"minutia" poems
The greeting is the same
the minutia is the difference
Point A and Point B
are always constant
Like a craftsman with
his toolkit and techniques
nothing is out of sync
with expectations
It's not a game any longer
it has become a chore
motions to go through.
Ten minutes in....
You....you threw in a wrench
into my machinations of
dialogue and movement.
You....you don't bore me.
It's a game once again,
and we both intend to win.
Let's play
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
Distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness, existentially transcendental's clairaudience clairvoyance. Metaphysical mystique’s evolutionally metamorphic futurity's fatidic incarnate. Due yesterday’s retrospectively retroactive. Protractive analyses' dimensional delineations. Enigma entity’s dexterously tactile acuity and coordinated agility on the identity crisis. Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix to synaptic syntax semantics. Prospectus perplexity surreally sublime. Quagmire quandary’s poshly plush. Who am I to think I can conception of the infinite supply? Even the syntactics of eclectic synectics pale by compare to the atrociously impetuous impudence in pugnaciously audacious. Impromptu innuendo's juncture. Imagination’s immaturities are psychic clarity’s entelechy to evolutional tenants élan vital. Fiduciary principle's financially responsible fiscal policies. Mercenary mendacity's plenary plenipotentiary. Innocuous noumenal verity, mystic symbiotic’s chicanery dynamism fealties. Proximity parameter’s perimeter peripherals, vicinity victuals to vigilante villain, propinquity habitation’s harbingers of harangued. The question remains on the tribal: how can I stand next to the person I’m standing next to if I’m carrying on right through them. It’s the trajectory extant in spatiotemporal's telemetry tactician. Well graspy greedy on the stingy frugal to mingy minion and paw flaw laws claws on it. Get a glove, objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iota’s of self-inductive interstitial extrapolation. Detinue perfective. Traveling down this obtusely overt contusion in my vehicular contrivance convection convolution. Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s aura roan to rainbow mare. Unicorn railway nails. Swarthy ******** swath swizzles on the sweaty swelter swerve to verve.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 12:10 PM UTC
I'm lying here with the light on. The fan is set on speed 3, and it's pointed directly on me. Social networks dance on my computer screen. Faces of people, some of whom I've never met, spout endless minutia. So do I. We'd like to think that all of this is bring us closer to one another, but that is anything but the truth. This faux interconnectedness is just another way to live together, alone. These pills are beginning to take hold. My mouth is dry, and not even the coldest, clearest water can quench it. Sometimes I equate staying up that one last hour with having that one last drink. It's the one that always kills you in the morning.
It's 4:45 AM, and my alarm is set for noon.
Aug 11, 2010
Aug 11, 2010 at 1:53 AM UTC
The Quantum Poetry Theorem
from a long time ago,
a thousand poems a priori.
**Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement.,
But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.**
Scruffy, yet ennobled,
my own 99% invade and
occupy all my senses,
in my eyesight encamped
sensing opportunity,
the 99 demand
that each shutter eye snap,
all nominal exhalations,
every quantum minutia perception,
be live streamed,
direct tv to you
Everything I witness,
transformed into an
acoustic guitar rocking vision,
a levitation of poetic expression,
set to a primitive three-chord
rock & roll overture,
and my iPad,
appointed Recording Secretary,
compiles exhalations as ecrivations
a preservation society of the verb,
strings of words emanating non-stop
within my head, from a guitar playing
twenty four seven, ironically,
expressed mathematically
Street strolling,
busy brasserie bar,
a Pinot Noir arrives,
a large pour of
stanzas and a
napkin upon to scribble
mind in ferment but
A Capella smooth cool,
my bossy brain requires
incident reports,
a "write me down, please,"
and
no matter how much I drink,
ain't anti-matter enough to
stop my eyes from seeing
every human interaction
as a poetic, probabilistic,
verbal equation,
quantum expressions of sensory upload
The brain revels and reels from overload,
no mas, no more,
poetry fatigue incurable,
caplets and ointments,
string theory,
can't cure or explain
the compulsion I feel,
and the 1% of me
protests my
overtaxed mental capacity,
and
hear the, see the, masses,
the shouts, the placards,
outside my home,
shut it down, no one cares,
no one wants your transplanted mechanics
in their eardrums
Huzzah, found in my gut,
a Grand Unifying Theory
to coordinate, gauge and harmonize
my internal asymmetries,
yes, a coupling factor required,
but still,
one equation that explains everything!
my fatigued, pointy, index finger
refuses to tap any more,
my Theory of Everything,
and my poetry, forgot, overlooked.
in my library buried,
black holed, forever silence-stored
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
the clock chimes
but no one counts
the days move at will
forward, backward
days stand still
the ticking of seconds
lost in the minutia
of the everyday
endless mind chatter
and negative self-talk
heart in a vacuum of speculation
what if -
coulda, shoulda, woulda
WILL NOT
DO NOT
STAY IN THIS PLACE
strain to listen
can you hear it
it's there
in the undercurrent of life
lost beyond yourself
tick tock
a shadow of a sound
tick tock
time never stops
tick tock
feel the minutes turn to days
a sense of time thrown away
on nothing
it's easy
so much easier
to wonder
what if -
why me -
than to take a deep breath
and realize
the world does not revolve
around a solitary soul
and no one is ever
the reason someone makes a choice
choices are made of free will
or they aren't choices at all
good or bad
tick tock
tick tock
tick tock
can you feel it
tick tock
tick tock
tick tock
it's the minutes of life
left behind
in a cloud of never was
tick tock
the clock chimes
but no one counts
the days move at will
forward, backward
days stand still
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 6:08 PM UTC
The minutia of cotton fledglings, I play them over and over
In my head, the most enjoyable, a layer of dynasty added to
The mallard kingdom. And a rocking horse swims across
Each pond too, its head heaves and nags creating massive, huge,
Undulating circles around circles. One more coat of gesso and then
Even I, in my speckled red paint Commune jeans, and holy holy Protestant tee shirt, I can travel the world; maybe even brush up on my
Cuyp.
Whipping through the sedge-brook grass, busting out, shooting Through the other mucilaginous nimbuses rolling
Outward first, then fled upward into the beacons of the heavens-
Shouting, whistling, oozing albicant heraldic pillars and shields.
Twenty more colours to mix.
Together, the mallards and ewes and rocking horse, and I;
prancing, little dots, filing into order. Where nursing
Against the sunken pillows of grain, I enter each round of
This papyrus jungle. Neatly folding my hands around each
Milky white shade, rushing out into the aurulent sunglow. .
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
On some nights
all things feel like
they have been
done before.
Tonight, if you listen closely
you can hear the night sky
breaking apart
as all young and beautiful
things do.
The apples
on the tree
taste sweeter
this year.
I know you have waited patiently
but that does not speed
my coming. I hear in my head
on the nights that I am quiet.
I cannot keep on like this.
The world is upside down.
I think he’s building a sandcastle
He says to me slyly
of our cat jumping
maniacally at the wall.
I smile, but do not feel it
too quick to anger,
out of control
and ever changing.
I comfort myself with minutia,
lists and a false sense of control.
You can curse
the weather man
but you cannot
change his
predicting.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
Pertinaciously vituperative irrefragable determinism. Inscrutable axis of spontaneities’ imaginative. Perplexity’s prognosis to prospectus. Elan vital’s preternatural perpetuity. Cohesive coherency’s opaque opulence. Space-time continuum’s natural induction expressed as identity. Exponentially tangential imagination’s immaturity. Entropy catalyst blonds. Spaciotemporal telemetry tactician’s tellurian terrene. Protractive analyses dimensional delineation. Reflectively refractive positional empathy. Prophylaxis protocol. Objectified manifest's self inductive diminutive minutia iotas of interstitial edict. Graspy greedy stingy frugal mingy minions. Manumission’s indentured servant sail.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 12:52 AM UTC
Distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness, existentially transcendental's clairaudience clairvoyance. Metaphysical mystique’s evolutionally metamorphic futurity's fatidic incarnate. Due yesterday’s retrospectively retroactive. Protractive analysis' dimensional delineation. Enigma entity’s dexterously tactile acuity and coordinated agility on the identity crisis. Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix to synaptic syntax semantics. Prospectus perplexity surreally sublime. Quagmire quandary’s poshly plush. Who am I to think I can conception of the infinite supply? Even the syntactics of eclectic synectics pale by compare to the atrociously impetuous impudence in pugnaciously audacious. Impromptu innuendo's juncture. Imagination’s immaturities are psychic clarity’s entelechy to evolutional tenants élan vital. Fiduciary principle's financially responsible fiscal policies. Mercenary mendacity's plenary plenipotentiary. Innocuous noumenal verity, mystic symbiotic’s chicanery dynamism fealties. Proximity parameter’s perimeter peripherals, vicinity victuals to vigilante villain, propinquity habitation’s harbingers of harangued. The question remains on the tribal: how can I stand next to the person I’m standing next to if I’m carrying on right through them. It’s the trajectory extant in spatiotemporal's telemetry tactician. Well graspy greedy on the stingy frugal to mingy minion and paw flaw laws claws on it. Get a glove, objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iota’s of self-inductive interstitial extrapolation. Detinue perfective. Traveling down this obtusely overt contusion in my vehicular contrivance convection convolution. Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s aura roan to rainbow mare. Unicorn railway nails. Swarthy swastica swath swizzles on the sweaty swelter swerve to verve.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 10:57 PM UTC
The black night’s ebbing tide
erased the only remaining hints,
the cresting long ocean swells
did not cleanse without a trace.
Adrift and lethargically bobbing
seaweed entangled teakwood box
of water-logged photographs, drowning,
surrendered from the heart of the sea
Like molted wild feathers cast ashore with the tide
to the coarse specks of rasping sands,
Darwin's dream in an emptied sea-bubble popped,
dissipated into its own haplessness,
bestrewn about an untrodden seashore
Washed out snapshots of life’s disregarded minutia
enchained to an ordinary forgotten Kodachrome moment
left out to the consequences of the ever fickle tides,
abandoned happenstance spilled by chance
upon another undiscovered world
The warped and bloated wooden box encasement,
hoary with swollen furrowed woodgrain s,
wearied by an enduring measureless moment adrift;
as if an ill-fated message in a misbegotten leaky bottle,
corked with marooned good intentions,
and images of disappearing dreams
flung out shipwrecked in barnacled azure glass
beneath a sky so far away
someone you used to know
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
It is was this which teaches
Taught me
Ambi
Dex
Terity,
Though of
Left hand
Teeth
Tooth-brushing
My knowledge is rough;
It was is those these
Sunny
Dusty
Sunny afternoons in the sun,
The sun at the right angle
Angled towards me,
But not in my eyes
And the black
Fabric
Black, even in the sun,
As a field against which the
Sun angled out of my eyes
Shines
Shone
Sunny directly on my hands,
To which advantage
My advantage,
Or yours,
Would allow me
To pluck with tender
Specific
Tender care
Each thin blonde thin hair on my knuckles.
I already have will always doubt that you notice
Or notice that I notice you don’t, you never notice;
I notice you noticing me noticing you not noticing
My perfect,
Thin-blonde-thin, blonde-hair-free knuckles.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC
We wore our shoplifted morals
on our very backs.
Shirts stained in lust and
revelation plain.
Lost in odes to obscenity
and ****** light in boxcars
to Ocean.
Fake wisdom chainsmoked
and chained up pressed
to the radiator, burned.
Seventeen looked twentytwo
and felt about a hundred
But danced like we were
young again in the ethereal
glory of the night.
But the nights turned to
minutia as we packed
Luggage filled with memories
on an outbound train to
Adulthood and Adolescence
was left waiting for you
by the tracks.
Trains trains trains
life and love gone flying
by at a mile a second
and the seconds are precious
and the miles are precious
and all the precious miles
and minutes still fly fly fly
speeding on train tracks
and we wave as friends become
blurred faces waving back
from portholes zipping
in opposite directions
and we becomes I and you
and I don’t quite know you anymore.
And this used to be beautiful:
Writing gibberish on
our arms and legs
when we ran out of paper
sleepless nights pouring
forth beautiful poetry
and utter catastrophe
twinkle-eyed laughing .
Driving streetcars through
Los Angeles to go get high
at the top of the world
and peal out when
the coyotes crash the party.
Summernight shamblings
and skinny dipping
and kissing caressing
ashamed of nothing.
Learning that peace
is only a word
until love breathes
life into its
lungs and that we could
breathe with each other
and breathe in each other
But our kindred fire
flickered and roared
only to flicker again.
sunken embers haunting
fingertips reaching,
but too far now to
ever touch again.
Charred and depleted,
flying in the tumult
of cyclone wind,
Memories stripped bare
and standing blasted by
the sands of time until
smooth and unrecognizable
they fade from our minds
Ashen shadows of smoke
from locomotive top-hats
chugging endlessly onward
to opposite stations.
10 October 201o
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 11:50 AM UTC
this society of ours is so gargantuan,
policed by the daylight we hold at night for ransom,
Like a Jesus or a black Aphrodites,
I'll be your daddy if you let me call you my mommy,
give me your milk, the nectar that forms at your eyelids
We can go out in public on a weeknight Ireland,
I won't drink, but I'll wrestle every penny you
throw into each fountain, unless each wish
you make puts us together in California. At 55º it's as
cold as it seems your heart is, you whisper the omissions
of lies over mute. Every silver trinket on this charmers'
bracelet abused. Be the freeway and I'll be the car, drive around my circles, and we can drive the map of the Hollywood Stars. This circus- paddy-wagon, sewer stardom, I've always been the over-roasted beans from your local Starbucks. I grew up to grow up, I got up to throw up, I sought you to show up, and give you this leigh garland. Egyptian or pitiful, critical mister 'are not.' My words were worthless and wounded by such ardor of this perfervid martyr. Enveloped by threading the eye of this tempestuous hourglass, just another sign of being extremely intolerable to the minutia, the worried, and nervous curse of being so human and the fear of being, quite heart broke.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
Sleeping in throws,
Wrestling in pillows.
This baby is convulsing,
Stuck homeless in cotton rows.
She jiggles tickles,
Crisp, she is fickle.
She tingles the conniption.
Nerves, in axon missiles.
Binky slips, the eyelid's 'clipse,
Her wrist is the pith,
Of nights caption "Mist".
Sleeping babies.
Calm nights hard winds,
As the spring commences,
Graduation of twigs,
To sprigs of life,
To growing thighs,
Cough up the milieu.
Minutia.
The growing immortality.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
reduce the minutia and move to the future
tune into to truth and tune out of the rumors
neuter the tumors that give birth to intruders
refuse to be abused by maneuvers of rulers
we need to rise and strike up the fires
the time has arrived to slide with the vipers
biting like spiders with wiser desires
driving our fangs into the spines of the liars
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
Vibrations
in stillness
magnify
the minutia.
I move towards stillness.
Here, projected on my eyelid,
a ball of fire dances in a belly of shadows -
Calm outer shell mixed with
boiling inner peace.
Suddenly,
joy erupts.
I am held by it
until the bell rings;
the vibrations change
- always changing -
and my eyes open.
The dancing flame dies out.
It stays out.
I have not discovered the secret of stillness today.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 2:42 AM UTC
If you write,
You will realize monstrous things about
Yourself and instead of disappearing they
Will become more eloquent and delicately
Marble carved with years
If you write,
You will hear voices, so many voices
Hypothetical and begging with pain in their
Breath to be made real and feel and **** and die
Only you will see their funeral, know their laugh
If you write,
You will cry oil spills, ***** fruit salad
**** rainbows and beg for grey, murky, bland
The depths pressure crushing; gasping through the highs
The concept mood stretched, you are alive, alive, alive
If you write,
Your shutter flashes double photoed through the day
Will capture the minutia, have your living stuck in past
Endless film rolls overstimulated, document and shelve
Closing eyes, retroactive architect works back
You should write because
To create is to love is to master the manifest
Ink your livelihood eternal, ivory-flesh crumbles and decays
There are those that love the idea of you
You left footprints in the sand
Because
When the silver screaming godgasm hits
You serendipitously and a moment
Feels worth writing down
Things can be right for a while
You will fall in love
Everywhere you go and
Nothing will seem real
You will taste redemption in the
Crunch of an apple or smell wisdom
At the zoo
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
Shrouded in Liberty
it moves across the land
gorging on the hearts
and faith of
small ones;
they whose homes
invaded by the cause,
depleted of life,
of love,
of choice,
find protection
a misnomer.
Buried deep in details
of little consequence
where minutia
is a governor
stealing choice
to feed the appetite
of this machine.
Where has gone
the mighty power
that once united all;
will Freedom
end this war
before a mighty fall?
Bring back the ghosts
that won it well
the proud, the free and brave;
their spirits needed in our own
to lead us from our grave.
Apathy would bury us,
cloaked in ignorance of bliss
while shrouded in Liberty
the beast deceives;
No army advancing
but what we're sold,
driving back the small ones
step by step;
the edge of a grave
ready for us to slip
into darkness.
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
We meet on a
a crowded street
and stand still,
like a pair of boulders
caught in a river
surrounded by salmon
as they swim upriver,
flowing by and
paying us no mind.
Off to the side two men
share a meal al fresco,
laughing into wine glasses.
After what seems a lifetime
you touch my face,
and I touch yours.
And I remember
every minutia.
We've been apart
for so long,
and yet it's like
a garden revealed
when the snow melts.
The freckles,
the spots,
the creases
beside your lips.
And I watch with glee
your goosebumps
rise and can tell
by your smile
you can see mine.
"Get a ******* room!"
One of the men hollers
with a chuckle
as the other guffaws
and nearly chokes
on his bread.
We look to them
and laugh,
a laugh shared
by strangers
knowing love
when they see it;
of a shared humanity.
-
By Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Nov 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020 at 1:00 AM UTC
I have come to realize
This perpetuated feeling
Is neither unhappiness nor lack of joy
But a feeling of my own creation
That of boredom
Seeking out the next thing to fascinate
Only to yet again become bored
You see
I don’t really think sadness is a lack of happiness
It is a lack of fulfillment
It is the fact
That time and time again
Generation after generation
We teach happiness through gratification
Society has taught us to stop thinking
To stop feeling happiness without the minutia
The results are a stratification of people
And a difference now in
Humans
And Human Beings
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
fancy trender
the algorithms adore me
bits and bites love me
girlfriends gush over
what i write
the promises and perjury i pour out
though other few find it fascinating
a collection of casual carousers
deeply drunk and delirious
leer and like
fumble through and follow
these wild words
which
long for your love
and admonish apathy
say something
anything at least
jovially jeer
praise pompously
i rest
with my hands on the home keys
derive inspiration
from insignificant minutia
and you read
and read
taking a break from your home row
hum drum
flaccid
"oh thats nice"
NEXT
dont read and not write
i give not two
i should say ***
but i wont
i dont care
how inarticulately evil
you chose to be
but you must write
say something
start a conversation
engage your fellow artist
what else are we doing here
if not to inspire
it was never an endeavor
to impress our friends
was it
we found this place
for any kind of outlet
a chance to give breath
to the lightening in our bottles
this is our march
on the collective consciousness
that could be called washington
london
but when we march
we hold hands
chant
sing
speak with one another
and form bonds
and that should be done here too
without those acts
we are protestant pastors
banging on pulpits
toward a parish
that no longer exists
or if they do
never say "amen"
amen
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
I do not want your love.
It's too large for my hands to carry,
too slippery for my lips to say
And if you gave it to me
I'd only give it back away.
What I want are your little smiles,
that like tinsel decorate the minutia, the minutes, the moments.
I want them anytime and every-time.
to brand them and keep them and call them mine.
I do not want your desire.
It's too ugly to look at,
and too persistent to bear.
and if you put your hand in mine
I would pretend it wasn't there.
I want our lives to be like train-tracks
that never touch, well, never much.
and far away seem to converge, embrace
brought together by an optical illusion's almost-grace.
I do not want your trust.
It's too delicate to display
and too complex to comprehend
And when I gave you mine,
you sold it to a friend.
I want my leaving to be like loosing a balloon.
with a moment when your eyes slowly rise,
rise to the crests of cirrus and you sigh,
sigh softly, tenderly, but oh-so audibly out-loud,
and then grab for the string, through the crowd--
but I am gone, gone into the rivers of cloud.
I do not want that sigh,
I /need/ it for it is your due.
It shows that you will miss me
as I have long missed you.
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 11:54 AM UTC
Do I escape here
To my cave
My therapist
My priest
An ear
Does anyone hear
Listen
Care
Is it just minutia
words that get moved around the page
like dust bunnies swirling in the noonday sun
why do I want you to know what goes on in here
inside this cerebral mass
why do I want you to witness the excising of my existence
the vomiting
purging
lancing of these boils
the expressing of **** glands
emptying the dark places
only to fill them up again
I have always wanted to write down my feelings
what I see......emphasis on “I”
I always have felt that I see it differently than you
Not egotistically speaking,
but that I see it the way this mass of cells called Larry sees it
Hello
It is me in here
The one speaking to you now
And if you are reading this
Thank you for listening
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
Millenia a moment
wishes on all the starfish in the ocean
wouldn't make Wilcox happy in love
Indivisible divisions
infinite wisdom where math and science
will never meet God
Did science create a universe or simply define it?
Where beginning meets end in pinpoints of minutia
that by definition and design will never actually meet
Cradle me in your arms for nanoseconds
each holding an eternity
If only time could be held by more than mere memory
Maybe, everything until the now that is never the now
can touch a moment
that can never be broken into its smallest parts
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
i made with you / gumby graphics
gifts of kiss
parameters of malleable minutia in misfit music
meanderings of our midnight sting
our bodies in bonafide brevity, singing
seeking seiks' mischievous apathies
on the fringes
IMAX movie-like scenes without acting out / words
tongues
the levity or suspenseful sanctions / unhinged
members and mouths mapping galactic absurdities
Mars and mercurial in star-crossed appetites
burning as suns should; meteorites / streaking sky;
in wonderful dining and gustful bites - eyes
full of asteroid-desires coalescing
masculinity in every copious opus / in rites
of unforgiving depths / in blinding supernova nights,
forever ever / in a name of fantastics and amoebas
these boys worshipping planets x, y, z / emotions coax & ***** elastic
strength of steeds, drinking the implacid body's
mead / wrestling without a fight's reprieve
fires, our mouths, / incite body-art / completely received
intrigued with warm inner spaces
paint brush of hours in museums of sweat / engraved,
encased / ******** sunburst theories on theories of tastes
and comets stroked / our body-art in hues
which love forever ever levitates . . . in spacial haste
wormholes and Thanatos amused.
Beautiful Eros rain : Bodies paint.
(nebulae & you.)
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC