I used to ramble and I used to ****,
used to blow my tires and get my truck stuck.
Used to ramble on forget what'd I say,
used to ‘pologize, n' ask if I may.
Find myself lost in a foreign place…

Used to light candles and grieve for the dead,
used to genuflect, bend at the kneck.
Used to wear sandals with the necklace,
used to sight my prizes, was used to surprises.
Find myself running through the mud from the cops,
I’d hear their steps, I'd never stop…

Tough ****, you quit--
you made the most out of it,
now they’re a ghost that you miss (ghost that you miss…)
the closest you’ve hit.

Used to get spooky with that Kerouac,
in the mountains or garage with only what I packed.
Everywhere lovers, used to meet their stare,
I used to write them letters stuffed with my hair.
Find myself penniless making mess...

Used to be bad, yeah, I used to do drugs,
Used to lose my mind combing through a rug.
I used to break curses and chase the sunset,
Used to count the smiles on my friends as they slept.
Find myself slipping out of the house,
into the street, filling my mouth...

Tough ****, you quit
you made the most out of it,
now they’re a ghost that you miss (ghost that you miss…)
the closest you’ve hit.

Consider a beam,
straight, prismatic,
born of one stuff,
formed isotropic.
Now enforce
some constraint
and simply support
the beam in place.

A cut anywhere along its length,
if cut plane will stay the same.
Let us restrict our ordered space
to just the bounds of this page.

A force P applied along this beam,
normal to length and within the page,
will left-and-right produce in an instant
reactions determined by their distance.

With these forces in balance, we reach quasi-stasis
(between those reacting to the one applied).
Note how no moments are placed at the ends
but the beam sectioned will show how it bends.

A quick aside:
as is the norm
to keep this right
we must prescribe
the beam’s deform
and bend is only slight!

But a bending moment acts!—it’s
on the neutral axis.
From there going up, you’ll find it compress,
developing normal negative stress.
If rather going down, it’s another case:
the tensile fibers are stretched in place.
How does it vary? Not right-to-left?
It varies linear through the depth.

If instead
your interest is
at our cut’s centroid
This normal stress
does not compress
or pull, it’s just devoid.

Back to the cut and what appeared,
there’s also the force we know as shear.
That force which acts along a plane,
across the section, contorts in shape.
As a stress, at bottom and top,
you’ll find that shear stress simply stops.
How does it vary? Verily observe:
from mid to end, quadratic curve.

Stop considering; let loading adjourn.
Lest it had yielded, it’s shape will return.
Unconstrain all nodes, unequilibrate,
save your force P for some other date.
No more “Consider…”
No more “Suppose...”
Let your pupils retire.
As for what’s next
I will leave what is left
for you as an exercise.

In the capitol
how little we care
and little we spy.
There's no reciprocal,
no quid pro quo,
no imminent requital,
nowise needs to go, see.
Born out of balance
and at a distance,
nary know, unaware.

It wasn't true
til you heard news of it,
out in the greater empire.
We're let do all the better,
practice our praxis,
but still not know the half of it.
This time, it outlasts other
cycles and its nice to be still
for just a minute.

The occupation
families asunder
cities cindered
bought for my clarity
and maybe, too,
marks the throes
of collapse.

Getting later into life
and still ever find that spark
that led giants into skies
and sailors to the brink
me n' mine to step, forsooth

When rasps are retired
finer things laid cabinet
rousty holes let loose to trash
while the tilds go on to yield,
I'll drown books, I'll hang hats

For now snipping corners
on the page, from the flaggon
Now looms a starry 'stellation
—a good omen perhaps—
alights now on me lap.

...'til they cease to be beautiful."

I think the thing that's Beautiful,
resplendent once and then splayed
anesthetized on the table, under scalpel,
before surgeon, proves atomic—
you can't dissect this thing of Beauty,
exhaust the nature's held, muses lost,
you can't touch it,
you could only cut yourself in haste,
or Otherwise make a model
in sorry mimicry
on some adjacent bench,
gaudy gawky gauche
and then, yes, (I guess)
it ceases to be beautiful.

Hello, I seem to be here still,
do you remain to be out there?
I’ll brush my teeth knowing
that we’re gonna make a go of it.
I touch myself dreaming
of all the places I’m gonna make you.

We’re living in a special case,
subset of an upset time and space.
Fire, was it, or pomegranate
that broke the spell you cast?
Gave up the garden if It’d make it last.

Sorry, why’s I speak is why’s I’m I,
so you ought to talk sometimes.
I’ll ***** my ears hoping
that where we’re the same might be enough,
I tell myself living
with all choices I made without you.

We’re living in a special case,
subset of an upset time and space.
Fire, was it, or pomegranate?
Whatever the cause, the way is flawed.
We’re living in a human race,
if you think you can do better,
well, you’re wrong!

And when I decide to show my face again…
I’m a child of…
I’ve seen miles of love,
my body’s made of blood.
I’m a child of God,
my body’s made of mud.

I’d like for you and I to reconcile
if only one more—
Time is not the catch n’
Space ain’t the constraint.
I gotta hunch it’s in the
changes that we all make.

Go up'n roast on a glacier,
Make a trip of it, Monsieur—
I'll personally see your bags will be waiting,
the kindling's got, mosquitoes smashed,
and site taken.
Go at the right time
and can keep humans
far away enough
as to look like ants.

Rising sun nips the tops
and chills expressed out of the basin
like a sorta sigh.

What at home's only closing up shop,
wiping counters, resetting for action
sweeping between aisles—

up here's watching coals die and sun-up,
the whole scene subside then set in.
Dynamic night stretching miles.

Then glorious Day
and its weight on painstaken paths,
all worthwhile.