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Topic: Megatenda's Poems  (Read 1830 times)
Permalink  •  January 01, 2015, 01:36:42 PM
Megatenda's Poems
« on: January 01, 2015, 01:36:42 PM »

hi i have a megavolution now so i needed a new thread
« Last Edit: January 01, 2015, 02:05:32 PM by Tenda »

Permalink  •  January 01, 2015, 01:38:05 PM
Re: Megatenda's Poems
« Reply #1 on: January 01, 2015, 01:38:05 PM »

I am simultaneously immobile and hovering
In a featureless interstitial place.
Unsatisfied with the answers
Available to me now, and there,
I did the only reasonable thing --
I sought a better answer
Here, before, after,
Anytime, anywhere,
I have to live with the consequences,
Of having searched everywhere.
Having searched everywhere,
One cannot find a better
Or a worse
There is only this,
And because I am its only witness,
I feel obliged
To evermore ratify my witness,
Though I will never appear more than inscrutable
To anyone other than the very last person
That ever will be.
And only if they are very well-read.


I only remember as far back
As having arrived late to the Judgment,
And on the lee side of the throne.
Light and time broke against,
And were repelled by,
That pivotal point,
But it did not seem all that unfortunate
To live forever, even were it in the dark,
By means simply
Of having approached God from the back.
At least, I admitted,
When one finds themselves somewhere unexpected,
They neither expect to arrive there
Nor can say exactly how it came to be.
Whether it was a good or bad choice,
I resigned myself to blameless in having made it
And joined the rest of the lost.

It was a pleasant place, but only in
Occasional moments
From the outside looking in.
A crowd congregating
Where they never meant to come
Easily sees the unity of itself --
But only with itself removed --
As each quantum,
I suppose by the truism of their nature,
Arrived only because of another observer's
Life went on
As it always had seemed to for me,
The unwitting member of a clique
Where everyone else seamlessly fit
But I had no idea how I did,
And was wracked by the doubt
Of whether I did.
For an inexpressable duration,
I lived in a dark forest
Flirting by means of distance
With my companions-by-nature.

I cannot say
Whether I left before anyone else,
Or whether anyone left after me,
Because focusing on the totality
I could only judge my own membership,
And focusing on any other
I could only judge our membership
To one another:
The infinite, ephemeral subsets that
Somehow tower above
The infinity they arise from in the beginning.
But, I left.
I cannot say
Whether I left because it happened once,
Or whether it happened
An interminable amount of times,
But I do remember that I left

Because there was someone
I invested in the idea that they loved me,
But that when they came to know me,
Clearly made visible they did not,
Would not and could not love me.

Maybe it wasn't a consequence of
But circumstances;
It was, simply put,
An offense
That in a timeless universe,
Someone would not love me
For who I was.
It was an intolerable offense,
And I immediately set about
Using the remainder of forever
Searching for by what mechanism
Such rejection was rendered possible.

Flying --
Because at any
Some point
Along any some time,
One obviously can fly --
I emerged above the canopy of the forest
Through the lowermost ring
Of a mall pavilion,
And stopped first in a Barnes and Noble
Close enough at hand.

It was wonderful, for a moment,
Seeing the books I had always at times seen
But never reflected on
Their nature of having existed
Contemporaneously with me.
The poetry that had been written in my time,
And before my time.
The addition of Gender and Sexuality sections,
To this and other bookstores,
In the extremely limited span of my life
Relative to the span
Books themselves have lived.
It was a wonderful and joyous experience
Reading the entirety of that bookstore,
Sharing at any moment I felt it
The experience of having read anything
Contained in those books,
With the friends that inevitably abounded
At the moments I envisioned them,
And disappeared at the times I didn't.

It was less wonderful,
After I had read every book there,
And discovered there was no one remaining
To converse with,
And traversed the endless shopping space
Extending through the
Frozen time of that universe.
Books were easy to come by,
And friends were always at hand
Whenever there was something new to say,
Think, or merely imagine,

New books

Grew, naturally,
And harder
To find.

By effective definition,
The bookstore following any bookstore,
Being an unexceptional bookstore,
Is less of a bookstore
Than the bookstore before it
When there was nothing preventing you
From having read every book.
Immortal, my compulsion drove me
Across the normal distribution
And, more painstakingly,
More sharply asymptotically,
Across every other conceivable distribution
Until every probability flatly converged
With the infinite convergence of all probability
That I had arrived, to my dismay,
At the last book I had not read
That existed in this frozen,
Never-progressing frame of time;
And it was, of course,
An anxious moment.

Having read all other books
Existing now,
I had not deduced
Whether reading the remaining
One book
Would answer my question,
Or would not.
I had deduced, only,
That after I read this book,
There would be nothing new I could talk about,
Think, or imagine,
And that by process of this
Damnable infinity
There would also be, therefore,
No one to talk with at all evermore,
As all talking will have been exhausted.
I hovered over that book
For a long time,
Even relative to timeless time,
Before I opened its cover,

And only
After resolving
That I would not suffer the outcome
Of seeming inevitability,
But that I would arrive at a better outcome
By simply having to do
What I had never done before,
Something that would bring me, more undoubtedly,
To a conclusion,
Happy or not,
On the lingering question of
The irreconciability
Of individuals
In a time,
In a place,
Where they might know everything
That anyone then could know...
Talk, analyze, extrapolate,
And imagine
Everything else possible with it,
For any duration of time,
Including all time,
And yet remain irreoconciable.
And yet remain physically in contact
But never touching.
And yet remain drawn into factions
That could never commingle
Over the subject of an errant,
Mistakenly-assigned penis,
When some other
Of the one great set
Still could.

If all the books of this time,
I settled,
Could not reveal to me
The inscrutable nature of
Some particular people's
Inability to
Come together,
Meet mutually
I would simply
Not settle
For all the books of this time.

It was thus,
I remember,
That I came upon the necessary means
To simply go,
First within,
The last remaining book of my life,
And then without.

Walking past a race riot
On sunless streets
That was, itself, too,
To some observers
Even in my own time,
Hundreds of years after the events described,
I walked the longest road out of town,
Between the trees,
Into the fog,
Until I had gone so far from the contents
Of that original book
That I was at equal distance
From the contents
Of every book
That would ever be,
At any time and anywhere,
Within the context of its particular time,
And I stopped there.
Simultaneously immobile and hovering
In a featureless interstitial place,
I took in,
In one gasp of a moment,

Everything ever written

At the time of its writing

As spoken by the person who wrote it.

The cacophony of one moment
Was not indivisible.
It was a sound that,
Taken as aggregate,
Did not yet -- impressively, to me --
Entail the utterance of all sounds,
And especially not in equal parts.
The cacophony of
Everything ever written
For all of time
Was progressive,
In this one sense I could interpret it,
Individual words being lost to the noise:
Only as, at any given division,
Or combination,
The relation of human utterance
To what all, and equal parts, utterance
Would have sounded.
I had done much devising
And actioning
This plan,
But it was not as if I could do just anything.
To discern any individual word from
The cacophony
Of everything ever written
Would have only reflected my own unhappiness,

The nature of the quantum
Arising into its environment,
Understanding by nature it must
Understanding by observation
How every other quanta
But never understanding enough beyond doubt
Its belongingness
To live without trouble,
And the nagging feeling of having been
Cast off,

Pleasant from the outside looking in,

Only occasionally,

As I suppose the nature of life,

By the truism of this nature,

Must be.

All I could see was the essential truth
Of all time that preceded
My own universes's --
Very untimely, I thought, having looked
At the times of other universes that had
Lasted longer --
Final Judgment.

The essential truth of
All human writing --
The conversations we could construct from it,
The dreams I could have
After been exposed to any of it,
The attempts I could make
To imagine myself in your shoes
Using it as the foundation --
Was only that at no time
Did the cacophony
Ever even remotely resemble
The sound of all cacophony,
Especially in equal parts.

The explosive,
Incredible energy created by
The massive, incredible sum
Of every incredible,
As well as unremarkable,

Thought and doctrine,
Belief and idea,
Religion and faith,
Science and fraud,

At any given moment,

Did not even come close to approaching
The fulness
Of what I had observed
Over the length
Of the utterly-divisible
Even as that utterance
Did not even come close to approaching
The fulness
Of what I knew, by dictum of nature,
Truly full utterance
Would sound like,
And how it would be composed,
And how explosive,

How energy-connoting it would be,
To everyone part and privy to it,
Partially or wholly,
The flitting images of innumerable
Probabilistic charts,
Defining the
Of any two people,
On any two points,
For the duration of a conversation,
Or their lifetimes,
Or the universe,
A frozen eternity
They lapsed into by accident,
Having lived a life
With errancy
And mistake,
And arriving, late,
To the Judgment,
And in the lee of the throne.

Having taken advantage of
All  possible time,
I supposed I had to settle for this
Ultimate conclusion:

That the roar of any crowd,
Part to or the whole of a context,
And any quanta of those crowds,
Might simply find itself,
By no intent of its own,
In the innocent and
Blameless fashion
That inherently belongs to --
Is the entitlement of --
Every single person who arrives somewhere unexpected,
Having neither expected to arrive there
Or understanding how exactly they had.

I have read from the book,
And say thus --
Enacting a Judgment of my own,
Utterly ineffectual
Yet poignant nonetheless --
I cannot blame most anyone
For the irreconciabilities
We experienced,
Whether in words or at fists,
Gunpoint or the threatened

Or realized


Because those irreconciabilites
Actually were,
And by no device of ourselves.

The irreconciability of any
Actually irreconciable position
Sits on the foundation of
Its particulars,
The era in which it abides,
The mind in which it dwells,
And that for irreconciliability
That actually was

There really was,
Though I am loathe to admit the powerlessness
Of either of us involved,
Nothing that could be done
To fix
What was broken.

That man really could never love me,
Even if this moment we shared
Stretched out forever,
And it was no fault of either of us,
And had nothing to do, really,
With the constituent parts
Of either of us
But with to do
With the cacophony we heard
From the moment we were born,
And attempted to divide,
Fruitfully as we might,
In the limited time we had to inspect it;

Finding us holding in our bare and naked,
Craning and tense,
White-knuckle hands,
A probability that,
In seeming contradiction to our common-sense
Of its nature,
Could nevertheless,
Truly never,
In any time,
Come to fruit.

Probability was not inviolable.
Only context,
And in such the way that I cannot blame
For the unhappinesses
Its inhabitants suffer
For having had their planet suspended
In an empty,
And incompassionate vacuum as its medium,
Its context,
I could not blame anyone else I had encountered

In that time, before this time.
In that time I would go on to miss the Judgment,
Arriving late and
To the lee of the throne,
Ultimately fine with the outcome of that particularly
But unhappy that the remainder of eternity
Would play out, as it had before becoming eternity,
Wracked with a lingering sense of
Not belonging
Connoted at times just from the nature of
Having arrived at an unexpected situation,
And at others from the more intimate abanbonment
Of one relationship
Intimated by the natural --
And truly, having read from the book --
Irreconcilable difference revealed therein.

But, that was then.
And, well, that was the other then-which-is-still-now,
But, I suppose,
Having done something impossible to arrive
At this conclusion,
It makes sense enough I might arrive at new feelings
On how I otherwise felt forever.

It is not so bad.
I am not so unhappy.

It is so much easier, now,
Because I have read from the book,
To love you,
Even when you say you will not,
And actually could not,
Love me yourself.

It was a happy conclusion to reach:
Deeming all hating blameless...
Except, I had to suppose,
Hating that arose merely out of intention,
Somehow contrived in
To the prevailing cacophony
In which that intention was made.
But wouldn't that be impossible,
Using the math at the root of all this?

Unfortunately, at the very end of the exercise,
I found even my conclusion,
My answer that I had formulated with
All possible knowledge,
Was itself incomplete merely
By the means I had taken
In having achieved it.

For, I had to admit: I cheated.
No one can actually do this. It was impossible.
So, having reached my conclusion
By means of doing something impossible,
I was left -- certainly happier --
But still to some degree unsettled:

Robbed of the safe refuge I had sought out,
That all hate was blameless
Because it was irreconcilable
Because were it not irreconcilable
It would be reconciled,

And that in the trueness of this model
And the hate,
The violence,
The paucity of love,
The abandonment,
Could not rise out of mere detesting,
Or spitefulness,
Simply-put and essential hatred,

Because such hatred was impossible,
When not blamelessly irreconcilable.
It was not provided for by the contexts!

But, having done the impossible,
I must suppose the impossible is true for others, too:
It seems I must accept nothing at all is inviolable,
And that some people may misrepresent
An amenable position
As one that isn't:
Injuring me across all metrics and axes measurable --
Because I have been injured across all those --
Simply because they,
In a fulness of culpability,
Had refused to take my hand only wilfully,
And cast me out just-as-much-so.

Well, cast out as I was,
My new greatest regret was that
By nature of your setting me so astray,

I had arrived late to the Judgment,
In the lee of the throne,

And was not privy to
Whether or not
You, and you, and you,
Were actually blameless.

Try as I might have,
His book was not among those available to me.

I have not read from The Book,
So, reason failing me, even when impossibly extraordinary...
I will just give you the benefit of the doubt.

The thesis becomes so simple, I realize,
When I cut out the whole process of how I arrived at it
And explained it to no one, as there was, as stated,
No one left to explain anything to by this point.

It is easy enough that I can continue to loving you
Even when you do not love me
Because I know you are most definitely blameless.
I just extend you the benefit of the doubt
That you are not capable of something as impossible as
Moving without the interior of a book,
As in moving without the interior of your context,

Time and place,

To arrive at this station
Where I never need, myself, express a paucity of love.
I may always express its fulness.

Really, it's a serious regret
Having not been privy to that Judgment.

I would have liked to know
Which of us
Took which impossible positions,
And whether, even,
The rewards for them would be any different.
My personally-enacted Judgment
Probably does not entail the same
Depths and peaks of rewards,
But its wonder, I suppose, comes intead from its fairness.
Absolutely sick of how I traversed all distributions,
Where asymptotic distributions asymptotically outnumber
The far easier ones to move past,
This perfectly flat and fair model is simply beautiful to behold.

I don't care what you do to me;
I will love you, anyway.
And should loving you, rather than being wrathful,
Have actually been the errant,
Wrong choice to make,
Placing me in the undesired portions of The Book
I have not read from...

Well, large solace
The path my constituent parts must follow
Born into the context they have been
Will be absent, come Judgment Day,

Or was it because

Of the Judgment I myself, now, enact.
I do not need to be God to love you;
It is easily within my own means.
Pray you are as errant a soul as mine,
Though, if you had chosen not to love me
Not out of circumstances but rather
And wilfullness
Impossibly rising above the zeitgeist of your time;

Because then,
Had you deigned to hate thus,
The modest reward of my ineffectual Judgment --
That you were always entitled to my unconditional love --
Will be of small succor
When He reads from The Book,
And passes Judgment of His own.

But then again, maybe not.

I wouldn't know.

I was, after all, as far back as I can remember,
Late to arrive,
And in the lee of the throne.

Permalink  •  January 01, 2015, 01:44:53 PM
Re: Megatenda's Poems
« Reply #2 on: January 01, 2015, 01:44:53 PM »

I was born in a waiting room,
Slammed against the delivery table
By providence and
Neither I nor the world --
I cannot tell you --
Has ever stopped shaking.


I am the god of homeopathy and every terrible thing.
I am the heart of all meteorology,
The snake never-yet-observed
At the center of every hurricane
Caught in a wet dream,
Thrashing masturbatory and oversexed to
Drive the winds of the world,
Carelessly eroding away
Every solid edifice
To its constituents,
Every solid notion
To its irreducible parts.

I was born in a storm,
And I think the storm moved inside me.
I think the storm lives inside my head,
Siphoning off body heat,
To drive an engine,
Whipping the ganglia.
Lashing the optic nerve.
Howling from every pore the
Destructive, shearing
My tender gentleness
Repaid to the woman who birthed me --
That I never knew --
Because her face was an unknowable blur.
And for me, the world was never going to come into focus.

When my whole world is shaking,
It must mean I shake the whole world.
The circumstances and contexts
Of our meetings
When we meet.
The vibrations sink through skin,
Skeletal muscle,
Into the cells, into the DNA,
And ultimately into every atom,
Which will quake, forever-and-ever,
Until the end of all things.
That's really, how it is:
We've defined the end of all things
As the moment
When my influence on you,
My influence on everything,
Reaches the aptly-named
Absolute zero.

The vibrations of baby pandemonium
Linger on long after the touching's past --
After the storm, from your perspective,
But it is gangrenous.
I am the god of homeopathy because
I am the only homeopathic treatment that works.
And I am the god of homeopathy
Because you are all subject to my treatment.

The harshness with which
I crash into you,
The speed at which my derricho strikes,
Infects the random nature of
Brownian Motion,
But I'm not saying Brownian Motion isn't right.
I am just an omitted coefficient.

The harshness with which
You crash into me,
The angle at which the shear strikes,
Dithers or empowers
The calculable nature of
The storm,
But I'm not saying that storms aren't calculable.
I am just the omitted firmament.

A human hurricane lives or dies
On the warmth it receives
Through human channels.
I inherit the tenderness of
'Exogenous thrashing,'
That grew baby pandemonium
At an alarming rate.

The way you touched me,
Mother, will outlive both our lives.
The way you touched me,
Mother, feeds the sum --
Informing the vector --
Describing the interaction
When I touch anything else.
Mother, your tenderness
Impresses its tenderness
Upon every impression
I will ever make,
Because as I have said, so many times,
The vector never forgets the summands.
The baby never forgets the mother,
Even if she, having been parasitized by
A god and a storm and inescapable quaking,
Never knew her mother.

My spiraling arms spin out into
Daughter hurricanes,
Because you didn't give me a womb;
I instead have a writhing ghetto:
A noisy, windswept city block
Whose eroded edifices
Cannot keep the wind out,
And through the cheap windowpanes
My influence
Creeps in, turning other
Families, children,
Into storm.
Into pandemonium.

I am the god of homeopathy because
My influence on everyone in the world
Persists beyond any physical evidence of me.
My destruction, fostered by your
Will outlive the cell line.
When this vessel dies,
Its vibrations will simply become disincorporate.

Earth will swallow the storm.

The dirt, the water, and the clay,
Will be gravely unsettled.
The bacteria
Will not have the capacity to feel
But they will be unsettled too.

Pandemonium will spread,
Like the far-less-interesting
Grey goos of sci-fi postulate.
Sometimes back into the food chain
And into the mothers and the daughters;
Sometimes deeper into the earth,
Slowly, cumulatively poisoning
The planet that was forced to
Swallow the storm
Because, by providence,
A woman had given birth to one.

The only emptiness I feel as pandemonium
Is that for the bulk of the history of the universe,
Nothing will have the same intellectual capacity
To be hurt like I was by your influence
Despite suffering, through me, both your and my influence.
The only envy I feel as pandemonium
Is that after this race and this planet
Is destroyed by me,
There won't be anything left to appreciate
The gentle, gentle


Of all the gentle touching

That helped me grow into the storm,
I can only suppose, natural law
I would be.

I feel like I've tried to apologize,
But there's no way the words came out right.
I'm sorry that because of what I was born,
I caused so much tumult
And unhappiness.
I'm sorry that, because of what I was born,
I ended up finding so much happiness
For myself
In spite of that.

The Earth has always spun.
The Earth spun while
Baby pandemonium grew up,
And tender hands passed
Over her,
From her,
Simultaneous origin and epicenter and
Patient zero
For a deleterious shaking
I was part and parcel to,
But mom,
That I won't ever forget
You raised.
The best you could.

The Earth will spin,
After I'm gone,
But pandemonium will never go away.
At the best, after all of us who
Suffer, and perpetuate, it,
Are gone,
It will seem pandemonium has passed away.

But even when there's no observer,
Until the vector arrives at absolute zero,
There will always be a vector:
And the vector
The summands.

The last tender quake of an atom
In all the universe
Will carry the meagerest contribution
From all of us,
Because pandemonium came and passed.
I just wonder,

And I don't know whether I wonder
Or ruefully,
Or bitterly,
Or indifferently,

Whether that tender quake
Will be tender like my mother was to me --
Pandemonium's sarcastic poetism --
Or if the sum, after all,
Will be tender
The way I never knew,

And thus, of course,
Could not honestly
Have written

I am pandemonium,
And I am so sorry that I was born this way,
And I am so sorry that I was raised this way,
And I am so sorry that I will die this way,
Describing in grandiose terms
And an elaborated metaphor about homeopathy
Just how fucking cruel the world has been to me
Because I can write that, honestly,

But I am pandemonium,
And I just can't yet write honestly about
The kind of tenderness I never knew.

Maybe if I had,
I wouldn't believe any of this.

Permalink  •  January 01, 2015, 01:48:02 PM
Re: Megatenda's Poems
« Reply #3 on: January 01, 2015, 01:48:02 PM »


The only position I have in which to
Sweat out the tension
Of being in your bed
Is in your bed.
I recite silently a cite once sited on Wikipedia:
In the post-traumatic, the fight-or-flight response becomes
Fight, flight, freeze,
Or fawn.


I cannot impress while pressed against.

I feel so large but must be so small.

I have so much time to think this over,
So much time to meditate on the suddenness
And completeness
With which the smallest, most incapable
Was distilled out of me.

I don't drive my car.
I am a passenger. I am passing. I am

I don't go anywhere.
I arrive with. I am second. I am

I don't choose.
I am spoken for. I am I am I am

I am I think, spiraling,
I am not a person.
I have so much time to think this over,

And the thesis I can't communicate
Is that I have forfeit my personhood
Because all of that therapy I had in
Another time, another age,
Had always stressed autonomy so much.

I consider whether I am an inautonomous person.
I have so much time to think this over,
But I cannot impress this upon anyone

While pressed against,


Against walls
Through doors
Into the sheets
And around bodies, like an
Inautonomous glove
I am pressed.

I am the carry-on he impresses upon
Everything necessary to prevent
The carry-on from impressing anything
On anyone the carry-on must see,

For the carry-on is

Odorous, something controlled for
Circumstantially, something prepared for
Owned, something cared for
Used, surviving only ever through

The direct lineage of
And care,

Prior to use.

The hart sings my verses that appear on paper,
And I read from the liner notes
Written in by the hart.

The duet, as-written,
Is never voiced,
But the distinction is lost among

Compensating interpretation.

After all,
Make a duet.
And we are two.

I have so much time to think about this,
And I just assume it doesn't seem suspect
Because every mind in the audience
Harbors now, and forever harbors,
The fantastic notion
Of a hart so doting, so loving and
That he will sing the doe's part.

The compensating interpretation:
She must not want to sing.

The correlating thoughts,
Filling the mind with vapor immediately after:
She must not have anything she needs to say.

We pass through crowds as
As any other duet, pair,
Because for these parts of the song,

I am voiceless.

But being in front of public eyes is the
Bearable business
Of being his doe.

In private, I must sing. I must always fawn.


I have all this time to think because, mentally,
I am always trying to be as far away from the present situation
As is at-all possible.

I think about The Handmaid's Tale a lot.
It had lots of tips for a doe,
A somebody else's woman.

Offred's way out is one of the
Only ways out
I might foresee for myself.

When the storm is already upon you,
Ofttimes the shortest path to
The only reachable path to
Is the path leading to the eye;
The eye, and its constant, unending
Outpouring of

Two-faced generosity

Recalling so clearly Atwood's epigraph:
"In the desert, there is no sign that reads
"Thou shall not eat stones."

I fill my cheeks with stones,
And sing what the hart wills I sing.

The moaning notes.
The squeaking notes.
The pleading notes.
The crying notes.
The fawning notes.
The loving notes.
The loving moaning
Notes, the crying pleading
Notes, the fawning,
Fawning notes,
The notes I must sing with
Mouth and belly
Full of stones
Without ever connoting
I have been eating stones in the desert.

Because it is verboten to eat
What I will
In any measure;
It is only safe to eat
What I am given
In all the measures I receive.

It would not do,
That he discovered I take strength from
The nutritive capacity of a rock
And not from his seed.

It would not do,
That he discovered I grow fat from
The comforting space-filling nature of stones
And not from his seed.
And not from his child.

I satisfy myself in the small margins
Of the placebo effect,
And the smaller margin
We each take when we have control
Over even the smallest,
Most insignificant or
Most harmful

I eat stones in the desert,
To maintain the poise
That, should I ever draw near enough
The eye of the storm

That I might be threaded out of it,
Woven back into the warp of normal life
Via some escape engineered by the operative plan of

Fawning, fawning, fawning

And praying with all my heart to God
That for the duration of one chance,

Janus will not turn his head

And will act according to his better half.

Until then, I can only do what I must do
To preserve the storm,
His fluctuating whirlwind of feelings
Neither breaking me
Nor saving me.

I absolutely must take ownership of my role,
Not as victim but as chattel;
Taking ownership of ownership that I don't own
Affords me the position of
And what property owns:

The master's service to the property:
To utilize,
To keep in working order,
To not leave by the side.

To keep close,
To shelter from the storm,
But never let it outside those borders.

Mouth full of stones,
I sing so beautifully
Everything he wants to hear;

I inform his investment. I substantiate his
Investment. I corroborate his investment,
Invest myself into his investment so he
Will invest himself into his investment and
Never discard his investment.

I abide
So that
The bond

I fill my cheeks with stones,
And I sing squeaking,

Breaths when I can,
Spending as much time as I can
Aloof in thought,
Because the question posed
In those moments I am permitted to

Pause, and catch my breath,

I answer quickly, and never question myself:

Will I sing, or will I die?


It becomes commonplace to congratulate myself
On still being alive.

I grade, separate and create distinction between
The lesser
And the greater
Acts of valor. Acts of performance.

I sold a woman to a man,
Who received a man at the airport,
And never hurt me.

Because of how I carried my baggage.
Because of where I stood, waiting,
And the seemingly "idle" actions

I repeated for near on an hour

Waiting for him to see.

My contrition, my scatterbrainedness,
My vulnerability,
My weakness,
Everything that I broadcast

Was broadcast

Because he saw it walking into the room.
Seeing someone repeat these things for an hour,
You receive a different impression.
Like all the verses of this song I have written
Before I have sung,
I wrote it on risk
And swallowed the risk singing it.

If the hart ever knows
His partner manipulates him,
I don't know what the hart will do.
This is a risk I do not swallow.

The doe's song is only artful performance.
It is not technical.
It is the carefully-crafted performance
I must make constantly,
Under all scrutiny and
Possibility of scrutiny,
In order to create something of such



That no one ever knows. The knowing dies with me,
Whether I die or simply,
One day,
No longer am forced to sing this song.

The doe sings tomorrow into being,
When otherwise tomorrow is never guaranteed.

I cannot fight.
I cannot flee.
I cannot simply freeze,
And hope for the best;

For the best

Showing no duplicity but honest love
And singing, showing no spite or
Regret, singing, showing no disdain,
Singing, from the very first day
To whatever will be the very last

Because to the doe,
No tomorrow is ever guaranteed.

I am an artist and my song was more beautiful
Than any you ever heard,
Though you'll never hear it sung with honesty,
And you'll never understand the structure or
Content, and you'll never,
I hope, understand the need.

The doe sings tomorrow into being.
The rooster only picks up where she left off.

Something, though, bothers me about this.
It's a question of timing.

I silently recite, ofttimes,
A cite once sited on Wikipedia:
In the post-traumatic, the fight-or-flight response becomes
Fight, flight, freeze,
Or fawn.

This cite can't be right.
The reference text is making an astute observation, but it can't really be right,
Because these adaptations take place before we are ever
The trauma.
Because I survived the very first abuse.
And you can't say the trauma was over
Just because I had learned to cope.

Fawning, in the text,
Is wrongly attributed only to the survivors.
I know so many today,
Who still sing the doe's song,
That can only

That they were

Permalink  •  January 01, 2015, 01:48:46 PM
Re: Megatenda's Poems
« Reply #4 on: January 01, 2015, 01:48:46 PM »


I trade downward freely,
Exchange the aphorisms that failed me
For zoonotic platitudes:
"Meals must come before molts!"

Which, well, seems applicable enough.
Men and wormkind,
The larvae of the world,
We all must eat.

Today I feel less than human,
But trying to remain more than nothing
Puts me in the position to
Ascertain my instar
Before I can see just how far from my imago
I have fallen,

Because my brain will not permit me to think;

Cultured and wired as it has been in my life;

That I am a no-good-worm
Without instead appropriating,
"I am a no-good-caterpillar,"

And the human failing I'm
Running away from
In order to see myself as one
Is my fear
Not of what tomorrow brings,
But, tomorrow,
What will I have become?

Growth is inflation
In a closed system,

The unavoidable need to feed
Rubbing up against
The physical constraints of a shell.

Perturbing it,
I am perturbed.
To move forward I must molt,
Discard the limitations,

But the running metaphor,
As they often do,
Just runs up against a wall;

I cannot molt.

Today I feel less than human,
But running away and
Self-deprecating down the evolutionary line
Puts me in the position where
Its solutions
Simply do not apply.

I cannot molt.

I carry the non-molting liability gene,
The human germ line germ
That when the form of the body no longer fits,
It cannot simply be discarded.
The liability germ that when the body is blighted,
Its proliferate sarcoidosis must persist
Throughout the systemic iteration --

The agglomerated ruins of immune warfare
Remaining, without perpetuation,
In a closed system where everything else

My lungs will, some time from now,
Contain no cells that they presently contain.
But the scar tissue,
The granulomas,
Remain where they are,
Persistent in a system where nothing else
Other than the mechanism to persist
Because the scars I carry
Are more immortal
Than the genetic postulate
Which will replace,
Which will perpetuate,
On-and-on for as long as it can,

Until it cannot,

And when I am dead,
Every perpetuating part of me will have
And be dead;
And the scars,
Of all kinds,
Will have outlasted them.

Today I feel less than human,
And I dearly wish I could molt.

The molt,
The progression from
One instar to the next;

The quantitative,
Measurable progress
Towards the imago,
Towards the adult,
Towards completion
In every molt,

Alongside the liberation! --
The freedom to discard
The boundaries of the closed system that,

Rubbing up against,
Leaving my probing hands and mind
Scarred and burnt by friction,
Shrunken by the compression of
Growing so large and complicated
Within a space that cannot change evermore,
Whose specifications were set
Within limits
When the germ line was first born,
And the liability gene enacted.

I must grow to survive
The changes tomorrow brings,
But today I feel less than human
And I don't want to grow anymore
Than I want to face tomorrow.

Carrying the burden of so many scars,
Confined by limitations I cannot trade up,

I just don't think
I can handle what comes tomorrow.
I wish I could molt,

Because molting,
The caterpillar gains the advantage
Our liability gene
Means we do not always gain;

From one instar to the next,
The caterpillar is always closer to
Being what it is meant to be,
And to fulfillment of the few, but all,
Instinctive desires
It has.

From one day to the next, though,
I only too often learn
That the growing contribution from
Scars inside, never healing,

And the growing realization of the
Hard-and-fast boundaries, limitations

Of my body

That cannot molt,
Only too often learn

That I am not going to be any closer.
No closer at all.

Today I feel less than human,
And I can trade down freely,
Glorifying all I want
Life processes that do not belong to me
Because, being human,
I all too often wish solutions were simpler:

"Meals must come before molts,"

And then,
I would be there.

I cannot molt.

Today I feel less than human,
And play escapist mind-games
Of rhetoric and could-have-beens

Because these are the tools
My body provides me
To numb the dull, sometimes painful,
Pursuit which still only mimics the caterpillar:

My dumb, animal pursuit -- meals, without the
Luxury of molts --
In the day-to-day pursuit of finding,
One day,
I am not feeling the way I do today
About tomorrow;

Because notwithstanding the scars,
And notwithstanding the limits,
Notwithstanding that I am human,

That I cannot molt,

I am driven ever-on -- notwithstanding --
To become my imago.

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