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My Brain is a Cheap Gadget That Spins

Cheap Gadget that Spins

Cheap Gadget that Spins

My Brain is a Cheap Gadget That Spins

I am from the ten commandments
to be taken senselessly, with finger language:
energy overshadows bewilderment.
I am from feasts and head pats
where polished round people were obediently sober.
I am from a place where tea was clouded by milk;
where it was natural to protect yourself;
where the trivial was antiseptic.

I grow in my mind, and create my own misfortune.
I forget to be tired:
my brain is a cheap gadget that spins.
I journeyed to nuclear accidents
and pretended only snowmen melted.
I strive to hear the tales of the doltish
and forsake ideals that some consider pungent.
I do not blanch, even without notice,
clean ’round the mind, a melancholic manifestation.


Hear this on Sound Cloud


Written for:

Poetics – Where are You From?

Also posted on:

Poetry Pantry #250

Today, I wrote the poem for D’verse Poetry prompt by Mary with a theme of with a theme of “This is Where I am From.” .  It has a lot of strict rules to this. I hope I don’t get thrown off for not following all the rules: “begin with the words “I am from…”  and then go with the flow.  Try to use some interesting metaphors and some vivid imagery! Include words and sounds, smells and tastes, and sites.”

I think it will be fun to learn a bit more about each other in a unique sort of way.” I am very worried about this. I hope this is acceptable.

Image Credit: Bat-Ami Gordin © 2015 all rights reserved. Credit if you use it, please.

Things Could Be More Reliable

Smiley On Mountain

Smiley On Mountain -> This has nothing to do with this poem, but it’s an Eight Lane Road, so I think it fits the overall theme. Besides, I think the living embodiment of an emoticon on a mountain is a very cool concept and needs to be published.

Things Could Be More Reliable

Things could be more reliable:
piss water tea, more stale than old;
valves that leak with familiar beat.
I will only come here at night,
boulevards emptier than roads,
dim lights glow from windows of homes.
So many memories, where I cry,
buried in your shoulder with grief.


Hear this on Sound Cloud


Written for:

Poetics Of The Road

Also posted on:

Poetry Pantry #249

Today, I wrote the poem for D’verse Poetry prompt by billgncs to write an Octet, which is an eight line poem. For more of a challenge, we could write 8 syllables per line and also try to make it be about the road. So this is my attempt.

Image Credit: Bat-Ami Gordin © 2015 all rights reserved. Credit if you use it, please.

Notes From A Metro Line

Search and Rescue inspect the subway after 9-11 attacks.

Search and Rescue inspect the subway after 9-11 attacks.

Trade Center - MBTA Silver_Line

Trade Center – MBTA Silver_Line


Dverse poets asked us to write about what we learnt or felt about times that have gone from Darkness to the Light. Since tomorrow is the anniversary of 9-11, I decided to write a poem about the destruction of the subway, a rather dark place, even when there aren’t terrorist attacks. However, since WTC came down, the MBTA station has been rebuilt and is quite a bright and beautiful place.

Notes From A Metro Line

fragile arcs caught by gleaming hues
weave magic, elude sight.
silver crowned unicorns
curl on incoming rainbow,
decamp south
to lodge from journeys end,
awake from oblivion,
like jewels on an inanimate face.

embittered minutemen
on the express, caress collision.
metropolitan heroes
crushed on rush hour train,
breathe the stench
of another’s warm lunch sandwich,
slick lettuce curled,
no time for consumption.

subway spray overlays
vacuous white non-visaged,
empty headed faces forward —
flutter in spiritual positions
most humans occupy these days.

on the intimate horizon,
though a dark pane,
a plethora of iridescent
glow-in-the-dark paint splatter
stupefies artistic vision.

green ocean spray choreography
river snakes unnoticed,
stealing along shiny park grass,
through faux city boulevards
dumped beyond urban walls.

as we ride the rattle can,
angels fly in masterpieces
strewn around fairy tale readings
found in museums above.


Hear this on Sound Cloud


Written for:

Poetics–Bringing Light to Darkness

Image credits: wikepedia entry World Trade Center (MBTA station) and North Shore Journal Article September 11 – photos to remember that day

Woman Who

Woman Who

woman who’s lips are a complex mystification
conforming structurally into my own
i touch my nose lightly onto her lips
then swiftly maneuver down
to buoyantly lick and twist and braid
and weave our tongues
like fruity moist leather candy

woman whose  jaw nodes
expel succulence into her mouth
i nibble on her orifice
and froth it up
with ambrosic juices
i am drenched with her devotion

woman who leans into my body
and settles like putty into my nooks
and clings to my frame like cellophane
our skins reach through our clothes
longing to unite the contrast
of textures, of colors, of hormonal scents
and the similitude of taste and mettle
as we smelt into robust regalement

woman who’s seat is softness
where all her life sits
who’s handfuls of flesh
are the size of her heart
she rolls herself along my thighs
and rubs her scent onto my own
we reach around each other’s torsos
to hold our fundamental interconnection
to brace our loads freely
and without calculation


This was posted for: Poetics The Other.

I posted this for Brian Miller who caught me the other day on my Fruit Leather poem, saying that it sounded very sensual, and I actually took some parts of this and turned it from a sensual poem to a food poem. And well…that’s how to use words. So Brian, this is for you!  🙂

Also posted on:

Mag 97

Photo Credit: Was  Jean Harlow  The  Sexiest Sex Symbol of the 30s.

The Horror of Death

The Heart Of Arkus

“The Bible tells us to be like God, and then on page after page it describes God as a mass murderer. This may be the single most important key to the political behavior of Western Civilization.” Robert Anton Wilson

The Horror of Death

A feeling is a wordless song.
Supplication’s overlooked.
Spontaneous visualization, stirs imagination.
Trying too hard lacks truth.

God, science and nature are identical ―
no contraction of power.

God receives despite vile sins,
while nature always nurtures.

Faith no more;
salvation is not the healer.

The horror of death
lies but in fear of God.


Written and posted for:

 Dverse Poetics Taboo Subjects: How to be Fearless and Nothing Less.

Challenge by  Kellie Elmor, who hosts a blog called Magic in the Backyard. of

Photo Credit The Heart Of Arkus Fractal Art Canvas Print

Present Value

Einstein Discovers That Time is Actually Money

Einstein Discovers That Time is Actually Money

Present Value

every day

present worth of future sums
determined as the cash current flows.
a mortgage paid, keeps you warm.
one earns what one is obliged.

zero coupon bearing products
swamp the maturity rates.
yields are fixed: iteratively, recursively.

the lucky ones

winner of unaccountable lottery:
stress free with investments
and procurements out of
dispersed present valued sums
payment accelerated.

devious calculations

when all one seeks is linearity,
it curves with assumptions,
varying external information.
periodic payments in a

deferred amount
periodically increased or decreased
who is it that assigns or encumbers
a language structure
for the elite to understand


flee from the workers world.
the bounty of the retiree
a series of payments
for the present value
of life’s past work.


I wrote this for the   Sunday Scribblings  challenge called present. I chose to write about an economic/business concept called present value. Why? Because first of all, no one else would, so that’s cool to me. Secondly, because I write all these science poems, but today, business and economic concepts use complex math, like finite element equations, to take account all the variable. So, instead of writing a poem about science, math or engineering, I thought I’d spread a bit.

The picture of the scales is from:

I got the Gary Larson cartoon from:


Roy Lichtenstein, Whaam!, 1963


in the midst of constant multi-tasking, you stab unity.

limitless mythologies.
battle lines redefined.
set in a destructive path,
tremendous tremors
in the seat of your pants.

new density patterns are exemplified with complexity.

flashing shapes,
spatial dynamic swirls,
organize in technicolor.

contractual textures machines take you into darkness.

busy angels guard you silently.
you scream and pray
as you head deeper
into an inescapable hell.

the song drones on. you shatter. shatter. shatter.


Written and Posted for:

dVerse Poetics–Pop Art.  Victoria Ceretto-Slotto challenged us to write about Pop Art.

Also Posted on:

Come fly with me  –  Prompt # 139

Also Posted on:

challenge – “action”

Picture Credit Tate Museum.

Winds of Adventure

Wind Storm By KC

Winds of Adventure

creative journeys
mutate in the wind.
observe, notate, innovate.
entrap impressions.
oppressively tempt
powerful invisible patterns.
shape revealing events.
teach beyond obsolescence.
anxious illusions
confuse resources,
repressed disturbances.
reservoirs intact,
spurious brutality
dredges dual power plays.
in a nest of delicacy,
inner perjury takes
a chokehold on recklessness.


Written and Posted for

 D’verse Poets Pub

Challenge by: Emmett Wheatfall – write a poem about writing poetry.

I also posted this for Thursday Think Tank # 72 – Writer’s Block, because I think it does have something to do with being creative and chocked at the same time.

Photo credit:

There’s a funny little history to this. I wanted to send this poem for publication. I emailed it to my son @roniweiss who refused to read it on the grounds that it was masturbatory, that is, a writer stroking herself.  Then I brought it to writer’s group. We had a big discussion about it, and they commented on my poetry in general, saying I had too many big words in my poems, and I had to tone it down. That I would even scare away the literary magazines. Then, came this prompt on dverse, and I had this poem done, and was debating whether to send it for publication, and well, the fact that this was exactly the prompt, on the poem that I exactly was not sure what to do with, well, that solved the dilemma for me.

Plan B

Everland Flume Ride 2007

Plan B

I was yawning in an uninspired epoch
wanting to die of boredom
until Mr. Fun and exciting
turned me into his Plan B.

How easy to submit
to leave all strength behind
to have the status of tablemate
as he blogs away at Starbucks.

Sickened by his lack of calling,
his excuses, his classified plans,
his attitude stained his collar like
ultra blacklight reactive red lipstick.

We were in a teenage romance
playing mind games
Ignoring each other
to see who cracks first.

He’s an ass-hole with ADD ―
Flippant, unperturbed
In all he does.

It’s a flume ride in the winter.
An emotional drama, viewed
from different sections in the theater.
It’s ice cream on a sore tooth.

He’s married to his car
He prefers his buddies
I’m plan B, an idiot
Who cannot move on.


I wrote this for the  challenge called Plan B.

Also posted on:

OpenLinkNight ~ Week 32

The picture is from:

It was taken at a place called Everland Theme Park in Korea.

Ms. Ellie Shrillcock

Woman Yelling

Ms. Ellie Shrillcock

A woman of the highest squeakery
has a big problem:
Although she’d thoroughly
Invest every cent
In hard-core sentimentality.

Ms. Ellie Shrillcock, single mom and sentimental
piece of ass had her squeaky
butt wiped off her centripetal
self. Now, she probably
rides like a thoroughbred
race horse on the mend.

Flesh-like jerks, with mighty menhoods,
steer her with phemerones as they sniff scentless
silk tulips. Her house is a thoroughfare –
her boys try to keep it squeakily-clean.
Where is she sleeping tonight? Probably
not in her own bed. This past century

who was your first centaur,
Ms. Shrillcock? Was he a menace
with a torturing proboscis?
Or was he a sentinel
with the squeakiest
fiddle, thoroughly

quivering beneath your tight skirt? With thoroughness
you lazily transcribe central
bureaucratic formats. Squeaker,
with the lurid voice, that mental
patient whose final sentences
are compounded by problems,

is the only one you comprehend. How probable
for you to fall thoroughly
from elegance to sleaze. You were sent
to a celebration of centennial
proportions, for rugged men
who spent several years getting the squeak

out of their problematic voices. A cent
will buy you a thorough morality mentor
to exhume your inessential nasal squeakiness.


Written and Posted for:

 D’verse Poets Pub

Hosted by Gay Cannon. Her sestina variation being  Art in 5.7.5 – Sestina Variation

Picture Credit blindgossip

I wrote thins in 1994 about…well, someone with a squeeky annoying voice, who had some issues. Let’s just leave it at that.

Please feel free to comment, and help me be a better poet.

Also posted on Poetry Picnic Week 8: Friends, Relationships and Everyone around