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softcomponent May 2014
Find the lighter, use it as a lighthouse on a walk below the wall you watch along the wave-formations. Who Wants a Cold One? a Coors Light ad corrects.. When it comes to your home, the little things matter.. an insurance ad blares.. my computer is infected with 3rd party applications unremovable to my meagre tech-ability.. there is a hero as Joseph Campbell once theorized.. in myself like a sick bastardly virus waiting for moments to prove to me "I AM THE SAVIOR, I AM THE CHRIST, I AM THE WARLORD, MICE, MAN, AND VICE".. the windows of opportunity close, I am left waiting the door

& the elevator.

Thirty-thousand years ago, there was nothing but a breeze.. a viscous breeze across chill-spined pterodactyls.. warm-under-the-jungle-brush tyrannosaurus rex, and to think one day I will be just a legend in bone..
Charlotte said she thinks of death and so did Jen. They sat next to the all-you-can-eat and discussed the inevitable. I was sour and playful with no-will-to-understand, just reminding my hair of breezy summer days of 10, thinking of strangeness, of place I was in.

When it's quiet sometimes, I think of old dreams.. dreams I sunk below drown-level as a child in bed and belief. Both mommy and daddy were arguing in the kitchen, this was 7 or 8.. they argued so often one could hear mom begin to cry sometimes, and dad I could see in minds-eye with a grimace so closed and so creased he was hurt and yet honest.. I did not understand so I hid under-stood-silhouettes, oh adulthood..

once in dream I was in pulsing green graveyard like crayon realism strobe lights, tombstones all-round and faint-buzz of outside and one of those strange balded henchmen of badguy Jafar from Disney's Aladdin came peaking outta nowhere with curled eyebrow and baggy one-thousand-one Arabian nightlives parachute pants, curled toes brown-beige moccasins to.. he let out conniving 'HEUHEE!' and slapped me right-side cheek and I JOLTED up bedwise in real time to feel actual physical sting for a few lingered seconds then the sobs of poor mother outside.. I never remembered a dream so clearly again.. they all come, Pro-Found, and dizzy away after hour or two for rest of eternity or perhaps to Place I Can Visit at Death to Review Every Vision and I wonder... when your life flashes before your eyes and the light is encroaching, scenes of mother, brother, father, son, daughter, best-friend, party, break-up, heartbreak, slip-fall, first-sip, first-drag, last-leg, first-kiss, first-hit, first-game, fear, love,  HATE, wait.. do the Dreams come to? Are they all flesh-ed before your eyes as you pass into Light? Are they brought to direct remembrance as you cross the border with Passport of Gods and a Goddess (and which Picture appears on the Page)..?

I remember the old eczema taking bits of skin to carpets round-town and round-lower-mainland to disgust of friends old and new-- this was era where confidence ate itself in mirrors, the sober reality of ugly-ness chiseling away at my Goodness Attempts.. All That Pointless Pain was no Exception nor a Rule, it just **** Happens every once-and-again to the sound of life farting. I used to miss school for feet so impossible to walk on, pussing and bleeding and staining the sheets, shoe soles, carpets, and soul.. limp thru the hallways of Brooks Secondary feeling like bad flavor additive to multicultural Planet Earth-- sleeping 'til the bell rang drinking coffee singing songs I said '**** the ******* educational system and **** me I'm so flatlined..' someday I felt things would really get better and lucky young me I was right.

A half-decade later, I am 21 and hoping, floating, free in the breeze as the wings I have grown keep on wishing the subsistence down. The girl, whoever-she-might-as-well-be, sits immediately vertical chatting frantically to boy with a bit of a cowlick slouching on-up over a bundle of colored paperwork. It seems late in the season for homework, and assume they may have some affiliation with a crazy-hep computer design group in the tradition of Nouevau Silicon Valley.... I sit at my laptop, inching a word a million cubic millimeters closer to God or Divinity or Crescendo or A Bunch More ******* You'll End Up Ignoring---

It's a sunny day, the rain having slathered-off into obscurity somewhere with the Monsoons when the Sun gave the Moon a Soft Slap and the poor purity white-kid went off whimpering, bleeding nose-- I sat, the other night, playing another Grand Strategy game as Tom divided his time between a vaulted and damaged lover, his labor, and his life (friends, food, video-games, vice)... Chai, old Chai the Thai Guy mentioned past his nose in previous iterations of Depictions sat and described his pins-and-needles upset at his bosses at one his three many jobs.. desperately firing text-messages into receiving-space-panel and reflect and back unto Tom's smartphone dash asking him to order a six-pack from a local delivery service cuz his adrenal was giving him heartpain with hurt, and Tom being Busy as All-Ways Tom Is wasn't able to decipher the scramble in-time to make contact before closure of the liquor stores.. poor not-so-poor Chai at first felt castrated at realization he would miss the 11 PM dot-time, but didn't mind as he rendezvoused with Tom and I at Willows Beach where Tom reminded him of a whiskey he'd bought sitting counter-wise at his place.. we kissed a few Mary Janes rightsideup, dragging our butts in the sand to discuss what was wrong (each of us had a problem that night, save for perhaps a less-vocal Tom, I describing my annoyance that a lazy consensus had erupted in my sorry-hometown between my sorta-friends and friends-of-friends that my writing and sharing my writing was arrogant and I an arrogant *** for sharing and I just confounded that they would find my passions so trivial-- perhaps jealousy, perhaps complacency and judgement-for-lack-of-anything-better-to-do and ah **** em all if they think like that, I'll write and be the arrogant me they think I am and share 'til I'm blue in the face and dead perhaps for outspoken intellectualism in their autocratic pointless-waste worldviews.. sad that I dislike them only on the basis they disliked me first..)

I had planned to stay late and leave early-morn (5 or 6 AM) to catch a first-off morning bus back home and sleep, hoping for most part to avoid the shattered-***-mess of a home I was living in.
About 2 days ago, give or take, a water-line for the laundry machine had erupted to soak our entirely-carpeted basement suite, forcing the poor new landlord (a sweetheart of a man named Ron having just taken possession of the house from previous owner on May 1st and, it seems, left 'holding the bag' as they'd call it in day-trading-investment-lingo) to tear out the entirely-soaked carpet and replace it with sensible laminate flooring and rendering the entire suite virtually unlivable for indefinite-few-days and so for me work and friends and especially writing become a welcome reprieve to I, a first world Refu-Jeez.. us, so terribly-off I sip a latte near sunny panorama windows-so-clear-they're-not-there overlooking the crosses of Yates and Blanshard with European church of Gothic architectural style poking heedlessly into empty-open blue.. ironically and strangely there is a liquor store quite literally right next door, and's one I shop at often for its decent prices (God is Dead or Just Drinking to Cope with Sartre and Kierkegaard's Ultimate Thesis) (Kierkegaard especially '*** Kierkegaard seems a good and long friend of God the Almighty) (...I talk with such Judaeo-Christian Catholic rhetoric it never ceases to amaze myself as it bleeds to page..) (stranger thing is, tho, there is no beginning, no middle, no end.. you read or you are bored and either/or is just fine..)

There is some hypothesized crescendo-bliss Tech Singularity on the way in the try-dition of Ray Kurzweil and William Burroughs.. Oscar Wilde to.. (see The Soul of Man Under Socialism in essay-collect book De Profundis).. one day we will all be eternal happiness expressed in song and dance and LED erected-projections of Imperfect Universe (Our Imperfect Earth) with lives stuck on infinite repeat.. our idea of Paradise.. and for those with ability to remain rushed to cortisol (stress-the-best hormone) it will be Hell on Earth, so DRAB and THE SAME all the TIME and it's READ and it's WRITE and it's RIGHT.. the world runs faster with every passing day so desperate to discover the Globe is Flat so we can Hop Off the Other Side into what one might assume to be The Better Place.. elusively picking-up speed thinking 'closer now definitely closer now' unaware (or, secretly aware and unwilling to admit for what will one do when one cannot run?) they are Running in Circles Over and Over and Over and Over and Over Again... cannot take the hint in the fact the Pacific (same Pacific) has been crossed a hugeillion times, nor the same McDonald's in the Azores of Atlantic Portugal is the Same ******* McDonald's stopped-thru on the then-trillionth time last year... and all whilst the International Space Station remains muted up-above crossing 'round and 'round 'til the Jehovah'n Day of Judgement (Chris Hadfield now below with advice for how to run a little faster even blinded in one eye..) then there are the dying Prophets Predicting Industrial Collapse who preach upon the Mount of Internet Sinai Eternal and state "the world is now unsalvageable and we are all about to die.. if ever you wished to find Buddhistic Nirvanic Peace, now is the time so start meditating and imagine Death as New Life and Geopolitics as Game".. forever and ever and ever and ever.

It is only natural to find existence to be 'weird..' layered with Who's That's and giant What The ***** everywhichway you turn.. did it start in a Big Bang, will it end in a Big Crunch, Big Freeze, Big Bang.. ? all questions once ignored for certain ignorance and resurrected as questions concerning the Nature of the What The ***** (also known as 'Science').. and if it did start in a Big Bang, did I start in a Big Bang..? and if it does end in a Big Crunch, will I end in a Big Crunch..? am I a sudden flash of REAL in a Universe that isn't me..? or am I an entire Universe.. perhaps even more than that...? the questions pulse in youth like bad words or bullets. I once stayed up all-night thinking of infinity with my head soaring space-wise forever and ever and ever and I stopped in sudden panic thinking: I could lie here up all night and all day 'til the towered age of 37 (I was 14 at the time) and still be no further on the Universal Map than from thumb-tip-middle to thumb-nail so I wrapped up the attempt with a mix of fear and incredulity, went to school next-day exhausted and tried to explain it all to friends.. they got it, I suppose, but we were all 14 and played basketball instead (I imagined infinite-spinning-basketball on thumb of Michael Jordan).

It's always best describing life in form of Disembodied Poetics.. sure some Philistines won't understand '*** their minds are made of Clockwork, Digits, and Blockthought.. but the general psychic underly implied in all with human faculty will ring-a-ding-ding! and remember all such ancient thoughts and feels as forgotten as a child, locked away until the Spirit rose-up from a rosey thorn prickle to flower straight-up into a Rose! or so I hope as a one-of-many writers-- all of which will write so-as to speak on your behalf.. all floaty and marking a purpose.
katewinslet Oct 2015
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ECKate Mar 2014
tumeric tucked twixt the members, the digits the fingers the thumbs
it's solivagent aromas
make their home
dormant,
yet retractable;
neutrons
known

many moments to millimeters
the soft rust color fades
oh,
i haven't even noticed the time passing
when will i notice my own grave.

© 2015 Kate Volk
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
once upon a wrote


here and there, in fables and tales,
some in no guile and others
in chancier disguises,
some sine-known and some sign-unknown,
some dead in stillbirth,
some penned these words,
some a few decades old,
some of but a moment ago eyelash distant,
making me think that
someday I will scribe,
cobble some truths and
some falsehoods into one
leaping heaping melting scoop,
letting you decide,
which for better,
which for worse...


<•>

"No matter that plain words
are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say,
about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?"

<•>

the reason we say so oft,
in whispers emboldened,

I love you

to our children
is not the utility of
its summarizing brevity

no, no.
it is because
the eloquence of simplicity
supersedes any other poem
any of us could ever write...

<•>

is this craft that chose you,
not defined by machine millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye-pleasing,
they demonstrate no tolerance
for tolerance of the ordinary?

the skill of words, too, cut so fine,
find the  extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused,
discard the instant recognition,
unusable

<•>

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the
whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away
what soully belongs to you,
do your own sums,
admit your own truths,
query not the lives of others,
approach the mirror...

<•>

The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drop in and upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
the selected tool

you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation

you cannot lie in poetry

<•>

come, sit for awhile, in poet's nook,
soft pillows for our hard Adirondack chairs,
situe hard by the bay, if too hot, we'll slow
drift to the sun room of
lace curtains and suicide poems,
still we'll observe the water, the rabbits, the cacophony low,
listening to all the noisier, nosier
creatures asking themselves,
and the trees and leaves,
where did all those poets come from?

<•>

to the interior delve,
via brush or limb,
pen or music,
the exposition, the exploration,
the reconstruction of composing
one's self, creation and destruction
of your own myths

movement of arms and legs,
sparseness of simplicity,
subsidiaries of centricity,
tributaries of complexity

<•>

how cold are the carpenter's hands,
the weather, but an added obstacle,
this heat, makes dying different difficult,
the wood bearing cross requires additional nails
and flesh, for the extra load he's bearing,
when it snows blood in Jerusalem

the whole world can transition
when one man dies and another is risen,
where oh where lies then, the juxtaposition?

there is none, for man is man,
his divine spark, embedded,
to his maker's mark, welded and wedded,
neither snow or sun,
can ever extinguish


<•>

now I ken better distance 'tween
artist and art,
I, a workingman's
daily dallying in simplistic machine craft,
my works deservedly lost in
the water-falling
of the endless also rans

non-nebulous distances.between skies of
Oregon country blue and
the worldy worn asphalt grayed words of
a graying man aging,
then let clarity speak, in plainest harmony,
know my deference’s soars to the high above,
one of us at birth, god gifted,
was not I,
it ain't me babe, but
one of us, his tongue,
like Moses-stung
with a hot coal
of language's divinity


<•>
this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons

for the Hopeless Stargazer who immortalized his Subject with one hundred and eight sets of fourteen lines in iambic pentameter

for ***** tight clad teenage boys who envied frisky fleas, struggling to make holy ungodly passions with cheap arguments and metaphysical pick up lines

for Disillusioned City Dwellers, who, wandering lonely as clouds, stopped to quietly reflect upon wind-beaten moss-covered crags, and heard God’s whisper thunder from petals and blades of grass

this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons

for Bespectacled Slave Drivers who submersed idle minds in anthologies,  forcing them to **** neon yellow on dreams deferred and rivers;  slicing and dicing Grecian urns with red ball point pens; bruising and battering, in blue ball point, roads not taken; scalding supermarkets in California with pyroclastic flows of graphite  

for those pushing to tear apart lines and letters, reconstructing ,deconstructing, agonizing, imaginizing, bullshitting, and brooding on to crisp white sheets in times new roman twelve point font

for the Monsters and Lollipops that exist in the millimeters between a skull and a brain

this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons slumbering beneath Restless Leaves Under the Moon
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Sun and traffic - day economy.
Six a.m. drive to plywood mill. Too tired
to be angry. Each day a step
toward death. What is being accomplished? The
small satisfactions
within each day. Book consciously read.
And frustrations. Package dropped, honey jar broke.

One of 175 soil types. With the fifty
tree species
comprising the canopy under which Eric and Lisa clean
      their baby's face.

Sun in winter, old apples.

Inside the school
a brilliant but rebellious history teacher
is suspended by the school board.
200 students
wearing armbands and painted teardrops
protest. Another 400
are silent.

Within each structure
human dramas and routines.
Nancy will not love
any man who cannot do as many push-ups as she.

Trees grow,
porcupine **** in snow.

No job,
no niche,
no existence.
How you earn money is who you are. You are
what you do to get food to eat
and shelter from the winter, summer heat.

Each morning I seek God
by holding still
waiting for the smoke to be black or white
coins heads or tails
wind dark or bright.

Flock of evening grosbeaks
nipping maple buds:
the sign I need.

                   --------------------------------------

Less need =
more wealth.
2/23/89. So much equipment just to sleep.
More than a bare floor.
Plumbing vs.
wash at stream, find a log in woods.
Implements of human existence
unlike the deer or bear who
nip buds, forage berries.
I cannot eat the gum out of balsam fir
or bark from a popple.

I am not Wendell Berry
with a wife, a farm, philosophy.
I like the accuracy
of counting pear thrips in maple buds.
8/bud = complete defoliation.
This insect has four wings fringed with hairs
and is minute, 2.5 millimeters.
Two species within the genus:
one with tubular abdominal segment,
the other with conical abdominal segment.
Sugar maple their preferred food.

All I need
are names.
Names and habitats.
Elements, products, decay fungi, egg masses.
Marriage, copulation, regeneration, education.
Machinery, accounting, hand tools, laboratory.
I need your names
and histories.
****** histories, books read, imaginings, unrequited loves,
      significant landscapes, broken bones, periods of boredom,
      favorite shows.

                   --------------------------------------

Immediately means
without mediation, intermediate moments
time in the middle.

Time in the middle
time in the middle.
I'm bummed I never saw a dinosaur, an ice age, a cave man,
      even missed the last world war.
Thanks to paleontology, geology, archaeology, history
mind equipped to take
time out of the middle.
It's in our DNA!

Why should she love me, her tenant?
Because I pay the rent on time.

                   --------------------------------------

Excellent. The white sun rose
and lit the frost.
Early February, late March, or in between.
Birds begin
discussing family. Sap starts to flow.
Where the borer spirals in, it comes out wet.
Birch or maple.

I watched from the window. Beautiful
but no desire to go out and touch
swelling buds of elderberry.
Is this shrub crazy? It knows what it knows
with elderberry knowledge.

Come Spring, so much to identify and name.
Insects, diseases and new flowers.
Lepidoptera, root rot, the pinks.
I think I might get married too
and watch the moons pass through the mists.

                   --------------------------------------

March rain.

Some snow remains
roads dangerous
but truck deliveries must be made.
                                                           ­ The light
pushing back the dark.
Bark
getting softer, slippery
at the cambium. Sap
simmering. Summer
and spring are here and there
although only winter birds are in the air.
Some buds
break swell
want
to turn inside out
but wait
knowing better.

I too will not break or run
early
hold hope bound by ropes of discipline, experience
time the magic moments to come
take the last sleet and pain
slap in the face
glad for predictable seasons.
                                                 We anticipate however
drought, maple defoliation, increased gypsy moth infestations
which some attribute to our existence.
That may be true.
Or it may be that the universe
has reversed its decision on us
and there's nothing we can do.
But we will do
what we can
and some things we shouldn't
because that is human.

Continuing
into the space inside me
unconnected to the light switch, plumbing
fairly independent of materials beyond
food and sound.
Where I pray
like an oak
that the light will enter me
unbroken, forever
and I will live the meanings in the wind.
                                                           ­          Basic
necessities, wood
wine
and friends. And
the names
of everything
by which we know our way.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Third Mate Third Nov 2014
is this craft
that chose you,
not defined by millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye pleasing
they demonstrate
no tolerance
for tolerance
of the
ordinary

the skill of words,
too, cut so fine,
find the
extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused, discard,
instant recognition,
unusable

cut new cuts,
thy spirit tolling,
thy soul trolling
anew
is thy
toolings earth sourced
from and of the
ever better,
ever closer,
always newer

make thy own designs,
faithfully execute
the new born original,
by elevating,
with the tools
in you, provide us,
by illuminating

no thing machined,
can ever be as fine
as the originality
that requires
soft spoken definition
in new ways,
heart and hand
guild crafted

when God designed the Connecticut
autumnal leaves,
overriding the summers's single green, good
but not miraculous, insufficient,
when contrasted with the
shades of red, yellow,
purple, black, orange, pink,
magenta, blue and brown
of newly fallen
words and worlds

in the season of change

write me a tool
so elegant, so complex,
so refined and yet so simple,
that its point will force no choice,
but engrave gasps of pleasure upon
my faltering eyes,
my slowing heart,
my exhausted limbs,
and make me
live again
through your
finest creativity

heat heat heat
burn to look beyond
For Joe
Nicole Jan 2019
My hand hesitates above the button
"Unblock"
Just millimeters away from my fingertips
Pieces of your life could appear in seconds
With just a little pressure
Yes, I know last time this hurt me
But maybe this time will be different
What's one more time
Just one more visit to your page
Gently the button clicks and your name disappears
I search it and easily find your page
A lot has happened since I last checked
And it's funny because
Even though I'm reading them
The poems themselves tell me nothing
Like mine, theres no way to know
Who it is you are speaking of
Though every so often
I read one that hits me in the gut
It makes my heart hurt and my stomach curl
Because I'm almost sure that
The person you're writing of is me
And you are still hurting
You're still angry at me
I want to like the poem
I want to open a door for you to see
So maybe I can help give you closure
I'm itching for you to talk to me
And as my finger
Renters a state of hovering
Over yet another virtual button
I realize that it wouldn't help you
I'd only be hurting you further
And I don't want to do that to you
I realize that my missing our friendship
Is solely a desire of mine
And it would be cruel
To drop in on your life again
I'm sorry for what I did
And I'm sorry I'm struggling so much
To let that piece of us go
But your feelings about me are clear
So even though it hurts to read
Just how much I destroyed you
I think it's just what I needed
To stop getting my hopes up
And to stop pressing your buttons
Ciara May 2013
The snow began to fall
on a chilly mid-December morning.
The world was sparkling
with such radiance that day,
but there was something that put the
snow to shame and made the
glittering earth seem as though it
were simply covered with dirt.
That thing was the smile of a girl,
excited and nervous beyond measure,
because today was her wedding day.
The worn out prayer she had repeated
time and time again through the years
was going to be answered today.
She woke to soft music
gently wafting up the steps.
She went to investigate the source
of the sweet sounds,
as she got closer the music swelled.
Then as if someone was with her
she began to dance.
She danced with her invisible partner
in her socks and too large button-down shirt.
Soon the morning melted into afternoon
and she was on her way to the church.
The guests were there, family and friends,
the bridal party assembled, and
most importantly, the groom was waiting.
The man she had prayed, hoped, longed, and dreamed
to marry was only a few steps away.
The ceremony was more moving than imaginable
and as the I do’s approached
it was as though everyone was holding their breath
as if to make sure they did not miss any details.
The groom lifted her veil and
revealed her shining face.
He looked at her for a moment and
bent down to kiss his new wife.
He was only millimeters from her face and
her alarm suddenly rang
with a violent eruption of sound
ripping the girl back to the reality
of her dorm room.
There was no more glittering fantasy world,
simply a muddy courtyard.
The tremendous smile was
now replaced with tears
that gently trickled down her cheeks
and onto her bed as she realized
she had to go to class.
anastasiad Dec 2016
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a black flag is suspended
above the garden in
my front lawn
it flexes in dawn's sweet  
breeze and ***** in the
mid-morning sun then snaps
in afternoon gusts
before weathering the storms of
early dusk and ultimately subsiding
into the relative serenity of an
uncertain twilight

a black flag prepared to
face the elements once more
at a moment's notice

even now i hear it slapping and cracking
as if it were possessed by
the manifestation of the people's will
an outcry indignant at the indignities
humankind and this good earth have suffered
at the hands of faceless men and
women who succumb to
the illusion of dominance

i take that black flag down
whenever i go out my front door
i fold it up into a tiny handkerchief
tuck it neatly in my breast-pocket
where it rests mere millimeters
from my heart as i do what i can
to teach my students to live
with such vibrant tenacity
that their very existence is
an act of rebellion

i wear the black flag around my neck
every time i go to shows it
soars behind me and i
feel superhuman as i stand and
sing in tandem with a myriad of
friends in the throes of some
melodious cadence harmonizing with
down-tuned guitars and pile-driving percussion
the rest of the galaxy and i lose track of
space and time adrift  
in the rhythms of resistance

i tie the black flag around my head
to keep back the sweat beading about my
brow every time i bend down and
break my back once more for my
corporate overlords who can no longer
see the forest for the trees let alone
be somehow appeased by the simple joy
of sharing books with random strangers
their eyes are glazed green with envy
and i wonder when they sold their
souls to the devils on capitol hill

i wave the black flag at protests
as we occupy the streets and
feed the homeless and cheer
wildly for complete liberty
in time with the beat of drums
our footsteps aiding in a
procession that shakes the houses of
decadence capitalists lurk within and
causes the corrupt to tremble
with trepidation as they turn to one
rich white neighbor after the other
and ask one another
what have we done

like no flag before it and no banner since
the black flag waves all humanity away
from the precipice upon which we lean
so perilously teetering over the edge
flirting with death inches away from
a bottomless abyss

its blackness stands in stark contrast
from the blue hues that evoke oceanic
divides or the red streaks symbolizing
bloodshed or the white blotches that elicit
some tacit implication
of supremacy and exceptionalism

it is black
whole and uniform
indicative not of segregation and
national barriers but of unity
universal fraternity that comes not
from conformity but out of a genuine
desire to recognize the inherent dignity
of all humanity—even those with whom
we might vehemently disagree

there is not a shred of
cowardice in the black flag
it means no surrender
it recognizes no authority
it is not subservient to a titular country
but predicated on the principle that
freedom equality and responsibility
are not trigger words for
selling successful political campaigns
but are the natural and inherent virtues
that make us sentient human beings

the black flag defies
the oligarchic minority and
returns once more to the wellspring
of individuality and community and in
doing so produces a space where
originality is the centripetal force

power to the people now
invert the stars and stripes before
turning them to fuel for the fires
in our chests like Prometheus we wrest
divinity from the gods masquerading above
us in the halls of congress and the senate
white houses are not temples of worship
we have it in us to create a community
where we don't need representation
where we determine our own future

revolution is a lived concept

a black flag is suspended
above the garden in
my front lawn
it flexes in dawn's sweet  
breeze and ***** in the
mid-morning sun then snaps
in afternoon gusts
before weathering the storms of
early dusk and ultimately subsiding
into the relative serenity of an
uncertain twilight
They leave Jerusalem, with the acrobats from Shiraz. They were ghosts of poetry, wine, roses and fireflies; they were conjuring the path of the twelve camels to the intersection with the Cenotaph, where King David with the Cherubs of Kafersesuh will stay. They were Epi ghosts, basking in camelid footsteps. They went in all the intermittences of the bent nails and plants of the areas of the marquee of the other four ghosts that accompanied him. They were the jumpers with water wheels, wheel scales with tutelary cords, some with stilts of gold disgrace from the coins of Judas Iscariot and the last propelled by a caper that ruled all the others on the wings of the Fireflies. Withdrawn from the road that leads to the Kidron valley, 2,500 years of clay tablets from Persepolis fall on all of them, they were phonetized with the plaintive nightmare of Tirazis's one-eyed poem; which is currently Shiraz, in this way these ghosts escorted the Hexagonal Birthright, they were exiled from their ghostly cities for not paying the tribute of obedience to destroy and rebuild. As they began to be with them in the cove, the ghosts of the acrobats boiled with the eagerness to prevent everyone from being saddened by the departure from the orchard, which was falling further and further behind their footsteps, dancing with their pirouettes along the way, they told little stories. in the ears of travelers.

Hydro Saltimabanqui: “I come from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), an underground canal that carries spring water to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Shiraz. Here I have to mend the propellers and water ropes to do my acrobatics on the water, with greater songs in the poems of the Poet Hafiz. When we bite our tongues, we repair it with Hafiz's verses from the Koran; there are three hundred creeds, three hundred hectares to irrigate with my wheel the sadness of those who cannot have the gift of the rivalry of Montenegro and Monteblanco, to overestimate the liveliness of the caravan trembling with uncertain doubts on its way to Jaffa. "

Saltimbanqui of Bacule: "We are Epi ghosts, the reverie with tutelary ropes, to jump through the trapeze of the photometric units of the heavy Almería of the highest Mirror of the Sea. Here we look; from here we will board the barge that will take them from back to Limassol. Curiously, the same ship from Lepanto that sleeps in the swings of the sea and in the arms of Anaximander, in a new awakening from the lethargy of the super-string theorization, here is the intrinsic speculation of science, since this is not just to research purely empirical. "

Says Anaximander: “First…, we have no proof that string theory is not ultimately correct and in the future in any verifiable way. Second, we propose a project of the order of string theory, which is necessary for science and its importance, going even beyond the scientific to also project itself on the metaphysical and the religious, right here in this order of greater what to do together with the rope that leads me to Patmos.

Saltimabanqui of Bascule responds: “metaphysical and religious legitimacy, here we are tying knots in the rope that inaugurates a new masonry in the observable futuristic look. Here is the original fiction of continuing to raise the necks of the ants over our optics. We will jump on these ropes, but we will fall on intervals of placental physical dens, which were born from the new embryo in the twelve caves of Gethsemane, in a primitive late germinal process. The micro phonetic vibrations will lift us up from the hunger to follow and leave King David in his cenotaph, gored on his hips by the Cherubim, marking his holy antlers that become entangled in the blunting of the cuneiform scratches of his epigram.

In the middle of the magical theorists exotically as associativity of substance causally of the poetic and multiverse song, believing in the ghosts of Shiraz, as dreams injected to sublimate the Aeneids that they lamented on the bottom stones, even though they were independent of their material origin. Multi universes, multi paraphrase for who has to dress the word “Rosa in her noble long dress to the cliff of Ebdara when Vernarth acclaims his brother Etréstles, he comes with the Auriga from Messolonghi. Rested and determined to head to Tel Gomel, he comes with his horse Kanti to keep him company on this crusade. Kanti defied the Cliffs of Crete, he was servile to Markos Botsaris, 1821 (Royal Hero of the Liberation of Greece in the Turkish Invasion, Koumeterium Messolonghi - Palibrio USA), until in the afternoon he approached from a herd of beautiful places of steeds to him. This was heard by Etréstles and he seized His horse to have more than a Life from his company, more than a lost and lost aroma of his natural mother, to reach the one who would treasure it”.

The ghosts attribute quantitative passages from before leaving King David, and then continuing on the road to Jaffa and advancing on the ship back to Cyprus; Limassol. All were hyperkinetic bowls leveraged by the terrain that was on the **** of the acrobatic histrion foreshadowing the contours of the temporal filigree, which in each one made them smile at the carriage with oxidizing wheels, still being immaterial beings, but alive in its marvel gases, wading the serious bile that emerged from the glasses in his allegories. His footsteps and his undulating phonetic figures did not stop over the caravan, which had already passed Jerusalem. They were already undaunted by themselves and overshadowed by the foreboding modulation and encryption of the rehearsals they were doing, over the heavy atmosphere that seized and begged a small piece of the attention of those who did not celebrate their Shiraz pirouettes.
The areas, volumes, and lengths were fully encompassed by the Ghosts of Shiraz, the acrobats ran along the banks of Ramallah, it was already winter, the city received them with winds and rains from the southwest alternating with cold and dry winds from the northeast. The acrobats went like master geometricians to condone the fuss of the caravan, devising a dodexagesimal system. (Twelve centuries of ultra-nocturnal geometry and shipwrecks at the Alexandria lighthouse)

Positioning as a base the number 12, to measure times and angles that they needed to avoid the voluminous rains that hit the caravan.  Incredibly, the volumetric position of the plantar legs of the camels seemed like wheels that rotated without stopping in any anti circumferential radius, making some clouds a shutter that enclosed them like a trapezoid of God's flock in the high semicircle of the waters that tried to fall. , like axiomatic staves of Euclid's beard tempering his elemental construct.

The linear position of each one of those who were mounted was a perfect ergonometric based on the Muladhara pressing the four red petals on pressing the Achilles heel of Vernarth, which was dimensioning the Ramallah triangulation, with the fungi that were housed in its Xifos sword in the jet tip that carried the dodexagesimal cartography. In the same position, the Apostle Saint John seemed, he carried the rosary in his left hand in geometry that elongated his nose and feet in an adonis triangle, thirsty for one hundred and twenty degrees of the sextant that broadened its spectrum to align with this Birthright. Thus the stars and planets are positioned as celestial spheres with the gravitation of the Olivos Berna, revolutionizing curved and flat equations that intuited to go beyond the crossed pirouettes that the acrobats did all the way, even further than those of the withered path of oil, purposely of the axiomatic systems that the Ghosts of Shiraz intended to establish.

Shiraz  Ghosts

These Persian Epi ghosts, axiomatized abstract and ideal entities relating models of austerity and lyricism, which fluctuated in the lines and planes of movements of the clouds with the counterpoint of the legs of the Gigas, leaving marks in the sand like a point Morse, straight and flat, until the fifth step that tried to cross the lines of Ramallah, for the parallelism that the centuries that asked Vernarth to reorder the geometric geography of time and the positions that were added as a delay effect in the Garden, essentially of a hyperbolic vision, to appropriate the entities of the Ghosts that grasp with their little finger the strings of the times associated with Gaugamela in his palatial sovereignty with the footsteps of Vernarth and in the phylogeny of a world that is born behind the confines of religious micro- genetics , from whose space is born in another and would accommodate a circular bijective function, to attract the aerosisms of Ein Kerem in the new life signs of J Joshua in the reborn One-dimensional Beams.

Vernarth diluted his bones to sit near the tarsus and accommodate it at the end of the vertebra of the Muladhara (Chakra of 4 petals), making a sub-technical geometric function to preserve the figures of darkness that were also diluted, to arrive at night close to of Jaffa, in the surroundings the isometric fire existing in each one and in two dimensions…, but born of a common one. Raeder and Petrobus wore their floating eyelashes full of dusty and dense manias on their faces, with splinters gum that they had released from one of the pirouettes of one of the mountebanks when colliding with the basic postulates of the Ghosts of Shiraz, deducing undulating spaces like snakes within the isometric fire that dazzled them with the burning senses of humor of the last drops of the Shemesh codifying themselves in an absolute intuitive measure, beyond all dimensions, which is Consciousness destroying the planes and spaces that multiplied among themselves as members of another geometric conscious dimension.

Arriving at the Ben Shemen crossing, everyone undergoes collective hypnosis; the ghosts manage to embody each of the components of the Birthright but omitting a great factor. They relegated the Hexagonality of the genetics of this caravan, not raising the ghosts when calculating the area of once they were being intracorporeal within the members, thus having to abandon before the last ray of Shemesh threw them on their faces ashes of the Gehenna, for this supposed reason to leave them condemned to recycle the human species, for the purpose of reproducing sacred human beings, but being subservient to the cravings beyond the immortality of the miscalculation that led them to the citadel of Karim Khan, surprised with its stamp of thick stone walls and circular towers in the heart of Shiraz. This gave them a warrior aspect contrary to their fame and history: this was a city famous for two thousand years for its culture, with its gardens and its poets, now if in a conspiracy by this beautiful odalisque ruse that attracted the guide of the ecstatic ghosts, in a bad moment of extradition to a bad context of epi ghosts not yet defined in their pockets of apprentices boasting on the laurels of weak and doubtful ideas, which still swarmed within his white heart, trying to reach Vernarth's as former commander Hetairoi, now a servile mystic. In such a way, the complicated as ghosts like "Sufi", being, in reality, the genetic soul of the double ax that carries the double edge of today ..., of the sacrament of Medea in Abdera.

Pro says a ghost from Shiraz (embarrassed):

"The Universe is a sea that longs for dry shores,
without sea and without other wet longings ...,
no possible maiden could
Try to dry it with your star hands ...
Who calms the crying of the Universe ...
even so ..., simile remains floating as a verse between his dreams "

"How can I make my dreams another dimension of the universe?
if he is quiet and does not make me float in his sea ...
How can I make it possible for the tips of its stars
fill the spaces that have revealed it ...
and that have made circular shores without a sea in the mists "

"I walk alone and nobody sees me ...
so I don't wake up the candles that smile and accompany me ...
between days that turn into mornings on the shore
of the solitude of the universe, that nobody embraces him ... "

“Now the days tremble from almost falling on themselves,
They come out alive from their own loneliness of exhaustion and fullness ...of whoever appreciates them in the mists ...
being able to surrender their attention in Ben Shemen ”.
As the Ghost of Shiraz expires in Ben Shemen, he escapes all for nothing in the triad of hypnotizing conventions that still resided in the shameless air that engulfed him, all over the stationary enclosures of the entertainment spaces caused by the acrobats and epi ghosts. That seduced the indecisive beings that sailed over the limbs that made them doubt where to refrain from continuing, outside the radius of the caravan or beyond the skies that did not cease to be in good spirits, of the universe passing through the white hearts, six on the inside and six on the outside in their traveling artist folds.

The lands that are accommodated by the time of parapsychological hypnosis tremble again, as a separation from the physical magnitude of Gethsemane.  Creating a sequence that bends the heads of the ghosts, filling their translucent physiognomies between a cold past and a frozen future, from a classic mechanic, which from now on would depend on the dice thrown by the Third Phantasm of time. Here a relativism would be opened to those who want to see the past in the orchard in an unstable particulate present, leaving far from splitting both parts of the archetype of today, like a subdivided clash of several times that allowed integrating the remaining phantasmagorical spectra, taking over a story on a pluriaxial axis that prevailed in the time of a supposed numerical line from a vector, aligning itself towards the compass of the distance that shines between both northern hemispheres in the minutes that go to the right and the solid-gas seconds that burst almost in the walls of their own liberated beings. The four ghosts of Shiraz, had time differentials before this event with the caravan, verifying the simultaneous prop between the two pairs of ghosts between four dissimilar, but poetic ones that made them here at this point obviate and cancel between two relative nomenclatures of physical structure. The durability and classification of these micro-times of the phantom epi would make the database that St. John the Apostle and Vernarth will accumulate with their eyes closed, each one surpassing himself from the debatable areas, which concern to estimate in occupying the spaces physical in some of them at will so that one of them could embark to Limassol. This simultaneous and relativistic multi-active line, encloses events and squares of spaces in the cinematographic time of the parapsychological regression, as a link of physical images slowed down in the evolutionary and cognitive memory, passing from the conduit of expectation memorization events towards the set of absolute figures. not pigeonholed, but approaching the universe in grasping scales of those who value them. This elucidates even the very conception of conceiving oneself as a ghost, rather in what is called "Epi Ghosts", of absolute belonging of the identical ..., outside of oneself "Being with them and not, as a tacit phase of a dragged story with the seconds that were not lived ... "

This scaling conception will allow them to reside a few millimeters from the consciences of the caravan that was advancing automated along the tracks that already made time and distance in front of the absolute, in a jiffy, having in their faces Rizhon Lezion, who was made of images more than a marked and concrete story in a mechanics that kept the body as part of a large volume in all, to the rhythm of the plantar areas of the Camels Gigas, dividing as a stream of water that would flow fragmented between past, present and future, but as a starting pattern to the future as the only "today" for the time of the times. This unified three-dimensionality would mark the mathematical space of the attempts towards the future of the contiguous camelids of the ghosts of Shiraz, for the ownership of time between all with a single identity that cries out for the univocal will to rearm, even if the winds are very strong. Of the partition,  which separates the world from God and the believing observer into the future with a believer from a historical past in obscurantism, leaving and entering a new world whose notion is to spend connected and bound in a systematization dependent on the great causes, although the static feels isolated from the dynamics, inquiring probative to unite between the ghosts and others, even though they are inferior forces under the line of the generous gaze and the parallelism of the attentive spectator, which suggests more openness to receive and delegate the circumstances of all physical, emotional, spectral and mental-spiritual dimensions, flexing the emotional states hierarchical night and day. Everyone falls asleep hugging on cushions of lamb saddlebags, making it possible to get closer to them too, close to the Ghosts and sleep next to them hugging with the decanted strength of the frames that hang from their faces showing the emotion of being favorite children of the Mashiach, absorbed in the Kidron Valley.

The frontier of the future will be the pre-act of not traveling too much of the physical love to the touch that only awaits the love of the sleeping of a Cherub, this may occur when the sheep climb the hill of our consciences, and manage to be perceived as the simultaneous harness of satisfaction, who lack the vision that would speak to them of a past belonging immobile, to this ethereal topology that will have to biodegrade the molecules of the seconds that sleep in the sheep-man wool saddlebags, at a higher speed than it would last to go back near from the palisade, where it crosses the path to the immemorial arcades of the Mashiach, spinning around all creation at a speed that determines a verse in its soul around the orthogonal of Shemesh, quadrupled and cloistered in its self-consciousness scattered like iceberg down the back in the submissive thoughts that long to be tied to more precious time.

Our lord has us more tied to an absolutist past and future, looking at his calendar divided in such a way that it always fits the day that hurts the shadows of a sharp past, so that it always smiles in us, as the best luminous sign, of whom and with whom to repair the damage of various wounds that travel through the times of time, always wounded, to and from the borders of an anachronistic past. The ghosts, always fast tetra, marginalize themselves to the sound of greater diligence, they fled in Rizhon Lezion, to wake up a little further away from the rays of the stationary Sun, which from now on always surfaced in the degraded dark circles of the mountebank, prowling around the festivities of who knows how to wait, to make a toast under the pretext of faith and hope that exempts the cardinal turned into a flower in white attire.

Shvil from the Angels

The fast epi phantom tetra was emaciated, they lost their north and since they could not walk, they were not energized by the radiosities of the earth, which dominates those who lend divine graces if their feet rested on the tapestry of those who threw their footsteps in winter already near Jaffa. The Shvil Angels were angels that were on the route that cordoned off the pilgrimage of Vernarth and Saint John the Apostle, they were full of flowering Berne Olive Trees that made trunks of floral arches at the entrance of this ancient port. They were three when they walked, they were always distributed so fast that they seemed to be six, but they ended up averaging the quantum of three for each of the components of the Birthright, which from today would be the great circumcision event of the Universe, to make it part of those who one day will have to caulk the rhombuses of the fragmented light beams on the path of heaven so high, in the name of the phrases that never tire of looking at the incautious years that are of our father by the exogalaxies in the total company of the invisibility and relativity of cautious time.

This Semitic seashore beauty indicates and invites us to reach its salty Hebrew waters of Yofi, reinforcing the phonetics that runs madly through the border hills with its heart in hand, when foreigners appear in the name of plausive phylogeny. That brings him a piece of bearable land from the Universal Flood, this is why the ancient Canaanites have to receive them with the table set, to entertain them with winter flowers in Jaffa. The Hellenistic tradition relates the name to Iopeia, which is Cassiopeia herself, mother of Andromeda. After Pliny the Elder the name is connected with Joppa, who was the daughter of ******, god of the wind. Where Vernarth locked his Aspis Skolié shield so that it would shine in the bilges of the Eurydice, under the pentagon’s of the bronze layer of his shield, every time he approached the Dodecanese when the Auriga descended from Andromeda on the back of a punished rower by the storms taking him away from his mother galaxy.

Thousands of years BC Its merchants glorified themselves with their baskets full of belongings and merchandise, for its inhabitants, who today pretended to be pharaohs who paid tribute to the marine corners through the coast that today seemed to open up with more new waters that were reborn from the capering of the swells, founding thus the omens of embarking to attempt and submit to the omens of sovereignty between Judah and the Hellenic lands, to work with noble trees in their armories and utensils, of which they played an honorable part after the maintenance of the emblem of the last portion, of the shaft of the libertarian triumph of Alexander the Great over the Phoenicians in Tire. In the New Testament, it is related how Peter resurrected the believer Tabitha (Dorcas, in Greek, gazelle) in Joppa (Jaffa) and, later, how near this city he has a vision in which Yahweh told him that he should not distinguish between Jews and Gentiles while ordering the removal of ritual (kosher) food restrictions followed by Jews.

The Shvil of the angels distanced themselves from the desire of this station without reaching them and not making them drink salty water from Jaffa, therefore they resorted to Petrobus who a few meters before reaching the port, summoned a large number of Dodecanese Pelicans who were waiting in great celestial flocks, which hovered happily above the sky welcoming them. The pelicans levitate from a risky juggling act, over the caravan and headed to the high seas, collecting saltwater, then they went along the initiation path of Shvil and reconvert the saltwater into sweet with hazelnuts so that they would have holy water, to insolate it and pour it into the canteens of the temple guards of the Canaanites who were waiting for them, to distract them, making them believe they were other Syriac lands such as those of Ashera, which in this act, perhaps it would be good for them to sponsor the Hexagonal Birthright.

But the paths of the angels have confederated before the noisy crowds and Ptolemaic lemurs, who were incorporated into the empty spaces that remained. Faced with this gravesite, Vernarth shouted to the sky with the force of Falangist tradition to himself, and acclaimed heaven, for the sake of freeing them from their definitive income to Jaffa, summoning the Hypatists; elite warriors and spearmen, for them to gather at the portal of the ante entrance of Jaffa, for others who never came from nowhere and nowhere, only blocking it from its perfect plan of memorial and theological heritage conservation, upon return from the exit Judah, to embark with destiny through the sulphurous point that  will boil them in temporary waters, towards the Cyclades and then the Dodecanese, triumphing in inhabiting them wherever whoever was and whoever arrived with foreign promise.

As dusk falls in its first nubile shadows, the  Shvil presents itself to you with these three angels dressed in ivory white, each with a book in each hand and in the other a candelabrum, giving signs of ultra-interpretive catechesis, allying with silica. In combination, after the vision of the charms of the knowledge spread. Earth and sky in the second angel, washing the Semitic dew of anguished Jaffa, with teachings of sleeping well and awakening, to walk in the lands that want to seize the senses, of those who are called not to be oppressed, behind the bars of the Morbid and illiterate pan-vision of the angles of hasty entertainment of the angels when they were called by the Angel Regent, simply relaying information easy to carry to their hearts, in faint powers and poetic lessons, before falling into a thorny forest, burning their tongues in furrows of afflicted human positions, to later redeem them fervently with the judicious power of God.

Vernarth, is distressed by matters of seeing them so tender and so fragile, allowing them to crawl toward him gently. Finally, on these three rules of the Shvil, Hanael introduces herself; "Speaking of hindrances stuck in the literary cabal of grateful compliments for all".   Alluding to Vernarth, a subject desensitized and also distant from any Sub Yóguica disciplinary doctrine. This led him to stand behind San Juan, protecting himself and scared of everything around him, he was seeing in front of him, on the upper left side itself, that Zebedeo was, San Juan's own father calling him!

Saint John the Apostle says: “Justice, at this time, allows us to alleviate ignorance, if the riddles allow us only to look for the answer, God will not be here…, it will only be emotional catharsis, through a merely ideological  Shvil or passage, which moves our meaningless sentences, definitely leading us to the coffers that rearm one after one, after the mistake. We are faithfully interpreted by them, but we detest our regencies with the Escaton, when we all pretend to follow his light of thunderous density towards the sky, prophesying to follow him without losing ourselves in him ..., held on his shoulder glossary. On the claws that are released from the dazed angelic prey, correcting its wavering vision, unraveling the living presence of condemnations or salvation, in Eden with your bare feet or in hell with no departure time”

Inexplicably, some Praetorian soldiers of Domitian appear, who would be restricting the departure of the tretacontero to Limassol, curiously they were the same ghosts from Shiraz that continued to represent such a bad event, just as when he was expelled to Patmos by Domitian in 95 BC, in size was the scandal that the Shvil angels produced with their impractical ideologies, who opposed such spectral imagery, in such a way that they replaced their figure with that of another Hellenic man who wanted to embark for Patmos, the other members were fully incorporated to the ship, which frolicked on the pranks as it proudly carried them to a new ocean. Around the last drops that jumped in Jaffa on the coastal rocks, others appeared when the last divided and scattered drops were going to shine the navigation temples, thus it is possible to board in the same ship that brought the principle from Limassol to Judah that transited from Lepanto.

The chapel of ministers reappears offering a ceremony, which would return the messianic remora to the Angels of Shiraz, to return to their former positions within the paths of biblical characters, who tend to commit adultery in the game of loss of consciousness of the Escaton, probably requiring that everyone have to make pilgrimage routes for all humanity secluded and liberated by themselves. The Saltimbanqui finally manage to jump into the boat to sail to the Dodecanese, but the Shvil of the Angels stayed where other celebrities will require them to reroute the Shvil Escaton.
Chapter XXIX
Ghosts from Shiraz to Jaffa
Part VII - Mashiach of Judah Miracle VIII
When I speak,
my eyebrows tell their own story,
filling in the details.
Even when I try my hand
at tact, striving for
porcelain politeness,
my eyebrows loiter in dark corners,
gossiping.

Living with two feral beasts
on one’s face
requires discipline
just short of a chainsaw.

In private I must
chisel & furrow,
for these miniature sculptures,
these Michelangelo topiaries.

This isn’t vanity.
This is protecting a pious public
from a lecherous, libidinous wolf.

For me, leaving the house and
participating in pleasantries,
daily interactions, is enough of a
Leviathan leech loading my back
without seditionist caterpillars
millimeters from munching my eyes out.

It’s for me that I tweeze,
for one only PLUCKS chickens,
that row of hair
which runs the length of my brow.
For me, for my comfort in
social negotiations.

I also do it for you,
if only to keep you from
flinching in fear
as my eyebrows defy
my utmost efforts
at not offending you.
Cali Oct 2012
time is an hourglass
glued to the table,
and the world outside
has gone quite mad,
my dear.

rats in the gutters
and a soundtrack of
nine millimeters
resounding through
the air; and didn't i tell you
life was beautiful?

the shooting stars now,
they look a lot like bombs
as they make their way
to the shrieking silence
of dry land.

the golden babies laugh
their golden laugh
as a million more are lost
or left for dead in the
alleys of my mind
and didn't I tell you
this would all be so very
lovely?

don't fret now, baby,
the skies will soon catch fire
and the madhouse
will bloom
and thrive.
Maria Etre Feb 2017
I asked time to pause
when our breathes
were jousting
millimeters away

I asked time to pause
when you landed your lips
on mine, warming the cold
chaps of distance

I asked time to pause
when you cupped my face
instilling all sense of
security with 3 words
"i am here"
Long version: indiedoodles.net
Tori Hart Jul 2013
two pairs of lips quiver
millimeters apart
tasting the same air
sweat
and lost, forgotten whispers
gasps of ‘i love you’s
are planted along skins
like forget-me-nots
goosebumps germinate
under hair follicles
like freshly plotted seeds
waiting their moments
of glory to sprout
fingers lace
creating mazes of
lustful desire
and yearning for protection
comfort
and Love
sweat mixes
creating chemicals
mixing past hurt
and fears of vulnerability
gravity stops
it has done its job
because it is not the ground
that holds the scared Lovers
to Life now
it is their
Desperate, Tantalizing, Terrifying, Desiring
Love for each other
drabble (noun): a type of contemporary poem that consist of precisely 100 words, that can be about any subject
Solomon Slade Nov 2015
Life is like a roller coaster, with all of its up and downs
but you’re on fire, the roller coaster is on fire
and everything is on fire because it’s hell studying for four AP classes
trying to get that A plus, one note packet here
and a video presentation there
Oh! and don’t forget the reading
Gotta love that reading
You better make sure you know that Spanish reading too
Plus figuring out the limit of g of x of x cubed plus four x minus seven all over the square root of x to the ninth as x approaches one-half for calculus
As you have that two day test this week on top of the multiple practice essays
Just, you know, a little work

Oh and hey! don’t forget everything you have to do for Hebrew
Learning the Hebrew words you’ll never use
The endless fictional tales about men who may have existed
And creating games that are utterly idiotic
The thing is when you have to teach an entire class of kids
who want to know about a topic you only learned
the night before on Wikipedia
scrambling for any shred of understanding of the topic
as you try to help these kids get through another year of classes
trying to get them all past this
so, you know, a little work

Let’s not forget your greatest passion, soccer
soccer, you know, the sport you were once good at
the sport you poured eleven years of your life into
You were a superstar, were
Now you’re the pitiful player
And you try, you try to practice harder than before
You keep kicking the crap out of the ball
While trying to bring the ball down perfectly with your
head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes,
Sounds easier when you sing it honestly
Gotta pump some iron of course
Mr. Incredible can’t look like he’s on the geek squad
No no no no no no no
You have got to start looking like a runway model soon
Strutting with all of the grace of a ballerina
With all of the might of an MMA fighter
You have to get at least three hours of lifting a day
and you know, whenever there’s extra time
You need brain and brawn to be the best
Push-ups, Pull-ups, Power Cleans, Presses
As you keeping putting on all of this pressure
While you run
round n’ round n’ round n’ round n’
round n’ round n’ round n’ and Around

No, No, I’m fine
You say staring distantly into curious eyes
You can’t tell anyone
Nobody would understand
No one could comprehend the complexity of your life
You know, the endless religious studying, the everlasting essay entries,
the constant concern for the future, your beautiful build body, the hours of lifting,
the things you needed to impart intelligence into the youth,
the never ending hours of practicing your technique,
Your technique for soccer,
as you worry every day you’ll be cut from the team for being impudent,
for being useless
or else you’ll be nothing
not here, not anywhere
But yet every single day you push yourself
You may walk through battle after ****** battle in this life
screaming in agony, crying along the way
But you are not crying from pain
Tears of joy flow as you see the light at the end of the tunnel
With every breath you take
With every decision you make
You crawl a millimeter closer to serenity
That’s one millimeter more than you were yesterday
Now ten millimeters is not a lot
That’s about the size of a scented candle
But ten-thousand millimeters,
Now that is a crap ton of candles
So even though the ride I’m in is engulfed in fire
Finding those small flashes of peace make it bearable
And who knows,
Maybe I’ll make a couple s’mores
at the end of another day
This was a slam poem written for a class.
haley Jan 2014
we're all standing on the edge of reality,
millimeters from the precarious cliff of horrible,
beautiful truth.
the glow of our iPhones, tablets, flat screen TVs, etc
illuminating our placid faces.
ignorance is bliss, they say.
wake up!
wake up,
and turn off your alarm,
and flip on the news;
start your coffee brewer.
we depend on the technology.
we live in the the technology.
we live in a computer.
you are not real
and neither am i
but we aren't dead either.
if we can think,
we can exist,
right?
basing this off an existential crisis discussion
Kagey Sage Oct 2015
A gray cat with a white tummy sat upright in his owner’s living room. Yet, it was his living room, too he thought. Though he only perceived the lower half of their bodies, Tom felt he had fooled the humans into relinquishing nearly all their luxuries to him. Their food, their sitting spots, their sleeping spots. Yet, the humans would not let Tom enjoy these luxuries in complete freedom. Sometimes, when Tom laid on the couch or in the bed, he was kicked onto the floor - but that wasn’t the worst of it.  Whenever Tom put together a sandwich using every single item available in the kitchen, Tom’s owner’s plucked the violin strings clear out of him, with broom whacks and concrete body slams.

“No food until you catch that mouse, ya stupid cat!” they’d yell.

Some nights - as he watched his beneficiaries drive off to the opera nightclub - Tom pondered his predicament. So if I catch this mouse, I get free reign over the house. He thought. Unlimited fridge access and legendary furniture spots. Mmmmm. Better catch me a mouse. Tom chuckled.
            
Mice came and went throughout the house, but one always remained. Jerry. In fact, all of the mice coming through the house only came over to chill with Jerry!

Tom stooped low to the ground in a pounce and placed his eyes millimeters from Jerry’s pint sized stance. Jerry felt as though he was pierced by a slew of razors. When Tom quickly relaxed his gazed and let out an enormous sigh.

“There is no magic ideal is there Jerry? ”Tom asked “We’re enchantingly random. Just automatic creatures with base desires. I hunger in the void, so I still want nothing more than food from the human fridge.  In this universe, and a number more, I will pursue what seems the easiest means to human food, whether hunch or trick, or, right or wrong.”
I am the lone insurgent
Walking through the streets
of my own mind.
My mind
Is a totalitarian state.

I am the lone assassin
Of the members of parliament,
Remember, in my own mind.

I am ratted out
By the shrill shrieks
Of an old lady on the tram.

I walk home from endless meetings
With myself, where him
And me plot our rebellion
Sparking the ember, remember;
In my own mind.

The Secret Police awaits
Probably in my living room
Waiting for me to turn on the lights
Revealing the glint of silver nozzles
Mere millimeters from my my head.

The warrant proclaims:
"Conspiracy and ******"
I may be lone, but my hand
Wields just vindication.

I may be lone,
But as I am executed
There is still me
And another will always
Follow

Striking the ember, remember;
In my own mind.
Hannah Paguila Jan 2021
Examine the word "embrace"
How syllables escape into sound
Waves
Mouth shapes
Release

E - M - BR - A - CE
How tender
A gentle approach

E... arms open wide
the invitation
an elongated welcome
"Come close"
Lips parted into a smile

M... a joining together
Communion

BR... limbs entangling
Millimeters pulse

A... the one enclosed

CE... teeth in contact, lips dangle
Hold that position
The lock

No letting go. No gaps. No holes

In bracchium -- this is your home.

Hug -- to console
a rush, a thud, an immediate response

H - U - G. Hug.
Hush.
Here. Now. Tighter.

Speech Pathology & Linguistics.
How the mouth works, how we make sense of words -- Why does your face look like that when you say those words?

Anthropology. Semiotics. Etymology.

Notice how we gather and release,
what we do to make an embrace, a hug.
Mouths feel before nerves could touch.

Have we yearned so much that utterances have become placeholders?

Settling for words, we fixate on how we say them
Read my lips gained a new meaning

Embrace, hug
Opening and closing,
holding and releasing,
touching

Wishing an action upon someone is not tantamount to sensations of nerve-endings

But bodies never really touch

Atoms push and pull
It's the physics around them that we feel
When palms caress
When fingers trace
When skin brushes upon skin
Physics

Let the physics of my words be enough until our electrons can interact again

In a dance

The expanse between your atoms and mine is dismissible as long as you hold on to the words "embrace" and "hug" and "kiss" and "love"  and the anatomy of how these words come to be

Until then, I wrap my whispers around yours

Their warmth is the 3rd law of motion in action
Written: May 4, 2020 amidst the implementation of lockdowns in various regions of the Philippines as part of the effort against COVID-19 spread.

This has been published in Beyond PGH: The Human Spirit Project Anthology, a collection of literary pieces written by healthcare workers and other contributors.
CH Gorrie May 2014
I have two scars on my face; neither one's very visible anymore. One I received at age three (late 1992), falling face-first into a dry riverbed on my first camping trip. I landed hard, my forehead colliding with a crescent-shaped rock. I remember my father turning me over, my vision going red, the blood flowing into my scleras and pupils. The rock missed my right eye by millimeters.  When J.K. Rowling published Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone in 1997 my peers began calling me "Harry." Dark-haired, bespectacled, similar scar -- whole package. My comeback: "They should call Harry Potter 'Chris Gorrie', I had the scar first." Not until ten years later, when The Deathly Hallows was released, did I realize Harry was "born" in 1980.
Since Harry was never really born other than as a character in Rowling's mind, I guess that, technically, I still had the scar first.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2016
is this craft that chose you, not defined by machine millimeters,
precision absolute, curvatures, so eye-pleasing,
they demonstrate no tolerance for tolerance of the
ordinary?

*the skill of words, too, cut so fine,
find the  extraordinary within, refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite, the reused, discard the instant recognition,
unusable
part of http://hellopoetry.com/poem/958457/machinist-tool-thyself-for-joe/

written by me in a different guise
Like two foci of an elliptical, your eyes entice me cause my cardiac muscles, to palpitate
As I estimate the distance between us
I have arrived at the conclusion that you are sitting approximately 5 feet and 11 inches away from me, 7 and half millimeters closer than yesterday.
As you sit there and I calculate your potential energy.
I find myself wishing I could change Y= mx+b into Y=you next to me, you are my complementary angle.
I long to whisper that newton law was just created for you.
Of course that not true, but logic doesn't matter anymore because my feelings for you are growing exponentially.
Like radiation you penetrate through my skin, you  watched my veins branch like fractals
Like absolute zero, all molecules within me halted in that movement,your centripetal  force sent me spinning when they say opposite attracts each other.
It figures seeing as the probability for you noticing me is exactly 1 in 10,032 but I long to coined my name on a love letter, you are my pascal behind my triangle.
Jane Doe Nov 2017
We speak carefully
without naming body parts.  
As if the utterance of a word
could evoke touch – which would mean
hearts racing off in jolty cadences, sweat and
altogether too much skin.

We move with hyperawareness of our limbs.
The air ripples and reaches with each gesture
in phantoms of feeling.
I sense the edges of your fingers,
I cannot ignore the millimeters of
space between our knees.

Your mouth curves down at the edges,
when your gummy smile splits
at the things I say. I remember your lips.
I cannot put them away
in a part of me that locks.
Your mouth opening against mine –

your tongue slipping in.
Put it away.
Your mouth on the pulse below my chin.
Turning back in your doorway,
the dawn light white on your skin.
Put it away.

This wanting is something I can keep
like a mantra - a bed with you
won’t again be a bed for me.
Now we drink as strangers or friends
who once pressed their bodies against each other’s –
but heavy snow covers only blur the edges,

nothing disappears entirely.
We speak carefully

to hide the pump of blood and memory.
cat marie Aug 2018
when will you realize that everything you
say to me takes a toll on my heart?
my love for you is unwavering, unchanging
and it just goes unnoticed by you.
i feel invisible and invalidated.
i can never tell by your tone of voice
how you feel or what you're thinking.
i want you to tell me how you feel,
tell me what you're thinking.
let me in. just, let me in.
i can't breathe without you,
but you confuse me.
we'll sit and talk for hours,
conversation flowing between us like water,
but it can turn to ice in seconds without warning
and you leave me freezing.
we can be inches, centimeters,
even millimeters apart
and it would still feel like miles.
you and i can't ever be too close,
we intertwine like ivy whenever we can.
but it's not enough, it will never be enough.
you have kept me warm for so long
my body has almost forgotten what it's like to be cold.
almost.
there are days that you remind me how the cold feels
and it terrifies me that i have given you the power to do that.
but even when i am frostbitten,
i let you keep my heart warm.
hello my ocean, we haven't talked in a while and i am drunk, so please forgive my frankness. i miss you like earth would miss the sun, i miss you like the air, i miss your face and your hair, i miss you. wholesomely and forever. every day we grow millimeters apart. i have come to the supreme realization that from the point when you intentionally separated us, we have become opposing magnets, and our hearts only seem to be able to push away. how i long to grasp you, hold on to your body, until the natural force of our separation rips me apart and spills my blood all over the landscape beneath our heavens above. but you wouldn't want that would you? all you want from me is to go quietly into the dark, so you can bask in your shining independence. so i will go. without fight, without struggle or scene. but know my love is still there, in the dark damp hole you walked away from, starving for the light. hoping the tides change, and you are swayed to seek my being.

goodnight, my love.
Emma Johnson Jan 2013
1 a.m.
I decide it’s about time to go to bed.
My shivering body eagerly slips under the white down comforter,
the closest feeling to home, second to
your arms wrapped around me.
                                                             ­                                  i miss you.
Per usual, I am improperly dressed
my bare skin is cold to the touch,
I forget that 20 degree weather is actually cold
without you to curl up with.

2:04 a.m.
My decision to sleep was futile.

3 a.m.
I search for the moon in the clouds outside my window
but even the moon is sleeping, in love with the stars
who will hold it close for billions of years
until they’re dust like the rest of us.
                                                             ­                            i miss you.

3:37 a.m.
I may be restless and I may be a growing insomniac
but I have come to realize
that nighttime holds the world I have always wanted to live in:
the falseness is gone, there are no careers or school,
families have all fallen asleep
and the only ones I wish to talk to understand why
sleeping right now would be a waste of time.
The world changes after bedtime, only laughter and freedom can matter
nobody will tell me to put my clothes on,
and staying up with you
is like having my own storybook.
The traffic lights are empty, the forest is open to roam,
the sky is dark and the streetlights only light up what is necessary,
in this little town you can still see the stars,
and there’s not much to do
but when all the people lock their houses and fall asleep
and we get bored of driving around,
the little diner will still be open, empty at this hour
minus the waitress and the cook,
who I don’t think mind anyway.

4 a.m.
I imagine your mouth millimeters from my neck,
whispering things that melt the thin varnish of frost that my sparse clothes could not protect me from.

4:18 a.m.**
At this time I am positively sleepless, you’re still not in my bed but the hope never goes away.
I’m unwilling to waste the last hour
before alarms ring, starbucks opens, and the average people begin to
roam around me and I must put up with reality until it goes to bed again.
helpful critique is much appreciated! i really like the idea of this poem but i feel like it needs work
Sarah richardson Feb 2012
My ceiling is suffocating me. 
This past year was rough. 
We had beautiful, lovely times. 
Always followed by ugly, hurtful words. 

I've been shut down and shut up 
With every stab, my ceiling lowered
Millimeters at a time at first
And now it feels like it's moving by feet

People weren't created to have ceilings
So why is mine stunting my growth?
I want to stand tall, feel strong
The cement is cracking and soon will fall. 

Well crash to the ground-me and my ceiling. 
But the difference between me and my wall-
Cement will lay there, unmoving it will stay. 
Me, I won't-I'll pray for strength to crawl. 

Slowly moving through the debris, gasping for air. 
For so long I've been unable to breathe
I'll stand, my wobbly knees won't give out as I 
Carefully I take my first steps. 

Looking back, but only once
What I see steals my breath. 
Once so scary and strong
My ceiling- lonely, broken, still on the ground. 

I see it was me letting it control me all along. 

I look up to the sky
For the first time in years
And the rain washes the cement away
I'm free to grow tall as the trees. 
I begin to dance my way through life. 
Smiling.
peurdelavie Dec 2014
come here
limbs laced in cotton sheets
my bottom lip between your teeth
tell me the blood drawn tastes like cherries
when we both know it's made of tar
trace a world map on my hipbones in bruises
mark the capital cities with your fingernails
millimeters deep into flesh
let your breath on my neck tell me stories
about who you are and where you've been
your mind spilling ink on pillow cases and skin
and with the left side of this mattress weighed down
let me pretend your hollowed bones
are more than a momentary home
Sunny Beach Mar 2019
To You-
Oh how I loathe writing this. I've been sitting here for hours getting more and more angry about being forced to do this. Then all of a sudden it dawned on me that my anger is misplaced. I have this problem differentiating emotions and dispersing it to the wrong things. I'm not angry necessarily.  I'm uncomfortable. Writing your name makes me physically ill. Let's just get on with this.

Do you care what you did to me? Do you understand it? Do you feel guilt or remorse? From the first time you touched me, that was it. The world turned upside down and order disappeared. I was over before I even began.

This is not how life was supposed to be. At four a heavy sadness consumed my heart. A young disabled child should know nothing else but love and security. You preyed on me because I couldn't walk or crawl. I was the perfect target. I became trapped in the sorrow of my soul. Unable to feel, hope, or dream. Instead I became unseen, unheard, and unloved. After my casts were off and I learned to walk you didn't stop. You got worse. This is a never ending loop that plays on repeat. I don't know how to fix it.

When I start to feel okay, it starts all over again relentlessly. I get a few millimeters from the surface of the water and right before my fingertips touch the air, the darkness grabs my ankle and pulls me back under to the lowest depths possible.

The flashbacks turn into a tornado set out to tear apart every limb one by one until its destruction destroys me. It's more than a fleeting thought or a horrible memory. It chases me around everywhere. It follows me in my dreams. It's as if I am right back to that moment in time again. I can hear, see, smell and feel all of it. I can feel the confusion, the pain. I can hear and feel my bones cracking from you contorting me in ways the human anatomy can not move. 75 pounds up against 140 pounds. It was a losing battle. My clawing, kicking, punching didn't even faze you. You were unconcerned with the ****** nose I gave you. There was nothing I could do but focus on the lamp that was shaking from your force. Focusing on the beads that clink together so I didn't have to be in this dimension.
I can smell the scent of Mr. Bubbles coming from my wet towel that you tore from me. Call it what you want, hallucinations, whatever but I still get whiffs of it that stops me in my tracks to this day. I have been embarrassed when a flashback comes and I yell STOP.  I can see all my stuffed animals and their exact position on my bed. That was the last time I could look at Tweety without being revolted. You took away my choice to decide what I do with my body and my mind. You stole my innocence from me. No longer was I a child. I was only 12 years old.

When you were finished with me, you left me broken and numb. I was void of emotion. There was no thought process. I went on auto pilot and began throwing blankets, bubble bath, and stuffed animals in the dumpster. There was no way I was going to be able to explain how the blood got there. I couldn't look at my stuffed animals without me feeling as if they were staring back and watched the entire thing. The physical pain and the bruises lasted weeks. Mentally, those bruises and pain will be there the rest of my life. My chance to escape the house for just a summer was ripped out from under me. I missed my audition because my hips wouldn't stop dislocating  from struggling to get free from you. How do you explain to a doctor that something that is near impossible to do in ponite happened and get them to believe you.

The brain is an amazing *****. I was able to push out the event and for some time I didn't have to remember or so I thought. It turns out you molded me into the person I became and am now. My timidness, being touched, my eating disorder, running away, my obsession with burning my skin, the way I see myself, my uncertainty of ******* anywhere but a bathroom or closet. The fact I feel people staring at me judging me even though they aren't. You taught me a lot especially that day.

You taught me to love at a distance. Never ever put my guard down. I was showed how to build up walls to keep others out. Always question what people say and do. I learned to draw on a smile and add pep to my voice so nobody can tell I'm not alright. My self worth is only defined by the way I look. My thought's and feelings will always be disregarded. My intelligence means nothing. Someone will always take advantage or use me for their own selfish gain. I'm ugly, *****, and disgusting. I'm worthless. I don't have the right to control anything in my life unless it's in a self destructive way. If all else fails and I feel uncomfortable run away from everything. I never stare into a mirror. I don't want to see the real me. I wasn't a troubled girl or out of control. I was just a broken girl silently begging for someone to see through my actions and realize the real reason why I did things.

Everything good in my life I've learned to destroy. Who am I to believe I deserve to be happy? Writing people off without a second thought about it. Making others hurt first before they could ever think of hurting me. This has affected every aspect of my life without realizing it and way before the flashbacks and nightmares started. I've allowed people to use me like a door mat and take advantage of me because after all, I am nothing more than an object. Just a puppet with someone else controlling the strings. Making myself sick in order to get someone else's approval.

The full force of what happened came to a head a few years ago. I didn't want to live. I started cutting and burning my skin to the point it became an addiction. I tried multiple times to **** myself and every time for whatever reason I came back to life. You of all people should know that when you attempt suicide once it's always in the back of your mind every single day. It becomes yet another failure that I can tally up. I wake up in the morning annoyed I'm still alive. Because of what you did, I no longer carry my pain on the inside. It has overflowed to the outside of my body. The scars are visible for all to see.

You've made me think of things that no human should  ever entertain in their mind. Remember when you tried to **** yourself? Do you remember what people said to you? They said I was your guardian angel that day. Remember how I cried? I didn't cry because you almost died. I cried because I regret calling 911. I wish I had let you die.

I would have stood over you watching in complete delight and pleasure as the pain took over your body. See the fear stretching over your face after you regret swallowing those pills Wishing you didn't try to **** yourself. Taking notice of the vein in your neck pulsing in a  frenzied way. Attempting to beg for my help only to realize you are unseen, unheard and unloved. Knowing nobody will come to your rescue. You'll grab for me and I step away just barely out of your reach. I'd squat down for a better look. Watch you squirm and contort your body in unnatural ways and see the light flicker out of your eyes. Your chest rising and falling one last time until I hear the last exhale of your soul being dragged to the depths of Hell by greedy demons. All without remorse or care with a genuine smile. My first pure smile hiding nothing back. People should never ever have that thought about another persons life.

You are one of the lucky ones. Nobody can persuade me to press charges against you. At least not yet. You are free to be whatever you want to be and do whatever you want to do without consequence, while I'm trapped in a birdcage with no door to set me free.

As children, we have an idea of what the Boogie Man is. Long sharp teeth. A horrid odor coming from it's snake like tongue. A contorted face all covered in rancid fur. Lurking in the dark waiting for the right time to grab you and drag you under the bed to eat you alive. The truth is the Boogie Man is an unassuming figure. Could be a stranger. Could be a person you are supposed to trust. Someone with a warm, sweet smile hiding the monster inside only to come out when the opportunity presents itself. That's when the Boogie Man comes out to demolish your existence.

I've allowed you to live in my head rent free. You have silently directed my life. Eventually I will make peace with this. You will not have power over me. You will not take from me. There's nothing left to break. Eventually, someday, I will love myself. My flashbacks will end. This will become a tool to show me I can do and be anything because I am deserving. I will no longer be haunted by you. This will no longer define me. I will be able to look in the mirror and see beauty instead of dirt and ugly filth. I will start to believe others when they call me beautiful. For the first time my eyes won't be dull. I will learn to receive love without thinking strings are attached to it.  I will not feel shame or guilt. That's not my cross to bare.

I may not know who I am but I do know I am not this person. When I finally realize my worth is more than what's between my thighs, my power will return and I will no longer be fragile. I will fill the opening of the volcano inside of me and the lava will no longer erupt. The scars I wear on the outside will become a reminder that I can walk through fire without being consumed by it.

I don't believe that you deserve an ending to this letter as I don't have an ending of my pain so I will leave you with this. Someday I will glue together the broken pieces of me that you so easily shattered. And someday, someday won't be a someday but it will turn into a today. While I wait for that day to come, I'll plaster on a pretend smile with cement and be fake happy until it becomes my reality.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mtPNeKgXX_w
My Reading
jg Jan 2017
You ask why I no longer write,
But how on Earth am I supposed to?
The parts you took from me were the best
that I could do

The day you slowly flew,
from the utter mess of what we were,
from me and my life,
You took what used to be a joyful soul
before the wound
of your manipulative knife,
And you left it here
to rue seeing nothing
but black and blue.

You ask why I no longer write,
But you still miss to understand;
You have taken with you my fragile arms
through your deceitful but compelling charms,

You have taken with you my sensible and thin fingers
With the way your body used to linger,
Millimeters away from mine,
just enough to make it impossible for me to live without.


And you still ask why I no longer write...
Dhaara T Mar 2017
I love this moment
where time has slowed down
Your fingers learn to take a flight
just micro-millimeters above the ground
And the earth, she quivers
when you are so close
Yet not, not yet...sinking into my skin
But I love this, how love flows
Your lips merely touch
my eyelids falling with the weight of diffidence
To my sigh, my warm breath falling on your neck
You smile as a consequence
I love this moment
The vibration of your voice
reverberates through your chest
as it invades my palm, as I silently rejoice
It flows through and meets the synchronicity
of my beating heart
Oh how my name gets new meaning
when it flows from your warm lips
still exuding the fragrance of love
I love how your gaze rips me apart
into mere bubbles in the universe
How your soul kneads into mine
And are we even you and I anymore?
I love how your existence echoes every time
How I fail to decipher which thoughts
belong to you and which are mine
Do I love you or do I love my reflection in you?
Or do I love the reflection of
your reflection in me,
that mirrors through you?
What substance is this love?
I know not, but I know I love this moment
I wish, though,
I could live this moment
even when I opened my eyes
Ken Pepiton Jul 2021
If Dexter's Parents had not divorced and he had not moved away with his mother,
Who was beautiful as I recall, today would have played out or worked out or turned out
Differently. Very differently, considering that little twist in my six-degrees of separation base pattern
Hapt seventy-years ago, or so,
----
Watch starlings, if you have starlings, or watch congregations of kippers on Netflix.
Their steering is on auto. Do you agree? Then we are in Agreement, which is an odd place to find one's self in the midst of so great a cloud of witnesses.
-----
'e goes a gain a ginning, grinning all the while
Aye, and radioman turned on just
Now listen -Radio Mumbai

I meant, you and I agree schools of sardines and flocks of gulls are all on auto-pilot-propulsion-maintenance programs,
Right?
I thought so. The code in a gnat must be so much more elegant than the vast terabytes of programming in the GPS constrained self-drivers evolving on earth. Gnats never collide and are nearly impossible to hit, unless you have bat tools, which you don't. Nobody wrote that gnat code, right?
Of course not, evidence of programming only appears to be programming, evidence of design only looks like design it's not design. Right? So says Carl Sagan, Richard Dawkins, and all the people so called to win the battle for the minds of **** Sapiens Augmentatious, lest, as the confusion of Babel subsides, those minds should begin to reason together more clearly in light left after the lies standing on men's minds are revealed inferior to what our senses sensationally acknowledge. Whew. Long thought.

I meander, but you do as well. That is how things flow.
Not over immovable objections, around.

One life that was connected to mine in boyhood friendship was severed about half-way through my sixteenth year.
He died. I don't remember how. Alcohol-related, I can imagine. I did not attend the funeral, though some acquaintances did; one of whom was later my lover. She is dead now as well, too late to tell me anything. She had a baby less than a year after I returned from Vietnam, more than nine months later. That is a heavy thought, but not one I think does much good now.

So little of history is noted. So few lives function to trigger generational unctions that devolve into wars against imbalance, iniquity, slavery and death.
Fraternity, Egality, ******* *** the mob all riled-up, burn , baby, burn.
Whole people die in history's whims,
If whims they were.

Rebellions…

Watch the starlings steer through 4-d patterns eternally random,
fueled by bugs they convert to food for the soil itself.
Their life is their work and they do it beautifully. As one.

Can Boeing-Raytheon-L3 et al build a self-propelled, self-refueling drone that can fly at top-speed, maneuvering millimeters in each direction from other self-propelled, self-refueling drones while dropping their payloads without a single friendly-fire crash, ever?

Starlings don't **** on each other.

If war-profiteers could build such things, would you watch such things perform and wonder at the minds that built them, or deny such minds played any role from concept to creation, and ask who authorized development and deployment of such an expensive fertilizer distribution system that fertilizes wild weeds as well as gentled weeds?
Which would you say: "Wow, how did those get made, who paid?" or "Wow, look what billions of years and energy alone can do against absolutely insurmountable odds and impossible physics, with chaos and corruption always on the job?" Holy entropic bad moon.

Are ye not more precious than starlings, or sardines, or gnats. Would a sense pertaining to immediate locational proximity, evident in birds and fish and bugs, not be apparent in Adamkind, at least as a metaphor regarding benefits gained in knowing where you are relative to your own environment, regardless of any sense of personal purpose?

I can see it in the fact that we can agree, for good or ill.

As generations mature and regenerate, might there be patterns in the tumbling of the powerful and the powerless populations. Patterns depicting group or herd preservation by fully mentally equipped populations of mature and maturing Adamkind are detectable. Facts now overflow the cup of knowns. These are those days when knowledge is increasing and increasing and increasing to the point of being a destructive force in tightly closed minds.

Name dropping, rather than restating, Helen Arendt, "The Origins of Totalitarianism"(1966), Bertrand Russell, "The Problems with Philosophy"(1912), Pankaj Mishra, "The Age of Anger"(2017).

These three books and some browsing of names and titles the authors drop, have spurred me over the top of a rise I had not seen coming. My path had become gradually uphill without my noticing. I was interested in other things and ignoring notices from my body that oxygen stores were being depleted more rapidly than current inventory of red blood cells and nurse lymphocyte-bots can recycle the quadra-monthly disassembly turnover, H2O stores for sweat heat-dispersal systems and plasma regeneration and digestion of what little remains to be digested are now at "caution, think about stopping" levels. But I saw that from the top I might see to the top of the next rise before I chose the downhill part of my path. The down hill path determines the uphill path.
In the desert, you can see trails marked in many ways, mosses grow in least-heat zones created by angular location relationships with the sun. Breezes whisper into shade puddles by ever slow slight temperature inequilibria shifting some heat to the triggering of my sweat system.

If you were compelled to reason about every step you take in life as if it were your responsibility to regulate and control every function of your flesh vehicle in which you abide in relationship to all around you that you could harm or that could harm you, you would be mad. {mad?} illusion of reality

assumes reality is friendly here. I'm okeh
with that improbability aside,

implied as self explicatory and unfolding life…
examined,
for what its worth in words redeemed may be,
in the future, when this is what they thought,
you think, and I say know,
I thought this,
on a bet. Or an oath, depends on the fret.

Crazy mad, but angry auch. That would be unfair, because you don't know how to do what you are being compelled to do. Reports of persons who can control ****** functions not commonly consciously controlled are easily found. Such persons spend their time so countering the rolling rhythms beat by heart doors slamming shut and swooshing open in response to electricity, that, we, Adamkind, have yet to truly understand. We've no need, that which concerns us was
to be perfected, not by us.

If my use of Adamkind offends you, the reality of my benefits, wrought from my comprehension of my relation to Adam, will likely make me your enemy, in your own mind, not mine.
Ax'em, do they love po' o'hate rich?

Believe one chance in practically infinity of current evolutionary-nontheistic thought being the way things must be, then multiply the number of times you make that bet by the number of insects on earth or even by the number of mitochondria in your kidneys.

Ignoring life's delicate imbalances in light of what can be known today, breaks our minds's ability to agree perfectly. The social dichotomy that seems to arrange adamkind's affairs over eons and eras: rich and poor, have and have not, mean and meek, is ego-driven, self-benefit seeking and not part of the original program.

Contemplate the sweet influences of Pliades, silently questing the truth of hope and matter. There is more power in this stream.

Chapter end.
The future is in BASIC ATTENTION TOKENS. Mental fodder content creators can share in any ads that pay for the attention paid to your work. It is in a neotny of adaptive evolution -- if you pay attention it pays you back for letting AI know what helps more than hurts. Check it out, ats.
Lost Mar 2014
Have you ever felt so lonely, sitting in a room full of people, with chattering of others coming from your left and your right and laughter exploding in surround sound, and wonder, "Why me?"

Why am I usually the one who stands a few millimeters away from the group? Why am I always left alone? Why doesn't anyone go out of their way to offer a smile or a simple hello?

Some days I feel like tugging at my hair as hard as I can, not caring how my scalp screams in agony or how many clumps of hair I pull out. Why? Because I don't get what I'm doing wrong. I love the solitude and the lack of attention I get from the general public but it's a different case when it comes from the people I trust. Sometimes I wonder if it's my fault for being a recluse but after hours and hours of reflection, I realise that I've always tried to be inclusive. For someone like me, it's difficult. Actually, it's frustrating and scary and I'm terrified to death. But I still make the effort because I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.

One day I'll stop trying holding myself together and I wonder if I'd disintegrate into dust or will I shatter like glass instead?
(I know it's not a poem but I'm not very good at those so I tried this instead)
Aterno Apr 2013
Closure, within meters
No, probably centimeters
or just millimeters
Even less

Separated
Though still stuck together
Used in movement
Trapped in tranquility

It could be a crack
Though seamless
Fluidity is still,
Intact
The flailing sails of a million ships, trudging into discovery or conquest, wheels screaming in the snow and gravel. Barrels pirouetting, until you hear the mechanism move into place with a thick onomatopoeia of some kind. Millimeters-I-don't-know-how-many cartridge locks. Vicious speeds only centimeters over the palm trees. Wings clipping occasional leaves, like the man with the scythe himself. Sick harvest moon, ready for the daily sacrifice. The daily ritual. No prisoners, no mercy. No withered old men to push their crescent steel triggers.
rey Mar 2015
bpm
does she know
how many times
p e r  m i n u t e
you tap your fingers on your thighs
when you're about to see her?

does she know
how many millimeters
your eyes dilate
when you see her?
but not me, not me

does she know
how white your knuckles are
when you hear that
somebody hurt her?
and i can hear you boiling

tell her to keep a tally
and beg me to not

i'm good at math;
counting things i'll never have.
Her lips lingering millimeters from yours,
Aching to close the gap.
Her breath tickling your chin so timidly,
Waiting to be snatched away.
Her eyes burning, dilated, seeing more of you
Than you willingly expose.
Tension.

You pull her in, pull her close, hold her there.
Every inch of you is touching,
Tingling.
Anticipating.

And so together you understand that love
Is a true possibility.
If not for now, not for this her and him,
Then for later, another.
Aware.

— The End —