"vox" poems
∴
A signifying monkey grunted
(keyboard-clever, morals stunted)
from his perch in a digital tree.
And next, did text (quite rapidly):
“Courtship rituals won’t suffice.
Face-to-face can’t break the ice.
Instagram me! Tweet me up . . .
friend me, like me, buttercup.
Sentences are so outmoded—
take too long to get decoded;
primate sexting hits me faster,
steers me towards your hot disaster.
Female monkeys: send an image.
(Ain’t got time for useless verbiage…)
if your snout just might unseat me
tweet me, greet me—don’t delete me.”
Then, unpeeling fresh banana,
searched his screen for Vox Humana. . .
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
It was, as the New York Times all but sniffed
(Even then, a haughty mix of bluenose and black ink)
Further proof the poor, misguided Upstate rubes
Were no more than ample fodder
For any tinhorn, two-bit confidence man to take for a ride.
Fair enough—it was, to the careful eye and unheated psyche
Clear as the azure blue sky that,
Despite the best efforts of acid wash and a year underground,
So obviously a statue as to be absolutely laughable,
And yet the vox populi came in waves,
Not only one-gallus farmers from the fields nearby,
But from the great cities near and far
(Chicago, Philadelphia, and, yes, even New York itself
To throw Hannum a quarter to view his gargantuan grotesquery
Just as described in Genesis itself, he noted solemnly
So many, indeed, that Barnum himself was divinely inspired
Not only to purloin the giant, but its prior owner’s epigram
As to the frequency of the manufacture
Of his too-credible customer base.
While there was (briefly, at least) some mystery surrounding
The origins of the brobdingnagian mass of stone,
It remained (to some, anyway) equally unfathomable
Why scores of folks would careen in unsteady coaches
The full length of the Catskill Turnpike,
With its questionable lodging and uneven roadworthiness,
Or patiently suffer the mosquito-laden flatboats of Clinton’s Ditch
All to spend the cash equivalent of two trips to the county fair
To see a perfectly good hootchie-kootchie show
Simply to gawk at an unevenly carved rock of questionable authenticity,
But that explained quite simply,
As the public always gets what the public wants.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy.
Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy.
Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy.
Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy.
Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly.
Rambling rambling
trying to
say….
…what.
What is…what is…this world…but a tiny little thing.
A speechless infant. A cowslip in spring.
A girl. Who I am…? A…
Thing. A thing. Imagine! If I can…
When everything is vast. No words, no way.
No truth, no words. No way.
No truth, no words. No way.
No truth, no words. No way.
To say…
I’m a girl wandering in April. I’m a girl wandering in April. I’m a girl wandering in April. I am a girl wandering in April.
I’m a woman wandering in April. I’m a woman wandering in April.
I’m 70 and I’m wandering in April. I’m 70.
Who…a cowslip
An IV drip.
Me, wandering with no words.
Then, brain
working down
the whole machine
no, just the mouth
to verbalize and verify
and analyze and clarify
and organize and ratify
and formalize and justify
the vacancy
of vibrations
in my vox box.
complacency
of situations
until one talks.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
Let every person know
that my heart is taken
and my eyes can only gaze
upon your sight,
My thoughts are filled with
fond memories of you
and my tongue could only speak
of my love's plight.
Let every person know
that without you my heart
will cease to beat
and my eyes are better off blind,
My hands would have lost its purpose
for they could not touch you
and life would be
so unkind.
Let every person know
that my love for you
is without limit
and that every breath of my life
I dedicate to you,
My soul indeed
has found its mate
a happy life together
is what we shall create.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 12:25 AM UTC
The beast to the beast is calling,
And the soul bends down to wait;
Like the stealthy lord of the jungle,
The white man calls his mate.
The beast to the beast is calling,
They rush through the twilight sweet,
But the soul is a wary hunter,
He will not let them meet.
2k
.
*Zombie ego shouts
Among bloodless dead columns
That I once had lived*
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
In this Cathedral you are a god,
this outdoor arena beneath a blood red sky.
You stand above a sea of melted faces
with arms outstretched and upturned
as reticent as a rood.
When the stage goes dark the beat begins
and you are one of us the wounded and resolute,
you lead us into songs of hope and redemption,
replacing silence with words of truth.
Truth as redolent as barb laden roses,
and just as difficult to hold.
A Savior that bled
the moon turning red
the darkness of night
the black of the white
the white gold and pearls
the mysterious twirls
your deepest desires
the trip through her wires
A house not a home
the scars on the stones
your horses in flight
the drums in the night
the **** of a gun
the glare of the sun
the un-deserved grace
the dust cloud erased
You sell what you sing like a preacher in pain
We hold on tightly until we bleed
In this Cathedral you are a god
Jun 24, 2011
Jun 24, 2011 at 8:00 PM UTC
Poetic minds are islands often found
In common reaches of the status quo
And in remote and deeper waters
Of vox humana in muted undertow.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC
It was quite evident as a teenager , drawing Boston's guitar shaped space ship on the back of an English book , playing the opening riff to Smoke on the Water with a broomstick
Hiding in the closet , listening to Kiss's first album , singing in front of the mirror to REO Speedwagon
Bad Company on the eight track in my '63 Ford Falcon , taking a Guess Who album to show and tell in Kindergarten
Reciting every lyric on Three Dog Night albums , Foreigner turned up so loud that the windows would ratttle !
Learning Free songs note by note on the guitar , playing Born to be Wild like I was on a World Tour
My heroes are Page , Scholz , Perry and Geddy Lee ! Soundgarden , Alice in Chains , Mott the Hoople and Queen
Jimi Hendrix bringing his Strat to life , Eddie's blistering fretwork !
Crosby , Stills and Nash , three part Angelic vocal harmonies , Ronnie James Dio wailing like a banshee !
A Gibson through a Marshall , A Fender through a Vox , a Tele through a Peavey , a Rickenbacker through an Orange !
Jim Morrison turning poetry into song , Elton John baring his soul through the piano
Eddie Vedder in a trance on stage , Anne Wilson crying out in pain , Layne Staley raising the hairs on the back of your neck , the reassuring voices of McCartney and Lennon , every musical note committed to paper by George Harrison
Chris Cornell screaming into the night , the aura of Robert Plant onstage
the sweet guitar work of Eric Clapton , heart wrenching soul of Janis Joplin
The wailing guitar of Robin Trower , the blues power of Rory Gallagher
Siren song of Annie Lennox to the infectious , brilliant lyrics of Tom Petty
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
the byproduct of the aesthetics of orthography gave us dyslexia (dis-* / negation and -lexia / lexicon), as if already apparent... because dislexia would not look as pretty; alt. meaning of dyslexia? unease with vocabulary, a trouble finding a personal vocabulary - i already mentioned that letters are vox circa (approximate vocalisation), even i make spelling mistakes at times... given dyslexia not dislexia / disease not dysease. (in the polish vox circa the pronunciation of y is like a baritone or bass, while pronunciation of i is like soprano or mezzo, i could give a kabbalistic anatomisation of the mouth for they are indeed very much aligned... but let's just stick to the opera metaphor).*
i trained my œsophagus like a
minor roman noble at a banquet,
now i can smoke and not take out the
**** foley puppet
whenever i want on an empty stomach
smoking the first cigarette and drinking
the first coffee of the morn,
ah christianity’s operating grace...
let’s categorise every pagan practice as
formidable ills,
have the reasons for the crucifixion
loosely knit with the lamb of god’s wool:
that’s two wool threads over my bare chest...
because, just because that new testament
story is so so tightly knit that you can
see the pearly gates with st. peter playing
outlaw cowboy’s quick-draw with the keys,
from havana (of all places) on earth.
poor isaiah, i rather remember you: considering
the fact that you were cut in half at
the abdomen of all equators.
in conclusion? the added diacritic marks
on this latin alphabet came due to the barbaric tongue tie
on the œ and æ... from these two manifestations
we were given é and ó among others,
i still think it’s chaotic, chiseled v,
otherwise papyrus u and the umlaut.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
The cold is my commander, it taunts me, while it steals my sheaths of warmer cleaving skin sections exposed by its notions and collected conscious. The sounds are complicated, the moons azurean hue resembles the coldness of my cigarette's embers blue, and then the commander shucks my final breath away. It isn't something that I barely feel, but rather something that lightly see. It's hoarfrost births its fickle shell of hardrime on the last of those interstices I once called my fingers. And from this choke, this frozen voice is detained by the vox ice amplifier that steals each noise. Besides, in an interruption I hear our whorish neighbors score of shouting scripted shouts, and screaming scripted screams. Each day she becomes less and less like any real human being. It's hard to believe that behind these walls that shield me from the albicant and atrocious heraldry winter casts me through, these sounds are concentric like limited Earth words written in the prompts that some ill and wanton succubus would. If only to lure herself from the pains she gained while lying to those amidst her closest ties. I am further distressed, though fully dressed narrowly watching bits of frozen water interlace themselves beneath freezing in the corners of my mind. When until the shaking and commandeering of my mortal sounds, disperse amidst the ferocity that Spring white snow absconds. The tremulent vocal chords are hailed by a hard-rimed **** who ensuingly rips the cantering spirit from each last place it stood. Only those who know this wind could speak about the way it genuflects and obsesses on these rules. This freezing genuflection hails to every servant of its rein, I can barely exhale the inspiration that rises from the head, until any skin exposed to air is reclaimed by my commander for good. Then each neighbor's head may lilt upon the piste, and pray for something more balmy than negative eleven degrees.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 2:25 AM UTC
I read five different newspapers online this morning
I still don't know where the vox populi has gone
nor do I know what is going on out there
in the world of which I am something
what I have learned is that more questions come
When did celebrity procure the mantle of moral representation?
Why are actors and musicians harder to buy than (un)elected officials? When will school teachers be remunerated at the level they deserve?
Can all this be turned into palatable verse?
One that avoids the indignity of chewing out my own tongue
Thank you dear Internet for ruining my morning
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 7:20 PM UTC
Those bouts of doubts
Don’t suppress them, address them.
Don’t speak to them, speak with them.
You can risk brushing away that stupid thought
That suggests you can get away with an
“I was misquoted.” expression,
When fleetingly acknowledging them at a convenient hour.
For you can’t pretend to
Not have heard your ‘inner’ voice,
Over and over again
Till the apparently feeble voice confronts you
In rebellion, from civil unrest –
Of voices oppressed,
Probably a yearning plea sprouting into
A voice that crosses all decibels.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
It is in the midst of insecurity
weakness and pain
that I found my voice
resonant, loud
not lurking in the shadows
It is in the darkest of times that my creative soul emerged
embraced me in its warmth
and gave me a sign
a forever reminder
that I can carry a world with words
that my hands were made to create
a forever reminder
that insecurity will not eat me up
it will not consume me
it will not overpower me
my power lays in words, needle and thread
most importantly
my power lays in a burning passion for what i do
a burning passion that will not dim nor fade away into the uncertainty of insecurity
Dec 27, 2021
Dec 27, 2021 at 10:50 AM UTC
Stop, give it a second and recall,
These are the things you should understand
Cause the underestimated stance of awkward silence
Is a point worth making.
Now let's go back to the basics
Where the odds are worth taking
And the political value of a country is still real high
And the people there still have a voice.
Vox populi, la vois du peuple,
The silent scream in the brink of existence
Screeching on the walls of parliament
Waiting for a pair of ****** ears to understand
Why we cry.
Cry as the ****** reaches its end.
Cry as the world falls into the dark abyss
Cry as the abyss takes over the hearts
Children that hold guns for a greater good,
That's to no avail.
Tears that create holes in the ground
With the hundred meanings defying the laws of mankind.
Why you ask?
A question that leaps through the open windows
Of government-slash-dictatorship
Taking over the world
We. Will. Never. Escape.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
No, I am not a legislator
of the world*
only a voice
a tiny voice
( vox clamantis in deserto)
but the winds
shall carry the words I write
and scatter them
over faraway fields
mountains and seas
wherever destiny bids
somewhere
somehow
someone would get to know me
just words
words drawn
from the blood of my heart
words I have lived with all my life
and loved like the most passionate lover
words that have made me stronger
than I could ever have imagined
words that have made me cry
they began so innocently
and I toyed with them
one by one
syllable by syllable
phrase by phrase
sentence by sentence
eureka!
I have discovered
words are alive
they give meaning
to all that is in life
and above all
they define what I am
and have given me
the building-blocks
of
what is
what is not
what should be
what should not be
how to
how not to
to be
or not to be
the jigsaw puzzle
pieces are coming together
and a clear picture is emerging
( a long drawn-out process
but how rewarding!)
Words I no longer could leave behind
and they would not want to release me
then the day came
when I realised
I became words personified
no, I am not just flesh and blood
any more
think of me then
as nothing else
but words
just words
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
Adoringly applauding
Arrogant acrobatic aristocratic,
Bourgeois bad-boys.
Braving boredom and bills,
Caught controlling criminal
Circles like a circus.
Daring to do, and to deceive
Desperate damsels in distress,
Each accepting enemies.
Everyone explaining elements
From the final fights
Frought with frustration.
Getting groovy- grown old
Garnering glittering gold.
Holidaying in Getafé,
Holding onto hands of harlots,
Implying impotence and insolence,
Ignorant in their ilk.
Jovially joking,
Jesting about juvenile jealousies;
"I kissed Katie Kurtis"
Knowingly comments one kid.
Left to love and lose,
Like Caesar and his laurels,
Making music and malice,
Manifesting manic malpractices.
Natalie narrates,
"Not now, not ever".
Obvious obstacles avoided,
Objectifying objects that are obsolete.
Praying, pondering over pros,
False prophets photographed as they pose.
Qualifying quangos,
Quantitative quelling of queries,
Raising riots and runctions,
Realising regal and royal remedies,
Celebrating summer solstice,
Solitude is bliss.
Try tampering telephones
To transcribe threat of treason,
Unreal unilateral promises
Unwound by underlying urchins.
Vowing to voice very real values,
Vox pop video views.
Wearing water coloured wellingtons,
Wondering over wax cuneiform works.
Xylophone playing exemplary,
Xavier exists in the imaginary.
Yearly yearning for you,
You're yoked as Gonne with Yeats
(unequally)
Zeroing in on Ritz and Rubble,
Rubble the Zealots want to reign.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
It was a lonely night
East grace street
Richmond's art district
on the border of Jackson's Ward
my side of the city
more bums than students
right by the transvestite bar
I met a fellow,
strange in appearance
and mannerisms
black dress shirt
black slacks
black shoes
black hair slicked over a waxy skull
'scuse me sir
ya gotta smoke
no man, I'm all out
all tapped out for cash
wanna strike a bargain
this roadside stranger
the hour was wee
cracked a cracked teeth smile
I knew I should deny
but still...
what're your terms
use your wrists
veins
fingers
mouth
mind
heart
promote me
tell the people I'm still sittin' here on the side of the road with a sign askin forra smoke
I nodded
vocabulary voraciously stolen by the non vox populi
he gave me a pack of filters
I lit up
eyes dancing, lost in the cherry's afterglow
and I felt it gone
empty
dangerous
erratic
I sold my soul that night
and I don't feel like looking for it
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
a one dimensional
*** ***** brain
in a three dimensional hologram of consciousness
i am a dumb wind
a slouching mongrel soul
carved in corpusles
its twenty six dimensions stupid!
mind like a radish in a **** slum
inhabiting a no return winter
of hollow helled mountains
soon to be dead
like disappearing smoke
i hear my voice
trying to count its molecules
with a slathering tongue
needle numb
and a brocaded Vox throat of tears
while eyes plead floating
like cataract clouds
no
Shadrach Meshach and Abednego
shinning baptism ufo's
god ***** shimmering in space
no
no reality quotient here
in a fitted sim built blood machine
of flimsy bone locomotion's
looking for time slips
tormented
by lifes prodding night stick
in a distortion field
i turn the wheel of shapeless shadows
in Satan's mill
waiting dormant
****** and muzzled
in a 666 cosmic zip code
im just another
****** **** ***** Jew
************ ******
apple bend over
living to pay the ******* rent
in a house fallen before its built
panting staccato deja vu's
in a no return winter
of pandemonium
in this knot of blotting screams
i try desperately to levitate
from this spittoon of ascending ***** matter
here gold turns to chalk
and i'm always doing gods work
with the devils pride
like a bug in the grass
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 12:59 PM UTC
ever hear blood turning
black while sizzling
on the frying-pan of synapses?
i once had an airy / ethereal
substance i designated to
a couplet of thought and soul
(so, so at ease with it);
but as i asked, the question
states a new couplet: the elemental
change from airy / ethereal
into electric - which designates
the loss of thought, replaced by
animation and the soul still intact,
because what once was thought
became a nobler pain i treated
as a vox ex paradox - a stoic impression.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
i cut out paper figures from the sky, from the sea
string them together like little beads
then rip them, tear them apart
like the ventricles of a breaking heart
i take them away, let them learn
then crumple them, or let them return
to ****** them at each other once again
bang, bang, together, bang, bang, the end
i shatter them, explode, bright like dying stars
watch them limp on with battle scars
then throw them to every corner of the Earth
to wander, wondering what they are worth
what could have beens
should have beens
would have beens
bang, bang, together, bang, bang, like shins
i make them talk, talk in tongues
that take up time, but waste their lungs
they speak in words, but they are bluffing
they are the voice, the voice of nothing
and still they walk, gasping for air
searching for a hand to tangle in theirs
tangle them, tangle them up
bang, bang, together, bang, bang, to dust
paper figures, paper hands
with paper skin, paper dance
and paper hearts, all alone
just piles of paper, piles of bones
to be recycled, back to the stars
to play again, play their parts
to leave once more, unpaid but well played
bang, bang, together, bang, bang, they fade
i crumple them, crease their flesh
make them wear a wrinkled dress
to show their beauty, hide their pain
hide and seek, the name of the game
i cut them loose, they drop their useless tongues
throw mortal blether to the wind, fill their winded lungs
paper, breakable, tearable, terrible
bang, bang, together, bang, bang, forever
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 5:18 PM UTC
This poem is dedicated to all poets in HP of whom I am a happy participant--a very new one--like someone just entering a kindergarten
We don't carry swords
we don't fight in battle-fields
we don't seek power or fame
we are just poets--word-warriors
who put the sword to sleep
to spread that which is noble and worthy
we see the worm festering and eating
into the heart of civilisation
and shall not turn a blind eye
we will keep vigil
as silent sentinels
never mind if we are set aside
by assailants whether open or covert
we know
the world is weeping
and in the abysm of darkness
there is not a single spark of light
quo vadis **** sapiens?
who or what will give hope
in the face of despair and disillusionment ?
because the world is weeping
we also share its tears
because hearts are broken
part of us dies
because there is loneliness and desolation
we become part of that loss and ruin
because there is poverty and deprivation
we loathe all that wealth and opulence
that seek but their own gratification
but is man born for sorrow and defeat?
where should we turn next?
is salvation and redemption in sight?
Though we are only vox clamantis in deserto
we will despair not
nor should we walk away in cowardice
we must have faith
patience
endurance
words are our bullets
compassion is our shield
will is our fortress
it might take a millenium
to bring about a brave new world
but we are the word-bearers and word-warriors
until the invisible battle is fought
and won
we will never yield
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
they say scents are the greatest mystery
that man leaves behind
that cannot rekindle a familiar nasal palette:
the slum scents of london in the 19th century
i can equate with a moscow-st.petersburg train
where a girl tried to worm-wriggle-out
of being designated serf beds near the toilets
with a pregnancy that didn't happen..
indeed the scents, the sardine choking
congregation of humanity in a crowded
underground train, where sweaty oil vapours
to clock the glutton of bulimia announcing
midday with regurgitation...
make each word an instrument, the vocabulary
an orchestra and each word a different tuning
to zigzag intentions not intended intentionally,
a noun acting as a verb, but esp. an adjective, etc.
indeed make your voice as mysterious
as scent... make it: vox est similis odor (notation
of the double emphasis, colon and italics
are a single ditto - " - make that doubly dittoed
and i turn to quadruple minding the worded affair);
and it wasn't because of the crucifixion
that a belshazzar moment didn't happened with nero
or caligula... it was the original musicology of
the roman notation that spared the keeping of the
letters and the loss of the numerals by invoking
arabic digitalisation akin of B and 8 that, simply
congregated... nonetheless...
let my voice be like a perfume, worn by those who
heard it, and a fetish for those who haven't,
not for some saintly or angelic ordinance,
but as a reason for who i once was among those
who wear it... and know the familiar humbling appreciation,
not this demoniac laughter with the foxes i had to
choose as home.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
the squelch of the Maenads' feet
danced grass into mud.
their murderous waters breaking--
carrying Orpheus' head in their bellies.
their glazed masks of perspiration became
stuck to weedy tresses of hair--loose as the
plucked strings of Orpheus' lyre.
their droplets of sweat premixed with blood.
Dionysus obliterating memories of irreversible
inebriation between his teeth--grape clusters
downing his chin like a handfed babe.
Orpheus' harmonic Sparagmos--where the
eidolon of every G*d reverberates an uppermost
image.
as Orpheus' head meandered, crashed & tumbled
thru the River Hebros--his lyre stayed by this throat.
playing dismemberment.
the goat song of tragedy.
undercurrents of Hades saturating Hebros with the
narrowest name of water--leading out to...
Dec 3, 2023
Dec 3, 2023 at 2:36 AM UTC
the “undifferentiated” ethnicity of western europe
is so ****** obnoxious,
i’ll sell this secret to the american youth,
they think eastern european people are as undifferentiated
as that quote about the chinese... ‘ah, but they all look alike,’
then i’ll make the romanians, the bulgars,
the poles, the lithuanians look alike and take london’s shard apart...
the western europeans think they have the eiffel they own romance,
the western europeans think they have the big ben they own all time,
this hope for a geographic orientation and bordering of
the a to z will be northern this time, no mention of syria or judea,
no mention of carthage,
i just hope the yugoslavs enter the realm and leave no blind spots,
they’re so obnoxious those western europeans collectivising ethnicities to a region,
let’s collectivise them as colonial labradors - so rich from the gold of africa
they need to leech on the least afraid of death in the cocoon of disabilities
of their own societies so that john pepperfork esq. the third
can shove his ***** into a dead pig’s snout at oxford,
let’s pay them back with smiles and nicely tailored suits...
and if that old testament story is true...
can the prince of wales please recite me the polish alphabet in full,
speak a sentence of the language fluently and without an accent?
because that would be hebrew for me of the mt. sinai identity vox par.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC