hold up, something is brewing on coals of commotion
story unfolding as cold as the northern ocean
don't ******* worry about the big-to-do
this buzz is my buzz and it's not meant for you

hold on, something is wrong you stumble all around
i'm only here to be a witness if happiness is found
soaking in the hopeless on stones as your bed
you said it once, but kept repeating what you said

ruthlessly using confusion to do your own abuse
then wallow in the hole left by what you just used
fluids in the northern ocean are so deaf and mute
cold water never knows how the truth can pollute

illusive incantations illustrate iridescent impermanence,
inspiring intellectual integrations past impartial intentions,
interdependent identities ingrained in innocence improve infrastructural spaces,
invite implausible involvement to instantly inform change.

In the silence surrounding her she harbors solace,
with a candle burning her imagination and intuition is churning,
She scribes through the hours of the night to reason with the jigsaw of jargon outlined before her.

A scholar defying the norm,
a messy bun with a few strands undone,
that's the mark of her intellect,
it's the crown she carries.

Give a man a book,
He'll burn it for a day.
Give a man a typewriter:
His mind will burn forever.

deep concentration amazes the corrupt intellect
secrets lay in waiting as the mind deciphers the message
why do the senses allow corruption to succeed
the age-old dilemma is, well, age-old....

Brian Hill - 2020 # 160

Intelligence is like a compass, in that it allows you to go a specific direction but is only useful in the context of the wilderness that you stand within. Without knowing where you are and where you are going, a compass will only help you stay the course towards an unknown destination. Wisdom is the map upon which the compass lies, that which gives sustained direction the context it needs to ensure the intended destination is reached.

You strip me naked from the neck up

Run with my thoughts and bounce them

Take everything

Leave nothing but your opinion,

A termite

Eating at the hollowed log that once was me

Woodpulp on the forest floor

Far below where you cannot see

Infinite and beautiful

In variety and colour

Fungi flower in the light of your shadow

My hidden garden of words

You are not looking young,
That's what my mother keeps saying to me.
But there is a problem,
A big problem,
A problem with myself,
That problem is difference
I don't think like you, maybe worse
I dont reason like you, maybe abnormally.

But I drink,
And then I am good,
I make friends,
I remember how urgent I am,
But then drink, it's a route to an end,
Wilshere! my friend calls
One thing will **** a man,
So i drink, this time from the bottle
To look for who i am,
But all i see, is what i hear them call me;
Failure, shame, disgrace, liar, thief, lazy, loser,
Then I rage at them,
Promise to take revenge for the pain,
Then they come back,
Seeking my assistance,
And I help them,
Am I not a loser and a failure?
Then they have been right about me.