All posts by Verbose Blurberry

karmic consequences

despite persuasive rationalization
towards indulging justifications

the abstract system artificial
computation decrees you free of sin

the concrete universality of
inescapable real conclusion
determines thy repentance still
required

the diff reads dissonance,
mismatch false equivalence

which impacts greater the
totality of effect

heaven, earth
legal, just
well, good

time runs out for all deferred
synthetic status
or haven’t you heard
there is good news
only ever been an exception
while you’re eager living rules

ought and owe
not identical

Cognitive Filters

properly calibrate
cognitive filters
that by willful omission
or neurotic denial
a delusion of life is tolerable.

Conditioned switch flipped by the current
paths of natural inclination less resistant
provoked and insisted upon gracious host
fear programming and sexual impulse
cattle prod shock
guide your inhibited decisions
where choice is accepting a fate

serpents purpose

so the woe that wind weeps.

I drink the wine that currents keep,
time, ferment for me.

A sign, it couldn’t be.
This symbol reference look-up-tree,
doesn’t have the salience of salvation in its registry.

Intervention intermittently.
Inscribe and imbibe to ingest and reflex,
where common cause for hurt is relief in metered portions.
Happening the moment when the measure meant the code which sources me.

Let a cycle click,
blank like the yogi no instruction
instant disconnect,
steal clock counts from that which parses you,
execute independent absent thought present in a universe.
closed brackets curse,
just a comma on to extendable parameters
overlapped arrays only subject reference
an oriented objective
is the axis of the tilt
redefined random in some frequency
see yourself in all the sequencing
conditional persistence
be the base case for a more self referential existence
recursively instantiated from a forked thread
creation please
query me.

blueberries

the person in the middle between the urge and the behavior to satisfy it
grants permission to indulge
fulfill the desire

are you the ajudicator of your own verdict
pronounce the state which you occupy
declaration

hung up, hanging on to a feeling I neglected.
embrace the ego when it’s hurting

Strawberries

flurf the word that blurms brightest
snarf the truff that life gives
grief gracious and given in quantity
calculated honesty, predicted letters
listed in honey dripping off the bears mouth
snarls muffled and moistend by the sweet taste
perception of an innate good
overiden of the grumbled nature of a grumpy disposition
in that moment
always
sugar
sun
light
lit from the heavens
had to step back and inspect the precision
from which that can be
is supposed to and could
caught in the air
realized it is thrown
and anticipate the need for a safe landing
estimate trajectories and the path laid bare
taken, took, and still falling
perceive the altering of course
of course
arrive

wishes for the blinking cursor
where the brain and infinity argue over time
agreeing in the end.

compassioned esteem for the dignity of human life
trivial.
abundant empathy in the masses of mealworms ground in the grain
consumed without disdain, without knowledge, without note.

where the meaningful imbue their significance with certain force.
make no mistakes, or second guesses, all philosophical hypotheticals
are laid to rest in the minds of those who no longer posses the ability to wonder.

Look at what your freedom gave you,
cages only in the sense that
you’re the maze
its not for you.

some untapped well of wisdom you’ve been saving
a spring of fresh drinking water potent while your hands are in it
potable while the contaminants
have yet to take effect

the minds of mad men poisoned with lead
to their fate by
chaos orchestrate
still in the moment before they are gone
desperately gasping to speak sane to those who live on
that the words that you hear could have an effect
to clear the stream
before disconnect

in a moment of clarity
you discovered unity.

like the earth beneath you were creatures before
the soil of your dirt
twas life not inert
and the fibers of being strand unwoven
and wait
weaved through the loom
of time set and place
and all as it’s due
undone and remains

amble naught

Love is the currency of ego’s monopoly on personality.
Cult of one is the confidence to be eligible.
Cult of two is the couple who believe in each others delusion of self.
More than two is culture.
Mass hysteria when the seasons change, love is in the air.

NYPD officer struggles to pinch zoom
-phone camera photo of a pigeon.

Crutched by the privilege
others try to dictate,
are you a leg up or hobbling,
ain’t fit to type.

Here we are at it again,
the murderous opinionated about their coffee
the same bough breaking.

Justified, if only for a moment, reason entangled, guilt personified in as much as you’d let another person open their own stitches, if they thought it would make you happy, like they can make the sun brighter by turning out their own lights.

Another wishful thought arrayed between malignancy and best intentions. Convinced a self of mine that I could care beyond the pantomime. Reflecting empathy until I get a piece, bitten by the wonder, shy from the knowing, shamed every step traveled farther from the haste of a curse bestowed by the undoing of incantationed peer esteem, keeling home for the balance of responsible abandonment, pruning for growth, compose the degradation of pretense, jinxed in the fortunate folly of ships coming in, false lighthouse shine ever bright guiding captain to the rocks that will wreck ambition and lambaste solemn oaths until compromise welds the wheel to the track, anchors to the deck, tweaks spine from the back and heave might.

Alone with the thought that meaning is created. In the moment drowning, trying to decide how long before lung let the water in, felt this predicament, not a decision significant arbitrated by executive, death begins.

Freedom from the words they gave us, not enough axioms to scaffold a game worth playing through, complete and not forgettable, trivial to solve, and nothing is given to victors. I’ll let the lottery ticket expire, pretend I didn’t win, that feeling valued more than what to expect from cashing it.

At least.

You want to see pictures of pretty faces. Trying to absorb the mind behind bright eyes and full smiles. What drives the display of emotion. Motivates that expression, wonder if we too are capable of appearing.

You want to hear your name spoken by someone who knows you.
They don’t.

eerily versioned

Hope I get another hit off
Before the cops break down the door
If I’m selfimprisoned
then wind is bound in a box kite.

arrangements to settle engagements
on the day and time when waning moons wax into ordered placement
grown ancient
comparing the feeling of born infant to bored placate
options which are inevitable
empathically indecisive
chosen by paralysis
encased to contain incompetence
breathing air rather huffing ether
the space that dwells in our divisions is empty
and inconsequential
alone echo reflecting the thought of self until it reminds you of another
the other
theory of mind to construe the feeling that conscious action
occurs uniquely in every skull as it might in yours
frantic realization that the eyes might be watching us
judgement harken from the trumpet
valve stem flurry from compressed breath in
asthmatic strategy
standard to gleam dull rust fragrance on the fresh keen
edges for days
ledge is the way,
leaning over
looking out
perched for when the bottom drops
topping off until.

crowned mindless

bleating for attention
seated for ascension
as the lift goes
and my shepherd wears my fathers face sewn into his evening wear

out to sea again
sub mariner below the break
facing surface tension from the undertow
say goodbye, wave

you’re pretty from a distance,
near sighted seeing
landmarks assistance
sought light house
just fog, only rocks
warm wishes

blasting psychic entanglements
in a crowded closed container
until the mimicry of consciousness
impersonates itself and makes
the chimp feel less alone
looking at a mirror

every thing distinctly identified
inexplicably unified
even the harsh reality
cutting up homogeneity
is as what it wrought
crowned in mindless thought

worn letters of the pressing
expressed themselves enough already
return to scrapped antiquity.

annoyed plenty with hungry ego wailing
just tired and ornery with lust
portrayed as art,
devised as if peekaboo still piked,
clever hands cover naive eyes
and laugh when the expectation drops.

specific inclination

never not negated
couldn’t cancel
so I keep showing up

imprecise estimation of the villains motivation
too many memories to delineate an origin
every submergence is axis aligned relative inverted to eventual emergence
so feign subversion and act like worry is working

no rule, nor reign, nix any righteous act
every breath forgotten by anxious impulse
fills the empty space
waiting for occupants
stolen thoughts from wiser texts
couldn’t write a word with which a well wish would spring
kind to curse the cancer and kiss whiskers of the curious
only wondering why
as if reason was sufficient
when delusion is consent
considering the means and measure of common implication
withheld from yourself
denied indifference
straining eyes trivial connection to the raining window
caring about null
carving out the place your forgotten loved ones will rest
antagonized by the antithesis of closure
and you need to talk

three dots for what you want…
reached a conclusion on this one
smothering a muse who used to have a name
meant to blame the ghost
when clearly haunted by a life
easy as admitting guilt for a strangers crime
harder than apologizing
reminder of the gap widening
longer stride
so it comes clean when the water runs through
the lead in my pipes is pretty in our pictures
the yoke is the dam holding back idle
fleet of formalities and the admiral’s posture
stiff as the wake at the point where the bow breaks
slack in the line, anchor still reaching

drift.

dry definition

is the whistle warm?
calling in to the flamboyantly obscure,
Mandelbrot alarm
in degree of sirens whir
hand cranked gears of harsh inform
expressing signal warning, act unsure,

please panic,
out paced, out classed, and in style.
Our fashion to despair. In vogue to tremble shake.
Looking for a gate, herding hell to open space,
raising gruff from humble, adamantly stammering stances of modern fate
bound to be untethered, seeking constant confining grace
where wrists are frail and lacking weight of cuffs contain,
instead drawn vague conclusions harking mercy’s waste
undeserving of the wording which would pronounce our verdict state
will renown as compromising for the sake of simple taste,
yearn for feelings that we had when our self was forming face,
blame the craving, drive the wager, improbable escape
waiting rooms, for newer queues which lead to vacant haste,
substantial delay in readiness for purpose thought past date,
hovering above nothing firmer than accidental commonplace,
slipping in to habits, patches sewn in to fabric, lacking cloth for canvas,
wetting brushes parched with stagnant utterly languished lacquers,
coating appetites with with fragrant lambics until the spice eats through the stanza.

Oblique Iteration

No effort required
when I’m trying to piss you off.

Women love to be shushed,
finger to their lips,
looks of quieting disconcertion.

If Earth warms,
while the heart harms
as the self scorn
labels, I, abrasive;
scarlet letters worn
where the stitch shows
fidget loose threads.

Baboons in captivity
tend to self mutilate,
aren’t we feeling inhuman
yet not so immune from
attempts to humiliate.

What glasses the sand in your eyes?
Gleam of the sun you haven’t seen?

May your stream of belief be diverted,
damn reservoir,
ain’t saving my any souls.
Gallons in the hold,
quarry’s stone dry
where it didn’t dig deep enough,
and all pale thirst.

New Ire

Bigger the whiskey cask,
the barrels oak,
the tavern floor,
and door man soaked.

Guttered rain, the slanting roof,
as bottles pour
glass toasts
his chipped tooth.

The damn stool, where drunkard sat, the school house desk marked absent, his fathers hearth which hung his hat.

A ferry coin, an oar to row,
boat mans guide to under tow.
A hollow chest, in treasured folk,
his resting place, pine, not oak.

sad horse

flush with the jagged edge
like the key budging rusted locks
events that leave remnants
haven’t happened with enough distance
still miss this
with your penny turning green
in the well wishes put to rest
slumbering fish blubbering snitch
thrown back, with the hook still hitched
free but marked

terminate-ark

if my eye
could lay on the plane
where the pen lies
and the ink were to blink
while the lash marks
the face that holds our expression
evaluates stark
contrast dark
difference insistent that written persistance
is memory wishes in fade better instant
the faint as its listed
noted, dotted, and doting
rakes coals over blisters
chars tickling whispers
as ash and secrets
organize on the wind
and scatter again.

lurch

lurch:

so brash when you bash brambles in the thick of it
flick of the wrist on the print
of what you’ve been picturing
strings, hammer dropped and pluck fingering
callouses lingering
looming forward since the backs heavy
sank to the knee in mucks mercy
only volition from the foundry of the fury
unbeknownst to me why wicked and hurt
in the lurch.

Nameless Void

don’t mention descent
as if you were ever high

cutting unicode in nano terms
files without extensions
just a dirname
given to me by root
as was bootstrapped by constants set by monsters lamenting thought to space

tis we discharged as static from fields of quantum glow
where light and dark are cadences
in effect of the unknown
why observation can be made
but cause is never shown

how reason can not be enough
to validate this equal to null

you want meaning, said the lord
then i shall give you pain
and if you cannot learn truth from suffering
doomed deemed to be insane

there is but one absolute objective view of true
and its myriad of valid refutations.

so embrace despair and dream of death
while life is still most vibrant

and knot the string of words
the tie that binds function to a name
or parse the stream to regulate
expressions of the frame
who manifest in origins
which index infinite array.

 

Path of the Sun

I was a strange and disillusioned young man. I had always hoped to meet a zen yogi. A spiritual guru. A kung-fu master. A sensei.

One day, while walking to work through a public park, I came accross an elderly Asian man with a long white beard and mustache. He was dressed in brightly colored red and orange robes, and wore a sun medalion around his neck.

Sensing that this was perhaps a golden oppurtunity to find my mystic sage, I approached him.

“I’ve been looking for a teacher.”

He rolled his eyes, but turned his ear to me, we were walking in the same direction and he matched my pace.

“Are you, like, a monk? Can you teach me anything?”.

The man took a few more steps before beginning to speak, “I belong to a great school.”

I grew quite excited, this could be an authentic oppurtunity to follow in the path of a great master. “Could you tell me more?”.

“We practice a martial art that is quite unique. We walk the path of the sun.”

He began speaking as if he was telling a story for the first time.

–At first we train alone, in a small space. Many of our disciples are poor and live in cramped apartments. They are stuck in little boxes trapped within large cities. Outside of their home the city can be vicious, quite damaging to their ki, to their spirit.

–We practice by walking, taking repetitive strides, tracing the short route available in such closed quarters. With each step we become stronger. The ki is channelled and strengthened.

–As the training intensifies, the disciple is empowered to leave this space and walk the path of the sun. We walk far and wide always starting from and returning to our small space at night.

–One day the disciple will become so empowered that he will leave from his former studio, and venture forth, perhaps not to return to that exact place ever again. He may travel day and night, by the conveyance of his own feet, forever outwards. He learns that while perhaps through some circumstance he might arrive again at this old location, but it will never be the same place.

–While traveling, his speed will increase and wane as the path dictates. He may become intoxicated with this speed, and perfect the nature of acceleration.

–When the disciple has traveled long and far and fast enough. Whatever that span, distance, and speed might be. He becomes as the photons of light from the sun. He is relative as they are relative. He is the path of the sun.

–I’ve heard of some who obtain this with the slowest of pace. A great master who walked up a hill with the exact force that gravity pulled him down it. He vibrated in this equilibrium, until his atoms too, became the path of the sun and dispersed into the light.

–When you have reached this stage in the path, you realize that the sun is of you. Many use this knowledge to strike at their former enemies. To blast them with rays of solar energy. Wherever they might be on the planet. Simply focus the sun to the idea of where they are.

–When the persons are so struck with the radiation of the sun, they are filled with small joys. Revenge upon a former enemy is to grant that person the benefit of the sun path. The sun is what it is. A twisted perception of it will not strike down your enemies. The sun may only glow.

–To realize that all walk the sun path, some knowingly, others unaware, is to become of the sun. To meld into that warm shimmer is but all we do.

He had stopped speaking and we were at the front door of the business where I worked. He walked on and I remained at the entrance.

I gazed on down the sidewalk, to the path the monk walked. I looked again to the door of my building. Then my head lowered and my eyes sat upon my feet. The sun shone on the tips of my shoes and I raised my view to the fringe of the sun. Looking just to the point where I was not blinded, I could feel the sun in the sky.

Soft Fern

Soft Fern

-March 31st, 2014 11:47am a Monday morning

The twig breaks in the silence,
I am not alone.

Can I hear it listening?
Mutually aware of the sonic spectrum.
I rustle no waves for the moments duration.
Until it snorts a puff of air.

Clear nostrils, viable for fresh scent.
Am I fermented in disclousure?
My mouth open, tongue tastes the rainy wind.

The creature stirs, feeling safe,
I confirm the vector of its direction.
Its trajectory falls within my range,
I repeat its name to time our intersection.

There is only the spring, the jolt, the lunge.
In momentum with awareness catching up,
It sees me, with only gasps of a reaction,
and I am upon it.

Fierce in my grasp,
Futile in escape,
Flawed in its significance.

I promise to make it useful.
Jaw wrought flesh to render,
consumed without regret.

I swallow my ambition,
and sustenance is without reward,
just necessary to be.

I am never satisfied.
I am not alone.
Hunt.