"physicists" poems
The bullet flew so quickly from the pistol it felt like the blood in my veins stopped for a moment
As if quantum physics were just a mere myth
Of random laws and physicists
Each individual cell and atom in my body stopped and rushed to abyss
Thump, thump.
As the bullet reached the end of your skull, I swore I died instead of you
But instead of dying and leaving the realm of the living I enter bliss and happiness
Flowers scattered over bright green grass for miles,
Soft and whispering wind rushed past my freckled skin
The trees swayed with the wind
It brought an epitome of perfection, only your carcass brought death and decay
Snapping back to reality, your eyes rolled back, and your jaw opened wide
I wanted to tear it open, to give you a somewhat permanent evil smile
Your body hit the ground so hard, the sound vibrated across my body, giving my heart the ability to beat normally again
You looked so peaceful for a mere moment
I swore I could have kissed you even though I despise your very being
Your skin quickly went colorless, and you laid there so still
I burst into panicked laughter, and covered my filthy mouth
It was definitely rude to laugh at someone's death
My stomach growls, and my hands shake with satisfaction
I've finally done it. I killed my insecurities
After a short moment of freedom and what seemed to be like genuine tears of joy...
Your eyes roll back to normal, and they focus me closely
Rising from the ground, you flick your hair back as if the wind blew it out of place
You fix your shirt, as if the blood stains weren't there
"It's so silly to think you could get rid of me so easily," you say.
I'm never going to feel alive ever again
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 7:53 AM UTC
Physicists are perverts. They keep
trying to peek under Mother
Nature's dressing gown- asking
Her questions like "why
do electrons behave as both
particles and waves?"
when what they really want
to know is
if Mother Nature's lingerie
is red or black, and which
she prefers to wear
on Fridays.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
the ashes of ancient
alchemical martyrs glow
in the great tunnels
of Hadron, whizzing
faster than time
at the behest of man,
the measurer of all things
including whether things
are worth measuring or not
a sordid joke on the great minds
that sorted the mystery out
long before quantum physicists
crawled out from under
the church’s labyrinth
of insulting confabulations
and pillaged the fortunes of others
to build the great rings
shall we bow to the new God?
**** your experience, I’ll prove you wrong*
He bellows from the podium built from
the finest endangered trees
and polished with the spit of
all who disagree, and yet
it’s truth in action
the 9mm’s omniscient song
sung across this suffering world:
**** with me, and you’ll discover the truth**
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 7:36 PM UTC
Museums as art
Art as museums
Sail the trail to my mausoleum
Psychopaths and physicists
Psychiatrists and philosophers
Philanthropists and pilots and painters
Declare now, that these are our days –
Our hours, and our days
These are our city, our hours
Our time, our days.
This is our world –
At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it
And searched it and found it wanting
Of civilization that I could so easily supply
By means of wounds and iron
And brawn and truth
(and just a tiny touch of influenza darling)
By means of our Lord,
Who grants us all that we desire
If only we **** enough of those he did not choose.
This is our world –
And we shall make it what we will
Make it in our own image
Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong
Raise it to hate no one
But to love itself so deeply
That all other love seems hateful in comparison.
This is our child, love
Yours and mine.
Here the first shall be last
And the last shall be first
But once the first are last they shall be
Last
Last
Last
And once the last are first
They shall make it so they can never be last again
This is our primitive accumulation
Of necessary materialism
Let’s cultivate matter
To make objects that we can place on shelves
And in cases –
These are our cases
And we love them as we love ourselves
Museums as mass graves
Mass graves as museums
Kiss me in my mausoleum
Priests and prisoners
Prostitutes and prophets
Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans
This is our time –
And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments
Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons
Buying ample earplugs
To seal in the silence
So we can somewhat say
“look there is peace –
Look we have done it
In our time it is accomplished” –
This is our peace –
And we know it by the signs
The lions and lambs lay quietly together
In our brass-barred zoos
For as long as shelves and cases
Are intact and the first are first
And the last are last
And the civilized are organized and holy
There is peace –
Oh, look
We made peace!
And as for Solomon and Socrates –
We take their words to weave through our new wisdom
And when we re-chart the constellations
We shall give them each a star
And salute them once a year
When they come around the universe
Oh, look
How wise we are!
Mass graves as art
Art as mass graves
There have been no better days
There has been no greater time
Politicians and pornographers
Professors and pirates
Psychologists and pastors and pianists
This is our time –
And we are doing with it the very best we know how
The last are toiling and trying
And the first are trying to think to try –
But there is a shortness in our hours
And a violence in our peace
There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom
And disease in our cities
And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases.
This is our world –
We crafted it and declared our truth to be true
We sculpted this, our colosseum
Please inscribe my mausoleum
With “we know not what we do”
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
We slump on the couch when we return like lifetimes
have passed before us.
We have to, even though it was only a seven minute walk
to the dining hall, because 1) the food was just
“weird consistency”
(which we tend to say regardless), 2) the light
in there yawned indifferently to us (when does it not?), and
3) the reassuring clink of our forks on our
plates wasn’t even there this time it was
hiding underneath slop
and smothered on top by the intruding sound waves
(who asked?)
of our next-table neighbors’ lives.
You made a sly remark about seconds to catch
a glimpse of youthful ****
She’d gone to get some more baby carrots and cucumber slices
to put in her salad maybe
(who knows? who cares?)
Either way, her youthful **** would make the food taste like
something to you. And you
described them to us when you sat down again so
the slop would taste like something to us
(there’s pride in that type of generosity, don’t forget) and
(congratulations)
we had the faint impression of
some sort of
****** there, but
we didn’t tell you
(it’s easier that way).
A cup, a squeeze, a kiss on her ******* yes that could feed
our hunger for a night. And tonight was a night
like any, so her ******* led us to talk
of women, and women led us to talk of
love
(and the blooming one for the poor *******
as we who lost withstood the vicarious twinge of
an addling ****** very different from
the first.
This one led us to pine for sweets, but the ones we found
were dry, so we left the table, left the dining hall, looking around at
the others: the lonely, the couples, the blessed
lonely couples, and the fortunate friends
huddled against everything with open laughter, enjoying
the weird consistency like drunk theoretical physicists before
they discovered bubbles and inflated eternally meaning
when they safeguarded a
zoo with a pistol they didn’t know how to
use, in Soviet Russia.
(So you see?) We have to slump on the couch
when we return like lifetimes
have passed before us.
No one even bothers to pick up a guitar, we leave all four of them
strewn on the floor like
dead wooden boxes because
Dylan or Young or Cash (or whoever)
is already in the living
room. Any
bubbling, inflating, theoretical physicist
(any drunk, pistol-packing zookeeper, for that matter) will
tell you that.
So we slump, comfortably uncomfortable,
(at least we’re trying!)
feeling their (our) strings plucking. No sounds, no voices.
Because we don’t need
to hear this that.
Not right
now. (Not right
now).
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
My encounter, although mistakingly enlightening
Leaves me more baffled than before.
Do my words inherit the glow, similar to my daydreaming movements?
As if they were prematurely made, a banner across my silhouette.
Attached before the words can escape my mouth.
I wonder tonight about the necessity of freedom of speech
Curious to understand the rate of which our minds have developed, or been manipulated.
Is it our human defect of guilt the thing that encourages us to open our mouths?
Merely to humor our lowly human selves.
But I fumble
As words escape my lips, and enter your mind,they cannot be translated.
You cannot read my genuine emotion, as the life and purpose is ****** out as they are inscribed across your palm
So I write, and I materialize these things before they are evaporated.
Yes, I am confusing, and I apologize if I am further misunderstood
But, , my friend, I do love you
Purely, true and eternally
Yet I cannot give you what you desire.
Newton was both right and wrong
Love cannot be created nor destroyed
This energy flows continuously, passed from friend to friend
youthfully and innocently as friendship is meant to be
But, what he did not consider was the love of truth and purity
Which in the end is no energy, as they would have us believe
This love is an essence, similar to that formed the blood flowing through our family
Yet has something more
This love I speak honestly of,
Is unselfish
Is no medal of achievement
It bestows upon you the drive to be the highest you
It is the essence for the creation of the one thing that they can never offer
True love, and true love of yourself.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
Light waves, frequencies, and distorted thoughts. Aligned with misperceptions. Auras tainted with beings of another stage. My duality cracks into a million faces. Astral physicists of higher realms. Who needs a doctor when you have perfectly good shamans? Green monsters, unseen to the naked eye. I remain broken as twisted images carry me along the sea of paranoia.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
Struck with the realization of existentialism.
Found the secret to the universe.
Found the cosmic codex then erased it.
Struck with the sudden fury of a divine messenger.
Understood the duality of good and evil.
Recorded the universe of knowledge then misplaced it.
Struck with a wave of indecision.
Solved theoretical physicists struggle with time travel.
Caught the speed of light and then outpaced it.
Struck with the spear of a fallen angel.
Found the devil in my dreams.
Became his nightmare and replaced it.
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
I always wanted to compose symphonies,
But my hands and my head could never agree.
I got the blue curse, because I always feel beats,
But my fingers freeze up when I get to melo-DIEs.
Recede. I want to live the nihilist's dream,
Smoke packs a day to intensify screams.
Maybe if I stare into the middle distance,
After hours I would build up a tolerance to listen.
IN THIS town, there are only 2 kinds of people
Girls who pierce their NOSES and THOSE IN the steeple
Walking down So. Auburn in bare feet and short shorts
Catching the gleam from the street (of course),
With their dreadlocks all up in auburn buns
And their eyes shooting diamonds in the autumn sun.
Bullet-belt vests draped lazily over their shoulders,
With double-zero earrings and squirt-gun holsters.
And the police-dogs and the SWAT cars are all powered by indulgence,
The doctors are up to their elbows in cadavers by self-expulsion
The men are splitting at the seams from over-eating obsessive compulsion
And the shameful deception of upward inflection to change my direction and wind
UP and the inanimate DUCKling with a large crank between its shoulders
In the shape of a black key to the black energy that makes the cold rooms colder
Is a disguise to the spoken word hurricanes brewing inside me.
Set me to zero then make me the hero so physicists can derive me.
If the sum of all forces is equal to mass times acceleration,
Maybe the sum of world problems is equal to vanity times irritation.
Jeans cutting up my legs, purpling due to lack of circulation
Are developing holes, as well as the soles of my shoes, I'm growing impatient.
The production slows to a halt, pouring salt into lacerations,
And as boys grow into drunk daddies, women resort to migration.
This country isn't democracy, just a ghastly and pale imitation,
These people don't have representatives, only half-assed representations.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 7:08 PM UTC
Physicists believe this dimension
may be nothing more than a hologram
But they have not run their fingertips
down the curve of your back
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
My father, he always has so much to say,
you know.
He loves weddings.
My daughter,
yes,
she’s always been so smart,
and we’re so proud of her.
He says it like he knows anything about me.
I nod and smile,
and shrink myself in front of the men.
What is there to do but pretend?
No one needs to know about
the ways that you made me unlovable,
the way I spread my legs,
the way I strike a match.
We don’t talk about it.
It’s cultural values,
or something like that.
Look at the happy couple,
interchangeably
pharmacists, physicists, or physicians.
The groom smiles,
the bride does too,
they’re both so
good.
I sit there
and dream
of it.
A mandap, a
great big white horse.
I would be forcing it,
I knew,
but I wanted them to see me in red.
I wanted to walk
down that aisle alone,
and smile, demurely, smugly –
look what I did.
I got him,
I
wore him down.
I dream like it makes it redeemable,
the things that I’ve done.
How bad is the punishment
if I deviated with best intentions?
We hold onto these tiny ambitions,
the boy
the buffet line
and the bragging rights,
like it undoes the damage.
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC
<•>
Good Acts are like Good Poems
*"Good acts are like good poems.
One may easily get their drift,
but they are not rationally understood"*
Albert Einstein
Ach, mein guter Kumpel!
Ach, mein bester Freund!
how could I not have known,
the syncopation, the synchronization,
between what I write, and the impetuous impetus within,
that caustic sense that burns words
from my chest
directly onto the paper
are more than correlated,
even causation-ally related
after all, you, naturally, the master of relativity
but you know me Al,^
I, the quibbler from NYC*
have to have a slightly different take,
in my gemeinschaft city of eight million strangers,
we always must have eight million and one
opinions
true dat, when I am on the fifth or sixth stanza,
realizing got no clue what the poem is rambling about,
but it sounds so good, lovely, pretty words,
why ***** it up with scientific rationality?
but good acts are easy, uber understood,
rationally we live to survive and
do what we to
make the species survive, common sense triumphs,
disguised as sacrifice, forgetting to roll the dice,
doing what comes like a good poem,
and what needs doing or writing
is so intuitively obvious,
just love poetry,
a global necessity
so check out Houston in two thousand and seventeen
here's hoping life in heaven ain't boring
know that you've seen, peeked, peaked,
at the theory of everything,
resolving the contradictions
between general laws of physics
and those pesky tiny quantum mechanicals,
even solving that 'other' equation
GA = GP
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
Strings.
Our world is never going to be enough.
We want to know what's beyond,
what comes after,
what was before,
and I 'm no different, don't get me wrong.
So, we have a robot flying threw space about to land on Mars.
We have Christians praying to their God and Muslims to theirs.
We have Atheists being Atheistic and Satanist being Satanic.
Punks are acting punk like and triple X-ers are passing the blunt right back.
We have scientists trying to cure cancer and theoretical physicists trying to understand dark matter.
We have you and I trying to work things out.
why.
What really is the point.
There are a select few things I am absolutely sure of.
I am alive.
I am going to die.
I love you.
why.
Why don't I just die already?
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 12:35 AM UTC
His chest moves
upwards then inwards
as a man
would wave
from left to right,
when every breath he borrows
from the atmosphere
is returned
back to where
it once came from.
His mind presents itself
as a knot
to untie
rather than a melody
to twirl to,
And perhaps, this is why
he snores asleep.
Every ten minutes : A Thunder
striking for a second
or two.
He resembles a glass of water
in which the liquid seems clear
though present,
eventually evaporating
as the tasks
he ticks of the lists
every time
his eyes wake
from the dilemma
of justice
in a city
degrading
the artists and the painters,
the poets and the dreamers,
the physicists and the biologists,
whilst praising
corporations handing titles to
women as
inert particles
flying off a boiling ***
and men,
as the controllers
in a virtual video game,
He wasn't dreaming.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
Instability.
Keyword: instability.
Mid-May and the room has a blue cold, runny nose, condensation clasping the window like a quiet leech. Through the narrow chinks of my cavern, I can glimpse a computer surrounded by world in peripheral; fish eye vision like religious fervor, I realize life has made a lasting impression on whatever I am.
whatever I am.
Dream fades to life, life fades to dream, some alien language crash landed on Earth and now we all speak English (except, you know, the ten thousand other dialects all branched from the Indo-European earth worm). People like to say that everything changes. Nothing stays the same. Does the fact of change never change? Does that not make constants a possibility, even if only within the Many World Interpretation of Quantum Physics (capitalized! it's a name and 'Quantum Physics' likes playing the smiling subtitle ( :) ) ) now I wasn't in Copenhagen the day a jury of physicists decided on Reality; but I was in Reality (capital R) so I'm sure that counts for something.
They say they don't know who 'they' are; as if a brief allusion to a greater network somehow invalidates the point (but 'they' is the 'you' you decide to ignore; the 'you' composite of influences 'you' simply grew around; 'they' is the part of yourself 'you' keep tucked away comfortably like a newborn child that doesn't know any better).
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 2:06 AM UTC
*here they go again , these experts
telling us things to sadden the heart:
game may not be that safe to eat
running river water is never a treat
for it carries upstream decadence
here they go again, these stuffed-shirt experts:
water is two to one hyydrogen and oxygen
boiled, the oxygen steams away into the air
and your cappuccino has a hydrogen flavour
we endanger our lives when it we drink and savour
here they go again, the learned heralds of demise
they tell us that nothing we can ever devise
can avert the armageddon that's surely coming
the entropy or second law of thermodynamics
transforms physicists into latterday prophets
here they go again on prime media, the erudite experts
talking about free radicals, anti-oxidants, titanium utensils
and the havoc that excess proteins, fats and carbohydrates can cause
it’s time to go puritan and vegetarian in this new poisonous present
where fun is frowned upon and barbecues are a deadly pastime
in this age of dietary enlightenment and forced moderation
we must eventually go raw in our cuisine and be natural about it
or perhaps be as creative as possible before the nutritionists come in
to tell us how not to cook our food and how not to eat it
living was great fun before this age of detoxification and cancer!*
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
The cold, hard numbers
That our most established scientists
Now conceive
Whether astronomers or physicists,
Leave us with no other choice than to
Make peace with the fact that somebody;
Something out there has
Complete control over our every detail.
And as Sir David F. Attenborough
Would say when witnessing
Some incomprehensible horror of Nature:
One must let it take its course.
We **** **** laugh and cherish.
But do we?
There is more to Earth than her worst.
Perhaps we are left with the words of
New Agers, hippies and
Mushroom eaters in the end
To describe reality at last.
Or the poets. Lest we forget
The ******* poets.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
If there should ever come a day
when the heavens should file for bankruptcy
and the stars pack up and walk away,
know you no longer have reason to stay
and watch the waves abandon the sea.
If there should ever come a day
when gravity breaks down, losing it's way,
and molecular bonds begin to disagree,
let the stars pack up and walk away.
If mathematics come undone and run astray,
break the last abacus and then decree:
"If there should come a day and that day is today!"
If and when it comes leave Earth in disarray,
disassemble each and every tree,
tell the stars, "Pack up and walk away."
Call up all the physicists and say,
"Discontinue paying your A.P.S. fee"
if there should ever come a day
when the stars pack up and walk away.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 1:53 PM UTC
heaven sent
graffitied
wormholes
to usher us
out - busts
of deified
physicists
presumed
dead, noses
chipped - like
paint on
old highway
billboards -
stacking
"Welcome!"
signs atop
Vacuum
Cleaner
advertisements.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
I am in love--
with the monophonic hum of the vibrating
strings of existence, stars and fingers
and atoms singing a Gregorian chant,
the chaos of particles, wildly dancing,
the beauty of the infinitesimal,
the belief in a theory
of limitless possibilities.
I am a poet, not a scientist.
When I close my eyes,
I exist on a quantum level.
Physicists' particles, theorists' strings,
dance in purest form:
gracefully spinning en pointe electrons,
belly-dancing quarks, lithe and writhing,
a photon, swaying, dressed in light.
For comfort, I walk at night
on Einstein-Rosen bridges
from my world to others,
searching the stars for angels;
for escape, I wrap myself
in a quilted multiverse,
knowing that a version of me exists
in a universe with a version of you.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
I wanted to know what was real knowledge,
so I went to the wisest master, God,
Not to learn things of school or college,
But to go where no foot has ever trod.
.
God said," I know what you seek, child,
But if real knowledge is what you wish to gain,
You venture into mountains dark and prairies wild,
And go through joyful hurt and honoring pain."
.
I was ready to put up resistance,
Said God," To men you shall speak,
Who are the wisest of this existence,
And at the end you shall get what you seek."
.
And so I went to the Physicists,
On whose principles this world exists,
They asked, “Pascal’s law, Bulk modulus, Doppler effect, can you tell?"
I said," No sir, but like Newton, even I wondered why the apple fell."
"Sacrilege!" they said," You inelastic plastic, may your soul rest in hell."
But I remembered God's words and moved on.
.
Then I went to the scholars of Chemistry,
Who are the wisest in mankind's History,
They asked me," What about Dalton's law, KTG, inorganic Benzene, can you say?"
"Nothing, sir, but I wonder about molecules and atoms, night and day!"
"Sacrilege!" they said, " You miserable molecule, May in hell your grave lay."
But I remembered God's words and moved on.
.
Then I went to the supreme Mathematicians,
Whom I consider as God's own magicians,
They asked me," What on methods of solving DEs, LMVT, can you speak?"
"Nothing, sir, but I work on theorems of Euler, the mathematician Greek."
"Sacrilege!" they said," You rootless equation, may you end up in the Devil's steak."
But I remembered God's words and moved on.
.
Indeed, I felt sorry for their and the future generations' plight,
But at the end of the road, I realized God was right,
It’s not about knowing Pascal's, Dalton's or Euler's shouts,
Its knowing how to live life to your fullest, every time you breathe in and breathe out.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
*"That one body may act upon another at a distance
through a vacuum without the mediation of anything else,
is to me so great an absurdity that,
I believe,*
Every massive particle in the universe
attracts every other massive particle.
Force directly proportional to the product of their masses,
inversely proportional to the square of the
distance
between them.
Spherically-symmetrical masses attract and
are attracted as if all
their mass were concentrated
at their centers
There is no immediate prospect of identifying the mediator of gravity.
Attempts by physicists to identify the relationship between
gravitational force
and other known fundamental forces are not yet resolved.
Many attempts were made to understand the phenomena,
but there was nothing more that scientists could do at the time.
*no man who has in philosophic matters
a competent faculty of thinking
could ever fall into it."*
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:09 AM UTC
wither goest he?
traveling, traversing, rehearsing
the good doctor lingers in the doorway out
sometimes forgotton, but always, ever, perpetually
omnipresent
dictations and suggestions, hunches corrupting
helping one last time to cauterize, sterilize
cutting off the umbilical cord to humanity
nothing to slow it down, nothing to hinder, nothing to feel
cilia burned, silly-a me to allow it
is it a neccesary burden. a beast with a broken back
still slogging, blindly, towards an imaginary finish line
hoping there is only darkness there. rest. peace
he misses his shell. the whole world is asbestos
this is his hell. the soothing water sputters the flames to smoke
and miles away, tonto points and deciphers.
********* is what it says, soaring eagle
the white man is so trivial
primitive in his circular command center, melting legos to heat his hearth
hiring ****** to eat his heart
a trapper keeper. a pointed rose. a poisoned tip. a mental rip. a freudian slip
this place has no ass. I mean.. class. class is what i meant.dammit
surroundings never touch the surface of my skin
and quantum physicists only complicate this perspective.
**** your logic! and **** mine worse..
why must everything be rehearesed? this is a curse.
a verse of a song I sing with a gun to my head
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC