"microscopes" poems
i've moved past my belief
in the Christian trinity...
for me...
the meditation stands
on the pivot of
the following translation
the hexagon,
start of david -
which translates
as the Holy Ghost -
which denotes
a congregation...
the pentagon?
of the befitting analogy
to the five senses...
the "son of man" -
or simply...
the myopia of man
having to excavate
the sixth sense
using telescopes,
microscopes, the like...
and, finally?
on a hand of five extensions,
there are four...
the square...
Y H
⠁⠑ read clockwise
like English traffic
H W on a roundabout.
which? denotes the father...
if the Hebrews "think" they
can hide their vowels?
the Latin answer is...
to interpolate Braille into
their language...
and Emperor Nero would have
appreciated it...
whether with, or without
the Byzantine propaganda machinery
of the nevus testamentum...
and it wasn't a propagandist
piece?
how much longer did the eastern
Empire, outlive the Western
empire, when the onslaught
by the Ottoman's reached
Constantinople?!
the Greek were craving
a cultural revival!
they believed the Romans
to have origins in Troy!
they plaid the weakest cultural
card of Judaism,
revamping it into Christianity...
hell... that's what i believe...
and i'm not about to meet
a Jehovah's Witness propagandist,
or some aged Pakistani
citing the Quran on a park
bench...
or some Scientologist
on Oxford St. with his wacky
machine...
or some pseudo Hare Krishna
monk with a book about
some guru, pushing it like
marijuana...
to change my mind on what
i'm digesting!
plus?
⠽ ⠓
Æ ( read anti-clockwise)
⠓ ⠺
fits in perfectly into the Adam
and Eve narrative -
as with all mythology -
given the extent of time...
nuance, metaphor...
abbreviation...
ars poetica!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
Preventing contamination,
A constant challenge in cell culture.
Contamination not only affects,
The culture in question and,
Costs time and money,
But also endangers the reproducibility of results.
No cell culture problem,
Is as universal as that of culture loss
Due to contamination.
Generally, contamination may be separated,
Into categories of microbial,
And eukaryotic contamination.
Examples of microbial contamination include:
Bacteria (including Mycoplasma),
Fungi and yeast;
Eukaryotic contamination includes:
Cross-contamination with other cell lines.
Bacteria, yeast and fungi,
The three more common types of contamination,
But luckily these forms are often detectable,
Under the microscope and,
By visual cues,
Like colour or turbidity changes in the medium.
Mycoplasma is a small genus of bacteria,
That lack a cell wall and for this reason,
They remain unaffected by common antibiotics.
They are also difficult to detect,
With standard microscopes,
Due to their size, about 0.1 μm in diameter,
And the fact that they often attach to host cells.
To prevent contamination,
Use 70% ethanol for disinfecting,
Equipment & surfaces,
Related to cell culture.
Sterile filter the media first,
Before bringing to the lab.
Fetal Bovine Serum,
A potential source of contamination,
Contains mycoplasma.
Filter it at 0.1 μm, or,
Gamma irradiate it.
Aseptic technique,
Necessary.
The laboratory workers be the last,
But not the least source of contamination.
Teach them the ideal laboratory practices,
To ensure asepticity in a laboratory.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
if you look up, you will see
the bright-eyed and
the wide-mouthed—
the interesting, the casual, the adored
glistening in the warm night
peered at through microscopes and
telescopes and stethoscopes
far and far away
we are so desperate to be close
close and close and
close enough to see the blemishes
the scarring and the peeling
effaced by obvious and biased inner-commentary
they’re just not as red or sore as mine
perhaps they were formed under
a different kind of sun
what does the unfamiliar heart say?
does it sound at all like mine?
will i ever escape the sloppy grasp of dullness?
will the world swallow me whole?
if i count the days on both hands
on toes, on eyelashes—
if i only eat green things and
read tattered books and
pretend that i don’t mind—will i ever
break the mirror?
will i find seven years of good luck
between the jagged edges?
to exist as a reflection
is to not exist at all
there are lonely, dark purple heavens
waiting for you to sever your longing gaze
to stop lying to yourself
to hop onto the back of the cow
and begin living somewhere beyond the moon—
to realize, with closed eyes
you belong to the sky
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
I got out of bed with a bit of uneasiness,
I decided that it's been too long since I've written.. I think the last time I did was last week
...or the week before ?
I looked at the date, and make me twitch,
Made a tear, or two fall
Made my heart break in a few more pieces.
DID YOU KNOW THAT IT'S BEEN A MONTH SINCE WE MET ? Figuratively that is ..
DID YOU KNOW, that you've broken me into minute pieces ??
Pieces unable to be detected by microscopes ??
Pieces that can't be felt or touched with your naked hand?
DID YOU KNOW ?
No you don't.
You've been too busy missing her every second, like you did with me.
Been too busy upset with her, like you were with me.
Been too busy telling her how much you like her like you did with me.
HECK, YOU'VE BEEN TOO BUSY WORSHIPPING HER ANGELIC FACE, LIKE YOU DID WITH ME !
YOU'VE BEEN TOO BUSY BEGGING HER, TO SEE HER FULL BODY, LIKE YOU DID WITH ME !
YOU'VE BEEN TOO BUSY telling her of your childhood, and how you missed your dad
..too busy telling her how suicidal you were, and how placed a gun to your head.
And you're probably too busy, telling her of me.
YOU'VE BEEN TOO BUSY, SITTING, FORMULATING THE LIES YOU'LL TELL ME NEXT, AS TO WHY YOU'VE HAD NO TIME FOR ME : "I was helping my mom with the Christmas tree" "Someone was using my phone" "Sorry I was sleeping" - (WAIT DIDN'T YOU SPEND NIGHTS UP WITH ME TELLING ME YOU HAVE INSOMNIA ? ) "Sorry I was out" "Sorry I was on a call" . AND I DON'T CARE IF THEY'RE TRUE, I DON'T CARE IF I'M EMOTIONAL BUT THAT'S TOO MUCH 'I'M SORRYS' . TOO MUCH EXCUSES, TOO MUCH LIES.
And I'm sorry that I made a mistake and liked you so much. I'm sorry for letting you taking up my phone space,
With pictures of you that an artist would find hard to formulate.
Sorry you were my screensaver.
Sorry I told my sister about you ..yeah I told her how adorable you were
And I told her you were my ''soon to be boyfriend" ...
And I'm sorry that I pushed another into the fire because of you
Yeah I'm sorry I pushed him aside.
But karma's a ***** and I knew it would get me, I told you it would AND I TOLD YOU IN THE END I'D BE HURT, and you told me no, and I would be.
Darling being replaced doesn't bother me, it doesn't make my bones crack,
It doesn't make my heart cry ..
It's the mixed signals.
Today you're all flirty with me, tomorrow you're calling me names.
WHY DON'T YOU MAKE UP YOUR MIND ?!
I know you no longer need be, and to be honest you never did,
So be honest with me and let me leave you alone ??
I'm also sorry for listening to your lies.
I should've known though, by the signs you gave,
"Let's be friends with benefits?"
FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS WHEN I WAS HOPING WE'D GO SOMEWHERE ?? F.W.B, WHEN I WAS HOPING WE'D BE TOGETHER ONE DAY ? F.W.B, WHEN YOU SAID YOU LIKED ME MORE THAN YOU SHOULD'VE ??
Special to be used then thrown aside ?
What did you want ? A piece of me ?
I should've have know when you said I was special, after I said you were my "soon to be boyfriend "
And I'm sorry you'll never get to see this.
But I hope you suffer from your mistakes
And rot in the arms of any other you come across,
Because no one will EVER adore you like I DID.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC
185
“Faith” is a fine invention
When Gentlemen can see—
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency.
3.8k
You want to judge the book;
Or you are curious and keen.
Gibingly you ask about microbes.
With Naked eyes unseen.
Fourteen hundred is the age.
Yet you can scratch your head.
I know it is not going to help.
Because you're alive yet dead.
You think you're very literate.
Yes it speaks about microbes. ***
But are you literate enough?
Then there were no microscopes.
They discover and boastfully talk.
As if they've created, never they stop.
Compare themselves with God.
But their origins are in ***** drop.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
I've looked at star filled skies
At life in microscopes
I've stared at hills and oceans
To find connectivity
But I have found
I see You clearest
Not looking past this skin
For You're the best in me
When I see gentleness
Like giving of myself
Being kind to others
Helping weaker ones I see
Caring for older beings
Showing youth the paths
And scorning selfishness
I see that love must be
His modus operandi
That is what I recognize
When everything is said and done
He is the grains on sandy beaches
He is the fish beneath the sea
He is the galaxy afar
The very tiny microbe
Everything I see
And finally
Whatever else
God is love in me
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
Superhero heavyweights
Alter ego misfits
Scandalous fall from grace
Public pain and private parties
Golden idol ego trips
Wrath of God
Not wrath of Kahn
Read a book
Take a look around
Stop flying high
Indestructible
Too messed up to see
The damage done
Idolaters be dammed
First commandment
Godless society
Superhero wannabes
Glory and the fame
Microscopes
Expand the putrid that make-up cannot mask
Everybody’s business
Do as you say not as you do
Becomes, monkey see monkey do
Flying high without a net
Newbies falling from the sky
That is not empowerment
Luck is not strategy
And life is not a game
Find importance
Both within and without
Then dawn your cape
And fly away
To help your fellow man
Not just your selfish greed
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 5:31 AM UTC
momentary tangibility, momentously touchable.
voluptuous experience, an explosion of love
or *****
no rhyme nor reason.
stuck behind glass doors,eternally hoping for
more more more.
locked in and passed around.
visible from hot air balloons, indecipherable under microscopes.
morse code, even to myself.
im on this red painted shelf.
of course, red, but still unread.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
The children all had boxes
With all the things they’d learn to do
When they heard the bell, away with one
And out another for something new
Each box had printed fabrics:
One with numbers, one with notes,
One with maps and little flags,
One with microscopes…
One day, just by accident
Someone knocked the boxes on the floor
The fabrics scattered everywhere
What piece went where, we weren’t sure
But it didn’t take to long to see
What needed to be done
We grabbed some scissors, cut them up
And weaved them into one
Turns out we didn’t need the boxes
They took up too much space
Now we had a lovely quilt
With all the fabrics we had laced
Our quilt now hangs upon the wall
Its much more pleasing to the eye
Instead of hiding in those boxes
We can see them all the time
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
Dream/wake
dr
e
a
m
wake
suddenly
there's no difference
stand in front of a mirror
stare at your reflection
until nothing
means a thing
repeat your name
are you real?
is this real or
are you
s
l
e
e
p
ing
sleeping?
ocean waves of oblivion
crash wash away
coherency
hollow chocolate bunny
mechanical robot toy
"big brother is watching"
Big brother
evil eyes
of microscopes
and lasers
wrap barbed wire around your chest
douse your eyes in chilli sauce
in desperation
to feel something
or anything
failed
sadly
you are
awake.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
The Elder Supremes are staggering
Under the Pillar of Superposition—
They who stream emotionless minds, streaming
Scripture as alcohol to tea-head Kneelers, praying
The elixir of Olympus isn’t turpentine; tarnishing
The great, drear light of child-minds like onions in the Sun
Molding through its layers; the taste extinguished—No poetry Survives!
They who crackle doom over whitened rooms
Filled with the white coats of Nature’s secret Heroes—
The best minds, sagging like iced-over limbs—
Made dim by a false Heavenly connection.
Oh! They deprived the gears of Grandfather Night,
And deemed Him wicked in his flickering sight.
They who are Hollow, yet still colossal; these spinning Hellions,
This Machinery of Older Skeletons;
That steams and heats and comes to life for an innocent
Bottom, with the name that lies in Sin of Archaic Text,
Vexed, hexed and expressed in all Prisons and War—
Prisons and War reverberate like bad music in the name of a doG;
A name the Sun once owned and cast below to a dimmer Star,
It billowed and screamed: Keep it in the ******* Church!
Now it comes to Damning the Beast:
“Get thee behind me Savior, for the Microscope is over Prayer.”
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
Have you ever seen a bright eyed
Glowing person
Sober three years
Pull a dime bag out of her purse
It may have been three years
But the person reflected back up at her
From that small mirror
Is not the person in front of you;
It’ll be the same person she was three years ago
It’ll reflects her long forgotten face, but also will be a window into her own personal rock bottom
It is a hotel room key to a tailor made suite in a town she never should have visited
This is not the face she dreamed of growing up to see reflected in her astronaut helmet
Her self-image disappointingly is only eclipsed by passing streetlights
And not the skylines of glitter scattered on the earth’s outline
It would have been a beautiful circumspective background
But she can’t look from aircraft window microscopes now
Now she sits viewing the world through city bus window magnifying glasses
And she worked hard to get here
She earned her urban lab coat and degree from the harsh alleyway lessons
And a life path of two steps forwards one step back
And three here forwards
And a few more back
And really
It’d be a shame to wear out a perfectly good pair of shoes to make this journey all for not
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
Believe it or not,
there are men who shriek like
banshees at the deathbed of a sickly dog,
and women that remain impenetrable
like the broadsides of an iron ship
at the prospect of loss. Not all
executives wear the silk tie
of haughtiness, but bump shoulders
with the rounded backs of street beggars.
And just as the moon waxes and wanes, organizing
the stars into a symphony of light, so too
do the clouds occasionally close the curtains
on the whole performance.
I am a poet but I do not cry.
I am a man but I do not push nor pull,
throwing around wantonly the weight of the cosmos.
I like to think that each of my billions upon billions
of atoms move as gracefully as swans
under their own microscopes,
forcing each and every onlooker to stare
and pick at their own skin
in a search for uniqueness.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
Sitting at a tiny plastic table, between microscopes
and glass bottles of corrosives,
his son lets a mouse he named Ralph crawl up his arms.
Sliding on a lab coat, the father faces his back
toward his son and pulls out subject 402.
It’s his weekend. A quick shot to the heart
is all it takes. He puts it back in the cage.
Watches it expire. Takes it out, again.
A slice of time exposes internal
organs, projecting them to the world.
Look at the heart, swollen red,
those tiny lungs unable to exchange oxygen.
His son spills crackers across the table, sharing with Ralph.
Tissue samples are cut, placed in fragile vials,
labeled and set aside.
Disposes the hollowed corpse.
The boy is hungry, clutching his stomach dramatically.
Eat your crackers.
The boy squeezes the mouse. The mouse
clamps his teeth on him until he is flung from the hand.
Ralph slinks into the background
while the boy cries fat tears, his wound extended.
He is like a man dying of a thousand terrible things.
The man grabs subject 403.
Twisting his uninjured arm around his father’s left leg,
he stains the lab coat with mucus.
Go sit down.
He sniffles, pushes over a stool and climbs to its apex.
Go sit at the table.
He leans into his father’s light.
The broken body with its skin pulled back, pieces of metal
protruding.
It’s Ralph! It’s Ralph!
No it’s not. Go sit down.
It’s Ralph!
He throws himself into the table. Swings his arms.
The vials smash. The microscope crashes.
A scalpel makes contact with the wall.
Subject 403 is catapulted.
To the boy, the body seems to come alive in the air.
But it is motionless on the ground,
Trapped by broken glass.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
When I looked at you I felt everything. All of the colors and feelings that I didn't know I had. Four shades of sadness, two shades of anger, but an abundance of happiness. No, not happiness. Adventure. In you there was everything that excited me, yet nothing of what I needed. Just a wide array of shapes that were never actually defined, that never actually fit together. There was never a clear picture with you, never certainty. And maybe that's what made the painting of you so beautiful, nothing was set in place, always moving , always changing. Always fluid; never solid. By that I mean thrilling. You were a kaleidoscope and every time I looked through you, you changed. Quickly and suddenly. I knew trusting you was like trusting in a optical instrument, but I did it anyways. At the end of us when the colors became dull and the shapes changed slowly, you gave me a look I will never forget. It was the same look a boy gave me in 9th grade biology. We had been looking through a microscope at slides of different organisms the whole class period. We were describing them and drawing them and after a while he looked at me and said "you know, I really don't care to look through this thing anymore. I'm really bored with it". He looked at me disappointed. It's a microscope's job to zoom in on the big picture, to look closer and define; to shape. When I looked at you, I felt everything. But when you looked at me, you felt bored. I remember once you told me I make a really big thing out of small things. I remember once I called you a kaleidoscope and in response you called me a microscope.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
Next to my son's anger
plate tectonics are nothing
to me. His unhappiness
was caused by me.
His purpose and mine
is to catch photons and
store them in our bones.
Time measures change
which continues without
self-doubt. There is no self.
Therefore, why care about
my son's anger
or my guilt?
Why do we have imaginary
numbers anyway?
The imaginary i allows us
to find solutions to many equations
that do not have real number solutions.
It is actually common for equations
to be unsolvable in one number system
but solvable in another:
—with only the counting numbers, we can’t solve x+8=1; we need the
integers for this!
—with only the integers, we can’t solve 3x-1=0; we need the rational
numbers for this!
—with only the rational numbers, we can’t solve x2=2; enter the
irrational numbers!
—and with only the real numbers, we can’t solve x2= -1;
we need the imaginary numbers for this!
Is it possible as Deutsch
suggests that the changes
a self-aware organism can
applying the scientific method
instantiate are innumerable
compared to those of the sun or any big bang?
Therefore, one must care
about the harm you've done
or the good you'd do.
"Death initiates a complex process by which the human body gradually
reverts to dust
but minerals may fill the cracks and voids, bonding the hydroxyapatite
and allowing the bones to join . . ."
in the happy tectonics
of the earth's plates.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
I’m throwing my voice throughout a corridor
With no one on the other end
A space empty and dark filled with my radiance and purpose
I’m here to entertain, my friends
I’m here to guide the tour
Each doorway leads to a lecture hall, a subject to purvey
Each window out is bricked and barred
With damaged curtains, worn by air
Dusty books and creaking floors
No sign you were here
Hourglass and broken microscopes
Scattered all around
Competition from the past
Tests the finest pupil’s skill
Unclear who will succeed
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 3:47 PM UTC
what is it like to
sit
on laundromat tiles
with fish eyes blank
slack jaw
words coming out
"you're too young"
my porcelain skin
isn't china doll thin;
i've felt things inside that rupture
stitching
that morph into a blazing
hot sun because i feel
it's burn in every molecule
thrown under microscopes and watching
the chemical reaction of knowing
you're in love and being in love and always wanting love
with the one person who gives you love
as amebas you can't
measure the age
"oh yes it's love, no
doubt about that"
scientifically proven.
but when you add a
slight skeleton
skin with cuts and scars
from off balanced racing on concrete
with feet that feel every
material of every terrain
and wide eyes that smile
because
life can truly be beautiful.
when you add all that-
love somehow becomes less potent
as if the inner
bonds of feeling
are taken less
seriously.
tell me this;
my lips curve around his name
and my voice box softens
and slows,
dragging out letters
like they hold a story in each one
and to me they always will
should that change with age, should it lessen?
my heart pumps in the same rhythm that
it will 20 years from now.
love has no age
it exists in timeless capacities
and does not know numbers,
it will not see them
it sees two hands
holding one another
gently like
sacred white doves
alighting on aspen
branches
with roots that bury in deep-
but bark as tender
as newborn babies
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
"Faith" us a fine invention
When Gentleman can see-
But Microscopes are prudent
In an Emergency.
Emily Dickinson.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
Pardon me in my own symphony of madness
A tool of my own sadness, oh boy what a feeling that is
It’s not poor nor is it **** so I suggest you sit right back and enjoy
For humorous attempts are only to take joy, creating pure fun
So here I got the run of the bun, Yeah it surely is nice to live
Lessons of the positive, dropping on the mind like intellect
I hear ye, dearly elect….Without any rhyme or reason
The one who may create the least treason…Holding onto your seats
Cashing in on all your receipts, Tickets of winning numbers
No longer living by the warm timbers, Refreshing to say the least
Some may call it very beast…Of me to rummage through moods
Many have given their perfect attitudes, Learn then let live…Breathe
A jewel encrusted knife kept within its sheathe, I promise you’ll never go cold
The tale can be told, in many ways
Spread out over many days, although why tend to boredom
Leading us not into whoredom, deliver us our daily bread
Thy concrete kingdom come along with street cred, as heaven’s mouth is open
At last it becomes very Zen, Living to learn
Rights under a government mule are hard to earn, no sense taking them for granted
Always being doubted, keeping a watchful eye
The lurker leans toward using the skills of a spy
Soon our story will be drawn to an end
Appending my wrongs as my rights come to a bend
Rendering my sins under microscopes as they unbend
Entering the light, being dunked in pools as I ascend
Apr 19, 2010
Apr 19, 2010 at 4:44 AM UTC
All choked up inside because
there is so much I never say, wanting
to share everything and grow up
way too fast, that's not how
things work around here, not
now under microscopes
I love you to the point of
not breathing, a precaution to
ensure such radical notions remain where they
are, but today you
told me the greatest thing you could
ever have brought to my ears, that you
recognize
the simple truth, the difference, this
wonderful knowledge you and I have of each
other, something others chase for so much
time, and yes we have some of
that loosely-defined handhold on
reality, the ticking, but
I need you to know, I
still cannot find words.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
The mundane world
must yield to imagination.
Eyes are not microscopes,
nor lips but for drinking.
Facts do not make a life;
events alone cannot explain
a single, beating human heart.
Nothing exists so basic that
it cannot be expanded and exploded
by whimsy and effort.
A butterfly is just an insect
until the tale teller awakens its potential;
a lover is just a lump of flesh
until a story renders her beautiful.
Our fictions generate a reality
beyond the dreary limitations of mere truth,
and truth is always mere,
always waiting for the magic touch of more.
Knowing only the particulars
amounts to knowing nothing.
Lift your hand to the world
like an astonished magician
and cast your soul’s spell,
ensorcell the ordinary;
lift your brush and paint a scene
with huge, wild brush strokes;
shout your words into the chaos,
bring about a new order,
a vivid, lush world,
a world that echoes, on and on…
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC
I am young,
but I must move slowly.
Wind rushes through me, stirs up
my little cells like waking monsters.
They crank and churn like broken clockwork.
Buried somewhere is the infinite teenager, floating in ecstasy.
She is God.
She is omnipresent and whole.
She is endless abundance.
Walls in my body burst forth
with life and movement:
Vibrating atoms and sprawling bacteria.
I am human.
Thick like sludge, I wade through the day.
I mine for gold in a swamp,
Microcosms and meta-cosmos
spinning frantically in static.
Under microscopes, life moves still
but here, everything dances.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC