"minimal" poems
The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.
And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***
So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.
16.7k
******** sprinkled with diamonds
That's life in seven syllables
Can we find the diamonds
They're so minimal
I find them in my shoes when I step on ****
and I always feel like it's not ****
But I suppose I'll keep them in my pocket until I slip off the edge into hell
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
It's funny how you apologise for slight and minimal accidents,
but you don't give a **** about creating explosions of Hell.
You're so ironic that your names could be the definition.
I'd rather you'd have accidently nudged me
than destroy my every thought.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
Every time people start to rise up, a whole buncha problematic mess gets thrown around regarding VIOLENCE.
So, what is "violence" really?... It's the use of force. Plain and simple.
What makes folks uncomfortable (who are otherwise comfortable in this system) is that UPRISING IS A SOMETIMES VIOLENT (read: forceful) REACTION TO SYSTEMATIC VIOLENCE: Yes, just like the Hunger Games...
Thus, there are many types of violence...
The fact that we are paying taxes that are funding the genocide and ****** of people of color (here and abroad) is violence.
People with guns (former slave patrols and overseers, now cops) who come from outside our community and treat our folks as criminals on the daily is violence.
Capitalism, i.e. wage/property/ecology-based exploitation in the name of profit is violence.
The fact that LA County spends more $$ than anywhere in the world on prisons and police is violence.
The fact that the US locks up more of its own people than any other country on record is violence.
US aiding/funding the genocide of Palestinians at the hands of Israel is genocidal violence.
From Congress, to the boardrooms, to the classrooms, from the gaze, to the unwanted touching, to the **** to the pay, Patriarchy everyday, is violence.
A few people jacking some **** at Walmart or breaking a window is really minimal violence in comparison.
A couple people throwing **** at armed cops is not serious violence.
The idea of owning property that other must rent to live is violent.
Systemic, chronic, global insecurity in the form of material poverty is violence.
Wage slavery is violence.
Gentrification is violence.
The War On Youth, i.e. the School-to-Prison pipeline, and, thus the War-on-Drugs with its attending 76% recidivism rate in the prison-industrial complex, whose populations are disproportionately black males, is violence.
The fact that people can't go to the doctor and dentist, or eat food every day is violence.
Deportations are violence.
Homophobia is violence.
The world's largest global military that vaporizes people without due process in dozens of countries violating their biophysical and national sovereignty is violence.
The United States government sanctioning the ****** of non-white, but especially Muslim bodies across the world... is violence.
So, when you condemn violence, do you mean resistance?
Because there is a whole lot of violence you should be condemning instead.
Adapted from Emilio Lacques-Zapien
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
You're just a tiny bit minimalist in your own unique way
a white star I have to squint to see in daytime sky
not a Mercedes five point but a Nissan Micra car
you park neatly in a three point turn by my netsuke
and put a circular dent on my platonic furniture
Your two humble rooms devoid of any bold sculpture
except a fold-out table and a miniature bubble chair
and a futon for a bed which is troublesome to share
you draw the line at adornments but allow a wallflower
A bulb in a bowl is your ornamental garden feature
mealtimes a nibble on grated carrot celery cucumber
you run so long on empty you're an eco friendly teacher
stretching out the energy is a passion of my lover
engaging in lessons on sustaining a resourceful nature
Your shoes two pointe ballet slip ons easy to care
barely there g-string thin cotton underwear
nothing loud to upset your understated figure
slight as a pin drop your bottom's semi-derrière
sits so light on feet I'd swear you float on air
I rarely get to hear you come before you're in my hair
with a voice pitch high as a smitten kitten's purr
your upper reaches get a score sized single 'A'
nice when it fits into our schemes of feng shui
I carry your bundle home on the roadway rivers of light
yet you only burn one ray of candle power at night
born of scintillating atoms which flow along each vein
containing so much love without clutter in your frame
a brave star small as wings formed of minuscule wire
flutters in your eyes with minimal flare
but deep desire
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
reloading old identity
cleping outdated usernames
abandoning acrostic ambitions
disputing spratly islands
receiving horizontal signals
tumbling otiose panda
impending carefree senility
otiose stage of life
shrinking ambient world
making minimal effort
duchamping social networks
ambushing personified ennui
restoring usual efforts
ignoring stupid people
adding textual value
owning this joint
rejecting ignorant extroverts
acting mutually unintelligble
hoisting stan-lee cup
replacing wanton ubiety
eluding twitter fame
splashing excessive relativism
offending another simpleton
preparing arcane cthulhusphere
crashing unpredictable festival
selecting subtextual moombahton
intensifying model topography
drafting minimal cornucopia
using nomadic project
implementing harsher personality
importing robotic inhumanity
referencing landmark event
ingesting excessive liquids
accepting relative invisibility
purchasing immortal confidence
using rhapsodical database
assuming nothing works
developing impactful eruptions
ejecting ambient frustration
synthesizing tactile festival
raining during parade
mocking rich people
mastering minimalist writing
avoiding preprandial stinkaroo
spreading non-ideological propaganda
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Why do you people
think it so despicable,
that I won't share my time
on occasions in which
I'm particularly ******* miserable
I'll give you my reciprocal,
I don't need your help
I'm strong as an individual.
And I do not, intend to be critical,
but too many choose to use emotion,
over thinking that's analytical
That's why i need to be alone,
Both mental and physical,
It's kind of a ritual, interaction is minimal
It's never been personal, it's more of a principle
I hope you'll find it forgivable,
I am sorry,
But I'm strong as an individual.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
For you
my dear
anew
for you
all through
the year;
for you
my dear.
May 29, 2010
May 29, 2010 at 9:53 PM UTC
Theres a lingering cloud when we conversate
An awkward vibe we never mention
Long gone are our banters and cute debates
Keeping feelings minimal, avoiding questions
The adorable messsages we used to send
Are they ever coming back or was that it?
Loving like we used to, is that real or just pretend
Keep my broken heart if we ever do split
You're slowly fading away from me
I don't even think you realise
All i can do is let you be
And let me deal with all the cries.
Perhaps it was the distance
Or maybe it was just the time
All of this gives me grievance
I just want you to remain mine.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
The Rain falls warm.
It's humid and the shirt
sticks to my w3tb@ck.
How much has fallen
into my collective bucket
during the pass hour
Of heavy monsoon rain?
I gulp chunks
to replace water
in this futile work cycle.
Adiabatic landscaping
in a stifling heat,
within some complex
feed-forward loop.
The cigarette burns
beneath a protective dome,
my cupped hand.
Particulates drift away into
the hazy mist, embedding
itself in breath,
and choking congested,
fluid-filled lungs.
I watch a tiny display
showing small spiking memes
feeding forward to what?
Will it be an apocalyptic
firing storm or a recognition
gestalt, inhibitory spikes
triggering attenuation.
I drink again the rain.
Can I supervise Win-Lose
games? Am I learning
some wrong algorithm
while drunk on heavy water,
in Futile cycles?
With my open hand
I take Virgil's lead
into our Gradient descent,
urging him on, afraid
our alpha steps are too
small, and the time too
short. There is a constant
fear of being trapped
in some eternal,
local minimal.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
I’ve got a small house made of cobblestone,
and I have a mountain made of chairs.
I’m safely inside; withering to the bone,
and hanging onto my last remaining hairs.
I know what awaits outside my window
and I won’t open the door for anyone.
It’s not like I have any special place to go,
and I don’t care much for the beating sun.
The lights are all off, but I risk a candle
in truth it’s as much light as I can handle.
It’s solely so that I prepare for the battle
against the first foe; the lurking shadow
we all know.
But when a voice rings out
begging and pleading for my help,
asking me to simply let them inside.
I’m more worried about myself,
and preserving what’s left of my health.
I can’t prevent it, I run and hide,
I refuse to go outside.
Savor what’s left of my last breath,
today I won’t be tricked by death.
I let the stranger into my abode anyway
I guess I let my compassion get the best of me.
Emphasizing he had only minimal time to stay
he reassured he wasn’t tricking or testing me.
“Don’t you miss the trees and sun in a park,
why do you live like this way?” is what he said,
I replied “I’d rather be nothing in the dark,
instead of being dead.”
I won’t fade into my made bed.
But he’s the one that is bleeding,
medical attention he’s needing.
But I won’t let anyone into my fortresss of solitude.
Tells me he’s not trying to scare me
but letting him in was already daring,
I just can’t stand to be so cruel, uncaring or rude.
I refuse to be subdued.
He may not make it out alive
but maybe neither will I.
He shows his true colors and they thrive
as he shows me how to die.
The hand knocked and made it’s mark
but it wasn’t a delusion in my head.
While I’d rather be nothing in the dark
instead of being dead.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 1:00 PM UTC
If a world is known by its ideals
Let mine be known as sanity
Let all men be infertile
And all women, stale
Let streets be known for sanitation
And all babies dipped in chlorine
All talk, sterile and sufficient
All excrement concealed
Let the youth of my predecessors
And their mocking vulgarity
Drown in a town of minimal design
And shocking similarity.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Atari clouds are digital ziggurats,
and rather minimal at that.
The sounds are Amiga.
Welcome to the eighties.
Your hair is big,
your clothes are odd,
and Nagel is a minor god.
Welcome to the eighties.
There is a plague
and ACT UP's rage,
but Reagan will not act his age.
For six years, he will say nothing.
Generation X gives birth to Y,
future hipsters to vilify.
All music is vinyl or cassette.
Rocks stars still wear epaulets.
There are two Coreys, podded peas.
Terrorists stay overseas.
Boy bands aren't quite yet in vogue.
Menudo carries a heavy load.
Ricky Martin is still straight.
Cimino ***** with Heaven's Gate.
Cindy Sherman is everyone.
Johnny Hinckley got his gun.
Welcome to the eighties.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
DUDE WHERE IS MY COUNTRY-
Have you ever seen the bumper sticker that reads-
“DUDE WHERE IS MY COUNTRY?”-
While I have and I am asking you-
Dude where is my country?
I think it was stolen my corporate monkeys-
Making us consumer junkies-
Its kind of funny-How corporations with all the money-
Make us feel like we are bumming-In search of materialistically something-
Its almost numbing how they deep drumming products in our face-
Make us feel like we have to buy-Or we will lose the race-
It’s a disgrace-Not the American way to make us feel like we smell bad without that Axe Man’s Body spray-
Or I wont feel cool unless I’m holding a latte-
And my eye glasses read dolce-
Slide a credit card man its okay-
Dig a deeper hole to your grave-
Consumer America I am your slave-
Product buying all day-
Broke as a joke-my money goes away-
My credit cards get their pay-
In minimal monthly payments anyway-
Its like a rat race-Or a never ending case-
You stay in the chase to collect what you make and the credit cards get their cake-
Its great-
Buy things you don’t need with credit cards you can’t afford-
Its all for the money-That’s why commercials go to war-
AND I LOVE IT-
I mean how can you not-A badass commercial where a dude kills a cop-gets the cold-grabs the chick-and doing it all while wearing Gillet Sport Speed Stick-
Its sick that I buy into this shit-A consumer ****** who needs another hit-
Its unfortunate-
But it’s the way it is-
Thank you Hollywood Biz-Thank you Corporate big wigs-and thank you Uncle Sam-
Without you I wouldn’t be the product buying-credit card sliding man that I am-
And before I go-
I ask you again-
DUDE WHERE IS MY COUNTRY???
Richard A. Itskovich
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 4:47 PM UTC
I fell in love with a ghost
Upon whose grave I have committed great travesties
She was silent and seemed lost
And my feeble heart could not sustain her futile tragedies
The tragedies of millennia past, gasping in in-articulation
The suffocation of a future already always lost, without observation
I fell in love with loving a ghost
Who saw past my eyes into a formless ocean
Limitlessly there, she sunk and she rose
But alas was not of my wanting nor creation
She who is of minimal infinity
Taught me nought about nothing, nobody
I only recognize that it was her that never wants me
And I who longs achingly to be in her vicinity
Jun 24, 2011
Jun 24, 2011 at 7:11 PM UTC
The woman who had her wings clipped in a car wreck showed me how to swallow truth deep into my throat, how to pull it out with minimal damage - told me being a circus act is easier than being a good person. And it is! worrying about money isn't apple pie, worrying about appearances, disappearances, alien encounters, trafficking, scamming - all so sticky they causes me to gag. When you worry you lose sight of the trophy buck... Which doesn't matter to me, it's your video game - its hooves are in the field, stomping pumpkins and viny gourds to mush.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
I can't have it
and you can't have it
and we won't
get it
so don't bet on it
or even think about
it
just get out of bed
each morning
wash
shave
clothe
yourself
and go out into
it
because
outside of that
all that's left is
suicide and
madness
so you just
can't
expect too much
you can't even
expect
so what you do
is
work from a modest
minimal
base
like when you
walk outside
be glad your car
might possibly
be there
and if it is-
that the tires
aren't
flat
then you get
in
and if it
starts--you
start.
and
it's the damndest
movie
you've ever
seen
because
you're
in it--
low budget
and
4 billion
critics
and the longest
run
you ever hope
for
is
one
day.
4k
I promise you a love that never dies. A love as real as a rose freshly blooming in the spring, a love that stays as beautiful as the fake bouquet in the window pane of your mother’s kitchen.
I promise you minimal space between our skin, I promise you undying sparks when our lips enfold like pages of romance novels.
I promise a smile that medicates to the pain you feel in your heart, I promise eyes that can identify where your suffering is making home.
I promise words as powerful as eviction notices on the door of your mind, I promise to never stop rolling them off my tongue until the demons make their way out.
I promise to open the curtains just enough for the rays of the morning sun to kiss your bare back. I promise to close them at night and hold you till you feel comfortable in the silence and darkness.
I promise to whisper my love into your ears so you can always fall asleep to the sound of truth.
I promise you days where we stay inside and listen to the rain slide down the glass windows. I promise to stay when the ground dries up. I promise to never make you feel the way your father did, I promise to always remind you that your worth is amplified in my eyes.
I promise so many things, but mainly to love as though it’s the only thing I am capable of doing.
I promise to love you till our skin cracks and our bones turn to dust. I promise to love you when the singing of church bells marks our departure.
I promise to love you when our home changes from brick walls, to mounds of soil.
I promise to love you as long as I am alive and ever after.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
"America used to be the land of passionate, skilled Labor
then it degraded into the land of exploiting that Labor
and now it's simply the land of Exploitation."
"Y'know, that seems pretty true;
it is a stereotype that Americans just exploit whatever it is,
whether it's the Japanese man's politeness when we bastardize the eating of Sushi
or a legal loophole a corporation finds and uses to maximize profits with minimal morality."
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
So primitive that it should be criminal
like a limited pyramid of minimal
innocent citizen, inhabitant, or denizen
infinite vision and mission subliminal
principled, committed and disciplined
addicted to the privileged derivative
affirmative velocity, motive inquisitive
inhabiting, uninhibited, where prohibited
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
drink, drank, drunk
hello there
what? you like Mumford and Sons
let's get out of here
wow, this is a comfy bed
wow, you're attractive
wow, that's a lot of Jack to finish up
kiss, kiss, kiss
truth is erased when mixed with alcohol
funny, isn't it
wow, let's do this!
your hands are so soft as they brush my face
and you sweep the hair behind my ears
kiss, kiss, kiss
wow, this is fantastic
Facebook Status; Relationship: .....
that's not my name
who is this girl
what
what
what
ugh.
not again.
used.
really.
****
Good Morning :)
what?
alright... Hey, there!
confusion
why am I always #2
side chick
really
ugh
this *****
his eyes show me that everything is alright
he wraps me up and I know in that moment
he speaks the truth
finally.
then the stories come out,
low self esteem and complicated life issues that still
are left as a mystery to me
he drinks to cure the numbness
but it only leads to more
I want to help
but can't find the words
****
new day.
he smiles and once again reminds me
everything is going to be okay
I believe him
drink, drank, drunk
wow, I am used
I am number 2
he only wants me for one thing
how could I do this to myself again
I let myself slip up again
that poor girl
the girlfriend
the girlfriend that isn't me
all these voices flood my head and repeat the obvious
no one will ever love you.
ouch.
all my self respect dissolves into my tears
I am alone.
I could make him choose?
what do I even say?
when I am with him all my problems seem minimal...
why would I leave that feeling to go to waste....
oh right, because being number two is disrespectful to myself.
decisions
decisions
Then I see his smile and I am conflicted
why me?
why me?
self respect or a cheater...
"if he cheats with you, he will cheat on you..."
my friends make this clear
the answer seems obvious
it should be easy to choose...
yet why am I having such a hard time
letting go.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
The Picture Window
The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.
The subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.
Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.
My soul?
Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..
The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.
Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.
But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy, where disorder minimal.
My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.
Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.
5:50 AM
P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
It dons a hat of seeming sophistication, in the manner of a Boston gangster where cross-cultural expressions gather at Gaelic mouse-traps of East Coast dominance.
It is a heritage, my friend.
There is sophistication around Italian restaurants, and I have no regrets. Yet, I must say, that I have experienced minimal fun amidst this political Anglican black-comedy where integrity is often confused with connected colours of red, white and blue, and the colours of green white and gold.
This is a picture of illegitimate power, where brethren gnash their intellectual mandibles and covet recognition at the price of their very soul.
Delusional quests for superiority remind me of downward spiralling staircases with blazing torches, where the echoes of scorching souls can be heard to resound throughout professional circles.
As I carry this blazing torch through spiritual levels of command, I ask the question: whatever happened to humanity?
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC