"scrupulous" poems
I asked my mother for a glass kaleidoscope,
but instead she handed me three shots of wine
and a field guide to running galactic bases,
which I guess is her way of selling dreams
at low prices. I have yet to understand a coffee shop's symmetry,
so I embrace the scrupulous company of a dragon-riding-a-butterfly.
One spin around the Milky Way leaves the butterfly
with holey wings and the dragon vomiting in my make-shift kaleidoscope.
The apple tree in the corner of the living room ruins the symmetry
of the space and I have to chug another glass of wine
to make up for the peach tree I couldn't dream
about and another wrong note sung by the basses.
The song's in too low of a key, which is the basis
behind the evil chinchilla's plan to mass-produce butterfly
farms as part of a larger goal to pillage the dreams
of dreamers. Luckily, we all have a handy-dandy kaleidoscope
and a bag (or two) of bitter-tasting wine
stolen from their boxes -- too much symmetry.
My brother put a block on local news; the symmetry
of our county's border was too much for me to bear. He bases
his action (when mother asks) on the wine
he didn't drink, so I throw the broken butterfly
out the window where it lands on my nephew's spinning kaleidoscope.
He doesn't know it yet, but that drum he's banging will envelop his dreams.
A hike to the top of the cliff (a leap) re-energizes my dreams
and I still can't relate to the maple leaves and their symmetry,
but at least I can look through a lampshade at the kaleidoscope
of trees dancing below me. There are seven thousand bases
yet to run and they still haven't caught the butterfly,
so a boy yells, "Drink!" and I take another sip of wine.
The dragon and chinchilla are tipsy from the wine
at this point and discuss the difference between dreams
and electricity while my mother sautés the butterfly
in ice cream and abstract ideas. The symmetry
of my right ankle is still a bother, so I tell the basses
to sing a quarter tone flat while I collide a scope.
Off goes dragon-with-butterfly (once again) and I finish the wine.
I make my nephew a chinchilla-skin kaleidoscope and rinse the rocks stained with dreams.
My mother comments on the apple tree's symmetry while the trees below keep running bases.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
It was not, by any means, a loss of faith;
Indeed, her devotion was a boundless, unfettered thing
Beyond proscription, beyond rote chant and catechism,
And what she found as a novitiate
Were shuttered gates and gossipy confessionals,
Standoffish priests, pig-eyed and pinch-lipped
Sisters who thought life’s commerce
No more than mechanical prayer and spotless linens,
The whole enterprise
Smacking of the exclusion of Heaven’s bounty.
So she demurred when the time came to take her orders,
And she returned to the world of pavements and lesser pieties,
Free to seek God on park swings and barstools,
In pleasures of the pastoral and the profane,
Though her faith is no Dionysian walkabout,
As she is passionate to the cusp of maniacal
When it comes to the Book of James’ admonition upon works;
She is often found among the sisters she once tiptoed alongside
At food pantries and clothing drives
(She is scrupulous about ministering to only secular needs,
As the Bishop is not happily disposed towards those
Who choose not to take the veil,
And the specter of excommunication is a prospect
Too awful to contemplate)
Afterwards clambering onto some vaguely roadworthy MTA bus
Back to her studio apartment in Green Island,
Where she often walks down to the Erie Canal lock nearby,
Praying for those who have travelled near and upon the water,
Convenience store clerks and ragged Irishmen fleeing famine,
Feral kittens and insufficiently mourned mules.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
recurrent moonlit distractions
captured by words
tied down into morsels;
separated and concealed,
contiguous yet sheer greetings
of each other’s skin
had left wanton burns
and gushing streams
of a brooding lover’s propensity
for unsusceptible matters of the heart.
there, he stood,
on the precipice of tomorrows;
ruminating and scrupulous,
forlorn yet never dithering
over mundane and quintessential quandaries
of the tepid gloss of incertitude
dangling off syllables
dictated by sordid agony.
there, he stood,
in the midst of everything;
from the otiose adoration
poured out of empty caskets
to the lenitive shades of his eyes.
with the ripples of moonlight,
the gestalt of doleful flower-like hearts,
there, she stood,
and waited.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
443
I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl—
Life’s little duties do—precisely—
As the very least
Were infinite—to me—
I put new Blossoms in the Glass—
And throw the old—away—
I push a petal from my gown
That anchored there—I weigh
The time ’twill be till six o’clock
I have so much to do—
And yet—Existence—some way back—
Stopped—struck—my tickling—through—
We cannot put Ourself away
As a completed Man
Or Woman—When the Errand’s done
We came to Flesh—upon—
There may be—Miles on Miles of Nought—
Of Action—sicker far—
To simulate—is stinging work—
To cover what we are
From Science—and from Surgery—
Too Telescopic Eyes
To bear on us unshaded—
For their—sake—not for Ours—
’Twould start them—
We—could tremble—
But since we got a Bomb—
And held it in our *****
Nay—Hold it—it is calm—
Therefore—we do life’s labor—
Though life’s Reward—be done—
With scrupulous exactness—
To hold our Senses—on—
3k
Un-Scrupulous Malaise, must you too bleed
Then savour the Sauce which makes your Thoughts sink?
I could bill you for Libel; Or if need
To saddle the Horse called Radar-Stone-Pink
Her Name makes no sense; And purposely so
More than the Watch to her Father she gave
My Thought's own Mystery comes with a blow
That such single comfort would make me brave
Give to Mind Mind's Self; If it does exist
As one Mahatma told me through and through
Placate this Red Farm; Be strong to resist
Your stubborn Barn from which the Wind it blew.
Life would be feathery if you just dance
To this Musical but Simple Romance.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
804
No Notice gave She, but a Change—
No Message, but a Sigh—
For Whom, the Time did not suffice
That She should specify.
She was not warm, though Summer shone
Nor scrupulous of cold
Though Rime by Rime, the steady Frost
Upon Her ***** piled—
Of shrinking ways—she did not fright
Though all the Village looked—
But held Her gravity aloft—
And met the gaze—direct—
And when adjusted like a Seed
In careful fitted Ground
Unto the Everlasting Spring
And hindered but a Mound
Her Warm return, if so she chose—
And We—imploring drew—
Removed our invitation by
As Some She never knew—
2.2k
*You say you're moving forward?*
But how can that be
When clinging to the past
How can the future be seen?
You frown and glare
And yes, it's your choice
You rant and rave
Well, at least you've found your voice
Convinced you are entitled
You sit and fume
Wearing your lovely crown of righteousness
In your cold damp tomb
With new fervor, you seek those
Who'll never change their minds
The dependable, the scrupulous and virtuous
Those who never cross the line
Well I'm sorry to say...
They simply don't exist
Except for those found on
Imagination's list
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
You’ll find them in all such establishments,
(Be they graceful small-town former Victorian homes,
Or cinderblock edifices mindful of some campus multi-faith center)
Sitting in the basement, cheek-to-jowl
With moldering burial records and banking statements,
Yellowed newspaper clippings, faded prayer cards
Small squared-off boxes hastily tabbed together,
Ostensibly temporary containers which have acquired
An unintended and wholly unwelcome permanence.
The whys and wherefores of their subterranean placement
A mixed bag of foible and outright foolishness:
Unresolvable squabbles concerning possession and burial,
Families that skipped out on the bill, leaving mom behind,
Cases of outright not giving a good-goddamn.
And so they remain, in lieu of repatriation and redemption,
To sit for something akin to perpetuity in some cases
(Members of the profession resolute in their respect
For the dignity of life,
Though their sincerity enjoys less unanimity)
While others wait for mass burial
Once legal niceties have been satisfied,
While still others, in care of firms not so scrupulous
About crossing their t’s and dotting their i’s,
Are flung, albeit somewhat surreptitiously, out the back door,
The remains to take flight if the grass is dry and the wind is brisk,
Otherwise to be left to the vagaries
Of curious birds and creped soles.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
Her demise shook the world
And left an uprising in its wake.
She was human but the world
Obnoxiously called her a Dalit. Her
Skin was marred with scars of
The most gruesome kind but
Little do you know, they were
Her battle scars that she took
To the grave. Her body, a
Holy shrine was entered without
An invitation but you are not
Aware that her soul is purer
Than yours will ever be.
Her cache of memories will
Be drenched with flashes of
Hungry stares and lustful eyes
But also warm hugs and gentle
Smiles from her parents.
Something that the
Scrupulous media does not want
To reflect upon. She can’t be
A secret anymore; her caste
Cannot be a hindrance anymore.
She needs a powerful voice
And we must give her one.
As i recount this tale,
I am suddenly this girl. I
Consume her desires. I
Am her soul and spirit. And,
My fingers close in on against
Each other and I take labouring
Breaths. My throat feels like
Huge amounts of sandpaper were
Shoved into it. My eyes are watery
And blood shot and all you do is
Stare. My clothes are shredded
And little rags are my only trustful
Companions on my otherwise
Naked body. A string of wounds
Cover my arms and legs and you
Whisper about how sordid a
Scene this is. You mutter about
Me being a victim but the truth is
I am a warrior who survived an
Intrusion that was not supposed
To happen and yet, you back off
From a growing crowd and wonder
What you’ll have for dinner tonight,
Leaving me there on the ground,
Writhing in more than pain and suffering.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
Laying as a foetus
Insensate
Transform with rigor
Punctuate in loss
Ballad of fate
As a marionette
Automata
Permuting ones ego
Rote in distraction
Panacea we chase
Venerable
Peculiar transition
Scrupulous mind
Chromatically alive
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Strength, oft forsook this Un-Scrupulous Tongue
A Tape-Measure's past of Time's Friend prevent
I tweeted my News. When his Will was rung
To accept this Swallowed Gift I present
I never expected such Addled Theme
Where the Culprit layed his Murderous Mourn
With White Intent, a Blonde's Purpose took scene
Then scorched my Patience of trying to learn
Because of this all Tee's Hells grew devout
And cashed my Young Ally to cost-betray
Since for my Horn I expected your Bout
But strung to your Brother's Reflex that day.
Twelve-by-Six Dues. That is what I should owe
A Knot by nature. In Mind's Eye I know.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
MORAL COMPASS
When does it's presence take the stage, what is the beginning to set the gauge
Where does the needle find it's direction,will magnetism or a magnet bring the unseen guidance
Finding the way or a guiding light, day after day to make our plight,writing a book page by page
More than a map or general guide ,when called upon from within it will enlighten
is it irony of the needle pointing north & so many looking up ,is there a gain in it's weight as we age
Trusting children showing elders what they may have lost,we're caught looking down for our days to brighten
Playing a game of comparisons, but some may find nothing or no one to relate
Simply an instrument a device to measure, whether to take the high or low ground
it may take the shock of reality to truly frighten
Is there haste when we make chaste or is it taken from lessons learned as we debate
Trust sounds easy but a rare find given & received by the scrupulous and over time it will heighten
Many may never notice which direction their own needle points or how it will all equate
So we spin the dial hope it comes back to true north as we go forth ,our best hope we will hold it all in it's circumference. R.C.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 6:12 AM UTC
There she was, her eyes bright and shining buried in her rosy complexion of which was indecently shown through the discharge of the temperate winds longing like lost military men to taste a woman's sweet words once again. She held in her delicate fingers, thin and unsteady, a chain of sweet nothings that trailed after her scrupulous footstep as if solely existing for the chance to be in her superlative presence. Gladiolus, Poppies, Aster, Delphinium, Orchid, Peony all linked together in a perfect array of scent and color reflecting the consummate image of the girl that led them. The world accompanied her to a cliff looking down on a cold river, the scene smothered with the orange glow of sunset and the sky clear of all but the unwavering flap and call of the birds who claimed it as their own immovable kingdom. She walked to the edge of the land and twisted around, her heels grazing the edge of everything and nothing; life and death; to fall and to walk. Slowly she tipped and her gaze caught mine. I cried out in my head Ophelia, but nothing came to my lips, cold and thin. As she hit the icy drink she smiled, her flowers cast above her about to disappear forever along with all other sweetness worth living for in Denmark.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
Strap on your chucks,
Go work on a swagger,
Build your castles big,
The skies have never looked better,
Aren't you infectious?
It ***** 'cause it matters
Have you affections?
You ****** where it matters..
And i twist..and i turn...
when you're all soundly asleep...
And i twist..and i turn...
For i have...
Been waiting for a letdown the size of my hope,
Been aching for that perfect antidote,
Been shutting up my thoughts 'cause i gotta stop....
Writing you a song.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 5:53 AM UTC
OUT of the testimony of such reluctant lips, out of the oaths and mouths of such scrupulous liars, out of perjurers whose hands swore by God to the white sun before all men,
Out of a rag saturated with smears and smuts gathered from the footbaths of kings and the **** cloths of ****** from the scabs of Babylon and Jerusalem to the scabs of London and New York,
From such a rag that has wiped the secret sores of kings and overlords across the milleniums of human marches and babblings,
From such a rag perhaps I shall wring one reluctant desperate drop of blood, one honest-to-God spot of red speaking a mother-heart.December, 1918.Christiania, Norway
1.3k
My imagination
is the all-encompassing *****
Composed of touchable red curves,
she speaks
in dark, melted tones that drip
& cool to harden at their destination.
She’s the sort of insatiable pursuit
most boys are taught to desire.
She’s the well-spoken lady
most gentlemen deserve.
She transfigures into
the most verboten temptations
& acts as the pair of arms
that will suddenly slam you up against a wall.
She eases into you with her starved gaze
& examines your every possible inch.
She leaves you with nothing to hide.
Scrupulous? Undeniably so.
She touches whatever she wishes
with gloveless fingertips
& ***** your mouth dry
of all bitter objection.
She leaves you speechless--
but smiling.
My imagination?
She is a bombshell,
& I think I like her better than me.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
The world holds it’s terrible coves.
I am set obliged around them.
Surmising the wrong I propose.
Entity’s so immoral, clout’s.
Scrupulous self closed.
Weakened and stricken keen doubts.
Bedevil prodding youth-less one.
Profusion glut under autumn’s frore sun.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 3:09 PM UTC
In a dream I never sought
unprecedented horrors and thoughts
a scissors with a hint of blood
heavy and surreal sound
the demon within speaks
I exfoliate to my core
The mask of sanity is no more intact
Disturbed and desolate in an unknown labyrinth
Of love, of law and of thoughts
Death is abutting your life
an escape to an aberrant sanctuary
scrupulous circles of luminance lead you further
The past is farce and forgotten
The senile you and your transgressions end
Your dalliance with humanity culminates
Loathe and love exist no more
Reverie is not what I need
restore the thought indeed
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 4:54 AM UTC
Concerning man and what he makes,
other than scrupulous laws, is that time is of most importance. And as any morally ethical man will tell you, or not tell you, is that time is money.
Now because time nor money grows from trees, it is essential to value them
as entities of the Earth. Valued like trees and plants. Well, some plants. Usually not plants referred to as "tree."
Man made are the laws that produce
a moral oral. Remember, Lady Justice is blindfolded, not gagged.
Time does not exist.
Money is not real.
Only was real when measured in gold, but note the age of the dollar,
and see the change.
Hands on a clock were assembled with hands and a smock. Built in a factory that produces black clouds to join the natural white. When the white clouds drain, the different smells of ground enter the air, and sometimes you get mud, and sometimes that peculiar smell of blacktop on a warm summer's day enters the nostrils.
Whether man is suppose to steal the fruit of this land, or become nutrient for the fruit of this land will never be agreed upon, because of ego over Eco, but I'd like to think that that is a constant and everlasting reminder that this is a cohabitation. Maybe what is natural and taken from this Earth will always be plentiful. But maybe we will pile too much on our plate.
Contain too much in jars.
We can write.
Educate and enlighten.
Hope that ego
never destroys Eco.
Concerning man and
what he makes.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
Scrupulous Empowerment
Endowed upon our Government
A System that us Citizens
Employ without much Dissonance
Listening without Learning
Driving but not Driven
Waiting to be Waistless
Adoring the Adornments
And being nothing more than that.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
Have you ever missed someone so greatly,
till your heart grieves dolefully from dawn to dusk and dawn,
your soul achingly starves of rendezvous,
yet you let the innocent remain as is.
Only, surreptitiously hoping,
that you two would run into one another unpredictably,
as if mother nature coincidentally let you two converge,
or as the God unexpectedly grants your bedtime prayers.
Because, you barely can stand
having your very own deceptive, polished outer shell
cracked down.
You hardly let the scrupulous persona
envisage your constant cravings
for his perfunctory good mornings, eloquent wordings, and dainty giggles.
And, by no least,
you’re afraid he will sneak into your ice-masked, truthfully fragile personality,
only to discover your non-seraphic quintessence.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
When time ceases and your world falls apart,
When trepidation clouds your imminent future,
For when everything you ever held onto is lost,
and your thoughts shamble past your once glimmering eyes;
For when you stop moving your dexterous arms and just lay,
You feel pain surging through your veins,
Detriment taking over exuberance
fighting your self doubting mind off of deranged thoughts;
For once you feel the need to close your eyes
and fight off the impassiveness that blocks your sight,
For once you just wish this wound would heal,
For your toiled life to just ease into calmness,
To be ridden off the weight piled on your fragile shoulders;
Your mind seives through various ways
To feel the ubiquitous presence of ethereal light,
To curl up in it's peacefulness and inevitably give into it;
Tranquility takes the place of hurt
like an addictive shot of cannabis dissolving into your system;
You feel the penetrating urge to hold on to it
To reach out to your sliver of hope with your scrawny fingers
and grasp it tight,
Your hope of a world inoculated against the social stigma,
Rid of narcissus and his obnoxiousness;
Where for once in your troubled life you would not have to hide;
You feel your numb fingers closing over something sharp,
Possessed by an unquenchable thirst for freedom,
Wanting to insinuate yourself with the ethereal glimpse of hope;
Your breath lies between the blade of wishful virtuality and reality;
Reality, a now tormented word,
a word defining a world arisen out of
A never satisfying greed for power and erudition;
You fathom your cognisant mind to construe the moment,
To feel a sharp paroxysm of pain, a flush of wrong;
An ardor to redefine reality,
To concoct the mundane world scrupulous,
To write the wrong;
The heart now pumps blood of valiance,
Belligerence to cause insurrection,
A piquant taste to live builds up,
To fight for righteousness and to die of victory,
For it is in our nature to fight;
The blade falls into the pit of cowardice,
And reality has been chosen;
Chivalry triumphs over death
and the **** that time is begins to run rampant;
The crusade soaring in your mind now vanquished,
Your fragmented scorched life now meaningful;
For you have been reborn,
a master of time and chaste;
Reborn into a warrior,
one who has fought off the wards of death;
Whose prudence his armour,
Benevolence his weapon,
Candour his speech,
Dauntless his demeanour and
Intrepid his blood.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
Being beloved must be pleasant
Depended upon yet carefree
What it must be like to deliver
Subtle nods, vague affirmations
Lacking regard of another’s interest
Seeing into you, from a skewed angle
Hoping to get recognition
While ostensibly unaware
Of the microbial ambivalence
Pervading the room from your eyes
Each morsel shared ‘twixt each
Whether intimate or scrupulous
Swept away with a shrug and a call
From a waiter and an ex
Like an invitation to despair
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 7:23 PM UTC
Efface the corridors of my mind, they no longer matter to my hands. My hands aren't in the reflection of my eyes, anymore. The ripplets of amalgamated rigmarole has left me disconnected from my own solace. (The truth of the matter is, I detest you all)
Such a fiery passion filled with such repugnant result that only ensues regicide. Don't you see? You aren't the same as when I opened the door to Eden. Pusillanimous flowers froze under your cold dexterity and callous maneuvers as I tried, as an denizen of the air; in giving you fire. My animosity-indulged blood feel upon everything still. (Poor benevolent garden became the stage for fire and brimstone! Burn it all)
The severance between rhetorician and denizen is the best that I can do to impart my desperation. God, what must I do to show the waters and the earths of my pain? Yet, I'm overlooked. (Yes, you are overlooked. Taken for granted). The black hiding under my nails is but testimony of how blood can transmutate to dirt. (You're too nice and stupid. I detest them all) Am I to believe that time along with my memories are my enemy? Then what of my sins and their justifications? What the hell must I do?! (Envy, Envy, Envy!) Why must I insist in speaking when those who must listen choose to turn their heads and ear like imbeciles to the slaughter? (Let them ******* die! why open your mouth, you idiot?) Scrupulous actions reflect my misery that can only explained through the pen.
(Why must you waste your time? You were born alone, so die alone. Let the sky scream your name as the earth swallows your very existance and time effaces you from the memories of the inhabitants of the world. May all take a drink of the child's corrosive life and watch them atrophy and burn into nothingness)
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 1:10 AM UTC
Every time it happens she can feel it breaking off,
branching out and reforming.
Every time she utters a word,
she is walking down a new path constructed a millisecond before she steps.
She is choosing her realities with no particular discrimination.
It isn't that she wafts through the wind without care,
it is that she calculatedly assembles her existence but fails at being an active member in it's design.
She could be,
though in doing so she would doom herself to a path of bland ever-constant introspection and would have to forgo living life altogether.
A billion or so versions of her move in unison so perfectly that even the most scrupulous judge would not find fault in her chorus lines.
However there is always something amiss,
even if it be nothing more than a hair they are all separate and un-touching.
Which of these 'perfect' copies is the 'real' one is an utter mystery.
I think it is safe to say that they are all the 'real' ones,
what is important here is the particular one.
There are trillions of paths that hold her,
but not quite the her that we are speaking of now;
not the her that moves her pencil to the left in such a way as to create a stray mark on the paper;
not the her that wrote this.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 2:50 PM UTC