"objectivity" poems
Life knew it would be hard
So it hard-wired its many children
With a self-serving fondness
Life was well aware of the darkness
And for fear of objectivity
Man was subjected to instinct
Life knew of loneliness
So it made us laugh down
Through our bellies and slap our knees
Life was well aware of heartache
So it drove us toward pleasure
And made us forgetful
Life made us forgiving
Resilient, blissful
Life, the narcissist
Knew of limits
And made us to imagine
Life watched me balk its efforts
And gave me to you
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
I sat by his bedside the day my father died.
The cancer that had riddled his body and soul now had complete control.
He fought kicking and screaming
the night the men in white came to take him on his final journey
like a great wildebeest struggling to get up on its front legs after being taken down by young lions. The way so many had said he
probably would since he fought his way tooth & nail throughout his life from the very beginning.
That night I sat on a chair at the foot of his bed staring out the huge ceiling to floor window of the medical centre at the many worlds hidden beneath thousands of rows of stationary lights and fluid winding rows of transient lights in-between and thought how the light of this window is just one of many thousands.
At that moment it seemed more like just one tiny speck in the vast star fields worlds above this city of light.
My father had spent most of his life just a short six-mile drive from here under the scattered lights of his hometown.
He turned to me and asked,
“That’s a big city. Where are we?"
Dementia had claimed his mind ten or more years earlier. It
slowly wound its way around his brain like a cocky snake
handler being choked by a boa constrictor unawares.
It seemed like it all caught up to his body. But it was good to see much of the bitterness and bad blood between us dissipated over the past decade.
On that night compassion ruled the day.
I could not say it then but it has been many years, where it seems compassion has forged with objectivity.
In a lucid moment he looked around the hospital room
bewildered as if he were a little boy who just woke up from a bad dream and asked,
“How did this ever happen?"
If only I could have told him.
Sometimes the truth cannot be spoken or heard. All I could do then was sit by his bed and lean in close to his ear and sing softly his favourite hymns.
By morning his lifeless
dilapidated body laid in the fetal position. His once ravenous mouth now forever frozen looked like a knothole in a twisted cedar tree.
All I can do now is hang my head and think of how weak and frail we humans truly are.
Like compassion forged with objectivity, weakness and frailty forges with fleeting moments of strength. We forge heroes out of these moments to tower above
the pedestals the former is made of to somehow minimize the pain of this often denied truth.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
Who would have guessed — when I tilted my heart
toward baby lizard, perched on a colored desert stone,
she’d blink one eye at me, turn to smile, it seemed,
and lend a listening ear?
I’d only said in a lizard way
“I love you”.
Who would have thought — when that stone had heard me
loving her, it would, it seem, speak back?
Loving stone too, I was!
Stone, I so admire your villages.
I smile toward your many stone peoples.
I eavesdrop on universal questions posed
around sacred fires carefully tended.
And around one hearth, among
cinder specks scattered – one minute wisp,
one grain of cinder there.
Dare I say I love you too?
For in that cinder grain I hear —
worlds of stars, sweetly singing!
By way of explanation, reader friend,
such is what a practice of
Loving All Beings Equally
has made of me.
A crazy being?
Could be.
But would you nonetheless
accept the possibilities
and likewise go love adventuring?
If you’d prefer, we all could earnestly
and objectivity talk it through.
Or say ~ Love come! Come!
Speak through us.
We are listening.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
The real subjectivity of life is overwhelming;
Prospective consumes our frontal cortex
But there is no escape from this vacuum seal.
We see the faces of our own delight,
The know how of the here and now,
But we are too blind to look past our own perspectives.
Even when we fathom the hearts of others,
Our understandings are predisposed to our own Identity.
Objectivity is a fleeting notion of reality, of truth
and its as though the ground we hold so dearly
Is constantly fleeing from our grasp.
Today we call this individualism,
a disconnect between one's self and society.
But I so selfishly and foolishly believe
that this chasm stems from being lied to so often.
Am I lying to myself or am I being lied to I do no know,
but it is important to understand that it does not matter
that nothing matters, because everything exists in my field of view.
The only question remains: am I correct
Or has the devil made me a fool?
But this does not confirm nihilism
only hints at its initial potential.
Yet there are common truths that are irrefutable
no matter who you are, real or not:
The reality is the here and now,
No matter what ghosts or demons there may be.
They affect the consciousness constantly
indifferently to whether or not they are fraudulent or true.
And my experiences are true, the emotions are radical,
and even if everyone I know is a figment and interpretation,
they still hold a grasp onto my withering heart.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
By book-ends my stomach is churning,
I'm cantankerous and stand-offish
in spurts, barely there in others.
I could not dig up where my head was
if I had to. I do not have to.
There are some things in my life that
lead themselves to failure. I have dropped
instinct, instead adopting pattern,
a means of coping with the endlessness
of life in a globalized world.
This is not lament. I could part with
objectivity, happy to expire for a
scrap of extra sentience. Please, before
my words become manners and manners become
holes full of dirt, pardon me for the mess.
I only had so much time after all.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
with you...
the bumblebee
would lose its
objectivity of re-,
and like every bumblebee
in man’s list
of talk there would only be
enough pollen to yawn about
and leave the rest politicised.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
Born heavy as adorned many: objectivity lifts ready existance carried more steady with the fist than a switchblade as to fist crave: yall just manisfest id shame when you spit back like all my family here to spit crack bone in been gripped back when at grown taught to **** Macks;
I'm the R to the Mack Marck M heavy to my fam born carried since Nas dropped the bomb that Eminem levied in so to spit back, like ghost spittin the **** shittin at all emcees here to spit back:
only time you'd get a note outta me relative is when i'm posing for death: like tupac menacing his pelvis still for the ****** levy in neglection in pics wack;
i spit bone quick when it comes to being notorious in a jacuzzi playing sega and super nintendo **** be in disrespect to ever understand that i don't spit thick back.
i flow sick that before i flow spit that between to post ****
I pose **** to even to boast fits forgotten what the Ohmegaus finds the rest as undereducated life in being in the sun.
Ghost spittin future written past to see all the conjugatives relative like ****** games on the run:
games on the fun like extension big sides as big sizes like chasing dreams again straight to the the sun is what we've become.
unfinished...
this ain't motherfucken games, and you know id through wish-epic
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 4:57 AM UTC
I am pure subjectivity
I am objectivity contained by a brain
I am an entity
Inside a body
I control my limbs
And my organs control me
The apparatus for my entity
I am a being that seeks understanding
While remembering who I stand under
Those who sneakily seek to plunder
The developing enigmatic wonder
In my mind's torturous tundra
My mind uses my body as a slave
But is also a slave to the shame
Of my body's interactions
Within marginalized factions
There is a fight between the two
Like the fights between me and you
My body won't quit when my mind is through
And my mind stays conscious while my body is blue
So I'm stuck in a deadlock
With a mentality of bedrock
Once I cease to be human
I can be the perfect judge
When my emotions won't budge
I'll see things the way most organisms do
Inside this zoo
Animals have the flu
And give it to each other
When we communicate through pain
The flu actually seems tame
Compared to your game
Of taking humanity
And leaving an entity
After you entered me
My somber soul left
Because of personality theft
My mind moves my arms
To block the pain
My mind moves my feet
To do the same
Yet I lost these advantages
When I had to walk too far
My life only got more hard
After experiencing your entropy
I became a disembodied entity
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
In a distant dystopia, it towers above all.
It radiates a dim blue glow, that
Transfixes eyes and minds alike.
Pulling with the gravity of 20,000 suns,
Its force cannot be rivaled.
An irresistible, iridescent abomination, and
An admonition unto the autonomy of thought.
Weaving tapestries of illusory illustrations,
Into the indigent intellect of its unsuspecticng viewers.
It's images penetrate the psyche like magic, as
Minds are manipulated into the madness, of
Mass consumption of manufactured "needs."
Its reporters replace reason with rhetoric, for
Objectivity is no obeject in an age of sound bites.
It demonizes difference, distracts, and desensitizes.
Apathy becomes queen, and facile pleasures become king.
Remember your vigilance.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
I rarely get on Facebook anymore. But when I do, I'll change my profile picture or banner-- maybe post a witty status update, maybe not witty, just something to let people know I'm alive.
It's like repositioning the arms on a stationary mannequin to depict a different scene. Except lately I just don't care anymore. It's just that-- a mannequin. An object, an image, a lifeless entity with which I used to feel real-- a dusty mirror.
I see that the line between the idea of a person and the reality is being blurred and crossing over into something all-together different. It's as if people are starting to wake up and realize the objectivity of their reality. But that brings into question the basis for which we define reality.
We have become a, “Look but don't touch” society in which we click a button to show our appreciation as opposed to genuinely reciprocating human emotion and energy. It is extremely isolating and dangerous.
Packed subways and sidewalks have fallen eerily silent with faces illuminated by their cellphones. Most everyone wants to be heard, appreciated and recognized and social media has provided an outlet for that.
But there comes a point at which your platform becomes your prison and your voice your warden-- and everything you say is modified to be pleasing to the ear and 'likeable'.
But I like dislikes. And if you're not ******* anyone off-- you're probably not doing anything important, and if you're not outraged you're not paying attention.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, when the cliff tops call its name with disparaging diatribe? And how do you fare as the undulating waves tell tales of a million generations of fish? I sat there as the days wore on like so many jazz men beating holistic drums and blowing those crazy brass horns as if possessed by the demons of some ancient tribe way out in the Kalahari, masked by the illuminating stares of wonderment and the children in the darkened bar, silent, speculating. I see the waning wood through magnificent trees, behemoths in the dusk skies. I see the ground too, for it is stable and true. As true as one could attest to its objectivity, I often ponder the relevance of truth and whether the whole concept is but a twisted lie fed by the men before us. Quite cruel these thoughts, and barely worthy of the hours I waste. The ocean too speaks truth but its truth is one I have faith in. Sure as I am, sitting here, witnessing the waves as they mourn the changing sands and the rubble they sift, sure as I am, that the gently faltering ripples will retreat before attacking the shore once more. I am sure of these acts, as I am sure that I will die with laughter on my lips and a tear in my eye.
Take your water and let it flow through the bodies of man, take it, take it and do good. Let those clear drops circulate and bring about true knowledge in one and all.
Let your rocks fall to the ground, erosion of the city and decay of the populace. Let them fall with dignity, while we scream from the Atlantic and feel tumultuous waves of apathetic foreboding ripple into our skin and bring us to ******
These rocks in the sea, these rocks in you… and in me.
Has the land seen distress like its inhabitants, or have they been the harbingers of such malcontent abuse to these fare isles? Have you, You, have you seen the sea when its tranquil repose turns to solemn spite at the ego of the cliff face? I have heard the ocean speak, and it told me to fall to its mercy and ebb into the unified conscious.
Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, or do you too stand with your back to the truth and one leg bowed cocksure over the top of some deteriorating construct?
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
The snow blanket the earth
but it would never covers the ocean
It became a curse of the sea
So, it stays on the beach
Like a dog on a leash
11
To hell with the night
It’s just darkness over- powering the daylight
When men are force to close their eyes
And dream of the events of the passing day.
111
Liars who called themselves lovers
Will never come clean
It’s a permanent tattoo
Concocted in their brain
The road to recovery for them is
Systematic and strategic process
For them it is a hunter’s game
1V
You have taken everything in one’s strides
The time sheets, the lunch hours
You have become the employer
Twelve hours prisoners of the time clocks
V
Last night I heard Nana voice
She said that I worry too much
And get little sleep
I smell hibiscus in my room
That old familiar fragrance scent still lingers
But her words became self-soothing
She said, let’s go to the kitchen
And make a banana bread
Worries is for the rich man
VI
The poor man display his graffiti on cities buildings
no admission, no fee
priceless art crimes or
the best of a simple criminal mind
High art or low art
Eyes of a rich man
Or the eyes of a fool
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:18 AM UTC
The cause of ignition is inconsequential,
no trigger to let loose the hammer- Only,
I become a passenger, a **** cur.
Softly as a dancer, on swells of change,
undulating to the jangle and clink
of lives being unlaced,
splayed apart in bitter irony,
displaced into objectivity.
You take it personal,
as if, I am just a faltering piece of personality.
Dropped like salt in the Devils eye,
I'm just over shoulder- needing the fall
into comforting familiarity.
I'm unfeeling, mute and defensive-
peeling self back to where we merge.
At the base I know I am one
but cruelty makes our hands feel like four.
I am my own dark passenger depersonalized,
sloughed off in stress and
bound in unrecognizable life.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
in the same way you do not choose your ****** orientation, you do not choose whether or not you accept the status quo as is.
if you cannot enjoy a typical wage labor 9 to 5, that is just as much a part of your personal physical constitution as **** or heterosexuality. Just as much as there is a physical difference between the brain of the poet and the brain of the CEO, the gay and the straight, the Buddhist and the Christian, the average and the post-traumatic, the loose and the fundamentalist, the oppressed and the oppressor, the man and the woman.
our world is built on generalization. if it cannot define you as wide, it will narrow and narrow and narrow until the grand generalization can enslave the marginalized categories to it's non-existent objectivism.
God is dead. By God, Nietzsche meant mans search for objectivity.
unlock the *******
door
and burn
your worthless
commandments.
they mean nothing
unless someone agrees.
and they can only
agree
for so
long.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
My head and heart have never
been on speaking terms–
one's always ******** to the other.
Or one becomes submissive
and shuts the world out to survive.
It gets old.
It gets old really fast.
Trust between the two wanes,
but never fades completely;
leaving room for apathy
or even worse:
Depression.
Objectivity becomes obsession.
Silence becomes heavy.
My body tears at the seams
trying to accommodate this
****** issue of trust.
But at the end of the day
the threads pull tightly.
Until they finally split.
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 3:59 AM UTC
“Mistakes were made.”
I quote at least three recent former U.S. Presidents,
Who wrote or spoke infamously in the passive voice.
Here’s a bit of history:
The words spoken by automated phone systems,
Were code written by computer programmers.
Computer geeks, revered for their cold logic and impartiality;
Like scientists taught to maintain objectivity,
When studying fascinating subjects like Base-2 Binary Codes,
Disk partitioning and hard drive defragmentation.
Impersonal, the passive voice avoids sentiment,
Steers clear of pesky opinions unfounded on certainty or proof.
Unsurprisingly, the passive voice seeped quickly,
Into the language of politicians,
Our beloved rogues and rapscallions,
Hiding truth, avoiding accountability and culpability.
Practitioners of political science,
They bob and weave and spin.
Yes, mistakes were made.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
January
winter objectivity
the coldest month of the year
a month that bring most folks to tears
Wooly shawls, fluffy robes
doggy ears slippers struggles
to warm the curse of your cold feet
~~
Early to bed, and early to rise
Followed by a hot cup of fresh mint tea
Vick vaporize that stings your eyes
Would make a blind person see clearly
~~
Re-corking that age old red wine
from nineteen eighty-nine
with two wines glasses on the top cabinet
In hopes of one day for another romantic setting
Or most likely your daughter futuristic June wedding
~~
let’s accepted the unacceptable
I cannot imagine a winter without snow
a summer without the hot blasting sun or
autumn without the leaves slowly falling
to the ground,
mother nature the grief we feel
your unalterable changes of your teaching
once again you have won this round
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
I try not to heed news that yells at me that everything is going to ****
I do, however, read lots of news that leads me to the same conclusion.
Though I do care
how current events impact my fellow Humans,
I wish to form my own genuine opinions
based upon objective information;
Is that really too much to ask?
Seems like it.
Objectivity in Journalism is a dying breed.
Media doesn't like Objectivity anymore;
not since the inhuman atrocities of the Vietnam war
were so enthusiastically televised.
Now it's all sensationalism and demagoguery
and who **** X is ******* this week
and that's how they want it;
for, you see,
we, the People of Earth,
are far too dangerous
with accurate information
and a bit of vested interest
in what happens upon this,
our sole World
our soul World
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
In my world there is iron and concrete.
There are rusted pendulums and mute birds
There are time bombs and dictators.
There is faith and there is reason
subjectivity
objectivity
And there, out there, is reality,
But none of us can see it through the barbed wire and the
Iron and concrete.
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 11, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
All of us
in various stages of dying and and being born
The mom yet to be,
a four month swell behind her shirt
Dad of 2, trailing behind
tiredness and joy mixed in his eyes.
Girls wrapped in on one another
knots of noise. Giggles and insecurity
Men put together
like showrooms from Ikea
Efficacious, nothing warm like home.
Wives, squint nosed
Clack snap of boots hard against
cultured marble
faces of fluorescent light
Each one placed in retail
somnolence
drug forward in a steady gait
toward that something
We each to his own way
in this place of quick promise
I look to see with only
ambiguity looking back
The old,
moss sitting on hard booth seats
as if being near life
will lead them back to life again
Hats and twill
scarves and purple. Semblance
of then and not again
Then me
a smooth stone washed over
by this flow of person-hood
Unseen but shaped by every current
bearing witness
cocooned in the falsehood of
objectivity.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
character styles, characters we’ve missed
attempted to put on pedestals
characters whose wits got them out of the worst situations
or whose worst qualities got them into the best ones
who have been balding and have ended up heroes
who have overcome obstacles, some
some who had less and and achieved more
but achievement seems to be the underscore, yes
of nationality? of pride? of masculinity? of assertion? hard to say
do we need more stories in more forms or fewer stories and more individuality, more self-awareness,
awareness, awareness, awareness, funny word thrown around a lot
do people even know? most of the time they don’t, they are staring down at their shoes
or some characters are looking up at the sky
anyways, they don’t understand the issue, what is at stake, stop celebrating! start studying!
or you are studying too much! the wrong drugs, the right drugs! too much of the right thing can make anyone go insane
or the other way around, the right amount of the wrong thing can make anyone go freely about their day, and
achieve, back to that word
and what does it even mean? to achieve something? greater than yourself? for yourself to be a reflection of that thing? or that thing to be a reflection of self?
man, we could debate about this for hours, where’s my coffee? or beer, or wine, your choosing
man, what did I have for breakfast, I honestly forgot
or no, it was toast and cofffee, yes I think its time for a stiff drink now
and then another hour to achieve something, to write something, to widdle something, to create something that was not there before
but some say GO, ** BA HA! to hell with objectivity, everything is recycled, nothing more
and they wave their hands about as if it was borrowed from a magician, and their hearts flare up with some sort of richeousness, and they achieve…rightness?
back to that again…achievement…what does it even mean?
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
Blatant Mockery,
Don't pass me by.
Cruel objectivity.
Did you give me a chance?
Why was I written off?
Was I noticeably different or did I put myself in those situations because as much as I tried faking everyone else's idea of 'Normal' became exhausting.
So That doesn't matter anymore
I will never forget,
taught me so many lessons.
Yet your own inadequacies keep piling up in front of me.
Nothing wrong with looking up to people...
Just ensure they're actually worth raising your neck.
This is not hate, revenge, or rejection.
This is to acknowledge the fact that you once helped me feel alone, lost, unloved, unworthy, unintelligible, broken.
Like every day a little bit of my heart would dissolve until eventually... nothing left.
I stopped existing.
This is to say I forgive you, but I have not forgotten.
Nor will I.
My existence has been jumpstarted.
Find myself in the middle of everything.
Good people keep happening
Restore Faith
Being Filled
No longer alone
No longer empty.
Things begin to flow when you don't worry.
Keep busy, distract your mind,
busy adds to worry.
Delicate.
Balance.
So I've moved on.
No dark shadow,
No more living a vague version of My Truth.
No more outside control.
So these walls are coming down,
My eyes burn from the sun,
My jaw aches from this endless smile
It's getting easier.
I am Me.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
Did I speak too soon?
Because here I am,
back in the mud
of emptiness
Will I make mountains out
of mundane or I have
learnt better?
I now know the world
is nothing but kingdoms
of bad men
and their rules,
how they restrict
and constrict,
exorcising gasping breaths
like a python to power.
Famished,
I picked the fruit
of the dead men's orchard
in a dream-like landscape.
They told me to come back
down to earth
and finally, I could no longer
pay the toll of the cloudy road
so I obliged.
But then again,
here, I am low.
and how it comes & goes
the feeling of nothingness.
Jesus christ, can you even imagine
what I see I close my eyes
I wish you could know the ways
in which my mind splits,
how many atoms I dare to split.
I contain, contain it all.
in the rise and in the fall,
and I hate how you try
and make me feel small.
Leave me to my ascension
and quit weighing me down
by shoving reality
down my throat.
I swear to God,
one day I'll just quit breathing.
Your objectivity isn't real
that ********** you insist upon
reeks of nonsense
it's such flimsy gravity
I'm not afraid to say it.
Watch me explode, for
I am a supernova nebula
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC