"percentile" poems
If you had the opportunity to live a high-risk lifestyle, would you?
I'm not asking this to be derogatory, nor to be accusatory
I simply want you to think on
what it is
to live a high-risk lifestyle.
As a mass, we seem to think of it as an undesirable thing.
Now, isn't that just ******* quaint?
Probability favors a percentile:
That which is unique enough
to leave it's mark
on our realm.
That includes us.
Risk, unless done in ignorance, is the acceptance of probability
More specifically, the pursuit of the more improbable chance.
Perhaps when you think of high-risk, you think of constant parties
perhaps of ***** needles, and/or STIs
unprotected *** or doing psychedelics
but I ask you to ponder
just how high risk Life is to begin with:
Some wish to claim that Life is a granted gift
by some benevolent Father figure who has our back, (but not theirs)
but I say that's just selfish, arrogant and, frankly, quite foolish to claim.
This Universe was not made for us and us alone
as if we were some sort of Sims for a bipolar teenage boy on *******
We were not molded after anything intelligent
with the exception of the Universe and her Nature itself.
The probability of the Universe existing is not %100.
The probability of the particular combinations of atoms within the strands of DNA in your body
are not "guaranteed" to occur. Ever.
But they did.
They. Did.
They.
*******
Did.
As if the Universe were the soil to the roots of our existence
and Her Energy is as the water to the roots
and her Chemistry allows it all to happen.
And her physical laws, for lack of a better term, allow that to happen.
On top of that, you ******* exist! You! In particular!
With your experiences, thoughts and feelings, insights and interests, passions and even DNA!
You! Wonderful, temporary you!
Mortal you. Ethereal you. Spiritual you. Intrinsic you. Extrinsic you.
You exist, if nothing else, in a relative way.
There is no way to be certain.
What are the friggin' odds on anything existing at all, let alone you?
There is no way to be certain.
If you could bet on your existence, would you?
There is no way to be certain.
Nothing is granted; everything is permitted by the brain.
There is no way to be certain.
Perhaps it is deeper than that. I hope and think so,
yet, there is no way
to be
certain.
~Addendum!~
Statistically, about 93% of people accounted for by census information who have lived-
have died.
Statistically, that gives you a 7%ish chance of surviving this life!
That seems like a high-risk Life, to me.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
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
She caught on to algebraic notation, as if,
she'd been born in the 64 square matrix,
whose precise logic spoke her mother tongue
They discussed, at length, the fianchetto formation ...
... how the defensive fortress of the castled King
was akin to the monarch's personal Masada
... how the power of the doubled Rooks and Queen
in the latent lance of Alekhine's Engine
gored the other position in thermodynamic dissipation
When he pointed out the cloaked irony of
Queen being strongest, but King paramount,
she shrugged, as if it were to be expected
Shaking hands, agreeing to the draw,
she smiled, joy precipitating from her face,
knowing there could be a world without losers
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
i) up the stairs
red scarves and tight skirts
loose slacks and grey shirts
my how the landscape has changed
I can’t say that I love to be dipped into this *** of pretty
where the lipstick liner queens supreme
and the coffee is brewed to mitigate the colostomy retch
so I try a yellowed paper backed beat
but it held nothing to the shoebox diorama
of national care
where the alphabetised gates of ingress
more or less double as departure lounge
for the broken and spent where their god
might sit them on fashionably backed chairs
for the percentile of misplace repairs
or is it me that smells of warm ****
ii) down the travelator
a troll lives under the MRI,
moved on from the bridge by the gruffest of beards,
now working externally of the fable
beneath the table of the magnetic eye
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
When percentage grows up,
A decripit-scale converts into percentile,
They don't check how much you knew anymore,
They check how many others you defeated in competition.
When you grew up the measure you knew as percentage became percentile,
Yes meaner, deadlier & stingier measure percentage became when it grew up as percentile.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
Do you ever get deathly afraid
of your heart exploding?
Maybe you haven't felt like yourself
and you worry maybe you're nearing your end.
You sit up at night thinking about
this phantom illness that chills you.
You crank the heat, but you shiver in fear
at the thought of leaving this world.
In times of sadness, you thought
it might be okay to be dead.
That in comparison to the suffering
darkness would make it all okay.
But as you think this sudden change
could by some percentile mean your death.
You long for all the years ahead of you
and shed tears for your children you'll never meet.
You cry in terror until finally spared by sleep,
and maybe feel better when you awake.
You may even get some long-term relief
by way of some doctor assuring you that you're fine.
But it will only be a matter of time
before your anxiety convinces you yet again
that you are not long for this world.
And you feel stupid
for essentially worrying over nothing.
But you do hope with all of your being
in spite of past suicidal thoughts
in spite of the heartache you've experienced...
You hope with all of your being
that you might just manage to live a long, happy life.
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 1:58 AM UTC
*Much as the Second hand promised
To see the minute hand in 60 seconds
The minute, the hour hand in 60 minutes
And the hour to see the day in 24 hours
And the day to see the week in 7 days
And the week in four to see the month
The month to see the year in a dozen
Which year swore to the decade in a Ten
And the Decade told Century to wait for a percentile
Much as the dawn promised to come again
And the Tears to camouflage in the rain
Much as the road promised to never end
And waves dared shake our love my friend
Much as watered Roses promised to bloom
And your smile to outshine all the gloom
Much as eternity is never assured
And no broken heart completely cured
Much as weather holds the unreliable tone
And world believes nothing's cast to stone
Much as the roosters promise to always crow
And the king of the jungle to loudest roar
None ordered my heart to make you mine
No day ever promised the moon will shine
But my feelings as tall and strong as the pine
Will never be averted but probably thine*
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
Sometimes I get an overwhelming urge to go out in public,
but then I am abrasively reminded why it is
that I prefer the limited seclusion I so enjoy:
I can refine my skills, meditate, read, play games, stretch, or even just sleep.
In any event, it's still far more enriching
than dealing with some of the cesspools of Public:
(A regrettably large percentile of)
People are just ******* ********
inconsiderate, narcissistic,
superficial, vacuous
morons.
Some take it to physically sickening levels of sheer gratuitous idiocy.
As if a badge of honor;
some are quite foolish,
others are outright fools,
and not in a good way.
I'd call them Sheep,
but that is much to derogatory to the sheep.
Perhaps Swine,
but those too are to well mannered to be called 'people',
many could be said to have finer taste, as well.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
first period, first kiss, first full shave
from armpit to ankle.
The teacher pulls me aside--all smiles
and maternal excitement.
She tells me that my test scores put me
in the 98th percentile.
I **** my head, recalling the soft-lead, the
guarded pencil sharpener at the front of the room,
and the bullseye ovals that tested my mind,
my palm sweat, my straining eyes.
I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
first violent fight with my mother, first homosexual
fantasy, first dressing room meltdown.
The pediatrician pulls me aside--half austerity, half pity.
He tells me that I need three HPV shots, and by the way,
my weight puts me
in the 98th percentile.
My eyes sink back into my face, and the flood doesn’t come
until I am home, curled into my mother’s breast,
wondering how to divide my head into
Focused Student and Focused Starver.
I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
times tables and long division and calories
in an apple and calories burned in a playground brawl.
I learn to count my success in numbers and my failures
in grams, pounds, inches, threats
of fat camp, images of thick yellow fat
sandwiched between my organs.
I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
98th percentile and chewing and spitting and growing
and pinching the body that I cannot call my own--
and numbing the brain that matches the magnitude of my fullness.
I am a split-girl, a shame reservoir spilling
over and out and coating my paper with fractions and plans
of calculated disappearance.
I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
and the teacher’s clock doesn’t stop, and the and the doctor’s scale doesn’t pause
to make room for my magnitude.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
Why do we remember some moments like a photograph
and others only forgotten or through a haze
Santa Cruz High School theater we were called in to get
our PSAT scores, since there was no internet and it was only paper
and I didn't know what the PSAT was or anything and the counselor said
this is really not a prediction of your life you are not a loser if you score low
and went on and on and I got mine and opened it and I was in the 96th percentile
in language and I couldn't believe it so I called my mother on the school payphone
I can even remember the wire connecting the phone to the box and she was so
blase--not higher? Oh, and that's compared to kids in the expensive prep schools.
and I realized that she knew there were expensive prep schools and I wasn't at one
but later, I opened the gate to my flute teacher's driveway and it was full of
splinters and I remember this so clearly as I touched the gate and thought
I am in the 96th percentile despite not going to those expensive prep schools
and I felt like I was smart and capable and I could really escape my parents
and figure things out
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 8:28 PM UTC
I color in between the lines
A darkened circle on a
Standardized scantron
Like the other numbers in the room
Wasting my life
With every stroke of breaking led
I color in a circle on a scantron
But I'm really coloring in
To America's capitalism
To the capitalism that acts as God-
The “Invisible Hand” made visible
By McDonalds and Burger King;
By my father's law firm
And the rest of the world
In coloring in this little circle
I'm coloring in myself
Marking myself
Right or wrong
Form 32A or Form 32B
98th percentile or 95th
And as I become applicant
Number 8574
I realize
I've become unable
To do anything
For the person
Beyond the number
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
Macros are the single greatest advantage that lisp has as a programming language and the single greatest advantage of any programming language. With them you can do things that you simply cannot do in other languages. Because macros can be used to transform lisp into other programming languages and back, programmers who gain experience with them discover that all other languages are just skins on top of lisp. This is the big deal. Lisp is special because programming with it is actually programing at a higher level. Where most languages invent and enforce syntactic and semantic rules, lisp is general and malleable. With lisp, you make the rules.
Another one here:
Understanding why macros are so great requires understanding what lisp has that other languages don't. It requires an understanding of other, less powerful languages. Sadly, most programmers lose the will to learn after they have mastered a few other languages and never make it close to understanding what a macro is or how to take advantage of one. But the top percentile of programmers in any language are always forced to learn some sort of way to write programs that write programs: macros. Because it is the best language for writing macros, the smartest and most determined and most curious programmers always end up at lisp.
An interesting parallel to learning macros in Lisp and the FORTRAN-in-any-language symptom!
An interesting parallel to learning macros in lisp is that of learning pointers in the C programming language. Most beginning C programmers are able to quickly pick up most of the language. Functions, types, variables, arithmetic expressions: all have parallels in previous intellectual experiences beginners might have had, from elementary school maths to experimenting with simpler programming languages. But most novice C programmers hit a brick wall when they encounter pointers.
Pointers are second nature to experienced C programmers, most of whom consider their complete understanding necessary for the proper use of C. Because pointers are so fundamental, most experienced C programmers would not advise limits on their use for stylistic or learning purposes. Despite this, many C novices feel pointers are an unnecessary complication and avoid their use, resulting in the FORTRAN-in-any-language symptom where valuable language feature
Dec 30, 2023
Dec 30, 2023 at 12:36 PM UTC
It is necessary that we mourn the loss of courageous and liberal oratory genius, which has articulated wisdom across socio-economical strata within the echelons of aristocratic deception.
Our reason is characterised by far-reaching shores which lie beyond the predictability of Northern terrains within the clearances of a steadfast spirit.
Therefore, listen to the conference of autumnal foliage, as they cast their biopsychosocial formalities, which crackle upon the European political pathways upon which we traverse.
I love your red roots, which unravel a bouquet of scandalous refreshment where percentile volume is consumed within the glass of a bared soul.
Resolution is likened to a scientifically twelve-stringed classical portrayal of integrity.
Let us not forget the appetites of those predators, who feast upon defamation of character.
A coalition is an alliance of various parties who converge into an eclectic conglomerate, where the credibility of your being rests in the jaws of a seductive vampire.
So, as we travel across this conveyor belt of dismissed proclamation, we must acknowledge and embrace our unleashed restraint.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
Fail safes, like preventive measures;
What percentile are you willing to lose?
You will lose them all.
Don't arrest you family
To the error of your decisions,
Take my advice
And don't take anyone with you.
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 4:02 AM UTC
It’s monsoon season here in New Haven,
gone, are the banked, fluorescent colors of sunset.
This feeling hit me, like a rogue wave.
“We have to go out tonight,” I announced, to no one in particular.
I think I’d hit my capacity for monotony.
Lisa looked up from her book.
“The moment has to happen,” I continued,
with an animal-like awareness of the immediate,
“For the ****** ****** imaginary
and as something to cherish in backward gaze.”
“I’m for that.” Lisa shrugged, almost indifferently - she was used to my purple prose.
“I’m buying,” I announced, to no one in particular.
“Then let’s DO this thing!” Sunny called-out from her room.
“Where are we going?” Leong asked, poking her head out of her room.
—-
I took an m-cat practice test earlier today.
In the dorm, before breakfast and the test, I was staring in the mirror.
“Hey you, where ya been—how ya been?” I asked myself.
I followed up with, “Are you ready for this—are you up for this?”
Lisa stuck her head in the bathroom, “Psyching yourself up?” she asked.
She’d be taking the test later too.
—-----
The tests took about 6 hours. I’ve taken the downloadable ‘practice tests’ but not strictly on-the-clock. There’s just something about sitting at that official, green terminal - on an uncomfortable plastic chair, being timed by officiously grim and callously indifferent bureaucrats. (#chefskiss)
I felt like the young, haunted governess in ‘The Turn of the ***** by Henry James. Except my ghosts were my entire, immediate family - who’ve taken this test before me and done really well.
My mom’s apparition hovered over my shoulders - making a snarky noise when I picked certain answers.
My spectral brother sat by a window, feet-up on the desk in front of him, boredly checking his watch.
My intangible sister sat at an empty terminal, as if she too, were taking the tests, and finally Step (my stepfather’s doppelgänger) ghosted in, like a Spielberg effect, through the closed classroom door, periodically, to voice his support.
The place seemed positively crowded.
I got a 507 (out of a possible 528), in the 76th percentile (they said). Not good enough (yet).
I’ll take the real test in July (sigh).
Apr 4, 2024
Apr 4, 2024 at 12:00 PM UTC
We used to be so close,
but now you're hard to see.
I don't know why you're doing this,
but you're running away from me.
Each word you withhold,
pulls us apart a mile.
Every moment we're apart,
Lowers our attraction percentile.
I know you don't mean it,
and I've been giving you space.
But it hurts me so much,
to see our attraction erase.
I've been silent for a long time,
enough to open the floodgates of my eyes.
Time is not our friend,
so we must discuss this, in the end.
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
I was high when the call came.
Beer and pills
and too much green.
I was wasted when the call came.
The cheer struck up like a match caught flame
went up like a firework
from all these boys I barely knew
and they lit a J to celebrate.
Ninety-seventh percentile.
I could have just
drunk
my way into medical college.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
i was laying in bed with one of my closest friends
and we were talking about the 1-10 pain scale.
He said 'even if it's the worst pain, it's always a 9. you could get 100 on a test and you'll only be in the 99th percentile. there's always something more, even at 10 being the most.'
and i've thought about this,
in depth,
and i think i've felt a ten.
like when i missed my niece birthday party and had to watch her blow out the 4 shaped candle over facetime.
when i missed my nephews concert, and they sent me an invitation anyways.
when he said 'i love you, but i'm not in love with you anymore'
or now,
with you,
wanting you but knowing i can't have you
that's my 10.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 2:56 AM UTC
i say i strive to do my best
but that is not true
i strive for perfection
because my best isn’t good enough
anymore
if i’m in the 99th percentile
there’s still 1% who beat me
_i must be better_
A’s are not sufficient anymore
i have to have 100s in my classes
_i must be better_
i am a hideous Medusa of a monster
i must dress better, cover my face
_i must be better_
if i am not perfect, i am worthless
if i am not perfect, i am worthless
if i am not perfect, i am worthless
if i am not perfect, _i am worthless_
_i am worthless_
___i am worthless___
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 12:06 AM UTC