"radial" poems
Old man, you surface seldom.
Then you come in with the tide's coming
When seas wash cold, foam-
Capped: white hair, white beard, far-flung,
A dragnet, rising, falling, as waves
Crest and trough. Miles long
Extend the radial sheaves
Of your spread hair, in which wrinkling skeins
Knotted, caught, survives
The old myth of orgins
Unimaginable. You float near
As kneeled ice-mountains
Of the north, to be steered clear
Of, not fathomed. All obscurity
Starts with a danger:
Your dangers are many. I
Cannot look much but your form suffers
Some strange injury
And seems to die: so vapors
Ravel to clearness on the dawn sea.
The muddy rumors
Of your burial move me
To half-believe: your reappearance
Proves rumors shallow,
For the archaic trenched lines
Of your grained face shed time in runnels:
Ages beat like rains
On the unbeaten channels
Of the ocean. Such sage humor and
Durance are whirlpools
To make away with the ground-
Work of the earth and the sky's ridgepole.
Waist down, you may wind
One labyrinthine tangle
To root deep among knuckles, shinbones,
Skulls. Inscrutable,
Below shoulders not once
Seen by any man who kept his head,
You defy questions;
You defy godhood.
I walk dry on your kingdom's border
Exiled to no good.
Your shelled bed I remember.
Father, this thick air is murderous.
I would breathe water.
15.1k
My dreams are filled with the rush
the freedom and the road
treading lines ahead of us
adhering too the code
The hum of radial tires
and the feel of your arms
burning with desires
passing fields and farms
It's not the rebel spirit
or the need to be untamed
not what others would permit
I'll never be ashamed
The heavens have no demand
that I will ever heed
as down the track my own command
the road, the wind, and you
fulfilling every
need
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:19 AM UTC
I cannot fathom the scribbling in my brain into poetic queues as of now. I am in excruciating pain but I am liberated. I am dying on the inside but somewhere behind my rib cage is a thump. Less of a thump, more like a knock. The love of my life is tearing me to shreds and the universe is softly tapping its knuckles on the door. Through an addictive relationship I have discovered my origin.
I am a healer. I am an angel and I can do no true harm to a soul; I heal even those who are the radial balance of my suffering and bleeding. I have an expendable heart; it has been squeezed, sliced, punctured, chewed, stepped on, scraped, pulverized, shattered, cracked, drained, dried, bitten, and hungrily ****** on by the mightiest of leeches. I stand before myself scarred but glowing like the chest of a newborn child. Once again my pain has given birth to me. I am new, the world has not made me an ******* I refuse. I will love. I will care. I will heal and I will push through my crucifying pains of being leeched. I will continue to give what cannot be returned to me.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
I'm beginning to wonder if the sensation in my fingers will ever return.
maybe its like writers block.
perhaps only temporary...
but some people can have writers block for years, maybe even a lifetime.
Bilateral broken wrists.
What the **** does that mean?
Day 1:
I woke up in the hospital, my only concern was my precious forty dollar jeans.
"Aaliyah your back is broken."
Day 3:
Post surgery, heavily anesthetized
"Mom I want to be on American Idol."
*starts to sing in the recovery room"
Day 12:
I woke up and couldn't feel my right arm
Oh right they numbed my radial nerve!
It only lasts a few hours the said
Day 13:
My arm was still numb.
Lets, not fail to mention that I also have my t12 removed and replace somewhere in the middle of all this.
I have several fractures in my lumbar.
Day 14:
I finally went home.
Four weeks later.
I cant feel my fingers.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
Breathe Steady 10.29.20
go forth then, unto God and his Glory, abounding and rejoicing in the power and peace of that holy dwelling place.
abide, therefore, forever in the Love and in the Light.
-sayeth the channelings, sayeth the distorted mask,
sayeth that through which sound passes.-
sons and daughters of the Earth who bathe in the waters
drawn of love/light/wisdom in the bathhouse of
the higher densities and inner planes.
Bath waters of golden white light, brilliant in a
radial pouring forth of tangible understanding and freewill.
scarcely can such energy be described in so
cumbersome a language, charming as it endeavors to be.
underwhelming must the emotions evoked be
in comparison with the All Glory of experience of
that which is spoken of.
the death ****** of the fire-bird serves as its own
inoculum and womb; two ends of a terminus
in polarity.
I activate in order to combine,
dwindling dread.
I seal the upswing of trans-dimensional laughter,
with the everyday tone of exodus.
I am guided by the advent of thermals.
-I am a solar riptide, surf me-
and then time slowed way down.
the semi trucks were like great sea mammals with
their whale calls and slow passage by the flanks.
“Who are you?”
“I am the Kalachakra.”
“Did you hear that?” (hushed tones, hands cover the phone.)
I was quite close to the illusion of Death.
The opaque specter, shaking and rumbling the very
fabric of the matrix about me.
wavering not within the sinkhole of indifference lest my terror turn manifest.
I’ve risen from a pillar of salt,
I’ll rise from the embers next.
Oct 29, 2020
Oct 29, 2020 at 8:37 PM UTC
Wanting to hear her
birthing him out:
six violent prayers
stuck in your mouth
Wanting to hear her
quickly fading
out of the room
to appear in radial blurs.
Wanting to hear her
mortal cry
wanting to hear her
bleed from the void.
Wanting to hear her
ascending to the heavens
for no one to hear
one steady pulse
Wanting to hear
the infant cry
cutting through the sacred object
of his mother’s design.
The boy is love,
love comes from his mother.
He had to inflict
pain on the origin,
the Goddess
for love to exist.
Wanting to hear her
jump from one stone
wanting to be a
lone for good
I want to be alone for good
Wanting to hear her
sleep with one eye closed,
the other is watching closely.
The thing is over.
Don’t make me
hate you,
don’t make me
**** you,
I’ll **** you, I’ll **** you, I’ll **** you
Out of my, out of my, out of my, out of my eye
Look into my eyes
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
There she rests,
better yet,
her life's leaking.
She, the broken winged
being of a chemical bath,
never meant
to last long,
ponders her past when
violet light spears out of the black
night in a radial burst, orbs
of blue, white, and pink,
dance in collusion,
and calls her, as she's called to doom,
so many before her.
Within the oval shape casting there,
she beheld blood somewhere else,
pumping through gates,
coursing through veins.
With a muster of her final strength,
she fell from the rock and into the waters.
Pulling and pulling,
closer and closer.
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 10:55 PM UTC
through the cusp of
predawn heavy dark i woke,
one knee too cold to
feel. stars imperfectly ablaze;
radial fractions between
soft fingersplits in overlying canopy.
at ground level, spinning
slowly, i pried a small hole
out of my cocoon of moss. drew
legs to chest. felt clean air wash
up and over me. this is all that
matters. everything. acres alone,
save trapped stoat or the small
hawk in my ribcage. kea call
up at pearl flat; hours later,
i thaw. i rescind no sentiment.
and i dare not take back a
mote of motion. my
hands mend you sweetness on hazy
days the sun careens through
dust and valleys.
endless spurs
on all horizons to clamber to
you, or just to find me. endless
convection to spread wing under.
endless permutations of lovers; but,
of course, nobody else
would near suffice.
down a darkened trail, sleep
heavy on shoulders, i waltz with
torch dying in one hand. beating
heart in other. a fine
day crawls up over
peaks; i sigh, smile,
endlessly think
of you.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC
My best friend Steve
had a rat named Beulah
and although she wore the white pelt
and pert whiskers of a domestic pet
she never generated the heroics
of Disney’s menagerie;
rather, she’d
unwind her days doing a scurrying
hunch'n'hop
around the perimeter of the living room.
As a native Pittsburgh rat
Beulah escaped the bizarre fate
of her Baltimore cousins
who resided in neighborhoods
where the residents fished for rodents
using Kmart rods and big steel hooks
baited with cheese and rancid bacon.
Instead, she died rather mundanely
like many rats
at the end of her life's only adventure
fleeing the tame existence
of the living room
for the fresh air of the driveway
where the rear wheels
of Steve's dad's pickup truck
flattened and whirled
poor Beulah
in a counterclockwise
spinfest
of radial belted
frenzy
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
The big bang was your conception.
The expansion of nutritive gases and stars
filled the womb of your pregnant mother.
As barely an earthed fetus, you seemed an animal.
As a newborn, you grew primitively, slowly rose.
Enlightenment when you came of age
to discover yourself human.
Now, in your Twenty-First, the century
of drugged science, you live like a half-god
in ever-questioning evolved reversion,
in a contradictory asylum of paralyzing speed,
rising steep to its ringed peak funneling fumes
that revive the smell of your instincts, primal and fiery.
Then, in one final breath, in the outpour
on volcano’s point, melting and bursting
in radial gasps once again, will come your death
in a matter of ours, the eschaton, a new bang
desired and conceived anew, so that in rebirth
will be your survival, in rebirth our continuity.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:35 PM UTC
Some days there are no problems.
Others, becoming more the frequent,
I feel as safe as Anne Frank in
A china shop.
It's never good fun.
But it doesn't have to be this way.
Either the seekers' rubber boots
Squeak up on me
Or I fling myself against the
Floodlit brick wall.
I've dreamed it a thousand ways.
What new can they do?
Their gas and their bullets, and
Their tire irons across my cheek
Cannot hurt me, a fool
Who has no fear of death,
As every day Death walks beside
And casts a grey lens to filter
What I can see.
If I am caught
If I am found out
And if their hands, their hands, their hands
Pull at me until I am We,
I hope the rendered halves
Push forth that warm light we like to hear about
In place of a deluge.
A light
To burst forth doors
And save the ones who perch like finches
Daring never fly.
I might hope only to become a hand.
A hand in which to step
And to be clasped
And in that clasp be free.
For all the men and women and
For all the in-between as well.
I wish that I could give that to you.
To rip away from your grey rags,
Your stars and triangles,
And in the persiflage of silence
Break the gates and cells
With my limp wrists.
Throw stones until my blood be upon me.
Mother.
Father.
Sons and lovers.
Break my mouth and put my eyes away.
Let, though, my skin go last
As a radial, red calyx.
I. We. All.
I wish to be the last to see the sun.
To be at last
And to be me.
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 7:25 PM UTC
Oh I store my food like
The hummingbird
Living 'neath a hawks
Radial safety
I throw caution to the wind
But not without observing
The chances of survival
Should I take this opportunity...
Not without
the careful consideration
I've thrown humanly to the wind
I am not the United States
I am the mountains
We are all seasonal things.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
This, my friends, is an anthem –
For the ones who feel small; the introverts,
The ones who believe in things so much
They can feel it in their bones, yet at the end
Of the day refuse to believe in themselves.
You are all beautiful.
I don’t mean that in the socially-constructed,
Warped, narrow-minded sense of the word.
You are beautiful for your raw, honest souls
Your unique individuality, and the love
For every living thing you pour outward
In a radial, sunshine-spritzing way –
Promise me you won’t forget to love yourselves in return.
Yes, you, the ones who believe in second chances,
Big droplets of rain, the first snowfall of winter,
And the rejuvenating cycle of leaves.
The ones who believe in the sound
Of typewriter keys and songbirds
And the beauty of stars after a long day.
If all other things deserve the greatest joy
We call happiness, then so, my dear,
Beautiful soul-friends, deserve all the happiness
This great big world can contain.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
A girl whose gas tank's always empty,
A boy's hands, so unsure & unsteady,
A radial feeling, grinding teeth, grinding bodies,
A passive release because it's all much too heavy
His sleepy voice, though you know the words
Voices had once spoken but lessons not learned
Muffled by the moaning & moving of parts
Oh, to touch the rose petal body but,
To never reach the heart.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
The circle not
realizing it is
complete...
emits radial
rays in search
of itself.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
A waking life lost while walking
through incoherent moments
finding yourself as the only opponent
to learning, a yearning
of oneness above loneliness.
Let’s break open the head
and let the words flow
cascading from cliffs high above.
We’ll follow the current
of the crystalline clear drops,
right off the edge of the world
to the unknown below.
Once we know, wont the rest know too?
Do those flying in the clouds
hear the subtle sounds of a desperate man playing the blues?
I’d like to think that we’re all attuned,
radial dials turned clockwise, counterclockwise
reaching the same frequency.
Do diverging paths ever find parallels in consistency?
The setting seems to leave as foliage falls floating
from the outstretched branches of elderly trees,
elbows knotted in arthritic knots
that were tied in that moment before time
slowing down the perception of ones mind.
Only to find what we describe as infinite
is only the span of the blink of an eye.
But now, don’t cry, because the years
never really did pass you by
while you knew so little, mouth opened wide,
seeing through a lens from more childish time.
Can it be? Here imagination runs free
of the laws of the universe.
Let’s take to the sky and drift with the winds
as we traverse the beautiful nothingness that binds the earth.
Have you ever woken up from a dream
only to find nothing is as it once seemed?
The past is just that, more of a faded memory
than a written history.
We’ve entered the epilogue, orating scenes
the moment I’ve seen them,
the imagery passing so quickly, the transition seamless.
Just one moment stuck in time,
ever changing to the tune of one’s whimsical mind.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
The world I’m living in is getting smaller
The walls are closing in
And every thing feels
A little warmer.
Reaching out
(I’m wearing gloves,
too hot to touch bare skinned)
I feel for the impermeable skin
Of reality
Moving in
(I can’t breathe in,
the air is thick, congested.)
The partitions
Between
Dreaming and Real
Are becoming a radial blur
Of movement and confinement
Trying
(aspiring)
to share a space;
A geometric pace
Of shapes and shifting,
I am drifting
Only to sink
again
to the bottom
of the world,
where the stars are grey against
a pitch black (falling down)
sky.
Sing me a lullaby,
Close my eyes,
And sleep me through the
Slow death of falling walls.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 2:14 AM UTC
{_|}{|_}
sunflower
solidarities are pleasant enough,
{_|}{|_}
and they can die on the Hill over there
with the other volumes of
sunflowers,
those
that are puffed up
in their brazen majesty,
that are seeking the envelopment
of warm air,
that are vying for the ****** sun,
as always,
that are holding petals
who creep inside when put upon,
that are sobbing for the other sunflowers
as their radial compatriots,
that are living for all else
that cannot,
that are swaying with intent
that bends them off,
that are dying in beating blades
of grass,
that are toasting to deities
who are concealed in their flames,
that are writing ardently
in their soft refrains,
that are fornicating their pleasures
away from the other
sunflowers,
{_|}{|_}
that die on the Hill over there
when solidarity is enough for them
to extract pollen by their own strength
and pelt it at the bees
and dissolve on their stems.
{_|}{|_}
Dec 10, 2019
Dec 10, 2019 at 9:49 PM UTC
each tree is
a sound soft-spoke
to unwheeled sky
perhaps
or passing
cloud ― i would set
mind as
these trees: closeset &
filigree
like something once hubbed
& radial staked
out : taken root & grown past
its paring
having absorbed what heat
comes in to build a year-by-
year body
encompassing body: mind so
still in its s-
hell as to
be
detectable
barely till my
tomb stone
deep in upward shadow
leaps upon
me like a child around my neck
Mario Petrucci from i tulips
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
Would you blame me
for cutting myself open
if you knew? I didn't ask
for the corpses to bear relation
or for the words to fall close
to home. I didn't turn the waves on,
or pull his clothes off, or stick
the ******* under his nose.
So excuse me for a moment,
it's a quarter inch past the radial artery
and I've got stitches to pull.
Don't bother with the lights,
I'm used to working in the dark.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 7:44 AM UTC
By the radial shells he abides
By the collapsing arc of the tide
An insane man with coiled hands
Sits at shore drawing circles in the sand
Wondering about his reciprocal strife
Spiraling out of control in the circle of life
As his mind crooks like lightning
And shines down a spotlight to focus his feelings
Circles it neatly and plainly and simply
Drawing the spirals of the radial shells
The staircase to his mind, his hell
The twisted head he holds high
The circle of life a ringing in his ears
As he looks at the circles and calls them lines
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
The audacious titan of a non ethereal world
Radial phenomena of visceral magnitude
Unsheathed virus set onto the solitary world
The vessel for the wayward tune
Grown environment set continuously
berthed by the air and the mists
Made flame by hollow wishing
Wrought twigs posed symbol
Fallen legend
Flame's tail shining
Embers blazing brightly
Heating burning charring
Rising from the smoke and dusty
Flames not swayed to burn single ways
Chaotic melancholic daze
In the aftermath
Nature again grows
And shouts more loudly than before
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
Sometimes I feel like I'm back,
Like I'm ******* back,
Back in the life I used to live,
Back in my old body with a weak chest,
And caving in ribs,
Like every single muscle is so relaxed,
Because it has no reason to move.
Sometimes I feel like I'm back,
Like I'm living in the past,
But I'm more alive than I have been,
And I am again who I once knew,
The person I am at heart,
Along with all the love,
And the sadness and pain.
And it hurts,
It hurts so ******* much,
I remember that I'm dying,
But I feel most alive,
When I am who I am,
And I'm not who I'm not,
And I live as myself.
I escaped myself for some time,
For quite nearly an age,
I was just like everyone,
Who lives in their minds,
I focused on my ego,
I pursued my selfishness,
And I neglected the humanity of others.
I was Normal.
But if I'm to stay that way,
I need to be smarter than that,
Than to return to any things of my past,
Any parts of myself,
I just can't look back,
I can't remember that life,
Where I was for so many years.
I am here now...
And I remember now...
I am alive now...
And I am myself now...
And it's difficult to make the decision now,
Wether I should accept the new hollow person I became,
Or to return to the person with mind and heart in harmony.
I am Not Normal.
Because despite my unity of soul and spirit,
The link only exists as it degrades,
And with it degrades the rest of me,
All of which I once was and am,
My health,
My sanity,
And my existence.
And it splits me,
From a single central point,
In every radial direction,
Making pieces out of me,
Like a puzzle no one puts together,
Because the masterpiece painted on it,
Might be too much to want to see.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 5:08 AM UTC
Back in the corner of the closet
they rest covered in layers of dust
so thick I can barely see their color
but I remember the days of trust
I placed in them on ladders
dragging the hose through mud
standing before the radial saw
cutting with fear of drawing blood
Yes they are quite ugly
scuffed and parting at seams
soles worn and getting holey
walked through broken dreams
But I’ve got more work to do
I shake off the past with their dust
put on these old shoes cozy and true
and step into another future with trust.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 5:30 PM UTC