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.

Maverick ex-cop (Green Beret /Navy Seal /SAS/Ranger)
Twiddle of the fingers to crack a 64 bit hexadecimal code
Shot but can still beat up bad people and run
15 people firing automatic weapons and they all miss
Database that searches the planets population in 2 seconds
And has photos of their children and plans of their building
Regardless of the crime scene sample, always a rare element that pinpoints location
Car chase where a truck can keep up with a Ducati motorbike
Organisations that only employ attractive people in lead roles
Ugly people are tech specialists sometimes allowed to be ‘quirky’
Even the uglies are attractive people disguised with glasses and bad hairstyles
‘I dream of genie’ gendre were they flirt but never get it on, unless it’s a hospital series
Watchable, funny programs that always succumb to sloppy sentimentality
High schools complete with intolerance, marginalisation, bullying, and hell on earth,
The most disturbing and darkest crime sent to titillate mid evening family viewing
Endless humiliation for fatties, chefs, performers, builders, restaurateurs, and troubled teens
Dysfunctional law enforcement agencies that never work together under any circumstances
Enough, if we need this thick coating of unreality, perhaps its time to switch off?

In the moonlight, high in the Lemon Gum,
perched under the arching ghostly branches
two eyes of jet peer from a snow-white mask.
Tyto Alba, the Barn Owl, with heart shaped
****** disc, edged with ruff of stiff feathers.
Mottled pearl-grey body feathers above
the moth like plumage, purest white beneath
her slim legs are bare on the lower half,
with small feet that end with deadly talons.

Nocturnal, she roosts in the heat of day.
You will hear her screeching in the cold night
hear the scream before you ever see her.
She can see in the half light of humans
night vision even in total darkness
pinpoints her prey by listening to each sound
the desperate, scuttling little creatures make.

She is a well designed killing machine
with hooked beak, powerful feet and sharp claws.
Her flight feathers have softened edges
to make her deadly flight near soundless
She swoops silently down without warning
seizing victims with her claws, biting deep
into their neck arteries, puncturing
their most precious organs for a quick death.

June 28, 2013.
    
Dear--no, this is not a diary entry, this is not a summary of the things I experienced today, this is not about how I felt when my crush said 'Hey', this is not about him or her, this is not about me.
    
Dear Cupid.
    
This is about you and your stupidity and idiocy, and your breathtaking suckery in archery, this is about how much I want to punch you in the face if you really exist, because of all the gods and goddesses the Greeks and Romans worship, you're the most vile of them all.

This is about how you whistled merrily down the street, completely unaware of everyone and everything around you, clutching your bow with an arrow nocked on its string, poised to strike.

This is about how you saw this girl who was indifferent to almost everyone and almost everything, this girl who never really cared, this girl who did not know love. This is about how you smirked to yourself and suddenly felt power surging through your veins, for you have found your target, this girl who always thought about everything and never let her heart decide, this girl who tried so hard to forget she can feel, this girl who never, ever loved, and was never, ever loved.

This is about how you felt everything slow down around you, how your sight narrowed down to the space between you and this girl, how your arrow yearned to be unleashed, to fly across the void that needed to be filled, to strike this girl who often forget she had a heart, this girl who needed to know love.
    
This is about how you pulled the bowstring to your cheek, felt the flecked feathers brush the bottom of your eyelids, saw nothing but this girl who forgot how to smile, this girl who never imagined you would set your sights on her, and this is about how your fingers set the string loose, set the arrow free, sent it soaring across the gap that you wanted to fill.

This is about the explosion of color in a gray room when the blade made contact with this girl's chest, this girl who went reeling back, stumbling back, so taken aback was she that the sudden fire in her ice-cold world rendered her blind and dumbstruck.

This is about how you snickered smugly to yourself because quite abruptly this girl was suddenly no longer indifferent, this girl suddenly cared, this girl remembered she had a heart--because it started beating too fast, it started screaming, it started living.

This is about how pleased you were you immediately set your bow and your arrows down, how you sighed in anticipation of an entertaining show, how you were so satisfied you instantly sat back and relaxed to enjoy the real life movie.
  
This is about how excited you were you forgot the most essential thing about your job.

You forgot to shoot the other one.
    
Dear Cupid.

You're such an *******.

But this is not only about you, this is not only about your folly, this is not only about your irresponsibility, this is not only about the wicked weapons you carry, because this is also about the one you forgot to shoot.

This is about him, and how I wish he could listen to the songs only I can hear, how I wish he knew I'm talking about him, how I wish that someone will somehow capture you, Cupid, so they can tie you to a stake and set you on fire, and maybe this feelings will hopefully dissipate along with the smoke into thin air.
  
This is about him, and how the sudden vibrancy of the colors around me disabled me almost completely. This is about him, and how his eyes suddenly seemed purer, his hair darker, his smile brighter. How I saw stars in the velvet sable of his irises, and I saw poems etched on his skin, words filling in the empty spaces inside him, the silence he wraps around himself a harsh barrier I can never bring myself to attempt breaking through.

This is about him, and the way every ounce of my awareness fixates on him every time he enters the room, and the way my heart flutters like a hummingbird's wings, singing a frantic, desperate melody of fear and panic and anticipation and everything dreadful contained in your arrows.
  
This is about him, and rainbows and sunshine and butterflies, and everything I've never known.
  
This is about how the girl who never knew love suddenly knew how love looks like. She knew the sharpness of his cheekbones, the angles along his jowls, the point of his chin. She knew the softness of his lips, the hardness of his jaw. She knew him a lot more than she wanted. She knew him intimately.

This is about him.

This is about the words I'll never have the courage to say, the poems I will never be able to write. This is about heartbreak and chocolates and long walks in the rain. This is about the tears I will never be able to shed, the smiles I forget to wear, the genuine laughter I always try my best to imitate.
  
And I lied, because this is also about me.
  
This is about me, and the lies I tell everyday. This is about gazing at the stars and wishing I could tack my fingertips on those bright pinpoints of light, wishing I could give my body to the sky, because having no body means not having to feel anything.
  
Dear Cupid.
  
If only you know what you've done. If only.
  
I would love to strangle you with my own two hands.
  
And maybe I'll forgive you for giving me this, the way I forgive him everyday for every hurt he gives me.
  
But this is not only about you, and this is not only about him. This is not only about me.
  
Because this is also about love.

A key feature of invigoration is the enterprise of mapping the entire syntax of all relevant human language as measured by the gamut of applesauce that doesn’t sour and an in depth analysis of creative fiction and poetry for common cadence features in the linguistic enterprise of mapping the subroutines of complex articulation as etched by the fabric of genius intellects intertwined in a gamble with wits to try and create coded missives that entangle hypertrophy and enlarge the gamut of decryption in the universal rudiments of alchemy. This is based on depreciative and appreciative aspects of apperception that depend on visual cues and funding from a collaborative venture of universities to challenge people to zero-sum games or net positive games where teams collaborate to usher unconventional unchartered territory of classification beyond normal proclivities based on the lineaments of idiosyncrasy to pinpoint the provenance of ideation itself and unveil the mind at a bargain pittance for the eventual headway this could pave for the Department of Education to revert from froward to forward in their recalcitrance and insouciance with the current linguistic modalities of outstretched engraven hortoriginality trailblazing new modular seismotic waves and hotbeds for firebrands to debate and scholars to joust with in the jest of the cineaste metaphor and the rubricated rundles of rectiserial innovations in the taxonomy of devolved meaning relying on an inventive enterprise to galvanize a new jargon into prominence based primarily on guarded secrets of the trade that might unlock the primordial soup of verbal creativity while also probing detective apperception for a wide-ranging panoply of digested movies and beyond that a farsighted incumbent inclination to probe the calibration of numerical happenstance in estimate and in long-term theorization of taxed realty in the estate of guarded tegular relationships among the woven fabric of conceptual latticeworks pioneering in scope and analyzed rigorously in reward of discretion and furtive cryptology to untether the world from the apothegms of sloganeered piggybacks that swivel in sockets but enforce a reductive paradigm of obganiation of core themes reiterated hypnotically to traindeque entire generations into piebald thinking that overlooks the panorama for incident and incident for categorical generality when no such axiom can be the logical predicate of its antecedent conditions that spurn the traditional rote moot wernaggles of futility and inseminate crafty legerdemain of writhing contortion altering the specificity of revalorized meaning in the novel context. This instantiates that the consequence is always the consequence not only of its predicate but its successor by the very modalities of proven reversals and enantiodromias of sorts that revert in a reverse progression spatiotemporally to exact incident as antecedent of its own existence by the very fact of iteration and this map of the recursive cycles of consequences elapsed only because of their insertion in a predevoted matrix is the gnomic apothegm of a new frontier of advanced logic that assumes the impossible is only improbable if the possible can be proven impossible by reductive inversion of core precepts in the rigmarole of design that states for every orchestra of butterflies that echo is actually the incident of refraction that contaminated the first polyacoustic trace of amplified sources in space time to revert into primordial form but the reversion is only incurred upon the fixture of origination and beyond that point remains inscrutable because foreknowledge necessarily prevents accuracy in determining the spectrum of the cacophony or rhapsody of the echo dependent on the observer’s perspective: which is only fungible to the extent that the subliminal remains guarded by the protectors of the clepsammia and the recensed polarization of time. This transcendence of time transfixed on orbital gravitas and centripetal ****** initiates a promulgation of the swallock of a remanded entropy that works in swiveled contraposition to the dynamic flux of the internment of balkanized forces of demassification dampening the efficacy of the central butterfly actor to expand the ampitheater of its own audience to the extent that every cultural artifact can be mapped to the geotaxis of its conceptual orbit. Thereby we can prove that pivots of the obvious focal point peak in resurgence upon the heyday of retrieval but dampen into a logarithmic regression of decreasing amplitude fluctuating around the aleatory probability of insemination through the percolation of the widespread narrowed to a fulcrum that balances the orbit of the stellified narrative of ingemination that some artifacts like Stayin’ Alive achieve maximum geotaxis because of their centrality in the taxidermies of revived memory recapitulated by both virtuosity and valor and posing as consequences of future foresight clouded by preventive measures that one quaky spasm in alarm could paralyze the precedent to the incidence of the afflatus that galvanized the heyday of remonstrance so that we can affix a modular angular gravity to events as well as referents to those events in a spatiotemporal mapping of consequence reverted upon itself because of necessity that binds the taxemes of the subliminal in the architecture of a curvature of geotaxis that is centrobaric not necessarily to the contingencies that magnify the germane propositions that affix modern eyes but rather the overall stifling modularity of temporal sequence redoubled by manufacture and manufacture alone predevotes antecedents that trace to a pivot in space time curved without prescience beyond measure but precision enough to approximate the summation of collective cultural shifts away from the estrangement of diversion from itself as a balkanizing force into a collectivized unity that orbits eccentrically by the very nature of the parallax between gravitational pull and the dynamics of time itself centripetal but centrifugal simultaneously.  Both conditions must be met so the converse of meaning becomes the recapitulation of remontant blessings rather than pruned dry garbologies relevant only to margins of subculture minimized in heyday and scope but pinpointed with exact precision the dynamos that inhabit the sphere of the populated future defenestrated from the magnetism of the past by very definition. Thereby, we arrive at Back to the Future because the paradox of recensed calibration suggests the free fluctuation of time between the eccentricity of magnified lens distorted by the entropy of calculus to become the integral summation of the sinuous vacuum of a trigonometric balance that barks with amplification of synergistic elements of strings and quantum flux to emigrate from an origination to the mapping of the eventuality. This precisely explains the scene in Back to the Future with the amplifiers turned all the way up because by exaggerating the simplicity of the declassified it expedited cinema to its eventual intermediary conclusions heralded by that one event of transfixed mystery that binds spacetime into a coherent bidirection of multidimensional philosophy of the enantiodromias of sorts of the parallax among constellated events. Mapping the impact of funneled cartels that hegemonize regions of the geopolitical sphere explains the amplivagant effects of the refracturism of swallock and thereby seminal ideations can be traced to provenance of cowardice cloaked in excuse but incisive in the skullduggery of the mechanical reinvention of excuse and pretext as a cloak for more furtive workings of the intelligentsia to engineer time by deriving the precise tangential multidimensional syntax of the calculus of proliferation reviewed from a consequent perspective of a future unknowable gravitas fluctuating between states of annihilation and existence in the acatelpsy of design so that specters actually enforce more change than events and prospects magnify positive dimensional thrusts that galvanize prospectus emigrating from either distant knowns or parallel realities that converge on the optimum of either the hapless or calculated design of a synergistic development of social engineering so precisely mapped that it identifies trajectories of improbable events with increasing specificity at the alarm of the spectral realm promulgating wealth to the foreseeable compunction of science to revert to probable pivots of consensus manufactured by think tanks that outfox the syntalities that defy the system or piggyback on their very causes to empirically carve the spectrum of future possibility becoming entelechy desired or feared but always predestined or flanged into distortions of reification that are transformative of precision in design without exactitude in the terminus of the centrobaric chambers of all meaning. Thus the algorithm outsmarts itself until only the machination to dehumanize for prediction occurs at a pessimum of morality or an explosion of a proliferative new venture in unchartered territory conquers the novantique of novelty. The ampitheater of its own audience is the traction of embedded subculture in subroutine becoming a compound atocia that sterilizes opponent possibility and probabilizes the occurrence of endomorphs that resemble effigies of constellation primed to swivel in retrospection as a recurrent lapse of amplification upon the culmination of predestined time points or junctures specified within the realm of the matrix of possibilities to outstretch the realm into a dampened exponential explosion of self-reference becoming embedded consequence by conditioning and by anticipatory psychology working in preconcert to evoke the determinative impetus of momentum that magnifies the speed of acceleration in technology that depends on the propriety of reification itself that swarms us with evocative tempests that barnstorm in reiteration to recapitulate by design to engrave themselves on the collective psyches of the hortoriginality of many minds intrepid before me that transfigured reality in this precise contortion of terminology with variegations in the specificity of context and articulation of the clavigerous entropy of swallock and how the outfoxed design becomes that cage of destiny that is a baritone complexion of vibrant hues exploding into the trammeled paths that have elapsed before me by the first movers advantage of theoretical physics but nonetheless independently verified by dovetailed emergence of that centralized balance between design and destiny that is precedent to the antecedent of the consequence of the precedent’s consequence on the direct antecedent inflexion point upon which the provenance of momentum drifted into cultural psyche and enlarged the gamut of myth in the raillery of subaudition. Essentially Time only exists to those without the simultagnosia to appease a mirror parallax of universes upcoming and universes forestalled but pivot with omphalism on the gravitas of Einsteinian calculus that theorizes that the acatelpsy of enumerated prediction is a lapsed regress the pinpoints with the harpricks of specialization the regal momentum of time to its own behest to propagate the elucidated certainty of its own traversal to the expedited enumeration of the future which populates the past because the curvature of time is an entantiodromia of reflexive itinerant vagrancies that cement the authorship of events to warble through the tilted hypertrophy of design itself to maximize the freebooter avarice of those people that rely on the luxuriance of trespass to magnify the modular gravity of culture to forswink its compunction and regale its own recursive logic. Essentially Time is a mapped ampitheater that depends on an audience of sentience to enlarge its own gamut and because it is riddled with obscurantism of believable recursion it magnifies its own entropy in reversal to orchestrate events in a rectiserial convolution of the whipsaw between the expected and the foreknowledge of the knowing class because when shaky vacillatory politics prevail the behest of time looses its capitalization of the amplivagant affects of the marginalia that is wed to the devolved rudimentary rigmarole of proliferation scaffolds destiny in alternative configurations to fulminate with explosive progeny that latitude incumbent to those without perspicuous clarity to fathom the acatalepsy of the unfurled universe magnetized by the seminal tremendum of the moments memorialized by memory that provide the traction of time to supersede its own acceleration by the writ of the beneficence of the eccentric orbit of the brittle axioms of design to recense and revalorize the wilted transponders that refer to specific events where the space-time continuum was cleaved in divisive anticipation to balkanize the resistence to the fringe clavigerous amplification of the resonance of etiolation that marginalizes the dearth and amplifies the prospectus to make time supersolid beyond all reckoning to cement its captaincy as the algorithm of rhythmic gravitas orbiting the moribund fragmentary flictions of regimented truth to be at war with its own foresight. This is because foresight is a compulsion of time to recapitulate the foreknown deeds of the future to the regenerative hypothesis that hypostatizes that the transcendence of time is mirrored illusion because the future populates a region of space-time that is not forlorn but magnified in scope to reverse the trends of abomination and cast the aspersions of grandeur into eccentric orbit that by geotaxis foments the revolutionary impetus not of cancellation or nullification of the bereaved past but a culmination of deeds known only to the future that galvanize the very fruition of the dependent expectancy to become antecedent to the consequent by a warped form of recensed logic because the orbital sphere of considerations is tangential to the evocative memory of the memorialized statutes that prize their own entelechy above their divergence from design in such a peculiar way that obscurantism of the leaders of the world is manned by an alien presence to mendlatch the locked keys of a virtuouso future compounded in interest and destined for unfurled clarification. Time is an ironic boyg and quandary because for time to give birth to its own recapitulation it must be stammered with seismotic statutes that rip through the fabricated rudiments of predestination to enthrall the apostasy of the knowing from leverage over a future they vaguely see but provides largesse to the regimentation of design to rickety consternation that prediction is evocative of expectancy less than expectancy is its own geotaxis around the gamut of foreseen affairs that must be iterated rather than violated in order to maintain the mainlined integrity of the brittle fungible force of quantum dynamics to bypass the rigmarole of etched design to be evocative of a reverse transpondency that reconfigures the past into perfectible strings of amplification to anoint time its own behest at the formidable specters of its own violation by those who seek trepass but are predevoted out of ephorized control by the vicissitudes of the gamble and the frapplank of the known destiny catalyzing the unknown progeny. By that very definition this could not be obrogated in tenure or tutelage over the past because the elapsed gravitas of the known past depends on the pivot of the ampitheater of the future to ambitious reckoning that provides absolution to its forlorn vestiges to cement the centrifugal impetus of many from exact foreknowledge.  Many pioneers have probably theorized similar hypostasized concepts but the fact that even without a degree in physics I understand these arcane precepts yet tested by the rigmarole of comprehensive known experiment is a testament to the power of hortoriginality to pave the trailblazer focus on the rivets of a rickety secrecy designated by definiens of abstruse taxemes of yet defined meaning. The primary quandary is the isolated pretext of predevoted sequencing that abandons me (and this is central to my theory) from the weather of meaningful social encounter in order to hone in with precision on the empirical enterprise of seminal regress cemented as ceremonial progress and only by vaulting above this cage of finicky predestination can entelechy that desires rapprochement can be achieved because eventually the relevance of my ideas can be shelved and the peremptory obligation of intervention must be deployed to salvage my parable into completion. The itch for the government to anticipate the universe’s localized traction delimits the sphere of social indoctrination to a reality amenable not to the coercion of precise anticipation but the gamble on vagary to produce more seminal events that compound the amplivagant effects of ecumenical exhaustive troponders to the extent they flourish beyond the bounds of completion and into optimal conditions that is whipsawed by the demands of the rigmarole of precise definition of all trajectories conclave in their logarithmic design  anticipated by designation but not predevoted into futility because that capstone would reduce the proliferative affect of space time to carve a more extravagant reality that tests limits beyond frontiers of expectancy. The brain is highly malleable and entity theorists are moribund in their defenses of trite hackneyed racial arguments about intellect. The mythos preserves that radical ethos that prediction of my insights supersedes the importance of my rapprochement which will amplify the effects of the spatiotemporal mapping in a much more profound way with specialized focus. Thereby when we conceive of time we must specialize in inhabiting the sphere of acatalepsy of flanged prediction preventing the abortion of the future based on the vagrancies of the gyrovagues and bibliopolists seeking to demolish the fruition of the ribald coarse albatrosses of the future to diminutive leverage rather than amplifying the stringed syndication of knowledge to eccentrically stellify the unknown regions of the populated presence contingent on the populated future which ensures the eternal life of all by some formant boundaries of the universe because what is recapitulated in the lapse of certainty known by the anticipatory vagary of a riddled rigmarole of complex dynamism this thermodynamically reversible into the reversal of entropy because the organization of the past hinges upon the reconfiguration of the future and thereby we swivel endlessly with recursive iterations of evanescence that spoon-feed the generations among us to truckle beneath the cartels that array spatiotemporal mappings into their personal optimum to catapult the granular edification of all deeds beyond their forsifamiliation from their provenance gamboling with the distant frescade of a known destiny cavorting with the meddlesome reconnaissance of all that is observed and the tribunes magnify this effect by centralizing the bronteums of fulgurant strikes to be localized to a centralized pivot of universal acclaim that provides felicity for the ecumenical endeavor

I sit down in front of this piece of paper, pen in hand, the wind through my hair and a single dim light’s reflection in my glasses. I close my eyes, tired of repeatedly trying and failing to write an article. I wearily rub my eyelids and sit still for a while.
And that’s when I see him.

He stands against the backdrop of a waterfall, the green grass gently caressing his bare feet as he walks slowly towards the calm, turquoise lake. A sudden whiff of tulips assails my sense of smell as he walks into the water, his composed steps mirroring the complacence of the cool blue he walks into. He wades in till he is waist deep; birds chirp in the distance, trees sway in the wind and everything the sunlight touches melts into a golden brilliance.

As he walks in, ripples branch out from his torso, tattooing themselves upon the surface of the water. They move forward with him, each with a colour that merges into a thousand new hues as two of them meet. I stand there watching in stupefaction; he does not acknowledge my presence as he continues to walk forward, his eyes fixed upon the blue-gold sky over us.

All of a sudden, he climbs out of the lake and begins to hurriedly hunt around, muttering to himself
‘It has to be here somewhere.’ He darts off between the trees, with the raw agility of a young impala. As he continues to fly over the many shrubs and roots in his way, I chase behind him panting and puffing as the entire forest falls behind in a blur of green and brown. And then we hear it, the scream tears through the woods and the sky explodes into a whirlpool of colour; he turns back and looks at me, his eyes wide with horror and disbelief. I skid to a halt before him and I realize that we had reached the outcrop of a cliff. I turn to him, my back to the massive drop from the bluff, a quizzical look in my eyes as I find myself unable to articulate the words in my mind. He puts his hands on my shoulders, the fear etched deep in his wide eyes. And he pushes me off the cliff.

The air whistles past my ears as I fall to the ground; it seems like an eternity has passed before I finally rest my head on the hard ground beneath me. Every bone in my body feels like I have walked headfirst into a moving train, I gingerly raise myself off the cold floor to see him standing over me. He raises a finger to his lips, signalling me to follow him. We walk forward cautiously, the fear of an unknown disturbance still hanging heavy over us. We walk through an open field of wild grass, the pale silver stalks dancing in the breeze as the moonlight lit up our path. He doesn’t say anything to me; I walk alongside his shadow as his shadow. We come to a clearing with a single tree standing proud in the middle of a vast expanse of nothing. He gestures to the tree, we make our way there with haste. I walk into the cool shade of a massive oak and collapse under its mighty protection. He walks around the tree and returns with a figure in his arms. Next to my tired form he lays her down, a look of gentle calm upon his hard features. The moonlight dances upon her face and her shallow breath rattles through the night. Her stormy grey eyes lie wide open as she continues to struggle against an unknown force so as to keep breathing. He stands at a distance, silently watching the two of us on the ground; one battling for her life and the other silent and still like the great oak tree above us. Her lips part slightly, a single droplet of light rises upwards into his palm and she falls into a silent stupor. He gazes at the pinpoint of white in his hand, bringing it slowly to his mouth. I watch on as he proceeds to swallow it, confused about the events transpiring before my eyes. He throws his head back and looks up to the pitch black sky and a million tiny lights wink back at him in response. His eyes open wide, his jaw falls low and a burst of brilliant white light breaks through his tall, proud form. I see the mouth move, I hear him speak a few moments later. The voice rings loud in my ears, resonating from everywhere and nowhere and he says to me, “The path you seek is straight ahead. Do not deviate from the road and you should be fine.”

My head falls back against the firm bark of the oak as I witness my guide disappear into thin air with no evidence of him ever having existed. My eyes close of their own will and I embrace the comforting darkness of slumber enveloping my mind.

My eyes fly awake as a sharp ray of light dispels my drowsiness. I wake up to find myself looking towards a convoluted, winding path leading into the woods. Against my will, I find myself rising and walking down the dusty road. I try to hum to myself, no sound greets me. I try to dart into the woods, but something brings me back to the same path no matter which direction I turn. The sun beats down hard upon my head, and in the distance I hear the faraway call of an eagle. Resigned to my current fate, I walk forward taking in all that I see around me. The sunlight dances between the shadows of the twisted trees, the brown floor beneath my feet gradually begins to evolve into a lush green lawn and the air I take deep, calm breaths of is painted with the scent of rain. I brush aside a shrub and stop in my tracks as I take in the view before me.

I stand before an ocean. The sand twinkles against my eyes, giving me a psychedelic glimpse of a million pinpoints of colour every time I blink. The tide rolls against the shore lazily as the sunlight bounces off the surface of the water. The sky lies mirrored before my feet and my toes play with the fine grains as I walk onto the beach. I sit against the onslaught of the slow tide and feel the refreshing spray of water upon my tired form. The sun begins to drop gently from the sky, retiring to his home beneath the vast expanse of water. I watch the sunset, I watch as the sky is painted by the whims and fancies of the final rays of sunlight as they herald the appearance of a single crescent sliver of silver hanging delicately in the sky, casting a dim white light on me. An ethereal breeze gushes past me, and I find myself obsessed by an urge to enter the water. I stand up, the waves breaking around my ankles as I walk into the water with an oddly familiar slow, composed gait. I walk forward calmly, the waves breaking against my torso as I begin to feel the ground sink below me. I let the ocean cradle me; I surrender myself to the mercy of the sea as she carries me in her lap. All emotion begins to wash away from me; I do not feel the familiar wave of fear as wave after wave crashes over my head, pushing me down beneath the surface of the water. I feel no panic as I take in the water in deep gulps, I feel nothing but a calm of certainty as I feel the ocean filling up my lungs. I smile and close my eyes as I begin to plummet down under depths. I embrace the vast nothingness that spreads out before me and fall unconscious.

A blinding pain flashes behind my eyes, as I gasp and sputter to find myself on a jet black rock, sprawled out like an empty carcass. I look around, unable to find my bearings, and my eyes fall upon a massive, emerald green pillar. It stands on the shore, firm and unmoving even as the ocean tries desperately to push it off its pedestal. I lift myself off the rock with difficulty and force my sore feet to stumble towards the pillar. I fall at its base, every bone in my body feeling like a deadweight. I rest my head against my arm, panting and coughing when I feel a hand upon my shoulder. I look up to see a small boy smiling down at me with an odd benevolence, the light of ages of wisdom alive in his eyes. He puts his hand to the pillar, and I watch in awe as it begins to crumble to a vibrant green ash. I look at him in plain bewilderment, and though he chuckles silently, I hear his deep, rumbling voice in my head. “You have nothing to fear from me, I am merely here to deliver to you what you have been looking for all this time.” I hear his voice tell me. He walks over to the shimmering green pile of dust and pulls out a piece of paper. He places his hand on my head, clasps the paper in my hand and smiles. I see his small head throw my face into shadow as he blocks the sunlight falling on my face, and I sit still, relishing the cool shade.

I open my eyes in front of this piece of paper, pen in hand, the wind through my hair and a single dim light’s reflection in my glasses. And on the paper, I see this article.

"The Conjecture Radiance" is likely the most upholding effect that starts (when everything and everyone of course, least expects its full force), like an "onward march" to some type of safety.
(That then genuinely is apart of its own point of action).
However way you define its own least likely nonterrible way of communicating with the even least likely scenario, where each word is like a magnify glass too rich for its own purposes to handle. Basically, concluding the fact that whatever conjecture is full of such "radiance", doesn't conclude the Shareholder ("in the details") of this involvement. Or even (especially so), the very Caregiver (in the "emotional dispatching concealment" of the wrongdoings for how it certainly took too much of its pride into such ineffective reasoning at heart), is the truly deciding factor (at large) that actually pinpoints the very most primal directive, involved... Who do you think that might be...? If you truly stated with "I wonder", or even (for an entirely better recognition), for, "I'd reckon...'BLANK'...with...'BLANK'...!"
Well then... You’re reasoning to carefully "request" (from which the very ground you walk), would then appoint (in-charge) the very reckoning of one's own reasoning...had then gone toe-to-toe with something even more..."unimagining!"
After all, just because something even more...unimagining...would then seemingly come out of the blue and cost the very likelihood of your entire self, (from deep within that very self to go entirely "unmanaged"), just so everything leading up to this point...could then adopt (a certain flaw), or more specifically, adapt a certain plan involved (when and only when, you've gotten used to it, over time), doesn't give anyone (in the slightest degree) even the correct involvements for something even truly greater to take afoot the very compassion, from which everything is meant to take apart...and then reassemble, (when the time is right...) Just so everything (and everyone), can finally establish the very "belief" back into itself.
"But wait..." …Someone eagerly asks, "what about the 'Radiance' part...?"
Then something goes silent, until everything comes up from the very ashes, to once again then (single-handedly, of course), present the very ideal customs of the eventual "Hotseat" from which ALL such decision-making, choices, options, opinions, logic, analyzing, reasoning, concentration, focus, etc. That all align (and reflect) from some even GREATER common interest (still inconceivable, at large).
(And of course, it's obviously not from within yourself, or anything usually coherent like that. OH NO!)
It's much deeper and irresistibly separate then that could ever be...
"From within yourself." HAHA! What a bunch of hogwash!
That was the inevitable "Take one"...
"Take Two": Begins with one certain flaw involved... And it's not again (I repeat this...) Isn't "from within yourself."
"It's much more coherent than that!" Mark my words (that aren't good enough for simple results to ensure it so....)
You will find the "Conjecture" (in your very self), before you even discover what the ("Radiance") part is even about....
Stay tuned for "Take Two!" (For "Take One" is not up to standards with itself, if it wasn't for it's still BLANK one-sided half from being mysteriously misplaced from it's own such Conjecture, where the Radiance part, is too increase the full on "contact sport full of certainty"...(that entirely hints at fully making it from simply not actually being able to glow too brightly at heart)!
"For the very end of such a scenario...is a truest guarantee for inevitable warfare!"

science claims
that your pupils dilate
when you look at someone
you love.
you told me
that you loved
how mine grew
when i looked at you.
but when i would look back
into your eyes,
i could only see
pinpoints.

Starlings fly in silver sky
Bullfinch in the dry grass sings,
Emerald teal in tandem fly
Explosively on phosphor wings.
Miracles are in the air
Golden sun in evening glow,
Marigolds of orange flair,
With lavender, in patchwork grow.

Sap is flowing in the wood
bursting buds of olive greens,
Winter flees as winter should
Whilst bubbling brook transform to streams
Miracles are in the air
Colour rich in reddish hues,
Greens of fresh lime , aqua flair
Spring arrives in vivid views.

Silk striations lace the sky
With molten, mackerel clouds of gold,
Evening chill for you and I
Suggest we snuggle close to hold.
Miracles are in the air
A Moonrise breaks horizon’s door,
Hugely round with craters bare
We laugh with joy and seek for more.

Tantalizing night upon us
Stars ignite the heaven's fire,
Black as pitch with jewelled Adonis
Hot white pinpoints of desire.
Miracles are in the air
Passion in the blood doth boil,
Moonlight through her silver hair
Exquisite as blue fire on oil.


Marshalg
@thebach
29 August 2011

You remind me of the earth,
   like deep burnt umber woodlands
mid downpours' fresh aroma
       & spring's foliage lushly reborn,
twinkling explosive pinpoints
       grazing beyond dark ether,
  sparkles dappling 'pon depths
        of eternal seascapes's nature,
amidst breath of relentless airy winds
    gusting above her majesty's hazes
       beyond purple mountain's apex
and streams of meadows' wildflowers in
  deftly painted horizons after moonbows,
vivid consciousness' uttermost reminisce
   of all things recollected in the long ago
        essence of your memories' presence

The sunrise betrayed the furnace
pouring heat into this atmosphere,
beauty deceives in pinpoints of fusion
spilling light on these nights in silence

We are all made of stars - we burn within
this core, unreached and untouched
as science fades in its approach -
Who can test the mystery inside?

I'm sorry,
I don't remember your favourite colour.

I know I asked and,
I know you told me and,
  I know I forgot, almost instantaneously;
I'm sure you'd shrug it off,
say it's no big deal,
and, I suppose I might agree,
but
I'd hope that you'd find it meaningful,
that you'd changed mine.

for now, its:

the intervallic hues
of your delicately feathered iris,
blanketed
under starlit night skies,
glittering
by the sodium haze
  of cityscape lights,
and how transient happiness
set the soft outline of your cheek
  ablaze.

your freckles laid out,
like maps of constellations;
  distant pinpoints, strung up on high,
   ages old,
just waiting to fall, at a moment's notice.

the palette of the sweetness of your skin,
made brushstrokes, weaving into my dreams,
  becoming masterpieces, as
literature
rolls
  from your lips
    in dry-ice cloud
  sepia tones,
washing out black and white photographs
I'd hung up,
  in homemade picture frames,
throughout the corridors of my chest.

so,
I'm not sorry for that.

but,
I am sorry if I ever hurt you,
{I don't think I did}
I'm sorry if I'm an *******,
{though I seem to be the only one to think this}

and,
I'm sorry...

I'm sorry if I love you.

Once, I was a dreamer.  
I would look into the dark sky above me,
and see an endless universe.  
It was full of mystery,
millions of stories and marvels.  
Now, I look into it and see nothing.  
Tiny pinpoints of light staring back at me.  
Wondering why I no longer ask for their stories.  
Blinking, expectant.  
And all I can do is stare back.  
I have no answer for them.  
Nothing that would not seem a lie.  
This is the end for me.  
The last of the starlight inside of me
has flickered and gone out.  
I’m left now with only the vast emptiness.  
No stories.  
No marvels, or wonders.  
Only the mystery.

Once, I was a dreamer.  
I searched for the truth in the stars,
the buried treasure of forgotten skies
and the rolling, grassy hills they watched over,
in some faraway land where man had not yet tread.  
I saw their secrets and held them tight behind my eyes,
as if they were my own.  
Knowing they were not.  
Knowing that they were no ones’ but the stars and the sky.  
But never believing that one day they would be taken back,
taken away from me.  
And now they have left me, the Keeper of nothing.  
Perhaps it was my own doing
that drove away those sacred lands and starry nights.  
Or perhaps I was selfish in thinking it was only I
that could look upon them as I did,
and see the wonders I saw.  
I lay here now,
beneath them.
Blind.

When once, I was a dreamer.

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
mine)* and it wanders over
the slopes and valleys
of my own
wildernesses
I think of you
in plains and grasslands
sleekly wet in mountain curve
as you coolly crack the
earthly fissures
of my heart  quakes
inside
morning light
you transverse
your poetic speak
deep inside my night
your are always with me
in seeping pinpoints
of brightness
of gentle storms
you rock my dark to sleep
you are present
not obsessively
yet strongly
the way people describe
alcohol in veins
you regularly cut them
open, my heartstrings
you strum upon
their vibrations
like waves of calm
intoxication
lulling me
into gentle earthquake
pleasure and centered
breaths
leaving pieces rocking
throughout
my bloodflow back
up interspersed
between beats
i carry you
(that heart of yours)
in my heart
and I treasure
this residence
you have taken up
in my desert
blooms
faraway touch of lips
makes
pulse quiet
in soft booms
your voice soothing
storms
and you i like
sweetly in
my pulse
as seeds just
grow
i carry your heart
inside mine all day
your voice soothing
storms
my raging river
in your flow

October 11, 1944
mission Mt. Cauala
deep in the Appennines
veils of midnight
curtains of torrential rain
her rivers rise to block our way
the Vezza roaring like thunder
brilliant, blinding lightning baffling
stealing all sense of proportion
torn up roads like chasms tripping
dropped equipment lost in mud
visibility at absolute zero
feeling forward for each step
the man in front of you disappears in darkness
as each man to the rear gets lost
this blackness of night had not been foreseen
lightning flashes strobe the mountains above
thunder explodes like artillery fire
completely soaked soldiers stumble around
some find an abandoned shack
shelter near the Sera
rest until daybreak

as we enter Seravezza
our regimental commander cautions
the entire town under enemy eyes
scoping our every move
enemy machine guns sweep streets
heavy artillery regularly rakes buildings
some of our men already wounded
reconnaissance and plan of attack
Company I right, L center, K left
by 2310 the last man slips
into Sera’s icy waters
then climbs necessity’s ladders
built to negotiate the steep Rocky Ridge
jagged, knife-like edges rip clothing and tear flesh
as men try to find footing in blackness
chaos in the ranks
platoons and squads scattering
leaders have no way of knowing
if men are turning back
getting spattered by enemy machine guns
or losing their footing and lives
to the rocks below
calling out to each other
pinpoints our positions to enemy ears
drawing more accurate fire
by 0730 we are all atop the mountain
the German counter attack begins the day
fanatically, despite our heavy fire
they keep coming from three directions
expected flank from 1st Battalion does not arrive
still, German mortar fire and grenades
cannot dislodge our men
despite dwindling ammunition
we hold our position
BAR’s, Silver Stars and concussion grenades

a dozen volunteer for ammunition supply detail
as we approach the hill
a machine gun rakes our position
manned by two, our fire takes out one
the other carries him away
onward to hill’s base
progress paused by tremendous barrage
we crouch for a time before continuing
half way up we’re met
with more mortars and machine guns
shrapnel flying hot
burning into clothes and skin
the smell of gunpowder and cordite
burning into memory
our ammunition mission fails
forcing return to base of hill
with men from rifle companies following
at 1600 our own heavy artillery barrage falls short
striking entrenched remnants of companies K and L
this friendly fire is too much for tired men to take
they withdraw at opportunity’s first chance

darkness falls
soldiers roaming aimlessly
battle’s horror in shocked eyes
efforts made to gather wounded
seventy casualties in just one day
scores with battle shock and fatigue
but numbers never quantify
suffering, broken spirit and loss of life
trained men and officers killed
unhappy AWOLs and disciplinaries
find themselves as front line replacements
inexperienced men growling greatly
morale tanks

The battle of Seravezza crushed 3rd Battalion
despite several efforts
we were never able to take control
the Germans repelled every attack
soldiers were angered by impossible tasks
seemingly sent on suicide situations
we knew they knew where we were
we knew we were to face heavy bombardment
we knew we were without sufficient firepower or manpower
command knew we were out gunned
in the end
the Germans controlled the mountain

From his balcony above a man watches down on a little town in Missouri,  
he pinpoints a bleak silver container as it slingshots into the darkening shadows above.

It yells to him,
"help, get me out of this awful place."
A trial of slate grey smoke follows the container as if it were it's overly attached mother and within a second pulls it back down into the atmosphere.
After descending the container skids across a schoolyard, rolls off the sidewalk and crakes into minuscule pieces.
From the cracks tear gas spills out in all directions covering the once quiet little down in terror, relinquishing it of any tranquility that remained.

The man on the balcony sits and observes the events that have unfolded.
From his perch he can not tell black from white.
He can not tell man from women.
Turban from top hat,
child from elder.
he can not see if interlocked hands declaring their love and denouncing death that blares from police megaphones, are hetero
or ****.
He can not see who's pride is enflamed by blue uniforms
or who's mouth's are covered by dew rags to prevent themselves from speaking a death sentence.

The gas covers it all.

He can only hear footsteps running away,
guns shots following the footsteps,
and unfinished prayers as bodies stain the side walk.

In this moment,
the chess game of life becomes not black versus white
but human versus human.
And the man wonders, from his balcony above,
why it must take weapons that destroy equality,
to make us see each other as equal.

I can't give the raw edge,
Of Life,
a chance in words,
flies away like birds,
it is not mine,
to give.

like the amazon queen,
who ****** for her ****,
(they sleep for now)
they both crawl or limp
out from behind the bustop
I can see the scars from her battles,
starting with the nose on her face,
working down her arms,
and even her legs,
he is an intense pair of eyes,
Address *mean street on repeat,
as his looks are like darts,
avoid eye contact, or there
might be only two sounds

he is porter, drags the bags for the both,
they are looking for a home, as the hint,
of cool morning dew tears, is fall, then winter
Will chase at their heels, and his role as protector,
will be tested against a cold-hearted enemy,
in the open, they are on the hunt for a shelter
to run the business, where he is lord, master, lover,
And ****.

every day this merciful summer,
it has been a different stop, bus or not
every night under stars pinpoints,
Not Needle Marks,
but the Personal Crack Pipe,
needs cleaning before the next use,
like removing makeup from her skin,
just to put it on again,
And off,
And on,
as he banks the money,
for commodities Street market loss or gain
after all what is the price of crack *******?

The raw cost,
In the raw, her business attire,
The raw edge,
I have not lived, not mine to give.

©DWE092013

It's been five years
since the Moon spoke to me
And I did my best to listen
and remember

I'd never been more lost
never felt more alone and confused
never been closer to death
than I was that year
Technically an accident
but living so recklessly
"accidents" become a near certainty
so I am not free of responsibility
I nearly ended my self

Grasping at straws for months on end
Clutching at any whispered fragment of hope
of a Way Out
One morning
I heard a news report
about an upcoming celestial event
a Total Lunar Eclipse
of the Full Moon
I barely noticed it
thought nothing of it
changed the channel
and landed on a cartoon
about the embodiment of the Tao
in the Spirit of the Moon
and something clicked
I know that click
I'm intimately familiar with that click
I have been my whole life
But it'd been almost a year since I'd last felt it
I thought it was gone
gone forever
but here it was again
from a news report
and a cartoon
a cartoon!
of all things
but unmistakeable nonetheless
something about the Tao
and the Moon
and an eclipse

That night five years ago
the night of the eclipse
I didn't know what to do
I almost gave up
but I finally decided to go through with it
out of a sense of absolute desperation
I had nothing left
I might as well
At the appointed time
I took my posture
half-lotus in front of my altar
set flame to candle
and recel
I tried to relax
to let go
to empty myself
I found my Center Mind
and reached inward
to the Void
When it was time I let myself go
drifting up out of my body
flying through the atmosphere
floating in space
above the Earth
staring at the glowing white surface of the Moon
filling my vision
with cratered beauty
and profound grace

And I waited
I watched as a shadow crept across the face of the Moon
from East to West
as the Earth behind me
moved slowly between us and the Sun
And I waited
until the shadow blotted out the Moon entirely
leaving me in darkness
And I waited

And nothing happened

And I felt something inside me break
I had been so certain
that click had always meant The Way before
but nothing had happened
I must really be Lost then
so I gave up
and started to let myself fall back to my body

Just then
the eclipse broke
as the Earth continued on its Way
the shadow began to leave the face of the Moon
a brilliant crescent of white light blinded me from the eastern edge
and I heard a voice that was not my own say

All things that Are, are Change

As amazing as the experience was
a voice inside my head
that I did not recognize
I was still let down
What it had said was
hardly news to me
a paraphrasing of Heraclitus
"All things that Are, are Fire"
The only Constant is Change
Nothing is Certain
except Uncertainty
et cetera
I knew that
had been living it
for years
the purview of Chaos
Nothing is True
and Everything is Permitted
Kids' stuff
arm-chair mysticism
Tell me something I don't know
I said
And the voice answered

You cannot be Good
You cannot be Bad
You can only Be

And suddenly I knew
what should've been obvious
all along
Good and Bad are entirely subjective
just ideas
not Truth
their existence depends entirely
on our particular point of view
at any given moment
there is no single thing in this Universe
that is entirely Good
or entirely Bad
every single thing is both
Good and Bad
depending on your circumstance
your point of view
how you look at it
just as no single thing in this Universe
is entirely Yin
or entirely Yang
every single thing is both
Yin and Yang
that is the Way
that is the Tao

How had I lost sight of that?
What had happened to me?
I wanted more
I knew there was more
I asked the Spirit of the Moon
What else?
and Manni-Moon-Yin replied

Look on the Bright Side
Make the Most of it

Again it suddenly seemed so obvious
it followed naturally that
if all things are both
Good and Bad
then it must be our choice
to view them either one way
or the other
Joy is not a circumstance
Happiness is not an event
something beyond our control
that we must wait for
wait until it happens to us
No
It is a choice
it is something that we do
or don't do
So if there is Good in every single thing
then all I need to do
is choose to see it

Reeling
Overwhelmed
Overcome
Humbled
Awed
I asked
Is that all?
And Manni-Moon-Yin replied

You are Amazing
And so is Everyone Else

Human existence is
astronomically improbable
We should not exist
We are the end result
of a billion
one-in-a-billion chances
all coming up Jackpot
even the worst of Us
is an absolute ******* miracle of Nature
the most amazing thing in the known Universe
the Living Embodiment of Tao
a Human Being
an astounding accident
a chemical formula so complex
that it has become aware of itself
and I am one of them
and I should never lose sight of that
I am one of these ridiculously
outrageously
amazing pinpoints of sentience
and so is every single other person I will ever see
or hear
or touch
or encounter in any way
throughout my entire life
Each person is an Individual
and I can't know them
can't know their experience
or their circumstance
so it is unfair
and pointless
and rather ridiculous
to try and judge them
when we are all equally amazing
each in our own Way

I said Goodbye then
to Sifu
to Master
to Manni-Moon-Yin
and slowly fell back to Earth
back to my body
back to my self
anchored by Knowing
by finally Knowing
something
some True thing
again
with certainty
and clarity

To this day
I do not know
whose voice I heard that night
the Moon Spirit's
or my own
my Unconscious
and I don't care
it makes no difference to me
either way
because the words that voice spoke
are Truth
undeniable
inarguable
solid
foundational
Truth
and I will remember them
for as long as I live
and as long as I remember them
I will never again
be lost

You pulled long wings from my back to my ribs-
deep passion inscriptions and hieroglyphs
with your nails as I whispered unholy
prayers into your ears with your mouth closed.
I tripped into your superstition that started with a kiss
outside your door after midnight,
pressing my shoulder blades into the palm of your hands.
You said you didn't try any games.
I said I didn't like to play.

Be careful, supernova, you'll burn out.

I attacked you right from the start.
"Shut up, would ya!" you'd say with a smile,
laughing when I'd scream back at the television commercials
when they'd ask me stupid questions.
I drove you insane.
But when you'd fall asleep I'd trace your eyelids
like crop circles with my fingertips,
making a thin bridge over your nose
connecting pinpoints like constellations.
Sometimes I'd ask you to read the stories
that you wrote on my skin.
You'd pass the message along through your lips
gently against mine the way a shadow sits
on a figure.
I'd sigh when your hands skipped over
the space between my thighs.

Be careful, supernova, you'll burn out.

I took a chance on you.
You didn't bid on me.
I guess it's true that some things
burn too bright.

we meet at midnight (or maybe one) and you’re wearing the same
hoodie you’ve been wearing for three years. the wind nudges us
apart but somehow still you’re soft and smiling. i don’t have a
scarf. there’s a snowball down my shirt and then there’s
this noise ripped from me like i’m gasping and
laughing at the same time and it’s the
ugliest noise i’ve ever heard. i try
to chase you but you’re faster
and it’s okay because
you and i both
have such
terrible
aim.

we’re both just glad to be alone.

there
are beds
i’ll never lie in
ever again and that
is for the best. i remember
there was a time i’d wait for you
i’d sit and literally gaze out my window,
see kids on bikes and the sun passing by
but never you till i conned the moon into friendship
and she introduced us. i’d start arguments to hear you talk
but sometimes (and only sometimes) i would breathe and think,
i wanna fall asleep standing on this salted sidewalk and never wanna
wake up. sometimes you look away when my lips move like you can’t
hear. but i follow you. i teach you to paint and you teach me to dance.

it’s always the same. we get inside. you
hand me bread. we sit on the couch.
i skin my knees falling to the ground
just to hear you laugh. you shift and a
part of me wants to know the rhyme or
reason why but you roll your eyes when
i tell you poetry doesn’t need to rhyme
and i am a happy hypocrite. the bottle
is warm where your hand's been killing
it. it’s dead when i hand it back.

when i fall asleep your eyes are with me
and when i wake up you’re holding my
wrists. my skin is petrichor and yours is
smoke. suddenly there’s thunder bridging
the distance between the moon and sun,
matchflame and cumulonimbus clouds
and the carpet flips over as i pitch toward
the kitchen table. you’re photokeratitis
and i go blind. i make snow angels.
i need. i need to close my eyes.

you make me tea. i put my head in my hands.
my hair frizzes under lightning. there are no
blankets and no conversation. i pretend
to sleep on the floor and in two long hours
i’ve made friends with the spiders under
your bed. you haven’t met.

--

the alarm whispers. i pick myself off his floor. i steady myself.
i can’t look at him for too long, can't say goodbye. i glance.
his eyes are closed. there’s no way to wake him without
feeling like a wolf, or maybe a sheep. my wrinkled coat
is tangled in the rug. it's dawn. red eyes. if he was up
he would call me a mess. he's not. the sun drapes
over his sheets. i am freezing. my hand shakes
at the doorknob and i think, wrong, this
is the ugliest noise i have ever heard.
the bottle is on its side next to him.
it says nothing. i never opened
a door more slowly. i run
like there’s something
behind me. i lose a
minute when i sit
on the stairs. my
my eyes bleed. i
laugh. i told him
i hate love songs.
it's not like he
follows my
*******
spotify.

it’s always morning here
and always so quiet;
it doesn't let me say goodbye.
he's asleep but i’m alone and the air
is still. there are no stormclouds,
no suns
or snow or crescent moons.

the sky is
blue

There's this song I always listen to that no matter what the circumstances never fail to make me think of you. It has become a second nature, I think, for my mind to conjure you within its convolutions while my heart tries not to ache at the delusion, the images painted by the words sung into my ear as I close my eyes and see you here, here beneath the shutter of my eyelids. You turn my heartbeats into a rapid continuous explosion of dying stars. I spend hours staring at the ceiling trying to make sense of why everything seems to be a memory of you, I try to find clues in the pages filled with poetry about you, and all I end up realizing is that you are the color of dappled sunlight against verdant spring grass. And the long winding roads snaking across the city lights I only want to get lost in you.

There's this song I've just begun to get addicted to, and no matter how many times I listen to it the only thing it keeps telling me is you, or maybe that is all I can hear, with my ears deaf to everything else that should make more sense than your name being an endless chant that never fails to be a vise on my throat, a shackle on my wrist, and I know, I know that if I turned away from you I would always look back to see if you show any inclination of stopping me. Hope, dreadful hope, that I somehow matter to this boy who seems to see everyone as the same, or maybe he has simply listened to the same song too many times and he's tired of everything, I wish I could touch him. I wish I could be the lines on his palm tracing past stories in the dried-up riverbed of his veins. Or to be the candlelight in his eyes, love, I don't need a wicker, you're all I need to keep burning.

There's this song I once heard from somewhere, it doesn't have words in it but it spoke of you more than I ever do, as if the blanks where the lyrics should be were lines connecting the pinpoints of lights visible in your laughter, as if the musical instruments were screaming what I never could, that whether you realize it or not, right now I feel like I can love you forever. I am running out of words, perhaps somewhere, miles away from me you're singing yourself to sleep, and my heart begs me silent so I can listen to the tune only I can hear, only I can know that you are the note that spurs the crescendo of an angel's praying song, that even god will listen to the heaven of your voice.

There's this song I just heard today, there's something about it that makes me sad. But then again every good song always sounds melancholy to me, as if there's a filter in my ears that permits only the tears to seep through, locks all the joy out of my body, and I can't really blame it, because happiness is a poison to the bitter sea churning in the pit of my stomach. It will **** me to be happy, and you're the blade that slides neatly through skin, flesh, and bone, cleaves through soft sinew as if it's nothing more than paper to be torn, shredded, ripped open like a smiling wound. You would **** me if you could, and it's all I can do to gasp through the choking sensation of your name lodged deep in my throat, to let my chest be filled with echoing thunderclaps.

So sing, whisper, speak to me, let my name spill from your lips like a waterfall tumbling over the edge of a cliff, let it crash down to the ocean of my heart, let the wave tear itself apart so  I can breathe, breathe, love, let me fill you with my breath, let me live, I don't have to leave, though your laughter consists of ricocheting shrapnel from the explosion of your touch, your smile is the deadly curve of a bowstring drawn tight nocked with cupid's poisonous arrow, your eyes are two storm clouds spitting lightning and reverberating with thunder, you are death. The beginning and ending of a lifelong love story.

Look to the gloom,
yielding no depth of distance,
only pinpoints of light
blaring the selfish madness of man
and beast alike.
Look to oval eyed Saturn, and
notice not the opalescent crenulation
of teeth, or
the rigid celestial body
inflated and bloated-
floating in the absence of fettered air;
all that is important
is the lifeless bodies
cannibalized and
invariably stuck in an endless orbit
of the greedy giant.

Soft glowing
Lights
Hang from emptied corridors
And the night melts into

An


Outer space
Dripping pinpoints of light

i am sitting outside,
searching a sunset:
a plant loving light,
gobbling it up through
every pore.
Looking for the pinpoints
of ancient transmission.
i see a bulge...NO...
two, THREE!:
alien fingers pressing
latex event horizon,
mixed palette cornea burned.
     (Just a flashback, a
      cold beach night in
      my memory, feeling
      small in the universe
      again; chain-smoking
      unfiltered cigarettes,
      forcing a process, tasted
      bittersweet on the
      tip of my tongue.)

i hate you, Florida,
but every where is equally
beautiful in the now.
None of it is home.

i don't know what that means...

is it here, where i am
understood, examined?

i am cold, seeking fire:
i need to cut you wide
open, Luke's Tauntaun, and
stuff you full of my words,
replace your white insides
with black and gray ink.

To live.
To BURN.
In the light, the way of forever.

your skirt was red and flowing,
your blouse was blue
on the night i locked eyes with you.
it seemed to me like i hadn't seen your eyes since last december.

my shredding muscles
my popping joints
i saw the pupils of your eyes by firelight shrinking down to pinpoints
you were poking at the embers
there's a cold wind coming off the ocean.
there's a cold wind coming off the ocean.

i wet my finger with my tongue and pressed it in the ashes,
rubbed it up against your perfect eyelashes.
you said something really important,
something pretty seems to have slipped my mind.
walls were freezing, so was the floor.
i didn't want to hurt you anymore.
you had a sad, sad, friend in front of you,
that dying fire behind.
there was a cold wind coming off the ocean.
there was a cold wind coming off the ocean.

slight music
quite instrumentals slither through the space

now an ethereal silence and a curled, gnarled hand rest at the table
weather-worn pockmarked face twitch
a common occurrence
a scene worthy of a masterful painter
the air sighs, not in sound but in feeling
it is demure, languid,
a seamless bond of hunched figure and wispy breaths
a heart feels light and hollow with pulsating winds surrounding it
a man's hide tingles, prickles
pores gently widen in anticipation

a boxed room
a shackle room
dark, yet for the dim lantern
and a speckling of pinpoints in ever shifting pupils
patterns shift with tightening skin, hackles raised
billowing smoke against snarling and jolting

our West is not kind

a child stumbles with its chittering and chattering, back into its hole
an equalizer delicately rocks upon the floor
hot in its despondence and billowing smoke barrel
the metal becomes cold, uncaring; what despair was impacted upon it has left, as is the same with all objects subject to human emotion

Old blood sleeps in the shackled room
with chattering mumbling children in their holes

life is but glorious process, while we all wish for results
how deplorable

There’s a humming above the rain
Evil sinners plot against the land,
Fly buzzing ghouls, adrift the spirit
But above all, I remain a man.

Alas the wind had died
So small beneath the mast,
Alack, to the devil must go
Sundry memories that pass.

So brilliant beneath the dreamscape,
Quaking stares above the fire.
Be watchful; the vision's going
Smoking ruin inside the pyre.

Shift to intangible, across the water
Without a backward glance;
Shimmering pinpoints in the distance,
That hollowed, ghostly dance.

When I was thirteen my mother
Took a rose and crushed it
Letting the thorns ***** into her sides
Pinpoints of blood blushing on her arm

“This is what a man does to a woman,
What he takes and what cannot be
Restored, this what you must endure
This is what your family must endure
Because you are a woman.”

So is it any wonder that when you
Pushed yourself inside without asking
I did not stop you, that I only closed
My eyes and saw the image of that
Crushed red rose lying limp
Between my mother’s feet

Expansed in cloudless skies
Afternoon's promised all
A starry sacred finger.

Numberless specks of light,
Organized by time and weight.

So condensed specks of dust -
Some dialed in for sight, face up
Just in time for the exhibition:
Grandeur on a scaleless slate.

This is the reason to rhyme.

You may say "not at all"
But I prefer to step and fall
Into the black as though it were
so close to me - to reach and stir
with a hand the nebula's wisp
made of things both soft and crisp
hot and cold, as season's due
year in and out- Still - and true
Ceasing not but to amaze
So flicker the Pinpoints - spots of haze
Never changing - still they move
Moving change - hangs still above.

Only when I turn down my eye
Blades of grass that live and die
speak this ancient tale to me
of dartling lights and infinite sea.

Yet everywhere I look about and see that everywhere's about
I find myself lost in oceans of one,
A frozen sea that feels like the sun.
Ship to ship I wish to link
But having cast off my way to blink
I sink (into a hue)
I think (as if I have a clue)
I sink (then, into blue)

Out of my heady-ness there comes yawn,
The same readiness that forsees a dawn,
Witnessing miracles can't go on
So in I meander from the lawn.

Millenia a moment
wishes on all the starfish in the ocean
wouldn't make Wilcox happy in love

Indivisible divisions
infinite wisdom where math and science
will never meet God

Did science create a universe or simply define it?
Where beginning meets end in pinpoints of minutia
that by definition and design will never actually meet

Cradle me in your arms for nanoseconds
each holding an eternity
If only time could be held by more than mere memory

Maybe, everything until the now that is never the now
can touch a moment
that can never be broken into its smallest parts

he's made it to the leaping-off place
it was a beautiful stroll up
and the wind
    makes hair feel free.

he's made it to the leaping-off place
the sky tides the wispy white dreams
of faraway things
    but the ponderous rote
of the dirt
    binds him and bids him delay.

and he writes—

life looks so good in green, friend
a feet-light frenzy in polychromatic feelings
white white fingers on a lite-brite brain
pull out the pegs—time to feel insane
    to let it all out.
sunshine rain from your cucumber eyes
if only the littlest drop
will make me whole
    i'll make my soul an impluvium.

the faraway below, and the folded wings
the sun, the moon, and the unimaginable pinpoints
of what wishes are
    everything in the sky and earth
is in his head
    and his hands are empty.

he's made it to the leaping-off place
and grass stains his jeans as he stares
lost in thought
    wondering, pondering in a storm of
lethargy
    the implications of leaving the ground.

I am nostalgic for things that haven't happened
I am thrilled that the system kills your soul
I don't mind that people drop bombs
I am filled with hope as Jesus comes down from his cross
and saves me from the mushroom cloud
I find faith in green pieces of paper
I find peace in organized time and schedule
I am enlightened with spoon-fed predigested fact

Everything can't be the way we want it to
so I'm not going to take the chance to whatever I can.
There are too many things to hear about or see
so I'm going to believe in authority and what it has to say.
There are too many opinions and perspectives
so I'm going to align myself to the most popular belief
Dreams can't be achieved and passions impossible
so I'm going to save effort and get by

One day I'll be enamored to settle for someone who can stand me
I'll be generous and support wars and c.i.a coups.
I'll be fulfilled and play my part in this consumer state.

I don't know if we forgot what we are.
Items surround us
and
Ideas are shoved down our throats
That isn't what we've become though, right?

We are capable of being kind
we have the capacity for love
we can imagine the peace of a black hole
we can manage not being in power for a split-second

A split-second, because really,
that's all i think we have left.
At least for now.

sweet love for the planet earth.

we've got finance
we've got tree oppression
we've got paper moons

don't borrow anything you can't give back.
Breathing in, taking oxygen
Breathing out, give your air away
But don't worry. You won't find stares everywhere you go if you don't dress the part. So take a role and pay money you can't get because we create money out of air and magic, We make war with television and camera crews. Find your place and be complacent because if you are to be improper the camera will find it and exploit your ***** traits.
You are filthy and no more important than anybody else
and if you think you are get
real and look into a glass of water
see you are impermanent.
and that it’s okay
because rips in the earth move
and will fit together like a puzzle piece one day
the moon used to be huge in the night sky
and if you look at the water right it fills your mind
with the night
dreams materialize and get stuck under the ice
of a frozen lake
where fish are

You look through glass
ceilings but all you can see are your eyes.
black pinpoints
in a enormous grid
of slavery or love,
whatever way you want to call it,
finally being free.
if we decide. if we agree
prepare to live by the sea.