"tripling" poems
Nine months after I was born, the Twentieth Century began to collapse.
East Berlin,graffiti-mural concrete, a jutted enigma scratched
on ordinance maps, the sort found
landscaping westernized Primary School walls.
Where within, labored in real time, the television told my parents
(and everyone else given to social conservation in 1989) that a wall falling down
would bring an end to the gap between the working and the working poor.
Freedom waited for many on the other side.
But of course, History draws up different plans.
Never content to just go out with a bash, or to
fleetingly drift by leaving
in its absence an underwhelmed lull
The bloodiest century yet
left the new world entrenched
in an odyssey of hatreds
handed down from the past
right about the time human suffering became a bit dull
and the peaceful countries were too busy
tripling their money instead.
What does History really teach us and what are the real benefits
of being free, or freer than you were before?
Human ambition, which burns it way out of any oasis of calm,
which calls children out of sleeping in the night
Always seeks out the exhaustible
An inveterate Black sheep leading astray
the ever susceptible ****** lamb
Delusion’s strange bedfellows are the worthiest adversaries
to run away from, to reserve contrition for.
Unlike the inevitability of uprooted animal migration
during a monsoon swell
Can a people with an invested addiction
to the pursuit of happiness
Ever truly be prepared
for the inevitability of rapid change?
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
I LOVE him, I love him, ran the patter of her lips
And she formed his name on her tongue and sang
And she sent him word she loved him so much,
So much, and death was nothing; work, art, home,
All was nothing if her love for him was not first
Of all; the patter of her lips ran, I love him,
I love him; and he knew the doors that opened
Into doors and more doors, no end of doors,
And full length mirrors doubling and tripling
The apparitions of doors: circling corridors of
Looking glasses and doors, some with knobs, some
With no knobs, some opening slow to a heavy push,
And some jumping open at a touch and a hello.
And he knew if he so wished he could follow her
Swift running through circles of doors, hearing
Sometimes her whisper, I love him, I love him,
And sometimes only a high chaser of laughter
Somewhere five or ten doors ahead or five or ten
Doors behind, or chittering h-st, h-st, among corners
Of the tall full-length dusty looking glasses.
I love, I love, I love, she sang short and quick in
High thin beaten soprano and he knew the meanings,
The high chaser of laughter, the doors on doors
And the looking glasses, the room to room hunt,
The ends opening into new ends always.
2k
[my only swerving, by el ten eleven]
guitar slides
that break my heart
sitting inside
my hollow
guitar body
quick three
notes
on air
beats slow
snap
melody light
and quick
dancing
doubling
tripling
now slowing
sliding
bringing
tears
the sad
drumming
and bass
that move
time
forward
it's hard to
breathe my only
swerving
the cello sound
pulls me
down
guitar
strumming
the deep bass note
a vibration
to define
my
loneliness
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
Tonight, my bed is uninviting, and the moon too bright.
I get down on my knees; I send you
a prayer:
I hope you still find strands of my hair
clinging to your sheets, collected in the dryer’s lint trap,
strewn at the back of your dresser drawers.
Despite the figures of my absence-- in lunar cycles and miles--
I sometimes linger in that humming interlude before sleep,
picturing you twisting in those wrinkled sheets,
flipping the pillow only to uncover my lingering scent.
The full moon is glaring; You,
like myself, must be restless
at this witching hour, stringing
words together, our thread-count tripling
as the stars blink out. But,
close that tired moleskine eulogy. Tuck
it in some ill-attended corner of your
room along with the remaining,
waning remnants of me,
and sleep.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 12:14 AM UTC
i wasn't satisfied with the cartesian
cogito ergo sum...
it's not that i couldn't stomach it,
it was just: not enough?
people claim that maxim to be the source
of all subjectivity,
and there's nothing objective about
it.
all this modern talk of subject vs. object,
i had to employ a θήσαύρύς.
i needed a square... a solomon's star,
two squares encompassed against each other,
nothing akin to the star of david...
i mean solomon's star, of two squares
imposed on each other, layered
so you get an oκτάγωνον oktágōnon
oh **** a macron over an omicron = an omega!
oh k'tah goo non...
wait wait... i was going to write something
concrete, and yes, it was based on solomon's star...
6 things -
cogito sum
subjectivity objectivity king david (6)
reflexive reflective
thinking = subjectivity = the reflective
thinking = subjectivity = the reflexive
thinking = objectivity = the reflective
thinking = objectivity = the reflexive king solomon (8)
being = subjectivity = the reflective
being = subjectivity = the reflexive
being = objectivity = the reflective
being = objectivity = the reflexive
(alt. given the atheistic scissors of definite / indefinite articles
of the / a a reflex, a reflection)
what this means is, what's generally thought of as
the tetragrammaton, but it's not four letters,
it's the interpolation of the four main faculties,
that are now seen as tripling up, or call them: cubed;
a lament configuration representation.
thinking is subjective in that it is also reflective
(the narcissus bias)
thinking is subjective in that it is also reflexive
(i need a shave)
thinking is objective in that it is also reflective
(i am ageing)
thinking is objective in that it is also reflexive
(i'll just stop looking into a mirror)...
dear apologies for the geometry of the arrangement
of words, i know you'd love to see a tartan pattern
of interchange, but this **** seems rigid, in the way
that i wrote it... i couldn't find a way to write a b a b
as stated, it only came out as a a b b,
or a b c a b c rather a a b b c c.
but do you see what is even more fascinating than numbers?
the arithmetic symbols... arithmetic symbols
are very much akin to diacritical symbols...
i write an over-simplification of a concept using =,
and then all these conjunctional words pop up!
and yes, in terms of citing heidegger as opposed to
descartes there's a great disparity between
being and i am -
self-evident, being = the sum, a total, Σ,
while i am? it's a unitary representation of the total (sum / sigma)
of the possible mode of being -
it's also called ego interference / pronoun inteference
in the conceptualisation of the cascade that's ergo
into the basin that's dasein.
what philosophy call metaphysics?
linguistics call orthography...
what chemists call para- positioning on
a benzene ring;
or what non-chemists call the paranormal.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
A Goliath I created.
Magnified, tripling it's size.
My wounds are already afflicted before I charge.
Grief has caused me not to rise.
My heart is heavy with such despair,
A burden heavy and large.
I lay down my sword because of the weight,
It is the very means of my defeat.
It's time to rise from my knees
Stand strong and straight.
My courage is not in my hands but in my heart.
It's time to play my part,
Face that giant and really see.
He's much smaller than me.
Cast him down
I can pass
Continue on my journey.
At last
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
Share the world I'm alive
haunting brain archives
Thrives till dust then at dawn hearing your vocals
Vibrate luminosity across the smokers domain stuck
Freezed into the glaze of your mind
Own senses draped
self-spilling emotions on reality tap
Screen vented this day
the unknowing longing
To converse about
the gleaming at gorgeous eyes
Minding me intrinsically cumbersome under my skin
An image engrained into my head
Writing for the quintessential relaxed ears
Mind breathing without ageing thoughts
Breaking my weak twigs knees
Wanting your eclectic self-yearning
Nothing more
Byzantine accomplishments
Cemented on bricks buried on the floors
Passing artistically
Butterflys invade my consciousness
Then drifting back on wheels swilling untitled
Lonely human actions
Collecting copious mental photographs sloshing Amongst my neurons dreaming
Once more of a singers delighted painted green
Leavings as she bounces the surrounding scene of her european leaves juxtaposed
I remain still unseen with this non-emoted
Feelings ghost bound holdings
Gigantic bugs my ****** host as you fade away
From earth perceptions
Left burning wrapped beatnik-esque sunglasses
Reverberations haunting
My cranium nearly dejected frustrated
Shyness awaking my tripling typing monstrosity admirations
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
From dusk to dawn,
Pain to rain
with water showering
the face of the innocent.
I was innocent then
so lovely made
And peacefully protected
From the tripling thundering
thunderstorms, as my heart thundered
Of creeps , creeping my feet.
Oh my mama made me.
When the enemies
put adversity of pain before me
Guess what, she prepared a table
of joy , giddy .
I stepped and rose .
When thorns , they laid , my carpet-
She shamelessly made me a bed of roses.
She said ," Roses are red."-
Mama the sky is blue.
You made me
Mama made me.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 2:06 PM UTC