"manageable" poems
My mom used to tell me when I was a kid
that thank you note is important.
To let people know that you're thankful,
and appreciate their efforts.
As I grow older,
I'm so used on writing thank you notes
with the same template on every note.
But I, or we, tend to forget to write one
for those who cope with our lives.
So I wrote this one is for you.
Thank you for letting me crash in your place
when I was far from sober,
almost on every Friday nights.
You literally picked me up when I'm down.
On the grown.
Thank you for staying up with me until 5
even when you got a big meeting
at 8 in the morning.
Because you know how much I hate sleeping,
but I'll be the bitchiest *****
if you try to wake me up.
Thank you for bringing me a bouquet
of fake flowers
instead of the real one.
You sure know me way too well
to know that I can't keep real flowers alive.
Or cactus, or fishes, or my phone's battery.
Yea, my phone's battery *****
But you trust me to keep what we have, alive.
And lasts as long as it possibly could.
Thank you for making every queue line
less boring with all your dad jokes,
they made me think that
you're a qualified good father
to your future kids.
Or maybe ours.
But I hate children and you love them,
as much as I hate karaoke
and as much as you love it.
But gosh, you made me think of adopting.
We are nothing but night and day.
A thunderstorm and a rainbow.
A cactus and a peony.
A manageable chaos and
a managed you.
And yet we compliment each other like
peanut butter and pickle on a sandwich.
Sure, it's one of the weirdest combination
but somehow it goes surprisingly fine.
I swear I'm not going to make this cheesy
but if it was, well,
****
I know this is not what you imagine
to be with me
in the first place
when you slipped into my life.
But I thank you,
for deciding to stay.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 7:42 PM UTC
there's this need --
in my heart..
wait.
no.
it's my soul.
my soul is the one
that has this
need..
it's oh so strong
and keeps returning.
there's this
deep ache
and craving
for the physical touch
in a way
i don't get everyday.
my soul
craves
to hold someone
in a way
thats indescribable.
my soul
craves
to be held
by someone
in a way
that makes me heal
from inside out.
it's not even
manageable anymore.
it's taking over me,
the feeling washes over
in red and blue --
craving more
and more
each time.
Sep 6, 2025
Sep 6, 2025 at 9:57 PM UTC
at the furthest
reach from me,
somewhere on the other side
of these lucid hills,
a box of sun has been
opened,
cut into manageable
pieces,
and given to all the young
dreaming denizens,
to blow with all
they have
inside their strong little
lungs--
up,
up,
upward
into the sky,
circulating light
until it dawns as us all.
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 10:00 AM UTC
1
He'd love her
and then the coldness
of marriage took love
away from him
and the coldness turned into suspicion
and then into an obsession:
and she was an inconvenience
he murdered her a Friday
night
suffocated her with her pillows
it was easy;
like Othello did
but she was no Desdemona;
and he heard her whisper with her last breath:
"I'll have your eyes"
he cut her up in manageable parts,
and buried her below the floorboards
in the study
2
It is a year later
and he is at the computer
and far below lies parts of his wife
but now his wife is smiling
she's on screen
smiling like a Greek Goddess
and he sits transfixed
and she says:
*"You are Oedipus, darling -
I will have your eyes"*
She is smiling
He is willing
Beside the printer are paperclips
He undoes two
She beckons; she smiles
and she whispers
that same deathbed whisper:
"I'll have your eyes"
And he is Oedipus
Just paperclips will do
He gouges one eye out
And he gouges the other too
It is easy
She lies deep below
below the floorboards;
She need whisper no longer
And he is become Oedipus,
eyes gouged,
blind like the Greek Homer
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
not only does cancer cause the immune system to whither
but the soul to float about the clouds
in search for ambition
to discover a better life,
or a better place to be.
not only does illness cause bones to shatter
but hearts to reach their last beats
surrendering blood
for a manageable death
or better type of sleep.
not only does a person cause hearts to break
but lives to cease
and minds to be manipulated
for stabbing memories
or uncovered scars
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
It rhymed, it seemed sensible
Although maybe reprehensible
Because it didn’t quite make sense,
Questions with no answers
Intensifying with the questioning
But never mentioning any answers
Just mysteries but no attempts
To justify
What was being said,
The page being fed
with more words
read felt and heard before
But never quite sure what it was trying to say
It carried on anyway,
It rhymed because it seemed sensible
But it was questionable whether it
Had any meaning,
A room with no floor but walls and a ceiling
What?
Are you sure you’re not looking at it
Upside down?
Surely it’s more appealing
The other way round,
Less falling into nothingness
The ceiling as a floor would be best
Or spinning really fast so you can’t quite fall
Because it catches you,
Hopefully no nails from pictures
In the walls
Because it scratches you
Spinning round
In a room
With no windows watching you.
Butterscotch table for two…
What?
It doesn’t make sense,
But for recompense it rhymes
I said that already I know
But I need certain lines
In there because,
Well…
You know why.
Ladders wrapping like snakes around the branches of
Trees
That could be climbed unappeased
Were it not for nonsense
The cycle repeating over time
Not pleasing but feasible
reasoning untangible
But more manageable
Like conditioned hair
More easy to bare
The sense that the
Dense trees of time
As they climb entangled with ladders like snakes
Or vines
in their hair
Mangled
They don’t make much sense
They just rhyme.
That’s just life.
And that’s fine.
What?
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
Her Father's old wool jacket,
from Johnson Mills,
in creamy white,
dark forest green,
golden amber,
in a lovely patchwork,
A soft dark winter tuke on her head,
that dark green in the background,
with rusty speckles on her cheeks,
Wet snow falls silent,
the sky is a crisp Winter blue,
the air is cold and clear,
& intoxicatingly clean,
As she breathes life in and out,
then,
looking down at her black Sorel boots
and her worn black denim jeans,
a nice old holey wool sweater,
and a maul,
A **** lumberjack?
Maybe...
Dressed to hack the wood,
the plumber thinks so,
he stops by,
a friend of hers,
sorta,
Huh?
Not invited,
but no one is around here,
we all do it,
so he helps too,
Hey I'll make lunch,
harmless flirting,
I suppose,
Because,
wood warms you 3 times they say,
Once to chop it,
two to stack it RIGHT,
three to bring it in & burn it,
But if you count the starting of the,
cantankerous chainsaw & the guy,
helping you,
And you hafta arrange & rearrange, everything,
cleaning the flue and chimney,
I'd say a few more than that,
& don't ferget to pay the man,
the cantankerous one,
Yeah he got lunch too,
and about them ashes,
could be pretty hot,
take 'em out regular,
that stove cranking too,
OUCH,
She ends up gets burned,
a few times each year,
Taday,
she's on step too,
as she picks up the heavy maul,
not to heavy for this gal,
all the way back,
watch yourself,
As a neighbor winches,
a woman chopping wood?
Yup.
That's right,
a way of life,
for her,
always has been,
poised and ready,
swing and smack,
if you hit it right,
you hear a crack,
Just like a baseball bat,
hitting a homer,
Big pieces,
are made more manageable,
when you don't try to control the force,
when you let the sharpened maul,
Do all the work,
for you.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
I knew you
or knew of
you
I almost
knew you
I suppose
But I didn't get
the chance.
I'm not sure if
the chance
was offered
or not.
I don't know if
I could have been
your friend,
a confidant,
(your savior?)
I don't know that
I could have
helped.
But maybe...
I could have
said something,
done something,
simply sat in your
presence
until you felt
like existance was
managable.
Until you felt
worthy,
valued,
realized your importance.
Until you felt
like you could
stay.
(God, how I
wish you had
stayed)
But before I got the chance...
You put that gun to your head.
You put that noose around your neck.
You put that knife to your wrist.
You took one or two pills,
too many.
You left me here.
ALL of you,
(even if I never knew you)
left me here,
and I'll never know if
I could have
Helped
If I could have
helped make it
okay,
manageable,
real,
made you feel loved.
(because I would have loved you)
But I want you to know...
I wanted to.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Swimming in our own corruption as we Play then we pray Oh Heavenly Father you gave your son to us in Sacrifice so we can be repeatedly forgiven for our ways, but yet our days are numbered one by one. Sorry your rules are boring we've read your story now were snoring Christ blood is poring flesh torn by the thorn of our own mockery by sweet sin we put ourselves in. Though some sins of others affect our way. Time to blame you for them. How could you let it be? Again some blame their brothers so no one will see there trickery. We haven't lost faith just your place. Of course some have. For you not being tangible sometimes our life is not manageable. We Play for fun, careless for the heart. Please forgive us we fell apart. In our own playground of sin testing others to come in. We're too lazy to stand upright. We don't care you see, it's easier to take and fake then make or pay our own way. Yes we lie to get by our fellows. Why should we care life's not fair it's too short Dog we mean God. Just want to Play in any way through our short existence. Forget the busters they dont know its ok, to continue go this way. All I have to do is say sorry so sorry and everything will be ok. Thanks for your Son we just want to have fun!!!!!
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 2:03 AM UTC
I love
Empty rooms
Because empty rooms mean no locked doors
They mean no hidden screaming matches
No unquenchable tears, from those you never thought would cry
They mean no sister doing stupid things
Or stupid people
That will only hurt her later
No sister you wish you could protect, like she’s protected you
No sister you wish you could save from heart break
Or impart to all the wisdom she’s taught you
They mean no sister who will spew the venomous words
That hurt more than any blow
They mean no whispered voices
Validating all of your biggest insecurities
No hushed secrets denied to you
No closed doors, locked or otherwise
Or even slightly ajar doors—that are really closed to you
Even a door closed on an empty room is an open one
Empty rooms mean space
They are a place to breathe when everywhere else suffocates you
They are a place to run to when staying hurts
Empty rooms are a solace you weren’t sure you’d ever find
A break from cold reality
And a pause from the crushing weight of the world that constantly pounds against you
Empty rooms don’t make you cry
Or think of what it would be like to finally die
Empty rooms are peace unlike anywhere else
Yet empty rooms leave a bitter after taste of longing
Because for all of the gloriousness of blessed empty rooms
They are still lacking and they leave you hollow as ever
With no one to fill the void
Still I love empty rooms
Because hollowness doesn’t stab through your heart with sharp fiery pain
Preferring to remain a subtle manageable ache
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 6:24 PM UTC
why do I stay up so late
where the monsters
of what could have
and what should have
linger
why do I stay up so late
crying over spilt milk
and conversations
buried in the past
why do I stay up so late
when I know
that you reside
in those early, wine-soaked
morning hours
why do I stay up so late
and fret
about the future,
while I’m in the present
why do I stay up so late
when,
just like cinderella,
the strike of midnight
should be my cue
to cut off all emotions
and enjoy a pumpkin ride back home
why do I stay up so late
when I know
that I miss you
and it hurts the most
when I’m alone at 2am
why do I stay up so late
when breakfast is just around the corner,
and decisions made at 7am
are much more manageable
to obtain
why do I stay up so late
when I know better
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
Category 2,
not too bad...
Swirling, whirling
Pounding, hounding
Rolling, Spinning
But
Manageable
Category 3...
Freight train,
coming from every direction
Major, but nothing new
Just an hour
Hold on,
We'll pull through
Pressure suddenly
DROPPING
Ears constantly
POPPING
Category 4,
...
Too late
My father's sharp
Breath
Pieces of homes
ripped off like flakes of skin
Leaving the ground barren
Only the bear bones
possibly remaining
Till they too,
are forcefully wrenched
apart,
A majestic structure,
now reduced
simply,
to *******
Mother nature
hurling trees
in her
wrath
All-
...
Gone,
in
a
matter
...
of seconds
The roar
mirroring the one,
in my head-telling me to
get
Get OUT
NOW
The world...
a symphony
of rage, ferocity, passion
Violent reds,
splotches of
orange and fuchsia
That,
I unfortunately,
seem
trapped within
As the clashes and roars
Waves and cutting wind
Swirl around me, I wonder,
is this,
what an insect feels like,
stuck in a washing machine?
Come to bed,
my father calls
I go,
reluctantly,
to the pillows and covers
that should be warm and soft,
but to my touch,
appear frigid
stiff
My eyeballs
practically popping
until at
some unknown time,
they shut
and I
SINK
Sink
sink
...
...
Sunlight streams in,
A dream?
Perhaps...
Possibly...
Maybe...
Oh, if only...
Unable to contain the hope,
I leap up to my window- And freeze
Debris-
not trees,
not homes,
not anything
Just a mass of objects rendered useless and stamped with the label of
-DEBRIS
...
My father says,
No more running water
My neighbor's little blue
shed,
...
in shambles
Yet,
as I step outside
After what seems,
like a long arduous battle
I was an unlucky
Bystander
caught in the middle
of
Yet,
Despite the
churning feeling
in my stomach The broken battered *******
the ruined property The, miserableness
Of the situation
But then again...
As my father,
fervently
prays
praises
Thanks the Lord
...
My mind,
is blown away
As I stand,
In awe
as my eyes take in the majesty
of those few,
solitary,
hundred year old houses
...
still standing
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, insult salted the injury--- that was a bad day<
maybe wounds are sold
do you mean that insult can't salt injuries to a pathetic fault?
warn the poor never the guilt as it
wish the idiotic I put the limit
stepped the humiliation right out
silenced like a charity drought
now lacked it is yet still manageable
killed in the **** core when tangible
warn foolish fingers
an incoming the tremble syndrome
now secrets are whispered blind devils shrink in hinders
a car ride rains a billion on a thinker
watch me tested as God demands
lost in translation for what a paper does
and I simply don't understand
take the gesture I can't for a billion pays you see
made me squirm more like a forsaken sun in 2018
------ravenfeels
Jun 19, 2021
Jun 19, 2021 at 3:54 PM UTC
Another haunt is arriving, feverishly fast tonight.
Somehow I managed to delay the feeling, briefly,
as it usually takes the manageable Subway and begins to fester around high noon, but today I skipped lunch,
and the feeling didn't go underground for her mode of transport.
"Maybe I hit the lotto?", I secretly questioned,
and the haunt would forget her requiem, passing over me
like those lucky "Kennedy Husbands" during the sixties' draft.
But I was getting divorced while all the other couples
were on a faster track heading in the opposite direction.
Tonight the haunt is traveling 248 mph,
on the Fùxīng ** bullet train from Beijing to Shanghai, en route to Vietnam.
The conductor yelled, "All Aboard."
and as if that period denoted a punctual mark,
everyone manically crammed into the narrow vehicle.
The first influx of lovely passengers to board were,
Missus Anxiety, Sir Prior Transgressions and Dr. Heartache.
Unlike Dr. Feelgood,
They had been waiting in line from the previous night,
like those idiots for last week’s black Friday sale.
Mr. and Mrs. Payments Past Due cut in front of
Bills Esquire and Judge Job Insecurity,
for the Belmont Superfecta win, I guessed the right horses, just didn’t box my bet.
Congressman Careless and Deputy ******* nearly trampled Senator Surrender on the way through the turnstiles,
while Mayor Moan was flagged by security for groaning
and pulled aside for a pat down and wheelchair inspection.
The Mayor was found to have ******* residue on his sleeve, but legitimate prescriptions for his aches and pains,
so TSA
wheeled him through the crack rocks
Analog veins pump analog blood to my analog heart;
traveling for the journey and not its hasty destination.
My analog heart will eventually be shelved,
as it still salutes the Subway on its journey to my soul,
but like dusting off an old Coen Brothers flick,
my analog heart is still entertaining its vintage tick.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
there are men in my life would find it **** to look in on a woman bathing a puppy. they are good men, and wrong. I met your husband in the waiting room of an abortion clinic 101 miles from where you live and 73 from where you work. I know some intimate things- you were driving, your son was playing the flute. I know the damage a flute can do- it does a number on the lips. I was moving my hands in my lap imagining film trays of broken water as if I might guess with my knees the weight of a newborn. your husband has a wobbly right knuckle. with that face he could be a mime. he could be armless. I tried to think of my belly as a balloon with a manageable amount of candy on the end of its string. the night last to this morning I put a pillow under my back and tried to fall asleep but I have one eye insists to understudy the moon. pregnancy as idée fixe- moon and balloon. your **** daughter wants a puppy but where would we put it.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 11:26 AM UTC
Poems about roads,
poems about ravens,
Poems about monsters,
and poems about roses.
What do they mean? The road is a life,
the raven a regret,
the monster is you
and the rose is-
What.
What happened to this?
Why can't it just be a rose?
A flower with thorns and red petals?
“But the thorns are hardship and-”
No. Don't pretend you understand.
Don't give meaning to the meaningless.
Let the words speak on their own.
Interpret, sure, but don't over-analyze.
Let the words come and flow
unbroken by the lines of a chart,
splitting stanzas and lines into more manageable chunks.
Poetry is an art not meant for a spreadsheet.
Words flow from the heart and the soul,
from the subconscious where meaning is meaningless.
Where poetry remains whole.
I scratch my pen across the page
like a pen scratching across a page,
writing a poem about poetry,
Really.
I write cloud and it means cloud,
I scrawl raven and I mean the bird,
I tap out road, and it refers to the pavement
and when I say rose, I mean rose.
Beauty is not always in complexity,
sometimes it rests in simplicity.
Simplicity of thought and
of interpretation.
When my heart is aching
and I want to cry, how else can that be said?
When I make it an enigma:
crystal drops from earthen orbs
when I say what I want:
I buried my face in my hands
and sobbed.
Both equally beautiful,
both equally poetic
one clearly understood by anyone reading.
Poetry is my art, and I would hate to see it picked apart
like a frog in a biology class.
Each stanza
cut
apart
word by word
and phrase by phrase
to find any hidden meanings therein.
I've hidden nothing.
But don't over-analyze that statement.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 8:58 AM UTC
*grew my hair too long, watched it get cut and
all the snippets
fell to the floor,
decided my hair had not been
long enough
started all over again,
longer longer deeper longer,
pasting the snippets together
hoping the parts are greater than the
hole I am forever filling with
Haagen Daz vanilla buttermilk,
wise choices of words,
the satisfactory completion
of finishing and the joyous anticipatory
of starting all over again
undecided if today will be
a day where I tend my love, or,
need more being attended to
every poem I every writ
is just a
snip snip snip
of instant instances seconds capsulated
that run on into one long sentence my
gorgeous blonde 5th grade teacher, who had a crush on me,
(and vice versa)
would red ink wink critique as a
run on sentence and I could not agree more
snip snip snip
becomes a life
of one run on sentence to living larger and longer,
want a becoming life,
life becoming comely,
only commas and no periods,
period
exhausting the indecision of living
so pasting snippets seems more manageable
but not so much fun, indeed, in deed,
too much **** work, this cutting and pasting,
so gonna give you the rough and tumble of my words
as they pour out and as long as they keep coming back,
I'll keep on pouring and ******* and godpraise
this word well that runs dry never
my poems are not too long -
if you have learned to taste wisely -
how to taste gloriously languorously language
my poems are not too long,
life is too short to leave all these
demoted spaces of empty,
in between the raging and the loving,
the aching, fretting and the heaven sending thrills
of thanking the powers to be for everything
I got blessed with,
even my curses are just the flip side of*
***snip snip snip
so much from just one cup of coffee***
<>
six minutes of Aug 13, 2016 life, something you might call a
snip snip snip
SIP
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 6:43 AM UTC
get through the day
just one day at a time
and if that seems like too much
too all at once
all loud and in your face
go by seconds
and then minutes
and then hours
make the in and out of
air in your lungs
a manageable thing
but there is no
clear map when it comes
to survival
because that looks different
for everybody
and a numbered list
could fill all the blank pages
but won’t you think of the trees
and when my depression
grabbed me by the throat
my feet left the ground
as the blueprints left my hands
the plan that i had planned
all neat and laid out
but an addled mind does not
care about that
because it is too busy screaming
and smacking itself against the floor
and sometimes survival looks
like staying up until it is
almost morning again
so you can rock back and forth
in a nest of your blankets
soaked in tears and sweat
sobbing till the line between
heaving breaths and puking
becomes more than blurred
because how do you tell
your family and friends
that you want to die
because it all hurts so much
and sometimes survival looks
like eyes sunken and glazed
shaking hands around a mug
of tea or coffee
with alcohol optional
but not much can mask the
acidic taste of panic
that comes with your heart
continuing to hammer against
your ribs
and sometimes survival
is all smiles
and laughing until you cry
and sloppy kisses
and laying in the middle of a road
on a dead end street with
the person you love most
and your hands are almost
touching and they are so
beautiful and you are alive
and it feels so good
and you are alive
and you are alive
and you are alive
and you are past the survival
and you are LIVING
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
Satori is a word that originates from Japan. It literally translates as 'awakening' and is used to describe a moment of 'sudden enlightenment'.
To attempt to understand this as an experience, try this:
Imagine your mind as being a glass prism situated behind your eyes.. It breaks up reality in a similar way to how a glass prism refracts light.
What goes in is pure and whole, but what comes out is broken and fractured. When the mind is active, what is received by the eyes is broken up into tiny little manageable pieces of information. Then for convenience, it will discard anything that it considers to be irrelevant, or 'not fitting' [what you already believe to be true].. Then your body will react according to that particular interpretation of reality. That's not to say the mind is bad or wrong, only that the mind does not see Truth, but only what it allows to be true..
When the mind falls silent the prism is removed, and you become just like a mirror. Light goes in through the eyes and your being will directly reflect what is being received.
See if you can catch the next time your mind goes silent. Be aware of the stillness it brings. Notice that the mind will want to judge it or describe it. If thoughts come, acknowledge them and let them be on their way. Just watch them. Treat them in a manner similar to watching clouds float through the sky. Stay with this feeling and remember it well.
For in that moment, all will be revealed.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
I'm so lost.
My surroundings don't feel real and
I'm so scared.
The skin on my fingertips is sliced
in patterns created by anxiety fuelled
compulsivity whilst I'm sat around an unfamiliar kitchen table.
I'm so lonely.
Interaction is only manageable after the sour taste
of ***** shots have seeped into my blood stream and
I'm so sad.
Do they know where I disappear off to?
Do they realise that I leave the room, unable to cope,
just to slash at my thighs in a desperate attempt to feel grounded?
I'm so sore.
My body is bruised, tiny constellations that
only remind me of home, of my mother and her hobbies.
Of skies no longer tinged with the bitter sweet brassiness of city lights
but of unadulterated and divine decrees.
I'm so wistful.
My body shatters at the thought of home, of comfort, of love.
The fragments form a barrier around me,
a territorial wire with thorny thistles ready to attack.
I'm so divided.
Half of my mangled mind grasps onto you,
your memories and your love.
The other detaches, similarly to the way in which my mind
departs from reality.
I'm so disconnected.
Yet this feeling is sewn strangely into my wounds,
tied too tight to let go.
Maybe if the thread was to be loosened,
I would fall apart forever.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
Like the plates of the earth
the world beneath my feet is solid and withstanding.
seemingly resolute,
it has held together with manageable
cracks and tears;
a steady foundation.
Like the plates of the earth,
my world begins to shift;
the cracks and tears grow suddenly
without warning I am thrown
into a tumult of confusion and discord.
Shifting becomes breaking;
slowly, piece by piece,
my plates split apart,
creating not a giant hole,
but a small and slivered crevice that
appears to swallow all of my breaking pieces.
Discomfort
unease
fully aware of each falling part
this turbulence continues;
days go by and more pieces
are breaking
and falling
and disappearing
before I can catch them
and hold them close
until my ground quits shaking.
For I have hit an earthquake
and I close my eyes
and grasp the few roots
left in this mess
and wait.
Now the shift is over
while the earth has finished its quaking,
my world is still trembling in recovery.
The balance has yet to be regained;
I am still assessing the damage,
waiting for the sun to shine again
to show me what is left to mend.
The bridge from discomfort to normalcy
quivers with every step,
but I find solace
on the rising sun’s horizon.
A small voice whispers,
“it is good.”
Today it is March
what a beautiful march it will be.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
Everything became interchangeable.
Words of wisdom,
which weren't welcoming,
were washed willingly.
Only now knowing
that the definition of a "wash"
is a sensitivity.
An appropriate metaphor
would have been a description
of an undertow; hands over feet,
because a cartwheel is superfluous
underwater.
It's interchangeable.
The fact that the
white whale can
signify the tepid tactic
of the once sought
suitable soul.
It's tangible.
The decisiveness of another party.
A warm body to lay beside.
Another to lift the veil.
To speak love and hate
with full confidence.
Understanding that love and hate
is reachable.
Aloof to the fact that
you are
the love and hate.
It's manageable.
Although, *******
teeth has become customary,
the prospect of ******* face"
still lingers.
It's only until the lack of movement
with fingers...
It's the lack of *******
But, it's manageable?
It's interchangeable.
It's knowing that what was
sought after was temporary,
that a sealed kiss will
eventually lead to an
opened envelope.
Then after time has taken its course,
you will be inside of another,
and another will be inside of her,
but the difference isn't the physicality.
It's the emotion that kills you.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 2:11 AM UTC
He kinetically arrived
with 1973.
Night is the longest day,
here come the warm jets,
served on a cold plate.
Play it back at half-speed
and you've got auditory wallpaper,
it must be as ignorable
as it is interesting.
His own world spins within a device:
cacophony of sound
mixed in a blender
and xeroxed;
a little snake guitar,
a little Leslie piano
— music to resign you
to the possibility of death.
Then came 1983
and beyond just him.
Tamper tantrum hotline,
amplifiers on the balcony,
secretly taping Edge
and Adam Clayton
on a 4th of July.
The numbered streets
and desert rain
add soul to this heartland,
it's the gospel truth
he wiped the deck clean.
(sort of and maybe).
His device spins within its own world:
manageable hums,
danceable drones,
welded into night;
daytime variations
held together
no better (and no worse)
than a cloud.
Then there's sfumato:
music without lines or borders,
in the manner of smoke
— theatrical fog
— a different kind of blue.
Densely layered,
so impossible to track,
this being lost in
the magnetic hush
of airports and
other strange kiosks,
it all falls into a creative lull.
Guess it's time for
Oblique Strategies...
Jul 9, 2022
Jul 9, 2022 at 1:43 PM UTC
I want tendrilic night to descend around me
And wrap itself, drape itself, like a curtain
Velvet and thick, choke and be sick
***** all over the carpets
When the blood slows to more manageable
Clotting, destroying everything it soaks
Tarnish the mainstream, the day dreamer
Wrapped thick inside of winter coats
Baby blue mist making it's way through land
The liquid just beginning to drop
Ivy vines, they wither and shed from sunlight
And grow back into the ground
Medicine is made from the dead flowers
That grow from the pits of Hades realm
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC