to me, the Cartesian saying had to be relegated to shrapnel,
i treat the cogito
                                           ergo                       sum
like i'd treat atoms, brushing and
signaturing each other with
a stabilised unification
under the name: helium, or hydrogen.
evidently that's also a term
for three dimensional space
and the cohorts of chaos that come
from it.
           but something worries me,
intrinsically it's what i would simply
term: the automation of thinking.
basically? it's blood hard to stop thinking,
to do yoga to intricate being
in nothingness,
    as Heidegger suggested:
non-being is a tier below nothing,
      and i guess automated thinking
comes from non-being,
because there's this intrinsic manifestation
of instinct found in all sport activities
that doesn't allow thinking to take place,
no footballer thinks about his exertion
on the football pitch, no golfer maps
out a system of thought to *** the hole
in one...
                some would even say
that thinking is a form of laziness,
          i find that the whole notions turns
out to be a **** up affair of concern,
the mere notion that thought is automated
    and cannot be barricaded against
its relentless battering our very being
is due to the fact that so many of us
do not attain the all that glitters is gold
particularity of fame...
             it's not that we are doubtful,
but that we are mindful / thoughtful,
a few of us make it to the top of the sardine
can, but so many of us are minding
our own business on this placebo earthenware:
yes, i call this a placebo urn of things
needed (people always rave about nouns
anyway, call it slang, or whatever,
it trends, hashtags and the outdated
forms of phone numbers - calling big brother
eeny, meeny, miny, moe) - i could
swear it's so, but then again, maybe not so.
still (what a crass digression),
coming back to the Cartesian shrapnel...
           basing in on weights and measures -
it's so tiny, that expression,
                      we can think the realistic
and only express a centimetre of the world,
we can be the realistic and only
express a centimetre of the world,
  and then we can think the illusionary
and express a mile of the world,
        and we can be the illusionary and express
   a kilometre of the world:
toward the basis of fame and contentment of
  the shadows...
       yes, we have achieved a "death" of history,
by simply stating our recreational pursuits
being more important than our
need for historical eventuality and crisis, and change...
we have stated a "death" of history
via our population size, our ability to combat
diseases (whether infantile or of a certain maturity),
yes, we have established a congested world,
which facilitates nothing quite like a herd
(cattle mentality): hence the modern concern
for alienation... we're created a collective manifestation
of insects, or as one might suggest
  this is yet another geocentric and heliocentric
concern for us... although relegated to
egocentric and the collective ethos of comrades -
but given the former has been eradicated
as it was previous known: communism -
      in economic vocabulary it's all but gone,
but still exists in the sports: yet again,
the re-surfacing of abolishing automated thinking,
namely, automated collision with the daily
activity - either competitive or mundane,
    as we all soon realised: if automated thinking
is not eradicated by automated doing
     we end up mentally distraught -
our own thinking alienates us and even progresses
to symptoms that have no viability
       concerning a drowning man, nonetheless
we're actually drowning.
i can hardly think that nothing is an abyss -
       to me thought is an abyss (cat meows,
i write, the fermentation of wine goes on in
four jars to my left, bob, pop, bob, pop,
and daniel licht is playing to the fatty *****
that's my brain) -
                     i knew that ponderings ii - vi
would get my creative juices flowing:
finally! a book on philosophy that i can comprehend
within that bilingual complex i've established!
or: this much can be said upon
giving a supermarket cashier a signed copy of
my actually printed works
     and hearing a compliment with eyes
waxed with glee (Tarah);
           now i have 100 copies to push,
become akin to a drug dealer with poetry,
           and that's not going to be easy
without p.r. and all that jingly marketing qualms.
still, what's there to be done
        if not that there is something to be done,
even if it's nothing, or a pebble on a mountain:
which is why there is so much
   potential in individuality, but also so much
angst - instead of doing crosswords we have
other riddles to be bothersome about,
   but so few even get a ?         to be concerned with.
again the Cartesian shrapnel equation,
              so much is staged on it in terms
of how thinking becomes automated, robotic
to the point of making children succumb to
    premature depression -
      back when premature dementia was the hit
on Broadway or in an Estonian lunatic asylum
in the 19th century,
when we first received our psychiatric vocabulary,
now it's the young who are odd
   and it is premature depression,
          a bit like the black plague, against
all hopes, a single identifiable folly.
             and where the best rewards?
solitude, where else?
                          for all that swindling of the talk of species
and competition within / without,
        always one ******* says:
                           i am the zeitgeist - always one:
are there really benefits to realising that
****** equation? are there? to feel alive, to feel
conscious, or the madness of Nietzsche's reversal
stating that he's a thing that simply, exfoliates
necessary thought?
           thought is primarily a moral ought -
the should i or shouldn't i?
        it's intrinsic, inherent and simply: just there...
or in the unlikely event, a step into the abyss
   and subsequent pathologies of the enabling of
   a destruction of the soul: as manifestation
of a transgressively transcendent embodiment
of pure body.
                 so, against all duality, i simply fathom
that ****** thing as shrapnel,
     curiously via (as i already might have said):
so much thinking doesn't precipitate into being,
     and so much being doesn't precipitate into thinking -
or of those who adorn mental silk fabrics and Solomon rings,
         and those who have to pay for elocution
lessons due to their ****** endeavours -
      yet again, alignment with Thesaurus Rex,
cue: down Synonymous Avenue
                     because how many times are we sharpening
our narrative trying to feels less inclined
                 to exfoliate in the exotica of what's
the necessary verbiage, and escape into single
identifiable meanings, without poker, without politics,
without sexualised ambiguity?
for me language should work, not be desecrated
to fun: it, should, work;
                     or here i rest my ambitions,
without any poetic dogma - or to make poetry unrecognisable
when stated, for no reason to discredit
   the systematics of poetry: but for reason
                        Kraken wrangler on language -
as much as Nietzsche might have said about
      philosophical systems and their errors and lack of
honesty: i say as much about poetry careful to
be identified as such: metaphors, imagery blah blah -
all things that make people conscious of what
they're reading is actually what they're reading and say
it's poetry - as i said to the supermarket cashier:
enso (Japanese,
marcon purposively missing) - to write while standing up,
and so the reader is standing up,
         not a novel you take to bed,
                     and read for months on end,
dozing off, or sneering at "uneducated" people
on the train...
                         i might as well be writing instruction
manuals for the sadistic training of ballerinas -
              one cut, one incision, and get the **** out;
or at least that's the idea -
      learn to spell, work on punctuation variations,
    learn to tie your shoelaces... and don't believe in
the word edit.

1.
Mother, my Mary Gray,
once resident of Gloucester
and Essex County,
a photostat of your will
arrived in the mail today.
This is the division of money.
I am one third
of your daughters counting my bounty
or I am a queen alone
in the parlor still,
eating the bread and honey.
It is Good Friday.
Black birds pick at my window sill.
Your coat in my closet,
your bright stones on my hand,
the gaudy fur animals
I do not know how to use,
settle on me like a debt.
A week ago, while the hard March gales
beat on your house,
we sorted your things: obstacles
of letters, family silver,
eyeglasses and shoes.
Like some unseasoned Christmas, its scales
rigged and reset,
I bundled out gifts I did not choose.
Now the houts of The Cross
rewind. In Boston, the devout
work their cold knees
toward that sweet martyrdom
that Christ planned. My timely loss
is too customary to note; and yet
I planned to suffer
and I cannot. It does not please
my yankee bones to watch
where the dying is done
in its usly hours. Black birds peck
at my window glass
and Easter will take its ragged son.
The clutter of worship
that you taught me, Mary Gray,
is old. I imitate
a memory of belief
that I do not own. I trip
on your death and jesus, my stranger
floats up over
my Christian home, wearing his straight
thorn tree. I have cast my lot
and am one third thief
of you. Time, that rearranger
of estates, equips
me with your garments, but not with grief.

2.
This winter when
cancer began its ugliness
I grieved with you each day
for three months
and found you in your private nook
of the medicinal palace
for New England Women
and never once
forgot how long it took.
I read to you
from The New Yorker, ate suppers
you wouldn't eat, fussed
with your flowers,
joked with your nurses, as if I
were the balm among lepers,
as if I could undo
a life in hours
if I never said goodbye.
But you turned old,
all your fifty-eight years sliding
like masks from your skull;
and at the end
I packed your nightgowns in suitcases,
paid the nurses, came riding
home as if I'd been told
I could pretend
people live in places.

3.
Since then I have pretended ease,
loved with the trickeries of need, but not enough
to shed my daughterhood
or sweeten him as a man.
I drink the five o' clock martinis
and poke at this dry page like a rough
goat. Fool! I fumble my lost childhood
for a mother and lounge in sad stuff
with love to catch and catch as catch can.
And Christ still waits. I have tried
to exorcise the memory of each event
and remain still, a mixed child,
heavy with cloths of you.
Sweet witch, you are my worried guide.
Such dangerous angels walk through Lent.
Their walls creak Anne! Convert! Convert!
My desk moves. Its cavr murmurs Boo
and I am taken and beguiled.
Or wrong. For all the way I've come
I'll have to go again. Instead, I must convert
to love as reasonable
as Latin, as sold as earthenware:
an equilibrium
I never knew. And Lent will keep its hurt
for someone else. Christ knows enough
staunch guys have hitched him in trouble.
thinking his sticks were badges to wear.

4.
Spring rusts on its skinny branch
and last summer's lawn
is soggy and brown.
Yesterday is just a number.
All of its winters avalanche
out of sight. What was, is gone.
Mother, last night I slept
in your Bonwit Teller nightgown.
Divided, you climbed into my head.
There in my jabbering dream
I heard my own angry cries
and I cursed you, Dame
keep out of my slumber.
My good Dame, you are dead.
And Mother, three stones
slipped from your glittering eyes.
Now it's Friday's noon
and I would still curse
you with my rhyming words
and bring you flapping back, old love,
old circus knitting, god-in-her-moon,
all fairest in my lang syne verse,
the gauzy bride among the children,
the fancy amid the absurd
and awkward, that horn for hounds
that skipper homeward, that museum
keeper of stiff starfish, that blaze
within the pilgrim woman,
a clown mender, a dove's
cheek among the stones,
my Lady of first words,
this is the division of ways.
And now, while Christ stays
fastened to his Crucifix
so that love may praise
his sacrifice
and not the grotesque metaphor,
you come, a brave ghost, to fix
in my mind without praise
or paradise
to make me your inheritor.

My father was born in an outport community of 2000
On the Avalon peninsula of Newfoundland
Around 1950, to a school headmaster and a homemaker
Attended Memorial University of Newfoundland (as did I)
Studied English, and eventually Education

He was a brilliant man, often quiet for long periods of time,
Then viscerally eloquent like Occam's Razor when he spoke
Remember him telling me how "taking their maidenheads"
From Romeo and Juliet act one, was about taking virginity
Always had an answer for my million questions
Rarely lost his temper

Taught me to accept others as they were, and to resist the temptation
To judge

A spiritual man, not religious, always taking care to differentiate the two

Without him I would never have access
To the home library in our den, my muse
Or all the gruesome movies he shouldn't have let me watch

Without my father I wouldn't know that
I like Jack Daniel's on the rocks with afternoon paper or
A Farewell to Arms with Spanish Rioja from earthenware cups,
Like Hemingway drank during the Spanish Civil War

I would not have wallowed with the downtrodden and the vilified
I would not have seen the base human weakness
The fundamental vulnerability that dwells within all of us
Had I not seen it in him first

Some four years ago, my father experienced weakness on one side
While on vacation in Europe
Flew back to Canada, diagnosed quickly with brain cancer
By the time I spoke to him, his mind was already rapidly fading
The spark of brilliance snuffed out like so much wick and wax

Died 6 months later in his sleep
We spread his ashes on his father's grave
And in the Bay St. George

Taught me what and how to believe,
Who to be
For better or for worse
Taught me how to ask the right questions
Showed me the books to read
Let me know it was OK
To be me

Thursday April 2


Morphing monsters - old poem for writing.com  Dark Dreamscape

Morphing Images from a Hellish Nightmare

Note: From a real nightmare End Note

I am in a room
Drinking at a party
And smoking ****
Watching people all around me

Change into hideous creatures
Monsters from the deepest depths of hell
Everyone in the room
Has been transformed except me

The Chief of them all
Wears a Trumpian mask

Complete with orange hair
Half human half pig

His deputy
Wears the face of Putin

But his body
Half human, half horse

The other creatures wear masks
Many of them wear
Green Pepe the alt-right
Symbolic frog masks

And have T-shirts
Bearing alt right slogans
And **** symbols

And as they prance about
They chant alt. Right slogans
And neo-**** chants
Jews will not Replace us

And the rest of these creatures
Are hideous ugly beasts
With only a vestige of humanity left

And these monsters are engaged
In all sorts of foul evil deeds

****** violence death
All around

And non-stop
violent drug-fueled ******
As these creatures

Half human half monsters
Half male, half female creatures

Snort coke, *******, speed
Drop acid, Smoke ****
drink ***** shots
Scotch, bourbon and beer

The Trumpian Pig leads the charge
Starts engaging in ****** with Putin
Who chases after people
Cutting off their heads with his sword

They turn on to their fellow creatures
****** and killing each other
and eating their fellow creatures
All night long

Then they attack me
Screaming
Jews will not replace us

And I wake up
Screaming

As the sun comes up
Just another nightmare
    







Kimchi Blues  Poetry Soup prompt April 2

based on poetry superhighway prompt for day 2

Kimchi
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia


Kimchi

Various forms of contemporary kimchi
Course
Banchan
Place of origin
Korea
Associated national cuisine
North Korea
South Korea
Main ingredients
Various vegetables including cabbage and Korean radish
Variations
Baechu-kimchi, baek-kimchi, dongchimi, kkakdugi, nabak-kimchi, pa-kimchi, yeolmu-kimchi, gat-kimchi
Cookbook: Kimchi
  Media: Kimchi
Korean name
Hangul
??
Revised Romanization
kimchi
McCune–Reischauer
kimchi
IPA
[kim.t??i]
Kimch­i (/?k?mt?i?/; Korean: ??, romanized: gimchi, IPA: [kim.t??i]), a staple in Korean cuisine, is a famous[1]traditional side dish of salted and fermented vegetables, such as napa cabbage and Korean radish, made with a widely varying selection of seasonings including gochugaru (chili powder), spring onions, garlic, ginger, and jeotgal (salted seafood), etc.[2][3]
There are hundreds of varieties of kimchi made with different vegetables as the main ingredients.[4][5]Traditionally, kimchi was stored in-ground in large earthenware to prevent the kimchi from being frozen during the winter months. It was the primary way of storing vegetables throughout the seasons. In the summer the in-ground storage kept the kimchi cool enough to slow down the fermentation process.[3] In contemporary times, kimchi refrigerators are more commonly used to store kimchi.

Oh yeah
I got the kimchi blues
every day since I first ate it
back in the day

long before I went to Korea
ended up staying on in Korea
after I retired from decades
in the Foreign Service
and ten years studying and living
in Korea
before I joined the Foreign Service

When I first ate kimchi
I was hooked
sort of a spicier version
of German sauerkraut
which I loved on my top dog
from Berkeley high school days

then off to Korea
in the peace corps
where I ate kimchi
every day for every meal

and eventually I woke up
dreaming of kimchi and rice
instead of pancakes and eggs

then I knew
that I had finally adjusted
and was becoming half Korean

and now I am a hopeless kimchi addict
need to have my spicy kimchi
which is so good for you
perhaps even defeating the dreaded corona virus?
who knows but I will be eating Kimchi
until my day is done

How is it, that again,
A mug of earthenware,
Spun with love hand,
Breaks in the sink,
And I glue it back together,
Where the pieces shattered.

You think I'd learn,
To be more careful,
More deliberate when I stacked the dishes,
But I've done this twice now.

I only have so many mugs to break,
Yet it seems a fact of life,
That accidents happen,
But should both these truths collide so many times again and again and again,

Then,
I will have no more mugs for my coffee.

our part of Guintarcan
where family and relatives resided
was called, Li-og Li-og 1
a very large boulder at area’s end
resembled a disembodied head
lending the name, “small neck” 1

before the war
a peaceful private paradise
miles from town
beautiful birds
coconut trees
all sorts of seaside foliage

young married women
walked barefoot and *******
wearing only a sarong
wound at the waist
they carried round, flat baskets
atop their heads
full of food and other things

early morning, noon or just before dusk
men would be out fishing with nets
sometimes signaling each other
by blowing into conch shells
Father would come home with large conch
baby conch called bucawil
scallops and oysters in their season
he kept a jar of large black pearls
and small white ones

harvest time gathered us all together
Father would go fishing
to bring home a good catch
Mother, aunts and Grandmother
would prepare the treats
sweet potato, cassava and other goodies
men would bring chicken
and pigs to roast
and plenty of tuba to drink

they would build a big bonfire
by the shore
to light up the festivities
women would roast newly harvested palay 2
men would take turns pounding it
in a large mortar and pestal
starting slow then faster and faster
till they had to rest
and let someone else take over
onlookers cheered them
hooting and clapping
it would get so noisy
as the children watched in awe

after the pounding the women took over
shaking and shaking palay in flat oval baskets
tossing husks to wind with movements like artwork
what remained was placed in earthenware bowls
for all to enjoy this delicious 'pilipig'

singing and dancing into night
revelers went home drunk and happy
supporting each other as they staggered
waving goodbye to host and hostess
with a heartfelt and hardy
“Salamat!”


2 - rice with husks

In an age of braless nymphettes wearing lululemon
Who speak of unequivocal virtues
We seek **** role models and female superheroes
Ambition has no equal in all its atavistic ambivalence
Still we ****** our ******* feminine values into each other’s faces
Disrespecting our past predators and predecessors
And the pirate priests who prepared our souls for fiery salvation
In wartime circuses we are all pretzels and pantyliners
Who necessitate no changing stations for these gyrating giants of industry
And the gentle guardians of the spirit
With giraffe sized necks and human hearts that beat in their vulturous beaks
Who tear each and every naive feminine seeker into thousands of tiny pieces
Till all that’s left are precocious and imperfect targets
Seeking articulations of their convulsive
Nay, compulsive addictions to affection
With dinosaur sized scars and crocodile scales covering their erogenous parts  
We hide beneath a pile of beautifully styled business cards and good marks
Like we are a bunch of naughty children caught lurking in someone else's basement
Until the morning comes and we heed the need to once again impale our flailing limbs on another angry treadmill
While pilates preachers speak tender secrets from palaces of perfection
A hungry intersection of underwear and diamonds
When we finance our families’ vacation with blockchain investments
That eventually all end up feeding the same weapons dealers who control the world’s most vulnerable food chains
We are all deniers of the warnings of climate change specialists
Who liberate their minds with psychedelic toad poison
Moist as the dawn we overcame the wolves of oblivion
And covered up a significant number of Mother Nature's sounds that we abhorred for all the wrong reasons
Preferring fir-scented yoga rooms to an authentic forest floor covered in pine-needles, acorns, cones and a plethora of edible fungi
We’ve come to detest our own chthonic scents, senses and instincts
So we try to pretend that we've never sweat before
Exactly like a pile of compassionately discarded compost
Innocently left to rot in the sun for several weeks on end
So now for fun we back-bend over thundering volcanoes
Earthenware bowls asymmetrically formed in our souls
If all our pelvises tilt slightly to the left of west
Then the forest’s health is a direct reflection of our own faulty perspectives
And now you justify selling your soul for meager earnings
For next to nothing is always better than being wholly broke
Or broken holy or even sometimes just a little bit more hungry

I

after a bath
and the window open
I was touched
by an air of autumn
against my body
not quite towelled
hardly dry but ready
nonetheless to feel
something of the season’s
change against my fragile self

(an autumn air)


II

so very green
and multitudinous shades
holding the late afternoon
in greenness
only the towpath
measured out in sunlight
and the seat of a bench distant
providing a goal
a sensible place to aim for

we set out with her guiding hand
clasping my weakness
when a dragonfly
intricate in full sunlight
moves against a backdrop
of dark-shadowed trees
poising at eye-level
to look us over
and is off away

on our return
(from that distant bench
our goal our aim)
there a kingfisher
flashes past
and into a canal-side bush
we wait and wait hoping
to catch again the trajectory
of its miraculous flight

(canal side)

III

to whom it may concern

presumptuous I think to wish for anything
beyond one has and holds - anything
in regard to property or possessions
I have no wish to consider further
Who has what of me I disdain
and whatever it might be can only be
in my gift and surely that must be freely given
Should there be the slightest hint of dispute
I hope some Almighty Hand will
remove all and everything
to the very darkest depths

in friendship


(a letter of wishes)




IV

begun as joyous celebrations
of musical art bright and lively
on the page welcome
to the ear as to the eye

so often full of dance gentle
reflections sonorously sounding
out in playfulness
and reasoned movement


(Beethoven’s Op.18 string quartets)




V

with only the bare essentials
the most limited of means
this music grips and stirs
springing out of unisons
octaves bare chords of the fifth
and a play of rhythms
straight and straight-forward
four-square angular tight
against the beat within the bar
a simple subtlety and space
between two instruments:
the legato violin tempering
the insistent piano - always
movement no repose a constant
unwinding thread
of perilous invention
hardly a breath taken
a pause made

(on hearing Shostakovich’s Sonata for Violin and Piano)



VI

he types:

the post-box is too far way
as I must (e)mail this note today

so with no maker’s mark
this message will forego
the papered page
ink’s curved line and flow
the fold the sticky edge
the stamp well placed
the stroll with the dog
to the box along the lanes
in evening’s light
sounds of roosting birds
and flittering squeaks of bats

(an email from a former student)



VII

aware of my fragility
his gracious manner
moves me to tears
In speaking
he places every word
with infinite care
in practiced deliberation
. . . and I am crying
at his understanding
that he knows my loneliness
in dying and how I wish
to rise above
this momentary upset
to assure him I can
and will cope
that I am in his hands
He just has to say . . .


(visit to the doctor



VIII


Daily I curate the contents
of this window sill
a changing exhibition
backdrop to a sedentary life

Today: Japanese wallpaper c.1925.
Mead Cloth by Matthew Harris,
Hokusai – Mount Fuji and six cranes ( two flying)
Post card from the Pyréneées
An earthenware blackbird and thrush in a cherry tree
David Hockney, April 25 from The Arrival of Spring
Un passé plat empiétant tapestry from Madagascar.


(exhibition on a window sill)



IX

being twenty-one
seems no great age
but I remember it dimly
when adrift in my life
it came and went –
a spring and sunny day
a watch from my parents
a few cards . . .

but for you
a family day at Kew
a meal with relatives and friends
altogether a good time to remember
I so hope you will . . .


(at twenty-one)


X

To members of the London Symphony Orchestra
Ralph Vaughan-Williams is reported to have said:
‘Gentlemen, let me introduce you to the man
who writes my music.’

Unfortunate this, as his copyist Roy Douglas
had the job of deciphering the composer’s appalling
handwriting, the result of a natural
left-handedness being corrected as a child.

For me, the person who has written my music
so faithfully for fourteen years rarely dealt with
illegibility but had instead to cope with conflicts
of musical spelling.
Is this a sharp? Should this be a flat?
Do we need a cautionary accidental here?

Fortunately, he and I were not espoused as Stravinsky and
Elgar were to their long-suffering copyists, who often berated
their husbands for their inability to spell chromatic pitches
correctly. Stravinsky had an excuse: the vagaries of the octatonic scale
he often used and loved. Elgar was just ******-minded! Poor Alice . . .


(saying a warm goodbye to my copyist)


XI


to talk about yourself when
dead and gone How strange!
This need - to put in place
to sort the detail now
and so avoid confusion
What then?


An indeterminate wait
until the moment comes
the eyes won’t open
on a woken world
ears not hear
the sound of traffic
from a nearby road


there will be
an emptiness sublime
a finishing of tasks
and all those earthly
mysteries solved
and deemed complete


So this is what
we recommend
It could be this?
It could be that?

and every which way
it’s yours to choose
for rightness sake
Amen


*(the interview)

The Great Creator Sat, Smiling Solemnly,
As He Molded A Soul From River Clay,
He Took In A Deep Breath As He Plucked A Ray,
From The Sun Nearest To Our World,
He Gently Placed It Inside The Earthenware,
Giving It Life--Giving It A Smile

The Great Creator Sat, Pondering It's Housing,
The Soul Sparkled As It Awaited It's Home,
Awaited It's Time To Prosper,
The Great One Took Two Feathers From The Bird,
Who Calls, "Jay", And Placed Those Pale Blue
Feathers Upon The Irises The Soul Would Wear,
He Peered Into The Sea, And Found The Richest,
Darkened Blue Hues Which He Placed Onto The Eyes

The Great Creator Looked In The Most Beautiful Garden,
And Plucked Two Rose Petals, The Palest Pinks,
Then Placed Them As Thin Lips Upon The Face,
He Selected The Golden-Brown Hues Of Wheat,
For The Skin Of Which The Soul Would Wear,
And He Found The Blackest Of The Night Skies,
And Molded It Into Hair

The Great Creator Sculpted The Housing From Granite,
Wrapping It Around The Soul,
He Then Put On The Finishing Touches And Sent The Soul To Earth,
Yet The Soul Did Not Feel At Home,
Therefor,
That Is Why The Great Creator Gave Him,
A Baby Girl

My skies are sponged in soft grey
water-pressed, water folded
water borne.
Anon, I have only ever been remembered in this way:
When the light is wan.
But I promise you, more than
the sky now promises a hopeful sleep
I will love you beyond hills and houses
Beyond clay, which melts in the rain
My love is a kiln, I am caught in the
hearth with you
And now if I was thrown,
I would be shattered instantly.
But I can stand a thousand days of rain
I can hold under high heat
I am glossy earthenware
Finer than any diamond or gold nugget
I will nourish, comfort, and warm you
I will love you such.

Dark roots and boughs -
tentacular wraiths
poison earth and sky.

The free market ecology blooms.

There it stands modelling a fine coat of dust
covering the rim chips that cheapen it.
This vase stood for more than I can understand.
In earthenware fashioned from English clay
by English hands, but unfashionable now
a small squat *** of Dalton blue and brown.
Two necklaces of tiny beads clasp its neck
like corsets holding open its cornet mouth.
But we no longer hear its tunes or read its runes.

When I hold it in my hands I see Great Grandma's room
with highland cattle in a Scottish mountain scene.
The long-case clock of fear and fascination
where mother was threatened with incarceration
but never ******. Its rustic case reached down
to Earth's grim brimstone and fiery domains.
'There,' Mother said, 'lie Grandma's tortured remains.'

electric — conflated with
the doldrum of once ignited feeling
on the russet table work
and the stringing aroma of flyblown
coffee painting the morning something
earthenware;

i imagine
  
     women lounging
and displaying their flamboyant dresses
confessing a dull promenade
parading their attenuated *****. reveling
a queendom on recall and this bane,
  merely resolute, gives itself a new
meaning as a hand of forgive

   men resigning their bags on the corner,
grunts, heaves deathly serious disallowing tomorrow's arrival into
  a throb of being in place, folding newspapers to a club and smiting fervently along with the endless waiting,
  
   verses lying cold on the froth of the tile
and the wind ripening the brew of
     contestations — punctuations in their
cupboards still and reserved in hermetic
   space curating silence, giving dins
     their polished ends,

   open for all: churlish boys,
   naked girls, faith-used women, strife-torn men, usual suspects,
     rebels and the overwrought –
  never closes like a hand in cold
      or a rose, its face occulted by
identification sideways torn, inside and out struggling,
      scrunched to squint on some pale light through chinks on the battered
     wall, sipping coffee,
   mmmm, that
   morning ripple transcending the
         heaviness of the city before me.

people need reminders,
like my absenteeism using a mobile
phone: i just think of able people
donning crutches with those devices...
me? i'm mobile... they? they're static
parishioners: everyone seems to
be donning a crucifix or an aged
bald and fat Buddha idol of the living room:
one stone,
two pigeons.
                       people do need reminders
though... oh sure, i'll get far,
i'll wake the masses alright,
i'll be up bright and early and worthy
of a radio broadcast... it will happen:
i'm just not that ready to feed people with:
what ******* ***** came next,
and how i celebrated after...
or didn't.                 grow intelligent enough
to people hate you, literally: it's bile
comment after bile comment after more bile...
i never got that... i worked my ***-off
for the grades, but there's a lunchbox feed
of people saying: and i wish
i never worked that academically hard
either... sure thing: there, ain't, any, awards...
you get rewards from ******* other people
over... and that's how you make it...
no other way... and forget about staging a truce.
there's the Blockbusters': Egyptians love
Norse Myth... and there's the Syrian Candlewicks -
both are Bach worthy ***** compositions needing
production twinklings... boom char boom...
                and again: Sinjit's your uncle.
class.
                   slang years behind? the aversion
in using the word cool...
                              class... meaning stylish...
meaning anything more than that bodybuilding ****
friend of yours said about flexing the blunt (bicep):
                              or as the ***** granny Grey
lisped:         pucker up you godforsaken heathens!
                   salto the word Haydn!
  minus the trolley and extra cabbage packed
adding up the arithmetic: mind the ******* goldfish!
                           no one tries to be funny...
it never works when trying...
                                        i'm not funny...
i wasn't born to be... funny... but it's funny when
   a granny on a scooter replaces an earl in a cocktail
shawl... pretty: but it's merely a Kashmiri jumper
you shlag... turban suits you, sir...
                           and you too, sir...
              i say, smocking and barricades...
i say, kind sir: earthenware and silk for what
i intended to say in the first place: a silken bathrobe
to leisure in: entertaining at tea... time...
           oh indeed sir... 5 p.m. at the latest.
god i'd love to live on the Faroe Isles
               and butcher Orca swarms typified by
akin relation to Mongols.      
                                dreary cultural envisioning
readied to upkeep a status quo...
                                               mind, the, guillotine:
more than a toe might come off your
  "precious" body, as precious as receiving a
birthday card.

with me it's all ***** free, she laughed me teasing ***** and not her ****, and then i said: i was bitterer free than a caged slave freed; so tell me... when did rhyme rhyme with untrue and dry prose with truth?*

none of the free women could uncouple ******* from the *****;
none of these free women
could love me like a *****, the "master,"
but they did - common free ****** themselves
while the saints arose to challenge the antichrist
deciding it was better to salvage driftwood than the whole ship,
and give common fee to ******* than salvage
common freedom from common ******* fees with ******* the commons
of sedating parliament of freedom feeing freedom:
but the ****** became saintly snakes
asking for less and the common woman for more!
what mattered more was slapping the cheek,
none of these free women could compete,
none of these free women could salvage the ****** slaves,
instead they asked for opinions through actresses,
and while i broke chime of dirges with sirens
for the chandelier flutes dropped - i heard of demonic
song being poetry, and angelic songs continued without poeticism;
oh lark and sorrow i heard that no free woman ever bore
the freed love from sexing it asked for yoga exercise
to thrill a lost packaged youth,
but the free women sexed up, and the ****** were
skeletally libra minded to tangle the heaviest with the lightest
and the freest with the most leathered up to tangle in whip lost
sparking less gallop and more thought:
as once in town a randomised woman to my writing said:
now that's the devil, said, and i walked on.
none of the free women who spoke of feminism ever
gave third introduction up, with limping the second artillery was
salvo dis-loved, for the third introduction was sold
to *****, and man managed all, but not this;
none of the free women could ever pair man with her involvement
satisfactory: first *****, second ****, third lips and child goodnight:
for the free women were more than ****** could be,
found the woman, entering a brothel and hearing of ******' graces
to do not what free women did: no ****, no harsh movement,
the ****** dictated that freedom felt what it wasn't with me bought,
****** a ***** and kept **** to myself
while i argued the digestion in reverse and liberated them
from a child engaged to be tucked in, and sweetly dreaming of mothers
of tomorrow with hanky and bacon and scrambled eggs for schooling,
marching into marsh and sweet mud, in order that some general
might satiate the feel of ordering a fee of orderly salutes into hades'
6ft gape of a yawn of cracking marble into moulding earthenware to
suit root and worm.

So now I admit defeat, when all my fantasies which turned me into a flailing solitary fanatic have turned down every reality once thought possible. Facing my own pain it’s the pages of easily written paper keeping me company. I’d like to destroy the only thing that is left of me and I never can grasp: love.

All the words in my head have ties to more things reaching beyond my brain. But all that is holding me down to the ground is what I always knew as life. The broken parts, shards of earthenware pots, and the earth that once gave birth to me. I died and part of the universe lived on. So now, this heart, which feels vacated. I feel most of all by itself.
Who do I know to be an actual true me? Is it the reflected echo of whomever sees and hears me? Who had ever loved a real me? Can they know if I don’t? I don’t know...

So I sing like the sirens that never heard their own call and knew how to fall for it. They never saw their sailors drown, so tragic to see their bodies floating in the water down the shore line. I always want the ones I can’t find. Since they can’t find me when there is nothing to be found. When do I finally leave this underwater labyrinth? To be released from my confounding prison I simply need to swim upwards but heavy water keeps me in my place.

No one has ever really known me. So I go down to my own loneliness again, once more descend, turning to the blackened sea crashing up an abandoned beach haunted by my lovers ‘corpses. No way out but up this cliff that is my treacherous heart. My siren song has led me to my own demise. It’s time to admit being shipwrecked.
My head ache turns me to broken black again, once more, hoping no more. What will take away the breathing room in this persistent solitude? It had never been so complete to let me rise from my body of memories, reborn. (Re)production lasts only if there is a past to overflow from.

As my head tears itself apart when my eyes witness loving kindness with souls bearing a sweet careless caress, it is this wait to let my long unfulfilled desires die out which is the excruciating part of my empty story. No one is ever together if they can’t be solitary, two reflections merged into one consciousness but I deny mostly myself. So ever can I let my heart break not for what I don’t have but for whom I know lies in the corner, forgotten which is me, sobbing from deep dark past secrets nobody cared to hear, from her, from someone who I had once been? I am not [me] and it takes a long time to get used to a dark with no glimmer of light. My illuminating sparks are smothered in grief.

© November 22nd 2014

This hand-wrought silver
'small crazy dog' pin
will look fantastic
adorning my hiking fedora,
right next to the fused-glass,
hand-blown
copper Celtic cross pendant
made by another local artisan.

And O God,
what beauty you
have helped to make,
this pressed-wildflower
hanging pretty ornament,
constructed with creative-hands,
will bring eternal happiness
back home forever.

And when I'm
a million miles
away from such sacredness,
I'll have my hot java
in my hand-spun
earthenware
mug to comfort me,
and at night,
I'll sip tea from
handcrafted
porcelain pottery,
remembering fondly,
the kindness and care
I fond there,
in the land of sacred hands.

a    man with his
     heaviness    weighs the
masculine     waters

    be    like stone
its depth    of concentration
  
   wherefore     birds  lose
  sight of their    rapt flight
above    waters    stills a man
    whose mirror     is not of   a mirage
but       a    man   flat against    the seductive      rose
  
   to     hold  his     breath
and rain's      supreme bullet
       are    but simplistic    maze
again     the   stone cannot  reveal
the     man   in his  proud   geographies —

      such   trouble   of mortality
begins,   a wrest     of bones,   the volcano     defined    by  such earthenware
whose   metaphysics   unalphabeted
  like   fellows    going back to god's    arms
   sitting      well   with
          red    roses.

Flavia swore as the heavy earthenware pitcher slipped from her hands and crashed onto the uneven flagstones. As she knelt in the puddle of tepid water and started gathering in the pieces, she heard the rapidly approaching footfall of an armed legionary.

‘Leave that now, there’s no time. We ride for York immediately.’
‘But mea domina...’
‘The Wall is breached. Hurry, puella, or she'll start without you!’

Flavia picked up her sodden skirts and ran.

                                                           ­  §

I held my breath as the last piece of the Corbridge ewer slid smoothly into place and wondered at the exquisitely crafted motif which encircled the body of this ancient vessel. A procession? A cavalcade? Curious, if not for the men-at-arms, I would have thought it a pageant. And there in a covered wagon a noble woman looking back at a young girl standing on the steps of a villa holding her hem in her hands.

cooking sauce earlier... bane's theme, thematic of con carne erotica therapeutic digression... the ambivalent chuckling worth if not simply wanton of stereotype, conversely a stenograph, and a dynamism of acquiring an autograph; or how to undermine poetic rhyming: akin to tenacious d's one note song paraphrase divisive of the futility engaging in such a genetic gross-misconduct and apprehensive on up-keeping a cultural initiative brought forth and necessarily worth a replica; in true or a truant sense of Heidegger, an altruism of conjunction, the birds procrastinating or peacocking, whether the scenario if worthy of loathsome to be minded... it's nonetheless there... it's how language is used that concerns us... not what we do with language, but how we use it... the how is more important than the why... thankfully the reality / ontology of language is how rather than why; why is already answered with us being and continuing to be here, it's how we are that we are... persistent in being claimants of a continuum, whether akin to a Schubert or in continuum or in infinituum... ah that natural convenience of the acquisition of status... jargon and char... a heated discussion and nothing but the marring of furthered augmentation toward one's own clarification of ponce. me and my scabby version of events, inflammatory bulging where Oliver Twist suggest: please sir, may i puke on this **** some more?!

sooner be than think,
       and no sooner
                    be more than θink,
to θink
               is as much a piggish
oink when love is concerned,
meaning that φilosoφy
  begets relegation
                 when naturally
nailing the coffin shut in Cymru
is what was waited upon;
        orn the higher tier of Manhattan -
there too the earthenware -
or the calypso fury against the panzer....
the new Iraq against my flavoured jive,
oh i'll dance the culinary stinking socks bit....
like i'd dance the Caleigh in Glasgow
to pride the Irish....
                    Pakistan stems from
a dream: counter Saudi Arabia, or dune,
arable cunning-deform of
                                         cuneiform.
spider-jets.
                                      whe­n was Arabia
the Sheikh Fortune to chuckerfore a: wise said so.
you'd be sooner dead that dealing
the prescribed antics -
                        and death akin to bane's theme:
thespians' ergo medium: a life of puritans,
a life of pure fable.
                 i am still here...
     waiting,
demanding,waiting,
                Rizzo Papa,
Ritz Pulpa Johannus.
                                            thespians' ergo medium:
when thinking doesn't translate into being,
                                it's there,
interim...
                             a tragico-comedic allowance
to shelter a nearing extinguishing of oaf narration....
and a depth thus scolded,
                a depth thus summarised,
a depth with a fatigued enterprise -
                               a churning bechanced by coup after coup:
lazily forgiving a Lazarus undertaking....
hence crescendo Chile...     ore of the smartly dressed
Husky dressed men... alternatively stated: the men
in the quiet describable attire.
                  take a dog for a walk, take the tongue
into a waggling ha ha heap's worth of a dictionary;
    wo fish vocalised their citric concerns
when the loaves in fraction levelling five was brought
for questioning.... or the ***** socks....
                              alternatively dressed *lumberjacks
in hankies and chequers alias chess.
says as much as munchy is talked about
in Tuscany - where munchy is referred to
                    as fibre, or the dietary worth of inedible.

I will cry because the sun is setting
The advance of age
A fire catching
I used paper as the kindling
Its a fire out of control
It burns us all
Heart and soul
It burns us all into the ash
I should sing to you my setting sun
But inky tears will fall
A lonesome sob
I could beat upon an instrument
A drum of earthenware
But its only brittle dirt
Its only dust
Becoming us

I cannot sing
My empty soul
But I can hope
My tears are music to your ears
I cannot sing the pain I feel
The pain that's real
From loving you
From touching every part of you
My sighs melodious
My laments significant
My hopes through all my fears
The sun only sets to rise

Let the sun rise again
Let it rise over us
Let it be the light
Let it break this darkness

Her skin shines like a newly smoked earthenware
Beauty glows on her like the colourful scarlet
Of a newly married hindi woman
And her perfection; so refreshing as the early morning rising sun.

She is a lady;
Yes! A lady of class
Full of Glamour like the glitz awards
The African night sky with her stars of hope are nothing
Compared to the grace that adorns her.

Her smile lights up my world
Love; her greatest charm
Smile, her sweetest perfume
Her words are more soul touching than the hard-bop tone of
Lee morgan's side-winder

She is a woman ; An African woman , the best of women
The sound of her name sends chilled thrills down my spine like
Water from a fountain quenches thirst in spring.

Nhammie as i passionately call her,
So have i missed every single minute that flew past when we are not together
I stand tall like the great iroko tree amongst great trees to mention her name;
Nana Ama!!!
Yes! Nana Ama
She is a woman
An African woman of substance and of Great virtue.

1

held  against   the mouth
  sentenced cleaved to silence, what is around me
 is all this is: wire. quartet of birds. aqueduct
 as arrest and close range tap of rain on face
 rippling in the eye foreclosed and reasoned is
 this image's return -- what is it like to live
 far away from home and not hear me say
 regret as study of attitude? News carried
 bombardment of inner cities. We were hesitant
 to leave place and borrowed skin instead,
    if not borrowed then grasped for, what is the answer? if coordinates lie, what are
                   we trying to discover.

2

held  against  the  temple
   not a barrel of a gun, but similarly, a chamber if not
  a mouth breathing in sulfur. the day has spun
  out of, and in between clipped reminders of
    the calendar:
   today's broken notes on the tablatures are
 the daily. Do groceries. Pick the freshest fruit,
   take the sour out of the scale. Gut the fish
 and not word it so over the kitchen counter, I will
 watch behind a clutter of earthenware and furniture. Might topple the glass
     once and catch your attention. I do not deny your
  effect     on   my  soul.

3

  today's forecast of rain   is body staying in.
  the children are seized by terror as scattered displays    of  lightning   paint their faces
       petrified with a lack of hue -- listen to the
 intermittent, coarse static of the television
     when it happens, your face ripe for arrest.
  there   is   nothing to do in  a home
     holding  its  breath  when  you walk,
   do not   leave just yet. the water   is  rising.
      it tells   you   to   stay  in. triple your  presence
  across the  dining,  rain as if out of the  shower
      barely  drying   yourself,   leave  water
    i will    not   drink,  only    test  swimmingly 
      a  dream  out   of   sleep and   so real
       a   twitch of  fish    out   of   ocean.

4

  outside  you are  no longer  than  the   transit
  of   birds   seeking   canopies. Wind   disrupts
  the steady  arm  of   cables. Slosh of water
     from an   oncoming  vehicle  as if  beside  the
   sea crashing into   me   are   waves,

   What need   is   there  when  your   mouth houses
      water, your   *******, warmth?  Contrast as
   habit   of  alternatives. In verbatim, this is how it
    sounded from you, "We  are   very   young.
          Remember me   this   way."

  Now i  wish  voices   could  be bodies. The next irreconcilable   face   as    hearth.
              Fingers   as   assuage,   distance  as  dearth,
      grasp   if  not  borrow,  translatable  to
   signal,  my  body   heeding,   fraught by taciturnity through the   caught  wind
      through the  furniture, once your   body being   groped for like any
     other   sundrenched day.

in the morning
to wake to the dissatisfaction
the kind that only sleep envelops
to stir to stir
and wander into long halls
of a million doorways
in one: a simple smile
another, painted earthenware and a child's laughter
a third: needles before euphoria and neurotransmitters
pouring out into blackness
the next: a single blank page and a sigh echoing out of eternity
the doors stretch farther than I can see
contain more than I can bear
cigarette ashes, beloved footsteps fading away, a thousand different accidents with a thousand different grief-ends, a foreign home, one white bird in a flock of black, tie dyed bed clothes, a foggy road, a scientific discovery, a one-night stand with an unforgettable face, a creaking porch screen door, lost pets, piles of bills, purple lightening, long hair, a fathers tears, a city of bare concrete and rain, a moment beside a wood stove, a lost job, a yellow poppy on a green hill, a bottle of whiskey, a tarantula behind the toilet, a convenience store on a special block's corner, ****, last messages, pill boxes, promotion, a long exam, a homeless man,
in one a wedding, in another; divorce papers
hospital rooms, persian rugs, leaking rooftops, eye contact
some doors locked with years lost
some with no turning back
oh
sometimes I can reach the very last ****, to touch for a moment
the room with death itself
but I wander still for there are many more
wander whispering prayers
no guide but a burning light, following always
the center of being

but nowhere is the sun more poignant
than in october drizzle
with downcast grey limits of the sky expanding
with a diaphragm placed inside the lungs of clouds evaporating
but the same clouds merely scouting,
to fake masculinity to fake femininity
and abide by the embryo’s chance of oinked blossom,
where a man sits in the earthenware of thought
kissing a book’s page of the last line he didn’t write but spoke,
and says that man resides in the hemisphere above
the churning metalloid chisel and the howling winded bagpipe,
that a whiskey at 10am allows all the fun but no company,
that each word although not exactly onomatopoeia is just that,
a sound in echo without a cavern solitude of exfoliating shadow,
that it’s just that, a sound abbreviated by concentrated strain on the eye
in “pure” reading of verse,
but then the smooch on the page of previous sounds resounds highest, cherished,
because man is so easily lullabied in the numbers to his own frankenstein
of machine upon machine upon machine:
his tractor broke but the nonetheless the wheat was scythed,
that’s the fate of man,
resound man to the gong of your chiral chimera in kantian residue of thought!
resound to be fated as the abducted by numbers - by those first
parameters of thoughts - resound i say, resound! echo ageless
and steer that buckling ship into the hoof echoes of the waves
braving the endless night! resound i tell you! let no coward no rat
off the guillotine!
ah but i too stand removed from moving an inch further into
a blossoming digression that might allow me a sense,
perhaps sight, perhaps hearing, perhaps tongue in tongs
be the next snippet of sound that i might be an usher to,
but whatever fates await us, i too will have said more than the hammer
and the revered horse’s snout in gallop, i too will have added to
the synchronisation of all things apparent,
and with these symbols i have aided a complication for the chinese,
who’s own phonetic symbolism master crafted
the mathematical genius in them,
to have no coupling like the post-roman dogs did zeros with
omicrons and omegas,
so that they peered into the parentage of one begot two
two begot three three begot four etc.
with more ease than we could never envision
unless starring into our western mandarin of: ♪, ♫.
never will you debase these symbols to write an onomatopoeia
of a dog's bark! you'll call it what it is, and then write me
a symphony in due course to erase the clamour
of rusty metal sounds kept as the heartbeat of refrigerators.

Reproaching, leaning against my attention
Her cupped body, my eyes trickle down her
Luminous hair, jealous dress against her earthenware, earnest skin
Framing what she knows like the book in her hand, her palm
Eagerly charitable, arms
Unconcerned, unlike eyes
Describing tempests I only assume she has
Found within, espoused without, our gorse lining
The blooming of social trials
And her look, glance, flitted worry
Grey eyes not surrendering the reflection
That's not there
Luminous, grotto ragazza
Is what I see, what I see

and when they write their novels, the last thing
they'll realise, is that... contradictions, are
twists in the plot... philosophy books are only
akin to novella by creating contradictions,
as a way of suggesting playdough, scrapheap
of phenomenology;
    some say contradictions are desired faults
in an "arithmetic" / plot, and yes, that's... "arithmetic",
meaning a + b can't exactly be 1 + 2... but that's
               ∞ = a-z....
                 the two are incompatible correlatives...
crafted to ensure babushka lingua
                         sell her tomatoes...
                               and all subsequent blah blahs;
oh please! you'll go to thailand some time next year,
you want me to feel sorry for you?
              pet a rat!*

and will i dicta villager simply,
                                                      qualm?!
  ­                  you! ruddier!
charcoal fat!
you sludge-ipsen
            you vermont Kaiser guised!
you! finicky, thing!
            avocado fat ****!
let us bravado a chin!
  that double! half-wit quiff!
   fringe alongside the combover!
all things elongated towards a giraffe....                  
           you! squeaky Lombard of Milan!
you! paraphrase! you! Merovingian!
cackle squat! and summation parts teutonic;
defaced, with mention of tectonic;
and they did live, a happily ever after,
                         which is the sad part;
you! piglet charcoal with dumb & dumber!
i dare not carve my name in stone...
    i carve my name in lamb limbs...
                   so i debase myself on
the throttle when there's encouragement
of the speeding aversion toward Macbeth;
i look upon the toil,
    as i might take slightness of asserting
the earthenware,
      to have milked the cow, or to have
leisured an urn from a basic of dover chalk -
        there you are... a kingly kin awoken...
there the highlands... and there the deposited
  into basin...
                             for all pyrotechnics
there's still the pedophobia -
                means i have an aversion becoming
a father... i don't like children...
do i hate to?       ~. really, do i have to?
as it strands... i have to.
it was Macbeth who looked down,
and said: as mere pebble be,
        i see less time occupying the lot of the heavens
even if they conjunction Aries into
     a warring tide...
                            there, among
the toothache and awoken chance to meet grit...
     i find time worth embedding a scaling into...
          a rigidity, that could never define Romeo,
and as said... lost the mc.        as having lost
the juliet... and subsequently gained the Beth.

i woke up today and couldn't fathom current
affairs in any other way...
             the rebirth of israel...
                      hawk pantos that's america (*** note,
hannibal would apply the death penalty
if i was playing the trombone, or something
akin to it... tearing my hearing to shreds and
subsequently infuriating me)...
            but my tongue is a very debasing
instrument to come to grips with...
                      it's the internet and the narrative
in the west...
                        i was just listening to a nationalist
greg johnson... and let's face it:
how did nationalism become so reasonable?
        or what do you say to nationalists who
have to face up to darwinistic populists that are
secretly communist?
                        i find darwinism not so much a case
against god, but against the left...
                    maybe i'm seeing double or something...
anyway... if i was writing this in central europe ("east"
europe... left right of centre argument?
  copernicus didn't really improve our map-reading
skills... more people find the edge of a cliff
or a sea than... the ******* x: that marks the spot)...
           so we're supposed to be objective,
        and by object i mean an ethnic context:
     which bites back at what those who argue against
subjectivity have: how am i to suddenly turn into shadow
of some obscene universalism?
       well, judging by the content i'm being "prescribed"
(just listening to), and given darwinism, when doesn't
brutality (at least intellectual) come into the fore?
           arguments in a graveyard phase?
                                     epitaph managment?
but since i'm writing this in england, and seeing what's
unfolding, or what's already too late to comment on
as it already has...
    politico-ethnicity speaking? as an anglo-slav?
        there is a dual deterrent in "certain" parts of central
europe... some say the weather, some say:
  the people who inherited the remnants of national
socialism's nadir... we know national socialism's
zenith was the autobahn... so if the british proclaim
pride at the railway network, the germans can't
proclaim a pride in the autobahn network?
                     well... if you've ever been in the central
of warsaw during the winter, you know climate is a natural
deterrant to what the problems in western europe
are spoken about...
                        giving the current climate of politics,
i can't say that sites such as auschwitz are also deterrents...
    i'm guessing people over there (as earth to earthenware
be spoken) - perhaps half-jokingly:
                                        you want us to fire up
the furnaces? no, but the Ełk example...
                         do i really have to state that darwinism is
an ideology in direct confrontation with marxism?
                 i hear things like cultural marxism...
        but what the west has started to export is
                                                 cultural darwinism...
it's a seesaw effect, a stick has two ends...
                                           i don't even know how to
begin entertaining the effects of cultural darwinism,
unless of course there's overt psychologism
                              and too many explanations and
very little action: it's like this ******, completely ******
off his face on l.s.d. looking at a painting saying:
    oh, isn't that nice?
                                    cultural darwinism is real,
and it lies opposite cultural marxism; i really don't know
how it happened, by darwinism is political these days
(as it always was, with the monkey trial...
  but then that was in the realm of law, rather than politico
blah blah)... in that sense it has become almost ineffective
in convincing people anew, afresh, precisely because
it has turned from a very beautiful theory,
                     into the harsh reality of indoctrination;
i really hid that part where i mentioned auschwitz as
a deterrent to the migrant problem, didn't i?
                  i'll write a bit more and it will truly be well
hidden... o fortuna... und die shattenvolk:
                      it's not even a belief, you just read western
media, and it's as if poland was one defended by
western europe, by not receiving pointless coverage;
       within reasonable constraints, this new alliance
within the european union?
                           i'm thinking whether it's real or not;
never mind... i'm still to depict su doku tactics
            and actually finish a puzzle that i ensured
could be turned into ideograms... which by japanese
standards of complexity, would be treated
   as if neanderthal... all we have in terms of complexity
is volume... since almost anyone can and anyone
has learned english... it's naked... ****-naked adam,
the oddball of all other european languages...
             primarily due to a lack of unitary distinctions...
and this point has to be repeated repeated re-.

I. awoke at three in the morning to the sound of Elephants of the Serongetti up and down my stairs ,
Thud
         Thud
                    Thud
                             They left a thud that went straight through me.
Then trumpet sound of slamming doors and endless chatter that somehow just didn't matter ,
at 3 am in the morning .
Outside fireworks were set off a crackle to the heavens , beneath the billions of stars
Our sun bringing light to this cradle of satan , once loved God , God had lovingly hung in the heavens.
Beyond that  the Milky Way a little girl picks up from the table , starts to tear its wrapper ,
'. No dear not before lunch '. Said Mother , the little girl looked perplexed and returned
It to the table .
A potter hangs his earthenware ceramic ball Of clay amugst the stars and weeps at how
Sad it has become , compared. to all the other bright stars and. Galaxy's he has made.
All. The Rivers , and Sky's  , all the unborn babies. Cries .
Like shifting sand the land has become dammed ,
One Cross of Roman wood ,
One hope ,
A line of Jessie ,
Crushed ,
Like a rose to rise again .
One plan , for man ,
On Savior to walk this earth .

An Acrid smell of nicotine from my neighbors flat below ,
Stale and pungent , it hung in the air , and lingered like an Angel of death above my bed ,
And Mrs Hubbard who came out of my cupboard , with a broom she had found on the
Moon  chased the mouse out of my house ,
In the light of the moon , a. Fly passed by , who wasn't taken in by the spider beside her.
And the lovers who had pots and pans and crazy plans ,found love
Over coffee and tea , and sympathy ,
Cuddled in bed .
And as dawn awoke , to bird song ,
a single prayer was heard ,
That man should know Gods Glory
amugst the singing of the birds

milk thick
with clotted cream
not conversant
with homogenization
sat it a sqaut blue
earthenware jug
in the coolness
of the foodsafe
with the pan of water
cold from being ice
below, the soothing drip
part of the melody
of the old kitchen
along with the slap of dough
on the slice of marble
cut from mountainside
in a counrty old and
across a sea of troubles
tibits of sweetness
handed down
for consumption
dough and flour dusted hands
leave imprints on cheeks
and warmth in hearts
in the oven thick ginger bread
rises bringing hunger
to stomachs already full
as women talkand bake
and solve the problems
of the world, banished now
we sit on the step, out the back,
the sun warm on our faces
waiting, waiting, waiting
for a slice of gingerbread
hot from the oven
and a glass of
cold, fresh, creamy milk

Why this house? This house that walks without frame? Only air strides
circumventing the dome. The permeable atmosphere
flows freely shaking water down my arms,
          pulp by pulp, fragment by fragment,
consolations for tippling music streaming in the ears.
Blowing arias – intone of regret, or the loss of beautiful things.
Preferring silence over sanguine narratives. How are we to assuage yearning?
   I heard someone say, “The ideal is unattainable.” – strange, holding
the small of one’s back and lament the narrow ends of the world.
   Strange the flight of birds, the hum of buses past Quezon City.
It would drone that you do not know her – and that she is never somebody
  else’s – that is dearth consoled. Your palm indents delineate not fate
but the steady distances of things close to contact, eluding tragedies.
                          Why this house, and why you?
I have no blueprint of your home. I know not what festoons the balustrades.
   Your rue for the absence of a balcony. A panel over earthenware I suppose,
or partitions to separate dreams from stilled things impaled to the wall.
   I presume there are photographs of you in every corner
to remind you   of your gathered storms.
                         I know not the smell of your home, but I have your
nameless fragrance on my shirt wedged, ambulating with me through the halls of
    where I chase moments like cirrus stirring in a somersault of summer.
  Make use of  bowls with
      evening water  and flush the specter down like how you would, cold water
into throat from a night of weeping. Somewhere there,
    the China will remind me of your elliptical face in
                the intensity of leaving. Your eyes
the windows for birds humming a music I do not hear.   I have been to too many neighborhoods,
I have seen unfinished structures foretold by obliged scaffolds holding together
                     a would-be home. Why this house? There are only shadows intimate on
the floor. The sudden burst of impossibilities watered down, attenuated by
            piercing glances through the thickest of nights black with remorse.
The palpable silence gyrates and the diameters of the world are too close
     to break in sidereal circles.
Why this house?   Because you are in it, and outside,
    through the thick quietude, underneath the paling moonlight,
                         you pretend you see nobody.