"twelves" poems
The Cross, the Cross
Goes deeper in than we know,
Deeper into life;
Right into the marrow
And through the bone.
Along the back of the baby tortoise
The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge,
Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections
Or a bee's.
Then crossways down his sides
Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands.
Five, and five again, and five again,
And round the edges twenty-five little ones,
The sections of the baby tortoise shell.
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone.
It needed Pythagoras to see life playing with counters on the living back
Of the baby tortoise;
Life establishing the first eternal mathematical tablet,
Not in stone, like the Judean Lord, or bronze, but in life-clouded, life-rosy tortoise shell.
The first little mathematical gentleman
Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers
Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law.
Fives, and tens,
Threes and fours and twelves,
All the volte face of decimals,
The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven.
Turn him on his back,
The kicking little beetle,
And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching belly,
The long cleavage of division, upright of the eternal cross
And on either side count five,
On each side, two above, on each side, two below
The dark bar horizontal.
The Cross!
It goes right through him, the sprottling insect,
Through his cross-wise cloven psyche,
Through his five-fold complex-nature.
So turn him over on his toes again;
Four pin-point toes, and a problematical thumb-piece,
Four rowing limbs, and one wedge-balancing head,
Four and one makes five, which is the clue to all mathematics.
The Lord wrote it all down on the little slate
Of the baby tortoise.
Outward and visible indication of the plan within,
The complex, manifold involvedness of an individual creature
Plotted out
On this small bird, this rudiment,
This little dome, this pediment
Of all creation,
This slow one.
11.7k
Under those bridges like ladders, we walked and we slept,
With the lives that we picked apart and the pieces we kept,
A backwards world gone broken, pieces falling down like rain
Shiny shattered shards of ruin, but the reflection will remain,
And she waits and she watches, slowly licking at her fur,
Maybe we wake up to dream, maybe the path crosses her,
Sleeping under blankets in summer, open umbrellas indoors,
But can’t go back to teenage sunsets, can’t fight our parent’s wars,
It will take time, maybe our whole lives, but everything for now,
Dangling from the end of her string with a sick sweet meow,
And the only thing I need to know is if old men still dream,
When silence is golden, am I worth my weight in a scream?
Seeking a world with cyan skies where Fridays only come in twelves,
We saved yesterday for tomorrow, but still can’t save us from ourselves,
Seven more years, six more months, one last day and then through,
As the thought finally occurs that it was me crossing you.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
when you're out of work
a new kind of dictionary defined,
old filters replaced, perspectives refined
take the respite resort word
the "weekend,"
when you are unemployed,
it starts on a Monday,
and runs seven days consecutive,
and the words
"week"and "end" can no longer be married,
for each,
just a new cuss word
when you're out of work,
the sweet small spaces of your home,
revised by the architect
of the mind,
somehow sudden, two sizes smaller,
fewer doors and windows,
light and air, hesitant to enter,
no Vermeer here,
staleness re-covers everything,
new is worn, and worn is
you
when you are fired,
you comprehend the word's meaning clearer,
now, your every thought feels like twelves cylinders firing,
you've become
furnaced, tempered,
dressed daily in an orange yellow colored
jumpsuit, with UNEMPLOYED
across a bent back,
self-censoring the spoken and the unspoken,
when you have no work,
everything important is twice the work,
believing, now a chore,
loving, a labor lost
when you're unemployed
a new kind of dictionary defined,
old filters replaced, perspectives refined,
many words excised,
so few required,
so few desired,
they as well,
rank, and unemployable,
and everything reads
left to right
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
In the midweek of twelves months I torched blunts and choked on wet smoke and chamomile tea.
Fretting the niggling giblets of a queasy disrememberance of a sober stroll through your tossed hair salad.
I managed to mangle the marvelous gross lust of our impending
delirium. i farmed bok choy to annoy our local siege. our muskets were polished with misdeeds.
our demons barked, all coy and ravenous in the sweet diffuse of our useless aplomb.
ginger rockets in our thespian numb. you Dis-Oriental surrogate Mom.
You.... flame folding cranes, like a Japanese cancer
with opposable thumbs.
Unstoppable in the dead wink
of an awkward eye
upon your heaving *******
You burn regardless.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
Hello again, heartless friend.
So slyly in the backgrounds blend.
Your veering vanish, vaguely here.
Your gaze of increments - insincere.
Healer of the hearted scars.
Swallower of the heavened stars.
The paths in which we dream and delve.
Allow the doubling ones to twelves.
Slices of the eternal elude.
Movements of monstrous magnitude.
A hesitant dawdle. A lingered delay.
The mountainous sway is steered away.
Hoarded heaps of hourglass bliss.
Outnumbered by wasted nothingness.
With interludes of want, of miss.
To slowly morphed indifference.
The pendulums that abruptly swing.
The burdens they still hope to bring.
The envied earn of Earth's endeavor.
The better late. The better never.
The eerily empty echoed need.
The blossomed tree from planted seed.
The curse of a continuous grief.
The ever stealthy, silent thief.
The cogs, gears, hours and hands.
The burn of beauty, bleak and bland.
The coziest, surrounding choke.
The whelm from the transparent cloak.
The running out. The ever essence.
The grand keeper. The watchful presence.
The potential of the plainest plan.
The currency of the wisest man.
What horrors - hallowed by the tick.
Will sound for both healthy and sick?
Will compose secrets, never told?
Will fumble flame to frigid cold?
The end stays always promptly nigh.
For the intimate, infinite blink of eye.
I fear your wasting, more and more.
The constant count to twenty four.
Unresurrectable and second to none.
Airborne, regardless of having fun.
As retrospective wisdom blinds.
Our youthful hopes and manic minds.
On and on. From time to time.
Song to song and rhyme to rhyme.
Betrayer of all mice and men.
Less of if and more of when.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 6:39 AM UTC
Hear me two twelves and I've displaced my shirt.
Pollinated four elves with crystallized dirt.
Syllables betray what a symbol is worth.
Twenty metaphors plus five ****** make three kinds of birth.
Crease in a place where no grease can escape.
Forty times corduroy equals one face.
Applied nine seasons to spice up the taste.
Cardboard ate silicone then left in great haste.
I know that these words don't make any sense.
The greater cost of my mind has already been spent.
Somewhere between Easter and the beginning of Lent.
Jesus Christ threw a fit when I couldn't pay rent.
Caved in on the heads of the poor in a mine.
They'll eat it as long as it's in common time.
This line is just filler to set up the last rhyme,
but **** that ****
I'm a nonconformist.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
Wind - well, a whisp whipping
Weak and wet wights
Woefully waiting and wishing
Weeping while we are without
When will we welcome wafts,
Whispering whisks wilting over,
Wrapping the sweltering
Trapped! Tricked to take
Time's tedious torture
Telling turbulent tumults
To tarry, tolerating terrible
Ticks trained to trip towards
Typed twos and twelves
Too tardy am I to take
Thought to tend to time's
Temporary turnabouts
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 4:38 PM UTC
December, freezing... even the stars feel cold
spun from the stories he knew, the ones he told
and he can't feel his hands, his feet
and there's a slowness in his heartbeat
but he keeps holding on, praying for the sun
and hoping he won't come undone
but he's lost... in the wild
trying to find his wife and child
but it's so cold, his breath seems to freeze
and he can't walk anymore, he's on his knees
their car broke down, twelves miles back
and the night's too dark, everything turns black
and they wandered off, he heard them talking
and he was in front of them, he just kept walking
trying to find some warmth, some shelter from the snow
and they just seemed to vanish, where did they go?
and he's been walking in circles, for hours now
thinking he will find them, some way, somehow
but his fingers are numb, right down to the bone
and he feels the lights around him, calling him home
there's no time here, just wide & empty space
he feels the tears freezing to his face
and he calls out for them, until his voice goes hoarse
if only he could see their footsteps, track their course
he just wants to close his eyes and sleep
who knew the forest could go this deep?
they stopped to rest by an old tree
and it would be the last thing he would see
his family frozen together, child and mother
at the end they had each other
and so he curls his body around them, says a pray
and hopes that it's over soon and that he will be there
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
Aw aw aw LIZZY .
my splendid only juicy .
what last of memory .
am i to place upon you ,jolly .
for words steal as season .
and our oath is but fake reason .
i hope with you the world know the truth .
cause i behold you with worship all through .
and my heart feels it holy .
to give you my sweetest story .
you are fire within me for more .
but tempest toll and a word is business with a Moor .
yet there is something i would like then you behold for proof .
come and lay down upon my bed of flower .
cause the blood stain is redeemed any ever .
behold ,your life needs but my soul .
for word is magic and can fool .
but the blood is real and it holds responsible .
come the blood stain is more reliable .
beauty fades away as color wore out of red .
come and lay upon my flowery bed .
and let us have the covenant of blood .
the blood stain bed will unit us and the covenant .
its the Lord last supper , the blood is most confident .
the Holy Grail as much as the Ichor of our soul unity .
without the covenant the soul is but a vile entity .
word is spirit and the blood is soul .
the spirit is dominant in beyond abstract vale .
the soul is the physical living of our real existence .
and a lonely man or woman is a half spirit .
see we should make our life one and become full .
so come and sit upon my flowery bed .
and let us have the soul to its full and lead .
upon the bed we will sip the HOLY Grail .
the holy Ichor will strain from me and trail .
into you upon the flowery bed for covenant .
the Lord made the sacrifice across the pole with blood .
but before he beholds covenant with the twelves with his soul .
is the ever binding oath for our physical living .
for the words of his poetry entreaties with spirit .
know today that you impart with my word for spirit .
but if you will ; to partake with my earth living .
you should sip me into you so that we may be one .
come and lay naked upon my flowery bed with your heart alighted .
and i will penetrate into you with tenderness in the night .
come at midnight and close windows and doors .
put off the light and lay down flat and open me your door .
hold up your limbs and close tight your eyes .
cause im going to sacrifice into you at midnight .
no murmur ,no romance ,just lay stiff flat and up your limbs .
open the door of your altar lightly cause the blood ,
of sacrifice is going to gush into your hollow , pure .
the Lord needs sacrifice and woman needs sacrifice of blood .
let me sacrifice to you into that night ; at naked allure .
into that altar between your limbs , im going to seal the covenant.
never stir , never moan cause its the blood oath of our life .
and our living will stick to it for the remnant of our right .
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
Lets talk about our past memories
All the stories and all the tales
Let’s talk about all our theories
And how they never seem to last
Cause we never seem to look past
All of our notes and all our facts
Let’s find ourselves alone
At 3am. Crying on our beds,
Avoiding the biggest traffic cone
Inside of our sorrowful heads.
Because we can’t escape ourselves,
What we’ve broken upon the shelves.
And we started counting in twelves,
Forgetting the one’s and the thirteen’s,
And all the rest in the in betweens.
Now we can’t find anything to be unseen.
If only we had taken our predictions,
And thrown out all our guns,
Lived like all the billions,
And stopped resting in coffins.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
ok
lets start this now
c'mon
let me show you how
it goes like this
you lift up your fist
and you pound pound!
on the ground!
shaking the floor
up and around
swing swing!
hit everything!
break it all!
run through the wall!
smash!
scream!
destroy!
what would seem!
fake!
and dead!
in and out!
of your head!
what if we together walk alone inside this world
hiding in the shadows of this cold and pointless road
dreaming of the faces in our hearts we wish we had
thinking of the places in our minds don't feel this sad
wondering if this life will ever ever change
but when it does we feel so scared and strange
hoping that one day we will control our lives
and somewhere along the road we will finally realize
this road isn't gonna turn for us
we gotta turn ourselves
we will turn and thus
change the lives of sixties and twelves
and on this new road
we might think to go back
but were here
and it isn't so sad
so live!
breathe!
receive!
your heart!
burn!
fire!
now!
start!
go!
be ******
the ones!
we fight!
****
destroy!
in the dark!
and daylight!
never!
quit!
never!
give up!
don't change!
just keep going!
and never be shut up!
this world will someday come to a bitter end
the day that disbelief becomes our closest friend
so counter the shot, get ****** and shoot back
if you have to, use your fists or grab a bat
it doesn't matter, someday you gotta fight
doing nothing just doesn't really feel right
i don't get why people just let themselves die
they take one hit, fall down and then cry
they just let go and destroy their entire lives
and let go of their husbands, kids and wives
the tragedy of it all is that were doomed to die someday
but that's the beauty of it because everything's more beautiful that way
if we were meant to live forever
the beauty of life would never get better
we would be walking around immortal and painless
instead of walking honestly and shameless
what if we were born to live the way that we want to die
not to live forever
but so beauty cant live long enough in our lives to become a lie
so when your with death
and you're not who you want to be
just take a deep breath
and let yourself be free
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
I've encountered lands barren, with nothing, only nothing, you.
I check inside the broken houses, wreathed in rose petals, lying to the passersby: nothing but nothing, any will find. Counting time keeps ticking and ashen hands sifting, hours go in twelves, but our emptiness we cannot undo. Are we the heartless or was your fire long past due. I stare at the sky and wonder, how many seek to carry you; and the limitless times they are engulfed to nothing, by the nothing that is you. Emptiness is painless, depending on its place, it can consume us, and set about flames, reaching at nothing, setting all they touch to look too. Holocaust becomes, all whom wish to find a you.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC
Watch out for the agenda
And the political crew
Lets just say they represent
SATANS Zoo
Wake up because we ******* galore
To many youngin' hittin' floor
Minds gone society gone
Guns is blown
Another body in the funeral home
They say color dont matter ?
But all i see is red
Once the flesh is cut we emotionally shattered
the world is bruised n battered
See the picture i lainted better
Than Van Gogh
But too many innovators entice
To the dough
O yea watch back cuz they quick to glue
Stick minorities to crimes
Thats not related to you
So cool demons surrounding n houndin'
Me how could this be?
If this is a holy society?
Popes are molesters churches are imitators
Of God how odd is that ?
Pack a gat in my 82 cadillac
Big grill spinnin smalls wheels vogues appeal
O so real
Ya know cant play a fake cant shake
The pain i hear the thunder clouds of pain
It's too.much of us livin' in vain
Now what im seyin' the strain
Its like that now
peep the game
like that now
get the humps up out ya back
yea i still embrace the gat
cuz the city ******
so i gotta get witty nitty in the gritty
i seen a starvin babe leechin'
on his mommas *******
but she half dead babe cryin'
look into her eyes and
you can tell she was a ******
**** how could this be
its my society
givin' drugs to the community
cant escape the rain
or the pain
just a little **** on my brain
coca leafs to puff on
henney and the boones farm
dont sway from the good
stay close to the hood
even though we got good times n bad times
kickin' dope rhymes
no punchlines
just sayin' whats on my mind
i wish i could bless the world
really doe
not have to front a show
just get some dough
that boy jesus
lived thirty three in a half years
aint neva have a job
just twelves homies
rollin' through the breeze
rocks cryin' water turns into red wine and
miracles happen in mysterious ways
still hopin' for better days
radiate my soul
chillin' unda the sun beam rays
feel me????
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 2:47 AM UTC
Awake at four, he rises, lights the fire
And puts the kettle on for a cup of tea
Pulls on the work-stained overalls he shed
Only a few exhausted hours before
Working a shutdown stretch of twelves and sevens
Maybe he’ll make enough for Christmas this year:
Wonderful gifts for his family still asleep
He slips out silently through the back door
His wife and children are disappointed in him
Because he doesn’t do enough for them
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC
Fear, not the power of Jesus.
For He has the power to heal.
Remember the woman with twelves years of blood issues.
That doctors couldn't cure.
It was him.
Just the touch of his garment.
An immediate reaction occurred.
It was him.
Christ, asked only who touched me?
Even his disciples couldn't offer an answer.
To who touched me?
Except, the Lord knew.
He perceived it.
Even the woman trembling, as she was came forward to confess.
She admitted, who it was?
Christ, only stated daughter be of good comfort, thy faith have made her whole.
And request that she go in peace.
Yes, the power of believing upon Him.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC