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By the Spanish Arch
a few kind crusty folks
talk in the March sunlight.

Soft incantations of sweet trad
spill from a concertina, tin whistle
and fiddle, sloshing out an ambiance.

An old fella' makes a poor man's black velvet,
The ladies drink Estrella Galicia and San Miguel.
Another lad jokes: my grief counselor died last week

but he was so **** good I didn't care.

A motley crew, good-natured and friendly,
Drawn to session like moths to a flame;
Always I wonder whether I belong.

"I think in his heart Frodo is still in love with the Shire:
The woods, the fields…little rivers. I'm old Gandalf.
I know I don't look it, but I'm beginning to feel it"
Lines Fourteen to Sixteen from The Lord of The Rings.
The plateaux and caverns which map
my cognitive landscape correspond
by virtue of something; something
determines the salience of beliefs
and their ability to traverse this
intractable surface.
May your word be supple with optimism
and may their cognitions follow suit.
I took a little 2C-D tonight
and prayed to move
My head's ringing, that serotonin itch.
Everyone's doing things; all I wanted
was to be forgotten, some dreams do
come true. Now I stare up at the sky,
Face-up in the middle of my street,
Searching for the counterglow that's missing.
the little building was made of
wood
though it looked sturdy
enough

the high windows were barred
and he could only
see part of the girl’s face
as she called out to him from inside

“If you got a good drill,” she said,
“you could make
a hole in the wall
and stick it in. I’ll take care of
the rest
real nice for you.”

“What?” he said

“What? Don’t you wanna help a poor
girl in distress, Mister?”

He blinked. “How... would that help?”

“Tremendously,” she said. “If you get me
pregnant it’ll mean
I’ll be set free.”

But somebody else called out to
him before he could
ask his next ‘what?’

A man coming from behind
the building. “Hey! It’s off limits here,
stranger. Away with you
before trouble sparks, got it?”

The girl disappeared from the
window
He raised his hands slowly
and backed away
apologizing to the man

The village looked
nothing like
when he was a kid

Or did it?
BOOK: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09B676XYX/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=the+muse%27s+bad+touch&qid=1627288452&s=books&sr=1-1
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.
The downfall of analytic philosophy
is its disdain for poetry.
 Jul 2021 Michael Angelo
Blake
The world is rotting,
And I'll rather rot with it,
Then to be a white flower,
Warily waiting to be wilted.
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