"predicated" poems
His soul was woven
From a fool's whispers
By the hands of a ghost
On a loom of lies
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
His condemnation
Was not so much
Predicated on the Lord
Or what part of his body
The Devil had enjoyed
eaten and spit upon the street
The whispers
The echos of whispers
Troubled him the most
Especially at night
When light breezes
Muted the voices
In an interruptive cadence
Leaving the words unconnected
The burden
His own
To fill in the blank spaces
Connecting the dots
With a broken pencil
And an eraser
Worn to its metal edge
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
When we think about the choices in our lives
When we fight and we bicker and become bitter
When we think there is only power or powerlessness
If we can realize that there is power and powerlessness
Then haven't we began to acquire consciousness
In that instance haven't we began the process of choice
That there is those who have not have given birth to this consciousness
To those who have only lived powerlessness
And know nothing else
Haven't you owed them part of your consciousness
That you have ceased to be one of them
Or your mere power has denied one of them
That there is no choice for them
Because they haven't birthed that consciousness
And if you choose power they'll remain powerless
Because within you there is no loyalty, right?
It is a choice predicated by an erroneous concept of self-preservation
It is a treacherous dichotomy; doesn't make sense
This is not an indictment of your desire not to suffer
Because surely to hold power would cease your suffering
But it is this type of power that thrives on the proliferation of powerlessness
This conceptual understanding of what it means to have power
That is not what we've come learn, but readily ascribe to
That a mind and body can cultivate power
That can be harvested, shared, communal
For the sole purpose of the survival of the other, not the self
That that can survive in this world is impossible
Its antithetical to the modes of production
In which our societies operate and thrive
How can workers begin to derive power from their collective efforts
How can workers' purchasing power equal the power of the production of their labor
How can any community in any corner of the world escape
The misanthropic missions of first world free trade capitalism
When will we reclaim our escaping humanity
When will we cease to keep feeding the system with our minds, our bodies, our labor
How much longer can we become fodder, scraps, waste feeding the machine
And don't think that you are safe when you have made it
When you have entered the circle of dominance
Because it is then when you will loose your humanity or die
It is at that apex of power that your presence becomes
Just as dispensable as that of the powerless
Because to maintain that circle of dominance
Requires a total conversion to misanthropy
The rigor with which your power will be required
To keep proliferating powerlessness will give no break
And when you become useless, it will replace you
So that we must realize that the modes of production
That we allow to exploit us
In powerlessness, or the semblance of power
Can never safeguard our humanity
How much further will we allow power to be concentrated
So that soon we ourselves, or our children won't have a choice
Won't have the consciousness of power just powerlessness
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
That Young Man from Nantucket
As filtered through National Public Radio
There was a young man from Nantucket
Whose foot was caught in a bucket
He said with a grin
As he massaged his shin
“Vers libre is a more affectively responsorial mode of
privileging my authentic voice with regard to the cultural
norms that speak to the existential realities of my heritage
instead of the mask of the external culture that fails to affirm
my needs predicated on the living organic wholeness of, like,
y’know, my own special existentialness, and, like, stuff.”
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
Once I lost you
Once I tossed you
You never said a word
I never could have heard
Miracle you bore
A refugee in the wreckage
Sharpening your wings
Withstanding dangerous oppression
Young being, incomplete being
Trying not to succumb
To your own capitalist appropriation
Eminent commodification
Implicating your body and mind
Who remained unscathed?
Who wreaked the havoc?
Just...so many wings could gain wind
In this cage, lacking space
System simply cannot withstand
Cost of everyone's liberation
Convenient systematic predilection
Where some are never meant to fly
Miracle you bore
A refugee in the wreckage
Sharpening your wings
Withstanding dangerous oppression
How can any wings soar
When the trail of their shadows
Hide systematic traps for our failure
To ensure only a few course the skies
Liberation is not meant to be
Just yours or mine
No commodity for private consumption
Its usage, embrace, and appropriation
Has universal implications
A radical transformation that seeks to complete a human being
Emblematic of an ideological reconceptualization
A revolutionary new understanding of being human
A re-authentication of our own liberation
Purely predicated on that of others
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
the invisible hand is in my pocket
pilfering everything
and there's nothing i can do
to stop it from robbing me blind
it does not guide it only destroys
personal expression under the
whims of an outmoded model of economics
capitalism
a philosophy that subscribes
to the metaphysical conclusion
that a spiritual malady
plagues every human heart
a harsh chorus that rings like a melody
of triumph in the multi-million dollar
mansions of the 1%
convinced we're born selfish
it seeks to reward us for our own malpractice
an edict predicated on social darwinism
that forestalls the possibility of future charity
as it drowns in the throes
of misanthropy and butchers any hope
of philanthropic community or basic humanity
to vanquish our more maleficent impulses
relegated to paying taxes
to ensure the illusion of security
while our money finances endless
war and police brutality rather than
healthcare or education
they know if they keep us sick and dumb
they can get away with ******
if the population shirks in horror
from the looming specter of terrorism
they can justify ubiquitous surveillance
that robs us of our right to
self-determination but
people should not be afraid of their governments
governments should be afraid of their people
they say we can't be trusted
that this is for our own good
but i'll call their bluff that
bull on Wall St. is full of ****
and like a matador i'll entice it to
lower its horns and charge
when itsjust a hairsbreadth away
i'll turn to one side and let it skewer
the slave-driver raising his whip behind me
that same skulking shadow that turns
veterans into homeless wanderers begging
for loose change in Central Park
a pale horse haunting the aspirations
of college students it
leaves the poor and
oppressed shivering after dark and
overburdens broken backs
god doesn't hold up the world
like Atlas we shoulder the globe
now watch us shift the weight
brought down by the people you tried to suppress
this is not some petty expression of vengeance
but the rallying cry of a dream deferred
exploding out to meet your injustice
mark my words
we're taking over the world
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
It is not unusual that at some point in our lives we will have to deal with a tense encounter where words will be exchanged in an environment of anger with others. Usually there is one person who is in less control of himself and poses a greater risk to harm the other. How do you defuse the situation? How do you calm someone who is angry? First, talk with a low calm voice. Secondly, show them your white teeth (smile), if possible. And don't look them directly in the face. These three suggestions are predicated on the fact that they are all non-engaging and have a tendency to calm or reduce tension from the aggravated party.
It all starts by using the wrong words, or the right words interpreted the wrong way by the offended party. This escalates potentially becoming a provocation by someone who is incensed or upset over a matter. Angry words then usually follow. Depending on how you handle things, will determine whether you succeed to defuse the situation or not. And sometimes, just sometimes, friendship regains that upper hand. This is the best case scenario which everyone could only want.
I tried to capture all this with a short Haiku that now follows:
**a word, provoking
angry words are now exchanged
smiles come, peace remains**
As an interesting afterthought, a person once shared with me his unusual approach he himself uses to avoid getting angry. He told me whenever he feels that he is about to get angry he forces himself to laugh uncontrollably and loud that his anger not "take control of Him." He said it works. I am fortunately happy to tell you have never had a chance to test his system out.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
That Young Man from Nantucket
As filtered through National Public Radio
There was a young man from Nantucket
Whose foot was caught in a bucket
He said with a grin
As he massaged his shin
“Vers libre is a more affectively responsorial mode of privileging my
authentic voice with regard to the cultural norms that speak to the
existential realities of my heritage instead of the mask of the external
culture that fails to affirm my needs predicated on the living organic
wholeness of, like, y’know, my own special existentialness, and,
like, stuff.”
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
This week at work I received a Homeland Security form with a terse note that I had filled it out incorrectly - in 2003. But I had not filled it out at all; this was new form (already out of date by its own testimony) predicated on a Department of Justice form which I did complete correctly; it had simply expired.
Altho’ I obediently completed the form, I rendered part of the form (page 7 of 9) into not-really-a-poem, in lines of ten syllables:
I Attest That I Am
employment eligibility
verification department of home
land security u.s. citizen
ship and immigration services u
scis form i-9 omb
no. 1615-0047
expires 03/31/2016
start here. Read instructions carefully be
fore completing this form. The instructions
must be available during completion
of this form anti-discrimination
notice: it is illegal to discrim
inate against work-authorized indi
viduals. Employers cannot specify
which document(s) they will accept from an
employee. The refusal to hire an
individual because the docu
ment presented has a future expi
ration date may also constitute il
legal discrimination. Section 1.
Employee information and attest
ation (employees must complete and sign
section 1 of form i-9 no later than
the first day of employment, but not be
fore accepting a job offer). Last
name (family name) First name (given name) mid
dle initial other names used (if any)
address (street number and name) apt.
number city or town state zip code date
of birth (mm/dd/yyyy)
u.s. social security number
e-mail address telephone number I
am aware that federal law provides
for imprisonment and / or fines for false
statements or use of false documents in
connection with the completion of the
form. I attest, under penalty of
perjury, that I am (check one of the
following)…
I Attest That I Am
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
People talk, more than I.
I am ashamed of my past,
And confused about my life.
Where the history, of many lineages
Is well-described:
I am unaccustomed with mine.
What I know, of right & of wrong,
Is it predicated on the rule of the weak
By that of the strong?
The gaze thus glares from my eyes,
Does it live in black & in white?
Does bruised fruit still grow ripe?
Dec 13, 2023
Dec 13, 2023 at 12:37 PM UTC
my moods are heavily predicated upon my perception of my physical appearance and after much internal debate i have come to a conclusion that i am not ashamed of this
a lot of anxiety arises in the conflict between the desire to separate one’s thoughts from the influence of the physical world and reality
most of the time i think people’s desires for death are simply desires to escape the flow of time— the chain of events, and just think for a while
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 6:56 AM UTC
you cannot equate my fate
with the likes of yours,
you cannot narrate
what i might endure,
you cannot gestate
the weight, nor labor,
because it predates
the state of our nature
but moving forward is
predicated on behavior
so i'll be a good neighbor
and do you the favor.
© Matthew Harlovic
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 5:38 PM UTC
I can't trace the crown of my indifference towards you (or anyone else) to a definitive source.
Whether you are strung to me or I to you,
our union imports
several interpretations.
You might be like fishing wire:
binding limbs, constricting movement;
if I deviate, I suffer your sharp cut of resistance.
Maybe you're yarn: soft, nurturing; but again, any move that falls outside the lines of your predicated design--any undue tightening or loose end--results in chaos.
Or perhaps you are the hand that draws the line:
you, the invisible puppeteer
who governs my every wayward glance
or dishonest act at the whim of your object, your desire;
one string leads to the
magnetism of your cologne
and another, the heat
of your knees in fitted jeans
against mine.
If it be that,
then, my indifference would serve as my aide,
a final desperate cling to autonomy.
But what if we were both cast
in the same web, rendered useless
through entanglement, would we
claw towards each other, content
though the silk grows thick
with every reach?
Would we tear our way to liberty?
Or if we were to find that thing-
the source-
and cut all ties,
would magnetism wind us up again?
If I unravel, what would you do?
If you unravel, would I leave you
in a pile at my feet?
Would I cast dead strings aside
and embrace the freshness-
raw and bleeding but alive-
beneath the rage?
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
What is it to be compelled?
What is it to have a feeling ****** upon?
Like a needle
It ******
Scratches and sticks
Stays in mind
Repeats, rewinds and repeats
Time and time and time...
Until, another comes about
Pricking, sticking and repeating
Like the one prior
Only different in its nature
Stemmed and born to cater
The prototype that preceded
Predicated on deceiving
One's perception of the first.
And another third to sift off the second
And a forth to sift off the third...
Leaving one deaf, blind and dumb
Becoming nothing but an outcast;
A sad and lonely ***
Immobilised and cocooned in bed;
The warm glimmering shine of sun-
Touch not registered
Given the compelled numb.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
There is no tommorrow
There is only today
Pray all ye fools to your invisible God!
My invisible friend is better than your invisible friend!
Religion is predicated upon lies...
Save me!
Bless our happy home!
Where there is fear there is rescue
Where there is panic there is prophet!
Toss me a boat anchor
Before I drown in this cesspool of derision attrition and crime
No matter what, you're alone in this realm known as life...
Striving for attention, begging for food and love...
The white dove flys above along with the hideous black vulture countervailing culture!
Eating the flesh off our bones
Phone home to reinnsure your skin
Wire me money honey, sealed with a kiss or I sink like a bad relationship into the abyss...
Tug my boat to stay afloat else I drown in the kings costly moat
Why steal from me ghetto boy?
You'll learn someday its only a test...
Only the best have no fear of the unknown!
D. Clare
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
lines of malice are penned
within ancient tomes
black and blue ink bruising
the human psyche beyond recognition
stunting our collective imagination
with fantasies of castles
among the clouds and intergalactic
beings who sculpted us from dust
intermittent smears
of crimson declarations
lingering in blood-soaked texts
painting portraits of putrid prejudice
the image of an illusory deity
devised to explain a cosmos
that defies codification and categorization
we mythologized and told tall tales like Arachne
spinning webs of misinformed misfortune
we're severing the strings of our imaginary enemies
silencing lives with rusty shears
utterly convinced by the edicts of idiots
how might we disentangle ourselves from mental
cobwebs and embrace reality's promising veracity
each of us an accidental miracle
captains of our own fortune's vessels
so weigh anchor and set course for distant shores
unfurl the sails of reason and hold fast
after weathering millennia of insipid beliefs
we'll sojourn ever onward with omnipotent minds
raze these sycophantic fantasies
and raise hell so high it becomes heaven
we will build a new city in the shell of this cold
dead society predicated on misanthropic religion
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
No wonder so many are unhappy
Their lives are predicated on pluses
Pluses= happiness
Unhappiness comes from minuses.
All this they hanker after:
Pluses in wealth, power , position
Fame, recognition- even pluses in good looks
And wisdom--anything less is no consolation.
More acquisitions---the goal of life
(Pity those who live in minuses)
All the time they strive and strive
Chasing like addicts for the next round of seductive pluses.
Shouldn't they change their mind-set?
Surely minuses are to be more desired and embraced
Minus ill health, minus greed, minus envy, minus discord
Minus strife, minus discontent--aren't pluses sadly misplaced?
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
an intrepid inheritance
predicated on delusion
processing profuse refuse an
iconoclastic self-absorption suffusing
each and every molecule
we’re confusing consumption
with an inane ideology
as we choke the atmosphere with
CO2 and pump toxins into
our food will we pause as
the doomsday clock tick-tocks
closer to midnight
and the terror alert
goes code red
to consider that we
are at once
this planet’s cancer
and its cure
if Jesus is truly the
reason for the season
do you suppose he’d
impose on those
who do not
share your faith
for the love of Christ
let’s depose the overlords
the Nazarene opposed
hell
that’s something even
i could get behind
Mary
did you know
that your baby boy
was an anarchist who
practiced non-violence
and met death on a cross
as a terrorist rebelling
against the unjust
to those who deign to
name themselves Christians in
homage to the divine
why profane the memory
of a socialistic hippie who
bred an insurrection and
bled for the cessation
of human conflict
the negation of
self-serving intentions
disguised in capitalism
in the spirit of Christmas
defy the death drive
propelling us towards mass extinction
abandon corporate bookstores
protest in front of city hall
the kingdom of god is within you
so go home
kiss the ones you love for
“if we are not the word of god
then god never spoke”
it’s up to us to recognize
that we ourselves
are progenitors of the divine
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
Vestal Virgins forbidden to have ***
spent their days getting groped
as they stood silently around the temple; having
to watch the sacred ****** clean up; treated like goddesses,
they'd have preferred to be treated like
women, like the Senators' wives, who per custom had to serve as temple
****** for a good part of the year; harvests
flourishing; | little ******** born & set adrift; picked like apples
from trees & plucked out of streams,
yet the Virgins were busy scratching their pious itch,
that became the
sanctity of Mother Church [Mary never got her freak on? oh, no -- I say she & Leda had much in common: here's a tip, ladies, don't let birds get too near ur snooch: weird **** happens:
& eunuchs became the priests & bishops;
perverts doing the paper
work for free; for the chance to go frolicking in pre-Deluvian
Bliss
w/ fair-haired
boys forced to dress & act as maidens,
inspiring fantasies of the long ago past;
when we think of the Golden Age: [our ideas of Erotica are very predicated on the 19th century's idea of ****** fantasy; which we regurgitate erzats back into our own cultural spaces; ******* ******** & peeing & vomiting going hand-in-hand w/ giving birth;
Life has forever been ***** & in the mud;
conscious Fascists manipulate Pomp
& Circumstance
to enslave the World; Fascists Never Win
b/c a Lone Ranger rides out of the Sky
& saves the people after much destruction,
sadly, new things need to be built;
so tear down the old & burned & obsolete
& build new powerful spaces for people
to live & thrive
We think the Golden Age was like Rococo, but they were ******* Barbarians,
just like today & tomorrow
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
Whether virtual or actual paths cross,
aye great thee ahoy
no fear Mademoiselle or Monsieur,
thy harried style haint cloy
rather, when embarking
on introductory acquaintance
ship, aye employ
swiftly tailored indistinguishable,
asper this wordsmith mebbe goy
or Jew, yet genealogically
thine Semitic lineage,
unknown descendants begat,
one generation after
stitched another thread,
whence warp and woof, sans dat
(moth eaten tattered wool worth
coat of arms), twas slim and/or fat
chance biologic dice throw
adumbrated me Matt,
a skinny, quirky,
and nerdy kid, who sat
alone during lunchtime
at school pained, plagued,
and pronounced with extreme,
where introversion didst agitate
chronic state of misery being alive
immobilized, hogtied, and forfeited
natural predilection
to discover and create
heterosexual relationships,
viz interpersonal experiences
re: raison to date
initial intimate rapport
(anxiety fraught) fate
full situation with a gal
giving her good grief great
(yes, twas Maryann Sage),
who understandably became irate
predicated on lack
of mine demonstrative affection
quickly becoming an unsuitable mate
though now in retrospect
(hindsight always 20/20)
a sudden resurgent spate
finds remembrance of things passed
(with her) engendering
cerebral tete a tete
rankling memories,
hence for death aye cannot wait!
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 12:54 AM UTC
lips are smokey and nicotined
-up for a night in the dishpit.
the moon leases it's image
for a minute an hour before
stating the lease will expire
sometime between 2040
and 2101. if I'm lucky, I'll be
happy in longevity, or happy
in a 50 yr span which is as
fine as the former. either way
there is a sense of leaking
facets on a Sunday night, a
Ritalin-induced euphoria kept
alive on a caffeine spike. the
bus is always late these days,
which means I am often late
these days, late as daylight,
late as life in fact and as early
as fiction to the evening ball
of predicated tech-gurus riding
hybrid Toyota's in Silicon Valley.
high on a drug called birth and
ingesting like an addict 3 to 5
times a day, I stave off the
ultimate crash.
but eventually, the drug will
**** me.
it always does.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:33 AM UTC
Attempt to shine
flickering figurative klieg light
with the help of hyperbole
on poverty wrought
debutante material, this predicated
on my own unbiased thought
initially related during
my early boyhood,
how many countless
bachelor beaus sought
to pledge their troth,
who hailed (strictly
for purposes of this poem)
from Pennsauken,
Perth Amboy, Penobscot,
but thee essential truth ought
to be gleaned (lodged
as like some precious gem
within geode, qua Harriet Kuritsky,
who oft times recounted her
personal anecdotal information)
underlying veritable truth, I allude
means to underscore
how thine late mum
as the "baby" of her family
wore mantle of exclusive favoritism,
sans donning beautiful clothes
perfectly cared for,
coiffed, and curled hair
(think Shirley Temple)
as her older sisters brewed
festered, and steeped with jealousy,
asper me mother receiving
lion's share of blatant favoritism
all the while said long since
deceased maternal aunts got exclude
did from requisite
(shut heard textbook case) maternal love,
hence within their cerebral hood
incubated, evolved, and flourished
emotional disease affliction
with changeable mood
and thee Aunt Ruth oblivious,
while pacing hallway in the ****
whereat verbally abuse sent
both aunts to mental institution
insanity didst the
ultimate discordant prelude
resulting viz lifetime
of baleful, hateful, shameful,
and worthless venom got spewed,
hence no surprise
rabid mailer daemons
courted, thus psychosis easily wooed.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
Don't you leave now,
I'm impatient,
Not a patient in this ward.
Where's my mother?
I feel smothered,
"Not another word from you."
Undeveloped,
I'm enveloped,
Folded in a hazel haze.
A prism prison
Built precision,
Predicated without trust.
My orphan organs
Will demand
Vital signs,
And vitamins.
Leer from your chest,
Scream with my eye,
"Let me in."
"Let me in."
"Let me in."
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
[prose poem]
If You are love, and You are in all the things I love–
then You are in my morning coffee cup. The one I drink when I've had little sleep, and I feel the adrenaline sizzle my skin. You are in those fresh mornings, when everyone is asleep. And I walk on tiptoes, loving the silence, the delicate serenity.
You are in every string quartet I've heard, every pull of the string, every soft harmony. You are in pens, yellowed old pages, in nights I spent on balconies looking over the edges–
You are in my walks, here and there– You are in these pages.
You are sometimes even in what I hated.
This body that I predicated, that I detested– You've dwelt here, You've cleansed me. You chose this, before the ages.
You are love, and my everything.
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
*don't look now,
here comes
the tax man
he needs some
of your cash,
so he can turn
the middle east
into a giant
******* trashcan
he'll occupy
the Afghans
their poppy fields
are vast, and
at home
we love the
pills that come
from doctors
running that scam
cause we're
a nation
dedicated
to remaining
medicated
our existence
predicated on
duress, stress
and excess
we rack our
brains with worry
as from place
to place we hurry
just as startled
roaches scurry
in the frightened
sight of light
lo and behold!
what we've been sold
In bold relief,
this is our plight!*
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 11:15 PM UTC