Conjure belief where assurance
is easily tempted from doubt.

The physical world acts on
a point to point basis
of action, reaction.

Where the genesis of relativity
as the golden rule
mediates the knowledge
that is perpetuated by irony
through circumstance
and the accidental
incidental coincidences
that bend time.

Symmetry is a natural motion of
consistency, extending from an apex
or midlines, transverses, logarithmic expressions
all from some single origin.

The palms of our hands
are textual markings
of our need for symbolic understanding
in the variances
we create for scientific observation.

Juxtaposed to the stars we created
circular pieces to a wheel in the sky
we hypochondriacs believe
to superimpose as vaccines,
to our inconsistencies we host
as symbiotes
for inverse proportionality.

From the signal, beat, tone,
and definitive sounds
is the pulse of our momentum,
a return to equilibrium.

You can only dream of
places I have been
Mentally,
All the things
I did for my family,
All they did,
instead of helping me,
Is trying to
put sense in me,
When I come to a point
Where I am
about to plead insanity,
A room of variances,
Out of body experiences,
Mental *******,
Heart full of spasms,
The ones
my past couldn’t fathom,
This ain’t a struggler’s anthem,
But I can’t help but,
Generalize,
And I can’t undermine,
That I felt heaven,
At least on my fingertips,
I found hope,
At the brink of disbelief,
Don’t blame the postman,
If you put the wrong address,
Life is a *****,
depending on how you dress her,
Let the broken glass,
Mess up the dresser,
Rosewood, Redwood, any wood,
If I could I would,
The more I clench my fists,
the more sand I loose,
But I choose not to,
just my screws,
My life is like a travelogue,
No just ticket needed just travel along,
Like a broken pen and a moleskin,
A DSLR and an eye to watch closely,
No backpacker,
Just a bad actor,
Modern day rye catcher,
Self financer ,
A mere puppet on the string,
That life hangs by,
finding questions to some bad answers,
Putting up with bad promise makers,
When a promise may curse,
Life is just a makeshift,
Life is what you make it,
Or make of it

oh but too my own, misery, should i be denied it,
i find it hard to suggest what pains i am to deny others
in the fiefdom of the crass suggestion as worthy of a
kingly undergarment and  whatever suiting the kippah
to befit both the monkish barbers' sunshine lazy ordinance
of polished marble and cranium  and the cardinal's crimson
shoe disguise of political poker to echo a pope's red shoe
Cinderella worthy a faking of democratic shoo or coo;
oh indeed ****** like the angels and kept as a diabolical
vocabulary to marginalise any auxiliary suggestion;
i'd rather shove a turtle up my ****  than shove your ego
through my mouth, to **** with ease would please me more
than to speak with such dis-satisfaction
as to succumb to a justifiable tribunal
of fatigue against the state - i.e. one-word crossword
puzzles are hardly the logical excavation prompts
readying for war, should they be suggested
as jeopardy, or treason - sooner then
the sun hang at noon higher, than the moon
be bathed at midnight among the nadir of the sewers,
whichever way the intrigues waver
in acknowledging weakness or strength -
let i become lost amassing more than the fewer new
utilised words, that i become lost in befriending
the fewest possible manners and subsequent curbing on vocabulary:
as friendly, thus subsequently endowed with hostility
and historical revisionism that might steal
a man's shadow, even if kept with the man's brother's shadow;
paranoia is another term for plurality - and indeed
variances of logic always existed: as long as the Eiffel prophecy existed,
the king held sway over pyramids and schematics
of high fashion, or some ******* about
punctured condoms and ladies in waiting -
or David's Lyre and Solomon's last harem moan exalting
the forgotten prayer of a teenager... well...
what an exalted circumstance to suddenly don the
clown make-up and subscribe to Israeli history?
**** me and my regret with prostitutes...
is this some high school reunion get-together?
i was waiting for the perfected font... all i got was
as a subject worth an A*, but because of a ****** handwriting
having only been given a D+;  hell, we can all make
the angelic prosaic with our complaints,
but to make the poetry we have to sometimes act-out
***** **** in positions of high power like being
a nymphomaniac and a district attorney.

(STRANGE, BUT TRUE)
Love
Shifting through dark channels
And illuminated signs
Sounds
Shifting through
Cubic's power amplifiers
Human walking angles
Tactic direction changing rhythmically
Variances
Transfixed steps
Breaking the long loud silence
On human tongues
Hopes
Owing to the existence
Of silver enwrapped surrounding hot stars
And hot feelings
Unavoidably reflected upward
Appearing just as a lightning bolt
Or like a peculiarly fierce faithfulness
Gray clouds
Dropping their snow bracer
Ringing bells
Dropping their sad resonance
In death
For love.

Enjoying his view at a glance,
everything from the stillness of the trees,
to the bristling of leaves along the floor,
the variances in cloudy colours and the haste
with which they move.

The Birdsong called from open beak,
carried by faint whisper of the air,
heard both near to and far from his pane.
Slithers of blue like a snake out of place,
make their way around me.

The sound of adolescent class and youthful springs
are heard abundantly as laughter and converse grow
into festering harmony of contemporary sounds.

Notice how they cease to be idle, but only ever moving and
active, move in this and that way, heading
North, South, East, and West with motive and intent,
the teachers bark heard through the wall.

I pray that you note the observer through the pane,
he watches and glances, not in idle captivation, but in
simple observation. He notices their behaviour, their patterns
and movements, their groups and divisions, common attributes
and uncommon, differences in personality, not by sound. Instead,
he listens to the motions of mute lips, and silent movement,
as if it were a ballet, only music is absent from the show.

So vast is this view from the behind the pane,
artwork is created by manmade structures blended with
nature and her beauty. Pleasant are the "random" meetings of
two, in open space, such happenstance.

When in the course of circumstances changing,
the classes mix and intertwine for few moments,
I notice many, the aversions, and the attractions,
what catches eyes, and what defers them.
But come the final ringing of the bell, he
heads for the door only to return again
the next day and do as he did.

psychotic, she says

psychedelic, he says

tho black n' white,
tumultuous are the variances of shading,
the hints of unknown fragrances
of days yet to come when,
spring earth and spring buds
long past the point of expectation,
inject colorful unexpectedness

eyes so clear so bright,
how can she not see beyond the pale
emotionless expression of gaunt,
that all turbulence is not bad

see that streak of black hair,
refusing to be hidden, a provocation,
curling, asking to be stroked,
pitter patter it teases the lips,
but only after it grazes the eyelash
so seductively it screams
I am beautiful!

does she fail to see?
who will not permit her
to see what I have seen?

the lyric comes to mind instantly:

Well let me tell you 'bout the way she looked
The way she'd act and the colour of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool
Her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there


her eyes are clear and bright,
her pen delicate and light,
she unbeknownst surrounded,
by admirers that gladly lay,
not their cape, but their whole body
across these leftover puddles of winter

will she? will she cross over?
with those eyes so clear, so bright,
there is only one acceptable answer!

*come spring, come summer,
her true nature will nurture

שעליפוש
                           ש - s
                                                               ­     ע - o
    ל - l
                  י - i                                פ - p
              ו - u
                                             ש - s*

in that two similis sounds can exist in a variety
of encoding variances -
the disputed u - ו - bound by Latin encryption
disputed over five variant attributions:
F, U, V, Y, W... although reduced to a greek upsilon...
the title? SO LI PUS - do re mi fa so la ti do (solfège) -
etymology shortens natural history -
etymology is, after all, a variant of
archaeology - origin specified as solipsism,
an ancient word for autism -
purpose? the phenomenon, so many people
succumb to it, that the easiest explanation
of the phenomenon is the existence of a deity
with presented characteristics - proof
solely on grounds of phenomenological recurrence -
exclusive, nuanced, airy-*******-fairy.

is significant
    a dandelion
is really pretty
         much more,
I think than a close cropped
        perfectly manicured
lawn.

I like the sight of a bit
    of wild, the variances
of color and genera
      the birds seem to , too.

My landlord though,
    keeps threatening me
as I sit with a kitty
     playfully in three foot tall
lawns and weeds.

      so, I says to him,
I will cut it down
                  if you trim your wild ***
nose hairs,
you know different things bother
     him and me.

We often hang up
phones without saying
what the person
on the other end
wants to hear.

More interested in
coffee and sinkers
on our way out the door;
beating the rush hour
traffic into downtown,
late for work.

Choosing resolve over
conviction, no trump cards
in this particular deck.

Massachusetts Street,
Lawrence Kansas, 7pm.

There’s a man sitting quietly
across from where I am.

He is alternating between purring
like a cat and making **** noises
at passersby and otherwise muttering
to himself.

He is drinking an iced tea from the
café and chain smoking

I am smoking a cigarette myself.

Every moment or so, we make
eye contact and I can see different
galaxies in his eyes.

Knowing, doubtless that he vibrates
on a different frequency that most
everyone else.

(I try to love him anyway.)

There are only minimal variances
in the code,
but these microscopic differences between us,
they bear so much weight that the scales crack.

Our circles are too small.

Shh…

The Honeybears are here.




*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

in twilight's dusk are most furious
those sounds heard when most are sound asleep can be curious
the tastes tasted of life's here and now
the scents
near and far
if taken serious
might bring a strong man to his knees
somehow, or a
cautious virtuous woman
to her demise,
so tend the echoes carefully
see into the  myst most warily
behold the dawn with eyes open
smell like a scent hound
the variances
eye the echoes
as a bat
crawl
the corners careful

Helpless,
Precious,
Daunting silent variances of light
Dancing.

Going under,
For a time

Rescue
The bad bones
Of our past

Tiger blood
Milkman

The remnants of yesterday's closure
Either creates tomorrow
Or destroys the future
Divided by variances too shallow
Yet united against the walls
The vague resolutions that regress
Constituting for the insistent calls
Are today's mend-in-progress
That whatsoever made no progress.

Pigeons. doves, no hummingbirds...wait.. actually the wild!
Parrots that squawk and fly about L.A.

Caustic bangs and screams-the South LA. Moniker
:the squirrelly streams.
Tales stay inside ceased thoughts; they drain the occlusion of deft variances kept
Apex aversive life dismissive; boundaries of good and evil call
Me, myself, morose circle of hope-... I'm denied these dreams- jimmied- stymied, called out for soul cries of induction to gleeful fate....
Truth now dissolves the Godless forces that are known
and the enduring flack of all peoples seeking retribution on the individual-
strife included- variance remains- ends on my individual as once was warned now is claimed

a bit like huskies...

  you let them eat-up
                                            the night...

                         because of their of furr...

  you learn to love:
all that is worth letting go...

don't get me wrong,
the foxes and the cats
                                               in essex county

               do not even more close
to discussing territory...


but then again there
are the saddened people
who'd like an increment
of, an, "other"people
sanity
                making derivative
question-answers
  short-scripts....

    which?
        
                i like the fact that i'll
open a window for a maine ****
cat in a july night...
       it does what the death of it
appreciates it exists...
  and makes... life!
                a spectrum of
                                      spectacle!

so this is where
the post-mortem soviet
                      empire, strikes back?!

if there isn't, then there ins't,
that there was no genesis death,
  given the inact lenin mummy...
             so?
what is capitalism
and egiptology
within the confines

                              of explaining death?

life is a literacy...
   not the literate truth
with death             surmoutning its
expression...
                          
           there's no literacy:
there's no life...
             and all that is death...

                    well: what all death becomes -
child genius actors...
who...
   when suggested to the world...
end up being
                  something akin to:

                      quasimodo variances
to make 2 + 2 = 4...

at this point...
does it, matter?!

          not so few of us make acting
our profession
to clarify the errosive aspect
of our memory being
made useful:
        in the profession
                                    of acting!

what a terrible impression of
parliamentary sojourns...
          given democracy like
any given: obvious...
                      
                       we have heard
               of alternatives...
are there any to
beside, given the fact
                   that we're involved in
a society?

stalled light--

a pallid break not to make

day.

forever this--bedridden grey

staring out from the world.

clay roused from cinders--twitching

before disjointed  movements.

similar to 19th century electric

shocks administered to deceased

frogs.

a realm of colorblind variances to

wakefulness--densify the fog of these

peoples.

whose trailing opiates of sleep rapidly

play their eyes beneath lids--smudge marks

on a colorless palette.