Feeling that division
(Vivere Memento)
between the world of techne (these abstractions
of data) and the world of virtue (those intuitions
and stories). Those more meaningful, self-fashioned
but unscripted, a-textual. These to quantify
what is authentic, original, genuine.

It strikes me as near sacrilegious,
Intention mining,
Sentiment analysis,
Would it disenchant us, and profane
our living narratives. They would strip us of those
vestiges, and even belief: cognitive liberty
is the freedom to believe
in your story,

Some better habits
are written upon
our conscience,

And ketamine;
But you know what they say,
Irony is golden.

The warm, entactogenic transience
of 5-MAPB carried us into 2δ24, thus
we found ourselves in January uttering:

Tempus edax rerum (time devours things).

My father never spoke Irish to us as children,
We were told it had no practical use, and thus
our language was devalued, never appreciated
for the gift it was. We learned to oppose it, thus
we assumed a generational grudge, we felt it was
forced upon us, and understood we were powerless.
Thus the pain of his fore-bearers was re-inflicted on us.

My father never spoke Irish to us as children,
As an adult I felt The Inheritance of Loss.

Meaning in Perpetual Threads
Definition in Purposeful Thoughts.

Each of us is holding back the heavens
and thus we stand accomplished.

The things of earth will grow strangely dim
as we account for those times.

I'd forgotten the plural of anecdote is not 'data';
There are things for which no quantity will satisfy.

Trying to Get to Heaven
Before They Close the Door.

To make it, focus on an intention
and follow it as your guide star.

That weekend something softened in me,
I felt a wholesomeness I'd almost forgotten.

During the car journey we spoke of things so
relaxed yet deeply. During a communal dinner
I noticed us reciprocally glancing away from one
and other, sharing a mischievous, concealed smile.
The next morning those juicy 90's tracks
blared from your car stereo along the back roads of K-town.

After that we messaged occasionally. I took up some old practices
and found myself believing strongly.
This month I felt the ground beneath me, to stoke the fires of my soul.

The clay of my body softens, I am malleable
in these desires for our health, to be with them,

I dreamed a pair of desert cobras
were wrapped around my torso
running up to my left shoulder.

I felt their movement across me
and their weight, I did not flinch
but staggered, wary. I've been told

there's no malice in me, of this I'm certain.
Why then do I carry these walterinnesia aegyptia as a burden?

In Ancient Greece the toxotai were held in contempt,
They never placed themselves in physical danger
and so were not seen to be courageous. I've
indulged in dissociation, been captive
in a town of "nothing but snakes".
I ask you to blow out the three poisons
of my soul, three unwholesome roots. I ask:

If I inhale the clouds,
Will you exhale for me?

A dream of three parts the more significant.

On campus but I felt lost, deceived, confused;
Visible to many people, few of whom I knew.

In a fantasy, we searched littoral gates, scrub-land
and trekked across frozen mountains. I argued
with my old master in Isengard, and lost.

Transported underground to an oracular room,
Colorful shadows on the wall show visions of
the far corners of this middle-world. I turned
away from those portentous scenes, to a staircase
that towered before me. Half-a-dozen chests perched
upon its odd steps, tragicomedic faces enameled into them.
Atop sat a grand piano, two saplings sprouting from its strings
and reaching up toward an attic skylight. From this lofty window
a voice uttered a strange, soft dialectic incantation, and a light shone
bright enough that I could climb out
through a ladder wrought of sunbeams.