"subtended" poems
like some jealous future self,
my writer's clock balks at this moment with you,
i can't explain, so i give up listening. (i have an app for that)
the writing only stops as degustation ends ~
thank you, though ~ i'd like you to hear
regardless of the meanings lent ~
the gymnolexical fear
appearing ornamental far and near.
google files us away, omniscient
acumen of o's and ones ~
words sing to me their luring promise of a lasting hold,
but less and less
as plastic griming fingers sync
with what it seems to be,
a new world search-
-engine culling info freely
do i still believe in order?
striving for the fitted words,
a love imprinted input thus on crystal pixel page,
your effect on me distilled--
refracted throng associational
fantastic server metacomfort
for an audience
swimming past into this,
now always
ever-new you appear, bursting
at the seams my vision churning
...effluent sourcing, blurry self of others ~
heart-charming river-nymphs!
bolt-hurling sky-satyrs! reeling nations are subtended by your words
that walk, trod, swim across what poetry,
dance with this ever-blooming techne-earth
as i mark your plasmic eyes
we flow and let flow,
we dance our farmer's mud
into the beryl-winding paths
of othernets and cyberplay,
the restful ends reborn bright white
lacing lattice-scopic fibrous
scatters of another wi-fi interlife ~
we stream and let stream,
river-tress girl, your eyes summon
a great coalescence in me,
we dance into the channeled
delta of spring beauty here across the keyboard;
it cascades a slow attentive phosphene
striking pointed notes of color,
ring beneath and through the
green, sylvan silicon throw of mossy html
so that even rocks and sprawling
tree-trunks sing within the disembodied
vortexes of arrowed imagery to browse
my virtual belongings to you,
alone in your sorrow-joy fighting
free love in an all-world-breath
before the screen
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
Felled canvas, blushing colors my life’s stitch ceaselessly applied
What portrait stretches and looms it’s casement to my soul?
If all deeds behold with no aid of cloak, for sins sore shame to hide?
Needle pricked fingers recount thy yarn.
Shall I gaze upon a short winged angel, laced in gutters, where sensuality is defined?
How skillful the likeness of my windblown heart?
What shades of scarlet ooze that aching part?
Will I hesitate looking at past reckless deeds?
Woven with flare but so careless of needs.
Does smugness suspend me in self sapid stitches and ghost like thread for inches and inches?
How large the spool my decent breadth hold, done in shimmering shades, subtended in gold?
Dare I hope it be worthy to admire when shown?
Humble glory, my life, hung behind a King’s throne?
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 11:35 PM UTC