How delicate are your thoughts as they dart across this barren wasteland of disconnected paralysis.
They are like a procession of lost souls where Armageddon is monopolised by political wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Although social responsibility is upheld in collectivist cultures, mass conformity perpetually showers her wages of betrayal upon the ravenous souls of materialistic and Western denial.
What is the time?

Scordatura refers to the tuning of a stringed instrument in other than the usual way to facilitate the playing of certain compositions. A scordatura (literally Italian for "mistuning"), also called cross-tuning, is an alternative tuning used for the open strings of a string instrument.

Use of alternative tunings allows the playing of otherwise impossible note sequences or note combinations or can be used to create unusual timbres. The technique can be described as an extended technique.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scordatura
~~~~~~~~~~~

no, non parlano italiano,
né ** conoscenza della musica!

no, I don't speak Italian,
nor do I have knowledge of music

but words, words I know how to love,
how to let them roll off my tongue,
onto yours, seducing you helpless...

Scordatura,
slow say,
you can't help it,
as you spoke it aloud
your hand opens,,
your mouth too,
irresistible, irrepressible.

wet finger petals of the flowering hand.

I want you.
I want you,
in my mouth.
I want our mouths
to make
Scordatura.

speak impossible note creations,
speak in unusual timbres,
but, as one instrument.

I want our
mistunings
to be the
tune of us.

Scordatura,
admit it, my seduction,
accomplished,
our tongues interwoven,
strings, X crossed,
and our tune,
extended.

I want our mouths to make
Scordatura,
speak impossible note creations,
speak in unusual timbres,
as one instrument,
tune combinato.

*Scordatura!

you are just girl enough,
to be a real man...

so stand by me,
be a, be my man-girl,
shave that leathery face,
close and tight,
so I can kiss it smooth,
in front of everybody.

Go off to war, Cyrano,
write me love letters of
incredible tenderness,
poems as yet undreamt
come to me raggedy-man whole,
just enough girl in my man,
to make us both,
deliriously,
weep publicly.

Go ahead man,
write your beloved,
songs of the wars that worry you so,
that you don't show,
you think, I don't know,
but I am tough man tough enough,
plenty~enough,
to be yours,
not just the
woman, but that woman,
your beloved.

that bulge in your rear pocket,
not your wallet,
it's just some pocket tissues
you've been saving
for our reunion.

if you are afraid,
be not, be relieved,
you are just
girl enough,
to be a real man,
and I,

*well, I am tough man tough enough,
plenty~enough,
to be yours,
not just the woman,
but that woman,
your beloved

Below is the first of two poems inspired by this piece of music, this one from a few years ago, in the midst of my divorce. The second, the better of the two,  is:

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/pachelbels-canon/

The music:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kllZlF6mB2s&feature;=youtubegdataplayer
~~~~

Bereft of words,
one more time,
concussed by the hammering of
cacophonous silences
disabling my thought processes

In vanity,  
for when denied,
Le Poet-Poseur angrily asks:

Did not Mary  
have her cherries  
by command?^

But when the trees bow to me,
the collective of leaves mockingly
whisper sweet nadas, baby.
each leaf wraps my tongue,
in a sushi compote of sand,  
"hush-a-bye, baby boy poet"

June chilled.
But not chilling

Today, on a  overcast Saturday,
forces have mogged^^ me on,
transmogrified into a
Seventh Day Non-Inventist,
the creativity disrupters

Sadly,
Amazon doesn't sell,
original poems for redistribution

Pilings of papers,
variant demanders re my  
labors past and future,  
**** work-product of
teams of lawyers & harlots

Four years on, demanding now,
300 files subpoenaed,
need I say, they want me to re-tour my life my cuntry,
once more

Dummies!
these esquires ****** for hire,
my greatest invention,
my poetry,
they'll n'ere posses
cause I give it away,
domain denied

In need of a ****** shot,
drink repeatedly from the
Kanon by Pachelbel,
cannons of human-law
surmounted by the one divine

This note,  
the work product of
Pachelbel & Lipstadt,
harmony restoration,
a shared refuge,
a shared refute

Welcome friend to
a place that cannot be
bought, seized, sold

Pleasure thyself with each
note, scale repeated

Though the reign of the heavens  
doth suffer violence, and  
violent men do take it by force,^^^
peace and pardon,
earnest reward of  
poets who lived gently,
giving gentle, freely away

How many days left in my body?
How many poems left in my body?
One and the same, one and the sane.
My body is my poems.

You cannot distinguish me
in any other way.

eye-scans, fingerprints, belly buttons,
areolae.

all possess, all differentiate, none suffice,
I say it thrice, still you do not understand,
none not a marker singular,
they are not me,
nor are they you.

so if you read but one of my poems,
my body,
you do not know.

but when I find you perusing, exhuming,
the-ones-that-went-before
then you will, can know as well
as I know myself.

each poem a pore,
each pore a poem.

How many days left in my body?
How many poems left in my body?
one and the same, one and the sane.
my body, my poems.

my body is not episodic.
turn on the tv, no imagination leaps needed,
but each and every contingent on the prior,
each poem a stepping stone to the in side,
insight to the story of the body.

more story than poems,
I began in the beginning,
believe me there are thousands
of writs that lie about, lay about,
that sunshine has n'ere exposed.

but enough survived
enough shared, enough spent,

You have never seen my face,
what matters that,
when you have seen my poems,
my body, more than windows into,
they are the very pores of me.

Jan. 26, 2014

the theory of entropy

A doctrine of inevitable social decline and degeneration.
or
A single toss of a fair coin has an entropy of one bit. A series of two fair coin tosses has an entropy of two bits. The number of fair coin tosses is its entropy in bits. This random selection between two outcomes in a sequence over time, whether the outcomes are equally probable or not, is often referred to as a Bernoulli process. The entropy of such a process is given by the binary entropy function. The entropy rate for a fair coin toss is one bit per toss. However, if the coin is not fair, then the uncertainty, and hence the entropy rate, is lower. This is because, if asked to predict the next outcome, we could choose the most frequent result and be right more often than wrong. The difference between what we know, or predict, and the information that the unfair coin toss reveals to us is less than one heads-or-tails "message",
or bit, per toss.[5]
~~~~~
**one bit per toss

one love per life

over time we entropy,
degrade our physic,
even our heart~need,
tho ever burning,
gives off less heat,
as the candle aged-consumed,
the eighth day canister of love oil,
the sole remainder,
slow level diminishes.

we keep on tossing the coin,
and with every failed love,
the need, entropies, declines,
the coin is worn down,
making tails-you-lose
the greater probability.

but then all it probably takes,
just another toss,
and bit you are
by the coin of the realm
that-once-discovered,
from her, this realm,
this woman,
you will never leave,
nor coin-toss ever again

The encapsulating power of silence is a beckoning wonder of the universe, as we abandon our awareness and travail toward psychedelic oblivion.
Although Neolithic tendencies have shaped our foreign fields of hybrid plantations at the expense of organic exuberance, it is wise that we listen to the concerts at dawn and dusk as they echo from the depths of the woodlands.
In our unwitting state of being, owls often grace us with their ghostly presence.
This sullen atmosphere is so damp with the juices of forgotten dreams, and we are not yet shrouded by the mysteries of such treacherous slumbers and defensive immobilisations.
Look at the patterns upon the rock of the Badlands where geological delicacies are too difficult to masticate.