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Adriaan Harms May 2017
I'm a work of art, your protege.
You're my sculpture, my teacher.

I'm your troublemaker, your rebel.
You're my lover, my peacemaker.

I'm a poet, your songwriter.
You're my inspiration, my muse.

I'm a changer, a modifier of life.
You're my guide, my leader.

I was a hater, a freak.
You made me better,
An individual with a love for life and
A man of creativity.

You're the remover of hate,
And the replacer of love.

You saw me as I am,
As the person I was meant to be.
Piece by piece and step by step
You put back the parts of my broken self.

You didn't abandon me in need,
You didn't leave me when you saw the red flags,
You stayed,
You made me drop the anger and put up the surrender.

You took me in,
You loved me.
You made me see life in a way I never knew existed.

You love me now,
You'll love me always.
Forever till forever meets no end,
You're love knows no limits
And is meant to be eternal.
This is a poem about how much my boyfriend actually loves me and how much he has changed me in the time we were together...
The birth-throes of adulthood is alteration unto its/our own state, the formation and growth of neural connections straining our minds, the brain adapting to phenomena in space and time, deeming it experience. It is this process I reckon to be consciousness.

It was only after adolescence I could begin to understand qualia. During this period my brain was busy going through the teenage 'motions of neurochemical upheaval. My mind was far too young to understand what it intuitively grasped. Something was memorable, meaningless, its qualities stuck in mind. This was how I began to understand qualia, meaningless memories which I treasured beyond measure without knowing why, the essence of nostalgia.

During this time emotion was a mysterious thing I could only feel as coming from my own experiencing ego, not as something occurring between two animals which one alone can never understand (though the narcissist might dispute that). Take love, an attachment, certainly an altered-state, a modifier of behavior, the serotonergic system implicit in its proper function (and if we're lucky, some oxytocin).

We'll hold this for further discussion.
Now for something mildly intresting.

My introduction and use of psychoactives was typical if quite comprehensive (and of course it felt 'special', I still feel this). Fascinated by what substances could do to elicit qualia (though no doubt unable to elucidate this) I lost myself thoroughly, great attracted to the culture around them. This accompanying ethos I could not hope to comprehend took me in its stride. At first I had no reservations as to indulgence, which taught me a few hard lessons. Later I would catch a rare glimpse of this ethos in its motions, gleaming it on occasion.

These times gave rise to specific feeling, recreation followed by reading into the neuroscience brought about a knowledge of some sort. The neurochemicals represented what my experiences were founded upon but not what they were.
I knew them in theory and from practice upon my consciousness,
This knowledge stayed with me long after my 'research' had finished. I would recognise familiar mental sensations in occasional sober interactions, minor alterations in mind brought on by certain foodstuffs (or lack thereof).

What does this answer in relation to qualia?
It tells us that moments are qualitatively conditioned by the given physical constraints.
What power mind and/or brain have over each other remains to be seen, as does the will's constituents and how it comes into being. Does it boil down to binary, exponential subject-object distinctions giving rise to abstract properties? Answers to the question of meta-consciousness continue to elude us.

We hypothesize that the given conditioning can evoke
a certain magnitude of qualia. We assert that qualia exist
to the extent that belief does (and is) but that they are ascribed
to experience by presentation rather than representation.
Belief and desire are propositional whereas qualia are proponents thereof which feedback into behavior, belief and desire.

Tentatively, we suggest that qualia might be measured in term analogous to wave patterns and spectral density while individual quale might be respective to individual neuronal constructs within the neuroplastic structure of the brain.

In this way a given pathway corresponds to a certain experience/memory.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2016
And The Hungry Ocean Spoke:

sea the human modifier,
each wave,
a dance choreographed,
a fomented friction, a whitecap invitation,
dispelling man made fictions,
repititiously reminding to:

remember, ascertain, fail, try again,
to reckon the imprecise place
you occupy upon this Earth
and be ever wave grateful

you-man, speck sized,
suffer tenderly these unceasingly reminders,
provisions of stiff winds,
soft slaps of gusting humility
coming from a roughened atmosphere

perspective, not selective,
sea how much loss I have
eons stored for you-man

has time's tenure insufficient
to yet teach you-man,
to the one conclusion bring,
kindness towards a living thing,
is the life's solitary methodology
to survive upon our shared principality?

oh desperately,
this hungry ocean, inquires:

what advantage does
your kingdom of the shore provide,
upon both the soft soil and the hard boil water,
doth not life and death mutually coexist
beneath my watery bounds,
yet killing for pleasure
here has no measure,
unlike your cursed you-man
internecine interactions

you, man, every-one, and each
a cornerstone, an etched mark so slight,
footprint in the sand, a shifting, imperfect, yet lasting,
molecular impression for all time

all time,
till the next second, the next air lifting, the next wave,
our creator's begging method of commanding,
surrender your Babel Tower's mortal arrogance

I am not human, yet I am modified.

each wave an accusation.

Oh Orlando!

what have you-men become,
infinitesimal but universal,
sparking containers of miraculous
creation breathing,

what justifications
do your bloodied solutions
that be no answers, provide?

here you-man
come once more to my irregular edges,
to replenish regularly my stores.
with your unwanted salted tears,
the sullied bodies of thy children,
mourning deaths you have fostered

Oh Orlando!

weeping, weeping,
even as your pulse's fury speedth,
every dance must end,
for to time subservient,
even as time ever forwards,
living men must slow weaken...

live by the sea,
die by the sea,
come unto me only as,
unruined mortals,
worn only by happy ending of
molecular disintegration,
the sweetness of time's decay,
a recording completed,
your resolute dancing resolved

come unto me
only from deaths
which one cannot void
but come concluded peaceful

Oh Orlando!*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shakespeare­ Sonnet LXIV

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Wild animals never **** for sport. Man is the only one to whom the torture and death of his fellow creatures is amusing in itself.” James Anthony Froude (British historian, 1818-1894)

~~~
June 12 ~ 18, 2016
Shelter Islamd

also inspired by Jessica Lang,
Choreographer
genuine

so many ordinary bees in our vocab hive,
workers, important, but rarely seen,
some never, or rarely trotted out,
no-fresh air, we just must be too too, too
busy, busy

had occasion to employ said titular
queen word recently, a love story
that strummed a chord of the
randomness of good love,
genuine slipped out unexpectedly,
this word, a crowning modifier to a
love poem herein written

truly a word not used too often,
perhaps because we live in a time
when it is a quality rare, though
much celebrated, like so much,
has becomes a debated talking point

but genuine is not hard to be
uncovered, it has a warmth heater
generator internal, a signal signal,
that is hard to be disguised or
mistaken

but our sensitivities are dulled,
easily misled, by the shouting and
the latent bitterness that runs through
the veins of our ordinary conversations,
making it more difficult to believe our
five sensory discernments, to what is,
and what is not,

but love, perhaps, is a genuine genetic,
at a cellular level quality that has evolved over millennia, so easier to spot, it’s heated hot, and awhy a love story should be the focus causation of my happiness, that it
yet thrives, and functions and supplies
we humans, a chance to see, to believe,
that genuine yet exists, inward and
unwarped, within we ordinaries
for a.v.

MLK  Day 2025
Tenant Jun 2019
Can this be my candy kingdom?
Solipistic modifier
Confectionery sweets make my teeth feebler
Weaker
the confines of my mind let me linger

Why can't I stop Abstracting
Is that a bad thing?
What is real and what isn't
Catch me navel-gazing

introspective nonsense
ruminating.
Can it be illuminating?
My mind feels fuzzy

I'll tell you one thing
...
Could this be my candy kingdom?
pondering.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2016
~~~

"all poetry is confessional, whether written in the first person or not. If nothing else, it is a homing device to our souls, telling any who read where we stand, what we see from our perspective and our poet's eye. When enough of us speak of what we perceive,
perhaps someday we'll understand that the tree, the snake, and the rope are indeed an elephant."

Joel Frye



perhaps
the essential modifier of our lives,
or as one of the greatest philosopher reprised,
Professor Alfred E. Doolittle,


"Oh, you can walk the straight and narrow;
But with a little bit of luck,
(perhaps)
you'll run amuck!"^

this thence,
one more mine true
confession,
so many discoursed, cursed

have seen the
roped wrapped tree
firmly snaking around its cored trunk,
issuing forced strangling sounds,
the musical product of its own
umbilical chord

still and yet,
the jungled elephants,
from my visionary,
remain ghostly hidden,
stolid solid doesn't not comport with the
hallucinogenic jive of running
amuck!

limitations shun my expectations,
abilities misrule hide my
hoped-for-destination of hopes,
my elephants,
still and yet,
elude the grasp of exhausted roving eyes

undeterred and reaffirmed,
until and then,
when the elephants come to me
on bended knee,
can understanding be
perhaps
pronounced,
as being blessed with best satisfaction,
with the finest of
illuminating,
most-happy-fella,
well known,
elephantine-humantine-pink
combine
phrases

A Happy Ending
After All


















^My Fair Lady - With A Little Bit O' Luck Lyrics
two - 13 - sixteen
San Franciso, Ca.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2019
Variations on OK: “I'm ok... as in just okay :)“

ah, me making the global rounds,
with the poem interns in tow, observing poet patients,
me, the anti-troll meme, asking the lonely legions,
“what’s up, just checking in,”

responsa included the nuanced range of variations
of the simplest terms,

Variations on OK: “I'm ok... as in just okay :)“

the normal curve of emotional disturbances, falling mists,
category 5 storms and verbal cover-up girl makeup all represented by
OK

this, then, the OK stuff of human poetry, the plain, the innocuous, inadmissible guiltily non-confessions that are the infectious complexity of heartache, humongous jealousy of those surficially
just innocently happy, those who fear of failing,
longing for what was and can not be true once more,
so with not-even-a-serious-word a reminder of our masks when meeting Quo Vadis,
the replies come in summarizing shades of:

OK: “I'm ok... as in just okay :)“

a perfectly good response, shadings and gradations
that shout volumes deserving of interpretations, talmudical exegesis,
across continental contestation,^^^meaning obviously that the contra-opposite is likely what’s meant,
all indirect giving access when delving into their abyss,
as in the rock n’ roll verse states,

“just dropped in to see what condition your condition is in”^

okay.

yes, it’s true okay is better than not okay,
which is better than the catch all meaningless of the
OK....the one, that dribbles off into air hanging, silent albatross

but the insertion of the modifier

just

makes the meaning of the fully, half born, sentence summation diagrammable except
OK
is not valid in life size, grownup version game  of Scrabble(d) hearts

this is how I spend my everyday vacation days
exploring everything human

the graze of a hand, the longest slow journey of a singlet tear,
a child’s shrieking glee, the nightmares gasps
when they woke the awoken,
the intelligible whimpering vocabulary of the new born innocent,
the spackled, patching of the speckled cracking of the
semi-autonomous, wish-it-wasn’t human,
my, busted-heart

so when two lovers continental shelves do not meet,
but graze each other, altering the landscape of emotions,
OK, just, okay is
sedimentary weak but perfect

you are the interloper ghost,
who now asks “how ya doing,”
the famous just “checking in,”
and
in the sliding spaces where mountain ranges get created,^^^

the O in Okay is a black hole disguised

I'm ok... as in just okay :)”

though this is a Buffalo Springfield “ain’t exactly clear”
you accept and understand for aching hearts are the
specialty of the maison

and that is all I have to say on the matter.

OK?
<>

3:21am Monday September 30 ~ 10:38pm Friday October 4, 2019
Andrew Rymill Jun 2014
“i shall  humbly spell
the letters
of my darkness”

not so much
to stain the world
with sameness.

For within
a luminous sparrow
hides and in the penmanship
of tomorrow
it shall fly
across the  dark
ink-stained clouds
on the corners of my eyes.
Trill in the merest  comma splice
or dangling modifier,
sing among the thrill of  ampersands .

i shall chant the long history
of diagramming  my  unimportance
then i  like a  monk shall scribe:
“i shall humbly  spell
the letters
of my darkness”
Found this on an old flash-drive in the basement. The poem is from 2007
no matter this dawg gone pup
     took numerous took
     one after another cat nap
his utterly fatigued

     body electric still ragged
     as if he went without sleep for a lifetime,
     ensnared within a time warp,
     espied that aggravating "aw SNAP"

(error code instead of a webpage
     indicating Chrome happens to be
     experiencing problems loading)  
     or, simultaneously
     caught in a narcoleptic parent trap

thus, while a burst of energy
     temporarily doth prevail
(a priori which extreme fatigue
     of body, mind and spirit -

     more troublesome worse than -
     getting crucified
     with a rusty nine inch nail
alleviated with deep sleep finds

     much more tiredness
     than usual quotidian sleepiness
     bruiting this male)
     being imprisoned (for high
  
     gram matt tick crimes
     and misdemeanors) such as: comma, splices,
     dangling a modifier, splitting an infinitive,
     unnecessary parenthesis (), et cetera

     which landed me punctually,
     proverbially, and squarely in jail
fed thin gruel with grubs that didst flail
nauseating pluperfect revulsion
     each time hide exhale

which, many hours long rests did restore
for a bit of time only for totally tubular
     exhaustion to come roar
ring back leaving me tour
     charred as if...i fought in every major war.
a minor typo found this fanatic spell binding hound to resend a poem dashed off in a huff (past the hour) if nothing else than fur his peace of bot tee, mind. Thus this Norwegian bachelor wannabe (most closely aligned with said status closely attained unmarried state by pledging my Unitarian troth)  tilled, sown, and furrowed spirit nsync with the missus sleeping in close proximity.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

dog tired this day - march 29th, 2018

no matter this dawg gone pup
     took numerous one after another cat nap
his utterly fatigued
     body electric still ragged
     as if he went without sleep for a lifetime,
     ensnared within a time warp,

     espied that aggravating "aw SNAP"
(error code instead of a webpage
     indicating Chrome happens to be
     experiencing problems loading)
     or, simultaneously
     caught in a narcoleptic parent trap

thus, while a burst of energy
     temporarily doth prevail
(a priori which extreme fatigue
     of body, mind and spirit -

     more troublesome, and worse than -
     getting crucified
     with a rusty nine inch nail
alleviated with deep sleep finds

     much more tiredness
     than usual quotidian sleepiness
     bruiting this male)
     being imprisoned (for high

     gram matt tick crimes
    and misdemeanors) such as: comma, splices,
     dangling a modifier, splitting an infinitive,
     unnecessary parenthesis (), et cetera

     which landed me punctually,
     proverbially, and squarely
     in the slaammed shut jail
fed thin gruel with grubs that didst flail
nauseating pluperfect revulsion
     each time hide exhale

which, many hours long rests did restore
for a bit of time only for totally tubular
      exhaustion to come roar
ring back leaving me tour
     charred as if...i fought in every major war.
Whit dat tight till - say
yes, aye wool thank ewe
mooch at least for today
hoof fully (this Joe kerr)
can easily bide his time weigh
beef **** rammy cows come home.

Meantime India interim
lemme clover - reaching
far out on dam moost precarious limb,
bot do nut inspect me tub bark prim
and proper, nor procrastinate for tim
marrow, cause spontaneous whim

will lose heft, no matter how inane
poetic palaver could by then
elude ding me noggin to explain
nebulous jibber jabber hokey folderol
even confusing to a Great Dane

a dog (of course)
man's/woman's beast friend,
not hounding visa vis discovering
you improperly verb (bait him)
bone a fied with noun (sense)

barking up wrong tree
dangling modifier as gerund
faux paws and inquisitive,
nonetheless countenance do lend
sincere cachet gnome hatter compared

to average superficial **** sapien
said former doggone creature just thru
****** expression can mend
"broken" heart and soul,
which rhyming tangent did send

yours truly off scent, asper initial trend
actually truth be told, no paw tickle har
matter, I sought to sink teeth into,
but let babbling stream of consciousness wend,

where petty full extemporaneous tooting
oh my didgeridoo, which initially scares
the dickens out gills of hooting
blowfish until they recognize

this bloke juiced pooting
air thru a long wooden tube, be yule
then their piousness piqued to pisces,
gather together as if attending school
always mindful to follow

the goldenfish rule
i.e. aldi tom not erring,
floundering, and getting
tricked, royally suckered, and

hooked becoming gruel
resulting within tummy higher
up the feeding chain,
survival of dragnets cruel.

fission expedition for
salmon to hope fillet
enjoys almost done hook,
line and sinker - hooray,
sans to steal mental energy,
and precious time may

king another reason to be
persnickety and every ray
zen to be guarded, when
wading in cyber seas tay
king precautions, once
I return from Uruguay.
JaxSpade Oct 2018
She slipped into something more comfortable
A night gown of words dangled my participle
Her misplaced modifier made her susceptible
So I indulged in verbing the adjectives delicately
Our vowels and consonants were the scent of the consequence
Paragraphing
A new article developing
With no Copyright and editing
Raw alphabetically
We formed a story poetically
Carrots and apostrophes
Comma my colon semi figuratively
And I won't touch the period, seriously
I took off my lyrically
And pounded her *****
Her exclamation
was no question
marked
I hit the spot of ecstasy

After I surfed the waves
We slept on the shores of allegory
Punctuations were left said


Then fell into the ellipsis of our story…
ogdiddynash Jan 2024
The P Propensity


this benighted dishwasher,
is familiar with the
P Propensity Theorem,
seeing as he
(think grizzled, unshaven guy in the back of the restaurant cleaning plates)

invented it

the need to solve
for the need to P,
while undertaking prep
for the great dishwashing,
is mathematically soluble:

N, the number of ***** dishes
D%, the variable percentage of how *****,
           (necessitating pre-scrubbing, or not,)
M, the meal, breakfast lunch or supper,
  (a modifier of N)
Ba2, bladder age squared)

formula:
if P = N(D%) {M_}
    b  [where M1 is breakfast, M2 is lunch etc.]


is >1,

then

better get
an adult diaper
As origin of **** Sapien species surged ahead,
harboring nascent predominance
asper said primate reproductively bred,
(albeit via incremental fits and starts)
evolutionary forebears didst dread
Tom Tom Club former members
an American new wave band founded in 1981
by husband-and-wife team Chris Frantz
and Tina Weymouth
as a side project from Talking Heads,
rocketing them to super stardom
similar to heights of fame and fortune,
where band zeppelin led
exemplifying, fortifying, and glorifying QED
quod erat demonstrandum
meaning "that which was to be demonstrated,"

whence, (since time immemorial) nasty, short
brutish, loutish, and vampish anthropological,
genealogical, and millennial
report card found forebears
precariously perched, pitched, and positioned quart
toured pièce de résistance  purport
head supremacy devastatingly,
heavily, and literally bruited nearly did abort

tentative tenacious status
being supreme species oft times
challenged minuscule leading edge
proto humans rendered
stronghold atop ACME perch
(on evolutionary leading cusp) fund hedge
ching hypothetical bets said simians
nearly toppled off figurative ledge
against being easily uprooted
akin to one weeding out unwanted sedge
imposing fledgling breakfast of champions
clinging to niched wedge

while serial incessant challenges nearly wrote
snuffed out clinched placed viz *** him tote
often at fateful loggerheads,
where survival of the fittest smote
cream of the crop sacrificed for Ares
poised to strike dawn of dusky mankind
viz apish creatures almost got rote
off while chance dominance, eminence grise
pitted, spitted, and got vetted sans un quote
able primal screaming expletives
pitted Neanderthal progenitors note
worthy kickstarter scrum held dim promise,
whether weathered brood
which smattering population comprised
a scattered handful of rudimentary
destined to become a GOAT

contemporary competitive lass or dude,
whence latent talent to net fame and fortune
voluntarily sharing wealth as altruistic,
deterministic, humanistic, and idealistic
amidst looming global warming
legacy of industrial revolutions,
which pointedly wreaked havoc
radioactive Superfund sites still exude
toxins, where dangerous fallout glommed,

rained, and frankly zapped the tocsin
muted, muffled, muddied waters
where pollution never
confronted Wilma or Fred Flintstone
generic Geico caveman/woman respectively,
and aside from external
threatening ecological depredations
violent crime comprises tribal (family) feud
where might versus right,

the deterministic factor aye include
at undoubtedly animalistic behavior
defied being categorized as lewd
since each monkey's uncle
similarly frolicked, gallivanted, and hocked
like a CRO-MAGNON
European early modern humans,
when he flirted in done ****
videre licet dangling modifier
attested courtesy punctuated equilibrium

(the hypothesis evolutionary development
marked by isolated episodes
of rapid speciation
between long periods
of little or no change)
courtesy Stephen Jay Gould
fate didst not occlude
also absence of consciousness rued

until...fast forward to the present day,
when carnal, feral,
and integral leanings attempted
to rope hormonal, gonadal,
and banal found
more recent ancestors (discovered
visa vis like Ancestry.com and/or 23andme)
rolled in the hay
under the natural predilection to lay naked,
especially frisky comb early
May procreative force
engendered the writer of this poem,
when his parents coaxed foreplay
unbeknownst, that their singular heir,
would be afflicted with countless
obsessive compulsive mailer to slay
ritualistic controlling psychic threnody
dominated favored holistic paradigm oy vey
dystopia prevails every which way
Gaia will be declared winner yay!
After a hiatus of countless years
plus an additional
almost three months
since a major makeover,
(I experienced the magic
wrought courtesy
a bonafide big hearted
beautician at Salon Nova
located in beautiful
downtown Limerick, Pennsylvania

to render my straggly long hair
cut about twelve inches shorter),
whereby a mensch looked back at me,
a gorgeous reflection mirror reflection
yours truly returned to the mecca
Thomas Paine would feel right at home,
and surprisingly enough
a small number of attendees
at said name sake Unitarian Fellowship
nevertheless recognized me,

(and remembered my late mother
Harriet Harris,who passed away
twenty years ago come May 5th, 2025)
ushering yours truly courtesy older,
yet nevertheless familiar faces
while jesters tumbled and unrolled figurative
Scottish Tartan welcome mat
and provided a warm welcome.

As a small boy
parents of ours
(mine two siblings
included then and now,
an older and younger sister)
attended the Main Line Unitarian Church,
(a general hunch we regularly
made our appearance
at aforementioned site
during late 1960's early 1970's)
816 S Valley Forge Road, Devon, PA 19333,
when the then minister Mason McGinnis
facilitated the program.

Skads of decades,
née scores of years elapsed
since boyhood found me heading
(more accurately prodded),
thence shuttled to age appropriate classroom,
albeit informally structured learning environment.

Chronologically doddering oldest people
(such as fathers, mothers,
gray haired grandparents...)
plus young adults
bid their charges goodbye, albeit temporarily
as their younger kin got gently routed
to one out of quite numerous
ample size preschool/nursery room.

Infants, babies, young kids
i.e. most easily antsy, distracted, oblivious,
when days of our live young and restless
(unbeknownst to those recipients)
got their inchoate intellect sparked.

Their coerced, coddled (molly),
and coaxed... reluctance rewarded
(aside from with sweet treat)
courtesy lofty, mighty, nifty...
young rabbit ears raptly attuned
(most like a couple seconds maximum at most)
feigning listening at (iterated above)
Minister Mason McGinnis
who always gave rousing sermon.

If not him, perhaps a previously
scheduled guest speaker
enlightened, enhanced, enchanted... audience.

Nonetheless upon attaining mine prepubescence,
or thereabouts, (and most definitely
when yours truly crossed his horrendous,
perilous tumultuous wretched pubescent Rubicon
marking naturally ordained metamorphosis),
they abruptly ceased mandating
what both parents considered
(as well this middle aged son
recognized in retrospect –
cuz hindsight of mine always 20/20),
a golden opportunity to mingle,
and perhaps even (horrific as this reads)
befriend shy lads similar to yours truly.

I felt quite at home being attended, pacified,
pampered, and pulled up by bootstraps.

Without warning this baby boomer
invariably, suddenly felt shell shocked
and zapped courtesy post traumatic stress disorder
incurred while in utero.

Suddenly out of the blue,
paralyzing horror found this AARP eligible cardholder
aghast with fright as if scary
boogie woogie bugle boy monster mash
(with cooties) prowled premises on the lurch
to spring summat ploy.

Nightmarish visitations
while finding my religion
(crept along the edge of night
regarding dark shadows
from outer limits of twilight zone)
extolling virtues regarding return of native son
also witnessed me
being precariously hoisted,
and (analogous to dangling modifier)
suspended me in mid air by my own petard.
Where Shelter Jan 14
Critical thinking for poetry reading
July 30, 2023 5:00am

The Atmosphere and the Environs

Be attuned, uniquely sensitized, to all that is extant,
outside (the weather, the landscape, the sky), eyeing the slow steady changes occurring for you do not live in a vacuum, and these modifications of your immediate surroundings will, must
impact the writing.

I awake to  thick fog, and only the outlines of the trees, though grayed and invisible only within a short distance, are undeniably present, like giant figures, shrouded and menacing, but immobilized.  This fog, is it emblematic of my state of mind or just a modifier, a tangential influencer of what I will now be writing.

To be foggy when first you stir to a day ahead full of knowns and unknown, is not unusual even if the shy sky hints at a
bluer clarity to,come. For the morning fog is the story of transitioning, as humans do repeatedly throughout their days and lifetimes. In particular when passing from the fog of nighttime sleep,oft populated by terrors and all,we suppress, morphs into the no man’s land of dusky consciousness.

As I write the fog outside is clearer as the morning light from
above changes, and though yet present, forms remain i distinct, modestly identifiable, but overall, the world is u known and possibly full of dangers. The dangers I sense are in my own
foggy interior, a 1/ reciprocal of the outside, matching and moving lockstep with the outside haze. Thus, I do not know what will be the next words I write, though the words will,emerge of their own accord, or rather from my knowledge base, but not asking permissions, they come of willfully, voluble though unspoken, from the silence within me that is
confluences by the silence and the slow sea changes in my exterior world.

Even now, some few moments later, the distance is hinted at,
what could be a body of water, a mass of land, is shadowy
haloed, there, but not there, ghostly but discernible.

Am I a ghost or discernible? I could bite my flesh and presumably feel and view the test results confirming but confounding,my apparatus is functioning, but instead I settle
for the assumption that placement of theses new arrangements of old words is proffered proof enough,
that therefore I am.

But in doing so I have crosse the line into

My Interior Domains

Various lands, territories, states, states of being, consciousness, conscience, moral frameworks, goals,
needs,some conflicting are being slow stirred in the cauldron
of my ****** soup. Here in lies what we think are the sources
of our expression, slow stirring repeatedly, an admixture I add
and remove from, maintaining a semblance of weighted balance, but no guarantee at all,of being balanced, even remotely in balance, or just ***** and the weights of what is in
side of mean, is always tilting, and one mental gyroscope is working overtime and all the time to keep me satisfied that I will not perish in the next few seconds, though I might!

Ah, those pesky know unknowns, that cause us to expel
our particular soupçons of rambling, transgressing notions
(I don’t think of them as thoughts, just passerby’s, who
of course,can be on or off course, mine, or yours imbibed by
mine eyes, or my decaying hearing, or any of my subpar
sensing sensors,  that are the inviolable flowing blood  of my body/ mind time continuum.

(An aside: the exterior world goes brighter as the sun rises, but in no,way is there clarity; for all is as before, clouded over on earth as it is in the heavens, just a shade, a tad of degrees brighter, so still and always, still transitory, as if that process could ever be halted and frozen into place. Proofs: no animal
movement is visible, no soundings risible,  no activity though we are close,nearby the official morning hour of 6:00AM.

Dear-me! How could I have failed to discuss notation of the measurements of time, markers that are essential to writing down our history.  “For it was at this time” an existential and essential tool, one half of the denoted time and place intersectionality of our white lies and soulful black holes,
some of the most critical  factors in properly aligning ourselves
in the universe relative to where you are thus fixing the distance between us that is the challenge of why we write,
i.e. to bring us ever closer.

(An aside: the moisture of the atmosphere coats the window,
but in strange QR type patterns, but my camera is unable
to successfully open and opening their secret doors.
I fact I AM suddenly sleepy  and will return to this missive
Tat a latrt
time and place as of yet unknown?

so, later.)

— The End —