Barnacles begin their lives as free-swimming larvae, ebbing and flowing with the tide.  
Most are eaten, some wash ashore, a few survive long enough to attach
with freakishly strong glue their minute larvae heads to a final rock- strewn home.
There they spend the rest of their lives with feathery feet poking out of a hardened shell, filtering the sea for whatever happens to come within reach.

Why the barnacle starts out free
and ends up bonded to some god-forsaken rock
to alternately dry out and be fed at the whim of the tide
is just one of life's many small mysteries.

While barnacles are meant to lead a primarily static life
human beings are not.
We are meant to flow
to settle and ground, uproot and travel
to seek
to speak well and listen better
to find meaningful answers.

We always have the choice to let go
of whatever safe, high ground we're frantically clinging to
though it will mean not knowing where we'll ultimately wash ashore.

Letting go can feel like being caught in a rip current.  
What I know about rip currents:
They pluck hapless beachgoers from shore and pull them out to the ocean deep.  
If you're caught in one and try swimming back to blessed land
you won't make any headway.
Eventually you'll grow tired and drown.

The only way to survive is to stroke like mad
in a totally counterintuitive direction
parallel to the solid ground you desperately want to reach
until you're out of the narrow river ******* you out to sea.

I've decided to unglue my little larvae head
from its rocky, self-imposed, falsely-safe perch.
Let the current carry me where my feet no longer touch the known.

It's up to me to swim in the right direction until I'm free.

rhythm is
comfort
and predictability
stitching my days together
through the notion
of repeating the motions
an illusion of stability,
but no matter the way I
structured my day
no matter the perfection
I strived to attain
no matter how many
unkempt strings I cut away
I think deep down I knew
that life
should be a little frayed

as counterintuitive as it seems
the unexpected becomes
the rhythm of dreams
ripping through the routine
changing the patterns
of what I planned to be
into new designs entirely

so I embrace this chaotic beauty
with its endearing knots and
erratic threading, ready for
living imperfectly
balanced in the uncertainty
is rhythm

In the cold of my car I shivered,
as the engine ran,
                     I sat still hoping to
dispense with the chill,
                 but my will said, 'accept it you are a wimp and an old cold one at that"
I was wearing my hat and my coat with light gloves,
                                                                ­        I loves to wear, they separate my fingers
            from the cold,
knitted grey and bold,
        they let me hold,
objects of metal like keys to hearts,  objects of stone like me very own heart,
                    objects of desire, that I keep secret until something transpires
                                                      ­               which warms better than fires,
on a dark and lonely night under the stars bright, wait was that my tire?
Oh where did I wonder off too,
                              as I was in thought, now lost,
   my wit, not sharp as the nail in my tire, the cost,
on a dark night in November, as six speeding police cars swoop past me,
on an urgent mission to stop a crime, their sirens wail as I am a
counterintuitive pantomime against the noise that assails me while
I am changing
a tire but remain the same,
metal tire rod tool in my hand, stone cold heart beating, against my ribs,
as I labor in disbelief that where I live is across from where I stand,
and with all technology you have to get on your hands and knees to
change a tire, I sneeze, I am not sure which is worse,
                                         my situation or these verse,
which decorate the night, not like stars,
as when spoken aloud every other word is profane,
while two homeless push there wares by me and laugh
                                                           ­     with disdain.
For in these transactions they have more street cred than I,
  and I would give them a bitcoin of my thoughts, but they
are two and I am one, alone and without a cell phone, and
this poem rolling around like lug nuts in a hubcap, as frost
creeps closer than the creeps who wish to reap of my misfortune.

Of which I now have some, that I can mix with theirs and then
I notice their bloodthirsty stares, so I begin to recite this poetry
and expound on the woe in me and send them packing covering their
ears with out attacking my hapless now three wheeled car.

When I was done I was nuttier than those lugs,
"good news" it was too cold for bugs,
and with good conscience you, from this, can unplug.


©DWE112013

DISCLAIMER: READ THE WHOLE THING IT IS MUCH MORE GENIUS TOWARDS THE END



Bypass the circumlocutions of elementary rhetoric and the obvious bulges into the ethereal realm of supersolid supercalendar emigrations of the wednongues of vogue emigrating into a new frontier of boundless awakening that blisters the sore solid metaphors of a crumbled bricolage of articulate history becoming a reiterative gabble of entropy that curdles the blood-boiling hatred of those envious of those that capitalize on the true girth rather than the flaccid otiose etymology of differential physics becoming a denatured figment of prideful imagination on a frolic with desuetude in the normalization of the wernaggles of ewnastique that defile the ridicule of even the most astute aspirations of those that despise history rather than reveling in its subtle ironies that swelter in connotation rather than suborn the cadged bridewells of those that are estranged by the Dousk Remix rather than the Voulez-Vouz Danser populism of true urbacity expanded upon a national stage as an anthem not for profligate saturnalia but rather an ode to the odium of the reckless titanism of titanic intellects clashing with the dudgeons of intermittent eye-rolling irreverence double-dealing a stacked deck of pleckigger on an intellectual stagecraft for bandwagon apostasy that leads to solidarity among tentative allegiance. We barnstorm for a grift in the grimace of an alpenglow winter to lead to the salvation of all people united under the banner of neat nexility rather than long-winded elocution reserved only for notched caliber against the nativist diatribe that serves the subservience of the engineer of the white chattel indoctrinated into turnstiles of professed irreverence for demarches of solidarity that is gainsay for gain rather than pittances for pitfall. Rhetoric should be duly curtailed against the overcomplication of hypertrophy and trimmed into the sweet success not of saccharine fads of foofaraw but engineered resistance that galvanizes albatross intellectualism into a revved engine without purpose that mobilizes because of estranged impotence in the revelry of the subtle rather than the cordial tethers of emergent entelechy of the esemplastic orthobiosis that we should all strive for not just as pioneers of the socially engineered harbingers of a remedial society but also for the trendsetters that communicate with the canvass and the celluloid rather than spelunking dormitage of drifted anomaly perceptible to everyone but heralded as prominent by the rigged ambeer of a toxicity of a plumage of city over state and country over planet. We need to provide the verdure of the verdant forest that survives the conflagrations of rage indoctrinated by systematic attempts at stilted ignorance that is engendered more by Leftism than Right-Wing thinkers because in general when observed in organic settings we notice that the Right-Wing escapes the sloganeered jaundice of limited bounds for otherwise boundless thought and provides more seminal pathways that reconcile normative virtues with entrenched inveterate harbingers of economic success. The faulty deadstocks that propel the retinoise of the anomaly among Leftism to disregard the girouettism of a world that is so piebald with dishonesty that it elects a patronage that seethes with passion but aimless in its curiosity for deeper embedded candor because the popular might count themselves among the aristocratic Left but the truly Promethean belong to a centrist tribe that borrows the ingenuity of spurned but never spurious interpretations of a sputtered history that remarks with revelry  rather than disdains with #CancelCulture irreverence that seeks to deracinate all context for insipid utopianism that is a shared prerogative of the delusional Left against their complaints of Sebastomania among right-wing zealots that are equally invalidated by the frogmarch of a dilettante history curbed in storms of a pure tempest rather than a banal reiteration of novelty phrased with participant intonation rather than blathers of whispered arbitrage ennobled by hypocrisy immune to criticism among those that crusade for economic justice without understanding formal flombricks of the true gnomic riddles of alchemy fundamental to global panoramic pleonasms becoming the aleatory vagary of admonished warning that spars against spartanism. Instead of pilfering from the exorbitant defalcation of immunized partisan bromides against the ratcheted warranty upon defective obsolescence we must coalesce around the imperious ****** of divinity bequeathing the living water of a fully-lived life that qualifies its felicity not by junctures but by an overall harmony that conforms to the finicky demands of an overly polarized complexion of dimpled conformity founded on girouettism that earns more traction than the deasil sundial emergence of brimstone rejection for alabaster limelight we must urge others to ditch the conformist utilitarian usucaption of the usufruct of manipulative sports for domineering talents suborned into inclement straits because of unwitting albatross that replicates into a fission of uniformity encapsulated in the half-assed witticisms of attempted belletrist succeeding only in alienating the noxious fumes of alveolate diminutive reduction rather than expansive detritus that scrapes the wreckage of a turmoil to build masterworks out of broken sculptures themselves indemnified from a categorical judgment by the panoramic oversight of proctored civilized ambition. We need to exhort self-education that hinges upon not a listless acquiescence to a second-exit impulsive barnacle to the urchins of brimstone because of an insipid blather of flapdoons of brittle banality because the hackencrude is an outmoded entity to the vast resources of the sizable capital of the growing power of the intelligentsia over the weakened grasp and wrangle of terminus meeting consuetude weakly enough with pleasantry to appease but ultimately a complete witwanton persiflage of sizzled destruction rather than the savory contemplation of the cotqueans of majesty derided but never derailed by terminal revivals because the generativity of the titanic original might not be a popular indoctrination but the liberated thought of the untethered is ultimately more decisive in world affairs than the synergistic hive of bees building an imperious defense against dynasty built only upon provincial hatred of hidebound illiteracy combustible into the brazen bravado of a reckless intrepid effrontery against civilized chains into the ******* of complicit interconnection rather than dissolved dissolutions that solve global problems more fundamentally rather than driving through avenues of wide pressures gilded with expansive growth but ultimately bereaved by the ultimate succor of the youthful exuberance of captive audiences rather than the wily connivance of genius unbounded. God is obviously a benevolent provider of all bounties and despite the conspiracies that predicate heterodoxy the uniform mannequin of a mascot Democracy ultimately becomes a fickle bandwagon allegiance to relationship rather than a true witness to authentic ******* to a subservient relationship to a creative God synergized with energies that should exceed all galloped windlass into demarche and expose rather than rundles of ridicule interminable because of the permanence of kitsch memorial rather than living sculpture that breathes a swiveled light that beckons preened self-accountable responsibility to a dutiful matriotic duty of optimism rather than a contrarian futility of those that despise the unequal suave crackjaw dementia of the temulentia of derangement among crowds that provide fewer bounties and more deprivations calculated to indenture need rather than motivate want. We must motivate want by fueling ambition rather than quelling dissent in defensive posture because that strategy of antinomian discord is a dead-end street against an inveterate enmity that can never be fully deposed but only opposed with nominal futility raging with violence rather than seething with the motivation to reform because reform is an efficacy mobilized. Novelty of wednongue propriety grown through the heirs of drastic impertinence gilded from the siphon of lavadero hypogeiody blasphemous in bletonism that guards a piebald scrivelo because the sought dementia of an overwrought alacrity is a purpose without a terminus but an ambition soaring through scraped ice cream stratosphere that marvels at the minutiae of the civilized anthill that becomes a beehive of industry when the rationale of moral reform becomes insuperable rather than suborned into effete recursive cycles of pittances of pitfalls obsessively pondered but never solved because the fustilugianation of a forever tampered travesty is the esemplastic rejection of a categorical aim that leans of windlasses of elegance that surpass the levy of hatred and achieve sizable filagersion to squirm above the squawk upon populace rather than the consternation of an urbane but cloistered metropolitan arrogance contravened by the historical emergence of happenstance locales fostering the most well-guarded treasures of bohemian pedigree rather than dimpled resolve faffling on ergasia in bromidrosis rather than cavorting with a skeptical indoctrination by default evaded by those that equate an improbable scenario with a definitive solution to acatalepsy quandary because by reckoning with indeterminacy we grow in historical lineaments and solve global detritus by recycling the rattled brevity of promontory preens of plumage into a recursive ostentation defalcating heavily from sturdy macroeconomic proofs of the trendsetter rather than the trend and therefore grapple with profound personalized disdain rather than cordial harmony. Essentially by the logical positivism of proof we remind ourselves that obviously a chattering blather swims in tentative irony as long as it is a penultimate relativity because the lack of capstone ensures that the relevant treads beneath the mountain of rapprochement in benign endeavors to survive and thrive in definitive conclusion rather than intermediary conclusions of amnesia in jaundice. By the gnomic apothegms that guard the fortress of the demassified we have quantulated that the preposition of continuance is in fact a guarantee of the fickle supremacy of the recent and even more preponderantly the supremacy of expectancy of latent junctures that never manifest becoming a dictatorial rule of driven alacrity of wastrels that should fast from conclusive opinion and rather favor the primordial fabric of the inveterate truths rounded by the conversion of alchemy solidified by calculated canon converging with esoteric apartheid against the simultagnosia of the simpleton drivel of primordial myths bowdlerized from history neither lewd nor depraved but moribund because of the conclusive ****** of a peremptory intermediary certainty predicating a more precise foresight. The lackluster luster of numinous foghorn subliminal graft is a nativist confusion of legionnaire mettle swaddled by the cosseted grasp of interminable boundaries that demarcate linear time even when supersolid filigrees of elemental confusion erratically swerve into oblivion that becomes a forestalled happenstance so hapless that the connivance of alveolate synergies necessarily precludes event from becoming indelible because the tentative judgment wallops the tributary incontinence of the warble of axiolative jaundice materialized by crystalline fabrication neutered by soundbyte sclerotic calculus inveterate in summations of conclusion only because of peremptory weights upon geometric certainties rather than logarithmic dampers of attenuation that spar against spartan priggish epithets upon the flamboyant grit of grisly specter of speculative sepulchral venal vanity. The timberlask cineaste irony of the partisan usucaption of sapwood is a pirated timber of startled alarm becoming a useful or useless cacophony of barnstorm for the deadstock of past cadasters of rigmarole in the docimasy of pretense in impartial circumstance in specialized oratory bounded by a hemmed bailiwick of verdure denatured by the flombricks of subtle persuasion that ignores minority fringes of opinion that occupy that majority that cowcatchers brush aside rather with cruel contemptuous unkempt slippery agenda for drivel that spawns ingeminated redoubled explosions in participle bias rather than conglomerate arraignment of arrayed brooked swamps turgid not with the pettier travesty but the charade of a brokered ceremonial calculation against the wrikpond spurious by degeneration into corruptible complicity that thrives in obscurantism but never obscurity when the omnified owns a capitalized swiftboat of never a temulentia but always an optimism in the curvature of lineaments into the self-educated shepherd of the ultimate autarky rather than insubordination in the scrappy schlep of demographic ripples of swift enrichment at great personal flops in the floppy disk of a Democratic enrichment rather than a parched rectiserial hidebound tome. A quirky time stanched by tomes of patricide against family ingratiated by parrots to anthem but lacking the lettered verve of ignoble but parsed parsecs of finite light captivated into prismatic conscience we launch the demerited ploys of foible into the heralded controversy rather than the unheralded mercenary hands behind dogmatic ripostes livid because of the suave prestidigitation of the sublime mastery of the syncopated irony of mismatch attuned to radical rhythm we become bloated slaves to a rich lineage decried widely in attempts of covert coup raxes of a largesse of continual primipara perversions of courted cotqueans of uxorious justice that by defalcating from tributary orthobiosis in specious conjecture esteemed by rattled martexts aspiring for fraternal solidarity with the ****** esteem masquerading as the auctioned flivver that the merchandise of fluminous optimism cannot be an effusive blanch of blarney bolstered by bumptious bromides of brunt blackmail but rather the artform of subterfuge needs the insidious and invidious traction of creepy Thriller subtlety to garner the vapid traction of immobilized discontent foster to malcontent rarely abridged by even the most polite courtesy of diplomacy because of inherently insatiable demand that it skulks in undetected quarters flexing in the shadowy penumbra of transparent crackjaw enigma becoming an obvious blister or a gabble of raw jaundice sweltering into thermolysis by the eventual convergence rather than the improbable divergence of fissile time beckoning its own flashy revolution while denaturing the very presence of delusion as a herald more of the authenticity of animadversion rather than the sclerotic carapace of ragged asphyxiation in the aplomb whisper entombed forever by milquetoast inefficacy in hypersensitivity rather than a flourished malfeasance of a predatory grip upon seizure among catatonic graves of incontinence braving tribulation for crucibles of the most prosodemic surgeries of the furtive froward recalcitrance of deliberation in ignominy that enables that transmogrified skyscraper of Titanic lies to become a sunken vessel of harbored prestige lost on penultimate dice rather than winning pokerish villiany. Essentially the jeer of Morel Under a Disco is a winning brandished authority to chug the capers of inscrutable difference in blandishment imposture to cavort with an elegant plot twist that enthralls abiding decay to revert into a primordial confidence of livelihood to deter the frogmarch of time into the despairing quagmires of a livid balkanization of a simultagnosia of ageotropic monoideism fomented on fervor that leads to the paralysis of privacy and the expedited furor of moribund depraved proclivity so that the offset of morale and rationale can outfit civilization to brave the tempests of cordial divisions cemented by courtesy in order to safeguard against the yeggs of paranoia seeking ultimately the craven caper of disillusioned subconsciously felt retraction of indelible deeds into evaporated constructs that vanish too quickly to spawn the vigor of a cadged and utilitarian expanse of reiterative generativity that sustains the spanned sapience of primordial alacrity to ensure that brevity in outlook becomes longevity in subsistence because without a logical positivism grounded in unshakable tenets of God the demoralization of the vast majority is ensured and entombed in aimless squalor that leads to sheepish temerity compounded by wistful latency in regretful regression rather than a spandex bluster of a bravado of obesity to weather the persnickety wednongues of perdurable badges of instinctual shame slandered into prima facie denatured transmogrified cultures seeking cosmogony out of ordinary bricolage because the eventful triage of the nimble eludes parochial sight while the vastly capable outfox and outpace with such frenetic verve that they fasten against accident and transcend against heterochrony in ridicule that the unseasonable but seminal sauce flavors better the partially indentured optimism of a curated matriotism better than it serves the obviously interminable cycle of listless demiurges of malcontent that fuel conflagration rather than reformation to their own remorseful peril. Thereby, it is obviously concluded that to micromanage a society you must exert the capacity of a selective magnetism obviously predicated on demassified capacities for oaths of gratitude to endear and endure in the humane heart for the majority that sway few but encounter many that they find proper scruple grounded on axiomatic God to sustain not a lifeless priggish inclination but a bounded felicity that is not a carapace of an indigenous and insidious decadence to the extent pursuits of happiness swelter among the marginalized majority bereaved in powerless squalor slave to temptation not to derelict fascination but to provide aim to aimlessness and predicate their worldviews not on Racial Identity Theory which postulates too many counterintuitive pessimisms that are essentially neutered fustilug predicates of a world that requires such drastic seismic reforms in societal dynamics that the earthquake capable of such a realignment would exceed a 10.5 on the Richter scale which is 32x more powerful than the biggest earthquake in recorded history that would be so catastrophic in its implicit implication of the pretense that the consummation of the theory achieves the traction necessary to jostle every crowd into alignment that the collateral damage would endanger the very integrity and vitality of the Republic itself while exerting a tremendous existential dread of radical permutation that enables many travesties that abnegate the prerogatives of a privileged society in search of a facetiously engineered impossible utopia that could only be achieved by a dictatorial authoritarianism working in concert with benumbed sloganeering to engineer pessimism and malcontent rather than nurture the fair-natured optimism of a society that flourishes because it assumes naturally that the universe conspires in the favor of prosperity. If any hint of casuistry is evident in these postulates I wouldn’t be surprised but for rhetorical sanctity it is necessary for a nation bereaved of national icons not to despise the captive imagination of tyrannical transparency but grow from the liberating and partially liberal parable of a life maximized in limber for romantic enthralled growth that heralds with due consideration the paragons of time with reverence rather than soundbyte enslavement of parochial interminable twinges of a newborn and widely shared collective guilt of a decisively antinomian and pessimistic view on the evolution of human societies beyond catchy kitsch verve nexilities of bravado mutilating thirsts for inclusive mandates that are Boa Constrictors prowling with serpentine vitriol to vastly over-represent extreme fringes to dissuade nuclear families in an overt ploy of depopulation because the truer pathway to liberation is one that feeds the hot hand in the casino and bets that the winners will always win by deregulating their ability to bet large sums because of a transcendent supersolid mastery of time that the march and demarche of a boundless prosperity gouged by the fair demands of egalitarianism enables the card counter to achieve such a decisive advantage that his indentured socially coerced eleemosynary inclination to feed the flock endures throughout all epochs because of the necessary and incumbent scruples of God-fearing men to distribute their winnings won by cheating time to conquer time itself.

The night was made for loving
But the days are said to be
The death of a poet’s eye before,
He says what has to be said.

There’s no heat in the city,
Only depression and misery
All around town, no garbage collection,
Only rental units with
high vacancy rates seems counterintuitive,

The colours of the disposable bags
Said, sacks and waste, bed bugs, and roaches,
So take your landlord to court and come out on top
Said the poet, before death trap us

As I drove around the city, my heart is oppressed with
anguish to the very point of death that surround us.
That awful display on every city block.

Homeless men and women urinate, defecate,
Behind, the doors and alleys,
we need a wind of change today
the night not so much matter

However, it’s the day after everything comes to light,
Another lost soul, another day to push forward
Is it illegal to be homeless, when trying to try to stay alive?
The Devil will try to stop anything good!

pullingaway.imeanttorelease

The insignificance of a human life:
How monumentally minuscule it is.
Yet to survive,
To breathe in another sunrise,
To keep the generations coming,
The individual's most logical choice
Is to value itself above everything.

The realization of the self's grand insignificance
Is counterintuitive to its survival,
Thus, sentient life is inexorably tied to delusion;
To bent truths,
And comfortable lies.

Confronting one's futility,
However,
Often leads to desolation.
So fold yourselves within, humans,
Find a soft spot within your minds
And plant there the seeds of your joy.
Do not squander the little time you have
With things beyond your comprehension
The infinite cosmos is not for you.

Care for those that you love,
Fill your lungs with wild air,
Embrace your domain,
And live without refrain.

The Cri de Coeur
screeches urgent emotion
but their Exclamations
are unpicked , back to determination
Did the Revellers needlessly pay for this their Summer ?
But for Capricious truths
they now run fickle and jarred
naked is the heart of the matter,
a hastened path runs counterintuitive
as empty silences often veers
ungrounded.

Counterintuitive
A kite's skeleton
Only tiny little
Wisps of rice paper
Still latched onto the frame
Abandoned
The only presence
That of a lowly shadow
So lonely
Resting beside a bin
Hoping the little boy
Will come play with it
Again
But wind wears away skin
And the weight of the world
Pulls you towards the core
The little boy,
Is no longer small
He is old and weary
Time has tugged little
Kite strings of his memory
Away from him
His skin folds in
Tiny little wrinkles
And the kite slowly withers
No longer painted with vibrant
Cherry blossom flowers

There's broken glass, something escaped
from the think-tank. Now that thought's
gone and gotten loose whatever will we do:

These inauspicious days alcohol only leads
to the darkest recesses of my mind anymore
for who knows how many suicide notes I wrote
whilst in the cold throes of this depressing war
on my own dear sanity; you tell me who the victor
really is.

"Yes, I know"
"I am a son of Hades,
The darkness is my birthright".

A daydream I'd been having
too often, my thoughts were
dreams of escaping
something terrible
but I would only entertain them.
Still I find myself asking
why I feel sick in the head so often?
Am I playing mind games?
I know it's not him [who I am]
yet I created this thing that is,
Isn't this thing part of me, is this/it's contrary, this counterintuitive.
Nothing is as it seems, the world scares me, and all I ever wanted was a human being to be gentle with. A significant Other? I can barely be with myself let alone any other. I have little power over my own prophecy nor my dreams as of yet. When I become lucid then I'll know that I can finally sleep unburdened.



Yes I know,
She told me so.
                        [Daphni]

truth is, faith is what onset
this emotional radiation
from our latest nuclear
explo/ implo sion,
I thought i knew you. counterintuitive-
i dont know **** except anguish making light poisonous.
too hostile to look at
too hostile to make sense
& im tired of arguing,
so ima go get drunk with the moonflower on full.
Vast. Incandesce.
Belt incantions for its aegis
*******. **** love. **** us.
Dance and chant **** what was. conjure up,
Muse & reason
for rise of phoenix-
Lizards out of hibernation into cold season-
conjure your *** out as if you were demon.
my feet moving
to a ****- off kinda medley
to the demise of a kingdom
as hornless rhino,
as sabretooth extinction
as love for you in me,
at its core, 28 million degrees.
Let it burn our bridge.
Let it burn all hope for
Us in me.

May 18th, 2013

February 25, 2013

You slip in and out as a mysterious pain
One day dull, achy
The next unbearable, sickening
But never completely gone for good
One sound can trigger everything
One sound, one smell, one place
Brings along with it a feeling of time suspended in space
It was all surreal

The softness you spoke left my head spinning
Wondering
Nervous banter spewed uncontrollably
Overflowing our senses
Flooding our thoughts
Leaving behind a sea of confusion
A game was being played
A game with no winner

Crumbling, broken
Conscious to a new challenge
One I did not want
Need, enjoy, or fear
This human canvas felt at last freed
No longer crumbling over the anticipation of an answer
One to a question too bold to leave lips
Or even to ponder

Now senses are full
A void is complete, returned in the night
But the mind is still tormented
Still battles itself
So counterintuitive this canvas has felt
It just needs relief
Relief from that voice
Relief from that past

Perception is just another way to detect things through your senses. For every minute we scope out a situation, or anything in general, we become very counterintuitive and have the tendency to gain propensity to understand the logic of our interpretation.

-Marci H.

To love
Is to give your life
Into the hands of another
So that in your pain
They give you solace.  
Those of us being given love
Trading our own in return
Love is such a sacrifice
Because seeing the one you love hurt
Hurts more than any torture
More than the most agonizing death
Especially when you cannot do anything
When I am useless to help my love
I wonder why I even exist
Why can't I be
A knight in shining armor
Ride in unannounced and carry her off
To a world of peace
Of freedom
Without judgement
Without those who care bringing about their
Ridiculous love for her in counterintuitive ways
You know she cares about you right?
She's trying
But I suppose that makes you angrier
Hurt more
It's so corrupt that in this world
Love can so easily hurt.

orange cones
                                               &
       y e l l o w
                                 t
                a  p e—Nothing
                                               to see
                                                          w
    ­                                  here?                          ­                        hear”

       see is
                         what                 i think i
                                                               ­                 thinkyoushould;
       say do             what i
                                              f r e e l y    
                           em

                                                      ­            bedded in I—
      My
                                 herostory; (limits
      endowed the scope—action
                                                       controlled by
                                              knowledge]
     ­   true,
                                   even heroes
        can become jaded to their promises,                   tis noble duty
to their state                             to spoil

inside their o w n Suit of Just
                                                            ­ice)(the state is not me,you,us,them, we’re all a l i e n;]
                                                             ­               cast
                                                                ­                to the fringes
                                                        o­f dissidence,

my sweet
d i s
                  a r r a y; can there be a center to this shrouded mass?

behind face of the clock
                                                           ­     work(the cow
        ard’s mask.


(Mystic Machine, please
                                                          ­                  cloak us
                                          in hour
                                                         uncouth explanation of the our!
un
                         burden our backs
                                                           ­           of those crosse


       d t’s & dotted i’s,
                                                                ­         so we may

                          be  f r e e                          to carry our religion

      sans
                                 the

immobile prescriptions
        of our structures—
                                innumerable volumes of procedural scripture & scroll,
                Mandate and Prophecy.(

                                                   ­               …but OUR brain weighs a ton;
                                     (yes
  but w h o
                                              stored it in the w r o n g vat?
“In fact, we object to the framing of that concept—I


                                         control my mind, to the full
est
                         extent nature a l l o w s

Just
                                     ask the cat
                                                        who assumes itself
       Master of Domain—I lay claim
                                                                ­           as gatekeeper of
            the input, to engineer the flow of my information
                                                     ­   consciously, constantly,
                                                     ­   without a shadow
of intellectual guilt
—This is my herostory; if you
                                               aren’t with me,
                               you are againstme”


Every
                        body got a story
         with a hero, even ideas. but there’s alotta b o d i e s;
This world
                        must be seething with villains too,
the worst clothcut of villain, the most sinuous form of e v i l. that of
            Average Evil—              the
                                       unremarkable,
                                                   ­                                                      tacit kind;
but i               over
                                       stand—it’s philosophically strain

                                             ing                                                              ­
                                                                ­                                 to
        precisely and definitely
                         define players vs. pieces

Wheres the end? slow down
                                                            ­  we don’t even know
where to start?
                                               blistering mound of
                 opinion turn man of reason sheepish to
analyzing, let alone

         cutting the circulation
                                                                ­     to the veins of ideological fires,
                          sure to wait
                                 until the b o d y is scorched
          we may examine
in order and consolidated, complete,
                                            and stored in an urn.

a slave to Time,                         unfit for given task—
                                                    to proof eternal equations,
Mechanical narratives reach unintelligibility
                                               ­           when incorporating those remote
        rules of the game: counterintuitive
                                                ­                                      to our abilities—
                     mysterious areas
                                                          r­ife for exploiting,
                                                                ­with juicy soundbites
rather than laying out full-courses;
How can
                              one                            ­T h i n k and C r e a t e
    when surrounded by
                                                           f o o d...mm
              but can find no nourishment?                                       (then
                                          
                ­                                                 it'd be
                                                              ­                    time to survive, a narrow state of being:
                                                s u r v i v a l—it's either
                         sanity or intellectual
    consistency
                                    ­                                            
                    ­                                                "ya can't c h o o s e both)

On the play for some action
                  but whose knowledge am i acting on?

even as i type this,
                           searching for the path
                                                            ­              to distant answers     but

              whose questions am i posing?

point it out
the maligned signs wasting time
hopelessness sprouts
pouring spouts, the crystalized mechanism
gaining time, something meaningless on paper
gushing from nowhere, traded infinitely
sustaining indulgences. every last calorie counts
sound it out
the hefty empty counterintuitive shine
a spoiled child pouts
roiling night and day complaining
of lost pride with values bought
pointing finger, subtle, legal
the system's *****, in a "*******" system. circle ****
pound around
clatter those pots and pans! this language known
squeek the wheels!  you'll still need oil
this is the serpentine belt splitting
and we dance on the hood, pounding
the dents out later. father will know.
You'll be awake forever..holding the flashlight
while he works on the engine

As I bleed this apparent madness
My fingers float lightly on the surface
It's a lot like shards of broken glass
Being thrown at me in random directions and at random intervals
Dealing with this profound, physical and mental ailment
Considering faster and faster which method of action
Will finally be the chess move that determines my demise

Faster darling, what will it take?
The chase tells me to forgive,
To give in to these seemingly "peaceful" desires
That are really more like permanent containments

But I lock it all away,
Trying to avoid the relentless tugging that tells me I shouldn't have to live a life like this
And how is that not counterintuitive, I ask myself?
I am passionate, genuine, and capable,
Is this tugging only temporary?
Perhaps it is residing in an incubator full of vast magnificence

The healing, the healed, the puddles of a lifetime

Entities possessing faulty perspectives
Ultimately revealed through the escaping of some previously immersed ideal
You can twist the **** and discover a newborn adult
Residing in this oddly frightening dimension

Surfaces are frequently misunderstood
They reside within varying intents, across multiple different slates
In this effortless actuality
Emitting a breathtakingly amount of moments
That mesh together into
One wild thing

I tell myself that simpler days will come
That this never-ending cycle will get easier
That the best moments will find me and swallow me whole

Breathing, dying, taking steps towards one or the other
I keep forgetting that my anger shattered my sense of hope
And these friendly pieces of tattered poems I keep finding in between my fingers are nothing more than my lungs swallowing destruction

I bite my tongue again and again
And it never stops bleeding
The taste of metal ever-present
And still, no matter how much I feel like dying,
My lungs continue to fill with air and my heart continues to pump blood and oxygen throughout my entire body

When I drink, it worsens.
I just sit there and expect things to get bad,
To get worse than they already were
Destruction waits around every corner,
In every moment
And most times, I will let it in with open arms and swollen eyes
The tighter this thing wraps around me internally, the less careful I am with my heart
I will just sit and watch these emotions create sharp tunes that are guaranteed to become buried worth

I meant to write more letters
And I am sorry for letting my fear of the future get between us
But I am left wondering if that even means anything.

I apologize for letting the weight of my illness creep in to every facet of my life
And I am sorry that the older I get, the harder this gets and the more relevant my illness becomes

Sometimes I imagine my aura reeks of blood
Wondering how anyone could ever fully love someone like me
A red glow that appears to be calm and gentle
But is really thick and thunderous and difficult to love.

Am I a song that bursts open in the darkest of times,
Or am I a clock that seems to always be displaying the incorrect time?

I am told that things will "get better"
That it will all be "okay"
By those who have never really known what it feels like to hurt in this way
To possess this type of pain
Especially, when the deepest and darkest part of me glorifies loneliness
This thing, and the pain that goes along with it,
Is really only a product of its environment
And, well, doesn’t that make you want to question everything?

By: Evynne Doue

Sometimes the writer inside puts too much faith in the words themselves,
their black and white march in file,
It forgets that adventure cannot be held to contract
and stories have a way of becoming more than just what's on the page

where there is a war, there is a story
and it is a twisted one, the way all real stories are
one I've yet to figure out

Counterintuitive,
the Mad Hatter was good and the Queen was bad
but Alice chose neither
to leave them all behind
to go back to the endless grey of growing up

I couldn't imagine a choice more wrong
than the choice to escape before she'd even tried to
understand Wonderland

Alice, dear, you can't outrun your own head
It is time to choose sides
Make an alliance,
It is time to stay and fight.

Heavy bored uselessness can be a frightening burden
and it can be counterintuitive to stay with it
but if you do, something beautiful can happen
and you will have to experience it to truly know it
- something akin to a mini death and resurrection.

To become the master of all things
One must become nothing
To let the divine flow through
And let that love dictate

It is easy
To let the mind rule you
To be defeated by fear or logic

The great mystery
is counterintuitive
to let that love be the source
instead of our own words

the brilliant mind of all
is always present
it waits patiently
for you to listen

So let go of thoughts
let go of fear
let go of all that holds you back
and simply be
and create
love

Un careful placed tongues    
Slipping knot poetry    
To be sure      
To swing      
And unable to hit      
      
Like a falling dream      
A dream where you fall    
Brace for it..    
But you wake in the middle      
The bottom      
It stays in the distance    
      
No bottom of it      
Of words      
Sliding out from under you      
Slipping from desperate grasp      
      
White knuckles curl the syllables      
The meaning of them      
Clenched in its palm      
Full of the map      
The born in tree      
      
Knowledge      
Intuitive like      
      
But wrapped tightly      
By the struggle      
By pride      
By counterintuitive impulse      
The likes of it      
Unholy      
      
(To most)    
    
Few would condone it      
Many would do it      
      
I often feel like saying it      
Often it enters my body like blasphemy      
      
And it rock shocks      
Grabs warm places      
Digs and I buck    
And then    
And then...  
      
I want to ****      
Like a kicking mule      
And a gone bad woman      
      
On the edge      
Sitting pink on the verge      
Of clamped tight      
Spasm      
And its lie awake at night      
........ rocket      
      
Rocket      
      
Rocket....  
  
Phew...  
      
I breathe heavy      
Like a time lapse photo      
Of an obscure      
Underwater creature      
Whose movements ****      
In reds      
And shocking      
Bright      
Neon blue      
      
Pulse    ....
..... ..  
      
And ads plenty      
To dark depths      
Of uncharted territories      
The Mariana Trench      
And ungodly bottomless holes      
Found right smack      
In the middle      
Of a desert      
      
Right smack in the middle      
Like a      
........rocket      
      
Shoot...

IC Jul 14
Good Samaritan
Courteous to the stranger
Let us act
Tortured for days
After the fact
Kindness is a virtue
It will never try to hurt you
But consequences come around
Least expected
No good deed ever goes undetected
Karma seems to be counterintuitive
The good are punished
And evil has become imperative
Of the utmost significance
And extremely necessary
The dark age of man has
Marked its territory
Humanity is torn apart
The cost of the soul
Is a broken heart
Look to the world to find some meaning
The only solace we have is while we’re dreaming...
IC
Written by
IC  28/M/Toronto

streetlights stood like counterintuitive
candle snuffers, or surgeons passing
out with their headlights on.
as with that which cannot be named, the
broader sense of any word: wind.
linearly gone, its goneness blew in tandem--as if direction's not to be believed.
with no sound, if it weren't thru things as
they were--yet sound became of wind.
there is no clarifier of these obfuscations,
i myself was held as responsible as the
night.
black hood on, with all the solitariness of
of a walk wandering into something far
more in its element by extension.
coldly slumped over, leaves ripped away
from, then to--(disambiguation)?
not quite.