Long Centrifuge Poems
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Today is the birthday of that
long gone soul. The one spinning
in the centrifuge, even now,
on the counter, as the technician
in the lab coat pulls seven G's
worth of DNA from calcified skull,
in an effort to know what might
have been on the mind of the
Neanderthal still hanging around,
after all these years.
Before Julius Caesar and way before
Pope Gregory, notioned that any day
might be different from any other,
he woke up around sunrise, quietly
rolled to upright and looked about
the dimly lit space.
Perhaps he saw the female lying there
who had brought forth a baby,
now lying there with her, a young male,
a child of perhaps seven seasons,
extending the lineage a bit further,
the trek, apparently a bit longer now.
It's a cold morning, really cold,
and he goes to see what's left of
the fire from last night. Barely a
wisp of smoke to mix with the early
morning icy mist all around.
Thinking about what might be gotten
for the few in his group from this hidden
day he returns to her and his spear.
Her eyes open and he motions to be quiet.
The meal may be just beyond their camp.
Quietly his slips into the dewy mist.
He didn't have any notion of
wider questions, of glaciations or,
distant global warmings, DNA inheritance,
species encapsulation, or lyrical
language structure and etymology,
he only wanted to find a meal, to
provide, and stay alive another day.
Yet perhaps he had deeper, more
cerebral notions, about the beauty of
the drops hanging from the pine needles,
and the bent image within them. Perhaps
he heard the early morning calls of
robins or sparrows, and smelled the
trailing smoke of yesterday's fire mixing
with the scents of the season's flowers.
It's all about history, his story,
that we yearn to hear, after
forty-nine thousand years or more.
To hear his heart, to bare his soul
through those mists of time, to now.
To be reassured, that our story, it's
character, it's plot, comes from
ancient roots, ancient tradition,
ancient emotion, ancient love - of life.
© Goode Guy 2013-05-20
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neanderthal
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neanderthal_extinction_hypotheses
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neanderthal_Genome_Project
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/FOXP2
Manifestation of métier write
finds yours truly sitting today
December 24th at 2:41 P.M. with slight
hunched over mien as edge of night
quite some hours away when height
of Santa Claus appearance bright
rosy cheeks glow insync with
Rudolph the reindeer red nose.
As an indie alt rock'n
tribe beck ha dishabille poet,
I view the challenge of writing analogous
to betting an heir or heiress
which includes gestation of an, emotion,
idea, sentiment,...unbeknownst
if outcome birthed to be fabulous
then however the whimsical notion spins
within thine cerebral centrifuge,
the imagination pregnant with fetus
of a fledgling concept feeling
with byte size sea legs,
not quite ready for
prime time and beak comb devious
though, as swollen
womb dar full expansive
lettered girth manifests and coalesces
into miniature Confucius
versatile baby (unless unexpected contusions
render exertion aborted effort, the proud
pro-creator bounteous
which success inspires this scrivener
to tackle another and fleeting thought
and sire by product with audacity.
Oft times the sacred seconds silenced
by stillness louder than "Big Ben"
ear splitting only to me - squirreled away
in this makeshift basement den
the dead quiet, a riot
with audio logical sonic boom decibel -
asper a water nymph sprung from a fen
or when a sneaky fiery fox
slips into the crowded house,
where the yolk cull doth roost
long fostering mass squawking
of manifold egg on eyes zing hen.
The end result metamorphoses into
a totally tubular unforeseen jumble
analogous to uglies that bump
of gibberish senseless wordy clump
aspiring to convey some essence of logic,
though best to take furlough than persist
to interpret dump
of discordantly strung English bits,
which intractable insistence
might spell f-o-r-c-e-d g-r-u-m-p
as the mood one may find them-self,
unless he/she can call
the literary mod squad
to resolve harrumph
and with any lucky trump
petting, the once amorphous lump
pen pro lit tarry hit might undergo
an amazing transformation -
a cherished poem plump
with juicy fruit
weighing down the boughs
as if limbs ready to slump.
Manifestation of métier write
As an indie alt rock'n
tribe beck ha rolling stone dishabille poet,
who views challenge of writing analogous
to begetting an heir or heiress,
which former includes
gestation of an emotion,
idea, sentiment,...unbeknownst
if outcome birthed to be fabulous
then however the whimsical notion spins
within thine cerebral centrifuge,
the imagination pregnant with fetus
of a fledgling concept feeling
with byte size sea legs,
not quite ready for prime time
and beak combs devious, industrious,
overconscientious (hopefully), victorious...
though, as swollen womb dar full expansive
lettered girth manifests and coalesces
into miniature Confucius
versatile Buddha baby
(unless unexpected contusions
render exertion aborted effort), the proud
pro-creator bounteous, glorious, riotous
which unexpected success inspires
brassy, ironic, steely wordsmith
to tackle another and fleeting thought
and sire by product with audacity.
Oft times the sacred seconds silenced
by stillness louder than "Big Ben"
ear splitting only to me - squirreled away
in this makeshift manorial man cave
the grateful dead foo fighters quiet, a riot
with audio logical sonic boom decibel -
asper water nymph sprung from fen
or when the quick brown
(sneaky, leery, and fiery) fox
jumps over the lazy dog
slips into the house,
where the yolk cull doth roost
long fostering mass squawking
of manifold egg on eyes zing hen.
the end result metamorphoses into
a totally tubular unforeseen jumble
of gibberish senseless wordy clump
aspiring to convey some essence of logic,
though best to take a furlough than persist
to interpret dump
of discordantly strung English bits,
which intractable insistence
might spell f-o-r-c-e-d g-r-u-m-p
as the mood one may find them-self,
unless he/she can call
the literary mod squad to resolve harrumph
and with any lucky the once amorphous lump
pen pro lit tarry hit might undergo
an amazing transformation a mugwump,
a cherished poem plump
with juicy fruit weighing down the boughs
as if limbs ready to slump.
She stuck out like a lily among thorns, when she sprung up in
the midst of the Baptist Student Union. All eyes were on her, as she raised her
hands and lifted up her eyes with her voice. Chrissy signed and swayed in
reverence and awe of God's presence. Although some thought she was acting
irreverently, I knew Jesus was the treasure of her heart and that He was pleased
with her.
Chrissy was one of the most unconventional Christians I met in
college. She wore snug faded blue jeans with the knees out and an over
washed, green, sleeveless army shirt. She was very petite and fair-skinned with
thin cherry lips and rosy cheeks. Her hair was long, brown and frizzy, usually
worn in a ponytail and matched by her thick eyebrows haloing her innocent blue
eyes, which lit up as she ran and bounced around campus barefoot.
Her feet were so cute and tiny; they took my breath away and made
my heart pound, especially her right foot. It was like lead on the gas pedal. That
tender child would become another woman behind the wheel, and I always felt
as if I was in a centrifuge.
Once, on our way to church, she was traveling 70 miles per hour
around sharp curves and over unarmed railroad tracks. All the way there, she
was smiling that patented smile that had won the hearts of many and oscillating
her head from side to side to the music, as the truck jerked from left to right and
seemed to ride on two wheels.
My eyes were enlarged. Apparently, Chrissy figured out that I was
frightened when she noticed my locked jaw and gritting teeth; as my left hand
clawed the cracked vinyl seat, my right gripped the armrest on the door.
They still try to hide with in caves
stirring caldrons brew in black dresses
elixir to cure from those they doomed
awful concoction cut from mothers womb
call it budding little one ground into a magical life powder
They still try hide to hide with in shiny walls paved
spinning centrifuge distilling formula in white smocks
medications to heal from those they expired aborted from a womans uterus
nomenclature nascent fetal cells manipulated into genetic enhancing compound
It is all in how you look at it what then are you looking at
You make it sound so terrible so what do you hear
Could you rephrase that I just did
Repent while it still today
They still try to hide behind
inspired to finish after reading the poem little feet by Robert A. Dufresne
the free state is actually not free
casting my line into the many manipulations
worked by dust devils and hierophants
gambling their grunt wages on my young ass
like cowboys on a cattle free vacation
unwelcome by all rational standards
it's a new skill set for those complicated shadows
and their thistles and thorns tearing at the flesh
hounds snuffing and baying and getting close
wishing for an angel to wrap her arms around you
swindled by Fate that two bit alley hustler
while storming the gates of credulity
a knight most errant enters at a slant
lance lowered at the donjon's holy centrifuge
and its manifold rank ranks of rank
an armload of blackmail mail to deliver
keeping those bacon and eggs on the menu
with every move and happenstance an augury
the one thing that can never be said
with all such derivative conclusions
from those who fear becoming has beens
more than they fear the death wagon
an envy complex every child's heirloom
Fate's leg rubbed mine under the table
hunted me down with yellow eye wolves
her deluvian templates swung into action
contouring my meat manikin to the last atom
in a mechanical avalanche of likenesses
credibility factor fading like a wet witch
being clueless this seemed applicable to my case
unable to attenuate the accursed guilt magnets
a contriver of advantage beneath the beasts
a product of her times assuredly no excuse
concussion therapy and then crimson horror
you'll want to live among people that talk straight
not having to be lunatic or trapped in ethnology
to find oneself receptive any longer
she drifted through an egg timer
as if imprisoned in a snow globe
a speckle of dust in the heat of sequence
turned upside down and back again
a centrifuge of forced cohesion
control anger self-imposed consent
she slipped on the endless surface
banged her head against the ceiling
dropped to the treacherous floor
only to take a breath of despair
suspended in broken limbo and
a script written by wrath injuries
incarceration dogma and defeat
wreathed with a crown of thorns
lacerated scared and vulnerable
puncture marks and crude exclamation
of a protagonist in agony
eventually the looking glass broke
shards and fragments set her free
no shelter apart from mental pain
bruised shattered and surrendered
a barely audible voice released the void
as she gathered the grains of doubt
enforced discomposure and surprise
she realized that she was far more
than the sum of intangible parts
and picked up the pieces aware
that certainty and collusion
had not been her friends but
evil foes had ruled her sentience
scattered strew swept her skin
as if to say sift through the dredge
once the cover dissipated in the fall out
no more a shell of crushing forces
she walked away as fast as the storms
that had held her captive for so long
02nd August 2021
A grim, gray day,
endless rain coming in off the ocean.
Endless calls from other people,
"What part do we need for this?"
"Can you order it for us?"
"A happened and then B happened, what does it mean?"
"Do we hold this part toward the motor side,
or toward the brake side of the centrifuge,
when we're tightening it up on the horizontal shaft?"
There he was.
At the grocery store, picking up some stuff -
we were going to be working late that night.
God, people are slow,
wandering around like they don't know what they want,
like they have no other place to go.
Get out of my way,
get out of my way.
Tunnel vision in the fog,
man on a mission,
big mass moving at speed
to the end of the task.
There he was,
in his mom's shopping cart,
staring at me.
Little guy, probably 2 years old,
'Popeye' looking with a knit cap on his head,
half winking at me with one eye.
Smiling.
He was beyond 'stranger anxiety' or never had it.
He looked at me, and he knew me -
I was one of his.
He was a shaman, an imp,
a grinning cherub with a touch of guile.
So young, but he was aware,
aware that he *was,*
and that on the other end,
there was somebody who also was,
and he felt the humor and joy
which surely must be mystical.
I've thought of him a thousand times,
his little face.
A bright sun in a dark universe.
Haunted by fears of abandonment he lived a life of counter measures
always aloof, his deceptions were a well rehearsed performance;
ultimately judged as inconsiderate and unforgivable;
And labeled as an insignificant happenstance that must be made to pay.
He measured his meters ever so carefully thinking he knew time so well;
Waiting for things to be right but never imagining it would never come back;
But in the end it wasn't time it was life and like a parentless child life;
Delivered to him but a centrifuge of what was once a living dream.
the man only wanted to be loved for who he was and not what he pretended to be;
But could anyone possibly know, being the shape shifter he supposed he was.
But he had a heart and he tried to be kind and he wasn’t superman so how did he;
End up labeled a breaker of promises considerate only of that which he desired.
So the man accepts the blame solely as his own for;
He should have known better but he finds these conclusions hard to bare;
And he considers it to perhaps have been mistaken identity of what;
He once believed an undying love was nothing more than a hopeless delusion
What is the vision;
Capitalism
Socialism is this bar and reprimanded
Truth is silenced
Political guidance
Rapture coming forth
Evil breeze on me
Centrifuge called and they lose
Breath and takes
Pandemic dilemma
War on humanity
No dire calamity
Science and politics don't mix
The reality is more the devil's tricks
Warren is not his tricks that contain us
it's our choices that defamed us
Listening to the wrong voice and choosing the wrong choice as they encapsulate us
What is the true vision what is the truth mandate
What is the purpose of this political mandate
Business circulate by being a hypocrite
When you don't participate
What gives you the right to complain and yet
Political dilemma
War on humanity
No dire sincerity
Politics and science won't mix
The truth is in the heavens
Just resist the devil
And he will flee
This is a spiritual
Not physical emergency
10/28/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020