"reconnaissance" poems
Happenstance to the melancholic gives leave the sin of pride.
Inbound reconnaissance tells not the bearer of influence.
Squeamish at first: a foreshadowing of calamitous bonding.
A space between the mark of corporeal and the ethereal; a stringent hiatus
That which rattles the concrete foundation of morality is scarcely a malleable recourse.
Regret stains the unfounded soul: an enigma of ephemeral perforations.
A separation of the unmitigated humanities; misandry topples the writhing snake.
Impact; a cleansing of the maker's flaws integrated solemnly.
Complacency arrests the administration of the abhorred; unbridled is the autonomy of a guru.
Ambivalent giftedness burdens the reliant and haughty.
A flick of the tongue brings forth the cinema mortem.
Castaway: alone to wade in the sea of obscenities.
A temporal causality allows no mourning to abscond.
Negligence is not the enemy, but indulgent wrath.
Hesitant: a stroke of qualia begets the end of a maiden.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
at three times the speed of sound the SR-71
was so fast it didn’t need to hide, but when
I met you we were slower, metal walls covered
in black reconnaissance paint, sonar silence.
blackbird, shy
sometimes you bit your lower lip, or my
eyes drowned, and we looked down and I cursed
my stubbornly earthbound feet, but blessed
be the stars that crossed for us to meet.
blackbird, cry
under the cozy cover of quietly building-up time
we moved on. when the back of your hand
brushes my face it slowly lifts another brick
of something sturdy into place.
the way your palms get clammy with excitement
when you point out planes coming out and in,
the way your eyes light with joy and nervousness
at my reaction is how I feel when I lean over your shoulder
and point out jupiter in the sky.
blackbird, dry your eyes
the hello was slow, but goodbyes move
faster than sound. we finally found saturn
and then time ran out.
standard procedure for the SR-71
in the event of a missile lock-on
was to continue being
the fastest thing in the sky.
blackbird, fly
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
He's found himself in the closet
After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe
And tied his lobster bib tightly
Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come
It's curtains for her
She let the cat out of the bag
And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with
Right in the birth canal
Then we'll auction off the ******
We'll pass them off as European defibrillators
Maybe some extremist will want them
If we spew out enough mindless dribble
The All Time Shit-Show is about to begin
We have
The Chronic Masturbater
The Hypochondriac
And The Pathological Liar
It was either sometime yesterday
Or sometime tomorrow
Or was it sometime today?
That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat?
Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb
I can tell he was the runt of the litter
Who always bites off more than he can chew
I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema
He rattles off all his symptoms
Inordinate filibustering
Now there's the Chronic Masturbater
He looks like he's over the hill
He's only twenty one
But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging
I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive
And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers
My billfold his happily filled
So I must go do some reconnaissance
Spy on those who have quit their day jobs
The fish out of water
You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it
******
*******
*******
*******
No...
Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool
Indentured servants we're just an after thought
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
the barker in charge
is sniffing markers
& the dog's the one
in the shock collar.
good god.
I'll come back
tomorrow.
galapagos, I'm sorry.
rocketship jalopy
wrote a handbook on
banana boat cutthroat
reconnaissance exotica,
abominable
beast of tropic atrophy
broke folk casualty engulfed
in telescopes & TV shows
being monitored thru a monocle
the theatrical apathy & topical misanthropy
can anybody understand me?
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
an ****** calligraphy
of hallucinated images
gesture to the posturings
of omitted consciousness
the preoccupations
that puncture the ‘rational’ thought
of a false corporeality
and rely on an artificiality
to produce a reality
writes of the pagan haunts
of silver ****** ghosts
of fantastic rumors
of acquired futuristic loathing
where cognitive disturbances are
the reconnaissance of a fragmented mind
seeking an evacuation to the past
screams at the monuments of
immediate dismissal of everything
not of their transmission
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 5:58 PM UTC
Discombobulated and flabbergasted, flummoxed indeed? No such bemused and befuddled? I am not perplexed on the prognosis to prospectus. They’re incongruous, I’m incredulous, it’s catawampus. Reconnaissance reconnoiter, rectilinear reciprocal rectitude. Radix repartee: Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue-ness, estranged ensemble orchestrations and all. Some of us are even into the various assorted forms of related stranger weirdness. We’ll be having none of this putrid quasi queasy. Corrupt costume counselor siren skeptic. None of you ignominiously pusillanimous incorrigibles who aren’t brave enough to love are required.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
They brace the moonlight with forgotten words
and follow broken trails
as if on a reconnaissance
to St Peters gate,
where they would be earnestly brushed away
without so much as a shed tear.
They feast on wild boar
and laugh into their mead,
those intrepid souls
without so much as a purpose,
render themselves to the dying winds.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 8:33 AM UTC
I am a broken man
Broken beyond repair
Fallen deep into despair
Torched to ash like a straw man
I am a broken man
Crushed into fine shiny powder
Fragments of a ruined wonder
Now feeling empty like the Morrigan
Tempted to take the Scythe for the Hammer
I chained myself in desperation
A fools decision for a reparation
Death in turn I hunger
For life is a sweet ardor
The bitter sweet taste of reconnaissance
The salt and spice of resilience
'Tis what a broken man yearns with fervor
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 9:19 PM UTC
somewhere;
close the door.
engine.
headlights too.
it's dark at this time of year.
to think, that to live is to be lost.
north, east,
orientation is confident;
with a destination, bold.
roads are busy.
other drivers, bold themselves.
to go and stop.
those stopped are not those going;
a permutation of an uncertainty,
decision one of a thousand.
a left at the light means The Waiting Game,
a test of patience.
enough to pander one's position on a map.
relative to home, not very far.
a few minutes,
the answer.
the eternal search for an answer,
emulated and abstracted in a metal box,
the pilots so sure of their actions.
they're sinking so far in to the game now that
their origin's memory is too obscure,
to see the irony is to think too much.
headlights.
engine.
open the door.
tired hands and feet inherit a mission--
next objective, in this much time.
a stone path is a suggestion,
it'll do.
who is to argue with the ground underfoot?
skilled men though they found the answer on their search
and were so kind as to lead the next.
wrong as they were, it's the thought that counts.
of course the mistake is made in kind,
a pilot's success and the search complete.
a sigh.
and the resigned optimism that perhaps instead
a bit of reconnaissance is enough for now.
maybe to find oneself here is success.
would they buy that?
here
relative to home, not very close.
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 8:18 PM UTC
They came in the night.
Slowly creeping in.
On a Reconnaissance swell
so that nothing will be missed.
Destroyers they were.
Invaders of the stars.
Here for the harvest.
And to **** us all.
We could not fight them
for they were to strong.
Our greatest minds created
The machines that would make them fall..
Our machines beat them back.
Our machines held the lines.
They destroyed the destroyers..
And saved all of mankind.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
Examining the accuracy.
Exploring the brightness.
Hunting for certainty.
Inquiring the directness.
Inspecting the lucidity.
Investigating the precision.
Pursuing purity.
On a quest for simplicity.
Researching transparency.
Chasing articulateness.
Frisking comprehensibility.
Going over conspicuousness.
Inquesting a definition.
Rummaging for distinctness.
Scrutinizing the evidence.
Shaking down the exactitude.
On an expedition for explicitness.
Working the legs towards intelligibility.
A perquisition for legibility.
A wild-goose chase for limpidity.
A witch hunt for obviousness.
Interrogating openness.
Probing the palpability.
Prosecuting the penetrability.
Racing perceptibility.
Raiding perspicuity.
Coursing the plainness.
Following the prominence.
Hounding the salience.
Meddling in the tangibility.
Prying into the unambiguity.
Reconnaissance in the cognizability.
Seeking decipherability.
Snooping for explicability.
Sporting limpidness.
On a steeplechase for manifestness.
Studying the overness.
Tracing unmistakability.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
Needed someone to love
someone to hold,
someone to fall for
Couldn't I have told
You, that I wasn't cold
Out of my mold
I could not crowl
Just a little bold
That's what I needed to be, lord
To confront the world
No treasure, silver or gold
Too young, I wasn't that old
To take consideration,
And of your love behold
The world distorting your peace
Your true self I could not uphold
Couldn't you have managed to hold
Hold onto me through madness and massacre
How could I have believed
We had no enemies
When all I saw was war
Our chances were rigged
Our chances were not ours to deal
Our places were not opportune
Our cards were long fortold
We held onto the unattainable
We fell to the struggle from within
We were fighting hard to rebuild
What had already failed,
Thinking the helpless
Could reverse their inevitable fall
In the questions, desperation, and pondering
No catharsis, no purging, avails
All the true revelations are lost
Only un-resourceful quiescence stalls
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
Hie Yamaha Wegman ****** voyager, voted vonage valuable, unrepentant TIME Magazine subscriber. Spotify sportsman Snapchat smartly. Sleuth slenderman silences Shutterfly schvitzing. Saxby sassy Santander sais sage rues rudimentary router rotorooter.
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Quartermaster qualified quaint quaffing quadrilateral Pythons. Pyrex pylons put purdy purposeful puny punsters punching. Pumpkin pumice publicized prudential protean pros properly pronouncing prolific prodigies.
Proletariats professors' problematic. Pro privileges prioritized. Principle primates prevaricate. Preppy pregnant, praying prattler possibly Porgie. Poseidon pooping poodle ponders poppycock. Plum? Polite poison pods ply pitiful pinterest.
Pinhead Pillsbury pillager Pi. Pigskin pierce petsmart pests permanently. Perdition percolates peppered PennState pedigreed PearlJam Patagonian. Pastor pastes passion passably. Papas' paginated orbitz okayed. Nutty node needs money.
Next netzero nee naugahyde. Nattering nationwide nabob Moxie Molly McGee. Monosodium livingsocial joyus je kickstarter. Identityguard Huffington GMO. Gluten Glutamate footloose fancy free footlocker. Fingerhut fetishistic fabrication Cingular.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
The world turns on a Shepard’s staff.
He, of whom the Shepard is, is a guide through the treachery and trickiness of the thick weeds.
The foothills have been passed and the plains of this earth is now the marked destination to rest. We eat there. Beware
the wolves
The sheep have been calm this journey, and it’s lax for the collie, our animal ally.
He is prepared at a beckoning and that is all that is required for herds safety. He comes and goes throughout the brush to scout and prepare reconnaissance. Again, a ally.
The sun moves slowly and eventually rests past the horizon. Twilight and on a clear night, spreckels of stardust show their face over the herd and friendlies. The wolves do not bother the fire tonight.
We rest with a relative ease.
We wake and begin the day.
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
"Did you want to smoke that cigarette?"
Mrs. Prine asked as she covered her skin
in a black velvet nightgown.
"That'd be good. Just to be outside."
"Right. It's pleasant this evening."
Harvey climbed out of the sweat-drenched
sheets, slid into his jeans, tossed on a t-shirt,
and stumbled behind the widow Prine.
The field behind Mrs. Prine's home
stood tall -- a rich green sea, with
islands of yellow dandelions and
splatters of Indian paintbrushes.
The two sat down in the tall field.
Mrs. Prine closely watched Harvey's
moves.
Her eyes followed him with
gentle observation and understanding--
much like his own mother.
A cloud of dust perpetually hung over
the Prine place.
Mr. Prine chose the abode
to escape the hum of cars and exhaust-teeming air,
but his reconnaissance was poor.
Mr. Prine picked a house that was less than a mile
from Kiev, Oklahoma's hidden gem:
Sugar's Sweethearts.
Sugar's Sweethearts prided itself on being
the only strip club in 50-miles.
The girls were much older than young,
the ******* suffered from much more sag than they did once,
and the bar sold nothing
but light beer and throat-dicing whiskey.
"I think Cindy is going to live with me for awhile," Mrs. Prine's voice whispered then dissolved in vapor. Harvey sat on her words a moment,
"Your daughter?"
"Yes."
"I thought she just had a kid. You acted like it was all fine and dandy
less than an hour ago."
"It is fine. I don't mind. Her husband cheated on her. *******
"What about--"
"Us? Harvey, I know better than to believe this means anything remotely tangible."
"It's our escape, Mrs. Pri--dammit--Margaret."
"Sure. You and I have a healthy understanding of our needs,
while the rest of this overly-religious town
empties its restlessness at Sugar's."
The suns rays bulletholed through the clouds.
Harvey put out his cigarette on an anthill.
An interstate of ants led Harvey's eyes to
a dead blue jay.
Flies and ants alike covered the bird's body.
"I love you, Margaret," Harvey got up,
dusted off his jeans,"See ya Monday."
"I'll see you then, Harvey."
May 26, 2011
May 26, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
my heart ticks with the punctuated rhythm
of a girl busy with embroidery
i see a corpse and scrutinise all its secrets
it lingers with a purposeful dexterity
a tenacity that resembles autocrats
of a starved third world country
a dangerous presence that underpins
a blank prism
my reconnaissance reveals a frenetic arc
orbiting, humming as it does so
with intricate nightly returns
travels between light and shade
where black shadows tred
forming a link in the great causal chain
of human destiny
it is a place where stone ghosts welcome me
with threatening indifference of magical
incantations
i roam through deserted streets
with an inherent clumsiness
like waves on dark coastlines
that in hypnotic deception
form groups of disorientated sadness
where clouds of black crows fly around
sinister watch towers in the dark
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
He ascended to the room
That seemed to have blocked him from reconnaissance
For it takes the form of overlapped ropes
He explored the bastille
Where affection was imprisoned
For it was located in prison cells
He always knew
That freedom was sacred to the body
That exploration was claimed by the soul
But his love for adventures, uncertainty and even endangerment,
Has kept him close to both
Her brain and her heart
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
You don't look a day older than bad manners
Remember to let people off the Train first.
Old fashion common sense has gone,
we are generating our everyday Cleopatra
where the private is as imperative as the public persona ,
unbeknown nail polish is on a reconnaissance mission
for blase solvent effects,
and as for Gentleman I cannot think of a
suitable Mass observation survey yet,
but if i did,
there wouldn't be enough Stradivarius volins to avail.
Note too how bus drivers aren't generally slow
and bicyclists are veering militant
driving instructors take chances through the red lights,
city life is
not necessarily construed as a public safety issue,
but everything is considered less relevant
in the pursuit of balanced manners.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
Ihinabi ko sa bukana ng payong ang ulan.
This is to believe that sheltering may not always be, or simply perhaps an undertaking of weakness. A radical strangeness aspires to be bold. I may not be able to transcend its nakedness.
.
This is to deny the common verity that in the communal of water, shade fails a transliteration. We cannot be forever in hiding. Our smallness reveals our flowers. Our unmentioned stirrings. (A spire of technicolor through the lens of apertures. It starts to rain in Pasay.)
.
I see children swift-bodied in the streets. I hear the sublime song of a defunct tractor. Once in its vitality, Earth was its derelict. How did it come to be that when I peer into the openness, light slouches into form, conjuring an image: your face, hiding amongst the crowd?
.
This is to recognize the potential of dwindles. Its vertigo that it tries to protect. Its height that it tries to conquer. Its fall that it tries to eschew. What if bones are just homes to tiny little currents and that the way our body assumes the stance of jackknife, simply a foreboding?
.
Itinabi ko sa sukal ng araw ang payong.
This is to perceive that all light lifts away from the dark, my heart always falling into its hands. Morning opens your face like delicate streets, pulverizing fog into chamomile. Silence is endemic. *Makati *buoys overseer reconnaissance of obvious beatings. Revealing a long line of ligatures -- umbilicus of wires. Serenades of futility. Our useless meanderings.
.
The depth of Sunlight finally turns primeval stone. That is our defeat -- all our darkness put to trial. I am tense with the finality: she will become parasol and I, the weather past moonlight waxing.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
there is a numbed feeling
one of exclusivity
that suggests
a solitary reconnaissance
one of orientated purposes
where moods are reflectively animated
in individual focus
in order to infiltrate
a non sharing experience
but the feeling abruptly stops
it is a synchronized wound
it is the assassination
of the distant and complex
terminals of the human mind
i am irretrievably shocked
poeple live
but there are really no survivors
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
Perhaps everything that has ever existed will exist forever in the psychic clarity of God. Retrospectively retroactive's omniscient ubiquity. Objectified manifest's infinite possibilities exponentially
extemporaneous eidetic prospectus perpetrates incorporeity ideology's perfectible ontology.
Imagination's immaturities would seem to purvey that these things are irrefragably inevitable in the light of noumenal sentience's semantic regalia. Astral projection's distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness to clairaudience clairvoyance existential extremity.
Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician's trajectory extant is totally tangential. Extravagantly exorbitant's flirtatious flamboyance to flippantly flighty flit-ness. Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue-ness estranged ensemble orchestrations and all. Some of us are even into the various assorted forms of related stranger weirdness, similar states of analogous collusion and ancillary subordinateness. Laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tedium, excruciating exacerbations of autonomous avarice.
I'd like to think that these arguments have leverage on the reconnaissance reconnoiter. Mentality's osteopathic prescience is an empirical substance. Psychokinesis is an art. Eclectic synectics's social contiguities zoomorphic zoolatry to demagoguery could raise us all to new heights of enigmatism and leave our corporeally preternatural finiteness endowed with a fidelity that exceeds itself, foreshadowing life's mysteries. No more dour droll dreary ochlocracy of an oligarchy. Stolid stoic bailiff's rake-ness rails, vicarious recalcitrance for all!
Jan 25, 2025
Jan 25, 2025 at 12:34 PM UTC
I stood up for myself then you stood up for yourself
making it clear we weren’t standing for each other
standing at the precipice
of precipitating loneliness
through a renaissance of reconnaissance
we recognized differences irreconcilable.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 8:31 PM UTC
There are moments when I first meet someone and within those first few moments
I picture a future
If those first smiles and small talks are filled with laughter and words on the brink of deep conversation I begin experiencing a type of impatience
The sort that is a mixture of incomprehensible frustration and an invisible longing
This impatience stems from a want of history... humans are often caught up with new things.
New years, new starts, new merchandise
But what do we really cherish ? We cherish when someone has given us memories
We cherish the old house filled with glimpses of childhood
We cherish old keepsakes that remind us of happier times
When nostalgia or regret take hold, we yearn seemingly for the new.
But only seemingly.
What we really want is another history. What we really long for is to build a keepsake from the new with time
So when I first meet someone and foresee a future
Foresee a history within the time to come
I am overcome with a feeling of impatience for when this new reconnaissance becomes a memory
And for when this newfound individual
becomes a friend
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
Un jardinier, dans son jardin,
Avait un vieux arbre stérile ;
C'était un grand poirier qui jadis fut fertile :
Mais il avait vieilli, tel est notre destin.
Le jardinier ingrat veut l'abattre un matin ;
Le voilà qui prend sa cognée.
Au premier coup l'arbre lui dit :
Respecte mon grand âge, et souviens-toi du fruit
Que je t'ai donné chaque année.
La mort va me saisir, je n'ai plus qu'un instant,
N'assassine pas un mourant
Qui fut ton bienfaiteur. Je te coupe avec peine,
Répond le jardinier ; mais j'ai besoin de bois.
Alors, gazouillant à la fois,
De rossignols une centaine
S'écrie : épargne-le, nous n'avons plus que lui :
Lorsque ta femme vient s'asseoir sous son ombrage,
Nous la réjouissons par notre doux ramage ;
Elle est seule souvent, nous charmons son ennui.
Le jardinier les chasse et rit de leur requête ;
Il frappe un second coup. D'abeilles un essaim
Sort aussitôt du tronc, en lui disant : arrête,
Ecoute-nous, homme inhumain :
Si tu nous laisses cet asile,
Chaque jour nous te donnerons
Un miel délicieux dont tu peux à la ville
Porter et vendre les rayons :
Cela te touche-t-il ? J'en pleure de tendresse,
Répond l'avare jardinier :
Eh ! Que ne dois-je pas à ce pauvre poirier
Qui m'a nourri dans sa jeunesse ?
Ma femme quelquefois vient ouïr ces oiseaux ;
C'en est assez pour moi : qu'ils chantent en repos.
Et vous, qui daignerez augmenter mon aisance,
Je veux pour vous de fleurs semer tout ce canton.
Cela dit, il s'en va, sûr de sa récompense,
Et laisse vivre le vieux tronc.
Comptez sur la reconnaissance
Quand l'intérêt vous en répond.
1.1k
Here is beauty,
here see, this love,
death's cold eyes
view both
like a bird of prey
from above.
A bird flying high
doing reconnaissance, on the sly.
Here cometh change,
a shadow moves above,
every minute, you feel
the touch of cold hands,
that has all the promises
of a cold night's embrace.
The wind kindly blows,
a strand of hair falls,
over your face,
the lovely moon is touched
by a wisp of black cloud,
that adds to her charm,
i am enrapturd,
but , at that very moment,
painting beauty and love
with a dark hue
a pang stifles my thought,
what will come next?
every moment is in a flux,
nothing is permanent
even if you wish,
everything in the world,
has a yearning to flow,
the moon would also have a day
when all would lament,
her unexpected absence:
**"Here once was a beauty,
beyond compare,
we thought she was for ever,
her beauty ravished us,
she took all our love and vanished,
where has she gone?"**
OOO
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 9:31 PM UTC