Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
T̶h̶o̶u̶ a̶r̶t̶ m̶o̶r̶e̶ l̶o̶v̶e̶l̶y̶ a̶n̶d̶ m̶o̶r̶e̶ t̶e̶m̶p̶e̶r̶a̶t̶e̶:̶
R̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ w̶i̶n̶d̶s̶ d̶o̶ s̶h̶a̶k̶e̶ t̶h̶e̶ d̶a̶r̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ b̶u̶d̶s̶ o̶f̶ M̶a̶y̶,
A̶n̶d̶ s̶u̶m̶m̶e̶r̶’s̶ l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶ h̶a̶t̶h̶ a̶l̶l̶ t̶o̶o̶ s̶h̶o̶r̶t̶ a̶ d̶a̶t̶e̶;̶
S̶o̶m̶e̶t̶i̶m̶e̶ t̶o̶o̶ h̶o̶t̶ t̶h̶e̶ e̶y̶e̶ o̶f̶ h̶e̶a̶v̶e̶n̶ s̶h̶i̶n̶e̶s̶,
A̶n̶d̶ o̶f̶t̶e̶n̶ i̶s̶ h̶i̶s̶ g̶o̶l̶d̶ c̶o̶m̶p̶l̶e̶x̶i̶o̶n̶ d̶i̶m̶m̶'d̶;̶
A̶n̶d̶ e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶ f̶a̶i̶r̶ f̶r̶o̶m̶ f̶a̶i̶r̶ s̶o̶m̶e̶t̶i̶m̶e̶ d̶e̶c̶l̶i̶n̶e̶s̶,
B̶y̶ c̶h̶a̶n̶c̶e̶ o̶r̶ n̶a̶t̶u̶r̶e̶’s̶ c̶h̶a̶n̶g̶i̶n̶g̶ c̶o̶u̶r̶s̶e̶ u̶n̶t̶r̶i̶m̶m̶'d̶;̶
B̶u̶t̶ t̶h̶y̶ e̶t̶e̶r̶n̶a̶l̶ s̶u̶m̶m̶e̶r̶ s̶h̶a̶l̶l̶ n̶o̶t̶ f̶a̶d̶e̶,
N̶o̶r̶ l̶o̶s̶e̶ p̶o̶s̶s̶e̶s̶s̶i̶o̶n̶ o̶f̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶ f̶a̶i̶r̶ t̶h̶o̶u̶ o̶w̶’s̶t̶;̶
Nor̶ s̶h̶a̶l̶l̶ d̶e̶a̶t̶h̶ b̶r̶a̶g̶ t̶h̶o̶u̶ w̶a̶n̶d̶e̶r̶’s̶t̶ i̶n̶ h̶i̶s̶ s̶h̶a̶d̶e̶,
W̶h̶e̶n̶ i̶n̶ e̶t̶e̶r̶n̶a̶l̶ l̶i̶n̶e̶s̶ t̶o̶ t̶i̶m̶e̶ t̶h̶o̶u̶ g̶r̶o̶w̶’s̶t̶:̶    
     S̶o̶ l̶o̶n̶g̶ a̶s̶ m̶e̶n̶ c̶a̶n̶ b̶r̶e̶a̶t̶h̶e̶ o̶r̶ e̶y̶e̶s̶ c̶a̶n̶ s̶e̶e̶,    
     S̶o̶ l̶o̶n̶g̶ l̶i̶v̶e̶s̶ t̶h̶i̶s̶, a̶n̶d̶ t̶h̶i̶s̶ g̶i̶v̶e̶s̶ l̶i̶f̶e̶ t̶o̶ t̶h̶e̶e̶.

zero context shifts

multitasking is multi~asking your brain
to do what does not come naturally,
the enthused poem starts up, lion roaring,
a muscle car, brain throbs organic pulses
semi~******* of a near-completion in
your neuronic *****, exciting and ****
all you-writ so far is:

your name, some crazed, minimal
******* of words with

no context, no preconceived word lotion to
balm-spread over the enflamed areas of
your brain skin
except that it’s
6:47 am, coffee in hand,
your woman slumber rumbles a left over dream,
speechifying, and room, cool conditioned cold,
ignoring notifications of overnight elections,
and a reminder-by-photo where you were this
day seven years ago today, all put asided,
permission ungranted to any distractions,

there will be zero context shifts til the
spillage of your morn squeaking meager is fully
pillage~d here, it be within my it-takes-no-
village,

@ 6:56 and Whitman is tsk-tsking at the low poetry of my scripting, Hafiz says “hey!
nothing about god or love, what good is that?”

but it’s ok for i’ve emptied the early morning
brain bowels,
defused fusses and asides, tossed asided & there is yet some coffee
remaining but the expiation for having been
reborn this newly birthed day has earned me atonement

for taking up space in this planet
and as of yet, I’ve not stated yet to any, no. all
humans, I hate you ~ but the day is infantile
and opportunity plentiful

@7:03AM
nyc
morning
Wed Nov 8,
in the year of hatred,
a/k/a twenty twenty three.

Modern pop-politics
is rife with conflicts
over freedom of speech,
The use of language,
The shape of the narrative,
'Phrasing'.
Knowledge
is always political, language
is often contested, consider
the language of drug use:
'Addiction', 'dependence', 'substance use disorder'.
Nevertheless a compassionate idealism strives
to contrast the weighty realism of suffering.

Alas, who can say whether drug use
is a set of choices, or the pattern of habits?
Vying between these drives, I try a few milligrams
of methoxyeticyclidine. This mortal coil, it harkens Absurdia.

without context
it will
forever
be impossible
   to tell if
your eyes
are red
as a result
of
being upset
laughing
   until you cry
an eyelash
   in your eye
suffering
   from hay fever
or that you
clumsily
poked yourself
in the eye
again
while putting on
your glasses

Where are the source of your thoughts
Contesting emotional triggers
Consider those eyelids to flicker
Additional context adds stress
As different paths stretch us apart
Sleep deep within these sheets

Another drill to overcome
The next hurdle and then some
Distracted by less with
small progressive steps

A learning tool for all
Dig away at the molehills
Digress with flexed biceps
Reminded to incorporate rest

How can somebody be so beautiful.
Do they know their wealth that I have felt?
Look into the eye of them, are they sought from Bethlehem.
A spirit so pure, or is it me who is insecure.

Skin as soft as the morning glow and connection which seems to flow.
Try to grip on what is next, searching still for more context.
Chakra points are burning bright, every form now feels tight.

All I want is to pursue but in the end will likely lose.
I am him, she is her and we're not meant to be together.

Art is working within a frame. Knowing and exploring that frame, using contrast, drawing attention across the field.

It’s an extension of language. Which is metaphor. The default art of language is the frame we operate from within. The words we collect along the way, to place along the veritable canvas of open air.

You need the frame to create context, but it’s also limiting. And it’s only when we understand where our context collides with other broader or more pervasive contexts that we can reconstruct our frame. Transcend it, and paint a newer, more comprehensive picture within a newer, more robust, frame.

So how big should your canvas be. Smaller frames require concision. Bigger frames allow more expansive exploration.

One would think, by those descriptions alone that a larger canvas is better, but it also requires more discipline. We can easily lose ourselves in the expanse and be left with nothing but irreducible chaos. Jungle. Space. Ocean. Not because these expanses are truly irreducible, but because we haven’t developed enough to place any kind of conceptual frame around them. We can’t place them into a useful metaphorical context, besides pointing into the void and reveling in its mystery.  Dreaming up monsters or messiahs that only reflect our fears and ignorance.

But this isn’t a canvas it’s a concept  and it’s hopefully a clear description of why overconfidence in our understanding can lead us to creating a frame larger than we can effectively navigate. Painting ourselves into the void, swallowed by reflections of our own shortcomings.

It’s not pessimism.

Each person is a natural artist gifted with the capacity for communication and supreme adaptation. Very fortuitous developments compared to say; ******* ants out of a tunnel with an incredibly well adapted snout, or establishing mate worthy dominance by bludgeoning a competing male with large outcroppings of bone. Music, written word, spoken language these are the result of our creativity. Our propensity to shift the scope of our picture. Capture understanding from depth by reducing it.

Language only has the frames we construct within it. We must place the borders around our picture somewhere, and playing within each arbitrary space is what creativity is. The self limited but transcendental use of ones space or time.

Who is Truth?
Is she the raw unabridged feelings that you barely allow yourself to know?
Is she a close encounter between strangers that stir up longing and desire?
Is she a story told that is so magnificent she could pass as a lie because Context was not invited?

Who is this judgement called Truth?
Such complexity and unconscious motivations constructing a tangled mesh of stories entwined...
Where in this beautiful mess does Truth reside?
Is Truth a relative to Social Mores, Societal Conformity, Religious Beliefs and so on?
If so, I don’t want to know Truth…

When I invite Truth in I must also invite Self Exploration. I must banish the enemy within for it has no seat at my table of self discovery...
Truth is the universe full of mystery
and we are infinitesimal cells in the circulatory system...
So i say just enjoy the brief ride and don’t think too much.

Give me a backstory
and I'll show you a different character
each time.
Give me a time and place,
and I'll show you my morals were lies
and my standards are non-existent,
and that I've had you fooled
in every single appearance;
and I'll make you realize
that my lies
have been consistent.