"plantar" poems
sleepy eyes open glimpse high ceiling red wood beams house built in 1920s glance out window tree tops blue skies mountains in distance flock of birds flying east chirping sounds passing car engine accelerates inhale deep breath through nose stretch legs plantar dorsal flex feet raise arms over head stiffness in shoulder feel strange sensitivity in right pectoral above ****** cautiously examine with hands feel coarse lump growing more like nub smell moss glare down at growth protruding from chest panicky by soreness rise from bed to mirror on closet door tree stem jutting out from chest inspect dark bark like calloused growth little leafs budding this cannot be race in nervous tantrum run to bathroom suffer painful weight pulling me down clutching carrying foliated limb with arms see myself in mirror horrified stagger back to bed lie on right side branch resting on mattress breathe anxious breaths reexamine pectoral area feel sinewy roots spreading under skin across chest up neck down over stomach waist legs forget how to get home disorientated nauseous exhausted what is this flora invading me ******* kafka metamorphosis post-modern hyper-real narration without accountability jorge luis borges metaphor without mindfulness fairytale run wild jean baudrillard simulacrum psychosis room now filling with plant undergrowth stinking of earth dirt gooey slugs worms shells bugs festering climbing towards windows voracious for light warmth moisture blocking out morning sun entire body trapped in tangled twisted leafy twigs excruciating pain fright lungs gasping suffocating encroaching darkness fatigue loss surrender wake up 4 AM from nightmare scared to fall back to sleep
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 3:45 AM UTC
The man who sleeps in the diner's back booth
will not care if your mother suffers from
plantar diabetic neuropathy, or that your
cousin read **** and gulps *****
No, trivial matters will not worry him
because he ****** himself dormant
after he awakens, that will be
his primary concern.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 7:08 AM UTC
Busco lugares de tierras negras y frescas
Donde plantar mis pies
Echar profundas raíces que incluso tormentas
no puedan lograr desprender.
Pero mis plantas no son para hacer raíces
Estas tierras no son fértiles
y aquí apenas llueve.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
(Puh)
“The power to perceive something impossible persuades me. I must pick a place.” The Clairvoyant Gulch.
This person pounds the ground with persistence. A penchant to procreate perception. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Passing away into peach fuzz and polyandry. Pretty Polly plans to participate in the process. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Princess Penelope ****** on Polly. Paczki the predator penetrates the preposterous Polly.
The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President of the Polyandry Psychics proposes: let Polly go but only with the presentation.
The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyandry People peer and pry for what will Polly present. The poor prissy presents her ***** The Clairvoyant Gulch.
She placidly plucks the ***** to pay the People. But she then panics and pours pomegranate red over a *** The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The *** then becomes an urn so precious that the People pray. Polly feels penitent of her peccadillo. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President points to the urn. Paczki the predator places ingredients into the *** pig’s tail, pesto and plantar’s wart. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyanderthals round about and puke into the *** Polly prepares a peyote dish that will pause time. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President and People consume the *** It tastes vile and profane, they puke again. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyantherhals turn around to find Polly unpresent. They **** and pant in confused anger. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Polly is passing the time, possessing a power within the Earth’s core. Her polyethylene pants protect her from the core’s melting point. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
As for the People, it was not practical for them to be presented such profane magic. Their perception of the universal paradigm had been inverted in perpetuum. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
As for the Polyanderthalic *** of ****** pomegranate juice, the President sold the item through Paypal to a polyandry professor living in Piccadilly. The People never practiced polyandry in perpetuum. Ever again.
~The Clairvoyant Gulch
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
The best part of the day was two-thirty for me
The best part of the evening, is when I am on the train
With my thoughts, my aching feet
and you on my mind: the warm feeling
The high risk: the madness, this military world
then I thought of a Jamaican comedy
Shabada, Trever and basement Granny
The vibes, his voice, their natural dialect,
of freedom raw on stage, big up to them
Like the olden days with the pen and paper
Pen pals and old typewriters: we communicate freely
Without the social media tools:
Throughout each line we read, we smile,
We touch the smudge ink on the pages,
its represent the love of someone who cared
However, here today is the trump administration news
The regales stories of families who are being torn apart
The thousands of elephants that are being poached for its ivory tusks
To the messages it sends about an uncaring leadership team
For all my pain, my good deals of the day,
Merci, merci, mercy me!
My plantar fasciitis: when would it all end?
**P.S Don’t be afraid of the darkness that surrounds you
Be afraid of the darkness within you…**
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 11:04 AM UTC
Fallibly, this evening, the moon over movements
exposed to prying dimness.
Everything is resigned to silence. The balcony
peering through the vastness, the moon like a tonsure
of a septuagenarian paving a hole in the sky.
The Earth moves with feet: plantar, tiptoeing –
out of propulsion from underneath the ground,
turns to sway, a clenched league of roots
the dog outside fashioned to sleep, draped by
the curtains left to dry in the bleak behemoth.
a stone his own size, or the emptiness my own weight.
Here are misspent days under hermetic space.
I am a child left to my own salt. I lift sleep’s lids
and what dreams diminish in realness is nothing but a tide
that clings more to brine than my hands – leading me back to
where I have found myself verily this evening,
the old Moon repeating itself, unfinished still.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:19 AM UTC
hoje plantei
duas mudas de rosa vermelha
também duas de boldo.
comprei sementes de margarida branca
e salsa do tipo que não é graúda.
esvaziei um vaso e arranquei fora a planta
quando olhei pra raiz
descobri que plantei batatas miúdas.
guardei elas
pra plantar novamente.
como é gostoso cultivar vidas que não falam.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
no me quiero plantar en el
naipe fastuoso de la vida o
jugar a ganar o
a perder sino
perder para ganar o sea
ganar para perder tu rostro
canta que canta en la mañana y
ya te voy a sufrir
por ejemplo
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Gaita galaica, sabes cantar
lo que profundo y dulce nos es.
Dices de amor, y dices después
de un amargor como el de la mar.
Canta. Es el tiempo. Haremos danzar
al fino verso de rítmicos pies.
Ya nos lo dijo el Eclesiastés:
tiempo hay de todo: hay tiempo de amar,
tiempo de ganar, tiempo de perder,
tiempo de plantar, tiempo de coger,
tiempo de llorar, tiempo de reír,
tiempo de rasgar, tiempo de coser,
tiempo de esparcir y de recoger,
tiempo de nacer, tiempo de morir.
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