"unspecific" poems
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics
fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,
at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?
Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the
outrageous misfortune
of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.
Enough whining:
*I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering*
3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
a draper is someone who creates garments or patterns by draping fabric directly onto a dress form (Wikipedia)
~~~~
I am a draper,
by trade, by nature, by instinct;
a fling of one arm across her body,
while she dreams and sleeps, rambles, mumbles,
and even convulses,
to hold her tight with two, with both,
soon grows discomforting as the blood ceases to flow,
the heat breeds unsweetened sweat,
and the snuggling impact,
is too fast subsumed by the pins and needles
numbing, deadening,
and ironical attenuation
this is my pattern,
how I address her,
how I dress her,
draping my contiguous,
drawing five fingers
upon her form,
reshaping her in her sleep,
the arm flung, there, and then
there,
to be hung,
at varied places across her body,
higher lower, above below,
but her face,
free and clear,
so not to interfere
with her sensory preceptors
and as I draw my pattern upon her skin,
her body whole,
listening her to indeterminate utterances,
to determine
which
pitter patter pattern
to which.
she feels best suited,
then,
I prepare my
invoice
for her,
for services rendered,
to present upon awakening,
demanding
in voice,
by her voice,
payment in words,
of her own chosen
amuse-bouche,
mmmm, will it be?
good morning my love?
hello you!
or just an indiscriminate
but yet,
a discriminating
sound of
having been pleasured
by unknown forces
in her deeper sleep, using her lips
to say, to hum, to sing,
a genteel unspecific
but, and yet, a
terrific,
deep from within
guttural remittance,
the sound of a delicious,
mmmmmming
greeting
a new equinoxal gale
of a refreshing fresh
birthing, fulsome
already satisfying
draping of the
day
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 5:01 PM UTC
I do like him and that’s a fact. I like who he is and his looks are simply an additional thing that can be appreciated. He is kind and I like that. I like the way he walks, and talks, and does everything. His eyes. Holy moly. His eyes. I hate to be cliche and all, but sometimes that’s what the world needs to hear about, those utterly cliche moments. To be completely honest I’ve liked him since the moment I met him; the very moment I saw him. There was something about him that entranced me. I don’t know what that thing was, but it has haunted me. Now we are friends, but something deep down in me has always been drawn to him. I enjoy seeing him…when I do. I wish I could see him more. Truthfully though I denied my gut feeling about him because I thought it was too soon for me to start liking someone. I buried what I felt and I settled for simple friendship, but every time I speak to him or honestly got the chance to look into his beautifully blue eyes (oh that sounds so ooey gooey and girly, but I can’t help it!) I am reminded of that first feeling I got when I met him. I don’t know of a word that describes exactly what I felt, but hopefully someday I’ll come across it or make one. For now I’ll have to compensate by using way too many short and unspecific words that fail terribly. I like him. I even remember the moment when it was cemented into my being (the fact that I liked him). We were talking about words and I told him my new favorite word that I had just figured out existed, psithurism. He shard his with me, sonder. He pulled a youtube video up explaining, in black and white, what sonder is. It’s beautiful. The fact that that it is his favorite word is beautiful. There was something special in that moment and it hit me. I just can’t. I can’t believe I was waiting my whole entire life for that moment. And now it is today and I haven’t done anything about it. About him and me. And I hate that. I hate that I’m not doing anything about it. I want to hear him talk all hours of the day and give him a hug just because I can. I want to curl up next to him on a couch and listen to him tell me how his day was. I want my hand to be the hand he wants to hold when his own has no where to rest. I want the chance to look into those blue eyes every day of my life. I want to know all of his favorite things.
Sermonia (n), that’s the word, at least that’s what the feeling would sound like if I made it a one. Maybe someday I’ll admit to him that it is in fact my most favorite word. Psithurism, is great and all, but it fails in comparison to that feeling you get when you know you’ve met someone special.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
sports kit - generic hair
i turn seven times in twenty minutes
to check if you're still there
we watch the play
you from outside
me from the back row
are you missing out on training?
you're alone and you must be cold
plastic shorts plastic shirt
standing in an alcove
where god isn't watching
hands pressed flush against cool glass
tall window
you look so small
hiding like a kid
wouldn't you rather be annihilating yourself on the court?
cold hands - dark window - unspecific sport
unspecific boy
has anyone else noticed you?
have you noticed me looking?
forgive me for assuming, but
i hope someday you allow yourself to come inside
there's a free seat next to me
Sep 5, 2024
Sep 5, 2024 at 8:33 PM UTC
Her angles to the conversation varied
I examined like one would a dream
Awoken and ****** back into reality
Coffee cups on the bedside table filled with tea
She spoke with an air of authority
Quick fast with flashes of a little girl
The twirl of her tongue within her mouth
A touching face that left my heart with doubt
She smelled like the dew after first rain
The work has most definitely changed
She - crossing through galaxies - praised me
But there was nothing truthful I could say
She was the reason why I would write
Call Her a muse if you will
But my hand when she is gone is still
There is still so much of the well to fill
She makes me a dependent child
Crying in my sleep at night
And in my terror and fright
I try to call out, but my throat is too tight
She makes her way around the borders of dream
She tip-toes around my once vigilant masculinity
The willpower I possessed is still there
But the resting best of myself is skinned bare
She tells tales that I believed to be true only in love
And I discover then that I am
We ride the frothy waves of the Pacific
All the way to a place quite unspecific
She makes her tea as I make coffee
We find no reason to quarrel about that
And on the dresser our faces smile to guests
We sleep, we die, together in infinite rest
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 8:45 AM UTC
my darling maudlin
foolish, peculiar. under-fed.
gushing, pressing your tongue against my teeth
urging please
to speak//to speak.
hosting riots
in my veins. extending out
rushing through my limbs
and then dissolving. quickly while i wasn't looking.
unspecific. waited too long. decision. decision. indecision.
no...
i always miss you
exploding under my skin. that over relished and insecure
notion
of being neglected. untouched. urgency and passion. flicking flickering. thrashing back into my throat splashing in the backs of my eyes. sneaking out the corners. searing like bile. whispering my name and asking me
who are you (again and)
who are you
who are you
i was...
(something)
lost and found and lost again. renamed and redesigned and turned
inside out again and again.
and again and
but i try to remember before i forget.
my darling maudlin. foolish
peculiar.
with damp hair. pale skin. under-fed
my
(( maudlin.))
unraveling like a poorly made
rag doll. oh ****
not again.
i twist her up. twitch.
guess i... guess i
been caught up in that thing again.
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 7:29 PM UTC
it’s a sick sort of feeling
sitting with your head who knows where
between your knees
against the wall
in your hands
maybe in your past filing through triggers
or in the future
dwelling on unfocused unspecific
make-believe horrors-to-be
cooked up by the part of your mind that used to conjure monsters
and place them in every dark place
in your childhood bedroom
the part of your mind that something inside you
for some reason
decided to feed
or maybe this time it’s nowhere at all
your head
maybe you’ll feel each tears slide down your cheek
in the shape of a question mark,
dotted with a freckle or a sigh
or an arm speckled with ink from where you tried
to replace a knife with a pen
and your face won’t bend to fit a mold of grief
it will remain vacant
a smooth expressionless canvas
on which each silent question
may leave its silent mark
maybe you’ll let go of everything that ever mattered
except your blanket, hoping to save some warmth
for your frostbitten thoughts
and the tears will go ahead and trace their salty punctuation
until it doesn’t bother you anymore
not any more than rain bothers a window
or a leaf
or blades of grass that make and ocean in the wind
and spell the truth:
“you miss him”
it’s a sick sort of feeling
sitting with your heart you know where
between his knees
against his wall
in his hands
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
How strange is it that I forgot about you?
I used to write poetry about you-
you were my stand-in muse.
again and again
I replaced a strangely
unspecific space
somewhere I’m unsure of
somewhere a midst my center.
you.
don’t exist.
you are the minutes,
yes,
and all the miles between wherever
I may happen to be
and whoever I currently need “you”
to be.
you’re fabricated, you see.
and only briefly appreciated
because you will never
blow my mind.
you’re only as large
and fantastical
as my imagination can stretch.
so you see?
you’re no great threat.
c.m.
8-19-14
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
Pounding
pounding
pounding
i feel
the bass
pounding
to my core
my center
my heart
my soul
and the music
superfluous
unspecific
and beautiful
flowing
through me
my blood
my veins
i am bass
i am music
i am rhythm
i am dance
I AM
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
A car crashed into our tree last night, one fatal last mistake.
It was a cooper mini; I never heard the driver brake.
My wife, a nurse, ran to the car, then, sadly, backed away.
“There’s nothing I can do for him. This was his dying day.”
I could see there was a lot of blood; the driver’s chest was crushed.
I got the precinct on my cell. I said-“you need not rush.”
An ambulance came and his corpse was freed;
at the scene he was pronounced deceased.
I knew he’d had a violent end, but reasoned it was quick at least.
The road was dry and freshly paved and, as per the EMT,
There was no hint of alcohol when they pried him from the tree.
The patrol called for his next of kin, and, as the sun rose in the East,
a woman with her baby came, her face a mask of grief.
Her fiancé was thirty and that night he’d tended bar.
He’d been working lots of overtime to save for their new car.
A baby’s needs are many and often dollars are too few.
I didn’t know how she would cope and somehow make it through
Her face betrayed a fresh concern; I saw her check her phone.
“I had sent my fiancé a text- he was late coming home.”
I knew what time the crash occurred; it had awakened me,
But I was unspecific.” It happened around three.”
She showed me then the text she’d sent that may have caused his end
The time stamped on her text message read “2:31AM”
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 10:54 PM UTC