"spacy" poems
The Empire State Building is a giant middle finger
Concrete is broken, NYPD, taxis racing, red light green light
I enter the hand of the city through it's capillaries breaking mad concrete
Warm gusts of **** grime, and transportation swallow me
The city feeds off dreams and hope which we personally, willingly give up
We all somehow learn to accept this fate
The passerby no longer human but broken mirror
The hand inundates my eyes from breezes of tomorrow
The spacy apartment, and the affluent career and the acquantanceship
Of the handful of New Yorkers that run the hand: all questionable plans today
It's as if the hand's grasp, although sharp and brick, would venerate your intellect, guaranteed
If that's the case, I see wizards of wisdom everyday snoozing on concrete and cardboard and plastic
Bearded, black with dirt and skin, threads ripped by a world inferrior than the one in thier minds
Empire "Middle Finger" State of intellect, scrapping billion dollar clouds
Sardine can subways, escalators, elevators, high on crack **** speed of sound
The cash nerve system meltsdown into golden chips to feed the pigeons
Glass and steel craft spaces for modernity to be sold like a Washington Heights *****
You can feel the growth of the hand at the end of your intestines
It's a warm, uncomfortable vibration revealed in your ********
Foreign tongues buzz through the air, through your hair for 19.95
New York needs a haircut, some profound discipline so we wake up from this bizzare life of welcomed pain
You once charmed me with hopes of culture, open minds, connections, real connections, love and laughter
Yet, Today I am hungry in Murray hill
I am cold in Chelsea
I am broken in Union Square
I ***** in SoHo
I have fallen in the East River
And I bleed on financial monoliths
Someone have mercy on my wills
It is an intention trying to be fulfilled
But failed when it became self-aware
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 11:44 PM UTC
On good nights, I like to send messages to space, outer
or deeper though direction and dimension are lost on me.
I get answers but no translations, no key or stone to this alien
and spacy thought. What? You say you bet you could
rephrase space in a language even I could understand? After all
you passed algebra, walked around school a big shot, finding X
or its equals. I should have paid attention, but mine was fixed
on Linda, Lucinda, Corinna, Corinna where you been so long?
I might have learned the meaning of words from long forgotten
gods, frustrated issuing commandments, ok in their day, but
ignored now, passé. I was absent for those god talks, apocalypse-isms,
missed out on saints with half-moon halos and beatific visions.
I heard only rumors of women, words like smitten, enchanted,
obsessed with love like striated bark on trees, canals on Mars,
rain and that sound that creeps under sod. And so I wait
for an unambiguous, intelligible answer from anyone in space.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 10:22 PM UTC
A quarter to one at 3 in the night
could ideally be fun, not without warning.
Sitting alone in a room full of one
waiting for clues that glue the hour,
Fluidly spacy in the psychedelic lull
of drifting silence just half past none.
One and three quarters align
magically, weeks have just gone by.
Poetry is depressing to some.
Cheer up now, the waning comes.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 5:20 AM UTC
Protesting, I, rise, e-raising my hand,
in ranked row,
three from the front, in the middle,
a glance,
and nothing more, and another,
Aseneth was her name, and she hated it.
She said.
Many were the flirty glances, unrestrained
wonder
what is different,
is this ink, or scar tissue?
Eight billion essentially identical minds, in use,
being tuned to consume elemental mental
as we form from base material, mother stuff.
We think in single words, letters let us do this,
that which formerly prevented, lets us do this now,
do you read me is not valid protocol on a voxnet.
You know. Five by five, is not valid either, listen.
Does your memed mind hear me now, Brown Cow,
Dao a do nothing dues paid note, this is business,
this is what the messenger in charge,
special agent,
secret agencies allowed, in my mind, baby, listening
constantly, no time,
silent,
only imagining Major Tom.
Waking spacy Sunday Morning, unre-tied to the strand
of faith that wound the core hard ball of pure rubber,
vulcanized, for bounce,
CRACK of the bat, where once, no, each once ever,
the feeling
one side, then the other, being mentally cognoscente,
cognoscenti, either way,
we both know, we both take knowing duty as demanded
of the code
we obey. At the command. We pay proper attention,
not too much of any thing,
take your own measure,
remember, certainty is bad mad solid state, bricked.
Mar 5, 2023
Mar 5, 2023 at 1:06 PM UTC
as it was too late, you crushed the milky way
remote from your loved ones, far away...
i took you into my spacy arms, silver-
purple dots were circling us, babe
i came into you and we made love
the silver sound of a white dove
Sep 21, 2020
Sep 21, 2020 at 4:11 PM UTC
You're losing you
Soul's mirrors and mind's
study are the eyes,
and the verdict is clear,
wild animals cave in the
hollows of your mind, herds,
escorting your thoughts
and opening your eyes wide,
front window to a
spacy mind's fantasies,
and easy smiles drawn,
as thorny roses pricking
your fingers, you're hurt.
Call it gathering of the herds,
or.... The others showed up.
Snakes spell words ?
one word one snake ?
one stabbing one wolf ?
feels like jungle, go hunting,
chase the wild with the risky,
personalize the unknown,
then look for the stick.
Seems to feel like
being in other places,
in their places ?
too small a world ?
meeting them everywhere,
always away from a home,
in your home.
You're searching all the time
without looking for something,
you're here and there and
your thoughts everywhere,
pages never turned,
a bit of each on a lot,
starting one and continuing another,
thoughts are powering you,
natural energizers,
consuming yourself.
You're consumed unhappily,
sleeping seated and eating laid,
waiting with the mornings for light.
Enjoy watching the horizon
at the sea shores,
not the sky,
guess how big the world is,
don't wonder what's on
it's other side, reporting
leave of absence.
You always want to see
where your gaze can't reach.
Look at the mirror
and see something.
Where are you ?
you seem to think, it's not worthy it.
But everything ? everybody ?
who's remote, you or the others.
Where those you looked for are ?
you are leaving us,
if you could look at me and see my
concerns, would you stay with us.
It's not an end,
forests will keep making oxygen,
the sun, light and the seas, rain's water.
Live, alive.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC