Some Poetry

Some Poetry

I wrote you some poems. I'll keep them here for you.

All writing contained in this blog is my own original work unless otherwise stated.

Copyright © 2012 - 2014

Little America lobs artillery shells from an Iron Dome,
Children dine solely upon lies
The focal point of an irreverently ignorant gaze
Airstrikes hit with greater precision
Than scalpels can cut
Removing shrapnel from
Too many arms and
Too many abdomens - 
The new God is triage,
Prayers murmured from the gasping lips,
Of ones before speech,
Accountability 

Live and let live. Infringe upon one’s right to the latter only in response to their infringement upon your right to the former.

—Your favorite author

Ration your breathing
There is poetry yet left in these fingers
Past a synthetic rhythm of
Interrupt requests in high priority
Interpreting an observation
With a dead tongue
Past the scribe,
The papyrus reminiscence
Drawing incomplete lines
Between blanks
But
There is poetry yet left in these fingers
Written in the impossibly tiny space
Between giving and receiving
Between touching
And feeling
Songs
At the meeting of callous and tender
The corner for forget
And remember
Where your sighs
Sing
Of victory,
Defeat
Triumphant mystique
Written in
The topology
Of your skin

Publicly Owned Broadband Networks: Averting the Looming Broadband Monopoly

william-richard-no-s:

Yes. This is amazing. So much win.

Geek Approved

(via trixclibrarian)

And this is where it breaks
Forks
This is where we part ways
A bottle of champaign
Christening
A vessel of the seas
Of change
A makeshift shank
Waved
Pressed into the throat
Of yesterdays

Kenneth conquered
The long dirt path
With
Everything he ever loved
Stuffed in a pack
Strapped to his back
A shield to the wind,
Left foot,
Right,
Never heard from again

My prison got no
Concrete walls
No fences, barbed and
Tall
No blamed claimed
Blameless
My prison got no
Long, lined halls -
No sorrowful songs
No euthanasia
Chambers
My prison got no
Uniformed ghosts
No parole-day hopes
No long death row
And no life-line
Reaching
Outside the confines
Of this,
Mine
Voluntary
And only vaguely
Defined

On Recovery

You’re in the worst part of it. The effects of your efforts will grow exponentially. At first you’ll feel like you’re running marathons to move inches. Eventually that ratio changes a little. The halfway mark is getting 50/50 reward on investment. But after long enough you’ll start to feel yourself moving miles with the slightest effort. 

If you need me I will be greasing the upper rungs of the corporate ladder.

For Eric

I’ve been choking “I love you”s
Through
The sole
Of a totalitarian boot
Locked
In the crook
Of the arm
Of a New York City
Cop
Stop –
Stop it –
Goddamnit man I cannot –
Breathe
Through this
All a’-
Water-
Board

Shipwreck in a Bottle

I was born
And died and in same dust storm
Circling a myriad of drains before
I found the right one
This one
Beneath
This liar of a sky who shows
Endless clarity while spitting rain into my face
At the feet of a tree whose leaves heave
With the burden of being the closest
I’ve got to shelter -
Rigor mortis fingers
Still
Hanging on from the inside of the grating
Slipped
Down past their ghostly grip
Dripped
Slowly from the empty vessels turned
Prison cells for miniature representations of hope and freedom
I’ve been
Building shipwrecks in bottles,
Tossing them as far out into the surf as my tired arms can manage
All broken bows and split sails
Rotted wood and rusted nails
Settled
On a bed
Of sea floor
Corked and cast
With the best of intentions

Shaking the fruit
From the limb
Upon which
I have gone
Out

I don’t need a form to evaluate myself

Performance Review:

I am an echo of the closest thing to god
Perfectly imperfect in my humanity
-no one knows how I got here
-what I am doing here or
-where I am going
I am innumerable,
Unnamed cosmic forces
I am karmic guidance as
Equal and opposites’
Attraction

My purpose is to have no purpose and I take my charge
Very seriously
I have and continue to create
And destroy
On a whim
I stir whimsy into bleakness like cream into coffee and
I take my coffee
Black,
Bleak,
And bitter

I show up when you want me to and stay as long as I can stand
I have given you more of myself than I have given to myself
And I’m not sure which of us is getting fucked in this deal
I have had sex on this desk and
I demand
A raise

The post-derecho heat and humidity drags the pleasant scent of the neighborhood’s flowers to my home
Drops it at my doorstep
Like a cat with a still-writhing mouse - 
I am thankful for the gift
For the acknowledgment of simple life,
Its mere existence beyond the chain-link confines
Of my cityscape scrapings

The birds call songs between the horns of impatient traffic
Over the distant rattling,
Clatter,
Always inching nearer
Over the virulent shouts of the corner-neighbors strung out on
God knows what
The trouble with tweekers is that they
Never
Fucking
Sleep

The thumb of summer presses farther into my optic socket
Somewhere,
Someone is melding into the grass of a hillside
Someone is realizing now – right now
That they are in love
And someone -
And someone -
And someone -
And someone –
Over the course of your reading these words
Has given up hope of anything
Everything
And has chosen their return to
Nothing

I am cotton-clad carbon
Comfortable contemplation
In long sleeves

You catch more flies with honey, true.
But I ain’t lookin for flies.

—Me but probably someone else before me.