Time is whatever you manage to make,
Day in day out, we learn from that which takes it,

To silence the fears that make us,
Feel the hatred that takes us,

Continue, in vain,
Like gestures and coins,
Tossed in the great beyond,

Dimes and platelets of greener days,
Rendered the vision of maximum guilt,
Fortrusions for gone the desert a piece

Scattered Thunderstorms

The radar shows a band of multi-green storms,
Parallel running to the East Coast,
Stretching from So. Florida to Falmouth, Rhode Island.

Path-dependent, the edges skirt my present location,
Instrumented, but not weather resistant,
Water teases, invites me to a head clearing session.

Breezy gusts of overcast, caramel salty bay waters,
(weirdly calm),
Spray sprites whisper, scattered thunderstorms, starboard side

I am the only boat out, especially,
The only one going for sure aimlessly,
Radar non-discriminatory, stupidity legal,
So fools like me go out alone.

Scattered Thunderstorms,
Unavoidable, summer's favored annoyance of choice.

The melancholic platelets budding off my bone's marrow,
Forming wondrous clots of sadness,
Running strong in the currents of my veins,
Downtempo'd, there is no relief for
Inside of my radar scanned brain, the scattered thunderstorms,
Have arrived much earlier today.

What sourced this elegiac distich,
Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat?

The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing
Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts
With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop
Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's
Just to make the point!

It is so easy to feel ******,
When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me.

Thinking back, getting a good idea,
Found some long necked Corona overlooked,
Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy,
And for god's sake, shut down poetry,
Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day

Value you more than me, but you've worn me down
My blood streams your anguished distress,
I cannot survive these scattered revolver-repeating
Anguish-Cries-For-Relief from the Thunderstorms,
That now having reached, breached,
That now, having infected my heart which started
This day brow beaten,
First poem of the day, already shell-shellacked,
Now, I must shut me, batten me, down.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The average lifespan of a platelet is normally just 5 to 9 days. Platelets are a natural source of growth factors. They circulate in the blood of mammals and are involved in hemostasis, leading to the formation of blood clots.

i know what newton tells us

i know countries and continents and cities

i know the planets and their moons

but i did not know the galaxy of my body the planets that are my organs or the nebula of my mind
until you showed me

you taught me and showed me and led me with coarse hands and eyes deeper than any space i have ever traveled.  you caught me in your gravity when you showed me ribosomes and platelets and when you traced my veins like they were a map you needed to follow without even knowing where it would take you. you told me the cosmos are forever but the body dies and that is far more beautiful than any atmosphere or supernova. i want to chart the stars on your skin with my mouth and i want to show you the taste of an atom and i want to teach you what overexposure to your radiation does to me but you are already laughing and telling me that something as small as you does not deserve the attention of the universe.

when i said i wish i had never met you

i told the truth

the universe was easier to comprehend

when it was only dead stars

instead of the way you look at me

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Do you ever realize that
This universe
Can be likened to blood?

Do you ever just sit down and realize,
That the stars in the skies
Are platelets rushing to form a clot
Around an ever expanding cut
Constantly pouring out blood?

The composition of the blood
Diffuses
And becomes that rich oxygenated red
That becomes dilutes with the air
Of our atmosphere
And the ruby red sunlight becomes
Lovely, lovely orange and yellow,
The kind that get you all mellow.

It also splits into the
Cold color of deoxygenated blood
Yes blue.
We watch it ooze
Slowly
Putting the vast expanse of the heavens
On display
After the day
Is done.

Then there is the plasma
Which scientists say is the
Fourth state of matter
But what does that even matter?

Do you ever realize that
This universe
Can be likened to blood?
Produced from an
Ever expanding wound
Like that of Christ whom
Was bruised for our sins.

Do you ever realize that
The universe that surrounds us
Could be
The blood of Christ
There to erase our sins?
That the more we do wrong,
The more blood he bleeds
Thus the more we see
The universe increase?

Do you ever realize that
The universe is constantly expanding
And will never stop?
I mean doesn’t that thought
Ever pop
Into your mind?

The color of death is not black, is not white.  
                                                        ­                        Not red, not gold.  
Think: ashen skin.  
                               Think: where did the blood go?  
                                                          ­                       Think: pale, so ******* pale.
Bruise again.  He’s going to bruise again.  
     Mottled red   and      purple   and      blue   and      green   and      yellow.
That’s what the body does after death.  Blood runs down
to the lowest bend of the body and bruises the skin.  

The rust of cerebrospinal fluid as it sloshes
                      back and forth
       in the bag hanging above the bed.  
                                                      My mother’s hands:
white knuckled and gripping down on washcloths
to prevent her from breaking the skin of her palms.
The constant hum of telemetry,
                                the soft whoosh of the ventilator.

The human body has roughly 7% of its weight in blood.
The human body has no ******* idea what to do when
there is too much or too little of really anything.
Think: blood vessel bursting.
                            Think: cells mutating.
                                                  Think: proned patient coding after intubation.

Bruised.  His hands were bruised from all the needle-sticks,
from his lack of platelets.  And a single transfusion only goes so long.
                                                           ­   Goes three weeks long.  
The hands on the belly, laid so gently, so carefully are
covered in makeup.  The hair is parted wrong with a cowlick.
I know how they created that soft smile on his closed mouth.
                                                                         I’ve read the books.
                                            I’ve heard the talks from morticians.  
They’ve made my grandfather tan, but
I know what’s underneath the foundation:
                                                                                  grey.

Twisted tales come surging
From a mind writhing and purging
In an oft fomented urging
For expressions, pure and raw
That fight repressions, lure and claw
Their way up to the surface
To effect a sense of purpose
But it's really all just worthless. . .
That's, unless you think it's not!
But if you don't: Your brain might rot!
Your skin might bubble, blood might clot
Leaving you heaving bile and snot
Or maybe phlegm and sputum
So your mental stores, you loot 'em
Load these rhymes up and you shoot 'em
Into repressed regression's mains
Into depressed suppression's veins
Until they sing a glad refrain
Of being decoagulated
Platelets become agitated
Now the blood is circulated
And the brain that hibernated
Has awakened from its slumber
Now it ponderously lumbers
With intentions unencumbered
Gotta do it by the numbers
So, them synapses start firin'
Them cortices start wirin'
And belly full of fire sings
Of jelly beans and tire swings
Of silly schemes and flyer wings
On foul mouthed little parrot,
Owners ***** laundry, airs it
Polly want a *******?
Just a snack sir?
But old Polly sez:
"**** me harder, Álvarez!"
Look aghast, her husband Ted:
"Oh hell no *****, 'cause that's the bed
that both we AND our children sleep in!
you've got Latin Lovers creepin'?"
She vacates the bedroom weepin'
Well . . . that took a drastic turn
To dwellings where disasters churn
So silly, will we ever learn
Or for mere want of learning, yearn?

(Tom, to himself: Go eat food. . . .)
(Tom, back to himself: Good idea!)

I think he left, but I'm still near
As tattered, scattered writing, dear!
So, read me well and read me clear,
And bring some friends to visit here!

On the outer
carapace of it,
     all seems ok
I am held
together by
single dry thre
                        a ds
like wire
and strips of
sinews
they keep me
tightly-wrapped,
a package of
molten powders
secret dynamite
waiting to
    e x p l o d e  in
exotic ticks
      of clockwork
but one scratch
beneath the surface
reveals my
inner truth:
How I wish,
by those
whorled and spiraled
powers above,
for the gently fluted
forces of my being
to be parted
like sacred seawater
with my psyche
   f l o a t i n g
just beyond
the zing of
       my brain,
no rational
           understanding
required
yes. I long
to be ever-slowly
           unraveled,
layer by layer
cell by cell
until all that is left
are the platelets
pulsating between
this heart
           and yours
each beat
betraying an
acute intensity
of how
I felt it,
      this tender
electricity
that crackled
        through and
                 between
            our bones
          from the
        very
      beginning
of
    our quiet blaze
our pinnacle
our quirky
metallic
     textures
our breath
mingling over
airwaves
         in heated
                 fluidity
   hotly drenched
in the iridescent
  dust of our
     star-marked
                     time

Sometimes I imagine that you could use a flat blade knife and separate parts of my body.
Like an anatomical model, an arm in half, a wrist entirely off.
An outmoded coloured wax model. Perhaps, a very old one. A decorated one with human or horse hair, closed eyelids and uncomfortable lips, and like those ancient roman ones, thinning sheens of paint on top.
The blade would slip through neatly, perhaps catching friction as it passes the block of soap texture, and leaves grimy residue on the knife.
You can see the vessels.
They are not clean.
Like my soul there are very nearly translucent scrapes and patches of liquid. Some days the liquid spills out.
Some days I just want to clean out. I want to purge, but I know I will just melt and the mistakes will be just as visible. You will see the marks that look like mouse's claws or pincers where I have pulled apart the skin trying to work out what went wrong. Doing some kind of surgery. Inside tying double sided sticky tape and chips of plastic, driving them in deep and forgetting about them.

When you say those things I can't be big anymore. If I'm tired you make me cry. Salt crisps up my intestines.
You make me imagine what it would be like to plunge a knife into my stomach.
I bet it would be satisfying like the braking of chocolate. Cracking of value bars.
But I have to remember that you are the organs thrown out at the end of the day, sloshing around in the bucket and I deserve to be preserved and anything that had been cried over or crafted is better than a remote controlled car. Stop telling me that it's not.
It's not as if I'm trying to be a petal or a fragment of netting fallen off a ballerina's skirt.
I've chosen to hover above the blades. I am nothing so frivolous. Feeling at home in a web of metal coated in paisley oven gloves. I am safe here. In fact I'm glad that thick haze separates us. You will never be able to find somewhere so tranquil. It makes me happy that there is no possibility that we can meet in the middle. It just makes it easier to keep the space, without the concern of some congealing platelets tethering to a surface which was never there.

You cannot just give up religion for lent,
and expect no consequences.
I am in every moment you discard.

You run on insistent consistency,
analytical calculations,
scraps of math equations
pieced together to
form your
functioning

But, you cannot rationalize away my
emotions.
My heart and my affection.
You cannot compartmentalize me,
shave off my soft curved edges
with a butter knife to fit the
labeled angular box you have created for yourself.
I still count even if you’re
making things even.

But I understand,
sometimes my hugs last 3
seconds too long.

--

Luke,
There is no picture
on a box to tell you what you’re
supposed to look like
when all this is over.

You might have built yourself,
but I was born.
I am more than a body.
I am your past,
your perspective
your platelets
your pacemaker
I will never truly
leave.

I long for a means coalesce like particulates in suspension and not coagulate.
Into a monstrous scab.
I hate to make cheloid tissue of this deadly grouping.
Id **** to be whole by finding a pairing.

The obstruction to human progression,
The roadblock of progress,
We are merely all platelets in this wound.
These free thinkers are the only.
Thing. Holding in all of the blood of the truth in man's march.
The moon was the beginning the end is the sun.
To a fusion of the atom,
And the birth of our flux.
To the birth of our achievement,
When we let loose the wound.
When the inside has healed and we aren’t bandaging the fumes,
Of a gaseous existence to penetrate everyone’s lungs,
With the stillness of thinking and the spirit of calm.

Currently.
We wait in the basement.
Sitting for our,
Plan.
To strike.

We will strike the match that flames the fumes of human resistance and build a castle of knowledge, hope, science, and destroy the sinkholes for progress.
The things that deplete our resources,
And the fire in our eyes will stab into every bastilles walls.
Of evil.

oh good, the frenzy has subsided
and you've evaporated from my arteries
           (you haven't)    
i think the platelets gathered too quickly and their collective volume
overwhelmed the highways
So Now I Can't Feel a Thing
          but do you remember
the park on the hill and the
shimmering fluorescence of forbidden waters?
                                             because it was 2am i think
(neither of us understood what was happening)
but we flew to each other on wings of a craving
beating against the jurisdiction of two
opposing currents

Some loves  never die, i think --
they seek refuge in the dusty caverns where
external tempests cannot harden them.
Other loves are preserved in the amber of summertime,
because it is better to die beautiful and intact, i think,
than to disintegrate into unmarked soil.

The Assignment
The stitched gauze blistering upwards
Warts & ***** matter slithering up the arm
An enigmatic stench of mortality
Solomon in scrubs
A Djinn infected with humility
Wandering for what
Digging up a severe lack of confidence
Entombed with proprietary nuance
Dressed for an exodus
To undermine the decadence
Content, maggots wrapped in hair
Showering the idea of significance
Coiling comparatively, larvae in womb
Tetragrammaton, the seal of metatron
Electroencephalograms, gloved hands and air dripping
Formless in essence, an opaque blur

You are a child, you have no right
No right to reject prophecy, no right
No right to lead us with ink on hand
A town alive
Ushering in sinusoid delirium
The rapture will commence the rebirth
Those who seek utopia
Nor good or evil
Ordo ad chao
Consequential matrice of paradise
Lattices vibrate in sympathy
Sacrament, a doppelganger of truth
Embodied in a pool of white noise
Partials of static, collected
Rotting on my tongue like heaven's night
Standing figures of choked brimstone
******* skin into a wounded mouth
A wish house inhabited with flesh
Reflections to nowhere incubating adolescence
Jack-knifing a model of self
Into an abstract quartz of emotion
Faltering into fog, electric supplements of truth
Journals to which I find delusion

We belong here
Torturing an empty casket
Looking for acceptance, emptied happiness
Drowning in a temporary penance
Cubic zealots anchoring abhorrance
Undermine an attempt at the vessel
Wilting morbidly toward surfeiting iron
Lashed off walls like flaked skin
Encapsulating ***** in infection
meandering amongst godflesh
Bones torn from sockets
The lens to see the chandelier
Climbing into unlocked houses
Settling in amongst the precious

The smashed memories
Porcelain teeth
Pruned fingers & moulded hands
Halo of the sun
An alternative to consciousness
Stumble around the alphabet
Introduce geometry
And let madness interfere
Beothuks & Wynn
Clawing at my mind
Chapels magic, sacred
Symmetry, gentle effortless life
Rogue, effortless entanglement
Mansions painted in nostalgia
Dripping with molluscs
Heralding the other circles
Drawn in red, repulsion

Blue, reversal and probing in my mind
You're not here
Tender sugar, sacred salt
Gyromancy of soaking light
Slaves to perdition
Fingernails dipped in platelets
Haemorrhaging tension
An autumn in fog
Caution is caustic
Melting through your cheek
Revelation, concentrate spectrum
Palace hated acetate in youth

It's like live how? like you make it
copy down the sad crown
ride the wheel you made it
the strong misguided hatred.

-eclipse-

Bathing naked
The flurried atom swarms and indulgent desires strip me of my latest confirmed identity.  

thoughts  and painted-eyes
Department earlobe tenants remorse filled by the
phantasmagoric patience and comfort of pain.

So plain and petty feels  like I'm crying "lone wolf!"  double knot shoe tie
finite coffer rusty nails-stick latent reparation clips of manta ray striking tail whips.

The core is stifled to trip and fall upon the wet autumn leaves, broken twigs, and an earthly wisdom. Carry us, oh misleading stranger to a different home with Velcro that sticks to platelets and crust that covers elbows.

Hatred is stronger for the long-suffering and confusion when what we need is light
The fierce reserve beckoned to fight after immobility subsides and clears clutter away from the self-loathing, shame, and spiritual fatigue.

Maybe today is the day. This spot is reserved anyway and the wolves seem hungry.

Dark, toned muscles awash in sweat
With beads of liquid maneuvering
Through the collection of dust
Creating paths that were inhuman at a glance
But in depth were signs of immeasurable power

The searching slice of the shovel, feeling for the loose stone
A bone perhaps, in the core of earthen veins
That solidify life, weaving it into the folds of eternity
Slowing the soul until only a small tempo in the symphony of time remains
Harbored forever in the memories of others

The smoke carried particles of dust
Dead skin that had parted from dying shells,
Empty of red and full of black
The pores of all eyes
Infected with the memory of sculpted dirt

He stands sentinel, over the man-made wound in the epidermal layer of green
Watching the sun fall behind a scattered horizon line
Creating calculated contouring by shadows
Between patches of light that illuminated the insignificant descent  
Of helpless pebbles

An older, breathing soul stands and reads from a weighted tomb:
“The price of living is to face an end
But the privilege of life is worth the price itself”
Then the parcel is lowered
The dust swarming into places yet untouched

A tirade of platelets rains down
Stemming the flow between this life and the spinning of the Earth
Shrouding the parcel in spattered reds and browns
Protecting it from the wrongs
Sealing it in the stillness of simplicity

With a final look back
The gravedigger turns in the direction of the sun’s masked glow
Forging a path between the peaceful earthen tombs
Making his way towards family and home
Where life continues for the living

I know it's kind of itchy
when a wound starts to heal.

But please, do yourself a favor
by not scratching it.

Or else your platelets
will get tired.

I only caught glimpses of his eyes while he spoke

words, lacerating this pneuma

and stuffing superlatives in this innermost being.

the wisdom I believed I possessed tumbled like Jericho

and I could hear the audacious screams of the Israelites

like blood torrents in arteries.

it’s a shame, I thought. He had a good heart.

pomegranate pnumbras flicker like fire behind my eyelids

and it burns there, too.

can I leave?

a smooth muscle ***** pumps blood and serotonin through platelets back into arteries

and I hungrily drink this newfound oxygen.

and all around the splintered cage

I saw orange slice smiles and white yacht clouds drifting through a blue ocean.

but a quick slip up pulled me away

and the faceless effigy stood pristine with metaphorical eyes,

of which I only caught a glimpse.

It’s a large cavern.  A gaping hole—
                                                                A black hole.  
Slow and fast.        Pain and numb.        Yin and yang.
The blackened lung.        The bust vessel.        The mutated cells.
                     It’s everything and nothing at once.

                                                    What is the condition of my heart?
I couldn't begin to tell you.
It’s hope and
                    it’s anger and
                                           it’s frustration and
                                                                ­           it’s a corked bottle on high heat.

Lush leaves.  Turquoise lagoon.  Iron sky.  
Everything looks like it's
                                               filmed through a blue filter, Twilight style—
                                                         this is what my heart looks like.  

Grey like brain.  Serosanguineous like cerebrospinal fluid
collecting from a shunt to a bag from a cracked open skull.  
Purple and green and yellow like bruises on
                      hands that don't have enough platelets to heal.  
Teal like an N95 mask.  Lilac like a casket spray.  
Soft pink like the padding of a wood overcoat.  
Grey.                        Grey.                   ­     Grey. 

This is what you will find if you crack my chest,
                                          spread my diaphragm,
                                                   my sternum,
                                               shuffle my lungs.
Sounds like asystole on the monitors, but still
           somehow producing electrical currents.  

The condition of my heart is cavernous.  
A sunset on the east coast; a sunrise on the west.  
                                                         ­                                Bittersweet.

obdurate, ******,
he fastened twine
tied to tarsals
around my
ventricles,
closed off
the vena cava

i am blue
in the breastbone

empty blood
can't reach
the lungs

but
i am equipped
with the tools
to deal with this

animal instinct
to fight off
infection
or to let it in
and cradle
me every
night at
2
when you
wake to
make sure
you haven't
missed

the tug at your toes
or
the platelets & plasma
or
a warm wavelength --
a chance to record a dream
you lost in rising

On the sandy shore of a distant memory, Euclid picked up a stick and began tracing the outline of some vague shape. At the first vertices he was interrupted by a hissing sound. Looking down in horror, what initially appeared a stick slowly coiled around his forearm and sank its teeth into his veins. As he watched the ocean spread its depths, he felt the sharp pain of platelets separating from plasma. Euclid walked into the gaping void and awaited reunion. Waves folding around him , his last sight was of a naked woman; she had the curves of a triangle.

The pages on my heart
are empty
and the blood staining my soul
mirrors the countless stars—

Let’s make constellations
from my platelets.

As you push your way farther into the sheets
I will chase you down
in spite of my fear of small spaces
and of being enclosed in your eyelids—

I cannot stand to take myself away from you now
but it never existed,

this moment played on an endless loop in your head
repeating repeating
a lapse in consciousness—

You fall
but I can no longer
catch you.

Today I hoped to achieve something great,
Something many would consider a heroic trait,
Giving plasma to those in need,
With the hope that the doctor's treatments would succeed.

Taking me back after a two hour wait,
I realized there were things which they needed to set straight,
For while I appeared as well as could be,
There was my underlying problem of epilepsy.

I suspected beforehand what I was to be told,
All things considered I kept myself controlled,
For even though I'd have to wait 3 years,
I realized that I had no great fears.

As I refused to be distressed,
For I knew that I'd done my best,
I knew what seemed like a setback to some
Was still a chance of a lifetime to come.

So I'll continue to help those in anyway open to me,
Until that path can at last be seen,
My chance will come again someday,
So I refuse to let such enthusiasm fade away.

  
                         ~What people think~




Sarah Gosa - I wondered while I was reading if it was the medication or the condition of epilepsy that kept you from being able to donate your plasma and what is the significance of three years. Enjoyed the voice of someone wanting to help out in their community. There are other ways to be of public service if this is not a good fit for you. It is defeating when we want to help but for some reason we can't. I had epilepsy as a child and have also donated my blood in the past so I could relate to the feelings in your poem. The last time I donated blood they separated the platelets out and pumped saline back into my veins, if I remember correctly. I hope you find an enjoyable way to spend your time. Thank you so much for sharing your poem with me.


Noble Knight - Epilepsy there is a subject I know to well grand poem amazing job


ALW89 - I really enjoyed this. Your tone went from excited to give yourself to others, then you showed your defeat. Seemingly having an illness like epilepsy can be an internal set back, since you appear well on the outside. Your writing showcased that and the poem ended with hope and put a nice spin on the defeat. Being in the medical profession I was really inspired by this.

Inspired me.

I remember that silver ore
Unrefined but intermittently beautiful
Just a hope for the future
A heart beat amongst the blood
And the teeth and the scars
That had left their marks on me

  I remember seeing you and smiling
Odes to the dawn, and dance, and the seeds
All my hopes for the future
Just a lantern in a darkened barn
And the viscera, the platelets and cells
That had made their home in me  

I remember feeling
But oh well
Feeling one by one
Fingertips and hips and lips
And diamond veins
Deep underneath the surface

I remember the waning moon
Becoming new with the dreams of tomorrow
Just vain imagination
And the blood
I remember the blood was flowing
I cannot forget

For the words
that heal & heave
boulders through
walls, meaning-
less barriers of hate

For logic & reason to
forge tomorrow today,
this moment that ebbs
& flows so fluidly
through paradoxicity

For the meaning of
being, life & love,
colors of things beneath
our luminous sun, reflected
in the iris of time

For dreams forgotten in
the dead of night, the moon
carved high in the void
of lives borne & buried,
half-remembered, but…

For what matters
between something & nothing
though we can’t see it
clearly, it’s there
begging to be found

For the choices
that carry forward, not back
against voices of truth
that bellow deep within
these fleshy heaps of sin

For my soul’s intent,
which seems hell-bent,
or at least inflamed,
with desire to puzzle,
create, pattern & game

For the joy gone
hiding in plain view
that beckons laughter
out of silence, droning
across the roads

For inspiration
bubbled up raw, collected
scoops of sinewy thought
whizzing & whirring faster
each cycle, begins anew

For clues to history’s
key, to unlock our stories
for all, together at once
with abundant humility
to sustain this tree

For the blocks & atoms,
wavelets & platelets bouncing,
skipping, hissing & twisting
reality betwixt our view
with simple pleasure

For the purpose
in this poem’s lines,
words & characters forming
a lattice-like guise, all
in the name of feint surprise