"intersects" poems
I love you baby,
From x approaching a limit of positive to negative infinity.
A range so large and domain so vast,
My love for you will always last.
The way my curve touches your tangent,
And how your secant meets me end to end.
When your line intersects my parabola,
We connect at one point of linear algebra.
You transform my altitude,
When my sinusoidal function allows you too.
You make my average rate of change,
Quicken and heighten in an instantaneous range.
For those days when my angle is in depression,
You tilt me up to an angle of elevation.
In an isosceles triangle,
You will always be my special angle.
The identities we cross,
Changing from tan to sin over cos.
Like sin²x with cos²x we are one,
It’s quite simple ***
Your imaginary roots maybe out of this world,
But my zeros and intercepts will keep it real.
It’s a complicated equation,
To solve for my fascination.
It’s the beginning of our journey,
I hope we never come across an inequality.
I love you endlessly like x approaching positive and negative infinity.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
Ghost Relics
Downtown,
where Main intersects Main
you'll see the last living tissue
of a breathing bazaar.
They weighed down her chest with bricks and girders.
It's a wonder she breathes at all.
-
Wander too far in any direction
and you're sure to see the husks
of once proud and bustling businesses.
Abandoned sanctums of mortar and majesty.
Scars of the Midwest etched as constants in our mind.
Dusty and silent since the cradle.
-
The theaters are bedeviled with dolled up haunts
who just wandered over from Greenwood to catch the matinee.
Management still leaves the lights on for kicks after hours
to throw off their sleep schedules while they wait for the feature to start.
Up all night, sleep all day; they read by neon and slumber under Sol.
Here I am, left lounging in The Devil's Chair. Crickets keep quavering.
-
Underneath the Franklin Street overpass sleeps a family bound by naught.
They watch in dawn's light as the few pedestrian that traverse Cerro Gordo
advert their eyes as some sort of silent symbol of respect for their situation.
It's as if the very stare of a privileged man could drain 'til depleted.
They never ask for anything, they just wade it out and listen to
the cars overhead, the train-clock's trumpet, and the heartbeats in between.
-
Leaks are patched, potholes filled, and yet
we're still loosing blood; becoming beguiled.
So many stray cats in the civilian savanna,
aimlessly seeking names and second chances.
"This premises is under police video surveillance" -
hanging like ornaments from streetlamp poles.
-
Guarding the gates
of a dwindling dominion,
as the armies of Union and Grand
wait in their camps
for the rust to take hold
of her iron veins.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
Standing Rock
The pipeline is the bloodline,
of an Empirical Two Headed Dragon,
The Divided States of America used to be united,
can someone please tell me what the heck happened,
Standing Rock just might be the last stand for anyone that’s still standin’,
Standing Rock,
is not a photo op,
it’s not a festival,
it’s Indians and Cops,
more correctly,
it’s Native Americans and Corporate Hitmen,
it’s the crossroads,
where environmental defense intersects with big business interests,
it’s getting intense,
water cannons and flash grenades,
mock democracy and a Trump presidency,
military disguised as cops,
and cops disguised as military,
as the original defenders of this land,
continue to make a stand,
at Standing Rock this is not a photo op,
this is indirect imperial tactics meets Direct Action,
highly ironic,
that I write this on Thanksgiving,
the day before Black Friday,
tell me what you do that’s worth livin’,
Quite fitting,
that I’m writing this on Thanksgiving,
a “holiday” in a way,
but really just a heist by villains disguised as pilgrims,
well then,
where does that leave us now,
several hundred years later,
at Standing Rock having a powwow,
how,
have we gotten here,
and how,
as so little changed we’re,
still in this sticky situation,
battling hearts that are as black as oil,
still ******* the blood out of Mother Earth,
still battling Two Headed Serpent Dragon as it coils,
the pipeline is the bloodline,
of an Empirical Two Headed Dragon,
The Divided States of America used to be united,
can someone please tell me what the heck happened,
Standing Rock just might be the last stand for anyone that’s still standin’.
Defendin’,
the Sacred,
with Love,
over Hatred.
Water Is Life.
∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
www.amazon.com/Aaron-La-Lux/e/B00ODPJAOK
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC
1
Late afternoon
leaving the city
the bus route intersects
the terraced houses,
row upon row:
right to the valley floor,
left to wooded heights.
In a bay-windowed room
a child sits at a table
beachcombing the net.
Tea is past
and there is gentle talk of
volcanoes , the Verungas,
and gorillas in the midst.
Outside, and a floor below,
a garden nestles into the dusk,
a blackbird settles itself with song.
Later, at the same table.
there is a silent grace.
A shy five year old
in scary pyjamas
comes to say goodnight.
For supper: a goat’s cheese flan,
a simple salad,
pink wine,
strong coffee.
On the mantelpiece:
the familiar jumble of cards and photos,
a collage of family faces distant shores.
On the walls:
grandmother’s woven rug,
her grand-daughter’s textiled strata,
an embroidered geology.
2
The next day,
so bright and clear,
the garden bench is warm by ten.
We sit surrounded
by the evidence
of this growing season:
emergent plants, the possibility of fruit,
even declarations of vegetables.
As ideas flow
across cake and coffee
so the shadows move,
shaping depths, enriching tones
on greys, within greens.
In the midday sun,
the garden becomes
a wild tracery of lines
as perspectives
distort, corrupt, thicken . . .
and space opens everywhere:
foliage as yet transparent
no shelter to stalk and stem.
Their very arteries revealed,
plants bask in the fragile heat
of ‘just’ Spring.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
It had been snowing all night
light slight white
almost invisible flakes
falling on the garden below
While you slept I lay awake
between startling dreams
adventures (with my children)
amongst pinnacled peaks
Should sleep in an unfamiliar room
so effect the unconscious mind?
Here you became a young adult
‘I lost my virginity’ (you said)
‘and it was messy’
I didn’t want to know this
but told you how it was
for me a beach at night
in Devon Tarka country
And so a tracery
emerges from the past
It emanates it draws together
intersects conjoins segments
a tessellation map-rich
by and through and which
(bathed in the snow-light
of an uncurtained morning)
together we move now too and fro
in this still-experimental passion
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
A broken guitar tells me to shut it
on every rest note.
And I tell myself to
ditch old baggage
on the side of the road
to clean my tattered knapsack
of cobwebs and broken light bulbs.
So I divest,
Decompress in present
because right now, I'm at peace.
You speak over church bells
at the top of the hour
and I listen like
nothing else matters.
But I only hear the future
My future, your future, our future
the world's future.
It's not often,
but every once in a while
midnight slaps me with a sound
I can't explain.
Even if I explain myself
I ramble around the point
like an arrow with no tip.
The weird thing about time
is it's a lot like music,
or a galaxy,
but right in the palm
of soft hands and ambitious souls
It only makes sense with experience,
and getting lost in a pavilion
of nervous butterflies
only seen in lucid dreams.
The world is old. We're young.
We're lost. And so is everyone else.
Tell me about your favorite constellation,
your favorite letter of the alphabet,
what makes you tick,
and why.
One day, after learning about your spectrum,
and where it intersects with mine
we'll dance in space.
I'll come to my senses
and question nothing
Not even the silence between our lips.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
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Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
My heart rate, sine wave usually, goes
sine squared when I see you,
sine cubed when I approach you,
woh, Dirac-delta when I hear you!
How do I heal this singularity?
Now how do I extract the real part
from your complex valued smile at me?
Euler says, it all goes in circles anyways.
So, I decide to cast a phasor P
that intersects the line H bisecting
your heart plane, such that H · P = 0.
Can Cupid tell dot product from cross?
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
Connections bring out the worst in me.
Sitting next to you, dark brown eyes
that light up too readily, lips turning at the corners
and a laugh that brings out mine, instinctively.
Secrets shared and confidences brokered
as we lean in and whisper, co-conspirators
facing the world, as a unit we rise together,
my thoughts mirrored on his face.
Tongue in cheek exchanges and insults
parodied and paraded between cross-roads,
intersects as we dance verbally, smiles
all too often exchanged as I know, now,
that I am heading for the fall.
That one that I always anticipate, the one that
has only happened once before, excitement
coursing in my veins as I try to tell myself stop,
think, take a breath and see the wall where this ends.
I can't help it though, his presence is like lightning,
as I glow from within enjoying this brief moment.
Desolation brews, but it is future-bound and I give
myself to the moment, pleasure paid for with future pain.
He is not mine, nor will he ever be,
we will never dance again and our eyes will not meet.
I am trying to find pleasure in past moments
but now gravity claims me, my loss is only my own,
as he falls back into the non-existence from whence he came
and all that now remains is the absence of him.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
to that one girl over there
chock-full of intimacy,
i can't stop looking at the wrinkles in your hair
and the way they caress the curvature of your ears.
every smile drives me deeper into insanity,
and as your upper intersects with your lower,
i heave a sigh of pain.
waltz there, waltz here - your every move is like a dance
God Almighty choreographed himself.
My soul is like a bird - fluttering to the unknown,
but every season I come back for you.
your thighs were sculpted my Michelangelo,
your voice was crafted by Ella Fitzgerald,
your grace was gifted by your parents,
and my love burns hotter than the passion i have for you.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
the truest love: ask me about too perfect
this I believe:
that part of we humans
that intersects emotion
& memory retains a video
not frequently reviewed,
placed deep in an unlocked,
unlabeled chest of drawer
surrounded by keepsakes, hidden
letters, scribbled napkins and
a less-than-handful of stills,
plain poems of raw delicacy
infrequent summoned, preceded
by a stray, strong thot asking
no one but you, why now? what
was the trigger synapse?
the love, the being, blessed, cursed,
known by its call letters:
TOO PERFECT…
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 11:39 AM UTC
Abandoned, Still, Silent,
only the dust is moving
dancing a noiseless perpetual waltz.
Here and there a mote
intersects the silent sun,
(that slips in through broken glass)
picking out the rainbow rays.
Just the quick perception
of mouse and bird
to observe the shafts of coloured light
that they do not comprehend.
Above the pulpit
marble eyes look out,
and stone lips
caught in the act
cry out
"Why have you forsaken Me?"
Immobile hands are pinned
out wide,
to receive the world.
They cannot open the door
but wait
for someone to come.
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 3:45 PM UTC
Crimson hope smears the still curtain of the worlds;
Larks slice the silence hovering by the brooding clouds;
Ridges of pain past traced on the firmament,
lingering fragrances scattered on silken hair,
saline tears dripping off the edges of the horizon:
I hear more in your frozen gaze.
Your heart pulsing to the rhythm of a new dawn;
But the discord, the occasional discord.
Why does pain visit us?
A swirling vortex of colours:
At the center, a heart of bluish white;
This vortex called life;
You must die humiliated
carrying the unbearable burden of love
wearing a crown of bristling pride
nailed across the twilight sky,
and hung for three nights;
Before resurrection
into a body of love.
A sink, yes, a salvaged sink.
It is on display.
After your pride has been flushed down
a line intersects a plane
and becomes a dot.
Change your view to spot it.
A clear body of water. Ripples on the surface,
by the last rain. An emergent sun, out of the
brooding clouds in the skies.
A hundred of them
on the waving waters.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
Do you see what I see?
A floor of blue is beheld
The mirror to the great sky
An air without boundary
The puddle is our ground
And spreads beyond the eye
Do you feel what I feel?
With ease is the breeze
Cooling us with its breath
It seals our eyes with love
The wind is our pillow
An agent of tranquility
The follower to the sight and wind
A twilight unfolds before us
The sun intersects the water and sky
More to the awe are tears from above
Showering the puddle in a yellow light
It brings our love to an amber glow
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
As you can see the outside of my body
My curvy, bodacious **** and these hips that don't lie hunny
The three layers of of rolls when I bend over
And the wrinkles on my forehead, not to mention these big *** 11 sized feet
But
As I sit in the pews of church listening to the pasta preach
My ears get hot and suddenly rings
I hear these magical words
The words that made me re-realize
Of me of me of me myself and I know
you don't understand all these beautiful characteristics underneath my Flawless skin
Because what you see is the outside without looking in
The smooth skin and the long legs
That appeals to your vision
Of sexualizing every each of my body
What you don't see is the kindness that my mama taught me
The fight inside me that my daddy trained me
The voice inside me that God has given me
This soul that I have morphed for me
Each of these characteristics define who I am
But not the sole definition of who I was
Each part having its own unique twang
That intersects who I am
It's sad that many won't be able to see
This complex version of me
The version that goes deeper than the skin
But into the roots that grows each day
But it's their loss that their blinded by outside beauty
Never realizing the truth that lies inside
The destruction that has led me to become
The confident woman that I am today
Today's the day where I seize the world
I thrive, I prosper, I destroy dimensions
I can conquer universes with my wits
But all you want to do is stare at my ****
These itty-bitty non-existent things
That only use is to provide food for human beings
Yet once again you've sexualized my body
Are you getting the hint yet?
People need to start looking beyond the surface
Look within, discover those hidden figures
The shadows behind the shadow that's shines so bright
That would shoot through the atmosphere if I provide
But you keep doing what you wanna do
I ain't here to judge nor tell you
But I would highly recommend if you open your mind
To not just legs and thighs, but heart and mind
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC
“many who are first will be last, and the last first.” Mark 10:29
the mixed drink of finance terminology
my stock and trade, or,
used to be anyway, when I was gainfully employed,
intersects with a place I don’t habitually frequent,
seeing as I am an Old Testament kinda guy
dollars to doughnuts,
this errant thought makes me smile,
the devil and me (a/k/a the devil in me)
have a warm milk with KAHLÚA,
in the dead of night, across the kitchen table,
doing repartee and bad poetree
and biblical textual emendation
on the verse in question
having been present, the devil likes it just the way it is,
but the old nitpicking me always thinking,
a little editing makes the ‘milk’ go down easier,
suggests a reversal of emphasis:
the last shall be first,
for many who are first, will be last
less threatening and the point better made
lead with your right, taught my boxing master,
and the last shall be first is
very right
you see, many call me,
the lender of last resort
which is true enough,
but my preference is best
when addressed as
lender of the first resort
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 6:13 PM UTC
*
The green is for pedestrians;
They cross the highways in this color !
The red is for road traffic stop and block;
Life ends up at Zebra lines; rail tracks;
Love intersects at junctions; narrow routes;
It climb-upwards towards the hills;
then down towards the valleys;
In between the green and red signals,
a yellow will hesitate to make a halt;
and sometimes hit and run at fault;
A precious life turns into a pool of
color of blood, shattered at the street !
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Hot air balloons,
brightly float past,
light intersects.
Cafe, olive green,
old rounded chairs,
flimsy tables.
On an antique maroon
espresso machine,
a wizened lady.
Slight, bent,
hair coloured light brown
against grey.
Wearing black,
Greek mourning dress.
Only shop open,
muffins fresh.
Coffee rich,
delicate.
An institution,
may poets never
be exiled.
Days beginning,
most important.
Plato's forum.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
It was always a joke, phrase or idiom
It wasn't an analysis of what we did to them
The paralysis which was led by God or men
Who left a woman with a life condemned
And "he" is not found, but here I am.
I lost my arm to a waterfall
Fostered harm by something beautiful
A hand and forearm unmade musical
Water on land intersects not once, several
A band of storms lay down by that Neanderthal.
Waters splash like cymbals crash
Like whiplash from 3 cars smashed
Like fast paced life becoming past
Like a harassed female, never asked
And at long last... I'm unembarrassed.
Soft as water came, it became a hurricane
Pain blows through my veins and brain
I sound insane as I strain to explain
Doctors abstain and became inhumane
Riding the insane a-train to remain...
...a soft stream of water.
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 5:40 PM UTC
You are light. No, not the warm radiance that comes from the sun, but the soft glow of the moon at night. You are the light that flows from the moon; you are the moon. Much like the sun, you illuminate the canopy that blankets the earth, but you’re different. The blazing giant finds home in its own flare. Its corona provides a safe haven in the aphotic atmosphere of space. Your luster is too weak to do the same for you. Darkness is your home. You were created in a void, but you are light.
With you, I feel myself in a different way. I no longer end at my finger tips and dissipate into formlessness, which I fear the most. Instead, I take part in a beautiful continuity as my palms lock into that of yours. It’s as if two galaxies collide and merge like the way waves spill over to the shore. The celestial bodies intertwine and perform a graceful cosmic dance for you and me to gaze upon as we drift slowly into harmlessness.
While we make our way through the infinite sea of stars, we pass the world by. I catch a downpour of pain flood your eyes. Hush now, you. The world doesn’t see the way that I do. The world doesn’t see at all. It can’t. It’s blind. For that very reason, it claims that you are nothing, and you believe it. You give in to the notion that you are not enough. Stop. There is a universe inside your mind, and that makes you something. An endless imagination surrounds you. Stop. Your hands form things out of the darkness, and that makes you enough. The way you press down softly on the black and white keys makes a meteor shower seem like an ordinary happening. Stop. If you think that the world is right, that’s a lie. Believe me. You are a wonderfully painted work of art. Not even Van Gogh could have created such an impression.
Our path soon intersects with the courses of asteroids. The giant space rocks carry clusters of dust along with them. We go straight through the belt and dirt covers your entire face. I stare at you and smile. You smile back. I notice that despite the filth you are still perfect. Perfect regardless of imperfections. Perfect imperfections. You are light, but you were created in emptiness and now live in darkness. You are the moon that glows to illuminate the earth, but your incandescence is too dull to shelter you. You are the galaxy that embraced me, but you were driven away from yourself by the world. Even so, you are perfect. With all the dust that covers you, you are beautiful.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
the insecurity that intersects
your fingers and my figure
is enough to spin a whirlpool
seven miles wide
i rage at your taste for me
but i am cyclical, stuck
i am a fly on your calf
you do not even notice my thrashing
to feel you are ugly in the arms of a lover
to feel you are nothing in the clenches of another
frankly,
i think is quite common.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 8:08 PM UTC
You share a strange similarity to a traffic light that’s out of order
All I receive are mixed signals
I don’t know whether to stay safe and stay put
Or to take the chance and just go
you emit green light
when
Your left hand reaches out and caresses my thigh
Your head finds a spot leaning down on mine
But then you shift to yellow
and I can feel the cold from your chest pushing into mine
in a way that makes me wonder
how I am able to support your entire weight
Why doesn’t it burst the ballon under my skin?
My thoughts put to a halt when I see the red light in your eyes
and you say
“I don’t want a girlfriend”
I have to trust your word
Because your forehead part times as a unbreakable fortress to your mind
and today there are no lines nor crinkles to give me a sign on what’s going on in there
I do know that your mind is running rampant
as always
I know that mine is running 90 miles an hour
on a highway that never intersects with yours
You repeat:
“I don’t have time for a girlfriend.”
What I don’t say is
it’s okay, I don’t mind
I just want to be your ex
Because
I know
even if our highways were united through a bridge
we would stand on each side and wave at each other
But never dare to take the first step out on it
In fear of falling into the water
Because
I know that
I’m the type of person that burns my bridges
To ensure I don’t cross them
I know that
You’re the type of person who wouldn’t call 911
But instead stand still and try to heat up your chest
What I don’t know is
whether to hit the break or the speeder
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 5:39 AM UTC
If I write a poem about ***
will you still have respect
for me in the morning?
If sext text, intersects,
a censorship quest, who
then sinks the relationship?
Image burned into your mind
pointed, yet you are not blind
and can you still see, the point
or are you seeing the last image
burnt?
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
ghost, anyone’s ghost, perhaps your ghost
steps back from the mirror
a door into the imaginary, an apprehended space
where is visualised a discordant haze
a pulse of implosiveness
that never intersects with anyone
yet stares back at you
releasing a helix cycle of identities
where in indolence cleanses
are made lamentable
with odorous contempt
for the pitiless destinies
of ghosts, anyone’s ghost, perhaps your ghost
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC