"switchboard" poems
A desiccated brown leaf remembering greener days,
summersaults stem over end into the exposed cold dirt softened somewhat in demeanor by the grass and radiant shafts
The geese and ducks squawk and honk in the distance
Congratulating each other for the day's richness
and the way the sun feels on their proud beaks
glinting off the water in its way
a shimmering band
A princely golden carpet forever unrolling and yet complete
The sun's spindle weaves gems of light into a gossamer web
laid glittering across the water
A vision for Moses
who saw the true path through the sea
Fireworks Forever exploding sunlight
Gifted to the eye on clear liquid canvas
The wind ripples the waves
wrinkles pushed along
foaming in the sand
Little Kisses
on the grainy cheek
Star Flashes Communicating ancient patterns
Secrets of Existence Coming in Morse code, Fibonacci Sequencing,
Sacred Geometry in Twinkling Motion
Individual explosions blinking on a natural switchboard
Telling the architectural answer
Manifesting the blueprint
to only every reason why
The Last Leaf sings in the Breeze, swinging
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:03 PM UTC
"Is there anybody there?" said the caller,
"Six ten eight oh one two four three nine?"
And his ears attuned to the empty hum
Of the long-forgotten line;
And an LED on the handset
Flashed, for a moment, red,
And he dialled the number a second time:
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one replied to the caller,
No sound but the dialling tone
Came drifting into his waiting ear
As he held that haunted phone;
But only a host of phantom listeners,
Of spectres weak and strange
Stood hearkening to that human voice
That echoed around the exchange;
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
And his heart was afraid and nervous,
With his hand on the final digit
Of that number not in service;
For he suddenly tapped the receiver
And spoke on that line of dread:
"Tell them I called, and no one answered,
That I kept my word!" he said;
Ay, they heard him replace the receiver,
And his mumbled cursing later,
With the usual subdued but enthused delight
Of the switchboard operator.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 6:26 AM UTC
Pulse echoing in the hollow canal of my ear,
A sweet, persuasive sound that initiates the craving,
I want to taste you in the sickest of ways,
Like itchy centipede legs discovering the back of your throat,
A discomfort only a thousand sips could quell,
I’d like to think I could resist,
I know better; I’m only realtime flesh,
Slowly rub your cheek against my chin,
I’ll dip my nose into your neck and use my tongue to caress each striation,
Until I can taste the carotid reaching toward the holy switchboard,
My jaws will not be denied, closing vehemently,
Penetrating the silky dermis, ragged vents meant to pourpourpour
Vital lifeblood and sustenance out into useful globs of passive alertness,
You are a beautiful, tormented creature in which I can bear to look at no longer.
I cannot see you as you are meant to be, I am deluded and biased..
Sent to realize truth, only to find no definitive,
I will relish bringing about your end as much as my own.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
When you set out to make
an omelette, you have to break
an egg. Now what
do you have?
A broken egg.
Unless you planned ahead
and caught it in a frying
pan. There are other factors
at play as well.
Plans go awry. Ask
Murphy. It's the law.
Lawyers can't be trusted.
That's why they band
together, taking sides
like shirts and skins
in a pick-up game.
i don't like basketball.
Trust is tricky. You
can always trust a liar.
They always lie. It
is what they do.
They are junkies for
their own stories.
Stories are for humans.
That's why dogs are
man's best friend. Dogs
can't talk.
Humans think they are special
because they can talk, unlike
dogs. We talk about thinking,
doing less so we can
talk about it more on
television.
Nancy Grace is running
reruns of the Natalie
Holloway case. This is good,
it means all is right
with the world. No other
girls have disappeared or
are presumed dead. If
they are dead somewhere, they
live in our memories.
It isn't a circle of life,
it is a sphere of existence.
Everything is specks of dust
floating inside a water
balloon.
And now i'm in your head.
We are humans, and
the rent is low.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Under frizzed hair,
The Conscious Operator,
Smacking gum,
Waits with her tails of living wire
To make connections
At Synaptic Central.
The reader
Tilts a page to catch the rays,
Scans for symbols,
Begins to send
And to receive
Electric fires of thought
Traveling in from
Senses Five -
Traveling out from
Schema Library's
Data files -
To meet and
To commingle
At the Board.
With octopal finesse,
The tireless Operator
Plies Neural Central,
Sending quick myriads of thought
To rest or to revive in living files.
Neurons snap and arc;
Their coded leaping fires
Surge message-full
Through cables sheathed
To Synapse Central,
Where in her nimble hands
Fire Control finds slots
And coordinates connections,
During and Long After
The Outward Reading's done.
Even when the Blinds go down
Synaptic Central's work goes on.
The frizz-haired friend steps out to rest;
Sub-Conscious moves into her place
And with unsteady hand
Plays seeming havoc at the Board
Rearranging and Deranging
Delightful dreams, or horrid.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
Phyyt phoo, two aqueous lenses peeling through, the oxygen layers.
Pupils turn as they unfold, hungrier for light behind burnt sand barriers.
The switchboard like a carnivorous plant field independently moves points
And compacted, segmented panels respond like exoskeletal joints
There come the staccato screams of steam one at a time, puff, lining the door
Capsule, contaminated with air, is cleaned when the beetles wing lifts the floor
The boy I was, offers a raised thumb from the ground, science disciple
With Helium fission equations on a sheet hanging from a bible.
My eyes behind a visor open slowly, it’s time to take control
Still tears slowly lift from my face like a violin bow rising to sing low
Now in a place where time means nothing I can’t regret a thing
I just wish this clinical empty cold on all, to take the warmth that lies bring
With Creaking myofibril strings so imperfect in this black vacuum dream
I shake the hand of god; with polystyrene gloves as his work is so unclean.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
Momento Mori encourages you to paint your own story
Listening to that broken record mind is painful and boring.
Silence the chatter and climb the chakra ladder to yourself for real glory.
"Remember that you have to die" was planted with Latin roots.
If only you could let go of your leaves, you wouldn't torment yourself with monotonous abuse.
It seems we were trained to forget how to breathe.
Switchboard recalibrated to go on autopilot against the breeze.
Instead of asking why, we look to the neon lights for relief.
Out of single file one man screamed with grief, " End the misery pretty please! The doctor says I gotta up the dosage unless I wanna be deceased. Oh master, do I not give you what you claim you need? I have kids to feed with no more means to deplete. You can take my seat, I'll work on my feet forever... **** you for shaping my life - No more, my ties to you I sever. Remember that you are going to die. Yes, even you, the self-proclaimed 'most high'. Go hide when you cry, in that same pit of hell where you forge all your lies. Get ready to fry, unless you face yourself long enough to stop opposing the divine."
Momento Mori, my life I stopped forcing. Spine aligned, no longer contorting. Inhale as I stretch at my own leisure while I jot down my own story. The words come, only in the moment. I read the lines at the time you do, with our collective pages eternally unfolding.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
I
If I could, like a switchboard, dark my heart,
Flip the levers one by one inside my mind,
And watch the stillness creep forth part by part
Painting my scalding senses sweetly blind,
I think that I could live without my lungs.
Pass each day the faded spaces on my walls
Where portraits of my heart's desires hung,
And peeled away, powdered to dust within their fall.
I think I'd like to be an empty house,
My loves all dark and cool and draped in sheets,
And cobwebs strung across my hopes and vows,
The dust in drifts, the solitude complete.
If I could turn away my love and flee,
I would be tempted, for perhaps then I would be free.
II
The burning embers of my love would dim,
And my eyes like empty windows dark would yawn,
And nobody could hurt me on a whim,
My defeat and fear and shame all dead and gone.
And footsteps in my empty rooms would echo
Murmuring the strife and longing past,
And all this complex, painful ecstasy would go,
And I would sigh, able to breathe at last.
Perhaps I would forsake my yearning soul
And give up all my wild joy for blankness.
Stop reaching, always striving to be whole,
And strip away my passion and my frankness
And in relinquishing my quest to get it back,
Forget to miss the passion that I lack.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
Under frizzed hair,
The Conscious Operator,
Smacking gum,
Waits with her tails of living wire
To make connections
At Synaptic Central.
The reader
Tilts a page to catch the rays,
Scans for symbols,
Begins to send
And to receive
Electric fires of thought
Traveling in from
Senses Five -
Traveling out from
Schema Library's
Data files -
To meet and
To commingle
At the Board.
With octopal finesse,
The tireless Operator
Plies Neural Central,
Sending quick myriads of thought
To rest or to revive in living files.
Neurons snap and arc;
Their coded leaping fires
Surge message-full
Through cables sheathed
To Synapse Central,
Where in her nimble hands
Fire Control finds slots
And coordinates connections,
During and Long After
The Outward Reading's done.
Even when the Blinds go down
Synaptic Central's work goes on.
The frizz-haired friend steps out to rest;
Sub-Conscious moves into her place
And with unsteady hand
Plays seeming havoc at the Board
Rearranging and Deranging
Delightful dreams, or horrid.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
Boy meets girl
His heart begins to swirl
He states his name in being Earl
The woman states her name in being world
They both hold hand in hand
They are the happiest in the land
As the years rolled on
They both went their separate ways in moving along
The romance became sour
It reached that point in being the hour
Love became more of a struggle
The feeling was move like football in a huddle
It was love doesn’t live here anymore
It’s time for both of us to go and explore
Our love being like an switchboard in being put on hole
Two mates were no longer a loving soul.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
She is painted in Do not Touch signs That stems from the Caution tape that now holds her heart together....
She hasnt smiled with glee in years now her Smirk is as close to genuine as I can see....
She lets her hair down around me and fills the room with memories of a better time When her beauty was still maintained....
As I lay next to her I hold her close to make her feel safe So nightmares I cant comprehend stay outside our embrace.....
She wont close her eyes when we kiss like she needs to believe someone actually shows her affection...
How her hands feel weathered and strong like she tried too many times to hold onto comfort .....
I think she takes what she wants only because the world took so much from her without permission...
Her emotions are on a switchboard of needs she controls at will and her needs are only escape routes now....
Everybody tells me to run away from her and save myself but I cant be her next reason to hurt herself.....
I wont be the next evacuee from a disaster she never asked for and only grew when people turned there backs...
Why cant people see the beauty under her armour or see she dosent belong in the places she ends up?
She is beauty wrapped in pain.... Laughter muted by lies..... And judged only because she learned to survive....
She....... She is not broken to me... She isnt the picture everyone paints... Or the rumours they twist out of spite....
She is the scared damaged angel .... that needed love.... And trusts me to hold her every night....
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 4:29 AM UTC
we're all just after
the space where we plug in
over and over
mismatched switchboard
unfit cords and sockets
you can jam it in forcibly
breaking both parts
not meant to collide
but sometimes
two tools magnetize
gravitational field owned
by both
like the driver
screws itself in
compelled
intuitive spin
genius designs, aligned
moving compulsive
tugged hypnotic
beyond mind
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 9:57 PM UTC
He is a pen,
I am paper,
Great ideas we create.
He is the bow,
I am the arrow,
Cupid's love is our cup.
He is the current,
I am the switchboard,
Our love flows without a hitch.
He is the hand,
I am the glove,
Nothing can separate us.
He is the melody,
I am the lyric,
Together we make a beautiful song.
He is the strength,
I am the love,
We face life with courage.
He is the body,
I am the soul,
A harmonious whole,
Soul mates.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 6:19 AM UTC
The light at the intersection switched to go for like ten seconds\ than I started to go and what happens\ I'm stuck again by same light getting switched back to red such a scheme
Think some guy behind the switchboard is saying well here comes the Italiano again hit the switch so we can snag him up
Wonder who's all behind this smorgasbord!
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
My mom prays for me a lot.
Which is good.
If God has favorites, I know he’d listen to her more than me.
She deserves a direct line.
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 11:15 PM UTC
Think about love
Not like a feeling
But like a call
A longing
Switchboard hearts
Take one call and then another
Just switching
Never staying
I feel like sometimes
I have a switchboard heart
And I’m scared to say that
Because no one wants someone
Who doesn’t know what they want
-L
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC