At the heart of any analytic or scientific endeavor is logic,
Simple components used to build more complex propositions
which picture a way the world could be.

Any logical statement can be true or false
depending on its validity
and correspondence with the world.

The issue of correspondence, of soundness, will always foreground any application of logic to the world.

Logic can sate that analytic desire for objectivity or universality but this comes at the cost of certainty.

There is a limit to the amount of simultaneous precision one can impose upon the world.

Regardless of whether it is in the spatial, temporal, or cognitive domain, the nature of focus is exclusionary.
One cannot know with exactitude, both position and momentum, time and frequency, being and becoming, and so on.

Our ability to use logic is critical to us, it is a defining human characteristic and indeed is that thing which enables us to be critical.

The application of logic, representation and an ability to turn in unto itself (i.e. to verify its internal coherency) is its power.
Logic is always applied for purposes.


At the heart of poetry is the act of poiesis, the process of creation which reconciles mind and world.

We may say this of any artistic or aesthetic process (and indeed, art will abuse logic or go against reason for the sake of expression).

Such a process indubitably corresponds to the world in the instances of its creation, and there is certainty as to its correspondence.

What’s more, an aesthetic may be felt by others.
The logical contents of a poetic sentence may be invalid
but can still be meaningful (for otherwise it would not be poetic).

Poetry and lyric are inextricably bound up in language.
They closely track the threshold of reason and logic, but toe the line.

The possibility for meaningful communication arises independent from the probability of logical communication.
Meaning need not correspond to logic.
However, aisthesis is in the eye of the beholder,
and in this way art has is own issue of correspondence which is between others; thus it is an issue of interpretation.

Where logic strives for objectivity and is left with uncertain truths,
Poetry strives for inter-subjectivity but does not know it’s reach.


So things can be connected by meaning and felt as well as by cause and reasoned, but the relationship between meaning and causality then
is not a logically necessity
so much as meaningful necessity.

To establish a firmer contact between the two domains, we must constrain them through a practical bridge. There are many such crossings, but the stability of this bridge is most apparent in poetry.

Looking closely we see a relationship between phenomenal signs
and we fill in the empty spaces with proposed causes
such that it fulfills both meaning and logic.

Enough of this dark ****.
Asking me "bro, do you even know
how hard it is to **** yourself"
after taking potentially fatal doses
of various CNS depressants. I know

better than most. I cannot watch this.
Our lifelines are fragile things
and I shouldn't have to stare down Atropos
for anyone other than myself.
I wanna live.

"I want to hold on to the innocence I got".
We make our own fate, weaving stories
to tell ourselves, measuring the world
with them, and wearing our destinies out.

Last night the claw in my head ensnared me again,
This morning I listen to myself and try to forget.
Give me some early Caribou, Booka Shade,
Chemical Brothers, anything to help me
forget. Anything to make me feel;
Any anything‽ True neutral,
Like it's any better
than you:
My history, stories
about the town. My psychology,
Mental isn't it, we only know what's behavioral.
Things otherwise meaningless
crop up in memory.
What's trauma?
People so colorful.
Why is my heart grey,
Why does my head fade,
Why would someone chose

Do what seems to be a good idea.

Good is better than evil after all,
We would rather have good neighbors and rulers than evil ones.

Be mindful that
good, evil, law, and chaos
are prejudices and dangerous extremes.

Act naturally, without prejudice or compulsion.

Walking thru my new old suburbia
on this quiet June eve, it's in the air and
I'm at ease. Its chill frisson has me so captive;
A sunset vespers some comfortable views,
I feel it fade as peaceful night sets in.
I am wandering the streets again.
I scope about these estates.
That indigo hue
in the sky

Innocuous moments stretch through the night
like unwritten nostalgia
condemned to change forever.

Feeling somewhat high-strung, I decided to try pagoclone
thinking it might soften things. I assumed was a mere anxiolytic
and ate 10mg on a full stomach
so it was late before it really came on.

A few hours later the early anxiolysis shifted,
I noticed some color enhancement, slight loss of
motor coordination and of interest in complex tasks.
It is less amnesic than zopiclone, even so 5am appeared
seemingly out of nowhere
as did the hallucinations.
This was unexpected
albeit not entirely unwelcome.

At first there were occasional, drifting 2D patterns
which rolled across the surface of things.
These became 3D enhancements, the surface of an object
would bulge, contort, and follow my head-turns
or sway with my disposition. The kitchen chandelier's arms
followed my eyes as they cradled their little light-bulbs,
When I smiled or grimaced they made faces back.

Later I mistook some crawling patterns on my desk
for an insect invasion, but knowing my mind could not be trusted
I made a video to see would it fail to capture my hallucination.
Sure enough, this video reproduced what I saw:
A tide of glitches flowing along the beech veneer,
Sweeping over the grain
like bit-crushed waves along a rotoscoped coast.
Satisfied by my evidence, I decided to deal with it in the morning.

At this point I had recognized a few hallucinations.
I thought it possible this was delusion, but what is remarkable
is how I was unable to see past my empirical conviction
that this was indeed happening; such confusion.

As I lay in bed I saw a gnome (of the garden variety)
and his angel-mate perched on the rail of my curtains.
He smiled menacingly, and held her close as if to dance,
A waltz with the fabric. Eventually I fell asleep

In the morning I watched a video of my desk,
Filmed haphazardly, punctuated by a desperate wince.
Now I ran my hand over it's inanimate surface
and scratched at the grain in disbelief.
There is a vague feeling of dread,
A negative afterglow
left after acute delusion
and temporal dysfunction.
I supposed I must integrate this brush with unreality.