"modulate" poems
Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...
I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****
My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!*
As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.
I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.
I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
*Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!*
I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!
I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!
So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.
No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.
And yes,
*Music is indeed food to the soul!*
I devour, in view- the next meal...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Baby, you and I are like sound waves
coming from opposite directions.
We modulate at the same frequency.
We both are building up our whole spectrum.
But, baby, when we meet...
When we meet we nullify a part of each other.
No matter how much we try,
if we don't change a bit of ourselves
we will never know the beautiful melodies we can create
together.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
I've been focused on the end
For a while
My child, we'll just separate the energies
Inside, disperse them to the corners of all time
Our crimes are taking place in the vicinity
My sins, equal to the evil
I let in
You sir, have resigned yourself to apathy
Beware, the symbols on the idol in the chair
Suggest that we are sleeping with the enemy
We've been focused on the end
For a while
It's time to celebrate the miracles
We survived, a wonderful experiment of the mind
Enjoying the infinite theater of the Omniverse
Tune in
Realize the shape that we're all in
Mutate to neutralize the symphony
Our waves, those of the true and the brave
Modulate themselves into reality
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
We shall keep the poor poor.
We shall be on them like
a master's whip on the backs
of slaves; but they will not
know us: we are too far and
too near. We shall use the
patois of patriotism to patronize
them. We shall hide behind our
flags, while we hold only one pole.
We shall have the poor fight our
wars for us, and die for us; and
before they die, they will **** for
us, we hope, enough. In peace,
we shall piecemeal them, and serve
them meals made of toxins and tallow.
For their labor, we shall pay them
slave wages; and all that we give,
we shall take back, and more, by
monumental scandals that subside
like day's sun at eventide. We shall
be clever, as ever, circumspect and
surreptitious at all times. We shall
keep them deluded with the verisimilitude
of hope, but undermine always its
being. We shall infuse their lives
with fear and hate, playing one
race against another, one religion
against a brother's. Disaffection is
our key; but we must modulate our
efforts deftly, so the poor remain
frightened and angered, but always
blind and deaf and divided. And if,
perchance, one foments, we shall
seize the moment and drop his head
into his hands, even as he speaks.
This internecine brew we pour, there-
fore, into the poor to keep them drunk
enmity and incapacitation. Ah,
eternal anticipation! Bottoms up,
old chaps! We, those who rule,
shall have them always in our laps.
We are, as it were, their salvation.
Tod Howard Hawks
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 7:28 PM UTC
When I said wouldn't change for you
I didn't mean I'd stay the same for you
I'm changing 'cause I want to
I'm changing 'cause I've got to
The me I've been is no longer feasible
I realize now most people are seasonal
But it's not about other people
My priorities are wack
My motives are turning evil
And I need to turn them back
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
Heart's cover sealed in burgeoning prime
Fading leaves folded in the book of time
Follicles of love blanched on the pages sublime
Billowy blades dulled with eroding sands that modulate and slime
Bleached, seamless threads spliced in the deep recesses of my mind
Glossy words overgrown, strangled with thistle and thyme
Each, dilated syllable devoid of reason and rhyme
Each segment underscored with a stagnating byline
Every, amorous allusion deconstructed; devoid of design
Each, sterile refrain resounds a doleful chime
Remaining, truncated edition a lapsing memory; requited pantomime
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 8:00 AM UTC
and into the firmament
fumbling for visions
collapse under
disordered nerves
concentrate
need to modulate
a creative energy rush
that has been afforded to me
by the pills just taken
a need to feed the void
to appeal to the dead verses
that are waiting
a manifestation of poetic absolutes
a need to startle oneself alive
extract thought processes
a frantic buzz of possibilities
overdosing and watching
multiplying mirrors
amazed at the images
of one starring back
a poetic geometry
detachable used
and abused
in a copulatorey rite
of aural distillation
of the poets rage
frequencies that fall
upon catatonic faces
of artistic alienation
brought about by
a dissonance of attunement
to the vibrations of the verses
these spoken words
these living entities
who are oblique, cut up, desiccated
by a savage failure to understand
the visualized stanzas
a failure to disarrange all the senses
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
Telepathy తో తేలికపాటి signals పంపిస్తున్నానే
Love frequency తో mapping అయ్యేలా జాగ్రత్త పడతానే
మన Energy levels suit అయ్యేలా transducer పెడతానే
Distortion కలిగిందా carrier తోనే ముడిపెడతానే
Noise Effect తగ్గేలా Frequency Modulate చేస్తానే
Love signals అన్ని digitise చేసిపరేస్తానే
Encryption చేసి మన data నీ Secure mode లో పెడతానే
Decode చేసేలా Synchronising Bytes సృష్టిస్తానే
మంచిగా డేటా అందేలా High Speed Media నే create చేస్తానే
Buffer use చేస్తూ Data Miss అవ్వకుండా Memory లో బంధిస్తానే
Files text లతో Final Love Data నీకే అందిస్తానే
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
It is in, the how,
not the why, the where,
or, the when,
no, no, it
Is the how,
that provisions and provides
all the answers
that any lover needs, for
In the how, one revels,
but also,
unbeknownst, unwillingly, reveals
what one's heart wishes to secret, and conceals
and with
The single stroke
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
raising sky colors upon
thy skin's patina and,
How commences the matina,
with petals of white cloud roses,
blushing anew in your cheeks,
loveliest of failed cover ups,
laughing, I airbrush your
almost, invisible tears away,
residue of melodramas of troubled sleep,
stilled and stolen, mine,
to pacify, keep,
tranquilized in my breast
It, Is In, The How,
What, You Are Thinking.
What vincible arrogance
humans possess when we pray,
we hope, knowing that we are infidels,
hoping to mislead
the eyes that glance upon us
You give up the shadows painted for me when
filtered beams, rays of
a, and of...kind,
lance shield of densest lead,
lain upon the chest to cloak
the tremors of volcanic hearts,
the eyes of hurricane thoughts,
containers of need that
Are so full of oh so
many questions, yet,
singularly resolved,
with the answer of
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
knowingly full well you are
Thinking there is no exit,
no right of way to negate
the sum of what we let to ail us,
O disbeliever, how simple be,
for all, all of
It, Is In, The How,
What, You Are Thinking,
I soften and modulate,
your conflicted complexion,
with the answer of
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
all that is mine,
to encapsulate,
recharge, refill thy vessel
with Bocelli tones of
passioned, gloried harmony
Worry not if my eyesight dims,
be unconcerned if
my hearing, my voices
wearies and weakens,
for all the answers
we shall ever need
remain, contained in
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
and
this is how I know now,
and forever more,
what you are thinking
As long as skin is the coverlet
o'er the bell jar of mind n' heart,
as long oxygen defies gravity,
I will know how,
unveil, open secret chambers,
now and forever more,
what you are thinking
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
THOSE WHO RULE
We shall keep the poor poor.
We shall be on them like
a master’s whip on the backs
of slaves; but they will not
know us: we are too far and
too near. We shall use the
patois of patriotism to patronize
them. We shall hide behind our
flags while we hold only one pole.
We shall have the poor fight our
wars for us, and die for us; and
before they die, they will **** for
us, we hope, enough. In peace,
we shall piecemeal them and serve
them meals made of toxins and tallow.
For their labor, we shall pay them
slave wages; and all that we give,
we shall take back, and more, by
monumental scandals that subside
like day’s sun at eventide. We shall
be clever, as ever, circumspect and
surreptitious at all times. We shall
keep them deluded with the verisimilitude
of hope, but undermine always its
being. We shall infuse their lives
with fear and hate, playing one
race against another, one religion
against a brother’s. Disaffection is
our key; but we must modulate our
efforts deftly, so the poor remain
frightened and angered, and always
blind and deaf and divided. And if,
perchance, one foments, we shall
seize the moment and drop his head
into his hands, even as he speaks.
This internecine brew we pour, there-
fore, into the poor to keep them drunk
with enmity and incapacitation. Ah,
eternal anticipation! Bottoms up,
old chaps! We, those who rule,
shall have them always in our laps.
We are, as it were, their salvation.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jan 6, 2023
Jan 6, 2023 at 1:00 PM UTC
Our heartbeats thump in stereo
Building up romantic tension
The airwaves are taut, ready to crash
Ready to snap
The speakers get louder
One side overpowers the other
The volume switch doesn't modulate
Our heartbeats grow irregular
We are beating
inexorably
in mono
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 8:49 AM UTC
When the magistry has ended, /
The echoes of repose begin to resound; /
Although there is, there has been a great wanderer in me, /
The beckoning has not ceased, /
Nor has my heart been claimed in abeyance. /
A story, one with risings & fallings, /
One with an unfalteringly great divide, /
Has bestowed a parcel from on high; /
The Winds, The Earth, The Ocean, The Sun, The Moon, /
They are the pulse of this Grand Tapestry. /
When we are enraptured, /
By ensorcelled irides /
We become; /
Sometimes being enamored /
Means our journey is re-willed; /
Moreover, we see the world with Brand New Eyes. /
Allowing every experience, to re-modulate my thoughts & feelings /
I realized uncertainty was not a barrier, /
Rather, it was my nexus to transcendence. /
Having a time & space in which to reflect, retrospect, & introspect was an aegis, /
Now real & authentic happiness is no longer distant /
And faith is near. /
Jul 12, 2023
Jul 12, 2023 at 8:09 AM UTC
Becoming who you are
Is not an easy feat.
You have to shed the skin
Of many failed versions.
Prototypes are stowed away,
Blueprints shredded.
Which laugh works?
Is this personality too loud?
Will I be a loser if I don’t go to that party?
Or to that event?
Should I modulate my voice?
Am I too much of a nerd?
Am I not enough of a nerd?
Do these glasses work with my face?
Do these clothes work for my body?
Over and over,
The plans change,
And you change,
And you try to find the best
Version of yourself.
And you wonder why
There’s more than one
To begin with.
You wonder what happened,
To the innocent kid
Who thought her elementary school
Friends would always be there,
And who thought she could do anything.
You look back on yourself
As an athlete.
You look back on yourself
As a writer.
And you wonder why
You became this person
Who will just settle
To get by in life.
You wonder why
You’re constantly at
The drawing board,
Why the things you really
Want to do in life
Are impractical,
And why the things
You’re going to do are
Only semi appealing.
How did you get
****** into this society,
And how did you become this
Automaton with no autonomy?
Why can’t you decide
What’s best for you
Without being wracked with
Guilt?
Looks like you need to be
Reprogrammed
So we’ll scrap this model
And get back to you
With a new one.
Try not to break it.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
We shall keep the poor poor.
We shall be on them like
a master’s whip on the backs
of slaves; but they will not
know us: we are too far and
too near. We shall use the
patois of patriotism to patronize
them. We shall hide behind our
flags while we hold only one pole.
We shall have the poor fight our
wars for us, and die for us; and
before they die, they will **** for
us, we hope, enough. In peace,
we shall piecemeal them and serve
them meals made of toxins and tallow.
For their labor, we shall pay them
slave wages; and all that we give,
we shall take back, and more, by
monumental scandals that subside
like day’s sun at eventide. We shall
be clever, as ever, circumspect and
surreptitious at all times. We shall
keep them deluded with the verisimilitude
of hope, but undermine always its
being. We shall infuse their lives
with fear and hate, playing one
race against another, one religion
against a brother’s. Disaffection is
our key; but we must modulate our
efforts deftly, so the poor remain
frightened and angered, and always
blind and deaf and divided. And if,
perchance, one foments, we shall
seize the moment and drop his head
into his hands, even as he speaks.
This internecine brew we pour, there-
fore, into the poor to keep them drunk
with enmity and incapacitation. Ah,
eternal anticipation! Bottoms up,
old chaps! We, those who rule,
shall have them always in our laps.
We are, as it were, their salvation.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Dec 30, 2022
Dec 30, 2022 at 4:56 PM UTC
Swiftly moving clouds modulate
the light coming to closed eyelids.
Today, with God's grace, I know
what it is to be my own
true north.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
The intent people swarm onto subway cars: overwhelming. I am suffocated as we move, their flow pushing me on. Alien babble seeps through the air with intention, before settling into a subdued silence. I still don’t understand all of their customs/aged tradition. They know, these South Korean people, know that I am learning and so they try to understand me. This soft patience forms the basis of our mutual respect. I learn to modulate loud tones in my voice, whispering words (my speech a noisy cacophony). This is unfamiliar. For now, foreign, but if given time this strange culture so different from my home, will become mine.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
I tonicize you.
Though you are sol and I am do,
I've modified my tonal path
to add weight to your presence:
I've written you this leading tone
in hope of upward resolution
and to avoid frustration.
Tonicize me,
for you are sol and lead to do.
Let us modulate through mutual friends;
let us flaunt our perfect consonance!
Let us cadence together
when the music finally ends.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
For Nat Lipstadt
In response to Nat's deeply moving poem that included me, I now dedicate this 2007 poem to Nat, who I am sure, knows exactly what it means.
She smiled as she
set her lips into
most agreeable motion -
her larynx flexing to
modulate the passing air.
The sequenced air waves
shook my auric drums
and journeyed to my soul.
Out of my reservoir
of ritual response
my lower face
turned a congenial curve.
Two puffs of air
pulsed my vocal folds,
were filtered
by my tongue and lips
and formed a sonic pattern
she was sure to know,
“Thank you.”
December, 2007
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
This is important information for all humans and id ask you take it as seriously as you are able, keeping separate in your mind were logic is trying fight it as we would want from the simple emotional responses that are inevitable with such heavy information. To start you are moving forward in the dimension of time at a rate you can with focus modulate, you make tools to help with this and call it entertainment, you are able to pass through dimensions in space with much expenditure of energy and have tools to help with this you call transportation, you know how vast space is not in spite of your inability to comprehend it but because you cannot, time is equally vast, I put it to you that potential dimensions form to make actual any possibility from any point and so if at every instant (F/s=I{F=fastest thing, s=shortest distance, I=Instant}) all combinations of all potentials manifest themselves we have an infinite by exponent, if in the first instant there was a finite set of possibilities there would be a finite set of potentials from any instant despite their exponentially diversifying it would be a calculable infinity, now If time and space are part of the same fabric and gravity warps that fabric distorting time and space in a quantifiable manner then geometry could be established to transgress the natural flow with the application there of. if and I believe it to be so if nothing else, gravity is a manifestation of cosmic forces, quantum mechanics that is, with the Plank being the primary force of gravity, gravity A, then the planetary forces being secondary, like a radiation, a side effect, gravity B, then these forces could be manipulated at a lab like CERN, I'm not big on the Mandela effect but there's something seriously wrong as of late and this information is prudent, please share it if only to attack it, consider it if only to attack it, bring it to the table if only as a snack.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
Resurrection
When the seas, all seven, align and combine,
To form one tide, do you believe we have a selection, to
Reside, hide and remain alive?
Or is that our mind tryna confide,
In our own made lie, afraid to die?
If the angels rein down a path to heaven,
I wish to accept, find, listen and abide,
Until I arrive.
Once I’ve arrived at my final destination,
Only then will I quit the investigation,
Quit the pacing,
Where thoughts are constantly racing.
End of days where I communicate,
Debate and question every nation.
An owl of silent observation,
Mixed with a perfection I can imagination,
To relate,
To create,
And modulate,
An exhilarating answer to the allegation,
Fact or fiction,
Which is resurrection?
Such unbelievers, who claim afterlife is an illusion,
Unaware that they are too, just bait,
Heading straight,
Into the great,
Hands of fate.
The weight of the truth,
And proof,
In representation of resurrection,
Cannot be ignored, just like an antique china plate,
Or a mate,
Who’s at times, difficult to tolerate.
It’s inevitable,
So renumerate,
Your pure self, and reinstate,
Circumnavigate,
To the Golden Slate Gate.
Enter your new estate,
Where you are enchanted with the power of illumination.
Before you can await,
The glorious one who turns death into rebirth,
Giving your soul a chance to resurrect,
Recreate, and once again illuminate.
Natasha .K. Bailey
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
the fusion the beginning
puzzling in contradictory riddles,
driven down by exploding mixes
spinning around a crank cracked
I enhance discreet
discretions
into sinus rhythm abstractions
modulate with distracting
conflagrating syllables
a valued treasure, a heart beat
away from
being out of fuel.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
To the limits!
And the heaves are harmed, in our lungs
and arms. Tendons flexed on their utmost,
and breath at play in the drowned coast.
To the shores!
And the leaves are left as specks of colour,
from the moors.
and vacations left the hinterlands
of the decayed, breathless holler.
For the greater good we stood as imagined heroes,
Yet for happenstance to lend a chance in our woes,
required a great many motifs
to clamour and climb
In glamourous time
to the raised butte
of a finishing sublime.
Modulate the past and harmonize the future.
Together tapestry'd, akin to patchwork suture.
We weren't raised this way.
To remain forever at play, workhorses neigh.
And sawing brilliance and sawdust eyes,
rapier wit with no equal.
But together a two-parter,
to the shores to see the sea quell.
Wildfire lick like lit flame.
Burn it all down and give me the blame.
It's a carried burden worth the worry.
In mountains some exist as prideful barons.
Barring the loss of their barren,
their smiles turn smirks of heathen carrions.
Which is fine, and the motif licks again.
And the motive is sublime; it's only sin.
Cherish the children and their rue of thresher-born,
Thomas Ligotti and his party of philosophy,
but I'm too caught in histrionics to allow the matter
to matter.
Beyond the kicking feet of the mirthful pitter-patter,
pitted against the coming solstice of time saving;
forward and back and ouroboros we may.
Hold on tight to this singular day.
Ignorant of the causes of our own decay.
Lost during summers covered in spittle and seaspray.
Only to mount a return, a loss,
to the area most unaccepting of the cost.
To the mountaintops!
**** what you see, and reap what you sow.
Push the mountains down into the crow,
and call out for the all the denizens below,
"Here's another landslide." As you call; Heave, and **
Pile them neat and plant a seed,
of a tree that hasn't belonged or had a chirped song
in a placidity.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:24 AM UTC
What i should do is a product of the mind
when enlightenment hits its like these eyes go blind
And I find, in our bind, we are ones who knew
just along for the ride in the same canoe
releasing that aura so black , when i hack
the realization far from knowing no I can’t go back
animal sign in that creature may you reach your spirit with a clarity
to find that YOU ARE YOUR OWN TEACHER
the feeling from this healing
so sensitive I’m numb
the pounding of my heart is like a silent soul drum
This travel of a trance, unraveled from a glance
the false turntables, a mt Everest avalanche.
____________
Words, phrases and meanings
is what my unconscious is seeing
tendencies leaving, no harm meant
started with good intent
then was haunted by demons
I then repressed, was oppressed
next regressed but stepped, leaving negative feelings dis/integrated
…..
ritualistically disgustipated
with the feelings that exists
for the double harmonix 5ths
1 heal the knows that stick
2 rewind the now realized fallacy
3 circle ceremony of sanciti
dedicated to the greatest ME
holotropic state lacks eviscerate
imported government a copy of a state
…..
concentrate at a constant pace
can’t stop nor wait
but modulate out of figure 8s
as we conquer stakes
know we’re found, hold it down
or regurgitate.
Before a studded alter, I kneel.
I have been here an eternity.
A single sphere traps me in the moment,
and slows my understanding to the meter of the sacred moment.
Judging proceeds.
Every possibility of my
responses to be analyzed in their intention.
I shall prove
worthy.
My intention is pure and I only try to harmonize with the true frequency of the highest reality.
I shall know what I look for.
Know it intimately and deeply, to the point of full empathy between the object and self.
Realize the truth of myself.
Dream. My credence.
Love. My code.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
When the seas, all seven, align and combine,
To form one tide, do you believe we have a selection, to
Reside, hide and remain alive?
Or is that our mind tryna confide,
In our own made lie, afraid to die?
If the angels rein down a path to heaven,
I wish to accept, find, listen and abide,
Until I arrive.
Once I’ve arrived at my final destination,
Only then will I quit the investigation,
Quit the pacing,
Where thoughts are constantly racing.
End of days where I communicate,
Debate and question every nation.
An owl of silent observation,
Mixed with a perfection I can imagination,
To relate,
To create,
And modulate,
An exhilarating answer to the allegation,
Fact or fiction,
Which is resurrection?
Such unbelievers, who claim afterlife is an illusion,
Unaware that they are too, just bait,
Heading straight,
Into the great,
Hands of fate.
The weight of the truth,
And proof,
In representation of resurrection,
Cannot be ignored, just like an antique china plate,
Or a mate,
Who’s at times, difficult to tolerate.
It’s inevitable,
So renumerate,
Your pure self, and reinstate,
Circumnavigate,
To the Golden Slate Gate.
Enter your new estate,
Where you are enchanted with the power of illumination.
Before you can await,
The glorious one who turns death into rebirth,
Giving your soul a chance to resurrect,
Recreate, and once again illuminate.
-me, myself and I
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 12:48 PM UTC
the reason it's flawed...
is because it's doubly definitive,
i.e. drunk, e.g. the lord of the rings,
it's drunk! it's an aquarium dizzy in sight!
the definite lord cannot be
an analogue, a replica, a cloning,
an imitation... invoking such demands
would counter the success of the story...
for no divisive act can follow a divisive act
in english grammar - backgammon point lost i.e.
definite and divisive K.O...
let me apply the rules... what symbols
akin to mathematics could be applied to
words as they are to digits in such a simple
way as to modulate arithmetic rubric, if
there be no grammatical rubric?
engage in language to such an extent
that it defeats you, in order to see
the irrationality of others; the double definitive
is the route easiest to spot - i guess it's
worthy to mention the cinematic affair,
that you might be mesmerised by a lord, who's the lord,
and all the marriages under the sky:
metaphor for marriage?
not to mention that he was the omni- and invisible.
cursor via this digression through to:
there is need... for juggling...
both hands must be present;
definite indefinite, even odd...
but i guess
the lord of the rings, with its double-use of
definite articles is like all stories sold
to the public, sold meaning forced,
****** art conducted in the spare-time,
art without gamble to live a life of modesty.
find the weakness of your creativity, find the weakness
of your creativity, and you will find creativity itself
by it being exhausted, each time you begin
the process of writing;
with Einstein's space-time relativity
came Rembrandt's spare-time relativity...
art and plumbers... oh noble indeed...
but still the double definitive of expression...
there is necessary ambiguity to mind,
an indefiniteness for exploration of universal interpretation
whether that be the populace of the 17th or the 21st century
needing it.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 7:52 PM UTC