there's always that trailing off i get when i write,
oh god, whiskey is a ******...
    it drags you like a mermaid to the depths,
i start to feel an anchor in my mind
even though my heart is steady-numb...
   and i evidently become slightly dyslexic...
  but hey! what can you do:
     either drink and be miserable,
  or drink and unfold with terrible spelling at
the end of a session... and feel shame the next
day, having seen the outpouring
from the previous night...
      better still... i could recommend tending to
a small vine-patch...
and like me: taking a break from whiskey once
a year and drinking your own produce...
    unless of course you have a local turkish shop
nearby that sells out-dated beer
  at half the price... let me tell you:
that's ****** marvelous... nothing like
out-dated beer... it's right up there with the rollercoaster
and the kick! my my! it's so sudden...
      but it hits the spot,
all the disorientative effects of mushrooms:
without excess Dali lodged in your eyes...
so yeah, out-dated beer... double the trip...
but today is different, i have about 30 litres of
home-made wine just ready to be drunk,
   i've downed one bottle and i'm running
errands with the next... but i'm not miserable
in that i'm washing away my sorrows...
the funny thing about making your own wine
is that once you drink it: you celebrate...
you start to think about all the effort you put
into making it... how you picked the grapes from
the vine, how you squashed the grapes,
how you stood bedazzled by melting sugar
        in a little bit of water over the stove
(and how it started looking very much like
heavy water, or mercury, but see-through) -
and how you sniffed the stench of yeast,
and then waited for a month or so for the ****** thing
to take up strength...
   and now you're drinking it...
                    oh yes... wine in essex is very much
agreeable... and my my: i am really celebrating this
endeavour... it's not as fake as going to the shop
and buying a bottle of wine... i am drinking
my own work... i am celebrating, there's no god
or omen in the world that can tell me otherwise...
    i waited a year for this, well: two...
i don't know what happened last year, i mistimed...
the grapes froze, there was a sudden surge of frost
and i was really upset because of it, 2 years ago
i was drunk like a skunk for several days
and wrote some poems in between,
      and put my own wine on the christmas table,
but since i was ****** for so long, i could only
showcase one bottle...
      well they do say there are spirits out there,
and i must say: wine, esp. your own really is
the veritas, as the saying goes: in vino veritas...
    bring it back to whiskey, or Ms. Amber as i like
to call her... she's not sour, and she's pulverising,
so she's no friend of the tongue... in case you're wondering
i'd like to call herr goebbels right now...
         but can you feel a shame of having misspelled a word
drunk, because your hands started to feel
   a bit like a daddy longlegs with one or two legs missing?
in terms of the keyboard...
what are the prime digits?
right hand: ******* - ****! now my hands feel conscious
of me talking about them...
middle and thumb (for the spacebar) -
   index finger for the opening bracket (  
pinky finger for the enter button -
                 to make room for the next line -
which makes me wonder about my left hand,
it would appear that i'm left handed when before
the keyboard -
   the main provocators are the index
middle and... surprise surprise! the ring finger!
the left hand thumb sometimes does
                       use the space bar also...
the the right hand ring finger is hardly used...
i remember watching my doctor type at a keyboard once...
a bit like a crow pecking... it went like this:
index (right) index (left)
    index (right) index (left)
               index (right) index (left) - it was agony...
it was a bit like standing at a supermarket cashier with
an old lady in front of you, buying butter and milk
and talking for an hour while counting her change...
   ageism? no! just your typical life-bound comedy of
how the stats stack... we spend this many years in traffic...
and my, the hand thing...
       yep, next thing you'll - aha! there is the ring-finger
utility in the right hand after all - it comes with words
that come shortened, i.e. you'll... the ' mark,
and also the backspace button...
                  i was going to say: (the shift button?
pinky owns it) - as the great kabbalists have this fetish
of looking at your hands, it's worthwhile to note down
this geography of the keyboard...
   they'd just point at the indententions of the hand
and spew words out like: girdle of venus...
     malkhut (silent h) -
                 which brings to mind:
   we already know the name is silent,
  since you might be served an indian dish called
dhal... and in fact you would be served such a dish,
but you'd only say you ate daal... or dāl...
then again that's also true with the pedant puritan
who'd note it as: dhāl... which is funny that this isn't
merely coincidental... a language that doesn't
use diacritical marks, and has a third arm sticking out
of it in terms of what letters remain silent (but are
inserted into words nonetheless), and a concentration
of the same rubik's "cube" akin to y and w...
      y and i are so close! you can almost feel them pushing
together, or giving birth to something!
  why?! why?!
                         (insert snigger)... drunk humour:
it gets the better of me sometimes...
   so yes, that thing about kabbalists and the hand thing,
other words could be included, like: keter,
               bina(h),             gevura(h),  
strangely enough Hod...   tiferet (what a beautiful word),
    yesod....     chok(h)ma(h)...   chesed...
netzach! hey! surfing u.s.a., i think i'll bring my banjo
to sniff out whether i'm part of the scene:
dangle dangle plop plop... ah poo...
                   p pi po'h...           and last weekend
we had snow... it scared the bejesus out of people
for a while, but things returned to normal nonetheless...

- interlude -

the tyranny of being conscious...
long recognised by eastern philosophy and the practice
of meditation...
  to be away from me...
        and they do so, splendid,
and then all toward vanity, given you're forced
into dreaming... so even when you're not even
conscious... i.e. unconscious...
   you're being fed a dream...
  and however disroted that you in the dream
is... there's still you...
oddly enough: if i make thinking = dreaming
   i can honestly say: i wish i dreamed more
than i thought... me not a mighty oratory gob
after all...
            evidently doing hallucinogenics
   was to excavate the dream into the waking hour...
and that's how i'll leave this interlude,
   i just imagine andy warhol testifying about fame
at the opera...
   or that's me bound to watching:
   alain de botton... or what does need diacritical
marks: alain dé bóttą...
                        dé bóttą... the art of travel,
                    on the QE2...    
      dé bóttą! oh the marvel, French of all languages
is nasal and glottal! when speaking Polish you
might as well be talking in razors...
                  Greek and lisp, English and Cockney rhyme...
and the lost trill of the R... R hollowed out...
                and once again to modern times:
the imperial march (darth vader's theme) vs.
     beethoven's 9th symphony...
                                                             tra la la -
both as universally acknowledged as the sound of
a ****... and perhaps a pigeon's coo-woo
                                                                                       -

...the interlude actually contains what ignited me to
write... drinking aside, but drinking too...
   in all too a great happiness that somehow i live
a life that asks for narrative minimalism,
               i can say: and in between i did **** all,
i thought profanity was necessary,
            and how i'd wish i'd have written a epic
like don quixote... but then i thought: keep it real,
keep it real... av a laugh...
                           i'll probably taste the sour from the wine
sometime soon, once the narrative becomes a Gobi
and i get worked about the eventual loss of
   a carpe diem quickie...
                           but it's still there, for the moment...
        and having realised that: it's gone.
               and i did say:
    by the personnae principle, in line with not writing out
a Tolstoy, i have to admit that i never know
who i encounter in my exploits...
            and there is a personnae principle at work here,
it's not Shakespeare, that much i know,
   it's the practice of personnae incorporation that
does away with: and Titus said:
                                      veni! vidi! vendredi!
(oi oi, enough of the French static, ya ponce!)
          so that's that, poetry has come to resemble
   modern art... given the personnae principle
we have done away with all the intricacies of
        writing a Shakespearean play...
Titus - lo!
   Anthony - a plum tree!
                          as a person competent with narratives
i ask for all people to leave the building...
   a pit of tongues i might also add...
      populo in singuli!       ah freckles and ash...
it has to be: pertaining to the vulgate...
   nothing better than speaking illiterate latin ol' boy...
  a bit like richard brautigan
writing the pill versus the springhill mine disaster -
there the buds of the concept personnae (without clear
indication that we are dealing with a crowd,
so no memorable quote or character, the narrator
is trying to keep his **** together, pardons for the laziness
and lack of indicative marks that there are actually
more people in the room than could be expected...
me and drunk me make up a thousand crude-essentials
as to what is intended to imply: having a good time) -
    sometimes poetry is just that: a quickened code for
acting, albeit without any character-study,
        or diet, or paparazzi...  and it's so quick... you've
watched a movie like a mosquito lived its life and you're
writing the credits...
       like richard brautigan wrote that poem -
      when you take your pill
           it's like a mine disaster.
       i think of all the people
      lost inside of you.
richard brautigan! richard brautigan!
this is the mine disaster company, over!
         yes, we number 34 souls in total.
       and there's your thesis! it must be hard to
write "poetry" and never, not once: experience
the Styx in your travels, the pit of tongues,
         or the personnae principle...
              always bound to rigid narrative constructs,
alway having an aliby with a 'he said it!'
          it must get horrid sometimes,
   living that life of a puppeteer / narrator -
     never really drunk with pesky humour -
       never once enjoing a wicked thought -
        a meddle on the omnius frivolity of life...
but personally? i find it almost bewildering that
of all the ancient Greek gods... Hades was homeless...
that's before Hades was a noun designating a place,
a realm... i just find it hard
to believe that of all the gods, Hades didn't have a temple...
    the only god from ancient greece that didn't
have a temple... sure, they had a statue of him,
  but there was no temple to see to benediction...
now i really think i've over-stepped it...
                     the wine is imploring me to end this
polyphonic nonsense, and think of a monophonic
sound of a woodpecker... relax... think of the sound
when wood is chopped...
      relax... forget this circus of what could be
described as a theoretical exploration of a schizophrenic
symptom... think of a monty python sketch...
        calm



                                                                                 .

I do believe all poets must not only read a lot of poetry but read a lot about poetry. Of my 50 favorite poets, there is not one who has not written about poetry, the philosophy of their work and of the craft. That in itself is fascinating- and difficult, like the depth you find in NY Review of Books. I do about 2/3 (poems) to 1/3 (being books about poetry) From the most philosophic works of archetypes by Northrop Frye to the most public and basic questions of Zupruders good seller "Why Poetry?" .
That last book opened up a new reality for me, to I ask myself all the time who am I writing for, in context to all this reading...I realized I was really trying to communicate the poetic truths of living, of my own small life in the world so full of beauty, horror, paradox and death. I realized to do this I had to make compromises, to not try to impress or amuse myself with poems that could only be understood by me. The craft and presentation became as important as the message. That is currently my direction, I'm writing "collections" of poems with themes so a reader could enjoy a concrete theme. (The last book I just read, a signed collection by Ferlinghetti ( nice and cheap in a used bookstore) was just that- the theme of light in "How to Paint Sunlight." Accessible and very full of several poems about light)
So you are stating two different issues:
I don't like being not understood, Having people throw up there hands perplexed, I'd rather be popular.... Its lonely
But I cant write for others because than it would be feeling like a commercial venture My motivation would be destroyed.
Id rather be desolated and write for those few who get the twinge...
Well, first of all, we poets are possibly lucky because we ain't making beans for our poems. Forgetaboutit. Even our most lauded poets end up teaching to get the health care and severance. I suppose there may be 3 poets in Amerika that make a living on just writing poetry....if that many. Who's buying? I didn't see much word "poetry" once in this weeks NY Times review of books. Only some letters crashing last weeks review of Leonard Cohen, who the critic called a wonderful lyricist and performer, but an awful poet. These dialogues are important to me, but really, quite a small audience. Either way, lyrics and song paid the rent, not Cohen's books of just poetry.
I'm sure there is no immediate cure for your paradox. If you want to be popular you have to make compromises. If you don't want to alter your vision, you can get the joy of a smaller readership and forget the rest. You have to manage expectations is a world that hardly notices our craft.
It's hard to be both, I suppose you should stay true to your motivation. And if readers like me don't get it, **** em. Let it suffice we acknowledge the craft, and that we will get closer to some poems more than others be enough. For me, accessibility, the ability to engage a reader into whatever poetic truth I am feeling, is more important than in any way hiding the meaning in the poem in which I alone can understand it.
I want people who never read poetry, which is most people, pick up a poem by me and feel the poetry power without feeling intimidation which is what most people feel when they read most poems published today. For me its that fine line between letting the imagination do the work, and the poem setting up the narrative to allow it by inviting a reader into it. I get great joy reading my poems to non poets who are scared by even the idea of it, and get them to feel something new, that wonderful way Aristotle put it- that poetry provides an ultimate truth that is found beyond the boundary of philosophy.
Best Mark
…………………...

Admittedly I have gone off the rails focusing on the meta or man as dreamer. Are we not dreamers first before descending into the material, deadening the faculty of imagination or as the I Ching says "a darkening of the light"
I want to bring the reader up and when I read I want to have the sensation of ascending I try to give what I like to receive which is to be brought into greater fluency and light
Have we abandoned our inner life to such an extent that when confronted with it we find our selves strangers to it; reinforcing and amplifying a kind of cognitive dissidence?
Are we in a sense a stranger to our selves having lost the lucidity of our magical youth
Do we see the world as vacant utilitarian stuff and other humans predictable lusterless cogs in a wheel like cued robots?
Witches Seers, Voodoons , Hermeticists, Kabbalists and Occultists of very stripe know and use objects as essential to their operations and craft because they have hidden meaning and power.
Has the life of fantastical creative cognition been sacrificed to inveterate congenital pragmatism?
"Beloved imagination, what I most like in you is your unsparing quality".
Andre Breton
To transgress is to process ones madness as opposed to the customary botched behaviors of repressive modalities we hide behind . It seems to me that poetry is a great ground for that exploration.
Perhaps Its a good thing for a reader to think about what the writer means, albeit a difficult pleasure as opposed to the instantaneous and facile modes of naming and claiming Reading towards the abstract can be a mystical experience Most people who read are shallow readers Shall I than aspire to be a shallow writer?
What surrealism (Detailed descriptive language unmoored from linear rationality) affords the writer like pure abstraction to the visual artist is a great opportunity to explore the musicality of language ie the musicality of form i.e. the energetic configurations of architypes.
Part of our craft that makes things crackle as you know well remains sound play ie the strategy of syllables ... Long vowels / short vowels...the length of words and sound of words in relationship to one another
As you know Mark to analyze the subtle abstraction of sounds i.e. words to the ear is just like music and like music although not wholly translatable has an undertow of non verbal meaning especially if exploited out side the linguistic necessity of linear prose like poems i.e. a device that most never use consciously and strategically or certainly to its fullest potential.
So when we say a poem is beautiful do we impart mean its those amazing tintinnabulating sounds that ****** with their musicality? Poems that do that well stand out to me.
Further I think we are in error when we confuse the realistic with the materialistic. It seems to me realism has magnitudinal underlying meta elements that need to be felt in poetry and to think other wise in my opinion would be a dull conceit
A good example is thought itself
When we speak our ideas thoughts impulses we have no real sense of where they emerge from The processes are so meta their incomprehensible even to neuro science and scientists have little if any understanding of consciousness or its meaning as far as I know
So perhaps the surrealist has a place of worth too; and that is to remind people of their inner life out side the cage of end product think and commodification. After all what is a life and what is a poem?
Best Z

There is a paper
in my room, it is
between the paints and the seforim,
folded neatly in two. It says
“This is
a manifesto.”
It says, “Here is
a safe place for people who are tired,
tired of words like
“religious”
For people who don’t care if your kippah is knit
or black velvet
or a crown made of fur.
Who know that the
color of your shirt
does not determine the extent of your belief, who
are tired of hearing “modern”
as an insult.
Who have worked hard to find truth,
who have done our best to be good,
who have been told how
good we are or
how not, even if
we had not asked.
We are not the kollel wives of Har Nof, the
kabbalists of Tzfat, the
pilgrims of Hevron.
We are
all of them collectively.
We have never thrown
a rock, or spit
on a child.
We are the talmidim and talmidot
of David HaMelech,
whose own family thought he was a ******* child,
who wrote poetry and
composed on a harp,
who sang and
danced on a mountain top
whose differences made him holier.
We know
today his daughters would not
get into the best Beis Yaakov.
Our differences make us holier, and we
are not
afraid anymore.
Of desire to be
accepted
suppressing
the ways we connect to
the Infinite.
We have been taken out of context.
We have seen yiras shmaim replaced by
yiras rabbeim.
We are
changing
the minchag hamakom.
We are
a generation ready for
the descendant of David HaMelech and
Avraham Avinu, two leaders whose
courage to be different shifted the
course of the world.
We think “alternative” has become
a four-letter word because
it is a synonym for
“choice”
We are asking questions,
we are using
our gifts. You are
welcome to join us
for a meal, or maybe
a revolution.”
There is a paper in my room, it is
between the paints and the seforim,
folded neatly in two,
with spaces
at the bottom
for 13.4 million signatures.
It says
“This is
a manifesto.”
There is a paper
in my room,
I am looking for a door
to hang it on.

I cannot forget...
אני לא יכול לשכוח

©  STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
12 Shevet 5778 / 28 January 2018
revised:
3 Iyyar 5758 / 28 April 2018
19 Iyyar 5778 / 4 May 2018
20 Iyyar 5778 / 5 May 2018
21 Iyyar 5778 / 6 May 2018

Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan' (1964):
'Forget the dead you've left, they
will not follow you'

W.G. Sebald z"l (1966):
'And so, they are ever returning to us,
the dead'

I.

the Path / derekh is silent,
a vacuum,
resonating with the
footsteps of tzaddikim, whose
teachings transcend(ed)
the Kingdom of Night...

where there was no longer
kefitzat ha'derekh
shrinking of the road
jumping the Path
teleportation.

...un die vvelt hot geshivign,
taught Reb Elie Wiesel z"l...
& the world remained silent.

not existing for themselves,
the tzaddikim speak with the
Shekhinah from their throats,
and the mar'ot johanna
visions of johanna
are witnessed by breslover
chavurot on desolation row,
murmurations of starlings
overhead.

listening to them, we survive
to walk / dorekh
the Path, with kabbalists z"l,
R. Chiyya & R. Yose,
the chevraya kadisha
the holy companions,
a derekh through the sea,

away from the energy vampyrism
& relentless phantasmagoric
cyberstalking of
the phantasmagoric Queene,
who engages in quacker
cross-contamination,
while prising her mindfully
plagiarising lips (a mirror image
of a death's-head hawk moth)
for a crucifictionist wafer:

a tax-deductible, copyright charity
deduction for ontological delusions
long after midnight,
clutching her cossetted Yehu'di
hatreds like
a perforated osculatorium,
because, שמח בחלקו.

    ****

Reb Uri Tzvi Greenberg z"l, 1923 [trans.
Michael Weingrad]:
'For so long there has been no water
in the wells. Only curses. ...& suddenly
the icons scream in Yiddish'.

II.

Light is the absence of Darkness,
to acknowledge Rav Rebecca
Newberger Goldstein.
& the holy slow train moves
(when it does)
sideways across flat earths.

consider the post-Auschwitz dilemma for
an opus dei natz'ri  who cannot grasp
the etymology:

prae / before + posterus / coming after
praeposterus / reversed, absurd.

did Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan' influence the
teachings of R. Yitzhak Luria z"l ?

III.

memories are stalking & ambuscading,
& as you said, Reb David Meltzer z"l,
'the Yehu'di in me is the ghost of me'...

& now the hourglass is invisible...

the windows of perception
to be peered into,
not out of,
as hairline fractures
develop in the retinas of narrow-ruled
yellow writing tablets masquerading
as frenetic mirrors,

never glimpsing tzefiyat ha'yeshu'ah,
the expectation of salvation.

& we are here,  
witnessing cyberian corpses
erecting three-way mirrors to their
obbligato and  mindfulness for girl
children...the mantras of a white
supremacist ****** ****** trained to
effect genocide  at a distance, his
audible hungering  for the  rapture  
of an endloesung in his drive-by
dark carnival, having no
farraginous self to say farewell to.

Lilith, the Midrash teaches, ate the
'bones' of Her enemies, but the
****** uses prayer beads as
majong ***** fired from his cap gun.

IV.

'she' stands on the bamboo porch,
thinking the lotus leaves floating by
are a reflexion of 'her' crumbling
totenkopfverbaende phantasies.

long after midnight, she shrieks to
a cyberian Mytilene, her mind so narrow,
thoughts are forced to crawl through her
fossilised ***** majora, which she identifies

as a personal luchot ha'edot, the glass
**** molded by her proboscis tongue,
as it fabricates yet another delusion
of a 1967 that never happened.

'she' turns, stepping onto an
embroidered nationalsozialist
matt,  'her'eyes a frail ambassador
of demure malice.

it is a moment such as this, when 'her'
desire of wanting to have been an
Auschwitz  Aufseherin, cannot be  
masqued  as a playful Latrodectus mactans.

ephemeral fabrications cling to 'her' --
an unbroken dance of impetuous
mirrors, as 'she' remains on the
porch, clutching 'her' 'we' aliases,

thinking, somehow, they are 'her'
aharon ha'bris...



V.

interlude / הַפסָקָה

Kafka z"l:
'I am divided from all things
by a hollow space'

Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan':
'I felt that place within, that
hollow place, where martyrs
weep, & angels play with sin'

Rav Yitzhak Luria z"l:
after tzimtzum,
the withdrawal of
'ehyeh 'asher 'ehyeh,
there came to be
halal ha'panui,
'the hollow space'

R. Shabbatai Sheftel ben
Akiva Horowitz z"l, 1719.
Shefa tal [Frankfurt edition]
3.5, 57b [Hebrew]:
'Before the world's bere'****,
'ayin sof withdrew into its essence,
from itself to itself within itself.
It left halal ha'panui within its
essence, in which it emanated
and created' [emended from Reb
Daniel Matt 1995]

VI.

sh'ma...'mir veln zey iberlebn, iberlebn, iberlebn'
(Lublin Chassidim z"l, 1939)...
hear: 'we shall outlive them, outlive them,
outlive them'...

why did R. Moshe Sofer z"l teach
'Chadush aser min ha'toray' / 'What
is new is forbidden in the Torah'?

the trolls here & what they call 'poetry':
collections of letters on a flickering
moon-glow  computer screen behind
a suburban curtain,
letters having no glyphs or sounds,
all encased in Sho'ah denial...

and yet. white supremacist sock monkeys
cannot silence the memories of the
thousands of Yehu'dit children z"l
burned alive on pyres, June-August 1944,
in the holy natz'ri village of Auschwitz,
in october country.

לעולם לא עוד לעולם לא עוד

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...with thanks to my akhim / brothers & poets,
D.J. Carlile & George Dance & Will Dockery
for reading previous drafts...
...and to the memories z"l of David Meltzer 17 February 1937-31 December 2016
& Anthony Scaduto 7 March 1932-12 December 2017...chaver'im / friends
& for the 'or from R. Paul Laderman z"l &
R. Meyer Goldberg z"l

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
Torah אלילה Yehu'di Apikores / Philologia Kabbalistica Speculativa Researcher
לחיות זמן רב ולשגשג...לעולם לא עוד
THE KABBALAH FRACTALS PROJECT
לעולם לא אשכח



IN PROGRESS: Shabtai Zisel benAvraham v'Rachel Riva:
davening in the musematic dark

I ride the synchronicities
They strangely come and go
Rest from the anxieties
Staunton aglow in snow

Walk the way of dailiness
Movies, music, books
Buddhamind in Bangkok
Q and I tuk tuks

Scholem's astral body
Kabbalists in Spain
Sandor Marai in Budapest
Stephen King in Maine

Me in Mary's land
But lookin' way down south
My hands upon her hair
My words within her mouth

            Dixie Chicks!

that "science" is now made "political" is only the consequence of its intrinsic, modern - i.e. technological - essence.

heidegger foresaw more
than nietzsche could
have ever wished to inspire.

            and isn't that the case?
  atheism is more political than
       a materialism frothing
    its mouth against any sort of
spirituality, but more to the point:
mysticism, akin to the islamic
   *sufis, the christian gnostics,
and the jewish kabbalists...
    i find the zeitgeist atheism
   absolutely abhorrent...
                and i don't even need
to cite a personal or an impersonal
reason...
           and yes,
      i find the only feminist to
be in world history, as that of
  mary shelley...
      there was a debate in england
as to whether put jane austen
   on the fiver banknote...
        what about mary shelley?!

and yes, i cackle like a magpie,
   rather than laugh...
          i choke on the first H,
          and then compose a breath
upon the second,
   the first H is the creator of vowels,
the second H is the catcher of vowels,
  the congregation allowance...
       but what's the difference between
  ( he-αληθ/φ)            (he-ayin... yang)
ה‎א‎                    . ה‎ע‎
        ח‎ע‎               .     אח                      .
and     (het-ayin)          and (het-alef)?
   the four dimensions of
laughter, that's what...
  in english: laughter is a direct article,
but the reason for laughing?
    it's an indirect article...
        i.e. ha in hebrew = the...
a direct article...
        but the reason for laughing?
it's wholly indirect, as in: a-,
   a-, without a reason, other than
                           a per se
                                    "reason";
**** me the giggles...
      atheism can only come
        as a seriousness
from allowing laughter to
reign over it...
             needing a logical argument
is a bit... yawn... yawn some more...
           yep, a- (and the hyphen)
means without...
   all those atheists championing
    logic, and reason,
to me? they're just amputees,
    limping along to the tune of
  1 + 1 = 2; even kant said so,
at the end of his critique in the chapter
transcendental methodology...
    i have no idea why pop atheists
cite kant as an atheist,
             given the fact that he wasn't;
it's too tiresome,
        even now, given modern atheism,
it would seem less tedious to go
to a church, and inact the catholic rites
of kneeling and what not...
   at least you had a chance to yawn...
atheistic arguments are beyond
ugly... you can't even seem to get a chance
to yawn, so irritating as they are;
going to a catholic school,
i remember getting an hour's worth
of detention, when i internalised
a yawn (i.e. yawning without opening
my mouth) during our father.

I've got the mystical madness
Tryin' to see to use it

Basketball fights sadness
I cannot refuse it

The kabbalists in Spain
Kabbalists in Chicago

Fold my hands and pray for rain
I will fight against Iago!

/i might not be the sharpest head-piece in the arsenal, but you know what they say about a blunt and sharp "head" of a nail? matches up blunt, to the blunt head of a hammer... esp. when prior to the wood, it penetrates through flesh... oh hell: i acknowledge the ****** metaphor... i just like it's not an analogy of a hishing hook with one's best: curling hand in bowling the perfect scoop / score.

x     8     y     3     z     2     x     1     y
z     x     y     6     5     8     y     1     z
x     8     7     i     4     q     2     1     y
z     8     x     3     y     2     z     1     x
y     8     x     3     z     2     y     1     x
y     8     x     3     z     2     y     1     x
y     8     x     3     z     2     y     1     x
y     8     x     3     z     2     y     1     x
y     8     x     3     z     2     y     1     x

             ah... only upon a finished example...


explain to me why i should stop
jerking off onto the current culture
with a pleaure,
  when seeking "high mind"
in solving ***-intellect-pop-"****"
               at the same time?
last time i heard,
      thinking arises much easier:
res vanus (a priori),
               res cogitans (a posteriori)
and...               unfortunate
        authentic spectacle non-measurable
debate in schizophrenia
     (res extensia)...
       giving a "quest" for the kabbalists...
which are the select jews...
seriously? one "magic" square?
i just digested nine,
  drunk... and now: it wasn't exactly
a reason to be proud of...
just a torture... of accomplishing it
drunk and...
   hardly playing the part of
   attempting an edge of: vacancy...
see...
   i missed the crux...
                  the part where
the pack of wolves are deemed
scouting...
   what remains is the toying aspect
of the "puzzle"...

  back to basics:

x     8     x     3     x     2     x     1     x
x     x     x     6     5     8     x     x     x
x     x     7     x     4     x     2     x     x
6     x     2     5     x     1     8     x     4
x     x     x     x     x     x     x     x     x
x     x     3     x     x     x     5     x     x
4     x     x     x     2     x     x     x     9
2     x     x     4     8     x     x     x     6
x     x     8     x     x     x     4     x     x

concerning the former exaple?
  nothing smart about ctrl shift C + P...
what was i thinking?
  8, 3, 2, 1 recurrence of the first line
of the clue?
    
you know why i like pensioners?!
they love solving crosswords...
but when it comes to solving sudoku?!
******* voodoo to them!

and not because i'm envious of the ginger
scoot who could hack
          the samurai tier...
                      the basics...
regressing into kabbalah...
    that's the me part...

         will tell you when i'm done
the drinking and:
eyeing that beautiful blonde
down the "aisle" of a tilted
beer-glass...

9     8     4     3     7     2     6     1     5
3     2     1     6     5     8     9     4     7
5     6     7     1     4     9     2     3     8
6     7     2     5     3     1     8     9     4
x     9     5     x     x     4     7     x     x
y     4     3     y     x     7     5     x     x
4     5     6     7     2     3     1     8     9
2     1     9     4     8     5     3     7     6
7     3     8     9     1     6     4     5     2

             magic squares my ***...
   even i thought that the hebrew had better
things to do with their celibate
roger rabbits,
than what the anglicans kept them
for celibate in hope of generating
a self-esteem franchise...
        apparently no two types of people
are worthy of the same status
given the hierarchical norms...

XY XY ** ** **

   not insulting any intelligence,
other than my own...
   2:3 ratio of males to females...
the perfect "decalogue"...
             2 fifth male, 3 fifths female...
i could fill in the missing
numbers,
but the exercise is not
exactly to solve this puzzle,
or any puzzle...
          
            loved the jerking-part approach,
shame about the motivational speech...
    and if my stomach should
become known to you
to be the size of a pear's bellybutton
embrace of a jazz via pretense of
imitating squeezing a tongue...
or the whole: bailing out ignobility should
somehow...
   forsake my presence at your
                                  child's barmitvah...

takes two men to be gay...
  but at least one woman to
    come between a gay man being paired
to a woman and not sleeping
     with his consort of hail: anon. h'****.

once you get the surrogacy and
upper tier ******* of "mothers"
                                        over and done with;
just think, of your children!
   george orwell crap isn't going
to hack it on me...
i'm in for the real ****...
         the huxley embryos...
       the... curdling milk in your
morning cereal...
     come to think of it...
what a horrid affair of children...
who never appreciated drinking
sour milk.

It's possible the Kabbalists were mentally ill
As I am myself

But the 72 fascinates
Hidden Bible on the shelf

I pray as well for Israel
Ari Shavit's book is great!

I remember Tel Aviv
LeeTal and Shai did mate

The 80s in my soul
MTV, baketball local fame

Wendy, Susan, Allison
Hidden Holy Names

           Theology
        Like a Game

Me in the library at Seattle U .
1993 or 2
Mario Cuomo
Who is God?

Kabbalists move letters
I just cannot forget her
Thomas Donald
But my parents called me Todd

Nahman of Bratslav
Arthur Green
Tel Aviv
Things Not Seen

Leonard Cohen
Hummingbird
Alexander Pushkin
Fiery Word

           Boundaries Blurred

Like a Wheel
Gonna spin it
Keep on, keep on rollin'

Jonas sees Beyond
Midnight bells are tollin'

Kabbalists and kites
I like Mr. Spock

T.S. Eliot and Spiderman
Team up against Doc Oc

            Solitary
      Not defrocked

to have have aged so sober...
so... thoroughly...
throughout...
the theatre... of... each and every...
everyday...
      
last comment i left...
a ms. gnostic woman with
a j.q. - but nothing of
a kabbalistic inquiry...

****** of crows and for no ****** of crows...

- mother sophia...
i am the mother of my father
and the sister of of my husband,
and he is my offspring...
thund. & the treatise of the great seth...
yaldabaoth: the archeons surrounding "him"...
the Ennoia... the sister Sophia...
and Lilith and Envy...
and... the liar... "liar"... yah...chokhmah: wisdom...
envy of the kabbalists: the gnositcs...
and the floor of memory became:
the best: to be ever seen... quirk of cinema!
is chesed: love to be cited along with El? -

if it sounds like a... "*******"...
it probably is... ichthus... the water of divinity:
kalyptos... baptized in the protophanes...
autogenes is the chief archon of this...
daveithe-laraneus... epiphanios-eideos;
eleleth-kodere...

and that best kept orthodox summary:
chevalier, mult estes guariz...

The tree behind the Celtic Cross
Pink and red the roses

The Kabbalists say it wasn't God
The Red Sea parted by Moses

James Joyce he does consider
Celtic met him pike hoses

Watch me close and I will show
Just what overthrows is

Dear Leonard Cohen,

Help me forget perfection.
Just to do my best
Broken Resurrection

The Kabbalists are curious
I've been to Montreal

How beautiful in London!
Oxford in the Fall

Spain's Lorca
New York basketball

                The All

72 per cent on my phone
Souped up 72

Those Kabbalists mostly still unknown
Transmigration. Who?

I have been to Israel
Jerusalem, it's true

Went to the wedding in Tel Aviv
Meditteranean Sea so blue

Most likely there is just one life
A few years then we're through

But Rolling Stones, beggars in Rome
Railway rendezvous

        What would Pythagoras do?

divine madness, Socrates spoke of
and I think that I have known it

in a few of my poems
I tried my best to shown it

creativity is curious
comes from who knows where?

but the majority is oblivious
ignorant, unaware

I watched movies in the library
talk on the phone with Mark

drift toward my demise
a little light, a lot of dark

The Kabbalists they say
the Vessels contain the Spark

Say the Kabbalists.

Anybody can read the black fire.

But the white fire:  That's the Challenge!

The psychiatrists say signal transmission
Is a clear sign of mental illness

But I am pickin' up signals
When I'm sittin' in the stillness

Springsteen is hitchhikin'
Souped up '72

The kabbalists transmigrate
If you could, wouldn't you?

Time is an illusion
O Eternity, be true!