"operational" poems
True or false, when you stood behind me with your hands on my face and mouth to mine,
I was sitting on the floor, but my feet were no longer on solid ground.
I wonder if the distance between us is not from something as innocuous as miles or hours
but the more discrete variable- past open legs leading to closed hearts.
I'm not asking you to open your front door to me, unwittingly there is no need,
you've already found a spot in the sheets from me- conveniently forgetting you've already let me in.
And while you are speaking in operational terms to create what we are not,
you have quietly defined what we are.
Counting the statistics of it all, if we are the 95th percentile in our sample size of damaged goods,
5 percent is still unaccounted for- I place my hope of you among the population of those still yet to fall.
I can count those invisible scars when my lips are on your neck and you remind me it's too hard,
but when placed elsewhere the rule is no longer valid.
True or false, it is only too much when my breath can trail thoughts closer to your heart
where my intimacy is harder to un-feel.
True or false, some distances are so deep within our heads they become simply not real.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
I keep repeating things over and over again.
Over and over again.
And again and again.
I love my blanky.
Where's my blanky?
I think mom hid it under the pillow.
Mommy's putting on makeup.
Pat, Wipe, Pat, Wipe.
And I also pat and wipe.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
**Lacking of life now
I lol on my fine divan**
*Laziness often
lacks the power of rapture
as in sofa or bedsprings*
**Labour of love her
for large obese lobster me**
*Mermaids capture me
a symphony of sea-sick
rasping tongues lick our lumps*
**Little old lady
typing the language of love**
*A real cyber date
computer romance limits
operational life's love*
**Laughing over lines
of disco **** pure *******
*Lewd obscene language
grasping lemon or lime highs
to count Hollywood star shootings*
**A full length of life
the longing off, lay proceeds**
*Lady of the Lake
lunging our lisps sound depths
we are - breathing harmony*
**The land of Lincoln
legion of Lucifer's Lord**
*landscaping of lawns,
losing our liberty's law,
leaving on lights, blinding*
**Lots of Laughs or 'lol'
populist abbreviation**
*language often less,
leftovers of literate
gone to libraries of late*
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 12:38 PM UTC
The spider, in many hues rules.
But I never could understand
The complete operational rules.
Still I have
Unflinching faith,like no other
On the spider, that it knows
The rules of transactions inside out.
I am in the web of a clan of
Spiders, day in and day out.
I just lie supine in comfort
And let my song bird fly high
In the sky blue oblivion
Of my mind, listening to
The singing of the bard of
The absolute, transcending limits.
I am more and more lured
in to his cave where light is present
By its physical absence.More and more
An innerbeing after substence
In the company of this siver luminous.
She comes alive, fire risen from smoke,
Her red hot eyes capture my truth quick!
The spider sitting on top of me
And working on me with
Her oceanic mind that seethes
Agile vaginal muscles, I picture
Is still reading "Every Women"1
From memory; I just feel it
as each of the steps to the
thousand petelled lotus is
left behind one by one.
My silver spider
who flies with me from
the conjoined base of
"Mooladhara"2 at the ****
If she is the fire, I am the sky.
Hear the silver bell she rings,
In mind's eye I see how her
Silver strips gleam, wet with sweat.
As we step out to the garden path
The green spiders of thick foliages
Waved at us.Golden spider of the sky
Hanging low beamed at us.
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 3:57 AM UTC
Imagine a world without terror outer
and inner, sans famine of food and water,
where every soul is well-sated; a world
sans sickness and disease, not by the cord
of morbidity and death held; a place
where huts are mansions, every shack is
a castle, and each flat a grand manor;
where the roads are built with pure gold
and the bridges with resplendent diamond;
where the day does not change in colour,
except when full moon in its full array
once in a month has its own display.
I mean a planet steeping in love
unfeigned, bristling with true hospitality
of the soul; a world bereft of danger,
and of every mind-and-heart breaker;
a world with the similitude of the garden of
Eden, hung on the shoulders of harmony--
where man at another cove's lovely dove
will not leer, where there are
no split and divorce. The genre, stuff
of life where one's pigmentation is
not the cardinal, but the inner essence.
A sort of society where ****** Hussein
and Laden-like fellows and all their
coterie of killers do not have a lair
of habitation, i refer; where besetting sin
has no confederacy with the rotary heart
and mind of man; where the leagues
of villians are non-existence. An earth
where conglomeration of wicked cliques
is non-operational: where everyone be
holy--no child soilder, nor forced labour;
where women are not ravaged in cruelty
of acts, and is void of conflict and war.
Such a place "the world" is not called
but "heaven: governed by the Almighty Lord.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:20 AM UTC
Antiseptic operational sheen
You made the break clean
Blood never touched your hands
So none could soak your conscious
You handled it plain faced
She trusted you on the operation table
She was patient & she was yours
When it was done,
You reaped the rewards
Although a clean break can be sterile
Her healing went all wrong
She went home, pale & cold
Still fuzzy from the medication
Bled herself dry on the kitchen table
Then later on, again, then again
Your cut was straight
But you couldn’t anticipate
That she could feel your infection
The infection of rejection
In which always stains the blade
Her heart would never be the same
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
The Lemur is enthroned on the heights of an island
In a luxurious villa, complete with a sauna and a pool
The Dormouse holds, modestly, a small pharmacy
Where people can buy necklaces, gemstones and pretty threads.
Every Monday morning the lemur fixes
His hair with a delicate ivory comb
Asks about the stock market in overflow
Swallowing a pure white powder in a row
His orange eyes threaten to explode
So he sits down, eats lobster and sated,
He doesn’t have a care in the world as descends the evening
His paw resting on a black jade cane stolen from the dormouse
Monday morning, the lemur, operational
Goes fast, pick and pickaxe at the mine
Extracting, sweaty, some beautiful spinel specimens
Hoping that one day at the Lemurian’s he would dine
For a trifle, the latter bought him
His most beautiful crystals and this without paying taxes
He became the leader of the island thanks to his kinsmen
The exotic animals knew something was wrong…
His only friends were the rich and the bohos
Under the yoke of this monkey, the island was a hellhole
Their chef was addicted to coconut powder
Whoever dared to say it was put in irons
When finally, an evening he overdosed
Nobody buried him among his friends
The Dormouse humbly undertook to do so
At the hole where he dug, he found a stone
The moral of the fable, listen to it then,
Who shows compassion exists with reason
Do not judge too fast, because we're leaving too early
Nature often rewards us in her own way.
September 11, 2019
Nancy, translated on November 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 9:40 AM UTC
Existence an exclusive dragnet
In full production
Operational destruction
Within the dwelling
Mass reduction
Applied obstruction
Void of causation
Internal mutation
Alien nation
Self degradation
On the street
Compartmentalization
Non fluctuation
Auto narration
Nonessential validation
Superseded ideation
While dormant
Comatose automation
Surreal anesthetization
Feeble realization
Pending extermination
Attend the institution
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
And I'm here in this little glass house,
On display for the robots next-door --
The last of human life
Trapped in a box with translucent locks
In this paradisiacal paradox.
The suburbs are where dreams go to die.
Look at that cool-guy dad of three
With a car from 1970
Who doesn't get a wink of sleep,
And for dinner he eats batteries.
He wasn't supposed to be like this,
Spending more time with his therapist
Than with his mechanizing kids.
Love is sending them as far away as possible
Before they're condemned to your same tragic fate.
Their precious internal organs are slowly being swapped and traded with engine parts,
So that their chests hum rather than beat --
And wheels are used more often than feet.
Extension cords for intestines
And oil for blood,
Plug them in to sleep at night
So that they may be fully charged and operational tomorrow.
They are constantly being programmed in the greatest form of mass production known to man.
(Well, what's left of him.)
Cookie cutter children with magnetic hands,
Always grabbing and attracting new parts to attach to themselves.
Chewing microchips like bubblegum,
Transferring data as a form of fun.
It's "cool-guy dad 2.0."
He's outdated now,
Useless apart from nurturing the new generation that will ultimately cause his demise.
Oh, what a time to be alive.
To be a human on display in an industrial neighborhood.
(And don't even get me started on the soccer moms.)
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
Chapter 1
-
two aspirin
a coke and bed pan
puzzled a chronic ********
and an upset stomach
Chapter 2
-
a thirteen year old Jewish boy
gets ****** off
by his mother, sisters
and the ladies in the neighborhood
to celebrate
just bar mitzvahed
Chapter 3
-
her blow jobs are Shangri-La
while sky shadowed eyes flutter
a slumber party ******
shimmers lips of **** confetti
finger ****** good
hoping to marry
eight inch packin
tattoo boy
Chapter 4
-
she married a stingy man
and her hopes of love
turned into a book of
instructions
protocols
and
standard operational procedures
Chapter 5
-
she masturbated
eyes bulging
into a scrapbook of horrors
thinking you're so handsome in a mask
with that rusty blade
her **** burned
like hell
Chapter 6
-
the amputee pouted
your knives
look great in a stained basket
go ahead
take an another arm
and a leg
as she sold off her
last gloves and footwear
Chapter 7
-
a starved crocodile
has his belly pierced
by an annoyed lion
turned
the meaty peach abomination
into cat food
Chapter 8
-
God and Satan
makin deals
for souls
burning cigars and incense
just more backroom politics
and strip-poker
Chapter 9
-
a mantra
on a subsonic level
liberates from the ravages of nature
beats back the ugly
of home made sin
when tragic turns magic
-
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 2:20 PM UTC
What thoughts most admirable to take the emotional avenue to create to see in your mind a one of a
Kind person get the soul right and then move to the exterior that which would be seen and interacted
With for a life time what an undertaking but what else could make such sparks and the tremendous
Emotional swell to go to this place stand before the quietest shimmering possibilities a personality like
No other accepting the fact there would be common traits that everyone has but this is special this is
Horrendous in the idea no tolerance for error can exist this new person with functionality of will and
Freedom to express it demands nothing less so lies social justice and order then the operation of
Communicating what extreme place of awe you have to stand at to attempt this feat the tone the
Measure it will exact in the human drama of life seemingly simple but genius throughout in form and
Substance a constant flow that was the sum total of exquisite harnessed displayed in ordinary you need
To think on these matters when negatives penetrate the operational defense they should die as you
Contemplate how marvelously and wonderfully you are made your being passes the greatest minds and
Achievements our language is beset and besieged for a temporary time so the best we offer is listen
Here buster but behind that there is an imprisoned intellect that is now subject to the winding and trifle
Terms of existence but in those confines what beauty what treasure is hinted at the suppressed holds
Such revered qualities if we could get this psychiatry would be reduced greatly what a storehouse you
Are every need in human existence is there every fixation has deep roots foundational bedrock you
Were mined in a divine realm your feet are weighted to earth but over riding this is spirit that can’t be
Held completely to the functions of the body what immortal springs call to you as you have a thirst for
Them nothing else will satisfy why else is there such unexplained anxiety the Psychiatrist can’t give this
Answer because they follow the same path that is ignorance that parades as intelligent comprehensive
Analysis which you can plainly judge as ineffective and man trying to answer spiritual complexity with
Limited understanding I guess it is hard to unravel the statement that we are all fearfully and
Wonderfully made this writing comes from me looking at your picture truth truly will set you free
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
I had an electrician come last week
to fit a light above the back door.
when I got the bill today
my jaw dropped well-nigh to the floor.
I rang up his boss to clarify
why on earth the huge amount?
He promptly explained to me
what I must take into account:
There're expenses to consider
not to mention social security and health
operational overheads and holidays
last not least a plan of accumulating wealth.
It's a free world and up to you, he said
when in need of a professional again,
try find someone cheaper or else
risk your life DIY-ing it. Amen.
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 3:34 AM UTC
Sockets laying low, like a swing with to much rusted chain.
Corneas harshened with florescent grass viridescent and sky aquamarine.
Snout pointy as the tip of a lustrous knife silver blade, and facing diagonal like a canon before fire.
Two ample, pale, cushions, keeping guard about my mentum.
Little brown chocolate chips, melting upon every inch and centimeter on my countenance.
A mane full of lingering threads colored chestnuts.
Physique of Irish, pure skin filled with angel kisses.
Two stubby branches hanging in action, waiting to be reactivated.
And two vertically challenged limbs, pudgy and not operational.
My presence, positioned vertical, gazing into a transparent sea of glass.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC
None of this should be surprising in light of the following:
In February of 2010 the Internment and Resettlement Operations (FM 3-39.40) was leaked, a U.S. Army manual outlininghow to process detainees into FEMA camps.
In 2009 the National Guard posted advertisements for job as they were looking for Internment and Resettlement Specialists (31-E) to work in “civilian internee camps”.
he National Defense Authorization Act For Fiscal Year 2011, which was signed by Barack Obama on New Year’s Eve of 2011 and it allows for permanent detention without due process oflaw.
Civil Disturbance Operations (FM 3-19.15), describes the “operational threats of the civil disturbance environment,” the “general causes for civil unrest,” weapons deployment, the legal considerations of “control force operations,” the legal considerations of “apprehension, search, and detention,” and recording the “number of cadre and inmates injured or killed.” The manual contains rules of engagement regarding the use of “deadly force” in confronting “dissidents,” which were made disturbingly clear with the directive that a “warning shot will not be fired.” This is a shoot to **** document.
Could it be anymore clear? And this is only the tip of the iceberg.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
There is something awry
I can feel it
as I step into
the thick and tense
stifling and sinister,
suffocating ether.
I have a peripheral sense
of an occluded slumber,
a disturbance.
Begotten by me?
I can only hope not.
Haunted by something unknown,
unseen but not unheard.
A sound, a whisper, a chill
Ghastly squall
The rush suspends my breath,
captivates my thoughts,
hurries my pulse;
throbbing and pounding,
in my dizzy and cluttered head.
The door has closed.
Impulse and instinct
drive my body
but it is dark,
never-ending,
surrounding
Me.
Perturbation reaches up
And grips my very being;
strangling my conscious,
operational will.
Numbing all perception short of
foreboding and dread.
My entranced, mortal corpse
stumbling over my own hastened direction
that it already knows.
Scrutinizing and bellowing
an audible, unmistakable
laugh
which freezes me again
with crippling petrification.
There is no escape.
Now face to face
as I turn to confront it,
stare to glare.
Menacing and perilous
it consumes me.
Devours me.
Immortally imprisoned by
It.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
I wounded myself, to feel how it felt, razor stripes of my life trickled from my arms, and chest, i tested how it felt, again, how it felt, to hurt, and i lurked, in these tears of trickery until they dried.
I remember looking into hate for a well of ailments, but just layered laments on my fragility, but I still remembered the memories, as they blurred through times passing, fast forwarding right past me, pulsing, flashing.
I Remember the blasts of my friend, as his head cracked on a trunk, six bullets, rolled back eyes, pink foam, and a rasping noise, and all i thought was to catch his breath, one last concept, as it slipped on by.
Not one tear, not one cry, neither him nor I.
And I, still feel the feeling of those wondrous eyes of mine, gasping unto beautiful skies, in the sweet sweet surprise, of something bigger, something so profound, as to drown the world in doubt, of its thinking.
So young, so innocently brilliant.
And I remember sinking pits of regrets, and things i wish i said, as i bled, in tears, before the years stole the deepest emotions ill ever know, and strolled through uncontrollable turmoil, in rolls, and waves, of the tolls, Ive paid, in coils, of hate, all balled up in haste, and chucked at the door, mucked of the core, spilling its guts, on the mudhuts of my humanity.
Humility unborn until true scorn pierced center mass, penetrating my soul, my coal, my face, and my masks, changing me, redirecting my intentions again, to the forbidden zen, of absolutely ******* nothing.
Not a bird chirp, a cricket, or wind.
Not a frown, smile, or squint.
******* nothing.
And i remember my operational function, unplugged and bludgeoned, in the intoxication of girls, that whirled right past me, leaving blood, *** ***** and glass, in my shadow, lifting from the ground, proudly striking down, everything but what mattered, as it shattered my heart, into a million fragmentation's that popped, on every person it came across.
I remember everything, like another's memory, remembering something at the door of knowing, before dying upon its showing, of the path, the caste, the infinite black, staring back from the black, and laid upon me the eyes to look back, and see that it wasn't me, and suddenly ...
I remembered nothing.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:11 AM UTC
..
.
A few bad sectors failed to boot
the operating system smoothly
when doctoring the optimizing process on the disk,
sector by sector
cluster by cluster
it's running but not too well as before
several files could not run properly,
might be corrupt
or missing a few chains,
garbage data have shown
yet could not backed up the entire files successfully
even the several programs also
when running the machine abnormally
the old hard drive is sounding a little,
seeming to crush the physical memory anytime
There is only an operational way
to rescue the hard drive by the low level format
which 'll erase all the random memories
those bad clusters will be fixed permanently,
though yet a chance of fatal error
.
..
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
You see
ALEPH HAY YOD HAY
becomes
YOD HAY VOV HAY
-------
This is the whole of it
The
KABBALA
The
BIBLE
------------
In numerical language
ONE FIVE TEN FIVE
becomes
TEN FIVE SIX FIVE
-----------
What this is describing is how our consciousnesses
Come and intermingle and exchange all information
And seperate and individualize themselves
Unto certain limits imposed by the necessity of overall unity
And the need for operational harmony
--
This is the Seed from which creation springs
The details of which are myriad and fascinating
--
All that needs be known IS KNOWN
As is the nature of the power
That keeps the truth hidden
All that is needed is YOUR DESIRE to understand
Thank you
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
we resort to cussing when the only repercussion
is our own fault from what we sin but we feel within
that life would be too much for us to change our touch
ask what we have on this earth to better our worth
when it is our choice how we use our voice
minimal thoughts make noise serious ones cause poise
because we never chose to think of why the ribbon is pink
the red cross resembles the sick or why us humans were picked
to be the most knowledgeable in the world we paint our life as a mural
when that thought alone is irrational; we fail tests that are passable
we get confrontational simple business operational
"I love you" feels sensational but the words are migrational
Life was right here and you moved right passed her
and we wonder why in the hell that we have no answers
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
mosquito whines and jumping jagged lines,
copies of line jumps and spectrums of color,
spike and rebel or flatline and fall,
functional? operational?
****
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 10:08 PM UTC
.
The operational mystique around here
Is that
If EVERYONE
Wrote poem begging their ex lovers
To come back to them
That the world would be a better place
•
This is a stupid idea
//
Therefor
( since this is our operational mystique )
We are all stupid
//
( but
Since we are stupid )
We have no ability to know what truth means
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
A virtue that makes you glow,
Giving you the spirit to explore,
It is the one that helps you grow.
A realization of being capable;
A silent attitude hitting louder when
Self-doubt ceases to be operational.
Being right always is not what you need,
It’s time to let go of the fear of being wrong;
Soon you will breed confidence indeed.
When it comes to thinking about self,
You won’t go on the wrong track;
It is not that simple to deceit oneself.
Embrace the beautiful mess you are,
Cut off the insecurities and,
Your success will have no bar.
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 12:29 PM UTC
OPERATIONAL EPIPHANY
For a time
I was alone
And I was frozen
To the bone
But then an angel
Spread its wings
Gave me warmth
And all my things
The angel said
Just hold on
We’ll find out
What went wrong
So I waited
Patiently
While it hovered
Over me
Then, a blinding light
Came right at me
I could not look
I could not see
But from the light
A voice came forth
Hello, it said
I’m Doctor North
I’ll be your surgeon
On this day
How would you
Like to pay
We take Visa, MasterCard
Cash or American Express
But, if you have neither one
Then…. may God bless
BOEMS BY JA 269
Written in hospital 2014
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC
The cushioned fabrics of early sensorimotor expression placate the salivating ghouls of formative destinations which lurk at the neurological gates of repulsive awareness - stripping our fragments and revealing the cellular walls of repelling invitation.
Unfortunately, each surpassing second dictates her significance across zones and frequencies, while we succumb to the arduous process of being ignorantly unwrapped and unleashed into the bountiful emptiness of insight.
That’s life.
In this crude and psychological pre-operational stage of misplaced trust, we are pressing against cosmological forces, into the realms of internalised experiences where the veneer is eventually understood to be characterised by utmost deception.
Let us become formal amidst this abstract projection into harsh environments where the donning of masks can no longer be undertaken with sincerity.
Here, my universal being of connected severance, is the gorgeous discovery of abhorrence.
Like I said: it is the beauty of our beast.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC