"ischemic" poems
I like to believe
that nobody understands me
and I'm one of a kind
lost to obscurity
but hinting of mysterious
significance
And I feel sorry for
my uncle's three-legged dog
and the malignancy
of fear in rural America
and the failed successes
of the Bolsheviks
I wonder about the air
in Saõ Paolo in January
and the muskuloskelatal
infirmities that creep in
and make the aged
into churlish curmudgeons
There is no way I could
hunt truffles or find a fresh
Morel in the woods when
I didn't even realize until
my grandmother died that
we own a creek
Uttering vespers in moonlight
yields some sanguine lucidity
like contemplating the nuanced
differences between polenta
and cornmeal mush
It's like I'll never write a poem
in time or finish a marathon
or kiss a stranger deeply
through the crisp ventillation
of nevermore.
We might daydream the bombastic
colors of Cezanne but all
we'll ever be is some nondescript
platinum ischemic flash,
a slimy buffet consisting in
all-is-lost
An apocryphal journey
to the center of the city
faces our insubordination to plastic
with the harshness of a dictionary
in the face of the illiterate
But in the end, apoplectically
forgotten, I come to the
unintelligent conclusion,
mathematically speaking,
that there is nothing singular
nor more available
than the finite banality
of my empty, insufficiently
obscurantist words which
flow and choke and all can know
and see clearly through
though I insist that none
of this pretence is born
of any maleveloence, and I chide
"How very meta of me indeed"
to have thought of another witty
and most cleverest retort
the day after the insult
was first delivered
But I used my last gift card
to purchase this still life
to pierce the hollow
cerulean satisfaction
otherwise known as tears
Barring diastolic ******
I'll stick around to see
how this all turns out
and hope that one day I can stop
being so completely understood
And then I can hide in the lonely
and find refuge in the cave
as a single meaningless scrawl
buried in the last pages
at the end of the world.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
There was once a monkey,
Swinging on the little mango tree.
Feeding on his long banana,
Looking at the garden of waratah.
There was once a monkey,
in love with the forest's princess of the tree.
Feeding on his love for her,
his heart beating fast all over.
There was once a monkey,
fooled by the princess of the tree.
Feeding on his understanding, love conquered by hate,
his heart, ischemic then died as of late.
There was once a monkey,
swimming on the salty deadly sea.
Feeding on his little dead heart tissue,
his soul lost, his mind burnt, his heart blue.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
I took everything
all of it.
Ischemic tangeniency had offered
me the souls of my Christians?
I deferred to poetry and rhapsody.
Like a Vampire Weekend concert.
Oh, without magic wands,
or tutilage of mystery.
I took everything.
It feels like an ancient rain.
Like an old president as our king.
He and she had to tell a few lies
before death and then took the
truth to sleep. She of course
was a Bonaparte, and he of
course was from Oxford.
He wrote Frankenstein because
of their affair, she wrote the
crowned prince a diamond of Hope.
And his family lied in the mote.
From the Battle in Boston, to the
French and American and The Seminole
War. How would I ever know that
crossing the Patomic ment
King George the Third
lying on my floor.
To this day, I swear
The First President
of the United States
is the King of England.
How dare you? Know the truth.
He wrote the whole book
and that we had taken
everything they want
as an Oath.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
subtle, shallow breath spread;
there, the cold and sombre fall, giving weary heart rest.
but how it did fester under his tongue; how his regret did cry in such a sepulchre throat.
but still, did the sea pull. still, did her lips part to make air, and let her body scream life.
still, did leaves grow, and still did they fall.
still, was there living, even in a woman's grief.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
LDL fat clots
push through poetic veins,
during an anesthetic dream,
haunted by ischemic demons;
conveying enzymatic sensations which,
fibrillating,
reach the heart,
to spear it with a Frame of Thorns;
in a final frantic crack,
unleashed by a heart attack.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 12:39 PM UTC