"likens" poems
He lives in a time of plague.
The tag team of cholera and dedication killed his father, for all Dr. Juvenal Urbino knows, his father was faithful to both work and love.
The good doctor knew from an early age that his work would be his love, and from a slightly less tender age he discovered that his love of flesh and the body ran deeper than mere science could take him.
He met Fermina Daza in the doorway between clinical curiosity and obsession over her doe’s gait, and as he walked through his heart made room for a new kind of dedication.
He thought his devotion would be equally as precise as his practice.
Fifteen or so years of marriage, between years in Paris they bled together like a Van Gogh after a rainshower, the intricacies of their companionship were jointly held in a contractual cradle, but neither of them felt obligated.
Dr. Urbino was before my time, but my story will know the life of Carlos Mucharraz, Pre-Med major, they both dedicate themselves to their love. I’ve never seen her, but I can imagine Carlos likens her gait to that of a doe. He fawns over her from 17 hours away, for nearly a year.
Like a Texas dust devil, he sends his love through the air to Minneapolis to brighten her phone screen and her day.
They’ve only ever spent time together twice.
I’d like to think of his devotion like a boulder, immovable, but twisters slither across prairies as wicked winds push them towards seas of lust, but I’d like to think his love flew above turbulent skies.
I thought Dr. Urbino as a rock.
He must have thought of his fidelity as a disease. His father died fighting cholera, and Urbino would not let his affliction of faithfulness **** him. He thought himself ill, and the mantra of his practice taught him one thing only: cure.
In a slum of San Juan de la Cienaga, pants around his ankles, holding a mulatto girl’s legs around his waist, he crumbled like stale bread as he plunged himself into infidelity.
This man of granite broke and fragmented, his sin etched a crooked cobweb of fractures into his back, I wonder if the beads of sweat stung his spine, or dulled the pain.
But maybe I should put my faith in dust devils.
Humans may be able to shatter the hardest stone, but no one commands the sky, for it straddles North and South, East and West, Fort Worth and Minneapolis.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
A report assembled over 3 years by NAASA scientists has now confirmed that there is life in outer space
They cannot however determine whether it is Martian, Venusion or Pluterian.
Whatever this life form is we know that it is posing as a great artist with both brush and word although our cryptologists are still trying to make sense out of the rambling messages this life form keeps transmitting.
Our artistic impression of this being likens it to the right frontal lobe of a human brain covered by a beret
Should you receive email or any other form of correspondence from this being you are strongly advised to ignore them as trying to decipher such messages can cause permanent brain damage
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 4:42 AM UTC
Goodmorning, Donald, my sick friend.
I've come to help you tweet again
Because your vision's simply creepy,
Has left you vulnerable to tweet with me.
And these visions I have planted in your brain
Are quite insane
Within the bounds of violence.
Of careless schemes you talk by phone.
Narrowed choices cobbled in stone
'Neath my control, you are a champ.
I turn your thinking to the cold and damp
Through your eyes stabs the flash of terror and fright
That blocks all light
Revealing the bounds of violence.
And in this blackened night I saw
Your MAGA People, by the score.
People jeering without speaking.
People fearing without listening.
So you tweet along to voices that they share.
And so they care
To set the bounds of violence.
"Tools," say I, "With Trump you'll know
Violence, likens more and grows.
Read Trumps words that he might teach you.
Feel my charms so I might reach you,"
And Trumps words like giant droplets fell
Which scattered cross the bounds of violence.
And these people cowed and bayed
To the tweets The Don had made.
And the News Reports flashed out warnings
But their words were never quite forming.
And the News said,
The Tweets of the POTUS are written as satanic calls
When darkness falls.
And prospers the bounds of violence."
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
In the midst of my wakening,
what is this quintessence of ash
that haunts my soul?
What is sanity,
which quivers not need before your eyes,
whether you do not exist in reality,
only fiction in my assonance.
What wonder is the reasoning of man,
how simple in splendour. The clarity
of wakefulness which I perceive to be
sanity is only the same clarity with
which I dream or breathe, only the same
clarity which madmen believe to be reality.
If deception and error are my clarity
then nothing is my reality, for all lie
to protect themselves from the nightmare of old,
His power not enough to protect your mind
from the evil inside of your bones, the fire inside
of your soul. Which likens to the hellfire I find
in the dampening nights of relentless cries;
the corruption of your mind is clarity - a
clarity in your twisted reality.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
Cinéma vérité (/ˈsɪnɪmə vɛrɪˈteɪ/; French:
[sinema veʁite]; "truthful cinema"
is a style of film making,
invented by Jean Rouch &
inspired by Dziga Vertov's
theory about Kino-Pravda & influenced
by the films of Robert Flaherty’s, it combines
improvisation with using the camera
to unveil truths of a higher order
or to highlight subjects hidden behind reality;
Cinéma vérité in relationship to direct cinema
and observational cinema:
if understood as "pure" cinema:
without a narrator's perspective;
There are subtle, important, differences
among the terms although expressing similar concepts:
"Direct Cinema" largely concerned with
recording events in which the subject
and audience become aware of the camera's
presence: operating within what Bill Nichols,
American film historian and theoretician
of documentary film, likens the observational mode
to smashing the "fly on the wall"; many therefore seeing
a paradox
in drawing attention away from
the camera while simultaneously interfering
in the reality it registers in attempting
to discover cinematic truths
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:04 AM UTC
In due season, the yesteryears
of what once youth could be:
—I've been young in love
—an old soul, but of a young heart
Like as a child likens their time to being
plenty as when the sun is in their eyes
Our youthful days have come to set,
a flower in the skins of being a beautiful
fragile being
I'd be like you see of my nature,
twisting to sun of my creator
We are all beautiful flowers—
in the grounds of time, and life
Planted with purpose; we grow, we live,
wither off, and eventually die
_~This is all our lives_
Oct 30, 2022
Oct 30, 2022 at 2:05 PM UTC
I have seen, I have seen, I have seen all I need to –
The illuminating ideas rolling gently from your lips, caressing my mind,
vivifying my thoughts, reviving lost electrons, electrifying burnt out neurons –
charging my mind, challenging my intellect, changing my perspective – there is no Starry Night, no Mona Lisa, no Shakespeare sonnet, no Ginsburg “Howl,” no Ezra Pound on a black bough, that likens to the magnificence of your words, the radiance of your smile, the wonderment of your eyes, or the fun of your laugh. There was nothing special about the moments before, not the jester, nor a stunning sunset, but something charmed happened after the jester exited stage right, a simple phrase, uttered from your lips, the what matters not, just the swift insight that I was in awe. Never have I been in awe before, a new experience, that never faded, that stuck with me for the days to come as I wander aimlessly dreaming of the greener experiences you will open me to. I leave myself unguarded, there are no masks, no sad howling mask of despair, no happy grinning mask of cheer, just me, open to you, your ideas, your enlightenment. Paint, draw, sketch, mold me into who I should be for you, I am your canvas, you are my artist, this will be a masterpiece that will hang on the walls of museums, in the halls of temples to come, to put people in bewilderment as they rub their eyes for they have seen all there is to see now.
– nothing can compare to what I have now seen, life has meaning, and it’s before me, in your eyes, your smile, your mind, your you.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
My stomach does a double flip
then darts straight to the heights
like the steam upon a coffee's lip
that's puffed and whirls delight
each time I catch a glimpse afar
or near of you my dearest
my lightness likens with the stars
setting fire upon my spirit
an hour or two will do just fine
though never fully slake me
but what is love if not lost time
and I've lost too much lately
so have a cup or two my dream
make my simmering being steam
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
Charcoal trees
crowned in
greenish grey,
diluted in mist;
glitten dew, spilt
by sword shaped ferns,
bruising in yellow
the bushy scented moss;
likens' frozen tracery,
gothic earthly waves,
bursting gloomy barks
into shades of red and sand;
in a friable sunbeam,
a swirl of a honey bee.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
Have you seen her yet?
haven’t you still met?
the little girl that you bet
would grow up to be
a woman
your favorite object?
So she could marry
a man whose beard
covers his double chin
and whose hair likens
grayish and doddering lint?
so she could be a
piñata doll to the cane?
a helpless dame
to scoundrels who became
guiltless sinners
only to taste her breast
and spit on her shame?
When will you see her?
this damsel you’ll set
soon in distress
but in the mind of whose
you’ll set a dream of
turning her into a mistress?
You must be quite sly
you’ll surely agree
in your little trap
she is much liable to sink
that she can be as strong
as a man or even Hercules
but would she know
that there would be
no one
when she would feel
human and cry
barely a soul around her
to hear her pleas?
That she is to trick
herself into faking
her real sentiment
into a heartfelt grin
because she will be
nothing
but a smiling condiment
amid the flavorless crowd
because how else can
she make you proud?
Will you tell her
that she was born
with her skin
not to cover her body
but to cover it again
by animal silk?
or better yet,
cotton, jute or laced pink?
That just a glimpse
of her ravishing thigh
can cause an ********
a sublime indication
of a man’s lusted high?
What about the time
when she would shudder
with desire
of feeling love
in its prime?
Or when she would
want to fly across the seas
and the mountains?
Would you simply
push her within
a four walled room
and shut the doors
while she rips the curtains?
Would you let her
learn to write
with a pencil
or make her sit
by the stove
by the window
in deadly still
while growing men
learn how to pay a bill
how to exercise a will
and gasp at life’s thrill?
She would still be a girl
if she came into this world
you made for yourself
a precious pearl
you’d only carve her into a stone
so she could be unfurled
to the wind and the perils
of man
Because you barely built
a world for her
along with him
together
little would she know
that we live in a
man’s deadly clan.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
The Earth is scarred
Branded
by our constant digging
The moon likens her blemishes to cheap tattoos, but he'd never tell her so
She's still spectacular, even swathed in gray
We may have robbed her of her innocence, but she's still the jewel of the Milky Way
Offensive and beautiful
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 8:33 AM UTC
Are you aware of how you affect me?
Of the ways that you make me crazy
for you?
I could spend all day by your side.
And don't ask me, I can't explain it.
Not at all.
Except maybe I can,
I see the divine in you.
It ***** me in like a howling wind,
and I am but a feather caught
in the gusts and blows of
your storm.
(I think) this was the way it was intended.
Some sort of supernatural inclination
towards a bond so deep.
That's what we're always seeking, no?
And there isn't one fairytale that likens itself to us,
to what we are,
except maybe all of them.
Because all the love stories are the same (even in their difference).
The constant pull towards something stronger than flesh,
deeper that words,
and softer than lonely hearts
who've found in each other the force that heals sadness.
It's really all around.
In our hearts, written on our souls.
The divine in you is so attractive,
I can only see love for what it is,
to try and know love for who He is.
Something in you is so Good,
to me.
Because of Him.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
I have seen, I have seen, I have seen all I need to –
The illuminating ideas rolling gently from your lips, caressing my mind,
vivifying my thoughts, reviving lost electrons, electrifying burnt out neurons –
charging my mind, challenging my intellect, changing my perspective – there is no Starry Night, no Mona Lisa, no Shakespeare sonnet, no Ginsburg “Howl,” no Ezra Pound on a black bough, that likens to the magnificence of your words, the radiance of your smile, the wonderment of your eyes, or the fun of your laugh. There was nothing special about the moments before, not the jester, nor a stunning sunset, but something charmed happened after the jester exited stage right, a simple phrase, uttered from your lips, the what matters not, just the swift insight that I was in awe. Never have I been in awe before, a new experience, that never faded, that stuck with me for the days to come as I wander aimlessly dreaming of the greener experiences you will open me to. I leave myself unguarded, there are no masks, no sad howling mask of despair, no happy grinning mask of cheer, just me, open to you, your ideas, your enlightenment. Paint, draw, sketch, mold me into who I should be for you, I am your canvas, you are my artist, this will be a masterpiece that will hang on the walls of museums, in the halls of temples to come, to put people in bewilderment as they rub their eyes for they have seen all there is to see now.
– nothing can compare to what I have now seen, life has meaning, and it’s before me, in your eyes, your smile, your mind, your you.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
Average aesthetics impressed upon
the dreamers asleep with the television on.
They are selling validation,
the slippery crutch of the only comfort craved.
Forget the details,
we are ****** clockwork,
counted on to come,
but never arrive,
where saying no to yes
likens to tallying time
until what you are chewing
wants to be swallowed.
Pearly white definition grinding moments into pulp
for the insatiable,
that never goes hungry.
This is all of it.
****** *** and the rest.
The patriarch in his Sunday best.
The wild generation,
rejecting the paranoia of their parents.
The whole of the god **** world
who copes with a regurgitated existence by selling narcissism.
Ours is a secret we are trying to tell with our lives,
when it’s realized it dies,
causing mystics to spill their insides
over silence, the answer that can never be vocalized.
Lo emotion,
the romance of confusion!
The one thing that can have no institution,
in our modern illusion.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
There was once a haunted tree,
not feared by many, in fact,
only by that of a young spinster.
But of five and twenty,
liked by many, however,
only a few were ever called her lover.
Until she met a man that felt like an army,
like hundreds of men marching,
whose loyalty was sworn for her beauty.
Until one man felt like a war waging,
yet like a calm ocean breeze blowing
and like marching silently into the dark sea.
Until there came the lover whose laughter
felt like an ache from a life long gone,
whose smiles felt like gunshots.
Until there was he who felt like home,
yet as distant as the tides are to the moon
and as untouchable as a silky thunderbolt.
There was a tree the spinster holds dear,
so close to her ever yearning heart.
This tree, she likens to that of her lover.
whose branches threatens to fall on her,
bears fruits that if they choose to plummet,
someone is to get hurt and it would be her.
And then there was a legend that this tree,
that was once a fruit of another host
that was fabled to be haunted.
But before the tales of horrors and shrieks,
it was abundant, it was the guide to the lost,
until it was axed, hunted as needed.
All of this tree's fruits turned to be of toxins,
opposing the townspeople's songs of praises.
All its branches grew webs upon cleaving,
challenging the tales of awes and delight.
All of which except for one, a golden fruit,
the root's promise and hope of the fallen.
What the preachers say could be of truth,
their words she avoided could be gospel.
What the non-believers say could be a tale,
their rumors could save her from demise.
What if the tree is just as rotten as the root,
what if it is indeed the produce from hell?
May 26, 2023
May 26, 2023 at 1:28 PM UTC
Stamens float to the wavy sea
Sights gaze lazily
Through cloudy haze
Your beauty to me
Likens a sun on rainy days
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
he was the kind of guy who would have willfully participated
in the ****** of Sylvia Likens, and very much have enjoyed the interaction with the rest of the gang while doing so.
he is still that kind of guy,
just a lot older now
too good for most things
and all the women who now hate him
for all the discomforting memories he had left them with.
his mom had been a nurse
and now his sister was too
perhaps whatever woman he was with was too,
his mother loved him, how could she not,
she had been a nurse,
so he was absolutely sure that masks, social distancing, and mandated vaccines were how it should be.
anyone who didn't know these things was too embarrassing for him.
his mom told him so.
at the age of 44, he still had the exact same job he had had for the past twenty years. he was too good to do anything else other than making deliveries to restaurants, which were all requiring vaccine passports for dine in and perhaps soon delivery.
most of him felt very important
every time he unloaded his delivery van
or posted on twitter or instagram
or wrote about how many of those woman had deeply loved him
even though they were not worthy of his importance
and could never be
he was too desirable for them
and they needed to learn that
so he had taken the time to teach them that
long ago, they needed to learn
so he had taken the time to teach them that
if they had been worth remembering, he would still find a way to continue teaching them that.
life had been good lately, he made $95 CAD
on a baseball card trade, he was a good person
who had a lot to offer the world and only deserved
the most smoking hot of non-throwaway women
when there were so many throwaway women who needed to learn
he knew what all the good music and writing was
and knew when something wasn't worth listening to or worth reading, jack ketchum's **** was certainly no good, he knew it,
all the fun girls knew it too,
he knew a lot, so he taught.
he was a good person with a good life and smart with his baseball card investment strategies, he didn't need an undesirable life
he had good advice to give to baseball, football, hockey, and soccer leagues
it was easy to make all these excellent observations
as a good person,
he reached over for his smokin hot queenshit
earlier this very night,
kissed the nape of queenshit's sweet, whip-smart neck
and fondled queenshit's girl ****
while listening to the queen's vaccinated breathing
tomorrow he would make a youtube playlist for queenshit
that included drunken one off's he had recorded with his band 15 years ago
then, one of them would make an interesting, important dinner
they would both eat and talk about.
Aug 10, 2021
Aug 10, 2021 at 3:55 AM UTC
I look to like
If looking likens likeness
To a likeness I should like
But your liking looks
Much more like a want
Than liking
Likewise I should like to look
For liking more that just anticipation
In you
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
Would a common canine not bore,
following our steps without explore.
How are humans holier than thou,
when free fields are left without plough.
History could be to blame,
likening me to men and women of fame.
For dogs aren’t seen as a whole,
a dog is a dog, no other pays its toll.
Humans go through life with persistence,
searching for excuses to existence.
But few will ever realize,
what a waste it is to immortalize.
Forget likens to men and women of fame,
that only keeps one within the frame.
Go live life as if in the wild,
nothing more is farther from mild.
Be as a horse, a dog, a mare,
all other creatures can compare.
As long as you don’t just follow me,
after it turns out my dreams were meant to be.
Be as a lion, a dog, a hair,
all other creatures can compare.
Just don’t look back into history,
expecting to find the lock that fits your key.
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 3:25 PM UTC