When you are greeted,
With a shell of an
Old wrinkly man,
Do not forget the person i am,
Please try to understand,
That i am not the deep curves within my skin,
Please try to look within.
Do not forget though my speech may be
Inconsistent and slow,
And i may have difficulty with
The ability to chew and swallow.
Do not forget, that these complications,
Do not show,
The things i have achieved,
The family i conceived,
The fresh air that I've breathed,
In many different destinations,
And when you get cross with my hesitations,
Because my actions due to my complications,
May be a little all over the place,
Do not forget,
That embedded within my face,
Lies a whirlwind of memories and dreams,
And though at sometimes it seems,
That i am frail and bitter,
Please understand i am trying to come to terms
With the fact that Im no longer as fitter,
As i used to be.

And when you see me cry,
Do not try to deny me
Of my dignity,
Be calm, be patient,
And look after me gracefully,
Sympathise for the person,
I used to be.
And when you take my body,
Dress it with care,
There is still life there.

And if i stand and stare quietly,
Please wait, for me.
And when you brush my hair,
Please do not rush,
And if i speak in riddles,
Please do not hush,
What may not appear to make sense,
This change Im going through is
So very intense.

And if i soil myself
And your left to clean up the pieces,
Please try to do so,
In a way that irons out the creases,
Of shame and self blame,
And if i forget my name,
Please understand the pain,
That i will never be again,
The same,
Its just my body and my brain,
Don't quite work the way they used to,
And if it appears that Im asking you,
The same question repeatedly,
Please be patient,
I am doing the best for me.

When you look at my pictures,
My photos, my life,
You will see a successful man,
With three kids and a wife.
Young girl, I've battled inner strife,
For almost 90 years,
But nothing warrants tears more,
Than becoming a widow,
Not recognising your own shadow,
Realising your body is no longer your own,
Being moved into a care home,
Where the phone doesn't ring,
Where the birds no longer sing,
And you feel like giving in,
Every single day.
And people constantly say,
How you're turning old and frail,
That your body is aging and turning pale,
And every task you do,
You feel like you fail.

And if in time you begin to find,
A snippet of the old me,
Hold it carefully,
In the palms of your hands,
For the sands of time,
Are slipping too quickly,
Through mine.

So when you are greeted with a face,
With wrinkles so deep,
You could bury your own fears is them,
That sometimes weeps,
Remember, i was once
Like you,
And one day, you will be like me too.
Handle me with patience,
Tenderness, love and empathy,
Handle me gently.

And young lady,
I ask you,
Please be kind,
And remember all i have said,
As i unravel and unwind,
These cognitions within my head.

merely breadcrums of cognitions produced during *realities open ended coma

a world full of never ending twisted visions, imagine, imaginations experience constant states of nonexistence.
would letters rejoice with one another,
would they celebrate the specifics of the meanings re veiled by their gatherings?
or would each become a victim? could each have a new home, found sixfeet deep, causing the destruction or any bit of lingering sanity left lurking..
would colors be conceivable? would delusions actually delude, if no trace of reality or its oppisite was remaining to place firmly in ones grasp?

I've been searching for the source of these emotions
Because jealousy and other things
Are typically a result of your own perceptions
And it took me awhile to figure it out
I lost some blood along this unknown path
But then I came upon the answers
Because of something my best friend said
And now it all makes sense

I have always had a problem
With investing too much of myself into love
I begin identifying too strongly with the relationship
And any roadblocks feel as though
My entire universe is crashing before me
And looking at this one here
I've done the exact same thing

When we were first together
I told you I needed to continue working on myself
In order to avoid giving you all of my energy
And as soon as I stopped doing that
I fell into old habits

So it makes sense why I feel entirely crazy these days
Why I can consciously recognize that
You having another partner isn't the end of my world
Because you still love me
And I love you undyingly
Yet I still had overwhelming negative cognitions
That made me feel like dying

And now I realize that
In order to deal with these feelings
I have to focus on me again
Recognize that I need to improve myself
For myself
And then this will get easier
Thankfully it already has

Because I love you so much more
When I'm taking care of myself
Because instead of feeling like I have
No real choice but to stay
It now feels like a beautiful privilege
And it truly is

Afternoon-light in our periphery
our cerebellums glowing happy like...
maybe a plate of cheesecake, and two bent forks
the atoms that separate 'you' from 'me'
laughing within a jitterbug
but now there's no cake for us.

Why aren't you here?

afternoon-light in our periphery
and our cognitions like a strawberry swirl
Sweet, home-made, toujours innocente
and I scratch your brilliant head for
the secret to unconditional love
and your smile becomes lyrics,
the first line of a perfect song.

Shoulda come.

At the bottom of a teacup, we reveal
our secret selves, in a boy scout pact of friendship
spit-locking our hearts into a ferocious loyalty
to take care of each other in our parallel lives
and to cherish what we cannot see.  

Because I cannot see you,
and you cannot see me.

I forgive you, next time- it'sraininganyways
i'mnotmad, i just don'twant to revealhow
muchyou mean tome.

You shoulda come, friend.

When you are greeted,
With a shell of an
Old wrinkly man,
Do not forget the person i am,
Please try to understand,
That i am not the deep curves within my skin,
The fullness in my laughter
That has started to wear thin
Please try to look within.

Handle me with patience,
Tenderness, love and empathy,
Handle me gently.

When you brush my hair,
Please do not rush,
And if i speak in riddles,
Please do not hush,
What may not appear to make sense,
This change I'm going through is
So very intense.
When you take my body,
Dress it with care,
There is still life
Resonating there.
If I soil myself
And your left to clean up the pieces,
Please try to do so,
In a way that irons out the creases,
Of shame and self blame.
And if i forget my name,
Please understand the pain,
Of the knowledge
That i will never be again,
The same.
The knowledge that my body and my brain,
Don't quite work the way they used to.

When you see me cry,
Do not try to deny me
Of my dignity,
Be calm, be patient,
Have empathy,
Grieve with me, at the loss of each memory, the person,
I used to be.

Do not forget though my speech may be
Inconsistent and slow,
And i may have difficulty with
The ability to chew and swallow.
That these difficulties,
Do not show,
The things i have achieved,
The family i conceived,
The fresh air that I've breathed,
In many different destinations,
And when you get cross with my hesitations,
Because my actions due to my complications,
May be a little all over the place,
Do not forget,
That embedded within the space
The walls of my mind,
Lies a whirlwind of memories and dreams, left behind.

When you look at my pictures,
My photos, my life,
You will see a successful man,
With three kids and a wife.
Young girl, I've battled inner strife,
For almost 90 years,
But nothing warrants tears more,
Than becoming a widow,
Not recognising your own shadow and reflection
Living in a mind
That screams rejection,
Realising your body is no longer your own,
Being moved into a care home,
Where the phone doesn't ring,
Where the birds no longer sing,
And you feel like giving in,
Every single day.
And people constantly say,
How you're turning old and frail,
That your body is aging and turning pale,
And every task you do,
You feel like you fail.
And young lady,
I ask you,
Please be kind,
And remember all i have said,
As i unravel and unwind,
These cognitions within my head.

And if in time you begin to find,
A snippet of the old me,
Hold it carefully,
In the palms of your hands,
For the sands of time,
Are slipping too quickly,
Through mine.

So when you are greeted with a face,
With wrinkles so deep,
You could bury your own fears in them,
Please treasure me for all that I was
And all that I am
I am human, I am a man.

Burdensome to breathe,
Laborious to walk,
Clutch back tears as my hands tremble.
Thoughts scramble,
'I'm a failure,'
'I'll never be good enough,'
At the forefront of cognitions.
Cycling through,
Impede on concentration,
And everything done can no longer stop it.

Crawl inside.
Shrink and revert.
I become seven again.
Take each word and misconstrue the meaning,
Multiply the effect,
Undervalue any positive utterance ,
Discount any commendable contemplation.
And all I want to do is escape.
Disappear and give up,
Start over with nothing.

Oh what a shock, he changed his mind.

In a conversation dripping with sarcasm and oozing distain, I begin to tell my coworker about my big news. I begin with the transition with *remember that guy I used to talk about. For months now we had been hashing this situation out at work, the unanswered text messages, the constant apologies, the sudden disappearance of what was seemingly the perfect guy. Everyone had heard the story, it just glided off my tongue whenever the conversation came to relationships, which at 22 is the topic of choice. By now everyone is either so stable or in some varying level of turmoil which makes my story not all that unique. It’s a classic girl gets drunk in costume, falls for a tall guy who listens to records, then spirals into self-doubt and bouts of frustration.

So how did this happen, the coworker asks with a laugh as we drive back. He knows the story up until this point and cannot wait to hear how I managed to get to this level. It started just as it had begun, a full circle of drunkenness. I had texted him after an open bar, and to this day I don't really know what I was expecting to come of it. After a casual opening conversation, the first that we’ve had in many months, not counting our stream of snapchats, I tell him we should hang out soon. When I saw that he was pretty drunk.ish. drunkish, I knew that we could have the first real conversation in a long time. We discuss his unavailable nature casually and he identifies as not being worth all the fuss.

Of course he is not worth all the fuss, I had been telling myself that since the beginning. Of course I had been fussing all the while but at least I was aware that it was not necessary. This is where all those craft beers stepped in and I agreed with him. Yep I told a guy that he wasn’t worth effort. To make it even clarified that due to a lack of variety, he was just the best out of many bad possibilities.

I deserved to see him reply with a single, punched in the ball style, ouch. Being the strong independent black woman I pretend to be I once again hit him with a one-two punch of truth. Oh please, as I electronically roll my eyes, you know I am interested in you. I tell him that he confuses me and that we could figure things out. I hear the classic line that I have now heard from many more guys than I am happy to admit, blame it on my need to hunt down every damaged travel ****** in the western New York area: I’m going to be nowhere near here in a few months.

They never are, this one is bicoastal but the last few are across an ocean, across the world, a verbal cultural and emotional divide away. To follow up he hits me with possibly the worst thing you can say to a girl, in my very extensive history of turn downs at least: I wouldn't want to hurt your feelings.

*****, please. You are talking to a psych major here, I know more about feelings that your barefoot running lack of *** could even imagine. Saying that would require that I have feelings in the first place is just the tip of the ******* iceberg. I am on lock with being in charge of my emotions. I am a grown *** woman who knows my **** and has healthy *** cognitions most of the time leading to stable *** feelings. Don't get me wrong I feel but no vegetarian is going to reduce me to a puddle of disgusting feelings.

So what are you looking for? The same thing I was looking for four months ago, a friend, a fellow explorer, maybe some physical contact, someone to confide in, worry about, cook for. Nothing big, nothing serious, nothing forever. ohh

Sorry bud, ohh is just not going to cut it here. Now’s the time to check back in with what he wants. As a recap, originally we had a conversation, same topic different tone. In that moment he wanted a friend, a fellow explorer, maybe some physical contact, someone to confide in, worry about, cook for. Nothing big, nothing serious, nothing forever.

Oh what a shock, he changed his mind.

This time his conscience was taking over, he couldn't hook up with me because its not in his nature, because it wouldn't form something real, because that's his guiding force. It’s certainly tempting, it would be lovely. He took my a good time in the present, no strings attached * as a ******* which wasn’t its intent but finally I was relieved.

The purpose of this story is not for pity or out of unbridled rage even though I used a few swears. The conversation goes on to target some insecurities, to open up about this being a pattern, and ultimately to wish him the very best.

And, I do, honestly and entirely wish him the very best. Although he had disappeared I know that he didn't do it with malice and that he has a really kind soul. Once again it didn't work out but this case was different.

We had 2:30 AM closure of the best nature, and I feel free and so much happier for the time I spent hung up on him, which is not something I can say for all those previous cases. I really enjoyed our sparse conversations but even more than that, this was the first time I came out of my shell and got pushy about what I wanted. I did all the work and had nothing to lose and for that I do not have a single regret, and I feel like the sky is the limit. No more texting rules or hurting other people feelings in the Game just for the sake of winning.

thank you, you too :)

His response was perfect, and I promptly removed him from my social media. After all, I am human.




*NSYNC’s best hit

"You are what you eat"
until one day you don't
and that's what you become
n o t h i n g (beautiful?)
your cognitions like broken clock cogs
s l o w s l o w s l o w (perfect?)

tabula rasa is the body unbefouled by
nourishment (enemy?)
And the walls are washed white
Nature sickly perverts vitality
The cornucopia becomes a conspiracy
To sully your porcelain
e m p t i n e s s (happiness?)

hypoglycemia makes you shake
but not as hard as eating a whole meal

Can one person be so myriad?
This identity could not possibly fit inside a body.

Dreamer. Comedian. Thinker.
  Friend. Musician. Writer. Smiler.
   Lover. Wisher. Runner. Fighter.

      Bulimic.

And there it is: ugliest of all words.
This identity could not possibly fit inside a body,
and you see, it doesn't.

It breaks it.



I don't know how
but


*I will win

Grey. You are invisible to hungering eyes.
Except perhaps to mine. I see you with my memory.
You are anchored in my mind.
Grey. Grey. There.
The spectral photograph of your architecture.
Ensconced in mist. What have you to hide?

Your regal spine, adorned in halfsleep shades of midnight.
Rucked up around your amber skin.
There are mirrors everywhere that speak in half-light
As it gathers about you the blush deepens and ebbs.
I think of violets.
You are so very still.

I watch you magnetically with my entireness
With want of telling you tangibly
Coloured cognitions
My heart is yours.
It is all stained glass.

Here comes the black;
Wrapped in softer afternoons and distorted visions of God
(Or was it Godess who kissed my tender lips?)
While I waited on Earth to strike my shattered remains.
I was never one to believe in fairy tales,
But the truth is harder to hide
Than the hair from my razor.

What is it I am left with?
Hollowed desires?
Poisoned cognitions?
Absent thoughts?
Always.
There was never any other way to express my love
For the powers that be.

Am I to believe that Nothing really equates
To my existence?
No.
Refusal is my only option.
I love the way I can **** my own reality.
I love the way I can **** yours in my perception.
And mostly,
I want to love you.

As you kick me out your house to leave
I do concede
These feelings that I plead
For you
My heart still bleeds
For you

But whether you understand or care
Is neither here nor there
I simply breathe air
For you
An unrequited affair
For you

These words are conglomerated
Only confusion is created
Cognitions translated
For you
Feelings inflated
For you

A bleak misunderstanding
A fatal crash-landing
But feelings expanding
For you
Notwithstanding
For you

Despite this bitter fate
These feelings won’t abate
I will stand by and wait
For you
In a terrible state
For you

i will say i will see you tomorrow someday
& slice & carve the hardened clay
until molten emotions rise & flow away
& all around me sounds decay
& all the sights dim & rise then fade
until i’m left fighting this white abyss
while my cognitions give in & commit
to rearrange the big bang of my existence

Vernarth says: “We will be able to find in this path of Light that is my life, what is the wood that stretches and upsets the material surfaces in the gifts of God, with the prevailing low water of the minimal plastering of rainfall, but if in the flow of astonishment that will leave us all in the breath of knowing how to be and understand, which is my hand directed by Vitruvius, and that his interval measures do not cease to outline everything that can or could generate cracks that cross the rules of Survival, where everyone who is a survivor of the Arbela Site, will be identified as an unfolded constituent of all solid material, providing the minimum percentage that will make up the majesty of a revived heart. Vitruvius remains with me ..., and his hands sustain greater fantasies that reside in the divine architecture that will be the origin of everything that existed and will exist. The long wattles will extend in the new layer that resides between the Kidron Valley to Gethsemane, and from Nazareth to Eilat, and that those who walk around will winnow footsteps that will later lead them to Bethany, and that Alexander the Great ... my General! Will be protected by the holy mantle of Mashiach, after we are both released from this mega Purgation. That the magnitude of the planks and the broad-headed nails will be hammered by the antlers of the Uilef, and that the utopias will make me see from above and it will be like being on the shoulders of Brisehal or the Colosso of Apsila so that wattles be always and permanently sprinkled by my prose of advent and passion of my Redeemer. I am prepared with the edge of my Xiphos ..., every day I cut a piece of my arm! As I heal again, I fissure the meats that closed, letting the softness of my skin be the skin that restores the nail that will slice the second rows of concession arteries, so that they are assimilated to the third that could reach the same way as those received by the Mashiach. The length of the miracle is imperishable and the nails with a small head will make the break where they will not be finally nailed, interweaving the preparation vines that will cover my arm and that of Alexander the Great, more distant from the third arteries that still bleed, so that they are prepared in the fourth row of the syntagma group in the arteries that will be those that hold posterity carrying everything with my sectioned dexterity, but always holding onto the Xiphos behind the brilliant mortar of Arena. Nothing exists, everything only existed for the first entelechy of Zerubbabel when rebuilding, and our Redeemer uttered that everything will be turned into pieces of stones with bones of long wattles that would extend to the layers of clay being his tomb, that yes passing through the mortar that will make all mankind redo the sawdust of the whole earth towards the devastated earth. In this way, the four rows of arteries will lie in the preparation rows with my right arm burning when I first touched the Empyrean taking me with it from 775 BC. C. until the time of the first century of the Era of Our Lord ”.

Cosmic thought crossed the four brains of its component of unfolded time, after being attracted by the foolishness of the thoughts that traveled without generational limits of Tikun, in such a way that the thoughts that were fixed on the orthogonal of infinity were detached from time imperceptible with the summation of the loss of the unknowable space of the abstruse of the Vav Hei Vav, creating the total dissociation of the past from the peristyle of time, leaving the future numbed in the antiquity of the Hellenic past, but reviving it in the passing of the transgression mean, between the antitragus of the head of the four assistants of the Vav Hei Vav, to transfer them through the shell of each one in their inner ears when sizing what will pass silently through their cognitions and in their Over Being, or Quantum Being that will take them along paths from the 700 years old to the first century in the constitution of Hera in Olympia, and rather towards the recalcitrant subjection of the stones that made it up to be subject to the nurse nomenclature of the understanding of the cosmic thought of Vernarth, who had slender few sponsored in all the naturalities that tried their mimicry, doing nothing else what has not been noticed far from it, from where the natural deformation of cosmic thought will bend as it is transcribed in all the textual evolution of the four united minds of Vernarth, Alexander the Great, Saint John the Apostle and King David. The luminescence would be attracted by all the rivers in the Vernarth Opera with the Bumodos, Eygues, Lethe, Euphrates and Nile, Acheron (the river of sorrow), Cocytus (laments), Phlegethon (fire), Lethe (oblivion), and Styx. The Bumodos would be the stigma of the pain of the Thymus of Vernarth that would be even more active and sensitive than his heart, and the Eygues that would be his faithful companion that would help him to promote the pains of lost loves with Wonthelimar, when the haze and storm left him alone in the sugary sand with labyrinths and the contact of the last frictions of his loved ones, leaving only messes in a Siddartha that would tend to be tempted by humanity, making us believe that nothing is more powerful than the propensity of evil to have in the constitution transgenerational family, to remain anchored in Ha-Shatán's slander, harassing immanent relics of the worship of man who settled on the banks of rivers in the expectation of quenching their thirst for wisdom or for the Vav Hei Vav, as a portal of entry of the trip around the world that unites us with our encore adventures, that are always united to the past of the upper ***** and that does not leave us any second of the present in his waves of contemplation as a Hoplite man in the fantasy of his dreams, managing to make the rivers of oblivion or Lette propitiate the future that will not make him forget what in the past was an underground part of the currents of a watery thought, what is The verb will be and should be the subjugation of those around him who harasses himself.

In this way, the words ran in the sorry speed of the harassment of the immobile Ha-Shatán but fiercely restrained by what surrounded the verb as in the meadows of Ein Kerem that was surrounded by the contours that made her not fatigue in the gaze of the heaven, when everything that was close was in fullness with the organic nature that contained it, and everything that was summarized from the rhythm of the Hexagonal Chapel of the Shepherds in its rhythm, like a swarm between winds that carried pollinations in the first words that they contained themselves from the latter to later reconnect themselves by means of the buckles carried by the offspring of the lambs and the primordial respiration of the Cosmos, which they said above all as a verb that sprouted in the seeds themselves that were escaping from their reproductive capacity. Vernarth already knew that he had little time left to be near his Hoplites and that the ocean of arrows that would fall on his destiny would be from bittersweet Theosophy that would fall on the back of the herd, like Manna that would emancipate itself in tons of languages that can define the Thought that may pre-exist. Perhaps thinking, but anchored in the turn that contains him, between words that would no longer be writing or any wisdom that reduces him, rather the gesture of the Peri Kosmous that would transmit something to us through those who do not speak or indicate ..., rather of the same abstraction of all the Pelicans that would advance by the vital energies that wear away the concepts that sway between the waves by the Aegean seas, and of the silence that of this same thing already begins to lose the horizon in the gaze of your observer. Nothing was friction that generated words that could be the sustenance of an Era that was spent for more than seven hundred years in the hands of the oppressors who would waste it in seven seconds, leaving everything in the hierarchy of a reality as the Plan of the Spare Universe. called Duoverso, which was precisely the simple river that joins both Universes lying between themselves as the appearance of the river Acheron or permanent misfortune, imagining ourselves in every bad good fit to balance our thoughts where the first will be offshoots of the Vernarth principle, until four o'clock. arteries that prosper to reach an occult knowledge, where every being that walks twice the same way is not the reality of the times in which every day the footsteps of the Mashiach are seen from Bethany to Ophel or from Ophel to Bethany, like an anthroposophic hill and foundations that will make the city of David seven hundred meters high, carrying this peristyle in the gallery of time, going through the majestic iteration of the journey of the imperceptible quantum being seven times in a row with the seven long paths of the rebound between Bethany and Ophel, on the very promontory of Saturn reviving them in the narrow promontories that make you see that thought is more than a sacred place to remember what is dear, which is precisely what is to be appreciated and observed when some steps escape and are not of the forged walk of the Mashiach from Kidron to the Tyropoeon; towards the escarpment that would put the relays of the new sheep that will also graze on Patmos, and that despite the turns of antiquity will be the strip between the ancient era and the Middle Ages, as precepts of the sacred mountains that will grow in the eschatological of the advent of Thuellai when Profitis Ilias was the source of synergy in the figure that will unite them among the evil that grows Vg The Golgotha and the sacrifice *** Bei Himnom, proceeding with Zion of the Earth and David, as a precept of the plains of forgiveness in the Moriah from where Abraham, already provided with his “Hey”, mediated and possessed the benevolence of the Maker to bring to life to his Son Isaac, to shelter him in the rubble in everything that was not of his patriarch's fruit, and then it could be reissued in the nobility of an epigram that would be the return to Ophel after having crossed the circumflex of the word used in this paragraph, to continue through the mountains that will be the emphasis of Patmos, constituting the square for its defense and blocking all the walls of history that will be carriers of all the threat of installed evil, making them the systemic forces reluctant and doomed on the southern ***** of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem between Tyropoeon to the west and the Kidron Valley to the east dominating the ill-gestated shadow of Ha-Shatan.

They just use me.
Gripped by the hands of vengeance
Magnetizing attention,
I am the essence of negative presence.
Manufactured to protect and defend
Not to descend you or any of your friends.

Being brought into many cold days and ****** nights
Manipulated into assisting homicide
They fill my cold stainless steel torso with unwanted slugs
As my head is cocked back,
I envision the man in the scrubs.
Then I am released.
Spitting out a regret,
I yearn for I have probably just killed your first born.

Media convinces that this world is torn
Wars from shore to shore causes you to ignore what I’m really for
Police cores don’t help
Every time they see a minority walk out a drugstore they’re quick to say “Knees on the floor”
Then wrongly accuses for having darker colored pores

This is what happens when I am abused
Cognitions stir confused
I apologize but I am misunderstood
My owner deserves to be accused
Because I have been misused.

They cut my palms from wrist to *******
tethers that were my formation of all were
sacrificed for there gratitude for my sight was
not to be formatted into a form there eyes to yield
A difference of consciousness and so my embodiment
of creation was but word and thought.

But I knew if I was too breach the wind. what could not
be penned though even many had blossomed from
cognitions of knowledge. these seeds of enlightenment
would be severed from the root. I would be
a mute as the clear sky nothing but wisps of
colour but nothing seen or heard.

I am a poet a drawer of creation either malignant
or statuesque, Words that could open a thousand
doors in the subconscious or unbar that singular one
that could enlighten the world. But alas I am
of a place where my thoughts are but a jest that would
be expunged from others minds.

**"I linger in infinitely, but I am but a grain falling for a moment,

May your word be supple with optimism
and may their cognitions follow suit.
I took a little 2C-D tonight
and prayed to move

Quantum Awareness
lurks behind words of
General Relativity
and arises in Question:
What is aware
of this warping of fabric..?
Is Awareness warping itself
with our experience here
as gravity and objects
and time and space..?
Extreme warping
our minds name as
black holes
in which gravity
with its objects
time and space
these cognitions of mind
dissolve into the
flames of Now...
Our recognition at last
of our real Self:
Happiness and Peace
named here as
Quantum Awareness...

Cajoled corpus in consonant with
the ceaseless cardiac cadence
coaxing my cerebral cortex

Cochlea convolutions cause
camarilla cognitions of
cascading calescence

Corresponding combinations
cavorting like czardas
as my clavicle collar climbs

one is tired of still wanting to know; one provides oneself only with cognitions and schooling.
                                            heidegger, ponderings iv, aphorism 66.

so much for dropping the ship's (mind's) anchor (the ego)
into the depths of psychology.
              can i give you an orientation of the edinburgh university
campus?
                  there were two... the sciences were on the outskirts,
mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology, zoology,
                                                                near the royal observatory.
so where were *philosophy and psychology placed?
in the centre of town... with all the other humanities...
                                                             history, english... whatever.
minding the above citation, i wonder: are the two stressed
                  disciplines the liberal faction of conservative science?
i prefer the word liberal than, say, the prefixes quasi- or pseudo-,
     now aphorism 72 is a beautiful tartan, patchwork, a knitting project

   the new "logic" is the logic of silence. but it is completely different
in essence and goal from a "logic of semblance".

                the needle in the thread: re-      -semblance:
                    resembling:    to turn semblance: the outward appearance
of something, when the reality is different...
      well...       talking can be a kind of mute button,
       in itself, a silence.           for whatever logic is used in talking,
         it can never actually be a coherent "logic", akin to
                                          the logic of "silence" - which is thought,
              and beyond the need for conversation / discourse / dialectics;
i.e. it's actually the oldest possible logic conjured -
                                  the pre-socratic philosophers knew this,
in line with:                        i know nothing... let's chat!
   just a minute, let me bring 2 litres of water, and perhaps a few beers,
                                               or maybe just the beers.

so what is this bothersome cloud of mosquitos, that aim at draining
breath, drinking too much blood to clear their "throats",
and argue the importance of: con-ver-say-shon?
      ****! where did τ (tau) and ι (iota) ******* to? mt. etna? tibet?

i will be rude, i was watching the news yesterday, and this thing
about prescribing 6 year olds a.d.h.d. medication came up...
      what a zombified kid... god almighty... what are these parents
doing? the kid's brain will only fully develop when he reaches
the zenith post-teenager years...
                      ah... matriarchy in full swing...
                                                     didn't learn to play,
   any woman he meets in later life will play the little ****** like
a violin... and he'll be like: if i were rich man, ya ba di di di di da...
  and didn't have to pay alimony, or child support.

At the chocolate milk water of Holly Hill Lake
I skipped a stone to watch the wake
The rock fell to the bottom , and so have I
I threw another that met it's demise
Continually skipping gravel in hopes of cognitions
'opposite shore prize' till all the rocks fell by the wayside

Between the hammer and the anvil,
I am white hot
Hay-colored and molten,
Dripping **** along the jagged edges
Of steel night highways.

In agony, in search,
I trace the valleys' shadowed thighs,
Run my fingers through all creeks, all rivers,
Remembering the forgotten taste of her,
Her sigh within all trees, in the grasses.
At night, under stars,
Weaving in and out of dreams, Far from the woodsmoke and fire
Dying in an ocean of hemlocks and ash.

Awake-dreamer-Emptiness itself seeking
Over fields, stone barns, abandoned churches,
For the face that holds everything.
The compass of the universe spins
Around her navel, her cheekbones, her eyes

I am pulled inexorably,
Ever tighter toward that center.
We dance on a fine silk brocade—
There are cities, trees, stars—
And suddenly, we fall through.


From the Wilderness,
Into the gaping dark dazzle of infinity.
Now, I speak only what can be spoken with all Being—
A reflected balance on the edge of the mirror,
The knife-blade plunge of honey-colored sunsets
Somewhere in the galaxy between her ribs,
The flame to its moth.

I want your sweet turpintine musks,
and a sunny Sunday in Augusts ambers.

Glaring at identical indigo’s,
sitting in cognitio cognitions.

I want sharp shooter pupils,
diving for overthought opportunity.

I need a spark of truth
A doting girl to establish love again
In my world of cutting pain
A pain that embeds and does not subside
An agony twisting and turning.

I feel your pain too
A double dose, a double shot,
I feel your anger, your rage,
The words you put on the crumpled page.

The daze I find myself occupying
Helps me to eradicate unwanted thoughts
Which used to play out in a sequence of brutal events
Where ghosts fight with tyrants, and angels fight with hellfire,
My mind is a messy affair, dusty but clear enough to hurt me.

You are observing my destruction, the world’s destruction,
It is all coming down, crumbling on our unhealthy cognitions,
Dreams are too far gone, love is stuck in a capsule of misery,
And the hope list is haemorrhaging ink.

We are truly dying.

It was not an easy choice,
to say the least, I'll add.
But as it seems, boys,
my chair's the best friend I've ever had.

We've been through the lot
together. As if my final fate
was to sit and stay up late
and make cognitions hot.

I did all a man does with his time,
from eating, beating, drinking,
sleeping, farting and stinking
to coming up with this dumb rhyme.

That's why you've won the prize, hon.
You're the best, my lovely strandmon.