"preemptively" poems
I'm a fan of Vontaze Burfict
Though he may not be perfect
For he gives players concussions
To continue the daily discussions
Of the power of his percussion
To receive a hall of fame induction
That is where his value is derived
So what do these penalties imply?
That the referees have a preconceived notion of him
And are preemptively looking to treat him grim
Which gives his team a lesser chance to win
Which makes the biased referees grin
We are a country that idolizes quarterbacks
Every other position we're quick to attack
We only care about who has the ball
And laughing at others when they fall
We worship that which is shiny
And view everything else as grimy
Quarterbacks become celebrities incredulously
While everyone else is treated impetuously
The NFL is like America
Politics makes it harder to watch
The Patriots are boring and plain
They win constantly
The Bengals are entertaining and rough around the edges
They show promise and potential that is never realized
In a nation
Of provocation
I'd rather proudly call myself a bengal
I know that seems an idealistic angle
But Cincinnati provides no coziness or protection
You must always avoid discriminate detection
Of those that call themselves patriots
That drive blue and white chariots
And penalize players unnecessarily
For African Americanning
We really fumbled the ball
Because of the ref's call
That treats us unequally
How they have fun evilly
They can arbitrarily treat whoever however
But a concussion will make them less clever
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
There is this voice that is within me
That wants to scream out preemptively
To prevent my fears from blindly justifying reason
A propensity in our nature
Or is it just nurtured,
Could it be that I’ve created these fears myself?
For why else would it be,
That this voice inside me,
Would scream out for these thoughts to stop?
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
I'd like to eat, but I'm sleepless
waking while seeing the sun rest
greeting again before I shut my eyes
to the day that I endlessly live.
I'd like to dream, but I'm dreamless
to demands of fear from my brain
where it sits in the head controlling
impulse then flooding just when it wants.
I'll **** your **** for a five or a ten
and here when you thought you'd
never find a silent friend.
I'm on the cheap should you need me,
for a tap on the fingertips.
I'd like to be where you all say no
to the presence of reverie
in the face of the guarantee
I'm preemptively broke
for the moment of falling down
where I wave and I bring you in
to home and a ******* meal
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
There you are again,
you old, reincarnated love.
Showing up in new faces
and handing me a token
of your affliction:
your half-empty glass,
a leaf ripped from its limb,
your one-way ticket to a place
I won’t be.
Here we are again,
walking down the street
under wet trees and lit balconies
as if we’re falling in love.
You try to convince me you’ll
stay this time,
but I see the itch in your skin
to leave as soon as you realize
I recognize you.
And I do.
You’re a fiery first-kiss.
A five-day affair. Maybe this time six.
A reality check.
Light beams and a car horn
shake me awake.
A squeeze around the waist
indicates you’re still lying
beside me in bed.
I preemptively wince in pain.
Any minute now.
You pass through that door
like anyone would,
but I know what your
“See you soon,” means.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
Failure to flee,
Preemptively,
Has lead me to be,
Alone with 3.
6 little hands,
30 tiny toes,
1 broken heart,
4 hopeful souls.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC
‘I ain’t tired!’ yells the homeless, old man begging for change
On the green line station me and my friends get off at to buy coffee
He turns and looks at us
‘I ain’t tired!’ yells the toothless, old man on that cold winter night
As we preemptively pull out our phones and look down at the ground
A defense mechanism
‘I ain’t tired!’ yells the hobbling, old man as we pass him by
Without making eye contact or even a sympathetic nod
If only I had cash on me
‘I ain’t tired!’ repeats the mentally ill, old man while we descend
The stairs down onto the pavement and into Chinatown
The snow continues falling
‘I ain’t tired!’ echoes the starving, old man
His voice ringing in my ears long since we’d left ear shot
The only time I had the courage to glance at him
He was a mess of wires and bone and cloth and paint and white hair
Older than the city I had just begun to explore and call home
Permanently on that train station yelling
‘I ain’t tired!’
‘I ain’t tired!’
‘I ain’t tired!’
Jan 22, 2021
Jan 22, 2021 at 1:23 PM UTC
What was it he said
while we sat on the bench
Saturn glimpsed down, considering proposal
but Mars reflected in his own vanity, said no preemptively.
Popsicle boy flicked his hair off his forehead and asked the sun why he was so bored.
"22 thousand civilian casualties in Iran and we don’t even give a **** Thousands of homeless in this city alone. How is that possible?"
He pointed at a lightning bug.
"I can plant as many community gardens as I want, it still doesn’t make a difference!"
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
dream weaver swinging a meat cleaver
sewing spells with stitches of fever
pitching fast ***** and low blows
to the sweating and eager
set the succubi on the nonbelievers
steal the dams and **** the beavers
heal the toe jam nightmare
with foot cream and elbow grease
press lilies into every open knee joint crease
call the landlord
sign the lease
the sole matron of the shopping mall
sifts flour in a sun dress
the screaming fire alarm goes off
breaking dishes
knocking down sprinklers
wreaking havoc
making a mess
let me jump down your throat
and swim in the abscess
infect your brain with chloroform and soda pop in excess
no manic pixie dream girl
no damsel in distress
a ferris wheel on turbo twirl
a gravitron programmed to make you hurl
your embarrassed lunch
pick me bunches of wild flowers
i'm open to sacrifice
scrape the back of your throat with a screwdriver
dutifully collect jars full of head lice
the meek mice of the holes in the wall
crawl out gleaming sweaty sheen
the expectant floorboards creak out mean greetings
the expectant backs preemptively remove their shirts to receive beatings
students scurry by
feet frantic
late for their meetings
through it all
the crows keep bleating
goddesses nestle in the clouds
and predators eat their young
rodents mumble songs unsung
and in branches where bodies once hung
dangle fruit and flower:
another season, come.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
How clean is clean
when the cleaning began
from the floor of a sunken ship?
Barnacles grace the walls in the place
of family, or a familiar face.
When filth is a given, and given
in projection to the overtly empathetic
as a matter of course, why implore?
Because you don't implore,
you explore as an entity
reaching for a meaning.
The question becomes,
do you fight, or do you invite
the coming cessation?
Even with a gun, and a view to ****
the power the bullet affords
would surely fail to thrill you.
The best charlatans paint your hands red,
as you're sleeping in bed, preemptively.
Let the liars lie, let the builders connive.
Uninterrupted access to their own confines.
To Narcissus, the cool nod is colder than the knife.
Let the liars lie, let the builders connive.
When the company you keep requires the sacrifice
of your authenticity and your reality, just leave.
It'll never get good. It'll never get great.
It'll never be worth the investment.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 8:29 PM UTC
Remember when,
the Amazon meant the rainforest,
remember when,
Birds were winged creatures that flew above us,
remember when,
our memory wasn’t something on our phone,
remember when,
memory was something in our minds?
Do you remember?
Do you remember,
when we were Light Beings,
not confined to physical bodies,
remember when being a being wasn’t so disgusting?
Remember when we lived,
without farting or pooping or bleeding or sneezing,
remember when we loved for the sake of love,
remember when we’d get together without needing a reason,
Do you remember?
Do you remember unconditional love,
I mean real unconditional love,
back when what we did actually seemed to matter,
before we gave up and stopped giving a fck,
before we threw in the white towel,
and sold our souls to buy in by trying to buy the right vowels,
remember when we had each other to believe in,
before we bought into the dreams they sell and we sold out?
Do you remember?
Do you remember when we lived freedom,
and it wasn’t just a dream we believed in,
do you remember when our little personal revolutions were evolutionary,
do you remember when we could trust everything we were seeing,
now the whole background seems like a green screen,
now the whole world seems like a crime scene,
in a Mandala of Samsara,
trying to break the cycle with Tantra Mantras,
and I wan’t to be Dr. Jekyll all harmless,
but sometimes I scare myself and become a monster,
but I guess that’s the price we pay to play The Game,
ah this life is expensive but liberation is priceless,
so I pay my dues and keep moving through,
making moves like there’s nothing to lose but this life I shine until lifeless,
taking trips without falling to destinations that are calling,
my name by ship car or plane trying to get it all but in the process forgetting everything,
so I preemptively apologize if we meet again,
and I admit that I easily forget and have to ask you to please remind me your name,
remember when,
the Amazon meant the rainforest,
remember when,
Birds were winged creatures that flew above us,
remember when,
our memory wasn’t something on our phone,
remember when,
memory was something in our minds?
Do you remember?
∆ LaLux ∆
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
-
A shield is a device used for defense;
It blocks incoming attacks, evading blows.
-
A weapon is a device used for offense;
It performs attacks, which may be blocked by a shield.
-
Shields and weapons are not interchangeable.
A shield is not a weapon.
A weapon is not a shield.
-
When a weapon is used preemptively,
We call it aggression.
-
In the face of aggression,
A weapon used as a shield,
Is called
Revenge.
-
It may be right,
It may be justified,
But it will never keep you safe.
-
Nuclear deterrent.
-
A fine weapon,
But a poor excuse for a shield.
-
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
I kissed myself on the forehead
and told myself that I've had better days
that everything used to be... ok...
I wish I could go back!
I would change so many things,
I would learn to control myself better...
I would not listen to those who controlled me
all things considered
it seems I've grown bitter
and these words they haunt me
all things considered
it seems I've grown iller
and my killer he taunts me
the writer inside,
"negligible pride
despite the crazy ride
on a track that cut off "-me
I wish I could go back
I would explain myself better
I would not resort to street medication quackery
I would read up on hereditary
I would brush my first set of teeth more
I would learn to sleep
I would prepare preemptively before a storm
I would promise, I would not keep
I would avoid ever taking the high road
I would avoid the very notion of forlorn
I would stick to what I knew
yet despite the way I grew
I became what i had hoped
achievement was my rue
and now I am torn
I would lie.
I would lie to everyone.
because they all did it to me
and it hurt, but they couldn't see
that no one cared
not even me
and herein lies
insult to injury
the ones that love you most
are the ones who hurt severely
and so
I kissed myself on the forehead
and then I saw clearly.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 2:19 AM UTC
he's the type of guy
who wears the same pair of jeans
for months at a time
wearing them down to frayed seams and cuffs
The type of guy
who shops at the Good Will
comfort over style
familiar with familiarity
She's the type of girl
who doesn't know where her clothes came from
She picked them all up at one time or another
The type of girl
who doesn't spend multiple morning hours
in front of a mirror
It's about what she puts into the world
her body's expendable
They are the type of couple
who preemptively **** away their arguments
because real conflict would surely break them
so they refuse to look at it
until it becomes so large and obtrusive
that it comes crashing down on them
like a breaker
and washes them away
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 8:24 AM UTC
I never had a lover
Who didn't approach me
Without a knife poised behind his back.
Without teeth straight like razorblades.
I fell in love with the eyes...
I assume it's my eyes they fell in love with too.
Permanently dilated.
When I look in the mirror...
When I peer into my own soul,
I open the gates to Hell.
It's as if I can see into Hades,
With a fiery passion that burns holes in the atmosphere
Like greenhouse gasses.
Maybe lovers approach me
Because my demons call to them,
Begging them to send me home.
You speak in tongues
Like an exorcist
Trying to expel my demons.
I imagine I still haunt you,
And that night haunts me too.
You're the woman in the waiting room
Preemptively searching for answers,
Already aware
That results from the bloodwork
Won't ease her strain...
And I am the uneasy doctor
Trying to calm your nerves
Before I break the news
That nothing is as it should be
And never will be again.
I wish you had thought of us
Before I walked away
And you hesitated
So that you could ensure
You didn't miss -
Checking my back for my stab wounds
Which were merely lacerations.
In hopes I'd be another addition
To your killstreak...
But this isn't a video game
And if it were,
I'd be the juggernaut
And you'd be the camper.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
I sit in a burgundy leather chair at work
Hoping that I don't get fired.
But I tried downloading an unauthorized program onto my computer
And a pop-up with the word ********
Flashed across the screen when I went to check the baseball scores.
Maybe I will forsake this whole ******** life
And run off into a hermitage
Heaping ashes on myself, prostrated before a cheap wax statue.
But on some level what I'm really doing
Is avoiding responsibility.
I'm dreading the drive home, to be honest
Because I know you will greet me with that fiery anger
That paradoxically gives me an ********
But also breaks my heart.
Maybe I can just walk in the door
***** preemptively sealed in a yellowed Mason jar,
And say,
"Just stay right where you are, Steve."
"We don't want any trouble..."
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
[A prose poem.]
I see you’ve got the ropes.
Somehow you adapted. There, your green tea; you filled your thermos last night, preemptively. Your fingers have always been awkward too. You treat your hands as if they were chubby. And they hold the thermos with strength, like they hold everything-- except for your papers and your keyboard. You hold those differently.
Remember the balcony? You had too much wine, obviously. Your rolling on the floor from one end to the other turned legendary. But time rolls by, and so do tobacco leaves on papers, and you hate those two things.
Listen, I’m not the same. I’m sorry. I now have posters on the walls of my room. And I still pick pieces off my lip, but I wear chapstick too. And I’ve started to drink coffee again, with sugar. I’ve made peace with mirrors. And I’ve also started to learn some french, Je m’excuse.
What page number were we in? I’ve known you through some invincible years, but I’m starting to see the fray.
You forgot to take the balcony along. You’ve got the hang of your schedule, where and how to tunnel your way to class; you get up as soon as our alarm goes off. No snooze. You sit down and vaguely remember the journals you wasted your soul in; all the conversations tinted with beer were drowned by fear, and fear by coping, and your coping is scaring me. The ropes are gripped tightly by your fingers, and I might know why.
And I’m already mourning; I don’t need any more black clothes, any more sad entries. Know that I still love you-- that’s still the same. But, here, I am this. It hurts to know that is not okay, that at the bottom of our wine bottles there’ll be resentments, but I still love you all the same. I’d rather taste your rancour than bittersweet memories, wondering how I’d give you tulips, if you really want to be cremated.
Maybe we’re tying knots on the veins of a good life– and what for?– the classic problem is, perhaps we’re still ‘too young.’ We lost the children we used to be, but we’re in that grey area between losing and finding something to find.
And I’m already missing you. And maybe there’s no point in begging, but,
I see you’ve got the ropes and I’m terrified.
Please,
stay with me.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
The sun set
Out my window-
Its light bounced
Off your eye lashes,
Your *******
And my warm blankets
Into my eyes
I thought I wore nothing but my watch
As we made love
And I saw you checking the time,
Just seeing
How long we had left
But I noticed later that
(“If a train came right now
Would you get out of the way?”
We were in the woods
Standing on this quiet railroad track
Where the birds chirped loudly,
Annoyingly unaware of the silence
We required.
We hadn't spoken
For several minutes
And I had been thinking about this
For a while
As we stood staring straight ahead
Both of us half hoping...
My answer came quickly:
“Yes.”
You turned and walked away
Unable to face
The most fundamental difference
Between us,
Laid out so blatantly.)
I had preemptively worn a moment
That day
As well.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
Always just seems to encompass so little now a days. like forced nevers that started out strong but ended up limping out the mouth. making every time after falling short of the finish line, crutchless and wounded. turning the next encounter to reruns that have burned itself into view of the latter. Passively predicting the loop but doing little to alter the fateless. because popcorn needs to eaten just as shows are made to be watched. we are all tuned to the same channel, just in different brightness settings. then given the option to search for the remote control that will remain absent. we're told that the search will bare the fruit desired. and even though it is common knowledge now as to where the path leads and ends. for it was thine own ****** hand that placed the final stone. a ********* in the making. for the only other word to describe such behavior Is insanity. whether it is a question or a statement is beyond the threshold of what im willing to spend time thinking about. even though my thought process is rarely my own and i wouldnt really call us friends either. for if my thoughts betray me why would i give others a privileged that i am not qualified to give away. was there a day in my in my redacted childhood that wont raise its hand when i do roll call. one that warned me, trained me even to Not react but preemptively parry the blows that i would soon take full force. Pretending that its the smoke caressing and constricting the lungs and not the constant sucker punch to the only blind spot left. at this point, neglect works just as well as chasing an unattainable figment. that in my opinion. is far too real and even less tangible.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC
His name sounds foreign in my ears,
I can taste his accent on my tongue,
His skin, a bittersweet blend of my favorite coffee,
His clothes baggy as if he was hiding something.
These characteristics do not,
I repeat do not, make him a terrorist.
He is a terrorist because
He crashed into my twin towers when I let my guard down.
He left me burning to the ground,
And suddenly I was awake to the thought that
Life was not as beautiful as I mused.
The sun had stopped shining,
The world had stopped spinning
And all I could feel was pain.
He is my terrorist because
I cannot sleep in my own bed
I do not feel safe in my home.
I am on maximum security,
Tighten up my boarders,
Make sure no one gets in.
Not in my mind,
Not in my heart,
And NOT in my pants.
You see, I made a mistake:
I trusted him.
I didn’t believe he could do this.
I didn’t want to believe he could do this.
But now I’m unsure
If trust is even an option anymore.
Can I trust myself
Not to take too many pain pills
Trying to ease this unsettling feeling
crawling on my body?
Can I trust someone else?
To tell or not to tell,
That is the question,
Because unlike 9/11,
10/20 was breaking news on every channel.
It was kept hidden from the scrutinizing eyes
Who said I was asking for it
Who said we were "dating"
Who said that I wanted it.
Next on the 6 o’ clock news,
Local college freshman says
She wants to be *****
Just looking for the right guy to do it,
When she’s drunk and alone
In the middle of the night.
She’ll leave the door unlocked
Because she forgot.
So if she doesn’t answer when you knock
Come on in.
She wants it.
And after you do what you do
I will wonder if life is even worth it
As I search for my pants in the dark.
And I will cry, more tears than I knew possible.
And I will pray,
Because like any good Catholic knows:
We pray when we need something,
And dear lord, I need answers.
Why?
Why did he think this was okay?
And what can I do to feel okay?
I don’t want to feel great,
Not even good,
I just want to feel okay
Again.
He is my terrorist
And I am ready to wage war.
Although I am afraid of how many casualties will be lost
Or how the average American views my war.
I know this is a war that needs to be fought.
And it needs to be fought sooner than later,
Because maybe I am preemptively saving
The next country from this
****** extremist
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
[A prose poem].
I see you've got the ropes.
Somehow you adapted. There, your green tea; you filled your thermos last night, preemptively. Your fingers have always been awkward too. They incline to the chubby side, your fingers. And they hold the thermos with strength, like they hold everything– except for your papers and your keyboard. You don't grip those. You tap. Are you aware?
Remember the balcony? You had too much wine, obviously. Your rolling on the floor from one end to the other turned legendary. But time rolls by, and so do tobacco leaves on papers, and you hate those two things.
You took the balcony along. You've got the hang of your schedule, where and how to tunnel your way to class; you get up as soon as your alarm goes off. No snooze. The ropes are gripped tightly by your fingers, and I don't know why.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 5:35 PM UTC
Lost
maybe finding a way before too long
through the fog locking knives into skin
for the sins swept in on my heart
though more likely gone till the lies fall in
with the death of the loved ones who shun
time again, again and again, genuine feeling
Feeling the closing in walls
preemptively seeping through palms
while we wait for the squeezing,
enthralled
Pressure from vision and images talking in silent rhymes
hiding in Heidegger with numbers null up to nineteen
Life now becomes what their lives all became
Penance
Pay it
Play with
decay surrounding as if all is alright
smiling and laughing, swallowing and choking through night
dead in the morning
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
I miss you.
I think about you
every single day.
You’ve always been
one of the most
powerful
human beings
I have ever
known.
To be nurtured
by you
was to be saved
from drowning
preemptively.
To be loved
by you
was equivalent
to having a
corner-man
in a title
fight.
It was not soft,
but it was kind.
It was often angry,
but never intended
to be mean.
Your heart was
always a forge,
a furnace,
the surface of
the sun.
The fire
is still
alive.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
Would've if we could've
But lust has a cost,
Shouldnt've and wouldnt've
Until trust was lost,
Contemptibly, preemptively
We forced it at first
Predictably, restrictively
Left in the lurch,
Precisely, concisely
The sneer pulled it down
Impeccably, delectably
Turned laughter to frown
Conclusively, Intrusively
We both spat the dum
Then Sadder but gladder
Decided to run.
You sprinted East and I legged it West
Both relieved to be free
Devolved and absolved now,
Both, contemptible we!
M.
North Queensland
1968
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 2:06 AM UTC