"transmissions" poems
He smiles so bright like he has teeth of gold.
Projecting the reflections of his own inceptions.
I'm done grieving the words that once killed the inner me.
Verbally abusive was the past that didn't last.
He shattered my hope like splintered and shattered glass.
As far as the moon is to the sun is he to me.
I can picture his face but to me he's faceless.
His voice is like the echo of a stranger.
He salts his words with flatter,
it doesn't matter, they are tasteless.
His speech is drenched in hypocritical lyricals.
Transmissions of emphatic subliminals
transformed him into an emotional criminal.
If people would obey the limitations of their naive believes.
Maybe they would know that he calls me once a year...
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
I.
I wonder if you remember me.
You said, “Go out. Find me
that universe, and take these
with you.” Talismans.
Good luck charms like Mozart
and fifty-five ways to say hello.
Navajo night chant,
Peruvian wedding song,
diagrams of ribcages, gender,
bushmen and bones.
Gifts for a people you said
I may never meet.
It has been thirty-four years
and I wonder if you remember me.
II.
Less and less,
we call across the distance:
sixteen-point-twelve hours
between transmissions
and I wonder if you remember me.
I nearly kissed Jupiter for you,
nearly skimmed Saturn’s bright rings,
but you said, “Go out.
Find me that universe,”
so I sail out into the dark for you.
I keep a photo of you,
twenty years ancient,
to keep away the quiet
between your calls:
pale pixel, distant dot,
my origin receding,
I wonder if you remember me.
III.
I know now,
you never meant
to call me home.
Dutifully, I will go out,
but I wonder if you forget me.
I am still here, sailing.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 6:23 PM UTC
Krypton didn’t fit with anyone,
as it was the unfriendly one,
it never went beyond it’s limits
even if others did loose their limits.
It was from a forlorn world,
nobody cared to say a word,
to this enigma of another world;
no one wanted to share a word.
The nobles were always preoccupied
with their occupied shells,
they never hung out with the occupied,
nor the unoccupied.
Krypton was mistaken for kryptonite.
It wondered every night,
Why they accused it for the assassination?
it didn’t have the power of absorption.
Krypton had very few of it’s kind,
it didn’t know where they were aligned.
He held the hope of being able to be lined,
with the rest of it’s kind.
Poor Krypton, he was on the farthest
arena of the periodic table
it wished if it could turn the table,
so that it can at least act a bit feeble.
Experience taught this novice,
it calculated the calculations,
to traverse the long distance,
fear hindered the transmissions.
Krypton used to think without links
he was one of the stable nobles,
he wasn’t the one that wobbles
and, one of the table’s baubles.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 4:36 AM UTC
i'm sure
life was a peach
til he was born breach
but the inversion of his excursion
into the hands of the surgeon left him worse an'
the immersive submersion
in perversive subversion
was only urgin'
the incursion
of aspersions
for subversive diversion
as
an apparition with volition
wishin for position transition
fishin for recognition
of ambitious cognition
this in addition
to the malicious conditions
that stitched in repetitions
of neurochemical
composition
transmissions
entailing
the intensity of his propensity
to find immense suspense in the
density of a tense city hence did he
commence in the dispensary
of sound condensed sensory
sensory sensory sensory.
said the intensity of his propensity
to find immense suspense in the
density of a tense city hence did he
commence in the dispensary
of sound condensed sensory
sensory sensory.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
Life is all entertainment , just like a psychedelic theater, our thoughts and breath whisper reality into creation.
I roam in and out my worldless kingdom
Freedom's reserved for the wild and untamed.
For who cares to know, we could fly our way out as falcons , or swim our way in as whales. It will never really matter because it's all entertainment , while we patiently wait for the emanations.
Expectations emerge from preconceived notions and blocks the transmissions entitled to all sentient beings.
Like a collective prophet and a magnet , we learn to filter the commands to percieve the matrix. Finally to redefine and recreate a convenient path that is real.
Our thoughts and breath whisper reality into creation, i chose my fun as transmutation, life is recreational.
Words Of Harfouchism
Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 5:12 AM UTC
Wondering down
the narrow hallway
Blank stares stolen
with nothing to say
Trying to exhaust
life's filthy emissions
Choking on
linear transmissions
Distance calling me
into deafening sound
Closing curtains
and water down
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
Custom made world
All made of plastic
Counting twist or turns
Everything is spastic
High definition views
Playing with our eyes
In a different place
Reality is a crime
Trapped in our electronics
We can not walk a line
Children with no manners
Living is a lie
Spoiling our ambitions
Charging everyday
Respect is really lost
Pictures are to say
Transmissions cross the airspace
Signaling the cost
Humanity is all but broken
Everything is lost
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
There are no transmissions any more
Just long rocking emotions
sitting on the front porch of life
The skin of our teeth leaves
a vacuous hunger
for the virginity of thought
But the magic inferred
leaves nothing but a sunset's ray
of goodbye upon the plains
of yesterday's regrets
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 5:05 AM UTC
i think i know
that somewhat ulterior suggestion that you crept into my mind
like a vivid rainbow across your face
light transmissions offering up your words
your image is on repeat
and our sentiments are all quite something else
always on hindsight
on turmoil
easily not speaking
confused about what we want
overexposed to death
we each smell detached
the way we sound in the distance
often too frail to reach inside our beautiful loneliness
Dec 20, 2021
Dec 20, 2021 at 5:12 PM UTC
Gunmetal Christmas socks pulled
past the calf like go-getter high school
girls "rocking" rainbow ******** below
the belt loops. I never went a day
without seeing short shorts and socks
replacing pant legs with a gap at the knee
to breathe. Downplay X-mas with black
jeans thinning 'bove the knees. I guess
it's payback for all the surly Santas
paid per nervous child lapdance
that got ******* out of $1.50
because I walked away.
For all the St. Nicks breathing pressurized
bourbon on little kids' wishlists.
Thread through a burgundy belt frayed
by the buckle teeth. And I'm sure this is really
burgundy, probably the only burgundy I never
questioned much, unless the manufacturer's
lying to me. Unless it's really a flexible case
for wild circuits and tiny open mics in bars
going on 'round the clock. Not just Tuesdays.
Fiber optics around my waist transmitting
telephone transmissions and cybernetic ****
monitoring my hips and what my **** does.
And my thoughts; they're ******* taking
my thoughts. Precious poetry lines lost
to the scarcity of pens in my car, when I'll
shave next, whether or not I want a burr grinder,
if I'll break glasses at work and have to drink
the glitters like iced tea from the hardwood floor.
Maybe I'll cut my gums. Maybe my tongue'll
become a chandelier butterfly and carry
me to Coudersport or Elmira or Nowhere
to watch pregnant teenagers push flat-tire
shopping carts heroin-shaking in the newborn
section. Their babies are spitting up Gerber plans
Mom has never considered. Baby's just a rock rolling
down the birth canal that may someday end up
a boulder in a state park.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
It's either a menace or a nuisance.
You don't know it's inside the walls until
You hear it. Miles of wire, humming
With current. Power lines, transformers,
Radio waves, microwaves, radar. Keep
A vigil or those transmissions unravel
Inside your ears. Every phone call, talk show,
And radio jingle all at the same
Time that you can't turn off. This is how God
Must feel, but instead of omniscient you
Are insane. Love will drive you mad, but the
Silence of heartache is worse than
Static from a television, it's loss.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
*Photochromatic Sanity & Fluorescent Visions,
Metallic Vanity Initiating Phosphorescent Collisions,
Luminescent Effervescence In Her Iridescent Constants,
Convalescent Spells Of Her Tumescent Transplants,
Auroral Apertures & Acronycal Fractals,
Floral Kisses Of Her Quintessential Portals,
Velvet Transitions & Twilight Transmissions,
Reverberating Vocal Inhibitions Of Her Satellite Renditions,
Razor Rivers & Rogue Delights,
Shining Laser Echoes On Vogue Nights,
Molecular Suicides In Abysmal Desires,
Drowning In Atomic Oceans Of Her Ethereal Reprisals,
Static Pulses Of Her Prurient Delights,
Amorous Impulses With Hymens Of The Night,
Shaded Whispers & Livid Overtunes,
Serenaded Ceilings In Her Vivid Offtunes.
Condensed Rainbows Over Her Silk Citadels,
Slithering With Oblivious Love Of His Ghostline Vessels.
Extinct Hemispheres Of Her Tender Tracings,
Broadcasting Distinct Light-Years In Spiritual Casings.
- 03:50 AM -*
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
♠ ♠ ♠
Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…
Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,
Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,
Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,
Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric, semi-formal,
matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),
coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.
Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,
Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.
Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring – formulaic)
confounds – yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.
Lists like this are perhaps the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
we are all
distributed transmissions
of the same
fundamental rhythm
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
heavy head
raise the lever
open eyes receive
light transmissions
signal time and space
je me reveille dans une chambre
qui ne me connait pas
j'attendais la vie me lève
mais il n'a jamais fait
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 10:48 AM UTC
They have tried to conceal our love,
they've thrown up roadblocks, and smokescreens
to keep us from finding each other again,
but yet we always do. Our love has its own radar.
I can sense your heart beating, like an angelic drum
through the haze, and I know you can always hear the love
in my voice, even through the harsh foul static.
Even when you cannot respond, I know you know
my love is always glowing, like a lighthouse in the night.
Guiding you back to my harbor of eternal affection,
where my lips never tire of sounding the horn of our happiness.
I have stumbled for women before, like a blind man descending stairs.
But I never fell, until I tumbled head first into the bottomless pool
of your beauty. The only waters in which I would gladly drown,
have drowned, only to be rescued and resuscitated by your kisses.
Those who do not speak the language of our love, point their antennas our way,
they intercept our transmissions, but their code books are missing the pages
that explain how such emotion can be decoded. They only catch the grand communique,
always missing the short, but ever so loving messages, that come in daily
over the teletype of passion. Feverishly at this very moment, they wrack their brains
wondering at the deeper context of our words, but their is no hidden meaning,
behind the expression of affection. Love is its own context, and if they cannot translate it
then they are the ones at fault, not us. We have our own frequencies, and wavelengths.
Our Love shall always ring out in the darkness, even if we have to switch channels,
It will be there, to comfort us, and relieve the ache of our longing. I already have enough
in this world. Let them have the rest. All I need is our tiny daily broadcast, all I need is...
Our love.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 7:20 AM UTC
**media holocaust dumbing down society
matriculating detachment's spineless dump,
weapons of mass distraction's convergence
assimilating adaptation's explored transmissions
in conversions of auxiliary's pseudo-redemption
anxiety cast in embittered expulsions of
ubiquitous foghorns flailing in numbing flat notes,
off key in theatrical productions' translation
failure to cease & desist standby sub-humanity,
close-captioned in radioactive hieroglyphics
on the walls of expectations' exasperation**
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Excited I am
immersed in your music
to witness essential soul
flowing through fingers
in passionate dances
raw tenders with humorous roll.
Variant genius
your stories recanted
in cadence to memories drive
now syncopate rhythm with fresh melodia
haunt intertwining vines.
Joyous transmissions
you have developed
beyond the range of words
evolving anew
each time that you play them
vitality trilling the urge !
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 11:11 PM UTC
I looked at your name in my phone,
the picture and last post
from your Facebook account
sent to and from space
on transmissions and airwaves.
I have a hard time remembering
the last time I saw you - at a bar,
the Blackhawks and the Bruins
making history on some LED screen,
while we sipped on cheap beer
and reminded each other
that our jobs aren't that bad.
A wise man said friendship
needs constant repair,
like your old red Jeep,
always rattling and clanking
for one reason or another.
And I realized tonight how things have changed:
that we're not growing apart, just growing up,
or maybe it's both, and maybe it's okay.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
even if these thoughts
are Compromised,
does it matter?
they feel real
just like they could
win the War
and change everything
as we know it
The Head of Radio
has died.
Video Queen
has taken over
the Transmissions
but our brainwaves
remain saved
for now
The Truth,
persevered in tar
far from the nearest star
dormant for centuries
until
it's revived with
the latest specific scientific
invention
intent
on saving the world
The Truth
it swirled and twirled inside
you hurled at the thought
the Compromised thought,
that you're alone
patrol the outskirts
of your mind
Not knowing what you'll find
but making sure all is checked
before you go for Checkmate
But it's too late
This game has gone on too long
and it has become a Stalemate
neither win nor lose
but Ego is bruise
causing the compromising
thoughts to be born
begot upon itself
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 4:39 AM UTC
Twixt here and horror
the path is littered with
chapped lips and broke-down transmissions.
Mandatory overtime.
That itty-bitty “but for this” was enough
to cleave my soul in twain, but
not right down the middle, no,
since it would represent a minor mercy
to be blessed with
some sense of congruity
in times like these.
Instead, what remains is
a big half and
a small half and
the big half eats the small half and
is left invariably lonely and sad and
filled with regret for this
lack of impulse control.
That **** is ******* me up, man,
its ******* me up.
Reserve your judgment.
Please.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
1
I will drive you to the beach today,
Because winter has outstayed its welcome.
We have no tolerance for rude guests.
After all, it’s been a pair of months since
We had our last snowball fight.
We can undress to the least amount of
Decent clothing the law permits.
We will take sandals that clap our heels
Uniformly with our strides through the sand.
I’ve already packed our wicker picnic basket.
We will have ham and cheese on white bread,
Because we both agree peanut butter is unpleasant to smell.
We’ve cuddled all winter long to keep warm. Now,
We want to hold each other for the innocent pleasure
Spring promises. Now, we’re going to the beach.
2
She and I held our anticipation together
With every rotation of our odometer.
We—together—would enjoy the simple pleasure
Of watching the overbearing nines
Give way to a fresh thousand.
She pretended the AM stations
Received alien transmissions at the ends
Of the dials. When we listened, we heard music.
She had the idea to buy one another
New bathing suits. Now, I wear too short blue trunks
With green dots, speckling me like an ill duck.
3
Skipping, and kicking up sand with uncommon grace,
The sun began to set as she pranced around
Our fire. The blaze was burning out, as the sky
Took the light away. I could only barely make out
The purple of her new one-piece, that so starkly
Contrasted with her pale legs.
As the sun almost hid beneath the west, like a fawn
Her silhouette casually strolled my way.
She held her head to the stars, presenting
All of her neck. The only sounds we heard
Were the tide and her toes crunching sand.
She stopped, just toe lengths in front of me,
Arching her head back, as if deep in thought.
Her mouth opened like a growing crater
And when, in her shadow, I joined her skyward stare,
We—together—both watched the Moon come out.
Jun 5, 2010
Jun 5, 2010 at 8:00 AM UTC
Words rub off
on one another
Linguistic f r i c t i o n
between unprinted covers
to start a poet's mind
on Fire.
Yet the turning
of wheels and cogs,
transmissions through
frayed wires
Requires quite the opposite.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
inanimate objects that have a life breathing inside of them. always on, always blinking, changing, humming, glowing, but never moving. no real breath, but there is life. the wires inside are warm and working, sending transmissions, signals, data, never even knowing that they exist. they are quiet wires, on which i depend so much.
Feb 5, 2010
Feb 5, 2010 at 8:05 AM UTC