i really don't know how this is a connected,
but somehow it is,
you drink a few ms. ambers and
your mind just turns into an armchair,
you can unwind,
send the serpent of a tongue
into the garden and watch the show...

the original thought begins with an old
pet peeve...
   the argument...
   what was it?
  ah!
          why so much evil in the world,
and so little if any divine intervention...
can you imagine the sort of
hellish world that would be,
this, zoo?
                     why i believe in free will?
well... i don't believe in
divine intervention...
   however horrid, divine intervention
is "missing", i guess,
simply because we're supposed to
live out all our potential...
however that might be...
             the heavenly has to dance
with the macabre,
   the man with the woman,
      
an atypical argument by the sophists...
why doesn't god intervene
when bad things happen to good people?
do you want to look at
the zenith of being given freedom
to do either evil, or good...
and not be judged in the act of doing
so? you don't want this freedom,
because some magical entity doesn't
intervene?
   then you'd have a case for the non-existence
of free will...

****... did i really elevate myself
to such theological claims? guess so...
catholic education,
   i wasn't going to completely free from
the religious debate...
but that's beside the point...

the first Bukowski book i read,
i bought in Glasgow on one my psychotic
outings...
what matters most is how well
you walk through the fire...
i bought it because of but one poem...
it begins
   sometimes there's a crazy one in the street.
he lifts his feet carefully as he walks.
he ponder the mystery
of his own ****.
- and ends with
when you see a crazy one walking
in the street
honor him but
leave him alone.
    there's no luck like that luck
nothing so perfect in the world
let him walk untouched
remember that Christ was also insane..
while in between?
the line...
  the sane are too numerous...

but this ties in to another poem
(that one was called insanity)...
i sometimes think:
and my, my my,
what a fine way to exfoliate
the emphasis of punctuation,
but breaking lines so much...
point being, there's an upper tier
of punctuation,
primarily associated with the philosophy
genre...
and no... don't even try to read
philosophy book like you might
read a piece of journalism
from a newspaper...
  3 years to complete Kant's
critique of pure reason...
believe me, you can have your fictive
novel breezing through moment
when Kant writes out
  a schematic for transcendental
methodology... that bit is easy...
but you can't exactly read Kant
in 3 weeks, and subsequently spew
the content, or rather, plagiarize
it, hiding behind schematics,
and the obvious a priori / a posteriori
categorizations...
well... unless you're a college
philosophy professor,
and much akin to a news anchor ditto-head...
then yeah... plagiarism is the way
to go...

you know what elevated punctuation
looks like?
   you read a snippet of a philosophy
book, you'd be lucky to read a chapter
in a day...
   thinking... thinking is the over-arching
punctuation from your casual punctuation
already imbedded in the script...
thinking does the punctuation
when reading this genre of books...

but it dawned on me...
aphorism XXXII, pondering(s) VIII...
just one sentence...
  (i favor Heidegger?
because he favored poets)...
             poetißing and thinking enter
into an essentially transformed,
incalculable relation.
     when & how both become manifest
as da-sein with self-altering beings,
without publicly existing and "operating".

this immediately brought be back
to a Bukowski poem,
    the last poetry reading...
****... that's not it...
it's not even captain goodwine...
whatever the poem is...
it reads something akin to:

   you're an entertainer now...

that's what i steer away from,
  indicating that these words require
a stage presence,
an oratory valor...
   a performance,
     no public performance,
no freedom of speech *******...
    no speaker's corner manifesto...

            i already signed up to the ontological
motto of...
   cogitans qua esse per se...
thinking as being, being in itself...
the fact that i might leave my mind
and instead morph it into a waggling
tongue on a stage...
the fact that these words could
make public office,
and even be deemed as, "operational"...
not so much petrifies me...
but...
               disgruntles me...
   disincentivizes me...

  after all... i've noticed this...
once you start performing?
your repertoire suffers...
                   like all artists...
the moment you become confident with
your poetry via its public
reception,
   your creativity, your virility,
your fertility succumbing to new ideas,
drastically diminishes,
i've watch countless poetry
performers...
"poets"...
     with a repertoire of... 10 poems?
maybe even less...
   they start performing,
they stop exploring...
   when poetry is bound to the high
court of silence,
yet becomes visible phonetic encoding,
like... like I.T.,
signs, symbols emerge,
but there is no sound to be heard...
when no one is being entertained,
it expands...
        come to think of it...
Heidegger is quiet right...
     poetry has more to do with
philosophy than it has to do with
rhetoric, oration, sophistry,
   or Sophocles... to specify...
            poetry is about "speaking"
the truth...
   but who the hell, in public...
will speak themselves,
  speak the truth?
              let us leave that to the actors...
who... imagine themselves speaking
a truth, but certainly, not their truth,
the truth...

i want to be as close
to cogitans qua, esse as much as possible:
or rather...
cogitans qua loquitur,
   ergo loquitur qua cogitans,
qua, esse, qua est omni illud;
   (thinking as being talking,
therefore talking as being thinking,
as being, being, as being all that is).

p.s. well, yeah,
poet-thinker or poet-entertainer...
i don't need a freedom
to speak, i need a free to think,
and when i equate
thinking as speaking,
but i write,
rather than speak...
      see the comments sections
for more details...
if you "think" that this is
"talking".

Roses are red, violets are blue,
But so are the remnants of a torn away heart
So is my blood, close to suffocation
Even so is the ink that paints bleeding parchment
And likewise the eyes that sobbed separation.
Love is what feels, and love is what feels not
Pain is what burns, yet still not that kills most
Joy is what clowns, and laughter that reels off
Sorrow which cried, but still not that sobs most
Pain which thrives, scares are what calms most
Success that reprieves, and regret that fills most
So that which is not is, and is just ain't not.

Honey is sweet, and so are you.
Yet so are hopes that raises most shame
And so is the evil that brings most fame
Even so is the heart that gives the most pain
And so is a life that's aimed at no gain.
Life is what is, and life is what is not.
Which comforts one, austerity thrown another
Which pleases one, still disgruntles another
And that which saves one destroys another
Such is the mystery, the mystery that drives most
That what we see is, and what we don't still is
What we feel might be, and might be we feel not
And so which is is not, and is not still ain't not.

Splinters of thoughts bombard my half woken mind,
.......and pressure consciousness to settle in...
a mix of muse and the devil's intrusion
disgruntles....ruins cold mornings' lethargy.
inspiration fights desperation...
the aroma of a hurried mug of instant coffee,
brings clarity, and defines my situation...
i slowly blend in...interact with my real world
table is decked with the remains of steaming
fried rice, and ham and cheese omelet...
footsteps rush towards the gate...
goodbyes are uttered...school bus waits
instant coffee's gone cold, i think of freshly brewed,
...the grinds of a new day......has just started...


Sally

Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
February 22, 2020

i never mind the aristocratic brow-beating...
sir laurence olivier interviewed
on the **** cavett show...
and how one can exfoliate within an armchair
of language...
with such ease... and this admiration
is never a shallow: to be bound to a shallow hue...
of what is *real" colour...
you almost agree to what's being said
with hush-hush overtones...
because that's... the old aristrocratic...
and i am of the lot of:
the never to be bound to such gentleness...
one can admire both the iron...
and the silk... and one and the two as
synonymous!
a hammer wrapped in a silk cloth...
which implies:
what one attempts when one has
transcended the otherwise:
bothersome bog dynamics of...
being the oil and **** that floats
like jesus... to walk...
on the water... which is not a literal event...
it's hardly a metaphor...
perhaps the people became well read..
literate... but then...
there came the metaphor and its translation...
the artistocrat...
better known as...
someone peacocking with anecdotes!
not in this murmur of perchance...
the character: silent / sober as a grave...
i can drag you onto the plateau
of how, otherwise this will require it being
appeased...
- and because why would younger
readers flock to: catcher in the rye
and not to charles dicknes?
it's a real shame that so few flock to charles
dicknes... esp. having read
the first chapter of the pickwick papers...
perhaps the problem being:
to be easily overlooked... to be allowed
to shut-up...
if i had read any of the Dickens i wouldn't
have made myself worthwhile
with a hidden ambition...
to write with finding the sort of simultaneous
ease to compare and compensate
with breathing...
for no better juxtaposition of when...
language becomes alive...
and it forgives itself the cue of a waiting
demand... prior to the king...
and this ghostly pyramid of class...
tier 1: impromptu...
tier 2: prompt and souffler en anglais...
tier 3, 4, 5, 6... and the better part
of having read some samuel beckett...

laurence olivier or what's called...
speaking with a fondness to have to sigh...
the measured breath...
i can't imagine having such an audacity
of freedom...
to speak at one's own leisure...
likened to walking...
to speak at one's own leisure...
without having to justify it like some pleb:
in a foreign country, akin to england...
reciting the h'american declarence of independence...
showing the 1st amendement into everyone's
porky-pie...

imagine... defending my freedom of speech...
one can really talk about anything...
but... one isn't allowed
to have the same freedom when:
one can, think of anything...
and extend this freedom into writing...
which is an extension of a freedom
of thought... and not... an invitation
to speak!

"freedom of speech"...
worse the freedom when...
people can be given the crab-bucket intellectualism
of... inclining themselves to treat
writing as speech!
that writing is not an extension
of thought... and it's not, speech!
this is not ditto-head news-reel material
readied for dough-dough-talk-talk-head!

leave this writing alone...
for your eyes only...
but no!
will it have to be become: "spoken"?!
a figment of anyone's dementia riddled
imagination...
funny how dementia doesn't attack
imagination but disgruntles memory...
yet... memory...
and pedagogy's memory is left intact...
that grammar lessons overshadow
personal memories...
how memory is never a leftover tract
of a self-intact...

but i do not own the position
to such freely spoken...
whatever language i might acquire...
whatever vocabulary...
however crude or perfected...
it doesn't matter...
it was never supposed to matter...

the irish do not, will not,
eat raw herrings in a cream, apple and gherkin
sauce... but to have that sort
of an irish ambition...
to have to be... left without one's own
tongue? i can also seek the haven
of: mój natywny język (my native tongue)...

but... that's hardly a consolation...
it would have been better,
perhaps... to have to succumb to
the "locals" of the "elsewhere"...
20+ years apart...
and... i'm a nowhere to be "found";
in that i am bound:
to a trench of teasing east...
but also teasing west...
at least closest to the north...
i could only find an antonym extreme
in some bogus new zealand version
of a south.

such profanity in the republic's eye...
my own, least quoted:
better judged...
and for no better of anything,
this, just might be...
for me to entertain the "pleb among the pleb"...
someone call a man named: jack!
and perhaps there's no...
other little place we were born into...
and... we all could have hoped
to have never left...
because... the fascination comes...
when one is almost allowed
to walk with a leash:
but one is never allowed
to hang on...
suicide dangling on a borrowed
noose from someone's
intestine's worth of rope...

the death of a monster... the critique
of a human being...
and all those better parts of what's
to be made into...
what's: the better part of this better
"part" to not be included
in anything that could be...
sentenced to: roughage...
grit and pebble and sand...

in order to have children...
and also to have a son...
is for the son to gimmick you...
and the daughter
and the daughter...
and no daughter...
and... the better prison that could
never become off of
citizen kane by orson welles.