"precession" poems
it's 3:23 in the morning
and I'm awake
because my great great grandchildren
won't let me sleep
my great great grandchildren
ask me in dreams
what did you do while the planet was plundered?
what did you do when the earth was unraveling?
surely you did something
when the seasons started failing?
as the mammals, reptiles, birds were all dying?
did you fill the streets with protest
when democracy was stolen?
what did you do
once
you
knew?
I'm riding home on the Colma train
I've got the voice of the milky way in my dreams
I have teams of scientists
feeding me data daily
and pleading I immediately
turn it into poetry
I want just this consciousness reached
by people in range of secret frequencies
contained in my speech
I am the desirous earth
equidistant to the underworld
and the flesh of the stars
I am everything already lost
the moment the universe turns transparent
and all the light shoots through the cosmos
I use words to instigate silence
I'm a hieroglyphic stairway
in a buried Mayan city
suddenly exposed by a hurricane
a satellite circling earth
finding dinosaur bones
in the Gobi desert
I am telescopes that see back in time
I am the precession of the equinoxes,
the magnetism of the spiraling sea
I'm riding home on the Colma train
with the voice of the milky way in my dreams
I am myths where violets blossom from blood
like dying and rising gods
I'm the boundary of time
soul encountering soul
and tongues of fire
it's 3:23 in the morning
and I can't sleep
because my great great grandchildren
ask me in dreams
what did you do while the earth was unraveling?
I want just this consciousness reached
by people in range of secret frequencies
contained in my speech
©2003
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
I love my very own pen
a pen easy to push
a pen for truth
lies out-cast!
I love my pen
the way it goes along
with my helical head
the way it goes swift
with my roguish paper
the way it writes blank prose
delighted? Not me, it's them
or you.
non-sense fonts, they say
I beg for disgrace
for they are the power
of my visions thing
they are the power of my dark ink
freedom sharpened, inked
I scribbled its wisdom
Thoughts once ooze out
ideas irretrievable
impressions? I don't need
exactly its ballpoint's labor of thoughts
desires for precession and
harmony
of ideas never pirate.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 2:48 AM UTC
I Want To Write Poems,
All Over Your Body,
And Pray That,
Whenever I Turn You On,
It Melts All Over
This Angelic Carpet.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 3:09 AM UTC
when God claps His hands
the sky plays woodwinds
while the clouds play
the percussions and
the ghost of
Athena plays
her golden harp
in the precession of
the blue-eyed storm
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
Programmers are the new age Necromancers
At a keyboard and screen, for aeons, they tap away
With the finesse and precession of tap dancers
They converse patiently with the cold and lifeless machine
With the love and care the rest of us reserve only for children
Filled with bewildering communiques is their lifelong dream
Their eyes dart back and forth in a room full of people
Hoping to avoid the gaze that leads to a conversation
In a church, at mass time, you’ll find them in the steeple
They are the toy makers of our current times
That provide your life with leisure and joy
To them is their code, as to us, our rhymes
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
Rippling outward till the waves stop.
Dropped from a 5ft 10" skyscraper with a plop.
Perfect circles in precession,
stretching into regression
The placidity is eerie
as it returns with no sign of it's companion
The next one cast did a flip flop
across the liquid table top.
Those ripples again.
As if this lake had a brain,
it feigns space to detain
the stone and share knowledge arcane.
The last one I decided to swap
I traded the lake's ripples for ones in my pocket.
Its a reason to return to the lake
The reason behind the pebble's wake
Scientifically, I know the make.
How is done, now why is at the stake.
,
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
My heart orbiting
Around these years old coffee rings
That blemish these fading,
Family pictures.
A path of precession,
Towards the vernal equinox of my thoughts.
When the sun’s light Scatters evenly across
Lines in the sand We never dared cross
Or,
The last solemn ride For better words left unsaid
Death truly does Do us part
Death of a feeling
Fleeting
Stars
Upon
My
Ceiling
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 6:38 AM UTC
Leave these other guys desensitized.
Sacrificial activism
stop telling these lies
Lyrical capitalism
Deception is precession
Dark future; bright prison
Dark past; bright vision
Stuck inside; minds prism
All equal BUT, what division?
Quest, what?
New edition.
Not what eye envisioned.
Isosceles try angles
Highs lighten; the atrocities
Apostrophes trapping trophies
Kings fallen; to their knees
Ruled by their needs
The heinous comes,
with the mockeries.
Fable creatures; feeble needs.
Dream Chasers see, wicked dreams.
The life of an artist is not all that it seems: see what I mean?
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
holdover from the air cools bitter awash of dark and a turning horizon without centre. where i entered an empty frame across distance and skin like smoke. ive been having nightmares of cosmic terror a sublime loss of control like paper tearing in the chaotic drifts of broken eddies and other everyday things an inward open mirror a sunlit line wavering to heat disintegration dispersal erosion and death. ive been reading uncanny fluctuations in the sign of things in a power too great and sparse to comprehend overwhelmed by haunting finitude as time veers into collision and the fleeting panic of yesterdays blood. i find myself shaking at the thought of contact the electromagnetic law of repulsion built into the fabric of my flesh eyes turned away like a promise all language from dead stars. dragged along these orbits my skin trembles and i am hateful. faces blur in passageways half-lit rooms smudge across the surface of my memory until i see nothing but the colour of what was tightening the cords of my ribs stumbling inflexion. in the precession of traffic light blurs through my sleeve and i realise i was invisible all along and that i did this to myself and that nobody can help me and that i did this to myself and that i will retreat further and further and further because if it hurts to be abandoned it hurts more to be approached and misunderstood. the masks the words the acts the plays and beneath it all fear cruel mounting hopeless wretched fear eyes turning fingers running over and over until they break the lines of my face a ******* i turn the clocks upside down. i take the batteries out of all my electronic devices. i break the locks on my door. only then does morning come.
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 10:51 AM UTC
Listen to windmills,
Breathe, become breath
Coarse hair is stroked across strings
A the faint sonority travels on winds
Bold changes in the sky, it is cleaned
Violin!, imerse me now in your squandered dreams
Listen to windmills
Learn to breathe, become breathing man
The bones hammer, tuning in on precession
Lower the drums, turn a slow recession
Imagine circling down metal tubes and dripping out
fluidly over the sounds of the Englar Alheimsins
a journey to the underworld, home?
Englar Alheimsins; listen to windmills breathe
Write in spite.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 3:28 AM UTC
iv 5-2-18
wrest the black tang the cosmic vacuum of background static and an ungainly dream of walking down a mountain path with my father we descend the silent belly of campus seats filled with mounted bodies lolling the inside stench anna walks ahead of me her voice cuts the waking body of midnight shuttles a hydroponic plant and the sparse parking lot of a supermarket radiating cold.
the fright, the nervous flesh, the stuttered pace of cars, the empty lot, the empty hour, the empty admission of make-belief, collapsing into precession at the peak of worthlessness.
ii 22-1-18
An endless stream, the back of an apartment block, fingers twine across the powder red of brick and sunlight.
I try to catch a glimpse of myself in her eyes, but beyond recognition there is nothing.
I see my father behind a sliding door. He moves further into the kitchen to take pictures from a tripod.
Clothes litter the ground. Nothing fits.
iii 4-2-18
the cracked linen STOP the momentary arrogance STOP the surfacing violence STOP the weathering STOP
A YELL torpid stultifying CRASH cruel ******* trace of the same
and all i can do is shrink as green tea soaks the tablecloth.
i 31-1-17
The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 12:38 PM UTC
The sun shines at midnight
on this wild white frontier
calls from homecoming seals
have the pups reply with zeal
Soon will come the time
they will break for the shoreline
a slow precession of mothers and pups
back to the invitation of the ocean
Long shadows cast
in the chilling winds
the bite of Antarctic
bids them farewell
Till next year they come
to this nursery freezer
back to where birth begun
back to the midnight sun
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
Eyeball god in mouth
Ostara?…Dio?…Luna? …
Is light as hunger for colors?
Eros the god of eyes and the hidden feelings
shameful man with ***** **** — sighing ***
in his heart — a crack, deep and wide!
Black Hole!
Punk rock for a Black Hole!
Rainbow and jubilee exploded in flood!
Like a ***** universe all of our pornographic desires
moments of starving stars and **** stars!
An eyeless god living in a glass tube with hearts
like hot flashes in heat-blasted rooms!
Pulsing pimples — swirling while a midnight sky
brings forth a cacophony of cosmic screams!
More impassioned raw-animal! More barking!
more vibrations — more imminence!
More sinewy limbs on show — ***** I’m looking at —
lifeless grey body but voracious pink face!
It licks and whimpers, suckles and *****
Shall I become a statue again? — glazed face with eyes
sheers-white in precession of Venus?
Hey! Taint! Milk it!
:: 11.12. 2020 ::
Nov 18, 2020
Nov 18, 2020 at 12:23 AM UTC
A person sits and cries
Knees together, holding her face
Lips quiver, and tears leak from cracks
Hide from the world
Not just a girl
But full grown
A woman, long
A clock clicks
Wordless in the night
It's not the precision preferred
Everything is not all right
It's face so pretty
Decorated with scrolls
Beautiful in architecture
It tells the time
But cannot really see inside
It's mind isn't shattered
It's still beautiful
Cogs, levers, springs and gears
It can only look at others
Knows something is wrong
It sees the world, all the other faces
Clocks themselves, faces hiding minds
Only hears the tick, click and tock
Sometimes it rains, humidity brings
Another tock, and knows it's off
Just one more tick
Make it work
One has to look past the face
See it's mind, complete
Not the pretty, but
Admire the precision
Mechanical beauty
Revenged emotional
Struggling time
Always trying so hard
Get through the hours
Minutes in seconds
Maybe it's ok, a little slow
A little fast, time makes time
Looking at clocks
Feeling only wrong
But it's the slow and fast
Moments between
When someday, it seems
That ticks and tocks
Patchwork healing
Shrugging, painful seconds
Keep perfect time
The other clocks
Faces hiding broken minds
Look to that grand Ol' tock
See only that it goes
Not its struggle
So in her hands
Tears slide down
Her woman's cheeks
All red, eyes puffy
A mind restrained
She hides her face, not
So all the other clocks
Can all go tick, tock
Click, whir
She only knows her
Ignoring the fact that
Her time is perfect
For everything he needs
Because the beauty of
Elegance is precession
His sense is timeless
Wonder not measured
For hours, creep
Minutes, tick
Seconds, wander
But altogether
She is everything
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:14 AM UTC
all at once, things come crumbling
together. a step in every direction,
rightful empty dissolves to leave,
in stationary hollow, itself:
presented representation. no
point left unscathed. the exact
same moment the water started
leaking down and out the walls. a
series of equicardinal trackmarks in
the snow. over the bridge we shift
momenta. wheels turn. nerves
coupling. a flood laps at my
unfurling fingerprints. water
rises like swallows nesting in the
marsh of my throat. try as we might,
turn of position, matched glance, precession
after next, the swell silently engulfs the woodwork.
blood curls through these beds, as beautiful as the water running over;
waves distill through smaller wash.
a larger scheme spreads its lips. the teeth
play quotient to tree limbs. a schedule unwound.
caught the sun with smooth hooks.
everything changes from here, or stagnates at a
shifting viewpoint. but, from this glowing angle,
i could mistake you for ordinality or
plain daylight. i could
fall a little
further
down.
instead, all translates in bold motion,
binding fibers of dissolution,
morning hues
through the dark.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
A crimson muddy ravine is marked on both sides by
massive cliffs towering over the precession below. A figure wrapped
in white muslin and rubbed with ash is propped up on a stone altar. Around the figure
tribesman and women dance hard, their eyes wild, their curled fingers wicked.
The figure is not touched by the dancers almost as if he is diseased. I realize
at this point that that is exactly what is going on. A plague has swept through this
tribe and killed many. They burn the bodies on these altars to appease the gods
and to beg mercy. The dripping fat and flesh pools in the mud below, making a small trickle of filth that led to near by water. Down river from this tribe is a whole different world. Here instead of being dark
skinned the people are very pale. All of their houses are remains from shipwrecks
put up into trees and connected by rope bridges, hammocks and twisting vines. Below the fields are
covered with water. Below the surface was their crops. Melons, lettuces, berries, peppers all kinds of
earth like flora but every species glowed softly with a pulsing beat. The pale tribe was very careful walking through the lines while harvesting. One rough handling could ruin the whole crop. A sense of fear was here all of the people smelled strongly of it. I could still hear the drum beat of the sick tribe. All work stopped and slowly everyone turned to look at me. Just then a loud crackling sound shot through the sky. A bolt of lightening struck close. Gasps could be heard all around. I looked quickly at my feet in the fields of water and didn't see the glow. The fields were black. The pale faces around me sunk in, gaunt and hungry. Their mouths worked but I could not hear them. My vision went blurry then black, fading away from their struggle.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 11:53 AM UTC
We were told we were born sick
Though we never felt ill
We met in Sunday school
And over the coughs of other children
That hacked out either verses or mucus
It was never clear which
I asked you for a paint brush
And you stepped over the damp tissues
Thrown defeated on the ground
Like offerings at a precession
And you’d painted next to me.
We were told we’d always be sick
But we never looked ill
When I accidently bumped your elbow reaching for
More paper
Our blushing cheeks the color of alter wine
Bore healthy smiles and warm glows
And after countless more Sundays
When the men in funny neck ties
Came around to give us crackers
In the shapes of pills we couldn’t swallow
We decided to hide them in the sleeves of our robes
And we watched as all the other children
Grew sicker while we grew stronger
Even though they drank blood
And we’d sneak off to drink wine.
We became the heretics of hallelujahs
AWOL archangels
And we were never bed ridden from illness
In fact we yearned for the outside
Disregarding the warnings of germs
That ran rampant there
Figuring that was why they made the
Church’s steeple look like a needle
We wanted freedom nonetheless.
They told us that we would catch the flu
By holding hands
And when we were caught contaminated
They told us to wash our bodies off in the water
And you looked at me and I looked at you
And we agreed that we should-
But not this water, not here
So we grabbed hands again
And you with your free left and I with my free right
Pushed through the double doors
And as the light poured in the chapel
It scorched the priests but for us it baptized us whole
And now we tell ourselves swimming in the sea
That became our holy healing water
We’d only ever be as sick as others let us be.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 6:12 PM UTC
One foot
Two foot
One foot back
Walking down the isle for the wrong occasion
Take my place in line in the precession
Until now you were holding it together
I'm next in line-- eyes lock on eachother
Face to face and I can mutter
is "I'm sorry about your father".
Break down in front of the alter
Time is still as we cling to one another
The same church we grew up in together
Familiar yet strange to remember
When the world's to big for you
split it down the middle
We can bear this load
Together we'll see it through
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 8:58 PM UTC
A man in a prison, ‘till death do they part
Burning wood a wedding ring, twisted steel the altar
The roar of the flames is the voice of the preacher
The only voice of reality, is that mellow brass sound
Drowned about out by the precession, a chaotic occasion
A man in adulthood, the world still burning
Children born, from the oblivion his home
They know not anything else
Embracing their home with the ignorance of a newborn
A man is an elder, experienced through life
To find that the inferno, was just a ward
To bide it’s time, patiently waiting
For the end of his life, the oblivion has been realized
A man playing in slow motion as the world burns around him
Not a care in the world, just him and his trumpet
He knows what’s coming, but he cannot stop it
He just sits back, lets the oblivion consume him.
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 10:31 PM UTC
Look at the birds for me.
But not the swans.
You'd find it too difficult to see me there.
So choose the indistinguishable
grey silhouette of something else,
because that is me to you.
I don't expect you to find me in their strength,
not in their flight or their grace,
but in their movement,
they are always moving.
Only once did I see one that was still--
with its tiny beak parted and its pretty wings bent--
I pretended it was sleeping.
Do that for me, if you want.
But remember,
as surely as the precession of the equinoxes,
the birds come back.
Lucky for me, I'm not a bird.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 6:41 PM UTC
Maybe You're A Little
Sad Because No One
Understands
What You Want Them
To Understand
And We're All Just
Lost In The Precession
Of Trying To Understand
What We Can't.
And So We Look
Up To You Just So
We Can Find Understanding.
The Understanding Of
Nothingness, I Guess.
Life, Is Nothingness.
Life, Is Sad.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
*The urge to make
Pretty patterns with ink
On the delicate peice of paper, wanting emotions
Making a small blot at the end of my confession,
Sinking all my life's recessions
Thinking all the time I didn't do my work with precession
And left everything just to decorate a small peice of paper with agression.
All these little letters mean a lot
But they are a patch in my life
Just like the unwanted ink blots,
They won't wash away
And if they do,
The patterns would merge with the cleanliness
Moving on to the gutter's way.
My words are my life
My soul doesn't matter as much
For if I give up my soul, these rife
Words would thrive
At some corner of this huge universe
Just as small as a seed of sand,
They'll live forever
Even as little ink blots,
Someone would someday discover
There tiny dots
I am not the one who cares if
He reads it or throws it away
But mark my words as I say
My letters are alive
And in someone's heart these blots will forever stay.*
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 3:06 AM UTC
String of raindrops fall to its quite melody
Rhyme with the breeze of a vocal splendor of black daisy
To the tune of every bee sip the nectar while accessing the anthers and pistil
Made music to a garden of daffodils in April
A sharpen affection piercing a stone amethyst
Asunder of its composure with a helpless catalyst
A scattered pieces spells the truth of an essence is out of worth
The antidote of intoxication has been futile a miasma to a path
Gaze into a night sky grid-like segments of stars in sight
A semblance of a two sign that shines so bright at night
Vast Ocean of complicated happiness sinks a deepest peaceful loneliness
Wide-ranging terrestrial of verdict congeal with annoyance of fate
Precession of equinoxes changed twice a thousand years
A tenth cycle in which Pisces and Taurus situate vertigo in twelfth mensis
A Supreme Being fills the gap of distant in a long period of time
Keep on tenterhooks as the time goes by
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
She exits the door with apprehension
The push of their sorrows, their fears... their lonely hearts
Have become all but unbearable
She can't take the train these days without having a panic attack
Vague reflections dance across the window panes
The light rail careens down the tracks and into the mountainside
While she nervously chews at a hang nail
The precession of half remembered dreams begins
Flashes of color and scent and sound
Her first day of preschool
The Easter basket her mother crushed in a drunken rage
The bruise she was told to lie about
The feel of the cool sand on her feet as she sat by the river
Smiling eyes and lying hands,
Betraying her innocence
Countless nights rendered indecipherable by gin
Calloused thumbs and empty lighters and blackened pipes
Sorrows, rejection, rage, fear... emptiness
The smell of his milk stained onesie, his blanket, his photographs
The tiny, perfectly trimmed nails of his plaster of paris hand
That she keeps in a heart shaped box,
Along with a swatch of hair
The anger in her ex husbands eyes
The loveless torment of her mother's unending hate
Her father's misplaced indifference
The heat of her own silent tears
Become nothing more than the scars and stripes on her back
And the constellations of stars, seemingly etched in her eyes
Yet still,
She Endures.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 9:17 AM UTC