Tag Archives: #words

Illusions Are Lies (Like You)

the Fly ate the paper
its thin legs stuc k
on economic condition

it won the war
flying away

the monkey saved
itself by not
eating the fruit
of God’s tree

shit escaped the human
orifice and became hero

piss passed the tubes
of humanity

and fed the rivers of
human nonesense

God’s eyes died
watching creation

and evil prevails
slinging mud princes

buy and princesses
pain eyes and cost

souls aching for
the lies of illusion.

:: 05.10.2024 ::

Poet’s Notes:

THIS poem is a poignant commentary on the human condition, filled with allegorical imagery and profound insights into societal and existential struggles.

The title, “ILLUSIONS ARE LIES (LIKE YOU),” immediately sets the tone for a critique of falsehoods and deception, directed towards individuals or systems that perpetuate deceit. The use of parentheses around “LIKE YOU” is a direct address to someone embodying deceit or illusion, adding a personal and accusatory tone.

The imagery in the poem is striking and multi-layered. The depiction of a fly consuming economic conditions, only to “win the war” and escape, symbolizes the transient and ephemeral nature of victories in the face of larger systemic issues. The monkey refraining from eating the fruit of God’s tree alludes to the biblical story of Adam and Eve, highlighting the human tendency towards self-preservation even at the expense of moral or spiritual fulfillment.

The juxtaposition of bodily functions like defecation and urination with broader themes of creation and divine observation adds a visceral and unsettling dimension to the poem. The notion of excrement becoming heroic and bodily fluids feeding the rivers of human nonsense suggests a degradation of values and a perversion of natural order.

The mention of “God’s eyes died watching creation” conveys a sense of abandonment or despair, as if the divine has turned away from humanity’s destructive tendencies. The concluding lines, with their reference to “mud princes” and “princesses,” evoke a world where power and privilege are built on falsehoods and suffering.

Overall, my poem serves as a stark indictment of human folly and the illusions that perpetuate suffering and inequality. Its imagery and language demand reflection and introspection, urging the reader to confront uncomfortable truths about the world we inhabit.


God is Static Thoughts

FOR the IQ below 110

  • Jew is not a race

for the IQ below 90

  • Jesus was a Jew

from the IQ below 70

Your mother
and father
are not blood related

UNLESS…

you are on this TIMELINE

then ALL ARE RELATED.

:: 11.30.2023 ::
(c) 2023-9999

Poet’s Notes:

As the writer of this poem, I approach “GOD IS STATIC THOUGHTS” with an appreciation for its brevity and its potential for profound insight.
Let’s analyze this poem:

Title: “GOD IS STATIC THOUGHTS”

The title immediately suggests a contemplation of divine or existential concepts, with “GOD” representing a transcendent force and “STATIC THOUGHTS” implying eternal or unchanging ideas. This sets the stage for a deep exploration of metaphysical themes.

Stanza 1: “for the IQs below 110 – Jew is not a race”

The poem begins with a provocative assertion, challenging conventional notions of identity. By tying intelligence levels to understanding, the poet highlights the complexities of categorization. The statement “Jew is not a race” challenges simplistic classifications and invites the reader to reconsider the multifaceted nature of cultural and religious identity.

Stanza 2: “for the IQ below 90 – Jesus was a Jew”

This stanza continues the exploration of identity and challenges preconceived notions. By affirming Jesus’ Jewish heritage, the poet prompts reflection on the interconnectedness of religious and cultural identities. The juxtaposition of intelligence levels with theological assertions invites the reader to consider the implications of knowledge and understanding on belief systems.

Stanza 3: “from the IQ below 70 – Your mother and father are not blood related”

Here, the poem takes a deeply personal turn, disrupting traditional notions of kinship and lineage. The assertion that one’s parents are not blood-related challenges biological determinism, suggesting a broader understanding of familial bonds and relationships.

Closing Lines: “UNLESS… you are on this TIMELINE / then ALL ARE RELATED.”

The final lines serve as a profound conclusion, emphasizing the interconnectedness of all existence. The word “UNLESS” suggests a conditionality or exception, highlighting the unique circumstances of individual existence. By invoking the concept of “TIMELINE,” the poet underscores the temporal context of human experience, while the assertion that “ALL ARE RELATED” speaks to a fundamental unity that transcends conventional boundaries of identity and understanding.

Overall, “GOD IS STATIC THOUGHTS” offers a thought-provoking exploration of identity, intellect, and interconnectedness. As the poet who wrote this prose, I admire the poem’s ability to provoke deep reflection on existential themes and challenge the reader to consider the complexities of human experience.


The Blind

It was five o’clock when done 

the house of the incredibly blind

the last clock made for sightseers

for those that see

Outside the birds were flocking

Outside the humans were mocking

Inside i stood my stable ground

holding onto a thread of life

Seeing is not always believing

See, it’s not visual 

See, it’s not love

People want forgiveness

Its incredible senses

Why so hard to find

its imagination in life

Let’s me guide you

Spending light by seers 

all my days this dark world

i use words to visualize

To see what eyes fail to see

how bipeds are maimed

forgetting a perfect picture

For some handicapped are more

than sightless life

a hell that we tend to hear

But is it the world 

or is it me?

\don’t make me lose my mind/

A soul floating in vast space

Stay to see the world ignite

and explain to me what you see

I’ll tell you what is real 

Every time.

I paint a perfect picture ~~~

\a beautiful world not seen

by humanity.

:: 05.10.2024 ::

The Poet’s Notes:

As a poet, I wrote, “THE BLIND,” as an exploration of perception and reality.

I attemped to exercise the imagery as a vivid and thought-provoking life-form, inviting readers to reconsider the significance of sight and the limitations it imposes on our understanding of the world.

Using contrast between the external world, where birds flock and humans mock, and the internal world of the narrator, where stability is found despite blindness, was meant to be striking.

It highlights the disconnect between appearance and essence, challenging the notion that seeing is synonymous with believing.

The repetition of “See, it’s not visual; See, it’s not love” reinforces the theme of transcending conventional perceptions, suggesting that true understanding comes from within, from the senses beyond sight.

Moreover, I labored to extend the exploration of imagination as a means of perception to make it compelling. By using words to visualize and create a “perfect picture,” to conjure a transcendial physical limitation to perceive a world unseen by humanity is my testament to the power of creativity and introspection.

The closing lines, questioning whether it is the world or the poet’s perception that defines reality, leaves a lingering sense of ambiguity and introspection. It prompts readers to contemplate the subjective nature of reality and the role perception plays in shaping our understanding of the world.

As an old man and poet, I believe “THE BLIND” is a thought-provoking and evocative poem that delves into the complexities of perception, reality, and imagination.


Within My Shoes

PURPLE home
so soft
window candy

eye see you
Razor light
On a finger
ruby ring
And all
to prove
you have life
It takes a fast
car lady __ if
you take backseat
rumble or front
seat to see
a double life
How i fell —
but then grew
once upon night
i once, too many
times fell for you
dreaming you
were there i once
painted romance
upon the walls

it takes a twice
thought to lead
a double life
never do it twice

Hold the brush
pick the paint
all you feel
when you’re near

It’s so easy to
play breakdown
it’s so easy to
say no poetry

So tough
So soft
when i’m living
within my shoes

:: 04.30.2024 :


Insane Poetry Running Away

Gathered among lovely nymphs, whose grace shines brightly like eternal stars,
Their vibrant essence lingers, embracing radiantly,
In the dream-laden air, does my love pursue only a fleeting vision?
My uncertainty, an ancient veil of darkness, now reaches its peak.
In the quiet branches that linger faithfully, in enduring woods,
Alas, I too have presented myself as a false and grand ideal.
Should we then speak of these maidens whom you hold in sight,
Do they mirror the deep desires that haunt your senses’ flight?
One, a deceptive illusion of purity, cold and chaste like tears,
Yet the other, full of sighs and warmth, a stark contrast to the world?
No! Through lazy reveries, stifling the gentle rise of morning,
No waters flow, except those that my flute’s soft murmur conjures.
To the grove, with melodies sprinkled like a gentle rain,
Where my twin pipes play swiftly, untouched by the limits of the horizon.
Oh shores of Sicily, in tranquil marshes I am lost,
Vanity contends with the brilliance of the sun, at such a cost.
Silent beneath shimmering blooms, let me thus narrate,
Of reeds I cut and tamed, when behold! From a distant vineyard’s gate,
A creature as pure as snow descends upon the verdant glow,
A prelude soft as pipes, like swans in flight bestow.
All inert things burn in this warm, languid hour,
Unaware of how they fled the captivating power of desire.
Now awake, primal urge, beneath the ancient flood’s embrace,
Lily! Your innocence in your gaze, true amidst the grand pace.
But beyond this sweet nothingness, beneath their brief kiss,
My heart, untouched by proof, reveals a profound mystery.
Let it be! For in the reeds we play, under the azure sky,
Turning cheeks to tremble, dreams take flight.
To amuse the beauty around, with notes that weave and sway,
Between the dream and song, love’s whispers softly play.
Oh Syrinx, by the lake where you await, blossom anew!
Proud of murmurs that speak of goddesses, in a reverent hue.
Unleash the waists of shadows, in my tales they live and breathe,
As I imbibe the brightness of the grape, dispelling sorrow.
Laughing, I raise the emptied glass beneath the summer sky,
Breathing into luminous skins, yearning until evening nears.
Oh nymphs, let us rise again, with joyful memories,
My eyes piercing through reeds, striking each immortal form I see,
Submerged in waters under the forest’s tumultuous sky,
With cries of anger and splendor, swiftly passing by.
Glorious strands of hair slipping, adorned with jewels of the brightest hues,
I hasten forth, to this bank of roses in the gentle sunlight.
All fragrances wasted, as our revelry dissipates in the shade,
Where our merriment should linger, like a day long past.
I adore you, wrathful virgins, delicate and shy,
The secret fears of flesh, from heartless foot to timid thigh.
Happy to conquer these fears, my crime is but to partake
In the gods’ mingled kisses, a passion from within.
As I conceal a laugh within one, the other burns brightly,
Yet this quarry forever flees, showing no pity in its flight.
No matter! Others lead me to joy, with tangled locks,
And ripe pomegranates buzzing with bees’ sounds.
At this hour, amid gold and ashes, the forest stirs,
A banquet amid extinguished leaves.
On Etna’s slopes, where Venus walks with effortless grace,
Sad slumber rumbles where the flames leave their trace.
I hold the queen, in an embrace of certain punishment,
No words, as my soul and heavy body yield to silence’s embrace.
Forgetting blasphemy, I surrender to noon’s proud silence,
Lying on the thirsty sand, embracing the true rush of wine.
Farewell to both of you: I depart to witness the shadows you’ve become.

:: 04.20.2024 ::


Toccata and Fugue in Dm, BWV 565 by J.S. Bach

In shadows deep, where whispers lie,
A haunting melody fills the sky,
Notes cascade like raindrops fall,
Toccata’s touch upon the soul.

Does what it pleases.

In D minor’s somber key,
Bach’s masterwork sets spirits free,
Organ pipes with solemn breath,
Sing of life, of love, of death.

Fugue arises, voices entwined,
Counterpoint in harmony defined,
A dance of themes, a cosmic play,
Where light and shade in concert sway.

One i can say, one and one is Me.

O Bach, your music timeless soars,
Through vaulted arches, ancient doors,
Echoes linger, ethereal and grand,
In every chord, your genius stands.

Toccata and Fugue, divine embrace,
In each resounding, sacred space,
A symphony of depths profound,
Where Bach’s spirit forever is found.

Bach holds your arms until you feel
his fever___

Through swirling mists of ages past,
This opus holds its spell steadfast,
Bridging realms of earth and sky,
In Bach’s immortal lullaby.

So let the Toccata’s thunder roll,
And Fugue’s intricate whispers extol,
A legacy that shall endure,
Through centuries, steadfast and pure.

So, you must be creative hold me___

In shadows deep, where silence gleams,
Resonates the composer’s dreams,
Toccata and Fugue, eternal flame,
In Bach’s resplendent, timeless name.

As final chords softly fade away,
The spirit of his music will forever sway,
In hearts and minds, a lasting chord,
Of beauty from the keys of our Lord.

:: 04.10.2024 ::


Love Is Ever Near & Forever

Oh Goddess! Hear these awkward lines, wrung
By sweet memory’s force and fond reflection,
Pardon that your secrets I have sung
Even to your tender ear’s direction:
Perchance today was but a dream, or did I spy
The winged Psyche with wide-open eye?
Through a forest I wandered, lost in reverie,
Then suddenly, struck with surprise,
I beheld two figures, side by side they lie
In deep grass, under the whispering trees
Of leaves and blooms that softly sigh,
Beside a brooklet, scarcely seen:

Among hushed, fragrant flowers, with eyes of blue,
Silver-white, budding Tyrian hue,
They rest serenely on the grass;
Their arms entwined, and wings too;
Their lips not meeting, yet no farewell,
As if parted by gentle slumber’s spell,
Yet poised to share countless kisses
At the tender dawn of love’s golden bliss:
The winged girl I knew, but who are you,
O fortunate dove, her true Psyche too!

Oh most recently born and lovely vision,
Surpassing all Olympus’ old dominion!
Fairer than Phoebe’s starry height,
Or Vesper, sky’s enamored light;
Fairer than these, though without shrine,
Nor altar decked with flowers fine;
No choir of maidens to sing through the night,
No voice, no lyre, no flute, no fragrant smoke,
From censer swung in rhythmic stroke;
No sacred grove, no oracle’s sight,
No dreams of seers in the pale moon’s light.

Oh brightest one! Though late for ancient rites,
Too late for the lyre’s devoted flights,
When forest boughs were deemed sacred,
And air, water, fire, held holy:
Yet in these days, far from joyful cries,
Your radiant wings among fading deities,
I see and sing, inspired by my own sight.
So let me be your chorus, and lament
Through the quiet hours of night;
Your voice, your lyre, your flute, your sweet incense,
From the swinging censer’s dance;
Your sacred space, grove, prophecy’s essence,
Divine dreams seen through the seer’s glance.

Yes, I’ll be your priest, and raise a shrine
In my mind’s unexplored deeps,
Where thoughts, newly formed with pleasant pain,
Murmur like pines in gentle breeze;
Far and wide, dark-clustered trees
Adorn the steep, rugged peaks;
There, amidst breezes, streams, birds, and bees,
The moss-clad Dryads find peaceful sleep;
In this vast stillness, a rosy sanctuary blooms,
Woven with the lattice of creative mind’s looms,
With buds, bells, and nameless stars that gleam,
Imaginary blooms of fanciful dreams,
Each cultivated, yet never the same;
All the gentle pleasures of elusive thought,
For you to cherish and claim,
With a bright torch and a window left unbarred,
To welcome warm Love’s flame!

:: 04.10.2024 ::


My Love Swears Truth

Good afternoon. If even in prayer
By evening as a pauper in a chair

i have spent my life in explaining
these thousands dreams where most
are swallowing these dreams i never
ignored. And now there is one patch
of flowers explaining me.

From a golden rim step among vocal chords
pink and velvets, as gray gauzes,
and crystal disks of folly & disease
We believe and see digitalis wounds
with their centuries of no talent!

And Swearing my love, made of love
that maybe she lies — that she may
think I am unthinking /unlearned in
a world of falshitiest — on both
sides \ that she knows my days are
best undoing her tongue that she is
not unjust | Oh! best is love untold
and between us we are all undo
suppressed : by love’s inhabited
by lies we flatter be.

In spite of hate and love
In realization I am the one
lost in this cage____
the only one \now weeping/
Christ.

:: 04.08.2024 ::


THIS LITTLE WOMAN & HER GROOM

THIS little woman & her groom
)standing( like kind
of king like she got her
room -black candy –> tooth
muddy like mississippi water
not like candy but white:
a boquet of pretend flowers___
let masses crown it with candy
little birdie tweets & little
groom who steps on steps with leg
less voice not very much
large & sweeter of ring
upon slender finger moves me
so little he is
Little
ness be like early morning
muddy water -text-
pert expand: grO
wing is lovely string of words
how misunderstanding is easy
when you only have two eyes
to
s e e
& jessica (or someone in my tree)
ho
w i k n
o w
like it just
be
gan to rain but when I know when ir
rains
a

ppear
d love

:: 4.02.2024 ::


UNA LIMOSNA POR EL AMOR DE DIOS (An Alms for the love of God)

THEN while winds rush through my window
the white curtains fly as doves
, these tears draw across my eyes
like fire; how i ache for touch,
a word, the kiss monumental as Everest
what secrets between shadow and soul
How as once a child I wept for a plant
that never flowered but hidden within this heart
my flower carries your love darkly within
my body –> moist as the aroma of the Earth.
How, to love you, without knowing how, or
when, from here? There? No worry, no problem
or pride.

I do not know how to love otherwise.
As soul I am not nor are you,
that if and when your hand upon my heart
is mine, that your eyes shut close
within my dream as mine.

: 04.02.2024 ::

UNA LIMOSNA POR EL AMOR DE DIOS

ENTONCES, cuando los vientos entran por mi ventana
las cortinas blancas vuelan como palomas
Estas lágrimas cruzan mis ojos
Como el fuego; como me duele el tacto,
Una palabra, el beso monumental como el Everest.
¿Qué secretos entre la sombra y el alma?
Cuando era niño una vez lloré por una planta.
que nunca floreció pero se escondió dentro de este corazón
Mi flor lleva tu amor oscuramente dentro
mi cuerpo –> húmedo como el aroma de la tierra.
Cómo, amarte, sin saber cómo, o
¿cuándo, desde aquí? ¿Allá? No te preocupes, no hay problema
u orgullo.

No sé amar de otra manera.
Como alma no soy ni tú,
¿Y si y cuando tu mano en mi corazón?
Es mío, tus ojos se cierran
dentro de mi sueño como mío.