Archive

Tag Archives: Poetry

While Sitting there reading a book
I became conscious of the fact
That I still pick at my lips when I sit still
And have never really been able to stop

And I have tried to remind myself everyday
To start taking my shoes off before entering the house
To place them next to the door
In an orderly fashion right next to yours

And I have begun to remember to no longer buy
Bell peppers from the store or the market
And have now realized that I’ll only eat them
Whenever I choose to eat out in a restaurant

And, as asked, I’ve learned from a mutual friend
How to store shopping bags
Into little triangles
So that they fit in that grey box under our sink

And somehow I seem to always forget
As soon as I reach the foot of the bed
That I must take off my socks
Before I climb in

While sitting there reading a book
I tried coming to terms with the fact
That even though I had tried to stop for many years
I still pick at my lips when I sit still

And despite the lack of necessity
I now can remind myself to take my shoes off
Before I enter the house
And then place them next to the door

And for some reason I still don’t buy
Bell peppers from the store or the market
And only get to eat them in a restaurant
When I notice them there on the menu

And I noticed that I still fold my shopping bags
Into little triangles
So that they fit in a box
Under the sink next to the sponges

And the other day as soon as I reached the foot of my bed
I paused for a short moment
As a thought came to mind
I had nearly forgotten to take my socks off before climbing in

And while sitting here reading my book
I have come to terms with the fact
That even though I have been trying to stop for many years
I still pick at my lips when I sit still

And I don’t need to remind myself anymore
Because I always take my shoes off before entering the house,
Though I now place them on a shelf,
And they don’t have any particular order

And I’ve started buying bell peppers again
From the store or the market
But I no longer buy zucchinis or pumpkin
And don’t even order them when I eat out in a restaurant

And I still sometimes fold my shopping bags
Into little triangles
So that they fit in a box that is now under the TV
Though I don’t usually need to bother.

And as for when I climb into bed
Without thinking about it I always take off my socks
But I now must wear proper pajamas
since any old T-shirt won’t do

Pacing back one fourth,
Miles long thoughts –
Left of right.
Central force lost.

Upside down images
Under plain sight
Fogged from places
Where others see light.

Crystal confusion
within packaged identities.
Mountains of manors
screaming hypocrisies.

Forced communication
stalling expression.
Stagnant realities
with a sense of oppression.

False comfort
Hopeless lies
Routinely abused
Senseless ties

Washing dreams of images in lack of security.
Bonding in banding, times three forms of lacking maturity.
Complete comfort at the left point of a triangle;
Suspicions and mystery at both ends of the rectangle.

Confusion and questions charged by emotional tourniquets:
Are answers speakable?
Are questions edible?
Are curiosities satiable?
An inhumane non-mold of communication
flowing through non-worded speech.

Images left unrepresented.
Thoughts left unspoken.
Feelings left, unknowingly.

I see my peers, both young and old, standing right side up with their feet in the direction my head is pointing.

Rigid – Still – Comfortable

As comfortable as fine as alright as normal.

A conformation.
Tradition.
An overlooked, misjudged habit.

As common as circuitry extensions from our fingertips dictate our leisurely thoughts at the pace of the clicking rate of a monotonous metronome.

Without fail.
Without consciousness.
Without hesitation.

A creditable standard that was piled up by gluttonous eye measurements and left inedible.
Leaving the feeling of non-satiated bloatedness.

An un-creditable standard that was continuously left aside by ignorant would haves and could haves and infamous should haves.
Leaving the feeling of unattended rose bushes in a distant relative’s garden.

And an imaginary standard that should almost go unmentioned through the purity of its non-realistic existence.
Leaving the feeling of a polytheistic worship of a singular many faced god.

Through their feet which is level with my head and their toes which see my view as reversed polar opposite yet similar imagery.
In what seems like an alternate reality but is simply the same reality seen through kaleidoscope glass mirrors.

I see instinctual attempts to seek out the unconscious clarity through various forms of ritualistic consumption.

Pseudo-fluidity – Fake Freedom – False Refreshment

As ok as satisfactory as enlightening as normal.

A conformity.
Cult.
A misrepresented, surrogate euphoria.

Consuming emotions which are kept in a large candy jar. Only eating the favored colors, knowingly leaving the uninteresting colors behind –
Licorish collecting at the bottom, left to pickle.

Consuming the chemical Want To Haves and Should Have Gottens found on eden trees. Only drinking desires, unknowingly ignoring necessities – The Could Not Bes remain on the branches, left there to rot.

Consuming artificial supplements to fill voids and vessels and empty spaces. Only injecting the superficial surface of the Mediterranean, subconsciously avoiding the deep – the dark nutrient rich ocean, left untouched and forgotten.

Through their feet which is level with my head and their toes which see my view as reversed polar opposite yet similar imagery.
In what seems like an alternate reality but is simply the same reality seen through kaleidoscope glass mirrors

Addict Ed,
Your scent sticks to see
I am self and I am ish
– Dangling

I am write
the constant
the consumption
the lack of corruption
A-Conect and B-tion

Don’t hesistate, We are not giants
Don’t immitate, we have no need to
Don’t est-i-mate, We are no longer
You or I – You nor I – You are I
In the back of your grey subcompact

listen
watch
and taste
the yellow beat of
“birds flying high”
the purple gleam of
“sun in the sky”
the transparent streaks of
“breeze drifting by”

I now sound forward and the moves of the steps i take
Towards the cable cars that jump
Over the putrid river
Leave imprints of W-ind and W-aves
On the D-usty, D-amp, D-ark dirt tracks.

Hearing words once spoken
Words once spoken
Soundless
Soundless the memory of
Soundless your words
now spoken to other ears
Empty
Empty skeletons of wishes desired
and programed dreams
Too easily to say
So you say again
And again
And again
The years itself hold no value
Voids of temporary satisfaction
Roles of shells
Concave vessels
Vessel voids
Fleeting
Fleeting necessities of fake importance
Fake dependency
“What is it that you want exactly?”
A one sided
A one sided conversation of
Idealistic theoretical
goals, standards, and expectations.

a T.I.N.Y. CRUISE through
the E-CITY RUINS –
UNITY – CRIES –
a CITY SURE IN
by IN CITY USER

a jumbled up gibberish of
ICY UNREST – I, pause. –
ICY SUN RITE,
ICY UN RITES –
another RUSE of a CITY, IN
mashed up vocabulary

in a RUSTY ICE, IN
a CYST of URINE, I
CRY UNITIES of SIN CITY
down that RUE,
down that ICY N.U.T. :
“rise, rise, rise”

Reward the CITY IRE with SUN
Instill the moon with o.u.t. confidence
Steady those UNITY CRIES and
Embody.

a word play of sorts
made possible via the internet
a virtual deconstruction of
a powerful 10 letters.

YET the confusion you INCUR IS
by far RYE. and the TUNIC IS
a slur of misunderstanding,
of CITRUS – of YEN – of I –

Time is probably a somewhat cousin to The Tide.
Not conforming to a traditional cause/effect relationship –
But to a modern one in fact.
They know each other well.
Somewhat as if they’ve been part of the same book club for centuries.
One big book like group,
with one big variety of book-likenesses.

It’s clear that they would have common interests.
You see, they both flow,
up – down
fill and empty
dissipate
evaporate
but they manage to remain as separate beings.
In a healthy relationship of sorts.

Though, Time is a sneaky bastard.
Or at least he certainly can be.
Occasionally he back stabs you when you least expect it
(By occasionally I most likely mean always,
but not always does it really matter)
and mischievously so.

Time can make one feel foreign,
but not in the way a foreigner feels foreign.
No, Time does this by reminding you of The Past
(an old lover we all share and swap around like swingers)
and the memory of The Past is in such detail
that you relive it for a brief moment.
And the cruellest part of the memory
is the bit – the feeling –
of the future unknown.

So Time does well to remind you
of the difference between the memory and The Past.
He does this with delicacy
making sure you feel that feeling of the unforeseen.
A feeling that can only be felt now.
The feeling that yesterday didn’t allow you to imagine where you could be today,
the feeling that was not so troublesome or noticeable at that time,
the feeling that today has made you wish you had in fact noticed yesterday.
A feeling The Tide, a rudimentary clone to Time,
can only make a metaphorical visualization of.

The giant robotic god
whose 14 navy blue crane-like fingers
point upwards from deep bellow the earth.
upwards – up towards
the organic, white spotted, baby blue, celestial optical illusion.

how far do his fingers extend?
how far down is his body buried?

His presence –
an invisible influential force of manipulation.
His non-electrical core made of
circuitry from an ancient civilization –
left irreparably unrepairable.

is the deterioration of his patience the cause of The Rumbling?
the cause of this rumbling?

An eerie premonition looms,
just beneath the surface of The Blue,
in an intangible, crystal clear,
non-appearance.

The sudden anticipation of an apocalypse:
An apocalypse isolated to O.N.E.
The Arrival of The Doors of Limit –
the unnamed terminal stop,
of the jet that gently brushed past one of the robotic god’s fingers.

Immediately, a jumbled pile of thought waves are emitted.
In the form of bird cries.
In the form of blasting wind.
In the form of speeding auto mobiles.

Will there be silence?

%d bloggers like this: