philosophy has but one maxim, given the post-socratics: read slowly; learn to orchestrate: what is lost in punctuation (and recognised as asthma); forget being lost in translation, remember what's lost in punctuation. philosophy is the only prose that measures the reader's speed of scattered eyeing of the page... revel in the poetics of the non-arable for the eyes likened to a withered forest of scarce trees on the deathbed of autumn - i know, missing comma, but you make your mind up when to pause - all this is a playground of your choosing: when to crawl, and when to swing; and when to stitch snout to the plough of unearthing precious truffle mushrooms.*

is this really a poem
of what humanity is,
worth encoding by a single man,
or if, what then, representative,
representing, simply according to a
byway of the fact that man
walked on the moon (applause),
and coerced with holocaust (the cruxifix)
a historical discussion about the midrib...
well, grin the grim
paradox of the lighthouse search
for the ships yet to be shattered
against the rocks, against the reality:
the drowning lives with our lives
assured on the shore for our imagination
to be fed... so that the drowning ones
might make our memory edible with practice
of sing-along of lyrics remembered -
this rather than what's to be new and rejuvenated?