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Prose is unpretentious, that's its attraction. Avoids bombast of line breaks but forgoes -- what -- perfect rest. Anyway today, a November day in February, no chance getting rest with the poor clay I'm made from.

With my mother this weekend, her dementia proceeding according to what plan. Saturday the kind of day I never have. Actually read three stories by Updike. One extraordinary -- Tomorrow and Tomorrow and So Forth -- which I chose from his Complete through 1975 for the reference to Macbeth and in it he so humanely, sympathetically explains through the high school English teacher's thoughts Shakespeare's mid-life bitterness or disappointment realizing few men achieve their potential in the face of history, society and their personal flaws. Making for tragedy. Hard to be humorous about that although Updike finds in Shakespeare's late plays, especially The Tempest, a resolution amounting to wisdom that there can be contentment with imperfection and partial achievement. Updike took some of the starch out of my contention that all Shakespeare's plays are comedies, impossible to take Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth and Othello seriously. Certainly not Romeo and Juliet. It is a consolation that Updike's and even Shakespeare's achievements are imperfect although it would be wringing blood from a rock for me to achieve as much. The other two stories by Updike assured me that prose story-telling is as hit or miss as poetry. Bulgarian Poetess and How to Love America and Leave It At the Same Time made me think how fortunate I had been to find Tomorrow on the first try.

Not so much luck. I was attracted like a bee to a blossom to Shakespeare's lines in my personal anthology. No anthology and the poetry dependency it has created and I might have passed over the story. But now there is this conversation between me and all other writers. The anthology helps me know what I like but now I am tempted to try to articulate why I like what I like. Like the calendar, time and all else man lays his mind to it is a matter of bringing order from chaos by naming things according to our observations.

First, I like to understand what's going on in the poem. Not paraphrase it but describe the action. In Yeats' Lapis Lazuli, in the first paragraph, strophe or stanza, he talks about a community, a city or country, in which people, the women especially, high-toned maybe?, are upset about a political or wartime situation and are too hysterical for art or grace. Then he talks about actors playing Hamlet and Lear holding it together even though their characters die at the end of the play. No shouting, no crying. Then a paragraph or stanza about how whole civilizations are transitory too. Finally, in a reference to one of our oldest civilizations, two old Chinamen and their retainer are in the mountains. From their perspective, calm acceptance and longevity, perhaps some sadness, they look on all of history and non-history with something like gladness.

From there we can appreciate the artistry -- in Yeats' case the interesting rhymes and variable line lengths -- recognizing, however, that the artistry is not so much a demonstration of skill or a performance as the particular vehicle or discipline by which this artist discovered the content of his mind. It little matters whether verse is free, rhymed, blank, or formed as long as it is understandable and meaningful. Understandable to anyone, meaningful to someone.

The oldest formulation I have is Pound's -- the great themes of literature can be written on the back of a postage stamp. Until recently, I thought you could do it but you'd have to write very small. Now I know you can do it in your normal handwriting. I think they are Love (how we come into the world), Death (how we leave the world) and Governance (how we live in the world together). It may be possible to group Love and Death together, coming into and going out of life being similarly unknowable mysteries. The ways of talking about this one same mystery are apparently endless and endlessly fascinating. We cannot leave it alone. Almost all the greatest poems are about this mystery. Life is but a dream.

Then there is Governance -- how we live in the world together -- about which there are far fewer great poems. And usually they are about how our failure to live together leads back into the unknowable mystery through premature and sometimes mass death. Siamanto's The Dance comes to mind. I think the best poems of this type are written by so-called oppressed people.

Many poems treat both themes. But on the question of content, Pound is where I begin. My anthology -- Whole Wide World -- has a section which I'll call Double & Triple Features: Poems to Read Together, which pairs and groups poems according to my feeling that they share something -- theme, voice, structure -- in common. Subject matter is, I think, the commonest sharing. If I tried to name each pairing or grouping I might then have a hundred or more themes. Naming them adequately would be difficult to impossible. But why? And why not try? It would be a necessary start to talking about the poems: I read these poems together because....

Prose doesn't have to be beautiful, sometimes it's best when it's flat as Hemingway conclusively proved and one of its attractions is you can run on and on as long as the mind goes on following a thought without a stop sign for a whole page of books like Proust or Faulkner or Joyce.

Auden's is the second useful formulation that comes to mind (besides his chummy reverence for Shakespeare in naming him Top Bard). He classifies poems five ways:

            1. A good poem that's meaningful to him;
            2. A good poem that's not meaningful to him;
            3. A good poem that may someday become meaningful to him;
            4. A bad poem that's meaningful to him;
            5. A bad poem that's not meaningful to him.

I find I do about the same. But I discard all poems, good and bad, that are not meaningful to me. I have little taste for artistry for art's sake. The poem must speak to me or awaken me. Dickinson's formulation -- takes the top of your head off -- is the same as We can't define ******* but we know it when we see it.

A short aside: it feels inappropriate to answer the question What do you do? by saying I'm a poet. It would be like saying I'm a leader or I'm a prophet. You cannot anoint yourself a poet, a leader or a prophet -- others must do it for you. I wonder if I would be more comfortable if I had a larger audience (following) like Billy Collins for example. I think not. It would be like being a rock star, not a composer.

It's much more acceptable to say I'm a writer. Then when you answer the question Oh, what do you write? with Poetry, you are not self-aggrandizing, merely irrelevant, effete. Being a poet is viewed as being a flasher or nudist, exposing parts of yourself others would rather not see, at least not up close and personal, providing more information than others need or want to have. Maybe that's a good definition of a bad poet. Self-revelation dressed in verbal prowess is acceptable but naked, abject confession is unpardonable, tedious.

Although content is requisite for a poem to be meaningful, a poem is not really a communication like fiction or essay. It is more like an object, like a painting or sculpture, and perhaps like a musical score, sheet music. Yet I would still instruct students of poetry to first read each poem by the sentence, not the line, to derive its meaning, understand its argument, visualize its action. Then one might ask how and why is it sculpted, structured, with line breaks and strophes. Ultimately, the form of the poem is nothing more or less than the method by which the poet discovered his meaning. Although it is arbitrary -- it could have been said another way -- it is the only way it could be said by this person in this time and place. I have always liked the idea of a sculptor carving away stone or wood to reveal the form inside the block.

The poem lives on as an object, recognized by many or few or none. Like art or furniture, most are briefly useful then are moved to the attic or shed where they gather dust and mouse turds then break, dry and decay and find their way to the dump, the dust heap of history, only not even human history, just your personal history.

The anthology has made me an antiquarian -- one who cares as much for objects made by others as if I had made them myself.

So how can one talk about poems? The argument that any attempt to discuss or describe a poem is better served by simply reading the poem, perhaps memorizing it, has merit. Except in one respect -- the process can take you to undiscovered and half-discovered country within yourself. Always, first, you must understand the action otherwise we are just re-reading ourselves in our own tried and untrue ways. We must not mistake an old dog dying for a puppy being born. Misunderstanding the words is like constructing a science experiment with a flawed methodology and then using the results to shape or live in the world. It can be dangerous. Therefore reading poetry is a mental discipline worthy as the scientific method itself. It takes you out of yourself.

The fun of criticism comes in examining why and how the poem made you feel or think as you did. You can read closely for the chosen words, rhythms, lines and stanzas. You may admire the skill or wit of the poet. And you can refer to your own experience to understand your reaction. You can even disagree with the poet's thought or perception, or reject the sentiment. You can say that's him, not me.

Then there are Bloom's formulations of which I am wary, he being a critic not a poet. Yet here they are. Three sources of healthy complexity or difficulty in poems: 1) Sustained allusiveness -- cultural references that require the reader to be educated beyond the poem's content, for which he cites Milton as an example and could have Dante; 2) Cognitive originality -- leaps of perception and depths of understanding that startle, enlighten and take off the top of your head, for which he cites Shakespeare and Dickinson as examples and to which I would add much of what is memorable in modern poetry; and 3) Personal mythmaking -- whereby the poet constructs over time a system of images and personal (more than cultural) references that with familiarity become understandable and meaningful, citing Yeats and Blake as examples. How to make this formulation useful.

A second formulation by Bloom discusses poetic figures or the indirect means by which poetry uncovers truth, dancing with and romancing language rather than wrestling and pinning it down like philosophy tries. There are four: 1) Irony or saying one thing and meaning another, usually the opposite; 2) Symbol (synecdoche) or making one thing stand for another; 3) Contiguity (metonymy) or using an aspect or quality of something to represent the whole; and 4) Metaphor or transferring the qualities or associations of one thing to another.

Meanwhile, here's my **** poetica:

1) Poetry is an acquired taste, like golf or wine, with no obligation to appreciate it.

2) Poetry is divination; prose explains what we think we know but poetry discovers what we didn't know we thought.

3) Poetry is one of many man-made systems, like baseball or the scientific method, for producing knowledge, meaning and pleasure. Or are they all natural as ***?

4) Of all the other arts, poetry is most like sculpture; the word "poem" comes from the Indo- European root meaning "to make, to build."

5) It is impossible to write exactly what you mean or be accurately understood; poetry uses this to its advantage.

6) Line length -- enjambment -- is the single most important feature of poetry.

7) Poems are made from ideas; poetry is philosophy but where philosophy wrestles language down, poetry romances language.

8) Meaning is the most important product of poetry but it's completely personal; poems almost always say one thing and mean another but the poet often doesn't know what he meant.

9) It is almost impossible not to rhyme or write rhythmically in English or any other language.

10) The forms poets use are how the poet gets to his truth and are basically arbitrary choices.

11) Poems may be difficult and complex and irrational but they must be comprehensible.

12) Just describing the action of the poem will take you where you need to go.

a new beginning starts here.
when we let the absence of words
sink in our skin and flow through
the red and blue veins.
to let silence become apart of us as a whole.
and to be ridden of awkward
and gently colored with tranquility.
when we are consumed with the most
heavenly stillness,
we appreciate the things
that normally don’t come to eye.

a new beginning starts here.
an interconnection manifested in the
deficiency of conversation.
it is an ambience that is better than any
formulation of sentences,
and our unspoken vowels and consonants
playfully roll around
in the quiet rest of the atmosphere;
it speaks louder than your steady heartbeat
and collected breathing.

I have a new style with an expectation
expecting to explore my new aspiration
aspiring to seek reward through exploration
exploring words with my brand new cultivation
cultivating a never seen creation
creating something with a new formulation
formulating a rhyme with a different situation
situating words in a fresh new formation
forming myself another publication

This is my brand new style. The rules are strict compared to a regular quantum loop, but still a lot of room for creativity and fun.

they (yeah, the paranoid pronoun, esp. in how it's used for abstract coordinates, concretely? conformists) decided it was easier to fill a psychiatrist's gob with my presence, and for psychiatrists to pay the mortgage with someone who they termed schizophrenic, forgetting the fact that the person in question was bilingual - odd how humanists confuse bilingualism with schizophrenia, maybe a coin flip later and we'd get biphrenic? that's pushing it, but it just might work to describe an atom evolved into a human form... basically in two places at the same time: confederacy of archaeological theology - and by being in two places, behaving differently in each stated sphere of observation... that's it though! theology translates as archaeology in science, excavating the designation of the argument of the spider and the spiderweb, the perfect yoga instructor, one position fits all... because scientific positivism is dead... it's dead... we're experiencing a transition into scientific negativism, mainly because there's a plumber's conundrum of a blocked fact-machine... which turned out to be a fat-machine... we're just hearing the same ****, over and over again.

i never knew it, but when humanism was born
it came across the challenges of
Darwinism (Aristotle's footnote),
with all due respect for humanism
though,
             humanism gave us
the most apathetic formulation of
any faith at all...
and do you see a rebellion happening
anywhere concerning this?
i see a bunch of ****-naked Amazonian
nomads singing the huh? huh?! song...
esp. when they see safety-hats and
tractors... me? i live in the
outer suburbs of a Greek city-state...
when you're walking down the
street and see a bare chested driver
of a tractor, and a loser (me) drinking beer
while the police pass by in their cruiser
and don't give a ****... well...
welcome to the Fe (iron) Fe Fe feral land...
(almost a sneeze, but not quiet)
metro-****** pinkies anywhere?
no... root that **** into your brains
you urban wankers... stay there,
rot... keep up the debauchery of
Beckton's recycling centre...
oh sure, keep the theatres open,
with Simon & Garfunkel applause of song...
like ballerinas and fat operas needed
an exercise regime...
Darwinism is brutal enough,
it's brutal, it's not pretty,
looking at it from a creationist perspective
you'll only get brutality from it,
only an Zimbabwe born englishman would
care to champion it... oh look!
a monkey ******* a ferret!
i cried today... my female cat was inspired
when a squirrel started doing gymnastics
on my garden fence, one paw tucked against
its chest... i haven't seen a squirrel in my
garden for a while, i've shown her a hedgehog
once, but a squirrel? try catching a squirrel!
it's like catching the ******* of a mosquito
wearing boxing gloves... or Zeno...
i cried my eyes out, by a squirrel...
acrobatic rats that hate throngs...
the simplest of things bring the greatest of joys,
and a consistency in thinking about
death make the simple assurances of mortality
so much more appreciated...
of course i think about death... why wouldn't
i? so this homeless man has a tent...
they're dragging them in, he says:
i haven't done anything wrong...
the military-industrial complex isn't secular at all...
psychiatrists are the complex's priests...
they're looking for subjects to ensure they earn
while giving oral *** to pharmaceutical companies...
and that's the *cul de sac truth -
no, wait... humanism's religious doctrine is
Darwinism, can't deviate from that,
keep a kettle and a sun on the same timescale,
i'm Caribbean lazy though...
you with beer and joint, me with beer and another
and another beer and an Apache echo impression
of echoing-yawn,
we have evolved past mating calls of animals...
all we have are warring calls... la la la for simplicity...
or in verse of new Zealander Haka:
                           ****, have no funny lyrics...
where was Darwinism when mating calls became
subtle and we exchanged mating calls for warring chants?
where was Darwinism then?
you telling me i have to own a watch, a mansion,
a nice car and enough money for a child's private
education to make one at all? pretty subtle
and all the more less colourful... you can ask me:
where was god when the Holocaust happened...
i'd reply: where was a decent joke?
apparently Moses died from laughter...
now i'm stuck with having to proof read
the first print of my book... that's going to be
agonising... i hate rereading my work...
and aren't we in a standing still position,
on an escalator, or the journalists are gullible,
i mean they're worse than pigs, they're eating
regurgitated facts... they're the ones that always
end up saying: if it ain't broken, break it...
that's their magnum opus fixation, and
the recycling bin... that's what they're there for,
i bet you a hundred quid that Putin's tears
would have turned into diamonds if they fell
on St. Basil's onion domes...
all these ****-incubating-real-emotion
calculators of the English parliament are worth
a psychiatric sketch show... punchline?
you ain't ever ever getting out, ha ha!
Darwinism is cruel, and people sort of like
the whips of a static history, sometimes they come back
to the 17th century and make a television program,
sometimes they have a chance encounter
to cite something from the only century that can
be experienced with anatomical dissection skill:
namely the 20th, or to be accurate, the 2nd half
of the 20th century... most of the time they haven't
the foggiest about history these days,
they're either electron-clouds of electron-orbits,
ping-pong between these two conceptions...
they're always pro-neutral (proton-neutron
centre) - and indeed the tetragrammaton invested
in Ke$ha... ka-ching! sz sh sharpener of wit...
got to love tactical pop, or the caveman ontological
obituary of buying alkaline batteries...
i bought alkaline batteries last year,
which technically makes me a caveman...
compact disks make me a caveman...
books make me a caveman... i'm a ******* caveman!
drag my woman by her hair...
what a great Darwinism provides,
we're all comparatively stone-age...
i love how we just made all history between that
into cf. snippets, and how the caveman attitude
is supposedly a ****** pill to supercharge our
attitudes into beastly thumps and gurgles and
elbows up the **** thrills...
Darwinism is cruel, Darwinism is currently the
theology of humanism... but once upon a time
the religious aspect (or in humanism's behaviour prescription)
was ascribed to one hour on Sunday...
now we're sorta stuck in a church, 24 / 7...
now we're all our own ritual makers...
we have the holy communions of buying a certain
type of coffee in a shop, or it's called curry Friday
and Saturday takeaway randomisation,
gathering the ready-meals Sunday to Thursday...
everyone having the busiest of lives...
if religion is dead, then i must be a nun.
i don't think Darwinism actually attacked theology...
some people are proper pranksters with
the notion that Darwinism attacked theology,
some get to play Jesus in some biblical theme park...
what i think Darwinism damaged, primarily,
is history... if journalists keep spanning
historical references from here & now and
that greatest ontological excuse: caveman once,
Chanel model no. 2, we'll surely sell many
more shaving equipment tools and sanity pills as we go
along into 24h / insomnia society...
me? i'm out... i'll be keeping my imagination
honed toward the Faroe Islands, along with my sanity.

so, with israel being re-established...
why do we, us,hit
europeans... even need to bother
establishing authority,
         utilißing the new testament?
i quiete like the old testament
logic of:
oculus per oculus
                   (eye for an eye)...
because the saxon concept of
justice: i rather see...
the implosion of
   blackstone's formulation...
the 10:1 imploding to the 1:10
ratio of...
      a shawshank redemption...

there is... redemption...
since! there's no justice within
the post scriptum of
the hillsborough disaster...
watching people walk, the lunatic walk,
20 years later?
   disorientated by the court
of justice?

    re-dem-ption...
the whole aspect of: innocent until proven
guilty is horrid!
this... saxon vernacular of
that branch of philosophy that's
bogus...
namely... within origins
     of the forbidden fruit...
i.e. and you know?!

    really?!

      no... but i'll **** to make
a standing pivot of a pawn
on a chess-board.

                          savvy?

who, among the europeans...
actually needs such artifacts
as new testament texts, credo,
orthodoxy, sign of the cross
greek exports?

             the state of israel has
been re-established...
      i don't want anything to do
with this judeo-grecian banality...
you can have you little affair over

                                n

       e                                                 w





                                 s...

don't worry... i'll make sure that i'm
watching... people tell a lie...

yeah: hum hum bubbly hum-hum...
am i, or are there any arizona
inbreds?

who, the hell, needs, the news testament,
within the confines of history,
dispossessing europe of it,
of an established jewish state?

      one book among many...
hence the scent of a yawn...
                         when entering a library...

i'll do one gesture, and one gesture
alone... inclined to a replica...
    ecce libra!
             i wash my hands from
                  having any investment in it.

****, the greeks can have it...
      they can keep it, cherish it,
but they better not spaghetti the old testament
with their... "ingenious" plot...
not when the nag hammadi library
emerged...
      no... not now... not ever...
        i detest this greek book of overt
symbolism...
  their pristine alphabet,
their diacritical application,
  with the pseudo-romans toying with: deaf...
or blind... whichever it is...

sandpaper... instead of a kangaroo pouch...
of inflated... soft... flesh?
i'll rip your heart out
and feed it to my neighbour's dog,
                  beside a bowl of water.

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)



In response to the United States versus European Union  deliberations on Ukrainian- Russian stalemate  that were concluded on 25th may  2014 at Brussels , in which President Barrack Obama looked at the Putin’s political  behaviour in global set up of the postmodern era as a weakness, I beg to take my position within my capacity as global citizen, to go contrary to this stand of Barrack Obama by positing that President Vladimir Putin is a fact of global urgency , but instead it is Obama who suffers from universal class intellectual deficiency often  observed as insensitive rhetoric but branded as unmatched eloquence.
Firstly, let me give the sequential enumerations of facts which validate my position and hence this discourse. Barely the facts are; Ethnicity, Islam, terrorism, Guantanamo prison, Sino-African relations,Arab-springs,politics and human psychology and American political culture as state and an international citizen.
President Obama has always refused and rejected his ethnic connexion with Africa, he always refer to Africa as the land of ancestors. This is a stand that has most irritated Africans. Both in Africa and in the diaspora. Obama never learned a simple pre-industrial wisdom that every man needs ethnic identity for positive reasons. Because as per now Obama still stands as a Kenyan and as well as an American. This connotes a political fact that he is neither a complete Kenyan nor an absolute American in terms of political emotionalism. The empirical position of all these abode in the fact that there are a thousand and one Americans who feel politically belittled to be led by a first generation African American. Thus, a leadership fact has to be indentified in this juncture by inferring that, their voter consciousness as Americans is not fit to be crystallized as emotional resource to be enjoyed by Obama politics. In a sharp contrast Vladimir Putin has acquired substantial political strengths from positive recognition of Russian ethnicity. Putin recognizes Estonia, Crimea, Georgia, Serbia, Moldova and all small and poor lands around Russia in terms of ethnic connection to Russia. He calls these lands as the dear burial grounds in which Russian military heroes were buried. In a comparison, America has a lot of racial connection with Africa, but president Obama has earnestly worn blinkers on this. He only looks at Africa skeptically as a land of injured civilization in which terrorists abode. He has been wrong. African folk wisdom has a lesson that, you may not need your tribe in peace, only to need it in war.
Why did president Obama masquerade as a Muslim when he was vying for his first term? Moslems feel that he duped them only to turn around and **** their leaders. In Islam it is a heinous sin to pose as a Muslim when you are not one. President Obama mobilized the plotting which had to occasion the killings of Muammar Gadaffi and Osama Bin Laden. These two incidents fuelled high strength in anti-American feelings among the societies of the Arab world. Reasons are that both Gadaffi and Bin Laden deserved fair trial the same way Henry Kissinger was not tried when he perpetrated macabarous mass killing in Vietnamcong war. Muslim community least expected financial and ideological funding of the political hullabaloo known as the Arab Spring, through which heroic Moslem leaders were killed, to come from Obama government. But the contrary was surprisingly a fact. The meaning of this is that , in this tussle of show of mental mighty between Putin and Obama, All African and Arab states are behind Putin, China is behind Putin. Maybe it is Tanzanian and Ghanaian presidents who are in Obama camp, but not the Moslems in Tanzanians and Intellectuals in Ghana. The perceived rationale for this positioning inter alias is that the Number of North African Moslems in Guantanamo prison is the highest of all the detained terrorist suspects.
China is all over Africa today; African schools are teaching Chinese languages with passion more than they do with English language. The University of Nairobi in Kenya, has established the most prestigious Kungu Fu tze institute. Students in this institute are more self-confident and hopeful than those in schools of English and literature. China has designed a special business city for Africans, known as the chocolate city. Africans are more dignified in this city than their counterparts in Chicago.Negroes in Chicago of today still taste a vestigial pepper of negative racism on daily basis. All these conditions have graduated into appalling status from George Bush high school to Barrack Obama state University. These at times confirm the Russian Joke that Barrack Obama is an avatar of George Bush without a Nobel Prize. A political condition not evident during the Reagan and Clinton administration. Obama did not benchmark the shrewd equation of Vladimir Putin; good politics is equal to putting people at center stage.
Psychology of politics has a theory that being eloquent is not a connotation of political effectiveness. It may be sheer rhetoric. This is not a necessary variable for effective policy formulation and implementation. History of politics also has a testimony in confirmation of the same. The French society goofed when it fell victim of Napoleon eloquence, same to the Germans when they became emotional captives of Adolf ****** due to the razor sharp garrulousness of Adolf ******, which he adopted when selling **** values to German voters. In Africa Tanzania is the poorest country without hope of initiating any development this century. And all this is a preposterous protégé of utopian communalism planted through eloquent tools of prosaic socialism wielded by the articulate Julius Nyerere. The American society has also gone into annals of history to have collectively failed in its political choices as a national society by succumbing to rhetorical but policy insensitive conference management knack of the one Barrack Obama. These have happened in a capitalist conduit in which capitalism is killed by its success, just the same way which ignorance is never murdered but at most commits suicide.


Alexander K Opicho, is a social researcher at Sanctuary Research agencies ltd., in Eldoret, Kenya.  He is also a lecturer for Governance Research Methods.

grammatical geometrics, first words serve best,
a couple smoking marijuana walking into
tinsel town, by myself, drinking, lone wolf
drinks a pact's share of harvest of midnight growls,
they say fear the man walking into a forest
at night by himself: if only his ambitions were
an acquirement for more human fossils...
i could never account for some idiot correlation
linking me to the primate form...
grammar geometry though, imagine it!
nouns are linear consolidations taking for tangents
in trigonometry of slang;
grammar is a Christopher Columbus' worth
of star gazing, overshot the mark from Portugal
and landed at Cape Horn...
bring back 1980s disco! i'll give you epileptic seizures!
honestly, ensure grammar is coupled with geometry,
hard to decipher shares with suffixes
                          -ish or                      -able.
some might say nouns are squares, and adjective are
triangles, while others would say hexagons are
verbs along with pentagons - horseradish scandals
and chicken scratches;
but when it comes to rigid grammar categorisation
you will wonder at the re-categorisation
of certain words, as Nietzsche stated, a disbelief
in grammatical arithmetic counter Cartesian
2 + 2 = i think, therefore, i am. a three times table likewise,
a horse with an apple in its mouth is also a horse
without a stable.
concerning god, i mean to suggest that re be regarded
as a pronoun, uncoupled from garçon service as a prefix...
that clean napkin and a Parisian accent of Dover,
i mean to suggest re be akin to the recycling of
sunset, sunrise, summer, spring, repeat,
the idealised pronoun formulation of any if no activity,
hence grammar and geometry,
shapes from adjectives and shapes from other categorisations;
but still the facts: to speak of god's pronoun usage
is to speak in terms of re, the repetitive cascade of
the many to come from such suggestion:
take for example standing on a bridge over the eastern avenue,
looking at trees and looking at street lamps,
the delta equilibrium balancing the analytical knowledge
of trees, and the synthetic knowledge of street lamps...
if our analytical knowledge of trees was perfected
we'd hardly think of chlorophyll incubators of photosynthesis
with solar shields on suburban roofs in Chernobyl...
we've analysed trees to such an extent as to be
ably providing illumination of "trees" for constant traffic...
term it as revision of ontology, variant:
expressing the relationship of a set to its image under
a mapping when every element of the image set has a
reverse / chiral image in the first set - hence god, in pronoun
categorisation with the standard duo function of
equilibrated thinking with being as neither owner nor
discarder, rather applying some sense of
the grammar complexes with geometrical explanations,
the prime pronoun, sunrise 1996 of may,
sunrise 2006 of may, altogether re - re is the
clarifying pronoun, of course a cause of concern leading
toward Kantian pantheism, but better the pronoun re
describing history and the obvious repeat,
than having to ascribe omni a pronoun status
with the verbs / shapes of both thought and being -
who will decipher the assertion that,
                              geometrically-and-grammatically
sp­eaking an adjective is a square? well, me an Raza
were talking about the European Championships:
- who you supporting?
- Poland.
- ah.
- who you supporting, Turkey, obviously.
- well, kind of.
- i think Iceland will bring the carnival, conquering
the Spaniard Dutch in qualification.
- i'm betting on Italy or France.
- what about England?
- ah, England has a **** team.
- true, the best English squad was 1996.
- andreas möller 1996.
- true - best squad since 1966.
- **** squad after.
- completely; when do you think Turkey will finish,
after the group stage? quarters?
- maybe.
- you think Poland will come out from the group stages?
- valiant Northern Ireland, i wish,
  a bit like agnieszka radwańska hearing the practice
of Japanese culture and lost honour:
lost a bet, early retirement, which is why a Pulitzer prize
is such a gagging instrument ensuring you keep
on speaking a trans-grammatical word going, i.e.
blah blah blah.
but still, the way the pronoun category is exploited to argue
the existence and the non-existence of:
pantheism - omni cogito (all manner of thinking provides no
                                             individualised ref. sigma-replica
                                             that might guarantee
                                             a differing between muscle flex
                                             and ego strained),
theism - re cogito (thinking, again) -
monotheism - mono cogito (thinking, alone) -
                                                      it's like neo-liberalism
politics and... the name of the father, after 2000 years
and we still don't know what his father's name is...
odd, isn't it? is it Jaspers? or is it Tickling Architecture in
Timbuktu? there were some serious problems prior
to 632 of the certified era... like... when what who?!
Phantom of Golgotha... i still want to translate geometry into
grammar - or at least,
what once was tree, that became a lamp post,
what once was onto logic, and became second nature,
what was once the nature of being,
that later became, solely, and purely, technical logistics:
whereby using a smartphone became more complicated
than rigid arithmetic, or checking the twelve hour clock-face.
whatever thought you ascribe the pronoun re,
it instils an apathy, an easily multiplying being,
and whatever thought you ascribe the pronoun omni
only means too much is encapsulated in the individual,
usually translated as an individual with debt
and an amputee story of hurt; i treat re and omni as
higher tier pronouns than i might treat the orthodoxy
currently presiding - after all, in existential parameters
i can affirm myself presiding over ****** functions
of taking a **** in whatever disguise i care to make replica
of the syllables e' 'go, or later, with subsequent theory,
the polymer of all possible affirmations, the anti-theoretical
cuckoo.

What do I see that is worthy of me thinking>

What ******* yes I love you I forgot I aint going to tell you this twice leave me alone but don't leave me alone.

I have 20 of what? seed by all means don't snap don't snap chill chill. Every body shut the **** up cause they were all excited. The prophet heard God "everybody is just wondering what I am going to benounce you today." And prophet says to God it's not this fur kitten you've been promising me so what the **** do I do with this kitten now> God leaves prophet on his own. It's my kitten or organizing these utterly unthankful having because I happened to have these ones that stopped working around me. Alright what the the **** ever dude. Kitty lets go were going to find food and I'm Speciallality, cause that **** spins when I am in.

I guess you could call me
a people addict;
I live for the exchanges,
momentary or prolonged,
the satisfaction of smiles substituted for
verbalized salutations;
the how-you-do's and hello's,
the pleasantries of chit chat,
talk of my oh my, I am not ready for this snow
and how was your holiday?;
catching a supposed-to-be-sneaked glance from that tasty
stranger,
allowing your eyes to meet for longer than
you meant to;
a compliment that drips off the lips so sweet,
its nectar invading the taste buds for hours
on end;
individualized or multiplied,
I relish in the conjugated haze,
in the gazes and the giggles,
in the potential formulation of inside jokes,
in a have a good day to a grin I will never see again,
the whirlwind of vowels and consonants,
of coincidences and sarcasm,
of the impressions we may leave of which
we will never be aware;
I crave the mundane,
I get high off the monotony,
I am swallowed by the simplicity;
Yeah,
I guess you could call me a
people addict,
and I'm cool with that.

A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men

early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.

despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-**** anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions  plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…




8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30

The padlock on the continuous barnstorm of a transcendent time whose bunkum is transmuted consciousness aligning with parallax to a congruent worldview is not axiomatic but certainly a veridical property of reality. The universe is as much concept as percept and both properties of consciousness that lead to adaptive behavior are tethered to the eccentricity of the observer rather than the oblong nature of the observed where errors in prima facie judgments delineate the saplings of humanity to beaze under the proctored sunlight of an eternal sunshine that withers seldom to the whims of capricious arbitrage of those whose hubris exceeds the limits of the intellectual frontier because they are gilded with bricolage mentalities that scaffold the skeletonized worldview rather than apprehending the concretism and synthetic arraignment of interrogable reality in a manner that acknowledges the factitious intersection of pioneering understanding and the corporeal existence of realities both transcendent in spatiotemporal mapping and reversible propinquity to the sensible acquisition of tangible knowledge. I contest the worldview of many philosophers as a callow retread of basic logic whose ambition is underserved by a desire for prolix pellucidity rather than cogent succinct promethean formulations that dare to muster the herculean task of demystification even if the entropy of formulation is always flawed by the jaundice of the observers rather than the disdain of the observable consensus. We swing by a filipendulous thread that dangles speculation and reifies the blinkered piebald world of spotty concatenations among neurons recognizing that incomplete associations become the staples of philosophies that are precarious in some logical foundation but sturdy enough to weather the vagaries of the bluster of mendicants who verge on comprehension but pale in comparison to the monolithic edifice of so-called truth when the defalcation of figureheads supplants the clerisy as the new proctor of knowledgeable assertion. I contend that foofaraw is a primeval instinct of community ecology that expedites the balkanization of otherwise unitive properties of society and ravages them with bickering based on clashing predilections that are bellicose and combative rather than irenic and balmy. The acerbic fates of many leads to a rudimentary pessimism or a chary optimism that chides against the fortified exegesis of divinity that can be both proclaimed and stultified for its latticework properties of buttressing society in a permutation that is nimble in some respects but too turgid and rigid in others. The goal of humanity is to become a pliable instrument of a pliable universe that does not rely on buzzword dogmatism or the masquerade of hollow punditry but that relies on self-reliant principles for ascertaining veracity and impugning mendaciloquence with vigilant alacrity rather than casual sportsmanship that reaches finality only upon the handshakes of a battle waged that concedes the impotence of gladiatorial spectatorship as just a gambit of the half-witted cockney witticisms and shibboleths of sportive diversion rather than consequential and decisive reckonings with the subaudition that undergirds all events of any consequence with either a clinched victory or a callow defeatism of a futilitarian worldview that stoops to reconciliation only to propitiate antagonism and buffer against the truculent brunt of weaponized coercion to checkered flags that arbitrate the outcome of a binary polarity of humanized affairs. The majesty of creation is that reversible boundaries can be permeated in a bi-directional manner through the artifice of concerted thought rather than the orchestration of a linear traipse through the deserts of an inclement fate won immediately when projected upon the tangent of any given velocity at any point of acceleration away from the targeted impetus that grants only a partial vantage, a cantle of reality that is fragmented and piecemeal rather than circular and emergent. The most dire battle that humanity faces is the attrition of circumstance by the purposive declarations of imperious authority that seeks to muzzle the ingenuity of many for the deliciation of the few creating an accidia among the clerical institute of thinkers that imposes hogra that few people can grapple with that they are marooned into a cloister that reaps fewer rewards for an ascendant intellect than a virulent libido can clutch with predatory gallops against the also-rans that fight for carnality rather than the ethereal principles lingering within the grasp of many if it became a cynosure of worthy heralded acclaim. We witness the mass fecklessness of giftedness as a shackle of those whose plaudits come intrinsically fortified but sustain none of the abuses that the pedestrians would like to obtrude upon enlightenment to curtail and abridge the art of invention like the coagulation of blood to rob the vitality of throbbing pulse of importunate self-discovery of its macroscopic vista and its telescopic foresight about the future hodgepodge of a recursive fractalized reality besieged by the enemy of linear logical formulations implemented by ivory tower psychologists to muzzle the empowerment of abstruse language in order to make savory the nostrum of the apothecaries of delegated truth bereaved of recourse beyond certain leaps they cannot fathom well enough to flicker with even a faint transient wisdom that is designed to be amenable only to the supernal nature of ideation rather than the caprice of bedazzled humanitarianism. We need to forswear the -isms that flicker with doctrinaire dogmatism and flirt with forceful harangues that exhort a codified message and launch veridical properties of recondite etherealism into an immovable orbit whose inertia can broadcast a singular message of recoil against puritanism in science or skepticism in faith. The bedrock of this message is the deployment of useful extravagance without inordinate delay, the drivel of malcontent transmogrified into the prattle of estimable giants that have stature among the leviathan enough to recriminate against the autarky of self-smug simpletons that infest the world with barbarous indecencies and crude prepossessions that abortively crumple when met with the acerbic teleological gravity of ulterior consequence rather than blossom under the siroccos of manufactured wind designed for windfalls that always create a crestfallen aftermath from the anticlimax of understanding leading to the desiccation of consequence and the engorgement of precedence. These frangible realities become buoyant because the physics of the public dialectic insulates the creaky rickety vestiges of canonical knowledge as a sworn precedent inviolable and immune as a building block of all scholasticism, a retread of parchment recycled over and over again to entrench the past as the titanic vehicle that dictates the future of thought even though the porous inconsistencies of the vagrants of crude formulation make such a vessel less seaworthy than scientism and dogmatism of the monolith would have you believe to be true. The querulous quips of the uninformed predominate with such clutter that the armamentarium against useful idiocy is stagnated into a resigned accord with infernal subjugation of the public volition to insubordinate against a system of parochial enslavement rather than a catholic enlightenment whose universalism of principle ensures a steadfast society guided by scruples rather than undermined by the prickly thorns of abrasive contrition and the magnetism of empathic concern that sabotages the clarity of intelligence and provides a welter in the place of a well-arrayed code of peculiar but defiant distinctiveness that acts as the splinter that cracked the intangible but refractory borders of human inclination and demonstrated the sheer force of golden consistency rather than fickle withering resolve. I exhort and implore the world to heed the best minds that realize the syncretism is answerable to contradiction rather than scuttled from beneath by the impudence of its assertions against the common propriety when it stakes controversy as a gamble to aver the veracity of worldviews that violate orthpraxy with gusto as a brazen gallantry to rescue a foundering planet that seeks disequilibrium in harmony rather than an equilibrated sensibility that is proud to discriminate properly and honestly to clinch fact rather than kowtow to factitious slumber of somniferous kumbaya that is too deferent to maxims that are unduly polite only because charisma supersedes genius in its efficacy to mobilize people to fulfill their roles. With the miscegenation of justice that occurs because of expedience we find holes in many legalistic precedents because they anoint pettifoggery over sensible jurisdiction and face a leaky and ramshackle fate to foment paternalism and divide the clerisy among certain key considerations in order to save face rather than to impose a clarity of orderly supervision that seeks to dissipate the embroiled spiderwebs of dodgy prevarication and quacksalver logic to once and for all ascertain the truth that lurks beyond the primal jaundice of Kafkaesque confusion.

Faulkner's comment, I imagine him
tossing it off like Yogi Berra between games
of a doubleheader. The hero, the expert, the virtuoso
has no real control, is going to feel
unmitigated, unsparing forces, a mighty sun
swallowed by a black hole, coughed up into a big sky.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

Versus Wayne Gretsky's formulation.
When I think of my death, I think of returning
the chemicals and microorganisms I borrowed.
If my plane goes down, when we hit the ground
fruits with names will be waiting - squawbush if
in the desert uplands, rose hips on a Vermont farm.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

I realize I have a religion, a science fiction
the size of Jupiter which is, as these things go, small:
Chardin's theory unifying physical matter, rocks
and all sentient beings into one - here's the catch -
conscious organism. Having said that, why not claim
the same for the entire universe? Rock + DNA = soil.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

These trees cannot feed me.
Self-sufficiency is relevant only in context of community,
      economy.
Every drug, every vitamin is wrung from plants,
tools and shelter are ore.
A tincture, infusion, decoction, a ******, a compress,
      poultice, a salve, a syrup.
A war president needs war.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

5 a.m., first of Spring.
Robins still in flocks, not paired off. But crows
mating on the sky - two couples dating
a sign of luck, that Celtic god passing Peter talked about.
8,000 generations, I reach only to my grandparents
but history and the naming of things extend our vision.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

I was handcuffed but not beaten. Humiliated but not insulted.
And when I came before the judge, he was uninterested
in vengeance or restitution. He had his own death before him,
probably. I keep wanting to go back
to before the big bang, reading books about the cosmos,
FLO, LUCA, the texture of reality, consciousness,
      God-seeking.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

For the next 5-10 years my goals are: geographically
compact and contiguous Congressional districts, term limits
for Federal legislators and judges, election of the president
by direct popular vote, public financing, spending limits and
      free
air time for candidates, abolish UN vetoes, consent of the
      governed
before governments can sit in global councils.
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past.

No greater tragedy than the death of your children.
Yet you live on, eyes drained of color. Old,
you make plans. To know the names of every flower
in the temperate zone. Every bird by its song.
Just as you're about to reach your goal, a tipping point
comes along: a nuclear detonation or it gets too cold.
The past is skating to where the puck will be.

Prayer is like a lottery ticket, but better;
For it's free, but for a mere price of promises:
for eternal gratitude and such — albeit you lie —
you asked freely for prizes: of millions, love, or power

To whom it may concern: the wind, the devil,
the great unknown, whomever, it matters not.
For you have heard and believed it happened;
And only fools will not cry out for more, freely given.

And anyone and everyone can pray, for you —
Each by his own formulation and his own magic.
Chances far improved by numbers and better art.
For the price of asking, artless you too have hope.

But true prayer is not asking, for you have without asking,
And only to be amazed at the depth and wisdom of Love.

as i am too old to learn anew,
so am i, too young
to learn bound to being staged:
having to learn afresh:
call this the thesaurus
proximity, the nearing of 0°
basis for geometric
denial, that no shape form:
other than one:
that be the linear "escapism"
of history, wholly linear
and never contorting,
encapsulating, and likewise releasing
back into the regurgitation
of the void.
  
which had superfluous kings for messengers;
and eunuchs for the party of five
of men who desired to keep harems...

i own no obligation to my genes,
as i might oblige the gut bacterium
the next host,
what is this? this profanity?
why am i owning an allegiance
to genes?
  what sort of allegiance is this?
this abomination?!
    
i abhor darwinistic reductionism!
i hate it! i hate it as much
as ancient greek abhorred
moral relativism!
the two are alike! i don't have what
you say!
recite, quote, or argue with!
darwinistic reductionism is:
just as abhorrent as moral relativism!
no no no, no!
   i ******* hate it!
i don't give two-***** worth of
a ***** martini's worth of acting
the bond part... no!

i own nothing of my ego's existence
to translate into: "passing on"
my genes...
  what are you, some vegetating
comatose athlete,
or the parkur with weak knees
and other joints?
what? what! what?!

      darwinism has to have an ugly
medusa head on the hydra,
and it's darwinistic reductionism:
the ancient greeks abhorred
moral relativism:
      me? being modern?
i abhore darwinistic reductionism,
because it equates itself to
moral relativism...

genes... the **** i care about my genes
being, or not being passed on?
i mean, should i really give serious concern
for this not being achieved?
really?
        really?!
       you have to be kidding me at this point,
genes translate into sentences,
make up words,
  make up a will...
the **** is important about genes?!

right now i can clearly see
heaven (amnesia & somnia)
& hell (nostalgia & insomnia)...

give me a break: it's much simpler than
fire and fluffy meringues...

they keep pushing this populist darwinistic
reductionism: i swear i'm going to crack...
darwinistic reductionism creates the vacuum,
that states:
    darwinistic relativism is not the right hand
of atheism:
    after all, there are no absolutes of
       a. there is and b. there isn't...
hence the space-time compedium:
there's time, but there isn't time within
time-space, that might make it indistinguishable from
space, and so in the thesaurus reverse...
might as well call it the close-contact
space=time: not so uncommon in chemistry...
esp. with carboxylic acids:
  
     i abhor what the ancient greeks abhorred:
moral relativism,
since a status quo necessitated itself out
ouf a per se impetus to encompass both,
rather than a robotic one-sidedness "perfect"...

but what the modern hasn't learned to abhor
is darwinistic reductionism...
    it's almost a secondary formulation of
theology, with the missing poetry...
i abhor darwinistic reductionism...
    what? genes? is that an argument?
am i really about to care about passing
    on my genes?
you have to give me a ******* break,
you really think this form of anglophone
existentialism is going to convince me?
bad luck, i'd sit with a francophone for
10 hours in a cafe talking *******,
over coffee and cigarettes...
   with an anglophone though?
i'd have to drink a litre of ***,
******* 10 times in a row...
    wipe my *** until i rubbed my ****
to reach the point of scrubbing
off accents of blood,
  read an act of shakespeare,
listen to some **** pop music...
     talk to his grandmother...
  and then: "consider" the option
of a 10 hour stretch of convo...

it happens all the time:
with entho-nationalist centralism...
you really can, exhaust an idea if you
cite it too many times, and for long enough
as to make it:
educational,
  i.e. boring, i.e. indoctrinating...
   which is what darwinism has become,
sadly enough; boring, indoctrinating,
this ******* should remain in schools,
not among public "intellectuals".

Missing; nope you’re not missing
In; but you’re still in my life
Action; you’re the action in life
With each tump of my heart you course through my veins
Your love is the marrow of life and it drips from my lips with every formulation of “I love you”
Nervous butterflies fly in my belly because they can’t find their nectar
You’re not missing; my heart disagrees
You’re clearly in; but in is a mater of perspective
You’re full of enriching action; but my anxious mind struggles to keep up
You’re not MIA; My pesky friend named “Mr. Self Love” took the bullet this time

the nausea of wine is to say: one cannot drink it without eating, even after a meal, and a few slices of watermelon, the nausea from drinking it alone and not in the celebrated way with food... beer and whiskey are better compatriots to fuse a feeling upon feeling on an empty stomach, that spawn no nausea, but only reward at the limits an irresistible hunger that ends the ritual, unlike wine.*

sober composition is oh so unsatisfying,
so predictable, so afraid of the world so un-daring,
not patted by subtle sarcasm or some other Dionysian
muse: so rigid so accountable for strictness and base
facts...
      almost nothing heartfelt...
and so long winding it would seem,
without a clever feel for impromptu...
so time consuming and space
filling...
                           ...never again,
for this face it too recognisable,
to analogous to everything
else, so "with the times" or
by whatever definition
                        undemanding,
strained by the expectable,
never the unexpected even
in form of a nonsensical whim,
this sober use of language for
me the opposite of the poets
of the 20th century...
who invested in composition
in tiers higher even than drinking
beer...
          to me soberness is like
the higher tier of writing with
and within a certain intoxication
no intoxication at all...
a hefty sum of all elements,
all organs... where abstracting
the brain in the mind and allowing
a dis-joining of it:
to feed a placebo question
of fear relieved by actual fear
rather than its appreciation is no more,
or if nothing more, a bit like
awaiting caveman hunts reduced to shopping
in aisles of markets... deadened and therefore
predictable... afraid twice over with the loss
of familial tribalism of closet connectivity...
reducing us to a monetary interchange
or: broken roof, someone fixes it,
broken toilet, someone fixes it...
banking failure... suddenly we all congregate?!
i hate writing sober... it means i get to notice
i don't like my poetry, and poetry per se,
because i just don't want to voice it,
i just want to narrate, pure and simple...
a narration without characters akin to fiction,
or characters without third person narration
to ascribe a narcotic feeling of presence...
it's a drug that's hardly one worthy an ascription
of a psychoactive ingredient, it's a platonic cave drug,
a shadow you can touch and disappear...
i'm not like a writer of fiction,
i'm trying to reconcile poetry with philosophy,
i spend most of my times thinking, losing thought,
trailing with the unthinkable or simply thinking,
but i never see the book, that's why i'm sad
in terms of composition,
like the last wish of bukowski, to have written
a semi-pure fiction of the novel pulp,
to discard semi if not full autobiography...
true psychiatry is of the living
to read nuances into the once lived out leaving
notations... more to take care of the dead
than just through mantra or prayer...
if analysis leaves us without third party acquisitions
of thought away from the dualism of egos
as one sick and the other ascribing a status of healthy;
you see, it's a harsh case of not having
a narrators' complexity, not spending time
typing to excess, but the time spent
thinking about other people's units of thought:
also known as ideas... and with so many
decimals of measure a lifetime of individuals,
it is hard to narrate...
since the productive side aligns to dis-joined
expression of productivity,
and the economic side aligns to a linear fluid
expression of non-productivity....
it's hard to create a narrator let alone a narrative
of one's self without a loss of one's self to
the existential notation of a "self",
the inverse reminder of what writing fiction was
about: a concrete narrator...
there's no concrete narrator here,
no craft of character formulation...
instead we have an unstable narrator
that cannot truly narrate,
and the only character formulation
from the unease of the once eased narration
of existential fiction is a self lost among selves /
existential notation of a self as a "self" /
with loss of an anti-chiral hegelian approach
i.e. i am i... forgot the unearthing of a pluralism
of narrator that could not fathom a required
imagination for a raskolnikov,
                               marmeladov,
                               petrovich,
                               razumihkin... etc.

You think you're the better writer with
         Your indentations,
Arrogant alliteration,
Games of Rhymation;
When You Capitalize For No Good Reason
OR TYPE IN ALL CAPS;
When you type in italic just because you can;
With thy ineffectual employment of Shakespearean formulation
Or elongated conveyance of your articulation,
                                        When you type in
                                             funny patterns to
                                        better express the  
                                             thoughtfulness and
                                        superiority behind the gemstone
                                                   artist,
And, all- your; meaningful, strategically placed' punctuation!
And perpisfuly mispled wurds bcuz yur so ironic,
And your cryptic title that's meant to come off as genius.
Dylan could crack a skull without a hammer.

(20 minute poetry)

This day,
what day?
Monday
that day!

On my way,
the pilgrimage to
work,
It is a sacrifice
which I make
five days a week

and two days shall I rest
one more than God,
quite odd
considering we think
that he knew best
or am I mistaken?

If the proof is in the pudding
'let them eat cake'

we need no validation
for this is
occupation
an occupation,
the formulation of a man.

I wear my armour like
a decongestant,
am I not a contestant
sitting out the race?
spitting in the face of
evolution.

and who cares who wins
anyway?


(Wrote this on the way to work and promptly forgot I had) Doh.

My mind is racing again
At 4:37 am
I wish my grades were as heightened
As my inability to sleep

I’ve been having nightmares
But they don’t scare me anymore
Sometimes
I find a comfort in knowing
That the monsters I’ve dreamt
Are a lot more pleasant than the monsters
I have left to dream

I don’t mind it
But I mind you
Only because you’re always on my
Mind

I pretend that I’m a solipsist ,
But I could have just made it up
Your love wasn't as real in my heart
(As it was in my head)

I am a shy little flower
Somewhere behind the trees
“There’s really no way to reach me”
But there is.
No one has taken the time to
Explore

I once met a girl
A traveler in that moment
She told me a story about her grandmother
Who was shipped to a boarding school in Germany right after WWII.
At the age of three
The first sentence she ever understood was:

"Everything is broken"

And she lived a whole life
With that silly little thought
Echoing.

Someday
I will find an ocean breeze
Worth calling my home
With sand as soft
As my tinder
Beating heart

Good night
Is a formulation of words
Whose meaning I am still
Unfamiliar with

As I walked along
Your art stricken walls
I wonder if I’ve ever really been capable
Of creating

But hardly ever do I strike an inspiration
I can call entirely my own

An excerpt from           An excerpt from
a poem by T.S. Eliot.     a poem by the False Poets


Between the idea          no permanence in juxtaposition
And the reality              where Falls the Shadow, the shadow
Between the motion.     a divisive notion caught between
And the act                    composition & action, the response is
Falls the Shadow           Falls the Shadow
    

Between the conception grayed outline indistinct, the cognitive sap
And the creation              leaks, contradictions irritating birth sac,
Between the emotion      whereupon Falls the Shadow emerges
And the response            the response conclusive, occlusive, collusive 
Falls the Shadow             Falls the Shadow
                                  
Between the desire          juxtaposition insertion, need to achieve
And the spasm                 the blurted ****** of spurted letters born
Between the potency.      in the potent white seeds of black words
And the existence            coming into existence as a riptorn issue,
Between the essence        essences of scents blood+logic foretelling
And the descent               birth & death, descent & the ascent, both,
Falls the Shadow              Falls the Shadow

Between the desire            the desire desired, completed,
And the spasm                   the latency uncovered,
Between the potency         the potent toxins of spit and tears
And the existence              the birth fluid of  of existence
Between the essence          the formulation of the human essence
And the descent                 from blood dust to blood dust is where
Falls the Shadow.               Falls All the Shadows

Why I Kissed Your Glasses (A Love Poem)

I went to kiss your forehead
missed my turn off,
instead, connected,
with a seeing-eye tortoise
made of plastic.

Went to kiss your toes,
but the stunning purple hue that
decorated your toenails
shocked me into limp rigidity,
in-articulation, inactivity

Kissed your lips tenderly, longingly,
but Coco's formulation haunted me the whole day,
Her interference needed, but let it be noted accordingly,
It was you I loved, not her!

I kissed your fingertips so delicately,
with tenderness great,
enjoyed a vigorous nibble,
as your compensation,
received a poke in the eye,
accidentally, of course. (Right?)

Could go on and on,
but decorum forbids further revelations,
worth noting, but not composing,
still laughing at my just rewards,
the bruises resulting from my failed escapades!

All I can say is
En Garde!
I will be coming back soon enough.
because you are my best poem,
and the there will always be another stanza needed...

10:00 AM
Shelter Island
Memorial Day Weekend 2013

I loved you before the alcohol,
Hourglass to the soul,
hour pass,
days maybe...
in between the formulation of golden nuggets in the mountains silver sands.
You held my hand and through velvet touch,
Electricity meander through my arms,
before the storm calm,
the start of a heart attack -
then the pack of house of cards collapsed.
In a deserts smile,
you flatlined through our favourite past times.
The pastures rich with buttercups
and dandelions like the last time.
When we walked over the train tracks harvest.
Last summer and last spring.
Somethings are everlasting,
and some pass like storm clouds without one droplet of rain,
in casting,
our love grew like tulips,
Yellow, red and blue,
bruises,
but soon come the rain,
our muses loses,
&
rendered useles;
I went away and
It's too soon to explain myself,
For that.
Back,
with cap in hand.
Lost in hearts melted by false starts,
and feathered cap,
Falsetto moods
sharp stilettos,
slap back.
I couldn't let go when the sun came through,
and a calming parting of the clouds where the rain came blue.
I thought I could live without you,
but I bottled it,
again.
Now I've nothing left to give,
but my gift to you.
sinking, sleeping in the land dunes
trying to understand you.

Cradled by the rock floating round the fire,
nursing the infantile species into god-fearing beings.
evolved from millions of years of careful formulation
discovery of galaxies
exploration of the depths of the sea
and all the fury of nature
scaling mountains and glaciers
drinking from the freshwater spring
trickling down summer's neck.
the domestication of the wild
the birth of nations
and the love of a brother.
We have lived and we have died
here on our Earth.
Must we believe in all our passion
and our funeral ceremonies
to pay respect to the dead,
must we accept the idea
that in all our glory as mankind,
our lives became so insignificant
to others and to the solar system beyond our sunny skies
that life means
nothing?
Have we evolved into the most
complex beings
in known existence
and have we loved with the marrow of our bones
and the iron in our blood
only to die
having never stepped beyond the pavement
to peek at the roses beyond
the garden fence?

it must be in my composition
composing lines of opposition
opposing the forces of inhibition
inhibiting me, and my mission

maybe the reason for my creation
creating lines of aspiration
aspiring to give my own translation
translating thoughts into formulation

=========thesis of completion============

i was made from the pavement of places
where faces are vacant of any translation
i interlace traces of those wasted cases
as a way of portraying their lost salvation

i speak from the streets of broken pieces
where the weak sleep in the heat of depletion
i seek to find some peace in my thesis
where these creatures reek of completion

My thirst for conversation has continued to impress me
Fills me with stories helping to shape another in my eyes
Met with friend for a mutual exchange of identity
An interview with questions directed; I asked first
Starting with the earliest formulation of conscious thought
Hers was the return of a sick father
She eagerly embraced him when he arrived home safely
Vividly describes the large red chair present
I transitioned to exchange of reflection most powerful
Searching for a single memory of hers that stood alone
Her face brightened, her eyes shining with nostalgia
Her dog’s name was Max
Max entered her life when she was one year old
On the celebration of her birth in fact
He was the runt of the pack, a ruby retriever
Grew to maturity and average size, with love
Max made his way into her writing in the classroom
His possible harm one of her first worries
He was a cherished family pet, she loved him with all her heart
Being a young child, sometimes she was too rough
Cancer took Max from this world at nine years of age
He was buried under a peach tree in the back yard
The peaches swollen and ripe make death turn to life
To this day they represent the sweetness of his soul

Her early years were full of stress at thought of parental separation
Subject to fickle fears and frozen emotions
Her true panic began in high school days
Developed into distinguishable attacks and episodes
There were never tangible reasons or focus points for fear
Racing thoughts, vertigo chills, imminent death
Creeping insanity and the dry, frustrating inability to swallow
Worsened as college approached and the familiar faded fast
Week one was worse than any panic period yet
Heart flutters, helplessness and disorienting dizzy spells
Friends were far away or had yet to be encountered
Sympathy for perceived insanity ran thin
These experiences require constant care and medication
Hospital visits and appointments with understanding ear
She shared her life with me through effect of anxiety
I shared in turn, but couldn’t help distraction
We did not record the interview so I took it upon myself
Documenting with equal force her story and my amazement

Long divorced from love,
owned three guitars
and slept with nine women.
Remembers every song,
every poem,
scarcely recalls their faces;
lilt of their tongue
as sleep took hold of them-
not him.

Trigger finger over the snapshot
through each baulk and ****** of passion:
"this is the poem, this is the verse
I can lay down in print
and finally live again."

Night sky too full of uncertainty.
Cannot observe a desert scene
without a commentary
on each unanswered question.
She is dressed in sequins
but what for the spaces in between?
He cannot accept filler,
blank spaces that intercede
moments of ineffable beauty.

Maddening crowds emerge,
bright-eyed and stupid
to each early, pink noise morning.
He awakes, drugged to the eyeballs,
slow to movement; formulation of words.

Each night a battle of sobriety
as the sun does bleed
in the skyline before him.
Each night a generation dies,
subtle points of light
lost in the noise of the modern day.
Screams pointlessly, without need:
"don't forget me, don't forget me..."
would rather leave a scar

than no mark at all.
Lives for the colours
he cannot see, for the common thread
that connects everything.
Tweaks the string of each broken seam

to expose each diversity,
each personal loss
as a collective sigh;
every sleepless night
as an off-white lullaby.
Born for collision
beneath a dying star,
long divorced from love;
he is married to art.

Have you ever watched the stars fall from your eyes?
Not many have, it’s a terror that masks itself as blue
Once the stars fall they reveal the darkness beneath
The absolute
That’s what I call it, it’s an immenant force awoken by madness
It exhumes itself from a dusted space and collects the spare thoughts
It feeds on my lungs, it rips pieces of my soul
Dragging them down to the plunging tides to be washed and preserved into a formulation of unbridled torment
I have not the slightest to why my heart beats in two awful tones
Maybe it’s the excitement, maybe the moans
I need not worry for breath falls short
I always reconcile back to the night it made itself known
A dwelling creature beneath my stomach
Risen from the ashes and buried in self pity
The sad clown of desire without as much as a tear I stood there petrifical in glances
Watching the bottom of the glass come closer, it snuck up on me as it’s fragments plunged into my chest and brought with it the terror
Frozen in silence I heard only the wails of my lungs

My daughter he said
is a born again..
What in its depth
does this phrase
oft repeated mean..?
A crucial first
question seems to be:
Is the utterance coming
from a place of
self-awareness
with energy exchange..
An alignment with
perennial experience..
Another routing:
a belief formulation
of external birth
which  awaits arrival
of new bearings..
Where are you
dear daughter in
sprouting new life…?

This twelve year old boy decides
to ****** the syllables and sounds.
Define leisure.
The crowd shutters at
The voice of the voiceless.
Static gazes shoot across the
graffiti living upon the
livingless.

Leisure just means fun.
This twelve year old boy studies
the maroon leaf hinged on a thread
of silk--
of beauty.
Strands of life occupy his mind
with ounces of doubt
and pints of disbelief;
For threads will break
and beauty will fail.

The buses leave in 2 minutes.
Hurry up!
This twelve year old boy waits
for the end of perseverance;
The burning sensation that crawls
along the inner thigh.
Long live the thread…

Find your partner for the nature walk.
This twelve year old boy
observes the confines of the schoolbus
for the remaining human scraps.
His eyes meet with Jason’s
Deep, silky hazel eyes.
He walks behind Jason while
pinching the edge of his hoodie.

Remember to be back in 10 minutes.
This twelve year old boy ventures into
the small crevice of the forest
in search of a place to call home.
Jason grins at the sight of
Squirrels scurrying through the falling
leaves and shifting sunlight.
Jason inquires,
What are you looking for?
I’m looking for leisure.
Jason couldn’t help but let out
this chuckle that causes bushes to
Shudder.

Start making your way back to the bus.
This twelve year old boy shakes
at the quickness of Jason’s turn.
This twelve year old boy stares at
the formulation of sweat on Jason’s forehead.
Jason drops his eyes onto his slightly pursed
lips and propels his head.
This twelve year old boy remembers
the perseverance of a leaf and feels the delicate,
fragile threads wrap around his body.
This twelve year old boy fears
the dangers of this exotic love.
The body of this twelve year old boy trembles as
Jason’s face grows closer and closer.
This twelve year old boy drops his eyelids
to relax every bone in his body.
This twelve year old boy lets go of the
aching apprehension. Jason locks his lips along
the face of this twelve year old boy to
extract the void out of the abyss living within.
Jason wouldn’t stop his extraction until the beating
of his heart matched with his.

There's a subtle discreetness in the way you say hello,
Your true feelings hidden beneath heavy formalities.
The overwhelming question of "what if", lingers in the air,
Cradling you within it's suffocating grasp.
Oh, my poor shackled bird, don't fight the fineness of failure.
Embrace every mistake and half spoken truth as your sole provider.
For life is too short to require commentary,
Time is too elusive for the formulation of perpetual game plans.
Don't waste your minutes in the routine of the expected,
Cast yourself unto the unknown, be swept away by the ambiguity of life.