Implement(ation) (misc. Haiku from Journal v.3, 2016)

Self identifies
by letters strung together
make names from scratch(es).
                 //

Write with felt marker
in the morning; it will be
pencil by nightfall.
________________________________

Butterfly and moth

are one chrysalis away

by color of death.

    ±             

Naiveté is

a bumble bee whose life

is heavy with lust.

☼     

Territory, as 

a place you feel most at home

outside of yourself.

                  ♦ 

Enough already

the tallest trees drink slowly

take in the new air...

         ↑

Photograph By ZachT (Own work) Bernese Alps in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Thick Skein

Have it together?---Hah! What poet does?

Fight this way, blistered paws

                                        limping along by prosthetic ego
battered by submissions...

I could go all day,

with myself

                     uncooperative, self-ish sot

              & yet I say I simply need more

time (alone) to not distract myself; (space) place to dwell, to go to

deeper than time (allows)-and vow to get itthe first Time
...All...withdrawn
Well...further from form-to gather to-gether

                                                              the 

                      scattered                   thoughts

I strew all about, coins and alms, the book of changes,

I knew no doubt

                         and yet could never finish (the plate, the bread,
butter, indulgence, opulence and chance)

                                                        what I never began officially,
a la carte (blanche)

Poetically, I prose with white 
which shows where will weakens voice

I'd have to pick up the line 

                                       later where I left it 

                                 loose and 

                                                      too long,

unraveling

at the slightest pull.

How it is all made 

Full 
                           of nothing (itself) is something to undo
(& make it knew) reuse and refuse to cycle

So it is sown into the soul
                                     bereft I be
seeking sustenance in vowels,
lighter than care and ever aware 
This is All...  

Painting By Samuel Lovett Waldo, The Independent Beggar (1783-1861) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

deFragment(ation)

not late enough

to start now

the sky periwinks

lashes brush over

lids lay overwhelmed

in light shades

I am all melted 

matter that moves

and thinks not 

in solid states

no thing

could hold me here

for more

than one may take

away for another

day

un finished...

Painting by Wassily Kandinsky, Mouvement (1935) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Her voluptuous parabolas

All
who have seen her
swear they have never seen her
happier, lately
while she laughs, letting crickets go.

Her curves always know
how to smooth things out
and the way she walks begs forgiveness
as her karma rounds
every corner.

Softness was her style
to say it supply-

it could stem from her blooming chest,
crimson raw cheeks, her velvet bleeding lips
or lilac silvery strands


her glare goes right through any apparitions and by
body, somehow she knows the bright angles
to the long equations...

At night she paints
the smudged sky on her arms.
Before sunrise she weaves weak
words stained black. They don't smear-
she won't use them-in the light by day
she tends to others angles
in her smooth parabolic way.

It seems she just sashays away,
her every day face
acting as the fulcrum for all others
a round nowhere to stick
around.



Painting by Edgar Degas, After the Bath, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

You for ick & X-Stacy

Tantalize me, blind me
with only the very tip
of touch
by bare skin, finger-
tip and thirsting tongue
piquancy tastes of infusion
and shutterless delusions

Sip and savor
thick honeyed pleasure
open viscous and slow,
collecting each drop contains
seven heavens
in one sin

Shall we begin
by a scent
magnet eyes,
enrapt by craving
connection, in conductive curiosity
never killed the unseen energy
crackling its static ring
of five
alive
ones

And generosity
left to ecstasy
takes lying down
where I would
see
in twice meant
lurid along making life lines
by hand.



Drawing by By Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de (Unknown) c. 1896 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

To Rise Above

To Rise Above

does not challenge

volume of voice;

Rather, 

to Rise

we must become

light-er.

Start by letting go

of what was never able

or willing to support your weight-

in words;

it may be all ready 

too late

to try to fly

on your own.

Up or down, to fall or float

dares us to face that timid demon;

in doing so, we learn 

a bit about freedom-

not of choice or right, 

as in 'Fight or Flight',

but to maintain and conserve

the quiet right 

to let go.

And move on,

to knowing

there is much more

than time

to exist and resist

changes 

of the heart.

Painting by Anne-Louis Girodet de Roussy-Trioson (1802) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pass the looking glass

Face your fears,
is always more than
a dare,
underlying there is
the resurgence and recurrence
brought back by time and tide

Heavy in the air
inoculable preoccupation
to reflect
the return
a long lost relative redness
in the cheeks,
the submarine crystal eyes,
tiny peeks in a clouded
mirror

and there stares
back the terror of truth,
thicker than mist
draining all the same
Vain
by surface shine
in a spectacle
she sees a blind slave
whose never seen herself
anything but brave.

Painting By Tarbell, Edmund Charles (1862 - 1938) – Artist (American) Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Second helpings

It would be asking too much
if someone said
wait one-thousand-milliseconds,
one hundred jiffy's,
a billion nanoseconds, or a Fermi
but really that sounds silly,
so seconds it is to please be quick-
witted, reactive to surfaces
as echoes and sound is also a wave
that warbles along at seven hundred
and sixty
miles per second,
superficially.

Just so you know, it is all calculable by
a minuscule measurement of  radiation
and reach, emitted by caesium (-133),
tiny things we cannot see nakedly
invaluable like love and currency.

Honestly, you should know also
that it takes 6 full grown alligator
seconds to gain any kinetic benefit,
by stretch or strain,
of any muscle-through release or gain.
And all should plan appropriately,
it takes twenty-one seconds to pee-
really
on average
you have been warned
seconds and faith
take quantum leaps.

In one unjust second, a bullet barrels by
two thousand five hundred feet
while a snail sidles over a puddle
cruising 1 chasmic centimeter
and in that same moment
we swallow, we make thoughts,
we blink, we take it in, more than oxygen-
we reminisce wanting more from before...

the world changes drastically for one
second, and
again,
firsts are never enough
for any one
Now.



Painting by Johannes Vermeer, (b/w 1655 and 1667) 'The Art of Painting' in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hand me downs

I never claim to know is mine, 

                                                     alone.

Perhaps it is a preference of plagiarism,

a nose for improper prose,

an insatiable appetite for 

all ilks of altruistic anthema

I could not think 

of a better wheel design.

We have learned.

Where there is smoke was once

                                                    on fire.

Needs and devours

as borrowed without interest.

Solutions are simple echoes, 

                                                   echoes

what you said you heard

and comes back if it hits the right note

accord.

You know how others wrought words 

                                                    work

more harmonized than mine, 

in truth themselves together 

as wording that works

for real-ity-itty-bity life-like

                                             Projects

and Practice.

By stretch of imagination or by the life-

span of a metaphor

                                                    by suspension 

and leaps

abound archaic and built to last

for a time-as taut truth

entwined in tension.

Look 

out. 

Given eyes 

                                                    to see, 

Only art may remind us why

color is requisite to sight.

And why white space is free 

breath. 

To covet a glance, off the top 

take without change 

of rubberized opinion

or overcharge for overdrawn spirituality

                                                    from a paper One.

I imagine 

remembering clearly-

                            some scattered lines of poetry

in tangled threads, 

rags over-stiched spines, 

poets opine over each others

dead bodies doing it wrong

turning the soil, lying there

and re-cultivating the Garden of

                                                   I Will

re-Discover.

                                          Know only 

slowly may one go

to pull open space we need

vacancies never free, but insist

on appearance and flow from Others 

Currents

pulled into time by tide. 

                                           Drifters

we are all sifters, thieves 

of sureness,

presenters of possibilities,

tailors 

                                           of time-

space,

altering whose in whose

reality-one time, 

rerunning reminiscences

and savoring our own essence

familiar

in-decadence in fortitude

never mine in any time-frame

                                           alone.

Image By Charles Robinson (The Happy Prince and Other Tales) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Lip locked

“ Matter turns out to have no other substance than spirit itself…In a pure monism it would make no real difference whether we called the one reality God or Nature, mind or matter, water or fire or will, since in any case this substance must be the seat and source of every kind of distant existence…The great stream of “life” is said to run through matter…” -Previously Unpublished Essays of George Santayana, John and Shirley Locks (1969)

We all collide in photonic pride,

mix and co-mingle our palettes

to each his own.

Humanity.

Expressing our cannibal cravings 

in a hungry kiss

as an arc of attraction

thru and through exchange

of energies

as Desire.

Fruits of our Labors.

Mind molds matter  

more perceptibly erected

as spiritual sculpture; 

foundations for 

the body in clay.

Is symbiosis the essence of 

phenomenal bliss, sweet

soul mates in super symmetry?

Dualism fusing with monism,

electromagnetic discharge 

as feedback static

grounded on belief

in single resolution

holographic by belief?

Negative. 

I feel the friction 

in the denial of not knowing

the all that all do

under clear conviction

that nothing is known, certainly,

except what we don't know

Absolutely

nobody knows as much as he doesn't

in real time, 

or (f)actually.

Embrace the wind,

a kiss blown, a fallen star, 

a swollen heart or dry eye

moves nothing but air.

And there we stand, firm-

trying to get through

mind over matter.

“I might sustain the theme indefinitely that you nor I nor anybody knows as much as he doesn’t know. And that isn’t all: there is nothing anybody knows, however absolutely, that isn’t more or less vitiated as a fact by what he doesn’t know.” -Robert Frost

Painting by Edvard Munch, "The Kiss" (1897) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Believing in Ghosts

A nice break 

to heal...

The real world awaits

-our authentic attention-

not to mention

(Your) Life is not on(the)line

& is most simply an Alt. identity; 

salty audience driven arrogance

boasting and posting 

egotistic in-

significancies

(please)

 

Pixelated phantasies thrive

in social (media) circles,

round and empty 

vacuum souls.

Dive deeper into delusion,

alternate versions of you illusory

packaged for others to see,  

so-Pretty-are all empty (boxes),

apparitions inside avatars

for show.

Friends, 

Floating in your mainstream

is not what it may seem

carried with the flow

surface deep on Lethes 

and Styx. 

Not only ghosts 

pass through doors

of intangibility.  

Painting by Théodore Chassériau [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Super Moon 2016

Shadows at night
where wolves delight
soloists under spotlight
weaves and watches
the carnal illuminators
make mythic obscurities
to taste to night.

The frozen pine aches fixed
posing proper around the palisade
bats swing silently in the eave
while a couple of country owls
seek around in unisong
for the fox that plays the child
while the puma preys, and remains wild.

An hour more magical miscreancy
left to fancy fullness in excess
lavishly luna lends her silver linings
in phantom phases
bewitched but ever grave
over night like this luscious

black sea, velvet
tidings in abundance
this softer sway
to ward
the lite of tapering
day, courtship comes
home.



Image credit: unknown, (source: social media share) account holder anonymous. 

Define Y

Why did you have me
when all you wanted was to give me away?

Why did you take me
when all you could do was give up on me?

Why did I try-so hard
to get nowhere new?

Why did i bother the universe
trying to make matter more real, make real matter more...
?

Why did you stand behind me,
only to run away?

Why did we come together
only to divide
and reduce ourselves
to the lowest
common
man?

Why did I believe in Love
after all i have seen, after what has been?

When did all of We
become only (m)e?

Why should we try
to solve
for
x
?

Painting by By Germán Gedovius (en es) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Impression: Make or Take

There is what we see
                                  externally
And what we think of what we see
-internally.
Indivisible, one
Being
shaped by exterior circumstance
molded into our interior meaning
Livelihood
Will we survive, we Will.
Pursue. Ensue.
For a time, from this view,
from here you see-
Not the same as I do.
cogito ergo sum
Visualize wisely then,
this becomes more vivid
clearly
one Beings
                   eternal reality
fixated to fill in focus.



Painting By Anna Palm de Rosa (1859-12-25/1924-05-02) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(in)Tuit

The silent one knowing,
failing how to say
without both saying
and knowing wrong.

Is indignified by others,
esteemed by self-sufficiency
and exhibits a corresponding
lack of regard.

Not you.

It was another time,
and always the same
we made more than may be
handled, physically, intrinsically-

Innate to few, too few,
find efficiency fair enough
or judicious for All
intents and purposes.

Say nothing (more).




Photo (held) By Smithsonian Institution [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Doris Caesar, American Sculptor. Description from Wiki "Doris Caesar sculpted expressionist figures of women, religious figures and flowers. She used distortion and an emotional, loose style in which the unsmoothed thumb marks in the clay remained as a textural element in the finished bronze pieces. Over time, her style developed to be more smooth-surfaced. She was also a prolific writer publishing "Phantom Thoughts" in 1933 and "Certain Paths" in 1935."

Dude, where's my car?

The usual parking spot
taken again!
It shouldn't bother me-
since these arrangements are all
temporary.
A reminder of routine,
a barb to burst the bubble
feathers to rustle and I was flustered
as I looked around to make sure I had
everything
worth stealing,
holding nothing of value but the health
to walk,
I locked the sad car
a block down the street
by the Montessori school-closed on Sunday.
I tried to shrug it off when looking behind me
I see history-
blinding me-
replayed out-a memory
in bursts of heliographic signaling.
The old apartment with an ex,
the sun glinting on the front window
of the dark living room, the two
fields below, the
dark stairwell in the middle,
the figures fighting blurry...
I know I am seeing too far
too vividly.
So I walked the other way,
               don't look back
again, I tell myself.
Turning the
corner
home
I wish I could forget such trivial things
such as where I am parked
or how I have lived elsewhere
too close to home.



Photo By Härmägeddon (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sere

Sere
see here,
it was hot.

Hotter than sin,
at November daybreak
and the swept sky revealed
traces, as wind,
Saint Ana blew through,
while the inferno loitered along
the way gathering a static, cult-ish
hung as tense air, sacrificing
the people clung to silence.

And as the details,
our stars bartered
over-night
over our dead bodies,
see here
some slept all the while
some wept themselves barren
and some became swept up by isms,
enrapt in labels, and role playing,
naming and claiming knowing,
the game goes on.
Rock.
Paper.
Scissors.

Sere and silent,
dumbfounded,
surrounding the crackling air-
This is where we
do not care
about whom you cannot touch
person-ally.
Such as the trim horizon
off in the distance,
taut sharply to keep apart
certain matters, reactions
into lumps of coal, carbon-copied
canaries as luminaries
See
we sing while we may
hear, cause for flight.

Somewhere over there
the water danced with a veil of flames,
the ice smoked with dramatic intention,
the clouds caused accidents low and high,
the land split open its molten chasm, hungry
to matter more.

See here
the red in the sky
is just a reflection...
Starting over.
This is how
Saints from below
wave their victory flames to Autumn.

Anew, we feed Prometheus who fumes immortality
burning his precious people
in the name of Pandora, igniting
fauna and flora to flee
anywhere less sere,
less here
threadbare and awestruck
like lightening.


Painting by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Cosmicomics mesostics

                                     

                                        he with the papers blaCk and white

            way space was when the galaxies were fOrmed and

                                                                           Space was then through the point Space

         undeniable in the glow whereas events coMe

                                                                    flowIng down without

                                                                          Cement

                                                               being pOured 

                                                                    coluMn next to the other

                                                                     withIn

                                   the other seperated by blaCk

                                                    and incogruouS headlines

                                                                          ☼

                                                                unconscIous is

                                                                            The

                                                                       oceAn

                                                      of the unsayabLe

                                                                            Of what

        land of language removed as a result of anCient prohibitions

                                                                   he wAs carried away by that mania

                                                      of the storytelLer

                                                               who neVer

                                                            knows whIch stories are more beautiful the

                                                                         oNes thay really 

                                           happened and the evOcation of which recalls a whole flow of past

                                                                              ☼

                    the pages of the space was wen galaxIes were being formed 

                                                             space was Then with 

                                 corpuscles by emptiness contAining no

             destination or meaning and how beautifuL

                                                                 then thrOugh that to

                     draw lines parabolas pick out the preCise point the intersection

                                                                            spAce and

                                      time where the event wouLd spring

    undeniable the prominenence of whereas now eVents

                                                                    come wIthout

                                                                 like cemeNt being

                                                                              pOured column next to other one within other

                                                                            ☼

                                                                            seCond 

                                                          industrial revOlution

                                                          unlike the firSt does not present us

                                              with such crushing iMages as

                                                                          rollIng mills and molten steel but with bits

              in a flow of information traveling along Circuits

                                                            in the form Of

                                                             electronic iMpulses the

                                                                                Iron

                                                                          maChines

                                                                                Still exist but they obey the order of bits.

                                                                               ♦

The stanzas above were created using the Mesostic Poem Generator and quotes by Italo Calvino who adamatly denied being a any sort of a poet. For formatting alignment this poem is best read on full screen.

Image by Frank R. Paul, A jagged beam of flame (1932) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.