ROI

He looks forward to
a cold beer
after balancing the books
all day.

She looks after
the home and kids
before they fall apart
again today.

He questions
if she has done enough,
She answers,
Dirty laundry is never done.

His job is Important.
Her role is Obscure.

His time is well compensated.
Her life becomes poorly defined.

The tension to stretch
makes them both
recoil
at the thought of
broke(n).

She asks him about his day
now that he is relaxing,
he tells her about the stress.
No wonder
He does not
ask her
the same.

Eventually, he passes out
cold.
She checks in warmly,
to see if he needs anything
more.
He spends the night
breathing heavily.
She treads lightly
earning her commissions
in Time.

He will be right where
she left him.




Painting (still life) by Gerret Willemsz Heda, c. 1642 in [Public domain].

On Spinal Tap

Books talk together.
I have heard this.
You have too.
You see,
amidst sentences
not (in) between
each other but by reference
to me, not of
but For…
autobiography,
the stories write themselves
into serials.

Footnotes are added at the end.
All the words are the same
type-set in New Order.

Of course,
it has all been said before,
and yet
it seems as if nobody is really
on the same page,
or reads
between the lines,
between covers
under the sheets
on the walls.

How we prop up
the spines
tells more
of our posture
than the Titles
given.
What can be
gleaned from our
rough-deckled edges?



Painting by Giuseppe Crespi, c. 1725 in [Public domain].

Out-sourcing AI

Of all the books
I have yet to read
There will never be one in the stack
About feelings.

I am a woman. I get these.

F equals M, where F are feelings
And M is motive, unless F equals female,
And M is male, then the former is
Greater than, by approximation.

Genius is not for men alone.

Of all the bizarre curiosities before us,
The greatest Being
Metaphor,
We still don’t know what it is for,
Why we stretch and try not to bounce
trying not to tear truth
from tendon.

It is our tendency to compare that
Distinguishes us, leaving insecurities
like these
all the more prone
To poetry.

The most challenging equations are simply
unsolvable
by a rational mind,
they are Resolved by process,
dissolved by filtration and expulsion,
whereby insight gains a greater perspective
than the outline,
unlike container.

Silence is simply choosing not to say.

That volume,
we hear,
is the best reference
to cite.

There was nothing more to see
that was considered
Tragedy,
so I read
Science or programming.



Photograph by Eli DeFaria elidefaria [CC0].

Book covers and titles tell all

If they saw the Bhagavad Gita what would they think?

If they knew any thing or two about truth in fiction,

or which was the stranger 

of the two

If they knew respect is not a costume anyone can wear...

if I cared 

they don't think of me

If they knew my ears were not sensitive enough

to hear small talk

would they only speak louder...spoken over thought.

They were not here when my daughter said we needed 

more bookshelves, requesting wall to wall coverage would be good,

she envisioned this plan, we have more than enough

needless to say, she pleased me greatly.

If I had not been buried in stacks of books

I wonder if she would still want this,

to save me.

And 

If they knew about being a parent-

is it obvious they could care less...

Apparently knowing would never be

good enough

                          to be great. 

Painting by Giuseppe Crespi, c. 1725 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A as in Atlantis

With these eyes,

i thee read, these lines, repeating after me,

Love thyself first mover-

Touching is not happy after ever.

All we wanted was with in us, All ready

an honor about Time.

Cherishing those kaleidoscope views 

as the clouds grew and threw shadows for depth,

making perfect patterns that reflect you 

and eye am more voluminous than any body of work

with more baritone than you can 

Here,

horizontally.

Deeper than i can sea.

Image By Scan by NYPL [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Our Lady Alexandria

What feels like Now is never heavy enough

to last longer than a Sunday.

Idle times like June, we tend to wander too far,

it takes august

to bring us back to routine.

Presently, reading.

Presently writing

Then and Now lying in front of me,

blurred by biography autonomously-

     whose voice is lost in the amplified volume

of imposition

     whose own prosaic tome is never true or tight enough

to carry the note all the way,

to cut the final folio, to fill the flyleaves.

More memory appalls dead weight

          one will carry to the cemetery, nary a soul should know  

Those things, flammable flashbacks attack hard back, unhinged

in carnation

in damnation

in citation,

My cover slowly singing, smoldering as I am oldering,

lighter 

Now (transparent)

on paper backs.

Painting By Juan de Echevarría (Bilbao, Spain, 1875 - Madrid, 1931) Born in Bilbao, Spain. Dead in Madrid. Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pre-recorded: The following is not a Live poem

It's not like it used to be...
We used to dream about making robots
do our menial work, not our magical works-
those things only humans can do:
like cry, create
and ideate
ways to make life easier on us
less of us needed
participation nonessential.
(human auto-pilots)
A sweet serenade
became a re-mix, betwixt by
the sound, dubbed for deaf ears.
A vocal scale made smooth
by the synthesizer, equalizer
(humanizer).
An actor feels no butterflies
when he appears on the inside
of the idiot box,
he's no cracker jack.
Legs are not broken on blue-ray
slipped discs, but no risks.
It's bare (bones) entertainment.
Pictures say many things, it's said
about what is no longer true
they cut a slice of time, etched
on mirrored paper.
Once around
the fire, stories were told
yarns knitted
and lore was learned.
This was way before the plague
of plagiarism, words were invented
and tailored to suit.
Reproduce en mass,
a photo, a note, striking a chord
a player piano
knows your tune
pre-recorded originality
plays on repeated loops
serenading us
out of our own mortality.

“Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.”

-Virginia Woolf

Image By New York : Broadway Music Corp., publisher. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, sheet music cover.