"shorting" poems
The tiny, black transistor, three wires,
One two three, ramrod straight get bent,
Quarter-inch strain, needle-nose pliers and it's broken.
Instructions: look, ask what "install"
Means: to bend the leads, push in, solder
Tightly and well, no crossing, to the board.
Lumps all over the green circuit board,
Yellow blue black etc., flip-side wires
Cut short, little silver domes of solder
With the leads set up just right, bent
Just right to stay in when you flip it over to install
Them so they don't fall out, but lost is better than broken.
The one transistor, Q1, J310, broken,
Lying against the also-black of the countertop, board
Loudly near, demanding, "Just install
It already, ****** Just the two of three wires
On the Q1, last one lying lonely bent
Crying out, hollering, screaming for solder.
Look at the one straight piece of solder,
Two leads protruding from one hole, broken
Off by careless, melting hands, left stranded on the board,
Cut off from the spool, low melting point, easily bent.
It looks just like "one of the boys," the real wires.
Copper wires conduct well, very ductile and easy to install.
When you are attempting this, to install
Everything in its place (and there is one), beware excess solder;
Too much crosses from hole to hole, uniting two wires,
Shorting it out and leaving you drifting with a broken,
Useless green hunk of circuitry and electronics (a board,
A dead board), which is just as useless as your leads which are too bent.
Some of these **** parts come pre-bent
(Why not each?), real easy to slide in and install,
Just bend slightly after sliding into the board,
Slightly enough to hold for the solder
Which is to come, assuming it's not broken
Yet, and that yours are still whole wires.
On the back, at the end, identical dots of solder
Run the length of the board. If it's not broken,
Run a current through; see if you get a shock by the wires.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 10:54 AM UTC
your "friends" that we meet,
i forget their names,
my calloused palms are greased,
by their squeezing hands
i remember one's a banker,
or he could have said a thief,
his ******** words were flanked,
by my misbelief
i was held hostage,
you were a smiling drone,
i remember when i lost
to Stockholm Syndrome
their Heirloom Suffix changes,
on tuxedos and trust funds,
my rental wears just fine,
i'm not the danger
shorting stocks on tuesday,
while playing ball in hand,
what a shame to lose me,
busted seams this man
I am not a banker,
I am not a saint,
I cannot to be trusted,
I won't place the blame.
I am not a proxy,
I am an astronaut,
But this distant world you live on,
Is far from my plot
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
or “I think I’ll buy a cigar today”
I’ll smoke it tonight
nothing too expensive
but a reason to walk down a winter street
without going anywhere
A reason to do something devious
unhealthy, but nobody has to know
A reward to get me through a murky future
There may be nothing to do in town tonight
but it’s far too early to hold up
in that bomb shell paranoia
My parents have gone mad
by the cameras behind their eyes
and the dizziness of general telescopic evolution
Me, I was raised on seizure fleeting Pikachus
So far our defense is strong
We really feel the Earth spin
at its many miles an hour
“The Cold Solitary Cigar Walk Happened”
I waited for a friend to get home one evening
Bundled up, emitting smoke
to offend the quiet shut-ins of a neighborhood watch
I walked to the small old bridge over the canal
I had to **** so bad
I snuck down under the bridge and let loose in the snow
but not before shorting that foul little cigar
Bad taste in my mouth
the 5 minute journey was enough
Zipped up, bored on the bridge
my lonliness afforded me
the comfort of no public eye
I looked into the dark water
and spat a good ***
into the small reflection of a red safety light
The ripple and “splat” satisfied me
so much that I spat again
I turned around to walk
and some passerby girl appeared
She kept walking and pretended she didn't see me
Weren't you once my girlfriend?
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
I seek a white countess,
To bend me to my bow,
I'll show him I'm his mistress,
Hell beg and hear me moan!
Well scream a thousand voices,
Well dock a shorting pout,
To hold his hand,
Where are treasure spands!
A king I need Caucasian indeed,
Surely without a doubt!!!!
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
My skin is eight different kinds of dry
my fingers shorting like circuits
my mind ventured near permafried
but boosts of serotonin were worth it
My hands didn't get enough
of the good time beneath those layers
They were timid and shaky, too coy
for your self-assured bares
I can't paint the picture of you and I
the canvas is blank until colors collide
wide strokes of red to signify the
passion bleeding from my insides
I'm on the edge of my seat
precariously perched
anxiously gripping the edge
of your tousled and wrinkled shirt
I've waited for you to catch on
but oblivion runs deep, my dear
I'll speak my mind, loud and clear
It is you I want; I want you here
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
Delivering the magic
at the tip of the Moon.
The silken blue half-light
beaming in full!
Ah, let there be a gap
between the one peeled halve
and the unleashing other half.
The vanished sun will bridge it
far from the unseen pyramydon
shining upon a crescent moon!
It doesn’t have to be in a mo
leave some rooms.
Let it flow to chockablock
over the running brook.
Heading to the up and down ocean
Let the rivers flow in all diversions.
By the way, shorting it to half would do
my half full glass is half full.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 9:59 AM UTC
he leans in towards you
you wonder
is the chair creaking
or is he?
he peers into your mind
you wonder
is he looking for his
or has he forgotten to?
“Ah. She got to you, too.”
he leans back
something creaks.
you
pausing
let him explain
“The woman”
she laid him down
brought a slender brush to his eye
and painted his pupils
blacker than forgetting
“She got me, too.
Look,”
lean
creak
peer
it has been years since he has seen the eye doctor
you thought he was over that story
but you lean into his confusion
again.
you swear
you can see
between the cataracts
through the glaze
the neurons shorting out
one by one
little stars dying
swallowed by the black dots of paint.
a fist rises in your throat
scrabbling to choke the painter
to blot her eyes
black as catharsis
but instead
it chokes you
he nods
affirmed
you sit
stifled
both scatterbrained.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 5:25 AM UTC
***Picture perfect
All is love***
*The images grew
In our shorting views*
***Picture perfect
As we all do
In spiritual prowess
I Am Charged
All between
Manifesting large
Every bit of
Who we are***
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
You see smoke, you see fire;
You think it was a shorting wire.
In this time of rush you run for everything to stop the blaze;
Before all of the town will see your smokey haze.
Finally a fire crew arrives and your rush turns to hope;
Even it is a total loss that you have to cope.
So here is a message where your day turns into an emergency that is not much fun;
PLEASE DIAL 911!!!
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
A bridge broken from one side to another.
A telephone wire cut.
Something's wrong inside my head.
The thing is, I don't know just what.
Chirping alarms
Whirring fans
Smoky smells
Red. Blinking. Lights.
A robot whose been programmed wrong,
An exposed sparking wire.
The buttons don't click all the way.
Hazardous, watch for fire.
Danger
Danger
Danger
Do not approach
This automatic switch is supposed to make me excited
This one makes a genuine smile.
Nobody notices, though, that I'm on manual control
And have been for a while.
Overheating
Overworking
Overdoing
Over
Electricity and buttons and wires
Do not mix well with water, I think.
But because I'm in desperate need of repair
I'm in constant thirst for a drink.
"Should have bought that extended warranty."
"Did you turn it off and on again?"
No.
No. Because it's broken.
Hard drive shorting
Lights are blinking
And I'm thinking
My last thoughts exporting
Crackling
Clicking
Clattering
Clanking
Clunking
The only thing that works well anymore
Is the part that goes through the motions.
Perseverance is my constant notion
As I burn myself out on the shore.
It's hot to the touch.
Back off.
Soon, it might Explode
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 9:14 PM UTC
When all is said and done you'll be nothing more than a shorting star-
Your memory will be faint with the recognition that I once knew you-
Your light will have faded and you'll be one with the darkness that fills you-
When all is said and done you may be able to call me names and fill my soul with sadness but you'll never break my spirit-
I am one with the distant sunsets and the way the clouds look different in another state-
I am one with the way your eyes open wide with fear of love as you say my name-
You are the downfall to my kingdom to come and you were my cottage past-
You are the negative energy keeping me halted along the path to happiness-
But when all is said and done you'll be nothing more than a shooting star-
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
It calls to you across the parking lot, past the shorting-out street lamps and the trees.
You ask your friend if he hears screaming. He does not.
You need to make a choice. Fall together or break apart?
You know exactly what will happen if you stay put- nothing at all,just the same few weeks of work and dishes and sleepless nights and not being able to even tell if your eyes are closed because you know exactly what will happen next.
You know and do not know what will happen if you follow it.
It beckons.
You both do not care at all and care immensely about your current life.
You both care and do not care about the consequences.
You are a creature of many parts, and you need to make a choice sometime soon.
They’ll be waiting.
Oct 28, 2020
Oct 28, 2020 at 11:07 AM UTC
Is the perfect partner an illusion?
Similar to the Easter Bunny.
People talk about him.
Make eggs and decorate in preparation.
But he is not real.
He also, has nothing to do with the actual holiday he represents.
We are told over and over in life to find a partner.
To seek, to prep, to create pretty little things.
But that’s not what it’s about.
Just like the bunny has a much more shallow story than the resurrection of Christ for the Christian faith.
We are shorting ourselves in life hopping after a perfect partner when the true meaning and happiness of this world is derived from something much deeper.
Something bunnies and pastels will not and cannot fill.
Apr 25, 2022
Apr 25, 2022 at 12:45 AM UTC
A telephone wire cut.
Something's wrong inside my head.
The thing is, I don't know just what.
Chirping alarms
Whirring fans
Smoky smells
Red. Blinking. Lights.
A robot whose been programmed wrong,
An exposed sparking wire.
The buttons don't click all the way.
Hazardous, watch for fire.
Danger
Danger
Danger
Do not approach
This automatic switch is supposed to make me excited
This one makes a genuine smile.
Nobody notices, though, that I'm on manual control
And have been for a while.
Overheating
Overworking
Overdoing
Over
Electricity and buttons and wires
Do not mix well with water, I think.
But because I'm in desperate need of repair
I'm in constant thirst for a drink.
"Should have bought that extended warranty."
"Did you turn it off and on again?"
No.
No. Because it's broken.
Hard drive shorting
Lights are blinking
And I'm thinking
My last thoughts exporting
Crackling
Clicking
Clattering
Clanking
Clunking
The only thing that works well anymore
Is the part that goes through the motions.
Perseverance is my constant notion
As I burn myself out on the shore.
It's hot to the touch.
Back off.
Soon, it might Explode
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 8:05 PM UTC
Shell-shocked, broken ***
Cannot fix with gold
Silver linings turn to ash
Burned by lightning's scold
Murdered martyr lily
Crimson drops on blotter
Scared to death by amaryllis
Shriveled in the water
Shorting copper circuits
Shocked by every thought
Hardware fears destroy my gears
My precious metal rots
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 7:49 PM UTC
Often I have sat after a tiff or little spat
and self-consciously,
quite selfishly shared my
wounds with no one.
To arise with no tears in my eyes,
but another scorch mark on an
already burnt heart is a
result of a sort.
To be caught in the open with
no shelter
to be sought out as you go into
another helter-skelter is
not the best way to
see through the day.
If I sit a bit I fit into
the overallness of the long view
and that'll do nicely
Mr American Express.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
Darkness swallows him, becoming a lunatic
Empathy fading, left him feeling apathetic
Say what goes round comes round hes a skeptic
Psycosis makes him hear voices, a schizophrenic
Alcohol abuse, claims that it's genetic
Indecisve, no wonder he's always hysteric
Realizes he's doomed, will he ever feel esoteric?
Constantly predetermined to be one who'll lose
Outgoing you say? its a facade, its a ruse
Noose on hand, he just needs an excuse
Satanic he is labeled, because of his tattoos
Understand he can't take all of the abuse
Mostly docile, but close to shorting a fuse
Everytime issues arise, he's the one accused
Souls crumble under feelings so profuse
Listens and there for all, but no-one to confide
Over and over, thoughts of suicide
Step in his shoes, bet you'll be petrified
Tell me that now you can see he's dissatisfied
Still can't escape all the hate & antagonisim
Ostracized from a society thriving on narcissism
Unable to believe the world's constant cynicism
Living reclusive, it's his defense mechanism
Save the pity he came to terms with the cataclysm
-Ajm
Sep 6, 2019
Sep 6, 2019 at 6:53 PM UTC
The rich are committing suicide
and taking us along with them
the prosthetic limbed ********
Fort Darwin tottering on fewer stilts
once the Masters of the Universe
presently picking through garbage
looking for an Icarus to pilot
some way back among the clouds
their telepathic goon squads
armed with the hard on of God
squat in the darkness of doorways
lightning strikes all around them
even their telephone poles were clairvoyant
several thousand watts went up my leg
shorting out the only attention span I own
left me perforated but far from lacy
wearing all my masks all the time
fragments of self are selves
in a bulemic deconstruction
where form and content
mud wrestle incessantly for attention
on the crazy train to 3 color 3 finger hell
apparently the ancient gods still rule
in their madhouse heaven
ambivalent petulant flatulent gods
brandishing sword point conversions
wielding gun point perversions
the protagonists the antagonists
fornicators masturbators liquidators
pariahs and unlicensed poets
preaching hellstone and brimfire
now their carcasses are steppingstones
it's psywar out there kids
better find where they hid your dossier
mesmerized of the world unite
you have nothing to lose
but your failed methods of addressing reality
said his slowly twisting tongue
struggling for ratings like any media
the soul cannot erase it can only go sightless
a phantom trapped in melancholy
when we were built to dance
with the twinkling summer stars
he finally learned to undestroy memory
being an ascended master of non sequitur
carried aloft by the wings of Mother Goose
his metabolic hurricane of why
an inferno of intrigue and superstition
our embryo-headed UFO ruling class
have me inside their fence of skulls
an investment in diagram futures
the idiots
Jun 25, 2023
Jun 25, 2023 at 1:40 PM UTC
i've been reflecting on the topsy side
of feeling strong and healthy
and the turvy side of feeling
a sickly white morbidity
evoking a phantasmal contoured toilet shaped bed pan
and the scent of syringes
bathing in alcohol
when feeling better
i sleep less
feel more alert
eat lotus and drink bone broth
becoming more active
and ambitious
but with it
more demanding
impatient
raw with anxiety
agitated and vitriolic
like a buzzing electrical box
in a flood
with crisscrossing wires
shorting
and tainting the air
when feeling poorly
i turn in on myself
as if walking on my knees
wanting to avoid interaction
feeling more and more
like a square peg in a round hole
i become docile
my insides a wandering ghost
in ethers of the unimaginable
a hanging mouth
hung on a face
like falling sand
i ask myself is illness
a drug
used to bow out
think about dead people
avoid hurt and stress
to let go
as if floating through
some intestinal filaments
like an undigested spot of cheese
and a fish head
drawing closer to the shadows
feeling the numbing of desire
and all the blah blah blah
so i'm not such an *******
cartwheeling terrors of hot air
with the language of vainglory
just a weight around the neck
of someone i love
Sep 3, 2021
Sep 3, 2021 at 9:07 PM UTC