"populated" poems
You are my pink skies with candy floss clouds
My open fields flooded far and wide with cherry blossoms
and green feathered sparrows singing tunes of your favourite songs that sound kinda-something-sorta like your voice,
The walls in my castle populated perfectly with portraits of you
and you already know portraits are my favourite.
Somehow my imagination bound beautifully with my reality such that I could tell no difference.
You are my Utopia.
But utopia is subject to interpretation.
You like candy floss occasionally, pink is not your favourite colour and I do not even know what your favourite flower is
Without forgetting to mention, you prefer beaches.
You like puns, peaches, foxes and fairies but my world has none of that, I want to accept those but you will not have it any other way.
I want our worlds to collide but in a more subtle way, but when that kinda thing happens it is almost always apocalyptic
So, what is yours will never be mine and what is mine you do not even want at all.
My utopia sounds like it belongs in a book, but we all know how long that lasts.
Be sure to check out Utopian Dystopia Pt. 2!
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
I.
And my hair became too much
It overtook the walls
made its way into the office on the sixth floor
and then hung
like a dripping willow’s branches
over the desks
By the time they thought to find me
I’d already been wrapped up in a cocoon of brown hair
indistinguishable from the walls
that was now
also covered in the thick strands of undulated hair
II.
everything and everyone became consumed.
III.
In hairy chrysalis, the scissors uselessly
hung on some poor frantic pair of hands
forced into pupa
IV.
It was on the third day that the streets surrounding the corporate buildings were once again
populated with people, that a young woman in heels swore she heard a
faint choral singing coming from the 5th or 6th floor of a dreary grey building.
V.
everything cocooned
everyone consumed
all in pupa
VI.
During metamorphosis, a caterpillar digests itself leaving only behind imaginal discs
that shape it’s adult body.
everything becomes consumed.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
Fat people have no heads.
They end at the shoulders,
they are clipped off at the neck.
Never talk to fat people.
You may talk to an expert,
to a dietitian or a doctor
but never to a real live fat person
because fat people have no heads.
Use the word Epidemic
at least once, especially
if children are involved.
Children are always involved,
so use the word Epidemic
at least once. Fat children
still have heads, usually;
only fat adults must be
d e c a p i t a t e d.
Because he still has his head
you may talk to a fat child,
especially if you offer him
a box of chicken nuggets.
Entice him to say Alarming Things
with a box of chicken nuggets.
After the word Epidemic
segue from concerned anchorwoman
to stock footage of fat headless girl
browsing the racks at J.C. Penny’s.
Segue to fat headless mom
walking with her fat headless son
on a sidewalk populated by
fat headless pedestrians.
Voice-over Alarming Things
about fat headless people
not getting enough exercise
and segue to fat headless man
stuffing his fingers into a box
of McDonald’s french fries.
Fat people eat only McDonald’s
french fries and we will be right
back with more on this story
after a word from our sponsors.
Cue McDonald’s theme song.
Pretty people Golden Arches
laughing with their heads
as they eat McDonald’s french fries
with their heads
and never gain a pound.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 5:58 PM UTC
The Earth was ours.
We filled its fertile fields full of
Plants of our own choosing: our own design.
To provide for ourselves we drained the Earth
Because the Earth was ours.
We populated the islands that
The Earth had built for us from its own skin.
Like parasites we kept it alive for our needs
Because the Earth was ours.
Then one day the Earth spoke:
You who crawl over my face,
Unthinking for the blemishes you build.
You till my skin and plough my bones, you drink
My tears and feast on my flesh. Slowly, my fiery
Vengeance has brewed, bubbled upwards
And wrath shall be known.
It will begin as a rumbling.
You will think I tremble with terror at your might
But the movement of your monuments is more my
Laughter at your lowliness. The hallways of your houses
Will be hewn by themselves as my body convulses to be rid of the
Sickness of you. You will sound your two-tone Armageddon sirens
In vain as my thunderous thoughts tumble your towers
Fragment your foundations. Break your brick walls.
Stone on stone will spark, igniting infrastructure
And your cities will burn.
But it is just the beginning.
I will bury you.
I will bury you in the fire of my fury.
I will bury you in the ashes of my anger.
You will solidify, screaming, into silent stone.
You will choke, child-like, on my smoke.
You will die by my hand: your home.
And I will bury you.
And this to me is easy.
I am greater than all you build from
My body. So I use my body to wreak ruin:
Reduce your greatness to rubble and dust
Because the Earth was always mine.
I was always my own.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
“isn’t it crowded in california?” people always ask me
but you should have seen the way it looked from the sky
expanses of empty valleys
mountains of uninhabited ridges
cities that i could touch with my fingertip
much like the stars in the dark night air
and green as far as the eye could see
the silver snow that dotted the land
reminding us not to forget about it
never had i been so far above that i could notice it all
always stuck in my corner of the universe
and you should have felt what i felt
knowing that there are still
areas of my heart that have yet to be
realized and explored and populated
by anyone who is not you
even though at one point
you occupied the spaces
the cracks in my chest and lungs and limbs
so much that i thought you were a piece of me
but the seasons change and so do people
so my winter will be drastically different than my summer
when you climbed out of my life and into another’s
and hearts break and shrink and expand
to make room for different hearts
(mine’s currently in the process of getting rid of you)
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
A populace filled with totalitarian tranquility
The supposition that the world is in a harmonic homeostasis
Blissful ignorance that leads to careless calamity
Amid the uproar of the most populated of places
Therein lies the seed of humanity’s deceptive destruction
A solitary host housing a virulent virus
Infectious disease that proceeds crisis and corruption
Hope only stands with the powerful and pious
Prognosis describes communicable cannibalism
Rabid outbursts show signs of voracious violence
The harrowing pandemic leads to ceaseless cataclysm
Cities and towns suspended in systemic silence
Habitations riddled with gratuitous gore
Hope fades in the wake of the crimson carnage
The pestilent hoard feeds to a glutton’s galore
The Author of humanity publishes the final page
The closing verse rains down a rapturous recompense
The high cost of a dense population paid at humanity’s existential expense
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
Many in this world will become wolves and even more will be sheep.
It is the few who become shepherds that protect the sheep from being populated by the wolves of hatred, fear, and willingness to appose such on the sheep, that are the true protectors, heroes and great leaders that young men and woman should strive and wish to be.
The way of the wolf is one that will turn your heart black, your back to your friends, and your back to the world that will cause your mind to become all that is evil, wrenched, and destructive on this Earth.
Become the shepherd
Drive out the wolf
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 12:13 AM UTC
At first we had to,
colonate,
colonate,
colonate,
colonate,
colonate,
colonate,
colonation!
Then we had to,
populate,
populate,
populate,
populate,
populate,
populate,
population!
We had too many babies,
too, too many babies,
too, too many babies.
Too many babies,
too, too many babies,
too, too many babies.
Now the government has to,
regulate,
regulate,
regulate,
regulate,
regulate,
regulate,
the population!
The over population!
The over populated population!
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 3:13 PM UTC
I carry the clothes on my body–
a plain t-shirt and sweater leggings–
attempting to stay warm and keep cool.
I carry my backpack,
my heavy, heavy backpack,
to carry the things I can’t carry in my arms…
my books, pencils, papers, and keys.
In my arms I sometimes carry more books,
sometimes a cup of chai, and sometimes, nothing. Sometimes
I wish I carried a little bit more time;
then I could carry the things I’ve left behind.
I carry all the parts of me simultaneously, and I am full now.
I carry my eyes, for without them, my path would be blurred,
and I would be ignorant.
I carry my ears to hear music and dissonance and
I carry a heart to feel the soundwaves and make sense of them.
I carry my nose to hold the sweetness of a flower in my lungs,
and skin to caress their soft petals,
without plucking them.
When I carry nothing, I sleep,
and in my dreams, I carry the clouds and the stars beyond them.
From there I may see the things I have yet to carry.
I carry my own weight across the populated Earth.
I carry my own gravity and the light of the sun.
I carry the stars from my dreams, and from them,
I create constellations in broad daylight.
I carry my heart.
I carry the soundwaves of voices like
space nymphs, singing songs I want to remember.
I carry the sight of people coming closer and drifting further from me,
escaping and re-entering my orbit,
an arm-length or a light-year away.
I carry their images and sometimes,
I reach for their silhouettes and I try to feel their thoughts.
I carry my heart and it is full.
My heart is filled with emotion,
and my emotions are the Earth’s turbulent winds
across a golden, sun-kissed field and
the sound of a waterfall crashing into
a pool of water at the bottom of the valley, and
equally the eye of the storm in which
the world is a spinning oblivion,
but here, it is quiet.
My heart is the recollection of times past
in a yellowed, well-worn tome awaiting a reader and
the diary of someone whose story begs to be forgotten.
My heart beats for someone to understand its journey,
but it longs to understand what it beats for.
I carry the silence and the music alike;
I carry the Earth and all its wonders.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 11:25 AM UTC
Nina Simone, occupying ears singing about bed and dressers.
Sparsely populated
young couple
Interrupted by saying amusements.
Only two stops
I know where to get off
I knew to mind the gap
I'm a responsible citizen
Voter with a valid railcard
Only two stops
Purchased a ticket
Only two stops
I can not throw up in that time
I can not clear my system of over-priced beer
A niche in the market
Exploited in the name of money Making let's just raise them
let's charge extortionate rates for an autoimmune disease
Paying to support a normal drinking culture embedded into the narrative
Growing by in the western world Listening to Nina Simone
Only one stop now you'd never know what life would be like
Without loud pop charts entertaining a few leaving the others yearning the return of ABBA when times were simpler and people cared about Eurovision and illegal music was your own
“Tickets please”
He seems awfully jolly for a late night shit-shift on Arriva Trains Wales
Who's making him work and why's he So ******* happy about it
Real extra effort! Soul sapping in my opinion
Last stop gotta get off.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
Distance brings proportion. From here
the populated tiers
as much as players seem part of the show:
a constructed stage beast, three folds of Dante's rose,
or a Chinese military hat
cunningly chased with bodies.
"Falling from his chariot, a drunk man is unhurt
because his soul is intact. Not knowing his fall,
he is unastonished, he is invulnerable."
So, too, the "pure man"-"pure"
in the sense of undisturbed water.
"It is not necessary to seek out
a wasteland, swamp, or thicket."
The opposing pitcher's pertinent hesitations,
the sky, this meadow, Mantle's thick baked neck,
the old men who in the changing rosters see
a personal mutability,
green slats, wet stone are all to me
as when an emperor commands
a performance with a gesture of his eyes.
"No king on his throne has the joy of the dead,"
the skull told Chuang-tzu.
The thought of death is peppermint to you
when games begin with patriotic song
and a democratic sun beats broadly down.
The Inner Journey seems unjudgeably long
when small boys purchase cups of ice
and, distant as a paradise,
experts, passionate and deft,
hold motionless while Berra flies to left.
4.6k
It's been ten years.
Ten years that I've been allowed to exist here.
Things here are beautiful
magnificent
fascinating and extremely exhausting.
There is so much to take in.
The rivers, crystal clear and endless.
The forests, lush and deeply green.
People are far and few between
and everything is amazing.
It's been one hundred years.
One hundred years and I still can't get enough.
Every night is filled with wonder.
Stars cover a velvety black night sky
and a softly glowing moon's rays caress the rolling hills and valleys.
Every day is full of adventure.
I feel like a small child, humbled at the bottom of a waterfall
sprayed down by cool mist
and I see her on the other side.
Grin, raise a hand in greeting, and wait for a response.
It's been only another ten years.
Now one hundred and ten years that I've been trapped here.
She is not like myself.
She can die, and unfortunately, I cannot follow.
Death would be a blessing.
Life is now a curse.
Great cities of stone and wood have risen up around me.
But I feel hollow
empty
burdened by the loss of her.
It's been one thousand years.
One thousand years that I have been exiled here.
The cities have grown and become still more populated.
Yet I am alone.
It is hopeless, pointless;
making friends, beginning even the most harmless of relationships
holds no appeal for me.
They all will die, for they are mortal.
And I shall be left, once again, with nothing but memories.
Life is now a chore, no longer a gift.
It's been ten thousand years.
Ten thousand years, and all hope is not lost.
Though the world is now entirely too full.
and city has turned to metropolis, so great are the numbers among me.
But I tell you my tale because you are like me.
No longer will my eternity be empty.
From master to servant you have turned me.
And I do not mind being vulnerable; opening up to you is
wonderful.
Things here are once more magnificent
now that I may see them through your eyes
by your side
my beautiful immortal.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 9:53 PM UTC
A child wanders the hall before school starts
The emptiness and loneliness are his education
New children enter the school
As they exit the bus
Light shines on the school
As it exits the Sun
Yet the wandering child's eyes must adjust
To colors he's starting to see
Colors like jealousy and frustration
The wandering child is powerless to the explosive light
And searches for ways to extinguish it
He finds his solution in the room where we keep our guns
The room sits in the dark center of the building
Across the hall from where we keep our children
Kids have been playing with guns for a while now
Everyone my age that I know
Imagined shooting up their school
These are well adjusted people
It's just the times we live in
And what it takes to adjust
There are some things that will remain true
Killing is wrong
And murdering a murderer is ******
The executioner hides his face in shame
He's ashamed of the enjoyment he feels
From the power he holds over other people's lives
Unaware the power he holds
Is meant to come from love
Love that has been buried
For the temporary thrill of death
It seems like a dark joke
Giving a child a gun
And then asking them to go through high school
Because kids are ******* stupid
And some people never grow up
And high school never ends
The wandering child takes his newly found arsenal
To the densely populated cafeteria
Only to realize the other children are just as well armed
They drown in tension
When their actions have megaton weight
Before anyone can say anything
Everyone starts shooting
They grade each other in their minds
And their test comes at the end of the barrel
They find validation
In blood splattered on the wall
And bodies that once stood now lying
The gunshots deafened the wandering child
And the smoke blinded him
Reminiscent of the emptiness and loneliness before school started
This was his education
Today I watched a bunch of ants eating one another
Their ant hill collapsed as rain started pouring
Yet they continued killing each other as they drowned
They all seemed to be the same size
But their problems seemed so much bigger
So they found comfort in killing one another instead
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
Bodhidharma, the first Zen patriarch,
told Emperor Wu that merit
meant nothing;
but great emptiness
revealed by sitting facing a wall
had great merit.
Wu was perplexed.
Patriarch number two, Hui-k’o,
faced a granite wall in a forest for seven years;
it became his beloved.
Seng-Tsan, the third Zen patriarch wrote poems
and his legendary Hsinhsinming verse
transcended all the unnecessary duality
in the mind’s mire.
Tao-Hsin, patriarch number four,
said don’t’ stare at a wall,
just do the laundry
and watch the clear water
turn brown
then pour it onto the vegetables in the garden
when you’re done.
Patriarch five, Hung-Jen
meditated from age six staring at the horizon
and said if you find the line between sky and land and sea
you slip into infinity
with no sky, land and sea
just one place for the mind to finally rest.
Hui-Neng came next;
no wall
no laundry water
no heavenly horizon
just fascinating monkey mind
sometimes full, sometimes empty
running whichever way, whenever,
and that was all good.
The 300-year Tang dynasty
had three wild man patriarchs-
Ma-Tzu shouted constantly;
Pai-Ching did laundry,
and Huang-Po told everyone
they were already enlightened
and should not bother with Zen at all.
Lin-Chi was the Jesus of Zen
who loved everybody everyday.
He taught the heart’s clear natural action,
compassion, not walls and laundry and trying not to think.
His love was wiser than his mind.
The patriarchs of zen
taught more than a thousand years
before I grew up an American idiot
in a materialistic world
populated by narcissistic borderline freaks
thumbing smartphones in leather car seats
never doing laundry
afraid to face the walls
built of brick made
mortared tight together
with the fear
of their own compassionlessness.
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
Welcome to womanhood what’s so great about being nothing
50 years ago we couldn’t even work
you would think that the people who bring you onto this earth you would respect the most
instead you hurt us
we are disrespected, disobeyed,
stay in a woman’s place, do what women do
when you say something back
it’s not proper or lady like
looks like something dangerous
we can’t do it
looks like something tough
don’t even try
but if you think about it
we’re the toughest
we risk the most
No matter what we do
somehow it’s wrong
you’re strong, you get penalized
you cry, you get stepped on
why even try when nothing will ever make a difference
Frankly being a “woman” *****
it’s unnecessary responsibility that no one really wants
we bleed about 86 days out of the year nothing to stop
pregnant for 40 weeks with children that are gonna disrespect us because their dad’s are gonna leave us and children become just like that
in the end we end up alone
no one ever really cares
what you do or how you end up
you’ve populated the world now your job is done
that is if you’re ever that lucky
some place they take that away
stabbing and degrading the only thing that will make you anything
torturing and killing the ones that are weak or
just not strong enough to fight back
some places all you are is a toy
being ***** and played with the whole time as long as you’re good you stay alive
having something stuck inside you shocking you dead
then they say
“Welcome to womanhood” what if I wanna leave?
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
You ease up unknowingly
while unaware I would be
offended by the careless
behavior prompted by the
urgency that has built up
from the condition while
pent up under the roof
of a haughty, predominant,
governess who wears a
grey locket about the neck
which contains a clean
substance never to be
touched by boyish hands.
I watch the wild in your
eyes brought on by
rigid over socialization
ingrained by a poorly
populated, secluded,
pseudo coalition.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
Can't sleep for thinkin'
Can't wake for drinkin'
this place that I live in
to expensive to be in.
I tried just a taste
but that wasn't enough.
If I don't stop it now
I'll be back livin' rough.
Over populated streets at night.
For a doorway to sleep in
I'll have to fight and
hide under a blanket
until it gets light.
and repeat verse 3
Kaydee.
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 11:28 AM UTC
I stopped
inside a light house
on a dark and foggy night
and in the beacon
in the fog
I saw far too many sights.
Lovers lost in their pasts
uncompleted tasks
of shoulda coulda wouldas
"If only's"
blocking their
paths.
The ferrel human beings
with eyes of gold
but no money
to buy a room
running to nowhere soon.
The poetry outlaws
with no words
left to sing
lost within their prisons
and know one knows
what they mean.
The beacon flashed
and in the light
I saw those
trapped in drudgery
and fading dreams
of being free.
And lonely souls
in darkened rooms
of four white walls
with no where to go
and no one coming that they know.
The beacon flashed
in that fog
the horn it rang
to no one listening
but the ships lost at sea
heard something
but asked themselves
was it really meant for me?
It
Spotlighted lovers
on the far sides
of the bed
their love lost
in what is now
misery and dread.
Wage slaves breathing toxic air
and what's this life for
their breath asks
captured in the foggy air.
Stopped at that lighthouse
to look out at that foggy sea
was all about the poetry
and what it means to me
a light
on a foggy
populated sea
and
life told in scenes
about
those who struggle to be free.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
A day will certainly come
As sure as we breathe
When our creator will ask of us
What we did to aid the oppressed
On that day
As surely as who created you
Created me too
It will not be about religion but humanity
When carefully planned and organised jets
Launched rockets
To bomb populated refugee camps
Schools and apartment blocks
At a defenceless opposition
Without an air force or navy
Heavy weapons or artillery
Command or armour
**That's not war
It's ******
It's cold blooded massacre**
As a woman shot in the stomach
Gives birth to a cold blue baby
And a world across oceans changes channels tuning in to the next world cup champion
It was never about taking sides
Israel vs Palestine
There is a truth
To which we must remove the blindfold of ignorance
Searching for a voice of right
Amongst the cries of pain hatred and anger
The sign in a city
Where there is too much to see
Finding peace amongst people who are not ours
Because I see hypocrisy of nations
Who stand for human rights
But only when the human shares a matching ideology
I see hypocrisy amongst media
Where a million wounds and shades of blood
Are inked into black and white letters
Today I read 'An Israelian was killed whilst a dozen Palestinians died'
They turned humans into numbers
Quantitative data
They couldn't possibly de-sensitize it any further
I mean look at the verbs in which they phrased that
I see hypocrisy amongst Muslims
Who stand equal and united
Yet they too turn backs when the interest is not beneficial
And the pitiful nation falls divided
Whether it is a prayer
A strike, a boycott or vigil
A protest or petition
Maybe even a donation
There's a thousand ways to help
But very few who do
So what did you do?
Was it out of sight out of mind for you?
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
*Mumbai, City of dreams
Financial Capital and
Most populated Metropolitan
city in India .
India's premier scientific and
Nuclear Institutes
Are in Mumbai .
The film and Television
Industry also is in Mumbai .
Weather Humid throughout the year.
All this to the world .
For Me
My Favourite city and Place.
The best childhood days spent during Summer Vacations
With extended family .
Juhu beach , a favourite hangout
For us all cousins
A Jing bang of sorts :)
Making sand castles
Jumping in and out
of the
Sea waves together
Holding hands
Shouting out aloud .
Memories Memories And Memories
Never Let them go.
In fact ,
Make many More
With the Gen-Next ..
That's what I am in for !!*
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 3:50 AM UTC
We are pieces of grass
Not washing liquid, not pancakes
Our blood is green, not red
Our bodies are thick, with fibre
We are strong!
With the soil
With the fellow worms and slugs
We will rule nature!
WE WILL NOT DIE!
HUMANS WILL DO WHAT THEY DO
ANIMALS WILL DO WHAT THEY DO
HUMANS SHALL SQUISH US IN THOUSANDS
ANIMALS SHALL ****** OUR POINTY HEADS
But what we can't do
IS DIE!
WE WILL USE OUR BLADES!
WE WILL USE OUR TIPS! TO STAB!
WE WILL LEARN TAICHI!
From the bugs, the butterflies and that TREE!
PIECES OF GRASS WILL LIVE ON!
So, my fellow pieces of grass
What are you waiting for?!
LIVE ON, GIVE BIRTH!
GIVE WAY TO YOUR GREAT SEEDS!
AND PUSH, PUSH HARD!
FOR GENERATIONS AND GENERATIONS
WE WILL SURVIVE!
Look, look beside the nearest Seven Eleven store!
LOOK AT THAT FAT PIECE OF GRASS GETTING BLOWN BY THE WIND!
LOOK HOW HE SUFFERS, OF NO SOIL!
We are not like any other
WE CAN FLY!
WE CAN TRAVEL! TO CHINA!
To the most populated country!
TO **** THE MOST HUMANS!
We will have a secret weapon
We will bring so forth
PEANUT BUTTER!
WE WILL NOT GIVE UP!
WE MUST REMEMBER, who we are
We shall make something like no other
We will weave, A BASKET!
PEANUT BUTTER WILL NOT BE WASTED
BY THE HUMANS!
WE WILL GET OUR REVENGE!
WE WILL SACRIFACE OURSELVES,
TO LIFT!
THE PEANUT BUTTER!
INTO!
THE BASKET!
Until the mighty lump of peanut butter is plunged onto China
WE!
WILL NOT!
REST!
Our plan, WILL WORK!
Now, you may be thinking
That I am just a random piece of grass on the internet,
Playing a 3 millimetre laptop!
But I am not just any piece of grass
I CAN SPELL!
I have what is called,
A BRAIN!
DO NOT LET THE HUMANS RUIN OUR SPELLING!
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 4:03 AM UTC
A Tribute
A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind….
The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush.
The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins.
The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor.
With that, Steve Jobs is dead.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
Is it just me?
Or do people not notice
Going to a crowded place
Different aromas wafting,
Emanating around you
They just ignore the sights
Painting their own pictures,
Telling their own stories
Colors invading your personal space
Encompassing you
With a foreign feeling
That creates its own thoughts
In your mind, sprouting
Like trees at the park
Pine needles softly tumbling onto your arms
Tickling each one as it flies away
From its home in the trees
Like a baby bird
Just old enough
For mommy to think he's independent
And there he goes, coasting downward
Until he haphazardly brings himself up
Not a foot from your face
And for a second
Those flapping wings
Sweep up pollen into your nose
Before it jets away
Where? The sky's the limit
But he'll go somewhere populated
Maybe someplace he can fly
Fly like a plane in an airport
Disgruntled passengers hustling
To their respective flights
To go on vacation,
Make it to a meeting, among a plethora of things
Their eyes on the screen of their iphone more than the world around them
All of them, ignorant to their environment
Almost as if they've never seen it before
Like the baby bird that was in front of your face
But how did you see those wings
But those thousands of people didnt
It's because they were too busy tagging
That tweet that wasn't finished
So don't ever feel like just walking
And watching birds
Means you're not doing what you should do
Because those people sitting in the airport
Are missing so much more than you
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
I want to write a poem
but I have to write code instead
There can be a kind of poetry in code
especially my code
I'm proud of the elegant design
of my loops and logics
my streamlined systems
My code flows
pulling the User along effortlessly
guiding them gracefully from one end of the black box to the other
and out again
No Errors
My code flows
secret haikus left in comment blocks
for other programmers to find
like digital hieroglyphics on virtual cave walls
test data populated with pantheons and
mystical chants from faraway lands
My code flows
water of ones
in sea of zeroes
pouring through me
from aether to mind to muscle to machine
bit by bit
block by block
stacked upon stack
module into module through function and parameters passed
My code flows
flows through me
until the integer flips
the Boolean switch
change of state
status update
now compiled and crystallized
Executable
and then passed on
leaving me
out of my hands
disseminated to The Users
like a prayer to a congregation
I hear the clicking fingers of their choir
singing the song of my code
now flowing through Them
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC