"metaphysic" poems
stands alone today and tells a story to clouds
(putt putt)
the worst has happened at the days end
and the frozen orange Gallon
like ice has chosen to now become hand
all in all more or less
3.78lbs put in plastic wrap.
stands alone in the dollar market surrounds with fleeting thoughts sometimes forgotten
today at days end lost while
****** sun at times lost in ******* ******* snake movie
pouring into the retina of the brainless child
o mi babbino mi caro, past is the skating rink of hell but
knock yourselves out in deep perpetual insanity of whats, hows and neverminds.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosallycan be adisappointmentsometimesbutwestillloveherbecausesheis just whatwe callfamilyandfamilyissoimportanttoidentifyoneselfinaworldofchaoscalledearthoooooooooooooooooooooooooo
computer glitch and error of the metaphysic naiveté of the skating rink of hell near the ******* ******* snake movie in the story of the white trashed oppressively personified virgo at the dollar market holding a gallon of orange juice that costs more than $7.65 because it's apparently organic and thereby magical.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
as conscious mode,
vague aboutness, it stales romance
in metaphysic stench, this telic sense,
unlike the comfort of a family nest
my locus drifts on wind
i'd rather culture in a jar
on the counter (no secrets there) or even cellared
responding to the world's response, anthophilous
com][part][mental-mania
warehoused too for sticky label stigma-sized
cover-glint akin with stamp of human frailty, resource that i am,
far from pink and snow banana plants
no inward passion of a chimpanzee in chains
though i assume the name
pan troglodytes applies to me as any species, or much more,
riddled with neuroses, caves every each to steal away from being seen,
from open goals to shade concerns, rotted fancies
manifestering the soil by the laundy-bin abysm--
commode in time, this musa media mind
so urgent in its pseudostemming scour
will flower unsterile and so find its fruit
with bunching finger fronding infloresce
and write about it in the bloom
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:30 PM UTC
The waves
crash on
the shore
of the eyes,
I wished
to create
worlds with
my mind
that the
lips fail
to convey,
I observe
the drifting
journey,
as the mind
wanders to
the paintings
of metaphysic
nature, where
everlasting
stories are
found, as
I am lost
perpetually
in wonder,
on and on,
I will live
through
another,
as the dew
caressing
the endless
being of now,
the world I
had known
once cursed
me for being
a dreamer,
though I
feared not,
for the heart
of mine,
possessor
of truth,
was never
vulnerable,
tears created
the clouds
I held within
my chest,
where I
float
as the
wings of
thousand
white doves,
the cage has
fallen, I have
risen as the
one who
saw the
light in
others
when they
failed to
have seen
it within
their own
chests,
I am the
bringer
in the
garden
of words,
I am aware of
the unavowed
lost ways of
conversation,
where the
cherry
blossoms
seek the
surrender
of the leaves
within the
deepest parts
of the beautiful
mind, elusive
as the reflection,
wavering as a
chameleon,
even though,
the heaven in
my breath
will never
fade, as the
grace of the
delicate ones,
hidden to them
was the nature
of the imperfections,
forming something
so untouchably
incandescent,
I had seen
the truth,
and soon,
they shall
see it too,
I and them
shall walk
the earth,
soaring
from our
fingertips,
I will hope
they look to
the skies,
and find this
reminiscence,
where the
clouds
ripple,
angels
are near,
I will wish
for them
to see how
these words
I have written
are sacred,
for beauty
lies in
secrecy,
waiting
for you.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
Do my poems have special meaning
to people with skin like mine
do the lines
call to black blood
do the stanzas call themselves nigerian
does the punctuation long for Africa
when caucasion men read my poems
do they wonder why their
skin prickles
are the words more apt
to line the dreams of young african women
laying in bed
happy to have found
their ancestral home
within the pages of
of my metaphysic constructions
kinyopoetry.com
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
three old crones went walking on the pier
Void, Metaphysic and everything Here
Metaphysic whispered something into Void's ear
Here wished to listen so she sidled up near
much to her dismay, there was nothing there to hear
Void ignored Metaphysic, Here shed a tear
from afar i watched and i pondered over beer
if they're over there then how am i over here?
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:18 PM UTC
We trigger an avalanche of reactions,
without consciousness of faults made.
We tread on the thin ice of the lake.
Under us, everything drifts.
Inner voices
urge us, despite the cold.
Personal anxiety
the back of the head throbs.
We wear different states of existence:
Happiness, purgatory, and despair.
Living despite boundless doubts,
we are sculpting our metaphysic.
Jan 18, 2025
Jan 18, 2025 at 6:58 AM UTC