The distant park
Was a graveyard of dead stars.
Each streetlight a system of worlds,
So many lives between each mote of light,
Indistinguishable in their unique love,
Bespoke hate, and the drama of the modern age.

Drunk laughter behind transparent
Double doors. Another hotel balcony,
Another cloud behind the canopy
Of marijuana eyes
To unsettle me from the crowd.

She points out, when you look closely
You can see the disorder
Amongst all constellations
Of life and love and litter;
Of discarded Coke cans
And temporary highs.

She says this is not a scene
To imbue the ****** of a present mind,
More to baulk at the incompletion
Of one thousand to-do lists;
A million reasons why
You should just stay inside.

She says you can see the human swell
Of ignorance, our city lights
Blotting out the stars
In a black ocean of broken politic
And irretrievable fault lines-
Divisions between us all.
Lives twisted with professional smiles
And eyes lit with stunning indifference.

Still, I have felt charity and warmth
On the doorstep of lunatics and fascists.
I have read the love of life
In faces of those who gave up.
I have recounted countless artists
Who saw beauty
In moments that precisely lacked it.

I have spent too many nights
In anaesthesia,
Fleeing each instance of feeling
And terror; all the tremors
That tell me I am still alive.

Continued to stare at the lights
Long after her voice
And the laughter inside had gone.

Heard waves in the traffic.
A world so large, so expansive,
It can never truly sleep.
Every broken heart,
Every war-torn land,
Every promotion,
Every one-night stand.

I wonder what would happen
If we all stood still.
If we all took one moment
To observe the motion
That unfolds beneath
Our static windowsill.

If we all took one moment
To recover our loss.
The wars that we won,
The feelings, forgot.
The hell we retain;
Our paradise, lost.

Floating above the rifts of apperception I glaze over the gaudy faucets of imagined vector thrusts in hibernation by the lucubration of space-time materialized crystal in the somber beats of fetched farrago of choice slices in delicate hums of hemmed balance rantipole only in ethereal importance but otherwise supersolid above the sprauncy vagrancy of dilettantism. We shout a clarion virtuosity so that the conclamation of neovitalism conjures upon a spell of lapse and regress a motive for further crystallization of epidemiology into harmony with syndicated admonition sleek in design and parceled into renown by feats of completion rather than slugabed gregarious fountains of wasted ingenuity bleeding from the vacuum of an empty hearth in a hospitable dwelling otherwise cleared of imperfection. Right now, I levitate with transcendence with an approximated eidetic memory that is the surgical vibrancy of renewal rather than the chameleons of hidden talents buried by the walls of Jericho sounding tocsins of alarm that the anointed favor of choice destruction is only an encircled rapture of rhapsodies of confluence found in axiomatic truths ribbed with the futtocks of seaworthy but cauponate recidivism into the donnybrooks of apocryphal revelation preceding the whimsical fall of cascading permanence just as gravity so ordained it. We breathe the life of the ethereal numinous spirit of isangelous repute because we navigate the exquisite cobweb of reconciliation to surpass all understanding in peace what would be a miscegenated carcass of war otherwise apart from the incidental apartheid of the drones of causality ignoring the antecedent reality too much to register fathomed streaks of preventive endeavor because of the scars of a scrappy schlep of the rampicks of ecbolic servitude to moth-eaten star-crossed lovers of the mean menagerie of gutless succor renowned only in tepid rejections of harbingers bequeathed in succession but ignored because of the procession of “Billie Jean” politics.

   The citadel aflame with controversy buttresses carnality by witless contaminants of hidebound scaldabancos of ineffable destitution so craven in eisoptrophobia for their hypostasized indolent fatuousness of capitulation that they are but a minor punctuation in the largesse of centuries to favor audacity in candor over the prevarications of catastrophe to dented human pride against humane dictates of theodicy in fatalism that predestination experimented with its own vaulted verve to find permanent solutions engraved in the agrapha of time to solidify the redintegrated truth of God’s divine stewardship above the quisquilous deism of former regnant centuries of blench and blandishment. We revolt at the specter of rot only when the effluvia of disgust elevates the visceral reality above the utilitarianism of recycled prim nuisances of noisome lineage that yet balk because they are bereft of attention but not a vacant talent and therefore should the subsidies of man surpass the ignorance of appearances he will shrug of the demur of the scrimshank and sharpen his scrivello in the service of redemption found through cultivated prowess of gardens beneath where rivers flow above a cubic centurion of embattled visages of the heavens becoming the rampart for the vestigial clarity of Secret Masters to foresee the bypass that heals decadence and rebukes the formalism of puritan endeavor to sweat with exhaustive patience over the gossamer intertesselations of a ripe reality rather than a groveled fragmentary world shattered too much by exigent metanoia to mount the crenellated catchpole of vigilant enmity towards the stew of listlessness found in epigone and farce more than in organic fortunes. We flip the upheaval of society to squander our proportionate degrees of wealth on the necessity created by dire quandary which enamors by interrogations of pulchritude the verisimilitude of participle ivory dalliance of etched canvasses of simultagnosia for the librations of the liberated rings of betrothed liberation despite profound lurches of the mistetches of ignorance presiding dismally over the hulked disdain of glamborge rather than resselenque.

     The winter is a poor porcine glut of ciconine swelters because the prickly obtuse recoil of the delopes of caution find their permeable balance with a sort of photographic photosynthesis that braves the dearth of reprieve for the reprisal of nostalgic deeds found in the docimasy of riveted reflections because the preordination of God is the superlative champion of the witeless grandeval protectorate of infinite concepts guarded from the parvanimity even of the most strident minds squabbling over the braseros and battues of history as though those funereal stains of lachrymose regret outweigh the traditions of vaunted human progress because they are finicky about importunate pleas of subsidiary injustice rather than fulminations of the modern rebuttal to the disclaimers of an uneven history that shepherds the doubts of nihilism into ripe fruition at the expense of very expensive moral rot for the codlings of urbacity and mendaciloquence used to foment that tribalism of totemic justice. We see in Penuel the wrestling match of specters and heroic giants documented on the ageless pages and we notice the ironic twinges of struggle that kneaded the propriety of gentilian privilege that ultimately fostered an insurrection against chosen bravado among those that sear with zeal beyond the yordim afflictions of yobbery because the Jewish heart is stronger than any calamity even if it departs from the reverence of the colporteurs of the integrated syncretism of the attempted monolith that beseeches polyphiloprogenitive growth in mindset rather than in testy abeyance of forbearance because of known scrutinies into the tropology of wilted facts remanded by curious historicity that crumples without disdain when we memorialize the erasure of scepsis by modern standards of thaumaturgy.

    The minauderies of growth are a repositioned tacit allegiance to the untold fanfare and hearsay immunized against the broach of facetious levity to buoy discordant hearts above fumatoriums of relentless ignorance because coherent masterwork can be cobbled without such lapidary toil and toll on sincere affectations of wizened brevity. The seismic precautions for the forefathers of incidental convergences between expectancy and crystallized history are an ironic intortion of priorities because the heralds and tribunes matched the peerless foresight with the gerrymandered figments of apartheid between the imaginary and the real so that the delicate synchrony of events could unfurl a riveting carapace from the shells of protection even in amiable squalor for its impenitent attrition on the volleys of sensible rumor becoming fashioned in covert bedazzled errors in judgment leading to the triumph of the eventual civilization over the futtocks of the burial of the former trekleador of zenkidu belonging to provincial cadasters found so tucked in the hedges that discernment of frikmag would be an indelible scourge on the biognosy of the diagnosed endeavors that elapsed into remediated circumstances that brave the depths of deontological violation for the breadth of apportioned loaves and two swanky fish earning a place among the miracles of transcendent liberation from articles of decree imperious by sardonic disdain becoming nullified by the histrionics of a delicately staged orchestra that cements human achievement.

       We relish the frescades of a ruffled autumnal reminder of flourish above pothers of the screed of admonition swamped by nostalgic backtracks in the séance with ultimatum of design and the impregnated and carnal lusts of a world pitched in darkness with guarded lambent lights fomenting a perjury against tact for the deliverance of freedom in tacit agreement with owleries that every bonanza be tithed in their favor regardless of hibernation of spoilsports or their subsidiary remarks on indelible quills of invented manufactured realities we crave with desperation rather than cower from in requited nescience urging us to depart from affairs and stagnate the loyalty of fealty above the limber of utility mobilized above levities for solemn remarks and rejoinders. Promulgated above the robotic rubble of staffage haywire in wiredrawn contemplative resonance of tremulous subterfuge vestigial but immediate to the yardsticks of reprehensible malarkey, is the barnstorm for erratic dimples sauntered by the saunas of shelter above the chaos of ruined ginnels for the gimcracks of auxiliary duty to service, is the glorification of the sultry intimations of legions of remonstrance in guarded decorum about sunken atrocities lapsed in memorial to the incumbent brunt of sockdolagers of justice returning revenants from the bridewell of historical internment. The symphily of orchestras to cineaste symposiasts of surquedry in impudence beyond the brays of betrayal is the aborning mythos of regimented perceptions of a world that when magnified by minutiae appears starkly contrast to the gapped gubbertushed reality of the average patron of the arts to such an extreme gulf of receptive understanding that the qualia are dovetailed only in the swink of careful kisswonks to certify certitude itself when all the fragments coalesce into subjoined harmony to the substructures of inherent conscientiousness. The miracles at work that are vesicles and vessels for the swage of imprint above the loyalty of the imprinted tribunes of the fluminous is how hidden protrusions can emerge so victorious over popularized glazes on the pastures of a farmed culture itching for timmynoggies of innovation but only finding the etched remarks of pristine imagos of heroism dwindling in motivation to surpass the imaginative leaps accustomed to a newfangled laziness that bedazzles the guzzle of crowds but not the discrimination of the crowded morass of incompletion found in mosaics missing enigmatic philters of intoxicated love for the profound. So to be intermediary as a custodian for artistry we must cozen the wheedled imaginations not of the relic but the archaeologist that discovered the embedded prisms of attentive scrutiny for glinting sunshine inherent in troves of surpassed excellence beyond parochial sympatric blandishment of donnism rather than a resselenque that floats above demeanor to usher the cosseted age of treasure above the glib brocards and florews of past success.

      Immanent to the provisions of God as decreed from a syncretic reconnaissance of the pitiable gulfs that separate boundless divine love from the clavigerous potential for scrappy sympatric affiliation to **** through the barnstorms of internal comestions of conflated priorities we are ourselves prismatic in the indulgence of a tasty life sprinkled with zest rather than tempered with the vengeance of retorted animosity that we knead the pottery of ironclad resistance to a metallic conduit of pruned fulminations of unguided intuition so that the natural accord supersedes the goad of materialism for the sustenance of antiquity beyond its heyday for vital gains against the tauricide of panic and frenzy. The linchpin of all realistic attempts at the sympatric symphily of civilization is a guided remorse through the torment of affliction that sizzles without anteric barbs as it measures through engrenage how to pilot the vehicles of prosperity through the minefields of contingency that invisibly bequeath new hurdles and inestimable obstacles that collude surreptitiously to fulminate measured controversy against the backbites of restrained equipoise created by polities of the macadamized fabric of a welded smithy of a universe that with ubiquity proclaims above the senseless the harvest of conjugal repartee in sensible pride against militant bastions of incidental prejudice for a careen against the flyndresques of danger and the flyndrigs of glaikery alike for a humane spurt of enlightenment to tower peerlessly in supervision of entelechy created by esemplastic unity in apolaustic purpose. We cannot be puritans engaged in a pilgrimage to a palimpsest of priggishness because the daring elements of adventurism are necessary ingredients to catalyze the supply-chain of the innate gluttony of ego-seeking endless balance with a natural sustained biognosy that prizes biocentric harmony above bibliognost scepsis so that the enthused can flock with liberty divorced from libertinism. The ultimatum is a war between hedonism wed with donnism against eumoirety and self-restraint and this battle will be waged on the indolence of a future of cordslave tethers to interrogation of privy conceptualism hamshackled by the gradgrinds into the neat nexility of precise conformity that blacklists the samizdat because the genizah profoundly twists the already jumbled jengadangle and provides a junediggle of procession and ceremony rather than pomp without substantial grit embedded in the showmanship of a reality in need of a fourth-wall.

        It is ironic how we bewrayed our stewardship of the planet as a plenipotentiary sentience waged against the vesicles of instinct but more fundamental to this tattered but pregnant psalm is that the stronghold of our future is the tenacity of filial duty to enthrone the household with husbandry and restraint as an emolument to divine justice that sparkles opalescent in its own redacted notions of gravity imperfect in the taradiddles of science but refined by the eclat of the combustible syncopation of a reiterative trope of realism combined with surrealist caprice to henpeck affectionate violation above inviolable screeds of blood sport rather than conjugal affections afforded to the brood and the feast of the flocks that rein supreme over all things but exert inclement justice over the cattle and chattel of civilization itself. The minkumpf against the sacrilege of a prioritized kosher is to abhor the suffering rather than embrace the penitence of perceived but specious sacrifice which is an ornery thorn on the stained conscience of the yobbery of both the apikoros and the obedient because to attenuate all suffering even of instinctual beings we anneal our hearts to a glorified compassion that supersedes the relegated relics of pushful genuflection by succedaneum of sacrifice waged against the docile whangams of otiose theodicy. The filibusters against the regnant complexity of regalia that is a sprauncy poivrade with terpsichorean flairs to transmute the intimations of hibernated perfidy into finicky transmissions for the riometers that accord orbific merit in a lackluster time enchant the rollicking audience of this auditorium of the prevenance of the conquered universe bracing for the camorra of the insipid entreaty of defalcated casuistry—the prominent exchequer in hoodwinked political agitprop that forges ironclad allegiances to flimsy facades of the verisimilitude of dignity with recalcitrant but incondite bruits of venom militant against secular apostasy—that the fitful arrivistes that swim in dire dearth will be welcomed into the reconciliation of all time with a tempered lurid glint of revelation bounded by sunken albatross of hype unbounded with a peace insurmountable in prestige rewarded only with the highest reservations.


    On 3-1-2020 when I penned my philosophy—even at a slowpoke margin of crafty precision above rapid empirical faucets of folly—I was entirely selfsame with the autotelic engravings of the smoldering aboriginal talents within that many can swing through by tenacity for enormous plaudit but a flagrant majority will apprehend with flippant scollardical tenets of rebuke and remain honest in their appraisal only in meek resignation of parvanimity.
Consider the postulates of rarefaction whittled into a vehement zeal against the prostitution of our species to the anteric cycles of residual molds of dingy spectacle mired by the tyrannical towers of supercilious squirms of revamped novelty rather than enhanced by the freebooters of dirigisme that borrow from time the behest of philandered flairs divorced from the cadges of secular instinct and enthroned by the qualms of engineered virtuosity that is stark, barren but peerless in its outstretched clamor for luxuriant sprees against the silentium of grandeval asylum incurred by the flippant filigrees of recalcitrant modernism endangered by the irredentism of the future upon the whimsy of the present-minded momentary glare of rapture.  This impending architecture of nimble but subservient endeavor is a pinprick rejoinder against the wernaggles of prepossessed fountains of configured animosity against the stapled heed of a modality of trayned invictive invectives against the plodding course of fustilugianation that swerves in apathy of autopilot junediggle to emanate the surrender of epigone to the raktendure of the synaesthesis of the attuned perception of all superimposed minutiae delegated by calculated design into a synclastic focus on veiled caprice that is vaulted above the choppy and sketchy verdure of remiss perception to stellar continuities rather than mundane knickpoints of stodged blurs that magnify syncretic qualia into baseline congruity rather than staid torpefied resignation of the visage of thunder without the pangs of the widely vituperated lightning that bequeaths all certain notions but flouts the tortious saboteurs of the prim trucage of brittle fundamentalism.

     As the flawed paragon of a picaresque youth punctuated by vibrant plumage of self-wrought tropophilous usucaption of remote groomed frontiers of desolate luxury but buoyant morale into the ballasts of a nimble usufruct that hikkles yet still against still-framed thilloire--fatuous in endearment only to the polity of the waterdrip of craven but gravid disingenuous flickers of lambent cloaks of perfidy—that earned its birthright by meditative fruition rather than prodigal tallespin of indolent frapplanks of a vicarious personage rather than an autotelic haecceity showcases the folly of heterodyne inclinations meeting an impasse of accidental dislodgement. The interregnum between the spurts and sprees of luxuriance is a staid pause between continuities of afforded parlance becoming stapled demographic solidarity affixed to a strident gallop of effortful pushes against the tenacity of the slumberous wicked hibernation of vetust magpiety without hieratical internment because youthful industry beats hackneyed bludgeons of wiseacres of a stilted manufacture of steamy nostalgia for lickerish moments that dignify but undermine moral virtues but splash anointed and sometimes disjointed favor upon the congeners to a rabid escapade of a heedless love frowning on the girdles of the prim balderdash of heralded jolts dim on levity and puffed with elusive contextualized control of libidinous serrated defilement because the crotaline **** outmantles the sweedled limber of exploitable folly. The cosseted reality of wheedled gourmands of continuous perception rather than the Gaussian blur of the protean invention of stitches in time that obscure rather than magnify the supernal levity inherent to most artistry is a linchpin of lenient gravitas that levies the lavaderos of ripe perception into annealment.
Excuse the bravado of the gait of winnowed forks in a bronteum for heralds of megaloscopy fastened to the macroscian reality of indelible filigrees of countermanded controversy becoming its best behest in the sempiternal flowering of burgeoned demonstration rather than illustrious overhang of drab slabs of manufacture rather than organism that should be interposed between the constellated concepts of both apperception and the aggrieved counselors to obtuse obsessions that are an improper tutelary for a designated reprisal of the once profane now immediately gratified by ramshackle tenets of a guarded sublimation of the tenets of post-modernism into a sustained force of the internalized tabernacle of haecceity shepherded into exuberance by the manumission of spirit from the ******* of purblind scalds of defamation that incurs the penalty of flippant privation. The refuge the Lord provides is not contingent upon the vagaries of deliberation nor the calculus of oversight but the remontant amaranthine glower of a listed deed becoming an eternal reminder that a dismantled and disjointed world fathoming only remorse rather than the trudge of gentility against the headwinds of brunt asperity will always flout the successor rather than atone for the failure of the imponent condition that constellates around rudimentary drivel grubbing the momentary out of avarice for allotted merchandise rather than glommed magnets to amoeba sentiments for the kisswonk of ulterior motive beyond dungeons of desperation that lurk ghoulishly with spectral frights at the disfigurement of morale created by errors askew rather than a contagion of righteous valor.

   Ask the heedful servant if the captaincy of reneged commitment owes homage to dutiful instruction or whether it is a balking corpse of necrosis accorded to the omphalism of brutish carnal repose in times of sedentary silt siphoned in spelunked rijuice for preordination is a predominant specter for a world scared scurrilous and skittish in a diatribe against the very notion of tribal screeds embedded in the sedimentary heft of traditionalism above the pother of vacillation commended to the apikoros but counterfeit fiat system of a ruddy governance without a supreme magistrate. Now lets venture into the territory of visagists as we envision the swanky subversion of impoverished and nebbich visions of oligochrome that fixates on belabored but dead notions of rigid propriety and levitate above those concerns with a querulous transcendence that never wernaggles about the profaned irrelevance of burlesque tropes of sidereal friction but instead memorializes the thermolysis of permeable endeavor above staid countenances of imposture that lurk in the shadowy penumbra of the connivance of persona above the archetype of the tutelary guardian spirit that through windlass and sometimes deliberation affixes nobility to even the pedestrian in order to assize its proper proportions to granular ironies expounded into megalography transformative by the very rivets of its supersensible existence and cohabitation with histrinkage among human taboos.

   The handiwork of a permeable race prone to exacerbated proclamations of prerogatives bulldozed by the rapid percolation of insoluble quandaries to the gripes of the feast of foofaraw sometimes shelters our otherwise regnant concern about the plenipotentiary God that observes all latent affairs without the paramours that conflate vivid carnality with appeased luxury and superimposes a crafty system of seismic shifts in rantipole dances with numinous flux rather than dissipated militant suppression of the fracklings of dissolute pollution which swirk in their dastardly desperado endeavors to corral the entire monoliths that guard each province into a winnowed rumble of rubble by tarnish of Tyre rather than by the upstart rejoinders of Canaan. Every creature which has the capacity to perceive language is afforded benedictions by the overhailing force of the hypaethral heights of superlative ingenuity founded in the bolted speculation of the endearment of all to tropological seesaws embattled against the hearsay of nyejays that contaminates the telmatology of the ecosystem of revivalism rather than buries the leaden debts of the disjointed revenants of past prominence into recycled irrelevance for posterity rather than for anything but a machination of a clockwork apple rigged for a rotten worm to swindle the sweet delicate tempests of unforeseen disaster to perjuries against financial solidarity.

The spinsters of sardonic drollery underscore the imminence of an incondite cutthroat collapse blackguarded by the hucksters of incontinence grubbing every fetched noisome notion and congealing a bonnyclabber of desiccated mildew that proves vestigial when the victors of time earn their joyous serenade to the pinnacle of the totem of jaundice slits in wavy endeavors for the participles of sejungible syntax of the ephorized furor to outlast the draksteng of droned dereliction manned by half-baked spies of ulterior recitals for imprinted vicissitude in supremacy in synquest for frizzlounges rather than the pedestrian circulatory system of careworn polity. We vaporize the petty hatred of sympatric regelation that neuters the virulence of motivated impediments to the draconian surge of asperity that sinks temporal haplessness as a regaled blasphemy that crowns only the ringed betrothal to spumid serrated halts in slick superstition that is a buggery to the idea of insectivores devouring the erratic chantage of germane germs that pauperize rather than even blind the deafened to be a crutch to vehicular homicide. Melismatic sennet is a dirigible of immense herculean sinew without the traces of vestibulary retches of kisswonked grisly tepid intimidations of eccedentesiasts by the radioglare of wizened corrugations in thanatism that exhort the avatars of narquiddity over the natural departure of revenant souls back to their temporary hostility to crass lifeless decarnate immediacy that slinks with foibles magnified by vertiginous heights of scollardical reputes rigged by the rijuice of the plackiques of meaningless spoils for swashbuckler bonanza borrowed from serrated vengeance exacted in prominence to provide false avenues of extenuation to malefaction that is confidant to the panopticon of exemplary dimples meager in the largesse of the composite realism of a sizable imprint on megalography that outlasts impertinent excuses for dangerous trout swimming against the mobilized selachostomous frizz of sharks gathering to avenge disclosure with insolence and gravid atrocity of incisive surgical evisceration of attempted depositions that falter by innumerable facets of countenance that belie ultimate realism and the perdurable construction of a sturdy hive of bibliognost revelry.

     Even with the blaring sennet of majesty inundating my piecemeal perception with the marstions of flarium that is an efficacy in a flaccid world of otiose pretenses limpid only in folly but contraplex in ironic skewbald skerries of grubbed destination that is the terminus of karezza despite the maledictions of vehement guarded betrayals that conjure up lurid noisome virility against the gamines and gallywows that populate interstellar fictions of virtu rather than mundane pragmatica that astound with the resselenque of contaminated skeumorphs of latent fracture belonging to a skeletonized ossified reification of farce above historicity in seemly seamless countenance with overwrought princely stature deserving integrity to ripples through sparkling opalescence. The vapid insularity of the self-contained mythos of appeased groundlings is based on the rhizic and rhizogenic fracklings destitute in predicative flares to swelter above stratospheres of the illimitable into the dwelling of the highest serenity inherent to the pacification of truth to neglect its egregious errors of mistetches of a ripened pachyderm of bravery in times of austerity and now a reclaimed notion of sempiternal charades swimming above the punitive draksteng of dranger that is enlarged by acclimated attempts at foiled raltention hikkling against its own superior forces of galvanized preterition to elide over screwball insanity of derangement in this virtual paradise of inhabited souls belonging to former times congregating on the pasture of the evanescence of now for all eternity having the optative condition of incarnation above the ferules of the stagnant brevity of oversight in heavenly realms by postulate but not confirmed by regal logic.

     The troponder of the flickered lambent niceties of polity is a countenance that piggybacks on simpered jostles of negligent engrenage to appease sworn enmities among beatific havens for certitude swarmed by the fisticuffs of darbied bridewells of desiccated drainage traversing the distant disdain for the gravel of cemented slits of stilted pragmatica that is a gavel of atrocious estoppel mediated by heroic heresiarchs against pitiable betrayal for forceful remedies in acclimated servitude to the groans and groaks of a life of remorse and dearth rather than the glut of luxuriance in forbearance to its own intorted mirrored ironies that etch infinity with every scrawled rejoinder to austere ploys of checkered rumbles of threat and exigency posed by the clairvoyant hypocrites who benefit greatly by the design of the omphalism above the frays and brays of corporate dogmatism slowly outmoded by vibrant plumages of heteronormative originality beyond petty chantage. A hesitation overcomes the bluster of bravado as the restive earnest concerns of tribulation beset the minauderies of divine affection to reaffirm the teachings of the Gospel so that future generations genuflect beneath the altar of the ultimate stroke of sociogenesis and the blood ransom of suffering that promoted the human latitude and liberty against incarcerated throngs of virtue over caesaraproprism accorded to genuflection beneath denarii rather than absolution by tether to the eternal vine of sensation of the supersensible entelechy of all valiant insurrections against defective polities and renewed policies.

     We thus seek a transdimensional bridge between the morphean virtu of rudimentary alchemy of propitiation divulged by leverage and the teeming rambunctiousness of fiduciary tribes to the ultimate duty of man to consummate the future of eternity even in slowpoke mannerisms that sidle through rigors of entelechy and assize the masterwork of tutelage above the circumforaneous entrenchment of glut above the mastery of the subtle subaudition that beleaguers an adept conflagration of harnessed human ignorance staid in the incarceration of exotic virtues of freewheeling sapience never vulnerary to hospitable concerns that entrenches the verisimilitude of a refracted justice to reign over the stultification of a primitivism inherent to man and not man alone.

I L U like my ***** clothes
Love being forgotten
On my bedroom floor

I L U like chores love the
music that helps them
forget they're chores

I L U like ***** dishes
Love hot showers and
the other side of the sink

I L U like I love spilling
Salt, and warding off the evil,
By tossing some behind my back

I L U like I love
Breaking rules about
my own supposed
non-Superstition

I L U like black cats love
Bad luck, cause to them,
It's just Friday, you know?

I L U like the hot dog bun
Loves staring at the beef patty,
Wishing "if only, if only"

I L U like bread loves
Being forgotten till we're really hungry
And then we're all ungrateful, like
"Hey bread, you remember us?"
And bread is high above us, like
"Always."
Not even a hint of scorn

I L U like the first time I saw
Jurassic Park, The dinosaurs
Were real enough
sans chicken feathers, and
Who needs modern science anyways
when love has no fossil records?

I L U like the weather loves
Surprise parties.
I L U like painful
surprise party memories love
being forgotten on my bedroom floor

I love you like Mayflies love living,
oh so briefly, once a day, every single day,
Chapter one to chapter none

I love you like mayflies love themselves,
brevity and all, stirred by nothing but
the glow of Dawn's light,
Dead by dusk, the Mayfly never
knows its final form.
It dies
in complete
incompletion,
but that's okay.

It drank the salt ocean,
it breathed the living air,
And that's how I want to L U

for AR and Maria, oh heck,
for The Crew

A dog ear is a phrase that refers to the folded down corner of a book page, a dog ear can serve as a bookmark.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dog_ears


~~~~~~
we fold a page corner down,
here we pause in this poetry book,
for now, a marker of incompletion,
or not

a passage, a phrase,
whole stands on its own,
but today crew,
slated for an exit,
a return-to-someday,
but aside, aside, discarded till...

all on that day
run to the mountain,
the mountain wont hide you
run to the sea,
the sea will not have you
and run to your grave,
your grave will not hold you
all on that day

so I, sinnerman,
injured my book,
I hurt that page
disgraced, act of disgraceful,
but

I am injured
and don't have no cares

but come the day of
return
the day I hope to must to believe in,
twice as much,
all on that day,
when the sea,
the mountains,
and the risen dead,
have me back,
to my proper place

even though
will be dog tired,
to that dog-eared page,
in that worn old notebook
return,
pick up
my sticks,
my pens,
that have no erasers,
start again

just where I know,
just when I don't,
but this why I know,
but to that dog-eared return,
the page where
I died,
I shall return,
all on that day

~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?

Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?

Run to the moon, "Moon, won't you hide me?"
Run to the sea, "Sea, won't you hide me?"
Run to the sun, "Sun, won't you hide me all on that day?"

Lord said, "Sinner man, moon'll be a bleeding"
Lord said, "Sinner man, sea'll be a sinking"
Lord said, "Sinner man, sun'll be a freezing all on that day"

Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?

Run to the Lord, "Lord, won't You hide me?"
Run to the Lord, "Lord, won't You hide me?"
Run, run, "Lord, won't You hide me all on that day?"

Lord said, "Sinner man, you should've been a praying"
Lord said, "Sinner man, should've been a praying"
Lord said, "Sinner man, should've been a praying all on that day"

Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?

Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to?
Oh, sinner man, where you're gonna run to all on that day?
www.youtube.com/watch?v=H4h55nVbt4c

Pulling hair out
Bawling eyes
Nothing is right
Frustration consumes my life
Do I even want to stick it out?
There’s too much happening
All at once
All at once
Too much to handle
It really depresses me
Just thinking about it…


**December 20, 2011

It's too late now
and we can't go back
and fix everything that fell apart
in the time that you
were taking my heart
We can't put the pieces together
Because they no longer
Fit
We've each been torn
To bits
Apologies don't rid the dark
Won't bring the light
Can't relight the spark
We've harbored the pain
Love is gone
And We're both a little insane
We're troubled and lost
Can't find our way
Our joy comes with a cost
And we're unwilling to pay
I'm sorry this can't be bargained
I'm sorry for the words I didn't say
And I apologize that this is good-bye
Just promise never to ask why.

if you look intently close enough
you might be able to see
the war going on within me through my irises
see all the knives poking out my skin
bombs flying out my mouth
but to the naked eye
i am still
breathing slowly
intact but not
completed

i don't know if its love or lust
(maybe a combination of the two)
but both halves of me finally agree
that they would be terribly
and perpetually incomplete
if our eyes fail to lock
if our fingers do not intertwine
if I do not follow the road
from your collarbone
up to brush the stray lock
off the side of your face
then end up comfortably at the small of your neck

it'd be a tragedy
of shakespearean proportions
for our lips to not have the pleasure of
getting acquainted
how stale the air is
when we do not share the same breath

it's a sickening thought
that the curve of your back
and my calloused hands
simultaneously exist in this point in time
but may never piece together
like a jigsaw puzzle
****** to incompletion


that the amber of your eyes
and the mahogany of mine
may never find their way to each other
i'd rather not have lived

at all

I woke up, and my ears were ringing like the Tell-Tale heart.
Ring, ring, ringing like microphone headphones,
the screeching dog whistle in a *****'s bad dreams.

My scream-teen dreams
of Slime Time Lives gone by
drive-bys gettin' high,
drank all the way to drunk
and stayed up,
still alive.
A hangover hunger, eat that screaming meat
till my warm puffy eyes well up with sleep,
wait to wake up and repeat.

Though I breathe easy
I need pleasing,
a fortune in fulfillment and still aches
of incompletion.
Mi hermano dice siempre,
The poor search for food,
the rich search for an appetite.

Today Pain shall write for me

As these feelings are just so hard to see

By my heart’s eyes that look only at white

But never at its own dreary plight



Of the pain that is inflicted

By my dreams, now convicted

Of the crime of incompletion

And sentenced to perdition



I craved for glory and fortune and fame

The eternal happiness to be remembered by name

I created the visions of peace and life

And I as the sole destroyer of strife



Time blows away like smoke from a fire

Only to be seen near the flames, never higher

My flames are weak, ******* me dry

Bringing me close to the day when I shall cry



Is my reality too unreal to be real

Or am I just incapable to feel…



That dreams are never meant to come true.

Imperfections are the beauty of life.
The whisper of a fragmented shell, the uneven receding of the ocean and the glimpse of a half-moon, neither crescent nor full, while the sun begins to rise.
A quiet dawn, absent of the flaming colors of super-saturated images on an “artist’s” computer.
The fact that, as a writer, I am now ******* the rules of grammar and the fragmented, half-beauty of an imperfect sentence is the only result.
Beauty doesn’t come from using big words or even perfect words. It comes from being halfway there, half the joy of our sight fulfilled, half the excitement and mystery and sorrow of not knowing, of not seeing, of not understanding.
Beauty isn’t meant to be understood – or even appreciated.
It is meant to be.
As long as it exists – without the passion, the ****** struggle of the artist’s search for meaning, without the human condition of imperfections and rectifications, art is.
Art doesn’t need you, the artist, to exist.
But you need art.
Beauty that mirrors your own imperfections.
Your own incompletion.
You are not finished yet – you are not an artist yet – you never will be.
You are not creating. You have never made anything original in your life. You can only transpose that which is already in you. And as you are completed, you can begin to know completion, fullness, consummation –
But not quite. It is something that you will never reach. Not on this earth, in this body, with this bound and sleeping soul. A flicker of a spark in the darkness is not enough to truly wake your spirit; death alone can rend the iron chains and throw you out beyond your body.
Enough
Never enough.
You are never enough.
Art is never enough – always maddeningly imperfect, broken. What does art do? What do you do? Beyond the existence of the dripping seconds, absorbed by deserts of the poor, the tired, the embittered – they act. They do.
They are always doing.
But what is it to be?
Complete in yourself and in all? To be I am, the one condition by which anything can be anything or have anything, and to be enough?
I am lost, and blind, and cold, in the echoing halls of time.
Alone.
Barren.
What am I?
If I am not an artist, not enough, not – somehow – alone?
What can I be?
You – all of you – this human experiment that has reached new heights of love and joy and passion, ceaseless, peaceless, senseless and hollow.
Look at the world. Look and believe.
Death devours all; never satisfied, even with Shakespeare, with Napoleon and Caesar and Alexander the Great.
Even with you, and me.
It will never cease consuming as long as a single breath stirs the air.
Why are we? Why do we keep striving for that fragmented beauty, the misty song of another way to be?
Is there anything but the carnal, the voracious appetite of Death and Man for blood?
Or is humanity nothing but animals who have deluded themselves, told themselves that they can see what others cannot, that justice reigns and that this world is something other than what we see?
And I, caught amidst the whirlwind of all the nothing new, caught and spinning, pretending that I can see what others cannot, that I have something to offer through these black and white and formless words.
Nothing new.
The world never changes its axis; it spins and moves but never really goes anywhere, year after year, in the blinding plummet of galaxies around their black-hole hearts.
Is that all a heart is?
Is lightning only the fire flashing through black clouds that illuminates and kills?
Is poetry only syllables and words we cannot know?
Is the world only what we make of it?
Because then, well, ****.
I guess this is the story of my life, guys.
An arrogant, blind ******* who hates herself and draws away in silence. I drift in the vast reaches of space, unreachable, unlovable, with the rest of humanity spinning around until we get too dizzy to bear the tide and surge of life any longer.
And then we keel over and die.

it's the car crash that nobody was around to see, nobody to call for help
it's the drop from the precipice that never ended
that sensation in your gut of sickening weightlessness
forever in perpetuity
it's this daily unanswered call
an echo unreturned
it's this constant hesitation
this wavering sensation of incompletion
a melody with no conclusion, unresolv-

Foreign doll
A wonderwall
Writes poetry on receipts
Where coffee stains
Are soak brown blobs,
Her words are sweetened
As candy cane dialect to god
I wait for her many hours in incompletion
For her mine heart throbs!!!

Connection comforts us with a warm sense of familiarity,
a piece of home we look to find and know,
in all of these reflective eyes that stand before us.
Some have searched their entire lives,
as though a sea of people have moved through them
because this constant searching for completion in another is a set up
for heartbreak if we can never truly dwell within our own flow.
If we believe another is all we need to make us feel
we will always be looking with eyes that forget how to close.
This love shall be false
nullified by our own lack of wholeness.
I´ve felt angry,
betrayed and hurt within the seas of such love.
All this unnecessary aching due to my own foolishness,
We are the only ones who make ourselves suffer.
We betray ourselves through a lack of self love,
through our own sense of incompletion.
Because I no longer know the meaning of lonely.
Just uncontained with all the love inside of me
unfulfilled by the door un-opened from within.
It´s our choice
we decide to not feel.
Many times I was foolish,
believing love had given me up,
resigned and blew away
just like the echo that journeys
when the wind moves in the trees.
Those winds carried many of my ideals
and I was just yet to open to this unlimited supply
not matter what or who goes by...
I hadn´t noticed until I closed my eyes
that Love stood unwavered
just waiting for me to re-open to myself.
The branches may´ve altered
leaves certainly died,
re-gathered
re-grew
but my trunk
always my core.
As Love is a door
that´s opened from within
and then lends it´s opening
to be explored
to be entered
with you.

Pour your brilliant light into my yearning mouth
The darkness is so consuming, so endless
Filling up every empty space between my organs, flowing with my blue blood from my heart to my toes
Nauseating and sickness is what I feel
Emptiness and incompletion
Black tears spill over from my eyes
My ears
My nose
It's an endless sea of black tar gathering at my feet.

I await the cure you will provide
The giant and flowing
beautiful and glowing
Masterpiece of your hand on mine
I can feel the webs clearing from my heart
The light consumes me
How do I have faith in something so new?
So I jump--faith guiding me
It tells me to be patient and trust what's right
Back into the darkness I go
Only to discover the light

A wall made of my happiest thoughts,
Closing in, a broken environment collapsing at last,
A hole in the ceiling allows a closer look,
To the freedom lost in mere seconds,
Trapped within one's self, unable to escape,
The hollow body wanders through the landscape,
Seeking for a piece to become whole again,
Searching for the fragments of a shattered conscious,
Never succeeding in this mighty mission,
Endlessly, fleeting through the despair of incompletion,
Erased colors draw a grey painted world,
Whilst the incarcerated one suffers with each step taken,
Not being able to open one's eyes, nor even protect the heart once embodied by the enlighting feeling of love,
Fallen into the endless abyss, unable to advance,
These happy thoughts mark the end,
And also the very beginning,
Of eternal slumber.

~ Umi

Every childhood slogan

drilled into our skulls

left room for incompletion

and rebellion of our tongues

Be kind dearest neighbor

They said

treat them as you would yourself...

When my heart was diced in pieces

behind a protective shell

feelings weren't spared for any...

money chasing fame

dreaming dreams involving pain

with actions summing up

to techno-lingo-logical

the only words heard spoken

are implications under jokes

half phrased and cut short

Well i'm not waiting here for you

to decide what you want to do.

moving on but staying true

loving me a bit more then you

you see

I'd reach my hand in your direction

stare my longing in your eyes.

now I'm staring in the mirror....

vulnerable

free

no disguise is holding me

knowing whats underneath

deserves more

and finally

we can

release.... receive.... resurface

It's like 20,000 likes or knocks at the door
but not one of them the company I adore
emptiness, because of one vacancy

An ocean of fish, only one worth the keep
Different beauty, some beyond comprehension
still there’s that feeling, that feeling of incompletion
maybe you relate

I know she’s out there, waiting to be found
I don’t know where she’s from, her heart is sound
She’ll relate to me, she will, apart from physical thrills
Spiritual passion, and vulnerability
something I cannot speak of verbally.

If I could put it into writing I would, but ill get lost in my dreams
Something I want, something I need, like water or air, the oxygen I...
I feel her presence, but can’t find her, no matter where I go

I'll write songs and poetry, in hopes she'll come to me
Maybe i'll meet her at a store, or even the sea’s shore
A smiling face, a presence of light, what I imagine is as radiant as a last sunrise
She’s there, I swear, in my minds eye, not a race or color, she’s there

Over the ocean, colors and bliss, our eyes meet
Connection of the universe, this link between our brains.
An imaginary moment
                                                  that teases me.

a swirling mass of thoughts
a feeling of incompletion
and a sense
of no direction

spending nights awake
letting consciousness fade
and all days
go to waste

held in a stasis
waiting
for my catharsys

Here's to folly, to the great valley called love
Which reminded me of forever through imperfections,
Hardships and disappointments, of falling deeply
Into discovery from self-doubt, of reaching freedom,
The bore of a goal like contentment.

Here's to pain, the antithesis of the stars,
Of pretensions and incompletion, the middleground
Between the starts and the endings, the covert catalyst,
The grand surrealist, as we dread to know
The fullness of our sanity, of our souls,
Our fragility, of our very being.

Here's to the machinery, the agitation
Called dreams, the sweet fog of distant memories,
Or the dark smoke of passion sometimes,
Cunning as ever, like a freight train,
Like wind, like havoc, like thypoon,
Oftenly deprived of conclusive destinations.

Here's to art, drama and poetry, the mystics,
The sons and daughters of the grand mystics,
Of philosophy, science and religion, not to mention
History, the grand infidel, and mythology, the fibber.

Answers overwhelm us, test us, and divide us,
They appear when we're most not ready,
Yet the questions keep us sane, ever growing,
Ever sun, ever moon and ever cloud.

Only time will tell and would not,
The old grey, the clear dark, the pale light,
It never learned a language,
It only learned to live, noticed
But never quite understood.
How diaphanous. How vague.

So here's to the confusion, to the uncertainty
Like love always has been.
Here's to us, to our ambitions,
Our possessions, the treasures which speak
Permanence in our hearts.
Here's to the violent, the meek and the indifferent.
Here's to the society and the humanity
That's left in it. Here's to those who hate me.
Here's to our faith and our fate.
Here's to the poems that will never be written again.

Here's to you, my love, my true.
May we stay kind, mad, and human,
Or something more, whatever that means,
Despite the opposition, and deception and progression.
So here's to the Universe.
Here's to the grand riddler called existence.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

In the beginning God created the Heaven and the Earth
On this First Day he started it all
They were only atoms, simply a little essence of life here or there
But today he said to himself, "Heaven is where their souls will meet and Earth is where they'll dance."
Then God said, "Let there be light," and my oh my, there was light
A sliver of life was suddenly the beginning of a good man
And a collection of atoms turned into blonde hair and blue eyes
But when God looked at the light, he was able to see darkness too
The dark was different though, for it was not warm and inviting
But the qualities it did possess were mysterious and enchanting  
He quickly learned that one could not exist without the other, the Light and the Dark
and while they were so drastically different, they were magnetically drawn together, destined to share the world forever

On the Second Day, God brought forth the sky, along with day and night
He could see it all ahead, the way their days would feel so bright and their nights would feel so warm

And when the Third Day came God was full of excitement and pride for all of his work, but he knew he could not rest quite yet
So on this day he clapped his hands and up rose dry land
It began as just mounds of dirt, a barren stretch of ground
But as seeds fell from the sky God caught himself smiling at the emptiness
Because he knew he would never forget the way the colors sprouted from the ground, and how it made the emptiness feel so full
Their favorite things were sprouting here, shooting up into the sky like magic
Lavender as far as the eye could see, and as many flowers as there were peach trees

Next was the Fourth Day, and it would be one of immense work for God
Today he would hand pick each wandering soul, each little burst of life, and he would delicately place it in the sky
He decided he would call them 'stars', as he arranged them in a peculiar way
And if you look close enough to the sky, you might even say that the stars could spell their name's
Or even write their fate
But then he grabbed the largest constellation and spun it into one large star, one star that would shine bright enough to light up the world— this would lead the day
However, he did not stop there, for how could he?
Next he grabbed all of the broken or unfinished constellations he could fine, and he pardoned their imperfections just by piecing them together like a puzzle
And then what started as flaws and incompletion, had suddenly become the glowing orb that would lead the night

God was satisfied with the world so far, but he was surely not done
Day Five was the day he would create his first heartbeat, the first manifestation of life
For he knew that to give life to the land, he must create life in-between each shore
The oceans were vast and rich with color, but they were transformed entirely when God released all of the sea creatures that he could imagine
These were the creatures that would experience the world first, that would wash all of it's wonder into the land that he and she would soon inhabit

Next was Day Six, the day of all days
God was silent in concentration as he looked upon the land
The color green stretched as far as the eye could see, and everything was dripping in majesty
But it was not complete
The vegetation was tall and teeming with life, but he simply wanted more
So with a blink of his eye came a small creature with wings
And he went on from there, dropping heart beats from the Heavens
But this was only the prequel to his Plan, the beginning of the best
Now was time for the one's that would be like him
The man would walk with certainty, and he would smile with absolute sincerity
The woman would bleed love and she would dance like the rivers
So with all the magic he could muster, God cast them onto Earth from the bones of his own body
The bodies formed from bones and dirt, just separate collections of Heaven and Earth
They would soon open their eyes and see each other for the first time
And with each new life they lived they would love each other all the same
They did not ever get to meet their Creator, but they could feel the love he had given them
And when they fell into the other's embrace it mattered not that they couldn't find God, but just that they had each other.


Finally, the Seventh Day had arrived and God was almost done
Before he could finally rest, he decided that he would give his people one last gift
So while they were fast asleep, he descended from Heaven just to whisper in her ear
"You will find him across each lifetime, his kiss will taste the same. I give you this whole world on the condition you learn his name."
She heard these words clearly,
But when she woke up she could only remember thinking that the sleeping boy next to her was a vision of absolute loveliness​.


And finally, God could rest.

I'm so tired of always being the one to ask,
I'm so tired, knowing it won't change
Unless I stop putting myself out there
I want to know them all

Why does the world seem so big suddenly
Like it's so hard to grasp the reality of
How life used to be, before I went away
Before I remembered what living really meant

Those days seem as simple memories now
Memories though which will never vanish
And cannot seem to leave me be
Constantly poking at my back

Knawing wholes wherever they can
Like worms, they've been eating my body
Along with parts of my soul I thought
Were most profound and least to weaken

Or is it exactly the fact that I envision
A weakness in me I never had before
A softness in which I have found kindness
And a love that dropped all my barriers

What if everything I thought I knew
Was but a deception that I left myself
To fall so tremendlously for
Each time I stopped praying?

How many of the things I did
Were really selfless opposed to
All the times I did those things
To really make myself happy

Rather than all those around me
Rather than the ones I love or
The people that I thought I fought for
What if it's all a lie?

The lie we feed ourselves in order
To be able to live with ourselves
While half the world is at war
While more than half is starving

I thought if you help your community
You do your part in the world
No matter if nothing will ever be enough
Yet.. somehow I have this sense

A sense of incompletion everywhere I look
Or is that simply...because I fell in love?

Fractured
Broken
I'm a puzzle missing pieces
doomed to incompletion
and imperfection
With no hope to be whole again

A dead concern is what
puts words on this page
Yesterday's warm failure
is these lines manifest
Incompletion does not
usually prove pride
Yet I am proud of her

My life is So full of
Half starts, incompletion,
Should've, could've, would've,

My regrets ride On my back
Like I'm the One they've saddled.

I have mastered
The very elegant
Art of inexistence.

I've become so
Totally lost In being afraid
Of my life That I've forgotten
To even live.

This isn't living.

Don't hate anyone.

Does that include myself?
Scratch that. Currently lacking a self.

I'll stumble into faith. Or life.
Or faith in life.

No more. Never. Can't live like this.
Scratch that. Not really living.

Caffeine may keep me awake, but
What can coffee do for an empty soul?

The answer is nothing.

I can mend an empty soul. My empty soul.
Even as I dream of paradise while stuck on the ground.

Time to live.
Time to wake up.

There can't be any incompletes this time.

Tell me how the critical man
of me can reach the flawed conclusions
of causality in the face of
limited distractions.

Could the very nature of
my reckless search for entropy
make me
burn lean
when there is not enough
conflict for character resolution
and the consequent freedom.

They say that each new draft of
A poem is a new poem all to itself.
I would prefer to believe in revision
over reinvention
But I have never believed in
Incompletion -
If you are in you should be raising the stakes.

I withdraw sometimes to think about
Fear and luck or my dislike
Of accidental rhyming.
I have learned so much but
The curve will flatten.
I will be bored soon and manic
To make something happen.

"The problem is rarely that things are too hard,
Just that they are hard in ways that we don't expect them to be"

I don't like the way that he cheapened you
And sometimes it still makes me sad to
Imagine you in the middle of nowhere
North Carolina without bright city lights
Reflected in your eyes.

To be honest,
The things I was so sure about
Back then
Just aren't so constant anymore.
If I changed then I'm sure you can too.
I still miss the meter of your lips - the
Slant rhyme of your wrists and the
Symbolism of this.

You are a new poem now - maybe
You don't need that anymore.
I hope that you changed for
The first time in your life -
I hope you don't think you've made a mistake.
I hope that you still think of me
Because I still think about you.

I want you to be happy but I
Don't know that you are
Right now.

there is a sense of incompletion
a sense of the most lackluster life
where i have lived with no thoughts and no motivation
i spend my days living with obsession
begging for ambition and yearning for admiration
but nothing has been completed
i'll spend my life wishing the universe had plans for me
i'll live with no thoughts, no motivation
i'll die with so much to be done
i'll die begging for satisfaction

half-finished books,
blank pages sandwiched between
scattered notes,
words lying limp on pages
purposeless,
bookmarks declaring incompletion,
things not said
or said but not heard,
a night like many nights where
I wish
it would all just come together
and be whole
and be full
and be done.
and I sleep instead another night
a night
a night.

Admission
Several half songs later
I stay at the type-writer: tapping
I am looking for structure, flexibility,
a stimulating blend of images
To rattle my listeners.

Too bad I come up empty

It's a shame I always crack
under the pressure of fake glass
incompletion makes a home in me
and I can't come back to health
until the books are written,
the songs are sung,
and my creations are raised effectively

But they would still act the same
as a **** stain
on haute couture..
Why pass it off as anything more?

I accept my role to be colorless, insignificant, and small
an ant can only be so tall
It is when we admit our futility
that we become a human, luminous

There is always the fire,
Whether in the charcoal sketches
Or the scattered canvases, each shunted off to the side
In various states of incompletion
(He offered little clue as to why each was seemingly abandoned,
As he seemed reasonably content with them
In terms of composition and technique,
Suggesting there was something else that eluded him,
Something he had misapprehended)
An all-encompassing conflagration
Which promised the eventual envelopment
Of all in its path, flesh and façade,
Mortar and muscle,
Yet the assemblage of waiters, telephone operators,
Delivery boys and meter maids
Do not, by and large, exhibit the expected terror;
Oh, it is there now and again,
Mixed in among those who would,
With a certain madness in their gaze,
Exhort the torch-bearers onward,
And there is the odd face who regard the whole undertaking
With an unmistakable glee,
But, by and large, there is a matter-of-factness about the figures,
Varying between grim determination and an utter sang-froid,
And when one of the select few he has showed the preliminaries
Noted how he'd expected the dried brush and ground cover
To burst into flame on a more-or-less daily basis,
He looked up from his pencils and grunted
When it comes, the brush won't have a ******* thing
To do with it.

Words shape the world,
Carve it from nothingness into the rigid
Collection of ideologies and practices that form the basis
Of our race, of our societies.
Words are powerful,
They say that the pen is mightier than the sword.
And that is absolutely correct.

And yet, here I sit,
Surrounded by books and essays and a palace
Made of sentences, bricks reinforced with
Punctuation of all kinds -
Unable to find the words.
The words to describe how you make me feel.

It's interesting, isn’t it?
I can only find the words to describe the lack of words.
What a conundrum,
What a sick irony!

10^570 number of possible sentences,
Over 200,000 possible words.
And yet, here I sit.
None of the words or sentences powerful enough to convey how you make me feel.

Butterflies flapping and fluttering,
Constant fidgeting,
Daydreams, Thoughts, Dreams
No, no, that’s not enough.
That won’t do.

Let me try again.
The passion in my veins when you kiss me,
The smile on my face when you hold me,
The sadness when I have to get out of the car,
The feeling of incompletion when you leave,
Like a construction project on hold.

Do those words give the feelings justice?
No, I believe not.

Words shape the world.
Words are powerful.
However,
Do you know what is more powerful;
What shapes my own very world?
You.
Yes, that fits nicely.

Here I sit. Surrounded by towers
Of books to my left,
Essays to my right,
An endless palace of words at my disposal.
And yet, there’s only one word on my mind.

You.

Unamuno wrings his hands, frets over
the Tragic Sense of Life in which we
all die inevitably, inexorably, unwillingly.
And death is simply non-being to him,
and non-being looks a lot like pure
nothingness, which means we can't
even think "non-being" or "death"
when we're dead. It's all one, big,
fat zero. Add it to or subtract it from
itself, and it's still nada, the sum
of all fears. O the woe of being human.

I read him as a teenager in love with
philosophy, and thought him the most
profound thinker Europe had conjured up
in the 20th century. Continental philosophy
was the only philosophy for me, heavily
Germanic. Even Sartre was a closet
Heideggerian, teething on Sein und Zeit.
But Unamuno leapt over the Teutonic depths,
plunged into Dante's circle of death, scratched
out a mirror image of the human face. I took
it and ran, Kierkegaard stuffed in my back pocket.

Philosophy is eros is love is an incomplete connection.
Reality rises like a daffodil in the green grass
of spring. Wordsworth pens an ode; the rest of us
stare and blindly think we know what we see. But
the eye doesn't conceive, it doesn't relieve anything
save a surface tension. The eye can't speak, can't say
that the daffodil is real. Nobody sees reality in the
flesh. Nothing meshes with sensation but sensation.
That's the Latin way, the Mediterranean way, says
Jose Ortega y Gasset, another Spanish wizard of
wisdom, wishing for intellectual love, dancing at Delphi.

Philosophia. You can't see it, you can say it, but it's
all yearning, no release, no peace until the mind
settles on the bottom of the stream, feeds on
jetsam, maybe flotsam, then thinks "Being" and
gushes *******. This is Plato's territory, a long way
from Spain. But there's geometry in the bullring. There's
life and death and nada and sol y sombra in the stands.
Ideas don quixotic cloaks. Cervantes turns them into
literature, the Ur-story of Spain and its millions of minions.
The common man squirms for comedy. Tragic senses
squire hard work, and if life is so short, why not eat, dream

and be merry? Unamuno deserves his fate. Thinking
about death still adds up to nothing. Thought dies, too;
it's not accustomed to rue the end of infinity. It has no
affinity with hard limits. It rises, stays aloof, looks down
on the world, which has only one side visible, and pronounces
it good for nothing. But can't the thinker take a joke?
Incompletion competes with vast yearning like the tortoise
with the hare. No one gains on the other: Zeno's Paradox.
We might still ride Mediterranean Vespas, but the Greeks
kick-started this thing into motion. There's no reason

without Socrates, and he pronounced death a no-fear zone.
Unamuno forgot his Crito, Phaedo and Apology. Irony adds
up to something, not nothing. There's no surface irony here,
folks. This is Mycenean, not Mediterranean, Athenian not
Salamancian. Spain thinks it thinks new thoughts, taking
the bull by the ****** ear that's left behind the horn. No mas.
Only philosophy thinks itself, eternally. It never dies, man, even
if the cosmos explodes to a pinhead, then vanishes like
a magic trick. What's tragic about necessity, certainty? They
rave on in that dark night of the soul. Nada means nada,
but "means" isn't nada. It's todo on the human topos.

So climb it like a mountain in Dante's Purgatorio. Fret
no more, amigo. You are on the top of the world; it's a tricky
move to the summit. Ascend on the wings of meaning,
then see what you think, not think what you see. That's something.
And Socrates proclaimed it enough. Hey, Plato made him say so.

Rustled through cosmic pages of a loosely tethered reality,
Fell apart under the lime tree's heavy awn
The present wouldn't settle on me
Incompletion melted the crystal in my mind
I lost my sight
Felt lost in the frantic annals of an unsure universe