hand passes baton
Race not about runners
An objective not at odds
To something further than singular
It is about the passing
Dedicated motion
Maintaining of
Exchange at maximum speed
Invigorating something else
Notion of familial
Virtues vested
In a completement
Of the passing on
And a carrying of values
So well learned
From another before
And His trust given
Rewards of a relay
Are plural
With an instinctual handing off
Of Faith
In a mentor before
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
This morning, out in lightly falling snow, I heard geese
as flights of them flew overhead. Like a shot
I was ten again, Grammy and I at the lake. I’d sit in the bow
of my canoe, pulled awkwardly ashore, neck craned back to watch the sky.
I was always sad to see them go; their calls so many cold goodbyes.
Ice encrusted water slushed against the dock in slow motion waves.
It was time to seek new horizons, where waves
of Floridian waters would embrace the geese.
My grandmother said that every new adventure started with goodbyes
to one thing or another. If I were ever to have a shot
at following my dreams, there’d be farewells as I reached for the sky.
Instinct would lead me onward to my accomplished bow.
One year Momma and Poppa Goose stayed behind, a nest in the bow
of my boat. The wintery sky turned black with departing waves.
They would call out as the flying ones filled the sky.
Wounded wing grounded Poppa. (Canada geese
mate for life.) Momma would not leave her mate, recently shot
during hunting season. She would not yet say her goodbyes.
This, then, was the winter of no cold goodbyes.
Before school, pony tailed hair with ribboned bow,
blowing in the stiff breeze, I’d take a shot
at keeping ice from the edge of the lake, waves
arrowing out as they swam. The geese,
with an itch in their wings, anxious for a return to their sky.
That summer Poppa introduced his flock to the sky,
practiced formational takeoffs leading to goodbyes.
Clouds overhead gathered gray with unfallen snow as the geese
took flight. My two watching for a moment, dipping heads in an elegant bow,
before joining in the aerial ballet of strong winged waves.
Grammy’s strong hand gripped my shoulder, then-- the parting shot.
Grammy joined the geese beyond the horizon. No miracle shot
or endless love could keep her with me. Heaven was in the sky.
I knew she was watching although there’d been no time for final waves.
Her new adventure started without time for goodbyes.
Outside, snow blanketed as I cried myself to sleep. Her final bow
had been silent, but she’d been telling me, as had the geese.
Overhead the geese are shaftless arrows shot
from an instinctual bow piercing the morning sky
with their raucous goodbyes. Time waves.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
Such useless paper
when created
are given to greedy and idiotic people
whose only instinctual intentions is to spend and create
more...
More of what?
what is the useless paper
It doesn't grow on trees
But
actually
it
is
a
tree
maybe 17000
of them
And they have the audacity to destroy those trees children?
and parents?
and history!!!!
Those faded green papers of money
fulled of BACTERIA and viruses
transporting on human beings
as though a retaliation from god
As God planned to reigned over the corrupted America
But I take that green dollar and spend it
knowing full well
that there is something scarier then God's Wrath
Money
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
Laying naked in my bed,
I’m thinking about you
And all the raunchy things we do
Hot sweaty skin moves rhythmically against the satin
Craving one another’s touch
So overwhelming it can sometimes be too much
Beginning with a tender stroke,
Escalating to a choke
Still full of heat and untamed desire
I yearn for you to take me higher
Away from my reality to a place of instinctual bliss
Where nothing is more satisfying then your ardent kiss
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 7:11 AM UTC
The wandering hours
Create pondering towers
When instead of talking
You are always walking
Steadily ahead of me
Like you're dead to me
Like a small centipede
Walking for centuries
With the intent to be free
Yet constantly ambulatory
So we become slaves to your movement
When settling would be an improvement
You begin to freely flake
As I start to starve
You say let them eat cake
And my heart you carve
Into servings appropriate for your appetite
While I know something isn't right
But still forced to accept this plight
Of being your minor distraction
Chained by my love's infraction
Of settling on you
I shouldn't stay
But I bet I do
I wish I loved or hated you a little more
So I'd know what to do
As it stands I'm always looking out the door
But I'm unable to move
I want to stick around and see if you do something amazing
Like love me back
Instead of attack
With your acidic apathy
You mercilessly grapple me
And never decide to let go
Of love you never let show
We've been driving down this road for a while
And for the last million miserable miles
You've presented me unpredictable trials
With your nonchalant instinctual style
You've let yourself become extremely impaired
As I understandably grow more and more scared
I feel the answer is in the love we seldom share
But you're never lost when you're going nowhere
And I cannot follow your wandering stare
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 3:02 AM UTC
Fluctuating back and forth on the idea of how to relieve
The theme of cynicism throughout your life;
Tough like nails: too stubborn to let go of whatever
They were hammered into; the hits we take
Make us unstable and unmovable from certain aspects.
You chose to Stitch your eyes up
With a thin piece of cynical string and a metal needle.
Threading the idea of light and dark in each vessel,
Causing your body parts to glow and show
Off the direction of ideas, in out and down,
But never up, for the sake of falling for the
Instinctual trust and hope humans so conveniently thrive for.
Conquered and obtained the conflict from your child
Hood, fluctuating on the idea of morally right
And morally wrong. Cough, cough, cough. Right
Lung punctured by stale smoke, your lips twitch in
The environment. Blood swells in your veins, forget
That women’s ******* are to feed her children.
Wipe the grin off the old man whose sipping warm
Whiskey, tell him his wife is six feet under and partying
With the demons he drove her to acquire.
Like water, you are the universal solvent
Cleaning, clearing, conquering and
Creating a new symbiosis with human beings and
The world they are submerged in; We take it for granted.
Cynicism in brevity, is beautiful for the fact that it claims to be
Open and calm like ocean waves during low tide
Or a baby child’s gaggle and coo. Fluctuating between calm
And ignorant, more so unintentionally rational to the point
Of tearing your human anatomy apart and dipping the
Soon to be suffocated air in heavy smoke.
I’m afraid
Humans just can’t handle the **** truth of reality.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 6:23 PM UTC
I let the sky be my tent tonight,
a sparkle-filled indigo field
like a Star Trek transporter.
I swirl the stars with my mind
as my body says, "Energize!".
My destination: points of light,
any one of which could be a hive
of beings living, working, playing
in a mirror of the musings originating
from the sleeping bag in which I lay.
Rolling over to feed my notebook,
a firefly insists on sharing my pen.
Among his friends gathered about my flashlight
is a dragonfly twisting and turning its head
in a display of 360 degree impossibility.
"Do it again!", say my wide eyes,
then I'm shushed by a distant Canis howl.
The trees carry its magic to me like
a powerful totem, making me wary,
reaffirming our instinctual similarities.
Relaxing, I smile goodnight to its echo,
shoo the Insecta from their little electric campfire,
and turn my face again to the Universe
while whispers from a nearby stream
provide a soundtrack to twinkling above.
Gentle air pulls its blanket over me,
while scent of earth and pine
send me dreaming of cosmic fireflies,
blinking their lullaby in rhythm
to the ecosystem powered by my heart.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
His eyes open reluctantly to take in the view. He scans the silent treetops for a hint of hopeful blue. An eerie whistle in the distance emits it's baleful sound. The icy reminder of winter lies perpetually on the ground. The rattle of a sigh comes from deep within his soul. He battles the instinctual urge to climb back into his hole.
It's just another grey Sunday. Oh just another grey Sunday.
No shades of color for this day.
Hopeless grey is the mainstay.
The battle against tomorrow already starting in his head. His cells start shaking as the poison begins to spread. Vague thoughts of conversations with people he'll never see. The four walls of torture keep him from being free. The clock ticking on the wall reminds him the end is near. The irrational racing of his mind only feeds the prickly fear.
It's just another grey Sunday. Oh just another grey Sunday.
No shades of color for this day.
Hopeless grey is the mainstay.
The tears of frustration start to steam down his face. He's never been a willing runner in life's endless race. He stands at the edge as the parade passes by. He's invisible to the masses no matter how hard he cries. He's searched the world over for a kindred soul to share. His lonely journey continues but the pains too much to bear.
It's just another grey Sunday. Oh just another grey Sunday.
No shades of color for this day.
Hopeless grey is the mainstay.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
Today I watched your
lungs turn inside out against themselves,
the air unsure of where to go so it just
hovered
in that middle space between coughs,
when you thought you'd caught your breath but
your voice hitched when you tried to talk and
you started choking again,
I saw
that today, your
eyes watering as you struggled to
remind your body how to sustain itself,
you cussed between fits and asked,
"isn't this supposed to happen on its own,"
you wheezed,
"shouldn't something so
instinctual
be easier than this?"
You didn't sound like you wanted an answer so I
kept my mouth shut,
brought you a glass of water.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
As a teenage boy I used to fall asleep at night
listening to the graveled voice of Ernie Harwell
fashion for me word-images of the exploits
by a band of superheroes called the Detroit Tigers.
In those semi-lucid moments before slumber,
I could see the shimmering outline of my destiny:
you see all American boys are meant to be Tigers.
So imagine my confusion, when I fractured
the right talus bone my Junior year of high school,
even putting on weight around the middle,
where no athlete worth his pin stripes would gain.
My karma had begun to take on mass.
I began to acquire knowledge, as the only perceived defense
against some parallel universe impinging upon reality.
Oh, I had everyone convinced, even my keenest teachers
believed I was destined to make my mark in scholarly pursuits.
But no one saw the crying ego of one meant to be a Tiger,
nor how that bottled up the emergence of the Man.
Never reconciled, the Man curled up in fetal dormancy.
Lifespan became synonymous with interstellar drift.
And every encountered star of knowlege was dwarfed,
having long ago collapsed of its own gravity.
Still the heavens of knowledge are auspicious,
so I looked outward, when all the answers lay concealed within.
Only as my life left the outskirts of occluded reality
did I then begin to inherit from my instinctual id,
begin to listen to disconsolate internal voices,
who had known me all along, perhaps better than myself.
The thing is ... the stage has long been set on middle-age,
what props lie about are encrusted with patina,
laden with a dust impossible to gauge or preempt,
made worse by the lack of cast, save one.
Neither Beckett, nor Pinter, could have absurded this.
So, when my acts strike you as quixotic,
when I cut with a penknife through propriety,
it's because I finally remember what it meant to be a Tiger.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
They profit on your silence, and foster insanity
To reef your identity, and fade you to normality
Control is an abortion of instinctual fundamentality
They blind us with a bleach of hypocrisy to fade us to their normality
Gather once in number, to support the dismantling
Fate of compassionate and empathetic rationality, is threatened by a lie of social justice in pronouns and prejudice
This is an infection of our political mentality,
to allow other views to be heard only if they align within sheepish bounds of radicality
******* Ideology. What insanity
Can’t let it fester, or our dignity will be the fatality
Disgusting to muzzle those who believe differently
As long as it’s not hate, preach what you practice
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 2:29 PM UTC
the lion pack traveling side
by side, though not evenly;
colliding shoulder to shoulder
territorial and instinctual.
trying to tame the manes
beneath logo-baring headgear,
hoping to hide soulful eyes
behind dark shades of plastic.
clothing loose to make up
for skin too tight, laughter
bouncing off cement and
rubber sneaker soles.
that musky scent of male
mingling with each individual
mixture of hopes and dreams
hits me in full force, leaving me
at a standstill long after the last
of you has passed me by.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 4:59 PM UTC
Truly, we are wonderful creatures,
drawn to light's undulating swells,
Sailors enthralled by the pushing sea's great shuddering
We honor these bright particles by our presence
Yet we burrow away, mole men and women for
Our most primal act, instinctual to the muscle
But still insulted by vanities.
(The consequence of consciousness,
I suppose) you instructed, "Turn off the last light"
Do you not wish to admire me?
The tender swell of brain and breast sloping to meet
Crags of hipbone jutting promiscuously below
the natural waist, natural beauty
Wasted by electricity's end
I want to take delight in your body, your ****** tongue
Quell the minor indiscretions of the day and
Give willingly to honesty
My ******* two moon over campus, your hand the sky.
If the peering leaves won't judge,
The least you can do is look me in the eye.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 2:53 PM UTC
i must tell you of this curse
that's intertwined in every verse
magnets compel, repel, and foretell
it doesn't matter if you are well
you'll always be attracted
div-yd, divided, and subtracted
resisting an instinctual urge
to give your everything, to splurge
call it north, call it south
but the words slip out of your mouth
your heart will be drawn-in
hopeless, head over heels spin
laced, maced, even some space
you can't resist that face
heaven, hell, or whatever you believe
it's stronger than we can possibly conceive
time out... time in!
how did this begin?
a chemical reaction
a little bit of passion
that just rushed in...
Jun 7, 2012
Jun 7, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
*The reason I came home
I ran into bones
Saw death of a soul
And that soul was my own
Saw betrayal and heart
Deception on faces
Principals forsaken
To instinctual basics
Saw merciless cases
Rendering society faceless
I ran into my home
Deep down in my basement*
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
There is, one supposes, a certain nobility
In simply carrying on with the whole **** thing,
Though that assumes some epiphany,
Some clawing toward grace, or at least common decency.
He had, in some once upon a time,
Cast his lot with a better class of people, so to speak;
It had not ended well, though,
In line with how such things are resolved,
His fall not a spectacular, tempestuous thing,
But a gradual, veiled affair, not a fiery spectacle
With metaphorical medals cut away, epaulets stripped,
But a shaded silence, a shrouded yet palpable shunning.
And so he is here, in this fading little city
Perched forlornly on the banks of a nondescript little river,
Having taken an apartment above a pair of offices
(One occupied by a seemingly ancient and disinterested lawyer,
The other by an ostensible private investigator)
Which is sufficiently large and reasonably warm
Come the seemingly perpetual winter.
He lives, if not in such a manner
As he was once accustomed to, comfortably enough:
He has his practice, and an adjunct position
At the little cow college down the road in Alfred,
And there are the occasional women,
Sad divorcees marooned in this hill country,
Dewy-eyed undergraduates unable to discern
Suit coats that are a bit shabby and somewhat passe
(There is a haberdasher in Buffalo whose garments
Are in the neighborhood of up-to-snuff,
And he could certainly manage a trip
Down to New York for better tailoring,
Though he would be traveling in places and circles
Where he is not remembered fondly.)
Stepping outside, he encounter snowflakes,
Light and unprepossessing,
But he studies the sky anxiously, apprehensively
(One learns that he must pay Nature its due fealty in these climes,
And give into the primal, the instinctual)
For he knows what can transpire
When the wind blows off the big lake out west just so,
Turning innocuous flurries into a malevolent blankness,
Making the landscape inscrutable, alien, utterly terrifying.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss
her beautiful and let her
nestle in your arms
Bring your bristly mouth
to ours, and give us the stars
we've been waiting for.
Sing. Take the guitar
and strum the strings but careful;
we might fall in love.
You deserve credit
for your courage and backbone.
Boy, you are so strong
You don't always have
to be tough, and hold it in,
be the strong silent type
It's okay. Let go.
Yes, being a man is hard
but you can let go.
Boy, please know your virtue.
You bring food to our famine.
The hunger, the thirst.
Who wouldn't want you?
Whose wicked appetite
couldn't you answer?
If you're wondering,
well, boy, the answer is yes.
She still loves you.
There were signs, signals
but you just couldn't read them.
She still loves you.
Why must you always
complicate love? Just take it.
Just take it and smile.
Boy, are you aware
of how destructive you are?
We could die for you.
Should we blame her?
Blame Aphrodite for this,
this pain and longing?
Boy, you're beautiful.
Limbs and muscle and talent;
we will never understand.
You are not flesh, blood.
You are made of energy,
and you can bring light.
You can give so much.
A feeling, a beginning,
a home, an escape.
You give nirvana,
with a love so tremulous
and complicated.
Boy, you're everything.
The might-have-beens, the maybes,
and the what-could-bes.
You are our focus,
our soothing sense of being,
simple, instinctual.
Boy, you are so much.
Millions of poems have been
written just for you.
We want to know you
collect little pieces of you
and memorize you.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC