my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

The pavement having a merchandise name
Merchandising sales being the aim
Markdowns throughout any retail store
The array of assortments a consumer just can’t ignore
Yet watch how the consumer spends their money
The consumer will be broke, but certainly not the only
Plastic credit cards that could get you into trouble
This could cause your interest rates to double
But I one should only buy what they actually need
However unnecessary things with no need to proceed
Retail prices coming from a Buyer’s advice
Watch the price and shopping being wise
Fashion designers with a eye for your appeal and style
All through the theory the consumer is thinking during while
Well retail stores have much they want the consumer to explore
But with prices slashed here and over there, the consumer becomes not being sure
Perhaps having will power is something no one should ignore
Money saved with nothing being spent
No question needing to be asked as to where your money went.

I found an empty book, it's labelled biology- grade nine,
fake lines ran across the book, never any real content,
to feel content with what I read was an impossible matter,
scattered diagrams of human anatomy too far from realism
because realistic diagrams would include labels to hearts
with coloured charts stating that 'this may fall apart-
not by fat barricades, but to paraphrase a different place,
Neruda chases the stars and from afar as the cages of ribs
would rip and sometimes, just enough to have felt loved,
to feel enough with being held for just a night, a short time,
but life is built beyond a biology book.

It is so strange that I have learnt so much more about life
than ninth grade biology because being biologically correct
doesn't ***** the hairs on my back as an assortment of words
like an assortment of birds aren't really meant to be described
as assortments and a biology book isn't really meant to describe life.

How do you swindle the light?
This would be the greatest grift.
An ongoing experimental conn
where we all remember,
who the mark(s) is,
pretending, just in case,
behind the curtain,
sleight of hand,
behind the back,
if there is no wizard in the back seat,
just in case...you'll tell the kids:
'it was all for them.' So they could sleep.

Childhoods are just safe houses for hope.
In play roles come easy,
in assortments, and unpackages, separate;
but everyone knows the rules,
their part, they remember
that fairness is sacred to play.
Some games get played
and some gamers’ play is accidental.
The game like the carnival is vacuous,
inhaling all into its eye,
exhaling into its calm, swindles like a carney,
jettisoning all into the extinction of gratification.

The mystery lies in the conspiracy.
System can beat game, house, odds,
conn the conn and you can go home a winner.
The Universe is a big casino, you see.
And all you have to do is get up from the table,
cash in your chips, and figure out where your car is.
The house always wins, you’ll say.
But therein lies the reason we play.
Which you're sure to figure out in the lot,
cramped delineations garner thought,
you'll realize that therein lies nowhere.



The conspiracy lies in the abyss,

A place where villagers lose their cattle,
Costumed & uniformed, singing gray prayers.
Crop circles are diasporic clusters of hope.
Where science fiction invented the cold war,
Between ghosts created by radio waves.
A mass hallucination produced by trauma?
Dellusion v. Illusion
Nurturist v. Naturist v. Projection,
As long as it’s a weapon!
Destination unknown-
But just in case, let’s create something that can destroy us all.

Cardinal sun rose
blooming as the
budding flower.
Buddha chants in the
chimes of birds
ethereal caught in gradual hot wind,
Darjeeling tea steam rises on tabletop my
mind is waking over Indonesian morning.
Foreign babel as hours draw even
cacophony of hurricane horns
the Denpasar traffic drumming
chorus midst markets where
radio emitting Li Zengguang
dizi dizzily prancing into the
assortments of spice and coiling fabrics
patterns potent azure and golden
royalty brass clatter caged noise
boiling *** cries the Orient!

Overgrowth spots the charring temples
in majesty and abundance cradling the narrow
Balinese streets while tropic palm
and orchid spring swells the soils.
Ardent sun sheaths eastern archipelagos,
religious offerings canvas sidewalks
incense burning in overwhelming
bouquets of efflorescence smelling
daedal tapestries within the paradise.
Sun goes on setting the jewel easing
underneath the horizon,
butterflies sway in rest
hearts on fire
the ceremonies have finished.
Thunder shrieks against the sea
torrential rain firing on villa ceilings.
My eyes set to sleep
consciousness transitioning
between two dreams.

Finding symbolisms
that connect you-
to me
scents and sights
that set my heart free

Baby,
my love is not a bribe,
nor my body or words
or my compassion
or played-out verbs…

What drives this force-
to me, is un-known
and these feelings
have done nothing but grown.

Like a thief in a bank-
my thoughts are more tempestuous
than the Devil driving a tank…
though nothing destroyed
will satiate.

And no words, no gifts,
nothing I can create
will be enough to show
the colors you make me see
-and the melodies in every key
that manifest with-in
every time you are near.

I don’t mean to over do it
or create a sense of fear
nor do I worry
that you may disappear.
circumstances and situations
of many assortments and arrays;
with or without you
will not hinder me
living through the day.

I just simply wish
I could write
the most compelling lines to you,
to move the world-
move the soul
-to make you proud
and feel completely whole.

To bombast all senses,
and knock down fences,
to alert the universe:
that you are in my heart
- to stay.

it's a paradox of yevgeny zamyatin, that the true rebellion is caused by a stress of the necessity of dreaming... talk to any schizoid individual and you find they're the dream manufacturers... dreams happen in the safe environment of the laboratory of the unconscious... they're the socially acceptable hallucinations... it's even socially acceptable to interpret them... which i find very odd... why should unconscious hallucinations be socially acceptable and profitable and career crafting and conscious hallucinations be socially stigmatised? ah the safety, the environment of the freduain interpretation of dreams: well... he's ******* asleep, isn't he?! ******.

after my usual walks drinking, i tend to enter the
realm of heat and christmas tree
a little bit too brooding,
i just painted a picasso or a kandinsky,
burnt it, and then am told to "plagiarise" it...
i don't like the approach nietczsche had
taking a notebook with him
and writing his thoughts written,
i like the way my faculty memory
eats the immediacy of thinking
as counter to the translation of descartes'
theory equating existence with thought
as if thought could prove i exist
thus uncoupling it from the original:
thought and doubt.
memory is central by comparison,
i have the revision from the miscarriage of descartes'
aim: memini ergo cogito.
it makes sense, given i started the night off
buying three san miguel bottles at tesco,
buying five beers at the turk,
spotting russell the schizoid-affective man
huntched in a corner...
told him five minutes max...
started talking with him
about the ol' sailor's narrative... turbulent noons
and midnights with a bottle of jack...
wide eyed russell every time i speak to him
reflected...
i remember drinking my first coffee aged 7...
i was born with a heart condition...
i shouldn't have... live dangerously though...
drank it... magic!
i remember the taste even now.
the cognitive me is not the existential me...
odd, isn't it?
i should have kept the original kandinsky,
but i burnt it and kept the plagiarism...
why is it that the function of memory
is paramount to mental health?
this prof. of psychology itemised this girl
who's north mania south an airplane descending
from the height vector with the ears popping...
why is it that i can remember me aged 7
and most people got cheated into total engagement
in life in the orientation of satisfied or dis-satisfied
expression of puberty?
if the faculty of memory is not defended
then diseases enter...
not one of the diseased is like an original adam,
like translation of original adam, i.e. mozart beethoven
einstein...
good enough to be without plain jane as narrator
and puppeteer...
let the strings do the talking, please!
i'm in love with ****-****** literature...
take that **** of yours, that suitcase
of ***** stockings to your mother to give it a eco-friendly
spin of the washing-machine...
**** that crap should that crap enter my heart...
you heard of ****** latin? i think you have,
it's not church slavonic, it's rude latin...
the type of thing that adds oil on the cogs
and makes you adherent to the philosophy:
pause for thought or pause for fake vocabulary?
i sweat with oaths to add fluid...
if you're offended by **** and not fck you
must be really appreciative of pronography...
so they said: we must rid the word of a vowel
and expose the people with **** corn bits between the teeth!
well... it worked...
i didn't tell you remember the pythagorean theory
you were taught aged 12... i told you
to remember you aged 12... like i remember nathanel
with his briefcase in year 8 in math class...
like i remember this english teacher's legs
when i dropped the pen to loon inside the stash-load
of pooddles and *****...
like i remember racing a guy from bałtów
to ostrowiec and winning: he on a tour de france bike
with anorexic model tires and
my on mountain bike fatties...
i told you memory is crucial... given our thought explored
inanimate things as the perfection of our knowledge,
given our thought explored animate things
as perfectly categorising man and animal alike
thus mis-interpretating ourselves, oh the sacrifice of
the perfectly catalogised atom among the toothbrushes...
a convo of assortments...
it's perfect knowledge in relation to inanimate things...
the sort of thing which is question:
but atoms are animate things... calling them inanimate
just because they're invisible doesn't give you a
right to driftwood clung to in robinson cruseo's shakespearean friday.
hence the passing inspiration... so dull now
that i only feel inspired to pour myself another whiskey
and justify the meaning of relaxed.
associate yourself with the world,
hardly many of us will end of with the genius score of don juan,
we're in an environment of strict biology,
we're told that memory governs our world
with the world being on the quest to repeat...
and it does repeat... sounding the encore of biting frost,
sounding the encore of delighted shadows of summer
having postponed snipers to shoot them dead with night...
the world that inquires per se via repeat
only divinites man's faculty that's memory,
and quickly attacks it in revenge by dementia...
imagination is left to the murderers' who fancy
all the hues of red on the face....
this world is not pleasant to those who think,
to those who couple thought with imagination,
and to those who couple thought with memory...
alas... such few increments are left to re-discover
after being taught the uselessness of centimetre
when no centimetre knowledge is used in their
mechanisation of a profession.
that bit monkey less than man already happened
contradictory in theoretical terms
given the diversity whereby man's diversity
per se cannot explain the diversity of each thing
using evolutionary relativism, niche by-product concerns...
penguins will always make it to antarctica...
no banker or plumber on antarctica... just
scientists who started the whole expedition as
worth anything by counting penguin eggs...
indeed... ah this is going nowhere...
i don't believe in evolutionary relatvism
like socrates didn't believe in moral relativism
theft is punishable with the cutting of the hand
that stole... ****** is punishable with the cutting
of the head - it's all really related)...
and the aesthetic relativism is as true as: beauty
is in the eye of the beholder -
to that girl in the night near the church
walking with a concerned friend
concerned by her attractive panda-eyed mascara expression.
most of the time i find the inherent vice of jungian
interpretation of poets
to be a case of narration: poets don't write enough
to be valued! i respect fictional occupants of the
equivalent hammer of a labourer writing long paragraphs!
well, true enough... any idiot would suddenly exclaim
a symptom as: i differentiate that i'm a constant inspiration
for a non-existent narrator, and the symptom i differentiate
from true to fake by the fact it hinders my faculty to think...
pronoun shrapnel i call it... auxillary pronouns
that benefit me to expand my thought on a levelling
that did not want to see in monochromatic divergence
of continued with linear-ism akin to horse blinders
that only exposed a corridor where a valley could have stood
for the eyes to be inspired by.

A field of daisies
A field of roses
It makes no difference to me if they
Are red or if they are
White
I mean really
A flower is a flower
Beauty of different kinds
And they hardly mean anything anyway
Flowers wilt in a few days
And you symbolize our love in a measly
Plant?

Through the gardens
Head over heels
Over and ahead hills
Time met a forcefield...
"Love Metaphor's Field"
Shall we cross
The lines of the path
Pass pastures
The past matters
It's the path to the present
Pleasance
Now
Is the time
To take the future
A few Daisies at a time
Thier radiance
So similar to the sun
But Sunflowers disagree
To the utmost degree
And they still wave
Peace
The Rose says
Romance is beauty
In the eyes that behold her
Forgetmenot's
Are unforgiving
To those who don't...
Memories
Remind us
Of the pasts importance
And we move foward
Through assortments of bouquets
New day
Others aren't as please
The violets hide under trees
And shade thier purple face
And sing the blues
No jolly
Oh
Holly ornaments
Hang accross vines
And intertwine tight as twine
Or a kiss...
Tulips under the mistletoe
Such bliss

As free as insects
The Beatles
Eat the ripe fruit of life
We share
No one cares
There's
Strawberry Fields Forever
Sweet scents
As we swing
Life has been like a Jasmine
Imitating that yellow sun
And it's will
While we walk without haste
Through Love Metaphor's Feild

I remember when I met you
you were different to all of her other many boyfriends
we could talk about the things I liked
you liked them too.

Months after you and her had finished your chapter in life
you stepped into mine
you dazzled dizzied bewildered me
showed me that it was alright to like the things I did

You wrote poems
you made me feel special
I thought that you liked me
the way I liked you

Then you left for what seemed a thousand years
the night I found out about your new girl I didn't cry
I remained content until an excessive amount of alcohol brought out all the feelings
the words spewed out of me
the same way the varied assortments of drink would do later that night

We still spoke on occasion
we shared an embrace or two when we accidentally met in the street
I was still crazy about you
even though I was aware that you were crazy about her

You ignore me now
we don't talk
you cast me aside
like everybody else did

I think of you a lot lately
but not in the way I used to
If I ever had the pleasure of speaking with you again
I would remain silent
I have nothing to say to you

The only things I have are the memories of you
the arguments
the embraces
the exams

It's all over now.

I understand that everything I thought we had was all in my imagination
when you said you loved me you didn't mean it in the way I did
but I can't be with anybody else because I feel as if it should be you
I'd like to say you ruined me but you didn't
I've ruined myself
I'm so used to being in a state of heart break that I will put myself back there in order to feel comfortable

I want to forget you
in the same way that you've forgotten me
thrown me away
left me

I hope you never find out how much I cared for you
because it's embarrassing for me
I can't believe I ever felt that way about anybody
I let somebody through the hard exterior that I have
I pretend I have no emotion but you made me vulnerable
I let you in.

The snow melts to reveal sad assortments of garbage
Strewn along the sidewalks like a ***** bricolage
The geese occupy our emptying quad
Each is a blessed sign from your god

The early bird rises far before the dawn
Bragging in bird-tongue about his perfect lawn
Global warming shows its ugly face
And the weather becomes a temperamental disgrace

Moving trucks and vans headed toward the interchange
Each summer my peers look forward to happy change
To work or not to work, that is the question
But often work is more than just a suggestion

April is the time of transitions
The time of decisions
Move from brain to body
From student to entry-level nobody

It’s nice work if you can get it
But every year I forget it
Wait until the last minute
Get hired just in time to quit

Exams and singing
Farewells and resume printing
Interviews and bargaining
All these things remind me of spring

Longing glances across the fluorescent lights of the store
I long with everything I have for him to cross the floor
Every year we interact but nothing more
But every year I hope the power goes out so I can be his *****

Well, roll up your sleeves
It’s time to produce!
Five months away from the tuition-grabbing thieves
So there’s absolutely no excuse!

Eyes deep and dark as if linked to the primordial abyss,
It was if you could see further than the blank faces of truths and lies
It was as if  you could clearly see what is and what is not, for you.

I see you.

Voice commanding attention like the horns of heavens army and as soothing as their zithers, your lips it's succulent strings.
How do you move so free fluid in design how you choose to love is invasive with no lines

So let me in

Skin smooth as molasses and ravagingly rich in flavor,  I would imagine, on my tongue.
Body as bountiful as the late harvest, your delicacies just as sweet
when your legs part  blessings flowing, falling miracles, from my chin to my feet;
ceremony, a Thanks giving for this decadent feast.

Get on the table

I crave your assortments curled up, laid down, bent over with all the sides
Greedy for the textures and scent like honey bees are magnolia.
Abundant as Gaia so I'll touch every corner like the sky,
the heat of our sol is ever high; in the still of the night I wish to bask in your moons light while I rise and conduct your tides.

Good times are savored not kept

A self, if I don't help , watering flower blooming how and when ever it sees fit.
Passion like the sun, radiant and all illuminating; like the moon on a still pond, while you seem grounded your true home is in the sky amongs the stars.

Blood shot,
Dry snot,
Assortments of all you've shown.
All these rights, and all these wrongs,
I have a horn I want to hone.

I am so drowsy tonight,
Your nostrils burn like light.
All these years,
I never had a spine.

You are so hyper tonight,
Assortments of all you've shown.
All these rights, and all these wrongs,
I have a horn you want to hone.

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith

(Originally written 5/30/09
Revised 9/30/14)

Many friends gorge
during holidays,
stuffing stuffing in their mouth space
forcing fried flightless birds in their face
along with assortments of steamed greens
guzzling fermented bubbles of hops or grapes
until engulfed in the glazed-eye coma nap
as their bulbous bellies slowly bouey back and forth.

Before passing out, some might remark about convalescing a food baby,
to which I've often wondered
if said baby is born when they take a ****?
Is it still a food baby or has it grown to a **** baby?
Why don't they nurture said **** baby so it can grow
and get into a ****** school and then a **** job?

An Aunt and a Nephew on an adventure to explore
It all happened at the Macy’s Herald Square Store
It was the marquee eyes and yellow buses that caught the attention in a little fellow being wise
As a tot, I picked up the yellow bus
I had to have the bus being a must
My Aunt saw the bus in my hand
She told me to put back at her command
But a tot determined to get the bus became my demand
I made such a fuss for that bus
My Aunt was forced to buy the yellow school bus
My persuasion in maneuver became a must
My passion for any bus became my reality with no fuss
Buses have become my hobby from that start
I have a complete 2,000 Bus collection in making my mark
From the start of the engine to the movement with exhaust
A bus hobby I love
The structure and wheels I think of
From a bus pioneers point of view
Here is a more detailed clue
My apartment is a like a bus collector’s paradise
Each bus I have represent themselves
Yes, they fit quite comfortably on the shelves
But it’s Greyhound ahead on the mount
I have so many busses you simply can’t count
It’s my Greyhound glass stretched hound
It doesn’t make a sound
However it stands on my bookshelf being sturdy bound
Buses have become what I missed
I don’t intend to ever dis
My buses have become my catch
They are my assortments like a batch
My buses are just for fun, but everlasting as the shining sun.

To grieve over death

is one thing

But to smell death

To stand in the room

Where death goes once its dead

And see the eye cups

That are placed so the eyes don’t sink but seal

with adhesives.

The tools that cut the arteries

And the smell of the

formaldehyde that replaces

the blood that’s drained

And the small, clean blade that cuts the navel

And the garbage bag that reeks of

the stomach and intestines that get pumped out

Assortments of makeup that

Could cover bruises and burns

Or a blue or yellow face

All in this tiny, cold room

Where the lifeless go

When their vessel is wrought

****** away
the opposing fighters
out of the fray
take them and
enclose them
within separate jars
where they cannot hurt
themselves or others
sitting stark still
forced to talk through
differences and
whatever assortments thereof

The Christmas spectacular being the show
The Rockette’s in spreading cheer in go
Dance numbers with their own range
Effects that add to the audience amaze
A weather forecast says occasional snow within Radio City
But I this case of no thought on pity
To dance and make New York City shine
Creating all the old fashioned assortments that come to mine
The orchestra have the right note
The feeling of movement like a boat
The excitement that just makes you float
Rockette’s kicking up their heels
Wanting the audience to feel Christmas in how it really feels
Having the audience leave with the dazzle and sizzle
The Rockette’s being the best yet
We’re getting closer to Christmas and counting days in get
Christmas is slowly coming upon
Radio City Rockette’s being marvelette  and the joy of being among
Christmas joy to you and your family being your crew.

My eyes disconnect from my fingers
Mind from my body on the screen
And lingers
With the walking stick limp
That taps along the concrete
His scraggly white beard blowing in the wind
I saw the old man earlier in the street
I held my hand up to the light
To see if it was fake

Watched the old woman pass
With her brown paper bag
Rip and tear
Assortments spraying like paint
Vulture children swooping down in a rush to eat
Minds so full of hate
Confusion in every eye that sees
I wonder why I bother
Oh my mind is slipping away
My guard is down
Glued to my chair
Pulling out my hair
And there is
So much to choose from
So much
To be done
Here
This is not an exit
And you have not won

I took a step back and I looked at the paths up ahead.
They shook and they cracked so I took to the caverns instead.
And now I emerge with a powerful urge to create.
Empowered by words and assortments of certain mistakes.

i hear the argument from the little yanks, i.e. the brits, the wanks, all the ****** time: learn the language, we'll welcome you in... like ******* will, unless i'm not a ****... i'm only welcome: when i displace you as the main ethnic similis... i can speak an english better than you, yet still you'll persist talking about agendas of demographic platitudes, **** the yanks, and **** the little yanks, the british wanks! i'm actually waiting for your little project to take root in the construction industry: odd... there are more women in the military, than in the construction industry! that's ****** sexist... we should have more women throwing bricks over their shoulders and being equal with men; ah wait, cows on parade! cows on parade! the military will soon be a place for women leaders on one side, and desperate lone wolves on the other... with the real battle ground, the real trenches, being the buildings under construction, in the construction industries... your new warfare agenda, has only just begun.

the brooding blood boiling: i leave no allegiance
for sure, i make no friend, as i make no foe,
i stand alone, in the waters of all that i: abhor.
a somali family of ten will sooner find housing,
a nigerian, a russian and arab millionaire,
then either i or the native sprechen
cold-touch chicken goosebump fest of hate -
and i won't be alone...
  but the moment you scheme your little
pathetic racial stereotyping incisors -
your little scheming gnat incisor gashing at
the wound that is supposedly never to heal:
i'll sell you a new testament,
since you blatantly woke too late to
correlate the secular history of the ancient times,
the unearthing of the text, and
the cushioning for a st. augustine's hierarchy
of absolution...
    rest my bone, upon a grecian lie?! never!
i will sit with whip in one hand,
and honey in the other - and speak for one
else, other than my other significant "other"
namely myself, and lead the illiterate
bludgeons: upon retezat peak -
       cutting off the bluntness of impaling
crucifix - to make a doll from those impaled -
gesticulating with arms, while the sharpened
pike slouched into their ****...
              as if imitating dolls attached to
    spiderweb threads to dance the puppets' dance...
that's crucifixion: doubled up upon.
first they tell you learn their language,
and you comply, but then they ask you learn
their crisis, and you begin to rebel saying:
i signed up to the language:
  not your bewildering existential crisis!
        
by the way, have you noticed that modern
political conversation in the west
lies heavily on the pivot side of the cartesian
sum? i've noticed it...
   political commentators hardly ever think!
all i hear is: sum this sum that, sum sum sum,
i.e. i'm a capitalists, i'm a communist,
i'm a libertarian, i'm a liberal, i'm a conservative,
i'm a socialists, **** me and the spectrum alike:
i'm really starting to think that
the heavy-sided state of affairs summons
only the cartesian *sum -
    it's beyond a q. & a. session where we
exchange badges, labels and other assortments
of pitching for a perfect freshers stall of
asking for attention: eventually
the leverage shifted from a pivotal balance
to a one-sided gesture: i am this, i am that -
what do i think of anything? none of what i
"supposedly" am, or am not.
  it's no longer what's question / answer worthy,
what is central is: what's thought-worthy?

summa summarum?

1. by talking your have the problem of defending
a "cartesian" sum - the bit where you say you
are, but can, in a lightning flash switch to otherwise:
est non primo causa; or?
2. by thinking you have the "problem" (i.e. you don't)
of "defending" (i.e. ditto)
        the kantian-aversion-of-cartesianism -
i.e. the kantian "cogito" (hence the aversion) -
      i.e. cogito in per se /
                                        cogito ex per se...
3. the kantian-descartes mongrel
    (a) the noumenon (thought)
     (b) the phenomenon ("being") -
and how many detractors have come from the latter?
a noumenon does not implode to later
explode and cause a tsunami of "worthwhile"
imitations,
  in the same vein that a phenomenon has
to implode to later explode and cause but one
imitation that starts behaving like a cloning
archetypical zombifying effect of the necessary
regurgitated, half-fed intentions...
   i can't believe the fusion of kant with descartes
seems so completely:
   by mere talk one has to shield the "being",
and become lost in labels and an appropriate
handling of data,
     the mantra of:
                      i'll walk before i'll crawl...
and so many defences, and all these conversations
ever end up sound as are: hi, my name is bill.
      
you write, you mine - you don't mime -
  the moment your stop mining: you start miming,
you enter the ancient grove of the hive -
but none of the current talks
seem to outweigh the cogito in contra to the sum,
since much of the talk is a stark cataract of
what sum could be, should the already sharpened
cogito of a blade, be met, with a sum
akin to a shield of an idiotic: scarcely knowing
the difference brain of an actor-idiot...
  hey, if philosopher-warriors are to be
distinguished: have you ever thought
that the actor-idiot is an easy task -
  did you for once think that playing an idiot's
part as an intelligent person was ever
going to be easy?
          a warrior-philosopher happened only
once, in his ability to put you off your guard.

kant in the cartesian terms of the kantian
term noumenon: thought.

    kant in the cartesian terms of the kantian
term phenomenon: "being" -
  and to boot, youth, the phenomenon of
punk, extinguished once a new zeitgeist
emerges - and the phenomenon unguarded
by thinking, but by mere imitation:
disintegrates into a fiddler-on-the-roof moment
of lacks: introspection, retrospection,
         by-invitation-only-itemisation
            relegated to stretch-armstrong televised
biographic of the zeitgeist...
          
luckily i can write this sort of rigid *******,
and enjoy a whiskey sharpshooter more.

A slim smooth man
Every step being his command
His fashion statement being high in demand
But his distinction being pinstripe
Pinstripe always dressed fresh like a spring ripe
Assortments had to be just right being black and white or white and red pinstripes
Pinstripe had all the hype
He got his name from dancing at many clubs
A woman’s remembrance to think of
The minute Pinstripe entered any room it was always greetings of what’s up
His shoes were of quality brand
Every inch of Pinstripe and everyone knew he was the man
Pinstripe’s hair was combed with his hair being shown
The tie became a creation and conversation piece of don’t hate just appreciate
Every woman married or single wanted to dance with Pinstripe
Each moving dance step was a woman’s date being met
Pinstripe had that certain swagger
From that first sip of wine
A cigarette just before he would dine
Pinstripe knew how to pass the time
He was the dress code, but never ate alone
It was his personality in having the woman melt like butter
Pinstripe was definitely like no other
He was the mainstream being a name
He was persuasive and had game
But who was going to blame?
Getting attention was the precision at direct aim
The bull’s eye being any woman that had a fishing rod and a net, however, it was Pinstripe being the catch of the day, and being the best bet.

It was merchandise that came alive
Buy me and try me being the stride
Dancing among clothes trying to persuade any shopper
The prices and sales were there own show stopper
But toys also got involved
They also danced among the kids
But some kids were scare and hid
Various toys did catch many kid’s eyes
Through the eyes of a child and the many assortments being a surprise
A jet toy airliner plane with no mention of any name, which will remain
It flew throughout the store overlooking the kids
The plane said, “Look up here and I am flying to all you buy me in preserver”
Come kid persuade Mom to buy as my batteries are already in
If you take me home, you can open the box, and your playing will begin
A Jack in the Box sprang into action
Smiles and laughter on its face being the activation
Suddenly a bubble machine advertised its slogan within the bubbles of “Buy me and become absorbed in fun”
Animation became a shoppers and kids appreciation
However this was definitely the indication
“Animate in coming alive, with the sell and adding a touch of assured in tell”.

some might say true evil is the one not deluded,
as it might be deluded by a crucifixion,
some might say true evil: a purity of it
is transcendent... spanning centuries
rather than generations to the widest extent
only counting 4, if not simply 3
to the extent of itemised history
of familial bonds; but some people say
many more other things
that require immediate attention,
but such things never acquire
the tongue of stress of attention
and economic change:
billionaires and **** victims as kin,
paupers and **** actresses if any...
or some debased fabrication
that might sway a political talk...
but i from no higher tier of
pride by print rather than pride by
thought...
a purity of evil by non-demanding
engagement but by simple observation,
an apathy...
for pure good would simply not exist,
too tempted into activity,
and i suppose changing the ontology
of narration: from eager feet to idle hands...
and so few being idle handed
and so many being idle footed...
a paradox emerges with the lost breeds of
horse hoofs... to the metallic cartwheels
of mercury movement quicker than water
in a time's measurement of two black holes;
but some still ennoble themselves
with the thought of a self, as if unique,
but far from unique, in the collective
of assortments of expression of such fictive
allowances non-representative of being
human as part but rather apart:
to invoke an invention of a god... a language
not spoken to be neighbours...
to be without a thought of a self,
to thus create the proto-cartesian equation
of post-existentialism:

"self"                             =                        analogue

who knows where the north of thought is...
and who knows where the guiding unit is that
might direct thought towards north to be northern...
or likewise the speed of light squared...
the essence of light in geometry, i shape,
for light be a straight line encapsulated
into the geometry of a straight line when
everything concerning it was to be squared,
made parabolic / wavy... ripply.

Take me to the sea
when the rivers run dry.
Sit on the sand
and make our getaway:
a castle with assortments of shells.

The ocean is quick to take away
what it has given us.

Take me to the sea
and kiss me on the mouth.
Take me home.
(which is wherever you are
and you are very far from me.)

I sit on the beach,
the grains of sand caressing my skin,
hearing the ocean clap onto the shore–
It's my applause.

The sun kisses my face.
I close my eyes tightly,
feeling your hand on my cheek,
pressing my face to yours.
I smell the sunshine on your neck
and your saltwater sweat.

I am dreaming desperately
to find a piece of you that will linger
long enough to fool me.

I lay in the ocean,
the waves lapping at my body
all which are miniature kisses
sent from you.

i'm being a brute on the universally identifiable
colour of defeat, nowhere will you find
a painter entrapped by some sort of apologetics
of drawing a square, or drawing in red, black, white,
but writing leaves you prone to all assortments
of apologetics when your use of language
becomes less poetic and more casual,
and when it becomes casual it hurts, because
the poetics asked for a sense of security
that a reader might experience when the writer
heaves a sigh of relief at writing in the vein
of an edenic root of exposure:
the 2nd eden leaves all the genitalia exposed
(given *******), and all the other limbs
hidden.

Walking but not finding
The struggle feeling like a binding
The possibilities in what could be
Lifted being my own accord
Oh help me please Lord!
A dream becoming my introduction to the sky
Heavens guiding me in what is allowed
The promise in I was born to fly
It’s the take off with the birds and I
A flight beyond any Airmen’s manual
God’s wings in flying me stable
No wing’s required as it is God’s spiritual lift
The Rainbows are just as I pictured them
They are full of color assortments and bloom
I am not ready for Heaven
My time hasn’t come
Doves are purifying my heart
The Earth below looks like a landscape
If people only knew, the sky is God’s escape
Chosen ones only have that right
It’s the warmth being God’s sincere light
I have walked from cloud to cloud
Mystery beyond any mist
I have seen outer space
But there is a further trace
Heaven partially seen, but haven’t been
I am walking the sky beyond my wildest dreams
I have shook hands with the Angel’s
But I can’t arrive at the Heaven’s gates
This is not mistake
My name is not on reservation to date
To the unbeliever, they can’t relate
Faith is what you need
This is written in scripture being a creed
If I continue to walk the closer I will get to Heaven
It’s the longer I continue to pray unto this day
Belief in biblical words I say
The walk can become long and painful
Yet as I walk it shouldn’t be fearful
Praying hands are what keeping me in the air
No man on Earth can compare
It’s the goodness I want to share
Walk on, walk on and continue to walk on
Heaven’s watch and preparation and the journey of preservation, is the movement of my continuous salvation.

the **** are you talking about? i just came from there, you want me to go back, to tell you something new? (a) you weren't born under the iron curtain, and (b) you didn't live beneath it! + (c) you probably don't know many people who lived through, having been born in 1939! and yes, communist hoarded ****... you think they were all moby-esque: vegan feng shui minimalists?! barking up the wrong tree, no squirrels up there, just a ******* baboon.

i've said it once, and i'll say it again:
   the system *works -
it's a fail-safe mechanism of a worn-torn
country... that's why i don't argue
against capitalism,
but capitalism doesn't rebuild nations,
it can't:
   sometimes people have to huddle
and become "buddhists": selfless collectivists!
it's obviously transitionally orientated,
got that lead from syria,
    why do people turn all humanitarian
giving our free loafs of bread to children?
it's not supposed to be a permanent
system, for one thing:
   there is clearly an expiry date
on the packaged communist implementations...
i really do not understand western leftism...
just flew past me above my head:
giving me a haircut while it flew past...
can't say i agree...
  but then again, mullets were a thing in the 80s
with the metal scene...
   so no, you don't know veterans of the communist
idea implemented: snotty audacious *******...
not everyone required the athenian semi-detached
castle back, too much personal grief,
relatives lost, what not... communism is
spartan... but in the end, even hoarding was
allowed... notably? books... like i said,
i think i out-competed the size of a private
library compared with my grandfather...
   but i love his honesty:
  i haven't read much of these books -
odd, i own a library that i'd say i managed
to digest in the fraction of:   6.5 / 10... o.k. 7 / 10...
you can't exactly read an art book...
    or a book on b & w photography...
oh look! pretty pictures.
           dim wits, so why is it that there was this
massive fascination, under the iron curtain,
on a local small gov. level in a rainbow of sports?
everything worth citing the olympics was
taken to, it wasn't just the gulag of football,
              problem with body image?
just watch the olympics, even fat people wrestle
and lift weights... and ping-pong?
  test of reflexes...
                  how about ski-jumping?
      or szermierka? what's that? fencing,
what was pretty pop back then;
         and at least there was a celebration of manual
labour... these days?
    a real phobia - aspiring to the status of gods
we've crafted a problem...
        work is not celebrated, it's shunned -
nothing to do, and a poor inspection of being
leaves us with aspiring to be much:
   while at the same time - doing too little;
yes, i cheated the plagiarism algorithm / bot,
whatever, when writing a sociology essay at
edinburgh... i plagiarised!
   guess what, back then, in 2003 / 4 i.t. didn't
discover the cheat code: a ******* thesaurus...
so i took an essay written by an academic,
and just rearranged it, reworded, deconstructed
it, and? got a 1st.
  top notch stuff, i was never into sociology
in the first place, i just wanted to find out if i could
outsmart a computer system that was
designed to "see" whether a plagiarism was made...
kimovich kasparov would've been proud...
well, that's history,
    what else was there to say?
  ah... aphorism vii ponderings vi...
        i started taking notes...
   atheism presupposes the non-existence of god...
fair enough, but as a presupposition it's
adamant, stern, and always "seemingly" right,
if not angry, then just plain ridiculous -
     i'm a wolf that finds mauling these sheep
that gesticulate with both palms, knees and other
assortments... that's called a punch below
the belt in boxing...
     is it so hard to attack st. augustine, pascal,
or thomas aquinas, let alone maimonides,
rashi or nachmanides?
     come on... making a ridicule-centered argument
is doesn't deserve respect:
   for every ounce of ridicule - there's an ounce
of disrespect...
  theism merely supposes the existence of -
since the "law" states that
    a supposition cannot be related to a negative
expression of non-existence "of"..
while the atheistic presupposition cannot be
related to a positive expression the existence "of"...
(the inverted commas on a trivial word
like of? so i stop short of implying god, mmm'k?)
these opposites seem to be strangely
anti-chemical in relation to the mirror of chirality -
for some reason they are super-imposable...
they compliment each other,
primarily? the show must go one,
         neither side rests, and finalises itself...
why? well, if atheism is based upon presuppositonal
logic, and theism is based upon a suppositional
logic... then evidently they both share
the no-man's land of propositions...
     oddly enough the "non"-existence "of" argument
loves to be pro the suppositional circumstance...
now i know why kant focused on meditating
5 + 7 = 12...
               like a hebrew might burn the tetragrammaton
into his mind...
     it means? to ensure the rigidity of sentences,
to burn into his mind a clarifying ingredient -
that all sentences make: sense,
   with the basic arithmetic being the benchmark
for all subsequent endeavours into scribbling
down the critique: makes sense.
   now to come to think of it,
i'm purposively digressing paying attention
to heidegger's (vii, vi) -
       i just want to keep it to myself -
i might as well write it out verbatim, than try
to explain it...
  and subsequently write several other cohort
"paragraphs" stimulated by the content,
than attempt the dry martini of explaining what
he "meant"; because: he meant this.

It was songs telling of America’s ways
The songs established America’s history in what the lyrics says
You overcame wars
Everlasting was written in the extending stars
When the smoke finally cleared you were yet still standing
The moment may have become demanding
But you are America
A sustaining nation
Decree of people countryside to countryside
North to South
East to West
Proud to be an American and your enriched history
The day America claimed her independence
The very signing of declaration was July 4, 1776
A nation under God
Also a nation guided by God
Fireworks show the beauty in what you have accomplished in all the color variations
It’s the people in all creeds adding to the assortments
You are America from the past, but a future that extends forward
America, America, America
You are the tis of thee
In God we trust who makes America in what it should be.