I'm so passed overthinking
My overthinking over thinks
The thinking I'm overthinking
To the point I'm thinking over
What's over thought and I thought
I was over this
Just didn't think it over enough
dilemma dilemma
yeap
Hold on we're in for a bumpy ride
Airwaves collide
I'm pretty sure we've been here before
I'm confused
What was the thought
Somewhere amongst this chaos
I forgot the original thought
Now I'm overthinking
A thought that can't be found
Wait wait
Oh yes I remember now
The thought was simply
Peanut butter or jelly
On the last piece of toast
So both
Or one
But which
Rock
Paper
Scissors
How do I answer this
It's an impossible equation
1+1 is good
1+the other is good
1+2 makes 1
But I wanted to share it with you
So now there's not enough
Either way
So what do you prefer
Before my brain cells implode
Giving up on the hope
I'll ever make a decision
That will justify the reason
Why I'm overthinking
What to feed you for breakfast in bed
Maybe just coffee...
Wait which brand?
How strong?
More or less sugar?
Too much creamer!
**** it I'm going to work
Everything *****
When over-thought thoughts
Become thoughts we've been over
Overthinking themselves
Into non-existence
And I forget how
I started this conversation with myself
Or what it no longer pertains to
What was I talking about again?
Oh yeah do I have everything
What did I forget
Wallet
Keys
Phone
Socks
Shoes
Pants
Shirt
Necklace
Hat
30 minutes later it'll remind me
I woke up hungry
Couldn't decide what to feed myself
It's too late, I'm late for work

What I seek here is as a writer astutely commented “it was the pure breath of God playing on
Human heart strings” where better to start than an instrument that is played in such fashion
Solely by the wind its name is from ****** the Greek god of the wind my changeup calls for the
Wind of the one true God my line in lost friend not a person but a great black oak that grew on
A California ranch for over a hundred years in a storm it was destroyed the lines read this way
Two divergent seeds the ground did divide one of wooden grain the other flesh and blood
Their branches throughout the community do abide as charming as church bells ringing touching all the
Flesh and blood pertains to the ranch family that was so honored by this majestic guest all those years
That’s what I am speaking of bells are associated with the Aeolian harp because their sound is carried on
The wind crisp and clean without contamination this is written that we might prepare ourselves and
Have the pure spirit blow across our souls and from it have a better year ultimately a better life first in
These examples we will move closer to the Aeolian harp you will see this isn’t just living but its
Excelling in the richest spheres our lives can and must strive for this magnificence we are not
Just here just to expend time and enjoy ourselves we are to be in pursuit of a great and eternal
Reward there are many stratus of life others are in earthy terms more advanced that is only on
Social levels in the spirit we truly are equal each according to their gifts will answer on a same
Plane fair and honest judgment so that alone should birth passion in each one I want to be the
Best I can be not to out show another but to present our selves honorably and show we put in
The same effort as others first know all are not chosen to have such dramatic tunes of the harp
To drift across life’s varied landscape ours still will be unique and the highest tunes possible and
Will resound with glory we ourselves to a degree will be pleasantly surprised truly so it will be
Determined on the closeness we have with His Holy spirit when I first heard the harp was in
Hannibal Missouri I was in this rich place of American story telling the boy hood home of
Samuel Clemens better known as Mark Twain I was on the river frontage road the great
Mississippi was to my right but I wasn’t thinking of Tom Sawyer my thoughts weighed heavy on
My mind I was far away up by Chicago at a church where brother and Sister Willis was pastor
Then back in the present here in Hannibal this was their home town a beautiful blonde eight
Year old was their pride and joy life was full she had a older brother who was ten it was a
Musical joyous life and then dark ominous clouds rolled in one so filled with life small and
Gentle it was one of the cruelest and terrifying cancers sorry even her death was terrifying in
The midst of tears and anguish they prompted the Aeolian harp to play they brought her home
To this historical place that became so much more rich and sacred when they lay her in the
Cemetery it came as a rush it over powered my emotions in my mind I saw her waiting for that
Great call the dead in Christ will rise first and meet him in the clouds of glory then those still are
Living will be caught away with him this young heartbroken father and mother with
Out hesitation or actuation by faith and trust they continued and shortly thereafter they started
And completed a larger church the richness of the harp reached across the lost community
Families in peril confused and lost had their ears and hearts opened by the lives of these
Faithful Parents it’s not just about making heaven but look around you at the great and terrible
Day of Judgment the great white throne and He who sets there once the savoir now the judge
Of the world you have others standing there with you as you look at them you can’t help to
Look Beyond His great light and see out in the darkness the deadly silent crying trembling lost
That no one reached or worse they wouldn’t listen the next story of the harp is about Frank
Bartleman the great man God used to bring modern Pentecost to America through the gate of
Azusa St Los Angels he arrived in Los Angeles with his wife and two young daughters December
22 January his oldest daughter three year old Easter was seized with convulsions and passed
Away he echoed the word from Ester little Queen Ester seemed to have been born for a time such
As this Esther 4:14 “Beside that little coffin with heart bleeding I pledged my life anew for God’s
Work In the presence of death how real eternal issues become of all the music LA has produced
None comes close to the sounds made by the Aeolian harp that day all the days since and all
The Souls whose shouts resounded then and now what joy bells are ringing throughout the
Years you read this the harp cuts thorough every excuse every denial we make when His love is
Calling over pastoral fields over head white clouds azure blue sky a single white dove the son of
Man personally calls to you I love you you’re missing so much following the false and deadly
Trends of this world come let me pull you close your land a waste land of just material things in
My presence unquestioned exception hurts carried for years will be healed only as a father can
Do your guilt will be forever cast away moral purity that your soul cries for will be heaped in
Your life no longer dark shadows that haunt but real true life that satisfies to the uttermost it
Will heal bring new understanding addictions are flimsy bindings that hold only because you
Seek all things that are rooted in disfavor my favor knows no bounds and you will be free I will
Breathe my spirit and you will know the Aeolian harp tunes and breathtaking wonder will swirl
Through your mind heart and spirit Heaven will displace the black strangle hold of this world
Centered anew the rays of the cross and my love breaks every yoke true freedom is yours for
time and eternity

solid congealed masses of fat sit
balloons filling within joints
stagnant extremities feel as if they are solidifying
the man becoming a statue; a watcher
here lies a perfect specimen of 21st (and in the latter half to a third) a  20th century man seated before the primary means of oral, aural and visual communication.  Oral pertaining to the man's ability to only speak of it and the programmes displayed on it . . . .  .
as still as the brain is telling them to be
as still as the brain wants them to be
it doesn't want to be left out you see, feels secluded when dormant
alongside a healthy, active set of limbs and torso
so it persuades them ever so gently to become as lazy as he
so he feels more at home in his body; the brain he lords over the body tyrannically and purposefully.


Extraneous effort can be avoided, in all manners of life; whilst sitting, whilst working, whilst running.  Being properly lazy has to do with how little you can do without doing something else.  It is possible to run at a speed that does not cease to be running but it is not walking.  You can sit only so still before you are asleep.  Being properly lazy is being able to sit precariously on this line so perfectly you don't slip backwards or forwards into a useful action or being in the top percentile of the new lesser action which you are in essence, lording over physically.  An extremely intelligent man can be extremely lazy in an activity that would take a long concentrated effort from another less intelligent man, but in essence, he is really just avoiding falling asleep.

Laziness can be misappropriated; attributed to men who are not lazy at all.  A man at the enth of any discipline could not be considered lazy; the same could be said about a man at the enth of his ability.  We speak of course in terms of natural ability.  Actions achieved in ones current capability; carried out without carrying on other efforts to cavort himself into a higher category of actions (a laziness compared to ability graph could be constructed/plotted and then correlated if one could be bothered).  Of course, it goes without saying that the achievance of these goals necessary to propel or descend a man into the new upper or lower segment of before described laziness are in turn harder or easier to achieve depending on the man's predetermined stature; position in life even, considering we are talking of afflictions that affect a man and not a boy, and therefore we are assuming that the formative years are not thus (formative) and are but a compulsory precursor, a cross that every man must bear; not a development that pertains to the quantity of laziness he possesses.

with a sea of unachieved tasks/goals laid out before him he resides to sit patiently waiting for something to happen in front of him, sometimes clicking a mouse, sometimes a remote
sometimes he is angry that he is boring
sometimes he calls a friend to be angry at the boxes with him
sometimes he feels sick that he is a *******
sometimes he laughs at people on the boxes who are pieces of ****
but most of the time he is a ******* happily, content that he is at least part of a healthy digestive system, whether he is the result/byproduct of, or the action that produced the **** in the first place.

Salty air kisses my face in the darkness of the night
only the distant flashes of light
make the waves glow, the illumination of a calm moon nowhere in sight
the early autumn air rushes across my exposed skin
the lapping of the waves, mesmerizing pulls me in
warmth of a running engine purring under my feet
the cold metal roof becomes my seat
the black backdrop of the sky my ceiling
chilled hands feeling the light raindrops running over my palms
peaceful, unnervingly calm
as the storm rages on
every bolt of lightning unique and spontaneous
struggling to find something in my life that pertains to this
humbling feeling of isolation and solitude
i'd love to say i thought of you
as the low thunder rumbled seeming to run across the sea
to these very feet
but i'd be a liar and you'd feel significant
we were simply flashes of lightning, nothing different
blazing a night sky with our spectacular glow and intensity
flashes of memories
never striking in sync or together
i never understood the weather better
then how well i feel it at this moment
i was lightning in a bottle, you were never meant to hold it....

Inside
       of  
           my    
               head
            
                        Entombed  
                                 is  
                                      a   
                              
                         B   R   A   I   N

                                      Can’t
             ­                                shake
                                                      this    ­        
                                                        ­   feeling
                                                       ­    That  
                                                             ­it’s
                                                             ­not    
                                                      ­       the      
                                                            s­ame
                                                     Infected sickness
                                                Covered with dull pain
                                         A rabid                          werewolf
                         ­             I’m trying                             to tame
                                     Almost off                              the leash
                                    I tug at                                    the reigns
                                    Hold              on  ­       with       sheer will
                                    Have          nothing   ­    to                 gain
                                
                           ­        My                       efforts;                  A joke
                                   Fighting               a freight                   train
                                    Through              gr­it teeth             I smile
                                      Demeanor             ­                       I feign
                                          Failure          ­    coming            soon
                                      ­       My life,         one more        stain


                                             ­                    Lost
                                                          ­         sight
                                                                ­      of
                                                                ­      it
                                                                ­        all
                                                   ­               To
                                                              w­hat
                                                            ­ it
                                                 pertains
                                                      ­I
                                                    am
                                              sinking
                                                down
       ­                                            Spinning in
                                       the drain
                                                    An
                                               endless
                                              battle
           ­                             Forever
                                     the
                                bane
                           ­  Of
                      my
           existence

            No                   longer                    I’m                   sane………

I've been trying to write something of substance for quite some time now,
trying to collect fresh thoughts from newer moments of you
and rearrange them into phrases that would gift me a new remarkable piece of the puzzle that is the immeasurable complexity of your soul.
I've been trying to bottle up this obtrusive, demanding feeling of utter awe that comes when you and I climb into our honesty and wear it to bed, side-by-side.
I've been trying to backtrack slightly, wishing so desperately (though stoically!) for the return of those painfully dire professions of unadulterated romance, reminiscing in the saturation of your love letters and how the color red is breathed into me time after time to remind me how powerfully you've shifted the balance of my life.
I love you, I love you, by god, do I love you.
My fears are still the same, though, Darling, and I feel that with the redness of passion shall also come a redness of a quality that pertains to homicidal gore,
for you have, still, that scalpel in your hands,
and my heart blooms every moment of my life, not for its love of me, but for the hope that it may one day bloom for the last time cradled in your blood-soaked palms.
I've been trying to say anything else for a week but nothing will break from the gates and give me a solid night's sleep anymore.
I can't tell you how mad you've actually made me.
Though I do dare to hope that I've evoked similar sentiments in you.

after twenty years, my life is still embryonic:
i guess it pertains to the self-same me to be tragic and comic.
by this age, Rimbaud had already renounced poetry, leaving
in fury shattered instruments of alchemy and sublime scrolls
from hell, scrawled impeccably in drug-infused-blood and divine
protest, depicting beatific visions of love, infinite aching bodies
and disordered senses;
by this age, he had already heeded the call of adventure,
known destitute poverty and absolute ecstasy, triviality
and magnificence,
and was bound for an obscure exploration, marriage,
trading in slaves
and was past half way to a tedious death.
but what have i seen? and what is this?—merde!
after twenty years, my life is still embryonic:
i guess it pertains to the self-same me to be tragic and comic.

It was just ordinary colors in my wife’s clothing but it was similar and it was the effect of
Touching another item that I had purchased for her when our lives first began together it was
soft plaid again like when they say earth tones but this was light purple pink and green it was a
Pant suit and with her white turtleneck blouse she was a knockout in this single memory a life is
Flipped through pains joys indescribable happiness how she made me feel as she stood there in
That mall for some reason white always brought a special glow to her skin transfixing the heart
Not speaking registered adorable there are grand moments of romance but there to is the most
Precious visitations through the simplest means everything stands still and lets her stand
Out and shine God saw it first when he created the majestic pine then underlay it with brown
Soil the exactness of perfection I already wrote about how she looked on the back side of Oahu
Again the shade in the foreground white sand the carpet the preferment the palms created
Overhead and then out to the water’s edge the bright sunlight the turquoise surf edged in
White she strolled barefoot letting the waves roll in and splash over her feet and she had on
These bright red shorts and a white shirt with a red emblem on the front she was stunning
What a blend of paradise and the embodiment of love post card picture perfect a touching
Breeze caused her hair to flow out and away my heart rode on this dream wave truly Venus the
Goddess of love was in attendance again my heart was applauding without outward expression
It was in private conversation with my soul the swells in my heart rose as high as those rich
Green sea side cliffs it was renewal it was remembrance why I loved her so then at the country
Club back home in California at Christmas she wore this sheer black dress we had our picture
Taken in front of this great tree that was flocked she wore her hair in a perm perfection beamed
From her face she stole the show the dazzle of Christmas lights my heart rode the chilled cold
Night wind when we waited for them to bring our car it was the feeling of waiting for a carriage
Over head the stars twinkled in the crisp winter night air I just included you in a short journey of
How it feels to love my wife why because we all need to find our way back to the central and
Most important place in our life it happened for me just by the sight of a familiar color this also
Pertains to the immeasurable treasure that we have here in our homeland what can prompt us
To revisit and appreciate all that we have in marriage in God and country this truth is and will be
Told in different forms of sacred memories just open your heart and mind and enjoy yours

Listen people, as this pertains to you, in general. The ***** that I give are decaying, exponentially, in relation to you. (you as a mass, an amoeba, a faceless many or few, however you wish to view the individual, inner, outer, oneself, selfless or self-centered, arrogance and humility all set aside)Forward from this point it has been planned, by my conscious and I, through negotiation (talking to myself is demoralizing, ruthless ******* I am at all ventures) an equation for the ***** I'll be rationed (or deprived of) has been set forth by it (or him, the tones are erratic and stances inconsistent, better I find to leave it faceless, a mass inconceivable in ways and form) to follow said equation.
F= i(1-e)^L
The variables within being explained to me as meaning such:
F is for *****, obviously-the end result-what we in essence: are after. Having to wade through the entire convoluted mess my conscious has made of it.
i is innocence, the starting point or amount- the source from which all my ***** flow.
e if experience, the rate of decay through time-experience being what seems to cause it-hardening innocence, slowly but surely, eliminating ***** all together.
L is life, the time: The span in which the degradation of ***** can and will occur, upon its end, the equation is erased, and given to start anew somewhere else, with someone else.
In layman’s terms the entire equation is doomed to begin with. Innocence, mine or anyone else’s is an impossible thing to quantify: measure. It’s sun tea from grandmothers’ mason jars on summers evenings, nostalgia and ignorance, something individual and immeasurable.
Leaving us to ask it (my conscious) what the hell it was even thinking. It, of course, doesn’t think in logical terms, only hides under the pale ruse of them.
My experience is a little easier to quantify. Seeing death, hearing the crack of an animal’s entire body under a tire, the last screech of death, Ruined lives or families, the illogical kindness of strangers, the warmth of another human’s body. All these things play crucial roles, leaning towards one way or another, another being this case, another being negative.
My time (L) is limited, leaving us to ask what relativity it has on the entire equation. The sad and short domain of a cliff dive graph. The two dots that predict importance, and my relativity the graph, the system this equation functions within, and its rules as a whole.
It says to work it through, to find myself, to change some spiral I can’t track or imagine.
It doesn't think in logical term, it left me confused without the tools to claw my way out of existence, and this sterile version of it.
It doesn't know (or care) what’s going on, it only hides behind the pale ruse,
of giving a ****.

Hey, look at me.
Skin shown, cleavage down to my toes.
I know how to make them look,
I can make them want.

I'm the heart-breaker,
Twirl you around my perfectly manicured finger,
I know how to  breathe.
I know how to ******.

I'm the girl everyone wants to be.
Perfectly advertised, desirable.
Beauty, intelligence
All pertains to me.

Who am I?
I'm every teenage girl, who
Has no self-esteem.
Who lies, cheats, and manipulates, just to be seen.

And I have a question,
Still want to be me?

a voltage feeds my mind
like that of a brief rainfall
where there is an asterisks
of insignificant social commentary
whose reality pertains
to disproportionate events
whose commission
makes a profession out of trivia
which is no more ******* durable
than accumulated dispersion of adrenalin
that of a psychophysical explorative
exploitation of unrealized
perpetual fermentation
that seethes with the singeing smell
that accompanies its lie
those demanding untruths
that lock each and everyone
in a burning prison of panic
a prism of unfocused
visionary liberation perhaps to some
the realization of the cosmos
that lives within the poets interior
a mighty roar of space
waiting to be filled
with visions of future worlds
of future social commentary

Time is money
money is time
So when they say it takes money to make money
They mean it takes time.
We all get the same amount daily
Personality gives quality
Because no one can survive selling off white canvases
portraying the self
to receive currensy

Gotta keep ths bar raised
Above and beyond what we call minimum wage
You gotta sell yourself in order to receive a fat check on pay day
Meaning understanding that wealth
Pertains to ones health
Properly known that to diet right heightens stealth.
Mediation nourishes the soul
Hydrating, purifying the flow
Keeping busy to stimulate the brain
Always on top when ignorant folk do or say anything

Its plain to see
Finding yourself includes paying off a bunch of fees
Some say taxes but its really adversity
Cause nothing worth having in life ever comes easy
Best way to succeed is to merely just be me
I can only speak for myself,  cause its my world, my industry
My mind cant escape to retrieve too much of another mans mysteries
Ill burst like a bubble
My mind is that fragile
But ill forever help those in need with any one of their battling struggles

The enabler or possibly rescuer is often a individual which steps help an individual that has an compulsion or who might be based upon an item to stay regarding in their negative practices. The average person that you are making could be working at any of the: consuming an excessive amount of, hurting pills, becoming busted, wagering, present an eating disorders or maybe even working an excessive amount or perhaps not sufficient. When you are securing or simply masking for through making reasons or maybe lying down for your children, you'll be able to come to be overly trusted to create on their behalf. A intentions could be to provide service to the other make will finish their substance abuse and no matter what it may be this really is ones own dependency. On the contrary, by just assisting such, you are the item easy for that dependence or possibly horrible common practice to go on cheap ghd hair straighteners outlet. It doesn't matter how well-intended how you behave might well be, by preserving all of them out of objectionable conditions, frankly, that you are facilitating all of them stay away from responsibilities they should be spending by themselves along with their habits. Maybe you discover yourself to be imagining or even concentrating on your other's actions and even complications around your own personal or perhaps are feeling worried concerning habit and so are usually managing these cheap ghd hair straighteners outlet. You perhaps pin one self with regards to situations. Perhaps you're perhaps even conscious that the truth how you behave plus behaviour to become a nanny might be helping the person. Most of the time because a codependent enables one more its satisfying a requirement inside of these to actually feel wanted in order to provide structure in just anything they discover as the disorganized event. Regardless of whether you supply many other somehow or simply quite often as a result of stating next to nothing, you are which allows. Helping is definitely a clear symbol of very low self-esteem.

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alas, i've heard it asked: how can we
write poetry after Auschwitz?
i don't know. and prose? i don't know: gone mad
the whole world implodes and dips its dove's foot into my purple brow:
in a dream, ink erupts from under my dirt encrusted fingernails
and it is the transubstantiation of my rainbow stained blood,
and the void was flooded:
what's a word? more than i—more than i can show.
how did they write poetry after colonialism?
after other slaves and other genocides?
i don't know. Rimbaud traded in slaves, and, before his fury,
wrote masterpieces... perhaps its obvious; a bad pun, to help us cope,
—he even left the path to his divinity,
but all this has nothing to do with anything—.
perhaps every genocide needs its herald poets.
and the rest, how did they write? i don't know.
perhaps it was not their concern;
they desired to write, and there, they did not give way, and so
were right.
and is it the same with us, as we write
through the screams of the however many millions coming from Congo
and from however many other scenes similar? i—
perhaps i do not need to know,
perhaps, in fact, i cannot write poetry.
if i'm to try, it pertains to me to be of use in case this comes to a fight.

and life, if life is drama,
then there will always be roles:
there will always be the part of the villain that needs playing,
an immortal space to be filled by actor after actor,
we cannot stop them, we cannot stop them;
our enemy is a hydra's head!
the task, then, is to re-write the script!
ad lib won't cut it!
cast away your hope, boredom and wonder:
we'll need fire and a pen mightier than a golden sword,
and softly spoken words that can split history asunder.

Fearless lovers of the night,
Ruled by everlasting hunger,
Inseparable like life and death.

God's glowing
White eye watches them,
But innocence and guilt
Are of no importance.
Judgment only pertains
To the fruitful fluid
Your body harbors,
A delicacy.

Their fangs will
Free you and I.
I am beholden
To them.
Their fangs will
Free you and I,
And the night
Will become
Our playground.

Originally written 12/6/08
Revised 11/19/14

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith

yes, what, an, absurdity...
the apparent otherness to being...
so what is the "other" option?
the apparent "self" (with a missing
adjective affix of -ness)
                 to being?
you know...
   Heidegger writes more about
the universal condition of
being,
    than the particularißation
of beings...
somehow... pluralism of existence
escapes him...
  somehow, but
          somehow: not by chance...
i'm actually wearing a pair of stinking
socks,
i'm starting to surmise a paranoid
presence of a skunk...
but i won't...
because i know that i've been
wearing this pair or socks,
for two days, solid...
    pardon the expression...
                     i self-taught myself
the English language aged 8 / 8+...
and it wasn't even a realisation...
there! there we go again...
  realization...
but what would be more correct?
realißation...
        first lesson, in diacritical
application...
     second lesson...
         there is no lesson...
English is not a universal language,
nor does it, exactly, portray itself
as universally minded...
     it has particular rules,
and particular laws...
        no... English is no
1 + 1 = 2...
  it never was, and it never will be...
now...
                  you, telling me,
that it is, just as well...
is not helpful...
              i want more...
         hmm...
how to put it?
i remember a car drive with
a friend of mine...
and i remember,
distinctly...
how he was scolded for not
remembering the alphabet...
  ****, even i don't remember
the alphabet,
there are too many words
that are required to erode my memory
in order to spell them...
why would i need to memorize
the ******* alphabet?
         education is,
after all,
the prime tool for
memory erosion...
the personal memory...
whatever the **** matters...
   that there's existence
contra that's there-existence -
and such a posit,
is an escapade into a non-pluralism -
given the obnoxious there,
without a posit for "a" here...
given that there is the certain
posit of, existence...
      while "here": isn't even
a being, or beings...
                   and as such:
such an un-entertaining exercise
in the native tongue...
  it could be summarized in even
allowing a man to, blush!
      sorry, i don't speak the native
tongue,
i speak a native tongue that
the natives don't speak...
               not if they're supposed
to be deemed a: nation
of shopkeepers.
                       language requires either
rhyme,
or logical simplicity for the natives
i've encountered,
there is no chance in hell
for there to be a play on words,
or a deviating logic behind
every or any sentence
structures...
        it's madness!
madness!
       they'll bring down
intelligence,
cover it with retardation...
and call in the psychiatric examiners...
as they always do...
        i'm used to it...
do i mind?
      em.... how about extending
my tenure of making criticism
postmortem a 100+ years,
and then we can rekindle
the conversational demands
of said, question?
  what i found though?
the German call life: sein -
or being...
the French call life: existence -
or rather:
out of every and within every
worthwhile inclusion of
an exampled instance,
that culminates in a allocated
revision:
   worthless without
an exclusion of non-examinable
instances,
           i.e. pitiable
the career in dream interpretation...
one of life's grand pardons...
or whatever verbiage there
needs to be included in
crafting a deviating:
  faux pas...
           it's still a question
of... what existence pertains to:
an observation of
being,
                  or an observation
of beings...
                well then...

sein    :        wesen

    contra...

          be present, be located -
hence?                 da -
  i.e. there...

                but... what is "here"?
da               contra          
                                         hier... no?

by "being" there, i can be,
"there"... within the allocated "being"
of beings...
              but i can't be, "there",
by allocating myself
to the being of beings:
while also allocating myself
a being of being...
no?

                   since to allocate myself
a being of beings,
i'd have to subsequently and
simultaneously allocate
myself a, being off, being:
to counter the exampled:
beings,
   name the nullified being,
in the manner off being, of beings.

see how atomißed language
can become?
   see the roots, Germanic in English?
i could have spoken perfect German
if i was only allowed...
but the English education
structure focused on learning
French...
i hated French...
i hate French...
       if i was given an option
to learn German... i would have
probably learned it...
after all...
         English is not a Romance
language... it's an offshoot
of the Germanic tongue...

might i add...
the friends i once had...
began hating me...
after they realißed that my "girlfriend"
went by the name of Sophia...
and that...
   their own girlfriends were
becoming a chore...
   choices are choices!

you can't speak this sort of
language piquancy to a woman,
and expect a reply of replicated jests
of a missing sense of humor...
you can't speak this language
of insolence,
   a language of impracticality,
of, "philosophy"...
because... you just can't!

    not the language of a Gnostic
who drew:

         (H)          (H)
            
                   A

the eyes, above the sigh of
                                enlightenment;

and always, along came the sight of
the (W)eaving lineage of perpetuated
life,
   with the canonical retort
of woman, sarcastic...
                                                    ­   E(h)?!

I met a man
who found monsters in the mirror
rather than himself
and for the first time
i felt as if i could give everything
and hold back at the same time
and this man would understand.
There was no pressure,
no expectations,
just time and patience and comprehension
that verbal confirmation of demons
was the only thing that made sense to us.
I have only known this man
for days
but his soul says years.
I have this weird theory
that some people are drawn to each other
because their atoms were near each other
when the universe was created.
Now, i am uncertain if this pertains
to him and i
but his friendship comes easy
and his words even easier.
I've told him about struggling
and how i am expected to be strong
but he told me
we can't all be strong forever.
Not even Atlas carried the weight of the heavens
for all eternity.

Here I ponder empty hearted
Seems as though I remain *******

But this word is controversial in its essence
Politically incorrect malevolence

Because of what I speak pertains to delay
The thoughts inside my head retrace this time of day

And even though the wheel spins and spins
I am left in the same place where I begin

To trace and trace
Over again

At this time of day I remain hidden

I'm struggling now
These words to no avail
Youll never receive them in the mail

Word to the wise, here is your token
Do not put forth words of actions you have not yet spoken

Because if you loved me you would have never left

Me
here
alone
in this time of day

for lack of better rhyme
and it is to late to fix what you have broken

Yet you said it

Rasta seh **** gone. Rat tek im place.Or when power leaves, the scavenger succeeds.

Roots man seh blood follow vein. Or blood is thicker than ****,

Greedy choke puppy. Or greed ultimately ends in tragedy

Man walk. Dead watch Or death comes at unexpected times.

As close as *** and commode.Or a close friendship.

*** done.Fun done Or goes a fair weather friend.

Old firewood easy fi ketch. Or old wood lights easily (Pertains to old ex lovers who still have feelings toward each other).

Day brok one, one. Or, One day then the next (Time changes all things).

What amnesia is this? I can’t remember.
Can someone wake me up, September?
I know what I know, or I think I thought I did.
I see what you’ve shown me and heard what you said.
But is it in one ear and out the other?
Is short term memory loss something I suffer?
I have seen your goodness time and time again,
And that makes perfect sense why I continue to sin.
Wait, what? That doesn’t make any sense!
Yet that’s what continues to happen after repentance.
I taste and see that the Lord is good.
But I don’t see and savor Christ as I should.
I know this must change if I want to draw nearer,
So I’m starting with the man in the mirror.
He’s broken, bad luck for seven years,
Of confusion and chaos about things unclear.
A response to an altar call, where that came from I can’t say,
But did it ever come at all, if he wasn’t altered in any way?
And I’m not talking about the 3 years still at home,
I think that pertains to my 4 years on my own.
I’ve been told so much truth and studied the Word,
But all for naught because I can’t recall what I’ve heard.
I sin because I forget, and I forget because I sin,
A vicious cycle with no apparent end.
I look at myself in the mirror, and want to remember when I go,
But as soon as I leave, he’s just somebody that I used to know.
And I wish it was a fault of the mirror, of why I forget so fast,
That it was the mirror that was broken, or at least made with stained glass
Because the reflection is of someone who’s stained,
Stained with sin and a stain on his face,
Both known by him, while abstaining from grace,
Because it’s this grace that makes him feel like a disgrace,
A misfit who’s been misplaced,
Who’s misused and abused grace.
Because I know I’ve been cleaned from all my mess ups.
But still trying to apply cover-up and make-up.
Trying to cover-up sin so no one can possibly see
And trying to make-up for what I’ve done despite being set free.
I want to forget these, I’ve wanted and I’ve tried,
To remember grace and forget what I’ve applied.
That I’ve applied myself too much and I’ve applied fake-up,
Trying to fake it ‘til I make it, but making myself throw-up,
Throw up my arms and say I can’t take it anymore.
I know I can’t remember a lot but I know I’ve gone through this before.
It’s a familiar feeling, this déjà vu.
It’s a familiar feeling, this déjà vu.

That I am annoyed with my memory destroyed,
That I don’t know how to remember and I forget how to think
And my chain of thoughts has a missing link.
When did I forget how to fight sin? That loving God wasn’t a chore?
Why can’t I remember the joy he’s shown me before?
When did I forget how beautiful He is?
When did I stop saying “He is mine and I am his”?
I don’t know if I want to know, I’m scared to find out
I’m afraid to readdress my old foe of doubt.
I thought he was slain; we had a battle and he lost it.
But I guess that wasn’t the case. He’s just a skeleton in my closet.
And he’s got a bone to pick with me, some business unfinished.
He’s back for round two and this time with a vengeance.
If he wants another go, I’ll try my best
To recall what I know, and pass this history test.
So what was it before, what truth did I heed?
How can I remind myself of what I need?
I don’t know…..i guess I’m history.
I can’t remember how I last had victory.
But just because I didn’t know doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.
And that right there was the lie I was trapped in.
Two years ago was more than a matter of salvation,
I was questioning exactly when I had regeneration.
Was it high school? College? Was it still to come?
I knew I had seen change but where was it from?
But someone can know if they’ve been born, even if they don’t know their birthday.
And I can apply that train of thought in a similar way.
I don’t know how to love God like I used to,
But just because I can’t remember doesn’t mean I never knew.
Things aren’t as black and white, not a matter of hot or cold.
There are such things as infernos that start to grow old.
There can be blazes that start to dwindle,
But that just means it’s time to rekindle.
God knows we are prone to forget and drift into embers
But that’s why his word instructs us to remember.
If we could always abide, he wouldn’t give us those commands,
But it’s because we fall down does he tell us to stand.
To stand firm in our faith, fixing our eyes on Jesus
To look in the mirror and think of how He sees us,
How he seized us to clean us,
To redeem us and teach us,
To tell us to remember what he’s done on the cross,
To give us solid faith, and not be a wave that is tossed.
But don’t get me wrong, amnesia can be good because even Jesus forgets
He remembers our sin no more, they’re as far as the east is from the west.
And that’s why I don’t recognize the man in the mirror.
I’m expecting to see someone who’s no longer here.
The old me is dead, a memory from the past.
He was destined to die, never meant to last.
So in this time of personal reflection,
I need to see myself through Christ’s resurrection.
My identity isn’t in all the wrong I have done.
It is a soldier, a servant, and especially a son.
If there’s one thing I want to share that I’ve learned over the years
It’s that sanctification isn’t easy, but I urge you to persevere.
We’re all on a journey, and I say don’t stop believing.
Think of the praise we will be receiving.
“well done my good and faithful servant.”
Hearing that from the one who’s love is perfect.
There will be sin and doubt, persecution and suffering,
But oh the joy that comes from being with our king!
So I encourage you to remember truth and fight the good fight,
And don’t ever forget in the dark what you’ve learned in the light.

It lies in my blood stream

Flowing slowly though my veins

cloudy vision, thick blood, to my heart it pertains.



Following the path as if set in stone,

haunting me to the core,

haunting me to the bone.



My hearts been palpitating since the moment we met,

since that first gentle touch, and that kiss of death.



But I’ll suffer an eternity if it’ll feel like this,

You’re my lovely poison, my toxic bliss.

I again glimpse of eternity.

I saunter where the shadows stain the streets.
I linger where my essence is silhouetted in the moonlight,
or beamed under a street light,
                                               or doused in headlights.

I loiter with friends in parking lots of frozen yogurt shops
in a small town--
listing torpid quadrupeds,
whose shells glisten and dazzle in the myriad of lights,
scrolling down the boulevard.

I find myself behind the wheel,
grazing among pavement pastures,
hungrily consuming the open road
on a silent night,                         in the still air.

          Night makes everything seem to go on forever.

From the speakers I hear the sizzle of ancient synthesizers
envelop the interjections of pulsating snare drum
slaps and snaps, cracks and claps.
          Hypnotized, I hit cruise control and drift ceaselessly.

At home, face illuminated in the television's glare,
my body buried under the weight of scattered sheets,
staggering dreams, snacks and drinks,
          my eyes burn steady into the void.

The television, likewise, burns into me,
as I ingest films that depict time travel in all its ambiguity.
I rip through the portal, feeling simultaneously
expeditious and sluggish.
          Did I stop time with breakneck speed,
or did I freeze like a river in the winter solstice?

Either way, I now stand outside the confines of mortality.

There's the sands of perception (identity)
muddied by the breaking waves of time,
where my sunken footprints
appear
and
disappear.

Relinquishing the captain's chair,
my mind fills with lucid dreams,
          from the TV screen.
Surely I know this is not reality,
but I cannot help it--
I am an accomplice in these chronographic schemes.

Though I appear in control, or at least aware,
I surrender my earthly duties to the conductor of time,
or its deviant: The Vexer.

The Vexer, the mischievous time traveler,
who dances between the dimensions,
with black holes for ears,
the speed of sound for a voice,
the speed of light for eyes--
it is the pestering worm digging throughout the galactic space apple.

The Vexer, who has wrenched me from my mortal footing,
to cast me adrift among uncharted seas,
with gloomy waters murky but heavenly
in its dark and rich violet glow,
like fires that burn hot hot on the color spectrum.
          A color less seen and therefore depicted as serene,
but all the more potent in its mystery.

The Vexer, with a wink of its cataclysmal eye,
grabs me by the wrist and tears me across the night sky--
I stretch thin between the television lines,
the endless roads and the mystic synthesizers,
peering through the night sky,
where human senses dull and the mind wanders--
          I have found myself in the Twilight Zone.

I am bound for eternity, ****** through the
tunnel vision telescope of man,
refracted as I bounce among the mirrors within,
expounded among the stars and the space between,
exploding in a brilliance in the vastness of its bliss.

The youthful laughter that ejects from the parking lots
of frozen yogurt shops,
the night drives with eyes that gloss over as it peers into oblivion,
dulled human senses that leave room for the mind to ponder,
the television screen that burns steadily into the mind,
the Vexer who oversees the mind's pondering of night life,
who like the court's jongleur skips and leaps
around the immensity of time's preponderance--  

Feigning insomnia to reap the benefits of illumination
in the infinitesimal night hour,
in these lingering hours that warp around somber hands
frozen on the midnight clock,
where thoughts of poetry flow and still bodies collect dew,
          the proximity of night life as it pertains to time travel:

The two are entwined.

sitting there, looking pretty
i can't help but wonder
starting to feel a little witty
hope i don't make a blunder

eyes lock, and you beckon me closer
and of course
hope you don't think i'm a loser
in your delirium, giving me the source

fingers touch, electricity courses through my veins
my eyes go wider
as i look down and confusion pertains
who the **** gets drunk on apple cider?

its been awhile
since i took a brush and swirled it in paint
a representation of my emotions swirling my brain into mush
each drop of hue into the other is a cataclysmic thought
each one carries the determination of destruction
i mix and let my head do the work
churning, a broken clock
i make something horrendous
death contamination
glass breaking skin
and i wonder
how they see color
on this canvas that pertains to my soul
when all my eyes see is black and white
a wither flower
hidden pain
and a depression unseen
not even
in inevitable hues

This feathered quill with fluted nib stands idle in an idle hand and a man with little time to spare,despairs of flowing from its point,a point to make,a case he cannot state.
It is late the ink has bled,I am being led to some conclusion,propelled to see a page, unwritten not by me but by the elements.

Underwater I breathe air,a little trick I found when underneath the earth and being ground, they thought into fine dust,the fire was just a place to warm my bones while the winds sang songs to me in dulcet tones.

And still the quill sits silently as if begrudging me a moments rest, it  would be a feather in my cap if only I could slap another word out of its tip,but no letters slip to form these things,it seems that silence only brings me emptiness,even less than that when words within are crushed and flattened by the fattening of worms that squirm and hold me in their coils,and any words there were are spoiled,deleted,secreted quietly and forgot about.

In the tomb without a light, this ink is but a link to further things to think and if only I could force this quill to spill something.

Underlined in red and on the tombstone up above it said,

'here lies within a man so thin
and yet so thick
his quill
a magic stick
his ink
a skating rink

Magic couldn't save him'

But this is of another page when reached upon a ripe old age and suitably I shall erase that which pertains to me.

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Grieving at the gravity that pertains my
Open mind, reality is messy but I except
Driving in a single lane...
                 I'm a singular life time of experience


And when I leave this undertone of reality
            I know that this is singular

in existence.........

been awhile
since i took a brush and swirled it in paint
a representation of my emotions swirling my brain into mush
each drop of hue into the other is a cataclysmic thought
each one carries the determination of destruction
i mix and let my head do the work
churning, a broken clock
i make something horrendous
death contamination
glass breaking skin
and i wonder
how they see color
on this canvas that pertains to my soul
when all my eyes see is black and white
a wither flower
hidden pain
and a depression unseen
not even
in inevitable hues

You know why poetry matters to me?
Do you think this is all you can see
that this skin and bone pertains to be,
this is mouth and voice and identity
and ego and consciousness, this is me?
Though i am fallible and i am naive,
and i wear my heart upon my sleeve.
There is more to me that my face and speech
There is more to me than you can even reach.
There is so much to hear from the works of Ghibran or Neruda,
Or Poe or Elliot, Dickinson, or Plath.
And words from poetry is like sinking into a hot bath,
its like a dance in warm rain,
its like standing in the middle of a hurracaine
My words are not easy to speak
so i spill them out on pages of white sheet,
and they are hurt, bruised and frustrated
and its mostly about people i have dated.
And I would like to thank my past for its hard work and dedication
thanks to you my suffering became, my inspiration
Poetry is an art, a placebo, a cure, that i can 'do'
for i don't need no pills or physical freedom when i am blue
I simply find a safe room inside my head
and sit and write as i cry my tears in my bed.
These words are majestic and dance a ballroom waltz and trot,
these words are shameful, and ***** and seriously ****** up 'for-me-not's.
This is My moment, this is My silence, My ****** fears
This My rapture, My beauty, My steadfast tears,
and all alone a page they are written for one and for all,
and i hope desperately you can feel them and hear their call.
They are unique and potent, and deadly and insane,
for a wrote them at times when i had loved in vain.
And i started writing to find a way out,
of my life, my hurt, to let me quietly scream and shout.
These words are my breath standing on a canyon side,
these words are my juice, my burn, my life, my ride.
This is my love, my pain, my heart, my song,
its everything i did right, and all i did wrong,
its the moon, and the stars, and its the world in a day,
and it helps me to forget, forgive, with words i can't say.
There is something inside me stronger than my voice
and poetry helps me when i don't have that choice.
It's like a firework wishes to explode and i can't contain the heat,
and there are bullets are forming in my layrnx,
and there is tidal wave coming from my feet.
It's my labyrinth, my misunderstanding, my heart-******-break
it's my reflection, my questions, my wrath and my poisonous (Garden of Eden) snake.
It is my wanton lust, my passion and my unbridled perfect sin
It is my partition, my isolation, my grief, my inconsolable twin.....
It's my everything i am not when i am on the outside,
It's everything i am, even those parts i can't hide
It's everything i am.
It's everything i am not.
But, poetry matters
It's the very part of me.

The *** of a rose is fluid, and pertains to no one.
It curls, and pulls lucid around thorns and dark mahogany bark,
You may be blessed, and see her red face turned to face the sun -
or she may crawl in the undergrowth, shrugging off the *** you gave her and show her floral palms to the dark.
We all desire her velvet powder petals.
We all wish to do as we did as children, and take a hip
between our fingertips -
And crush the sweet, sticky sap from its vessel.
But leave her be, and let her petals rot where they fall
or next year she will not show her face at all.

Getting the words right is never easy. Not in the slightest. And don't think that this only pertains to lay people - politicians, artists, journos, writers, you name it, find it hard most of the time. Even if it seems they're getting theirs right, talking the talk, spinning a story, telling tales, saying things - well, they're just bullshitting. You and themselves. For not a single person in the world at any given moment knows exactly what they are about to say, what should be said - or rather, left out, which is more important. Once you've opened your mouth and let the words slip, they're gone, living a life of their own. Out there to haunt you.