"pronounces" poems
bae is sick
his name isn't ****
this sounds like a rap
but it isn't a map
he pronounces stuff strangely
he can say "aluminum" barely
he has the flu I think
he needs to see dr dake
we have shows to go to
but he still has the flu
so I'm lonely as heck
for bae who isn't named beck
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
twice by god's accidental interference,
our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts,
connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness
and disturbing the supermarkets peace
what better way to judge character than to examine
a single persons shopping cart contents?
hers,
all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay,
grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on
the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic
mine,
Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard,
very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light,
and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips
with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff,
pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later,
to which, I respond,
then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight?
later that night,
after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes,
she props herself upon an elbow and
in a tone sincere and caring,
extracts from the poet promises of
natural exclusivity
from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure,
from the soul soil of our shared habitat
her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp,
softly climbing on top of her,
announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity;
I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally
rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough,
garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking,
I noting nod, good naturedly
that both the laugh and smack,
as well,
*sourced locally,
sourced lovingly,*
which then seeded
this new only love jointly authored poem,
planted in our mingling blossoming crashing
bodies
5/29/17 i
12:43pm
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
the azalea grew there
twenty years,
its grey body now
but scratchy bones,
browned blossoms
to ponder
until someone with courage
pronounces it over
cuts barren spines down,
and mulches the ground
with faded smiles
aged between pages
found saved in a shoebox
string-tied tight in darkness
will we still want spring
when we remember
our missing fuchsia
or discover
a new color to admire,
forget it ever was,
as we’ve manged
to forget laughter
in passionless winter
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 5:29 PM UTC
Vanilla vowels
and creamy colored consonants
Naughty or nutty nouns
of almonds, apples, apricots
Aphrodisiac adjectives
and very berry adverbs
Passion fruit phrases
pirouette like peaches in thought
A pomegranate patter
that pronounces a pronoun
Or perhaps in veiled vines
velvet verbs purr
Wondrously whipped
words of love
Salacious sentences
with strawberry stirred
A mellowed musk melon
of a metaphor
A salubrious simile
sits like a sapote crown
Amorous alliterative adventures
with romance and raisins
An ooh la la of orange oomph
onomatopoeic sounds
An orchard of the alphabets
in a fruity potpourri of speech
A bearish pearish play and
plum pun on words
The language of love
written with love
In this hash mash
bonhomie
Valentine verse
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 8:56 AM UTC
In God We Trust, For He Invented Reasonable Doubt
In Courtroom of the State of New York, Part 62,
where the only decoration extant,
in gold leaf letters,
a magnificent joke,
In God We Trust.
Words so incongruous
to the real time drama,
a poorly acted Law and Order episode
of which I partake,
(as Juror No. 1,
ergo you may address me as
Mr. Jury Foreman),
they stun me into stupefaction
every time we enter and the
Bailiff pronounces with much gravitas,
"Jury Entering"
A potpourri of a dozen Manhattanites,
with wisdom acquired
by the singular virtue of
having attained the robust age of 18,
noteworthy for being free of
criminal record,
having been nominated
to sit upon the jury that will decide
the fate of one Eric B.,
for what he may have done upon West 11th Street
one Summer night in
June Two Thousand and Eleven,
If adjudged guilty,
New York State can take,
incarcerate him for up to
15 years of his life
Predicate felon by the age of twenty seven,
Eric's resume consists of
four felonies,
two misdemeanors
a wife and two little children,
and a partridge in a pear tree.
Facts turgid and muddy,
Eric tells a story
one juror calls a confection of lies,
no one murmurs
much disagreement in the
tiny, overheated room
we have been sequestered to
replay
the 2012 version of
Twelve Angry Men.
But I am not his peer,
nor am I a seer,
common sense says
if appearances are what they seem to be,
he aided and abetted
in the forcible taking of
a nice Connecticut lady's cell phone
with his brother who just happened to be
released from prison earlier that day
A convoluted tale
ripe with inanities is told,
upshot is our defendant's tale,
his robust defense,
portrays him as the unluckiest man
in the whole world,
a good Samaritan,
*{chasing after the thief,
** ** his bro}*
against whom events have conspired
In Manhattan can be a harsh place,
where the natives
a tough lot,
tougher than the Indians from whom
they stole it all.
Our bridges we sell to out-of-towers,
all it takes is one to say,
what the heck,
reasonable doubt is
a ***** to overcome
so let him go
Jan, 2012
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
*The fundamental phenomena in nature are symmetrical
with respect to interchange of past and future.* --- Richard Feynman
Millions for Defense
In the Cabinet room of Monticello, clutching Decatur's letter,
the President removes his wire-rimmed glasses ---
Frigate Philadelphia has been burned.
Decanting a bourbon, he pours and quaffs.
Outside in the piazza the cicadas' din is unbroken.
The Pasha of Tripoli has his tribute!
In three short hours warm rays of sunlight
will greet the outstretched arms of Earth,
but for now the bourbon scintillates.
Ink splatters on the blotter,
as he pounds a clenched fist upon the desk.
Not one cent!, he pronounces to the wall-clock.
Cicadas hold sway in the Charlottsville night,
but on the Barbary Coast a fire is raging.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 9:39 AM UTC
the animated man moves with languid effect
against the scattered clouds of the sky far overhead
he walks at a slow stumble
on the oil stained pavement of suburban driveway
'this is where the light blue mustang was parked'
he is carrying a stone carved into the shape of a head
its mind leaning precarious over the edge of sanity
you can taste its butterscotch candy laughter
and its salt water taffy tears
its face frozen in apocalypse of conflicting thought
he moves along the dirt road
hemmed in by trees and wild growths
the humidity so thick you swim rather than tread
but the feral grin sewn into his face
with her needle and threads
is what moves her
she adores its primal bloodletting
a self contained self abuse machine
she leads the way down the dusty road
to the clearing where night children gather
to make celebrations to dark matter
and the things it spawns
her thighs tingle at the thought of dead flesh
and feasts of the eyes filthy mind
the images in her mind are never really clear to her
just **** flesh rubbing cold things
i am disturbed by her dark dream
seek to flee on wings of night
but fail as he arrives head in hand
and pronounces logical rules for the slaughter
this night has no end
just the rest of fitful dreams
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
How exotic is this curvaceous dance within our brazen synaptic hemispheres?
The scholastic wisdom of the ages boldly pronounces licentiousness when Ashtoreth makes herself readily available to ravenous self-projections of post-modernity.
As we saunter around the parameters of entitlement, the monster will reveal itself with narcissistic glory whilst cotton candy is purchased by naïve populations of bewitched obedience.
Scan the desolate horizon where economical lap dances are nothing more than a mere mirage of repressed Oedipus conflicts.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
For Eliot
a man possessed awakes and blessing pronounces that the world needs another poetry site even though nothing new under the sun nonetheless the secret passion is coded and the white swells grow into a hurricane whitecap crescendo, lighting thunders cymbals and the non believers (how I want to believe!) quietly step forward
from unpronounceable places you never heard of,
no longer cowards, not a one,
invoking a blessing of:
"me too, I am a poet with something to announce new, and I've been sitting patiently in distress, looking for a place to say, see,
I think I can,
I think therefore,
I am,
a named human.
no longer an asterisk."
6/22/17 2:40am nyc
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 2:46 AM UTC
I think I love
with every cell of my being,
with every drop of soul in me,
with every breath that visits my lungs,
with every fingerprint I’ve ever left,
with every laugh that parted my lips,
with every language my tongue pronounces,
with every way I know how to love,
with everything, yet I end up with nothing..
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 4:50 AM UTC
The hysteria of night, I feel
like a tug in my pining lovelorn heart
that pronounces her name again and again
her name flows back as a magic river
and I stand on a rock in the past,
time, I once told her, is magical
and meaningless as magic too is,
that amounts to nothing, yet we rejoice.
The hysteria of night is mellow wine,
she told me not to remember her again
she was magic, magician's special design,
appears and disappears at will, one would think
but no, every magic lasts for a while.
The parting kiss was most passionate ever,
can interpret dreams, how can one explain this?
The hysteria of night begins when moonbeams
fall on us, she gets the message from
an unknown source, from the depth at first,
she makes me touch her left breast that transmits it,
I used to wonder about the need for rituals,
now I understand what it means.
We were possessed by the hysteria of universe,
to create, empower each other by our
frenzied caresses with fingers of love
that are long, long and search, reach to the depth,
long moments of love becomes a gooey broth
in which we flow, float, play and peak.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
That kiss that burned one Tuesday, four a.m.,
Won't make it into any bulletin,
Nor that flicker-flash of bird, that garden time,
Nor his shameful need, nor the white wine
Left in the glass, obituaries of hours
Unmourned at cards, some ode to spring
Her blinking heart sang, nor childish chores
Of Sundays drained. Not light. Not anything.
No and no and no. Dim and dim,
A vacant voice pronounces prayers at him
While worlds wane small as words some woman said
Meant hope or love. Then no one else is there
Who peers through dark. Who weeps, or blanks of care,
Or hardly knows him, writing he is dead.
Apr 16, 2011
Apr 16, 2011 at 6:43 AM UTC
in my mind,
i work at a third world convention,
bleeding saliva and avocado paint
behind a mule's *** like
seeking coverage was difficult
or something.
now it's past
the pillaging of painted americans,
valleys once rolled with corn and feather's weight,
but seized by nation's serious fathers.
the table creaks as sister
literally screams, "Grace!"
and the cotton tablecloth even
bows its head in poultry's spicy scent.
i said it was past,
un-remembered after a
murderer (more than)
antagonized another's HDTV
(bold, high, pronounces, and shrieks
more shivering-ly
than when a spider stepped on my toe).
now there are halos
beginning to blush,
vibratos crescendoing to
the last of leaf's sultry breath.
Noel was large-eyed,
carols twirling lighter than snow.
they made the Lord
wonderous, because o,
my baby king,
the manger was not a velvet cushion,
and neither will his
(or your)
days to come.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 6:42 PM UTC
Valley dripping of milk and honey.
Chestnut washed lands and symmetrical hills with two temples
burning incense to Ganesha.
A deep cave yet unsettled by civilization.
The environment pronounces "devastation" wrong but the mind
was conquered by a Greek.
Oh scattered freckles like pebbles orange.
It's mid June,
still, Hunab Ku is my one true Lord and red lipstick on brown girls
still turns me on.
So who am I really running from?
At a distance, successful X.O.C.H.
is holding hands with Salvador Domingo Felipe Jancinto Dali i Domenech.
- RAW -
At a distance, a rusted gold coin with exact exchange value of one half dime
buys El Castillo de Chapultepec without a fight,
but who am I really running away from?
You?
Valley fortified and in control.
Beautiful nature: *BRIGHT COLORED FRUIT Y FLORES RECIEN NACIDOS DE UN NOPAL
CON UNA CUEVA ENVENENADA.*
She is Queen of flowers
- RAW -
Only if that is what you desire.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
The King’s trove, the Queen’s affection.
Or rather, her affectations.
Pretention is the worst kind of beast,
snarling in the corner and snatching out with snipe claws.
It wipes my nose with its shirttail, then pronounces my snot
something of wonder it has created.
It causes such an itch in my throat, ensuing a
gag that threatens to choke the flare within me.
Trust it, and you will be following those signs that declare
Ogres! and
Certain Death!
not far ahead.
You will reach under its nautical waves and
Duped! Done for!
Now say ‘hello’ to your watery hollow.
You won’t find God here, or even
an ounce of hope to take flight.
All that will be left is a bitter taste on your tongue and the sound of
“Why, oh why…”
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 5:10 AM UTC
Sometimes the pen,
unnecessary.
The poem, fully formed,
in his mouth, born.
Silent back labor,
unbeknownst the existence thereof.
Yet knowing now
his contractions,
coming fast and furious,
eyes many centimeters dilated,
the sac's fluid breaks
upon the poet's tongue.
He pronounces in a single breath his
Immaculate Completion
When the poets hand to mouth goes,
like Moses,
when he touched the burning coals,
tongue burnt,
the words are signaled,
freedom, born, released.
The words announce:
We are now created, conceived.
This new oxgenated atmosphere
is now our
final resting place.
This child, this poem, this exhalation,
once freed, is now
lost to him,
Its been renamed, retitled,
by hundreds of
newly adopted parents as
"Ours."
So
when you hear the poet-man exclaim,
I live hand to mouth,
weep joy!
by, for and with him,
for his true meaning,
now clarified.
An ode to joy has
been birthed this day,
a child for the people.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:52 AM UTC
It’s boxing day (the Brit name for the day after Christmas) and Pamela, Lisa’s grandmother is visiting our little pandemic ark. Pamela’s a Cowboys fan so we’re watching them slaughter Washington - between commercials - but now a Tesla commercial is running. “Those electric cars,” Pamala says dubiously, “seem problematic.”
“You’ve heard of global warming, haven’t you, Pamala?” Leeza says. Leeza addresses everyone (even her grandmother) as if they were her age (12). It’s both seductive and lazy. “This whole system,” she raises her arms to include the apartment, the city and America, “will collapse - we’re DOOOOMED,” she concludes, as if speechifying to an eager crowd.
“Everyone’s heard of climate change,” Pamela says, sipping her eggnog. Pamela is as well informed as any of us and seems rather envious of the future, even the coming awfulness.
“Leeza’s her own theatre,” Her mom says, grimacing indulgently.
Leeza’s full attention was now on the pastry tray - having spotted two small eclairs under the bear claws - she'd lost interest in the conversation and saving the planet.
“The system won’t collapse,” Will says. Will received his early acceptance letter from Harvard the other day and now he knows everything. “We’ll lose Florida, South Carolina and New York,” he pronounces calmly, “so there’ll be some.. migrations.”
“Thank you, professor,” Lisa says, rolling her eyes as if to say ”Harvard people.”
“I think the Covid might get us all - before climate change,” I say, in the spirit of the holiday.
“Well,” Will says, grinning, “that’s what ALL the people at inferior colleges think.”
Leeza, passing by my easychair, curls into my lap like a cat, gently petting my hair. “Don’t be mean to MY friend,” she says, purringly - I was suddenly her possession. Lisa comes out of her chair, a sly smile on her face, to lay crosswise atop Leeza (and me).
“Ugg,” I managed to say, squirming to get comfortable, then “Akkkk.”
Lisa says, “Leave my poor roomie alone!” and starts baby-kissing my head.”
Will starts in our direction like HE’S going to pile on. “Egggg! I shrek, “HELP!”
Pamela whoops with glee as Dallas scores another touchdown.
“Like beating a dead dog with a stick,” she says.
Dec 29, 2021
Dec 29, 2021 at 10:10 AM UTC
She scans his face for familiar lines
But in the face of her lover, meets a stranger
Taken aback, she closes her eyes, urges him to whisper,
gently, her name
'...' the word is same, he pronounces it exactly the way he used to
But she hears the name of someone else;
Someone new.
Struggling for old shape and sound
She reaches for his arms and folds herself an embrace
But feels no familiar touch,
Her ears quiver no more
At the once-soft breaths that gently nudged and tugged at her hair
She gradually breaks down;
Forced smile by smile, by frown,
And steals a final gaze at his eyes
And in their reflection,
Sees a stranger-smiling, shivering, unfamiliar
A stranger.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
A frozen wind is whistling, all through the starry night.
snow within it, it howls along the frozen paths, of the midnight
winters winds, beneath the moon, and thousand lights.
The trees are whispering, dead leaves soon to fall, they voice
their last and final breaths, before the fall of wintertide, and
the stunted length of days. I sit and watch the evening fall,
and the leaves gone one by one, spinning down to frozen earth,
at the beck of the winter winds. I think of how I sit here, the how,
the where, the why. Why am I here, sitting and watching the death
of another year, quiet all about me, none beside me, while my age
rises from its restless slumber, and pronounces loud, my own mortality,
and the shortening length of days. Snow is falling, sound beneath the quiet,
adding depth to the empty silence. The snow falls all around, and blankets all
in pristine white, and a mantle of heavy quiet, beneath the clacking of the hardened
branches, and rustling of leaves, dead and doomed to fall, beneath the moon and
thousand stars, and the weight of early death.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
Please Pogo music, wake me up. The night, now reduced to warm laptop light, is inching toward dawn. I pray to the patron saints of writers - is it Neri or Ávila? Whichever is on call I suppose.
“I’ve indulged in reprobation,” I confess, openly to the fuzzy, waxing, crescent moon. “I need that alchemy that turns coffee and a rough outline into an actual paper.”
I yank off my hoodie, fling my window open wide and hang myself out like wet laundry. Have you ever tasted ***** Vile stuff really.
The forty degree breeze feels like heaven and my eyes begin to focus. I peel off my leggings to let my entire skin tingle with cold.
My Keurig beeps confidently. I found a couple of peanut energy bars in my bookbag and rip them open like a ****** who’s discovered a forgotten stash. I devour them so quickly it’s like a magic trick - then I brush my teeth.
I take several slow deep breaths. I can DO this, I assure myself, but my outline looks adequate at best. I need this done so I can relax with a super bowl party pizza Sunday.
The song “Data & Picard,” sets me to dancing, “It’s better to have loved and lost..” Patrick Stewart as Jean-Luc Picard pronounces, perfectly auto-tuned to the music.
I love this song. I love the night. I love the challenge.
I set myself to the task and finish, three hours later, as the sun breaks into morning.
Feb 12, 2022
Feb 12, 2022 at 7:28 AM UTC
You say my name the way a bullet pronounces syllables in other people's mouths-passing through them on the way to profound exit into the air.
My
thoughts turn to you in the same afterwardly accompanying mess,knowing
what has been
done.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
“You can have any wish,” the genie said.
“Any ONE wish?” the girl asked, a little disappointedly.
“One wish,” the genie answered, shrugging.
“Oh.. then” she said, thinking it over. “I wish for.. a banana,” she said whimsically.
“A banana?” The genie asked, hesitantly.
“Yes," the girl said, nodding her head.
A banana appeared on the table.
“As a banana pudding, please - in a bowl,” she amended.
The genie nodded, and a large bowl of delicious looking pudding took the place of the banana.
“With a spoon?” she asked sweetly, and a spoon appeared by the bowl.
She tasted the pudding and it was, indeed, magically delicious.
“A jewel encrusted spoon.” she corrected, and again it was so.
Then she blurted, all at once:
“The Spoon is In the hand of a handsome prince, who’s genetically identical to Timothée Chalamet and is so in love with me that he proposed a moment ago - to the delight of his father, the king, who knows we will both live long and happy lives, having several delightful children - that will rule long after us - but who, unbeknownst to anyone, has an immensely serious heart condition that, sadly, will claim him roughly fifteen minutes after he pronounces the prince and I husband and princess!”
The prince appeared, and the happy king.. It all happened.
As the ensuing dramas unfolded, the genie took his leave.
“It’s never just a banana,” he said to no one, snapping his finger and vanishing in a puff of wispy white smoke.
Jul 8, 2023
Jul 8, 2023 at 10:18 AM UTC
so it is.
the things you love, you worship,
quiet-like burn you,
returning your favor
with fever.
was innocent, naive.
didn't know the sun could
blister hearts,
you babe,
were my sun,
centric universed.
your hurt,
gift packaged,
disguised as warmth,
went
way way past dumbfounded
surficial flesh.
doc pronounces.
time will heal you,
begging for magic pills
shamelessly.
surgery, I need surgery,
blood transfusion,
excise this poison,
**** it out.
nope, dope,
use your pretty words,
like aloe,
to salve and soothe,
stay away from the
sun of love.
from each poisoning,
traces accumulates,
blisters burst,
love becomes
untreatable, untenable
the danger is not realizing
that in eight minutes,
she, sun goddess,
can travel 93 million light year miles,
leaving you gasping,
eight plodding human years later.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
Serpents writhe across sand dunes where Glaswegian slaughter pronounces her vivid descriptions which are not dissociated from sensuality.
There is a certain rhythm to Marrakech vibrancy, and it comes at the price of percussion awareness.
It is cold on this night of sombre reflection, where the North Line Express cascades across sectarian boundaries.
Please offer me a solid definition of socialism, because my loyalty is laid bare before the perimeters of hatred.
Have you ever driven along Bisland Drive?
My alcoholic escapades have firmly embedded in the annals of street history.
Do you offer your consent?
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC