[ode to my vehicle]*

always mindful
  
not to love things or stuff


living so that it 
  
could all burn

and it would be nothing
  
but an inconvenience

always mindful
   to love the people
because for these
there are no replacements



three objects 
  
have escaped my plan

maneuvered 
  
through my designs
and i fell in love with 3 things:



1. *old white macbook
*  
my beautiful
      
smart
        
well-designed
  
whirring piece of brilliant technology

you are already gone.



2. *wedding rings
  (irrelevant)

 i used to believe the
   joke of the symbolism
i fell prey to the beauty of
    well designed twisted metal
and stone.
no more.



3. asian machine love
*
    (a.k.a. mitsubishi outlander sport)  

i am having a hard time

having to let you go
  
my beautiful, black mitsubishi.



i chose you.


i researched for weeks
  
analyzing data

comparing machines
  
prices

trying to be reasonable


and out of all the machines,

i. chose. you.



you are the perfect shape
  
of all vehicle shapes, mitsubishi

you fulfill my obsession with
  
design

     lines
  
c o l o r 
      
efficiency

speed

    and b  o  o  m  i  n  g SOUND



you are the perfect balance of safety
  
including 4WD

and fuel efficiency

your headlights are so bright
  
and your high beams

so magnificent
  it's almost embarrassing


mitsubishi, you little snake...
  you have a manual mode

so i can choose to be a race car driver
  whenever i want


mitsubishi outlander sport, i love you so

*

let's talk about your face
  
(you have a pig-face like me
)
your nose is abrupt
  
it's blunt and it's different

and i love it


you know i hate the cold and the snow
   so you heat my seats
you warn me about ice
  you wipe away the rain

  without me having to ask

you cast light into the dark

  all on your own

gps

  usb

subwoofer

  rockford fosgate

bluetooth


mitsubishi,
you shake the earth

 blasting music 
through my dna

  so that i am made
of vibrations
and air

  invisible to the naked eye

or playing my science fiction audiobooks

  at a reasonable

and responsible volume



mitsubishi, 
you respond to me
with such grace

showing me impossibilities

with a rearview camera

saying, "hello!" in the morning

and, "see ya!" when i leave

(and i believe you mean it)



the deer was not your fault.

or mine, or the deer's.
  
we were all doing what we do,

and to be quite honest,

  the deer got the **** end of the stick, mitsubishi.

the kids like
  to go in
"mandy's car"
    they like to
look through the moonroof
  and i know they are safe
 .  
you are my one machine love
  
with power

combustion
  
     and pistons

you are electric
  
  intelligent

and you boom
 
  sleek

comfortable
  
          well designed



i don't want to see you burn.

it would be more than an inconvenience.
but you will burn. he will burn you.
it won't be me, mitsubishi.

he will take you.
he will smile when he takes you.
he likes to take what i love.
he likes to hurt people
who have never hurt him -
not once in their lives.

he is coming for you,
and i will never forgive him.

It was 29° (f) degrees this morning with a waning gibbous (¾) moon. Still, as we started our run, it was dark enough that the world was rendered in black and white. Lisa was a sepia print of herself while Charles was a large, quiet shadow, a dark visual noise pattern.

We usually jog from our dorm, down to and along New Haven Harbor and back. Lisa and I love the ocean. The wind was in our faces this morning and there were no sparkling moon refractions in our direction, which made the water musou and colorless.

I’ve gotten my outfit down to a science, leggings under shorts, four long sleeve, dry-wicking spandex tops (layering is important), a power-wool-earflap-beanie, thermal neck gaiter and quantum, icebreaker gloves (with touch-screen compatibility) - you gotta dress warmly but be able to shed layers as needed.

I listen to audiobooks while we run. Right now I’m on book 5 of the ‘The Expanse’ series. I don’t have time to read anything fun these days, so I listen to science-fiction/fantasy while I workout. I love the new AirPod Pro feature that automatically turns the sound down if anyone talks.

I wear a fitbit charge around my right ankle and my Apple watch as well - they both track my run - the fitbit is more accurate but my watch sends my workout stats to my siblings - we’re uhh, sort of competitive.

At first, as we came up on the harbor, it was impossible to see the intersection of the two dark oceans - the great terrestrial and the greater galactic - but as we turned for home, there was an atmospheric scatter of blue at the edge of the horizon, heralding the sunrise on our retreating backs.

musou = one of the darkest shades of black

a google-whack for the ultimate news reel: #jigo'hudami.

and not another Shakespeare to come, #blues,
and not another Milton to come, #blues,
and not another Beckett to come, #blues,
an not another unforced Bukowski to come, #blues,
and not another papa Ginsberg to come, #blues,
and not another fusion of poetry and jazz, #blues -
not another, the lost interest in jazz,
the it's been done, and only in America, #blues -
and not another Dostoyevsky to come, #blues,
and no one is digging digital trenches like at Ypres
             capitalising on the gambling of
giving it all, even if it means giving it for nothing
imagining daymares of homelessness, #blues -
and no more fusion worked from the stale juggernauts
of voice in the wilderness, or voice among aghast silence -
and no one is writing intoxicated odes in a Dionysian
woodland shade naked or at least half naked - #blues,
and no one new knows how having voyeuristic eyes
not looking at your poetry on the internet feels like,
before the broadband hyper super hyper mega tron
optic wires before the ancient tee p p **** dial to
connect - rotary dial telephones and aesthetic patience -
dial-a-meaning now, collect, appropriate, discard -
super-communicative efficiency like the Chinese
but in lesser number - lesser number - a moment to
unwind - choose a graphic for the front-cover -
Dali? really? quote: morbid and dark and a surrealist?
surrealists wrote their poetry at the beginning of the
20th century - again, what a treat, cook up a 21st century
manifesto - overshoot the mark - the macabre non-Gothic,
and so no angel with a sword near the chapel entrance
but a gargoyle - a gargantuan bore - agreed...
and not another william blake to come, #blues,
and not another richard brautigan to come, #blues,
dual citizen of the world - from one underworld to another,
Morse code typescript, or telegram poetry -
poetry telegramic - the reinvention of the cut-up technique,
but less paper clippings of single words shoved in
a hat like someone about to wear latex gloves and write
a ransom letter - telegramic poetry - the cut up is more
linear, less word from newspapers cut and then picked
at random, hoping for the big winner - conscious of
the river course - telegram! - opening page from
l'Étranger (e.g.):
mother died - - - - - - - telegram - - - - - - - at Marengo - - -
2 days leave - - - - - absurd already, apologies for death -
- - - - - (yes, a reader, not the narrator, and not - - - - - - - -
explicitly like a telegram) - - - - (self-explanatory auto-) -
- exactly, at every turn some excuse, but what a grand
excuse, god's turn, excuses after the fashionable 15 minutes -
nothing prior - - - - lunch at Céleste’s restaurant - - - - -
starting to look anti-autobigraphical (i.e. written much too
late, not day-by-day, *Kronos Witold Gombrowicz) - - -
calls Emmanuel to be lent a black tie - - - joke, karate - -
not so funny - - - d'uh, belt - - - mourning band - - - - - - -
with a white ******* rotated 45° from that famous
re-interpretation - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - good something -
running for the bus - - - soldier's shoulder, sleep - - - - -
warden absent, waiting with a chatty doorman - - - - - - - -.
well it could work -this telegram style, it's the easiest style
to read, the Nova Express proves it, the Soft Machine
proves it, Naked Lunch proves it - the incoherent distraction,
well, coherently incoherent - sometimes you want to
see a tornado rather than an open stretch of road in a desert -
a ****** tornado - whirling and whirling with Loki
playing a flute - and something about the great milkman
being choked by a marshmallow monster in the sky -
or, of course, with the sensible people - an Ikea assembly
manual for a chair - with one but the most crucial ***** missing:
metaphor for the 10% books, that's 10% in, 20% up on sales
of audiobooks - hyper-readers, ages: 18-24 - 24-35 (21%) -
and then thick mud ahead, an opera of yawns and a gym
membership one tier above the no-fun zone of sometimes
an index wet and a judo flick of the page - or any other
comparison - but on the plus - and not another Walt Whitman
to come - #bangersandmash, and not another Pound
to come - #blues - in with the pretentious you say out
with the feral? maybe... maybe not - but all of this for only
one sentence: to be nervous over ethnicity and vocabulary -
shouldn't exist - to pursue active censorship of a person's
vocabulary is to undermine them completely -
when corporations copyright words because they're logos
i can understand - but people copyright words something's
obviously wrong, somehow i imagine corporate influence
at having taught this lesson - it should exist - or... in what tone?
but already, people what inoffensive and frail - they
want cushions but don't want stones - and it's every single
time - where once words flowed freely no words stumble
against everyone being politicised - it's hard to do your job
these days, whatever it might be - some would say once
the figurehead a throng of courtesans and you knew of importance,
you were so far away from the seat of power you enjoyed
one sq. mile rather than daydreaming about if you ruled
the world - cost-effective inefficiency of politics -
life? unaffected - and it's not even some glorious technique
behind it - the same children that lied have simply
learned to evolve lying into negation - ah, whatever, #blues,
#Rakı.

The main reason I've tried around five new recipes a week
and all of a sudden enjoy cooking
and the reason I've bitten my nails down to bone
and texted my good friends way too many times
fragmented and weeping with questions
and the reason I've listened to podcasts minute after minute
and audiobooks
and ******* Damien Rice's creepy voice saying the words *******
over and over again
and have a wishlist on every overpriced bohemian rag site
and entered multiple contests guessing Bon Jovi's lyrics
to win 50 dollars to Applebees
and the reason I drink red white and blue ****** can after can
after hours that end with "AM"
and the reason I don't feel like hearing my client's problems
and catch myself in fantasies about running away or climbing up into trees and staying there for months
and the reason I go to angry slam poetry events by myself
and watch Sarah Silverman crying on the television
and snorting coke
or scrub my gums until they bleed
to taste the iron with those perfectly prepared meals
I even thought about joining a meetup group
instead I just met up with my therapist and noticed she's wearing the same sweater I am
What the hell is she going to be able to do for me?
Take my seventy dollars and run
and I keep edibles harbored in the corner of my cheek
saving the ounces for the most destitute of moments
when I hear I have to eat lunch with my in-laws at Red Robin
and be blinded by their white supremacy
That's when I get ****** as ****
and find it all funny
and the reason I sprint into the woods at night and look up at the stars
sweaty and haunted
and the reason I keep "getting lost" on my way home from work
and stalk my ex-boyfriend's babies on Facebook
and wet the pages of Charles Bukowski
and then watch his documentary and scream at the TV in horror
and the reason I buy bags and bags of peanut butter stuffed pretzels
and my laugh sounds unnervingly different every day, as if my role keeps changing from **** to lesbian to raging feminist to kitschy wife lover to Eskimo to poet

is due to the fact that I am in a long distance relationship with my own life
my own soul
my screaming energy and robustness
my color
and craving.

I'm supposed to pretend that I don't hear
Sobbing and swearing in the next room.
I usually turn to my ear-buds,
Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and Ke$ha...
But my playlists,
So carefully crafted
from dreams and moonbeams,
are now mine fields -
Nearly unnavigatable
Without triggering an explosion
Of him.

The son of Jung, Achilles

(This is after and during a second or third time through
Jung, by Anthony Stevens, via Hoopla brought to me by LAPL)

libraries with online audiobooks,
isn't that closer to perfect? Imagine
knowing CG Jung's dad was Achilles Jung,
epic, knowing that
back when only real, material-real, rich folk,

(they could not have known, but we can, on a smart phone)

of any sort of the many there were in the co-fusion's aftermath

much of the world may agree with things once hidden in tomes
being eaten by mindless worms, now

no known thing is secret, by right

truth makes free and it's a system.

dynamic
free true free true free

We ident-ify it or id

what ever I and d


these ids (letter i and letter d as a pre
fix identifying us, u'n'me but only I am re-alified,
set to iseate

(is-e-ate is individuation for an idea, this or that, which may be verbalized
prior to re-alization)

t' be for a while, as long as you wish, t'
be fixed ideas in the minds of all

minds culturally touched
by this particular
point of
been
as
in been there done that.

Time is nothing at all
like mortals think
ing no no nothing is re

alone is rare. For us, my pieces of the unum,

we are here as ever.
ever is our role.

guides are made
however, we have noticed a scarcity of read writers
aware of pin points of light expanding

on the walls of his nursery window, nur turer, real mmmmm

screen
really must we be limited forever is ly lying as in

acting positive while being negative and being

entangled
in your self for ever, never for now,

you don't know how.

do you?
ex
per
ienced, per se, are ye?

be yond. yes. be

yond. practice makes perfect, bact to the top

erie canalic real

tote that veil, hide that barge
camptown lasies sang some songs

wrong, as did the ******* minstrels
and gamblers and bedroll
cowboys and hobos
and plain bums,
like us.

You were curious. Does yellow mean anything
to you?
Murrillo, with y's for ll, maybe? ¿ se?

--- un told stories ---

none remain, in re al ity, if we agree

nothing is ever impossible, even
for sapiens sapiens, how much
more, the us in the unum

previously pluribus,
scatter-brained,
that is.
id est, at its best. Muse.

Homeostatic balance,
hot to cool, cold to warm

round and round
twisted in the middle
by Van Allen's belt, or Orion's?

I never asked. I could,
right now I COULD WISH SO BAD THA I'D

not notice allcaps from the teenage wasteland,
(mea culpa, I bury all my misses there, take one, free)
as I,
the grown up number two, I mean,
I was saying I could stop this flow, interefer, dam it

I could ask Google and follow ath
the real thing either real or
otherwise, yet

wise, still.

How well will we be? Should we not

agree, un agree disperse the mob?

become a one, with a mind
we may share, at will,

reason, count, measure, make, see, seek how, find how, learn how

now,
why are you a ware of me while I am
ware of you.

An unread, unspoken spell. What the hell, right?
What the chaos, entropy, dis
integrate
wash away, mud to dust to twisting spirtis seen dancing

dust, this highest part of the dust of the earth,
time will tell, the physician must heal himself.

---
the art of letting things
haps
hap
pen, pen or ready-writer mode,
we can do this, but we must

be leaving the ality re all o'this reality.

And it has been fun, un done
fun is never the final goal.

be yond that. Search okeh. It was
intentended in tension-ality

to be the key we
as u me mist

when we
lied about being
experienced in the comunicito, (wee ity bity)
do you know of
the transfiguration, I was asked that

southside of Sunset at Laurel Canyon, by
that TV kung fu cowboy guy's dad,
Carradine, the old man,
from scary movies,
circa 1960.

that was fun. it happened. nobody noticed,
but me and the elder Carradine.

Real, as best as my memory just
ifies me right there,
that day, there
is where

this point was proven to be
memorable, a point
of a pin, 'pon whose head
merry messengers make nothing of
darkness, shadow, thin light.

Member be, re member
we see you saw
re all ity-ness is fun, if you find time to do it.

Typical assumptions of a man born in his time
and so
cial class. Social, is that a joke?

Follow me, don't be ignorant of a fine refined use,
right use of ordinariable words which have
born the burden of the ages

patiently, awaiting meaning,
on your scale,
the me as sure of the other in the unem,
the measure of a man, any
old man, still standing

under all the knowing Eve ever knows,
hope and time and all this took.
The price of knowing,
is the knowing, learning is easy

At home by right of being, we are such
beings, in a word, two if you reason there is
measurable ratio twixt
iiii in and am out, yamiyam ah yeh

we do. Allatimenolie, my will. The inside
the numinosity of being

me and you in the midst of all we may imagine real,

no, hell, yesses, hell is still a joke you never want to play.
ax Mr. Boo, he was my guide in Bangkok

read the reports, they are more,
nevermind, let's not let the

lie live here. the the right man thinking this thought
at this time, right

Each magi's knowing is the only knowing he can share,
without playing I pious fraud and naming it
legion, re
legion ligated to ob la dee and dah?

Joke, jest, foolish jest. Not my best but better'n
never imagi-ing  bein' good at all.
Good for nothing but
being possible
ly
good to the sense-if-ative troglodytes

with one lit window on reality. It's funny. POV. Seriously

lighten up
you putin me

beyond your grasp… winsome, alas

I dream
I dream of us listening
To the radio and audiobooks
Curled up, cuddled, holding tight
In comfy cushioned crannies, nooks
Deep in dream
I wistful, sigh
dream of our fingers entwined
Imagine stomachs full, livers wined
I dream
A dream of revelry
To have your heart beating
Next to me
I dream
Our minds are waltzing, one
Having fun
Under the sun
I write to you
You write to me
About your dreams
In dream I see
Your soul laid bare
The candor there
I dream
Of beauty sweet, so rare
And giving you perfect care

- by Meg 7/03/18, an experimental love poem for the one I love and who has shown me love xo

the disrespect of manual labout trades in western europe, and the export of such trades to asia... yes, the day they realise that not all of them are models, or "artists"; well, luckily, there's the **** industry.

my grandfather was a communist party member,
a respectable citizen,
   he was sometimes called to be a member
of a jury... a hard gig to get into...

anyways...
                                      0 hour contracts?
  try building a career out of that...
      self-employment
and that fact that employers do
a pontius pilate on these people,
     sometimes not pay paying them,
  in most cases snipping their hard
earned wages?
       forget about a roofing retention
    (insurance, equivalent to a guarantee
you get when you buy a washing machine),
sometimes the ******* never
pay it out...
   you'll always get a
       *blondweibsbild setting marching
orders...
                  the rat is biting their ***
         and they're still thinking of sailing...

me? like my grandfather,
      funny, he lived in a communist satelite
state, and yet... he managed to collect
a decent library of books...
          and enough records for his children
(my mother & uncle) to keep an interest
in music...
             yeah! imagine! having a personal
library in a communist "regime"...
  then again the russians were always
bigger readers than the americans...
the americans need to be spood-fed...
the "joys" and average joes of
     the audio-book format...
                       fair game if you're blind,
i have no qualms on that par...
        but unless it's not music...
      i find that listening to audiobooks
is just plain ****...
   self-****, *******...
                                         samogwałt...
0 hour contracts?
           no chance of a career?
     always at your "masters" bidding?

  the ejection of manual labour,
the slander against respectable professions
like carpentry?
           exporting it to the chinese?
   work as only based upon:
   fake smiles, fake journalism,
     lies lies and even more lies?
                  content products
  without the context of applied hands?

wow... designed in california...
  tag?          made in china...
made in china made in china made in china
made in china made in china made in china
made in china made in china made in china
made in china made in china made in china...

the same ******* itinerary of toothpicks,
barbie dolls, smart-phones,
televisions, radios, you name it...

when you've reached the billion mark,
i think you have exhausted the capitalistic
concept of a "profit margin",
   once you put enough 0s at the end of
your pay-cheque... you sort of have...
have, exhausted the idea of profit...
           i admit that capitalism is a sensible
system... and it was, with shining examples
like henry ford...
                       the reaction of the left?
hedonism? mirror image of what capitalism
has become...
   it has lost its sensibility...
    like i said, you can't really argue
the profit argument when you have
billions to "work" with...
                    evidently enough 0s in
the pay-cheque had to create
   the 0 hour contracts...
            wow! they lost a 0!
they lost a 0! from billions (1,000,000,000)
they revived the million
  (100,000,000)! one hundred millions!
i swear they just got bored
and said: ah, **** it...
a billion chinese, a billion hindus...
        titanic is sinking...
but we'll have a champagne jacuzzi
sideline view on a life-boat
                      watching the mutts drowning.

dungeonesque clanking, subterranean bass
shadowing his 6ft. nine in. horror-addled gait.
the bizarro treble of: decapitation/necrophilia/
dismemberment, introduce Ed Kemper to spaces
he lays comparative disproportion to.
neck like a Great Dane, drowsy bookish eyes
smeared behind circular glasses, decisive comb-over,
& walrus mustache.
his intelligence quotient test herded him where
geniuses reportedly dwell.
monstrously sidestepping from where things can't be
measured--murdering his mother & her friend, along
with six female co-eds (not to mention his grandparents
on a prior youthful conviction).
now imagine Ed, plain old Ed--taking a load off in a
soundless recording booth in prison.
clearing his throat & reading into a microphone--
hypnotically translating into a cavernous monotone.
jarring the listener to heightened attention with emphasis--
seventeen audiobooks were recorded by Ed Kemper for:
The Blind Project.
how ironical for such an elocution to bleed through--
in this way.

1  Hot topic merch
2 baths and poetry audiobooks
3 adult coloring books
4 tea and books
5 Liberal therapists

Stereotypes and hyperbole
do not serve our needs,
but diversity plants the seeds
for our growing adaptability,
socially, mentally, and biologically,
allowing us to overcome adversity
and turn it into a transition to
a grand brand-new world view.

It’s the same stew that took us from
clay pottery to awesome cartoons
from Plato’s cave to the moon,
from spoken words heard
around campfires to
digital and audiobooks that
we can learn so much from,
from my mind to this poem
on to you who I hope
takes the full scope
of my creativity and intentions
and use it for your own inventions.

So, tell me please as you see
what makes diversity great?

I can only pass on a fraction
of what I see and understand.

This language is a helper,
a cleaner, sharper,
sometimes meaner
gardener
that wants to trim
my branches
and clear the whims
and fancies
that I like to play in.

But there is so much more
than what I am writing and saying,
these letters and lines
are not fully portraying
the games I am playing
in my head to get a better grasp on
what is really going on
in this human situation.

When I am well-rested,
the best is all around,
all sights and sounds,
skin sensations,
but not smells
cause I can’t tell
one scent from another.

There are worlds that transcend
the energies we spend
trying to comprehend them;
Not magical realms
or fairytale fantasy lands
just undiscovered countries
of knowledge that man
has yet to get to.

When I look at you,
I see an unknown quantity,
family history,
strange ancestry
going back to
a gross glowing goo
that went through
so much to get to
become the full wonder that you are.

I see mental calculations,
physical exertions in repetitions
and multi planar movements,
a magnitude of observations,
and opportunities that were neglected
because you let your mind and body
redirect you from truths scientific.

I see the poetry of experiences
written on your skin,
reflected in your muscles,
and the wrinkles when
you are smiling.

When I am driving
listening to audiobooks
podcasts, or music
I use all of it,
try to imagine new
and inverted ways
to say what I want to convey
passing on what makes us great
and what I hate
about the human race.

But there is just so much,
and I don’t always have
the patience to write that way.

When he was a child
his favorite place was the library
nearly every day he did get more books out
he had read most of the books for children section
and at 12 he started on the adult library

From great tales to informative non-fiction
reading books became an addiction
never played with the kids outside
he would rather have a book by his side

He loved the classics
from poetry to sci-fi
he lived in a fantasy world
and music did consume his mind

Even now he sleeps very little
when he closes his eyes
he does listen to audiobooks
every day and night
to his minds delight

Yes he is a book bothered poet
and now he does know it
still wanting more knowledge
his mind is a university and high collage


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris