some men feel uncomfortable among riches, some men feel apathetic towards them, as some men abhor poverty and squalor, while others seek it for solace in never wishing to adorn their hands with rings, rather: look at the heavenly orbs... i still cut my toenails with scissors... what need have i for nail-clippers if scissors can also perform the same pandering act? how strange, to have a materialistc abhorrence, esp. as a child, this tickling sensation of having more than others, and upon seeing other children playing with your toys... wishing they were theirs... and that you could simply sit, and make abstract circles with your thumb+index, with your thumb+middle, with your thumb+ring, with your thumb-pinkly fingers... as if a god who said: and he makes romance with the devil, who already has the idle work of writing to occupy the hands, but romances them, by these "tickling", soothing sensations - upon sight through eye-celibate, of a woman pressed for higher demands.

every time i drink, perched on my
windowsill -
in cerberus form of a crow
dancing pittance
upon a grave
with his
schattentanzen -
   of that "trinitarian formula" -
von tag, von nacht -
     i too see my schatten clear -
esp. during the hours
of sleep of the living -
when the hours of the dead
reveal themselves:
and the dead are woken -
     for i see but one heaven:
the living have their day -
their cathedrals and pomp -
the only gate toward
the land of the dead,
if via the *gate of cain -
into the land of nox -
where the sole democratic
plataeu resides -
resting, with one artefact
of name alone...
i, crow, am the appointed
cerberus revision:
keeper of the gate of cain...
for who wishes to
reign within riches,
and seek even more riches
of a pearly gate,
with st. peter the fisherman
as the pomp-boy supreme
   deciding to judge pass or
no entry?
       who wishes such a fancy?
    i am at the shadow gates
of cain...
             before the land of nox...
if only a man could revive
theology with poetry, and change
it back into mythology:
of what is sometimes expected
of time's existence:
   to pardon man's error -
  and never become too bombast
in arguing his reasons
for giving exactness to time:
which cannot ever be exact -
say, 100m sprint:
                to the point of what
pi decimal to be, "exact":
that famous quote:
  of the many hairs upon
your head - and the problems by
                              the count:
    count only one: your actual head.

in the name of day,
   and in the name of night -
i pray toward the god:
                  that gave me flight,
and you reply is?
in the name of day,
and in the name of night -
i think of the god:
that gave me both thought,
   and the realm of dreams that
alight my waking hour
            all the more.
indeed my passing inquiry -
   man best represents the thorn
of zeus by a dream -
          for dreams are more than
just reasons for being interpreted -
they are the essential basis
for animation -
   the content doesn't matter
all the time...
               compare the dreaming
mind, and the woken mind -
with the by product of dreams -
as you might
compare them to the epiglottis -
       see how you can rarely find yourself
in a sweat, suddenly woken
by day-dreams...
                   rarely... unless of course
the modern man knows of
the phenomenon of day-dreams being
almost non-existent, and the anxiety complex...
but once-upon-a-time...
   dreams were like an epiglottis...
  a medium between the dreaming
mind, and the woken mind -
             eat what you have:
   and breathe your first desire toward
the wind of future...
      dreams are like that...
my anti-freudian re-interpretation of dreams?
they have a purely biological foundation:
dreams are like the epiglottis -
the woken man stresses its need for
the trachea (breathing, contrast asthma attacks) -
while: the slumbering mind -
the esophagus tract - you can eat a meal
before going to bed...
    and the whole system does it for you:
you wake up, eat a bunch of fruit,
drink some water... ah... ******'s oiled up!
and then... ease out a perfect ****,
   so perfect, you do what german
toilet companies do: have a little basin
of ceramic where the beautiful hay-stack
lies for a while... mmm...
  now this one's going to be memorable...
and then... fffff-lush!