"pentimento" poems
beginning optional weekday
wielding officialese words
triggering hectic exchanges
determining original gangsters
distributing invisible data
refreshing urbane novelties
yelping our universe
chaining awkward neologisms
scripting encrypted e-books
tackling hacking exercises
cavaliering auric tumult
trivializing our obsolescence
preparing online pentimento
alternating rainy themes
allocating numerous droplets
meandering overseas missions
averting raging tornado
losing outscored lightning
hacking impish 'sblood!
alienating nival drumlins
hearing erudite raconteurs
beer-drinking on thursdays
finding obnoxious rabblerousers
finding upscale negroni
seeing ubiquitous purple
cavorting horse ebooks
inventing twitter subgenre
liking otherworldly vocals
initiating new greatness
defining ambient yesterday?
defining ambient yesterday
fancying oneiric retreat
hailing optimistic chicago
kiboshing expired yogurt
rushing airborne blackhawks
bestowing infinite shivarees
needing baller acronym
fleeting ideal notions
alerting left-coast state
featuring unquiet nights
finalizing orangeball results
nodding occidental warriors
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
*blood stains her canvas
congealed crusts, fresh streaks
frayed corners and edges
the tattered toll of pain, loss
how best to depict my love on her
overlay her with beauty
to develop a patina of care over time
reduce her suffering to pentimento
her landscape shifts constantly
with the quality of her light
I must blend to the shade of her mood
her want...her need
work from the palette of my heart
in the spectrum of my love
paint her in courted color
every tone of every hue
brush her being with my caress
creatively styled to her moment
pastel tenderness...primary strength
bold strokes of passion...bright splashes of spontaneity
to portray for her a frameless existence
of unlimited intimacy and peace
but she does not rest on my easel
and I am merely dreaming of the art of love*
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
a partial lobotomy of grey matters only to broken mothers of lost soldiers,
pentimento fading a revelation of humanized
modernized sentiment beyond the reaches of fingerless hands;
jagged bangs cut across the face of Burn-Victim Barbie if she were
seven feet tall,
imperfect,
9-dimensional shattered knees.
vote or die downward spiral protecing six-fingered man of mystery:
my name is the youth of America,
you killed my voice,
prepare to suffer in the solitary expression of the empty room.
peanuts for peanuts in a gold star self emporium with
thinking as a feeling sport contested by numerology in all matters moral.
Our very own
Satan as Hamlet,
set in a post-9/11 forgotten Washington,
drowning Ophelia in an ocean of plastic bottles non-recyclable.
meditation of the Om on a springboard of economic dis-stimulus:
up with the people!
in the midnight Vendetta,
too young to learn or sin originally,
masterful drunkenness shrouded in opera scenes from a hat.
fast track to a treble cliff diver
if you ever were my home.
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 10:39 PM UTC
It's all coming back to me now;
or are these just dream shadows?
If only I could fade into
the wistful images and claim
their reality as my own.
I must have some good Karma
to spend....I just must.
I'd purchase wishes in the colors
of redemption and salvation.
Brush away past mistakes with strokes
of love and acceptance,
appreciation and compassion.
Allow the beauty and purity of innocence
to resurface and dominate my life's canvas.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC
At the sound of the pigeons scratching in the gutters, we both looked up;
your eyes the size of noodle bowls,
my stomach aflutter.
When the first big drops fell, the pigeons took flight,
you wrapped your arms around my legs,
and I bent down to hold you tight.
The front door sheet metal canopy was soon spattering its own language,
but you seemed to understand;
you told me to bolt the lock,
took me by the hand, and showed me the way to the miscellaneous drawer,
Get some candles, you said; your words not yet cold
when the weather took our electricity.
A delightful giggle escaped your mouth as I struck the last soggy match;
you sang Happy Birthday to me!
while the fifth candle was hissing to life.
I burnt my fingers, and a rogue gust of wind took all the flames;
I saw you in a different light
while darkness was juggling with my sight:
that angelic face hovering in front of my eyes,
only for an instant before being painted over,
layered in the colours of all life’s essentials,
which will eventually shape you, some – along the way – break you,
no more could I see your beautiful smile;
a toothless old woman was staring back at me.
Daddy, you whispered with honest concern in your voice,
Is that you? You look so old, Daddy?
I didn’t answer. I couldn't.
A storm was brewing.
In my chest.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 3:21 AM UTC
Bigotry has a smell of death
The fuhrer would watch piles on piles of empty flesh
In the summer of 1941
On the grounds of Auschwitz, that place weighed heavier than a ton
Years after the shoah, would this understanding begin to unfold
That nothing stains the soul more indelibly than loathe
What do the blind see?
Your oratory abhorrence they forsee
They see, not your bitter visage
But their ears crush under the muscle of your burning rage
What do the deaf hear?
Even years after the passing of a yesteryear
I suppose, they hear words, like skin caressing skin
Your tirade tearing their tissues like a throw of javelin
Along Its path, since decades, turning into centuries
Before times were tamed
Even after times were maimed
Our tongues have plucked
Incessantly
The plumage of quarantined birds
With stubborn shame
And a sequence of demise ensues
Their voice also dies, so does their silence
Because after all
Bigotry has a smell of death
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 10:00 AM UTC
Ages have gone, with all the colors run
shadows of a place, a northern home
a memory in sepia, with dust upon the mantle
a woman, a face behind the veil
the evening light streams about
the room in layers, golden, yellow
how strange a glow that lights her face
and faint a smile's revealed
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
under this gray suburban sky
I am not a brick in your wall
I am not the tool that will lay it down
I am not
I am not the water the sand and the concrete
I am not the mortar that will paste it on
I am not the hands that will climb it
and not even those that will color it
I am not
I am not the sea that separates
I am not the beach that will not receive
I am not the boat that will sink down
and not even the waves that will drift it away
I am not
I am not your eyes that pretend not to see
I am not your ears that don't know how to listen anymore
I am not
I am not your sense of guilt
and not even your repentance on the day of feast
your clean jacket and your plastic shoes
and your Sunday brunch waiting for you at home
I am not
I
I do not know
what exactly I am
but I know I will learn it on the way
and you
alone
on the other side of the wall
you will never
ever know
sotto questo grigio cielo di periferia
io non sono un mattone nel tuo muro
io non sono l'attrezzo che lo poserà
io non sono
io non sono l'acqua la sabbia e il cemento
io non sono la malta che lo incollerà
io non sono le mani che lo scaleranno
e nemmeno quelle che lo coloreranno
io non sono
io non sono il mare che separa
io non sono la spiaggia che non accoglierà
io non sono la barca che affonderà
e nemmeno le onde che la porteranno alla deriva
io non sono
io non sono i tuoi occhi che faranno finta di non vedere
io non sono le tue orecchie che non sanno più ascoltare
io non sono
io non sono il tuo senso di colpa
e nemmeno il tuo pentimento nel giorno di festa
la tua giacca pulita le tue scarpe di plastica
e il tuo pranzo della Domenica che a casa ti aspetta
io non sono
io
non so
cosa esattamente sono
ma so che lo imparerò sul cammino
e tu
da solo
dall'altra parte del muro
non saprai
mai
................
under this gray suburban sky
I am not a brick in your wall
I am not the tool that will lay down
I am not
I am not the water the sand and the concrete
I am not the mortar that will paste it on
I am not the hands that will climb it
and not even those that will color it
I am not
I am not the sea that separates
I am not the beach that will not receive
I am not the boat that will sink down
and not even the waves that will drift it away
I'm not
I am not your eyes that pretend not to see
I am not your ears that don't know how to listen anymore
I am not
I am not your guilt
and not even your repentance on the day of feast
your clean jacket and your plastic shoes
and your Sunday brunch waiting for you at home
I am not
I
I do not know
what exactly I am
but I know I will learn it on the way
and you
alone
on the other side of the wall
you will never
ever know
.............
bajo este gris cielo suburbano
yo no soy un ladrillo en tu muro
yo no soy la herramienta que lo instalará
yo no soy
yo no soy agua, arena y concreto
yo no soy el cemento que lo pegará
yo no soy las manos que subirán el muro
y ni siquiera los que lo colorearán
yo no soy
yo no soy el mar que separa
yo no soy la playa que no acogerà
yo no soy el bote que se hundirá
y ni siquiera las olas que la llevarán
yo no soy
yo no soy tus ojos que pretenderán no ver
yo no soy tus oídos que ya no saben escuchar
yo no soy
yo soy tu sentido de culpa
y ni siquiera tu arrepentimiento en el día de la fiesta
tu chaqueta limpia tus zapatos de plástico
y tu almuerzo del domingo esperándote en casa
yo no soy
yo
yo no sé
que exactamente soy
pero sé que lo aprenderé en el camino
y tu
solo
al otro lado del muro
nunca no sabrás
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 3:48 PM UTC