"survivability" poems
The Smell of Honey, Coffee and Apples and Messes of Words, but
No Love Poetry
<^>
*my poetry suffers from a literately literacy,
the adjectivally of imagery wears away with
time and age eroding the imagination, when one’s
days are numbered, being serious is an natural
unpleasant hazardous haze, never in doubt
The morning meal of cooked oatmeal, steel cut,
laced with wildflower honey, slices of honey crisp
apples and Hawaiian coffee brewed,
singes the
Tropical Storm Ophelia thrumming humidity
that overhangs the ugly grays of NYC sky-paths,
one tickles me awake with contradictory impulses:
sweet and sour,
a robust stimulative, competing with the smothering of
grayling clouded weather weariness of
48 hours of rainy continuity,
a spirit suffocate
you see!
give you myself, my environment, in précis,
unimaginative exactly as it occurs to me, sensually, yes,
but cannot shake my disappointment that no,
can’t combine visionary notions that spin your swivel
chair around, powered by your exclamations of
ooh, ahh, and little stabs of weeee punctuating
our shared atmosphere
and bring forth
only love poetry
but no mas,
the love poetry doesn’t comes to the fore,
the forehead stuffed with words best listed as
basic, observable, factual,
Miley Cyrus, accuses me of being jaded,
but not with accuracy, more straight jacketed,
way past that half-way point of no return,
turning back is not a listed menu option
love poetry
demands, requires and requests
envisioning, precursor to dreaming,
but I am choking on matters-of-fact,
questions of survivability,
that do not
shed love poetry words,
I
love exclaiming
to any and all within hailing distance,
my loving firmament, but the damp atmosphere
swallows my hopes and sounds, even though
still can smell the lingering nearness odor of honey and apple,
yet, other hints of memory beg to differ,
and I sadly and easy confess,*
this is not a lovely poem…
- * -
Sep 23, 2023
Sep 23, 2023 at 12:44 PM UTC
the
space federation
wanted
to know
the
architects
who
crafted
the
geodesic domes
in protecting
the
civilization of mars
in sustaining
and
withstanding
failure of space colonization
then
captain shields stated
Prometheus brought us fire
but
our destiny
depends
upon
future of space exploration
and
tapping
new resources
but
our main goal is
survivability
in
any space environment
through
the
will and fertile hands of man
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
Gates imagined in times
past
open here and we pause
is this the life well spent,
or the life un-examined?
Are we Faustian Fellows or mere mortals
dreaming
rockstar vibes on the boulevard
select/apply
brakes. (witness, we saw it coming)
What good can come from this?
Is
here some secret place?
What keeps its secret here?
he emerges rather as a master syncretist of widely divergent materials and as a devout theopantist
From <https://muse.jhu.edu/book/37533>
Artistic Intelligen-seers build cumputorionic
putahs
for the pew-trade-ification
easy as pi t' lie about knowing
as goatphorgoneconclusions, leading
sheepish men astray
afar from the madding crowd
screaming out loud
for christ's sake (really. What's that mean?)
Christmas is christ's cause, I would think,
given proper cause determining algorythms at some time after my
toddling twos expecting, child-like
survivability
equivalent -- equal in balance factor
twixt why and how and try and
umph
needed on the uphill side of every vibe.
Has Christ mass more meaning than
anointed (oiled-to shine-or-burn, per hap)
message/medium,
a class of good
news, a whole bunch of new good
ideas for things,
witty inventions with the best of intentions,
Christmas Time!
Peace,
on earth, good will to
ward men,
the idea of god as truth life and the path to next; and man, wombed and un, recon-
conciliated, with no con-sessions to bogus-science but to learn
to use the food we eat. learn
to chew our mushrooms with a touch of lemon,
lemon tree, so pretty but impossible to eat,
Ah, why,
ya jus'asker what she knows,
she's sure to show you
wisdom wisps, entangled in your hair…
take a taste,
now, hear this, peace, I give, I loose
as
oil on the water, but with the best imaginable
outcome
not good as men measure;
good as you measure good,
good ideas you make do
good, sometime
thereafter your arrival as the hero in your story.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 4:52 PM UTC
Lately They've been claiming [smarter people are more deceptive]
So I don't trust smart people any more.
It also seems that [willingness to be ruthlessly brutal] is currently a beneficial attribute.
Thought bubble of person doing it right: "must make sure people over-estimate or under-estimate me at all times. Avoid correct estimation at all costs... Must reproduce... Must destroy opposition...."
I haven't heard smart peoples' opinions of the survivability of individuals who'd rather bow out from all competition and prefer to exist in the psychedelic 15th dimension.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
The beauty is not yet realized... Is what it truly means to not know how beautiful someone truly is, until they have really seen it for themselves (first and foremost)! Except if you haven't (as of yet, while also not realizing)… Then "the beauty that is not yet realized"... Remains like a "closed book"! A closed book who's survivability desperately depends on that very "beauty"! Demands "recompense" for the actions (to hold dearly) without the consequence in not including oneself (more or less) in on the details, before more facts came too light! Potentially missing out on everything desirable in oneselves very nature as a respectful and loving and caring individual! Such as the individual who this poem is especially "nurturing" for!
Conclusion... The beauty is not yet realized... Because they haft to admit it too themselves (first and foremost)! Before realizations crawl back into itself and forevermore abandoning the right to call yourself..."beautiful"!
Aug 15, 2020
Aug 15, 2020 at 7:58 PM UTC
Dramaturgy
1
I believe in the sound of the fall but before the annunciation, a force did not see the brink of all ends. The polarizing image before us: this wall that has no hue. This wall that seeks to be tarnished. To tether a name. To spring it open with premise.
It is coming face to face with a familiar haunt. Strange that it has no name but you remember it from the feel of its touch, the malaise of hands upon stroking the contour, the catatonic stupor of time in fluid standstill when it is said that "It does not get any better than this.", the belief of questions and the faithlessness of answers. He is ready.
2
Thus is the physiognomy: a look so dismantled. The fragile bent of its source. A body, a body of sound treading a straight path backed by centrifugal inertia -- of speed so full and tender with blurs, the end is seen and will soon be met: patience, patience is all and the skies are impossible. She sees all this, takes cues as pain makes him more so, the one anxiously flailing in space.
3
Confess in utter space that the absolute is ideal. The process distills the heavy water of this revenge. There is nothing like this, as there is nothing the identical in your side of the Earth now, or your bed, where you are cut above yourself and across. This is the body realized. To quantify space, to resign to its bleakness, to take all of this and let it flow into the river, to the brink of all the noise, to where light will fall squarely without tremors or erasures.
4
Intent runs with me this evening straight to a place where nothing will be found, no one will be marked in this map. This light so insufficient still guiding, bleeding a borrowed sheen from the **** of evening. Intent is everything, be it a consignment to void.
5
He will repeat what was written in solemnity, in front of the mirror.
6
They will see it falsely, take it as heavy dreaming when he should have convinced himself to be awake. A laudable insistence may be perceived as a conscious labour to survivability, alone, together -- no difference will be met, no criteria to victories will be set. This is all for disappearance, the pursuit is a lie, and to continue this, the irony.
7
Desired impression: tomorrow you will emerge naked and wear me as something a perfume does to skin, or warmth does to bones. Look, when the Sun rises from its deep grave of hills, its vertical crawl will leave no trace in other regions of land, of body. Somewhere in the ornate someone washes the surrounding with a recognizable fragrance. This is all drawn to a possibility: something the world has no use for
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
Every day gets heavier
N it's hard to lift
All this weight is
Crushing me
N my strength has left
I wanted to lean on you
But no one was there
I just fell
N fell
N I'm still here
Every day gets heavier
My legs can't carry it
I hit rock bottom
N now I'm under it
All this weight is crushing me
These pounds of energy
Sweating through the pores
Of my flesh fervently
I'm exahausted
N it's hard to want this
If this is all that there is
Every day gets heavier
How much longer could I carry her
Before she crushes my exterior
Into my interior
N here comes one more day
To add one more brick of weight
Into a collapse of my survivability
Nov 4, 2019
Nov 4, 2019 at 4:58 AM UTC