Oh the delicious cheese!
Its soo tasty!
so.....
different
so..
extraordinary

Its comes with toppings!
to help you eat more

so you can be satisfied
and hopefully not hungry anymore
they bring it to you
on time

so you can enjoy the deliciousness
of this modern marvel.

Enjoy
and eat more.

I’ve written words since I found out that those graphite sticks
could form them and wrote my name
on the top of a kleenex box
when I was four.
I’ve written words since I learned that each one
held a meaning I could hear in my head.
I’ve written words since I realized that writing
releases them from my mind,
so that I can hear myself think.
I’ve written words because numbers run away from me,
just out of grasp, teasing me with
their teamwork and rigid cooperation
and parenthetical expressions.
I’ve written words never read by anyone,
words which embarrass with their frankness
words which I’ve burned thinking they would die.
I’ve written words which I longed to share
because they fit together better than numbers
and made my skin crawl with their
deliciousness.

This is not a metahpor,
oh no this is so so real,
this is the deliciousness,
oh for my meal,
to consist of the sweet delicacy
Oh I know you know it is true,
Let us fry a koala,
Not make it into stew.

It will be chewy and crunchy,
Oh leave the bones in,
They make the meat more tender,
And toothpicks more fun,
Let your girl make it for you,
And **** you clean while eating.
That is when you've reached heaven,
And the lust and gluttony therein.

If they try to stop you,
From stealing another koala,
Tell them it is your dinner,
And they are making you quite irate.

Beat them in the face,
And shoot their families down,
Nothing must stop you from eating,
Yet another fried koala,
One might even think its fate.

When you **** it out,
Don't fret or moan,
Take it like a man,
And bless the remains,
of the once fried koala,
As you flush it down down down.
Because another lies down under,
To quench your hunger,
Forever.

For Lexi.

Helen sends me scraps of poems for repair.  "Shreds of lettuce," she calls them. I fool around with them in my role as Poetry Doctor (see my banner photo). In her extended absence, I will post our convolutions. While the final product is mine, the vision, the imagery, the notion of the poem is all hers and therein lies the true authorship.



From Helen, Dec 2
Here is the last of the salad,
dressing not required...

savoir-faire [?sævw???f??

Upon a plate
of deliciousness
the lettuce
is usually
pushed to the side
to wilt
and be scrapped
into an
Industrial bin
were we all begin
as fodder for worms
turning garbage
into words
Nourishing
nothing
but our own pride



bon appétit
Helen
---------------

The Human Word Salad

Now it is dressed....*


all poems, no exception,
the bad, the exceptional,
all begin
in an
industrial bin.

wormwood,
wormword
the ancestors,
feast on the scraps,
garbage letters discarded,
the wilts of alpha lettuce,
the word waste of the
every day beta jabber,
plate pushed-aside decorations,
all but none, bystanders

and they

turn them into words,
though inedible, incapable,
of nourishing life individually,
yet their recycled deliciousness,
unquestioned.

when
each sole word,
re-birthed in the compost
of the delivery room of that bin,
meet in the maternity ward
of our minds
words wed,
poems form,
and all the true nourishment
the world needs
begins anew.

Her fourteen days $?..........&

And what? And I am losing
some attachments
And____
is this our way
We should say is this my end today
My salvation
(Losing) wed long train
of thought
(Religion)

One day before
She screams!!
Such finesse of refinement
We all fall down 
Like children
of the **** torment
Statues the transformation
so real
Carve the deal on the 13th

Like the Gal Friday
battle Tut
masked out the
Halloween taking
out their spleen

Statuette Tut of
the jurisdiction
The fourteen karat teen
gold doesn't put a hold on me

How our minds
became off-set

My blocks are the key
to his heart mindset
The trade of the marks
her freedom
Her lips
quite a
surgery can blow
those bricks
down like a bullet

How it out knocks singing
over again
we all fall down
like ashes remain

Oh! Gee  V for Victorious Glee

How he couldn't pass
this
opportunity
deliciousness,
divineness
because of me,
there I went to the silent hill
The tranquil of quietness
Her weapon
the bullet dress - --
The coffee in the
King Tut shape
The curvy glass

Like a desert storm fires
Going First class

Not a block party second in mind
          "He" King Glee
Behind her walls, he reconstructs
Cheers of joy bullets one of a kind
Like a setup ploy
Her body fine weight
of gold
Eyes almond he's my candy
Second chances of joy
Her third timeless so hot
Is "She"
He's trying to nourish her heart

"With Glee"

Those love instructions
Like a bullet for me?

The King Oh! Gee

The Queen you
had to see
Like the golf clubs to putter set
The ball whole cup
The whole process stayed put
She was so enticed by his
bungee climbing
Seeing his first shot shooting
wasn't a star

The bricks to the end of the war
Judy the Star was Garland found
a different  time of Era la boom
reborn lady Liza Minnelli

The Empire of the Tut
(Bali Island Hut)
Her best to the
last stone paver layers
Like a Tut mortal dreamers
On her deck Golden Egg cards
King on top of the Queen
blocks bam the bomb ticks
The Joker having his last laugh
The war of fidelity like a plaque
of immortals
"And Please God' let it be over

You're my lucky star
No matter where you are
The ancient portal sip of wine
"All Glee" smile to trust
Come attached with loads of funds
His attache case modernly- eyes dim
Cashed into her twilight blank stare
Head over heels digging underneath her
gold - heavy heart and mind spins
into a migraine

His prayers are working
constructing a force
Something is emerging
racing for hearts
Engaging the space of valuable
objects of time

  We heard of the
one-day creation
the mysterious temple
Kinksters my heroes our fellowman
To the hipbone, those hipsters stick
  together to hustle

She is trying harder to please him
The gold to be seized
Thousand times over
to build
a form of loves the golden touch

The building could collapse
Heart together can relapse
If her love doesn't stand tall
The darkness can come to her eyes
The death of cards handed
like her corpse flying bullets

Such a massive stone block
She loved to be entertained
Let me make you walk my path
Solid as a rock

Like the Sun Gods map like the
Egyptian cat tongue
The strange pharaohs ancient
stolen identity
Layers and layers
Trumpet tower Presidential
Her bullet racer tulips
Lips bloom with gravity
900 feet getting a grip confidential

The ruins the strange existence
every time will there be next time
The new technology reveals
more secrets one bullet at a time
A silver bullet doesn't
compare to her myths Antionette


Her Anniversary all in gold,
to be or not to be
The silver award bullets
His mighty treasure
for poems of the sonnet

The largest space to build
in Egypt
Look up its a plane
King Tut bird
Super bullet giant beams
Going once or twice
70 Ladybird feet
Pharaoh timeline
so many wives

The column layering
checkerboard
She the sweeter cake
Had life sliced itself

Her layers the feed
of his smorgasbord
The name Ramesses 11
To reveal the evidence
stolen identities this
wasn't the (Providence)
Laying bricks in
my stone bed
Like a heart of stone

Building a gold his
mind like a block-freeze
It will take lifetimes
Marlon "Brando"
The commando of the waterfront
try to be upfront
It felt like a hard cement

Two bricks intellectual speaking
The goldrush her heart racing the
bullet of time
So thick-headed 
The Queen just sit
beheaded

The golden bond have
  guns will travel I Glee I pads
  The speed of bullets meet
my heroes what lads
The kingdom was
holding women
Joy to the
tacky glue magnet

Not the carnival of
cotton candy soft gold
The King got his ladies like
The Funhouse King Tut
no detention to have
Like the speed of lightning
never to hold
More love to build intermission
The kings only private
Gold VIP Theatre

All smiles the build-up
   Another mysterious setup palace
Those bricks of brown
warmth orange-reds of fire leaves
Falling over her milestone of
Mink hair
the fairytale of
Rumpelstiltskin
 Are we in to know
  what really clicks

More layer and layers of her
goldilocks of hair 
 stronger than any bricks

Words can convey so much more than most know.
A poet can make someone smile, laugh, or cry, and weep
All in the same collection of syllables forming words

A poet can push a person's mind until the heart bursts with happiness, breaks from deep sadness, and dies down right frightened.  All from words formed into sentences

Poets can create a scene of great disdain or nothing but frivolous faire in one sentence turning it to deep concentration hunting for resolution from sentences creating stanzas.

Poets paint a picture that can't be seen by a passerby or displayed in a window case.   It can be placed in plain site something of ******* nature yet unless looked into deeply will never be seen.  As stanzas form a poem that paints that picture

Poets sometimes can only paint basic emotion with words yet some can pull raw lustful emotion from deep in the soul.  Syllables to words bring excitement and desire.  Excitement, need, and release like two bodies locked together in sweaty heated embraces

Poets bringing syllables to words to sentences can capture ones longing carrying along to paragraphs that feel, hear, taste, smell, and see the burning need that the stanzas envoke the basics of carnal lust to break free like a caged lion whose food lay just outside the cage

Poets bring to close the paragraphs that wrap it all together Can you feel the sunlight against naked flesh so warm reflecting off beads of perspiration?  Can you taste the deliciousness of her desire upon ruby lips?  Or from the moisture that coats his fingers as they glide easily through silken petals?  

Poets continue painting with words, stanzas and paragraphs moving to hearing.  Can you hear the cries and pleas begging as desire builds to uncontrollable heights? Feeling. Hearing. Tasting. What is left the poet thinks. Ahhhhh to see and to smell

Poets syllables to words, stanzas, to paragraphs moving towards the pinnacle of rapture their every desire for the reader to see. Hius tongue lavishes the sweet flesh, tasting the musky desire as hands caress and pull upon tender buds of pleasure, the pants, moans, mews, cries, grunts, screams, mix together to form to a crescendoing of music

Continuing as pools of deep blue suffocate emeralds that look back. A growl followed by a almost hedonistic finale as the beings are rocked to their core. The syllables, words, stanzas, paragraphs almost to the picture seeing as the golden dagger of despair is plunged into the innocent heart.  Mixture of musky sweetness glistening upon flesh as red rivers flow to meet and mingle, swirling against the pale white.  The punget rust mixed with essence of bliss finishes the painting.

Poet started with syllables to words on to stanzas then paragraphs drawing from happiness, love to desire, need, release, slammed into the abyss of pain, despair and a private hell only each person viewing the poet's work can explain to themselves and perhaps share with another.

Bashfulness, Happiness, eagerness, apprehension, desire, need, fire, pleasure, release, pain, excruciating pain, lonely, despair, abysmal sadness, depression

The picture painted yet not with colors on canvas but with words on paper.  The mind fills in the forms, colors, and lives the sentence of taste, touch, sight, noise, and of course the smell.  If the poet is truly good one might find they actually do get a whiff of what is writen caressing their nasal pathways.

Written by Niyahlove.  :-)  All rights reserved please be respectful November 2, 2014

As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert;—when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields;
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As is the wand that Queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excelled;
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me,
My sense with their deliciousness was spelled:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whispered of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquelled.

sometimes
            
                i really want a juicy ripe deliciously sweet pineapple on a hot summer day the way the juice drips down my chin as i devour the sweet succulent fruit


other times

                i might want a healthy green fruit to snack on such as an avocado feeling the rough interior skin only to cut it open and find the soft green buttery deliciousness inside i love the way my lips feel as the smooth flesh hits my throat with flavor

you see
                
                i like both of these fruits being bisexual is like
enjoying these fruits i will always like both but on some days i might want more of the other but no matter what i will always love both

Another copycat,don't do that it's all been done before and one more pretender shown the door,
swing out
swing in and another cat comes ring a ding, ding.
I need uniqueness
I want to feed on the sweetness of novelty,there seems to be less and less of that deliciousness and not much of that newness I can claim for my own,
I think I'm fading into the woodwork,full of knots and gnarlings and look at me darlings as I disappear.

No copycat here,
this is a first time,straight from the bread line into a basket case and how can I possibly face that which is new?
New is getting fewer and the few who do new don't know and never knew what few could be in this land of lots and plenty for me.
I was told that old is the new folding currency and that doesn't suit me,too many wrinkles,too many nooks and nannies with crooks,like little Bo-Peep,I wish they'd all sleep,
there is time for the sheep to try on for size,oh my dear Lion what gigantic eyes,
is that a bit new or just me cooking stew?

A copycat like folding currency folds flat and I'm having none of that,I like the chinking and clinking of real gold and that don't fold.
So beware if you share and don't credit the writer,who with meagreness in his pockets pulls his belt a bit tighter,one more notch he can't feel,,one more meal never felt in his gut,but
copycat see,copycat do,copycat never think anything new.
What are you?

So here is a tale,
Epic, but true
Of my trip to So-Cal
Written down for you

It starts out in Salem
Such a fine town indeed
And 28 hours later,
From the train I was freed

Of this long ride
Not much can be said,
But for want of a better seat partner
I wished to smack him on the head.

For never such a pompous
Man have I met-
He fancied himself
Better than the rest

And when it came time
To un-board the train
My request for help with bags
Was met with disdain

To add grief to my mood
Once I got to the station
I found that my checked bags
Had not found their destination

But don't fret dear reader,
No, do not fear,
For my story gets better
of my two day stay here.

We came back the next day
My cousin and I
To find two boxes had arrived
The third still being sly

So to the beach we did roam
And many pictures we took
If you'd like to see them,
They're on my Facebook.

While in the water that noon
The ocean clear as day,
With my eyes I did spot
A baby sting ray!

While a marvelous sight,
One I'd never seen before,
I hopped out of the water
Lest my foot receive a sore.

After our play time,
We discovered hunger
And for my first time
Went to In-N-Out Burger

My dear cousin Stefanie
From the mother of a friend
Received many apples
So I pie I did blend!

All by myself
Was the recipe made
Crusts included,
with my memory's aid.

Once out of the oven
And cooled just quite right,
The deliciousness was evident
From the very first bite.

The next morning was my last
Of my trip to California
We thought to see Hollywood
Was a marvelous idea.

But oh the traffic-
We were not prepared
So from walking around
We were completely spared.

Visit we did,
But in drive-by form
So to leave for LAX
I did not long mourn.

Early we did arrive
To where from I would leave
Thanks to the carpool lane
Into which we did weave.

Inside the airport
I traveled alone
This was the first time
I had by myself flown.

Three hours of waiting
Before I got on the plane
Thank goodness I had my Kindle
To entertain my brain.

Once the plane had been boarded
My trip seemed quite short
It wasn't long until
We got into port.

From there it was Tanner
In his Honda Accord
Who picked me up from the airport
And to Newberg I was restored.

And so of my trip
I have but one thing to say:
I like Oregon weird!
California can keep its L.A.

lead me down the hall to dance in the secret of the dark
your blackened past and your hot hot hands
pressing my temples, turning my body into rumble
trembling for your delicate deliciousness
the world is morphing with my pipe dream visions
my face chisels, my heart whistles
my life is lived in intervals
between sunlight and dawn
between the long night walks
chasing the moon, interwoven in the oasis of your room

A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking if *** were lacking, or if the moisture of the
   right man were lacking.

*** contains all, bodies, souls,
Meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal
   milk,
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals, all the passions, loves,
   beauties, delights of the earth,
All the governments, judges, gods, follow’d persons of the earth,
These are contain’d in *** as parts of itself and justifications of
   itself.

Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of
   his ***,
Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.

Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,
I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that
   are warm-blooded and sufficient for me,
I see that they understand me and do not deny me,
I see that they are worthy of me, I will be the robust husband of
   those women.

They are not one jot less than I am,
They are tann’d in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,
Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,
They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike,
   retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,
They are ultimate in their own right- they are calm, clear, well-
   possess’d of themselves.

I draw you close to me, you women,
I cannot let you go, I would do you good,
I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for
   others’ sakes,
Envelop’d in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.

It is I, you women, I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable, but I love you,
I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,
I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for these States, I
   press with slow rude muscle,
I brace myself effectually, I listen to no entreaties,
I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated
   within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,
The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls,
   new artists, musicians, and singers,
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,
I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,
I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you
   inter-penetrate now,
I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I
   count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,
I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death,
   immortality, I plant so lovingly now.

Bubble gum, bubble gum, in a dish
i
un-wrap
the tightly wrapped satiny
Paper Package
-- and savor
every sweet taste
Of juicy fruit- and bubbly deliciousness
Wetting my mouth and
AWakening my
wanting tastebuds.

Roll it on my tongue,
blow gently, and
pop, there's that bubbly bubble
gum on my face.

We both lean in, both eager, and me hesitant;
not for what is to come but the thought that once it happens,
There is no more chance for the First.
Leaning in, I inhale sharply, breathing ragged breaths,
Eyelids half shut
Faces so close I can hear his steady breathing, even though this is The First for him as well,
Bodies so close I imagine I can feel his heartbeat, chest expanding with each breath
Whisper unintelligible sweetness into my ear, words tickling my skin,
And the smell of sweet boyish deliciousness.
His nose presses against my cheek
Soft lips touching mine
Pressing
Breathing
Never wanting this moment to end.
We kiss and it feels like time stops only for us and we are barely touching but it's more than enough
And then my little sister runs up, and I have to take her home.
We stand and shyly gaze at each other, your bike, my sister and a few feet of air between us as we say goodbye and you mention looking up something insignificant at home
I walk the seventy-five feet to my house and you race off on your bike, both bashful of what has passed between us and still thirsty for more of each other.
The next day at school we meet in the hallway and walk to first period together, murmuring shyly
about It, air between our arms electric, and I'm desperate.
Desperate to touch you,
To fall into your embrace
And touch my lips to your neck,
Face,
Lips,
And never leave you for an instant,
No need to say a single word
Just be with you and comb my fingers through your hair,
And breathe.

THROUGH VERY SHORT TIMES OF SPACE.

The red door of No.16
North Frederick Street

slams behind him as he
enters into this newly minted

morning
sunshine so thick

one feels like a fish
swimming through it.

Sunlight spangles
a tiny puddle

turning it into a jewel
that only the eye can cherish.

Ahhhh "...the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

He turns right into Upper
Dorset Street

pulling an "Ahhh...howya!"
out of the man who makes the false

teeth!

Then turning left into
Eccles Street

giving the nod to No. 7
Bloom's house in ULYSSES.

Here in its run down state
though still shining in his fictionality.

Soon they will knock it
down and what will the tourists

do then
poor things.

Sure some bright spark
will rescue it from its rubble

and the door will live again
some streets away again.

Ahhh...." the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

I go to Quinn's gym
to get my Molly

(  Philomena her name is )

a cottage cheese with pineapple
on a Weetabix base.

It is a 16th of June
somewhere in the 80's

as I retrace my own earlier
Joycean footsteps.

Rat-a-tat-tat on Bloom's door.
"Are ya there Leopold?"

But the bold Leopold
doesn't answer.

The 16th of
forever I am

"...walking through it
howsomever."

The sun smirks
as such Joyceisms.

"I am, a stride of  a time.

A very short space of time
through very short times of space."

A horse and cart as if
from the past

saunters by
timelessly.

Ah "...the ineluctable
modality of the audible."

My Molly who is really
a Philomena

spoons the deliciousness
of the creamy dessert

into her
and yes she says

mmmm...yes....mmmm

Yes.

Fumble in the dark,
Become a tangled, clumsy mess,
Then laugh at it all hysterically-
Oh how deeply I relish Awkwardness

Awkwardness in love,
In little things I do- in everything I do,
The 'neat and clean' ones won't get it,
But it's known to us blundering fools

That tidily cutting slices of cake
And eating them in plates with spoons
Comes nowhere close to devouring cream
In fistfuls and untamed scoops,
And licking the blueberry syrup
As it trickles down your hand,
And fighting over the part
With most icing,
Getting some on your cheeks in return.

Shyly wiping it away from your lover's face
With a tissue comes nowhere close
To kissing it off his skin,
Don't you think?

Awkwardness is real,
Proof that we are alive, not merely living,
So, taste the deliciousness of it,
Let go, and dig in!

The heart-shaped, red, hanging lights on our wall;
I see you in your full existence,
with all your pure skin,
all naked, with all your appeal.
The shiny, silky-smooth skin all bright and red;
I sense you, I touch you to devour
the deliciousness in you.
I come closer, dripping your body with my wet hair;
I **** in your honeycomb;
I taste the sweetness.
My honey, oh so sweet.
Your honey, oh, sweet honey—it’s one of a kind.
I drink it—all drunk with full pleasure, I feel total ecstasy.
Then I ride like a cowgirl to reach as far as I can be.
I hustle, I shake, I grind, I wind, I go deep
where there is only one path and only one way to be.
This road is an endless road; miles away it can lead.
It will be the road where you will find me,
and I will be riding on it endlessly!

What Is ‘Is’?


 -Travis-Philosopher Major
 -Arianna-Pre-Vet

Arianna asks Travis about his Thanksgiving but soon after they begin to talk about the ideals of Philosophy. The following is an account of the conversation that took place...

Arianna
But what ‘is to think....’ I feel like if I just question EVERYTHING then I’ll be set.
I feel like philosophy is a circle of never ending questions.
Travis
It is! It is an attempt to understand the truth! It is a love for wisdom!
Arianna
Through questions?
Travis
While yes, how else would you meet your 'ends'?
Arianna
Hahaha, so it can be thought of as a series of questions?
Travis
Perhaps. Descartes was able to narrow everything he thought and knew about the world into one phrase, 'I think therefore I am'.
Arianna
Is that saying that everything you think ‘you are’?
Travis
You are because you think.
Arianna
I am what?
Travis
You are ‘you’, however, you are not I.
Arianna
Ahh...Hahaha...What if two people think exactly the same thought though? That I mean by, Person 1 is still Person 1, and Person 2 is still Person 2, and yet they are different but are able to think the same thought?
Travis
You got something going there Arianna, however, I would argue that no two people have exactly the same thought. They may think about the same exact thing, but each thought exists 'for itself' as well as 'for the subject'. Hence, two subjects, one must assume two separate 'thoughts'. As for your second dilemma, I agree. Each are the same, 'One', as well as an 'also', the 'other'. Each existing 'for itself' as well as 'for an other'.
Arianna
hahaha hmm... hahaha... whaaat. How can a thought exist for a subject?
Travis
For whom then would the thought exist for?
Arianna
For the person who thought up the thought.
Travis
You just answered your own question.
Arianna
To execute into an action?
Travis
Say more.
Arianna
Well then, why does a thought exist ‘for itself’, Travis?
Travis
Because the ‘thought’ must retain its own 'essence'; its own 'being'. Whatever this thought may be, be it a 'Cupcake', then this newly thought up 'Cupcake thought' must retain its own 'Cupcakeness'.
Arianna
hahaha...but if a thought only exists so it can be turned into an action, why else would we think a thought, that is, if we didn’t want this thought to develop into an action?
Travis
Well, let me explain. We desire our 'objects of desire'. I desire cupcakes. I get this image of a cupcake in my head and its 'deliciousness'. I now take this desire and transcend it, take my thought and convert it into a mechanical form, the action. I would say the action is merely a consequence of our 'thoughts' and 'desires'.
Arianna
hmm I think I agree.
Travis
It is funny too, if you think about Ari, if you think about the Catholic churches and their rituals
Arianna
What do you mean by?
Travis
Well, they eat bread and they drink wine.
Arianna
That is right. The body and blood of christ
Travis
They desire to be a part of Jesus' spirit, so to fulfill their desire they eat his ‘body’ and drink his ‘blood’; they destroy it and make it a part of themselves. Hegel says that this is the relationship between people. This 'Struggle to the Death' for the sole purpose to 'be for yourself'.
You still wanna take a philosophy class?
Arianna
Wait...haha. No I don’t. I wouldn’t MIND it, but it would probably cause brain aneurisms. Explain this ‘struggle to the death’ more.
Travis
While yes, when two self-consciousness’ come into contact with one another, a duel erupts and both struggle to abolish the other for the purpose of realizing its own ‘truth’ and to exist ‘for itself’; both work to **** the other off just for their owns satisfaction and selfish desires to see themselves as independent.
Arianna
hahaha what No! I don’t try to **** off you or Jaclyn!
Travis
But you do, self-consciously at least.
Arianna
No way, no!
Travis
According to Hegel’s ‘Phenomenology of Spirit’ you do.
Arianna
I respect your thoughts because they are so different, but I just continue my way of thinking, that is all.
Travis
I interpret it as an active process. It is not necessarily 'killing' per se. To '****' off a ‘self-consciousness', your not really killing the person off, per se.
Arianna
What are we killing? The other persons thought process? Their ideas?
Travis
It gets confusing. The way that I interpret it is that we **** of their existence by being totally independent and for ourselves. So in a relationship between a master and slave, or a lord and bondsman, this is the struggle that takes place. This is the ‘Struggle to the Death!”

Leavening levers leave us
fishy, wishing without precision
for fettered fritter letters,
feverishly licking with distinction;
Finnish fishermen finish
squishily dished deliciousness.

Sweet nectar trickles down my chin,
The knife slips in sticky hands,
A nibble here, a lick there,
Sparks memory,
Of golden deliciousness of summers past,
scoldings from Mum for unrepentant gluttony,
Tangy sour smells of unripe fruit,
Swings swaying under the Mango tree
And a childhood happy as can be
~ Kriti Mishra

Maybe someday I will be like Vazetti and Sacco
Perch'io non spero
to spend the rest of my years
with people acting on lies about me/despising me

My cries are that of the desert wolves
The ones that tried to warn me
The ones that tried to save me
By ending my existence

I can't explain it either
It's just the way the ball in my pen rolls
Try to rock and roll yourself to heaven
But I don't wish for the mustangs run at night

So I cry a song of loneliness;of emptiness and want
of the hunger and the heartaches
All I can do is pray
With my arms around you

Is where I want to be
With my arms around you
Everything else is non sequitur
With my arms around you

I will make it go away
With my arms around you
I will make it stay
With my arms around you

On a mound or on the moon
With my arms around you
In a march or in the month of June
With my arms around you

And taste your sweet deliciousness
With my arms around you
buon anno, fly into my heart and nest
With my arms around you

And I'll be the man in my woman's arms
With my arms around you
There isn't any other way I'd like to play
With my arms around you

Get in here today Maybe someday I will be like Vazetti and Sacco
Perch'io non spero
to spend the rest of my years
with people acting on lies about me/despising me

My cries are that of the desert wolves
The ones that tried to warn me
The ones that tried to save me
By ending my existence

I can't explain it either
It's just the way the ball in my pen rolls
Try to rock and roll yourself to heaven
But I don't wish for the mustangs run at night

So I cry a song of loneliness; of emptiness and want
of the hunger and the heartaches
All I can do is pray
With my arms around you

Is where I want to be
With my arms around you
Everything else is non-sequitur
With my arms around you

I will make it go away
With my arms around you
I will make it stay
With my arms around you

On a mound or on the moon
With my arms around you
In a march or in the month of June
With my arms around you

And taste your sweet deliciousness
With my arms around you
buon anno, fly into my heart and nest
With my arms around you

And I'll be the man in my woman's arms
With my arms around you
There isn't any other way I'd like to play
With my arms around you

Get in here today

THROUGH VERY SHORT TIMES OF SPACE.

The red door of No.16
North Frederick Street

slams behind him as he
enters into this newly minted

morning
sunshine so thick

one feels like a fish
swimming through it.

Sunlight spangles
a tiny puddle

turning it into a jewel
that only the eye can cherish.

Ahhhh "...the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

He turns right into Upper
Dorset Street

pulling an "Ahhh...howya!"out of the man
who makes the false teeth.

Then turning left into
Eccles Street

giving the nod to No. 7
Bloom's house in ULYSSES.

Here in its run down state
though still shining in his fictionality.

Soon they will knock it
down and what will the tourists

do then
poor things.

Sure some bright spark
will rescue it from its rubble

and the door will live again
some streets away again.

Ahhh...." the ineluctable
modality of the visible."

I go to Quinn's gym
to get my Molly

(  Philomena her name is )

a cottage cheese with pineapple
on a Weetabix base.

It is a 16th of June
somewhere in the 80's

as I retrace my own earlier
Joycean footsteps.

Rat-a-tat-tat on Bloom's door.
"Are ya there Leopold?"

But the bold Leopold
doesn't answer.

The 16th of
forever I am

"...walking through it
howsomever."

The sun smirks
as such Joyceisms.

"I am, a stride of  a time.

A very short space of time
through very short times of space."

A horse and cart as if
from the past

saunters by
timelessly.

Ah "...the ineluctable
modality of the audible."

My Molly who is really
a Philomena

spoons the deliciousness
of the creamy dessert

into her
and yes she says

mmmm...yes....mmmm

Yes.