"whiteout" poems
There's an awkward thrill I feel
like wicked-wet rabies –
Oh. Ah. Oh.
To gaze over photos of the woman I created.
With my warped perception,
saturating and cropping everything into delicious
oblivion.
I am the knife as well as the ingredients
that sauteed her together in a camera flash.
She sits hot like heaven.
And I want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
The woman I created, I hang up like perfected rotisserie
and fall in love with her accidentally every day.
Looking into those precisely underlined
tiger-sex eyes of startling navy. Knowing their true dullness.
Hissing at the free-swinging curls
and the hours behind them. Loving the lie.
The flowy top and sleek trousers gliding down lovely as Niagara
over chaffing chub; all hidden. And thighs; unshaven.
And that topical smile everyone likes to see, waiting to plummet
into suicide like a kite hanging in one tight second.
Her image is my greatest
False accomplishment.
I hang my portrait up on a wall of the internet
for people of the world to migrate to
the photo exhibit, my little show-off room.
They make offers and toss compliments
with their “I like this. I like this." nonsense.
They don't know that the girl in the portrait, she
isn't organic. They seem not to notice
that she is something of a chemical flower.
Her face is my face, only with whiteout poison-paste
smoothed over twice.
And they want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Gazing upon her believed-to-be beauty, as I hang my paintbrush,
she bites her body still as a painting,
bruised and needled
into perfect frame. She cries
like Jesus Christ, as she is stared at, but not seen.
I am the artist as well as the object.
And the woman in the portrait is
nothing,
but dot after dot of manipulated color.
And we want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.
The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.
A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.
So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.
Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."
While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.
But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?
He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.
Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."
"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
When i daydream of someone, you are the someone.
The someone can change.
I realize i'm picturing you, and so i change it.
I change the picture, i change the person, i change the plot, i change the you, the me, the time, the page.
I change it to fit; fit my story.
It's a book and i'm the author.
I go back, i rewind, i scribble over, i erase, i whiteout; the plot has begun to develop hole's.
I fill those hole's with "platonic," "platonic," "platonic."
In reality, i want you.
I think i want you.
But i don't know you.
I don't even know myself.
When i daydream, i'm also different.
I change me, too, sometimes.
You see, the book is missing a few pages in each chapter.
Every chapter, there's a new character.
I don't know if that character is always me.
I don't know the difference between platonic and romantic, is there one?
Explain it to me.
I'm a visual learner.
Ignore that, scribble it out.
When i daydream, i daydream you.
When i daydream, i daydream him.
When i daydream, i daydream me.
When i daydream, i daydream romance.
When i daydream, i daydream platonic.
When i, when, well i, you, him, me?
This isn't reality, it's a ******* fantasy book.
It's a dream, a dream where maybe i could know you and i could know me.
A dream where we knew each other.
A dream where i don't try to convince myself i don't like you.
A dream where we are even living in the same space. Same country would do.
A dream. Romantic dream.
But when i open my eyes, when i shut down my imagination, well then.
Platonic, platonic, platonic.
Jul 14, 2022
Jul 14, 2022 at 2:04 AM UTC
Would that I wave my hand
and gift the blooming of
spring flowers to you.
Or pray at the altar of winter’s slow fire
to melt away this frozen heart.
But a flurry of whiteout feelings
blind me from such a pompous display
of naive romanticism.
Yet love is blind and love blinds.
Love binds and love breaks.
If you’ve lost the trail, you are the trail.
No one said this journey would be easy.
Actually, I don’t remember anyone telling me anything about this journey.
Rubber wood for legs and pursed lips
at the sound of a secret
taunting my ensemble soul from the wings.
Space enough to relay a message.
Distance enough to lose it.
The gathering at this point is a drift of tumbleweeds and the only thing
to read on the signs is rust.
So I reach down and grab a handful of dirt,
put it in my mouth, and whistle dixie
past this graveyard of doubt.
Just in time to see the last elephant
and the sun set through the fog of memory.
That star is underground
as I sleep, lighting the dark corners
from weird angles.
The wood groans under the weight
of dreams before flesh splits
to let the light in—
pay the sandman,
it’s time
to wake up.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 8:53 PM UTC
A baby crawling paws down
Down the stairs into
the study room
the odd computer flashes
the faces of what looks like people
a whiteout face
with black shameful eyes
breaks the scroll of happy faces
happy places and joyous info
as empty as a new USB
it's gaze pierced my soul
forever
It was 1998 then
More than a decade later
whiteout faces everywhere
on every screen
monitors growing out
like tumors on a monster from
The Thing
one grows in my pocket
I pull the tiny screen out
and the face eyeballs me again
one grows in each room
the kitchen has one on the fridge
all the cars have them, too
pixellated faces talking at me
I feel there may be one plugged on my
heart or brain
I can only think on its terms, now
I'm going to need a
date for the movies tonight.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
Tormented fingers
clenched tightly in a fist
of condescending blues.
Maple leaves and acorns
strewn about the landscape,
and I, on my knees
reaching longingly and hopefully
for a past I’ve left behind.
Understanding and nurturing
those thoughts of ambiguity,
the reckoning of the present
resonates soundly within and
encores prevail from
future reverberations.
I continue to question,
while on my knees,
all that is worthy and good
and yes, even meaningful.
I often stand corrected,
like a blizzard’s whiteout,
however confused I get, and
you, always on my mind,
and again, you find me
floundering on my knees,
searching, groping, exploring
the world...on my knees,
trying to rise and be counted.
While on my knees,
bloodied and wounded
from the heat and the pavement of life,
and the hardness and complexities of time
and the unyielding fact that
I must remain on my knees forever,
if I am to survive another day.
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 7:06 AM UTC
Give me mount everest death.
Give me cold glory.
Snow kissing faces,
One man among many.
Nearing the start
Of their final few breaths.
Miles and miles of whiteout
Remind you of the lights
Your mother left out
Too late into spring.
This comfort you will spend
Your final moments seeking.
Give me mount everest death.
Give me cold glory.
You knew there'd come a day
When you wouldn't meet the morning.
Maybe you didn't make it to the top.
Maybe you didn't kiss God's face.
Maybe your mother will never know
Your final resting place.
Give me mount everest death.
Give me cold glory.
Tell me the end
Of your entire life story.
Ice cold breath
Nearly dead in the snow.
Ten years ago
She would have made you come in
At the very first sign
Of blue tinted lips.
Now you're watching snow fall.
White on black fingertips.
Give me mount everest death.
Give me cold glory.
Somewhere out there
Your Mother's still mourning.
Wishing she could call you in.
Ruining your fun
One last time.
To see your blue lips
And make you hot chocolate
To warm your cold fingertips.
Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 10:42 PM UTC
no matter when I go to sleep
no matter when I go to sleep,
my next door neighbors
wake me up,
arguing.
History and the Future,
the oddest couple,
always in opposition,
in a world of mutual armament.
these unilateral siamese twins,
every dialectic ends the same:
one says I'll **** you,
then, they both start laughing.
(Eléa's #1 fav)
9/15/17 4:35am
<•>
mark me as safe
though the namelessly hurricane is never ending,
the roof, a sacrifice in the wind's temple,
letting millions of naked eyes be persecution witnesses,
marking me as safe, but not saved,
surviving, the destruction, a beautiful curse,
this violent universe.
9/15/17
4:30am
(gifted to Joel & Kelly Rose))
<•>
address me with no assumptions
for we will provide the facts,
with liberty and justice,
we will fill in the redacted parts
in the bill of particulars,
of the indictments signed namelessly,
only as the
The State's Attorney,
woo hoo,
We Who Always Win,
Cause We Make the Rules
9/8/17 9:31am
<•>
21801BB705 VDAB7
given this, the key,
the rulers announced thanks,
but not in anyway a necessite,
we will just smash the locks
and burn your personal history down,
until now it has JUST been whiteout corrected,
you're welcome!
9/14/17
6:37am
(gifted to Evan Crow)
<•>
don't major in the minors
don't major in the minors,
classicism is a double entendre,
you don't understand,
but you will,
when you study headless statues
in a museum
come back to life,
do not act surprised.
progress is not an iPhone,
it's taking a long bathroom break
in the mind.
(Graces's fav)
9/10/17. 5:37am
<•>
All the old battles are new again
All the old battles are new again.
every old poem is but a pretense, a new work refreshed.
cutting edges dull knives, easily resharpened by new use,
fresh excuses.
stale words that stick humans, come to life,
as any and all of your favo-rite
army of (fill in the blank)
___ism's,
marching in the name of good riddance
of the disloyal opposition.
nothing new under the sun,
history books predict the future.
(Eléa's #2 fav)
9/15/17 3:55am
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
Leaving class during an internal lockdown
Shooting elastic bands at the target we mounted on the wall
Shooting elastic bands at our teacher's hat
Hiding from our teacher with the hat
Naming the robot we programed in class: Clive
Bananagrams
Ditching gym class
Talking/lying our way out of trouble a lot lol
Making elaborate plans to do very odd things (and playing pink panther
music as well as mission impossible music when we did it)
Putting mistletoe everywhere in the school at Christmas
Texting quotes of the night
Writing fictional stories and sending them over text to each other in
parts at 2AM
Writing poetry
Learning the Greek Alphabet so we could play Greek Hangman
Creating numerous extremely complicated codes where punctuation,
capitalization, "accidental" smudges near words and how you
pronounce certain words is significant.
Always buying the same drink at Starbucks
Eating a ridiculous amount of free samples at the Fro Yo place
Skipping down the hall happily in our gothic spiked clothing. Just to
confuse people. Watching the looks we got.
Writing limericks in math class
Playing Go Fish with our bus passes and when the teacher came over all he said was: Oh! Who's winning?
Playing full tackle basketball...when we were supposed to be playing badminton
Filling a friend's locker with stuffed animals while they were away and texting them to warn them we put a lion and bear in their locker
Inside jokes: Whiteout, Whip-cream, We-are-the-crazy-people, **** that's a fiiiine shoulder! Pass the coke!
Playing Quarto during Science class
Playing boggle during religion
I miss that grade. I wish things could go back to the way they were, but they really can't ever. I miss being so young and innocen- hahahahaha okay, not innocent but young and crazy. I miss when there were not scars on my arms and my soul.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
*the elbow comes to rest in the soft
skin coverage of my essence
in the dark, it's easy and free to weep
but still never cheap
everyday is still a word, an everyday struggle word,
echoing like a scream in a cavernous void
her elbow comes to be buried in my chest,
preference for an unavailable, sleeping soft cheek,
this elbow sharpened from years of work, worry &
baby carrying
on this day, of pointing,
take-a-hint-to-be-remembering,
the simple honors life bestows
comes like a pointy elbow poke,
across vastness of a bed of whiteout cotton,
freshly filling up
as I am writing,
with thankful years and thankful tears,
already recording newbie memories
freshly forming up
welcome this sharp goodness
all the days
of our lives,
even those everydays
of our lives
nothing greater than being grateful,
and the re-gifting to others
the blessings of plentifull*
5:26am Thanksgiving Day 2016
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 5:40 AM UTC
I could have been one of the things first
left my happy home to see what there is whiteout
and I am hopping some one will miss me
and here I have to say
for there is no use in lieing.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
Frozen was the ground warm was the flesh.
A total whiteout.
Yet not a single curve was missed through
such thin mesh.
She spoke frozen in the moment
to every word she said.
So cold was the night.
Warm was the bed.
Deep within passion written with
with a kiss.
Warmth cannot be ignored.
Even on a snow covered night like this.
Snow drifts slowley as i view
the moon's light illuminate your
silhouette as across the room you slowley walk.
Confessions in the key of plessure
with such gentle pillow talk.
Ice cicles and love bites.
Memories etched deeply within are hearts.
From these lovesick nights.
And as snow does melt.
We will not question every little word said.
Just cheerish the moments.
When cold was the night.
And warm was the bed.
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 2:54 AM UTC
The clouds are falling softly
And the air is saturated with snowflakes
I am already beginning to forget
The summer state of our frozen lake
Horizon lines no longer exist
Out of sight, out of mind
And the white and gentle sheets
Cover up footprints I left behind
The subzero softness casts its glow
And I search for salvation in the snow
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
With feet of ice she pads forward
Alone in a slow March.
Whiteout wind howls all around
As lethargic progress is made
On her slow March to nowhere.
Tiredness takes over
And a shelter must be made.
Snow is moulded and pushed
Into a crystal home.
This snow dune
Will become a tomb
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC
I can't write with a pen...
Like an adolescent ivory deprived walrus, he can't parade his fingernail moons that protrude from his gums.
I will not scribe with a quill.
So many times he has taken and driven, smoked and deprived the scent of your breath from touching my throat, I want those words to be yours!
I have never used a keyboard
Too many times I mistake my pink tongue for page numbers and my eyes for the backspace bar. Whiteout works just as well.
It has never crossed my mind to use a sleeve of papyrus, stale and stagnant. But, trustworthy, like old yeller before rabies and rifles.
I prefer to write in pencil. impermanent and irresponsible.
Until the eraser runs off in the rain with the ink.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
My mind is calm,
Empty,
But not in the way I cherish.
The whiteout is blank,
Motionless,
The water on a still lake.
I long for the storms,
Rivers,
Rainfalls of inspirations.
Instead,
All I get,
Is c a l m
Dec 17, 2024
Dec 17, 2024 at 9:00 PM UTC
Blizzard take me in as we disappear
Wrap me in your frosty White
Snow Blind I can see things so clear
Illuminate the sky with your snowy light
Cover the world to make us know
The world is kinda pretty with all this snow
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
Inside or Outside, what's the difference?
The picture gets completed anyway...
Blackout or Whiteout, what's the difference?
Absence of color, or the equal abundance of all colors...
Don't we all see what we are raised to see?
At least in the beginning...
Aren't we supposed to grow as people?
And view all aspects of life in a mature manner...
Don't actions speak louder than words?
They speak for the character of the ones who commit them...
Who are we to judge?
Judge ourselves...
Blackout your minds, and Whiteout past transgressions,
What's left?
A clean and clear mind, eager for new experiences and better relationships.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC
Gay time parade's wherewith the colors fly high,
Masks of all columbine where artist's passeth by!!!
Temptious women wherewith two world's become one,
As shadow's read the mountains of guru's and lost son's!!!
Timeweeping keepers of pocket\switch blade's,
Wherein haircut's are riddles, as lips turn to fade!!!
Scientific genious of law's gone thwarted,
Olympian of krip-tonight,
Oh calamitous runt!!!
Enter not ,
Sais the hourglass auspices ventriloquist!!!!
All Hater's pique despite peanut buttered pies!!!
Societal havoc of sweated Baguette's,
Wherewith sweater's touch winter letter's,
Of lost cigarettes!!!
White lies are highly mounted to protect ourn outter shells,
Where hellion can possess thy inner best of masculinities feminine selves!!!!
White-out conditions,
Schemers to invention,
Taketh what thou hath.......
And leave the scroll set scene!!!!
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
december 29th – i was a blizzard
infant, had
not gained my first color until the new year
even my eyes went white, were made of snowflakes
even my heartbeat had
a murmur, landed on my ribcage like snowfall
and every three months i give myself
up to my childhood
dye my hair so i stop fading into my white sheets
their threads are stitched from
the breath of ghosts, my mother never called to say
she wished it were hers
now
i only ever believe i have skin when it is
not being touched.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
I can't stop staring
I'm in a trance
Holding a razor
I start to laugh
Why did I believe
I could be okay
My breath's a waste
I've no reason to stay
Look at my hips
Look at all of me
What a joke
A blob-ish mess
Needs to go
Press the blade
Gently into me
Or is it deeper
I can't tell
I stopped feeling today
Downward slope
I'm on again
I should end me quick
But I just can't
I laugh again
Oh how tragic
Girl hates herself
But deep down
Is scared to end it
Look at the blood
Pool at the incision
Until it drips down
Over my hip
And slow down
The curve of my thigh
It feels so good
Addictive high
If I felt pain
Maybe I'd stop
Maybe the red
Hitting the floor
Would frighten me
But I'm not scared
Not of blood
I'm scared of hurting
The ones that I love
So clean up the blood
Put the razor away
Grab some bottles
Paint, polish remover, glue
Whiteout, Windex
Anything to inhale will do
Wish I had a
Bit of ***** too
Waste myself away
Try to cope another day
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
Sabbath 7:31am Jan 11, 2025
<•>
For later, forecast proclaims:
snow showers for much of the day,
but in our temperate clime, rarely
do we get inches or feats of accumulation,
but it will be chill enough to turn my
heavy duty “Icer” navy coat to its
whiteout version, where the flakes
individually attach themselves to
to fat fabric for self-preservation,
displaying their distinct DNA patterns of intricate crystallization artwork on a
gallery of me…
assuredly, some will attach to eyelashes
and extruded tongue, perhaps inhaled,
in nostril and open mouth, as I employ
all my senses to retain, retrain, my brain,
to walk alongside a saltwater estuary that
welcomes every flake as a long lost son and
daughter, who has returned from its prodigal global journey around the world, to melt back into a mother’s currents embrace, returning
home to my patch of briefly occupied spatial, white palatial existence
I anticipate the taste of snow to be a
multi~flavored cone, souvenirs, accrued
while globe trotting, with hints ofAsian
spices, on a riverbed of Italian red
peppery tomato sauce, the crusty
spicy fabric of the fried chickpeas of the Middle East, the cilantro stinging of Latin continents,and pretend that my nature
wetted cheeks are so because I cry & walk alone, sadness flavored, wishing I could partake of this snowy journey repast, with you by my side, for how much better would this global travelled whirlpool repast of white ice and scented airs, tastes if it could be joyfully shared
but I am by myself,
sensibly refused companionship
by others, and my
voyaged meditation now,
well ended,
well recall,
Whitman’s Song of Myself (1) conclusion:
“**You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self**”
join me?
Jan 11, 2025
Jan 11, 2025 at 10:57 AM UTC
when god heard Lennon sing "Imagine,"
it/he/she filed a complaint
with the Human Rights Commissions,
a grievous hurt claimed,
needing omission,
hurtful words, the spirit opined,
his repute, civlly defamed
a direct attack on his divine permissioning
and though his unverifiable existence,
a poor excuse for such a
sid vicious exercise
re his persistence,
he needed humans
the song to excise,
punishment suitable be arranged,
to assuage his hurted feelings,
canons of political correctness
demanded it be whiteout erased
as if history did not matter,
those visible tracks of his trade
no atheist or agnostic here,
having had too many disputations,
face to face confrontations,
about the damnable ironic games
It plays upon "his" human dolls,
by this manic~depressive curmudgeon,
from up above & his vapored flighty humors,
sans rationality,
for god was supplied with omnipotence
but too minuscule an impotent allotment
of the untold power of the
sensibility of the five mortal sensible senses,
the all-in reasons or rhymes,
the electric grid
making humans superior, the ability
to imagine
Imagine a power
so wonderful,
an all-in everything
I am God of myself,
when I imagine
Imagine I wrote this
and then,
I did
imagined that your crinkly eyes laughed
when your read this,
and then,
you did.
imagine that*
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC