i love you,
fresh from
the shower.
glistening and wet,
smelling of aftershave.
"coolwater" by davidoff.  often aslo sandlewood,
goat soap, from the local
farmers markets.

i love you,
dressed up smart.
in a brook's brother's way
dress pants and shirt,
blue linen vest.
johnny walker silk bow tie,
untied is best. then your twist,
(not as original as you think)
converse skaties, no socks
and  bone bleached cuffs,
turned up.

i love you,
in your work gear.
just come home,
you smell of sweat.  
clean and healthy,
always wood shavings
caught up, in your
unruly shaggy hair.
cargo shorts and
t-shirts,
that have seen,
many days of worksite wear.
size elevens in your hands,
those big feet and freaky toes
bare, ******* in the air.

i love you,
in board shorts and rashie.
rushing into the surf,
hand in hand.
with the energetic bundle
of love,
to which we gave birth.

it is not as though,
clothes made this man,
but boyohboy, you, frame them well.

it s the heart, the chuckle
the hands, the philosphy,
the clever, erudite, caveman,
the downright,
man-dumb bloke.
that endears, your heart to
mine.

it is, that you really listen
and take the time,
to make me feel and be,
phenomenal, wise, sensual
and beautiful beside.

i love you,
best, in my bed.
moving slow and sure,
undressed, silk and velvet.
as we express,
the reality of our love
and whisper words,
well known,
and cry to heaven above.

i love you,
then, here, now and eons
on.
even after the worlds
memory of us,
is  nothing,
dust upon the breeze
our love,
will carry, forth
stardust on heaven's winds
and cries of our love and ecstasy
will birth worlds anew

He’s a ***** of in-
tellectual acumen. A real conveyor of post-modern acuity.
What he has to say doesn’t make sense to me.
No one understands his esoteric complexity.
He speaks of Aristotelian “virtues”, Platonic Forms, and other
“practical” participation by the particularities.
Part of all that not even he fully understands.

Juxtaposing Quniean “webs of Knowledge” with Davidson Coherantism
He is challenged by McDowells 2nd nature Bildung.
His conventional English is thus un-sung, while meta-physical abstractions are then hung
Out to dry, in the abstract realm sky. What color is that sky?
“Unfair Question” he cries.

“Tell me about God” I ask, “very well” he replies.
My brain is numb after one question, and a few words.
He continues, “Do the God(s) agree upon what is good?”
Yes is my reply. “If so, do they love what is good?” Again yes.
“Then, is the Good whatever the God(s) love, or do the God(s) love what is Good?”
He must be on drugs.

A little philosophy makes a man an atheist.
A lot makes him a believer,
just not in God. He praises Reason, his room is a shrine.
Within four walls one will not find, no not any sign
Of conviction.

What? All this time thinking, reflecting, meditating, abstracting, observing, weaving grand tapestries of thought and still he does not find a foot hold in reality?
What the hell were you thinking about?
He responds.

A stream of consciousness is all that is,
past is a referent future is a predicate.
I am not the “me” I refer to when I say “my book.”
No sir, I have never spoken to you any knowledge of me.
For that I have none of, but knowledge I am not without.
If it is one thing I know, it is that I know nothing.

I tell him certainly my English teacher would know something to defeat him,
I am soon disenchanted, for he has ammunition for her.
“Ask her”, he says “to ascertain the truth value to this grammatically perfect declarative Sentence.”  
Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.

ººº

Beware lest anyone cheat you through philosophy and empty deceit,
according to the tradition of men, according to the basic principles of the world,
and not according to Christ.

Colossians 2:4-8 (NKJV)

His Nietzschean trip moved from Comic toward Tragic:
Deleuze’s delusions flew out the fenêtre
Airborne and ****** on philosphy’s magic
(the nihilist suicide’s raison d’être…)
Propelled from the window, transcending the Ontic,
his organless body in textual flight,
a schiz-flow beyond on a voyage turned frantic.
His thought – a nomadic adornment for speed,
multiplicitly viewing a thousand plateaux
was a force for unhinging the doorways of light
and a plea for postmodern decoding indeed.
His frame soon encountered pure striated space
in the form of the pavement caressing his face.

He joins other smokers of Gallic tabac,
other esotericians of cognitive frenzy
(those mullahs of madness, those sultans of Whack…)
Sorely missed by his victims, disciples and friends
he is mourned, misinterpreted, copied, dismissed
– but for semioticians he heads up the list.

Another brave Frenchman, some guy named Debord
a bespectacled Marxist (who missed all the marks)
made the mediums’ message a radical bore
dialectically fading the lights into darks.
Indirectly disrupting pop-culture with Punk
and other anarchic phenomena-junk,
he too chose to leave with a nihilist bang –
while we whimper and suffer down here with the gang.
The old situationist’s last situation:
an agit-prop funeral short on elation…

So to French de-constructor-philosopher-ravers
and all who rejoice while society wavers
I offer these lines, like a quick coup-de-grace
and be warned – they’re now viewing the Good Lord en face.

The strands hanging from her Selsun Blue scalp
like pasty, jittery children's legs;
beyond buckwheat, before bottle-ship shoulders.
And she's so kind with her philosphy books and new diet,
I think back to when she was four and where she believed in me,
for the first time.

Her jawline is made up of alien angles,
she has tattooed forearms;
peach fuzz skin decorated with cheap, olive maps,
pointing towards a choreographed heart,
towards a neon mind.

And she has one thousand paper coffee cups
discarded across the urban earth,
spilling out onto the asphalt jungle,
much like every chance she gives.
Bloodied and twenty-four,
an abstract thought in a lonely existence.
I've never known.

I hung you like a lantern in my dark cave
worshipped at your feet but made you my slave
sterilized my heart inside an old autoclave
and tattooed my soul so I would become brave

tried to teach the teacher about genuine apology
attempted to outrun the runner with finicky philosphy
glued the pieces together to make a seamless epiphany
and ended up laughing at myself amidst the general cacophony

I created this mess when I was not at my best
and instead of looking to you now I see right through you
nightmares of yoy dying have turned to desires that leave me crying
I pray that the Rapture may come to steal you away or take me from
the past at last is gone.

I walked the rockiest path that I could find
in an effort to toughen my soles and strengthen my mind
I kept my eyes peeled in case I found a sign
that with eyes wide open I had not been rendered blind

When I reached a plateau I thought of resting
but when you stay long enough you start to think of nesting
watching the birds overhead reminded me of cresting
no rest for the weary testers during testing

Feline Philosphy

The world around us teaches lessons
You never know who can be your guide
So open your heart and expand your mind
Lessons from a cat can be pure joy and pride

These furry felines are both loving and caring
Snuggling and purring by your side
They look for your unconditional love
Your warm affection keeps them satisfied

Cats thrive on curious, playful adventures
With their bright eyes open wide
Their silly and funny personalities
Show you love and divinity exemplified

Kittens are naturally friendly and happy
Energetic and agile in their movement
The give happiness beyond compare
Living with a cat makes days an improvement

So what can we learn from these cuddly creatures

Show the world unconditional love
Always be agile and energetic
Keep your heart adventurous
And make your life synergetic!

Poetry by Sudha
April 15, 2019

I havent had a minute to myself,
To clear my conscience I meditate with water in wishing well,
Even when my dreams fell , it seemed hell , I just know every sick gets well.
Thats my philosophy,
All gets well, and just now? How I make it so well? a guilty mind travels slow with time, find your innocense and reach a devine, not pork and swine but forks and wine and dine with hearts of mimes that speak existence of peace of mind.
See religion is all trial tribulations and signs, and wisdom? Comes from the leading blind and learning to shine.  Well, so swell is devotion, but this world only teaches neglect and biting the hand with food in it still open.
Still its spoken, but none tends to hear, open mouths shake till the truth appears loose like a mirror.
When perceptions arent clearer.
So where do I  lay or lie , the truth?
Love is gone ******* ! Babys having babbies and droppin outta school,
Life isnt cool but its get well thats my philosphy when **** looks like hell.
Gotta keep going, till Im well.
lord as my cosmic witness, positivy is a magnet if you learn it nature, listen-
The sound of silence is in riches,
Thats why corperate stays in the shadow power soaking all the admissions, but the lesser gains more and looses nothing because of position.
Whats my philoshpy? All gets well, yeah it gets better Love is a real you and me , connection between people felt deeper spiritually.
  
...........................................................­.....................................

The perhaps freaky thing is from the first occasion to the last, the affair leaves me disillusioned.


(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXIIII)


They pulled shots on more fancy presses' scale
Of lo, espresso, than we know, tae thence
Pass 'round the little porc'lain mug for sense
And comment.  Bells and whistles to avail
Whomever of sheer grandeur was't? would hail
Their newr machines as ultmate for intents,
Dad sez.  And we rolled 'cross our tongues th'intense
Black tazos, sip by sip, til such'd wax stale.
Fire up the grill, next:  play the epicure,
As now mein host two diffrent cuts put to
Our palates and good taste.  Wine to assure
Souls twas the height of whocareswhat, we knew
Such conversations, laughter, and for sure:
Philosphy.  Problem's:  I can't think what's new.

08Jul17b

I need to read more
and study the dictionary
and ask more questions
and read philosphy
and stop wasting time on Pinterest
pining for things I don't have the drive to work for
and think more-

so then maybe I can learn how to speak.

I feel so many things,
everything.
I feel each breath,
heartbeat,
conversations across the room
I feel the sun burning
and the moon glowing
and the ferocity of the wind
and each smile
and sigh-
I feel everything
and I feel it too much
to the point where it builds up
and becomes numb.
I am weighted
with all these feelings
and thoughts
and jokes
and fears-
but I don't have the words to express them.

In my fantasies,
the perfect man,
the perfect friend,
is one that doesn't badger me to speak more
and make idle conversation,
but one that knows what I feel just by looking at me,
one that breathes my silence
and understands that putting words to these emotions
is far too difficult a task-
but that's a silly fantasy,
everyone else talks
so why shouldn't I?

I write poetry in hopes
I'll find a proper,
eloquent way to
announce my feelings
but they just jut out like ugly spores
in the form of average teen angst
and I look at my work - even my best -
and think
"no no no, that's not right.
It's more complicated and painful and beautiful-
no no it's so much more than this"

it's silly of me
to think that in a world so loud
I can be silent and happy.
Not that I'm dying to be happy,
in fact I quite like the misery,
silence is the only thing I truly strive for.
In a way, for me, silence is a native language,
and speaking is foreign and hard to learn
and all the while I try my best to learn-
I want someone to also try to learn
the much underpreciated silence.
silence is an important language of it's own,
one often disregarded
but it's the only language I comfortably know.

It kills me how hard I try to speak,
but that's not the point,
I just wish someone else would take a chance
to understand the silence.

Id like to hang from a tree
like a monkey with a carefree philosphy

But roots lie dead at the tree
and I wonder what I'll be
when death gives its final decree
And we turn over a new leaf
so I'm led to believe.
Because all i see is a painful plea,
but do i believe?
   I guess that's what stops my sleep

...grasping water that sifts through my fingers.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXXX)


I sip espresso Dad pulls, foaming thence
The milk to sheer perfection til t'avail,
While not adorned with artistry, the frail
Notes on that white crown look sweet for intents,
As he talks on--oh!  I forget what hence--
Til he's pulled his; and though winds howl, th'exhale
Chill like twould send warmth packing, how to scale
Our minutes are as erst...philosphy dense?
Not Shakespeare, nor sweet Shelley to demur
This feigned attempt at glory we'd accrue
By dint of "home barista" now as twere,
Or my half stylish gear the ladies do
But offer kind words for:  he lectures poor
Me as wont 'pon that scale to seek, LORD, You.

24Feb19b

"When a man approaches you he must be consistent with his philosophy or else he'll be impugned by the high courts of his character."

But what if his philosphy is to be? Will they hold him?

"To be?"

Yes, to be.  To exist freely at the calling of his whims.

"Show me a man breathing that is free I will show you delusion at best or at worst deception."

To live in such a time where to err is a folly, how can this be?  How are we to exist if we do not have opportune to fail?  Risk-

"Is merely masked fear. We must learn to embrace the nature of all forms."