Entries By Richard Braithwaite
Displaying 1 To 30 Of 35 Entries
science
Epistemology asks us how we know what we know- but it never seems to touch on truth- Truth with a cap T is an offering, a personal and subjective lesson of both math and morality, of physics and philosophy. Thus, Science is that concept of knowledge, of what can be and is known, Truth without boundaries, truth bounded.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 07.05.2012 @ 11:41 pm
railroad
They railroadin’ me, jedge! They railroadin’ me! I ain’t done nothin’, been put here ‘gainst mah will and ‘gainst my choosin’ and ‘gainst mah natchah. Ain’t right. Bein’ railroaded by all ya’ll. By ALL YA’LL.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 07.03.2012 @ 11:48 am
motion
The R’s rolled into the O’s, the hissing S’s slipped into my ear, the E hardening the whole process, and so there she was, rolling, slip-soft into hardness. Rose. Rose. Rose. Rose.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 07.02.2012 @ 5:02 am
She slips through my cracks, metalisizing as she flows into my pores, coagulating in my marrow, unwholesome, solidifying, hard, cold, and strong. She rests, but loses fluid consciousness.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 07.02.2012 @ 4:59 am
sparkling
Bumping with light and hopping with smash rush change dapple in light green and reeming with tree-bright glisten happy mapping our moments of depth and love and happiness in a sweet supple and dark sparkling. Us. In this moment now and yesterday and next week. Bright love.
Posted By richard braithwaite On 01.11.2012 @ 9:07 pm
Wet, and glassy, and dripping, and full. But not full in the sense of whole, and real, and genuine, and deep, and meaningful, unless your life centers around a lack of meaning and glittery goodness, which is acceptable as long as you are wary of your own lack of depth and sparkling mind. I, for one, relish in both moments of sparkling non-reality and fat, slow, depth.
Posted By richard braithwaite On 01.11.2012 @ 9:03 pm
prints
On my forehead, from your lower lip (the upper never really connected). On my stomach from the time you hit me with a softball bat. On my mind from the time you told me reincarnation was the echo of our conscious and subconscious minds shaking hands. I feel the soft indentation of your pressed fingers, the remaining prints, all over my body. They are so soft, but the mark doesn’t fade.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 11.10.2011 @ 3:19 am
alarmist
Must be working on inside issues that don’t come with personal happiness, inside issues that raise doubts about who I am and what is going on and why am I not part of the party! Thus, I must DO something. Achtung! Alert! Wake up! But to nothing real, to nothing that needs an alert.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 11.07.2011 @ 2:13 am
downpour
The downpour of pain comes from the moment of unrealized suffering matching realized suffering. The moment of your non-kiss, the moment of your non-hug, the moment of you emotional non-presence and non love coming down and down and down and down. But really, there is no more down. No more you. No more downpour, just the shadow of pain from you not coming down in pain or love.
Posted By richard braithwaite On 11.04.2011 @ 1:43 pm
profound
Is not what I’m working with. Is not what I am. It is, though, what I seek to seek. What I wish to worship, and what I want to be known for. I am, however, short. Short on the sublime, and short on ways to pull back the mask, ways to find something beyond. I am looking to look, but am mired in the mush of today.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 11.03.2011 @ 3:18 am
torch
I imagine Kurtz’s ideal self, an impossible mix of his two women and his paradoxical ambitions, sarcastically and ironically re-imagined (overly conscious to the end), as the lady of justice, torchbearer, walking blind-folded into the darkness.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 05.25.2011 @ 10:07 pm
mole
knowledge beyond sight, sense beyond perception, buried deeper in genes than knowledge, dirtier than understanding. Dig, mole, dig. Reach, mole, reach. Find it. Without thinking it.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 05.19.2011 @ 2:57 am
blotches
Memories, crooked, slide up my thigh, through the pores of my shorts, between the stitching of my old underwear, and then melt on my most ugly, sacred places. They leave blotches of what was and what I wanted to be was and what I wanted to have been, but wasn’t.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 01.12.2011 @ 1:13 am
mythology
and his sharp, snarky comments about how she had barely ever paid any attention in all of those classes in lower school on mythology. there were too many names, she complained, you know i cant do names. he would always just roll his eyes and tell her it was cause really, she just never paid any attention, and then she’d glare, and somehow they’d end up wrapped up around one another. but tonight, it had somehow devolved into a real sort of fight in which he wouldn’t stop insulting her and she wouldn’t stop sulking.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 12.27.2010 @ 10:58 am
Taken back in imagination to what was once done, and the significance it plays on my life now, can be reassuring, can wrap me safely in the semblance of a net that says, “see, there is metaphorical value in what others did before.” But really, isn’t that my own interpretation of what I want in my own life, and now I’ve attached someone else’s etcha-sketch images to my life?
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 12.27.2010 @ 9:35 am
bunny
Steals cars, wears red shoes, but no underwear, and likes screaming. Looking for a short man with a sense of humor, who can call me bunny in bed and laugh about it, while remaining serious about the task at hand.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 12.02.2010 @ 10:40 pm
diagram
Do a diagram of my feet, and you’ll miss out on the dancing. The movement and rhthym, the natural breath, the softness. Do a diagram of my hate for the color red, and you’ll be lost. I am undiagramable!
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 11.29.2010 @ 3:58 am
flakes
Flakes of cake fall from your lips as you mumble, still not awake in the morning. I think, are you really eating cake for breakfast? But that’s you. Flaking all over the floor, all over our relationship, drooling and dropping your way through our would-be love.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 11.23.2010 @ 4:22 am
habit
I’m alive, I’m dead. I am the Stranger… Between the sun and the sand we all live in our comfortable steam-lives, eating and drinking steam food. Without thought, or imagination, with simplicity. Frozen in the sun.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 11.22.2010 @ 4:51 am
Relaxing into my habit, I, thoughtless, feel at home. I no longer am forced to think! Bliss!
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 11.22.2010 @ 3:26 am
Breaking habit is the willingness to accept new things into your world. Repetition of an action which brings a false sense of security to most individuals…
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 11.22.2010 @ 1:14 am
Habit breeds maggots in your imagination. Habit infests your creativity with cavities. But habits are soft and furry life bunnies, and they breed, and they breed, and they breed, till you can’t breathe and you don’t even know you are drowning under the weight of a now habitual unconscious yet living death
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 11.22.2010 @ 12:07 am
sheet
metal: sheet, corrugated, black, sheen, strong, blood-covered, but without memory. like you. flat and sheen, rugged and cold, stained, unconscious. and yet i love you.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 10.14.2010 @ 5:37 am
involved
“Are you two involved?” Are we INVOLVED? well. yes. we are. Cosmically. Philosophically. Sexually. Historically, biblically, mercilessly, ironically, sadistically, unconsciouslly, involved. But I’m not sure she knows my name.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 09.17.2010 @ 3:56 am
chuckles
from ear to ear. Death seems to mock perpetual joy, though we push it SO far out of the realm of immediate consciousness 99% of the time, such that joy outweighs mental attention to the impending ending of our consciousness.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 09.15.2010 @ 11:49 am
tilt
tilt my brain and watch the fluid from an observer’s perspective run rapidly from left to sloshing right, then back, silt gathering, right to rushing left, faster and faster till fluid runs from my ears like a spring creek bubbling over and through softening rock
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 09.08.2010 @ 11:44 pm
matching
heart to mind, foot to tongue, lips to smell, these things I try to connect. Eliot tells us we cannot, for we know only a heap of broken images. Parts spinning in mental space trying to reach each other. to no avail.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 06.16.2010 @ 10:08 pm
memory. I loved it. Baby lamb with the momma sheep. piglets with momma pig. i’d play memory with my mom all the time when i was little. Always looking for the match.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 06.16.2010 @ 12:12 pm
fallout
I told my students I lost their essays. Then I burned their poems. Then I gave them all C’s. But I told them I loved them anyway, for their spirit and energy! Apparently they don’t love me anymore.
Posted By Richard Braithwaite On 06.16.2010 @ 5:10 am
