(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)
jeffrey-lebowski:

Untitled by Yayoi Kusama.
Acrylic on canvas, 45.5 x 38.0 cm. Signed and dated 1993
jeffrey-lebowski:
Untitled by Yayoi Kusama.
Acrylic on canvas, 45.5 x 38.0 cm. Signed and dated 1993
(via phatphilosophers)
“
These are the days that must happen to you.
Walt Whitman, from Leaves Of Grass (via violentwavesofemotion)
(via phatphilosophers)
18 HOURS AGO / LARMOYANTE
axiatonal:

Canola Flowers Field, China
axiatonal:
Canola Flowers Field, China
(via awaveofbliss)

(via awaveofbliss)

whatisadvertising:
What would modern technology and social networks look like if they were vintage ads
This is a post gathered Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, Skype, iMac, Nintendo Wii and Sony Playstation as if they were vintage ads.
(via thebronxisburning)
aplacetofindlife:

Someone Should Start Laughing
I have a thousand brilliant lies For the question: How are you?  I have a thousand brilliant lies For the question: What is God? If you think that the Truth can be known From words, If you think that the Sun and the Ocean Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,
O someone should start laughing! Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!- Hafiz
aplacetofindlife:
Someone Should Start Laughing

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
How are you?

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
What is God?

If you think that the Truth can be known
From words,

If you think that the Sun and the Ocean
Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,

O someone should start laughing!
Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!

- Hafiz
(via cosmic-rebirth)

meditationsinwonderland:
Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche, We Should All Be Feminists
How could I not reblog this?
(Source: bakongo)
1 day ago – 234,004 notes

artismyempire:
gentledom:
A wonderful analogy.
What I shall do today.
(Source: boyqueen, via thebronxisburning)
1 day ago – 30,054 notes

(Source: maryhadalittleblunt, via awaveofbliss)
1 week ago – 81 notes
beachsloth:

SYNESTHESIA by Joshua Espinoza
                God watches everyone’s first kiss. Although God used to be an awesome God He’s been a bit lazier as the years have progressed. Long ago God felt that raining frogs on Egypt was cool. People were turned into pillars of salt for looking at the destruction of their towns. Now God isn’t into that whole vengeful thing. Rather He realizes the importance of free will and understands it is more important than any instruction manual.
                Dreams are the ultimate instructional manual. Sub-conscious hates being a sub. Sub-conscious wants to be dom-conscious. Unfortunately such things do not happen anymore. Drinking dreams from people is potentially delicious. Flab is the hallmark of a family man or woman. Their dreams have become realities. Mere impulses of creatures become vaguely self-sustaining then fully self-sustaining. Right in the heart is where the familial love lives. Floaters in the eyes are more than floaters. When one sees floaters they see ghosts. Floaters are ghosts for the vision-impaired.
                Afterlife is big into God. Death brings people closer to God. They live in God’s domain hoping for the best. From on high the angels live on the down low. Beneath angels are the exciting ones, the ones they can and do mess up. Humans are interesting for their ability to mess up all the time and somehow remain completely loved. Every human is made in God’s image. Once people come back to God they realize how much of their decisions were good, how the evil was more than counterbalanced by the good. Living in Earth tends to make people forget how fortunate they really are.
                The world hates leaving people behind. In Heaven everything is fine. From Heaven people can see themselves from light-years away. Such distance makes it easier to see what the right and wrong decision was. Death takes the people away. Online presences remain long after the body has left. Everything has a digital footprint entirely different from their real life footprint. Sometimes it is bigger and sometimes smaller. It depends on the lust for life.
                Kissing is a form of lust. Lips love each other. Lips like locking together. That is where the key to the heart comes from, from the lips. Words flow from the mouths of babes. Life means the words work well but the tones work better. Even babies understand the importance of tone. Words are meaningless. Tones are tender. People wrap themselves up in tones, in the environmental sounds that surround them for that is what it means to be alive: it means to interact.
beachsloth:
SYNESTHESIA by Joshua Espinoza
                God watches everyone’s first kiss. Although God used to be an awesome God He’s been a bit lazier as the years have progressed. Long ago God felt that raining frogs on Egypt was cool. People were turned into pillars of salt for looking at the destruction of their towns. Now God isn’t into that whole vengeful thing. Rather He realizes the importance of free will and understands it is more important than any instruction manual.
                Dreams are the ultimate instructional manual. Sub-conscious hates being a sub. Sub-conscious wants to be dom-conscious. Unfortunately such things do not happen anymore. Drinking dreams from people is potentially delicious. Flab is the hallmark of a family man or woman. Their dreams have become realities. Mere impulses of creatures become vaguely self-sustaining then fully self-sustaining. Right in the heart is where the familial love lives. Floaters in the eyes are more than floaters. When one sees floaters they see ghosts. Floaters are ghosts for the vision-impaired.
                Afterlife is big into God. Death brings people closer to God. They live in God’s domain hoping for the best. From on high the angels live on the down low. Beneath angels are the exciting ones, the ones they can and do mess up. Humans are interesting for their ability to mess up all the time and somehow remain completely loved. Every human is made in God’s image. Once people come back to God they realize how much of their decisions were good, how the evil was more than counterbalanced by the good. Living in Earth tends to make people forget how fortunate they really are.
                The world hates leaving people behind. In Heaven everything is fine. From Heaven people can see themselves from light-years away. Such distance makes it easier to see what the right and wrong decision was. Death takes the people away. Online presences remain long after the body has left. Everything has a digital footprint entirely different from their real life footprint. Sometimes it is bigger and sometimes smaller. It depends on the lust for life.
                Kissing is a form of lust. Lips love each other. Lips like locking together. That is where the key to the heart comes from, from the lips. Words flow from the mouths of babes. Life means the words work well but the tones work better. Even babies understand the importance of tone. Words are meaningless. Tones are tender. People wrap themselves up in tones, in the environmental sounds that surround them for that is what it means to be alive: it means to interact.
(via bluishtigers)
1 week ago – 74 notes

(Source: samsaranmusing)
1 week ago – 78 notes
maymonsturr:

My mantra.
maymonsturr:
My mantra.
(via cosmic-rebirth)
1 week ago – 568 notes
foxxxynegrodamus:

***
foxxxynegrodamus:
***
(Source: lnpfeed, via awaveofbliss)
1 week ago – 1,635 notes
cosmic-rebirth:

Live joyfully, make your life a dance, all the way to the grave.
cosmic-rebirth:
Live joyfully, make your life a dance, all the way to the grave.
(Source: cookiecarnival)
2 weeks ago – 22,305 notes
“The point is not to pay back kindness but to pass it on.”
– Julia Alvarez (via cosmic-rebirth)
(Source: amandaonwriting, via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 275 notes

(Source: diawf, via awaveofbliss)
2 weeks ago – 2,799 notes
bl4ckhippie:

Fly.
bl4ckhippie:
Fly.
(Source: rootsrukkus, via awaveofbliss)
2 weeks ago – 750 notes

(Source: lizzlizzcomics, via bluishtigers)
2 weeks ago – 110,456 notes
meditationsinwonderland:

ॐ flower child in Wonderland ॐ
meditationsinwonderland:
ॐ flower child in Wonderland ॐ
(Source: vegan-hippie)
2 weeks ago – 139,177 notes

(Source: jrich103, via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 4,848 notes

pleoros:
Helminadia Ranford - Guilin,China
(via hungryforworld)
2 weeks ago – 329 notes
designgather:

Oak Room
Andy Goldsworthy
designgather:
Oak Room
Andy Goldsworthy
(via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 286 notes
miguu:
don’t be afraid.
lean into your genius.
let your own brilliance support you.
you are something
we have all been waiting to know.
please.
(via bluishtigers)
2 weeks ago – 339 notes

odditiesoflife:
Amazing Jabuticaba Tree
This is an incredible tree that bears its fruit directly on the main trunks and branches of the plant, lending a distinctive appearance to the fruiting tree. The jabuticaba (Plinia cauliflora) is a fruit-bearing tree native to Minas Gerais and São Paulo in southeastern Brazil. Otherwise known as the Brazilian Grape Tree, the jabuticaba is grown for its purplish-black, white-pulped fruits. They can be eaten raw or be used to make jellies and drinks, including juice and wine.
They are wonderful trees to have and are fairly adaptable to most environments but they grow extremely slow. Jabuticaba flowers are white and grow directly from its trunk, just like its fruit. The tree may flower and fruit only once or twice a year, but when continuously irrigated, it flowers frequently and fresh fruit can be available year round in tropical regions.
Common in Brazilian markets, jabuticabas are largely eaten fresh; their popularity has been likened to that of grapes in the US. Due to its extremely short shelf-life, fresh jabuticaba fruit is very rare in markets outside of areas of cultivation. So if you are ever in Brazil, be sure to try the incredibly tasty fruit called jabuticaba.
source 1, 2
(via hungryforworld)
2 weeks ago – 1,462 notes

(Source: samsaranmusing)
2 weeks ago – 118 notes

(Source: rorycwhatsyourthesis, via samsaranmusing)
2 weeks ago – 130,113 notes
oecologia:

Star Trails over Matterhorn (Switzerland) by Felix Lamouroux.
oecologia:
Star Trails over Matterhorn (Switzerland) by Felix Lamouroux.
(via samsaranmusing)

burningveins:
multicolors:
benskid:
Know where you stand.
Wow
This is kinda creepy..
(via hungryforworld)
“
Do not think you will necessarily be aware of your own enlightenment.
Zen Master Dogen - (1200- 1253) AD (via samsaranmusing)
2 WEEKS AGO
101fuymemes:

COLLECTION OF awesome CLOUDS
101fuymemes:
COLLECTION OF awesome CLOUDS
(via roslynoberholtzerbddd)

itscolossal:
Planetary Structural Layer Cakes Designed by Cakecrumbs
“
Do not resist events that move you out of your comfort zone, especially when your comfort zone was not all that comfortable.
Alan Cohen (via raeraenjma)
(via awaveofbliss)
4 WEEKS AGO / THE-HEALING-NEST
so apt
so apt
(via awaveofbliss)

(via awaveofbliss)
treewellie:

"The area between Kluane Lake and Haines Junction, Yukon, skirting the great cordillera of the Wrangell / St. Elias Mtn. range, is commonly productive of these stacked lenticular clouds … In late summer, as the sun begins to set around 11 PM, it’s beautiful to see these unique clouds, which are higher in altitude than their surrounding companions, catching the last peach coloured rays of the sun."
treewellie:
"The area between Kluane Lake and Haines Junction, Yukon, skirting the great cordillera of the Wrangell / St. Elias Mtn. range, is commonly productive of these stacked lenticular clouds … In late summer, as the sun begins to set around 11 PM, it’s beautiful to see these unique clouds, which are higher in altitude than their surrounding companions, catching the last peach coloured rays of the sun."
definitelydope:

BBQ on the balcony (by fernlicht)
definitelydope:
BBQ on the balcony (by fernlicht)
(via awaveofbliss)

Birth by Alex Grey
Birth by Alex Grey
(via receptive)

(via bluishtigers)

(via awaveofbliss)
“
There is a time and place for decaf coffee. Never and in the trash.
(via 17yr)
(via hungryforworld)
1 MONTH AGO / MIDWESTRAISEDMIDWESTLIVING
surreelust:

Man with His Skin by Peter Zokosky
surreelust:
Man with His Skin by Peter Zokosky
(via cosmic-rebirth)
“
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less,
why do you worry?
You are in truth
the soul, of the soul,
of the soul.
Rumi, from Who Am I?   (via bluishtigers)
(via bluishtigers)
1 MONTH AGO / VIOLENTWAVESOFEMOTION
xpudding:

xpudding:
(via cosmic-rebirth)

(via thebronxisburning)

(via cosmic-rebirth)
treewellie:

La costa de la luz by Francisco Mingorance
treewellie:
La costa de la luz by Francisco Mingorance

itscolossal:
Mirror City: A Kaleidoscopic Timelapse of Chicago, San Francisco, San Diego, Vegas and L.A. [VIDEO]

(via cosmic-rebirth)

awkwardsituationist:
gmb akash documents the 350 kilometre journey from dhaka to sylhet, bangladesh made by those who, unable to afford the price of a ticket or find room to ride inside, risk death by traveling atop and between train cars
(via suntochukwu)
purpleaggregates:

White Tara The female enlightened being of long life, wisdom and good fortune When I see the signs of untimely death, May I immediately receive the blessings of Arya Tara; And, having destroyed the Lord of Death, May I quickly attain the deathless vajra body. OM TARE TUTTARE TURE MAMA AYUR PUNAYE GYANA PUTRIM KURU YE SÖHA OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SÖHA
purpleaggregates:
White Tara
The female enlightened being of long life, wisdom and good fortune

When I see the signs of untimely death,
May I immediately receive the blessings of Arya Tara;
And, having destroyed the Lord of Death,
May I quickly attain the deathless vajra body.

OM TARE TUTTARE TURE MAMA AYUR PUNAYE GYANA PUTRIM KURU YE SÖHA
OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SÖHA
(via dancingdakini)

(via guerrillatech)
hungryforworld:

Monet’s Garden. Givery, France.
hungryforworld:
Monet’s Garden. Givery, France.

(via awaveofbliss)

(via cosmic-rebirth)
“
Internal and external are ultimately one. When you no longer perceive the world as hostile, there is no more fear, and when there is no more fear, you think, speak and act differently. Love and compassion arise, and they affect the world.
Eckhart Tolle (via samsaranmusing)
(via suntochukwu)
1 MONTH AGO / SAMSARANMUSING
malformalady:

The golden spiral of fungus. In geometry, a golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor is φ, the golden ratio. That is, a golden spiral gets wider (or further from its origin) by a factor of φ for every quarter turn it makes.
Photo credit: Devin Raber
malformalady:
The golden spiral of fungus. In geometry, a golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor is φ, the golden ratio. That is, a golden spiral gets wider (or further from its origin) by a factor of φ for every quarter turn it makes.
Photo credit: Devin Raber
(via deeperthansoul)
polaroidsf:

Welcome to Eden
polaroidsf:
Welcome to Eden

(via bouddra)
“
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of
meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for
your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me

.oh yeah, huge fetish fan.... gamer youtube commentary videos... like the quartery... no... ****... the quartering... it's like... ****, i don't even know what's it like: a magic mirror i'll never own, having dropped out on PS1... and telling my cohabitation ςentries (obsolete now, ******?!) to by an iMac, for its properties of not succumbing to PC viruses... PC viruses... a thing of the past... late 90s early 00s... with **** sites linked to Trojan horse bundles... a man with ******* can't *******, so what the hell is he supposed to do? just watch the poor ******* looking for their missing ******* in the excesses of female genitals... oh... wait... they found... and took revenge... but it's never M.G.M., always the F.G.M. bit of the equation... like the kippah was never, "really" translated into a tonsure, oh yeah, that **** floats, that's a real keeper that is; wankers. what?! i'm doing **** with the hand twice a day, but i have the supposed, "excess" skin on my ******* emblem... or little Richie, whatever... i have it... my male circumcised counterparts... sorry chief... you're the one that has to look for extra skin.. oops?! do you say oops on such matters? i never know... but the new age gaming experience is so much better... this antithesis of NPC styled games... and the fact that they're. "free"... but you later learn that you have to pay extra? the longevity increases exponentially... what's your payment method, if you're poor? patience... you really learn to wait, which expand the lifespan of a game... it's like: **** it, a free game, where i also get to polish cliche virtue? compared to paying £50 for a game, i might finish in one sitting? i'm about to to take a ****, play a game, or read a book? hmm... clueless among the Seattle folk... play a ******* game! well, you know... if you don't have a fetish fulfilled with someone readied to expand upon me wearing a ******... might as well watch commentary videos of gamers... same high... albeit no hard-on.

censoring female *******
with bright lights?!

**** me,
good that i managed
to go to an Athenian
strip-club,
a Polish,
  & and an East London
brothel...

psst... Amsterdam...
oh right...
who the **** travels
to Amsterdam for
the **** these days?

last time i went i went
into the red light district
to feel unabashed,
certain that...
a plump Puerto Rican
was waiting for me...
and she was...

****? Amsterdam?
what's this...
the year 00s?
i don't know...
you tell me...

so they're censoring *******,
cleavage from
video games?

   i have a censorship
experiment for you...
you know what the current
would be like
if everyone finally discovered
that
Theresa May is not Margaret Thatcher?
pandemonium!
not all women can be
a Maggie Thatchie...
who would have known...
you need to be a daughter
of a of a grocery store owner,
or whatever working class
background she came from...

with ol' Thatchie the whole
Brexit ******* would
run the course of,
two words:           *******!

where was i?
oh, right, censoring *******
and cleavage in gaming avatars...
you know how i censor that,
"delicate" matter?
i just think of a cow's fore udder...
or... is
that a cleavage... or
a *** on your chest?

there you go... limp **** through
and through...
and then i start thinking
of the dewlap...
to be honest, i don't know how
you'd serve that...
is it fatty? then i'd deep-fry it...

good thing i visited an Athenian
strip-club,
an East London brothel,
and Amsterdam's red light
district...

          and all done...
without a S.T.D. to mind...
mind you, ******* these days
is quiet ethical,
i would have more chance
catching an S.T.D. on the dating
app circuit than in a brothel...

beside wearing a ******...
i always wanted to experiment
with a latex body-suit...
excess rubber...
or whatever the hell it is...

so much for freedom of speech...
but wait a minute,
do i have to reiterate
that i didn't say this,
and that you didn't say this
either?
          this is phonetic
encoding, this is not speaking...
well...
then we know what
the Cartesian res extensa
(extended thing) actually is...
writing,
writing as an extension
of thinking...

          in this scenario...
a thought, that has been washed
in heretical fires...
having transcended
thought's association
with the moral-θ (theta...
looks like English has
a new pronoun,
trans even the already in
place transgender pronoun
category)...
      θ 'ink beyond any
association to a moral 'ought.

*now if you excuse me,
i have a bottle of Russian Standard
i have to finish,
and two bottles of just fine, fine
English cider to interlude with.

One computer, two computer
Three computer, four
Shed a tear of happiness
As five comes through the door.

The last one was demented
Made life a living Hell
Devised new ways to torture me
And did it oh so well.

This new one is an iMac
Just like the one before
But maybe not as crazy-
I can’t take that any more.

The only thing I’m asking:
That it do as it is told.
Don’t make new rules in secret
Leaving me out in the cold.

Leave the curser where I put it
Don’t erase what I type in
Don’t correct my unique spellings
That is not a game you win.

Don’t crash just as I finish
Some complicated rhyme.
Erasing all my poetry
Would be a major crime.
ljm

iMac
I can
I done

I always spit the pun

Iraq
Iran
I run

All the way to the cinnamon bun

It’s December and my roommates and I are deeply into Christmas. We’ve got a little 3ft tall Christmas tree with about fifty-thousand little multicolor LED lights on it (LEDs because we ARE saving the planet). We’re in the ‘study period’ right before finals and It’s a lowkey Saturday night.

Lisa and I were pajama’d and gelaxing in our suite’s common room. She was in a tan easy chair and I was slouched on our red corduroy couch, my slippered feet up on a white coffee table. We had a Christmas playlist playing throughout the suite, a ‘Christmas lights of Paris’ Youtube video streaming silently on our TV and cups of Keurig brewed hot-chocolate with little marshmallows.

Leong came out of her room and joined us, taking a seat on the far side of the couch with me. After a moment she stretched-out, putting her head in my lap. I love her jet-black, cornsilk hair and it wasn’t long before I found myself stroking it, a gesture primates have been making since the pleistocene period. When Lisa glanced over at us and smiled, I started making gestures like I was looking for fleas in her hair and eating them - in a silly, momentary comedy lost on Leong.

We got back from November recess a few days ago. After three years together, it was easy, almost automatic, for us to fall back in our rhythms as roommates. On arrival, I glanced through my drawers, ***** clothes and shelves, taking a casual inventory. Everything was as I remembered it but still, everything had the feel of trivial leftovers from some lost civilization.

I got a new M3-iMac, it’s really the best platform for putting docs side by side. The first thing I did was hit ‘restore my setup’ from the cloud. I love futzing with tech - I can remember when that kind of restoration would have taken all day - but fifteen minutes later I could tell from the files on my desktop that everything was restoring nicely.

As I sat back on my office chair watching the restoration, I felt myself relax. THIS was real life, this was how life should be done. No matter what else I’d done or where else I’d gone - this was how my life should be - at school, with friends, facing those challenges. It was a peek-moment.

It was an illusion that my little iMac welcomed me back, like an old friend, as it finished restoring - wasn’t it?

hmph... where are the open mics?

This coffee-bean bag city abound

with eclectic fusions of wireless access

enter-the-net -abilities

Kenya to Columbia / slow, dark roasts...

and Napa Valley vineyards

intermingling

at Cream...

How oddly bright, surrounded by glass

windows--like discovery of x-ray vision,

through clear walls i see how packed

like an iMac convention it is

inside...

   Poetry readings: Yahoo local search directed us here,

barista-scented alcoholic webmasters

thin-legged tables laid out like a life-sized

chess board--us three white rooks performing

black bishop moves to the cashier;

curious like George as to where

in Carmen-cool-San Diego,

in this glowing rubix cubed place;

   where in the fluoresent skin of Comp-USA borne

peoples of the web, where

where oh where's the poetry?

Reading Vista-windows rather than obsolescent-absolutes

of books by Keats

or obsessive-compulsive Koontz...

   Though bright and machine-warm, Cream

felt metallic-shiny, slick as plastic; conversations

with an electric hiss

rather than a hum of heart-beats and laughter

where's the **** poetry??

   the readings?

a prolific geek or Hemingway refined older men

on a single microphone;

turn-table-tales in rhyme

on a platform made by the local grind

college theatre teckies (staple-gunned and glued)...

where are those poets?

   those spoken-word-wisdoms, writers

performing, even in their Goth-blacks, even in

their Seattle angst of cordoruoys or dock martins;

forget Starbucks, leave behind Jitterz,

the Expresso Roma is the poetry of coffee

no enterprise

can replicate

duplicate the unique...

   sadly i must concede, the spoken word

and poetic fluffers are a dying breed; as far as

i can web-surf, no place

houses them any longer, no more

do they sprinkle their pixie-dust of verse

or prose, mosaics,

fantastics of floral or funk

imagery and emotional

stark revelations of discovery...

   sadly--it is the day's turning of a page;

***** is the word,

adverb to lost horizons, i am

a dinosaur of the mess-no-beatnik-era,

"poet-a-sore-is-rest"

deep thoughts' ooze now the blood of

{fingers snapping} history

"yeah, man, cool...outta sight"

and i'm not yet extinct;

i am a teradactyl with so much sky

soon without a place to land, / below

crash into the matrix sea--Cream pixelates my woes...

communication has become a plastic factory

to Japan, and Europe, my inner "screeeeech!"

"where is the poetry?!"

poverty has been a persistent problem all throughout the world for more than one reason.  it can be passed down, but in some instances it can be brought upon somebody because of a loss of a job or a mental illness.  i almost got emotional when i was listening to/watching the presentation, as i could never imagine living that way.  we take so much for granted.  knowing we can type this blog post from the comfort of our home on our macbooks or hp laptops is so overlooked because we've been graced with this technology since the beginning of our time.  we wouldn't be writing this blog post on our macbooks if we weren't in school, which to us is a necessity.  i just spelled necessity wrong, but my imac autocorrected it for me.  people living below the poverty line don't have autocorrect to tell them when they've messed something up.  they can't go to school to learn how to spell necessity, because they can't afford it.  i just drove my bmw to dunkin' donuts to grab some free coffee with an app on my iphone 6 and eat some $1.69 hash browns that my mom gave me some spare change for.  if you're below the poverty line, none of that would be in your agenda. an extra 5 dollar bill wouldn't just be laying around to go waste on something you honestly don't need.  it could be going towards the food you'll be eating for the next week or a new shirt because you outgrew the single one that you owned previously. i know personally, i get angry when i don't have enough gas in my car to get me somewhere that i honestly don't have to go to, or when i spend the last few dollars of my paycheck on an overpriced drink at Starbucks.  i will be the first to admit that i am absolutely, completely, 100% spoiled rotten but i am more than lucky to be able to get an education, have a job that i love and look forward to going to, and have a family that would give me the world if they could.  when you have family, you will always make it through.  none of us have any idea how good we have it, and i think it's about time we realize how lucky we are to live in the country we do.

I woke up late this morning, my phone was dead. I guess I never plugged it in, I found it buried under my pillow (erah!). I barely had time for anything, just managing to cover the basics as the “Whoop” sound signaled my first virtual classroom opening. A pop-up announced that the class would be recorded and available later. “Yessss!” I thought, as I put in my airpods.

My room is surprisingly full of houseplants. There’s a ponytail palm, an anthurium and philodendrons sending down tendrils of heart-shaped leaves from shelves and tables. I drew open my curtains and the room bloomed, morning sunny. It was 22° but my windows are almost always cracked open to let in some real air.

I’m dressed in an unstylish, black school hoodie, short pajama pants, long socks and fluffy, pink slippers for my virtual class. My still-wet hair looked attractively mop-like. I began brushing it out while arranging the colored gel-pens and highlighters I use to take notes.

Was I ever starving, but I could only imagine breakfast. Ever notice how the sun looks like a giant egg-yolk? At least my Keurig was on the job - burping, whirring and dripping like a malfunctioning steam engine as it rendered lifesaving French Vanilla coffee that smelled like caffeinated heaven.

As the professor started talking about the syllabus, outlining the types of problems we’ll be working on this semester and reminding us of things we learned in our intro to econ class, a teaching assistant, in another window, asked us to press the roll-call icon and reminded us we had a paper due (this is why we read our syllabus, people). Then the assistant's window became a countdown timer showing what remained of the ten minutes we’d been given to upload the first-day’s homework.

Twenty minutes into the class, I was combed out and ponytailed, coffeed-up and positively vibrating with pleasure - I LOVE this stuff - strategies, actions, outcomes and payoffs. Student life is unnatural, stressful and myopic - but it can be thrilling too.

There was a knock on my door frame (the door to my room is almost always open), and one of my roommates, Sunny, was there. “Morning, Princess Anesthesia,” she said, teasing me about over-sleeping.

I pointed to my pink-M1-iMac screen, to indicate I was in class and she tossed me a bag. I knew, at once, that it was breakfast from the cafeteria. “I love you,” I mouthed, before turning back to the screen.

Spring Semester has begun.

This one is for you
Not sure if any of you will see this
But I hope you do
Brought today
Your shine'y touch pad
And thought i would tell you
That it works well with my old white iMac
Dose all that it says on the box
Your shop was full
And could I get the attention of you of your people in in blue
Just wanted to tell this to you
Just wanted to buy and leave
Solihull shop was packed
But I even held my hand up.

the purposive practice of misnomer-ism, the no-strings-attached poetry, a ****-buddy so to speak, one such example: lechery in a coffin, purposive, purposely using misnomers, hence misnomer-ism, no-string-attached - i might use the wrong word from time to time, but at least i'm not using the wrong intentions to do so.*

after writing something worthy to be deemed
abstract, whatever takes your fancy,
say you enγaγe in something out of the oρδinary,
a chance, a hollowed out tree -
what stiff poetry this has come to be,
all i wanted to write is that after writing
something complex i'm rewarded with nothing
except a chance breeze in my head
that does chores in tidying up my mind -
it does it so well that i end up without a single
thought entering my mind - it's like non-purposive
buδδhiστ meditation - write something
complicated and then reap the reward:
absent minded watching aeroplanes in three
tiers of prior to the satellites' orbits -
now i can truly sit back and puff, drink strawberry
Pimms with lemonade and prosper
with the words: well, if i had a woman i'd have
to earn and let her spend, cosy home with a dog,
a bouquet of roses, and pristine clean with
scented candles in the evening - i swear, money
was created in favour of women,
all i do with mine is... well, i'm just about to pop
out for a bottle of whiskey and two beers -
tomorrow i'll be hunting for a council one-bedroom
flat - mind you, i feel no aesthetic gimmick,
i was born in Communist blocks, i know how
the English prize their shops and their semi-detached
villas; mind you, it doesn't take a beautiful view,
a hotel, the Alps to write something beautiful,
it doesn't take Venice, it doesn't even take the Cliché
(Paris) to get started - i suppose you need
a boring life to have a book in you, i didn't start
writing because my life was interesting, god forbid
if i had... i'm surprised Casanova gave up
the day-job of womanising and settled for a pen & paper;
why didn't he continue? i'm sure lechery only
kicks off in the coffin, there are diamond diggers out
there i'm told - so i decided: to live the most
uneventful life imaginable, the most boring of lives,
i'm sure a part of me will benefit from it -
namely writing, i'll be able to scrutinise everything
more keenly, as writing will be sole event in my
otherwise uneventful life, some days i'll turn on
Radio 4 and listen to blah blah... the best plan is to
have no plan... and once in a while i'll a **** poem like
this one, ****? oh yes, forceful poem to just pass
the time before sunset (plus, i bought a pair of
headphones for £1.00, yep, £1.00, imported from India,
they work perfectly when attached to an iMac,
perfect electrical synchronisation, they produce cheap
sound with other objects, my mp3 player plays
a softer and less loud sound when the headphones
are attached, as does my laptop, meaning:
i need the music loud... loud!) - so indeed, write something
complicated and you sit there, in an imaginary
mansion of luxury that not thinking is.

Money didn't save Steve Jobs from death.
The physicians couldn't restore his health.
Sadly, he passed without taking his wealth.
So, in God Almighty alone invest your faith.

Steve Jobs built a very great empire
In which he had planned to retire.
Though he died, his name will never expire
Forever to his legend, will generations aspire?

Steve Jobs was a very good man
philanthropic with a helping hand.
Even that too didn't save him at all
In the end, death came with the call.

He gave us the iMac and the iPod
He gave us the iPhone and iPad
So he will forever be in our lives
In our homes and in our kid's lives.

#IvanBrookspoetry© #@Bassapoet©
      Aug. 2.2019

the devolution of the letter R in english & in french, i.e. the extinction of the rattling snake, and the overtly unnecessary abstraction of saying the affirmation of existence without a nay, but rather with an aye.

lucky me, and the poem i just deleted
by accident...
   how i mentioned the devolution
of the letter R, i.e. the loss of the trill,
in that the french hark it,
while the english have numbed it,
how the R still represents the rattlesnake,
in the gymnastics of lingo,
and how in the broth of french / english
is represent a mutation...
how the R was almost a wheel in terms
of rolling... and how the english
still cite latin phrases with the trill
incubated,
but how the R has been devolved,
derailed...
      how there is too much ambiguity
concerning iota in "inverted" / double
the ditto membranes: "ι" -
    implying a loss of responsibility,
but never the lost origin of the wheel
in rho, in R... i.e.
dynamism of the lost front leg,
giving the rotary collapse motion...
and how the original R was a rattle-snake
imitation,
how the original signification matters,
unlike there being no boa in sight...
from a trill, to a hark to a tarantula bite
on the tongue in english...
the letter has devolved...
     and who are the two coolest drummers
in rock history, poker faced?
the title mentions them...
                i really can't reproduce
what i wrote and just deleted,
  i can only think of the punk power three
according to green day,
and the power four of en vogue...
mulaut with blood cherry lipstick...
  я знаю: i know -
           for every ю grapheme (yu)
there's a я grapheme (ya) -
          znatee (знать) - себя - (sebya) - myself;
  б not the antithesis copernican of ρ?
so much for a 3D earth, still most strong
within a 2D context.
i still prefer the original text i accidently
deleted...
          it's called the devolution of
the letter R, and the "evolution" of
the double-affirmative of identifying the speaker /
"thinker"...
     the french & the english already
believe in the existence of the rattlesnake,
giving how they mishandled keeping
the trrrrrrrr -
                              "ill"...
   or called it twamp / thhhamp
                              instead of *****...
tongue numbing antics,
apparently still in use in d'artagnan's *gascony;
still - the original idea is there:
who is more poker faced when comparing
charlie watts vs. larry mullen jr.?  
  and this is the best the russians can come up
with regarding diacritical marks... a ь:
ooh, soo soopht, better be a ******* duck-feather
filled cushion to lay on...
       couldn't invest in punctuation marks
on / above letters;
i still prefer the original i deleted by accident;
who the **** confuses
ctrl + c into ctrl + p on an imac?
me!
         alt + c ≠ cmd + c into cmd + v...
oh well, but i still remembered the two
drummers i was thinking of, playing poker.

Present Past the Future
For the page.

Nothing comes
Of me,
Solely me,

If I'm
Not
Here.

What a brat I am.
What self-righteousness I have.
What an American.

At times
At my most important
High-dive
I pay attention yet all attention
To no detail

Every detail
So committed
To the page
As an incandescent soul
Such as I,
Understands and accepts
The futility, ney, the fat-headed audacity
To think
They and their hand,
They and their mind,
Could get
Every last one.

To be a poet
Is to be attempting
The unattainable
Forever grateful
To even be given a glimpse
To the labyrinth
Of catacombs

A being
Who knows not their own madness
Will always,
When catching
Sight
Of their own eye in the mirror,
Will quickly look away.

Multitudes, He muttered,
As a cymbal eclipse ricocheted
And dissolved
Sprinkling the off forest green pine needles
Seconds before dawn.

*

There is no action without
The narrative
The framework of our lives
If we like it or not starts
With the vaginal stork,
Carrying you from holy non-existence to,
I guess, sorta-kinda, holy existence.

I try
Not to think
Of my mother
Giving birth to me.

I don't like to imagine
Her
In too much pain.

Just a little sometimes,
Like when she fake cried
When she was cutting onions or
She stubbed her toe
And punched a hole
In our new mauve colored iMac.

Those scenes of temporary agony
I could get behind

See,
These nights
Are nothing but
The page.

I forgot
I forget
How to even
Talk to myself

Sometimes.

Is that age?
Is that growth?
Is that the next
30
Years?

Luckily,
I only have myself so even when
I don't have myself,
They'll be roaming around
Somewhere around
In there

Of course,
There will be the page.
The pen.
The lack of thought;
The surplus of it.

Sometimes I wonder,
Sometimes I think,
Sometimes I query my own queries:
What if there was
Only my time,
My way,
My stay or the highway?

What would
Become of me?
My misery?
Would my self-worth
Evaporate to merely drift
Skyward - Cloud-ward?

Or would I become
Something else
Entirely?

Would I become the I
Unshackled?

Then, I see my parents, my father
On a fishing boat, his giant tanned gut
(Like the middle knuckle
Of a worn out leather baseball mitt)
Jutted out catching the 2PM sun, just a
Finishing pole in his hand, the line loose, perhaps
A fresh glass bubbled Corona in his hand.

I see my mother:
She's smiling at me,
Her red cheeks propelled by
The Polynesian breeze,
Forever content, eternally grateful,
For simply presence,
For simply time,
For nothing more
But experiencing in this life
What she never thought she would.

I see my sister:
She is nose deep in books
(As I always was an am)
And I smack her on the back of the head
And she screams, HEY!
And I scream, HEY!
And she chases me down the beach
To the beach bar where we drink
Daquiris and talk about what kind of people
We would be
If mom and dad had never split up.

"Someone's else entirely," I say.

I'm drunk and I admit it whole-heartedly.

"Yeah," Sister nods.

She was always one for math.
I was always one for words.

We were always ones
To survive,
With a smile,
And a spent mile

Under our feet.

Always
Ready
Thereafter.

Waiting while the white ball spins
Hurry - I’ve got other stuff to do.
So many corrections yet to make.
Why didn’t I type more carefully
Rushing through some new ideas
Throwing words out like confetti
Only to be scattered by the wind
That never seems to take a break.

Watching while the ball still spins
Pounding mental fists on walls
That make the labor twice as hard
As Bragi promised it would be.
Breaking up what’s newly writ
And stomping on the pieces
That turn sharp and cut my metric feet
Which then bleed through my stockings.

The ball will never end its spins.
The buffering goes on and on.
I might as well go dig a grave
And bury all the honeyed words
And clever phrases I created,
Fighting iMac all the way.
Their use-by date was yesterday
And there’s no hope to salvage them.
The buffering has done me in.
ljm