To separate the word from it's identity
Is quite the delightful mind game
How things are agreed to be described or named
is just convention for communication; a key,
for organization of knowledge. Nothing more, less, and neither.
While unable to negate this absurdity, ultimately, why bother?

For example, the universe, or reality for that matter, is not "good" or "bad." It just "is" and, thus, not even that (by "that" I am referring to the aforementioned "is" of course, but also the formal definition of "that," however, I also ironically don't mean that either by "that" as I mean nothing, yet I also don't mean "nothing" by "that" as I intend "nothing," "is," and "that" to be both metaphorically and literally interpreted while also neither simultaneously, which is seemingly contradictory). Did you follow that? I apologize, but it's a paradox to try and explain this concept/whatever about words with more words, thus I can only hope to allude to it or otherwise imply it. Lend me your ear again, or your eyes I suppose, but also neither... Sorry! One more time:

A palindrome isn't even a palindrome by it's own literal definition, but it's literal definition is also that of a palindrome. The word "palindrome" exists both as a palindrome and not a palindrome and also neither simultaneously. Schrodinger's cat, but no, too, and also both and Gorgias, Parmenides, Zeno an

Prahu opines re the mathematics of love

Her equations hypotenuse me,
So I write adjacently,
As if we were cosine functionalities.

A special formula,
A Hyperbolic Cosine,
For to equate love mathematically,
We must use verbal hyperbole.

Binomials,  the pair of loves,
Coefficient Trekkers,
On the mountains of waves,
To a product infinite.

So let us,
Reductio ad absurdum
That love is pointless.

Nah, nope.


Love is the point on a curve
that never stops moving,
Even as the curve forever, bending
And the possibilities,
Exponential...
In the sums of love,
The finite answer is always two.

So let us be clear,
This exercise has made me late
For work,
For which
I express my appreciation as follows:

X = xo,

Or

Summation Expansion
  e e=  1 / n!
= 1/1 + 1/1 + 1/2 + 1/6 + ... see constant e
  e -1 =  (-1) n / n!
= 1/1 - 1/1 + 1/2 - 1/6 + ...
  e x =  xn / n!
= 1/1 + x/1 + x2 / 2 + x3 / 6 + ...

I would rather be
A star swirling in unconscious ecstasy, or
The air captivated by gravity, or
One single wave as it shies from the shore, or
A pebble cemented into the sidewalk path underneath a leaf
as it’s cracked and crushed under the heedless, preoccupied nature of man, or
A humble crease of a sick rose’s petal, or
One coffee ground stuck to the bottom of a yellowed, chipped mug,
Because it doesn’t matter, it does not matter.
Nothing truly matters.
Whether you’re privileged or impoverished,
Content or depressed, dispassionate or obsessed,
A ****** or a giant, timid or defiant,
Powerful,
                           Crippled,
Insane,
                Naïve,
Whether you’re green with jealousy or environmental tendencies,
Whether you Fight,
Fight for world peace,
Fight to end, to ****, Hunger,
It will not matter.
Because Man is addicted to conflict.

War is on the pedestal.

Hatred, envy, greed, lust, and hunger all

FIGHT

To ensure its power.

With every hand that scrambles for control,
With every eye that narrows to aim,
With every breath held for stability,
That pedestal heightens and heightens.

You might as well sigh for the butterfly who killed all those damaged, but innocent individuals.
Its gentle wings, essential to its survival, are to blame.
So you might as well accuse that abusive husband in New Jersey for the Iraqi War,
And that fisherman in the ****** Islands for global warming,
Or that little boy who's crying for the emasculated, shrunken, pathetic homeless man muttering,
“Hope is hope because hope is never hope. Hope like a rabbit, hope hope hope.”

Can you not see?
Can you even Be?

I can only hope for an escape, an exploitation of no conflict or aggravation.
just one wisp of matter with no conscious mind.
I can only point at all inconsistence with determination to prove that the only consistency in this entire universe is simply
ILLUSION.

There is a tendency among
those poets who may be very young
frequently to put in verse
those foreign phrases, or much worse
the now dead words of oh so ****** Latin
to boast of classrooms that they’ve sat in.

And just in case you’ve never heard ‘em,
Let’s reduce a few to ad absurdum.
It was amore a prima vista
until he left her for her younger sister
for, after all, who could resist her,
so moving on to secunda vista
he took that step and boldly kissed her,
behaviour that is hardly utopista.

The trouble with modus vivendi
is that it sometime rhymes with eye
but there are those who don’t agree
and think that it must rhyme with tea.
Who cares? It’s all the same to I.
Or should that be the same to me?

You may say it is not de rigueur
that I defend with so much vigour
what surely is no more than hubris
that I attribute to Confucius
for he surely ha detto tutto
albeit un po convoluto.

And everyone’s heard of carpe diem.
If not, then I have yet to see ‘em.
But I prefer to seize a waist
which may be thought somewhat unchaste
though far more likely to have shocked ‘em
would be to carpe in the noctem.

Perhaps you think it’s ipso facto
that I’m intolerant of lacto
unless it comes directly from the breast.
I think it’s better that the rest
of this is left to your own opinatus
for which I offer no blank cartus.

Then there’s the modus of my own vivendi
that I indulge in cacoethes scribendi
the itch to write for which I daily
scratch myself or play my ukulele
which is my form of modus operandi
before I pour myself a king-size brandy.

And thus we leave this boring dull citare,
by this time you have certainly grown quite weary
of any further venture into tedium
Or as ***** Harry might say, fac ut gaudeam
For after all a day senza sunlight
Might altrettante facilmente be night

starving burning moonlight screaming onto your skin
you turn to me and say,
is this okay? is this good enough?
and i say, god. god, it's perfect.
and that's all it takes: you, shining in the doorway of a broken
motel room,
and me in your shadow.

Got lost and stopped by the grotto
struck deals with villains,
and though I'm in my feelings
kneeling and *******
I payed to be ripped off
cadences dip, lost the lotto

Watery graves appealing strange
the solution is lame
the parade's an insane path to follow
Radical urchin burden
grifting the current
mechanisms infected
luring fevers to wallow in, ad absurdum
fathom futility in survival
famine imbibes a stifled echo of revival
in my head

I'm just playing dead for my recital

better informed to the abhorrence I'm entitled

feathered in form alluring sword alarm from Michael

clever to wars imparted forcible and vital, to the era

but staring in awe before the cycle

Bearing a maw beneath the throes along the final.

Bury me after my heart
and guard informal notions of the lauded
if calluses lift the filthy and applaud it

whittle the simply to the too intense or lawless
for a history glistening through a rose of sickly fondness
I won't ask if you were listening to all this
but I must admit
I don't think I can trust you

to be honest...

Just a simple fact that kissing you
Feels like opening a threshold
Rubicon that cannot be surpassed
Ultimately next day we’re together
Not changing that reality
Ad infinitum
Reductio ad absurdum
Qu'est-ce que c'est ?!?
Painted, do I have to draw you a picture?
Written, do I have to spell it out for you?
We lifted each other, literally.
Humbled by your grace
The way you spin away when no one’s watching
The brass you play when showing joy
The faces you go through to let me know you mean the words you say
We click
Despite what civil justice must prevail as we work out our revenge
Upon our other avatars
Can’t get it out of our DNA born that way
Pretend I’m too weird you don’t know me shunned
Turn your back a pariah harbinger of eternity easy lover
Hard fact that we were meant for each other.

The plaintive surround can rinse
the deep space crush of Hubble's
score.
A fast-paced bandit's sable cloth
homing the absurdum of a priceless
presentation...eyes unawares wending
brilliant ways abruptly announced.
The common Light is not passable--
but is in love with eyes...the holy of
holies--rarefied districts commencing
willful overexposure.

SCHRöDINGER'S SOCKS & THE REVENGE OF THE CAT

Schrödinger's cat
failed to see just what

all the fuss was
about?

It was all such
a reductive absurdum.

The cat couldn't understand
collapsing wave functions

decoherence
entanglement or whether

reality was really
quantum

to save its life.

It was aware of
one thing & one thing

only
. . .the diabolic device. . .

Cat in a metal box
with a Geiger counter

with a radioactive substance
blah blah de ****** blah

an atom decaying or something or
other &

releasing a hammer to smash
a phial of hydrocyanic acid.

Wot!

"I do not like thee Dr. Fell!"
thought the cat.

It was a very literary cat.

So all this palaver
about a cat( me? how! )

being both dead or alive or
neither dead or alive or

. . .wot!

So this is to be my great
to-be-or-not-to-be!

Welllll excuse me!
Say...doesn't the cat have his say?

So, I( clever cat that I am)
merely claw my way to the top &

disengage the device
by taking out the hammer.

So no cat was harmed
in the making of this

thought experiment.

It almost drove Schrödinger
out of his tiny little mind!

And he( hee hee )
never did discover

what ever
happened to his socks.

I forever stealing
one sock from a pair

from the open
washing machine.

Leaving him to ponder
just where socks go?

The other side of the Universe?
Oh come on Erwin...it's not

rocket science!

Now, to get back to
describing the behaviour of

a quantum entity.

"Mmmmm......mmmmmm?"

"Naw....I still don't get it!"

"Say ya couldn't see yer way
to giving me a scratch...could ya?"

"Up a bit....upabit....yeah...yeah
. . .there...just...there!"

A dream, then god‘s interspersing jealous pleading indecipherable.

The  combinatorial explosion makes us into god-like humans,

when we grasp that simplicity is the greatest complexity,

the surges, the mastering urges, the blending melding gradations,

gods dream of our holy bodies encompassing, its said ingredients.


fly child!

the horizon line approaching, it’s either a goal or boundary, or both,

where endings blending make us immortal for a few minutes,

when the good Holy Ghost says, “me and we, ain’t no difference,”

hot fever, leads to raging calm, euphoria transition to believing,

where the god inroads, visibly interfere in invisible dreams, pixies pixelating fine granular,

dreaming my skin,  kin to prayering, my knees touching clouds,

lying on mounds of red soil, my eyes sewn shut and yet,

I see all perfectly, for the dream of god, is what we are...

~

7:15am
Jan. 31, the year of 2020 visionary

Way out in its own oasis
Its very own brand of homeostasis
Passed the jarred ideas and whacked out mazes
Is a spot

Full of unknown faces
Hailing from unknown places
Look at it, fall out with out protracted traces
Vacant lot

Then let's settle the score
What is your original face before your mom and dad were born?
Why not start over with a clean slate, as the smell of new dawns pervade
I forgot to eat

Maybe if you gave the derelict half a chance
And looked at things from the ambivert's stance
People wouldn't notice your ego's protuberance
Upstaged by an under study

Pull the button, turn the lever, push the switch and flip the ****
Predicate the incendiary infraction
Reductio ad absurdum
Lip service provides scrutiny

We've been normalized, what the recipe for ice?
We're full of emptiness, nothing exists
No-thing, not a thing does not exist
Life is deathless

I'm looking for multifaceted individuals
To fix something that's irreparable  
An eerie parable, something terrible
My future's told by flash cards

I put my head between my knees
Just wipe my memory
Leave me at the bottom of the sea
Leave my dignity to discard

When two separate divisions are over lapping
What's the sound of one hand clapping?
Comparing then and now every now and then
Again, never will I say"never again"

       -Tommy Johnson

Appearance of the New Courier
(with namesake "Georgia Ives")
flew into the courtroom
faster than Bold face WingDings!

After the judge opened
the waxed sealed envelope stamped
with the official legal imprimatur
sound of silence filled the courtroom.

After perusing highlighted principle details,
a noticeable con jug gay shun
didst Impact countenance of attired judge.

Recess announced at authority decree
(spelled out with quotation marks high
lighting dotted i's and crossed t's)
figuratively a nouns sing moratorium
for those accused of run on sentences,
split infinitives, then versus than...
incorrect usage of ellipses, et cetera.

The justice of supreme court
critically espied quotation marks
(underscoring reductio ad absurdum
Times New Roman regulation)
against stiff penalty asper those
who commit rhetorical perturbations!    

This lenient fiat occurred immediate
by innocent omission of a colon,
which subsequently, naturally,
and immediately affected
every future jury presiding over
a defendant applying incorrect punctuation!

A favorite comma cull anecdote
often repeated by my late english
grammar (a palliative to me psyche
despite the multi-generational
difference in age) happened
when she celebrated twenty  
and counting punctual marks, whence time
in utero came to an end period.

Many question marks still abound
as per the specific circumstances
of this generally uneventful birth,
only that she seemed to dash
from the womb (of her mother –

mine great grandmother christened
Latina Greco) with a pointed
exclamation declaration
of independence while ****** constitution
adorned with supposedly shimmering
invisible golden braces
and a full set of teeth.

Somewhat averse to authoritarianism
and mores of assuming the sir name
of the groom, she maintained nom
de plume affixed on her birth certificate.

If born that way today, and ready
to pledge marital vow, would
probably follow the common custom
and hyphenate name of beau similar
to newlyweds of this day and at this very moment.

Back in those days though,
town’s folk exclaimed with
pointed superstition that a baby born
after being bracketed nine months

within the womb (which seemed
like an eternal sentence), and equipped
with the means to chew would
most likely experience little colon difficulty.

As a dignified divine dowager,
she willingly shared her cradle
to graveside tidbits (populated
with many wisecracks and
marked quotations from a life
that spanned more than a century21.

Smart as a whip or pin
(the latter term somewhat out of vogue),
this independent woman
(who married into nobility

from humble roots) frequently evinced
el shaped lips when the un
suspecting recipient ensnared
of her harmless ingenious pranks.

Aside from what many considered
childlike antics (which characteristic
salient trait appealed to this grandson),
she excelled at verbal adroitness

and could spin a jesting lightly
mocking pun, which seemed
to quiver with an invisible
apostrophe shaped blackened barb.

Though privileged per parochial parents,
her inherited empire and peers, the people
of the proletariat class felt
figuratively parenthetically
included as persons of concern
to this genteel dame.

She exemplified and wore that moniker
noblesse oblige with utmost
august excellence, and whenever
the need or wont arose to address
the madding crowd (this
crowned empress) resorted
to non-verbal communication ala semaphore.

Her lily-white hands (most often
remained sheathed in Palmolive
clad ding silken gloves - exuded
a faint patrician touch) partitioned

the air with arabesques accentuated
with sign language for those
among the teeming masses
unable to hear or in fact deaf.

Regular adherence to being grammatically
(yet not necessarily politically) correct
witnessed the air being sliced with even
less familiar punctuation symbols
such as the emdash, en-dash.

Even doctorates of English and
strict task masters (whose
frowning scowls strongly resembled
semicolons when even minor indiscretions,
infractions, transgressions, et cetera
with english language observed)

never found fault with this
former bohemian, whose rhapsodic,
melodic, linguistic voice ameliorated
dark memories from dereliction dis
played by former queen.

She also received the treatment of
a champion lyricist, whereby every lyre
(got set on fire) from utterance akin
to a choir of hells angels, yet this

chanteuse voice rang thru the
azure vault causing the small hairs
of the spine to experience a pleasant
electric shock therapy.

at non effugies meos iambos

If I were to wipe away the constellations from the sky,
You alone would shine,
There in that,
Devoid of all the light,
Which too often clutters
Your radiance and your mind.

And lightheartedly I say this,
While scrawling desires on yellowing pages,
Which I hand out at random
(et ad absurdum).
And throwing little glances,
Lost in endless distance
Or translation.

There is a grand complexity to sight and sound
Which I with my inherent limitations
Fail to grasp.
Depictions wrought by my hands
Could never do the forms of these things
Proper justice.
And instead of facsimile
They become ruined.

And so I blur the lines
Between the real and perceived
As done with paltry sketches,
When the artist has no more good to do,
And so becomes not a bearer of beauty
But a butcher.

I write dis
Jointed poesy
With you in mind.  
(No better subject could I find.)

And fill the lines,
And fatten the meter out
With syllables and sibyls
With diacritical marks and dieresis
And critical remarks
By means of
Playing knucklebones with words.  

But I’m no Anacreon,
Or Tibullus,
Or Sappho.
And though I may be just a boy reading Catullus,
Anachronistically,
My poems are just as good
Had I been
A wordsmith
Like Wordsworth.
(at non effugies meos iambos)

Tap dance on girders, Ben Franklin Bridge
Jubilant prepubescent boy making mockery
Alpha doggie dodging any common sense
Step ball change and windmills free range
Little show off teetering on brink of disaster

And a dare of unabashed audacity
Stare, stare, and stare down his prey
Tap a whack tap, double time flick flack
Intensity that cannot possibly go away
Dared youth’s eyes give all hints to fear
Though no tear will come to his pride
Other boy steps and glides

Reach comes forward, disaster tap mongrel
Puppy stepper’s got to be a go-getter
Holds his hand out and comes quick the grab
Trembles a fright, Speedline in sight
This rail from Jersey to Pennsy might bite
Shaking and tapping, absurdum jacking

The slip; it’s over as you knew it would be
Alpha Dog sniffs that bridge to this day
Searching permissiveness, lost in foray
But if he hears one tap or a click or a clank
Jittery twitchiness, on that you can bank

You know so little of me,
so now advise and consent,
your knowing in advance,
a midfielder from another century,
closer to my end,
nearer my god,
than thee

simple ridiculous
being (n)at this point,
last few chapters,
on the human dual continuums^

of lost and found,
junctured, forked,
needy of deciding,
but that ******* fate
won't let you off the hook,
ever
~
once, a pumping artery
became but modest vein,
now reductio ad absurdum
to a tiny capillary,
to do the work
of two grown man
~
once again,
found myself reincarnated,
as a work in progress,
without the necessary and the  insufficient
time to make real headway,
no time left for true progression,
hoping to squeeze one more solution
from this man's equation
~
my poor mind
is my river,
so mind
the sailing craft called poetry,
a small ketch to keep moi afloat,
desperate avoiding the backwash wakes
of larger enemy ships of state,
who gladly try to drown me
for pleasure
~
poetry keeps me afloat,
like me, part of me, all of me,
always a work in progress
until not

SCHRöDINGER'S SOCKS & THE REVENGE OF THE CAT

Schrödinger's cat
failed to see just what

all the fuss was
about?

It was all such
a reductive absurdum.

The cat couldn't understand
collapsing wave functions

decoherence
entanglement or whether

reality was really
quantum

to save its life.

It was aware of
one thing & one thing

only
. . .the diabolic device. . .

Cat in a metal box
with a Geiger counter

with a radioactive substance
blah blah de ****** blah

an atom decaying or something or
other &

releasing a hammer to smash
a phial of hydrocyanic acid.

Wot!

"I do not like thee Dr. Fell!"
thought the cat.

It was a very literary cat.

So all this palaver
about a cat( me? how! )

being both dead or alive or
neither dead or alive or

. . .wot!

So this is to be my great
to-be-or-not-to-be!

Welllll excuse me!
Say...doesn't the cat have his say?

So, I( clever cat that I am)
merely claw my way to the top &

disengage the device
by taking out the hammer.

So no cat was harmed
in the making of this

thought experiment.

It almost drove Schrödinger
out of his tiny little mind!

And he( hee hee )
never did discover

what ever
happened to his socks.

I forever stealing
one sock from a pair

from the open
washing machine.

Leaving him to ponder
just where socks go?

The other side of the Universe?
Oh come on Erwin...it's not

rocket science!

Now, to get back to
describing the behaviour of

a quantum entity.

"Mmmmm......mmmmmm?"

"Naw....I still don't get it!"

"Say ya couldn't see yer way
to giving me a scratch...could ya?"

"Up a bit....upabit....yeah...yeah
. . .there...just...there!"

SCHRöDINGER'S SOCKS & THE REVENGE OF THE CAT

Schrödinger's cat
failed to see just what

all the fuss was
about?

It was all such
a reductive absurdum.

The cat couldn't understand
collapsing wave functions

decoherence
entanglement or whether

reality was really
quantum

to save its life.

It was aware of
one thing & one thing

only
. . .the diabolic device. . .

Cat in a metal box
with a Geiger counter

with a radioactive substance
blah blah de ****** blah

an atom decaying or something or
other &

releasing a hammer to smash
a phial of hydrocyanic acid.

Wot!

"I do not like thee Dr. Fell!"
thought the cat.

It was a very literary cat.

So all this palaver
about a cat( me? how! )

being both dead or alive or
neither dead or alive or

. . .wot!

So this is to be my great
to-be-or-not-to-be!

Welllll excuse me!
Say...doesn't the cat have his say?

So, I( clever cat that I am)
merely claw my way to the top &

disengage the device
by taking out the hammer.

So no cat was harmed
in the making of this

thought experiment.

It almost drove Schrödinger
out of his tiny little mind!

And he( hee hee )
never did discover

what ever
happened to his socks.

I forever stealing
one sock from a pair

from the open
washing machine.

Leaving him to ponder
just where socks go?

The other side of the Universe?
Oh come on Erwin...it's not

rocket science!

Now, to get back to
describing the behaviour of

a quantum entity.

"Mmmmm......mmmmmm?"

"Naw....I still don't get it!"

"Say ya couldn't see yer way
to giving me a scratch...could ya?"

"Up a bit....upabit....yeah...yeah
. . .there...just...there!"

American Cosmic
UFO

JJ Abrams
Told you so

Fly leaf books
Chicago

Coming Soon?
I don't know

Myth is real?
On we go.

/because you could really get a square, or any coherent mundane geometric narrative of re- re- re-... out of a *******... or tell someone with a size 11 shoe, that a size 9 will be, just as comfortable... and while the English language goes to ****, thank **** it has no mother and has no son in the guise of me... with the current lexi- of non-cis non-binary yadda yadda abracadabra... a return to stern, dog breeding terminology... pedigree, mongrel... hybrid... can't really as the semite for an authentic opinion, came from a people that sat on their ***** for long watching chickens walk down a village dirt road... anything to redefine, those half-***** screaming into a tin-can tied to a string... after all, Greenwich... outside of the English speaking world, we like to call the natives: Greenwich bellybuttons, or rather,  bellybuttons of the world: pępki świata... as a person of acquired tastes, it's turning into a heartache, seeing english so deformed... perhaps by both technology and youth... a Frankenstein to behold... and when in Paris, did I speak any french? not really, but I had the audacity to cling to an Italian girl who could, and a Russo-Canadian girl, who also could... but you still managed to meet people who understood that english,  not french, was and is the lingua franca of tourism... obviously not so much when it comes to commerce... and banking, is not exactly a commerce... neither is the media... e.g.? re.: Münster... on the first day 3 people (not including the attacker) were killed and 30 injured... on the second day 2 people were killed (including the killer) and 20 injured... who the hell still thinks that the media juggernaut is a trebuchet to fling a Meursault into the limelight? it's naive to think that such people are seeking fame... a ******* butter knife and a glass of beer will always be more "famous"... and the man who discovered beer, well... good luck reading Plato... comes the staring into the abyss, and the abyss not staring back, whispering a words: ad absurdum counter ad nauseam...


too much love poetry, too much love
poetry that isn't risqué,
plain mundane out of fear...
a fear of being found dead 2 weeks
later...
not mundane to say the leat,
just: a zoological observation
of a lion, rather than stark naked
on th savannah...
or thereabouts...
                but to have to exhaust
poetry for love? this sort of love?
i prefer the memory of candyfloss
sitting on a stump of wood...
        maybe that's why i find the current
movies exhausting,
           bankrupt writing,
or rather,  current movies an modern
art, minimalism, minimalism,
large open spaces replaced by
   strobe c.g.i.
point being, when did the fallacy
of subjectivity come into
contact with dialectics?
   just asking,  because i somehow
cannot conceive an objectivity of one,
in that,  not having to cite
a bibliography, third part sources...
can't a subjective opinion
be just as true as an objective
herd nod?
    mesmerising that
     subjectivity should be deemed
as sub-dialectics,
           bellow engagement...
somehow contaminated...
are pronouns in that respect
subjective? silly question...
chess pro noun: or solving crosswords...
pro nouns, meaning:
in favour of remembering
  names of objects...
            and further into the exposed
muddle of atomised grammar...
objectivity is when you stress
   pre nouns...
   otherwise, someone is to be found
vehemently stressing a pivot
word, and that gives him or her away?
all of a sudden objectivity is
regarded with more respect,
      objectively, perhaps talking
about things with a blank canvas,
orientating oneself where
you're not allowed to use nouns...
the closest you can get to asking
a co-worker for a hammer on
a construction site is to hum a hmm...
is that objectivity?
        hence the classically mundane
narrative...
   because i just wanted to say
that a richness of one's own memory
creates a cinematic void...
i can't estimate how many hours
I've sat drinking, more entertained
by my memories, than any recent film...
just like today, having refreshed
a pale nectarine kitchen with
lemon peel... i already started thinking
about the corridor...
                  but before that, during
the day...
    why is spring in England,
why is summer in England...
  so... ******?! i wish there was
a better word for it...
     god i've missed continental spring...
i haven't experienced, continental
spring for... 22 years...
                  deep continental spring,
past Germany,  above the Balkans
below the Baltic...
      22 years of 22 springs,
spent on that bog of a sinking ship
known as England...
rain... rain... more rain...
     dampness and 21 Beehive Ln.
Gants Hill just across the synagogue
above the estate agent...
    dampness and those *******
   woodlice...
          22 years having spent each mid
April to late May under
earl Grey the ******* ponce...
                     no one I sleep better
in this part of the world,
the body has synchronised itself
with the fauna and a heritage past
and the mind seems revived...
to the scents of waking trees,
   to the sight on national news
of bears waking from their wintry
hibernation in the Tatra mountains...
ecologists testing mosquito repellents,
anti-rabies snacks dropped into forests
for foxes to eat...
         and only the one direction
traffic of English... comes a headache
having to listen to it, comes easier writing
about it...
              hence the old woman decided
to take my case of the presidium...
tomorrow i'll have my photo taken,
take my British passport,
declare myself as myself before
a bureaucratic piece of paper
with a signature, wait less than two weeks
and get my Polish citizen identification card...
plan B...
       just in case...
          just in case it becomes normal
for spring and seeing so many
children playing outside the 2nd level
balcony overlooking a graveyard...
boys as old as 6 / 7 playing with
wooden swords...
     teenagers sitting on benches
in the cool night till 10:30 pm...
                               and everything else
worth living for, lived in a small town...
far away from the London rats...
     far away from a country that understands
bilingualism as schizophrenia...
              maybe i am mad,
but the ones who think I am, are no more
sane...
                than me...
                                first thing's first...
with a snap of the fingers,
i can retain my dual-nationality,
and perhaps, after a while,
after I stop finding the study of psychiatry
by studying psychiatric blunders
a bit boring...
            and say auf wiedersehen to
ol' ***** 'n' Charlie Ambrose...
                                                 honestly,
england's worth of its very misery...
    its hardball when attached to the mainland,
a nation of thespians,
     hard this, soft that,
                   nuns instead of frisky youth...
or at least: for the joy of life
at first, prior to the sentiments of
adulthood, and shackles,
as was once done in a spring field
or on top of a hay stack;
              which... makes it doubly
uncomprehensive...
     ad to why someone's father might
force himself to forget his mother tongue. ..
with his son not being able to speak it,
suddenly reaching for
         a bomb making kit, a knife,
a car or an assault rifle...
            that sort of grievance?
as the old testament ends with a hope...
not till the heart of the son
turns to the father, and likewise
reciprocated...
                       shame for the collateral
damage... truly, shameful...
but you'd think that a son could
realise his beef,  is with his immigrant father
and not the host nation...
            because a return to the past
or, the body to the land,
the land to the mind, and mind to
the tongue, and the tongue to the breath,
and the breath to the soul,
   and the soul to the forefathers...
          kinda amrican, wouldn't you say so,
Herr Jefferson?

encounters, strangers, gifts that come
I pay it forward, but who’s it from?
           credo quia absurdum

SCHRöDINGER'S SOCKS & THE REVENGE OF THE CAT

Schrödinger's cat
failed to see just what

all the fuss was
about?

It was all such
a reductive absurdum.

The cat couldn't understand
collapsing wave functions

decoherence
entanglement or whether

reality was really
quantum

to save its life.

It was aware of
one thing & one thing

only
. . .the diabolic device. . .

Cat in a metal box
with a Geiger counter

with a radioactive substance
blah blah de ****** blah

an atom decaying or something or
other &

releasing a hammer to smash
a phial of hydrocyanic acid.

Wot!

"I do not like thee Dr. Fell!"
thought the cat.

It was a very literary cat.

So all this palaver
about a cat( me? how! )

being both dead or alive or
neither dead or alive or

. . .wot!

So this is to be my great
to-be-or-not-to-be!

Welllll excuse me!
Say...doesn't the cat have his say?

So, I( clever cat that I am)
merely claw my way to the top &

disengage the device
by taking out the hammer.

So no cat was harmed
in the making of this

thought experiment.

It almost drove Schrödinger
out of his tiny little mind!

And he( hee hee )
never did discover

what ever
happened to his socks.

I forever stealing
one sock from a pair

from the open
washing machine.

Leaving him to ponder
just where socks go?

The other side of the Universe?
Oh come on Erwin...it's not

rocket science!

Now, to get back to
describing the behaviour of

a quantum entity.

"Mmmmm......mmmmmm?"

"Naw....I still don't get it!"

"Say ya couldn't see yer way
to giving me a scratch...could ya?"

"Up a bit....upabit....yeah...yeah
. . .there...just...there!"

i still don't understand why people keep nagging about subjectivity, given that subjectivity allows for time to exist in a one dimensional frame, a unit equivalent to the existent person, and doesn't have the necessary rigidity of being the speed of light, in the dimensional square, that hardly represents the cubic parameters.

but that's besides the point,
i don't even know what the point is right now,
i just started contemplating time,
and how little space i occupy -
and then i thought...
  isn't philosophy the impetus / libido to
attain the maxim that's simply:
ad abstractum?
     toward abstraction?
     is that not the most "satanic" revelation -
does not man toil with less poetics of
a god via a spider through to a spiderweb
when he begins to abstract his existence,
nullifying it, extracting paradoxes from it?
i care to forget that there are menial tasks
at hand,
some of us ease sweat from our brows
(working), while others ease sweat
from our (arm)pits - thinking...
    as much morality enters the thinking
realm, as enters the action within crime...
fascinating how philosophy is simply
an attache of a "dead" language -
ad abstratum...
     which obviously precipitated into
the counter-existentialist movement,
the counter-scientific *ad absurdum
movement...
  nonetheless, the task at hand is how
can time become a dimensionally "orientated"
medium ...
      space, i am well aware deserves the
algebraic posits of x, y & z...
    but time, besides history?
does it really deserve the subjectivity of
an individual, with a past, future & present?
it's only a question as to why
time, i.e. the speed of light, had to become
"necessarily" squared,
   and what the cubic considerations are
to the equation...
         to provide the linear invitation
to imitating light...
      what has to be cubed, and what has
to be squared, or whatever,
in order to make the speed of light equate
to a linear projection...
   finally with the hydrogen bomb we've
found the atom, but now to find
the wheel inside the atom...
         i'm not satisfied, esp. given the contrast...
philosophy has always been
an ad abstractum methodology...
which always begins an
pro abstractum schism-era of "waiting",
until the wait turns into a political
agitation...
                which is why i don't understand
the current zeitgeist defamation of
subjectivity, and the ardent jubilation of
the communism within capitalism of
celebrating objectivity...
           it's un-comprehensible -
and that's a mild choice of words...
    subjectively time has no dimension other
than the one, given, in unitary form...
      time is one dimensional,
       space, on the other hand, apart
for the quest for heaven or hell has three dimensions...
      it cannot be said that the time ref.
of light can be propelled by retaining
the squared canvas of einstein's equation...
what has to invoke the cubic answer,
and what has to gain the linear aspired to
propeller of near-miss trajectory of
an object in imitating the near impossible...
surely, first of all, language has to attain
the necessary complexity, for such an imagination
to spawn a solution, of the guardian's secret;
running around like dogs chasing their own
tails with trivia, arithmetic quests on repeat,
mistaking knowledge with questionnaire
assumptions will not solve the ****** question...
only rigour, and perhaps some hard
drinking along the way, will make the mistakes
and failures, matter.

I have contemplated the meaning of life
As if contemplation imparts meaning or depth
As if meaning imparts meaning
or depth.

Then in linguistic merriment
I leapt
Ad Infinitum
Ad nauseum
Ad lib
Ad absurdum
Life as a language
Ad verbum
And round and round I went
Always Looping back to myself
Then in one grand sweeping motion
I deferred to you
Life
Where and then
I came to rest
Always different
Yet always the same

I have contemplated the meaning of life
As if there were somewhere to be
Someplace to go
A vagabond’s journey
How funny
A lesson learned
A righteous rule
A digital ballroom
A barroom brawl
Y’ all
A loveall.
And I have contemplated the meaningless of life
Just something to do
Perhaps better than nothing  
Nowhere to go
No roadmap to get there
Except
Here where
You are
Life
Love
I am.

(alternately titled: a pudendum posse petty filed trophy -
by hy phen - made declarative).

Appearance of the New Courier
(with namesake "Georgia Ives")
flew into the courtroom
faster than Bold face WingDings.

After the judge opened
waxed sealed envelope stamped
with official legal imprimatur
sound of silence filled courtroom.

Once particulars perused
high lighting prickly principle details,
a noticeable con jug gay shun
didst Impact countenance of attired judge.

Recess announced at authority decree
(spelled out with quotation marks high
lighting dotted i's and crossed t's)
figuratively a nouns sing moratorium
for those accused of run on sentences,
split infinitives, then versus than...
incorrect usage of ellipses, et cetera.

The justice of supreme court
critically espied quotation marks
(underscoring reductio ad absurdum
Times New Roman regulation)
against stiff ****** penalty as per those
who commit rhetorical perturbations.
This lenient fiat occurred immediate
by innocent omission of a colon,
which subsequently, naturally,
and immediately affected
every future jury presiding over
a defendant applying incorrect punctuation.

A favorite comma cull anecdote
often repeated by my late english
grammar (a palliative to me psyche
despite the multi-generational
difference in age) happened,
when she celebrated twenty
and counting punctual marks, whence time
in utero came to an end period.

Many question marks still abound
as per the specific circumstances
of this generally uneventful birth,
only she seemed to dash
from womb (of her mother

mine great grandmother christened
Latina Greco) with a pointed
exclamation declaration
of independence while ****** constitution
adorned with supposedly shimmering
invisible golden braces
and full set of teeth.

Somewhat averse to authoritarianism
and mores of assuming sir name
of the groom, she maintained nom
de plume affixed on her birth certificate.

If born that way today, and ready
to pledge marital vow, would
probably follow common custom
and hyphenate name of beau similar
to newlyweds of this day and very moment.

Back in those days though,
town’s folk exclaimed with
pointed superstition that a baby born
after being bracketed nine months

within womb (which seemed
like an eternal sentence), and equipped
with means to esse chew would
most likely experience little colon difficulty.

As a dignified divine dowager,
she willingly shared her cradle
to graveside tidbits (populated
with many wisecracks and
marked quotations from a life
that spanned more than a century21.

drawn courtesy lots of byte size chalk.

When e'er I summon fat chance
to empower me self with courage
and steal a passing glance
in the mirror then instantaneously
hairline fractures appear
than 'afore long
snap, crackle, pop
becomes crystal clear,
whence aluminium glass mirror
(made of a float glass
incorporating additional processes)

leaves highly reflective
fractured surface patina 'ere
one narcissistic blackened barbed ken
whiles away countless hours
unseeingly preening, primping, and pruning
e'en the slightest glare
ring blemish finds cause
for cosmetic surgery
(namely liposuction)
evincing ghostly interlinear
crows feet and dark

circular "bags" that distinctly leer,
which medical term for skin folds
and ballotable skin edema
described as “festoon,”
or “malar mound,”
an eye sore overclear
demanding grotesque immediate
dermatological action
(if necessary) taking
extra adipose tissue from rear

end supposed extra junk in the trunk,
where moon a fish scent derrière,
would not be unduly sore,
perhaps requiring
(whatever would suture self)
plus donning extra padded underwear,
which subjugation voluntarily
"going under the knife,"
would stave off depredations aging
(such as puffy eyes)
at least for another year.

Until the end date regarding
mine cessation, damnation,
glorification -ha time on Earth
(hammered into crucifix
courtesy nine inch – rusty - nails)
my changed body morphology
particularly around equatorial girth
unwanted layers of flab allow, enable,
and provide me to burn wicked fat
these cold winter days and nights
serving yours truly as built in hearth.

Incremental corporeal essence, here
to forge i.e. figurative spear
tire of mine, doth elicit despair
daily appall, thus I air
part tickle laurel lei objection
able bane, cuz this tear
rubble flabbiness a glare
ring anatomical feature, I swear

shape shifted into a dare
ring ridge hubble unsightly
bulge ballooning mere
lee (just south of Montana) so clear
lee obscuring belly button – an innie , where
former washboard abdomen veer
hilly subsumed by displeasing scare
really hated love handles glare

ring paunches noticeable, especially
when abdomen bare
adduce, deed hoos, and
reed hoos sing the culprit bing
one or more beneficial
pharmacological prescription medications
eliminating debilitating crippling panic attacks,
albeit re: fashioning
now alien metabolism, but

necessary medications giving
immeasurable *** bull heaving
relief to this generally
autobiographical, comical, ecological,
grammatical, illogical, kinematical,
methodical, (parenthetical), rhetorical,
theoretical, vertical and  
xylographical off the old block  
exhibiting joyus rapture, where
psychological state contra dancing,
jitterbugging (a slight bit of hyperbole,
where I tango with) kickstarting

long overdue ability
to experience living
social shorn of paralyzing anxiety,
yes every now and again
isolated heated flare ups making
stellar cameo appearance, asper
rendering literal "NON
FAKE" pennilessness,

and non seek quit tore ring
excessive (no pun hush meant intended -
heavy handed) perspiration,
but generally "speaking" quieting
reductio ad absurdum unbearable
woebegone raging against the machine
adrenaline hellishly riotous smiting
body electric non verbally remonstrating

condemning indescribable torturing
poisoning relentlessly (like
stinging scorpions) upending
many prime decades vice wrenching
yoking ambivalence kamikaze
nose diving worthlessness toward
total mortal re: suicidal bombing mission.

SCHRöDINGER'S SOCKS & THE REVENGE OF THE CAT

Schrödinger's cat
failed to see just what

all the fuss was
about?

It was all such
a reductive absurdum.

The cat couldn't understand
collapsing wave functions

decoherence
entanglement or whether

reality was really
quantum

to save its life.

It was aware of
one thing & one thing

only
. . .the diabolic device. . .

Cat in a metal box
with a Geiger counter

with a radioactive substance
blah blah de ****** blah

an atom decaying or something or
other &

releasing a hammer to smash
a phial of hydrocyanic acid.

Wot!

"I do not like thee Dr. Fell!"
thought the cat.

It was a very literary cat.

So all this palaver
about a cat( me? how! )

being both dead or alive or
neither dead or alive or

. . .wot!

So this is to be my great
to-be-or-not-to-be!

Welllll excuse me!
Say...doesn't the cat have his say?

So, I( clever cat that I am)
merely claw my way to the top &

disengage the device
by taking out the hammer.

So no cat was harmed
in the making of this

thought experiment.

It almost drove Schrödinger
out of his tiny little mind!

And he( hee hee )
never did discover

what ever
happened to his socks.

I forever stealing
one sock from a pair

from the open
washing machine.

Leaving him to ponder
just where socks go?

The other side of the Universe?
Oh come on Erwin...it's not

rocket science!

Now, to get back to
describing the behaviour of

a quantum entity.

"Mmmmm......mmmmmm?"

"Naw....I still don't get it!"

"Say ya couldn't see yer way
to giving me a scratch...could ya?"

"Up a bit....upabit....yeah...yeah
. . .there...just...there!"

Let us bear witness to arm and blindfold...
each candidate for president of United States
and therefore witness a duel (to the death)
between Biden and Trump to determine
who occupies Oval Office as forty seventh
Chief executive of the federal government.

Since both the Democratic and Republican contenders
for prospective commander in chief offer pathetic odds
evening the prospect of the latter or former winning an
unequivocal fair and four square bilateral contest firing
a gun after being positioned back to back, then counting
of so many paces before turning around and facing off.

Neither combatant could be identified, cuz head to toe
bullet proof vests would encapsulate every square inch
of vulnerable flesh rendering incognito dead giveaway
characteristics, and a wig would don their numbskull
at a given signal communicated thru bluetooth headset
high powered firearm cocked and raised ready to aim
at opponent instantaneously caught in the crosshairs

premature ejaculations punctuated sound of silence, a
mortally wounded wimp versus over stuffed ego freezer
also suffering a fatal shot as madding crowds roar with
deafening frenzied ballistic approval atavistic gone ape
primal screaming decreeing spoken explosion of anarchy.

All hell broke loose likened to burst dam where humanity
witnessed annihilation into balkanization into capitulation,
disintegration into evisceration, into factionalization, into
horrification into insubordination into jubilation, liquidation
into militarization into nullification into obliteration into
promulgation, radicalization, tribulation, and veneration.

Suddenly out of bedlam deft ferocious hoodlum jump/kick
started linkedin nationalistic predation rebranded travesty
vocalizing xenophobia zealously attracting craven egocentric
gambling inimitably kleptomaniacal, mercurial, opportunistic
quixotic, sensational uber wordsmiths reductio absurdum
expostulating non-sequiturs endowed with hidden wisdom.

Though ordinarily a non violent (unrepentent punster to boot)
amazingly graceful aging hippie even while in utero I played
role of embryonic peace monger – marching within the womb
despite the cramped quarters, especially as I got closer to term
and occupied avast area of the ******, my mother participated
in numerous rallies exposing me to socially progressive events
no surprise when yours truly babbled on about revolutionaries.

Credo quia absurdum, eh Diana?