Rant at the Imitating Vowel

 

Suppose you braid
a sonorant ankle
and the Gibson man
decided cigarette paws.

Death’s index finger
swallowed the vowel universe
as a token for its armpit rant.

I’m imitating: a, e, i, o, u.

The caterpillar hounds digest your blague footprints.

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Charlie Zero the Poet

 

All rights Reserved.

 

No part of Rant at the Imitating Vowel – may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Charlie Zero the Poet and his poetry works with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

47 thoughts on “Rant at the Imitating Vowel

    1. ah! I’m so glad you got the reference to Death’s index finger.
      A sign of the universe, a sign of something mysterious that sleeps in the cosmos.

      You are welcome, Nandita. I always try my best to show great support with all my good friends. 🙂

        1. Thank you, Jilly. I loved this poem and what I achieved in its imagery.

          The best is yet to come this Friday – when I post 2 poems. Yes, 2 poems will be posted and you and all the readers will experience something unlike ever. Trust me. I’ll make more announcements tomorrow. 🙂

  1. I love it – much to mull over. I enjoy coming back to your poems, saying them, and tuning in to all kinds of imagery they evoke. You’ve really mastered your art!

        1. I read it and I must say…I love it so much Ferlinghetti is the best poet. Bless his heart and his poetic genius.

          Thank you so much for this link. I have been reading this poem 15 times already. hahahaha!!!

          P.S I posted an announcement. Stop by soon.

  2. Charlie,

    My thoughts after reading this poem:

    That you and I aren’t shadows. That we are shades.
    I can’t see my color but I can see yours.
    You are the color of the Ark of Instinctual Knowing.
    Before you could read and write, you were a scoundrel.
    Wobbly like a drunk giraffe, Charlie.

    I was asked by one of your readers if I thought that you
    were “mothering” the words. That threw me for a loop
    because “mothering” could mean a number of things.
    Your mother eyes see
    Your mother ears hear
    but Charlie,
    your words do not speak with a Mother’s Tongue.

    Sometimes I have sympathy for your words.
    How is it possible
    having never gone through what they have gone through?
    The highs, the lows, the feminine pangs.

    1. Michael,

      The mother of the mother has come to the eye
      and it eats headaches.
      A red horse
      languages standing on algorithmic temples gods.

      My hands were amazed
      into cubic grammar –
      filling the space
      when the moon sneezes quarters.
      You hear a secret knee
      You hear Michael, looking back
      at such dust board pedals.

      Michael,
      Try to show compassion
      with the muscle of the muscles.
      Then estimate
      poetry with amusement.

      1. Charlie,

        Several readers fainted at your use of “muscle of the muscles”

        The muscle that lifts you up and squeezes you out (?)

        A friend and foe of the index finger.

        As for “estimate”——I enjoy the Honest-Abe-Approach
        (+) never go to the wrong place for the lesser reason
        I would hate to be wrongheaded.
        To be coated in the mucous of Robert Frost.

        1. Michael,

          There have been several
          Robert frost who squeeze
          I-phones from 1699.
          To be honest –
          I think the abe-approach
          of windex bones
          just got a lot digestive.

          Mucous index
          in which morality
          became allergic
          to the wrongheaded pineapple oven.

          Muscles do faint
          it is “estimated”—— hocus-pocus
          for every reader
          and every finger coated with marshmallow robots.

  3. Loved this ! The cosmos in your hands and you scribe the music of what is to come .
    Loved the image of Death’s index finger swallowed the vowel universe as token for its armpit rant
    Footprints on the beach swept clean .. awesome

    1. In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order. ~ Carl Jung

      We are the representatives of the cosmos; we are an example of what hydrogen atoms can do, given 15 billion years of cosmic evolution. ~ Carl Sagan

      So happy and glad you loved the imagery of those lines. It came to me as I was feeling what my heart was calling upon our universe itself.

      1. A secret order , Carl Jung knew. Only , there are no secrets anymore .
        Love these short succinct pieces , Ira loaded and potent with meaning.
        I think you are one with the universe, Charlie. Your blood pumps the cosmos.

  4. The thing about your writing is that you explore so many themes so fast. It’s a collection of so many vast ideas that can be sat at length and talked about put into short phrases. And so it leaves the mind tickled. Lovely read 🙂

    1. Thank you so much.

      I like to think of my work as a collage of experimentation’s. A canvas of sort – building or re-arranging the whole structured concept of what reality vs. disillusion. Personally, I believe both bring the beauty in such creative progress. 🙂

    1. It’s there…yesterday I was updating a lot.

      Thank you so much my friend. 🙂 I’m excited for Monday and happy for today.

      My 2 new poems are now posted and you can read them now. These 2 poems will blow your mind away. hahahahaha!!!!

  5. The epidural arrived
    and delivered the word virus
    of which William S.Burroughs
    tried to warn me.
    Now upon the cosmic sea
    with Dali and Nietzche
    where dead fingers talk
    unceasingly to a crowd
    of the disavowed
    There kingdom for a vowel

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