"resumes" poems
I hold the feather’s weight of your artery in my pick-ups,
and tiptoe the tightrope about which life and death abuts.
You’re a 2 AM trauma and we still don’t know your name,
the social worker’s thin lips had mouthed: “estranged.”
I read your anatomy like a text as you flat-line:
your hands turn blue as your heart falls still in mine.
The monitor hums "out of time," but by Epinephrine,
and Grace, your chest resumes its rise.
I leave trauma bay in prayer: for the surviving, not the knife;
for the closeness of my hands in your chest, our joining in this life.
Tonight I see you at the Kroger, buying TV dinners and beer.
I hide behind cereal, admiring the life I’d held dear.
But you look so tired, and my heart breaks for how when you died,
I would’ve sold the shoes off my feet to buy you more time.
I wish you knew how precious was each of your heartbeats,
I wish you the wisdom of my view:
How fragile the stent is where your veins meet.
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 7:32 PM UTC
I do not see space travel
as an evolutionary event
I look at it as an excess
of dissociative disorder
colonialism and the making
of whiteness
whiteness
justifying the guilt
by searching
and searching
somewhere else
not somewhere better
just somewhere else
there is nothing better
than how we evolved
are place within experience
all that surrounds
us is intimately woven with
our sheer experience
that has evolved
without the possibility
of memory
or redundancy
or even a pattern or repetition
to desire somewhere else
is to leave the best
most evolved experience
of being human
organic intelligence
artificial intelligence
has patterns that are not evolution
or the experience there of
they are patterns that are also
of this desire to be some where else
where ever it may be a space
or an entity
an other
counter-transferance
aliens
colonization
product of whiteness
excess
the profit of colonization
dissociative disorder
from the experience of being human
if you teach people that evolution
is something related to a process
that is merely the documentation
of the desire to be somewhere or something else
slavery is a combination of somewhere else and something else
it is like aliens
inherently under control
of a powerful military
actually the alien extracted from
their home
all mighty whiteness
is the most powerful
dissociative power
evolution did indeed give us the possibility to dissociate
but is was designed for empathy
not as a tool to be somewhere
or something else
the experience of
the dissociative human
declaring whiteness
has other opportunity
but to experience slavery
since it is a dissociation
it is delusional
and although the human
dissociating may not be within
the structure of slavery they conceive
they are without
the original
experience
I notice them
organic intelligence resumes
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
Keep your American football
Your helmets and body armor
Rugby is the game for men
Bang on the head, a bleeding wound
Ten minutes off the pitch
Six stitches and a bandage
And the rugby player resumes
Take the hit, take the pain
The tackle must be made
The shattered bones just part of life
Worth the yardage gained
I've had the broken bones
The stitches in my head
I had the very worst
Because in a tackle I broke my neck
But it never did deter me
From the game that I so loved
I remember all the times
Shaking hands when smeared with blood
Yes rugby is a game for men
A game where pains the norm
A game for modern knights
A game where men are found
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
1682
Summer begins to have the look
Peruser of enchanting Book
Reluctantly but sure perceives
A gain upon the backward leaves—
Autumn begins to be inferred
By millinery of the cloud
Or deeper color in the shawl
That wraps the everlasting hill.
The eye begins its avarice
A meditation chastens speech
Some Dyer of a distant tree
Resumes his gaudy industry.
Conclusion is the course of All
At most to be perennial
And then elude stability
Recalls to immortality.
5.4k
The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.
"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.
Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.
At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.
"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.
Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.
Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.
The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.
On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.
To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.
But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
Whitewashed four walls
Silence and total recalls
Ticking clock on the wall
My mind begging for a curtain call
Flashbacks in my cerebral theatre
Complimenting the rainy weather
Raindrop falls as my insides wither
As I lay on my bed where we were last together
4 months gone and I still remember
Your scent from my shirt down to my sweater
Your voice I recall and every laughter
Became history now that you found another
So much done in this apartment room
So much wrong ended it so soon
River of tears flow as I vacate the room
Another chapter ends, a new story resumes
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 7:51 AM UTC
The 3 toed sloth
Rhymes with goth
Or is it oath
Moves slowly
Sometimes algae grows on his head
Joni Mitchell didn't mean him when she said
Wild things run fast
3 toed sloth, he'd come last
Once a week he climbs down from his tree
And that's to have a poo and ***
Now sloths get amorous
But *** is tricky up a tree
He moves too quick, he's not used to it
And hits the ground involuntarily
Randy broke his arm
Kind people fixed it with titanium
He resumes his slothful days
But now he's more careful with his loving ways
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 4:18 PM UTC
Step by step ,
my sword feels heavier,
the rain a billowing distraction,
your face in my thoughts,
a crime I always tend to commit,
instrumental skill is needed,
my wits stay sharp,
a forest full of noise,
my presence is known,
seven pairs of eyes watch,
my steps and actions,
the silent face,
before death,
I kneel to slow my motion,
eyes closed,
the rain falls,
eyes open,
they appear,
seven deadly distractions,
I move fast with intensity,
ten slashes,
bodies fall,
I stand breathing alone,
my motion ceases,
the rain washes the blood,
each **** an expression of you,
your eyes my true weakness,
you may never know this,
my sword is drawn back,
the stroll resumes,
you sleep silently,
the rain falls harder,
my heart follows in parallel….
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.
Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location.
You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
Piano llorón de Genoveva, doliente piano
que en tus teclas resumes de la vida el arcano;
piano llorón, tus teclas son blancas y son negras,
como mis días negros, como mis blancas horas;
piano de Genoveva que en la alta noche lloras,
que hace muchos inviernos crueles que no te alegras,
tu música es historia de poéticos males:
habla de encantamientos y de princesas reales,
de los pequeños novios que por robar los nidos
una tarde nublada se quedaron perdidos
en el bosque; y nos cuenta de la niña agraciada
que recibió regalos de sus once madrinas,
que no invitó a la otra a sus bodas divinas
y que sufrió por ello los enojos del hada.
Me pareces, oh piano, por tu voz lastimera,
una caja de lágrimas, y tu oscura madera
me evoca la visita del primer ataúd
que recibí en mi casa en plena juventud.
Piano de Genoveva, te amo por indiscreto;
de tu alma a todo el mundo revelas el secreto;
cuentas, uno por uno, todos tus desengaños.
Piano llorón, la hermosa más hermosa del valle
se nos ha vuelto triste por que tiene treinta años
y no hay por todo el pueblo quien ronde por su calle.
Genoveva, regálame tu amor crepuscular:
esos dulces treinta años yo los puedo adorar.
¡Ruégala tú que al menos, pobre piano llorón,
con sus plantas minúsculas me pise el corazón!
3.5k
A solid center presages
two generous edges
to shoulder the weight
of the curve: the bow
relinquishes tension
to the anchors of the
taut bow-string.
The wayfaring archer
tends to the curve,
notches the arrow,
selects the target,
gauges the wind,
surrenders --
*Riding like an arrow on the wind,
sure to find its mark in Breath,
and the end of Breath it portends.*
A reveler
abiding the flirt
of angle and arc,
finite and eternal,
arbiter of the holy
moment, the dance
linking death with life;
So unbearably
near the horizons,
desire yields its grip
to the coaxing
womb of the curve: tension
sighs into the space
between arrow-head
and its mark.
*And in the transmission of feeling
is the spirit of Life,
clinging - so gently - to free itself
of its own burdens.*
A sudden violence
voids archer and stag:
Continuity rushes forth
to meet the sacrifice.
The heart of the bow
resumes its tension.
And the curve
evaporates,
all but a trick
of Timing.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
3.1k
A curiosity at the velocity
Of the travel of boulders
Crashing into ships
Descending upon us
Second goes by
Pauses looks around
And time resumes again
Speeding towards insanity
My mind screams yes
You say no
You will regret
Hindsight goes hand in hand
With impulse
The consequence
The aftermath
Of your decisions
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
Revving up the engine
of the gleaming funky machine
before zooming around, gave her
such an Adrenalin high, nonperil.
The constant ****** no guy ever could
promise, this act gives her.
She is pleased for that moment,
gets ready for the ****** rigmarole,
the very next second.
She gets jealous of her
own story, ever heard of that?
On the race course and the spread bed
alike her ebullience creates
tsunami waves,broke long standing records.
When you run fast enough
there comes a moment,when
there is no record left to break!
and the beds, you guessed right,
all are broken, made redundant.
And then the inevitable happens,
she smells leaking gas, panics,
freezes on the track, shuddering,
switches off quickly the engine
of her dream machine,her heartbeat,
makes the final escape,spontaneously,
without delay, decides to renounce
worldly pleasures altogether,
up to the Himalayas goes by foot, seeking
that thing which in life she missed all along,
Finds silver light's play on ice caps, and realize this:
she was walking through a dark, dark tunnel ,
of self-deception,"Affluenza" was indeed her affliction.
The Himalayan snow cap, loomed large as an attraction,
in her dreams once, now seemed less formidable, at arm's length,
"What a Guru,who looked timelessly ancient,
jokingly predicted once, comes true here"she muses.
Her trek upwards resumes with a vengeance.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC
Such a slow day, time ticks by in tempo
Provide a way to reach the sun, and
It will be taken by men.
Don't look at me that way,
Even I have a weakness.
Rendered useless by my own happiness
Wisps of silky steel wrap 'round mine eyes
Eke a living out of thin air
Before your death is upon on us both
Such a fast day, time resumes a tempo.
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 7:47 PM UTC
In foreign land of towering pines
And hammocks, mangrove-torn
A dark-filled night reluctantly
Bequeaths a pale dawn
Upon one battered cypress perched,
Amidst the morning haze,
Bright eyes stare out from part-cocked head
With piscicultural gaze.
Intently focussed on the brook,
That glides beneath the tree
Alive to every shadow’s sound
Yet never truly free.
For choicelessly these eyes are drawn,
As waters break below
And like a flash a head snaps back
And rippled muscles flow.
Within the slightest moment’s breath,
Two mighty wings released,
Two claws full-stretched, two legs reach out
The sinews, strained, unleashed.
The beaten air the only sound,
As time itself stands still
And, tracer-like, on charted course
The osprey meets its ****
With consummate and practiced ease
The painless end begins
The single deadly blow is dealt
As sharpened claws sink in.
Then up away into the dawn
And time resumes its course
Two final beats – then disappeared
Is this magnetic force.
The cypress perch and well-filled brook
As silent witness stay
And as they settle – calm again
The sun declares the day.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
the stifled sound rumbling on the tip of my tongue eager to come out.
It roars with happiness and excitement from what it seems.
But behind that exotic laugh is a soul. The laugh hides the soul keeping it hidden from outsiders.
The laugh keeps a delightful smile on someones face. Everyone wants to feel happy..even if it is for a split second.
That laugh takes your mind away from the dreadful thoughts of suicide or the painful outlook of what is called you life.
The laugh takes away the pain as if were an antidepressant.
But what happens when the laugh stops...that dreadful pain resumes to what is reality as it consumes your identity as a whole.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC
A confinement to the street,
I likened it to a bliss of pain.
Not extended like an overrun episode,
But the anxiety is sleepless,
When yesterday approaches,
I wrap myself in the ignorance,
Homeless, timeless,
It grows and defines,
Coarses through my fundamental
Lapses,
A boy becomes an atitude,
I wish i had these experiences in youthful insurgencies.
Its someday in the week,
I lose the raptured schedules,
To hunger is life.
To thirst is life.
The misled winter wraps itself
On my frozen life.
A faint emergence of time
Resumes,
There in the shadows
I once knew a man,
The visions of him asking to feed
My souless self.
Stretched by insistent graces,
In a road of certain contrasts,
Gentle into the street,
I laugh; the revolving doors,
I cry; what or who i never was,
A certain kind of grace to be
Within the containment,
the poor, the restless,
bleeding my facades,
Shredding the faces I once knew
Destroying my world.
Once I sat upon a throne
Lost in the decimations,
I dont know who I am.
Keep walking.
Telling myself as the night freezes
I will be just fine.
Keep walking
Telling myself in minced
Thoughts as hope flutters against
Nowhere to go.
Keep walking,
The sun rises
And blisters on my feet
Calm the night as the safety
Of day lets me rest.
I will bounce back tomorrow,
And the streets become a ripened spring fruit,
Losing myself
And the art of loss
Is no disaster,
Not unlike losing my keys,
Not unlike losing places,
Not unlike losing names,
Until i reconciled myself
At the fork of the river,
Losing myself is not an art:
The beauty was in finding who I was meant to be.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC
Sit in stillness
Allow the unrest
Of idleness
Contour the shape
Of nonentity
Soon you’ll hear
A loud ringing
Within your ear
The same noise
Howling staunch
Before you sleep
The same sound blaring
As the world stagnates
And time loiters
And sorrow seeps up from the rug
I don’t think you realize
You will never see him again
As long as you live
For now he is a tall tale
Retold to offspring
A distant memory
A mythic architect
Nothing in the past has ever occurred
There is only now
And now
There is only the wind
And the world moves on
And time resumes clockwise
And his ashes are spread about the sea
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
I stand firm, ground beneath me
Foundation of solid feeling
Foot connected to the globe
Then she walks in
Earth falls
Stomach rises to my throat
No other thoughts
When will this torture end?
She walks out
Tremors shake me slowly
Missed opportunities
Missed chances
Missing her
She walks away
Earth resumes its spin
Shakey, but spinning
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
XXIII
Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine
Because of grave-damps falling round my head?
I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine—
But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble ? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life’s lower range.
Then, love me, Love! look on me—breathe on me!
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee!
2k
(Mount Pinatubo and the Aetas)
the mountain god that has slept
for so long
has decided, it is time to rise
and as it opened its eyes
and stretched its invisible limbs
it unlocked a deep fury of destruction
kept inside for years and years
of restraint
not wanting to disturb the people
lying at its feet
worshipers and true believers they are
the few good people left
in this wretched earth
and yet the mountain god
would not keep them safe from
enormous grief and physical pain
they too must suffer
but they are flexible children
they never really complain
ashes flying while lava flows
one by one properties and creatures
were struck down like pins in a bowling alley
it was so fast and so vast
they never really knew what hit them
until it was all over
there are only shadows now
plus sporadic eruptions
the mountain god had made its
presence felt
and as it resumes its former
pose of quiet repose
i see the little black people
huddling together
and coming around
back to sleep at the feet of
the mountain god
as of the start
they said
this is where they were born
and whatever may happen
this is where they will die
so as they reach their
prized destination
i hear a song coming
from their lips
they are dwarfs in stature
but giants in character
i reached out to touch
my little black brothers
with pride
for i love them true.......
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
*A large puddle
and water resumes
a calm reflection
of cliffs above..
The same water
in recent hours
found new voice
raging and tearing
expressive duality..
Placid once now
a surgical knife
carving new paths
through roadbeds
and homes..
We reflect
as water beings
hope for calm
to mitigate our
storms...*
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Anxiety is a chartreuse bookmark
pressed between the pages of life
prominently protruding around the edges
yellow and green
sickly caught between past and future
beginning and end
But when the story resumes
the bookmark is cast away
forgotten as action ensues
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC