"reenactment" poems
Both latter and former, contrary and congruent
Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid.
No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming…
A formless former that is a powerful latter
Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter
Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic
Transparently reflective and silently phonetic
Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic
The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics.
Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic
Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic.
Dynamic existence and persistent resistance
Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence.
Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive
Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive.
What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment.
Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous
Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis.
Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent….
For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
3:8:15 - Kosher pinot noir toasts the snowflakes that the eider brings, just as the Ash bows ache; naked and starving. Hurdling through old bedroom windows, giving those reasons why pennies are wished first into window wells. Smoggy gawkers, locked into an image shaped by organic lines and gestures. The two smoker- cure their hours reconnoitering in skyrise stairwells, discussing recipes for fixing wounded hearts without the peaceful frequencies she speaks into two styrofoam cups with strings pierced through their innards. Much like the story of how two people meet within the timespan of the living.
Even the Moon Men eat space cakes to loosen their chests, from the apathetic laws that began to govern their personalized truths. Not a mug with a name on it bought after an almost very cool free-art reenactment of Pirates of the Caribbean.
Love is not a sentence I can choose not to awaken.
It's the difference between having a one night stand rather
than keeping a toothbrush at each other's places.
Even on a Saturday night, we could fasten ourselves
to one another. Even if it's only you and I, who are you to
say it's not a party.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
Both latter and former, contrary and congruent
Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid.
No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming…
A formless former that is a powerful latter
Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter
Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic
Transparently reflective and silently phonetic
Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic
The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics.
Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic
Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic.
Dynamic existence and persistent resistance
Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence.
Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive
Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive.
What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment.
Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous
Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis.
Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent….
For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
(campfire poetry) WE ARE FIRE, WE COULD BE WATER
Flickering, fluttering, licking all it touches
Through another log it goes;
Spreading warmth, consuming everything,
Atoms and particles
Splitting and shifting in throes.
Fascination, energy at its purest.
An open flame, made malleable
By the hands that feed it or quench it.
There is no greater exhibition
Of something as infallible
In its awe-inspiring might
It is an eternal fight
Between that which is to be consumed
And that which is to be construed
Into something new, and different.
And so, we are one with the element
That awes us and terrifies us at the same time.
Our life is built
On the graveyard of our ancestry;
Our homes are powered
Through the sacrificial burning of past lives.
The food we eat is life from our perspective,
Yet it is death itself for all else.
The trees we cut down, the animals we torture,
The lives we take, the populations we uproot;
Our way of life is an endless reenactment
Of an ant being crushed by a boot
No life is sacred, all can be loot.
We are fire, we could be water;
A more gentle element than most.
A soothing, balming agency
Like the overachiever who dares not boast.
Both are harmful in excess,
Both can be destructive,
Only one is restorative.
And so, we choose to be fire;
We torch, burn, consume,
Until all that is around us
Transitions to its post-human state.
A lifeless mass of black and grey,
An emotionless, bottomless decay.
Alas, as these ruminations grind to a halt,
I find myself desperately looking for the fault
That has created the chasm that brought us here.
Where exactly did we go wrong?
How did we go from being masters of our fate
To this dark, ominous presence
That shrouds all there is?
The Renaissance, the Enlightenment,
and all the revolutions that were and will be;
The great men and women who dedicated their lives
For a better future.
To you, we should apologise - although it wasn't all in vain,
There still is a thousand-mile journey
One that has not gone very far.
And so, we choose to be fire,
When we could be water...
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 4:47 AM UTC
An electric connection,
Between my mind,
And my fingers.
I moved to wash my hands,
As the water froze fresh from the faucet,
My hands began to spark and fry.
Now I have frost burn,
In my electric skin,
From washing my hands in Michael's kitchen.
Now I'm wishing,
I never needed to make solid soup,
I could've stayed wet,
Contrary enough for my body's technology.
Jan 17, 2025
Jan 17, 2025 at 10:35 AM UTC
The Muslim woman is perhaps
the most enticing female on the planet
with her hijab (head covering)
her burqa (outer garment enveloping most of her body)
her niqa (total veil)
Such strict apparel floods our mind with curiosity and fantasies about what is so hidden
Hence the covered Muslim woman is a reenactment of every woman's beauty, power and numinosity
a veiled vision that inscribes itself across our mind
and inescapably through our libido
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC
a step back from your eyes
and I'm finally recovering
no more blinded view
no reenactment of animals at the zoo
tamed moments fill my days
must admit, most times I'm lost in a haze
self-induced withdrawal, disconnect
still your haunting face has full effect
swoon, I would, if you came to see
what your Jungali has hollowed to be
sweep me up, but you'll just throw me down
how many times must we relive it to understand we'll drown
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
They took me back to 1967
Where I was
A raging narcoleptic
& a traveling belly dancer
For the Indian circus
A closet anti-war revolutionist,
You met me
In the dust storm of the
Reenactment of
History in the making
I think at first I only
Liked you
Because we'd had the
Same dream
About elephants and
Talking stars
Could you have loved me then?
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 1:57 AM UTC
I could lay here and wonder a million times over
What it is that keeps you smiling and sober
But nothing in the world could change what
Your eyes have seen and ears have heard
I could lay here and listen for a thousand whispers long since lost in space
But like the wavelengths of the words never said; I cannot hear a single trace.
I know what you feel hurts you to endure- so
I will run to cease the pain for you.
I could lay here and hurriedly paddle down the river of tears flowing from your eyes
Like waterfalls every drop is a reenactment of the rapids reflected in mountain skies
Falling as fast as they are rushed out of broken wishing wells straight from your heart
I cannot tell you how much I want to save you from the pain tearing you apart
Let me heal the wounds you keep mercilessly opening up
I want to stop the blood from rushing out of your soul
I want to keep you safe-I want you to heal-I want you to be okay
Stay with me, please- stay with me, I know I can help you if you'd just let me
Let your walls break down and open the curtains of your barrier
Let me in
Let me in
Let me in.
Let me save you.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
Your scent, once cemented in my memory, has now faded
It comes back occasionally
A fleeting reenactment of the original
Nonetheless, it still soaks me in nostalgia
And I find myself needing to catch my breath
Just like it used to catch whenever you showed up
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
... Give me one reason to stay here,
& I’ll turn right back around,
said I don’t want to leave you lonely,
you’ve got to make me change my mind now,
give me one reason to stay here, & I’ll turn right back around,
& no money won’t help not at all not in any amount,
I’m past possessions & almost past The Point of No Return,
so at this point I see no point in turning back now,
like Tracy Chapman, Bruce Wayne Batman, or Tracy Morgan, like the Joker, Heath Ledger, Edgar Poe, or Captain Morgan,
or a Spacey Captain,
or a **** Batman ready for action,
just not actually Kevin Spacey,
we all know what happened,
we can imagine, so there’s no need for a reenactment,
I know I’m handsome,
thanks for the compliment, I’m flattered,
but not interested, ‘cause I just don’t find guys that attractive,
so quit the harassment & passive aggressive temper tantrums,
& quit asking for a dance,
you already have your answer,
I only give straight facts fam,
don’t know those fake strangers,
don’t need the gold you try to coax me with, soul’s platinum,
not a flash in the pan scam, I scan more than you can imagine,
hindsight 20/20 vision, I read the whole thing backwards,
from the final ending, to lights camera action,
gone till November,
leaving on a jet plane to Denver,
more Tracy Chapman than Tracy Morgan,
more Jon Wayne than Jon Denver,
more Honcho than Jon Doe, more Pronto than Macho,
more Brando than Tonto, full throttle no turning back now,
won’t back down,
feel most alive in times when I almost die,
the real thing, we vroom vroom we do don’t try try,
no need to try to live this life when you really live that life,
why sail the high seas when you can reach Heaven & fly?
Living The Life of Lives, living The Dream of Dreams,
one dream at a time, lucidly asking, “What do you mean?”,
I mean, for real, for really real, how do you really feel? ...
continued in poem #74 in
THHT3: The Hollywood Hills Trilogy 3 available here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XJRBSKD
Sep 16, 2019
Sep 16, 2019 at 12:57 PM UTC
Time is a cool liquid that flows and resonates through my being
And as I sit here slaving away day by day on man made devices based on prehistoric theories, I feel the angels of death ripping my time out from underneath my feet.
I maybe young but I continue to fret about the bullets that ring in my head and the psychotics that numb my brain into pliable putty.
They try to mold me to fit the social standard and I continue to fight back with the will of a bull and the guilt of a sinner.
I can not continue to castrate my inner self even though it is that of the flames of hell which will never accept me.
I can not continue to wish for the pure white of the wings angels and the dazzling halos of the pure, neither, because I am stuck in my impending cycle of depression and gloom.
Miss Mary Jane only makes me loopy and ***** me up immensely while the nicotine never sedates the destructive curiosity.
I am a slave to my mind and to the pain that bleeds from the bruises and cuts.
I am a slave to the human heart which controls every reenactment of the mistakes my mother bled to hide me from
And for this I cry and plead the words
"I'm sorry!"
But this is never enough.
I will never be enough.
For I am a hopeless little teenage freak that will never learn.
And for this I am truly sorry.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
She told me to
expect greatness
Expect Greatness
To expect is to anticipate
To be great is...?
She told me a message
without any context
What a way to confuse
What a deliciously inspiring way
To confuse me
This open concept
That acts like a convict
Seeping through the sewers
Of my mind
Not only does it travel but
I still remember the conviction
Of that time
The heart doing it's best titanic reenactment
And beating like a teenage boy
But the day before it was different
The guy talked about the mind
He was raised the same way
But he needed that beating
His was different for me
He touched my stomach
And my flesh flew back as if a demon itself was being repulsed by the hand of Jesus
It stayed like that for a week
And I could feel it sore
He said "oh yeah this one has a fire in him"
Where did that fire go?
I realized it's still there
But like any fire it needs fuel
Oxygen, sticks, openness
I lacked all of it
But somehow I am to expect greatness
But Mark gave me an answer
You must serve to be great
But serve what?
That is the next question
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
'Tis the morning
to surpass all mornings...
The faint light of dawn
bathe its whispers on your face,
The beats of your heart
are controlled and deliberate
'Tis a recalcitrant heart
that has a mind of its own...
As you walk the path
that leads to the slow dance
that is your death,
your feet are firm
your eyes, alert
'Tis as if, it is not death
that you come to greet
But the passionate embrace
of someone, so long ago ,
you have loved....
Farewell, you say-
farewell to this world,
this nation and this people...
that cost you both
pleasure and pain
-But no regrets-
This morning, you die
willingly and with
poetry on your lips
"It is done", you say...
'Tis time to rest
Dear hero of mine
Tomorrow, you wake again,
looking towards the blue of the skies
challenging the blazing sunlight
if it can,
to eclipse the very essence of you....
It is still your name that we speak
with reverend sighs
your name that is forever etched
in the soul of our race...
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 3:11 AM UTC
My childhood ended when my dollhouse got repossessed,
crying in the back of Daddy’s Caddie.
You traded your daughter for diamonds
and left it all behind in a U-Haul.
You blamed his haunting city streets,
and post-war reenactment dreams.
You couldn’t be the queen to his beer can kingdom anymore.
He flipped too many coffee tables,
and let the kids grow up wrong,
and suddenly wasn’t the man you loved in high school.
He’s just another excuse,
But this isn’t about him,
This is about you,
All 534 miles of it.
You’re a woman without mirrors.
You play victim too well,
and love me like the favorite chip on your shoulder.
I gave your title to a deserving stranger,
and you flew from my human scent.
I never got to tell you about the splatter.
It’s hard to forgive someone who’s never at fault.
But this isn’t about us,
This is about you!
All 534 miles and counting!
This is about your life in 5 year chapters,
and sweeping your problems under the bible-belt.
This is about looking for happiness in the small town Carolinas,
and loving another man,
and another daughter,
and all the people you don’t owe apologies.
This is all about you,
And what you’ve done,
And you will never be more than this.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
My spoken word often
falls short of my
blood stained paper.
Where my heart spills
emotions only felt
with fingers between pages.
Words seasoned through the years,
lost love, heartache.
The many firsts and the lasts,
I experience my ink saturated tales.
Where one lives in a mysterious clarity
not received on the vocal reenactment.
Writing comes in waves, like the coast.
Overwhelmed, drenched in feeling,
fading then; waiting to crash back
against me eroding barriers.
To keep my detached self between
one tidal eruption breaking my
total defense from all intervention.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
No reaction to action
Left baffled by the way you were acting
From lovers to strangers, now barely reacting
Love you forever to cold replies — no reenactment
Yelling instead of talking, now silence is our last interaction
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 5:40 PM UTC
* The cemeteries are full of "if only's" and "I swear I never meant what I said's"
* My eyes hang like torn hammocks after a thunderstorm.
* You can't turn poetry into prose, believe me, it's like turning a goodbye into a bowl of narcotics.
* Burning cigarettes in pairs like a reenactment of the twin towers.
* I see your shadow in the corner of dark alleys, clutching a bottle of whisky and my notebook.
* I am having a conversation with every doorway you've stormed out of.
* I am the drunken murmur on the lawn of a funeral home.
* Your ringtone is the sound of a pistol being reloaded.
* But does he kiss you like you are an ocean and although he's terrified of the water, he's perfectly fine with drowning?
* Drowning myself in alcohol because your eyes make me sea sick.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
among the dead, two heroes, Octavian, and Philip Augustus
(from the house of Capet)... to all hopes of a revived Hollywood
encircling them, fermenting as many credible names -
strange people, poisons that smell like perfume - what?
lord anthony is dead - is that how one says it?
simply as that... mark anthony is dead -
the soup is hot, the soup is cold - anthony is living, anthony is dead -
SHAKE WITH TERROR WHEN SUCH WORDS
PASS YOUR LIPS... FOR FEAR THEY BE UNTRUE
AND ANTHONY CUT-OUT YOUR TONGUE FOR A LIE...
AND IF TRUE... FOR YOUR LIFETIME BOAST
THAT YOU WERE ABLE TO SPEAK HIS NAME
IN HIS DEATH... A DYING OF SUCH A MAN
MUST BE SHOUTED... SCREAMED!
IT MUST ECHO BACK FROM THE CORNERS OF
THE UNIVERSE!
ANTHONY IS DEAD! MARK ANTHONY OF ROME
LIVES NO MORE!
i know of only two men be worth a taxing memory,
a taxman's assertion worth of bookkeeping...
that one was Octavian, and the latter remnant of Charlemagne,
namely Philip Augustus, father of the Magna Carta...
beyond the celebrated procession of Westminster Abbey...
there the minded tear...
they binding i admire most... keen puppeteers,
such that i too suffer sufficing to be with the smallest army of
exercise in the demand of owning land bereaved
from ever being lost, as sufficient demand for
posthumous reenactment of the up-kept bibliography.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
i like my new journal
because
the cover is of
soft leather that
i like to rub
my hands over and
pretend
it's you
that i am touching.
i must say,
i really did
love
your little friend
down
there.
he
was always wanting
to jump
skip
hop
into my hands
my mouth.
and you
were always so willing
and wanting
so very much
to give me a
play-by-play
a reenactment
of all the shooting stars you saw on the inside of your eyelids.
your lips
were never quite firm enough
but it felt all the more
better that way
when you would lick down and around
and then further down-
kisses of a feather.
and it made
the *******
feel that much
stronger,
that much more ******
it was the only release from so much anticipation that you could truly
give me.
our nights
in the back seat
of your truck
were
well-spent:
full of **** and *****
and steamy windows
from showering in each other
and two whole people
free from expectations.
a real rarity.
we both
found
something close to safety
in the pores of each other's
skin.
i wonder
if it all feels the same
when
you're with
her.
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
misplaced anger is a real *****
I was really scared for a few
but the rage doesn't extend to me
God help the ******* it does though
someone is going wake up
watching a life channel version of his ******
with bad reenactment characters
playing up a dialed up version of the truth
I'm sure as hell I'm glad its not me
on this unhinged psycho's warpath
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
I have a dog waiting for me
when I get off the bus
and a brother
if I put
my trombone
down.
there are ways to be sober
ways
a pace car driver
can save
for a hearse.
the rapture, the afterlife
are both ripe
for reenactment.
dad ain’t said, but will
no person
truly ****
would disguise
blessing. thunder
has done its homework.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
Seems like not much left of a choice
America's losing poise and boys
To the noise of politicians being to moist
Of course they won't admit only to submit
To sinister forces beyond their intelligence
Galactic tactics carefully planted for reenactment
Souls stuck in a gloom trying to consume
The world's perfume only to room
Into the devil's loft
Fantasy painted livid but in reality soft
What's the joy in winning your materials but losing a brittle soul
Wake up before it's too late
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC