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Yorn Called Poem
I am a virgin slammer,
Let me get that over with,
So if I stammer and speak like a bludgeoning hammer,
Let the record be clear: I’m just trying to go with this.
So I won’t walk the walk or talk the talk,
I may even stain the sheets while I am at it,
A crimson red outpouring of moonshine soup you best delete.
This isn’t going to be easy, I am feeling downright queazy,
Who do I pretend to be today?
How many second meanings should I hide behind?
Should I show my behind to get the right effect? Or be that disrespect?
Elloweeeze Eloise where are you, I need your attitude, right now,
Get your little sass into my face so I can pull this off with urban grace.
Second meaning by the way is not like second base..
It’s more like you understand that I understand that you understand what I understand,
Which is a very non-poetical way of saying you don’t get it.
Do you?
Nah, you don’t.
Woaaa, I don’t like this tone or where this is going,
Better to slam this casket shut,
Close it man, bury it
This storm ain’t gonna get blowing,
Not enough to sack Rome with at least,
Chill down a bit, let it sit, slow, slow, slow, down
down
down
down
Into another town I must go,
Find another weather pattern,
Let it snow.
By the way, I didn’t finish my thought about second base,
Didn’t quite tie that one in,
So let me try to do something about that,
Fear, dust…. ? Oh, I lust…
By way of second meaning I will show you where its at,
You see (no you don’t) second base is not like second meaning
Because (I don’t mean to lecture you my faithful reader just stay with me
Together we shall taste victory)
Because… well just because (by the way I feel a buzz)
Because while second base is halfway to home second meaning
Is as far away as you can get from home,
At least the kind of home where your mommy and daddy live.
Oh, your mommy and daddy….
Or where doggies and kitties roam.
Don’t touch the cute doggy, its gonna bite you..
You see, second meaning is like dreaming,
Of worlds and words that get to go streaming,
Carried down a river, right smack into a gaping verbal liver,
On the other side of this metaphorical ride,
You can take what once was and use it to deride.
Did I make that clear, my teary-eyed poet little dear?
Am I filtering things enough for you?
So let’s get back to business and draw up another plan,
No diversions this time, I’m gonna be a man now,
The big poet man, destroy what I can,
That’s right, that’s what I am,
A big poet human flotsam sack of feathery fluff,
Whose gonna huff and puff and blow this safe-house down,
Down
Down
Down
Into the ground
And bury all you living poets under a mound,
Of toothpaste carrion and jelly-shaking deception.
What kind of reception do I expect?
Less than lukewarm I suspect,
This is a virginal conception after all, I am untouched you know,
Pure, white, light innocent snow,
Falling, slow, slow, slow,
Down
Down
Down
Upon fertile land that has known no plow,
Oh, no….
I feel a seizure… wouldn’t you know
ZZZZZsurprise, Johnny is back,
Let us pick up the slack, slam a knife in your poet back,
Have some fun, take out my horny verbal gun,
Do a zig-zag flyby, grab you by the wings, count your balls,
Watch as you fall
Down
Down
Down
Into the bottle you go
(better to have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy) - that’s a quote “quote”
And that was all you wrote my little friend,
Buzz, buzz, buzz
What a killer buzz….
Did I tie in lust?
Well, if you have my trust,
I will get back to you on that one.
My girl in little red shoes, I will bring you news,
And tell you who I AM.
Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014
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Yorn Called Poem
My
Darling,
I do say,
Upon my soul,
And in the after-
Math of this past winter,
When the two of us became
Enstranged like Roman letters,
Counting and counting as best we could,
But missing the word which would change our world,
For sometimes in systems there are flaws,
Bugs and blind spots that create holes.
Nothing can be completed,
One Goedel conceded,
But still that zero,
Missing in us,
Was the word,
Whose world
Was
What our love needed to be awakened to.
Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2015
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Yorn Called Poem
While a part of my soul longs,
To be carried away,
Far far,
From myself,
To another world,
To a mountain top,
To a lonely place,
To where the air is thin and light,
To where sensations stop,
To where feelings end,
To where noise is drowned out by clouds of silence,
Another part,
Just wants to be where my soul belongs,
Close,
To myself,
Entirely available and present,
Near to who I am,
Available,
In the moment,
Here and not there,
Truthful,
To the voice,
Who cries,
Do you see me?
—
The wings that lift me into the sky,
Soaring in the icy drafts,
Glide with grace,
Leaving no trace,
Of the invisible pilot,
Who steers,
By the reigns,
Of the eye of the mind,
Alone,
Like a drone,
Operated in some far off place,
By a craftsman conjurer,
Whose fingers mime,
What the imagination can not speak of.
Like a dream,
Where the magic fluid of time stops,
Just long enough,
To not disrupt,
The trust of continuity,
The wings contract,
Revealing an intention,
To impact.
In a slow,
Steady gyration,
I am carried,
First up and around,
In a giant bow,
Like the swinging arch,
Of destiny’s hand in the sky.
The torsion and kinetics,
Leave no ambiguity,
The emotions,
Though calm,
No doubt.
What awaits at top,
Hanging upside down,
In the air,
Strapped, trapped,
In a chair,
Is unspeakably worse than the crime,
Devised by the mind,
Of he,
Whose role is to parole,
The empty fallacies,
The narration of self,
Tells itself.
What awaits,
When the screaming starts,
In the eyes of those you love,
Is the absurdity of your own silence,
Is the utter feeling of having already given up,
Is the incompatible peace in knowing the end was near,
Somehow not bothering even,
To just say, hang in there my little friend,
I am with you, I am near,
Instead just sitting there,
Waiting for it be be over,
While he,
Who you love most of all,
Sits alone in tears.
That my friend,
Is horror…
The rest is just,
A blissful crash.
——
Hiding is the remedy,
Fighting the disease,
Forgetting is the poison,
That writers conceive.
—-
I will go then,
To that place,
Where solitary men,
Seek refuge,
From the fires of the soul,
Where broken drums,
Seek silence,
Where flowers,
Never grow,
To walk among,
Empty woods,
To count alone,
Scars and wounds,
To touch and wander,
To love and let go,
To make amends,
With friends and foe,
To whisper,
Just one last time,
The words,
Those ineffable,
Incredibly quiet,
Intensely eternal words,
Whose power
Only she could know.
Then,
As if by doing so,
The sun could set,
On the shoulders of all that I have seen,
I would say,
My friend,
I am not broken yet,
These words,
Do not forget.
Go then,
Reflect,
On the art of living,
For the sake,
Of dying,
Only,
Not just yet.
—-
The marksman who chooses his arrow,
Is not like the blind falling sparrow,
In his sight,
Whether day or night,
The beginning of time is now,
Bend it then man,
Forfeit the other plan,
Make from the shaft and plant it.
—
This then was not a poem,
Nor, was it ever,
Meant to become one,
Which is not to say,
Nor deny,
The obvious desire,
Immanently displayed,
In the mood portrayed,
To write something poetic,
A gem even,
A crown of jewels,
For the world of fools,
Those miserly souls,
Called readers.
Being something entirely different,
A monstrosity of sorts,
Manifestly opaque,
Entirely myopic, dystopian and fake,
More than blurry,
Always in a hurry,
To cover over what was never even there to begin with,
One might ask,
What was it?
To which I respond,
Hat in hand,
Letter of resignation,
Hidden in my sleeve,
Be patient reader,
Do not despair,
This little speech,
Is meant for the air,
To be inhaled only,
By those addicted,
To disreputable habits,
Those little rabbits,
Who rise from the orifice,
Of one we all know,
Yet never did notice.
This then was how it ended,
Never to be amended,
Retouched,
Or recommended,
Not redacted,
Enacted,
Nor retracted,
Just left alone,
To make peace,
With the words,
Who always do,
And say,
What they please.
In the beginning was the deed…
Silence.
Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014
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Yorn Called Poem
Considering how many times I set out to pen a small,
Master piece of art, a gem that might underwrite,
The utter liability of being just that stamp,
Or tramp, or whatever other denomination one might reliably take into use,
To put me in some camp,
By way of classifying the contingent being -me-
Whose eagerness presently strives to present
Himself as himself as truthfully as Truth writ large,
In terms, of course, both endearing, flattering and “brutally honest”,
(Which, parenthetically, is what my soon to be deceased ex-step-mother-in-law once Said,
Would be the way she would have to describe some of My more salient character flaws)
To you my reader, my chosen few, my undeniably very few chosen few,
As a being in the here and now,
As living flesh and burning spirit,
As a man of substance and substantial capacity
To transmit radiant rays of thoughts,
That reside, quite Evidently,
And in no doubt to some degree by Providence,
Within an interior space- MySpace- where nothing gets elbowed around-
Nor for that matter ever gets liked, commented upon, shared,
Or, even worse, put at risk of going viral-
For this is after all an authentic space,
Not a virtual race to create a face,
Nor a terrific place to leave a cyberlinear trace
But a true mental galaxy,
An individual-wide web of self-associating neurons,
Where all and everything is self-made and dependent upon Nothing more,
Than a small light switch which I alone am the master of-
This then will indeed be far from the grandeur of the art I imagined.
Therefore my fair friend
I humbly ask,
With hand on heart,
Notwithstanding those fingers so inclined to be bent and crossed,
And hat in hand
(That would be the other hand)
For your forgiveness and forbearance
And do solemnly promise to get this little ritual over with
As fast as a cat on a motor scooter-
Which is an image I kind of like by the way
Because it reminds me of Sally,
The old toothless Steinbeckian woman who lived alone above the basement apartment,
A dank little hole I might add,
Back in 1992,
Where my ex-wife, now an Artist, used to live in a snotty little town called Westport.
Sally uttered those timely words
With a Cheshirean grin to boot her point home
Because her landlords were kicking her out
Not only for going sour apple on three months rent
But for being a rotten apple to begin with in a part of the world
Where only Golden apples were entitled to reside.
Sally had to get the hell out.
Faster than a cat on a motor scooter.
Oh toothless rootless Sally how I celebrate you!
Hardly a master of your own destiny
You were at least a Masterful speaker
Unlike those marginal creeps,
Mr. and Mrs. Somebodyimportant,
Whose sharp noses wedged you out
Of their little cash crop cottage
And who no doubt live comfortably
This very day
In some vaulted tomb under Floridian myakka
While you
My little friend
Are but dust in the wind.
With that aside now put aside
I now commence
To end quickly this brief debriefing
And by way of Introduction
Will only add the most necessary details to conclude
What urgently needs to be concluded as rapidly as possible,
Faster even,
To paraphrase our heroine in modern idiom,
Then a cat going global on youtube.
However,
One important detail to get over with,
A small but relevant
Fact of the matter,
Is confessional by nature:
I hate introductions because they do
In fact Matter
Under the unique circumstances
Which with bated breath and increasing alarm
I have come to recognize
As not only necessary
But obligatory
To outline
In a way-
Um….
How do I say this?-
That will not only defy
The very conceptual idea
Of brevity
But defy it in such a way
As to peel its meaning down
To its very atomic anti-structure
Semantically speaking
Which is to say,
Apologetically,
That brevity in my hands
-Drum roll please-
Is brevity in geological time.
Why you ask?
My reader,
I suffer from nothing less
Then a syndrome,
Unique upon this earth-
(Oh wretched wretched earth you are!)
Unique among all earthlings,
(With some note-worthy exceptions among
Those posturing, lumbering humanoids called writers)
And certainly unique among all rational creatures
(Who Nature by way of de-evolution has so endearingly
Immunized against MyDisease by way of social nurture
And social constructions that protect humanity’s bloodline from madness),
Called-
In proper taxonomic terms-
“Ican’tstopwritingIcan’tstopwritingIcan’tstopwritingIcan’tstopwritingeizer’s Disease”
Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014
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Yorn Called Poem
if the minimum unity of all that is
is two,
how did Parmenides come to believe
in the infinity of one?
if three is how god is expressed
at its best,
how did his image come coded
in four?
while five has properties completely
unique,
the universe is just what it is,
six so to speak.
once there was a seven,
joined to eleven,
whose convenience I dispute
and whole heartedly repute.
but eight is no longer enough,
and nine is so boring,
three threes is hardly the stuff,
to stop me from snoring.
the real magic begins with a number called ten,
whose counting little fingers first asked,
a dozen eggs or a feathery hen?
numbers are fun and make no one dumb,
but never forget what’s behind their neat mask:
twenty six magical letters, put to a task.
Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014
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Yorn Called Poem
Somewhere on this pretty planet,
There is a heart made of granite,
Indignation its pulse would take,
The soul’s machine fear'd trust too fake.
On righteous wings glory’s noose,
Hangs the head of war’s best muse,
Her eyes befit the worst of times,
The look, the stare defies all rhymes.
Reaching into forgotten tales,
History chose armored males,
Dusty tomes on hidden shelves,
Books in tongues for tiny elves.
Here’s to He who broke the bread,
A promise too many came instead,
Land so fertile flowers swooned,
Food to heal the people’s wound.
Abundance wreaks what dreams deny,
Riches breach thy neighbors cry,
Winds begin like soft whispers pass,
Fear the tempest that might amass.
No one heard the approaching storm,
The blind saw not the eyeless worm,
Man’s great cities it came to breed,
A pathos so hungry it began to feed.
The poor of mind hailed this time,
Its witless soldiers stuck in crime,
But this was no Christian phase,
Powerful waves, everyone pays.
Morning took hold, the sky was dark,
The bow was bent and knew its mark,
A book of facts, a thousand lies,
Verse so deep frozen beauty cries.
With thunder’s yoke rains wash took hold,
On tides ebbed out went all once old,
Upon spring flowers hope took turn,
Lime and ashes make death’s love yearn.
Once the deluge heavy airs broke,
Weeds and vermin went with a stroke,
Poison and bile, cancers two friends,
Fell to the grounds hungry amends.
Trees laughed loud and grew their hair,
Opulent green color’d the air,
The crowds were gone, the coast was clear,
Butterfly songs for all to hear.
Know you man’s hopeless devices,
Always waiting for a crisis,
To stick a sword in another’s heart,
Man’s most pathetic lost dead art.
Wolves and tigers follow no rules,
Never betting on prudish tools,
Blaming not the world as given,
Their jaws obey love’s laws arisen.
Eons ago a vow was made,
Years before words lost to trade,
The path before you poets know,
Only your heart can make life glow.
Pointed fingers hide three blind mice,
Beware of crowds and mob’s advice,
J’accuse writ large holds guilt away,
Thumbs up to She who holds her sway.
Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014
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Yorn Called Poem
In the dark of night a wind took hold,
With powers charged to shake the sky,
By moody swings of gods up high,
Their breath alone enraged and bold.
In the dark of night history spoke,
Of a world alive with fury’s voice,
When life was full of fate and choice,
And death the augur in the smoke.
In the dark of night a man did dream,
Whose tale these words we now account,
Be brave my friend this chariot mount,
By nothing less shalt this vision redeem.
Struggling through the combative gales,
A sleepless figure tossed and rolled,
With wondering sight a story was told,
Of mysteries shrouded in ancient tales.
Upon this figure two more did glare,
Faces are but vessels for orbs to divine,
Not sufficient to be one through design,
Two alive but so unlike to us stare.
These twins that see by darkness alone,
Feel the truth in the shine of art,
Ending where the few dare start,
These bright globes make gold of stone.
With raging winds our story begins,
The battle set both within and out,
The world’s pictures thoughts about,
Action the habits, blindness the sins.
With Boreas alight wandering above,
A divine force teased with subtle math,
To follow the Phoenix on its path,
Or kneel in tears with a praying dove.
The tempest in all its mighty flight,
Decreed with a fist the obvious!
So proud, so proud, yet so oblivious,
The storm forgets his humble birthright.
The wild winds be but a paper tiger,
The hands that give it mighty thrust,
Wields no whip to allure its trust,
Holding a low cup, a cat just finds her.
Such be the crispy breeze in deed,
To roar, puff, blow things down,
Seeking doors to equilibrium’s town,
When heat in fact needs cold to feed.
Wind seeks the muse of inspiration,
A lull, then a rush to arms to end,
Her charms the air does commend,
She whispers with bated respiration.
Such my friend is the temperate truth,
The tempest being no storm cries,
For its maker with love sees its lies,
The swordsman’s tail swings uncouth.
With no further aside we now return
To one whose sleep our vision seeks,
Into this mind the devil now peeks,
Intellect put off so symbols could turn.
Seeking passage to dreamlands alter,
Further and further the eyes withdrew,
A fatherly vessel, twos sons the crew,
A ship who by one one would fault her.
The tides of reflection ebbed no more,
For the two in one the world was gone,
Sands of sleep their eyes set upon,
Dreams for obeying in days to store.
‘Saw the one, the troubled of the two,
Again vain Boreas with eyes asquint,
Forged to see not flowers but mere mint,
An ignoble man, through and through.’
‘His drifting eyes of warrior bent bow,
Blind to the combat of peaceful keys,
Gazed upon Orithyia ready to seize,
The light by which he would never know.’
‘In one fell swoop he swept upon her,
An immortal force not fit to engage,
Death by shock, a rose in a cage,
A sword can never a heart procure.’
Tailors we know make not the man,
Nor, to wit, does he who blow impress,
The finest garments fit best to undress,
The suitor, naked, conception’s plan.
The warrior’s blood once led the world,
What man wanted man merely took,
By far better ways the world was shook,
Now only fools let their swords unfurl.
Still within us sleeping reptiles wink,
Side by side the peace laying dove,
Whose golden egg sits on a glove,
Disarming the insults men might think.
Yet by tinted thoughts some still fall,
There walk among us wanting men,
Who touch stones instead of women,
Blind fools like statues they do install.
To such a fellow we now must return,
By unlucky choice he cast his dice,
Gambling rage would make life nice,
His heart of fire for ice would burn.
The I then of the one who took control,
With eye inclined to dote ambition,
In Boreas he saw worthy commission,
Jewels taken justly by godly parole.
‘Reading now the face of himself,
Pleased to see opportunity’s chance,
His office in life he wished to enhance,
His brother’s book push’d off the shelf.’
“This world is made for the taking,
By will alone my will will be done,
A wild beast untamed I roam alone,
But not for long my flight in staking.”
‘Fighting the angel by his side,
He saw in Boreas a better figure,
With sharp mirror set to disfigure,
The Abel eye, his far better guide’
‘Eager as a dog ready to surprise,
Our hero set off to execute his plan,
With canine teeth and on four he ran,
To she who soon would be his prize’
To think a surprise can live in a dog,
Is like seeing a rat for a filet mignon,
So deluded a man can appear to one,
Whose rose is above all mist and fog.
‘With tongue wild about he grabbed,
The hand intended for him that night,
So sure his lust would disarm a fight,
So shocked to see her smile stabbed’
“Unsightly hair-chested beast you are,
Withdraw from here in haste and fast,
Better to drown alone in seas outcast,
Then with you fly off with fettered tar.”
“Listen little man, listen with your ears,
Give not violets your muscular arms,
Whispered fumes make better charms,
Graceful words for love sheds tears.”
“Fear most of all power’s delusion,
For the deluded become denuded,
Gaining nothing, nothing included,
Power wins only a life in seclusion.”
“Go to thy chamber, scream and yell,
Amend, however, by all smart means,
Your spiteful mean loveless routines,
Thou art but a mute, a soundless bell”
‘With reproof in hand he up and went,
To vent the gales in charge of him,
The dogfight over with outlook dim,
He saw his brother of different bent.’
‘Reaching for the floor the fallen book,
Whose pages spoke a turtle’s tongue,
The unread by thorny bees are stung,
So wiser he for counsel stole a look.’
Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014
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Yorn Called Poem
Wordless worries wander wearily working wayward,
Towards thoughts transgressing truth’s textured tide.
As always acknowledging agnosticism’s appeal,
Essence easily evaporates, exeunt Emile.
Very virtuous violent vowels vociferously validate,
Sanctimonious sessions some subtly sacrosanct.
Is it in incrementally immense ingenious imaginations,
Or ontology’s omniscience overcoming oceanic oratory?
Roughly rallying rage’s recessive righteousness,
Quickly quartered queens quietly quiver qualities quoi.
Under unctuous undeniably Umbrian utterances,
An astute and acute awareness as always arose.
Placing plausibly proverbial prevaricating predications,
Many morose morally myopic manly mighty men,
Eulogize everlasting ephemerally entertaining evocations.
Insinuating incredible implications, insomnia initiates,
Notably nullifying notoriously negligible nihilistic necessities.
Lies lay low, linking lofty linguistic lessons like laws,
Of optional opportunities oscillating on occult overtures
Until underlying unctions unify ubiquitous unknowns.
Joyless Joseph’s joyful Joy just jumped, just jumped!
Killing killjoy knuckle kosher korma koranic krap.
And announce another anonymous anodyne appointment?
(Empiricism’s emphatic emission, enter erotic Eloise).
Having Heidegger helps, hope’s homunculi hunting human.
Get gone ginger guesses, go grope Ginger’s grapes!
Immaculately ironic inquisitions instigate immediate impositions.
Once onto opaque ominous orbs, obey Oracles open orders.
Framing funny fractions, flaming far flung frivolous fictions,
Death defies dollar damnations, deliciously done devaluations.
Usually uncle umpire understands useful underlying ululations,
Also affirming apples avuncular altruistic assumptions.
Creeds crave caves, charms calm cause, come conquerors,
Be belligerently bad, betray birth’s beginning, balance budgets.
Entreating entirely empty, emphatically elusive, existential entelechy,
Is, importantly, incommensurably idiotic, inexplicably impractical indeed.
Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014
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Yorn Called Poem
When I am one in two
I hesitate
To let my thoughts withdraw,
For in the safety of that zone
I trust my friend who hears my voice alone.
She may not finish my unsaid words,
Though sometimes she does,
She may not understand where I was going,
But she always faithfully tries.
The art of being two is a garden,
Where one hand sows, the other grows.
When birth takes place in the womb of the earth,
The hands fold together as one,
Dignified with grace,
Thankful for the blessing.
A trace of the everlasting
Seen in the unquestioned root
Of how devotion
A good life fulfills.
In my heart there is a chamber
I share with no more then one.
There is but a single key,
Whose power is to open a world
Where a dolphin lies anchored
To an unbound universe.
Who is in possession of this key,
Is responsible.
To fear, flee and drop the chance to enter
Is a choice the unworthy can make.
To jump,
To leap into that island room,
Where seas,
Stormy, serene, salty and fresh
Blind the senses and reshape thoughts,
Is to fall into an ocean where a great dolphin
Lies in shackles. Time and action
In slow motion
Must move.
The setting free of divine spirits an art
Beholden
Only to she
The right one.
She who enters this space,
Where private thoughts wordlessly are spoken,
Where flowers grow on the cusps of waves,
Where faith is more then trying,
Where roots grow from a seafloor miles below,
Where stars in the sky whisper secrets,
Laughing with affectionate wonder
At the two below
Whose only prison
Is the freedom
To say yes or no
To a risky life
Both bonded and unbounded,
Is she whose nimble fingers will by love alone,
Sink the chains and set the dolphin free.
Oh so long has he waited for she his chosen one
So long has he dreamt of the journey to come.
Upon his back she wept and held,
And into the open world they ever went
And never ceased to be.
Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2015
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Yorn Called Poem
"is this ticket redeemable"
Once I thought that
poems had faces
whose silent plans
offer checkered meditations,
who weave endings
to hope´s beginnings,
whose raw robust smiles
explode in dizzy contemplations,
who unravel strings of time
into quantum fits of rhyme.
Then I saw that
Songs are
A singing
Where I
From my
Self-
Emerge
Unstating myself
(abandoning grammar as
prepositions avoid place)
I say
(failing to claim that time
gave birth to nothing) that my!
“God
(being an adverb)
I missed the boat”
Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014
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