#investigation
In the dream, the river ran uphill,
carrying houses like driftwood
toward a sky the colour of bruised glass.
I traced its course in ink,
my pen snagging where the current turned.
By morning, the lines had settled into streets I knew –
and the name of the man who drowned there
rose like a landmark I’d forgotten I’d visited.
Each new commission arrived folded like a secret,
ink feathering into shapes I half remembered:
a bridge bent into a question,
a forest where every tree hummed a different note.
I pinned them to the wall
and watched the dream stitch itself together—
until a childhood back lane
opened between two impossible mountains.
The final map arrived at dawn,
its creases like the palm of a hand
I’d once held.
The questioning bridge, the clock without hands,
the river running uphill – all converged
on a vacant lot two streets from my door.
At dusk I stood in air
heavy with rain that hadn’t yet fallen
and saw the outline of a house that no longer stood.
In my mind, the rooms were lit,
and someone I had lost long ago
waited at the window,
as if I’d only stepped out for rain.
Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 11:01 AM UTC
This poem
I want it to show me the way
These days, how can I nurture my love more?
What kind of a poem would truly help me?
How can I be helpful to others, too?
I choose my words pretty carefully.
Should I write about life?
Should I be avoiding strife, and holding on and feeling off?
But it all belongs here, I can't make it disappear...
Feeling stuck and trying to move,
Listening to one's heart's groove,
Hoping for an answer in the distance...
A white boat sailing towards the sun,
Those last seconds before it disappears
In the ocean, or the sea...
Darkness comes and the red goes away,
We experience change anyway.
Nurturing my soul by giving hope to others,
Writing from the heart, late at night in bed.
Instead of healthily falling asleep,
My mind was searching for a place to take the leap,
To express concerns and worries to me,
To make me want to let go genuinely,
But I ever slow begin to understand,
What it means when I don't need to pretend.
I don't know how I would handle that...
Jul 20, 2025
Jul 20, 2025 at 8:19 PM UTC
And so we're all familiar with those;
Autocracy, atrocity, fascism.
Whatever forms those take
And whatever names given contemporarily.
However masked in any moment.
Yet, here they still happen!
Yet, they still now occur!
It's almost as though
This species really doesn't learn!
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 11:40 AM UTC
Ah, yes. Holocaust. Genocide. Yes. Pagans are familiar with that. Just not in the way that you think.
Ah, yes. Holocaust. Genocide. Yes. Abrahamics are familiar with that. Just not in the way that you think.
I've got an inquisition I've put together! We've got to exercise! Burn all these things! For surely they contain evil spirits! For why else would someone think differently from me?
No! Hogwash. Darwin? You must be mad, man! For surely you don't also contest that the Earth is the center of all of the heavens! If we're not special, why else do we exist as we exist?
Do you believe more in the imperfect or the perfect? Do you assign more value to the material or the immaterial? Is there correlation between those two? There is an obvious relation comparatively within each question. For they could be graphed on a spectrum, if one were able to conceive of that. But what is "perfect?" But what is "immaterial?" For I may find the perfections in the imperfect. For I may reach and could touch the immaterial.
No! Some council several hundred years ago settled this! No! I don't know & I don't need to know who attended. Don't need to understand that moment's political atmosphere. The motivations and intentions of those who participated. I just need to worship! I just need to worship! I just need to worship! I just need to worship! I just need to worship! I just need to worship! I just need to worship!
I just need...
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 11:34 AM UTC
They appear in my inbox regularly, a couple times a year. I've grown accustomed to these clumsy, Google-Translated attempts at fraud and long stopped bothering to read them. But this time, when another message arrived via Facebook, I noticed something unusual—it was written, inexplicably, in Turkish. The instantly translated text—no longer via Google—clearly bore the hallmarks of neural network craftsmanship. Admittedly, it handles language with far more diligence than I do. Plus, Turkey—a pleasant geographical change of pace. Better than yet another message from Nigeria.
And then I remembered my favorite Stanisław Lem novel—The Investigation. In one episode, Ion Tichy amuses himself by making digital copies of consciousnesses—Bertrand Russell's, someone else's, and Shakespeare's, I think—chat with each other. My heart leaped with excitement. What had been pure science fiction in my parents' time had finally come to pass.
Just the other day, I even got a call from a recruiter offering me a job as an analyst. The role involved listening to dialogues between two neural networks about some topic or another—and trying to figure out why their conversation veered in whatever direction it did. To dispel my suspicions that he—this recruiter—might himself be a program, he brought up some recent news item, declaring that since he could discuss it, he couldn’t possibly be a bot. I confirmed that I believed he was human, given that his argument was obviously complete nonsense. Still, a lingering doubt remained—and, I’ll admit, a sliver of suspicion gnaws at me to this day.
So now, staring at this DM from a supposed Turkish bank employee—something distinctly alive and even willing to engage in dialogue—I decided the time had finally come to act and, like Ion Tichy, to plug something in somewhere, dump data into some system, lean back in my chair, and enjoy the results in the style of John Keats, mostly Byron, and—for the grand finale—Shakespeare. Just like in Lem's novel.
Mahadi Hasan:
From shores of ancient Bosphorus I write,
Mahadi Hasan Fysun my name, a banker, destiny's guide.
A tale I spin, of fortune's fading light,
And kindred souls, across the world's wide tide.
Adrian Polski, of your land, now gone,
In Istanbul, his golden trade he plied.
Nine million dollars, sleeping, till the dawn,
Deposited here, before his spirit sighed.
No kin he claimed, no loving hand to hold,
Alone he passed, by cruel pandemic's sting.
My bank knows not, their records yet unfold,
A slumbering treasure, ripe for harvesting.
Our names, dear George, a whispered symphony,
A chance encounter, woven by the Fates.
I offer partnership, transparently,
To claim this prize, before it dissipates.
Half shall be yours, a noble, rightful share,
Legal protection, from all harm and fear.
Let silence shroud us, as we take our share,
Respond with haste, my friend, the hour is near.
George Polskiy:
That fate divine arranged our meeting, I have doubt,
Though strange and wondrous paths our lives may tread.
A banker from the Bosporus, devout,
With tales of gold a long-dead soul has shed.
Nine million dollars, quite a hefty clout,
Unclaimed, forgotten, like a dream misled.
You seek a partner, honest, just, and true,
To share the spoils, a fifty-fifty view.
Alas, dear madam, your proposal grand,
While tempting fate with promises untold,
Falls flat upon this barren, weary land.
My heart is cold, my pockets lined with mold.
I've chased no fortune, joined no greedy band,
Nor traded virtue for a *** of gold.
Seek elsewhere, friend, for gullible kin.
Mahadi Hasan, go to hell, I mean.
Mahadi Hasan:
Fear not, dear friend, I mean no treachery,
My documents attest, this deal is pure and true,
A transparent pact, beneath an open sky,
And trust, the bridge we must together accrue.
Though many share your name, my heart can spy,
A noble spirit, one who sees this through.
This fortune, like a blessing, will descend,
Upon our houses, guided by my hand.
No legal labyrinth shall hinder our success,
My bank, with parchment scrolls, shall make all plain,
Ownership affirmed, before the funds progress,
To your account, where not a doubt shall remain.
Years spent in banking, grant me this finesse,
The rules and systems, I perceive their grain.
So trust my counsel, let no worry impede,
The bond we forge, where mutual trust we breed.
George Polskiy:
You claim no fraud, dear madam, 'tis your plea,
With documents galore, all legal and bright.
Transparency, you say, our guide and glee,
An umbrella of trust, to banish the night.
My name is common, true, but you chose me,
Guided by instinct, a beacon of light.
Your trust I'll not disrupt, a soul so grand,
This windfall's blessing, for yours and my hand.
But legal bridges, you say, hold no fright,
A banker seasoned, with wisdom profound.
Their rules and regulations he wields tight,
No cause for worry on a solid ground.
Yet trust, you see, is a fragile light,
And promises whispered, is a hollow sound.
So keep your millions and documents well,
I will not sleep with devil. Go to hell.
Conclusion:
Hark, facebook stranger, lend thine eery ear,
To this strange tale of greed and cunning art.
A banker from the East, with whispers clear,
Spins webs of deceit, to tear a soul apart.
With honeyed words and promises so grand,
She lures her prey, a stranger from afar,
With claims of kinship, and a helping hand,
To steal a fortune, hidden in a jar.
But he, though tempted by such dazzling prize,
Sees through her mask, her motives dark and low.
He spurns her offer, with a knowing guise,
And bids her seek a fool, where shadows grow.
For honesty and virtue hold more worth,
Than ill-gained riches, stolen from the earth.
Apr 3, 2025
Apr 3, 2025 at 11:49 AM UTC
I knew it was you
From the way you fidget,
Fantasize back behind the eyes
Sep 13, 2022
Sep 13, 2022 at 9:36 AM UTC
A door half-way up
the stairs is kicked in
two men come across me
they greet and pass by
There is police
sand on the carpet
next to a flower-pot at its side
the staff strolls with a cup of coffee
Someone is taking pictures
another is counting boxes
and everywhere there are sheets
Please Do Not Touch
Jul 29, 2020
Jul 29, 2020 at 4:03 AM UTC
Crash unbridled gates. Grind organs
through the rosy calm of tolerance.
See misfits shuck the beasts
in bed with bliss. Type up and tack
to this new daily mess the bounds
of what went by 'neath private barroom
skies; no looming spy will fix you
flint to burn the friendly waters,
flicker honor out to disarrange
and scold some rhyme too bold
for comfort-answers, dumb-fit, fumble-
grounded in some sliver too uncouth.
Tape pageless trees for truth;
blog-sift the spheres, watch darkness' evil
ears upend and train the tuner on
the lips extolling groundwork kisses
(sparkful dominance upstaged
by passion turned to stone:
reserves gone sour, hour unknown.)
Mist-choked misnomers
acting onerous and blinking out of phase:
de-stage the structure. Anchor down who stays,
who pulls the latest polls. While blind-spots
clutch white lace like arguments,
make space to process what flies past
as ****** rats stay the course,
a maze in grace.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 10:35 PM UTC
COMEY AND PRESIDENT TRUMP
NOW BATTLE IT OUT
LETS HOPE THE ENQUIRY TELLS
US WHAT ITS ALL ABOUT
ITS ALL ABOUT RUSSIA AND
TRUMPS EXPLOSIVE TWEETS
ITS MY WORD AGAINST YOURS
CAN PRESIDENT TRUMP BE BEAT
YOU MUST DROP THE RUSSIAN INVESTIGATION
AND BE ONLY LOYAL TO ME
I AM PRESIDENT TRUMP
I AM GOD DON'T YOU SEE
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC