"transmission" poems
I remember...
I was sad because I could only afford four textbooks out of five
Until the best student dropped out of school due to lack of tuition
I was upset because I wasn't served dessert
Until I saw a starving man
I complained my car was manual transmission
Until I saw a guy wishing for a used bicycle
I always wished for a bigger bed
Until I saw a man sleeping on the street
I was demotivated because my job wasn't paying well
Until I saw unemployment rate in other countries
I was ****** with myself when I dislocated my ankle
Until I saw someone without legs
It's definitely good to admire better things but
Appreciate what you have
Because somebody wants just that!
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC
A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)" (1)
writ many years later...
~For MWK~
<>
A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny:
A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us.
*This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis,
my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary
each one, each is, deserves, all, one such,
a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life,
strained and trained for emission and transmission
of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of
our individualized most excellent fresh best
where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream
melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive
contrasts combative,
a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words,
yet unheard and before this very never,
went unspoken and now goes forth
svelte and unbroken
*rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls
of the here and now,
a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance,
of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed,
lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from
the stilling quiet solitude.
to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief,
how to expel and spell the words
that grant
relief
visit my sunroom, though no fiction.
the sun rays *********** create the friction
of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained,
and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered,
pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction,
with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary,
you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns,
and the process of sunrise exposition recommences,
and one revisits the elemental sequencing of
all the predecessor pain, but this time,
for gain, for gain,
<>
written this sabbath Saturday
12:38am EST
Sat Aug 2
2025
in the sunroom,
on Shelter Island
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:59 AM UTC
The soliloquy of the night,
what we think as
falling stars and meteors,
make time and space immaterial
in the transmission of pain across light years.
Sitting here alone, a sentinel
to pain's interplanetary travel,
and witness of it transforming
in to other forms, eloquent,
I hear them when my eyes,
acquire a sense, primordial
receive the dark waves
of pain in my veins
a volcano palpitating to blow up
in to fireworks of emotions.
Everywhere eyes could travel, is filled
by night, thick, gooey, agglutinated;
then the meditative darkness,
dreams up a beam of gentle light,
out of its deep transcending yearning,
to speak to itself,to get an alchemy work on that pain
then, the pain itself becomes a haunting journey with words
this ,is how my love, my songs
in the midnight of my lonely soul, are born.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
December 2005; January
2006, Summer that year.
2008 round the middle - no not the crash.
2009, yes the muddle.
Tell me about how May 2010
was axed by December 2010.
Palm, palm, date palm, ash cloud.
February, April, August 2011 and
that dreaded December.
last grasp of the kite string,
off goes the dreamed of high
far far away the anchor moorings
when transmission stopped, all white
noise since then, empty
prattle chatter of the key board,
two millennia and counting thirteen, fourteen,
fifteen, march, October, March!
January 2016. A new landing.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
If she studies you with that particular look, and you know the one I'm indicating.
Kick off your shoes and glide across the floor towards your loved one.
Place your palm firmly on the back of her neck and your other at center mass.
With your lips pressed firmly against hers, open her mouth and clean her teeth, stroke her taste buds, feel her heat and free your minds together as one exploding fire ******* soaring vertically with the sporadic curvature of the bottle rocket.
Don't stop there, you've got her. She wants you to take complete control. Push her with gentle pressure against the nearest wall and allow progression. Fuse her neckline with your bite and move south to utilize her forearms and thighs. All the while you've cupped her **** cheeks like palming a basketball. From there on, use the organic passion that comes from within. She's giving herself to you. She will not hold this against you. On the contrary, this memorable concession of unbiased surrender is a gift, from your other to you. When it comes to a woman's love, these are some of the best times that you will be offered. Keep desire on fire and make your way to completion together. This recollection you guys are developing will hold years of reminiscence.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
I am the barbed thorn
the serrated reward
facing savage cruel winter;
sedition in transmission.
I am the only pawn
on your chequered board
facing a feisty queen;
of restricting submission.
I am the demonic exon
a heraldic discord
facing bleak futures;
an inherent disposition.
I am the stillborn reborn
the aberration restored
facing anomalies instability;
violation on a mission.
I am broken and worn
a fallen sword
facing a grim battle;
outnumbered by division.
I am the brass horn
the out of tune chord
facing orchestral expulsion;
a musician in remission.
I am history's forewarn
the contrite accord ignored
facing penitent absolution;
clemency in transition.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Crystal White Pearl paint,
red racing stripes,
MX-5 traced
on the side
Lightweight aluminum
alloy, seventeen inch
wheels wrapped in
205/45 summer
performance tires,
Limited-
Slip Differential,
rear wheel drive,
Six-speed manual
transmission, weighted
shift **** perfectly
palm-sized
Black sport clutch
bucket seats, seamed
racing red stitching, a clutch
worked with a snap
of the heel, a flick
of the wrist.
Crystal White dash panel,
red racing stripe
MX-5 traced lines
match the stripes outside.
Piano Black
mirrors match
bucket seats
and the cloth
soft top
unfolds on summer days,
spring nights, fall
mornings.
Heaven/
Nirvana/
Happiness
found
now
with a snap of the heel
& flick of the wrist.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
dissipated and disillusioned worms eating through the last splinters of the rotting universal wood.
the last transmission of regret sent electronically, spluttered,
into a tissue; in a moment of self indulgent **********
live showings of vicious execution, transmitted directly from the electromagnetic waves into the alpha waves of the young and naive. Desensitization, the last drops of humanity into complete disengagement.
endlessly recycled bohemian ideologies whispered into the ear of the eager idealist. spreading like fire, before burning out into the uncatchable reverie up with the stars, with all the other reveries, shining bright, intangible.
Instant dismissal from the old man, as the big curtain draws. Cynicism and fragmented past, falling on apathetic eyes, a proud man treat with a padded hand. faux sympathetic tones, blushing cheeks on old bones.
Begging with your body crumbling to dust with the disinterested doc, looking at the clock counting the milliseconds to the paycheck. Decomposing until you can be swept under the perpetual rug with the rest, Vacuum.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
I showed the librarian how Dostoevsky predicted the internet (and what we'd use it for) over a hundred years ago.
She seemed unimpressed.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
A solid center presages
two generous edges
to shoulder the weight
of the curve: the bow
relinquishes tension
to the anchors of the
taut bow-string.
The wayfaring archer
tends to the curve,
notches the arrow,
selects the target,
gauges the wind,
surrenders --
*Riding like an arrow on the wind,
sure to find its mark in Breath,
and the end of Breath it portends.*
A reveler
abiding the flirt
of angle and arc,
finite and eternal,
arbiter of the holy
moment, the dance
linking death with life;
So unbearably
near the horizons,
desire yields its grip
to the coaxing
womb of the curve: tension
sighs into the space
between arrow-head
and its mark.
*And in the transmission of feeling
is the spirit of Life,
clinging - so gently - to free itself
of its own burdens.*
A sudden violence
voids archer and stag:
Continuity rushes forth
to meet the sacrifice.
The heart of the bow
resumes its tension.
And the curve
evaporates,
all but a trick
of Timing.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Once upon a time
In a land full of pantomime
There was this girl called Tink
Meeting her Peter in a blink
The time they had was filled with fun
Laughter and banter like no one.
Their bonding growing to soul transmission
Until Captain Hook made it his mission
To destroy their love and affection
Leaving back hurt and destruction.
And then it all turned complicated
Tink and Peter Pan got so frustrated.
Their love and affection taking the toll
Of a twisted evil mind on a roll.
A promise to be different
And yet turned out irrelevant
With sadness in her heart she looks back on a past
Of a friendship and bond that didn't last.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
“Orange doesn’t rhyme.”
Well, that’s what we were taught.
So, what it really needs is
Some careful new thought.
So, just for a moment
Let’s get a bit strange;
Let’s take the word ‘orange’
And let us deftly rearrange.
It can become something
Like ‘no rage’ instead.
Doesn’t that fit much more
Comfortably inside the head
And inside your rhyme scheme
As you gleefully poeticize
And smoothly abandon
The conundrum of other guys?
For instance, change orange:
On gear a transmission,
In discussion, ‘go near’?
Maybe some kind of Russian?
“An gore?’, on of Vidal’s children?
Or maybe like ‘Ego ran’,
A stuck-up jogging chicken?
‘Graneo’, something to call
Mother’s mom, if you’re hip?
“Groane’, an archaic manner
To let a moan escape your lips.
‘No gare’, a French gate
Too far away to easily use.
‘Neo gar’, a species of fish
That is sometimes in the news.
That doesn’t not signal
The orange issue surrender.
It just means I am willing
To consider almost any other
Way to look at this word
Another entire way instead
For this rather comfortable color
Halfway between yellow and red.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
Lines of life through gene transmission
When handed down through *****
Tho’ rugged, sound or sickly matched,
Are caste about like coins.
Luck ensures a robust chance
Of longevity and health
With intelligence or dolt hood
As a final gauge to wealth.
Traits of blue eyed, fair haired lovelies
Brown eyed, freckled, long of limb,
Temperaments across the spectrum
Placid fat to fiery slim.
Aptitude to run the long race
Good endurance, depth of heart,
Lady luck decrees their worth
Tho' the Priesthood may depart.
Frontal lobes of clear retention
Heightened rationale of thought,
Reasons through the problematic,
Resolutions made as ought.
Capacity to empathise
In tears of joy and sorrow spent,
Capacity for true belief
When wrong is righted with repent.
Goodness and black evil
Are caste about like chaff,
Depends upon the show of cards
Who laughs the final laugh.
Conscience can be virtuous
But then, so can be greed,
Depends upon the circumstance
And if approached at speed.
And finally indulgence
Plays a massive hand in this,
For love and lust determine
If a union is remiss.
And should that union founder,
Should Lady Luck throw in her hand
...You can blame it on the chromosomes
Which confounds the Makers stand!
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
14 June 2011
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
Life is a race track.
If the sky falls down,
if the car loses a tire,
if the transmission bursts:
Keep driving the **** car.
You pick up the pieces and you keep going.
You are the only driver you've got.
I don't care if the car crosses the line spitting and groaning,
and falling apart.
I would rather get out and push that thing in high heels to the finish line.
Then to give up.
Keep driving the **** car.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
It happened, once only,
on an African plain.
A subtle mutation
and everything changed.
On Chromosome Seven
A new protein emerged.
A peripatic primate
Spoke her first word.
There were apes that were stronger
or had larger brains.
But it was **** sapiens
who gave all things names.
The mutation of speech,
an advantage unknown,.
soon reduced competition
to a mere pile of bones.
Our forebears surged forth
From the African plains
Some wandered to China,
others summered in Spain.
As elders died off,
Their knowledge survived
Through oral transmission
til the advent of scribes.
Now each human mother
awaits baby’s first word
It’s the price of admission
to the tribe of the verb.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
At What Cost?
This Purchase of Our Future
*a thousand answers + variegated shadings, a summation:
∑
of millions layers of our owned chosen complexities,
so many possible outcomes, it makes infinite randomness
seemingly simpler than our googolplex crazy preposterous
notational choosings, our owned decisions which though false,
cause nothing is tandomn random except for love at first sight
it’s all just ******** we conditioned from pre-birth,
the expectations subtly subsumed into the woman’s womb,
overlaid by the ***** donors whisperings that you will be a
great third baseman, or a great bass player, or both, but
“your” fate, ha!
is anything but yours…
to purchase!
if you were born to live in a home with no heat, and water was
obtainable by walking 100 yards away, you would still be a
pianist, writing notes of plaintive need, grand desires, musical
words of agonizing delight just as when
you first blushed when the brain
connected yellow rays with a word,
sunrise,
and an experience was synapticaly imprinted,
that real things could be defined by an ordering of letters and sounds
and you were tongue burnt by a need so great
to collect these pleasurable things and put them in a right order
of your
peculiar
particular
personal
inherited inputted
design
=
and
you yet debate
what is my instrument,
knowing that the multiples of your fingers
are the engine of your existence,
and on any particular day they, your well connected perma-crew,
will pick which is the chosen one,
and
no matter which,
for you had nothing or little purchase,
it was coded in your pre-history
just as you prepare a transmission list
of your own,
when you daily first touch your face,
closing the sensory sensual connection tween
the ephemeral and the physical
and
the new combinations
that you will imprint upon
someone’s flesh,
that is your right,
that is you write,
that is what you were
predestined,
to
create
but,
(what the heck)
you get
to-pick the instrument of the day…*
(
that,
is your purchase, your only cost,
everything else has been
pre-paid
)
Nov 9, 2023
Nov 9, 2023 at 8:54 AM UTC
*In his breakthrough work of channeled literature, I Am the Word, author and medium Paul Selig recorded an extraordinary program for personal and planetary evolution as humankind awakens to its own divine nature. I Am the Word is an energetic transmission that works directly on its readers to bring them into alignment with the frequency of the Word, which Paul's guides call the energy of "God in Action."
Paul was born in New York City and received his Master's Degree from Yale. He had a spiritual experience in 1987 that left him clairvoyant. As a way to gain a context for what he was beginning to experience, he studied a form of energy healing, working at Marianne Williamson's Manhattan Center for Living and in private practice. In the process, he began to "hear" for his clients, and much of Paul's work now is as a clairaudient, clairvoyant, channel, and empath.
Paul has led channeled energy groups for many years. In 2009 he was invited to channel at the Esalen Institute's Superpowers symposium, where he was filmed for the upcoming documentary film Authors of the Impossible. He is the subject of the feature-length documentary film Paul & the Word which will be released late summer, 2011. His workshops in 2011 include Edgar Cayce's A.R.E. in New York City, the Jungian Center in Vermont and the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, Calfornia. Also a noted playwright and educator, Paul serves on the faculty of NYU and directs the MFA in Creative Writing Program at Goddard College. He lives in New York City, where he maintains a private practice as an intuitive and conducts weekly, channeled energy groups.*
Personal and planetary evolution- Live channeling with Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAgh2pXDDls&feature;=youtu.be
Waking Universe With Guest Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7BI0Lgb9Kk&feature;=youtu.be
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
You might be on ****
if you run over your own transmission
pushing your car as hard as possible
because Tik Tok by Kesha is playing.
You're definitely on ****
it afterwards you pull into a nearby parking lot
and decide to just shoot **** there
for the next few days.
You're not on **** anymore
when the business owner is fed up with you
and you're falling asleep talking to the police
who only find empty bags and tell you to leave.
The lines become blurred
when you're six months sober
and a psychosis has developed
to the point where you're hiding
behind your couch from the shadow
people with ****** rifles outside.
Apr 1, 2021
Apr 1, 2021 at 5:19 PM UTC
an ****** calligraphy
of hallucinated images
gesture to the posturings
of omitted consciousness
the preoccupations
that puncture the ‘rational’ thought
of a false corporeality
and rely on an artificiality
to produce a reality
writes of the pagan haunts
of silver ****** ghosts
of fantastic rumors
of acquired futuristic loathing
where cognitive disturbances are
the reconnaissance of a fragmented mind
seeking an evacuation to the past
screams at the monuments of
immediate dismissal of everything
not of their transmission
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 5:58 PM UTC
The Commercial says:
Collect the whole set!
Buy Tommy Toddler™! –Now says 6 gibberish phrases!
Buy Hannah Housewife™! –Laundry basket and stove included!
Buy Stanley Stepdad™! –Comes with realistic child abusing action!
Buy Cole, the College Student™! –Life-like *** and beer ***** scent!
It says: Buy the whole family.
Batteries not rechargeable, but included. Residing inside.
No assembly required unless buying Ralph the Retired™ – in which case,
Go to the hospital and inquire, am I covered ?
Have I expired ?
At the store I’d, see them all sorted, and sordid, clumped in little bins. Together.
Sort of. See,
Lawyers, and scientists, and authors were all in higher priced bins.
I felt shorted.
A cheap skate like me couldn’t afford it, wait-
there are the janitors, soldiers, and waitresses, each only a quarter.
Somewhere in Taiwan, thin children wont to wanting,
Are making Model Americans.
Patching together assembly-line-lives, no breaks inbetween,
Workers named High School, College, and Career sew mini seams.
So many seem, to delight in dreaming the American Dream,
To leave earthly bodies and become pristine; little dolls.
Toys colored C.R.E.A.M.
“…and the home of the brave!” ?
maybe, home of the depraved.
Home of the pre-made, pre-packaged, and
Enslaved.
Displayed, in plastic tombs engraved. With phrases like:
Save! 50% off!
or perhaps it’s 50 stars off.
50 stars that are missin.
Cuz Old Glory sure looks like a **** question mark ( ?)
End transmission.
Restart television with Remote Control.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
I would scale the highest
most decrepit radio towers in the world
the rusted metal crumbling against my feet
Risking electrocution and the constant threat of falling
as I rewire the ancient spiderweb of cabling
so I can hear even the faintest transmission of your voice
I'll clutch a stained and faded photograph of us
The only remainder after most everything digital
dies out in flickers of dormant transistors and dissipated binary
I'll protect it from acidic rain and the grit of persistent dust storms
So little resources left in a continent of incinerated cities
yet this picture of you and I is all I will need to keep moving
When I finally find you
I will fight against all impossible odds and potential ends
I'll walk entire burnt out highways with you just to make one last stand
I will carry you across these deserted wastelands and returning forests
To show that even after the bombs drop
My love belongs to you
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
[begin transmission]
Little mean marble,
the grasshopper lies heavy,
riding storms
and trailing winds,
eating dystopia
right out of the box
suns and daughters
of the cataclysm
sit about a space
cadet's campfire,
hints of alien sand
in their voices
it so oddly resembles
vast outland libretto,
that breathe of menace,
inside sojourners
holding tickets to ride
tramlines on shuttle days
swarming with
Walter Mitty groupies
and econowives,
transporting **** rapture,
and/or reproduction to worlds
of public domain
one day we'll settle here,
one day, with bowed heads,
we'll kiss the splendor
of its red ruination
[end transmission]
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 8:21 AM UTC
I have a strong intention
intending to break through all convention
conventional ways end up as my contention
contending with obstacles of my invention
i have a bad disposition
disposing of all the worthless tradition
traditional ways put us in this condition
conditional waves of bad transmission
i have a new destination
destined to try a brand new adaptation
adapting just isn't my contemplation
contemplating a different creation
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC