Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.

Singing as spirituality,
people would feel free, free,
people would feel...
light, funny, not embarrassed,
not embarrassed to ****,
companionship. NO TELEVISION.
More land, communal, raising children in groups,
healthy food, everyone feels empowered to share,
constant sharing, trading, collective owning.
Trees.
Naked, warm, outside living, living mostly outside.
Freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom like Richie Havens said.
Learning and putting that knowledge into practice.
Everyone's opinions would be heard and would be legitimate because they are humans.
Intentionality. Dancing, intentionally.
Living in a tent, intentionally.
Singing: everybody's singing all the time.
Humming, whistling, body hair (or not depending on your preference)
But most likely a lot a of body hair.

as conscious mode,
vague aboutness, it stales romance
in metaphysic stench, this telic sense,
unlike the comfort of a family nest
my locus drifts on wind
i'd rather culture in a jar
on the counter (no secrets there) or even cellared
responding to the world's response, anthophilous
com][part][mental-mania
warehoused too for sticky label stigma-sized
cover-glint akin with stamp of human frailty, resource that i am,
far from pink and snow banana plants
no inward passion of a chimpanzee in chains
though i assume the name
pan troglodytes applies to me as any species, or much more,
riddled with neuroses, caves every each to steal away from being seen,
from open goals to shade concerns, rotted fancies
manifestering the soil by the laundy-bin abysm--
commode in time, this musa media mind
so urgent in its pseudostemming scour
will flower unsterile and so find its fruit
with bunching finger fronding infloresce
and write about it in the bloom

Remnants of pain
remembered hide
behind their eyes.
Most people see
walls and boxes,
but I see oceans
and meadows
and rolling hills.

Mine is the voice of intuitive reason,
Bearing the words' intricate mechanism,
Surface dripping with such subtle intention,
I am become the human difference engine.

Re-written today... dusted off and delivered, to our beautiful friends, the Chambers...

Ron, Nathan, Ian, Jill...

We know... you can't see us... but you are not forgotten!!  The Reimers remember... we are here... with you in this room, now... as is your Margie!!  

___________

remember her with us, as you read and hear these words.  it is good to remember... to never forgot... a cycle of life, brought full circle, best in remembrance.  and this makes remembering perhaps the most important facet that defines, sets us apart as humans, best captured in this thought, "in forgetting the past we cease to be and bring hope forward for the future. and so we remember... for we must never forget!” this is why we line our shelves, our walls with them, and visit inscribed stones behind fences.   you are not forgotten, Margie Chambers!

~

posted first in the Christmas season of 2014,  the original post script remains and speaks of my original motivation in writing this, but events this year prompt my re-post, if nothing but as a reminder to all of us to look beneath the surface with intentionality and to see the pain that many walk in daily.  though they will shield it from uncaring eyes, they are likely to let in those who show they truly care.  and is not this, the truest, the finest, the greatest of Christmas gifts we could give such a one?

~

it is a storm approaching,
not the tempestuous kind;
of driving rain or whirling wind,
but a storm all the same;
a mingling of sorts,
a marriage that blends,
my joy with my tears;
my hopes and my fears,
of life and of death,
of all that has come,
with what has not yet;
where photos and albums,
and letters and cards;
are all we can touch,
of what has gone by.
 
yet there's a tree to light,
there are gifts to wrap,
there are cards to send
to loved ones dear;
while the hug that we wish,
the one we most want,
it's the one we can't give,
caught... in its grip;
this our loss has us,
ties us in knots.
for memories and laughter,
their kindest words,
and shouts of joy;
these are fading away,
and yet... are all that remain.
uninvited to the table,
these call in the park,
at Sunday Mass
and the post office,
but especially the back porch,
when it is quiet after dark.
these join us at parties,
where thoughts of our missing,
join the gay, happy greetings;
and on Christmas morn,
when gifts lie unopened;
their chair empty still,
at dinner... a space,
no one ever will fill;
in their place is a candle,
a scent we know well,
a light we'll not crush;
it's the closest we'll get,
to their presence we so miss.

the storm on the inside,
one that no one else sees;
as they stroll down the street,
as they shop merrily;
our hearts beat... quietly,
inside we are breaking,
this storm threatens to drown;
but no one will save us,
because no one's around;
who ever would notice,
or  knows how to care?
its the cry of our heart
that no one can hear.
our tears brushed aside,
hoping no one can see;
this storm it is raging,
raging wildly in me.

i looked for a card,
my thoughts to express,
but the cards in the store
say nothing like this,
no words such as "weeping",
or "anguish" are found;
no topics like "lonely" or "angry",
in the Christmas card aisle.
so just how to reconcile,
my juxtaposition?
how can I quell,
this sense of foreboding
that i know all too well?
truth is...  i cannot!
i must go through
with this marriage.
and pray that some day,
soon... i can hope,
that i will awaken,
to see sunshine again;
and consider these memories,
not nightmares, but friends.

~

post script.
"blessed are those who morn, for they shall be comforted"  Matthew 5:4

*these are so many among us who mourn, in particular at what are otherwise joyous occasions.  for these ones, Christmas only adds to the acuteness of their pain.  for them, Christmas is a storm they know is coming, a time when they must prepare for, battening down the hatches of their soul, so they are assured their grief does not leak out on the joy of everyone around.  my advice for us all- know who walks near you well enough to reach out to them, give them a shoulder to weep on, share your tears with theirs. assure them you have not forgotten.  repeat the name of their loved one, a name they long to hear others speak.  for most of us, this name is one you cannot say too often. speak in the present tense of their loved one for they are not lost, they are still present and very much a part of the grieving one's life.  as just one of many examples, remember... a mother who has lost her only child is still a mother.  it is a title that she still bears, coming with all the burden, yet without any future benefit, these having been stripped away. love her, hold her, be shelter for her heart in the coming Christmas storm.

A new Tunisian poetic genre is born.
What is a "Kasserine"?
Structure:
A Kasserine is a new poetic genre created on July 9, 2017. In it all is condensed in two lines with a sum total of thirteen or fourteen syllables. Its first line cannot exceed seven of them.
The title of a Kasserine must be an integral part of the poem in terms of interpretation. The number of its syllables must not exceed seven.
Subject matter:
In a Kasserine nature and imagination perform the same poetic activity. Nature ceases to be a mere mirror reflecting the feelings of the poet, the political or social situation, etc., and becomes symbolic in the very moment it renounces representation as a one-to-one correspondence . Nature in a Kasserine has no existence prior to the pricking into action of the imagination by the self of the poet. For, even though it is groundless (it does not belong to the self), the imagination has no intentionality of its own; this is why it needs the intentionality of the subject in order to be operative.
Samples of a Kasserine

Ruby Sun
Among amethyst silk clouds
She flirts with the sapphire sea
(c) Paula Swenson, USA

Tunisia
A fair island of light
in my imagination
(c) Jeffard Ster, USA

Red Giant
A star inside her implodes
Heavens of chaos unfold
(c) Stefan David Sederscog, Sweden

Voyeurism
The sea kisses the sky
Imagination beholds.
© LazharBouazzi, Tunisia



Note: Friends and acquaintances are cordially invited to start writing sublime (marked by repression of meaning) Kasserines.
(c)Lazhar Bouazzi, 9 July, 2017.

Whales were,
above all else,
deliberate

about the pace
with which they
moved through the world,
conscientious,
perhaps to a fault,
about the economy of movement
required to propel
such incredible mass over such
enormous, empty spans
of open ocean.

Here is a humpback whale
resting, face-down
staring into the cerulean
abyss, alone
but singing, perhaps for
enjoyment, perhaps out of
boredom, or perhaps due to
loneliness and longing.

She twists
and turns a single eye up toward
the surface, her iris catching  
sunbeams and contracting,
as she gauges
the gargantuan effort she must exert
in order to gain her next breath.
In this case, she concludes that, yes,
the effort will be worth it.

But what you must know about
whales is that
on rare occasion,
they would cast these concerns
of intentionality and efficiency aside,
and choose to
activate the entirety of their being,
from the sinews to the soul,
and propel themselves,
heedlessly and at top speed
toward, through, and past the surface of the ocean,
as though they were attempting to
fully take flight,
to escape, with finality,
the cold confines of their known existence,
the omnipresent, furrowed gaze of the void below.

But invariably,
and in spite of their best efforts,
the whales would be pulled
back downward,
by forces they could not
fully comprehend,
sure as the tides would fall shortly after
the moon passed overhead.

Yes, the physical impact of colliding
with the surface of the ocean
would be painful for the whales,
but what hurt
so much more than that
was having to return
to the stark, lonely calculus
of whether or not
to keep going.

Kaitelka was in the Equinoctial Aftó, she bathed but always oriented herself as an Argonaut star bathing in the Aegean while waiting for the ******* of Áullos Kósmos. Between both Aulos and Citara, she modeled the auletic- citaristic, in glimpses of her Psychic Trisomy.  In effect of the existence of an extra chromosome in a diploid organism 158, for a number of chromosome fifty-four, instead of a homologous pair of chromosomes. From this position she was limiting her chromosomes of normality in the genetic proximal when entering the bay of Skalá that she was waiting for her native, where the art of navigation danced in the nitrogenous water that brought her from Skalá; from Eleios-Pronnoi, about 39 km south of the main city on the island of Argostoli, in southern Kefalonia, on one of the Ionian islands of Greece. From here, mimetic was thrown towards the art of the unknown sea, collapsing and disoriented by its territorial similarity, and maritime per se of its Otolith that brandished it in dual places of Ionian-Dodecanese geography, following the semiotic songs of Leiak that emerged from the auletic to infer Ballenid genera, which acted precisely between the island and the Bay of Patmos with the same name as Skalá.

Kaitelka's Vernarthian tenor carried her behind her with another Ballenid, this one carried the Demiurge Ezpatkul, with his prominent Augrum or Gold teeth that rotated on the backs of all the borer beetles, being Scarabaeidae that delimited towards a dialectic, and paraphrase of a qualitative satirical one, especially in the form of Vernarth's sub-mythological subgenre. To commend all the hypotheses of this whale, it sang with the native cephalization ultrasound, where it continued to harmonize media in its cranial cavity, and in the muzzles of its larger fins that transmitted waves of parapsychological regression towards Vernarth, parodying the transparent sendal ballads that it made. with his transit through the water, however, not having members that strengthen his controversial cetacean passerby by waters of a melodious literary language, such as a great inspirational propeller, and satires that host greenhouses in most of the jubilation, related to rudders that furrow his verbal poetry, easing restrictions, and possessing the genome that was deprived him in his gestation, of a maternal expropriation victimized with fears of an end, and Apocalypse hungover by the sea and freshwater. They piloted their heart valves, mere and Dantesque with Zeusian buttress spauto, muddled and bundled in their bombastic myocardium like omitted ships without ever lifting anchor and setting sail, a very brief tulle of water satirizing formula additions, and a piece of dull wood on its spur that was It bore like a whale, it was carrying its weight in a literary category where there is no way to test it. Without hindrance, she laughed alongside the breakers in the manner of a belligerent tendril in thick keel skins, dramatizing him and perhaps delaying the investiture of Vernarth's Himation Proskynesis, peering jocularly and foreshadowing his encounter with her. Her chains were Caucasus icebergs, demystifying seasonality by residing linked to a single Down Whale destination, ******* with her dorsal to exhale genome rearrangements with Cinnabar, refining hormones and stereotyped whale chromosomes.

The concordance of the Satirical subgenre, and the polarized gender correspondence inanimate Kaitelka, usurping the intentionality of the sub-mythological drama, in two roads of Skalá that appeared to lose the standard of their ears, in tragic representation versus the comedian staging, harbinger of an interlude between two areas that struggled to have it directed towards three comedies that plunged into three tragedies, missioning the furrowed features of the ideals of survival, with preceded parables of the psychic-linguistic being, due to its canonical supernatural modality by blending itself with disciplined domains. Of a rhetorical poetics, rectified in religions that grant Orphic and messianic structuralism; foreshadowing the hymns of Orpheus in the Bible, and metaphorical in revealing divine truth, accessible only to spirits worthy of it. The purpose of metaphor in her poetry has the deciding function of the ineffable of thought, through simile, comparison, or image.  Song and poetry, song and prayer, prayer and ritual forming an inseparable phrase of meaning in it, impossible to differentiate in the biblical psalms themselves. The penultimate of them recalled number 149, being a hymn destined to accompany the dance; "Make melodies for him, with drums and lyres." It is known that the classical instrument of Orpheus reaches the level of the sacred in biblical texts. Psalm 150 contains an orgiastic ending to a symphony, in the description of the instruments that accompany the word and the voice that praises God, with sermons from Kaitelka blooming from an oceanic being and printing songs of the subgenre, without blemish of sub- mythology and the unconfessed proceeding. The comical exaltation of him recreates aspects of great joy, for those who feel vibrations under his belly in his orphic water, portraying semis or semiotic cathartics of their own trisomic roots, in an effort to decode drama, for intermezzos of the mythological subgenre. Borker with his sword Mythos interpreted the story of Kaitelka when he told her about the melting of Horcondising, seeing in them friendly glaciers that included her within the storytelling of provinces that sensitize the culture by rebirth on spherits and plasma hematocrits, for an apologist that admits inanimate corporality actor. Its genesis is Bereshit, "which names and does not start", from the undervalued parashot of the gods and kings, commanding them ibid to the inter-dogmatism that it contributes in its credit reserve, in large consortiums besieging colonies by the southern seas of the Borker  Nótos. "Evil tears their veins heal their goods and relegate the forgetful in the tradition of existence alongside the demiurges, incontinent to their ills that enjoy making creation sleep, soothing it in innocuous myths that are often more than a truly supernatural!

Helios went out to the road by the west and not by the east, in the nascent instant of the ectoplasm that revealed micro satires that led to the station of the hero who lives hidden, behind the proscenium of cultural and religious intimacy, Kaitelka plunges a few meters below the Aegean where he was already arriving, and he can realize that he did not see marine species around him, only beams of light that distorted his view of those who flatter him on a descent? Underwater a mythical mission wailed on dry surfaces, and the phenomena of the underwater stones were relaxed before any reflection of the veracity of a myth of expression in the mouth of a fish, brushing against systematic hermeticisms of what was infinitesimal. All this dialectical journey towards inevitably alternating molecules of his genome, to re-establish himself in his hybrid status upon reaching Skalá, here he would have to use his two neurochemical brains for a mortal instinct that does not die inside the mouth of a whale but in interrogation. …?  Based on Leiak's sexagesimal nanoscale extension, endowed with a fractional comparison that collects mythologies within them, for the uncertain truth. The only burden of etiological myth in Kaitelka is a consequence of her suffering, which is offered in psychic trisomy, for being **ized by three chromosomes, disorganizing her reality as a specimen that unfolds as a congenital disease.

Kaitelka says: "Who am I and where do I come from? I am reaching the floodgates of my lord Vernarth, and I can see that I am reborn in his astragalus and honeysuckle, which tell a story ****** under the tripod of Herophila.  Authoritarian truth that will bow before the pig to become, smelling here the tragic essence in truths that are hidden in symbolic denial"

Kaitelka is instituted a few miles before she begins to navigate in a zigzag, trying to condense forces for the origin of her ethereal, with sarcasm techniques that the self encourages to plunge into diluvian tears and moan in the scenarios of uncertainty, in the judgment of pouring out real myths, transposing its flow in the destination that is flooded in imprecise gestures and between cries with super sounds that lifted it on the swells, and these, in turn, were shedding the mystery Masken by raising water concentrated in onerous polymorphology. With joys and hilarious meltdowns on the mountains, she approached everything when she reached the pleasant Skalá, escaping from the cosmogony that bound her ungraciously on the light water, overflowing towards the very origin of a Vernarthian deity, in pasts and futures that do not intersect in the radial of its origins. The sky proclaimed laughter and mimicry gestures that adhered to the vitrifying phenomenon of past-present pashkien images, ready to lightning that heals the invalidations of walking on disturbed waters, a dipsomaniac leitmotif in early Christian justice. Kaitelka sins irascible, violent and proud, urgent and judicious, but conciliatory despite carrying a cross and a harpoon on her back. She will remain Kaitelka Down, but Patmos will arrogate her Thracian gift from her Orphic origin to her, for purposes of radial preeminence in the Ballenids that hoist sacred sites. The adventure prescribes a univitelino twin, but when she goes beyond the hirsute destiny of her Iliad, she begs to go transforming into a rainy sphinx on the thick bronze roof when the coins are broken, towards a seduction stop that is enthroned in the gloom of the minotaur, in the numinous hands of a daffodil and on the face of the Epsilon. Or crawling in mitral of valvulopathy with the carriage messengers, with the swans or pigeon birds; perching on a wreath of roses and myrtles that surround her red bozos. Almost always appearing undressed next to her escort, usually more than multiplied towards her, with the amazement of her animal consorts, which are dolphins, and Thracian pigeons, a priori of being covered by the Pythia of Delphi that is migrating in murky triumphs of the Achaemenides in Gaugamela.

"Would you like your groceries
bagged in paper or plastic?
will you be paying with paper,
Or plastic?"

Rock paper scissors
has been replaced
With something
more rudimentary
But essentially,
Neither have intentionality.

No matter how far you try to move
away from synthetic
you're still drinking out of plastic
eating out of plastic
driving, walking, buying, *******
out mounds of it.
You put your plastic in plastic,
leave it outside
until a man swings by
throws it into a pit
with all the other wasted ****
to exist
for all eternity.

Would you rather melt or burn?
Bankruptcy is a hard lesson to learn
But the ashes of this economy have been
Touted as prosperity
Instead of resigned to an urn
To relearn the transparency
of democracy
As it should be.

I'll trade my plastic smile
For a fistful of paper
I'll exchange it for something physical,
Something bigger
Something somehow better,
Sans the improvement.
The reanimation of the market
Capitalism! Ah,
The dream land.
“Build your monopoly
Crush your enemy”

Oops I mean your neighbor
They're all the same
in this day and age.
Community has been sold
for pennies on the dollar.
Now we’re fighting tooth and nail
To be the one
wearing the shock collar

Bzzzt!
I have the most likes on my photo
Bzzzzt
This minor annoyance
has become my addiction.
I’m shopping and sharing
And living within this tiny television.

This is post apocalyptic
You just can't see it
Because you're living in it.
Things are better, yes
But 6.7% of Americans are diagnosably,
incurably depressed.
37% are oppressed
44%  are over stressed and
81% are in debt.

Let me just say this now
From my white-privilege-podium
That keeps all adverse effects
Of free speech
From touching me

****
YOUR
AMERICA.

**** this corporate greed
that grinds itself down
and repackages itself into
“The American Dream”.

and **** us, right?
For thinking anything here was free.

Now, what we were thinking
we could do together, for fun…
we can't
with this tech, too soon- we tried
Audio recording started: 1:12 PM Wednesday, November 8, 2023
Ifery is, this is a magic pen and can contain audio,
I'll have you know, I imagined this,
I'll have you know, so farther down you know it gets back
to the time when Amazon Web Services read all the small print
and the metadata associated, socially servicing aching needs
Information wants to be free
Little Shoppe Feed Me, we few old fools recall the vegemental
protest at the time,
we could feel dead trees in our hands,
how wrong I was is a crime. In reality, I did my time, on the line,

and I'm still on the line, and life ain't been no opioid dream,
soft hmmm
seems drunker, this
repositioning for interesting clause, riddles are blessings, not lies.

So this is a twist to tighten, widdershins loosens,
guilden rule. Righty, tighty.
Who said that?
Right
mechanical me mind, hear-sed
By whose authority do you make crys
for peace, where no crys were?
Smoke Fire
Is something wrong old man?
Is there something of yourself you see,
afar, as seen
on TV, No Country, Pretty Horses, Road
weary
been there, in that novel state of mind,
new to mankind, only a few centuries old,
the art of lying to make an unthinkable, thought.

A meme, make a meme, flash a fict, a second thought
Per haps make up a mind, and let it form in mindspace
time to time,

we catch a novel experience unfolding compacted
scrolls of gnosis knots blown to cover our tracks,

through the highest parts of the dust of the Earth,
embedded capital classificators exist, many signs
mean almost any thing that stands to prove patience

works.
Wait and see.

I waited until I was certain someone among everyone
loves the idea that dying is not to be feared, never was,

it is part of life, and, I dare say, done right, it is the best.

Alone and lonely are not the same feel,
see a said word as a said word, is a thought.

First, principle principle, pal. First ever eternal pre-time
instant wisdom pops up in the mind of Christ, allatime, man.
Magi
School, we live,
we learn, we linger, listen, did you wish you
had done more good, did you think you earn
rank
play the role you audition for, or go home, old man.
Serpentine wisdom bent left on a bet, my point.
?
Okeh, I got a back up, in case we disagree and bring down
the conceptual internet with wizardly gamey loungeers, seek
-erefteaaaaaaaaahhush

lurkers averse to flame wars.
Does the name Barry Rudd mean anything to you?
Does the word Hiroshima evoke images for you?

When the Spaceshuttles were built in Palmdale,
the assembly hangar was so voluminous a bubble
as to create a micro weather system, in the building.

What the Arpanet imitation game intended to use it for,
was as secret as any cold war secrets are, timelocks slip.

When AT&T was as real as any evolved ideal communication
of private information on a secure as money can make it,
network, hyphenate at will, the economy, stupid,
one that can survive mutually assured destruction, 1954.
Contract for the concrete, stamped 1954
Let time slip, be the boomer kid, like on TV in the commercials,
real every day as Silver Dollar Billy Baxter, totally typical, Jungian

Ranking higher, trending below Freudian slips in eugeniusisity
Your Holiness,
no, I
insist, stand for nothing less, a title,
for a soul, so, easy, you imagine, no, it was not so easy.

It was never imagined easy, now it is.

That makes it easier, believe me.
- he cops watch out
Oy, feel the old rage,
at Ed Childs's child's nursing home,
Al'heimering mindtimespace adrift, ifery
wasery, we can remember laughing at knowing

Ed Childs was a quiet man, for real,
and he went into real estate, when Hamner and Limonite
was in the sticks.

I can ruminate on wealth and worth, healing and measuring
worth of the scar to prove the contestant worthy,

boomer bunch panting
Queen For A Day, golden Cadillac, drool
old school applause-ometer….

I can take it from here,
but who's listening, 'm seemingly directional point concept
precept point widdershins introducing true cause chirality,
is up or down turned sideways,
a property of asymmetry,
you see, we work inside a set of six cardinal, pivotal points,
each of us, and all of us,
can make sense of most anything at once
we think ourselves sane, all at once, or once and for all,
go bigtime Alzheim extremist POV, being, happy
with the package.

A joint for a retired K-9 cop in Anaheim, a boomer,
never dropped out, nor tuned in, went with the game,
got good enough to know when to quit, and then he gets

Alzheimer's. Just so happens, thoughts, wishes or prayers,
chants, incense, any thing you think might help, does help.

It's a very ancient kind of love,
a love that laughs at fearing death, as we laugh today,
at children dressing in roles from mystery religious oathes.

Jesus, says in his own time and voice, I told you so.
We both laugh; secret oath wink.

-------------------
From the sign on the bridge saying
life is worth living, no 1-800 rukidding
- any body could but it was William James
- madjathinkit
Yeah, novel events grow stale if they sit,
mistaking thinking and doing, as mirrored
in the realm where prayers are answered
and made up minds are tested for repurposing.

Perhaps a variety of a general irreligious fine mind.
---------
That's a thing, back to the Hangar, now, you know
where you go when you link through the poet facet.

Here, below the western highside of the great basin,
we dug-in, we hired The Boring Company,
all telepathically, to investigate the likelihood
of any mortal good ever eliminating the evil nature

nurtured in warring cultures time immemorial,
-seditselah
eliminating cost of living, leaving being all we do.

matrix, make up your own mind, live with pain

and that's just not right,
and we twist the entire story out the window
and into thin air we know is there, because,
cause being aitia and I agree we be causing

so much silliness of the original intentional sort,
as to make old men wish,

the world were not so reassuring, until

we all selah and listen holygnosishitsreal, side reality,

minds intwined in mysterious old stories, when gay
was only happy, and buttoned up, as secret Edwardians
would that it were forever so,

oh, ** **, ye'll deal with a devil for a tale, you tell me,
let me test yer mettle, curse god, and die.
Iyobe
Did you think that and continue, such faith,
commends ye to the circle that eats, what the bull eats.

We intend to think our God's thoughts, right after,
hot, steaming prophetic gnosishit, not gnosisnot, that's
strange
very
strange, did I catch a meme from Sunshine Superman,
should 2525 arrive.
Just in case.
This was all worth it, this time.

The goat didn’t understand
the significance of the bell around

his neck,
smelled

the sunlight hitting
the dewy grass

as he opened his eyes each morning,
looked

at his handlers, the humans,
and thought of them

as his protectors,
took

a kinetic joy
in bounding through open fields

among sage and purple wildflowers,
kicking

up dirt,
and taking naps

in the shade of thick cypress trees
on hot, dry afternoons.

One day,
a rope was tied

around his neck,
and he was led

to a place he had never
been before, and

into a situation
he had never

considered
before.

The goat was tied
to a tree

in a sunken, gray,
muddy place.

He was surrounded by
a throng of faces.

He recognized
some of them—

humans he had known
and smelled,

sometimes kicked,
sometimes licked.

Some of the faces
smoked cigarettes

and sat in silence.
Others talked excitedly.

Others drank
and sang.

All of them were waiting
for something,

but the goat did not
understand what.

And then he
felt a hand

grab onto one of his
horns. Its grip was firmer

than the goat remembered
the grip of a human hand could be.

And then he felt an arm
around his back,

it was almost a hug,
but more resolute in its

intentionality—
wholly,

horrifyingly,
out of character

from what the goat had
understood about

his handlers.
The goat now

realized that
something was wrong.

He did not
want to be in this position

any longer. He
began struggling,

kicking more
and more violently,

but still he felt more arms
and hands

restraining him—
pinning him down

in spite of
his protestations.

The goat began to
cry out

for help, for God,
for one of his humans—

a final plea
to the universe

to come and rectify
the situation.

And then the goat felt
a cold, hard edge

pressed against his throat.
Wild-eyed,

he looked up,
and there he saw

his human,
the one who had

fed him
and cared for him

for as long as
he could remember.

The man ******
his arm

and yanked the goat’s head
back,

and the goat felt a shocking,
slicing pain.

He could sense that warm fluid was
draining

down his neck, could
tell something

irreparable had happened
to his body. His

eyes darted around,
looking at all of

the unflinching, cold faces
surrounding him.

Up until
this moment,

the goat hadn’t
considered

the possibility
that the ones whom he

loved
so dearly

and who loved
him

so dearly
could

betray him
like

this.

Mysteriously, like a seed
growing underground, consciousness
spreads into the world
seeking a presence to devour.

Like a lion lurking in the Kalahari bush,
consciousness crouches, hidden
within the body, not merely the brain,
waiting for its prey to emerge
from a field of nothingness,
to reveal its essence.

An act, a desire, a pure intentionality,
consciousness pounces on its prey,
embracing its whole presence,
filling in the many sides unseen,
teasing out its eidos.

In itself, consciousness is nothing,
a darkened grain of wheat
buried in the ground. It awakens
only at the stirrings of
the next manifestation.

Always, eternally
a consciousness-of,
it roams my room,
zooming past the myriad
items cluttering my gestalt,
fixing on the single form
it has come to inform.
Consciousness waits
for no one.

Uneasy until it grasps
the one thing necessary,
consciousness expands
and expands, actively roaming
among the wonders of my world.

It acts, but I cannot take hold of it.
It has me in its reflexive spell:
All consciousness is self-consciousness.
And I, in myself, am nothing.

Life is passing, and so am I. Cars pass through the night, the quiet slush of tyres on wet asphalt. The air stirs softly through my open window. I’ve been passing all day, through empty straits and the static of a dying storm. Earlier in the year a flash flood came and burst through the walls of half the buildings in town. Nothing changed. The store on the corner that sells teen clothing threw out their wares, cleaned up the place best they could, and reopened a week later. The flood was on everybody’s mind for a few days. As weeks passed, it began to dissipate, like steam rising from hot tar, or puddles in wake. Today everything was as it always was. People gathered at crossings, walked within the white lines of their existence, and stopped when the lights turned red. Cars moved automatic. Blue, white, black geometries, smelling of earth and blood and rot. People shuffled past one another. They moved in circles, repeated phantom gestures of older times. The present reorganised from the past.

I sat in the shopping mall and watched people rising from escalators. Those without friends stood motionless, like mannequins. They barely breathed, fixed their eyes on the nothingness of automatic existence. The mall is a place of noise, whiteness and stench. A pale layer coats everything. The thin sound of radio intermixes with the chatter of nearly cafe-goers, the heavy slam of a cash register cuts through the harsh hum of kinetic machinery, steps without the need to step. Everyone is passing, but going nowhere. Commodities line the windows. Electronics, homeware, food items, travel plans—experience packaged into desirable aesthetic arrangements, to be consumed and forgotten. Western empires of capital exploiting the human need to feel something during their short existence. I was here—walking the same stretch of space a thousand others have walked.

I pass in repetition. I wake, shower, eat, study, binge, sleep, fall into existential despair and contemplate jumping off a cliff, but there are no close cliffs around, so I fall back into rhythm. Wake, shower, eat, study, binge, sleep, wander the commercial district wondering why anyone moves at all, how anyone can stand these mundane repetitions, the same social greetings, unfulfilling meals, temporary binges that leave you empty of your self. I thought knowledge filled, but it empties out. It displaces—it fragments you into tiny pieces, until you find there is nothing left to grasp—intentionality turns outwards, but it’s already too late—you find you can no longer connect with anyone, or anything—they try to converse but all you can hear is their stupid voice filled with phantom lines cobbled from movies, games, sports, family events, supermarket visits, patriarchal bonding discourses, the wet tongue of capital individualism, or perhaps teeth, biting into consciousness—so you turn away, or stay silent, too afraid to confront them of their non-existence, of their worthless chatter, of their niceties, because in the end all they want is to connect, but all you hear are circuits of repetition and capital, and you wonder how they can live this way, and you can’t.

Time passes. I stumble back towards university. I jack my headphones in and pass into the nothingness of another’s consciousness. I displace myself on purpose, because I’m sick and tired of what’s left. The man at the art store tells me I get a discount for being a student. I steal a pencil. I pass through the cold air of fall. I pass an endless strip of vacant motels. I pass into my room, try to read, drink a bottle of alcohol and pass out.

You were the words I couldn't say.
the words i still can't seem to manage,
and you knew them,
you could whisper them to me like pillow talk secrets,
pressed together tight between sighing information
but you are only one part of me,
the right atrium when what I really needed was the left.
you get me but your not what I need.

and i begin to resent that the notion,
that you'd say you were my best,
but your not,
you won't be,
you aren't.
Its not even vanity if I were to say that,
soberly,
The best of you is me.
time would tell you what others do not,
intentionality would broadcast the truth in the lies,
I don't expect roses,
in scripted jewelry,

just for you to think and intentionally remember me.
an aorta to your heart,
an elixir to allow you to breathe,
remember me.
when you reach for the next long legged cigarette,
with the the tattooed sleeve wrapped round his neck,

Remember me.
Because I do not forget you.

Here I am, an Educator, new-formed
And on the verge of ideas and thoughts
That I’m told are too lofty, too grand, for their
Purposes of having students graduate at Funding’s Earliest
Convenience. Administrative charms
Have already told me not to display
Myself and my passions with honesty. I must teach
Like I am greater than them,
Like I approach our stories each
Day with a very very serious
Focus on structure and style and each
Incredibly important
Comma. But I know the Truth.
The Truth is that the richest
I’ve ever felt was when my educational harvest
Had received its lowest return. I first thought, “How shall
I punish? How shall I repay
Your bad behavior's damage with more damage? Your
Misbehavior doesn’t deserve my toil;
Your disrespect was just as bad as their
Records said it would be!” But then my reason
For anger crumbled, and I let love strengthen
My tired and trodden heart, as
I decided to speak to my students with the honesty their
Lives often lack from authority. Intentionality, Honesty, Truth. No amount of years
Will change what I’ve learned in Year Zero: to let love increase.

Kaitelka was in the Equinoctial Aftó of Áullos Kósmos IV after geomancy was oriented as a star Argonaut bathing in the Aegean while waiting for the ******* of various sectors of Áullos Kósmos. Between both Aulos and Citara, she was modeled with the aulética-citarística, glimpses of her Psychic Trisomy. In effect of the existence of an extra chromosome in a diploid organism 158, for a quantity of chromosome fifty-four, instead of a homologous pair of chromosomes. From this position she was limiting herself with her chromosomes of normality in the genetic proximal, upon entering the Bay of Skalá, which was waiting for her native again, where the art of navigation flourished in the nitrogenous water that brought her from Skalá; from Eleios-Pronnoi, about 39 km south of the main city on the island of Argostoli, in southern Kefalonia, on one of the Ionian islands of Greece. From here, she mimetic, she turned towards the art of the unknown sea next to Wonthelimar who endorsed her with his favorite, collapsing and disoriented by their anti-gregarious territorial similarity, and maritime per se the Otolith that brandished him in dual places of Ionian-Dodecanese geography, following the semiotic songs of Leiak that emerged from the aulética to infer Balénid genres, which acted precisely between the island and the bay of Patmos with the same name as Skalá, to meet everyone and be a participant in the construction of the sanctuary.
Kaitelka's Vernarthian tenor carried her behind her with another Ballenid, this one again carried the Demiurge Ezpatkul, with his prominent Augrum or Gold incisors that turned on the backs of all the borer beetles, being Scarabaeidaes that were delimited towards logic, and paraphrase of a qualitative satirical, especially in the modality of the subgenre, and sub-mythology of Vernarth. To commend all the hypotheses of this whale that sang with the native cephalization ultrasound, where it continued to arrange means between the middle and in its cranial cavity to the percentage of the world map, with the muzzles of its larger fins transmitting waves of parapsychological regression towards Vernarth, and parodying the transparent cendal ballads that he did with his passage through the water, despite not having members that strengthen the controversial cetacean passerby by waters of a melodious rhetorical language, such as a great inspirational helix, and satires that house greenhouses in most of the jubilation, akin to rudders that I furrowed in his verbal poetry, easing restrictions, and possessing the genome that was deprived of his gestation, of the maternal expropriation, victimized with fears of omega, and of Apocalypse hungover by sea and water candy. They piloted their heart valves, mere and Dantesque with the Zeusian buttress spauto, muddled and bundled in their bombastic myocardium like omitted ships without ever lifting anchor and setting sail, a very brief tulle of water satirized aggregates of their formula, and a piece of stony wood on their spur he braced himself like a mammal, he was carrying his weight in a literary category where there is no way to test it. Without hindrance, she was hilarious next to the breakers in the manner of a belligerent tendril with thick keel skins, dramatizing him, and perhaps that would delay her in reaching the investiture of Vernarth's Proskynesis Himation, some looked out jocular and foreshadowed to meet with her. Her chains were Caucasus icebergs, demystifying seasonality by residing linked to a single destination of Balénido Down, ******* with her dorsal that exhaled rearrangements of the Cinnabar genome, clarifying hormones and stereotyped balenid chromosomes.

The concordance of the Satirical subgenre, and the inanimate polarized gender correspondence to Kaitelka, usurping the intentionality of the sub-mythological drama, in two Radas of Skalá that appeared to lose the standard of their ears, with tragic representativity versus comedian staging, heralding an interlude between two areas that struggled to have it directed towards three comedies that pounced on three tragedies, missionizing crossed features of the ideals of survival, with parables preceded by the soul-linguistic being, due to its canonical supernatural modality when it was mimicked with disciplined domains after of a rhetorical poetics, rectified in religions granting orphic messianic structuralism bis of the equinoctial aft; foreshadowing the hymns of Orpheus in the Bible, and metaphorical in revealing divine truth, accessible only to spirits worthy of it. The purpose of metaphor in her poetry has the deciding function of the ineffable of thought, through simile, or in comparison to imagining. The song is one poetry, and the song such a praying too, prayer and ritual forming an inseparable syntagma of meaning in her escaping from Arbela's zither, impossible to differentiate in the biblical psalms themselves. The penultimate of them recalled number 149, being a hymn destined to accompany the dance; Orpheus says: "make melodies for him, with drums and lyres." It is known that the classical instrument of Orpheus reaches the level of the sacred in biblical texts. Psalm 150 contains an orgiastic ending to a symphony, in the description of the instruments that accompany the word and the voice that praises God, with sermons from Kaitelka blooming from an oceanic being and printing songs of the subgenre, without blemish of sub- mythology and the unconfessed proceeding. The comical exaltation of him recreates aspects of great joy, for whom in his Orphic water, he feels vibrations under his belly portraying cathartic and semiotic of his own trisomic root, in an effort to decode drama, for intermezzos of the mythological subgenre. Borker with his sword Mythos interpreted the story of Kaitelka when he tells her about the melting of Horcondising, seeing in them friendly glaciers that included her within provincial storytelling that sensitizes the culture being reborn on its spheres and plasma hematocrits, for an apologist who admits acting corporality and inanimate. Its genesis is Bereshit, "which names and does not start", from the undervalued parashot of the gods and kings, ordering them from the ibidem to inter dogmatism, in which it contributes in its credit reserve, in large consortiums besieging colonies by the southern seas of the Nótos of Borker. "Evil tears their veins heal their goods relegates the forgetful in the tradition of their existence alongside the demiurges, incontinent to their ills who enjoy making creation sleep, soothing it in innocuous myths that are often more than a supernatural truth!

Helios went out to the road by the west and not by the east, in the nascent instant of the ectoplasm that revealed micro satires that led to the station of the hero who lives hidden, behind the proscenium of a cultural and religious intimacy, Kaitelka plunges a few meters below the Aegean where he was already arriving, and he can realize that he did not see marine species around him, only beams of lights that distorted the view of those who flatter him on a descent? Underwater a mythical mission wailed on dry surfaces, and in the phenomena of the underwater stones, they relaxed before any reflection of the veracity of a myth of expression in the mouth of a fish other than Theseus, brushing systematic hermeticisms with the gloomy and infinitesimal. All this dialectical journey towards inevitably alternating molecules of his finite genome, to reestablish in his hybrid status when arriving at Skalá, here he would have to use his two neurochemical brains for a mortal instinct that does not die inside the mouth of a whale, but in the interrogation after being swallowed…? based on the extension of the sexagesimal nanoscale of Leiak, equipped with a fractional comparing that collects mythologies within them, for the uncertain truth. Kaitelka's only etiological myth burden is a consequence of her suffering, which is offered in her psychic trisomy, for being bastardized by three chromosomes, disorderly the reality of her specimen that unfolds her as a congenital disease.

Kaitelka says: Who am I and where do I come from? I am reaching the floodgates of my lord Vernarth, and I can see that I am reborn in his astragalus and vines, which tell a story ****** under the tripod and vapors of Herófila. Authoritarian truth that will bow before a pig to become, smelling here in the tragic essence, and in truths that are hidden in its symbolic denial?
Kaitelka is instituted a few miles before she begins to navigate in a zigzag, trying to condense forces for the origin of her ethereal, with sarcasm techniques that self promote her to blink in deluded tears and moan in the scenarios of uncertainty, in the opinion of pouring real myths, transposing its flow in the destination that is flooded in imprecise gestures and between cries with super sounds that raised it on the swells, and these, in turn, were shedding the mystery Masken by raising water concentrated in onerous poly morphology. With joys and hilarious meltdowns on the mountains, she approached everything when she arrived at the pleasant Skalá, escaping from cosmogony that linked her weightlessly on the light water, overflowing towards the very origin of a Vernarthian deity, in pasts and futures that do not intersect in the radial of its origins. The sky proclaimed laughter and mimic gestures that adhered to the vitrifying phenomenon of past-present pashkien images, ready to lightning that heals the invalidations of walking on troubled waters, a dipsomaniac leitmotif in early Christian justice.
                                            
Kaitelka sins irascible, violent and proud, urgent and judicious, but conciliatory despite carrying a cross and a harpoon on her back. She will continue to be Kaitelka Down, but Patmos will arrogate her Thracian gift of her of Orphic origin to her, for purposes of her radial preeminence in the Ballenids that hoist all the sacred sites. The biological diagnostic prescribes an univitelino twin whale, but when she goes beyond the hirsute destiny of her Iliad, she begs to go transforming into the rainy sphinx on the thick bronze ceiling as she breaks in the minting of the coins, towards a stop of seduction that enthrones in the gloom of the minotaur, and in the numinous hands of a daffodil on the face of the Epsilon. Or crawling in the mitral and in her valvulopathy with messengers, carriages, and with swans or pigeon birds; perching on a wreath of roses and myrtles that surround her red bozos. Almost always appearing undressed next to her escort, usually multiplied in excess towards her, with the amazement of her animal consorts that dolphins are, and Thracian pigeons, a priori being covered by the Pythia of Delphi that is migrating in the murky triumphs of the Achaemenides in Gaugamela.

I really didn't mean it, promise I never even seen it  
done it accidentally on purpose instead
when its comes to purpose, I’m renowned for being earnest  
besides you secretly enjoy being completely misled

accidentally on purpose, accidentally on purpose
rules don’t have the same applicability
its only just a circus, when its accidentally on purpose
its a far lower threshold of culpability  

don't do me this disservice, it was accidentally on purpose,
please consider when apportioning blame
when its accidentally on purpose, almost doing you a service    
the blame is not even close to the same

There’s a thing called caveat emptor, its supposedly there to protect ya
sadly not against other’s intentionality  
when its accidentally on purpose, this rule’s completely out of service
tis writ in the annals of human morality    

accidentally on purpose, accidentally on purpose
usual rules they just don't apply,
accidentally on purpose, that’s why you cannot deter us
it permits me to self-indemnify  

Pete Granger DDA

I have done this one too many times
Over and over
The same words repeated

You say I don't love you

I say you don't love me
Not the way I love you
Not the way I do

My heart beats for you
I was made to be yours
You
Were supposed to be
The sun that lights the day
The flower among the sharp thorns

Now there is no sun
There are no flowers
Frigid cavalcade

You left me
Heart
Soul
Mind

You left me
Fragmentary

And you expected me to be okay
Without a word
No apology

When we are together
You are not there

You resolved to be by my side
With your body
But not mind

There was no intentionality

Our time has been squandered
And there is no remorse in your eyes
Arctic warfare

Your words
aren't like other words.
You don't settle for
meager first drafts
or gritty grammar. No,
your words are
purified with fire,
refined like silver.

Teach me your ways
Great Poet,
Your strong metaphors
and precise language,
discipline me in
intentionality.

research claims
that everyone needs at least 12 meaningful touches a day
just a touch that says "i see you"
"thank you" "i love you" "i missed you"
...
and living in a world where we go out of our way
to avoid meaning and intentionality
no wonder we feel lonely so much of the time
3 billion people
living a state of inpenetrability
believing that no one wants to touch them
fearing to reach out themselves
its a cycle of depravation
and its so so sad

For all that ensues, I will heed

Drinking on individual circumstance
Apprehension swims
Manipulating his fluids

Liquid intentionality
Soaked in contamination
Justified with wounds

The wetness of iniquity
He is glossed in it

Questionably bitter.

     *

After ALL this,
I'm still drowning in his adoration

I'm treading his thawed spine,
until his fleshy affections have (also) started dripping

My body, slippery with him
Readily tasting the drips

Somehow, his dampness is so candied
I'm honeyed with each lick

He is very, very vivid to all that is me
He managed to preserve his fragrancy

Unquestionably sweet.

...moon's shadow,
Intentionality free -
A lacuna exists.

Loaf with dignity
and stretch out with long elegance
Rest with intentionality
and stop with full confidence

Pit stop with tenacity
and pause with perfect poise
Lie with all honesty
shut out the demanding noise
and soak in the inner stillness -

for your rest is essential before activity
your meditation before mobility
your self before any sway
over the crowd's frenetic insensitivity.

And oh, the clouds!

Look,
you have the clouds!

IMAGINATION CLOTHED IN LOVE. AREN’T YOU JUST SUCH A POWERFUL MANIFESTATON TOOL!
WITH YOU THERE AREN’T ANY LIMITS EVEN WHEN TAKEN FOR A FOOL.
IT IS JUST A DISGUISE WITH MULTIPLE TENTACLES OF ENDLESS POSSIBILITIES. OF COURSE YOUR ACTIONS MUST BE COUPLED WITH EMOTIONS AND PURE INTENTIONALITY.
YOUR CREATIONS REFLECT YOUR DIVINITY COMING TO LIFE FIRSTLY IN A WORLD OF INFINITY WITH YOUR THIRD EYE YOU THEN LISTEN AND FOLLOW INTUITY. LASTLY YOU CATALYZE YOUR DREAMS AND DESIRES INTO THE REALITY OF OUR EARTHLY REALM.
IMAGINATION CLOTHED IN LOVE. AREN’T YOU JUST SUCH A POWERFUL MANIFESTATON TOOL!
WITH YOU THERE AREN’T ANY LIMITS EVEN WHEN TAKEN FOR A FOOL.

To remember you
My dear September
To remember your smile
To remember your touch
To remember the way you showered your love in the little things
To remember your intentionality
To remember your grace
To remember you dancing,
Like a dream you were when I held you in my arms,
Like a dream you were when I kissed you with my mouth.
Like fresh honey, or new oil,  I knew your value fully well, I knew how precious you were, dear September

I knew not to take you for granted,
I knew to hold you tight and treat you right.
I knew to sing you love songs and tell you "in my arms was where you belonged"
I knew to be tender with you, gentle and sweet, I knew your value fully well and I strove to help you see it.

You were my dear and my darling,
You were my love, my Victor's crown.
When our hands met I knew heaven came down,
You were my shining Oasis in a sea of sand, you were my world, my marching band.

September I remember you,
You're golden hair, your golden heart.
September I remember and I'll never forget though I may now be gone.

September though I must move on,
I'll always remember.

I thank you
for making the selfish decision
to focus on yourself
and rediscover who you are
to pledge to intentionality
and leap into the complex journey
of learning and exploring
your mind and body
with an innocent curiosity

falling in love with yourself
is much like relaxation
and cathartic healing
it is not a passive process
but an active one
you must push against society's desires for you
and exit cycles of relational trauma
that potentiated your insecurity
and negative self talk

if you see anything that contains the message
that you must work
to be someone
or to have something
in order to be counted worthy of love
relabel the experience
and refocus your attention
to the truth and your birthright
you are loved unconditionally

your super power
is that there is no one else
quite like you
your being
your essence
mixed with your particular divine energy
is enough
worthy of love

you have two options in this world
to love yourself unconditionally
or to love yourself conditionally
you decide which one you live out

every day
is an opportunity for healing
for selfishness
to pick yourself
and begin the process
of falling in love
with who you are
as you meet yourself
where you currently are
with much grace
and forgiveness

They smell intentionality on my skin
******* it’s way into relevancy

Mysteriously, like a seed
growing underground, consciousness
spreads into the world
seeking a presence to devour.

Like a lion lurking in the Kalahari bush,
consciousness crouches, hidden
within the body, not merely the brain,
waiting for its prey to emerge
from a field of nothingness,
to reveal its essence.

An act, a desire, a pure intentionality,
consciousness pounces on its prey,
embracing its whole presence,
filling in the many sides unseen,
teasing out its eidos.

In itself, consciousness is nothing,
a darkened grain of wheat
buried in the ground. It awakens
only at the stirrings of
the next manifestation.

Always, eternally
a consciousness-of,
it roams my room,
zooming past the myriad
items cluttering my gestalt,
fixing on the single form
it has come to inform.
Consciousness waits
for no one.

Uneasy until it grasps
the one thing necessary,
consciousness expands
and expands, actively roaming
among the wonders of my world.

It acts, but I cannot take hold of it.
It has me in its reflexive spell:
All consciousness is self-consciousness.
And I, in myself, am nothing.

are you asleep or not  
peek at me through sheets of raindrops
falling down like a curtain
threadbare and staring at you
from behind this cover of water
our egyptian cotton sheets wrapped around for heat
i am ****** if i do and ****** near ready to sleep
turn off the television and splinter your attention
you split your intentionality
the moment your nationality no longer had meaning
are you a natural or a factual person
satisfaction is non-contractual
i am no longer attached to you
here we go again and don’t expect
for narcissists to self-reflect
we crack the ego
seek for an imago
to match our attachments to identity
words forgotten in the shower
i dispatch them from a tower
i need nothing but soap to wash me clean
still i feel the need to be held by you
and i feel the need to be seen by you
one moment after another
and don’t expect anything more

Fabrics
Blue and gold, swirling patterns
Each piece the beginning of a story
Tangled in each other’s words
yet each their own book
dissected and created into
a dissertation.
libraries of stitches
Theories of color.

Time
easing along like we’ve been easing
these seams.
I try to stretch each moment with you
savoring your grilled cheese
the sun on the window
evening out the unfairness of time
lining up shapes with the same intentionality
of the love you have given
us. I need this.

Music
the humming of the machine
unexpected laughter
the beauty of a memory born
swelling quietly into a symphony
making gentle space for the present
and one thought
pervasive as a heartbeat
thudding again and again softly
in my chest
thank you.

My parents have several families of bees living in the garden
burrowed in flowerbeds and settled in the stone wall.
Watching their trips between the plants, I recalled the slowness I promised myself
the kindness I am not yet handling myself with
New habits take time
Minding myself with intentionality can only result in a necessary balance
recognising abundance
A lesson from the earth
grounding and growing.
What a gift, what a day, what a pause.

Equally rejuvenated and bone-tired
hopeful for snoozy weeks of fleecy gratitude ahead
as September beckons
an autumnal colour palette forth
and a chilled air steals the heat
from the hazy, distanced sun.

If I have hope
It's in the long term view
3773

The American Empire will Fall
Royal Albert Hall
Beauty Baltic Sea

Kamakura Buddha
Snowfall shunyata
Snowfall silently

Snowfalling on Cedars
Ishmael Chambers
Teacher teacherly

      Intentionality

(OK just a heads up
It's a long ways awY thing)

She said
"Look ,you say you love me....
Then just trust me I'm not goin to do anything  to intentionality hurt you."
.....
Seriously ?
Do you know how many different ways that could be read.......
Honestly to me....
that's a full blown confession.....
OK OK OK........
That's all I have to do ?
Is just trust you...?
That's all well and good....
In fact that's super easy .....
But what about all these anxieties, triggers and abandonment issues ,
Fits of jealousy and reading into everything being said to me
From all the years being used and confused so bad I have to question reality....
By the ones I loved and trusted unconditionally ?
Ohhhhhhh
....because it's you.  

OK love please dont yell at me when I say I love you.....
It hurts me.......


AND IM PROUD TO SAY TO ALL YOU I ACTUALLY SAID THAT .....
YUP CLEARLY AND LOUD......
Fortunately I said it in my head......
Uhhhm.........
Ya.................