"peripatetic" poems
For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.
Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.
This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
The bear puts both arms around the tree above her
And draws it down as if it were a lover
And its chokecherries lips to kiss good-by,
Then lets it snap back upright in the sky.
Her next step rocks a boulder on the wall
(She’s making her cross-country in the fall).
Her great weight creaks the barbed wire in its staples
As she flings over and off down through the maples,
Leaving on one wire tooth a lock of hair.
Such is the uncaged progress of the bear.
The world has room to make a bear feel free;
The universe seems cramped to you and me.
Man acts more like the poor bear in a cage,
That all day fights a nervous inward rage,
His mood rejecting all his mind suggests.
He paces back and forth and never rests
The me-nail click and shuffle of his feet,
The telescope at one end of his beat,
And at the other end the microscope,
Two instruments of nearly equal hope,
And in conjunction giving quite a spread.
Or if he rests from scientific tread,
’Tis only to sit back and sway his head
Through ninety-odd degrees of arc, it seems,
Between two metaphysical extremes.
He sits back on his fundamental ****
With lifted snout and eyes (if any) shut
(He almost looks religious but he’s not),
And back and forth he sways from cheek to cheek,
At one extreme agreeing with one Greek
At the other agreeing with another Greek
Which may be thought, but only so to speak.
A baggy figure, equally pathetic
When sedentary and when peripatetic.
1.9k
with the lust
of a 14 year old ***** boy
playing hooky
eyes blink orbs
riding the bumpy
**** grind yields
a mental representation
*her ***
a Coney Island ride
reciprocity of tongue and groove
a big dipper
and a hot dog
in a bun eating contest
i eye the shape of her legs
brahmana of form
**** cake butter scallops
with a prune skin ****
***** dark little sister
going along for the ride
with hidden talents
*om shakti om
holy donut with a zit*
rubbing myself
a peripatetic command
like I had the junkies itch
in a bearded clam sea
of black nail claws
like musical notes
that tear flesh
hegemony of *** art
*make me bleed *****
Tangula The Exotic Shake Dancer
moves infallible hips
and dancing hands like octopi
tickling bloated *****
ta-ting go the finger cymbals
smiling she called pip squeak
colossus of her dreams
flick tongues the meringue
licking the
shimmering tantra pistol
finger up the **** hole
brings a prostate exclamation point
and a throat gag lyric
for a wagon train
of wrap around lips
zooming spit and spray
wet like scungelli
her *******
like cloud cookies
****** my mouth
gasper boy
chokes on
a marshmallow fire
i kiss her feet
and work my way up
the slippery slope
a starved dog
…
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 8:54 PM UTC
1.
This blue one is my favorite,
in the peak of ****** excitement
she calls me "Devil" between
sweet obscenities and tender bites
that lets me decide her species
a killer whale she is.
2.
I fell in love with this aspect
at the very first sight,
the easy buoyancy of the cuttle fish,
Ah! the delicate squid in my dreams
in her transforamtive rigor of
peripatetic desire.Above me she hovers,
we are entangled with the strands of clouds.
In the soft poetic squid folds,
my desires find discharge.
3.
Octopus, oh my perfect metaphor for desire,
are you strictly a fish by definition, I muse
though a mollusc, who cares, as long as your
supple tendrils, know how to touch and arouse
allow pleasure to flow through eight ducts,
would take you as the equivalent of a bisexual yen
in your tight binding and sucker amour,
under water I am the slave for your pleasure,
bleeding amour in equal measure
on each embrace.
4.
Gold fish is a cliche, but is it her fault?
when frothing orange morning sun
seeps in to her spacious glass cage
she is another rich kid, seeking pleasure
and when she sings with her wings
dreamily moves, a pendent of Gods she is
my longing see the cliche, yet oh! such *** appeal,
my tactile desire, is more alacritous than being tactical.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
I'm a peripatetic napper aka a somnambulant philosopher... who is prone to salubrious somniloquy aka hammock rapping, on a variety of savory subjects such as which parts, leaves, petals, stems, peels or fruit of the lilikoi and guava families make the sweetest and most healing teas... for example, I sense that you can swallow this soporific soliloquy straight or with some surf, salt, sea and sunshine and skip the sleeping pills indefinitely..
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
I ripped out of the old tavern
Into the torn indigo overcoat
And traveled under the porticoes of a billion fantastic stars
To celebrate this marvelous November night.
In the labyrinth of bricks and stones
I hum and whistle the Irish song
Like a singer before the orchestra, my multitudes.
How exquisite—Avec un plaisir de génie—is my peripatetic existence!
Lungs full of air, and I see the Muse in me.
My treasured newsboy cap from a thrift shop spins on my hand,
And my feet bubbles off the floor like soda pops.
I pray my gratitude to the one above the altar
For my indomitable freedom. Amen.
A pocket change rolling, bikes uninhabited, and lampposts perpetual.
A rolled cigarette wantonly leaned between my sticky lips.
Autumnal dews wetted my forehead like spiriting wine.
And while, scarf blowing, boots tattered,
I raised my odalisque eyes heavenward
The world pixelated above my moist eyes
Like a seabed of jewelry stars
Apr 30, 2021
Apr 30, 2021 at 1:03 PM UTC
This is his Henri Julian Rousseau taboo land,
here he appears as the lion night after night,
with his tail stiffened, erect--but the Gypsy wasn't there
Bathed in psychedelic strobe lights, now
here on a plush confession table doubling as their stage
his Gypsy lies spread-eagled,
til there is no secrets left in her body, he now tries
to pry open the many chambers of her peripatetic mind.
With a lingering kiss, he in vain tries to arrest her
never subdued spirit and begins his secret rituals
for the angel of sin, black magic maiden, yin for his yang
who in ways direct, sly or by allusion, is the bestower of
a million forbidden pleasures, whispering,like a mantra thus:
"There is no right or wrong, all illusions, within an imagined truth"
which made him stray, albeit, within the labyrinth
like innumerous men of power, which they gained
shedding blood, sweat and tears; as if there is nothing beyond.
She who by instinct engineered his downfall
from the pantheon of the anointed is finally here
but this is no retribution, only return of the favors received,
his throbbing lust seeks her deep interior's caresses
giving her forgiveness in return, his masculine urges
wish to be gripped by her unusual craving,
she is melting like butter, her sweet urges fight back
in unison they seethe, wreath, roll and race to culminate.
On a swing hanging high ,above the poisoned earth
for a few sweet transient moments they remain,
weep in pleasure til they fall in to slime and crawl back to life
--then the Gypsy and the Lion remember nothing .
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
my timid tournefortia,
whose peripatetic scent matadors
the mad men.
whose laughter veers away the impossible,
of whose flame will gander
like flotsam in a sea of aloneness,
you are a danseuse in the
misty moonlight.
perpetual in the night illume,
perched in the deepness of
sad walls calling out the
azure. my little tournefortia,
it was such joy to have lived
when you have blossomed.
--- as all flowers go, you too, have gone - flagrant grows regard, like a prancing flame
of blue my eyes are frantic and
anew --- i seek new flowers.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
Is this emptiness
or cosmic space
a love for dark or consummate
absence?
You lay there
and I, here
in the same
tangential uniformity.
we are but together
splintered, then separate,
making no difference.
you, in your place
and I, in mine
like some unattended baggage
dragged mechanically
by a tireless conveyor,
a hound in pursuit
of its own tail in intense circles,
left to my own silence brought
to the brink of all the noise.
*
The morning with its peripatetic
crush of garlic and spry birds.
In an unassuming distance
strip to void, teased to rogue,
the light does not arrive with
its usual taciturn warmth;
your mother gives you a pear
to pare and ******
my mother, the same in giving,
yet another thing worth grazing
say, the old skeleton of an empty
wine bottle,
a cold stride past womb-tender
bungalows and sleep-shaped mailboxes.
the feel of its bone , gutted out of flesh.
a compelling strike of silence
permeates more silence – like a prayer thumbed
down to its last throng.
there will be no dialogue.
this is the same quietude
in miles that assume our places.
maybe once you knew this domicile
like the curve of your bow-leg,
or the glint of your inner thigh.
the word “love” falls flat on the surface,
taking its station amongst the masses,
flying with the birds soon dead in their tracks.
the word “love” slits,
cuts open, unloosening a wound,
your mother in the kitchen paring
the flesh from the bone,
and you hear it,
as we look out of separate windows,
the hush churning sound,
spreading on all fours once in this room.
the morning lays out its hairbreadth
wire of memory
in some place unknown to us,
to size the measure our own,
still yet not ours, you in your home,
and I, somewhere outside the world
fathoming shadows their own things not ours.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:45 AM UTC
You're all the suffering I long to endure and I swear by your deep brown eyes that I'm going to try my best to make it through you because it is you I remember when I'm walking down these paved roads with streaking strange faces and I miss you really because I wanted to kiss you when you tucked my stupid note on your nostalgia corkboard and looked at me like I was all that matters but you did not come home and I hope you're not in trouble or hungry and I was supposed to see you because it's a Thursday but apparently the Universe does not feel a need to consistent today except with me still longing to kiss you and you still not being aware.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
All is illusion—
At this peripatetic pause
Let's put off the world
And indulge ourselves
In an embellished dream
Of perpetual ignorance
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
my little hummingbird
moving towards a stasis of light,
holding a simple secret, a bell's machinery!
trilling on wiry breath
or my mouth's plumule,
my chromatic bird,
unmoving as a bud translated
in reticence, plucked from
the mire of ground's vastness,
speaks only so timid of my
hand's agronomies,
glazed by a moment's fresh glare: your unending eyes that see
yet do not hear!
take my hummingbird and fly
with it! take it away from the peripatetic and plant it soft
to your mouth's jar!
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 2:34 AM UTC
I
slow and
rosy fingertips
apologized
to a final strip of pavement
as they brushed the
remaining crumbs of
sunlight into a different sky &
I sat on the porch
for 17 minutes,
recording the halos of thinly suspended
rain, bright and ringed,
dissolving behind each car
until you came outside
to drive me back home
II
"I'm a nomad"8
he exhaled, smoke rising
from the hand not occupied
by the steering wheel.
she looked at him,
and then away.
she did not
watch his eyes.
"I'll come to you."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
&"...The rotational period and seasonal cycle [of the planet NowWhat] are likewise similar to those of earth, as is the tilt that produces the seasons..."
8"Peripatetic nomads, who offer the skills of a craft or trade to those with whom they travel, are most common in industrialized nations."
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
We all have inner and outer lives.
They’re messy, hopelessly intertwined, and more
than mere mannequins to hang our word-art upon.
I’m supported, in my unwritten life, by a structure
of moods, both affine and counter-expressive. I’m,
in turns, a tightly wound vagabond, an over-busy,
fretful, unhappy liar (for what I will not share) and
a happy, truthful mess (for what I may overshare).
My outer-life is largely academic, and turned with
complete absorption to task, I plow thru the
needed assignments, like a caffeine fueled machine,
You might rightly call outer-me boring. I get it, for
nothing much happens beyond study and life’s
usual maintenances.
But my inner-life is full of action, if desires,
dreams, and internally ranting against the injustices of youthful separations can be rightly called actions.
Of my boyfriend, the world contains not one parallel.
He overshadows the few others I’ve ever known.
His masculine elements turn me all the way up,
He knows my petty vanities and most of my weaknesses. If he doesn’t know my every phase of feeling, or every desire of my love starved soul, it’s because our love is peripatetic.
Most of the year, we’re a long distance, digital, practical nothingness, A near autofictional anticipation. We are separated by a sea and more. If I may simply put it, I have a fine young body that is going to waste.
When I complained to my older sister, a surgeon who long delayed her own personal life for her career, she shruggingly and unsympathetically said, “You only have to suffer a few more years.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” I replied.
.
.
positions by Ariana Grande [E]
34+35 (Remix) by [feat. Doja Cat & Megan Thee Stallion] [E]
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 11:11 PM UTC
The Music evades all dissection
it never escapes or gets held captive
and while its apparently our best teacher
this endless summer
is just one long journey to The Falls
gone are the days of masters and slaves
and all that is left is our retirement
so lets dance our days away in The Shades
while love is complacent
and sometimes copacetic
i am peripatetic
and there are still no takers here, yet
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 12:18 PM UTC
I.
On the surface easily gliding,
are my hands. I keep on the table
an ajar carton of cigarettes. Then slowly
becoming in my pocket, taking form of a hand,
a crumpled cinema ticket when straightened,
ironed by plainsight, walks with lines, the end credits roll lasciviously like an estranged lover
whose face I can almost touch.
When let go of closure, air thins and I move
secretly with fluency. This is how objects
escape my grip.
II.
In front of the eatery, a transit.
I had a dream once in a depthless sleep,
a figure in stilts studded with guilt.
The face next to me, disquieting the music
of currencies, naked in sound as the truth shaved
like a beast. The nearby tarmac resounds with
another throng of absence. As a substitute
for beings shackled to duty,
the oncoming woman assumes theirs,
borrows their faces of dreariness and ***** a thousand times like white sheets harassed by
the wind through opened windows.
III.
Define space as a venue for collision.
Say when a red-haired woman straddling
a duffel bag and myself confused as a peripatetic.
She ascribes her presence to my footing
and from where she left off, I take form
of her expired movement.
Found strangeness is that space
is what happens when remembered. But hold no
bearing and rear contrivance,
trying to be bold by definition -- space solicits
the in-betweenness and then transmutes
an occurence,
say the volatile shape of a hand when
clutching and releasing, the fugitive manner of
feet when avoiding puddles, the unsolicited
reticence of a troubling question.
IV.
A man carries a take away and is now
amongst the populace, waiting under a shed,
housing a familiar language. Home.
But first, trivialized. Haggles with the cab driver,
trying to transact a being angled towards home.
They agree to a fault, money's perfume clinches the fingers and is given to a calloused hand.
Air once stale, is now succulent with the
resonating memory of a child's excited laughter,
and is now presumably waiting behind a gated
home. Like the palm of the hand, the number
of times the vehicle trundles within
the nearby avenue is the force it enkindles
with rest. He is home,
unloosens his clothing. Like a fine specimen
freed from a vitrine.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 6:05 AM UTC
She felt she'd said
all she needed to say
the torn paper and broken plates
had said the rest
in the settling dust that swirled
peripatetic
in the collapsing corridors
of the relationship
there was a tiny quaver
a voice saying,
"you should have seen this coming"
I didn't, and now half my possessions,
my frayed cotton shirts
and haphazardly creased pants
sit on the passenger seat
like sullen accomplices
as I drive toward a friend's basement
so I can get some sleep.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
staring into the warm void this evening
i take my place within jarring volitions.
thought is volatile. a mason strikes
metal, revealing its malleability.
there is treason in thought of geography;
i will shatter the mooring and find myself
something the fluting wind is the muse
and echoing quiet, a ripple from stone-skip.
the next place to go is the beginning
stemming from a concatenation of ruins.
the thinning visage of masses crossing
the streets wary of collisions
is something realer than the wounded glaze
of asphalt and the mirage that goes along
tiptoeing like a danseuse through shards
of incandescent figures. fumes. sprawls.
untouched virgins. tacit stones. doves
perching on powerlines nestled like youth
suckling mothers. fathers facing telegraphs
and the sure machine of dearth.
stasis of peregrinations. peripatetic
crush of imminent homes.
this is to assuage its call, from nowhere
arrives the next train to Kamuning,
disappearing in a plethora of arms
sequined by sweat under the swelter of planets
unfurling a bent axis of tragedies. we are
fraternized to tracks, unyielding distances,
makeshift solaces serial, benign, tenured.
belonging. unbelonging.
our destination: an impending sojourn,
the verdigris taking form.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
i am always running
somewhere else is often where i am
so if you want to find me
then you better start moving
come on my peripatetic followers
dance the dance of yesterday's liberation
life does not wait for anyone
especially not for this group
of middle-aged single losers
you pursue your own direction
love is an election
where all parties must have a vote
we return these old books
and fuse them into new looks
you redirect your vision
and suspend judgement
for a single minute
lets just look at each other
i see such wonder
its funny how you try to deny
that light is blind but not alive
then please show me the eye
that holds no duality
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 1:54 PM UTC
Faithful and free in nature
With words as clean and soft as holy scripture
Lord has had his way with you
Fine dime of new dimensions
You're perfectly unbalanced
With the wrong scars in the right places
A smile that leans too swiftly
Almost filling the role of Pisa
Pleasing peripatetic you find
Your grace in the movement of falling things
Gently playing pizzacato
On my heart strings
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 6:13 AM UTC
I am on my way to see
A quintessential American,
To walk where he did,
And where he lies.
As is our native wont,
He ended himself,
The final act of violence
In a peripatetic life
Full of action and
Faithlessness and
Self-doubt,
A quintessential American.
Even so,
He shared his gift
With us, with
The world.
Shared a vision
Sometimes violent
And stark, but true.
True, at least,
For a
Quintessential American.
Oct 17, 2023
Oct 17, 2023 at 5:27 PM UTC
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping ******* plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly ***** plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
Burn To Turn
for a briefest, gilted
eternity, the trees
will burn not from
their crown
nor from their feet
and, despite the ice,
the sparkless space,
the cold steel
darts of insistent
slanting rains,
the trees will burn,
the trees will burn,
and all-at-once
the peripatetic sun,
it's whims having won,
will dance along
and share its breath
with everyone
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 10:04 AM UTC
stretching to length of gallows
under faint light of moon.
the dead buries the living.
a thing is not a thing in itself
as it denotes nothing.
like a peripatetic iamb inscribed
persisting in drivel. flowers her face
this evening. pillars her arms,
i do not have a wife.
i do not have a love undressed
as i examine a pool of shadow
in the plenary recess of silence.
the dead buries the living
within the blue-headed noon;
fascist birds bellow over haciendas,
tuba from the dustwell, from the orchard
decorated with blood. it rings for me
a guttural voice: hustling down
the avenue of the dead. better the alternative,
the guillotine, the small beginning of rage
through the thickness of air.
a marauder sleuths as the living keep
on keeping on, as the dead resign
a hindrance under dissonant skies.
she is not with me as all the others are.
they have passed on expired limitations;
a flash of lighting at the back
of startled hills. rivers shake cool waters
down my sleeve and i sleep -- soon fields
will be nasal with dew and the children
will have their place in heaven. the damp
landscape will adhere to stucco, fashioned
to cerements on corpses reeking, rising
to altitudes where some birds
in spring soar, left thriving in smog
as i bid you good night, farewell.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 3:28 AM UTC
It's that pretty time of the night
Where I would sometimes lie wrapped up in you
And the smoky sky and the wispy clouds
Would wink down at us
In plain sight
Far away in the oblivious distance
The mountains would call a peripatetic wind
And my heart would respond to your indistinct whispers
In that pretty time of the night
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC