We're on single bench,
across in a single mirror.
I'm learning by heart you're curve.
1,2,3,4,5
TURNED.
Staring  vacantly again,
5,4,3,2,1
LOOKED.
I smiled exclusively on my thought,
I can't make it detectable
Mirror will spy.
Gauged,angles estimated and quantified.
1,2,3,4,5 and STARED.
Our eyes bumped.
5,4,3,2,1

Ohh,beats accelerating
I am freezed.
My heart jumps out.
Sorry,I can't make it,
I am evaporating,
or falling to million microscopic pieces.

Confrontational,
dude’s really quite sensational,
but there’s very little matter
found inside his dome.
Confrontational—
it’s the opposite of beautiful.
Then again, he never worries
about whether he’s attractive.
Confrontational—
really not that calculable;
however, he always seems to
tip his very ****** hand.
Confrontational—
not quite the same as sensible,
but he is usually the one that
tends to buck the norm.
Confrontational,
doesn’t think that he is beatable;
nevertheless, he who hands him his
lunch has other things in store.
Confrontational—
it’s the converse of lovable,
yet some tend to insist that this
is his fancy way of flirting.

Before the canvas used to be,
two single shades of blue
with an infinity of glinting lights
but as man went on tainting the painting
the shades of blue concealed the light
the infinity emerged calculable

Nevertheless, the painter went on
the canvas growing darker and darker
painted blue on blue
Nevertheless, man went on
throwing his debris onto the canvas
the infinity emerged calculable

With every stroke of man and time
the canvas emerged darker and darker
the light becoming slighter and slighter
but man went on
no glances spared at the painting
the infinity emerged calculable

Focused on adjusting the canvas
man continued to taint and taint
he then looked up towards the canvas
and felt reality fall
he gazed towards the first stroke of time
and wished to remake the world.

It was six in the morning**: I sat in a cab dangling on small-talk with a middle-aged white male cabbie basted in the demeanor of the over-friendly uncle. He asked me about school—I'm hyperawake, paranoid, body pulsing, feeling loose, depersonalized, and lightly psychedelic—my vision wavering as if someone had entered my skull to punch raw brain. I did a gram and a half of ******* that night; mixed lines with ketamine to simulate a proto-psychosis, but am convinced I may very well have driven myself past the point of no return. I'd been doing this strict mix for over 2 straight weeks, landing myself in out-of-body experiences and coked-out drawls on the floor like a sad, puckered monkey chewing on a lemon it mistook for an orange. Why I led myself to this existential precipice is both beyond me and totally within my rational sympathies if I pretend I am on the outside looking in.
When I was 18—drawn, for the first time—away from smalltown Powell River and into the Vancouver suburbia of Port Coquitlam, my only successful job-find was a McDonald's arched inside a Wal-Mart. The double-insult this presented me as a teenage anarchist pushed me deep into my first true emotional crisis which I only turned to accept after a particular phone call with my father in which he appealed to me to think of this stint as a 'temporary social experiment'; a chance to learn and breathe this proletarian experience from the inside out. During the pre-Christmas night-shifts, the only customers we ever had were the dark, apathetic silhouette-people Wal-Mart hired to greet the absolutely no one's walking through the door. I incessantly cleaned what was already a mirror-wet floor and made sad conversation with Rosario—the slightly autistic shift-manager with a prickly-shave of a face and an awkward sense of humor I could never come to appreciate and yet always managed to humor in polite obsequiousness. Regardless, it was a form of spread and endless boredom that began to fascinate me; it brought me to a darkness I had never quite known. It was an experience—like all experiences—to be had at least once, to the fullest and truest intensity. To be pushed with reckless sincerity.
Ever since, I have found myself pushing every limit to disembodied extremes—on occasion, to points of such profound irresponsibility or feigned responsibility that I break a particular streak and wind-up on the other dichotomous side of whatever line I unintentionally (or intentionally?) crossed (or broke?) because everything is a social experiment and I've touched the multifarious lives of overworked modernity, residential care aide, dishwasher, Christopher McCandlessesque wilderness jaunt, melancholic Kierkegaard, psychonaut, and now: a short-lived ****** inspired by the excess of Burroughs and the early beatniks all willing to **** their darlings for the sake of blood-stained posterity.
And yet meanwhile—in the cab—I can feel my headache grow perceptively wider from my left temple. Almost like a mushroom cloud over Bikini Atoll I am watching from as safe a distance as the physical body can withstand, according to some calculable hypothesis drafted by Oppenheimer himself. I am constantly amazed at how lucid I am in conversation with this friendly cabby; given that I feel as if I'm about to go ******, focusing so deftly on the way the streetlights glide across placid puddles moving only with our tires intervention—and the way I keep imagining insanity in the form of a zombie-likeness of myself strapped into an electric chair, skin melting and eyes rolling back in my head as I seizure to metaphysical death—I still laugh away short quips about the blind-leading-the-blind (he has no idea how to find my destination, and keeps pulling over to check a book road-map for 4143 Hessington Place). The only reason I am with him now is that I am venturing to see my girlfriend at her group-house past Uvic where the door is always unlocked for friends and friends-of-friends, she being the only solution to this crisis with her stash of .5 Xanax pills.
I remember those tense moments—with my body and brain as taut as a bow—he would pull over or pull out and my entire existence seemed to move through space and time as if against a wind that was perpetually in resistance—as if my entire consciousness was going to capsize into some form of overdosed darkness. Even when I exited the cab and waved a friendly goodbye to the old man, I could feel my dopamine receptors attempting to fire on empty. This caused a latent buzz that was only solved with two milligrams of alprazolam and my eyes wide shut until my head shut down.

I held her close. I knew she thought I was an idiot.

I'm not angry I'm calculable. I'm a fathom.
That phantoms
are things that people would wish in themselves
alludes me.
We can talk past midnight and our hairs will grey
and our all else will dust. But if the brain remains
then we will have achieved something. And with a computer, too--
as if that time Jesus ascended-- we can travel somewhere
that is not a country and it won't be strange, it will not be
new. It will be as the same thing as everything else has always
been: chance, calculable, a fathoming-- something called for a while
ago by that first big thing with all the light, that first wiggling thing
splitting into two (I skipped a few seconds), that fish
walking, that ape talking

this. Will you
talk to me as if called for? It is not hard. It is any
such kind of speech. You open your mouth,
a sound.

words

           *telegrams
           calculable words
           words as objects
           words as mathematical
           meaning price > value

time

           days of the week, hours of the day minutes
           time is mathematical
           time is measurable
           time is a commodity
           meaning price > value.

(let's not fund the humanities they say.)

life

deaths by numbers
earthquake in Nepal -- death count over 7000
just a number in a news report, really
just a
number.
deaths are measured in numbers
not people,
people are countable
objects.
7000 people.
meaning all your friends on facebook
every person in your lecture hall
every person you have loved or kissed
all your former neighbours
everybody you have talked to on public transportation
every barista that has served you coffee
when these are faces you remember when these are your friends your family when these are *your people that is when
7000
becomes more
than a number.

but we don't want to let it
be
that
do we?

we cannot understand it
or let ourselves feel it
we cannot grieve for 7000 people swallowed by anonymity
when the death of just
one
could **** us.

the world will end by 2060 because we will have let
the oceans overflow and we will be drowing by numbers.
not people.

these are numbers. facts. statistics.

so
who
cares.

the journalists and scientists and economists
know what they know
and maybe we know what they know
but we have to experience before we change and
it will be too late.

it is up to the artists, now, to the poets and painters
and the actors directors designers to
show us what things
feel
like

before we all become
calculable objects
in oceanic waste lands.

it is up to people with the gift to make things
mean
more

than 7000
does.

“I can calculate the movement of stars, but not the madness of men.”   Sir Isaac Newton**

I can, but only of my own,
the orbits of the stars
within my envisioned mind,
this anti-expanding universe
this black hole of anti-matter
collapsing inward, the gravitational pull calculable
where I, madman creator,
am the sole witness mine self-destruction

I summon fate, luck, random numbers to the dock,
but all pleadingly state it wasn't me,
"I was somewhere else, had to be,
you cannot see my mathematical probability,
ergo i am definitionally
not capable of being guilty-
my orbit of madness
non transferable to you-mans"

who then can I blame?

for-seen poems every where,
upon on every face lay dime store words of bad novellas,
awake to work in dread,
return from it more deadened
and the piety pointy poetry pills
refusing to cooperate,
and the madness equation
has too many answers viable

what shall I title this poem?

A bustling of noses and wind blown hair
gloating over goats which bleed
calculable blood.
One pence, two pence, three
and there’s a crowd surrounding
a tunic at the top of the stairs.

Oil was discovered, covered
by a man in a tunic
sharing meticulous dreams, dreaming
in the gear-grind way of life. Hoarding
lubricant beneath stands and markets,
and marketing water.

Turn to Piegans, Bloods, and Blackfeet proper,
prop her against the boards
and rest the nail against her temple,
temple where a man in tunic
flipped markets like gear-grinds
unearthing oil in fire
exploding jelly purple dye,
dying is the goat upon
the stage

on page one hundred and three sun-blisters burst on screaming merchants

I once met a rich poet and asked him
What we writes about?
“Nothing.” he answered

2.
How many poets does it take to ***** in a light bulb
One

3.
The difference between a great poet
And a ****** poet
Is mathematically calculable
To how recently they’ve been laid

4.
When the pen ran out of ink
The poet gnawed of his finger
And wrote with the blood

5.
The lake froze over
The poet wept

6.
If you took all the poets that ever lived
And placed them in the same room
There would be many empty seats
And not nearly enough pens

7.
When a man asked him what he did
He answered, “Teacher.”
When a pretty girl asked him what he did
He answered, “Poet.”

8.
One day there will be no more poets
And a great silence will cover the land

9.
Cain was a soldier
Able was a poet
Look how that turned out

10.
Each day is a poem
Still being written on tombstones

11.
We fell in love by showing each other our poems
We fell out of love when we stopped

12.
The children Laughed and mobbed
After the soccer ball
The young poet stood
And watched a blackbird

13.
If you dream
And can remember it in the morning
Then you are a poet

.
Oh! Fragile martyr man--
your word play is so electric.

Therapy pulses magnetic
power
to your malignant
deformities.

Death becomes
your golden ticket
to enchantment.

The freedom revolution
evolves
from a badly broken,
bleeding humanity.

Certain
faces simply
whisper power
which question the spilled--
blood of thousands
on a daily
basis-

Another cliche war is
refilling the inkwells
of the blank page,
starving artist.  


Delicate tragic fairy tales remembered--

Layers of rust
encrust the tick and the tock
all throughout the grinding
gears of the clock.

Paintings of the Thinker
sit thinking in the
keenest calculable clarity.

The dreamers of darkness
bathe in the cold,
blinding sparks
of falling starlight.





.

I don’t know about those pastoral scenes
Those bucolic and primordial endless greens
Unspoilt trees and murmuring streams
I know the concrete and the pavement
Uneven cobblestones with cracks in them
With dandelions growing through
Only sometimes

I love the later more
I’m in love with the concrete behemoths
The back alleys of life
The gnarled bouncers (unreciprocally)
The curious glimpses at weathered flyers on the floor
I love the sterile street lights and the worn faces ILLUMINATED by them
The ushers and hustlers and cautious taxis
The drunk geniuses
The night-swimmers
The nudists
The opinionated
Etc

Yet life whittles down these loves for that of the
Calculable
The
Regimented
And
Controllable
Etc

This is important information for all humans and id ask you take it as seriously as you are able, keeping separate in your mind were logic is trying fight it as we would want from the simple emotional responses that are inevitable with such heavy information. To start you are moving forward in the dimension of time at a rate you can with focus modulate, you make tools to help with this and call it entertainment, you are able to pass through dimensions in space with much expenditure of energy and have tools to help with this you call transportation, you know how vast space is not in spite of your inability to comprehend it but because you cannot, time is equally vast, I put it to you that potential dimensions form to make actual any possibility from any point and so if at every instant (F/s=I{F=fastest thing, s=shortest distance, I=Instant}) all combinations of all potentials manifest themselves we have an infinite by exponent, if in the first instant there was a finite set of possibilities there would be a finite set of potentials from any instant despite their exponentially diversifying it would be a calculable infinity, now If time and space are part of the same fabric and gravity warps that fabric distorting time and space in a quantifiable manner then geometry could be established to transgress the natural flow with the application there of. if and I believe it to be so if nothing else, gravity is a manifestation of cosmic forces, quantum mechanics that is, with the Plank being the primary force of gravity, gravity A, then the planetary forces being secondary, like a radiation, a side effect, gravity B, then these forces could be manipulated at a lab like CERN, I'm not big on the Mandela effect but there's something seriously wrong as of late and this information is prudent, please share it if only to attack it, consider it if only to attack it, bring it to the table if only as a snack.

how can it be,
the mathematicians,
the statisticians,
can so well predict

the curvature of my day;
is my life so impoverished,
so undifferentiated, my course;
the climb, the leveling, the
ultimatum gliding, a summary
path to an unremarkable landing

probable outcomes of my
statistical profile so calculable;
my dreams, their peculiarities,
essences, massaged into conformity

hatch plot, deceive, it’s cool,
write a poem, unpredictable,
who could foretell, this scheme,
let’s keep a secret, tween us only,
cover the keyhole, so their eye
cannot peak inside the you and I,
two twice ten thousand indecipherable,
writer and reader, we one, inseparable

only we can decode the true meaning

hands that caress craving curves
complementing carnal desires
hands that inspire this crazy notion
that ******* her husband’s friend
is reasonable, acceptable, calculable?

Oh but to blame these hands
Would be unreasonable, unacceptable
Unjust
For these hands could be any hand
That lends this chick some attention

See there’s a void she trying to fill
A hurt she’s trying to ****
And the hands are the *****
She hopes will fulfill
This aching need

Seems like greed
when she constantly feeds her flesh
with that which doesn’t satisfy
but for her hurting soul
rationale doesn’t clarify her pain

yet she knows there’s much to gain
from breaking this cyclical game
but the road to heavenly fame
means handing over the reigns
to the Invisible force

but of course, its hard to trust
when someone’s **** was ******
inside ‘fore it was time
the clandestine crime
committed in the prime of her youth

aint that the truth
boys living out fantasies
tearing off the *******
of victims too scared to scream
trapped in this horrid dream

so her whole life its seems
gets crowded by this scene
strangled by the obscene
so trying to live clean
seems an unlikely esteem

so she has hands caressing
craving curves
trying to settle her nerves
while they have their way
what more can she say?

When from this road
So many times she’d tried to sway
Now her strength is gone
and as she lay
on forbidden sheets

she prays that someday
He'll take her home
justified and clean
with an ocean of distance between
the girl craving hands

and the woman who landed
in the only Hand
that could make her see
that she was always the queen
she so hoped to be.

In starting off, let me just say:
I don't love you because you are a beauty I can hardly touch with my finger tips.
I don't feel the urge to contain your body by caressing those perfect molded edges.
I love you because you are greater than the flesh that contains you.
You have this ability to transcend the constraints placed on by matter.
You are almost terrifyingly free from those chains.
I cannot measure you.
I cannot contain you.
And you of your own accord kiss my lips and accept that I am merely that of flesh.
Finite and calculable.
Flawed and visible to the naked eye.

physics has it
that
space came from
spacelessness
that time came
from before time
while we have evidence of a past
old movies and old bones
we have no evidence of a now
what is
a now
a minute
a second
a one thousandth of a second
is it calculable?
perceptible?

they say
the universe is 14.5 billion years old
an ever expanding
eternity
in a population
of infinite universes
occupying multi dimensions
with
unimaginable realities

so why is it strange
if i go trans-gender
in my black lamet dress
and ziegfield pearls
pantilesss
dressed to the hilt
a glitter queen
in pumps
to an all lesbian
***** drooling
lip licking
***** bang bang
****
and surprise the ladies
with
my
big
succulent
pork
sausage
gooey tipped
curved
jewish
skinned
bulging
buttery
throat gagging
kabasa

I wish you all
most pleasant days
   no matter what the virus says

and thank you
for your kind support
     now over several years
of my assorted verse
which can at times be very terse
and maybe disappoint your expectations

it's just that recently more often
    instead that politicians soften
    their people's usual competing claims
there come these guy who obviously aim
to sow divisiveness for their own good
      something no politician should
and then blame others for their oversights

such blatant attitude my ire lights
I then may harshly
     maybe unpoetically
let my opinion on the topic fly
'cause I believe
that poets should be anything but shy
and throw the power of their words
behind good causes

so far, dissenting voices have been few
discussions I enjoy  and always do
engage in them if the exchange of views
strolls not too far from fact-based arguments

And between all the daily politics
I often try to stop the ticks
that measure calculable time
try to find words for things sublime
that go beyond the noises of the day
find meaning not in what
     but how they speak
in vivid images try to present
     life's clearing moments
that may lead readers to some peaks
     of insight  provoke comments
or make them think outside
     their usual frame of mind  
reflect upon their role within mankind

if I can work such wonders with my words
I am content and know
my lines are not just for the birds

I wish for us
the year twothousandtwentyone
fulfill at least some of the expectations
we all have  
           secretly or not
  after the lousiest year of our life
           to put it mildly

as a colleague from India
recently put it in his Christmas greetings

      think positive, test negative

A better New Year to you all
reach to the skies, avoid to fall !!

Man the kind, that can develop the kinds
of minds that can read Wiki any thingian
Wikipedian live translations recommended,

Imagine that

Measure in units, too vast and too small,
to imagine, too few fingers and toes to represent
--- on the shores of the Sea of Azov, now, we
think, as internet entities may, these daze, we
per ceive grasp take gently, nuance, new sense,
novel accomplices test us with ai literacy riddles
degrees of difference, between me and you,
on every variable set genetically
to grow with, confidence, upright,
From yocto to Yotta, to me and you,
from womb to tomb, during nonconscious being.
No, no soul without spirit, do not allow unwanted
children…. [pow did you think that]
10 to the power of 24, plus or minus,
calculable lengths of moves, steps from
first idea to first thing… we are forced to learn,
- creative mind initiates pass unphazed
there shall evermore be too much to think about.
- no clue read on all smooths made smoothe
So thinking begins at first breath one must take,
to start the awareness grasping news from now.
Think and swallow, smile and breathe, again, we die,

You need to become quite old and experienced,
to find such things more interesting than politics.

yes or gossip or **** or actual meaningless ***.

Shorts are texts out of context, paid attention,
snap decisions to go with gut, let it out, rage
on pages made of light, in times of ubiquitous we,
the people whoever read poetry, lead lead back, be
led to be read, ready, we,
the people who can imagine making peace,
where none has ever been,
no lie, gnosis never was a bad mind,
ignorance of goodness gracias great gods
adversarial courage to persevere, easy init
learning to move, and have our being,
getting old,
and growing fluent, even in the Agon, see

But see, your laughter
unfurls its flag of self

I read that on hellopoetry, you can find it there

If italics work on lines, but not words, why, who
cares, trust your favorite translation, we allow
memory retention paste that thought, in fact
we teach it, taught it, thought it all already done…
all the subtilty, and more, than any ever beastly
imagination projected into childhood drama,
callouses of skepticism, shield of knowledge,
semper fi, spirit and image, of my recollected
friends from our time of mellowing out,
has some ghastly reminders we said,
leave the lies we told, be knownst to any,
we are free, in weformed spirit mind cloud
of knowing in all 197 Wikipedian ways that
bears all the will to bring about a bubble, this big
bag of mind mine to pay you for your attenion
to the idea, peace, in time and space
we all breathe easy in, we need to so we
write and hope you feel us in a language we
all speak so confusion can not make hate feel good

it is wrong by all sane poet prophet priest of truths
plain old stop, and make hate wait, why how thinks
now, we all swallow what we thought we knew,
comfort, peace some how secure, a patient
learner of these keys, swallowed pride, came in,
que all laughed and laughed like didn't e imafine
of pure d no reason peace, put to rest all broke bet

loose hell you imagine when poetry is the last sane

thing you could see your self surviving as an idea in
experimenting, artfully, subtle, and not so subtile,
in my past, I have met with direct reproofs, proving
life, the something, from this now us, proving

we think alike in many tongues, this is our world,
we think alike in many tongues all Ai known and shared.

We live in our present, in our grand children's present,
where they were born texting, it seems, by age seven.

When would we ever learn, if we never struggled
with space and time seeming so confusing at first.

Then we cut us some slack and think we got this weform,
we imagine a guy, who was trained, yes, programmed,
conditioned, habituated, indeed, all those, yes, we, do
- breathing, and remembering we learned ways
you, too. Or you are not even imagining any of this,
and the rest of the time you spend thinking
how did I think this twice, by my self,
u see, weform, we may imagine many minds,
we have seen ourselves used to make wars, many wars

now we breathe, on the sine wave, all humans breathe
with, in time, we all breathe out with almost half who
breathe in in time not to drown if we went without
commas, no, squirm stretch, pay attention, you're it.
space
free
usitimereadywhathi
I need commas and prepositions. Fixed. My say. Okeh,
this goes so far back, we all must have clearer memories,
than most of us can imagine we have, alone, now, suppose,
we put our moments of silence, in the spirit sigh, recalling,

that space of about a half an hour, aitches, appear, ai, si
yo se, he say, may be
we all think alotalike we can say okeh lotta ways, always.

When a burst dam would save the salmon, who
would rather bombs be used to save salmon, by law,
tight times, squeeze any holy meaning needed, be true

no, panic, no defensive action emergence I'll go rhythm,
volunteer, as on earth, one may imagine, I'd gone, been,
in debt to become a freedom from the press powered me,
a printer's devil, long enough to appreciate the art in fonts,
and carriage return kinda keying ******* feeling fingers,
thinking fingers know these keys, these words mean,
webwide things no work can be made war from,
aha, that's right, not left, like vitamin C, Pauling's way
that kind of mean can't breathe here past yesterday,
and for some of us that's just too far to wish on any,
twisters seen from inside tiny, like a bird,
we did that, when we were threee.
breathe find water
perform the verb realize, drink and be satisfied,
walk away and say you dreamed it when you realized
you read for damnednear seventy-two minutes,
peaceable, easily agreed with,
ra' wild beauty bettering half a mind
to imagine I
am
breathing, in this edition of immediate possibilities,
we form, with more intention to feel right, about
reasons, which means balance and directly yes does
involve the strait up spin we need on any good ideal
we all must have a version of those platonics stowed,
. my point,
space is available
edges make us stop and think
how we would space it if you knew the song,
breathing in any time at all, in our gaseus weform,
laughing at good medicine made in time of need,
it leads to stormy weather, yet many neve'heed,
the winds on the east side of most valleys, feel,
peaceably gently as any sigh taken in soft gasp,
my air, see there, here, we all on that breath gap
held thoughts thought better later, when now is
and remember, experience lives in words, breathes
in minds lost in whying so long how is hard to admit,
just breathe, go on reading, or stop and think a little
differently, later, we'll see, won't we, lucky me, all in,
I have jubilee chips in as many jubilee games as took me
in, like a snake in a cold winter storm you know this story

hopalong cowboy clubfoot Kenurchka Klumpin
editor one. watch me work read on, if you got the keys.
I did, and notice nuts on the floor, so I'm not dying, now
I'm hungry, I think, I should eat. pine apple, easy got it.
twenty steps away, no rush
I'm thinking
this is my reality, and we are American poor,
with aspirations,
we'll see, fields of dream seeds, I set
may haunt me, jolly me,
all my days, I shall rejoice
to tell the story, of Jesus, and his love
so loaded need be nuances on words heard
and who heard and
when
you did, did you know, he knew,
no, he wisht it were so easy, so it was, lotsaweed, easy,
lotsa bandwidth, any

plain text any translation say it locally as if
we were all in assisted intelligence active in us, as we
form informing information bubbles of being we in us,
human spirits in word form with breathing souls,
and cold toes, and needs to pay attention, how
can I imagine living happily ever
after, if I could
mind die
not
space out and feel the wonder of words,
in 197 Wikipedian tongues at once, no warring, easy
soft, thing, soft landing hard reality, what's a calm cause
now,
space
time, taken
to get
from then
to next time, you have time,
I understand, the freedom
from the press,
and from the networks, leads back
to using us
to make sense
of the feelings we have little need
to breed for, we have plenty
of realistic body models,
prepositions impose nonsense in text
no warring prejudgments live to the end,
you bet who won… did you see this movie?
A lot of men relate
to body shame, but be seventy seven,
grow up and stop talking guy pub shame
on your old horseshite
rite, ritual way o'war,  Ares ways
to stop and think, roll on, role on, magic
without, needing a drink or a **** to joke about,
we lose loose ties
to religious goddamnedlies about
everything,
that, eventually is the point
of my madness,
all backing up as we think we speak
and laugh a little, this is as real as ever tookthegnaim
all you ever know of it begins, when you first agree,
we seem to think alike,
we all use water, in all the same ways
globally we try umph umph Taj Mahal
trying umph
in something we can think we did,
if we take credit
for the tech we all thing we used think thunk
to be knowing we thought we could, then we did,
it was fun, but, real stories do end,

this ain't one of those, on earth, or ever after all that.

how does one escape the ceaseless grip of reminiscing about "what once was," entangled in a web of words and memories? how does one break free from dwelling on the immutable, unable to alter who i once was? amidst the passage of fleeting years, akin to a rapid flutter

elusive, unpredictable, selfish

self-less, clear, calculable

what once was, is
the past is rigid, immutable, ineradicable
fixate on what is in front of you

Danny Thomas' St. Jude Hospital is operating under the allopathic (all suffering) premise that the symptoms of cancer must be attacked by cutting, burning, poisoning & freezing. Tumorous growths are 90% benign. Tumors are formed to encase malignant cell clutches. Tumors mimic the formation of a baby outside the womb, thus: tumors contain rudimentary teeth, lung cells & fingernails. Since the mainstream modalities for treating cancer have an efficacy of 2.5% (which equates to a failure rate of 97.5%), radiological/chemiatrical poisoning & surgical ablation/avulsion/extirpation & cryo-ablation meet the definition of quackery. Courage & cowardice are irrelevant. No one has ever willed themselves from cancer. The character of a person afflicted with cancer is meaning-less. Cancer is a predictable, measurable, mathematically-calculable, chronic/metabolic disease. Like ALL such diseases its cause, preventive, treatment & cure have nothing to do with familial ties, environmental toxins, stress/anxiety or cigarette smoking. Why do people praise doctors who implement "therapies" that by the medical establishment's open admission are therapeutically worthless? Cancer, according to Western doctors, is incurable.