"proximate" poems
With QE there is a
Spookiness factor
According to Einstein
When we take two electrons that are proximate
Their actions mirror each other
When we separate those two electrons at massive distances
And we change the spin on one
We get instantaneous change on the other
No time lag
Through these experiments it has been suggested that
If there is an unseen mechanism communicating between the two particles
Then it would have to be traveling at 10,000 times the speed of light
Interconnectedness?
I think our quanta are entangled
The physical laws of the universe
As seen through Newtonian mechanics
Have been useful
They are rational and make sense when matched with the correct scale
However, as we approach the very small, the very large, and the infinite
Newtonian laws fall away
Some might even see it as rationality falling away
That’s what Einstein suggested
I see it otherwise
Join me down the rabbit hole?
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
Little did I know that I've forgotten a lot how ardently melancholic the scorching afternoons were.
those afternoons, where it consisted of sweet reeks of cotton candy and lollipop, those afternoons that I don't have to beg just to rest, not to measure the time approximately and counting how proximate the distances are, like how I trace my digits on things to know if they're adjacent;
this afternoon, it's like I'm coming home to you.
Sep 6, 2023
Sep 6, 2023 at 11:06 PM UTC
Let’s start with a reminder:
President Harding,
President Woodrow Wilson,
President McKinley,
President Calvin Coolidge
& President Harry S. Truman--
Harry giving them hell in my lifetime,
In my time—
An ever so proximate reminder--
These were all Presidents of the U.S. of A.
Also, KKK Members.
Warren G. Harding, for Christ’s sake,
Was actually sworn into the Ku Klux ****
At a **** ceremony
Astonishingly conducted,
Inside the White House,
Presided over by Wizard Imperial of the Day,
The Honorable Colonel Simmons.
And I may as well throw in
Justice Hugo of the Supreme Court
Hugo Black in white robes,
While we’re on the subject of cultural memory,
To wit: the one Branch where Fairness
Is supposed to go with the territory.
You want to talk about race?
Hey, don’t get me started.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
count thy words
like you count your breathes -
not!
the estimable statisticians
can estimate
the proximate number
of breaths
our lives will take,
the inventory of words,
we shall on average aggregate
we breathe recklessly,
never stopping
to slow down the rate
with which we tirelessly
consume ourselves
think of the
mess of words,
a brain store,
like a breath,
use it and then
purposeful lose it,
once employed,
nevermore,
so write often,
even longingly,
as in,
write long,
write hard,
every word expelled,
a treasure,
returned to
brother poets
for their
consumption and reutilization,
the monoxide,
of a shared oxide
when thy stock of
words in trade,
almost all used up,
perforce,
must write only
short little sweet nothings
well,
in happy desperation,
compose
alliterative allegations,
nonsensical noises,
aiming to pleases
summation of essential humanness
remain few breaths,
issue rhythmic sounds,
colorful grunting noises,
outed
one last intelligible poem
that cannot ever be read
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:31 AM UTC
I
Must say
You're best
At how you beat me
With the very bit of mine imagination
For
A second
You make me
Want to think,I'm the greatest amongst your enemies
Yet
When I
Grasp you in mine arms
And proximate you on me
Shall you quiver yet not so long
And shall gasp to kiss on my lips
Truthfully
Now and then
Shall your sighs puzzle me
And for every bit voiced
Cram how you had want to gulp me
whole inside of you
And even how you can't live without me
Yet
I'm cloack
With remorse
For I feel I make you a bully of my love
And
Each now and then
Will I listen to the words
You say and purge their fairness
To the very syllable
I
Had
Believed you whole
And mine eyes shall flood with tears forever
When I heard you say
He always make you ebb through
The beautiful blues skies and make you want
To catch the golden sunset
When you two make love
I
Had
Even believed
You thoroughly
And had sink into wild waters
Or probably drown into the deepest part
Of the abyss
And rest myself there
For an eternal self-torture
When
I heard you say
His touches make your heart beats faster
Than the rhythms of love played by a ghost
On a magic lyre
But
Then
Every word you uttered
Was a false figurine in your eyes
And
Again
By and by shall I peek the verity
They cloack your soul with
Like what they say
"The window to every soul is the eyes"
But
I may
Had Believe the very words
Your tongue chimed
Yet then
I trust wholly in the verity your eyes spoke
The verity your eyes speak
©Historian E.Lexano
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC
Jupiter and Venus,
radiantly dancing.
Proximate partners in a velvet ballroom,
somewhere over the eastern trees.
Light from a fiery source,
transformative and transforming
heart and mind of the Universe.
Convergence renders conversation
almost null and void.
Nothing but each other
will ever give them peace.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
Blessed is the heartache
That eroded your skin
To reveal your bleeding self beneath
With the other fears, of rejection, of physical pain,
Of losing your mind, of losing your eyes
Bleeding words, painting, making music
When the world suddenly turns upside down
You plunge deep to swim with the stars
You are not afraid of the darkness
Knowing it makes the light shine brighter
Proximate, Intimate, Infinite...
And when I taste your poetry, I kiss your name
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
I
Must say
You're best
At how you beat me
With the very bit of mine imagination
For
A second
You make me
Want to think,I'm the greatest amongst your enemies
Yet
When I
Grasp you in mine arms
And proximate you on me
Shall you quiver yet not so long
And shall gasp to kiss on my lips
Truthfully
Now and then
Shall your sighs puzzle me
And for every bit voiced
Cram how you had want to gulp me
whole inside of you
And even how you can't live without me
Yet
I'm cloack
With remorse
For I feel I make you a bully of my love
And
Each now and then
Will I listen to the words
You say and purge their fairness
To the very syllable
I
Had
Believed you whole
And mine eyes shall flood with tears forever
When I heard you say
He always make you ebb through
The beautiful blues skies and make you want
To catch the golden sunset
When you two make love
I
Had
Even believed
You thoroughly
And had sink into wild waters
Or probably drown into the deepest part
Of the abyss
And rest myself there
For an eternal self-torture
When
I heard you say
His touches make your heart beats faster
Than the rhythms of love played by a ghost
On a magic lyre
But
Then
Every word you uttered
Was a false figurine in your eyes
And
Again
By and by shall I peek the verity
They cloack your soul with
Like what they say
"The window to every soul is the eyes"
But
I may
Had Believe the very words
Your tongue chimed
Yet then
I trust wholly in the verity your eyes spoke
The verity your eyes speak
©Historian E.Lexano
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
I hated it
when your beauty
had to be seen
by countless sets of eyes.
Your shapes and tones
tampered by a
carefully blended touch
of Lark and Juno
as if they represent you well.
I still know
those details
dumb pictures could
never tell.
I hated it
that I knew you were once
carefree.
One, two, three;
Now you wait and count
as they gift
two-dimensional hearts
through ungrateful fingertips.
By then your pedestal
moved up the
ever-refreshing gallery—
A glorified platform
where your beauty
is seen as commodity.
I knew a better use of
those fingers
at that time your
textures lingered.
Soft and calm,
damp and warm;
you were unparalleled
at least for me.
I hate it
that now my
proximate gazes
only graze
your distorted
ideals of real touch
and of real pain;
when each ornate sunrise
embedded on the
landscape of your pores
seek for a casual
tourist's approval.
Hell, I wanted to stay
like an immigrant castaway
living in your skin
day and night;
when you didn't need
to trend
and pretend
that you have certain angles
because you were a
three-fucking-sixty—
A panoramic view
of an ancient city
and your valleys were never dry;
back to the era
when you never had to try.
For you I was always homesick
but I still know
to get burnt by young love
was quick.
We were bound
to grow apart.
I hate it
when all I could do
is scroll up
and forget you.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
opposites on a coin
polar opposites
one side is what you choose to show the world
the other is what you choose to show those
at a proximate convenience
the coin flips rapidly, constantly
erratically
and somehow 50/50 doesn't justify
what you see
so tell me:
between all of this,
how many real friends does a coin have?
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
"Hey!
Hey Lady!
Lady! Hey!"
Words approximate to:
are proximate to:
Subways.
Tickets and newspapers and lights
and people not talking but
silently listening.
[Woman]
Numbers are doors into places that
are yet to be
are not yet been;
are ahead
are rolling ahead
are ahead of us all.
Emptying streets in the sunlight as
something important happens with
outcomes - unknown outcomes.
Beneath everything they say:
nearly everything that is said:
acknowledging what appears to be said.
"Do you think we need to lose some weight?
No, really -
do we ?"
Where did they go with that why
Nothing was said to nobody
Who didn't hear?
[Woman]
- Travelled so far
Additionals attract the many.
Fewer are the fewer and fewer.
The subtractors haven't.
Gather no moss ye rose buds
Ye flying clocks
Melting onto these tableaux
What is it
Is it
It is
How far down do they plumb
This line - how long
Strung along
[Woman] so very far
Yet still so very far
To go
How far?
How to say how far?
How to say?
To the end of anything at all -
What
When
is this then the end
of the end of things,
lady?
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
The world surrounds the in’s and out’s,
the truth in the authentic locus,
Millions of people move the scouts,
in order to increase their focus.
The corrupt world,
induces to follow the tradition,
Creaming the beneficial fold,
making the submerging the verification.
Contempting the placid,
that none other would do,
Blemishing the bracket,
elaborating the déjà vu.
Alteration is necessary,
and a proximate change we need,
Admitting the weary,
was a very doltish deed.
Trepidation should be removed,
the coercion it had built,
Destroying its aged bedrock,
and the selfish guilt.
Resuming the rejuvenate change,
the mutate we devoir,
Establishing the new welkin,
and the heavens we desire.
Commemorating the new holy,
we partage our obligations,
Rectifying our contemporary folly,
by deciphering our bygone praxis.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
I had you somewhere outside
We were so near to each other like never before
I talked to you on not giving up
Then you said to me not to let go
The skyscrapers around us were breaking and falling
I was scared
Then I went to your back and you grabbed my hands
You let me hugged you
We were too proximate
Together we faced the end of time
As soon as we saw the end light, we went back to the beginning
It was just a bright light
But then I woke up, it was just only a dream
A dream that tore my heart
A dream that slap to my reality
Why?
Because the truth is, we have broken up
The dream is the opposite of our decision
Cause in reality, we didn't fight for our love
We never faced the falling world of us And that dream is a reminder of our shortcomings
And a reminder of what should have been done to save us.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 11:32 PM UTC
Two bottle necks meeting at the
same intersection in Mallow.
At least, the river has sense
enough to flow one direction,
Cork Council has no jurisdiction
over that, Heaven forbid!
One would assume that evolution
is not in evidence, therefore, familiarity
might be contributing to the illusion
of nothing's changed, so why alter it.
Ant tracks are the closest analogy one
could use as a visual example, or simile.
En passant traffic, pausing periodically
proximate, for a petit tete a tete, en route.
Mallow Bridge is a meeting place, where
people come to pass the time, literally.
Unfortunately, The Blackwater view is
obstructed, by imposing granite walls.
What if, we rallied for rails, those red lights
would no longer command our attention!
<>
Mallow Bridge 1853
two lanes for horse carriages
and a pedestrian walkway.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
The number of days remaining is.
107 days left in 2025.
and I have
161 drafts & 26 hidden
not to mention the interfering spontaneously
combustible pokes in the eye,
those wonderful triggerings,,
that invoke the spark of god in every you~man's soul.
such as this one.
means that I have proximate, using
an ancient skill taught in grade skool,
an obelus^
about 1.5 poems per remaining days,
to offload on you unsuspecting addicts,
and if you throw in the
spontoons,
those that
erupt, like a howling burp,
it would be deceptive,
even
perceptive.
receptive.
inceptive.
preceptive.
acceptive.
conceptive.
exceptive.
susceptive.
if i did not in
bad conscience
round that itty bitty number up
to a more rounded
filling
two~a~day
vita
supplemental
nml
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 10:32 PM UTC
There is a tiny island
in the river, enough
big to swing cats if
they could swim out.
I'm imagining it on a
raft foundation in order
to accomodate the rising
river levels in Winter.
Proximate to Mallow
Castle, I will be able to
keep an eye on the auld
deers and the granite bridge.
It is going to be a Grand
Design, Willie Eaton is my
consultant, for the Kevin Mcloud
show, an eye catcher.
Jun 8, 2019
Jun 8, 2019 at 8:36 AM UTC