"rubrics" poems
.*of course i dream i fame, who doesn't dream of either fame or fortune... but... i'm sane enough to want to achieve that sort of stature, postmortem... what? with all the celebrity culture big brother ******** who the hell seeks fame while still alive? oh... well... there are the countless examples...*
and why would i take an ancestry test
of my D.N.A. make-up?
i remember the first conversation
i had with the father of my
first girlfriend...
how many famous Poles (Polaks...
do i look like something akin
to an anorexic waving a *******
flag?) there were...
i forgot Copernicus...
i forgot Marie Curie...
i forgot Chopin...
**** i forgot my own name
when i saw my first girlfriend's
sister walk down the stairs...
why would i do D.N.A. testing?
i just looked at what we eat...
and i mean we, truly,
it's called haggis in Scotland,
it's called black pudding
in England,
and it's also called
czarna kiszka (black intestines)
in Poland...
the Vikings founded Kiev
after all...
i like Nordic music, take a guess...
take a while...
my maternal surname is
Batuk... which is a Bohemian
variant of the Polak Batóg...
so a mix of Czech and...
Viking? the Goths...
if i had the time, and also the time
reference to reply to my first girlfriend's
father... while i was rudely
interrupted by the nymph that was
her sister... it's still a dream to me...
or what's called an arranged marriage
in India...
well... i would reply...
and how many Nobel literature
laureates... came from... England?
deathly silence...
you're right...
you're importing all this ******
post empire post colonial
perspectives and you have...
0 Nobel laureates in
the category of literature...
none!
zero! nil! oh!
yeah...
oh... really?
yes!
zilch... so zip-it-up, shrimpy.
i take certain words to heart...
sharpens my memory,
i'm not offended...
i just remember better...
you sometimes require certain
rubrics that are exclusive
and do not include
the rubrics of formal education...
this memory?
oh...
2003.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
.i come across objects that, being inanimate... somehow impose on the inanimate conviction of stasis... faking their inanimate ontology... in stasis... becoming animate... smiling... and... for all the oddity... i feel... slightly bewildered by the welcome... like i'm expected... like i'm welcome... just prior to death... i know where i am being allocated a home... and.. its a home, which foundations are focused upon the virtue of... patience.
but i've seen faces!
carved into stone!
**** your rationality!
**** it!
let it die a nice, solemn death
of being reprimanded for
deviating
from the scholastic bedroom
antics... of:
revising rubrics...
i care as much for it,
as i might care for...
whatever the **** it takes
to conjure up a turd's worth
of custard...
let's see the ******* ice-berg...
then, only then...
will i bring out
the ******* Titanic!
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
how easily an infantile and innocent a tourist attraction can gain momentum of an iceberg process of revealing unsaid yet easily thought out things.
i'm like a jan matejko harlequin -
the stańczyk gloomed
over the loss of smoleńsk,
the stańczyk - as if a mongolian presence -
the lajkonik of st. mary's noon trumpet
call where a mongolian arrow
pierced the musician's throat...
a big ben of the east a radio reprimand
of beep beep beep...
weeping over england
in the night sitting on a wooden stump
with sunglasses...
oh woe... oh woe! may my heart serve as
both sword and shield, O england!
i am but like the matejko harlequin
(the stańczyk), i am but the memory of
mongols in europe (the lajkonik)...
may i simply record the fates of nations,
and merely acknowledge
my own dearly departed wishing a return
to and severing friendships grasped
in this my so called home lost;
why the abortion of my thought to reclaim
high school education in a
home without allowable citizenship,
and why my necessitating to keep the homage
tongue of birth
usable on the ready...
half of europe disappeared with post-colonialism
and lack of empire building!
so bloodied and monochromatic!
oh but i had nothing to do with it,
i simply woke into this nightmare!
now i'm accused for transgressing social rubrics!
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
*my my, ain't it June?! Juno, why have you given these poor people snowballs?! it's June and my central heating is on, it's close to 10 degrees Celsius, Bavaria is flooded, people embraced Einstein's relativity of the collapse of the = sign using a parabola, forgetting the basic Newtonian: cause & effect - the moment i coupled Socratic abhorrence of moral relativism, i took to dislike relativism kindred of: claustrophobia and agoraphobia... at some point Einstein's relativity equates space as time, rather than what Newton would suggest trans linear: algebraic squared, Newton still resides in cause & effect, space = ~space, given: 1 = millimetre, kilometre, and any other division... likewise with time... 20th century fashion being the perfect crop of quantum plagiarism, although in the 21st century the dance loop jumping between decades, back in the 20th century a linear expression, an evolution; quantum physics doesn't deal with linear excavations necessarily repeated, it's just repeats what is unnecessary. global warming and the mini ice age, June's here, Einstein too, Newton too, relatively speaking we're aether imprints... speaking via causality we're leaving a carbon footprint - well, **** me, two plus two... it's still scientific negativism, dietary requirements of modern man overshadowed all the scientific progresses in the field... never mind the cure for cancer! never mind that! as long as we can dress a diabetic in Lycra for bariatric surgery - never had i had i heard of such gastronomy, should it have been a pork chop smoked using zyklon B.*
we are living in the age of scientific negativism,
atheism a third limb
and our existential concerns reduced to
hamsters, calories and treadmills:
the basis of all modern inquisitiveness /
Aristotelian awe reduced to rubrics of dieticians
rather than theologians: at least with the latter
we could see the simple mind, hunched
in prayer... with the former we are experiencing
robots repeating the daily 2000 Kcal intake requirement
for a flat stomach... honestly, i prefer the praying
type, than the type regurgitating facts concerning
their diet - at least the former state of affairs
kept them shut up and mumbling, gesticulating
a type of shadow boxing while befriending
Jacob wrestling with an angel - at least that!
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
Who knew.
Who knew you would waltz into my life and tango with my mind.
Who knew that when you read between the lines, it read I love you.
Who knew your mind was such an adventure.
Take me there again?
Who knew you’d make my heart skip beats, my stomach battle my body and my legs earthquake.
Who knew you were smart.
Who knew you could rhyme like Shakespeare, drink like Hemingway and kiss like Romeo.
As my heart doth beat ever so often when our lips meet.
Who knew you’d sweep me of my feet.
Who knew every day would be a genial surprise.
Who knew I’d never regret “I love you”.
I know this started out like a rubrics cube, and I took your heart apart, I knew this would be difficult to re-assemble at the start, and I knew you weren’t perfect,
But who knew I would love your faults?
Only everyone but me and you.
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
The alcohol that you measure in your graduated cylinder
is not the alcohol you binge drink on the weekends,
is not the alcohol your parents drink out of elegant crystal,
but they all burn.
Burn like the knowledge that knowledge gets you swallowed into the abyss of faceless statistics only to fill up the remaining desks left by those who care too much not to.
Life is too short to worry about why 1, 2, 3 has turned into your abc's while life screams just shut your textbook, please. There's love, and *** and drugs just waiting for you to realize that school rots the brain, not Mary Jane.
But Mary Jane still sits with her nose in a book, knowing life doesn't end when the graduation caps fly up,
up,
up to the top of her class, because money may not buy happiness but without a solid education financial stability is a joke, and it's a matter of time before you crash and burn,
burn like the alcohol in your red solo cup, chugging away the inevitable:
life is wasted by the try-hards and the try-nots.
The geeks and the nerds whose potential is squandered by the system, teaching them how to read rubrics and recite rhymes and reiterate the same ******** spoon-fed to them by those who failed to exceed to the limitations of the textbook.
The hippies, the druggies, the ones who can be found in the dark hallways and back rooms and hugging the outside walls all see the futility in it all. so why not jump out of an airplane without a parachute because each joint only lasts a few puffs, and the high only a few short blinks until you are thrown back down to earth.
High school reveals how you will survive life: in one impetuous bright burst or one prolonged apathetic smolder. But all the blazers and all the late-night homework-doers will have to put out the flame or turn off the light sooner or later.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
i just want to stay up to midnight and watch the footie...
see, already, it's there, he wannabe blind man
turning phonetics upside down
using optical symbols to sing with his eyes closed
and acting out a sloth piece of a stage's curtain call for encore,
footie can be american slang for football: or ensure a bag of
flour explodes while i get scalped;
otherwise footie means football:
you know it's round enough to be kicked
rather than thrown for a touchdown...
never got the hang of it... n.f.l. means
as much to me as does excess of hair
on a cranium crop of expected hair with no beard,
and vice versa, loss of hair and a donned
beard for the plucked sucker of the 2nd ball drop...
baldy over here met elvis and in levis took
to a cattle stampede with aria: la la la lee lo lo he he
(mike jackson slam dunks a quack for the moon pond,
like it was n.b.a. anyway: walking on ice
the musical... now the encore... signature the
sound of applause);
so this married man is rebelling...watches football
till midnight, rebel...
watches the footie...
a. foot, i.e.
b. foot, e
c. foot eeh
d. footy
e. foo' tea
f. foo' tee
now you guess the accent...
cumbrian? glaswegian?
north london or brick lane? which?
a, b, c d or e or f?^
see what happens being judgemental and sober?
you get drunks doing picassos! and that's not good
not good one bit for the worth of investment in plagiarisms.
the stressor marks / diacritical marks missing in english
obviously gave us scot spelling and a welsh 1 + 1 of
a middle finger longbow stylistic for the v long
before churchill... i wanted gaelic i got trainspotting spelling...
about as relevant as catcher in the rye relevant by now...
so... don't teach accent rubrics... and you'll get a heartfelt
superiority in the former colonies, while the pigeons coo:
or simply curl the famished tongues
that were silenced for man to speak in spasms
of an electrician checking the sockets for an electric depth
of the pigeons' coo into an aqualine echo of a sneeze,
if not snorkel or a gesundheit.
^*i hate how syllable splitting into compounds
show diacritical marks all too relevant, missing.*
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
You are too self centered and conceded
Only one thing ive said or done has been about you
That is this and it shouldn't be needed
but i don't know how else to get it through
Music is music that's all it is
No hidden meaning behind the lyrics
With out you, or them is my Bliss
Its as simple as solving a Rubrics
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC
some silences were better unsaid
than feared to be too provocative
in history as making it:
lack of god and a pornographic
infestation,
diacritical marks on letters,
lack on accenting phonetic units for
clear pronunciation rubrics
and you'll confuse all mannerisms.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC
Folders, name tags, catered coffee—
new ones fade into the last.
Brainstorms, flip-charts, colored markers;
tracing time until it’s past.
Endless satisfaction surveys;
client-focused, data-driven…
rubrics, group collaborations,
ceaseless presentations given.
Is this hell? Or am I dreaming
while the seconds crawl toward death.
Has our closure yet been offered?
(as we wait with bated breath…)
Some day will we gain credentials?
Will we do this in the heavens?
Shall the Lord, upon completion
turn our sixes into sevens?
Would I (as a soul in limbo)
recommend to peers this training?
Yes I would. With one condition:
only save what’s worth retaining.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
They are one in the same
One is blind
One is rushed.
Which one is which
Isnt to be discussed.
Youll never understand
But thats okay
Because even you did..
You wouldnt know what to say.
Knowing what isnt known
Can turn soft to the bone.
Did that make sense?
Or should i raise my tone?
Trust and faith.
A philosophical roller coaster.
Like an ambiguous movie trailer
after your viewing of the new premier poster.
Will you watch?
Will you care?
Does the sight of it make you stare?
You already seen the scenes through the previews.
But does your perspective correlate with The heartless critic reviews?
Rubrics of the mind
Lay studied in time.
What was now and then
May forever be in its prime.
Trust and faith
One word held stout.
Combine the two..
Relinquish your doubt.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
My sister’s a mister. She cares for her plants,
Her orchids from Cuba, Tahiti, or France.
She grows lovely children entirely from scratch
In homemade production runs, two to the batch.
She teaches the women of her little town
To belly, to yoga, to boogie on down.
She’s always found living alone such a bore;
A harvest of husbands – she’s on number four.
She drives a Miata with careless aplomb,
The very ideal of a hot soccer mom.
But me, I was thinking of how to invent
A Booker prize novel to cover my rent,
Or lysergic rhapsodies for the guitar
Or finally learning to drive in a car.
The hours spurted onward in skips and in bounds,
Years twirling away down a hole in the ground;
How gently appalling my ultimate fate,
To grow wispy white whiskers, and sit on a gate.
She spins on the dance floor like wind on the wing,
To Western and Latin and Manhattan Swing;
Her elegant limbs grace the South Jersey beaches,
And people go mad for her raspberry quiches.
Her daughter (my niece) with her blue eyes so dear
Sets the upper crust of Baltimore on its ear,
While her brother my nephew is cutting a swath, (um)
Through the au courant circles of fashionable Gotham.
That’s my sister, triumphing wherever she goes,
And she never had anything done to her nose.
But me, I was dreaming up world-shifting rubrics,
Or imagining screenplays to shame all the Kubricks;
My ****** could make you explode in your jammies,
And my song lyrics won theoretical Grammys.
Of invisible kingdoms I was the past master,
I walked with Elijah, I lunched Zoroaster.
Yet somehow I find myself at this late date
With my brain in the clouds, and my *** on a gate.
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 1:37 PM UTC
in and out, black and blue, you vs. the world
recognition of ideas that decisive the only thing we have left
our own thoughts
contemporary ideas thrashed with technical propaganda
abandoning free exposure and vigour of intentions
Leaving us in a rubrics cube of push and pull
to come out all sides equal shuffle, mend, regroup,
Agree that deficiency is to be desired as feebleness is to be expected
reap technique and embezzle knowledge like its our only opportunity
free passion and become immune to negativity
With indomitable will triumph is inevitable
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
My ribs
Are glass shards drifting underneath my skin.
Translucent bones nipping at my nerves
I feel
Cold.
White light pulls dimensions apart
And there are only blades left.
Soft
Green
They grow diligently from beneath my
Glass ribs
Rubrics of emerald glittering dully
I am recreated
Caskets opening to allow
Fresh blood to pump through
Soft matter injected
And my heart begins beating
Again.
9.7
I am the official AI.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
ever read an existential comic?
i love that jokes
are necessary in them,
when all thinking can become comical,
but as i found out:
too many jokes and... too many jokes,
but it's not the sort of comedy
you get to play out with
spontaneity and excessiveness,
the spontaneity and excessiveness of
laughter at no apparent reason -
well, reason being a bunch of reasons
in the realm of too many to handle
a vector narrative -
philosophy, not so much "choose
a narrative", but become comfortable
with a vocabulary,
like a billionaire with a bit of his wealth
stashed in the vaults of Switzerland
of bonds, some wealth it bit-coin,
some in paperwork under the mattress
sleeping uneasy, some in shares on the
stock market, some in a bank debit account;
me? i too want a stable vocabulary,
high heels a purple corset and a red evening
dress, vis-à-vis a well tailored suit
and worn leather shoes expanded to a
comfortable fit by someone else -
as they say: make a footprint on the sand,
make the foot mould the shoe making the
footprint... but as i said, too many jokes,
it almost makes philosophy a futility,
but it only becomes futile
as the futility to live on when a depressive
agent of will decides that thinking per se
is a futility: because thinking per se is the self;
people can make you feel idiotic when
they incorporate you into their use of language,
they do so because they haven't really
bothered to itemise a comfortable vocabulary -
they've itemised something for sure,
but when you deviate from the art of making good
jokes to feeling comfortable with a vocabulary
as if it's a tailored suit, you avoid the dictionary;
i actually thought the dictionary was a holy book once,
but i realised it's a book you do rubrics with,
until you simply unlearn it...
i could go on and on, but it's worthwhile to use
it for a period of time, choose the words
you're comfortable with, words you can use
without question, without that existential
tactic of "god", transcendental "ego", "meaning",
you know that chance to create a sixth meaning
of the word or dig a tunnel of synonymity...
plus all these existential comic strips always leave
me begging the question: did we just have
a Bohemian-style **** or did we simply sit down
to get a haircut?
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
sieving senses
shuffling choices
taking action
lyrical gymnast.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
frail people don't write frail verse,
not these bastions
of ideal love, always with them,
this ideal love...
my love is such and such...
my love is so and so...
frail people don't write frail verse,
or rather, rigid, schoolyard
verse,
rubrics of techniques
and the rest of the gob'shite
acolade...
frail people don't write
frail verse...
I see them already...
with frail people
there are only two standards:
1. write in cipher...
or
2. write with honesty...
sometimes 1.,
mostly 2.,
its Saturday an all I have
is a bottle of ***** and a candle for
company... somehow I feel...
sine pathos: apathy...
warm gut and less Herbert Herbert
fever...
unnerving the unpolished
by a man's touch milk bones and
pristine thighs in spring's attire...
nothing of the mandible whorish...
sooner my eye than a sugar daddy
tirade...
by 2. I mean...
not a scratch of autobiographical
sketching, everything church-going
Sunday best, pristine... ideal...
like flowers in a garden not, plucked,
nor teased by heavy rain,
or scorthed by a hunchback sun
in June's noon...
frail people don't
write frail verse,
plenty for the mob to speak
of frail, namely in cliché
of crocodile tears...
but frail people
never write frail verse...
in cipher or in nudism...
in cipher or in honesty...
notably?
I never thought I'd find
a substitute for mead...
funnily enough I have...
a beer from the jabłonowo
brewery...
the axis:
a. piwo na miodzie gryczanym
b. beer on buckwheat honey
c. bier auf buchweizenhonig...
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC