Archive for the ‘poems’ Category
Pertaining to the Science of Weight and its Mechanical Effects
Posted in poems on November 30, 2011| Leave a Comment »
Notice the Reference to Them Never Appears
Posted in poems, tagged books, science-based, technology on November 10, 2011| 1 Comment »
You know language is complicated and felth. And, artificially speaking, intelligence can be learned; so who knows what you’re really like. Look at what’s happened to dating.
Look at the spuddled mess of our beloved messenger: Cupid. [ uh huh, ok. Sure, you’re trying ]
Messages are so compact, but not mine. I teeter on. I keep it rambling, baby, yea!
No forswunking here. I mean what I say. I don’t need emoticons, though I like them. I like showing you what I’m going to tell and why the hell not?
So what if we’re all feeding into a societal porn or societal norm online– memory gets replayed now. We alter it. Create your own scenes. Miswire. Use words to mean different
words, but don’t darg the intent. The intent should be golden, purposeful and proud. The reference to them never appears because I don’t want it to. Here, I’ll try not to moffle:
I speak from the heart. Always will. The screen-size doesn’t matter. Size doesn’t, too. I have restraint. Now, I feel dirty in my rambles. In my brambles. and gambles. Oh well, my personage is crystal clear.
© Umansky 2011
Turning Over Phrases: key to joy
Posted in poems, tagged books, dating, science-based, technology on November 4, 2011| Leave a Comment »
Turning Over Phrases: key to joy
Listen and listen good, I clicked [add to spell-check] when I saw that your name turned red. I blushed and thought: How romantic! That’s the beauty of this felthed time. I can spuddle with what I deem romantic; with what I deem to be romance. Tug it, tweek it, tune it til it’s just-right. Each digital act is darged by a display of affection or gratitude;
attitude or charm. There is a bit of me, here, between bone and heart-bone. A bit moffled but still plush. It has been too long; too gone, since I’ve felt this kench. An interior kvetching, here, beneath the breast. I am looking at the digital for something heart-felt; something coded: HEART! Something worth-worth [sharing]. Something worthy of an investment. But then again,
I am a salesman. (My father’s daughter ). My words, a financial gesture between myself and my word-bank. I am selling you an aesthetic experience. I touch-type [x][x][x][x] and a word is now forswunk and forswinkled. I am so endearing; so enduring. Can’t you see I’m being genuine? This is potentially profitable. Don’t you want to cash-in? The heart is a loaded weapon.
[Did I say weapon; I meant, investment.]
© Umansky 2011
Once Upon a Time, the Conditional Seemed Impossible
Posted in poems, tagged clothing, fashion, history, women on October 29, 2011| Leave a Comment »
Our foremothers were grateful. For the corset. For the cincher. For the girdle. The bloomer. For the bustier. For the bra. For the panty and the drawstring waist.
For Goddamn Little Miss Elastic.
For silk. Chiffon. Gossamer and lace. The fishnet, the back-seam; the push-up; the strapless; the open-front. The halter.
Then man created the “stay-up” and with it, the depletion of the garter.
[SNAP !]
And now … what would our foremothers think of “the thong?”
The Spanx? The convertible bra?
We have come so far.
[Would they be proud, sitting on the porch in their rockers/ Peeling potatoes over the kitchen sink/ digging up rhubarbs or turnips on the farm; dusting the china-cabinet with a shmata; reading by the fire or the hearth
– would they even care? ]
They used to just be grateful for their health,
but now, we have it all
all at our fingertips
[and I don’t mean sewing]
We can wear pants; we can cut our hair. We can control our “cycles.” We can create our own children.
Strip it all !
Let the seam tear…
We have come so far
from giving in
from sucking in
Let it all hang out,
like a man.
(c) Umansky 2011
Every Thing Possible
Posted in poems, tagged dating, freud, men, science-based, sex, technology, women on October 16, 2011| Leave a Comment »
Every Thing Possible
To be believed is an image of truth & not-truth. Thinking outside the box. The function of [space] rests on your fingers. How we categorize the thinking of functions is like immigrating across time. Even cockeyed gibberish translates into some vernacular. Into bits of alpha-male flanked on the screen.
It is sensational. It is artisanal. It is extra sensory that
everything at once still ends up in someone’s mailbox:
electronic or not.
It would be an insult to the possible to succumb to it. If the box you lie in makes you ill; sod it. A theory or grams uncritically ties the page to the mast; the mast to the page. Pitch a sail and traverse the intellectual field: find a lover.
From the erotic to the neurotic; an alternative explanation is:
do –it yourself.
Is: annex what is potent and ride it out at your desk
[everyone’s doing it]
So, men will continue; with their dirtiness. He didn’t dislike you – it’s the porn.. It’s the digital SHE that represents the real (if you’re delusional). The menaced-men investigate what is reached: they take their political past and their psychosexual flair and auctioneer their best traits to the highest bidder:
A startling departure: the electronified woman. [ Surely Darwin didn’t see that] What baffled naiveté we own, to stand in the midst of such beauty and desensitize it. To come through so perfected through a screen. To do-it-myself with myself as if waiting for the phone to ring. A call not made. Disconnected. Disdained. The lazy days. The lazy ways. The lazy phrase. So urgent is that– that immediate gratification; immediate satisfaction; immediate attraction that it Kings your life. Stirrings resonate in the mind. The physical is unified. The need to be held becomes disembodied –as SHE is disembodied when you hit [power off]. Did she lie?
Her treats are too sticky. Her sap is too tricky. Her figure is jerried-up just so to speak [or peak] before it sours. These [little] questions are all harrowing; or all narrowing.
Go back to the mind, and feed it. [REFRESH]
The soul: the original electric.
How to Read
Posted in poems, tagged books, science-based, technology on October 6, 2011| Leave a Comment »
Forget what you already know.
Get caught up in it.
Alphabetically not electronically
Be pastoral with language.
Feel the grain.
Phish, but remember where the bait is.
Count your chickens
before they go viral.
I could be bringing this to the masses in hard copy
[Forget the hardware.]
I prefer the printed word.
[Not pressed.]
No links required!
Use your noggin.
Not your smartphone.
Use your smarts.
Handle the page &
Cradle that word.
The Great Spill of Time
Posted in poems, tagged technology; science-based; olden times; antiques; invention on September 15, 2011| Leave a Comment »
The Great Spill of Time
I.
The typewriter sits in the dark, dumb. No vocabulary, just letters he can’t coerce together. Un-ribboned; unpressured; un-fingered; he is sprawled on the desk; spread-eagled with his hand twittering with his carriage….and it feels good. He’s been kicked out; given the short edge of the stick; the long edge of the spool; or given the boot [cause he can’t boot himself]! ALL HAIL THE ONCE MAGNIFICENT! Short-lived; short-tasked; short-sighted and short –changed. Que sera sera…
II.
Let bygones be bygones, or bye-gones. Byebye telegraph¸you sparsely dressed note. Your long-redcoated shirt-tails; paper-trails; curtails the day. Waved off like the dainty-dance of a kerchief in a hand. Ta- ta ! Replaced by the text; the email; the United Parcel Service, (not to mention the fax and the cell). No burial in the Abbey. No barge a-float with fire. The modern world is not Camelot, but it is allotted a great many things.
…XI…
You, you dim little fool. You flickered- flop. The Bulbous-One turned on you; and turned on you; then turned you on; and turned you. Call it a vacation or a long trip to sea. Is it not a long walk off a short pier? Fuse together the electrical meanderings to form the improved state of glory: light or lit (or a personal turn-of-phrase: bathing in light).
Alas, I get ahead of myself. Burn bright on both ends, (like you, used to) People still do it in the dark you know; still do it in your arms waxen arms. There is charm in the old. Nothing can snuff that out. But I. I prefer wet fingers, and I prefer blowing out the flame like
this.
©Umansky 2011
Girls
Posted in poems on August 23, 2011| 2 Comments »
Girls
Girls, every kiss you’ve ever had is in your pores, under the follicle and germinating. A beautyless mark of the disasters we endure when young. All you ever wanted was romance. Was a hand on the back of your neck. Was a hand up in your hair. Was anything but a popularity contest. [You knew you’d lose] You wanted something.
I wanted a gasp. I wanted to feel slashed.
I wanted each lip to be kissed separately:
top lip,
then the bottom lip,
delicately as if handling glass,
then together, sweetly.
I had it mapped out – a routine– like the dances we used to make up in our bedrooms listening to tapes of Paula Abdul and Madonna, but this was going to be better. Stronger. Potent. Like the way they make black and white films, chromatic. I wanted it dripping. I wanted it dripping in color.
In one word: Cinematic.
My first, gave me drool. It was my fault. It was mine. It was.
No, it was the book.
Its’ pages. stupid, stupid books.
Those men wouldn’t rear their heads in the suburbs. Mine was out in the country. Mine was waiting for his call like a gentleman. [And his call is a wild one.] His call eliminates the stains. His call carries him home to me – where it is celestial. Where it is like remembering. Where he remembers, where he remembers me.
from a story told to him long, long ago.
© Umansky 2011
Marriage
Posted in poems on July 28, 2011| Leave a Comment »
Marriage
The house becomes a non-house. The house becomes nonsense. The driveway, an open door. The street, agape. The stoop, a hole. You could say, rabbit-hole, but I prefer manhole.
Follow @lady_bronte
© Umansky 2011
The No – Complaint Department
Posted in poems, Uncategorized on July 12, 2011| Leave a Comment »
The No – Complaint Department
[1]
I don’t want to reopen this, but
I don’t want to conceal the adoration either.
I don’t not want to reopen it, either.
I don’t want to hear how if this then that; or it’s not like I’ll never stop thinking of this or I’ll always think of that.
I don’t want any of any of that – lose it!
I want activity.
I want loveliness.
I want selflessness.
I want material.
I want that marriage welded through – soldered.
I don’t want the baloney – it’s hard enough facing the truth.
& I don’t want complaints.
[2]
I’m putting up a sign:
The No-Complaint Department
Hours:
Weekdays: Take a number
Weekends: Take a walk
[3]
The saturation would supply the evidence. At one time or another, there was so much to love. So much in color and hue. It could’ve been prostituted in its vivacity, but that’s neither here nor there.
There are always tasks:
1. Close the safety deposit account
2. Buy a proper mop
3. Send a thank you card
4. Stop spending
Inventing a backdrop to such chores would be a fantasy. [One, I would gladly live in.]
Can it have: flowers; pastels; sprayed roses, wood paneling, a claw footed bathtub, and refurbished upholsteries?
If only this could be reupholstered — [there’s an idea]
[4]
Favoring words, a natural tendency, I can remember each little one you said.
— a list of dualisms.
*
According to a big library in downtown Manhattan, some think that blondes are not reliable, but au contraire monsieur, we are the most reliable. We gravitate to what we love, to what we desire, to he or she who wants and desires and of course, to what we love about ourselves (and about you!)
I don’t want to cross the past off; I just want to navigate through it. Us women already have it hard enough.
© Umansky 2011
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