There once was a woman from Seoul
Who swallowed an octopus whole:
     It swam in her belly
     With fishes of jelly,
Then plopped in a porcelain bowl.

“Did you bring the specimen sample?” the lab employee asked,

“UUhhhhhhh, no, I wasn’t aware I had to bring it.”

“Well…you can’t do that in here. Can you go home, do you live around here?”

“I wouldn’t be able to get back before you closed.”

“Ah ****, well, okay, take this,” he handed me a sample jar, “There’s a restroom on the second floor—”

“Woah! What? It’s a single-use restroom right?”

“Yeah man, don’t worry, we’ve all gone up there when we needed some privacy.”

“Jesus, okay, thanks, I’ll…be back…soon,” said in the manner of a partial-statement, partial-question,

And so there I was, on the second floor of a lab facility, attempting to get a sample after perhaps I had already produced too many samples in too short of time, especially for a man like me who is no longer a teenager, it was a rather difficult process, the environment was less than conducive, and when it finally happened it gave me an exertion headache that was so excruciatingly painful I thought my brain was going to ******* explode out of my ******* ears, my life’s work, concluded as I fell to the pissy floor of this restroom, having produced an extremely small amount of sample, what I had been viewing on my phone would have surely amused many, disappointed a few, and maybe flattered one, but ultimately nothing would matter ‘cause I would be dead, oh well,

When I went back downstairs to the office and gave the employee the jar he handed me a sterile one and told me, “Alright, just in case we need another sample, do it at home next time,” and I did.

hair tied with
a nitrile glove cuff
carved a sacred space adorned with muffled tile
porcelain throne pod amongst the ruckus
hohumdrum gods stampeding towards
a visionary empty meeting with screens
greeted with massed bodies, butter, and dust
the divine light behind the porthole still shines
even as crowds continually shuffle forwards
backwards and past, that bouquet of projection rays
remains sheening with eye to light machè heaven
until thunderous overstrokes over indulge and begin
to over and undertone every feather upon ears
resignation of a certain kingship upon standing
and yet wealth of ethic remains demanding
so, stand.

I want to live my life effortfully.
I want to expend my energy while I have it and chase things that are meaningful if only to anyone but myself.
I want to feel in my bones that I am god. My own personal god. The voice I hear in my head, I want to know without a doubt her power.

Blue, blue is the grass about the river
And the willows have overfilled the close garden.
And within, the mistress, in the midmost of her youth,
White, white of face, hesitates, passing the door.
Slender, she puts forth a slender hand;

And she was a courtezan in the old days,
And she has married a sot,
Who now goes drunkenly out
And leaves her too much alone.

Oh, how a little ripple in the ocean
can create the biggest of tides.

I was never one for the water.
I was doing just fine on land.
But you,
you made me
an oceanographer.

You showed me to the fish,
and one by one,
I wanted to collect them all.
One by one,
I became addicted.

It was nuclear.
Like an atomic bomb,
you changed my world.
For the better. For the worst.

My exoskeleton was shattered,
and I was left to pick up the pieces.
I’m still here,
putting myself back together like a puzzle,
covered in grains of sand,
finding myself among the coral.

I’m hidden. I’m broken.
But you gave me my glue.
You fill up my seams.
You’ve taught me wrong from right,
you’ve left me more questions
then I could even think to answer.

I’m now a politician,
having to choose
which lies I believe,
which lies I want to believe.
What do I want to be the truth.

Because of you,
I’ve fallen into a world
I can’t get out of,
I’ve been thrown into
a wormhole I never thought possible,
like a dung beetle
I’ve had to scrape through ****
to see the other side,
and I’ve had to flush
my former self down the toilet.

But maybe I was never her.
Maybe I have always been me.
Maybe this is who
I’ve always meant to be.
Maybe I haven’t
even been found yet.

But I thank you,
I thank you so much
because now I’m on that journey.

I am on a ship
that is going to sail me
away to my future.
My neverland.

I, thanks to you,
will find neverland.
I’m so glad I lost the boy.

DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, just random stuff to share from my notes:>

                            twinkle twinkle in my head

                           a fairy tumbling into my bed

                      on a quest to the escape trips the feet

                     laughter spread wide on the concrete

                                hidden from the unseen

                              yet for the magic to appear

                             a glisten from afar not near

                                  holds before the gone

                        before the adventure or the run

                         silenced on trickles of embraces

              tattooed to the lips in drips from those chases

           unfunded to the dimples of the backs of the faces

                             to a welcoming of a nation

                            a whole new legacy a creation

            symphonies to my ears an incredulous fascination

                I rather the harmonious dancing pleasantries

                  that bring the chaos and back the pastries

                                  not of cakes not of candy

                                           of memories

                                     in a twist in a frown

                       the enchantment betrays and drowns

                      the lover into a fictional immortality

                           the kind that sweeps from reality

   to the hands of seconds on the visual symbols of conspiracy

                                      flustered by snow

                     into margins drunk on the laws of penalty

                       and the encounters of past familiarity

                      hums into the heights smoothed frights

                                     bet you a comeback

                                      in the final scene

                        the again everlasting so called calamity

                        not even knowing the costs or the price

                               hence on the steps they wise

                               an adornment so pure so nice

                                       simple for a ball

                                       unique for a fall

                                       on the toilet wall

                                    and the myth in the hall




                                
                                                                ­      

                                                               ­                   -----ravenfeels

Holding *** when the muscle requires some effort directs attention to the lower body away from the eyes and the head area which is the normal place of reflection.
It makes me think of releasing it and of the bathroom and toilet to do so, as if I was constructing a plan to carry out.
The other muscles used to concentrate can be relaxed as the new concentration is on the bladder area.
Yet this pulls the attention to the seat if seated, like placing attention on the foundation of the meditation posture.
The focus spreads to the thighs and solar plexus.
Finally to the back of the head, but with pressure that will not allow anything to replace it.
The management mind states next that the task at hand is more pressing than bladder release.
And I remember all the times I've had to hold my *** and the places and situations that precipitated them.
I start to tell myself that I'm suffering needlessly as if I was being bullied by my situation.
Thus the parts of the body actually take the center of the personality over other parts of the body.
The managerial aspect will offer motherly comfort to the childlike personality of holding ***.
I start to go into wishful dream mentality just like holding *** while in the early hours of the morning trying to still sleep.
And the attention is tranquilized back to reflection with the hold tucked away in the background of the mind, reflection aspect now being more parental in nature.
What is transcendence? is sort of a moronic question, and I notice my words start to be more bullyish.
This question is rather asking is there a particle of transcendence?
No, it is a function of frequencies of the body.
Consciousness can be the essential aspect of transcending, but no more than consciousness is the essential of concentration.
Tranquility and insight, just as taught, happens, without attention on tranquility, and without tranquility within attention.