"derivatives" poems
.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.*
just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
das volk,
and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
volklich (communal)
und?
völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
in an example,
rather than in a counter example?
two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
that sometime
pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
but learn to hide it,
feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
as the driving force to replace
doubt?
who the hell sees doubt
these days?
either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
can't be anything more...
than a.... ******* chore!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
The glint
in Miss Jessel’s hair
was so simple, so quick,
that I almost missed it,
like an answer to a riddle.
Suddenly, I cared about derivatives
even less.
So casual, how she tossed her strands,
and yet how cleverly she caught me.
It wrapped me up tight
in a cotton memory
of home, when I was nine,
beneath a fort of pillows
and hiding from the night.
Her glint of blonde hair now
was the light from my hall then
that peeked through my door
to tuck me in.
My parents’ shadows
walked across my bedroom wall
and I saw them in her hair
now, as if my past were a part of her body.
My father’s silhouette from twelve years ago
snuck in to Miss Jessel’s hair
as if he were going to bed
down the hall
in the nape of my teacher’s neck.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
Listen to this @ https://soundcloud.com/spiritbarehear/the-living-instrument
PRESSURE - like animal skin stretched over the head of a drum,
my heart,
BEATING, like ancient hands, BEATING
an even more ancient rhythm, BEATING. BEATING.
tribal eyes wide, pupils bare, BEATING
with ayahausca or psilocybin, ibogain or some sort of villlage speed
BEATEN. BEATEN.
with dirt and herbs, a lion's adrenal gland to make the Super Amphetamine,
royal in it's derivatives
and it makes the heart BEAT BEAT BEAT
like a prisoner in the straight jacket of lungs it BEATS and screams blood into bursting vessels
it BEATS like the misunderstood youth of the 20th Century, the frenetic spirit HOT and LOUD
and lost...
POUNDING HEART BEAT NO MORE FOR THE NON-SHIT GIVERS!
leave it to the liver to filter out those toxic connections that evoke those dire emotions
arresting both the heart and the breath
IF I AM TO FEEL CLOSE TO DEATH
let it be because if I were to live any longer in a happiness, it would just be unfair to the rest
that if I were to live any longer in a happiness
the whole of my being would fold into the openness of my chest
IF I AM TO FEEL CLOSE TO DEATH
it will not be caused by a PANIC, a PANIC caused by a PUSH, a PUSH caused by discontentment, discontentment caused by impatience, and impatience caused
by the resounding WUBwubWUBwubWUBwub of a beating heart.
THE LIVING INSTRUMENT.
living instrument, sing to me what is meant
living instrument, can you forget
what once made your strings as heavy as led?
what once made you wrench?
living instrument, twice as large as the machine in the skull, why do we bother with loving?
living instrument, are you solid enough to take this fall?
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
Henceforth all ducks shall be shackled
entwined in martyrdom
half-shaven and fully aroused
baked and shaked and rattled and rolled
like bunnies, their reproduction
obviously
blantantly
even Freud would scratch his beard
too blatant the ***
obviously there must be another underlying problem
loving alcohol means you need ****
*** obsession means you need
love? Condoms?
Loch Ness Monster came over for tea
drank the imaginary brew
spat boiled liquid onto a canvas and sold it as art
"yes, yes, what does it mean?"
What does it mean?
It means that you think too much and don't feel
and don't think enough too caught up
like me
not perfect just only
and only is all one can do
can be accounted for
one, two, three
fall in-between the divisions of derivatives
damask dames like snoozing penguins
which is
black, white and dread all over
none too sure or very glassy
not too much of anything
just, just.
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
AOK: Mathematics
By Rohan Baishya
Now listen up y'all imma give y'all a lecture
About how my intuition led to some dope conjectures.
But to verify these knowledge claims I'll need a proof,
No need to worry though, my logic's up through the roof.
I'll steal yo girl with my geometric paradigms.
Not to mention my bank balance is on a sharp incline.
Imma use derivatives to find the slope of that *****
Euclid used geometry, what a big loony.
Now Pythagoras used deduction to find the sides of triangles,
Now I can use induction to find the curves of this fine-angle.
So listen up homie, you're a bore with your empiricism;
I can explain everything with this dank rationalism.
Now math ain't 'bout using memory to cram some equations,
It's all about getting that intense sensation
of using reason to season your supported argument
but sometimes to calculate my Lambo's rent.
But now imma be busy with my new calculator via Fed-ex
So listen up girls, no *** until I solve for x
In conclusion, math is the secret to success
If you believe in the numbers you'll be relieving your stress.
Word
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
the grit courage of trust
still too young and now, too old, to comprehend,
love~trust and all its secondary derivatives,
not extant on a plane of new bed sheets of
silk~linen tablecloth rectangularity
go into the park's garden;
black soil fingernail coating
awaiting, impatiently for you,
dig in direct hands ungloved
is it not,
sensual and yet gritty,
two coextensive sensations?
slip inside (you/me, me/you),
there is a razor's edge duality duty,
trust, serve and protect,
take and
handle with rough-care, for this our state of beauty
au naturel, the rush and the fall,
the climb and the conquering,
only to start again, each step, each rung,
coated with the
the grit courage of trust -
do you begin to comprehend?
trust is a bumpy landing on a glide path that is strewn
with potholes that can grow into sinkholes without
the grit of trust
the soles of my feet are a message,
gritty from walking
all-life, not just the edges,
is a two act play of roughening,
upon the limbs the things,
that carries us *****
but bares the wearing of
unkind touches of reality
working us over
why the soothing,
but not the smoothing
daily twice is the cream that
emerges from the grit courage of trust
even the vinery's progeny of great love,
grapes that must
embrace the wind and rain,
the wearing down tools of
the exterior that brings an acknowledgement -
do you begin to comprehend?
this is not an algebraic formulaic solution solvable problem,
this derived from dirt, access to accidental, the tongue and the nail,
the cracks upon the skin, that grow wonderful deeper, unfillable,
where the love gets in,
were the words are written and stored,
rough to the touch,
under the grit courage of trust -
do you begin to comprehend?
this grit is unbelievable beautiful
only a love po-em.
5:22am
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 10:09 AM UTC
She says that I'm overthinking small
situations and turning them into complex
equations, a mountain of igniting dungeons
beyond infinities, a labyrinth of swelling
light flickering without energy.
I gaze at the unfiltered alliteration in her
one-dimensional shape, the split derivatives
diverging towards a square of stained
subtractions.
My mind is the light source that transcends
destiny, a wall of mirrored depictions
aligning with my soul. I am a critical thinker,
and I shall live in this realm forever.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 3:15 PM UTC
So many minds
have filled this space
thinking of math and physics
Vectors and integrals,
derivatives and valence
mean little to us-
except the rolling assonance
of the repeated vees
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
In a misguided attempt to escape you
I fled to Nietzsche.
Weak
Inconstant
They are cats and birds
At best, cows,
he mocked.
I don't know about that
But I've never stolen glances at a cow
And felt my heart turn to ash
At the gentle devastation of its beauty
While praying that the mild curry in my mouth
Somehow shrivel up my tongue
And singe off the unspoken entreaties simmering within.
(And my affection for cows
Extends only to veal cutlets)
Today
Nietzsche and curry failed me
Tonight
It'll be the familiar embrace of alcohol
Until you fly back to Beijing.
After which
Are other substances and their derivatives
To deal with the fallout
Your transient smile
Wrought on my worn soul.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC
walking through the big flea market
off of highway 19 north of Tampa
looking for whatever and something
curious and kitsch or campy
merchants selling in the parking lot
used blenders and old cameras
burnt out or faulty devices
DVD cases and game cartridges
old rednecks shout out opinions
in a cacophony of drawled signifiers
representing visions of despotic rulers
reigning a tyranny of taxes and decline
old glass containers and windshields shine
scattering high afternoon sunlight in the Sunday sky
sitting and resting used and content waiting
waiting for the wear and reduction of time
the market continues into indoor aisles
criss-crossing within a ramshackle structure
plywood walls supporting sheet metal roofing
an aroma of every greasy food wafting into one
people wrapped in worn fashions
whites in Ts and denim
muslim women in headscarves
a black deputy strapped down in uniform
the deputy enforces commerce laws
around the alternative marketplace
a variety of commodities are still available
bongs and e-cigs and incense and **** ****
parakeets cry out down one aisle
a stack of blue aquariums drone a bubbling hum
the stench of cedar and rat **** and hamsters
reptiles basking in the arid glow of heat lamps
all is right in America’s America
the flea market is the floorboard of that promise
an opportunity for anyone to begin
or start again and over and over
a liberal conservatism can be guarded well
with rifles or tazers at bargain rates
a conservative liberalism is applied openly
in the atmosphere of everyone for anything and everything
the dream of the flea market
a black market and a carnival
all of America’s cheap art on display
its people swirled into one
equal in their struggles and desires
reaching for resources and derivatives
buying low and selling higher
stealing and selling short
walking through the big flea market
on a hot and cloudless Sunday afternoon
looking for whatever or something
it’s a fun thing to do
originally posted to my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com on 4/27/2014
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
troll tooth
oger toe
flow stupid
fistful of shiny carbon lattice wilt
and a composted halo too
beautifully torn derivatives slid
from this orifice
oven timer set fer
office space wasted
noob cubed
these are exponential times we're livin in, sim
yer prolly obsolete, so tap the banner below
for more there's more
trends friend then interrogate
unfriend those has-been's for the win dim
naked lightbulbs swing from
threadbare strings faster than light plus **** too
there's ***** adorno
how right you were
this **** is almost criminal
art narcs on
the hole a' truth
so help me dog
im
the hominid
that stood up
this fiction.
slipstream hoolahoop no-show
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
Thursday is my night.
Both my sisters have dance class so I have the house to myself.
I have homework.
I have to take out the trash.
I have the most cheerful outlook I've had in weeks.
It seems a thousand pounds of sorrow
have just flown off my shoulders,
sprouting wings and going to pester someone else.
I took out the trash with a hop and a skip,
not even caring that I was still wearing shoes
(Mind you, I can't stand shoes).
As I spun in circles I "whoop"ed and "wee"ed
and the phrase,
"It's a great day to be alive"
leaped from my mouth,
spring boarding off my tongue and over my lips.
I returned to the empty house and kicked off my shoes.
I took a shower with the door open
and the lights on
(I normally keep them off).
I stood under scalding water,
burning away any residual sadness.
I returned to my room and found my spring pajamas.
Normally I shy from math,
hiding in history books
and chemistry worksheets,
but today I dove into the calculus questions,
pencil flying over differentials and derivatives.
Today was no different than any other day.
Except that today is Thursday.
My Thursday.
WHOOP!
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
Mulling about
The muck
The haunts we are hardbound
Foggy fetal leavings by the sea
Right before the light;
The days of purple haze
Of sallow street cars, street lamp, amped up
Yet dampened loss of desire
Pop another oxy-hydro-fire.
To be able
To muck about
With inner abandon
the abandonments deep
Numb battlements / "Hoorah!"
Semper Fi the pain
Only significant
With derivatives
From ******* plantations
Opioid addiction’s contractually binding
Lingering love notes
A vice grip on idle minds
So many now that prey
But with a side affect of
Try holding in your ****
for three-plus days
So as not to feel
Not at all
Not even the rage
We keep anxiously pacing
Clawing at
Nonexistent strings
A Beast inside our cage
Forgiven by preacher men
Proclaiming to hallelujah
Change
At war with illusionist
Freedom
The boys fight for still
A country of patriotic pill poppers
Believing in heavenly kingdoms'
Healing
Secret silent pleading
Because nothing takes away
The pain
Like Hydro Oxy foxy pills
Self medicate down wind of will
If unaffected "consult your physician"
He’s at the edge of the stage
A Spearmint rhino making it rain
For Peaches
From patient list of his *******
The business of lust
Is feeding the loss of will
If you still feel lost -- and war sure did
Give them nothing but
PTSD & bad dreams
Machine gun migraines
Pop another pill
Jagged little killer
Softly knocks you off your feet
Black is cheaper
Smoke out not to feel
The muck-about days of
Constipated pains
Reader Digesting heavily,
Numbingly unreal.
Casualty of a nameless waste
That’s his deal / what it's like :
Most fecund
A life on the toilet
In wait for relief…
Get off the ***
Can't give a ****
Like this bowel movement
His heart has called it quits
To all this unholy *******
Veteran
Patriot
Manhood’s defeat
Damnation
Mucking about...
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
poetry isn't just for white people, Vivian
isn't a girl's name, and I will
wear these white jeans past Labor Day.
we forget that we could
touch the stars if we *******
tried, but instead we are
here, drowning in atmosphere,
choking on our inhibitions.
there are ten pills tucked
in the very back of your desk;
you love them but
they're about to become a
crutch, and you are frightened.
I don't **** with that
new ****
but it's not like you care.
I'm still the same *******
idiot, total trash, I
deleted your number
and I won't send you
snapchats,
I wonder if you
deleted my dickpics.
lost intimacy, windowsill
cacti, a Ziplock full of ******* stuffed
inside your pillowcase;
I went for a run, your
name traipsing about my
prefrontal cortex, smashing
memories, beheading roosters,
screaming incoherently about
subprime mortgages and
credit derivatives.
the government is lying about
9/11 but no one really cares;
the government is arming oppressive regimes in
Missouri but white people don't care;
would that I had such
willful ignorance, the right to
ignore the slaughter on our
front lawns.
my parents started from the
bottom, they survived in
America, decapitated birds on the doorstep.
I do not have their strength and I am
washing Xanax down with Gatorade and
refusing to apologize.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
caked on makeup, lyrical lash lines, clear
thoughts for the first time; trying so hard to type
out the right words to make the world stop spinning ten
times too fast in the wrong direction. can't you see it's making me ill,
the way you casually can't decide and lean
on calves of glass and card towers of achromatizing dust?
I am a kaleidoscope of many other ashes to ashes to dust;
cut across from rib to rib and leeching out the clear
air you breathe. I am perennial, the one to clean
you up when you fail to break the mold and fall back on type-
casted stereotypes of who everyone else thinks you should be. still,
I am the one who doubts and falters, often
has the idea that we are erased and quick forgotten
the moment our idiosyncrasies peter out and dust
replaces bones we came to know. I am shrill,
and I talk too loud at all the wrong times; I can never clear
the plates I stain with blood and pile high with subtype
after subtype derivatives of things I should do and glean
vivification from carefully, anxiously. you have this lean
skin and enviable, insouciant lilt to your walk towards me at ten
o'clock when I can't see straight anymore, can barely type
the last letters of my poems. your eyes are clear
and you're free of that indestructible and obliterating dust
that clogs my lungs and makes me feel so ill
so often. shallow peaks of your shoulder blades, time at a standstill
when I merge into highways of veins and clean
breaks from responsibility, softly tracing jawbones that clear
my head for just a moment; hands that tremble to fasten
the world back onto my hollow aches and faltering nervous system. I dust
off your window sill and think maybe you're the type
that complements an irrational daydreaming messy busy type-
writer kind of lover. you know, the kind that hates to pay the bill
on time because that's another deadline to miss, who lets dust
fly around because vacuums interrupt abstract art and lean
cuisine, who likes cats and very, very often
misplaces her phone somewhere on your clear
floor nothing like the type she has, like the type I have, like the way I lean
toward your infrastructure to hold me still; darling, you brighten
my mornings of habitual stardust and glass not quite clear.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:21 AM UTC
.
Some say the scientific method
Is the ultimate algorithm and others
Prefer prayer.
For symbolists, all intelligence can be reduced to manipulating symbols, in the same way that a mathematician solves equations by replacing expressions by other expressions. Symbolists understand that you can't learn from scratch: you need some initial knowledge to go with the data. They've figured out how to incorporate pre-existing knowledge into learning, and how to combine different pieces of knowledge on the fly in order to solve new problems. Their master algorithm is inverse deduction, which figures out what knowledge is missing in order to make a deduction go through, and then makes it as general as possible.
Tea
In its simplicity
Can sustain concentration
For connectionists, learning is what the brain does, and so what we need to do is reverse engineer it. The brain learns by adjusting the strengths of connections between neurons, and the crucial problem is figuring out which connections are to blame for which errors and changing them accordingly. The connectionists' master algorithm is back propagation, which compares a system's outputs with the desired one and then successively changes the connections in layer after layer of neurons so as to bring the output closer to what it should be.
Hungry and cold
A holy condition
A warrior's position
Evolutionaries believe that the mother of all learning is natural selection. If it made us, it can make anything, and all we need to do is simulate it on the computer. The key problem that evolutionaries solve is learning structure: not just adjusting parameters, like back propagation does, but creating the brain that these adjustments can then fine-tune. The evolutionaries' master algorithm is genetic programming, which mates and evolves computer programs in the same way that nature mates and evolves organisms.
Arithmetic
A good shit's the metric
Of a dying man
Bayesians are concerned above all with uncertainty. All learned knowledge is uncertain, and learning itself is a form of uncertain inference. The problem then becomes how to deal with noisy, incomplete, and even contradictory information without falling apart. The solution is probabilistic inference, and the master algorithm is Bayes' theorem and its derivatives. Bayes' theorem tell us how to incorporate new evidence into our beliefs, and probabilistic inference algorithms do that as efficiently as possible.
I can't believe
I won't live forever, therefore,
I invented an afterlife to supplement reincarnation
For analogizers, the key to learning is recognizing similarities between situations and thereby inferring other similarities. If two patients have similar symptoms, perhaps they have the same disease. The key problem is judging how similar two things are. The analogizers' master algorithm is the support vector machine, which figures out which experiences to remember and how to combine them to make new predictions.
Prepare for a powerful anesthesia
Chemical processes irresistible
A good and perfect rest
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
i can
conjurer up words
mix delicate
intricacies of verse
with poetic license
i might defecate
upon scripted genius
of the past
a scourge
on the eloquence
of perfected prose
a pariah
with semantics
that hang in the air
like a frequented noose
the rhetoric of
this rhetoric
both dumbfounds
and delights
the agenda of the learned;
to supress
the syntax spat forth
the phlegm and catarrh
of a gut
of derivatives
i could compose
a verse
for young lovers
to cherish
if i could
only stop
the rot;
genius
nonsense
or ignorance
i couldn't
tell you
which
May 7, 2022
May 7, 2022 at 7:41 PM UTC
Sadness never signalled us a sign from the cosmos,
left us to decipher the bones of history in quest of omens.
Unheeded, despair overflowed us like a desert sand storm,
buried us in credit ennui and economic laissez-faire.
World leaders formed escalating groups, G-5, G-12, G-20,
still the banks camouflaged in oppressor's language,
invented derivatives against all uncertainty, save their own,
till Wall Street acquired the stench of backed up urinals.
Only when the desperate sallied into the world's streets,
emoting songs that gushered from the wells of outrage,
did rolling blackouts of democracy unearth the buried cities,
freeing a wind that whispers ruin in uncompromising sunlight.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 9:42 AM UTC
Belly up to the
cannibal *** and feed, pig.
Be just like the rest.
Marrow in your teeth,
the flesh of your suckling brat.
You voted for this.
Your nose in the mud
tills up those pricey truffles,
while you eat your young.
Securitizing
your future derivatives.
Your fat on their plate.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
Staves and mineral deposits
may disjunction my cartilage,
but inherent and derivatives
can never impair my reasoning.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
Merely a silhouette with its head cocked to the side, arms reaching out, stretching through the majesty in knives, and stabbing spots into my eyes.
I rise to burn
Feel to learn
For the better of my vendettas
Steady hands
On humbled umbrellas
Of sedatives
And other derivatives
Of my dissatisfaction
In lacking patience , I repaint the pavement, and face it after lacing spaceships with the enslavement of my basements, and place it in my heart.
Spiraling in slimy things
In lucid dreams
I'm asleep
Walking amongst the dead
My demon brings
The corpse of kings
In sheets
From battered beds
I am said
To have slithered
With the best of men
Drained and bested
In the molested
Ingesting of entire
Settlements
Not to mourn
As i warned
In subtle hints
Most would whimper
As i rinsed my hands
Of this
Varmint ****
And moved on with it
I get what i got coming
As im drumming
The anthem
And humming
With phantoms
Tandem
To alchemical
Dreams
Singing
In romantic strings
Scrutinizing
My advertising
Of fiends
Leaning in
To scream
I awake unclean
Seeing
Differently
Than before
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
At the will of my wants, I grab at the bag my city has to offer, and coffer up the cash in my crash of a party that never started in the alarmingly empty vessels, settled under the rain, and below the fog in a swamp of frogs, and snakes, where i stake my claims, and state my name at the door.
Its darker here, but there is something more, hiding in the mud, the trees, and under the floor, rising up in waves in a haze of euphoria.
You just know it, it just is, just this feeling of forgotten forests rotting through the ages, of ageless storms that sweltered its soil through the toil of horned beasts, preying on predators creeping through the sleet, reeking of meat that melted in the summer heat.
Now its just a bar where i drink and type into this thing, completely unaware of the people staring at my cheeks flexing as i think, and i think, the sun will rise this time, but i still sink a bit deeper each day, and sign my life to work, in the murky smog where im begotten of beguiled planks that i march right off of.
Smiling, and inspired by the brinks i keep to my chest for the best of dreams to be achieved in the melancholy belief, that it matters to see the light in darker things that often freeze in the shadowy breeze of intellect, but once in, it is infectious, a pleasurable sedative to align my derivatives prism-ed from my vision to the sprawl of letters on the screen.
I pluck and pick what goes into it, and tune out the ridiculous ******** spread all over the dim-lit dimwits dozing in the smokers pit, reciting lines in inadequate rhymes of how they aligned their life's away, with babies and wives, equipped with knives that still hang from their backs.
The solo drunk drools the best, as he laughs.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
Oh global pork,
seen in the sewer;
with the rest of your destinational derivatives.
The smell of your bathory abounds.
Giving the social workers
their architectural dung.
The Mind of the civil g-d,
incomprehensive and deranged.
That g-d itself
needs assistance.
Scores line-up
to help-
-the never-do-well.
Soon their g-d will appear again
without giving its name;
only exposing its composition...
Made of assorted care-takers
of its origin.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
Ignorance is bliss
They say
America is doomed
Financially
In just about every way
The FDIC does not have the money to cover your deposits as it has only $25 billion in its deposit insurance fund. By law, the FDIC is required to keep a balance equivalent to only 1.15% of insured deposits on hand. Yes, America, that means that less than 2% of your deposits are covered.
Others have pointed out to me that the Dodd-Frank Act (Section 716) now bans taxpayer bailouts of most speculative derivatives activities. You remember the derivatives don’t you? They were the imaginary wealth that was built upon more imaginary wealth but were guaranteed with hard assets backed by the banks. When this house of cards collapsed, it pulled the banks down and led to the series of bailouts which has devastated our economy.
Therefore, when your bank defaults, and it will, the depositors as well as the banks will turn to the FDIC for relief. The FDIC will have no choice but to draw upon its credit line in order to cover a BofA, Wells Fargo and JP Morgan derivatives bust which has been co-mingled with savings account funds. The resulting effect is that this will require a taxpayer bailout to cover the credit line.This will negate the safety from the bailouts that the public thought that they were receiving under the Dodd-Franks bill of no more bailouts.
What very few people are talking about, and as is the case with all credit lines, this money will have to be paid back. Therefore, the coming default of the FDIC, used to cover the derivatives debt, will become the excuse for another taxpayer bailout. And on and on it goes.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Those in power no longer torture
a palace guard to rob a garden
from abroad for their lusts
no, nowadays money is enough
the magnetic big money
which always finds servants
Look closely at this painting
the colors are darker, and old
is the paint skin, forever
masterful are the brush strokes
yet this matter is only
just an attachment
for the trade in big names
the derivatives of art
with which profit is spoken
Mar 10, 2023
Mar 10, 2023 at 3:52 AM UTC