"subsonic" poems
Look into my atomic shadow.
In my purple and reds.
Drop in my subsonic dream.
In my orange and greens.
Walk in my sidewalk shoes.
In my midnight blacks.
Look at my shadows.
Drop in my dreams.
Walk in my shoes.
See my darkness.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
Magnetic sounds abound, reboundandresoundinglyastound within the
subsonic harmonic;
a melodic tonic sprung from the atomic phonic fountain of uncertain sonic frolic.
WWWRRROOOSSSH WWWRRROOOSSSH
RRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMHHHHHHH
Eclectic echoes from beyond
A name.... of fame? A Dame? A Dane? A dum, Ba-dump? Once slain? Ordained? Ashamed?
Lifetimes spilling......
.
.
.
.
Memories
.
.
..
....
filling,
nought thought.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
in the last century of her life
she returned
in a ship of wisdom and beauty
her entourage of demon hunters
guarded a swarm of hieroglyphics
from a future she had seen
she brought droning strings
of dreams
bridging the time
of her absence
between the first and the final
civilization
i saw her mute smile
radiating the light
of hidden moons
she had passed
her words in a subsonic stream
of childhood memories and
evaporating residue
of the mindwalker era
when pride and rivalry
had made all of man
awestruck minions
of time and space
i felt her ephemeral
veil of tenderness
reverberating our first
encounter in one of those
labyrinthine dimensions
of her starfaring journeys
where she had left me
wandering the ever expanding
orbit of a lonely star
while she was becoming
the supreme shape shifter
descending down
to the surface of our birth
planet and crossing
the eternal echoes
of our minds
[J]
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 11:37 AM UTC
I’ve been thinking
about death a lot lately—
or, that is, I think the image
my brain’s been showing me.
The vestiges of the visage
of who I used to be haunt me;
and in the crickets of my slumber,
I couldn’t help but wonder
about death a lot lately.
The quarks and the quasars I inherit
from the big bang of long ago—
elements that form Mercury—
collide back and forth, and
these are pangs that wouldn’t go,
and it has been deathly difficult
meandering out of this hole.
I’ve been lost in myself—thinking
about death lately so droll.
The synapses fire and misfire;
the subsonic trappings bellow
in the cave of my deep below.
These black-and-white films
feel rewired [rewritten annals]
of which I existed since long ago.
I resonate now an unholy see
of white-noise hellos; or:
the slow slipping of my psyche
around death a lot lately.
The string of unforced errors
does all but help me be still;
yet still the terror rises each
time I open my eyes to this
farce that I’ve been waking up to.
Since your “I don't care for you,”
I've never felt so unwanted;
as my heart opened and bruised,
my soul aches for yours dotted
along my arms so they feel whole.
I unravel when you’re in my mind;
in those twilight hours of just us,
for those unmeasured hours,
you were irretrievably mine.
And doubt may blur what we feel,
and walls may [and can] fall,
and in those moments so real—
yes, surreal—
and for those days that we were,
I haven’t thought about
death at
all.
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
Corrugated tesseracts
Are enlivened under blood gorged membranes
The barrier to a cool coral maze
Of still shoals, the palest pink
Permanent waves folded
Into a frozen tidal sea
And here is the world of worlds
That makes of us, ourselves
A dimension that can't be trespassed against
Where we are always home
Inside spider woven neurons
That talk only to each other
Or to god
They relay their subsonic messages
In penumbral patterns
Translated into dismembered tongues
And ancient relays of concordance
Telegraphing farthest emotion
Into clairvoyant flesh.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 3:21 PM UTC
Chapter 1
-
two aspirin
a coke and bed pan
puzzled a chronic ********
and an upset stomach
Chapter 2
-
a thirteen year old Jewish boy
gets ****** off
by his mother, sisters
and the ladies in the neighborhood
to celebrate
just bar mitzvahed
Chapter 3
-
her blow jobs are Shangri-La
while sky shadowed eyes flutter
a slumber party ******
shimmers lips of **** confetti
finger ****** good
hoping to marry
eight inch packin
tattoo boy
Chapter 4
-
she married a stingy man
and her hopes of love
turned into a book of
instructions
protocols
and
standard operational procedures
Chapter 5
-
she masturbated
eyes bulging
into a scrapbook of horrors
thinking you're so handsome in a mask
with that rusty blade
her **** burned
like hell
Chapter 6
-
the amputee pouted
your knives
look great in a stained basket
go ahead
take an another arm
and a leg
as she sold off her
last gloves and footwear
Chapter 7
-
a starved crocodile
has his belly pierced
by an annoyed lion
turned
the meaty peach abomination
into cat food
Chapter 8
-
God and Satan
makin deals
for souls
burning cigars and incense
just more backroom politics
and strip-poker
Chapter 9
-
a mantra
on a subsonic level
liberates from the ravages of nature
beats back the ugly
of home made sin
when tragic turns magic
-
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 2:20 PM UTC
Lisa and I played a round of frisbee-disc golf today—let’s reminisce.
I love the ‘live performance’ of sports, how you must physicalise
discipline. You get this instant feedback that you have to own and
lean hard into. The being present to adjust, the internalised mechanisms of performance—the ‘liveness’—is the most exciting thing about sports. And, of course, the one who does it best wins—there’s a simplicity to it.
Being Sunday, the course was crowded with guys. Most of the groups were college teams of five or six guys. Since there were only two of us, we were playing faster.
I don’t like going up to a group of guys and asking to play through.
They always let us but we get these appraising looks—not strictly golf related—that you can feel. So we skipped around the guys and played open holes—still playing 18—they just weren't contiguous and it took a bit longer.
It was great to get out in the sun. The course was all rolling fairways, there’s no grass greener and no sky bluer. I came in 14-under (straight brag). I’m a little competitive, my ego loves to be placed in a hierarchy, and winning seems to give form to me, it’s such a pleasant and coherent narrative.
As we were leaving our escort Charles stepped away for a minute and a couple of Yale looking guys offered us a ride back to campus—which was all very innocent and chivalrous—to save us waiting for an Uber or something—I'm sure (we were all sweaty and looked like drowned rats).
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘let’s run off into the sunset.. not.’
But I said, “No, thanks, anyway.”
.
.
Songs for this:
Golden Boys by Res
Fruitcake by Subsonic Eye
Apr 14, 2025
Apr 14, 2025 at 12:34 AM UTC
A subsonic growl emerges
As the red wolf plunges forth
From his concrete cave.
He shoulders aside the weaker creatures,
In his rush, for the men inside
Live for the hunt.
The siren howl is high at first,
Wild and eager, hysterical.
As he gains his stride
On the pavement path,
His whine swings into a rocking pulse,
Keeping time with the fire,
Or the blood spurting from a man.
Behind the pack there is a white dog,
Sturdy and square, trained and sure,
With a lyrical howl.
He keeps pace yet there is no lust
For the hunt, no need for blood.
They circle the waiting disaster,
Disgorging men in black and white,
The hulks rumble as they wait.
Wolves lick up the flames
While the white-dressed men
Lap up the blood.
The wolf prowls as the flames die
But stands guard as the
White dog points to the man.
He has chosen to save.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
Hot Jazz, subsonic blasts!
My whoopee cushions deflating fast!
Rumble squeaks, the but kazoo,
cheeky flappers 2 by 2!
So toot your horns and raise a glass,
for trouser dancing's such a gas!
At the soggy bottom dew.
( )*( )
https://youtu.be/iSGzMaSgws4
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
1.
Clutch sinks to the floor
like a drunk mini skirt under a clever pickup line
1st gear gives way
like an occasional lover
Gas feathers in
a subsonic prelude to a ******
Rolling
2.
down our suburban street
where sidewalks bend at the waist
bowing to cracked driveways
My single-minded objective
upended by his scavenger’s mission
Abrupt left
“we must get that free tub”
he says
On the curb
next to the faded plastic batmobile
a rectangular residue of frayed cobwebs and forlorn leaves
“son of a *****
dangles from his lips
U-turn
3.
tires crackle over loose asphalt
steering wheel taught
turning down the wrong street
bewilderment derails my one track mind
“lawnmower shop”
he says
I’ve known him long enough
not to ask questions
We have an understanding
without understanding
Sun splatters across my forehead
an uncomfortable hot mess
the cracked window is of little comfort
as I await his return
He holds the door for a dusty landscape artist
pushing an unwieldy grass-cutting machine
purring across the street
late for the day’s rounds
Wordlessly, he returns
landing softly on his leather throne
key sliding, kissing the lock cylinder
willing forth internal combustion
4.
Finally the bike shop
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
Did I bleed enough already?
Sandpaper mounds, rough canyons, and catawampus scars
have replaced the soft hands I once had.
Rage has given way to a sardonic subsonic sentiment.
My throat was cursed and turned to glass.
Every word spoken threatens to shatter
what holds my head to my shoulders.
Have I suffered sufficiently?
The robin in my dry rotted heart
can not fly on whiskey soaked wings.
The sin that I consume I consummate with good intention.
Am I built on dichotomy?
Eye bitten blind, my wish for a fresh beginning
is always met with un-sustainability.
Finger nails aching for the bite of flesh.
Lips ache for fiberglass and lonely blue smoke.
Undulating rotations of no matter where I go there I am.
To understand I can walk there but I can never really walk from,
Is to understand the only way to escape is to change.
Disassemble; disassociate.
Brain waves are the only ones I drown in.
Am I asking the wrong questions?
My heart houses not just birds of spring,
but fledglings of dragons that war with the dampness of my innards.
Waiting for enough tinder to start the flame that burns this shell
and would set me free.
I offer it fingers I cut from lackadaisical moments heaving with unremitting love.
Just to burn the memory of touch.
It hordes digits and I wait for the day it fills my veins with pasteurizing fire.
I ate from the blackness of repetition and habit and became so comfortable in the self destruction I can see no other way to be.
My idiosyncrasies are synchronized with the pain of constantly finding the moon and longing..
I must change.
Before my tired eyes sag and separate from my face.
Before my ribs grow tired of my heavy sighs and point inward.
Before my little robin drowns.
Soon I'll come around.
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 1:52 AM UTC