"scaffolding" poems
As the glorious LION
Stands strong in stature
Radiating with a presence
Of Absolute rule
The air washed with
A bristly respect
A natural pride
Beams with beauty
He guards the gateway to truth
and only the brave may enter
He is the king that needs no crown
as he holds a royal presence as he
sits in his golden coat and main
Lies spark combust just bounce off
dissolve in all his shine.
As broken men become renewed
Their fractured parts
Collect in the melting ***
Of the Lion's stare
As they are engulfed and swallowed
In the reservoirs of his strength
As the many wounded souls
Find themselves restored
In his majestic presence
As he rattles the very fabric
Of this world
There is no procrastinating belly
Exposed by a lackluster display
No one insults his strength
By creating a make believe world
Or covers him with scaffolding so
That they may alter him
For he is the finished article
And he is never held up or supported
With anyone's emotional ropes or strings
For he no ones puppet
He is never silenced
By the Strangle hold of this world
Tightened with a multitude of gestures
For I hear his ROAR!!!!!!!!
His explosive self expression
As his throat bursts and beams like the sun
Breaking all collars, and his tongue is freed
As a thousand trap doors Open up in him
And boulders are lifted and rocks are shattered
within the sound of his voice.
His Soft pads of silent stealth
Gather for all his wealth
As the power of his pounce
Is governed by both his strength
Of spirit and the honesty
With which he meets the earth
For he owns all of his own pain
And paces and growls to warn
Away any who seek to steal his fresh ****
And diminish him with pretty lies
For he owns all his space
As it feeds his strength
As somewhere in the fury of feasting
Lionesses and Lions
We find our freedom
For his power explodes like a volcano
When his soul meets the earth
As he shakes off all avoidance
To seek only truth
As streaks of white light
And pure Gold glisten in the SUN
As the world's projections
Reflect and bounce off him
There is so much to learn
From a beautiful LION
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
I've discovered Hell, and the truth is,
It isn't a place you go, it's a sickness.
It resides within your bones
And its scaffolding is made from trauma.
The only fire you'll find is from the white-hot flashbacks
That leave you drenched in sweat that smells like smoke.
No-one lives there except you and your enemies,
And your enemies are fragments of history, unable to be killed.
Your mind is the devil that subjects you to punishment
That you can't help but be convinced that you deserve,
And escape is a notion kept only for tears;
Everything else remains trapped.
Hell is being held within the cage of your own body
And killing yourself trying to break free.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 9:33 AM UTC
Hopelessness is the worst feeling of all
Hope must be the very scaffolding upon which we build ourselves
Because the moment hope dissipates the moment it begins to wear and give way
We collapse within forgetting any light that ever previously illuminated the circumstance
When you demolish a building, you don't have to destroy every piece but merely compromise its infrastructure
The same goes for destroying a person, or even a group of people. You don't have to destroy them as a whole but simply destroy their hope and watch as they collapse inwardly
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
I was never looking into you
I was only pouring an image of myself onto your canvas
Of course I didn’t know
it was me looking into me
this was the mirage of my desire
always in the shape of a question mark
and you
a sweeping mystery
oozing something toeing the peculiar line between *** and titanium (cold, edgy, sharp - trembling
between pain and principle
like blazer and tie
or more like halfway-unbuttoned-shirt-and-slacks on-with-no-tie
(it was like you were making an effort!))
It was ***
but it also wasn’t ***
(I am empty
I am full)
I keep building up and up and up
all these images in my Mind
(which never shuts up)
(a never-ending narrative
She spins and spins and succumbs
only in those rare and passing circumstances)
constructing people like buildings
only the scaffolding is imaginary and when
the architecture folds in on itself
soulless
and my beloved figurines come toppling down on me
why do I still get so surprised
so stung
so lonely in that
hollow and distant way
(like your Mind is echoing
in on
Itself)?
My Mind is like quicksand
devouring streams of memory with ease
forever unsatisfied and craving more of the same
sharp edges and all
praying for a satiation in some distant future
She knows will never come
Only here
in this tiny universe
can I spell out anything resembling rationality
from the mess and junk and tangled tendrils of my Mind
Only here
can I extract bits and pieces of thoughts
and try to puzzle them together
until they make sense
until I can separate “Me” from “Reality"
And what doesn’t make sense
what I need to understand
is why I feel so beset
with this heavy magnetism that
overpowers me to the point of
paralysis
(with little to no room for breathing)
and why it was you
who pushed me into this feeling
and you
who is still pulling me along
far past the threshold of my resistance
and I am done
and it stings
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
THAT civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps ate spread,
His eyes fixed upon nothing,
A hand under his head.
1
That the ******* towers be burnt
And men recall that face,
Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.
She thinks, part woman, three parts a child,
That nobody looks; her feet
Practise a tinker shuffle
Picked up on a street.
1
That girls at puberty may find
The first Adam in their thought,
Shut the door of the Pope's chapel,
Keep those children out.
There on that scaffolding reclines
Michael Angelo.
With no more sound than the mice make
His hand moves to and fro.
Like a long-leggedfly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.
6.8k
i climb the scaffolding
look down below
spirit faltering
will i die in the blow?
caffeine swirling,
dizziness whirling,
truth obscured
devil-lured
dry darkness,
unfeeling eyes,
dropping, heartless
out of the skies
failing, falling,
faster than water,
missed my calling,
embracing slaughter
but i'm still here,
didn't dare,
risk the fear
of devil's snare
May 11, 2021
May 11, 2021 at 7:29 AM UTC
The wind whips
and scrapes the walls
like ivy looking for its foothold
round windowsills
and rotten wood
winter chills a new years cold
scouring for the way in
rolling barrels of fury
tumultuous spasms
unrelenting open hands
slaps the face of every bush and branch
with each pass
the lawns and meadows left
rippled like a poorly tacked carpet
the scaffolding of men rests on brace and bolts
and handshakes with the granite walls
adornments flap their benign capes
eddies of grit spiral, walking tall
Inside I watch you
like a ****** staring at the passing crowd
but not knowing where to look;
only you are everywhere
blankets and lights and even the TV
are curtains to pretend your not outside;
I need not venture out yet
at least,
not until morning
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:37 AM UTC
St. Teresa swoons to herself.
The angel’s impish face laughs
At her pain.
Bernini’s operatic sculpture bound
Behind bars.
Perfectionism, restorationism,
OCD.
Outside, a gypsy woman begs
For centimes.
Inside, scaffolding dims Teresa’s glow.
Art sacrificed to the future,
Content to die in darkness.
A monk dozes in his rosary.
Recitation of dreams.
No legend in the sacristy:
Teresa’s book remains
Unread, dull behind glass.
Ecstasy of love: her path toward God.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 8:20 PM UTC
Don’t look at his arms now.
Stiff and swollen, small muscles
curled in like a mountain:
needing someone to open the gym
an hour to workout.
That arm held the weight,
made the ladies say
ripped and attractive.
Don’t think of his heart
behind thick abs flirting
with girls, his voice
drowning in grunts and moans,
his daily routine.
Think of the bodybuilder who slid
3 steriods down scaffolding esophaguses,
every meal,
who stood up to Death the Dealer
for more hits to take on.
Keep him the image of the unhealthy,
straight-backed on the gym floor
in sickness, sighing
from his choice.
Keep his image holding
needles, syringes, and pills,
bringing your heartbeat down
not on the muscle,
your mind’s logic sweeping off fantasies.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 8:47 PM UTC
I'm a rap game prodigy
irony like Socrates
that I could spit this philosophy
so flawlessly.
Unmatched like I'm scalene-
scaling my way to the top
so high like I'm a scaffolding
go ahead fold and scowl at me
and watch me cackle sarcastically-
while I tell the masses to become appealing
the apple of my eye is hip-hop do you feel me?
Massive attacks while the males become *****
and subject to the ways of misogyny
oh **** here we go again, this bothers me
what? equality?
Misuse the muse and move through your mind
makeshift mammals mimmicking media monkeys
no wonder half the world's a ******
like you when you see-
the way I spit so fluently
second language, feel the anguish
anger within me resentment
followed by residuals
the world is red and we're all cruel
consumed by corporate corruption
no function left to the fiction of fascism
so fasten your seat-belts and see me belt
way more than 16sixteens, it's sickening
how sick this flow can be so ambiguous
hip-hop is bigger than us-
it's luck, it's lust-
it's a **** you when there's a lack of trust-
it's **** it's love
it's touch, it's ****
it's drugs and grudges
and beef and *******
it's empowerment, cowards
and records strictly to deflower.
it's appreciation and admiration
and it at one point shook the entire nation-
i'm complacent at the placement of this prophecy
that hip-hop has engrained into me
I'm grateful for the grandfather's
and the sons and the daughters
the step-fathers and mother *******
cut throat music industry
if you don't **** with hip-hop you don't **** with me.
*****
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
I watch tv with the sound turned off just so I don't have to hear anything that reminds me of you anymore.
Chest down, I'm trapped against the ceiling and I'm flirting with the impossibility that limbs so heavy could take me this high.
Neither of us know what day it is, one of those afternoons before December that never really rises and I am keeping the lights on just so I can promise myself that you're not really here.
You see, I get the usual 'I can't breathe without you around', but I can't float, even with you standing over me.
I lead-lined my lungs with both our insecurities, tied my tongue so that I can only make my eyes speak. I can't cope with mourning the lost words that hang in the air everywhere other people have been and I choke on you every time I speak.
And my bones break like insecure scaffolding every time I stand,
they tell me I weighed myself down with all these useless metaphors,
that they never had all four feet on the ground.
You pushed me off balance. My joints could never hold out long enough to hold the both of us up. My bones are like the wood that didn't get enough water:
I break under your touch. I crack when you speak.
You're still telling me you're leaving.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC
I've never been to China
I almost went to France,
I missed a flight to Russia once
I only missed by chance
Rome's intoxicating
The air there is sublime
But, I've never been there either
I just didn't have the time
I missed a train to Scotland
Bypassed Wales, and well Why Not?
There's nothing there in Cardiff
Other countries haven't got
I thought about the islands
Bui I do not like the sun
So I thought about a cruse ship
Still, I've never been on one
Alaska, has the mountains
forests wide and big brown bears
But as you can imagine
I've also not been there
I thought about Hawaii
but I never made that trip
I thought about the hula
And I thought I'd hurt my hip
I booked a flight to Cairo
Never went as you could guess
Saw a story on the news one day
And Jesus, what a mess
The pyramids had scaffolding
The place was full of sand
So I stayed home and watched telly
And then that trip was canned
I've never been to Ireland
or Cuba or Ceylon
And at the rate I'm going
It won't be long before their gone
I've thought about the Norway fjords
and lovely Swedish parks
but I've heard that all their fjords are filled
With big man eating sjarks!
I've never been most anyplace
I ever set to go
I'm not sure why I stayed here
I really do not know
Next week I have a trip planned
I'm not going to Spain
And then a fortnight after
I'm not going again!
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
Yesterday I was a school going kid
Always Hungry for knowledge
Always Thirsty for lessons of life
Obediently sitting in a large noisy class
Listening and recording every words preached
Hoping they were stored forever...
Or atleast before the exam day was over
Today I still go to school
Twice a week
with a bunch of happy people
We have fun learning!
embarassing ourselves mostly
In the most intellectual way!!
laughing at ourselves for being silly
Sometimes unsure
whether we are hungry or thirsty
But knowledge is like the sea...
Endless and wide.
Rather ...
We are desperate to digest it all
The ZPD, Scaffolding, Sociocultural and Constructivism?
Hey hey whose theory?
And Skinner, Pavlov, Vygotsky and Chomsky
Hope they are here to tell us a story.
To go or to let go
Hard .. dont you know?
Decided to go with the flow...
Determined that one day
We will stand tall
On that humble stage
Wearing that long pretty robe ...
in our hands a scroll...
There's nothing like having a PHD
With your sweat and tears...
and a whole lot of laughters too....
The feelings?
Of course... unexplainable
The experience?
PRICELESS!!!
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
On the long continuous bench in Audobon park, New Orleans, I sat watching the Siren statue. Her hand high with proud strength of her metallic near-immortality. Her cherub children sitting on bronze turtles, holding separate items of ritual in their hands, perhaps a conch, perhaps a lute. As the Siren stood on her globe, a murky green orb of a thing, there were lovers and birds, children and historians with photographic memories in their voguishly composed hands, crouching, cropping, and framing images as infinite as the bronze statues.
I wondered.
If our memories were as sound as granite, and our hearts as pure as the water that froths at a Siren’s feet, would we enjoy and enjoin our attempts, our passions, to act as our own scaffolding to our existence? Would we appreciate the small things, pleasures of love, photographs and amazement that only those bound to and cursed by time could possibly appreciate? Have you actually seen the faces of these bronze castings, once earthly golden in hue, but now terrorized with their own emblems of decay in sheen of turquoise tarnish? Those smiles of the Siren on her globe, her frolicking cherub chums with eternal infantile fists and oceanic paraphernalia, are not the smiles we should ever want to understand.
There was a breeze.
Somewhere in the leaves of an old photo album, across the globe beneath the Siren’s feet, sits an island I call home. Amongst them, the photos of the young boy who always questioned and liked answers all the same now was by and beside himself. His smile eternally saved for the memories of souls yet to come, and no less by the loving eyes of a mother, with voguishly composed hands.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Blow, Lyceum grasses, blow,
From coiled lips of your wolf-god Apollo
Whose dawn-padded paws to starprints roam
This temple-tribute to thought-illumined roads.
Blow, Lyceum grasses, blow
Of wave upon wave of your brushings-by,
From staff to sandal-fall to cloak hemline,
For rhapsodes, your song-odyssey to sew.
The Greeks built the sun,
Upon scaffolding~acrobaticon~
With pear-skinned lightness to glow,
Or like leavened bread from the woodburning stove.
Blow, Lyceum grasses, blow,
The sun lies old on its famine-cracked pillow,
In spittle of gold and yellowed phosphorous,
With the gods past-blown to ruin.
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 11:00 PM UTC
What is it that stops us from questioning
the scaffolding of our reality?
Why aren't more of us solipsists?
Shouldn't we all be like those
delusional violent ones?
They see no reason
to think the world exists
outside their heads
Therefore their thoughts influence
their reality more and more
All of our thoughts
influence the reality
We sense to a varying degree
unique to each of us
But do we really all, for the most part
believe some ho-hum passivity?
Oh, what pressures magnetize our brains
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
It’s a free country, whose prices are skyrocketing,
skyrocketing with the number of secrets.
Pick up pamphlets proclaiming promises,
but look how the fine print demands your liberty.
Everything is written in the same language,
the exchange rate for a few dollars.
Pieces of paper riddled with numbers, dollars
burn through pockets, leaving scars with pain skyrocketing.
The poor and huddled masses all speak the language,
exchanging on the black market fragments of skeleton secrets.
Torch in one hand, book in the other, let’s ask Lady Liberty
why the cobblestone was pressed with broken promises.
Collect the torn shreds of scattered paper promises,
recycle, dye, reprint, now you have dollars.
Hear the cracks ring through the bell of liberty,
sending a sound shockwave skyrocketing,
blowing the dust off old, forgotten boxes stuffed with secrets,
lies that became incorporated. We all cry in the same language.
A father speaks to his daughter in the language
of soccer games and zoo trips. Shattered promises,
fill the gaps between their hearts, fueled by secrets.
Problems he tries to fix by handing her a few dollars.
His excuses keep coming and her frustration is skyrocketing.
She desires greener pastures, to run away with liberty.
In Korean it’s jayu. In Russian it’s svoboda. Liberty
translates to the same message in every language.
Liberté, the distance between oceans is skyrocketing
as worn hands struggle holding glass promises.
La libertad! Paper sons are born spending hard earned dollars,
confusing pesos with dollars, their lies with their secrets.
The walls are willing to whisper your secrets,
silence can be exchanged for handfuls of liberty.
A binding contract, you’ll get paid with dollars.
The ultimate truth: it’s the universal language.
Homes are built on a foundation of hollow promises,
with no door to escape, and the scaffolding is skyrocketing.
Freiheit! Voices skyrocket into one language,
tearing holes in liberty where promises lied,
it all costs something. Dollars buy secrets. Dollars hide secrets.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
At first there are only the linens,
Soft as a breath.
I am lost in the snow,
In that gentle place on the edge of sleep,
Not knowing my own name.
And the moment lasts for hours
Until the first touch,
An explosion of light and heat.
We are two blind cave creatures
Feeling our way toward each other,
Moving under the covers
Like continental drift.
A surge of blood and memories
Drawing us together to discover
and remember ourselves.
As we become aware,
I clutch you close to me
And swear I'll never let you go,
Because I know what that will mean—
We'll climb out of bed, dress,
And open the blinds to let in the city
Before stepping into
Your parents' Fifth Avenue apartment
To eat like royalty at the round marble table
by the bay window
Where we look out at our subjects below.
Sometime after breakfast,
Reality slips in.
Your folks are on their way back
From some business trip or spa,
So I'll pull on my coat and scarf
Eager as a condemned man.
Rise and fall of the elevator, a guillotine.
You'll walk me out
Past whichever doorman is on duty
And on Fifth Avenue,
Under the shade of the scaffolding,
We'll kiss madly and hungrily and
Finally.
You return to Xanadu
While I take the train downtown,
Waking from a dream
To a life with no doormen,
No housekeepers,
Just cigarette butts
And bills to be paid.
Yes, I'll miss the bay window,
And its view of the city.
I'll miss the plush linens and all of the marble.
But it's not those things that I remember
In the cold quiet of my bed.
It's the warmth of your skin in the morning
And your smile as I open my eyes.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
It’s not the first cool day of autumn,
but it’s the first that won’t end
until April, if ever. The hail covers every crack
in the sidewalk. I skate across it, turn into rain.
Later I’m standing in the mud, counting.
Julie calls to say the surgery didn’t work,
third one this year. Doctor referred her to some
research hospital in Ypsilanti, but she won’t
be studied. She’s on a new diet instead,
only avocados and citrus. She says,
*That’s why Sudan has the lowest cancer rates
and there’s still lots of time but please come see me this weekend.*
I take off my shoes and look for a place
shaped like my feet. I tell her I’ll build us
a sweat lodge on the Auglaize, I could learn how,
I’ve seen it done. We’ll sing Kirtan
to Hanuman and sage the hell out
of you, that’ll do it. I’m sure.
No she says *build me a school
for the things beneath the things, inside, around,
the scaffolding.* There are walls
inside these walls. Enough space for all of us to pray
for certainty the way it prays for us. *Fear
is the cheapest room in the house. I would like
to see you living in better conditions.*
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
you're so gorgeous
in the morning
the sun can't even
stay away,
spreading itself evenly
across your sleepy skin
in a way i can't even
get peanut butter to...
& i let the sun have you
every morning
& i watch you,
like a pervert wearing sunglasses,
as it kisses
every
inch
of
you.
i mean i knew you were into older men
but Jesus...
he's more aged & damaged
than the planet that we're dancing on,
or drowning on,
& i'm jealous of his yellow fingers
lighting up the white
hairs on your belly
like his mourning dew defeats the dandelions,
but when i scramble
for your eyes' yolks,
you're already gone!
panic-
i'm--rapidly--
building--scaffolding--past--
the--rafter--beams--
IN--HOPES--
that--i--can--catch--the--theif---- --- -- -
but he sets ablaze my plastic wings
& i come crashing
to
cat
as
trophy cases that i place you in
because i'm so afraid to touch you
in those moments
you're awake,
so i just whisper
in your ear
when your eyes are put away...
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:28 PM UTC
Some days the sky is a glass chalice we hold between our lips to take a sip
The palliative qualities divine in nature are seeping through the subtle splits on the surface of our palms
Fleeting textures suffuse through our quivering hands
Various hues illustrate the wrists as they coil upon the cadaverous structure
Outlining our internal scaffolding with diverse shades
Colours ricochet within our human receptacles
Our bodies are prisms allowing the light of the sun to shine
Beams break forth from the orifice that rests upon our undistinguished faces
Reminders of what is within splintering through every available opening
Wandering rays rendezvous at the core of the chest
Exploring uncharted paths on the geography of our physical selves
Transcendent roads vague to our periphery
Slowly defining their forms on the outskirts of our wearied retinas
Our illuminated minds, embodying the sun
candescent stones fortified by layers of bone meant to hold their fluorescence
Our organic beams of light, such tender arms, lingering in the punctured sky
are using the clouds as paintbrushes, pieced together bits of mosaic already at their disposal
Our backs resting on abstract clay with shifting pastels, whispering clarity into our cartilage
leftover laments torn apart to bits with the newfound realization that we are whole.
Like unearthed clairvoyance, we survey the translucent waters before us
peering into the stillness our bodies disrupt like the pillars of beautiful dissonance they are
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
Looking West, I think I can see you
In summer clothes, in sunshine, in light
Surroundings that fit and embrace you
Yet, hoping your eyes search for mine
I can't tell if you are looking Eastward
I don't expect you could pray to the East
On a globe, which horizon is forward?
Which sacrifice will guarantee the yield?
And meantime you shimmer on coastlines
On sand, and at parties, in bars
But I recall you when you were all mine
Quietly answering each other's prayers
Your love is scaffolding built overnight
Surrounding, supporting weathered stone
An unexpected artisan, you revitalise
You renovate and salvage and own
Own me, and this immobile cathedral
Impervious rock to skilled test
A sanctuary for prayers that come Eastward
A place where our love can be blessed
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
~
*Major blue empty:
first listen to the weather pattern;
the scaffolding remains,
but the holding songs
of color are threadbare;
simulacra of imperfection
simply swirls like seagrass,
a pointillist matrix
of rainfall rustles
gathering scene -- nothing
stands on its own initially;
but after a few localized
moments it collects
to articulate this silence,
as each sound looms and subsides
in the garden of
selective speculation.*
~
Apr 24, 2023
Apr 24, 2023 at 4:43 PM UTC
A torrent gushes from the serpent’s mouth
wave upon breaking wave; it’s ALL fake news
swiftly eroding what is left to lose.
Democracy’s waterlogged corpse drifts south,
a bloated mess; all waters to infuse
with putrefaction, thus to breed disease
uncivil war invades our fantasies;
the polarized extremes now pay their dues.
Propping things up: it’s what they do the best—
business as usual, pawns all occupied
in scaffolding facades upon the West
and sculpting the friezes of fratricide…
but underground, the currents cave away.
Media will fail; God brings a brighter day.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC
sins of my father
killed two men, at the age of eighteen
shot them both on Old Quaker road
then walked all the way back home
sins of my father
entered his house gun in hand
sat at the table, stared at the door
waited for the end, no tears shed
sins of my father
hours had gone and past by
sheriff finally rolls down the drive
to take my father for his misdeeds
sins of my father
left that gun on the table
greeted the sheriff at the kitchen door
nodded, an shook hands with his fate
sins of my father
mother cried and sisters wept
humiliated for a families deeds
broken home leaving no hope
sins of my father
hung him in the morning on old scaffolding
his face read of no heaven or hell
mama and her children no longer cried
sins of my father
id take the sins of my father
forty five years spent sinning
he left eighteen years to repent
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC