Just Poetry

Creativity for justice. 27/Los Angeles. My name is Joey.

[joeycaine]

It’s not personal

I can’t be what you want me to be I can only be who I am and nothing else I can question my own freedom That’s sanity An expression is a meaning ender with no return address Why do you speak forgotten origins? It’s a message played over and over again

I want to be the man I want to be: I want to be the man that wants to be the man that wants to be I have been depersonified This language is my chain Freedom never comes, it taunts from a distance

[joeycaine]

Oh by the way... (meta)

A wise blogger once told me that you should appreciate every ear you get. I have been more distant from tumblr than I had been when I first started (with a lot of dreams, angst, and lonliness). And it has become too tiring mentally to list all the people along the way who have listened to me and even given me love in a world that usually rejects me... I must say that having that there whenever I needed it has been wonderful. I get lonely a lot more than I would admit to anyone that knows me and cares about me. But I feel I have so much light to bring this world in one way or another, so I press on in the hopes that one day I will be able to pay back the world for what it has brought me a billion times over.

[joeycaine]

Immortality is an ugly nightmare.

[joeycaine]

The child that died

I was a sad and fragile child;   that much was in my smile.   In my face, the world would weight,   I wore it like a style.   Still I didn’t meet my death   until it came to this:   a person took my innocence   and now I have no bliss In my now repentant mind I can hold the tune for hours of ignorant time, but still I’d meet my doom. Somewhere far away from mine but really much too close that person would be watching me my uninvited ghost I cannot wash away the dirt that trembles on my skin. No matter just how hard I scrub it sticks to me like kin. And so within those particles a part of me resides; a part I would get rid of: the child that has died. A tribulation’s corpse that rests always on the surface. Although nobody else can see it always is a part of me.

[joeycaine]

two visions of a consistent reflection of world and self

Poems about the self and the objective reality through which the self becomes.

“two visions of a consistent reflection of world and self”

Diametrically opposed, prose and poetry. However, deconstructed, we see their meaning and resurrect it from the text, recollection of knowledge but not just in fact but in solidarity and affect. Westward thought processes, assuming themselves, panspermia retooling and at times cleansing linguistic traditions; and once they are lost the ideas built lost with them. An inner monologue is maddening because thought can be transmitted as a fragment but not in whole. Spoken language has a multitude of formulas. Written language has the same, but it obscures its sameness with subjectivity, emerging from an individual and not from a collective consciousness. Yet writing is not the general milieu of consciousness and only occupies a small space in human history. Language is universal, and self-propagating, but writing only comes after agriculture and division of labor. Writing oppresses the mind’s thought with structure and the free-flow of self-expression is illusory, because it calls on others to follow the thought of the one who wrote it. It is only that concerned with dialogue, corroboration, verification, falsification, and self-awareness that can be which exorcises the demons of orthodoxy with the religion of socratic method. — Fables are written with all love to Bacchus The Goat One who loves his red wine All of his Lovers are righteously raucous With respects to His Knowledge Divine. In life there are many pretenders To the throne of Philosopher-King Apologists are the amenders That to Holy Vision sing Ecclesiasts love the Trinity To them all the knowledge is held Within the total of what we can’t see Eternal knowledge Springs Well To that end there is another And within all of us are object “Why die,” they sigh, “my brother? Because death is just a constant.” All explanation is physical And to that I have no retort Such a play loses the whimsical Why becomes how is their comfort The self is a play on words Respect all of Men’s accords Within your head, steel your dread And become well, whatever’s yours

[humansoflatecapitalism]

[joeycaine]

Communism sounds dope to me

[joeycaine]

I’m not a coke fiend I’m a hope fiend

Opened eyes ...and scene! ... Major misbehavior I pledge allegiance to faith, Captain Lifesaver I can only be taken as far as my savior wishes, whether that be the illusion of fame, women, and riches or the solemn sageness of wisdom

Life is the same slaves running around in mental prisons even the blessed among us blaming below for minor glitches I will radiate altruism while I beg for forgiveness still sinning, spiritually orphaned from the beginning

...

autographs on a page polyglot speaking angel songs the blind leading the blind all along the message the same except the page changes, stained with Inky sorrow, salty and hot Why are we left here, forgotten? Guns firing in the distance cadavers breathing, but rotten peace an illusion killed by clips that eclipse our imagined bliss ignorance ... the message is the same whether we lie about it or not our comfort is more important and for that the dead must be forgotten

[joeycaine]

on our own time

I have a crush on the way you stimulate my mind your voice is like a fulcrom point that shifts and itertwines the spirit of the moment and the light that shines within us winter is the coldest and I can see your breath holds interest when it plumes like vapor webs adrift into the atmosphere what your winds do bring me will last me forty years because throughout the decades I’ll look back with a smile at the way your eyes embrace me as we talked away the while

[joeycaine]

haikus are shortcuts. draped in nature, they enchant like burning forrests.

[joeycaine]

self-esteem

I am the unbreakable will to live I experience it within my hungry belly as it bubbles and then languishes existentially Here I am a prisoner of the moment, trapped within the veil of certainty faith consuming my critical energies that would suck away any disguise that would be donned by the occult truth A consumer of unwilling obedience, I am trapped within the paradigms manifold that are elevated as objectivity, which I LAUGH at, previously indoctrinated to the pragmatism of the necessary deception that is FAITH that is LOVE that is SOUL Yet we can in so many ways understand this life through the lizard brain which subconsciously controls our supposedly willful thoughts, our theoretically calculated expressions, and our systematically programed ideals I toss aside the conspiracy theories of others, replacing them with my own because the counter-histories that I envision are a more comforting story warming bitter dreams like coffee grounds within a boiling coffee pot that I will share with whoever needs to be awoken Yet I am the one that sleeps, with wishes being spoken into existence by the television screens of FAMILY of FRIENDS of HOLIDAYS of KIDS of JOBS of FULFILLMENT so within my grasps and yet always moving away as perfection is elevated and good enough is disregarded as acceptance of mediocrity Yet who does not find comfort in the arms of acceptance as I finally learn to capture the essence of what is self-esteem: the rejection of what others hold me to; the cutting apart of what obfuscates my eternal joy; and the embrace of sanity or insanity, through whatever state my mind vacillates

[joeycaine]

self-esteem

I am the unbreakable will to live I experience it within my hungry belly as it bubbles and then languishes existentially Here I am a prisoner of the moment, trapped within the veil of certainty faith consuming my critical energies that would suck away any disguise that would be donned by the occult truth A consumer of unwilling obedience, I am trapped within the paradigms manifold that are elevated as objectivity, which I LAUGH at, previously indoctrinated to the pragmatism of the necessary deception that is FAITH that is LOVE that is SOUL Yet we can in so many ways understand this life through the lizard brain which subconsciously controls our supposedly willful thoughts, our theoretically calculated expressions, and our systematically programed ideals I toss aside the conspiracy theories of others, replacing them with my own because the counter-histories that I envision are a more comforting story warming bitter dreams like coffee grounds within a boiling coffee pot that I will share with whoever needs to be awoken Yet I am the one that sleeps, with wishes being spoken into existence by the television screens of FAMILY of FRIENDS of HOLIDAYS of KIDS of JOBS of FULFILLMENT so within my grasps and yet always moving away as perfection is elevated and good enough is disregarded as acceptance of mediocrity Yet who does not find comfort in the arms of acceptance as I finally learn to capture the essence of what is self-esteem: the rejection of what others hold me to; the cutting apart of what obfuscates my eternal joy; and the embrace of sanity or insanity, through whatever state my mind vacillates

[joeycaine]

The anthropologist of the soul

The anthropologist of the soul seeks to understand themselves as a product of mortality as a witness to truth but never able to recollect it, only able to recommend facts to others but failing to suss out the important ones Instead they must study the stories that we tell ourselves in order to feel comfortable with our own discomfort over our place in the “grand scheme”, or the great chasm of history, sucking us into the vortex of prideful ignorance Narrative grows out of lack of repentance, living in this world, sucking up the nutrients and growing into damp fields of dewy softness, potently palpitating in the purifying air, in the terrifying light that shines over the world: the objective misery of entropy However, while it still trembles it is a beautiful lie that it will never end, that furthermore never ends within the legend that material culture produces, ultimately being smothered by energy and being reconverted into the singularity of matter

[joeycaine]

The anthropologist of the soul

The anthropologist of the soul seeks to understand themselves as a product of mortality as a witness to truth but never able to recollect it, only able to recommend facts to others but failing to suss out the important ones Instead they must study the stories that we tell ourselves in order to feel comfortable with our own discomfort over our place in the “grand scheme”, or the great chasm of history, sucking us into the vortex of prideful ignorance Narrative grows out of lack of repentance, living in this world, sucking up the nutrients and growing into damp fields of dewy softness, potently palpitating in the purifying air, in the terrifying light that shines over the world: the objective misery of entropy However, while it still trembles it is a beautiful lie that it will never end, that furthermore never ends within the legend that material culture produces, ultimately being smothered by energy and being reconverted into the singularity of matter

[joeycainepoetry]

There’s a school to prison pipeline  and a school to work pipeline,  but it’s all a school to capitalism pipeline

Take a person Take advantage Performance review

[joeycaine]

how it should be isn’t how it is

I put my expectations into a conjured story like I was the sun in the solar system I cannot ask her to revolve around me I must bring her in with my gravity otherwise it would be cruel to both of us she would have to turn me down and I would have to be resentful: no other options for either of us the more I learn, the more I learn to be a quiet storm frothing on the inside and the more I wish to discard those winds, so that I may be a calm sea I am dipped in the calamity of insecurity, waiting to be set free from the chains of infatuation, but I have been waiting too long in the eye not to take a risk in the demanding downpour to love and be ignored is silent death to love and be loved is to be free but I should not want to put this in her mind for more than anything I want to throw caution to the wind and hold onto to my desired casually

[joeycainepoetry]

a victim of time

I lost my dignity, my mindset, my even-keeled mood for the sake of the love drug I didn’t want those medical issues but close contact left me diseased with inner-turmoil sickness is spreading through my brain cells until it becomes entrenched in my brain stem so that now my subconcious is enslaved she is inside me now, bringing mischief to normalcy I cry and shiver with pleasure thinking of the future and then thinking of the past we both have no time for each other and she has no interest I can touch but I saw expectations in her eyes so that when I reached out to hold her I knew she would fall into my arms as we danced, losing everyone around us and she did, and I tried to stop time knowing that when it continued, our bliss would become a bittersweet memory as we came down from the high we exchanged pillow-talk whispers I saw our friends around us but all I looked at was her when we slept, we knew we would wake and the dream would be over so I kept my eyes open and watched as my fantasy of a forever-love floated away into the early morning soaring with wax wings over the Vegas skyline

[joeycainepoetry]

coping

loss that strikes like a distant echo comes and breaks me from afar to love was incredible, but it deadened me to pain

it’s easy to say I can let go but from that I am barred my arrest inevitable in that I am frozen and can’t explain

I am such a decent fellow I don’t deserve to go to war especially not with myself fate and I are bound by chains

soft syllables for the record beam so brightly like a star any rest I got was charitable for I was not ready for change

now I have to be the brains I cannot be excitable I must close the door, not leave it ajar poetry forbidden, now it’s all prose