"simulacra" poems
Youthful ignorance wishes
that life meant something
external
But nothing means anything
to anyone until one gets
involved
Meaning follows experience
inexperience has no place
demanding
Maturity destroys innocence
self-indulgent egocentrism
encourages
Failure to find deeper meaning
is failure to build the bridges
connecting
How convenient to blame life
for meeting the low expectations
we've sown
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
We are children animals
singing
on the island palace
dipping our toes into the Nile River.
Birds incessantly chirp
along with the rhythm of my pen
and the echo of your voice
we share the same simulacra--
The music sways our bodies
like a candelabra--
We are dancing children,
solid ripples.
Smoke breath
under palm trees
the music cradles the shisha
into blissful oblivion
as we donate part of ourselves
to the space AUM.
We sing peach energy
surrounded by history
and vibrant banana yellow
and pink lemonade foliage.
We dance with the wind
between our bodies
pull us closer
until the sunlight disappears.
We are children animals
singing
on the island palace
dipping our toes into the Nile River.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
~
*I'm an exit wound
I'm a numinous obstacle
I'm about to make landfall
I'm about to break free
I'm a nerve ender
A fascinator
A purifier
A world populator
And I'm about to break through
I'm the push and pull
I'm a counter argument
I'm dissonance resistance
I'm viral replication
I'm about to break out
I'm a singularity
I'm a spark
I'm the perfect detonator
To mind and heart
And I'm about to break up
I'm a simulacra
I'm an oscillation
Made of breath only
I'm a living, moving imprint
Of what no longer is
Yet somehow seems to be*
~
Mar 15, 2025
Mar 15, 2025 at 2:02 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
perfect sunny day--
insects sing so loud!
as i surf the web
pond water--
my hair dries as i click,
getting hot again
One summer years ago, at my childhood home, in a nudist colony whose so-called 'co-founding' is my family's only legacy--perhaps right before my grandmother had passed, or when my father's prostate was scheduled to be removed and he thought it best to hire someone for a last-minute memory (despite his sex-negative crutch-christianity, just in case the operation cost him his jive)--i googled, 'prostitute,' while looking for **** and the atrocity i found took all of a second to challenge my complacent illusion that i could remain separate or disconnected from the global oppression of women and girls while i consumed the products (i.e., fantasized about having *** with and/or 'making love' to simulacra-women; masturbated to pictures of them) of an industry whose widespread lack of any substantial commitment to fairness, safety, legal recourse and work-place equality has contributed to a new generational acceptance of the ancient memes that perpetuate bigotry:
dismembered girl
on an open body-bag--
why does this exist??
the insects clacking,
droning in the grass--
summer can't hide death
her hip bones' marrow showing,
young prostitute's corpse--
limbless
her legs gone--
the image chokes me
from speaking
my sisters, too young to tell--
who do i tell?
why should i tell?
i read she'd run from her ****
they put her in the river.
young girl,
her blood still--
i can't feel my heartbeat
young woman,
her torso bare--
unfeeling stumps
young woman,
her legs gone,
skin gray from the river
young woman,
your legs gone--
i choke on words
.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
****** again,
Post-hasted doubting and raving,
Confused why I torture myself so –
Truer words never spoken as lies,
The dull, pumpkin-glow of the broken lamp casting ghosts,
Filling my visions with demons I’d thought excised.
****** again,
Alone in its tendrils again,
I travel –
Travel through ideas shattered and plexiglass melting,
Singing and burning as it covers my senses like a myelin sheath,
Conducting protons-only,
But my brain is slow and the receptors dull,
And the raw input manifests only as trails of spirits.
****** again,
The madness thick as bog sludge,
Stinking of scorched sulfur,
It kicks corroded and dead gears into spin,
Generating false ideas and wild delusions
That I know aren’t real but –
Nothing else here is, either, especially not you,
Disembodied you, listener.
****** again,
But not alone this time no,
Her idea ghosting simulacra,
Taunting me with her shortcomings and spitting like venom
Those thousands of details I’d always hated while
Refusing acknowledgment, but
Like a brick golem she’s got a core,
A conduit of last-year’s hopes, and I flee, panicked –
****** again,
The clouds high above the ruined October grass,
Laughing like spaceships, and returning me to boyhood fancy:
I’ll never be an astronaut.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
If death did not wear black would he be taken so seriously?
If one literally wore one's heart on one's sleeve what would be the medical implications and would your friends still take you seriously?
If it is true that 'the beat goes on', is it any wonder that 'the rhythm is gonna get ya'?
When Dana sang 'All kinds of everything remind me of you', did she include rubella and death metal in this?
If a tree falls in a forest and there is no one to hear it fall does it make a sound? If a man plays cello in a forest do the trees mark him out of ten?
If the simulacra is real then surely all one needs to do is to pay more attention? If one pays more attention, how much should one tip?
Descartes stated "I think therefore I am". What on earth was he thinking?
Mans awareness of his mortality created the need for a divine being in order to facilitate the concept that there is life after death. No one can say definitively if there is life after death. Does this paradox create a dizzying confusion? Is this confusion a lot like spending too much money in a carnival?
Britain's Got Talent: in a population of approximately 60 million, one would certainly hope so.
Is the concept of the omnipotence of god applicable if priests are unavailable for confession?
Is this a question?
Is the presence of a question mark the only thing required to ensure that something is a question? Seven cherubs aluminium? Is that a question!
The concept of 'keeping ones feet on the ground', by which we mean to not get carried away with success, for example, can never be difficult if one accepts the laws of gravity.
What sounds lie in the spaces between keys on a piano?
Any identifiable stimuli?
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 6:01 AM UTC
Desperate to grab the grail of words
we decide to share our joint thoughts
to introspect our vision together
of what it takes to write two at this hour
Pen and paper, one
writes witness into the mind of the other
and meets the timid point of punctuation, followed by
the exasperation of words
it only follows
rules do not apply
nor does a simulacra of similes
the enjambment is our language
that we create we can
misplace
is it our native tongue so much so that
poetry never needs to be learned?
The friendship of thought to process
Relays poet to poem
to poet
And poem again
It's with you now
I walk
Our eyes along the same path to troth
It's truth is spoken
Between lines, it's in the heart
Our paths, alone, come together
Its friendship Is art
Dialogical process fill in
the blanks at 1:01 4:01
p.m, hey aim
For the sweet link we proudly
discovered and shared in eyes and ink
Both black.
It's lack of light
Where the sun of the one seeks the night of the other
It's days and nights; mark hours... asunder under calendar
And daydream of once and again seeing the same sun face the marvel of the other
We are time traveling, air traveling through words
book a seat at the airline company of poetry
What the other sees in the sun sky above her
the other thinks of under his night sky
the thought of one never cancels that of the other
We trod on the same path
Me with Ginsberg, you with Plath.
Written jointly by Appoline Romanens first, third, seventh and ninth paragraph at 1:00-1:27 pm, Lyon, France and by Jesse Altamirano, second, fourth, fifth, sixth and eighth 4:00- 4:30 am, Riverside, California
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 7:40 AM UTC
I'm a hack of all trades.
Fondler of the sacred.
Like a roach,
Who turned into a human.
Metamorphosize that Kaf:
I'l have you spinning in your grave.
While darkness ***** on the sun.
Oh Clouds!
Clouds of blue, Clouds of grey!
Mark the evening sky,
With Buddah's laughter
Nature's secret,
What it has to teach:
There is no universal mind.
It's laughable and cyclical.
No wonder the smile...
Simulacra overload.
My mind is a toad
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
"I see."
"Said the blind man to his deaf wife,
sitting at a round table, trying
to find a corner."
-Frustrating words from my first girlfriend
~
It's funny how as I age the layers of irony get wiped away
while building up again like waves.
Stability I crave seems at odds
with cosmic horror I face.
Weeping with a whole soul
or is it laughter?
In the intensity "I" tend towards confusion.
I mention this to my mother and she knows not
of ambiguous sounds. The fusion of emotion
suffering in our translation.
Do we differ
or are we lost;
Embracing simulacra while our true selves wander alone?
Wondering.
The child peeks past a mask or two and gets spooked.
Out of love I withdraw inside nativity.
I am here with you.
Talking to ourselves.
May 1, 2021
May 1, 2021 at 8:05 PM UTC
Scanner input = new Scanner(real);
input = new Scanner(simulacra);
while(nextLine != "goodbye"){
respond(nextLine);
simulate(new Emotion());
nextLine = input.nextLine();
}
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
There is no such thing as Center
Perception is a box
A television
In which we see how to live our
lives
In which we see others
More Beautiful Others
live our lives
While we sit
and watch
Simulation of stimulation
Simulacra becomes reality
Reality becomes a game show
I’m losing
Center gives depth
and boundaries
and an easier existence to digest
Yes or No
Pepsi or Coke
Living or Existing
A system of binary choices
acts as a deterrence model
which suppresses radical change
The symbols become the real
The reproduction becomes the real
The simulation becomes the real
There is no such thing as Center
There is no such thing as center
There is no such thing as “center”
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
simulacra interstitial reformation propaganda hurricane forced news stories partially undid blouses puritanical snow of virtue come meritocratic beauty pageant marketing scheme ergo logos ergo proxy,
the rain stops after ever so long the natural wonder that once expanded before a scathing innervation now terrifies me that which is most natural feels alien as we are consumed by destructive urges
all is fine the president elect bids you good night if one stands all must stand if one falls all must stand we are them, they are not we they are them, they are not
when time stills the last drop falls the mystics will chant the totem is defamed the public will riot the idols corrupted the public rioting when louder and louder we shout harder they fall there is no brokerage there is no remorse the agenda ruthlessness abets ruthlessness
heresy heresy scream ****** gore cries the alternative apostate as the writhing throng holds aloft born again citizens of the state live love the state grand overarching messianic typification bred of indignation give gluttony give sacrifice and all stab through the iris of all those winking third eyes the wall of fire hundreds of metres tall tsunami crushing all deplorables sent swimming through the city wipe the slate Mr. Clean the state of the filth,
let all who whisper lie furtive in the darkness, for anew in the light they will hang at the gallows marching forth unbowed the eruption leaves fertile soil hail all hail hail or sink in the mire as the housings of the pantheon are built atop the sepulchral delta
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
I do this
I need to
I need this
This line
I walk
I write
I bleed
Pictures
I balance
I challenge
Words
I give life
I breathe
I leave
Trace
I live
In footprints
Mental vestiges
I offer
Images
Images
Images
Images
Simulacra
Beyond
And on
Edge
I don't cross
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
whereas bronze will evoke more of girls on the beach than the perfect luster of a Chinese horse in the museum hallway near the back of the wing.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:44 AM UTC
untenable time cuts
against the oxbow
reading policy to an
era of locusts
mountains without
insides, simulacra optic
encoded social rent
cultish borders, conditions
dubious grain, bleached
establishments buckling
plow is to story
the regressive pixel
atmosphere circling poles
centuries undulating
-
entropy the way, ersatz
a litany for kindling
burn the canvas hour
my morning masterpiece
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 2:20 AM UTC
Sons and
daughters
of my future
walk beside me -
simulacra in a
dreaming sun.
Please, tell me
their names.
Tell me if they
had my coffee
eyes. If they
had your
sweet voice.
Tell me what
you remember -
this reverie
is yours, too -
I fasten my
dreams to you
with the soft
strings of
my marrow.
May 3, 2019
May 3, 2019 at 11:38 AM UTC
Life is breathed into my soul,
Against my godforsaken will.
Life is torture here, I tell you.
Breathe my life into a plant instead.
I want to be boundless, without form
Where no society can enslave me.
The iron claws of this simulacra
Takes me, breaks me, then molds me.
Like clay into a little figurine,
Doing a job that benefits no one
I know. Part of a machine that
Is always hungry.
Our purpose on earth is to fill pockets
Full of man-made coin
In a man-made world
Just so we can buy man-made "stuff";
To forget we're being
Wholly,
Entirely,
Sincerely,
Brainwashed.
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 9:08 AM UTC