This technology bores me.
And, yet I am sitting here, on a cotton couch,
Stabbing at an object way too close to my eyes
For proper focus.
I feel as a digger, knowing more exists, but only seeing dirt
And my shovel.
Perhaps, perchance, I am lost to this time– a relic,
Or a modern knock-off of one,
From a time when only knowledge mattered
Because spoiling only happened to food and the privileged.
I know myself, but rarely think of what I am capable of.
Does that make me timid? Do I rely so heavily on the mystery of what I can do that I forget how to do it?
I once wrote a poem describing impending death on a battlefield.
I became that character through words and the revision of lines.
Now, I write whatever nonsense I can stop to remember or make up,
And hope that I will, eventually,
Bother to be who I saw a glimpse of then.
I’ve written one play in my life, and yet feel as though I could measure with the best.
Why? Because, I see myself in their times and think, “I am capable of what was done.
I would have made an excellent contemporary.”
Then, why don’t I bother to be the best /now/?
I can be. I just let life get in the way. Life.
That muse which outstays it’s welcome;
That burden that weighs so much, we feel ourselves lighter and, thusly, worthless without it–
And, yet I sit here, stabbing at an object
That is little more than a sandstone, repurposed when the energy fades out.
Category: Poems
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This technology
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Like A Fool
I sit here, cold and uncovered,
While your scent of warmth
And memories tickle my nerves.
Yet, I still sit here. Like a fool.
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Untitled 9
In conversations, held, I
Pitch myself to death for
Escape of responsibility;
Duck from ‘mobile, lunge
For precious pain in fre-
Edom’s endorphins/laugh
Without sound, and pause
In flight. Returned to seat
By time’s greatest love,
Rationale, I breathe to forget.Sometimes, when writing, you have to take into account multiple translations of your work so that no one can say, “well, they meant…”. That’s difficult, especially when trying to maintain a convention. For instance, using fre-edom instead of freed-om will highlight the red of death, while freed-om highlights the release of death, the ritual that death has become due to the human condition of grievance or commemoration or celebration– which are all the same, really. In the end, it’s what I want to portray. Om is pretentious, but will affect someone much differently than researching biblical regions, which can be… alienating. But, learning that what we know is translation and not historically actual (think of the word Dolphin later translated into Rulfine) makes sense for a word like, “freedom,” when describing death. Will anyone get that? No. But, it’s important.
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Forgetting
I do not want to forget you
And
All your smiled faces pacing
Our
Memories in faded slide shows
Of
Those days, the nights, our
Trips
Along reality, mind’s delightful sugar.
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What am I searching for?
What am I searching for?
What makes me think what
I have is not what I need?
I am a tree, having found
A never ending supply of
Nourishment, but still
Sending roots in another
Direction, just to know
My surroundings. Bullshit.
I am more than a tree. I
Am a fat king who still
Looks for more food. Fuck
That.
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The Rules (Break ’em).txt
I once thought
The rules were
A means to
Greatness; a
Way of conform-
ING to expec-
Tations and
Being able to
Show worth
By being better
In the gates. Now
I know, as all
Trespassers do,
The lawn is but
A plot of land
Surrounded by
Billions more
In every direc-
Tion, and a
Single is worth
So much less
Than the whole. Now
I know the world has
More vertices than
X and Y. Now
I know the world has
More subtleties than
You and I. Now
I know that all we have
Is here, where
We are; and He
Tells us how
Far that goes.
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— and they play along the arm
There they crouch/
And play along
The arm of a couch
Ripped apart
By comfort’s needs
To be where
No one can see.We lay here,
On a couch that
Has let us be
And been a bitch
To move. But,
Here we lay, where
Our family knows
All are near if
To be hidden or fall’n
Asleep.
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Jaywalking
like the feeling when
we’re nearly there, where
we would be safe from what
we put ourselves through
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Thump.
Thump.
Scratch/tear/pluck
Yawn.
The cats, finished for the day,
Fall to sides on carpet
And commence the semi-hourly routine.