"occupancy" poems
When the emergency room
is at maximum occupancy,
the nurses will lay down
their clipboards and utensils,
clear their throats, and ask for
women and children
to approach the desk first.
To ensure proper care,
forms still must be completed promptly,
and as patiently as possible for the
patient to be processed.
There's the occasional backwards R.
But all is acceptable with a
signature by the X.
Adrenaline coursing
through veins may perhaps lead
the cause of instability,
some instances coarse skin.
A child with the heart of a lion,
shell of a turtle, will always overcome;
rest assured, an insured child,
prints their name with the
unmistakable yet
innocent backwards R still
knows that words are as powerful
as excruciating pain.
Sticks and stones and words alone
have been known to break through bone.
With the twitch of a finger
even Danny Torrance made
the word "Redrum" seem
like a word to reflect on,
if not only a feeling
of constant déjà vu.
Intensive care is a surgeon
not leaving a wristwatch
inside of a patient,
if not a cadaver
whose time ran out.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
Without legitimate occupancy,
Adverse possession is the legal right
Of anyone who moves in and maintains
A property, so here's the deal. We must
Move in to 1600 Penn,
The current tenant having broke the lease.
The caravan from Guatemala first, Hondurans trudging slowly from the depth.
Then the Yemen children not yet murdered,
Those with preexisting conditions next,
And women whose assaults were ridiculed,
Those roughed up by cops and politicians.
Losers in the war on drugs, the big house
Having far exceeded capacity.
The mentally ill, discarded by the
Great communicator after he tore
The Solar panels off the roof. This is
Anger, not poetic license. When a
Long train of abuses and usurpations
Evinces a design to reduce them
Under absolute Despotism, it
Is their right, it is their duty to throw
Off such Government, and to provide new
Guards for their future security. Such
Has been the patient sufferance of these
And such is now the necessity which
Constrains them to alter their systems of
Government. And journalists under fire,
If there's room still left in the briefing room,
Let facts be submitted to a candid
World.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 9:49 PM UTC
Chances are you've changed your plans again and
I'm betting I'm no longer a part of them
So I stand still and
You go steady
I guess you thought my friendship needed a vacancy
As if we could have too many
Reach a maximum occupancy
Exceed the optimum capacity
I have to say I'm not surprised
I've been told bigger lies
I often wonder why our pants aren't on fire
Isn't that what we used to say to each other?
Liar liar
You're too busy and
I'm too guilty
Ultimately
I don't really want you to be this happy
That says less about you and more about me than
I love you
Ever did
I'm sorry you had to babysit
My infantile intake of insults
Never ceasing to receive the same results
I just wish you wouldn't insist it was only my fault
Be honest
It wasn't just me who crossed the line
I was never leaving lies behind
When you found out you just said
You'll be fine
Liar liar
Go get married and have two kids
A few years from now you can tell me how it is
I won't know how it feels to repeal vows
Wedding band wasteland
What wonderful self worth we might have
Ill hang out here near the exit
Loitering through life and
Longing for the opportunity to
No longer want to be loved
When the fire crashes down from above
I will look to the sky and whisper
"Best friends forever"
Aflame at last
Liar liar
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
After piece by arcane piece is discarded
vulnerability divulging flaws and vindication with neon lights
incision at the fingertips
lies exposed where every finger nail is dislodged
peel back the once forgiving flesh
revealing the standard beauty for its depth
don't suppose those lines in my face
(the conniving spots
where make-up bleeds,
forgotten lies breed,
and fear have taken occupancy)
those lines don't really matter once you remove the mask
Underneath, muscle and connections vibrate
the drive
Red, raw, ugly and most important - authentic
A monster's face, the one that parallels
everyone else's
Tear away at it, pluck each strand of tissue
Play me a lullaby to sooth the screaming
Dust your fingers on the structure of my bones
carve your initials into the white
lay claim to your work, your art
slide any remaining pieces away into the abyss of trash
with the newspaper clippings and elmers glue
bleach away the remaining red
and finger paint your new canvas
A pristine prototype so rudiment
The birth of cool
and for the free
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
Old houses speak
Dark secrets they leak
Storm weathered
Never settled
Full of cracks and creeks
Antique furniture exposed
Wear and tear from past souls
Resembled ghost in white sheets
Laughter and movement
Once known now abandoned
Vacant and alone
Years of neglect is all that’s shown
The occupancy of life long gone
Pane- less windows
Like eyeless souls
Let in only darkness dampness
Mildew and cold
A door once accustomed of permitting things in
Now warns to keep out
Refusing its hospitality to extend
By chance you pass one's way
Or turn there in
Its rickety corridors try not to disturb
Or its vestiges offend
For old houses are sensitive
To the vibes we send
Old houses speak
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 9:36 PM UTC
reflection time
and there aren't any clean cups.
welcome back my friends!
with broken gates
my mouth's agape
and shut.
because I only left when you did
and then some how some of us came back
We're making eye contact and I feel
so
human
so raw
want to crawl back towards the jar,
take a gulp, ten more. hmmm, what is this? (not water)
let me slump, let me jump, let me shake, let me do what I do.
your accurate occupancy is full to the brim,
take a sip before you flip like a fish out of water,
we're opposites in the like and the like get's us goodness.
today has no bounds.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 12:49 PM UTC
Take your time, spend it wisely, do you see that there is no ramification for the shrewd?
We spend day by day for ourselves, set our time to the future, and see that good is always the result. We speak as kings and queens with no result for our effort.
The people look towards the podium, for their political support.
They do not know of any king aside of that of politics.
I am king, the king of my own realm.
You’re the king of yours.
If we choose to war and slaughter, let us war with our minds and slaughter nothing but belief.
We’ve acquired the ground, now we spend our time in the sky.
We know the systems are ever changing, we can change it for good; manipulate the cogs.
We can build our sky, temper it, so that we can acquire our better kingship.
Love shouldn’t hurt anyone but me.
Faith shouldn’t hurt you at all.
I do not need anyone to guide my own steps for me, for I understand who is evil and who is good.
Listen you are all but children to me, O children, O sons, and O daughters, listen!
My word is legend, my name is glorious for I have conquered the skies, and I am coming back to conquer the ground. My rite and will is to **** I will burn the Tundra, I will cut the Earth, and no one will oppose the occupancy of my army.
A garden will never exist in my realm without your help.
A morning will be unsettling but the night will bring terrors beyond belief.
I will be here to help, I will help you, O Queen.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:45 AM UTC
As ever shall be, the endearment
of the unread...lain sleepless in astral catalepsy.
Fevered forever in seeing, as by the
absence of occupancy--the life of
light lives its pass through and
through.
Absorbed wholly, spoken for by a
silence too great to repeat...
yet tacitly repeating.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
To all those who are the cause of all their hurt....A Toast.
In this web we people make--those who're the greatest cost to themselves--there is no solace and there is no peace. It is so steadfast--kudos to our weaving--and so fragile--apologies to those we've hurt. We find ourselves stuck, though not in the center of our own design, but along the edges, so near freedom and salvation. It is our curse, to see that the grass is greener, that the sun is brighter, that the rain is sweeter, and the flowers forever in bloom. We know--those of us who have found ourselves in these webs--what will set us free, but our freedom and want are vain and insecure; vain because we wish to be at peace, and insecure because we know that it may never come.
These webs are of rare design and make, and, as such, are stronger than any others. For you see, we have made these webs in haste and without attention, and yet, even as we find ourselves trapped and locked still, every detail, every fiber, and every strand was spared no expense of time and energy. They, these webs, we built and manifested for one single occupancy, none other than the builder them self. And, almost without notice, were at the same time fabricated and planned to fall apart at the simplest break of one tiny strand. Those of us who have built these webs know of what I speak, and they know that that single thing is nothing less than our greatest desire, our deepest hope.
Yet, as I said before, these are of rare origin. They were not made in light heart or gleeful mood, even as we toiled in their creation we painted them in the stains of our tears and blood. These webs were made strong by our weakness, and so long as we remain weak we remain trapped. It is a sad thought and reality to know that you have brought this life upon yourself, and it is even sadder to be the one typing this now, to all of you who have been where I am now, but, even more than that, to all of you who are here now--I can only offer this sad, sincere toast.
To all of you, whether you have been here or not, whether you know anyone who has been here or not, whether you are headed this way or know someone who is--here is my purpose, my point in this posting. Do not forget us, do not abandon us to our hells, though made by us. To those of you who have read this hold it forever in the corner of your mind that you do not know what the future may bring, you do not know what is harbored in its mists. Always be aware that the person you overlook today is the person who could be there for you when no else knows or cares. I have made that mistake, and it has cost me so very dearly. I am bound to my web, do not let yourself be bound to your own.
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC
Just like so far lost
let in from the outside
remain the outsider
pushed back and forth,
then out
- again.
Fractal force[d] deeper inside this time,
bone endures and strengthens solitude structurally.
Somewhere within the sponge bone
light emits through its holes in a dark orange hue.
Proof of occupancy? Not likely.
The sign of a visitor - a miner.
An altar carved into the wall, surrounded by shadow and dim orange light, calling out to saddening self-hatred and naked personality displacement.
So cunning, so precise - a rapid cycling of self-doubt, confusion, and contempt. It's there to push me when I know better. It wakes me up when I need sleep. It breaks my will when I need hope.
The silent guide that drags me weeping...
an ancient force that makes me bleed.
Welcomed warmly and befriended willingly.
Bitter now, broken heart, reality clipped winged innocence.
Gather up the feathers and continue forward please.
No time to process this mess yet.
Now over emaciated files kept locked away.
Like a second hand gold claim - gold now gone.
Still...
I dig and dig and dig, more...
****** hands and throat sore
Crying deep with sounds like banshees
blood and tears combine in thick and dusty pillows of pain
cemented by the paste these two create.
What I've buried is so elusive, self-destructing, and sad.
Whats left is not worth the trouble: I was aware when I buried it.
But still...
I visit past traumas like old friends.
When I am especially dark, I unearth the remains and dust them gently, wrap in red cloth, and spend time in search of a lesson learned.
I've been told this is part of my gift to share but I hide it like sickness; I bump into everything I need and quickly scurry away.
Can I honor the past and let it lay?
The pain I covet only serves to perpetuate old stories and the isolation only softens my brain to social interaction.
The enemy I've chosen is always present but never within my reach.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
Like cotton puffs of white the clouds float by on cyan skies,
the lamb fur hassock of the angels praying in the skies.
Their occupancy hidden but for subtle clues for eyes,
a shadow in the cloud reveals an angel in the skies.
Their bows are permanent, their heads fall once but do not rise,
the stillness of the clouds betray the angels in the skies.
Their motionless prostration is their very best disguise,
creating doubt upon the earth of angels in the skies.
What of the consciousness of those in tombs we all surmise
have fled to scenes beyond the eyes among the clouds of skies?
Where are the shadows of their seats? Despite our many tries,
we see none in their names we find cloud-written in the skies.
I call to those who've left too soon, their names among my cries.
Their answers whisper in the hiss of rain from cloudy skies.
(C)2013, Christos Rigakos
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
If you are to bear a child
Let someone into you, and release a being into your womb,
Let it grow
And then birth it from your stomach and into the world
You shall not abandon this new life, this new life should be the center of your universe
Not compared to the serpent, because you wanted the apple
There are too many children that live
Unwanted
By their parents with white dust on their nose, whom lock the kids up so they can catch the stars that they should be seeing in the bright green eyes of the child they brought into this earth but then said no
They cannot handle the world
When it is not orbiting around their being
They cannot handle the difficult labor of the being they crafted from the ashes of a poisonous love
They cannot handle the space it takes up, the occupancy, the screaming that leaves their lips because all they want is their mother to look upon them without drowsy eyes and tell them she loves them
Tell them she cares
Tell them she cares more about them then the needles lying all over the house
Tell them she wants them to be happy
Tell them she will read them a bed time story and kiss them goodnight
But all their life ever is, is the echoes of fights, and screams, arguing over money, yelling at them for simply existing
That was when I learned how to cry, silently
When I realized that dope, was more sufficient then love from the mother who bore me
When I realized that dad would never love mom even though he breathed carbon monoxide into her pure lungs, when her adolescence was at its peak
That's when I, was born out of the ashes of their sinful intentions
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
Some nightmares find you
while you are sleeping
Others apprehend you
in the midday sun
Some nightmares seize you
and pull you into the darkness
from where you stand
in the midday sun
Those are the type of nightmares
that freeze my blood
Those are the types of midday dreams
where everything is nothing
and nothing is as it seems
Those are the type of nightmare
that drives me to my knees in prayer
beside myself in fear of the midday sun
A mind fractured
and cast away into the sun
There they appear; those apprehensions
legions of haunting apparitions
with malevolent intentions
those which freeze me in solitude
in the heat of the afternoon sun
I am screaming
I am clawing
Am I screaming?
Am I clawing?
Who is that pounding!
Who is that pounding at my walls?!
That is my monster
that which fosters
occupancy in my thoughts
A nightmare
This is what pursues me
That is what moves me
and keeps me awake
screaming at myself
at the top of my lungs
in the heat of the midday sun.
May 31, 2021
May 31, 2021 at 10:00 PM UTC
Encapsulated
With thirty-six inches to breathe
Laying above matter that all stand at attention
To face the center of the room
Nothing moves and nothing changes
But evidence from soul's passing
Into an occupancy of two different windows
Curtains reach down and gently caress
The baseboard heater
That keeps me warm throughout the night
Until the bright star greets my curtains
And I greet the morning
Apr 10, 2010
Apr 10, 2010 at 12:24 PM UTC
What am I?
As I search for answers in the void of the unknown I find none of the conclusions I am looking for and begin to feel intolerable.
To myself.
To others.
People stray away from me like I am some sort of disease, yet are still talking about me as if I could never hurt them although we share occupancy within the same room.
I find excuses for their ignorance and continue on my way and I still begin to wonder if every encounter I ever had was in vain because I refused to poison them with my sense of independence.
What am I?
I control substances as well as I control myself. I become unsure on how to stop my self-abuse and it occurs to me that I may just be as ****** up as they say I am.
I may just be a reincarnate of a bundle of people who have ******* up everything they've ever had. I'll never know.
What am I?
As I sit in the darkest corner of the room with my head in my hands I contemplate the truth of the words that spew from other people's mouths like a plague of ***** deemed to destroy those who beg themselves every night to gather the strength to stick around for at least one more day.
What if I told you I was planning what could be the most creative ending yet? Whether my own or another's you'll never know... and I couldn't wait for you to see the star of the latest attraction in Life's circus on display.
I saved you all some oxygen, I hope it's to your liking.
What am I?
Well what have they always told me?
A dead end?
Disappointment?
Failure?
No. Something much worse.
Nothing.
I am nothing.
And we've all tried to make something out of nothing haven't we?
Didn't work very well did it?
Hi, my name is Nothing and this is the last breath you'll ever see me take.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
A luminous forest, a weeping evergreen, a tall waterfall that the breeze bounds o'er, a spring of dreams that doubles back and cycles - sky in endlessly they do: the wavelet course of the orbs or a calm stream, tearful eyes overflowing with heraldic thoughts thru the night, a singular occupancy in a surge or flood, crest followed by crest ' till they disguise all, a reign of emerald hue that has no decay, like the flapping wings in the unfolding sky. A gigantic mountain standing tall and strong, not showing how lonely it is to be alone. A calming sound of the river flowing, swiftly the current goes like the days passing by quickly along with each memory. A passage thru the valleys of our future days, and the sunless elegance of such sorrow takes this wealthiest of natures and turns it to industry, and the eventual joys within loving arms that seek out company and some necessary duty in vain at this time, for the day time moments are chipped away by other moments, for all this, I finally admit that I need your happiness to bring me back from this wasting away, because I desire the multiform pleasures that you could bring to me -and I to you.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 7:04 AM UTC
Again?
Little bits of paper set little boys and girls awake. Paper is the voice, it is the rush, and it plays against the spirit of the rough. Some had hands in favor, some made famous from their toils. Across the bridges, into harm, extreme liking finds a way to plant their dreams. A courageous haunt for storytellers fashioning fictitious love in the vocals of these pleasure scenes.
A gasp at poison sells us. Two legs is all it took- the fanciest of the 399 lives, stitched across the faces of all his slaves. Some hide behind the moon, in the shadow of its glow. Some depart him, only to remark, and take up the King James Bible in a fight to eradicate some half-lie half-truth tale. Some take up their histories. Some track down their accusers. Some just watch the show.
If ever was a prophet, material or fake. A flip of the light switch rewinds the days, while a new trial of words ghastly fails. If ever was a wind to whip the rocking torments of joy into a smooth flowing dressage of subtle paper cuts and clues, lusts on paper and ***** petite memes cloaked in the vast inertia of the West. Rags piled high as riches, short denim shorts worn publicly before each and every oval and square, curious domain names gang bang the brain to forget the old complaints, renege on values once comparable or the same.
Only in this world, today, strangers bed each other and misspell the chants beaten into their acute proclivities for breaking the law, while purposely opening their mouths on soap boxes, and orchestrating the papers’ coolness through the grid and onto the plane. The work of the slaves is the accord to which forewords tune gravity.
This is the paper taking down cities. This is the worship building anarchy in its own members. This is the end of the call and the beginning of the caste. These are the mute and colorless stains on the walls, and the childhood loves of an adult that colorfully decorate the dormitory in his past with the clutter and occupancy that curtails to no complaint. There is the paper and there is the gain. Will any of them ever be human again?
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 5:50 AM UTC
Picture me this: not the arched brow
but the body when night, curves like a moon
accruing more weight.
Develop me this: not the body when curved like a moon
but the white stucco of it,
assuming its form.
Fold me like this: not the white stucco of it,
but the space it takes for need,
the occupancy it wastes for want.
In this manner is how you will
And lay me flat against the river:
not your memory of walls with fleur-de-lis,
but with lilies. If this day were leaf when turned
from the night when I took this collapse,
let your hands be pedicle. My inflorescence you have
mistaken as displacement yet not drown – meet this canopy
at the end of this river that is your river – your static grace that
is the music of your passing.
When met, disintegrate: not the lilies – they are anchors you have forgotten,
not this day if it were a leaf, but the day dried from a washline
of clouds. Let my inflorescence be a blunder of your recall.
When you meet this canopy, pack all of its mileage,
exact it in this distance. Take photographs of. Do not keep.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:07 PM UTC
Beginning again to rise,
so high the light is searing my eyes.
Arduous, looking back the climb
was worth the task, my body needed
my mind would ask.
Burning muscles metaphysical
struggle, torn in memory so I
cannot downplay the glory,
the ascension.
Mimicry the greatest form
of all compliments, so waste
no time staring into eyes that
peer straight through you. Invest
in the image from the river, the
clarity of your earned freedom.
I wander aimlessly no more,
every potential footfall I can
call home. One with myself
all doubt cast aside, all contempt
internalized, and denied occupancy.
Self condemnation I strip you
of your chains I can hear clanging,
looking to ensnare me, hold me
captive, but the mountain forever
calling.
Rising again, each new ray holds
a bastion of thought, possible
destination. My resolution complete,
I may bathe in my earned restitution.
Although I may be hurt again, cursed
again, defiled once more, my garnered
confidence, my unparalleled soul, you
may never touch again.
Here's to us being us.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
...Light-space...
moment-occupancy--
the time-lapse of grace.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
You tore a coffee addiction straight from the marrow of my bones;
You did it with those dark-roast, morning-sunrise eyes.
You did it with a glance.
It took weeks of constant coffee consumption for the addiction to settle and cravings to begin bringing me back each day,
but with you (your eyes that scream contemplation, ambition, enthusiasm, strong coffee)
I am hooked after one sip.
Without a doubt I know, in the marrow of my bones, that I will awake to a caffeine headache when I awake without your eyes near mine.
The strong black coffee that used to hold constant occupancy in my veins through a charming addiction will no longer do the trick.
You (your eyes that scream contemplation, ambition, enthusiasm, strong coffee),
With a glance,
You've got me addicted (forever).
I'm going to keep coming back.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
We don’t talk now
I understand you are busy
Surprisingly, my mind doesn’t plead
Your memories to not become a history
My feelings for you play silently
Arousing everything but sadness
And I wonder why there is no void
Why I don’t feel cramped
Even with your reflection’s occupancy
With you as my guide
I discovered the greatness of brains and numbers
Honestly, I still feel the awe of it
For what use are skills and experiences, if not appreciation
I have known being a source of your pride
But how come there is such detachment at your end
May be your sources kept expanding to the extent
That I became a lost fraction of even thousands
You gave me your clothes when I was soaked
Laughed and gave me directions when I got lost on the road
Gave me the stage to show, and to answer
I helped your daughter cross French and English waters
But I couldn t help her with German
How could I draw a map, when I didn't know the land
So I was kicked to the curb, to never be contacted
You told me to not become a calculator
But I don't remember ever being calculative
And I never held anything against you For the free and reasonable me would never approve
Teachers like you are still the reason
I like to be a student, through and through.
May 13, 2020
May 13, 2020 at 1:45 AM UTC
your eyes had hurricane in them the last time i saw you. that visible defeat and wreckage running rampant inside of you as you watched me smile and realized you are no longer the reason. your soft voice became an earthquake to the ones that loved you most and you forgot the storm you became ruined things in unfixable ways. so you sent out an SOS call only to realize you cut all the lines and there is no one left to pick up your pieces this time. you searched for temporary safe-holds inside of inconsistent people only to later realize that you already reached your max occupancy in the grave yard of people you left behind when you forgot how to care. so now you throw the empty souls over your shoulder and you walk holding the weight of a thousand broken promises, taking on each day wishing it was your last. all because you couldn’t see what you had before your levee broke. and this time next year, you will still be searching for damage control to help clean up the mess that you made and i wish i could be here to help with that but you already pushed me away.
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
as the hands ever unseen,
push forward,
the tines of time,
i lie with eyes open,
but it must be said,
with a desperate desire
that they be closed.
i listen to the wind rail,
against it's perpetual,
homeless state.
fury has been it's nature,
this past long night
and has doubled
the occupancy of this old
king bed,
sprawled beside me now safely asleep,
is a tangle of blucat and small, but growing to fast, child
both resting, hard up against the lee- side of the man mountain.
all creating a purring, snuffling, snoring thing,
that has an equal measure
of comfort and annoyance, circulating within my brain.
outside the house,
something has come adrift, but not enough, to blow away and it bangs in an awkard thunking rhythm agin the side of the house.
in the bed it is warm
and slightly sweaty.
outside of the bed,
it is crisp and overcool.
outside the window,
the sky is lightening,
to a grey that portends...
a long day
i make my choice
and leave the warmth in search of, the first of,
far too many coffee's
and the unseen hands,
still move,
the tines of the
old grandfather clock.
ever onward, everforward.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC