"parentheses" poems
I lie on my back at midnight
hearing the marvelous strange chime
of the clocks, and know it's mid-
night and in that instant the whole
world swims into sight for me
in the form of beautiful swarm-
ing m u t t a worlds-
everything is happening, shining
Buhudda-lands,
bhuti
blazing in faith, I know I'm
forever right & all's I got to
do (as I hear the ordinary
extant voices of ladies talking
in some kitchen at midnight
oilcloth cups of cocoa
cardore to mump the
rinnegain in his
darlin drain-) i will write
it, all the talk of the world
everywhere in this morning, leav-
ing open parentheses sections
for my own accompanying inner
thoughts-with roars of me
all brain-all world
roaring-vibrating-I put
it down, swiftly, 1,000 words
(of pages) compressed into one second
of time-I'll be long
robed & long gold haired in
the famous Greek afternoon
of some Greek City
Fame Immortal & they'll
have to find me where they find
the t h n u p f t of my
shroud bags flying
flag yagging Lucien
Midnight back in their
mouths-Gore Vidal'll
be amazed, annoyed-
my words'll be writ in gold
& preserved in libraries like
Finnegans Wake & Visions of Neal
12.6k
*** is a four lettered word
flaunted by very bad vowels
fevered to ecstacy
by all tangled-up adjectives
Then pounded into submission
by perverted nouns
that take their free liberty
of the subjective
Once surrounded
by the iniquity of the parentheses
you will only utter commas
at the Benediction
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 5:16 PM UTC
It's not OCD
I'm just anal-rententive.
There are two
coffee urns
in my office kitchenette.
Each urn has
a spot to place your mug
beneath the spigot.
Each of these spots has
a circular insert
of gridded plastic
to mark the mug-placement area
and allow spilled coffee to flow through
so this spot
doesn't become
just a puddle of coffee
soaking the bottom of everyone's mugs.
Each of these inserts has
three indentations:
one on each side
at nine and three o'clock
small, arcing parabolas
like reversed parentheses
there to allow someone to
get their fingers into the
coffee mug spot
and under the insert
to remove it
and, presumably
clean it
and then another indentation
more like a groove
or a notch
much smaller, thinner, and deeper
at the top
that fits perfectly with
a matching
small plastic protuberance
jutting from the coffee mug spot
where the insert goes.
In an almost ****** fashion
this protuberance fits into
this last indentation
this notch
this groove
to secure the insert in place.
For some reason
I've never known
perhaps laziness
perhaps inattentiveness
more likely simple
couldn't-care-less-ness
this insert never seems to be
placed into the mug spot
properly.
It is always placed sideways
rotated a quarter-turn
so that the larger indentations
on the side
meant as finger holes
are placed top-to-bottom
noon and six
the small plastic protuberance at the top
being swallowed whole
by the too-large indentation
and its mate
the groove
meant to hold the plastic piece
so tightly
is left alone
to one side
empty
and useless.
This has always bothered me.
Bothered me more than I would like to admit.
It's such a simple little thing to get right
it would take almost no effort at all
and yet, day-after-day
someone
I don't know who
whoever is in charge of these things
insists
on doing it wrong.
And I cannot abide it.
So, day-after-day
when I go to get my morning coffee
I fix it
I twist the insert ninety-degrees
and secure it in the correct position.
Lately
I have noticed something.
Sometimes
when I go to get my coffee
one of the inserts
will already be
fixed.
Someone else has seen
what I have seen
and felt the same
had the same response
took the same corrective action.
This feels like winning something.
I don't know what
but it definitely smells like Victory.
And Conspiracy.
And it makes me happy.
Happier than I'd like to admit.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
Reading her novel
On trains, morning and night -
Fictional parentheses
Bookend-ing the story of my day
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 5:49 AM UTC
I
If I were a poet
I would compose beautiful line
breaks and elegant stanzas.
Similes would be ******** scattered
with alliteration like
stars against a sunset sky.
My tone would be of reason
rather than innocence.
I would refuse to analyze
the meaning of death in literature.
II
Fortune cookies would be my mantra
and life would be a wiggle
instead of a struggle.
I would pray five times a day
to my journal
most benevolent, ever-merciful.
My poems would not be of peace
of war
or (you)nity
or them here Amur'cans.
III
My form would be indifferent
and probably never earn me awards
or acceptance to grad school.
Fondness of (parentheses)
may get me compared to e.e. cummings
or completely dismissed
if I were a poet.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 11:49 AM UTC
My voice is nestled within a river
of transitions, positioned
in endless sets of pre- and post-
parentheses. Pre-revolutionary,
post-Missing Link. Post-postmodern,
pre-postmodern revival.
I sit in a somersaulting purgatory
sandwiched between evocation
and paralysis.
My hatred is exhausted, shoulders
hunched over a guillotine,
cursing with its tongue sprawled
dead and dry at an imaginary hunter,
a mass of bones clumped
under the rug I keep pulling
from my own two feet.
Will you hack through this cocoon?
Have you got the muscle
and the patience?
Nevermind that bedtime story.
There must be some wounds
of yours, those placed beyond
the verbal tanline, that need
immediate bandaging.
Can I get you anything?
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
I asked if there was anyone there remotely my age,
and she said yes. I had just dumped all the money in my
wallet into trying to make my savings not negative.
It didn't work.
I walked over, stepped inside,
and saw teenagers. She told me,
there's a guy outside and he's twenty.
I got ******* duped by a kid.
Her parent's left, unwisely.
I met another half-black person,
a 15 year old girl who had dark skin
and hated everything that resembled
"blackness" or "black culture".
She even called herself white.
Here I was, outside drinking grape soda
out of a hello kitty mug,
discussing radical feminism
to teenage girls-
**and ******* five shots were fired**.
Not even 15 feet away, behind the garage.
[A fake 100 was exchanged, to which distaste was shown,
also this sentence is in parentheses,
and technically doesn't even exist].
So now there are teenage girls crying over gunfire,
hyperventilating, the high school boys jogging-
people in a swarm heading indoors,
and me.
The stupid-fucking-tragic-yet-benal artist,
running in his stupid ******* circle,
trying to decide if he should go inside
with the crazy juvenile people, or see if he can get shot,
because he already lives life awaiting some
stupid ******* narcissistic tragedy
to wipe him off the map.
My opportunities had rushed away already however.
I walked inside and sat on the couch hugging
one of those puffy round pillows and laughing
maniacally. It was intense after all.
Kid Duper tried to relate to me.
I know she didn't get it.
No one ever really ******* gets it.
Understood, maybe? No one understands.
I left shortly after with a copy of Fahrenheit 451.
I was told I could borrow it.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 4:02 AM UTC
it doesn’t take a genius to understand grammar
“i before e, except after c”
to know the difference between
a comma
and a semicolon
but words in parentheses should not count.
books
letters
poems
songs
parentheses parentheses
used to explain something
an after thought
an “i didn’t think of this before
but i have now.”
and words in parentheses really should not count.
it does take a genius to understand people
or more specifically you
and why you did it.
(i love you)
(i’m doing this for you)
(i’m cleaning up)
(i’m better now)
words in parentheses just should not count.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 6:30 PM UTC
*the cost
of
'a post-strophe fee'
is a pouted heart
placed in parentheses*
(yet still on that ledge:)
1.
like the tail of a kite
caught on a wire
or high branch of a tree
waiting to be eased off
and breezed out
free
it hangs upside down
seeing 'everything'
tipsy-style
as its force is slow-drained
2.
this apostrophe
is
the mere tail-end
of a dragon
(in a pit of exhaustion)
dragged in deepest-red ink
leaving an inimitable trail
with emphasis on sincerest care
brackets are just (two curves)
which jealously guard
all what lies inside
while giving so much
love in indivisible power-curls
3.
better to
let nature runs its course
of rivers flowing
and wild winds
while beetles walk on stones
yet
while trying to make a mark
with missives in the sand
the waves make sure
to wash them all away
best then
to let know
in this now
that some things never die
(it's enough for veracity to flap its weary wings)
4.
flee then
this finest core-duel likely
there's always..maybe
the next now
(all the previous
were not quite squandered
in cold flight
but unexpected loss)
and
no use hiding from one's (own) shadow
for kites will take off
and fly high
in the sun
where shadows have no place to hide
*futile wondering
if it really
(has to)
spell
catastrophe
it does not*
(it really does not :)
S T. Saturday. 27 July 2013
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
"You are inane,
sweet-heart.
That's why I love you."
"Are you calling me all things, unintelligent, nonsensical and lacking sense?"
Her eyebrows knit together; the corner of her red lips twitch upwards slightly.
A soft line brackets her mouth.
Parentheses to all the words she has ever voiced and will say.
"Well, clearly not then. I was just checking."
His eye winks; curving into a
tipsy,
upside down moon crescent.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:43 AM UTC
Open wide,
you’re a universe I want to explore.
I want to dance through the galaxies in your heart.
Let me swim through to the farthest constellations of your mind
I’d love to burn up in a supernova inside your eyes.
I’d die blissfully beneath your blazing skies.
You burn so bright
I’ll never live to see another dark night.
Is it true?
Could you be mine?
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
Scattered around my body, lies the remains of a girl meant to be
Cascading over corpses,
Hope is a weathered, out-dated state of being
A serving, political and manner-driven
What's new?
New is the passion, the fight and the might
It matters not how much hope you have
Whether it busts through your seams and gleams in your eyes
It matters not how fast the blood rushes in your veins as you pray
Look at me, cold and vain
Eyes frozen, I begin again.
Pin point and plan
Sticks and stones and pots and pans.
Life is nothing but a learning curve
So I move on to new experiences and new lives,
A million eyes.
Never forget who you are.
Who you came from.
Where you were meant to be.
Fate is not a destiny
Life is made out of parentheses.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
*Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is
as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip
of my words. My language trembles with desire.
-Roland Barthes*
My language is a skin I have outgrown.
It sloughs off in flakes,
leaving letters or the occasional
ill-suited, illegible word
trailing behind me.
I pick at adverbs and articles
hanging from my fingertips;
This morning I pulled a whole phrase
off my arm like a sunburn.
My language, once alight,
now settles like cinders
on the ground,
around the shower drain,
upon my sheets;
My language no longer serves me.
Peel my vocabulary off my back,
tear my diction from my shoulders,
and my syntax from my chest;
Scratch the punctuation off my face—
my lips are chapped with parentheses.
Tomorrow I will have shed my language—
Unbound from an ill-fitting lexicon—
coughed the alphabet from my lungs
and exhaled the last serif
like cigarette smoke
to find the world new,
uncontained and undefined.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 4:15 AM UTC
(if i parentheses you)
this
(and)
that
(separate of the pillars that bowl past heavy tonsils
maybe it'd seem as though heaven was closer
and the nuzzle that triggers tiny slips and
flicks against the pulse of my fingers would come alive
behind large bulbs and very tiny eyes,
much too small to fully engulf mild realities wild
on the bottoms of tough poison, mulct philomaths'
raffishly spatting at loose tongues,
how dare they tell me)
this
(and)
that
(and never)
the other.
(if i parentheses you)
this
(and)
that
(would it count to you, dear scholar,
as a structured poem properly scrolling
down the braces of my spine?)
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
You are so unbelievably warm;
I never thought it was possible to be this warm. (but here I am
thinking ‘bout ee cummings, well mostly about that one ee cummings poem that you recite for me)
look- I just used parentheses just like he does
I want to be inside your parentheses.
you're so unbelievably warm.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
You broke bread and cracked voices.
Accompanied choruses of songs
you never bothered to learn.
Played God with radio dials and
sought salvation in airwaves,
leaving translation to the speakerbox.
Like a proper disciple-turned-prophet,
the static air took artistic liberties
and ****** up the message.
In all honesty, you wanted
so badly
to believe that this time, together,
you could out-live the reckoning.
That this time you were
something divine.
But tonight you're too sober to speak
and too tired to try.
Once again, you apologize.
She'll cradle your cheeks just so,
with such delicate touch
you're almost convinced it's done lovingly.
(You've been trained to speak
between such parentheses.)
You always tell her exactly what she wants to hear
but never what she needs to know.
You both leapt from this bed, aiming for Space,
Hoping for something biblical,
but found, once again, that the sky
is nothing more than a mausoleum of stars.
And what
goes
up
Must
come
down.
From that funeral view
the truth collided into you
quicker than the avenue below.
Now you know what the moon must have felt
when the rockets came promising that
after this, things will never be the same,
then left just as quickly
with their pockets full of rocks.
You know what it's like when they steal part of you
just to put it on display.
It takes this distance
238,900 miles,
from here to the moon,
to leave your Me at ground level
and plummet into the
second person singular.
From depth like this
it's almost as if,
it never really happened to you at all.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
What if we had roots deep down to the centre of luck –
wouldn’t we be laughing about rain and tears
and wouldn’t we keep growing if we embroidered
our thoughts with roots and luck.
What if the fruit at the end of the twig was happiness, without a question mark.
Wouldn’t we chuckle about the empty space in our mind?
How could we stop?
What if, instead of connecting dots we overdrew parentheses and footnotes with smileys and flowers and purring cats;
What if science and pain only existed
as cuddly monsters with toothache in children's books;
What if we found a rabbit’s hole leading us into a world where psychiatrists and gurus were nervous patients
in big waiting halls without flushing toilets.
Wouldn’t we be neurotically smiling?
What if we didn’t call ourselves falling leaves,
but started feeling eons of love upon our wrinkles.
Wouldn’t death then simply be a slight breeze
releasing the heat at the end of a wonderful day?
What if our hearts went on, free of age and weight,
circulating kindred songs beyond fixed identities.
What if I was wrong and every conditional was closer
to experience than arguments and miracles –
My dear: I unlocked the universal laughter;
I turned sadness into luminous gardens, into a slow waltz
to hear the non-dancers saying: Cheers! Cheers! Cheers!
What if we finally found the recipe for equilibrium:
Would we still be needing stock markets and currencies?
Or could we simply exchange syllables across languages
without losing the message of oneness.
What if we really had roots deep down to the centre of luck?
Yes. Roots and luck.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
Notes on a IPad. A rejected lover’s lament.
What she says and in parentheses (What she thinks)
Oh please tell me,
What will I do now that
You have gone away,
Three days now it’s been,
Lost to me forever,
(And took my wristwatch?
Will I ever know,
the correct time again?)
I gave you everything,
And you crushed me!
(No I mean it, the other night
When you rolled over in bed
You actually friggin’ crushed me.)
Our lips are empty now,
Of each other’s kiss,
Like our odorous love,
our bed sheets grow stale,
(‘cause you didn’t put them
in the machine, like I told you,
Before you walked out the door!)
Life can never be the same,
Oh, to end my terminal misery.
(I’m thinking that notion over.
Maybe this is a positive thing,
My parents warned that he was,
not good enough for me).
I walked alone, along the lake today,
You know, the place we met,
(All those **** Ducks around there,
really make a mess. Got that goo
all over my shoe,)
But I digress.
You are gone now,
My loving arms are empty,
Of your sweet scent,
(Of the Brute Cologne,
I bought you for Christmas
You ungrateful Retch!)
My blurry eyes they do,
so sorrowfully weep,
(From all the pollen in the street,
God, I hate spring time for that!)
We were going to buy a cute,
Little yellow house together,
You vowed to love me forever,
**** Now I’ll have to renew my
Apartment lease, and get a roommate)
(You PIG, did you ever in your life,
Put up a toilet seat?)
You left when you said,
That you never would,
(And just what the hell,
did you do, with my car keys,
I ‘ve looked all over the place)
Truly my broken heart,
My stomach aches
and pines for you,
All Love has flown,
Oh,what will, what can I do?
(Hm’ I wonder if McDonalds has
McRibs back on their menu?)
Ring! Ring! The cell phone beckons.
“Yes, hello. . . Oh it’s you.
(You Son Of a *****
What’s that you say?
You’re coming home to me?
Darling, that’s so great to hear!
Want to meet down at McDonalds
I think they got McRibs!”
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
there is someone on the other side of that camera
watching you
and if they can read your body language
(*bottom lip in mouth, hands ******* an oversized shirt*)
then they can also read everything else
(hair twisted and knotted around itself, tie hanging haphazardly off your neck as you clutch at the pack of cigarettes in your pocket)
you have a hard time hiding these things
it's not that you hadn't enjoyed it, per say
trading ******** in the men's bathroom
back pressed flush against the grimy stall
it's just that you had somehow imagined *** with the man you loved
to be a little more...
glamorous
at night, with the light off, lying next to a warm body
hands that are trying to get into your boxers
you don't push him away
because even though you want to
he's your lover
and you feel like you're supposed to let him
so you do
and when you go to work the next day,
neck and collarbones lined with bruises,
you try to tell yourself
that you enjoyed it
you fail at that
when your co-workers ask you what's wrong
you shrug them off, and tell yourself that you should be blushing
when they congratulate you on finally getting some
it's not that you don't like it, you tell yourself
as you **** him off in the shower at 7 in the morning
it's just that you're too tired to appreciate what's going on
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
Downside up
In relevant confusion
Awakening in a slanted dream
It seems
Everything rhymes with orange
And you love me
SIDEWAYS EIGHT
More times than I love you
Broken mirrors
Are nothing but good luck
Four leaf clovers
And run for the hills
It seems
Everything rhymes with month
And I love you
Just not in that way
So you COLON, OPEN PARENTHESES
More than me
The moon's intense heat
Lights the day
While rain falls
From the grass to the clouds
It seems
Everything rhymes with wolf
And when I rejected you
You COLON, APOSTROPHE, OPEN PARENTHESESED
A little
Spiders are mans best friend
Children sleep with darkeners
In fear of light
And fairytale princesses
It seems
Everything rhymes with purple
And I feel sorry
That you love me
Leaving me with a COLON, SLASH
The stars are my only enemy
Crying at night brings me joy
And I cut myself
Because I desperately want to live
It seems
Everything rhymes with rhythm
And it's my fault
That your LESS THAN SIGN, SLASH, THREE
…
Sleeping into reality
Falling out of mirages
With a
DASH, UNDERSCORE, DASH
Look on my face
It seems
Nothing rhymes with orange.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
no, I wasn't always like this
I used to cry about the ozone layer
now excess calories upset me
more than excess carbon emissions
these days I spend half my life
inside parentheses
the other half with a therapist
she says I see too many things to be happy
but it's hard to shut your eyes
when clothes pins made of neurosis
keep them open until four in the morning
so I've learned to sleep with an eye mask
and a blanket of NyQuil
because there isn't a pill
for severe self awareness
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC
You are nothing now,
but if I had the chance to wish one thing of you,
it is this:
(may your past rest in parenthesis)
only an aside in the monologue of life
a soliloquy to the fourth wall of dramatic irony
a bracketed prologue to your story
interjecting an understanding of now and everything from now
in a seemingly never-ending pattern
as present becomes past and enters the parentheses
when your death came and your last words and thoughts slipped behind you
death was the only thing left unsheltered
as your brackets came to a close
but may you rest in every moment and memory you contained in interjection thus far,
(may you rest in parenthesis)
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
She sent a message to me
And I could feel her stroking my keys
She was clicking onto my interest
Next message if you please
If I could get you
between my comma
maybe semicolon you
I'm sure I could make
an exclamation point
wrap my parentheses all around you
I could ravage all your vowels
I could click into propend
And at the proper moment most intence
I would touch the "send"
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
I don't live within the walls,
I don't live between parentheses,
I don't grow towards the light,
I live underground,
Overwhelmed and dissatisfied,
Detached and fretful,
Still thinking my life is my own and my choices have meaning.
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 1:06 PM UTC