Grandpa'd take me fishing down to Watson's creek
He'd hold his finger to his lips so I knew not to speak
He'd show me how to shoot a gun, how to turn the other cheek
How to be a better person, and how to duck instead of deke

I remember where I was
When I heard Grandpa died
I was standing in the hallway
With my brother by my side
He put his arm around me
While I just cried and cried

I don't need to jump out of planes
Or run with bulls in Pamplona
I don't need to swim with sharks
Or race a car down in Daytona
Two lines don't make a bucket list
Yes, I said....only two
The first one is to wake each day
And the second...be with you

We'd watch the trains stretch our pennies that
we'd lined up on that track
Smoking stolen cigarettes as we watched the train go past
Lying there, two brothers, hiding in the summer grass

I remember where I was
When I heard my brother died
Shot down over Vietnam
I ran to the tracks and cried
I could still feel him there with me
Stretching pennies while I cried

I don't need to jump out of planes
Or run with bulls in Pamplona
I don't need to swim with sharks
Or race a car down in Daytona
Two lines don't make a bucket list
Yes, I said....only two
The first one is to wake each day
And the second...be with you

I've grown up a little since, fell in love with a great girl
I take her fishing to the creek, let her into Grandpa's world
I've shown her where the track once was
Where we stretched pennies just because


I remember where I was
And I remember that you cried
We were in the same front hallway
Where I heard they both had died
But this time you were crying
Because I took you for my bride

I don't need to jump out of planes
Or run with bulls in Pamplona
I don't need to swim with sharks
Or race a car down in Daytona
Two lines don't make a bucket list
Yes, I said....only two
The first one is to wake each day
And the second...be with you

only today i came across what interested Heidegger
after writing being and time, a selection
of essays, revealing that he came to be interested
in language - not knowing this, by mere study
of the introduction some things became apparent -
being quiet democratic in my reading it's a shame
i don't have the academic leisurely pace of becoming
a Heidegger specialist - it's the almost damnable
pulling-apart having to cite many influences and not
focusing on one, but since i don't have academic
leisure, the summary in the introduction
by jeffrey powell (editor) of the book heidegger
and language will just have to do: apropos this
being an antidote to those bemoaning that we only
write about reading books, carefully choreographic
our lives for mints and espressos and ammoniac
(inhalants in a boxing ring nearing a knock-out) -
hide pretty bird, hide, hide pretty pretty bird
first your song inside a cage, then the cage inside
the heart, and thus the song with the cage,
silenced inside the cage, raging mad inside the heart.
well, the antidote is that i already have some ideas,
and reading the essays contained in this book would
put me off what i was intending to write about,
so, in summary, read the major work, then read introductions
of critical books from those studying the subject,
invent an original approach from that, and elsewhere.
before i venture into the whole affair of having to
reread certain passages from the introduction as to
guide me in this Bermuda Delta i what to do a little
sidewinder interlude:
in chemistry there are two major bonds (for the purpose
of what i'm intending, let us just assume that
we're only talking about π and σ bonds) -
and while psychology dehumanises man to strict
theories without clear proofs to a universal standard,
i want to do what will come later regarding Heidegger's
take on language, for me there's no clear philosophical
vocabulary to be used - i'm not into orthodoxy and
rigidity which says

                piquant sun strokes against
                the bargains of spring's last
                hope for a kept bazaar
                to bloom to then deflower
                petals from trees fall to earth
                like glasses, the tree stands
                as a reflection of shattered glass
                the petals remain the tree intact
                worn at the Royal Ascot
                or in a woman's hair.

obviously something like this is a poem - what i mean,
however, concerning what's identifiable as philosophy is
to me the following:  
                                        blah = monotone x algebraic
                                                    for­ non-differential
                                                    purposes, just filling up
                                                    the page

            blah blah blah blah blah blah subjectivity blah blah blah blah blah blah essentially blah blah blah blah blah blah in-itself blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah thing-external v. thing-internalised blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah metaphysics blah etc.
                      
                          and so on and so forth, a fixation on using a certain vocabulary to be equivalent or justification to be "apparently" talking philosophy... yet still no gain from the words of grammatical categorisation... for me? too many propositions, the basis of what the academic environment deems to be "pure" verbiage, or none (akin Wittgenstein) - that famous quote about a lion and having tea on Tuesday... or as Buddha would say: said so to shatter thus the fear of ketamine thoughtlessness;

but that's beside the point, i want to return to
how any chemist might treat psychology as a science,
keep it up to date, given that psychology likes
to shove its nose in everyday activities for a strict
expression of equivalent rubric that mathematics already
possesses and shoves into a child's brain to make
the child become accustomed to symbol encoding;
so π and σ bonds, let's say between two carbons atoms...
but in psychology we don't have the luxury of
many alternative examples...
me and language: to write in terms of optics,
to encode images rather than sounds,
language as optometry rather than a hearing-aid...
so what "elements" do we have in psychology,
essentially what defines consciousness, its sub-plot
and its unfamiliar territory - the using the dusty
Freudian units, we know the concept of the superman
(superman was a bad bad boy) from Nietzsche
evolved into the super mm hmm, and we know
there are two other units, mm hmm and the id /
it or that? it is for me, that is for scalpel for the analyst,
the prober, unlucky for the person who took to
objectifying himself, but better than being objectified -
still, remember i'm working with language in terms
of optics rather than phonetics - enough organic chemistry
diagrams and you will see that the bonding between
mm hmm, the super mm hmm and the gemini id
(one the patient, the second the analyst) trapped inside
an electron cloud of bio-electric processes is rigid and
stable due to the opposite of π and σ,
i chose the optic route using the bonds δ and ψ -
symbolically δ is the mathematical term for sum -
summation, the total of - currently i have no clue about
the significance of ψ just yet, but ψ is a symbol of
psychology like caduceus is the symbol of medicine;
a brief expansion on the natures of the bonds,
quack-science δ bonds being all alike meaning uniform
meaning holding every aspect uniformly, meaning
that a δ bond is of the same nature between mm hmm
and super mm hmm in a petri dish within the
solvent of the conscious sub-plot, likewise other variations
δ bonds are uniform bonds, i.e. ensuring one detail
is related to the other, and so to others.
ψ bonds, not much expansion here as promising detail,
asthma the highest research of breath, and all
major theoretical squeezing through the Suez -
depending on the measure of breaths, we can depend
on the internal things - but never so much Pamplona encierro
cleaning-up to do theorising an affirmative sound
like mm hmm, or other affirmative synonyms -
if it were can *****, it would be mince rather than
a clean dissection - mince meat, should mm hmm be
not an *****, let alone a body. so many attachments
to mm hmm these days, it should be attached to zoological
studies than activities of breathing: theory as a cage,
one after the over, eventually not even cages but
the caged animal turning into matryoshka doll -
Kant doesn't venture into the dynamic of his thing-in-itself
represented by the matryoshka as ad continuum -
maybe he does, but to me here merely pinpoints it,
coins the phrase noumenon and ensures the thing
is opened, god or nothing is put in it, the thing is
closed, locked and the key to unlocking it is thrown
away and never found (i'll mention a short process of
his argument some other time, most notably his
three impossibilities concerning proving the existence
of god: ontological, physico-theological and cosmological).
yes, i know, when reading these ****** books
i have to paint the arguments, i need to simplify
them, a poet reading a philosophy has to paint
the words - the best poetic technique applicable to
understanding philosophical books is imagery,
not as a technique of for the purpose of writing my own,
but as a way to paint what was written by some boffin -
precursor to understanding the three impossibilities
of proof, i find it strange that such proof is necessary,
what would you do with it? prove it once on
paper, or in your head, show it to everyone and then
slowly everyone is able, then the so called "man in
the sky" - it seems strange that scientific positivism
of the Enlightenment supposed such a proof, the proof
is more implausible than the existence - Bertrand...
just smoke your pipe and sit in the easy-chair talking
******* with Wittgenstein... more on that later.
i promised quotes from the above mentioned book
(heidegger and language)...

           das wort kommt zur sprache,
             das seyn bring sich zum wort.

working from phenomenology, to later reject it,
thus precipitating the school of deconstruction-ism,
and with Heidegger we do get to atomic elements
from words, from compounds, thank god there are
no sub-atomic ventures with language, quiet impossible
to de-construct language beyond this point,
let's face it, if you go as far as:
'as preparatory for raising the question of being...
language is one of three constituent moments in
the analysis of the being of the da in dasein (being there)'
furthered by equal atom bombardment replacing
the un-compounded sein (verb, be) with seyn (conjunction /
noun, being) - this is modern physics to my understanding,
i'm not particularly interested what he's saying,
i'm interested in painting what he's saying -
i'll spare you the details of what philosophical systematisation
is actually involved in: restricted vocabulary -
a certain limit is allowed, rigid meanings are involved,
rigidity of drilling in of non-deviation, philosophical
systems are not dishonest in that they are consistent with
a limited vocabulary - i will spare you the torture of
seeing one ball being juggled - the shrapnel of the English
language makes it even more distracting to understand,
as with the above, another e.g.?
'every saying of beyng is held in words and meanings
which are understandable in the view of everyday
references of beings, and are exclusively thought in
that view, but which as expressions of beyng,
are misunderstood...' of course i could be cherry picking
Heidegger like a Jehovah's witness cherry picking
the bible, but i'm not interested in what he's saying,
merely painting you the picture, to scale then:

books                      -              celestial objects
chapters                 -               cycles of celestial objects
paragraphs            -               prime features of
                                                 celestial objects
                                                 (e.g. Jupiter's red eye,
                                                  Saturn's ring,
                                                  Earth's oceans
                                                  and continents)
sentences                 -              
words                       -
syllables                   -
letters                        -             atoms / elements  
                                           ah, it was going oh so well,
i think i started too big, and went into too small,
which made visualising sentences and words and syllables
hard to compare what could fit between
Australia and and atoms of RuXe - by chance ruxe is
an actual word, no as stated ruthenium and xenon,
although that too, ruxir (ruxo, ruxin, ruxido) in Galician
meaning to roar.

Without the souls of Trouvere, will he aspire to spheres from where he can replicate himself in the ductile state of the ceremonious Energeia...? The naive action is univocal as the first practice modulated in inclinations and lexical motricities, where they die within their fears, failing to hope and convalesce their desecrated wounds congruent in concepts of Energeia, as an arbitrary neologism to move what in itself is not self- scrollable. Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run barefoot for those who banish needs on the parental scale of his range. Succeeded by the need of Energeia towards the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, and supernatural substantialities that transported him in the Epistle even to his desiring hands, but in natural causes, and kinetic emotionality in the destiny of the principles of a movement that dialogues by a spinning spin; alembicated in particles of displacement time eccentricity, towards itself in the synonymous statics, providing intrinsic angles to be associated with the rotation of time and Epistolary demands so that the quantum light can relate the energetic spiritual emotionality, with the own dissociated relationship in the spaces of appearance; where it is to be believed that there is a moment of bias provided in the emotional-movement rooted in linear memories of the temporality of the Hellenic mental axis. Everything is proper in the coordinates of the speculating, which is adduced and duplicated in Poielípsis or unveiled generation of relativistic emotions. For this reason, Vernarth naughty importunates this metaphysical precognition, alluding to particles that generate dissimilar inclinations in lapses until reaching the threshold from when Stratonice partially divided its material and spiritual origin into stationary diversity, in meditated phases that will not take place nuclear, but in the polymathy of its exteriorized threshold, and of the emotional mass of its free and passionate matter that concerns its strident and impalpable Macedonian origin.

From this moment on, the intuition corresponds to the angular reinforcement of "Poielípsis", in this way the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere becomes present, as pseudo images of the Diadochi, involving magnetized radial movements that will lie in the spheres of physical value., in the garb of the Gerakis and Petrobus, who strived in the sense of the energeia of the Epsilon neologism, not to restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the being towards a mono-sense in this causal, of such alpha that it says the paradoxical, demonstrating the diversity of optics. Faced with this diatribe Vernarth from the naturalness decides to empower Souls that are part of both topics according to Vernarth, it is to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that apprehend the light of genius that coexists with both. What the entity justified us in unfolding will be delivered by divine intelligence, so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming presence of Stratonice still withdrawn in the atmosphere of the Voielípsis (substitute scale of relativistic emotions of Vernarth). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of trends in the specifications, which could be attributed to dimensions of the Trouvere period of souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments, as if they deliberate the naturalness of an expression of who It does not philosophize if something has to detach itself or grab hold of creation to privilege the natural, re-arguing affection when professing, if there is time to express it, so it is intuited what the virtue of muttering simultaneously in the laborious, and in what does not progress. The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to dress the Voielípsis, as an analogous addition of quantum causality and of temporal and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas, heading towards the prop in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls of Trouvere will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics, to deposit effects of the incredulous versatility in themselves, in the sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of San Juan Apóstol, but in subterranean concomitance, under the same axial coordinate that is sustained sub-geological. Namely; They will coexist as long as the Mandragoron of the Duoverso and its Voielípsis are established, but three hundred and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of the Profitis Ilias.

The antithetical line is the verifiable germinability of those vertical events of the plinth settled by the Souls of Trouvere, containing the germinable starch of the growth of the ergonometric stirrup of the Zefian Bolt, which from zero elevation to 308 meters above the Aegean level will form a mega extra parapsychological bilocation, which will be gestated in its uniform vertical chronological numbering, with the pre-Christian Pythagorean and post-Christian representation in the coronation of Carlo Magno, mentioned in royal visions by the Apostle Santiago, in the versant apology of Pythagoras as an entity supra divine, envisioning the scenographic depository, and fragmentability of these three components of this start of the Hellenic Magna in the hydrographic, sub-terrestrial geological and residential basin of the Souls of Trouvere.
The upholstery of the Pythia of Herófila attacks the subtended of the flying buttress that supported the volcanic cavities of the Sub-Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls of Trouvere by its disoriented cognitive dissonance, generating paradigms that traced stones that formulated Aquarian sounds, in a dominant tonality by the minuscule machine of light, more distant from the incommensurability that escaped eclipsed in the resplendent major note that becomes monarchical by the hypotenuse of a rectangle in three subdominant angles. This brings about the thaumaturgy of Pythiais, the mother of Pythagoras who, together with Vernarth's Poielípsis, forge retentive songs given the scarce natural light that was only born from some of Trouvere's souls called Poielípsis, in stories of the oracular Delphians. The Poielípsis remains encapsulated from the thaumaturgy of the banal anti-desires that would make it mortal, for a hypotenuse that makes the gift of poetic prayer tangible, prompting the Bio axiom, by fertilizing scaled suspicions of repeated mortality in the banner of risk. Stratonice well points it out:

“The signal field has been prophesied today for the Apollo tripod. Having to reencause itself in three parts of the support of the oracles, and in clairvoyance in the pre and post Christian insemination of the gift of the word that redeems man from sin, sub-tenant of the flying buttress, from the interface of the supra trinity of sin as a blood element, and difficult to evade or avoid. Here the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great has been condensed in the arch of ideas, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore he has to bring all the corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of energetic residual and static mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. All will already be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed she sees by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "

Stratonice walks with the sendal that should be translucent by Santiago of Compostela. As an intra-everlasting geometric raconto, subduing fears that slide through the sendal of the dogma of the architrave, where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetarianism or freedoms that turn green in fears that do not illuminate life. eternal, perhaps from the same Matematikoi who doubts a basis for Adfinitas, to understand limitless limits, taking Pythagoras to the soil of Crotona. Always, someone who is ignored of the linguistic power, he plans to rewind spheres that still weave crossed angles, placing himself in scores to consider as an irreplaceable past. The soul of Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception, in the halters of the livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated hypogeum where the high position was, to stir to the embankment where it will merge with the Zefian arrow. This liquefaction should purify all storage of cognitive and circumscribes of those ancestral, becoming reincarnable pre-Christians, who transmigrate in the need of osmosis of universal unity. Atonal music will transmigrate molecules to great sidereal distances, being the same replica of the other eurythmic, in multi-trigonometric periods, vivifying the fractional number residues as souls of the same numeral that finally perish of Pythagorean digits, perhaps at the angles of the Phalanxes of Vernarth or in the oblique crucial moment that slumbers in an elegy, flourishing in those beings that do not Live...! Already under-treated, they will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive and deprived of their morbidity, in a dissociated cause of immortality that will distance itself from the forbidden abstinences, in liberating exercises of any count that ponders in the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae, on the divan of the joys of serving his doctrine, which saves himself, and which will save the Messiah, for those who in the soul have no sacrifice of a lamb that grazes..., nor on the pedestal that goes ahead in the centuries..., pasturing what nobody was capable of ?. The second triad of the oracle of Apollo of the Souls of Trouvere reveal Charles the Great, favored by the Apostle Santiago for the protectorate of Compostela and its spiritual regency, invited Charlemagne from Aachen, in 33 consecutive years of dispute with swords, stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne placed himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence.

In the second segment of the concave wasteland of the straight ascendant of Trouvere, he crowned Charlemagne emperor of Rome and the Franks, predicted by the Apostle James, in defensive papal struggles and in defense of Christianity. In this paradigm it appears how they are transmitted from the dead ungraspable world, they unite here in the axon of Poielípsis for the sake of the times that occur due to the anonymity of a silence that augured to link, and to know within what the endless intrinsically organic movement is, as well as the biological cosmos in the discovery of the Jacobean route. In what better region than the Dodecanese, he will be fused by twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago brother of Saint John the Apostle. Dating back to 778 AD, spreading to Hispania. In the ****** and constant fight against the Saxons, Carlo Magno, entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees, as a preview of the aforementioned Jacobean Route, everything raged witnessing their overwhelmed squares in the fueros of the Trouveres, who were Pythagorean elite soldiers, who had been bilocated in this post was Christian, preceded by the perfidious Basque in the forests, subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to continue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. All escaped from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront, the dynamics will be reflected in the Songs of the French Gesta, to enter the Jacobean Route on the way to Santiago de Compostela, when the Calixtino Codex, in its book IV o Historia Turpini, the apparition of the Apostle Santiago to Charlemagne is told in dreams, pointing to the Milky Way as a way to find his tomb, which must free them from the Saracens to be able to venerate their relics with the enamels and medallions that they issued in the Apostle's crypt in Compostela. The souls of Trouvere, are beings that enjoyed a short life in the Pyrenees, they enjoyed the fortune of originating a liberator of post-Christian inheritances, mechanized by the exquisite citation of Pythagorean antiquity, behind indigo faded in red blood cells, to dress the sendal of the figure of Faith, freed behind those who should have dressed her as a Codex Calixtinus.

Five sections rose along the straight line of the Trouvere pyramidal axon, the base of the liturgical appendix that honors the multidimensional space, with antiphons for the cult of Carlo Magno on the underlying Patmos. Santiago was lacerated in the Holy Land far from his Brother Apostle Saint John, but he came to meet with the Trouveres who came from the rugged Pyrenees. Santiago passed the Strait of Gibraltar and reached Padrón, which is about 20 kilometers west of Santiago de Compostela; there some angels took him to the place where he actively rests. In a boat he arrived..., and always by the Mediterranean he will now reach Patmos, still acquiring the iconography that attempts to find Charlemagne, and a codex that would unite pre-Christians like Pythagoras and Aristotle united in the relic of the taxpayers transformed into three maritime rivers, concerned with a predicted belligerent episode, to say that all roads lead to Patmos, like Locus Sanctus, of all the shepherds who heal their sheep in which they are not of others that are populated with souls white, for the good of others. Thus the souls of Trouvere from the Pyrenees revealed themselves as predecessors of the raiding of the shells 308 meters below the Profitis Ilias, in agreement with Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia, where the passing of the centuries would tell him about the Jacobean Route instructed in confronts, and concordances with the airones of the Trouvere, protected by a rectangle in three subdominant Pythagorean angles in the dissipated darkness of the golden indigo of Theoskepasti, in the meridian of Kímolos.

A greased pig at the county fair,
A roller skating tween chips her tooth,

The *****'s pupils: pinned.
Heavy-lidded gaze notched up: a higher degree of horror.

Ecstasy and agony: life's charged poles, opposing,
I, dysthymic before the blister of try,
have touched too close to life's hot center,

A cliché, a disposable metaphor,
The insulin syringe (use once and destroy) of metaphors,
Oh restless boy (you're a man) you don't see it?

Beyond the sour vinegar of feet and let's pretend,
the mildew funk of gym-stale ****,
the recess bells gave way to sirens.

Oh, valor—Toro—pinned Pamplona,
Gored by c**k, though, not by bull
Cause see it seems—yes, Spain then.

Nothing written really happens, see,
mind to bear this burden.
Tense of verb fit the charge in air,
a crunchy taste like seizure mouth, the sockets blown
some smoke slips out the corner of my mouth, my eye
regards you trying to seem real.

2011

after seeing a dutch boy spit in a polish girl's face because of a friendly conversation, i don't need some Irish telling me what to say apart from I.R.A. in the skip of the other recyclables.*

as books go, we can speak all we want on the
colour of defeat -
you can make a Lenin-firecracker from any man,
any man a killer -
the revival of the Holy Roman Empire simply
moved slightly to the east - it already looks like that -
if the French far right think the exit of Britain
was a favourable scenario, well, it doesn't have
the Algerian philosopher Camus to care -
former colonial nations undermined the European
project - too much suntan from India and the
Caribbean - Germany wasn't a colonial nation,
Italy was a joke in Ethiopia - a joke that morphed
into reggae - it was never going to be stable,
times changed, the Hungarians forgot the Austrians,
if they thought a British exit was the broker piece
they found the economic stronghold
in Frankfurt a week later - past colonialists
an equilateral respect for each European neighbour -
apart from the English channel the English chose -
i admire Voltaire's theism, but not his liking
for the sausage and oily stigma -
accept post-colonial subjects, discriminate against
fellow Europeans - join the "shoot a ******" saga
of America - former colonial nations destroyed
the European Union dreams, they found no *******
in the Baltic region, to their grievance...
what a loss! no gold! only flint and salt mines!
and the question still hangs about:
who will pick the strawberries in July in England?
the benefit billionaires? the wet shave heiresses?
what about the Brazilian bikini wax?
get more Irish in? will Ms. Burqa of Sudan
take out an umbrella and roll up her sleeves to pick 'um?
is Hajj tourism adequate to see a stampede outside
of Pamplona? i mean, it's a revision of the
British "go home" Empire... you wonder how many
times the pumpernickel fairy heard that one -
and there was the gingerbread man breaking a leg
to claim benefits as a dyslexic diabetic saying: i can't go on...
i can't go on... make this slice of cake a discus throw
into itemising a respectable calorie intake, 'cos i think
i sat on a guitar that was debited into a loan -
a man ended up paying for a broken guitar without
a Bon Jovi singalong - oi oi uncle Ben's quinoa salmon
healthy food in the hood and McHappy bottom's-up -
colonial nations and identifiers as such made the European
project a one of bereavement - unnaturally racist,
unnaturally with white v. white and the incubator of
their former whips turned into whipping of tongues -
the Jews have left Poland, they have left Europe -
time for the old alliances to be constructed -
and i wonder, what internal alliance will be made
from former colonial masters and former colonial slaves -
if the "placebo" to be ingested is current America... well,
not much to go around.

what about that "strange, mortal" coinage of: i just don't want to be here?!

i just can't imagine               why
   i landed among  you depressed rejects -
i really can't, i wrote
poetry, and i guess that's
my excuse,    but i like emotional
retards - it makes me feel
alive, i can feel like i can have a beer
and talk Pamplona and Hemingway
and ****, oh yeah, they mentioned
go easy on them*,
   there's me and my blabber mouth,
or as the n.s.a., make new friends that aren't
required extras for the new Hobbit Movie,
jokes aside, i am actually making a investment quote,
no new movie, New York and all...
hmm? what a ****** question,
certain words should never be a question,
rather... what a ****** word to leave a question with;
i mean, what word is imbededed with nuance? oh, right,
the underlined one, robotics microsoft
villa and the twenty two toilets... hmm,
too many guests taking a **** i guess;
i mean (i can say this with a hardened expression
learning to be my father while he un-buried his to
be a father to me made only welcome to a mother,
and no celebrated deity of flesh worthy of **** and whatnot.
it's not fair given the 1990s and Bon Jovi,
and Ghost, and Swayze... it's, just, not, fair!
so agonising to be the choirmaster, you get me?!
no, of course you don't, cos you're Harry Potter.
i know your benevolence,
and it's truly a Ronin tale, all i know is a no toward
Samurai of your idle heart to save a beat, my heart a Shogun,
that was to be - yet more verse i wish to write impaled
worth the pain, for your eyes to sleep entombed
missing spring - as you are, unknown to me, Greek,
because i know no other love worth a mention.

Mary, Bumby, Mousy, Rest of Gang...

Been thinking. Tough after all the electro-shock. But here goes.

What will Hemingway leave behind?  A few good books?  OK. That ought to be it for the obit. ‘He wrote a few good books.’  

Yes, there was the drinking and the hunting and the ******* and the fishing. And the talking about the drinking and the hunting and the ******* and the fishing. That was all good too. But that was for pal consumption. By invitation only.

Always hated the star part. Shy as a doe under this elephant hide. Only thing hated more than signing name on checks to the tax-man, signing it on dog-eared editions of The Sun Also Rises. But hating fame doesn't keep it away. Swat a fly, ten more appear.  

Do they read even the few good books anymore? Nope. Only people who read The Old Man And The Sea were thirty Swedish nitwits in Stockholm. The Nobel Prize for Nitwiterature.

So what has Hemingway left behind?  Well, this...

Every young punk with a Liberal Arts degree and a chinful of fuzz and his huevos bursting with juice, wants to be...Hemingway.

Two generations of them now. At least the one in the ‘30s had some politics, fought wars, fished fish, ****** ******. Knew how to read and shoot and drink and talk. A few even knew the back end of a bull from the front.

But this second one, these crew-cut corn-fed Eisenhower mommy-boys? Who’ve never seen a comrade shot dead at their side or an elk breaking cover at first light?  With their butts like the fenders of a ‘55 Chevy, unread paperbacks in the back-pockets of their chinos, babbling bits of Spanish to each other but never to Spaniards, the only hard muscle in their soft bodies that faithful drinking arm...  

They think all that is...being Hemingway.

In Havana, the Floridita was full of 'em. Couldn't go in there anymore. Key West the same. '59 encierro in Pamplona, punk comes up in the Txoko Bar, me talking quiet with Antonio after a good fight...  Wants me to drink from his **** bota.  Threw it in the street. Him after it. Can't go back there either. Won't be able to go anywhere soon.  World full of wanna-be Hemingways.

That’s all Hemingway’s really left behind. A bushy salt-and-pepper beard and an ever-faithful drinking arm.  

Time to check out, gang. A quick clean ****.

The sun also sets.

But here's the beauty part. Forty, fifty years from now, when all the wanna-be Hemingways are old and fat and their chin-fuzz is fried to bristle and their huevos are dried up like figs in a dusty street... But they still want to do it all like Hemingway...

They'll have to eat a shotgun too.

Adios.

-Hemingway

This years winner is portulaca.
She has overrun the competition.
I pronounce her pour – chew - laka,
as if her presence isn’t already
pronounced enough.

A watery **** in disguise,
she slips beneath a bed of color
when the sun comes out.
Hundreds of little umbrellas
protecting her from the heat,
or rather gathering it.
Like those big dishes in
the Arizona desert
that listen to outer space,
she sways and moves toward
the voice of the sun.

Three colors dominate.
Neon pink,
not glow in the dark pink
but glow in the day pink.

Red,
a red as red as
“B” horror movie blood,

and lemony yellow.

In the afternoon they hide.
Delicate brushes dipped in color,
their daily quota of light fulfilled.

Those not in direct light
still fight,
open and searching,
leaning and bending toward
leftover patches of day..

I see one standing alone,
upright and outstretched,
tall and wiry.
A netted wing dragonfly
hovers nearby.

The dianthus lie
silent among the portulaca.
Like gored runners at Pamplona
they have been trampled and overrun,
their white garment petals
splattered in red.

The roses fade in the August heat,
tired of continuous expectation
they don’t even try anymore.
They will be pruned for their indolence.

Near the garage,
The Mexican heather sways
in the intermittent shade of fountain grass,
Running this way and that,
trying to catch a random ray of light
between the blades of taller grass.

In the corner of the yard
the fountain sits bleached and tired,
weathered by a season of sun.

It bubbles in slow motion,

the mossy birds lie down in its flow,
too tired to stand anymore.

I ain't ever belonged to no one--
not even those that came before,

those frightened immigrants and spanish tangerines tumbling
below deck, toppling into the scattered bed rolls that still smell
like cumin and tarragon, sea and spiced salt seeping through the strong lungs of every youthful San Fermin boy in Pamplona
the raised voices in Seville singing San Jose and my mother's
maiden name--

i fumble in the dark for things to keep me rooted
the strong arms of working men and their weak hearts
barely beating
secondhand boys breathin' dollars an' truck exhaust
lookin' for their match, someone that'll fit
or do 'em just right
sharp things that'll sit pretty and
look good in lowlight,

and me with my tulip bulb heart
plantin' myself in wax, in muck,
in Utqiaġvik, Alaska
during the Polar Nights,
in my palms, beneath pillows, sproutin out the lungs of
those unassumin' who think i'm healin' them
of all the silly, misplaced  ideas

but they got me creepin' out the sides of their cheeks
hookin' these delicate stems
leaving thin perforations all along their sheets
gratin and sharpenin they's teeth--

used to think i was the sun
real pretty and smooth like them stones
you find down near the river
or leaves just 'bout to fall, clingin
to low hangin' branches
just askin to be plucked or swept away
but i'm not any of those things

just a girl
lord, the awful truth
just a girl.

in the end there are only two genres
in literature -

type 1:

a navy seal retires,
has lived his life and what not,
retires,
and then writes a book
about his life -

the sort of book that would
encourage you to live
the life he's lived...

   which is not going to happen -
no matter your literary drive -
the life isn't there -
and it's not exactly high-brow
literary ambitions that
is missing -
   it's simply that the life is
there,
   the Blitzkrieg selling rates
of such books,
people, "oddly" enough like
an authentically lived
experience to prop up the
dry narrative of:
what probably constitutes
ghost writers...
  a Casanova type of books,
autobiographies...

but wait...
what happened to the autobiography
genre?
    last time i checked,
all these reality t.v. celebs have
about 5 "autobiographies"
to boot...
   and they're what... licking 40
a.m. (our mortal god's years
of the fidgety limbs?) -
what's up with that?

    so it's not an autobiography per se...
memory loss, premature dementia?
i was misdiagnosed with that...
schizophrenia...
     that's fun...
what is?
   a misdiagnosis...
whenever i watch t.v. i play a game
of spotting a familiar face...
i'm usually right...
                photographic memory...
i can recognize a face...

        kind of a requirement living
in the labyrinth of outer
English suburbia...
    ******* ferris wheel quasi confusion:
but always speeding up...

type 1 books?
   a summary of a well lived life:
joined the army,
  traveled the world,
  learned Brazilian martial arts,
****** a lot of women...
began the day by jogging
at 3am with the milkman...
   books you should read in your youth
and be fed the desire to live
a symbiosis of it, imitate it...

funny... cloning is not a scientific
concept, physically...
sure... that much is true...
  but cloning a mind...
converting someone to pray five
times a day on a Persian rug?
   religion...
    religion was the first instigator
of cloning, prior to science,
cloning is such an old concept,
it predates the scientific breakthroughs...
how else?
you have to clone and replicate
the mind, before the body is
investigated as being enclosed in
the equivalent capacity for,
said, "conversion"...

            i guess for the elites
clones are much effective than what's being
fed for the bourgeoisie...
  look... the rich care more about
the poor than the middle class...
   because they know that the poor
can only pass on genes...
   which muddles the bourgeoisie, a lot...
it feeds them passing on
memes -
              less genes - more memes -
the rich can father replicas by passing on
both: genes... & memes...
the poor can only pass on their genes...
the bourgeoisie?
    they can't do both...
       and since they can't pass both...
they have concentrated on passing memes
rather than genes...

  and you know where that leaves them?
evidently sexless -
  or at least with a 0.5% rate
of population replenishment....
     not a nice place...

but that's only type 1 of literature...

type 2:
  the sort of antithesis of an autobiography,
someone that is on-going...
    gravitating toward an expansion
of a personal vocabulary...
   the sort of book, you can't write,
and never will,
   because it depicts a life:
            YOU DON'T WANT TO LIVE.
**** me, it would be grand to
live the type 1 literature,
settling in some comfy armchair aged
70, and reminiscing...
             you have that last *******
watching memory cinema,
you can lie, juxtapose through the fabric
of oncoming dementia
memory loss...
   life is dandy...
          but type 2 literature?
ever notice the ongoing onslaught with
wordings and linguistic observations?
those supposedly inorganic aspects of
language -
words acting as inanimate objects?
oh but they breath -
sure, they fall in and out of fashion -
but a flesh eating body of flesh
still managed to utter them,
somehow, never mind the etymological
genesis -
            only when there is
the complete slaughter of encoded language
will there be talk of an "etymological"
exodus...
   but that's beside the point...
this type 2 of writing?
    no magical life formula...
no joining the army,
or ******* a lot of women...
the whole sha-sha-bang!
                  
    in the end i hold dear to the fact that i'm
not a fiction escape-artist...
i hate escapism -
    esp. of a fictive nature,
well, fictive "nature" per se...
give me a philosophy book or
some obscure poem and i'll
turn a cognitive labyrinth into
a Pamplona bull charge...
    
as i also wanted to travel to Munich for
the Oktoberfest...
but never did...

   guess it's true:
   you can never get what you want,
might as well do with
what you have and must like it...
i.e. if you don't have what you
like: like what you have.

very few people write type 2 literature...
most write type 1...
       let's face it...
there's type 2A and type 2B...
     type 2A is fiction...
   escape artistry...
                
****... that's three genres then...
             type 2B has one motto:
my life is so ******* boring, that...
i decided to write...
                     well... "bored"...
rather... predictable...
                  but i can't imagine the horror
of having lived such a challenging
and exciting life of type 1...
and then reducing it to farting into
an armchair...
   and getting a ghost-writer to
script my open mic monologue...

             ah...
                  i'm sure that few people will
write a type 2B...
            too few people have
lost their "necessity" to dream while sleeping...
i stopped dreaming per se,
even if i do conjure up a dream...
it's so much *******,
so Jackson ******* that
     even Freud couldn't get
a cucumber or an oyster metaphor
out of it.

Check them off one by one
Till my list is finally done
First item of the day
Is pick up my crap and put it away
The dusty book on my floor
The marked on notebooks behind the door
Trinkets and toys I never use
The games which no longer amuse
The old black book of names refused
I toss them out whether their old or new

Second item on my list of things I need to do
Clean out my closet filling up a bag or two
With things, and memories to give to you
C.D.s, letters, sweaters, and P.S. two
Drop them off on your front door step
Then drive away all by myself

Third thing on this very long list
Though this heartache still persists
Though I know you are still ******
And we will never get through this
Here is a letter from me on my way out

Explaining what this list is about
With one ticket and two tough suitcases
I leave this town to see the Pamplona bull races
Many men intend to run and I count as another one
This bucket list you see is a list of my fantasies

A large lump and two terrible masses
Clog my natural flow through which this refuse passes
SO before I go I had to make this trip
And finish off my bucket list

so you come across a women who does
video diary entries about books...
and you start thinking:
so... where do the shoes, come in?

                no hand-bags?

so... you're basically telling me...
books are the new shoes...
you own a zoological study's worth
of examples...
   but you only wear, as you only
read, about a dozen?

       mind-blowing!
  ab-so-lu-tely... absolutely -
(had to unhinge that word from
hyphenated cutting ip) -
   even i thought i was a big reader...
maybe i'm reading the wrong books...
like?
    Heidegger's sein und zeit?
    well over two years,
with poetry / classical literature
interludes...

   must have been the wrong book...
i mean: who the hell takes over 2 years
to read a book?
   oh... right... someone who takes
the time to reflect on it,
think about it...
                       progresses with his
own avenues of interests colliding
with the original content of
the said book...

     but a woman who collects books,
like she might collect shoes?
    staggering...
           ground-breaking...
             bloated genius, or...
the litmus paper test of
newspaper articles...
  in that: so few people read beyond
the first paragraph...
         given that so few people read
the editorial section,
or the news review section
on a Sunday...

                  what can you say
about a man with long feet?
big shoes...
what can you say about a woman
with a "kleptomania"
   (misnomer, or metaphor?)
for books?
        well... is it...
not enough shoes?!

     i am an avid reader -
but when you're purposive about also
allowing skimming -
rather than reading?
   i.e. cheating?
              no wonder i bypassed
the wearisome trouble of censorship...
namely?
   the people who read my diatribe...
it's automatic censorship,
     if i made video?
  gone... this minute...
   out...
                    stone cold...
  but i guess algorithmic A.I. bots
have an easier task of working
out sounds to lettering...

   so i pass by... covert...
seemingly unseen...
   unless of course someone takes
the effort to read these puny word jumbles...
covert, i.e. hide & seek...
    algorithmic A.I. bots can't read...
and even if they did,
they are not phrased in nuance...
  so out goes the hope for making videos...
**** it...

             weave enough linguistic spice
into the versed,
  and you have yourself a runaway train,
speeding dead blind at a target that
you allowed to move,
but for obscene & ulterior motives -
is frozen still...
   and you're about to charge at it
Pamplona style...
          
                  oh i read...
but when i listen to a V blogger -
and she has about 20 books pending reading?
and it's not 20 pairs of shoes of which
5 will be donned?
   i'm curious...
                  it's not impossible -
my grandmother could read you
10 Harlequin romance novels
in a month by Swedish authors...
if not more...

    ****! i must be reading the wrong
type of books to bulk up
the volume of my supposed
lack of achievement!
        
then again... i hate the sort of books
that do not allow me to have
the sub-narrative
    of my thought...
    having dived into what is best
disclosed as the most
******* **** -
             philosophy -
hardly a naked body...
     a thought:
   the soul -
      the nakedness of a frightful
heart...

            i guess i am reading
the wrong type of books,
since i can't compete with women
reading books by the bulk.

i did actually contemplate
succumbing to the label:
*******...
    but then i learned that there
are variant reading speeds for
the variety of literary genres.

The Seine a tongue of midnight ink.
Montparnasse, a tepid August night,
star-bundles like quartz-splinters in the sky.
     The Dingo bar the place.
Jazz coming from somewhere, melody of mystery,
throng of conversation and smoke,
grey curlicues swaying above our heads.

Hemingway, feuillemort shirt, telling me I look rough.
   ‘You sleeping well?’     ‘Well enough.’
   ‘That wife of yours is pure mayhem, I tell you.’
The same old chatter. Besides, Isadora was worse,
cradling her drink as if a glass of jewels.
Then he was onto his Pamplona jaunt,
a heat that careened off from the streets,
undulations of warmth in the air
quivering like whispers.

  ‘Look here, we’re the best writers in this city
   when you’re not gallivanting over to your wife.
   Two women, one body, you know it Scott.’
I sighed, ordered another gin.
‘Transparent poison’, Ernest said again.

On the way home, faded trill de trompette in my ears,
night thriving to every pocket of Paris,
fields of unidentified liquorice flowers.
Young and in love - young with intimacy
skittering around our bodies
like delicate bees.

oh, please, i can't stop laughing...
i find it really hard to not find
the ****: simply funny:

plus... i really love to giggle a few
seconds, that morph into
minutes, and later morph into hours,
and then sometimes become
days...

i love seeing america burn...
much more exciting than watching
siberia grow cold...
you have to admit,
watching steaks fried the status
of rare, while watching hot-head
american argue isn't
entertaining, well:
see you at pamplona.

i hate to say this, but modern
diacritics is all about music...
it has to be...
you can only return to diacritical
inspection with music being
regarded: sorry...
and it always comes down
to the boss...
i know, americana *******
around my ***...
you have a dynamic:
it's either
(a) born in the u.s.a.
  or you have (b) human touch
or you have (c) maria's bed...
no, you don't get your little reggae angle,
you don't get your little french tip,
or your trap jazz trip...
give the "man" his dues...
come one...
     give him some inkling
into being human...
          i don't mind it much with the cowboy
boots, and the tacky quake of dancing
to a quaking sunrise...
but at least i can talk you dead
with blues and jazz...
          it's still about thwee shwongs...
i test human touch the prime...
born in the hussain say aye is still
my favourite...
   a country might die,
but the song lives beyond the country's
lifespan...
                 and that's how history is written...
the deaf obliterate the "hearing",
and the blind endear the supposedly "seeing",
the lunatics lead
   the sane, through the darkness of
the most maddening day...
    and we come, in the unfathomed
congregational worth of affairs...
labouring to succeed a sentence of
a fathomable of all deserved affairs of
things: worth quest,
to be mustered,
   in the least commanding role,
  in the least expecting "churn" of force.

diacritical demands, thus, rested,
upon the testament of indicating musical
tastes... well... what a grand advert of hopes,
aspirations, and correctly applauded concerns...
let us have the little we can also
claim the much,
    and continue the struggle with
belittling: as something to never allow us to shrink,
and make ourselves state:
what is little is to be a little of what is in
a hyped-up be...
            but what truly is? what it is
"to be"? the belittling of what could be!
and that is a question:
that remains as a question alone,
   and never a testament of tested potential...
rather, a question asked: but never answered:
potency per se,
       a potency of a question per se,
   that remains a question per se,
  since there is no answer per se to stop
the questioning; hence the overly keen
   answering continuum... which, to be exact,
breeds the atypical laziness americanum...
     hard to find a basis for life
when we all have the answers answered,
and no originality of asking questions anew:
hard to live with americans,
since there are so few questions arising
to make the ?, worth much more than the i;
typical americanism.

sign of the times... not good, not good at all... the english shouldn't own german dog breeds, let alone the germans owning their dogs... how can they? when did a stranger walk past a woman walking a rottweiler, and the stranger managed to pet the rottweiler on the head? when i owned a doberman pinscher, he was a ferocious lunatic! when i sold him for almost gouged my eye out after i smacked him for attacking my ***** alsatian... the people who bought him, cited that he had the tenacity to attack piranhas they owned. how did i pet him? axl. beautiful *******, although mad as the bull's ******* after a month of absistence, charged into a pamplona sprint.

i've seen it, once or twice...
   how does man overcome his fear
of the dark, esp. when wandering
like *dante did,
    into the darkened woods?
well...
    the common man takes with him
a dog, or at least a few...
i remember standing by a fence
on a darkened path, when a few dogs
ran up to me and started
their courting of attempting
to lick my face, whimping, and waggling
their tails...
    no reason to brag...
whenever i went into the woods,
    i took with me no dog,
only the reverse kantian expression
of the shadow, i.e. the shadow:
  something cold...
      and as the general expression goes,
so too it disintegrates...
i.e. afraid of one's own shadow...
    well...
              you can walk blindly onto
a path within a forest,
  with or without a moon to illuminate
your tread, there is no shadow to be
found...
        i found my strength in that i couldn't
cast a shadow in the woods...
   whatever fear there was to be
experienced, i churned it, concentrated it:
so that the woods became my shadow,
   for i had no shadow to cast in the lunar
illumination...
    at night, i am but a clock,
      striding, ready,
         to make due with the hours cast,
as my shadow shelters time in the hours
passed by night...
   while others sleep,
        i blind the moon, and head into
the woods,
               where no fear, as no shadow
dares to follow: for i become the woods,
and the fear therein,
   solitude bearing, sometimes howling:
just the little ol' me;
but please, fellow man, take your dogs
into this tartarus,
      pray that they don't greet me with such
friendly disposition...
     better a dog that snarls at a stranger
in the dark,
   than a dog that greets a stranger,
   that supposedly has a scent of sausages on him;
what sort of dog is that?!
                                 useless!
a pack of judases, that's what you own,
feed, and shelter! no wonder
             you end up scorning them!
once upon a time: when a dog was man's
best friend...
                     look at these judas ******...
a dog requires discipline to be a friend
to a master...
                       they're dogs! they're not cats!
stop pampering them you rotten squats!

you know what a cigarette wound looks likes?
me niether, well, no, i do:
but then again i was talking
to a ghost, today, today, via
a note:
          via suburbia -
so much life & yet so little
potential: so little guaratee:
to be had let alone shared as once
it could be claimed  to have
happened:  the son of
a secondary beggar: i.e. dreamer...
i can't watch you people
commit yourself to an en masse
suicide...
              it's ******* disturbing!
i can't watch your pedantry via
the rule of censor invoked!
   you are disturbing procrastinations!
you're evil, i might as well
call you equal to the *******
terrorists!
                 get away from me,
your army of useful idiots
                    and genuine retards!
you bunch of ****-tards step
a foot into my land...
    i swear to god i'll skin
and then decapitate those insolent
wankers who make an attempt...

            right now?
you're only testing my
patience,
               wait until
the patience runs out...
                   i have you know,
i'm building up gravity to
ensure a pamplona charge...
   oh **** me am i rigid,
oh **** me am i frigid...
    first come the shock-absorbers...
then come the executioners...
you're breeding these monsters to
come!
        i'd love to be among them,
to be honest...
      you are breeding
what christianity bred foremost,
i.e. the nazis...
                    you are breeding
these people,
   gas chambers will feel like
humanitarian aid chambers,
recluse-spots of benevolent justification
for the original travesty...
             thank you, islam,
for breeding, and giving birth
to these northern monkey cannibals;
and if my warning is fake...
         i'll be dead before
the fruition of these words make an
echo, resembled by the cinema
                     match it up with.

cyber-punk, or at least:
congregating around graves
rather than desecrating them,
a zeitgeist thematic
of Polish politics...
and only from matchsticks
came the exploration
of transcending meaning(s)
subsequently lost
to youthful vigour
and squandering,
guarded by the motto:
omni (est) facilis omni (est)
           scitus...    
(somehow trans.
from english into latin
doesn't allow conjunction
sharpnel)...
might be an English thing...
and when people stop
investing in themselves
as slumbering potential...
the easy option becomes:
to have children...
    on the rare occasion
the balancing act...
and on even rarer...
a ******* offspring...
glue to a single mother...
came playing with matchsticks:
K, M, I, T, W, A, H, L, Y, X,
V, N, Z, F, q, e, r, u, p,
   s, d, (G), j, c, b.... (Oo)...
because what order is there,
with your bog a, b, c, standard,
when unravelling it,
chaos, reigns?!
is this, some sort of...
Lebanese joke about who
collects the garbage of Beirut?
         ******* matchsticks!
meaning no more,  no less,
evolved from 45°, 90°, 180°, ~23°, 30°,
  & 360° within circa hue differences...*
god even knows how
the Vatican credo would
resound in the extinct cuneiform...
Latin will be dead,
once the tax on using their
letters is exhausted
by the children...
      so much money rests,
upon a few squiggly lines
of arabic...
    ******* target material
in latin:
   if only there came
the notion, of mechanisation,
via the resurrected horse...
painting of war,
with a tribe that mastered
the bull...
came close st pamplona...
took to touristy... things...
   a prayer unto Hades in reply
to earliest Hugeounouts...
our father, who are a heaven,
in braille be your name,
by your absence come,
     give us this day our daily mammon,
and lead us into usury
as above temptation...
     and... anything more of this
kind of composition,  and no wonder,
easy prey on grounds of
exploitative execution;
hyena meat banquet... cliché...
the parasitical pop culture
sensational, iconoclasm.

a "schizophrenic"
                        bilingual...
             2 x 2 = 4...
squared up booted,
       quadratic
               bull-whipping,
    just shy of Pamplona...
i'm starting
to doubt the polyglot,
in that being
said:
      i "try" to find god
like i try to find
the image
   of my paternal
         grandmother.
whatever the economic
models:
    the stringent model
of an en masse
construct is: arm in arm...
sure, if i wanted to express
cohesion:
   i'd be the person saying:
i invented glue...
but since i haven't:
     no wonder that
i find myself appreciating
noodle theory...
    because, quiet honestly?
what's "big" about a
"bang" in a vacuum that
doesn't allow resonance?
well yeah...
   the perpetual re-,
id est: repeat -
               and res -
       the missing plurality
of "a" thing.

daft, defiant, deaf.
or who's
listening;
ordained
by a pair of
*******;
heaving
   a twinned turn
at a pair of
pamplona
   itches to
mark a stampede.
bull-run!
      *****! hot
air grr...
                in
the nostrils!
  you either sneeze,
or you blow your nose,
or?
      you hark back
the phlegm,
           and spit
the ******* out;
alternatively
talking
about an eddie izzard
joke.

The Bulls will be happy
Matador's in lockdown
and no Pamplona either
serves the ******* right.

If the market Schiffs
           and the bubble bursts
there will be a bull
                  ruin on wall street
which will make
                Pamplona look like
a china shop by
                             comparison.

Gros ****, or bull *******, is
what Caesar said about him.

He lent his name to Pamplona
the ""Merda"" metropolis of Spain,

Where CAFÉ IRUÑA has nothing
to do with fleeing the Taurus.

I keep confusing his name
with Pamplona in Spain
where the Bulls **** of the
streets.

Or am I thinking of Pompeii
in Italy where Mt Vesuvius
spewed out lava like oral
diarrhoea?

Perhaps it is pomposity the
noun, self-importance, imperiousness,
grandiosity, affectation, stiffness, airs,
pretentiousness, pretension, arrogance.

There's no virus
no Covid Corona

it's like ******* on
streets in Pamplona

but some want a jab
from a hoax of a lab

flown in by Ryan Air
to Girona.

eastern standard time Autumn Equinox arrives

That seasonal occasion twill arise
when darkness and light doth bring
equilibrium between night and day
raking leaves will constitute exercise
espied and witnessed by observant earthling
namely me who subsequently bellows hooray
jumping for joy childlike behavior I improvise
reliving boyhood mirth itching and inching
playfully scattering laborious effort lay
ying down burying self amidst tree humus - prize
zing spontaneity willingly orchestrating
shedding inapropos edict qua grown man at play.

A meadow for Autumn begins,
when eve doth fall upon summers’
and long ago mine childhood's end,
a hint of splendor bequeathed arose
upon firmament as changed scenery
(third equinox act since new year) bellows
basses loaded and blasted in sync
with pyrotechnic pizzazz,
while electric light orchestras suites scored for cellos
thus quiet riot of multitudinous notes swirl
from each bronzed leaf like fellows
dancing elliptically forsooth greeting mother earth
with char: rills brawn son utter hellos.

How peachy keen and grand to be seated
at plum lined tree center stage
to behold the colorful
capering downward spiraling threnody
quintessential silent rage
chapter three if nature alluded to
as a tome poem – and now the first page
known to humans since…way before indigenous tribes
occupied North America such as the Osage
and/or other natives, whose keen scents foretold
the onset from flora and fauna sings they did gauge.

Now regimentation of existence commandeered
by strict adherence affianced to the clock,
where misery loves company
lest an employee arrive one second late –
her/his pay will go hickory dock,
which sequestration to twenty first century life
analogous to men undergoing emasculation,
whereby he may as well be ******
without thick horn, where business
deals concluded as overhead a flock

of seagulls migrate to southern climes,
which with global warming seems ad hoc
yet the multitudinous animals and plants
genetically under rubric of life lock
which mucking around viz industrialization
humankind doth make a mock
‘ere re: and drive many miniscule species
to take safety and shelter under a rock
totally oblivious, those bipedal hominids haphazardly
scurry to work in order to purchase schlock.

Thus pre dormant season of the witch,
where one must be vigilant and tread
like angels heeding curtain call
draw wing summer to a close
with **** the torpedoes salvo,
the cacophony kaleidoscope of color
viz hitted courtesy sixty plus shades of red -
rose iz madder than horde of Bulls at Pamplona
forecast thee onset of cooler temperatures
with Falun Gong foliage natural compost

shelter burrowing creatures, who stash goodies
at a later time to be fed
thus each of us need be vigilant
with no misstep to tread
upon feet lightly negotiating
whereat dwells busy itty-bitty bodies
well nigh invisible to the naked eye,
yet if ground swell of organisms espied
one would behold microscopic
whirled wide webbed world.