no number of opinions will alleviate this apathy, promised, paradoxically: a pandora's box of pathology, which is why attempting dialectics is a farce, a cheap magic trick for a talk-show host in being "understanding", to attempt in mediating, and then scoffing it off, like some under baked crumpet / scone, and yes, it makes sense, pivoting on the possession of a conscience... it's not that some people appear to now possess it, but that they are comical in possessing, and comedy is always nuanced, an ambiguity surrounds their conscience... the binary opposite of comedy? the birth of the tragedy, a succumbing to madness, a suicide... every person possesses a conscience, as the universal law of unit, but comedy hides a person with a grieving conscience, making the person so callus as to make them donkeys, laughing stocks, spaghetti entangled liars... it's only a conscience triggered into a tragedy that reeks with redemptive qualities ascribed to a person, cf. the already mentioned carl sergeant and 'arvey 'ard on weinstein... in the spirit of the film split: rejoice! for those who have suffered are redeemed! rejoice! said the beast. the comedy is near impossible to avoid in post-script idiocy beaming the letters FAIL; the tragedy of conscience, at least we know some evil doers in death are redeemed with the only puritanical act to redeem conscience: the bride of honour.*

can an intelligent person make a slapstick
joke?
  or is it that,
   a dumb person cannot make an original
joke?

besides the point,
  a question is a question -
  and as most questions go -
it's not whether there's a correct
or wrong answer,
rather, whether there actually is
an answer to accomplish
that stated question.

i've noticed a resurgence of dialectical
inquiry, but i have decided to
avoid perfecting the art,
   other than in person,
on a park bench, rather than on
a page in pixel white...

  oh sure, i have a life beyond this
outlet,
and i rarely write a platonic dialogue
to reinforce my experiences,
i once enforced a question
upon a child in a supermarket:
do you think animals are unable
to see 3-dimensional objects
     in / on a 2-dimensional canvas?
he didn't answer, because his guardian
thought i was weird in my
presumption...
which was, however you imagine it:
casual, cordial, orientated
within the adequate use of time and space
for the question to be asked.

personally i find myself if a binary
realm of,
   which isn't exactly a left right divide -
as a "schizophrenic" i am marching
down the middle, and asking myself:
   there's only the middle to mind,
and the mind is the only thing worth
juggling, sure, but juggling
a thesis hemisphere and an antithesis
hemisphere becomes lost in
the schizophrenic-quadratic -
      right down the middle.

which is why i find modern attempts
at dialectics so odd...
i prescribed myself dialectical escapism,
simply because there are too
many opinions i'm simply not interested in.

people seem to have stored these opinions
for so long, they are choking at not
having talked about them...
  it's apparent in comedy...
among comics...
                    they simply say:
if we can't bypass the comedy and sit down
with a cold beer, we can't actually
take the opinion seriously,
  if we can't, at first, make a joke of it...
that's hard...
              that's near impossible to stage...
you can realise the complexity of
enabling a seriousness with a comic precursor
antics to "soften" the blow of
approach...
that is why i await the awaited for
dialectical artist, who must be much
older than i, frankly the age of socrates,
i can only fathom dialectical escapism,
    in that i can fathom an opinion,
but i can't fathom being endearing to it,
keeping it, nurturing it,
       maturing it,
                     making the animate
water into inanimate ice...
                       which leaves steam
   a categorical conundrum of categorisation...

in terms of the human mind,
i can only find comparison with Alcatraz...
i am forever attempting escape,
i know i will be aided by the snitch,
judas, death...
     but i have to be lodged into
a vocab that may aid me,
  or hinder me.

                   the human experience is
an Alcatraz because of the a priori principle -
what came before me: set the rules,
the winding corridors where
i'm not the Minotaur,
but the scared victim,
   or just the dumb-enough brick of
the labyrinth's wall.
or? the a posteriori principle -
           i impose my own graffiti on
the walls, and be the Minotaur of the long
wait of life, with death:
my morphine angel.
                              
         but i see no desire to engage in
dialectical endeavours,
            hence my choice in attempting
a purification of poetry,
against technique of schooling,
  in making poetry less and less
musically orientated, and returned to
its primordial genesis: of narrative.

  hence my dialectical escapism,
i really have not stable opinion,
or opinion i'd like to adhere to, to subsequently
hug a pillar of a Parthenon.
                
- believe me when i say that the english
language has no inclination of
orthography, since it uses no diacritical
distinctions...
  and yes... russian diacritics is ugly as
your waning babushka of "secrets"...
  - the beauty of existentialism?
            avoidance of the thesaurus,
mismatching words, ambiguity -
the phraseology of: for lack of a better word...
     fiddly parts, you know,
            **** it, you can't exactly
interrupt a waterfall, so why bother
   attempting to boil some water in a saucepan?

  the world once believed in the enterprise
of dialectics, but since the emergence
of a third party mediator,
       what sort of "dialogue's" worth of
the dialectical endeavour is there left?
once upon a time, in ancient,
the mediator of a dialogue was a park
bench, after that a stage for actors...
who asked these third party ponces,
  more to the point: who invited these
plebs into our private debate so they can
mere awe and sigh their saturday nights off?!
who the **** let these plebs in?!

       i'm a pleb, i can call them plebs,
do i ******* look like i work at 10 downing st.?!
plebs only understand pleb talk,
  rude, incoherent, mildly orientated
in journalism, and ever wishing for some
marquis de sade hard-ons.

i encourage dialectical escapism, frankly,
because,
          i 've found that i have a bare
minimum, laurel leaf worth of covering my
genitals aspiration to keep opinions...
    opinions have become spare change,
you loose them almost all the time,
they're the pennies from heaven,
some other lucky ****** might find them,
and then the resourcefulness of that poor
****** is imminent: spend it,
what's there to debate?

                    the only truth of opinion is
that one man keeps them,
and by keeping them, idealises them,
thus becoming an idealist,
  or that another man discards them
as easily as a ***** peacock,
and by doing the ***** peacock strut,
discarding them,
          becomes a chameleon,
a "non-conformist" (**** me that's
stretching the idealist antonym);
  
   if there's a truth: it's a bunch of lies -
and if there's a lie: it's the only truth -
because the rule of pluralism (borrowed from
heidegger states):

          one truth = many lies
           one lie = only one truth

(there is no pluralism of a truth,
       but there is a pluralism of a lie -
the genesis of a lie is?
             a continuum beginning
with the original temptation -
truth is "plural" but it is not
a continuum of precipitation,
but even if it is dismembered
it is a whole, already apparent,
           or rather: to be made apparent,
it does not require a preceding step
to provide a pro-ceding step...
   lies are obstructive,
truth never obstructs; truth rapes,
while lies groom)...

   unum verum = falsum multis
   falsum unum = solum verum unum selem.

Controversy started over the images this device receives. Hormones control this impulse, she's making each ***** convulse, and I can tell I'm still in love by the palpitations of my pulse.

Thus, proving that her actions indicate the prequel to her return. Her affection distant but still yearn, expressing sentiments, guess I'll never learn, spoken without biting my tongue
and now it's your turn.

Conquer hearts and take over,
**** her off when I'm not sober,
**** her off when thoughts become somber, **** her off when I say I won't be here much longer, **** her off for many reasons, **** her off once during every season and **** her off the most when in myself I stop believing.

Her perfection an extension of accessible recollection, to the woman who despises the notion of wearing articles of clothing.

Not the best at displaying her emotions, so in combination the words she's chosen seem broken, unable to withhold the growth of sentiments cut at the root, and as they now reproduce, sunflowers inhabit her garden and all the revelations of truth.

Lapse of time passes, lasting longer
than activities that involved
me being on her.

Inappropriately timing events perfectly.
Summer seems to have visited me in the fall, her memories now more than ever I recall and wishing I wasn't missing the woman who had it all.

Concluding it's a blessing, for continuing to have your presence present, writing by only depending on your recollection, and since poetry is my obsession, make new memories with me as I practice the act of ceding back to a former possessor, definition of recession.

As the surface clouds cleared
and the sovereign sun arose
My perspective was no longer fixed
on what lay below
Yet on what awaits before me…..the unknown.
I fly, with the rocky shoreline behind me.

Maria

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the emperor of the solar system
demands obeisance
but for half of our life
ceding us to the
super moon's sequestration,
a velvet coated, cosseted,
the other-half-of-a-lifetime
remainder reminder
of the divide no poet
can supersede

yet, even these planet pulling,
tide churning bodies
are eclipsed,
their torrented powers
have human
shortcomings

orbits prescribed, predictable,
they too can only look down
upon us and wonder
what if and what lays beyond
their lawful curves

but I can look up* to you
watch you, human,
so powerful are you!
you, you, you
can reset your course,
irrespective of tides, gravity

I can watch you
rephrase your life,
knowing that my eyes  
cherish what ere,
before in time,
what will be your
course selection

as I write,
I wonder if
my thoughts sufficiently
clarified,
do they require editing?

no matter,
the way they fall is
how they'll be served

I live with the same orbs,
and the winds that lifted your wings,
changelings of perspective,
now but the breeze that coats me,
were the hot air currents that lifted you,
now here, days later,
my genlest cloak,
as I inscribe to you

and the waters that I see,
not lapping today,
but modestly erupting,
the same Atlantic green
you have seen days pre-me,
but my shoreline sandy,
rocks removed,
for your comfort,
awaiting your arrival

the woman sends the seagull,
French Toast is ready,
(one piece, that talkative white bird's commission)
coffee hot n' salted
all ready, prepped to your taste

and for some reason random,
clueless why on, in my Long island offshoot sheltered isle
tears wave over my cheeks,
which I must erase/disguise,
before the repast begins

Surprise!
How came thee to be at our table?
How good the meal will taste,
now that you chosen to fly/stop by!

and this gibberish nonsensical
cup of words
is your welcoming present,
for here,
humans are the sovereigns,
and the celesetes bow to our wishes,
we select our own direction,
regardless of how the orbs try our souls,
we are most powerful human,
sovereigns of our selves

Copper coil,
Condensed candy,
Ceding comfort,

cotton,
candy,
clouds.

Cyclical contentment,
Cool convenience,
Captivatingly casual.

Cotton.
Candy.
Clouds.

Clean conclusion,
Cheerless continuation,
Cultivating casualties.

COTTON!
CANDY!
CLOUDS!

The mob, elites, journalists
As well as poets like I
To our environment-unfriendly bent
Turning a blind eye
Also tardy in asking  "Why
We strip of mother nature's green mantle,
While to maintain the statuesque
It gets locked in a sever battle?"
Equally not checking overgrazing,
We allowed fertile soil and sand
Amok,wild floods ride
To a close by touristic lake,
Whose mouth an expansion
Used to make
As much as its foreign body intake.

Soon,with the vast array of
Flora and fauna it supports,
Before we knew it
The magnificent lake died
Ceding place to a barren land,
An eyesore that looked a dump yard!

When the abuse doesn’t look like it
then it can’t be recognised
and it parades around
in broad daylight,
in pyjamas with spots instead of stripes,
but no-one is alarmed.
When the abuse doesn’t look like it
the victim goes under
piece by piece
but it is quiet, and she feels so much empathy
and she doesn’t recognise
that she’s taken over.

When those spots look like illness
the abuse is asking for pity
and all of her effort and soul,
with nothing in return
because it doesn’t feel well.
Before she knows it,
she’s adjusted herself,
to manage behaviour, anger and the ‘illness’.

When the abuse doesn’t look like it,
it can be quiet, insidious control and
a gradual, unrecognised ceding of power.
Better not rock the boat,
there’ll be a wall of silence to dance around
for days.
It feels like responsibility, entrapment
but in just having those feelings
she feels so disloyal.

When the abuse is gone
then it takes a long time
to wake up from the stupor
and look with fresh eyes.
To change behaviours,
expect more from the new.

That was a quiet,
sticky,
suffocating,
trap.

Drink me:
A shapely shifting goddess for thee.
Nerves dance,
The king is folded - now is your chance.
Take nothing you need. Lend none of your heed to arms with no hands.
 
Mad hounds
Crave and call your heart's ****** pounds.
On beat,
With thin air streaming under your feet.
Your echoing **** rings guilty and gilded ears in the street.
 
Run fast
To warn them that their idol's collapsed.
Gold spills
Deflated gods erupt from the hills.
Rich lava bleeding through but not ceding to men's fragile wills.
 
Ready yourself for controversial glory.
Set free the heavy hearts of those who can't flee
Go write something wrong or heal with a song the eyes that won't see.

when it is immobile
or drunk with cerebral pile up
it goes to a window-
it drools out
wanting all the space
beyond its saddened globe

it goes when the lights
are illuminated brightly-
arranged in choreograde-
emulating streams
of dark spring's resonance

it goes to a filmy rose
shaded garden-
it sits with the beetles
tickling up lengthy
ferns-
it kicks at the dirt
and sees only a
handful of admiration

it goes up and up
and up out of my eyes
and into the hook
of my ribcage-
my left hipbone
congruent to your right-
my aquiline ears passing
fluttery notes
but then-
what-

it goes into your shoes
to reset you
and to remember
where you came from
before it handed all
to you-

infinite times
it goes to look
for something
to match my
evening empyreality-
a damp green
wood by some
pretty electronic
performance
and it reminds my
unreality why
this never works
the whole way
through

it helps to found
a traveler
with fifteen heads
and black ball eyes
spinning the wheel
with elder spirits
from dusk to dawn

it deserves
a shock-light
buzzing straight
like cicadas
without ceding
to the earth

it is swift
and thieving-
full of rot-
a great salt jewel

It started raining,

as if God heard my prayers and sent some rain

to wash away yesterday’s sorrow.



But even God’s will and strength weren’t enough to erase

this image from my memory.



Every time I close my eyes, that’s all I can see.

Every time I turn the music off, that’s all I can hear.



It’s awaking my demons,

releasing them from the dungeon I spent so much time building,

fortifying.



But they do say you only attract what you are willing to accept,

and God knows how desperate for love she was.



She is my blood,

she is my flesh

but there are words that cannot remain unspoken

and no matter how much I would like her to know best,

she doesn’t.



She thinks she has nothing to loose,

no one to fear for,

but the only person I am afraid for,

is herself.



She experiences the same demons that shorten my nights,

the same voices that ruin my days

and I know for sure that ceding your heart to the wrong person

will do no good,

it only enhances everything, worsening your madness.



I know what it is like to loose yourself in a battlefield,

to love the wrong man.

I know how toxic it can be,

how it alters each one of your cells

forcing them to ask for more and more

turning you into an addict.

Making it barely impossible to go back to being by yourself.



She is the only one the blame

no one’s pushing her into his arms,

his ***** repugnant arms.



Maybe I care too much about words and art,

but he doesn’t seem to master any of those two.

He is just a rough soul who never stops to think and create.

And they are the worse kind of people,

those who never write, paint nor draw.



Because I can assure you that

you will be his art, his first canvas.



And darling, you know how the first drafts

and even the following ones

are never handled with precaution.

They are yelled at,

burnt,

mishandled

thrown away.



Art isn’t supposed to be nice,

it is messy, dark and usually teared into pieces.

So darling, enjoy your time left as a single entity.

underneath the bridge
clarity bids its riddle
ceding overpass

Axed dent of circumstances
(series of unfortunate events
courtesy Lemony Snicket)
adze hatchet marks
to sexagenarian mortal
and finds yours truly liberated,
whereby no obligatory constraints

obliges forcible adherence
synchronizing Circadian rhythm
linkedin within Capital One paradigm
minutely crafting, daisy chaining
involuntarily ceding cradle to grave
man made artificial construct
(dismissing one livingsocial away

alone in the wilderness off the gridlock)
co-opting every precious moment
comprising hour quotidian existence
to sustain swiftly styled
harried tailored lifestyle
affording bajillion **** sapiens
luxury to scold frantic scramble,

freedom to scurry frantically
twenty four seven madcap rat race
formerly existing (millenniums ago)
as "noble savage"
courtesy Jean Jacques Rousseau
ah...remember those glory days
now, grudgingly,

niggardly... unwittingly
compromising pleasant dreams
jarring deeply slumbering
body electric groggily awake
liberty, courtesy alarming wake up
to toil away making dem
big dearly beloved bucks

essentially entering holy grail
searching made more worthwhile
thankless fracas, fray, fraught
pitting one beasty boy against t'other
survival of fittest in overdrive
(Charles Darwin taken aback),
how origin of most ruthless species
went a courtin for dazzling,

jazzy, regal trappings
supposedly to ease
grueling laboring mind numbing
lumpenproletariat, when after
devoting, sacrificing, venerating...
prime mating years
take respite, and

hire oneself out
as independent contractor,
versus sedately pathetic mundane...
you bet your life faux gameshow
in relation to this
self ostracized wordsmith
scratching out literary endeavors.

Woke up today
Thank God for that
Had a good night's sleep
Indebted for allowing that
Had my cup of coffee
More than contended

A roof over my head
How many can claim that
Eternally grateful for the kindness
Food on the table
Whenever the stomach requested
Provided in full
Obliged to you
Whatever has happened
Is the best outcome you have granted
Relationships in symphony
Synchrony you help validate
Deeply appreciative for ceding
Contended fulfilled clear
That's my life today
Humbled by the generosity
Nothing to ask
Everything given without any pre condition
There for me to experience
Live life the only expectation
The mind in between
Sows seeds of questions
Help me understand
That a gift is to be celebrated
And shared
Not taken with an attitude of i don't care
Noticed that the universe
Had performed its functions well
As the world outside
Was bustling with activity
Overwhelmed in the least
A big thank you
For giving me the life
With the best help to tend



A life to lead only awareness to
To be
Thank you Thank you Thank you

Don’t want to be reading
The dreadlines again
Or seeing
The pleading,
Bereaving
Condemned
To eternal,
Infernal,
Infirmities
Sick
Of the different day,
Different plague,
Be afraid
Shtick
So we pick and choose
Truth
More appealing
And safe
And we make it replace
What no scapegoat escapes
From the burden of knowing
“So much on your plate”
To the taste
Is addicting,
Afflicting the state
Of the outdated status
Updating-site
Fake
News in its earth-******,
System
Victim-blaming,
Disastrous forsaking
Of tensions enflaming
Then breaks with reality
Leaving you waking
Up to
Shaken up,
So it’s back to the stirring
Of hurrying cups
Of productive
Consumption
Of never enough
Pics of food
On the feed
In its virulent greed
As it propagates,
Promulgates
Seeds of deceit  
And like vermin
It breeds
A posterity ceding
More user agrees
For the free-raider
Data invader’s 5G’s
So to spy with our eyes
What they hide
As we stream
Along indolently
In naive
Fever dreams
Interweaving
All that we perceive
To confines of a screen
Never blind to the scene
Yet immune to the screams
As we still hope and pray
To evade
The disease

When I ask you for something
like ***, your listening ear, or your help
I admit my limits.

It is like prayer
which is a moment of giving up
some part of my potency
ceding a share of my energy and control
to a greater something or someone
I need.

Intimacy is an asking
a surrender of my image
my public in-control self
a holy moment of exposure.

It’s like the cat who in battle with another
turns over on its back
and bares its tender belly
yielding itself.