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I am the grand central
swirling vortex of the known universe

pathway of consciousness
a worldwide metaphysical interconnection

hub of modernity’s magnificent  metropolis
prime mover of it's empowered citizenry

eye of a Mid-Atlantic megalopolis
bridging an expanse from Boston to DC
trajectories of an Acela Express
accelerates time, coheres a region

magnetic compass axis
gyroscopic core
web of iron rails
touches all
transcontinental
cardinal ordinates

my constitution of chiseled granite blocks
manifests steadfast immutability

opulent terminus of marbled underground railways
subconscious portals to inter-borough worlds


the Zodiac streaks across my painted heavens
splashing aspirational mosaics of
bold citizens onto universal canvasses
my exhalations burst galaxies,
birthing constellations
promising potentialities of
plenteous abundance
as a right of all
global citizens

transit vehicle for mobilized classes
of fully enfranchised republicans

my tendrils plunge deep into
cavernous drilled bedrock
firming an unshakable edifice
-a new rock of ages-

rails splay out to the
horizons farthest corners
northern stars, southern crosses
nearest points on a sextants reckon

I am the iron spine
of the globes anointed isle
I co-join Harlem and Wall Street
as beloved fraternal twins

commerce, communication and culture
is the electricity surging through my veins

the worlds towering Babel
rises from my foundations
the plethora of tongues
all well understood

I open the gateways of knowledge
guarded by vigilant library lions

route students and scholars to
the worlds most pronounced public schools

beatific Beaux Art is boldly scrawled on my walls
in dark hued blues sung in gaudy graffito notes

swanky patrons sip martinis,
nosh bagels with a smear and **** down
shucked lemon squirted oysters

reason, discovery and discourse tango
to the airs of Andean Pipe flutes
with violence and discordant dissonance
deep within my truculent bowels

I am the road to work,
a pathway to a career and
the ride to a Connecticut
home sweet home

my gargoyles and statuary laugh
at pessimistic naysayers

I am the station for
centurions, bold charioteers
homeless nomads and
restive masses

I stir a nation of neighborhoods
into a brilliant *** of roiling roux

beams of enlightenment
stream through colossal windows
today's epiphanies of the fantastic
actualize resplendent zeitgeists

sipping coffee in my cafe's
the full technicolor palette
of humanity is revealed;
civilizations history is etched
forever upon the mind

eight million stories
of the naked city is bared
as splendorous tragedy
it's comic march
of carnal being
exalted

a million clattering feet
scurry across marblized floors
polishing the provenance
burnishing a patina
exuding golden footprints

I am 100 years young and
thousand years away from
the crash of a demolition ball

Doric Columns and
elegant archways
coronate commuters
each day with a
new revelation of a
democratic vista

I am the grand central
my spirit flows as
one with the mass
in the vibrant
heart of our
throbbing city

Music Selection: Leonard Bernstein, On the Town

written to mark the 100th Anniversary of Grand Central Station


Oakland
2/8/13
Without the souls of Trouvere, will he aspire to spheres from where he can replicate himself in the ductile state of the ceremonious Energeia...? The naive action is univocal as the first practice modulated in inclinations and lexical motricities, where they die within their fears, failing to hope and convalesce their desecrated wounds congruent in concepts of Energeia, as an arbitrary neologism to move what in itself is not self- scrollable. Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run barefoot for those who banish needs on the parental scale of his range. Succeeded by the need of Energeia towards the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, and supernatural substantialities that transported him in the Epistle even to his desiring hands, but in natural causes, and kinetic emotionality in the destiny of the principles of a movement that dialogues by a spinning spin; alembicated in particles of displacement time eccentricity, towards itself in the synonymous statics, providing intrinsic angles to be associated with the rotation of time and Epistolary demands so that the quantum light can relate the energetic spiritual emotionality, with the own dissociated relationship in the spaces of appearance; where it is to be believed that there is a moment of bias provided in the emotional-movement rooted in linear memories of the temporality of the Hellenic mental axis. Everything is proper in the coordinates of the speculating, which is adduced and duplicated in Poielípsis or unveiled generation of relativistic emotions. For this reason, Vernarth naughty importunates this metaphysical precognition, alluding to particles that generate dissimilar inclinations in lapses until reaching the threshold from when Stratonice partially divided its material and spiritual origin into stationary diversity, in meditated phases that will not take place nuclear, but in the polymathy of its exteriorized threshold, and of the emotional mass of its free and passionate matter that concerns its strident and impalpable Macedonian origin.

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

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

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

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

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

Five sections rose along the straight line of the Trouvere pyramidal axon, the base of the liturgical appendix that honors the multidimensional space, with antiphons for the cult of Carlo Magno on the underlying Patmos. Santiago was lacerated in the Holy Land far from his Brother Apostle Saint John, but he came to meet with the Trouveres who came from the rugged Pyrenees. Santiago passed the Strait of Gibraltar and reached Padrón, which is about 20 kilometers west of Santiago de Compostela; there some angels took him to the place where he actively rests. In a boat he arrived..., and always by the Mediterranean he will now reach Patmos, still acquiring the iconography that attempts to find Charlemagne, and a codex that would unite pre-Christians like Pythagoras and Aristotle united in the relic of the taxpayers transformed into three maritime rivers, concerned with a predicted belligerent episode, to say that all roads lead to Patmos, like Locus Sanctus, of all the shepherds who heal their sheep in which they are not of others that are populated with souls white, for the good of others. Thus the souls of Trouvere from the Pyrenees revealed themselves as predecessors of the raiding of the shells 308 meters below the Profitis Ilias, in agreement with Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia, where the passing of the centuries would tell him about the Jacobean Route instructed in confronts, and concordances with the airones of the Trouvere, protected by a rectangle in three subdominant Pythagorean angles in the dissipated darkness of the golden indigo of Theoskepasti, in the meridian of Kímolos.
Poielipsis Souls of Trouvere
Akemi Jan 2016
There was a dream here. It passed over in the night; a blur that burnt a fever into the earth. It died in the gap between. Fingers unlaced. Hand to the side. The sun runs soft tendrils through thick curtains. Or something like that.

Have you seen the new Star Wars movie? No. You’d like it. It’s the same thing all over again, but with a black guy and a chick as the main characters instead. I guess that’s what you call progress.

There was a dream here. A thick, unfurling mass of potentialities. Sartre once wrote existence precedes essence. Schopenhauer believed the essence of a chair was as much willed into being as the essence of a man. There was choice once, but it died when we chose. The breath you took before your last smoke. The air is stirred by a passing train. A woman steps off a bridge, into the mourning blue of an autumn lake. There is an empty car on fire. There is a man inside. His brother sleeps through his exam, doped up on too much codeine. There is the stench of lack. There is death passing a mirror, seeing herself in haste, but too rushed to make sense of it.

He runs fingers down the scars of her arm. A trickling, stream awakening from a long winter thaw. Vessels blue. Oceans of laughter tucked deep in the folds of her skin, so faint you can barely see them any more.

The sheets are black. The city folds itself. The sky collapses into the gutter; Jupiter bleeds into the apartment block on east side. A man leaves his home, but never reaches his destination.  There is a movie Face Off, where the identity of Nicholas Cage is challenged through the transplantation of his face. If reincarnation were possible, would we even be capable of recognising our reincarnated selves, stumbling through the visage of a billion other, unknown vessels? The skip collectors come at 4am. Metal grinds against metal until all that is left is dust.

Hands shaking a pit of coal. Shake shake. Shake shake. Your mother is dead. Shake shake. Shake shake. Jesus working at a shoe store. Shake shake. Shake shake. An atheist. Hah hah, hah.

The channels fill. Ink drops on water. Fireworks blackening the contours. There is a sun in Peru. Waste water pumps through the vessels of the city. The mayor drinks punch. The catacombs crumble like desert bones. The roads split above. Traffic stalls. Shadows stretch. Meet at the centre. A core. Slender fingers. The infinite. A hollowed heart. A heritage.

Drink your punch, says the mayor, try the grape and cheese.

There is a comic. Five or six woodland friends play grab the tail. After one round, they look over to find friend raccoon sleeping. They laugh and shout next round. Friend scorpion looks at his tail with tears in his eyes. It is funny, because death is boundless, amoral, and imminent.

A group at a party. Someone brings up the right-wing branch of their government. Everyone begins laughing, red in the face, spit flying from their mouths, arms noodling into the sky. Yeah, yeah. Hella. It is an imitation game. A laugh track on repeat. Maybe someone scratched it on purpose, or the sound guy fell asleep on the button. Now everyone is stuck, laughing. They begin to doubt themselves, but look up, reassured by the glowing sign above their heads that displays the text laughter, in bold black Helvetica. The sign is faded from heavy use, a sickly cream that looked bad before it left the factory. They were made in batches of a thousand and shipped across the country. One begins to choke, spilling her drink, bunching the cloth on the table beside her. They keep laughing. She is purple now. Another group spots them and joins in. The party next door. The whole neighbourhood. It is broadcast across the city. A wave of hysteria sweeps the nation. An online celebrity creates mugs. A famous rapper uploads himself eating pancakes. The sound guy wakes up and turns off the display, but everyone keeps laughing.

God died today. Crumpled jacket at the foot of an apartment block. Creased ticket. Crooked can rolling down suburbia. American dream wakes up. Finds herself an amnesiac in a foreign land. Catches bus downtown. Wanders vacant sun. Blood trickles from wrinkles. So many now. Creased, crumpled, crooked. Drinks from gutter. Chokes. Stumbles into abandoned church. Blood dries into grotesque mask. Hard to feel through it. Like second skin. Tired. Rests head against wall. Waits for pulse. Finds nothing.

A joke to break the gloom. Two crows are perched opposite one another, partitioned by a one-way mirror. Both break into laughter.

No, wait. Maybe tears.
January 2016

(Crows are one of the few birds capable of self-recognition.)
JR Morse Oct 2012
The  Kristeille  Bra :
And Other Pathways To   -  ( Disaster ! )

Polarities :    so smartly empowdered
And,  petitely enslaved -
Potentialities ?
- In extremis, I'm afraid.

But if thus were so, then ...
(Even thinly veilled) ;

Let us duly consider :
Are our appetites (fe\male)
In actuality and fact umm,
Needlessly Manichean;
The torments of
noisy Siblings ?

Why, after all I ask,
only two -
Don't
You ?


Alas,
To the Medici
Roundly go the
Battle and the day !
       (And sublimity)
(Or so the legend
goes ...... )

For those who favour
such Palantines,
(and gravity)
a throne.



For  :
Pure symetry confounds my interest -
hnn.us/articles/7202.html


James R. Morse NYC  2012.
All Rights Reserved.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2023
Family biz takes us on the Acela train to Washington, D.C.,
a many-hour tour of the Monuments upon the Mall inclus,
never on a prior agenda, despite semi-frequent visitations,
but this time, rose early, in the cool morning, to touch and be touched

She asks if we have time enough for the Vietnam War Memorial,
time enough plentiful, no inkling her purpose was manifold, nay,
woman-fold, relating a story of a first teen boyfriend, they vowed,
to never lose touch, tho they became geographically distanced

On New Year’s day, a promise to each other, to speak on the phone,
they do honor this commitment, he will call, for in your early years,
solemn promises, honor, memories potentialities, galvanize bonds;
first love’s easy camaraderie birth tender promises, kept well-tended!

Till one year, no call comes, and desire, necessitates her to be
the protagonist, only to learn that Gerald, drafted in ‘68,
did not return, his parents inform her, the story told wistfully,
a Ranger locates his name, her reflection strains to reach his letters

Only I see her eyes filling and brimming, the shoulders ever
so slightly sagging and know this moment needs memorializing,
for we shed tears so rarely, that this youthful relationship, now more than threescore extant is why we built this black granite wall


Visit the Jefferson, MLK, Washington’s obelisk, and of course
the author of “of the people, by the people, for the people,”
a humble visage, humanizes his grandiose, white robed presence,
assessing his potential measure of life assassin-shortened, we exclaim

”if only, what might have been!”

but no tears are shed, but for a name of a young man,
taken before his prime, who enabled a girl to taste deep own-self, at an age we barely ken the words revealing our true emotive, or understand the color palette of serious, meanings of how we tick…

she’s easy overcome, I wonder, was she inside feeling, exclaiming,
”if only, what might have been,”
but no words emitted, only tears, that a tissue so softly takes away,
I think who among us, yet sheds sad tears for the days of our youth?

this poem in fufillment of my obligations, witness, memorializer,
arm to be leaned on, carrier of Kleenex, compatriot tear-shedder,
empathetic, sympathetic and recording secretary
that our past, is never truly past,

it is just waiting for a reflection,
resurfacing one more time
on a high polished black
granite slab

<postscript>

black granite mirrors sandblasted refresh cut scars into our consciousness and for some, our conscience, as one who
rarely thinks of and forgets to reflect on the life lottery he won,
back in 1968, so he was not called to serve, exclaiming

”if only, what might have been!
In Memoriam
Gerald Levy
Tim English Dec 2013
Fleeting glimpses, hidden senses, past imperfect future tenses of improbable possibilities, infinite realities in a collective unconscious field of myriad potentialities, this causality is undefined, aligned with variables in a chaotic matrix of questionable and unknowable theses, a vortex of what the **** is he talking about, anyways? Many ways to the center, but once you enter where's the exit? Go on and make your query, hurry, it's not like you have Eternity to figure it out, oh, wait, you might, for after the body dies the Soul takes flight & slices through the cold dark Night to meet the light of Day, or so they say, I wouldn't know, I haven't been there in a while, the last time I died I tried to leave but got stuck when a man and a woman ****** & I got ****** back down in to the womb again, a child of sin who just can't seem to RISE and leave this world behind, THESE ******* TALKING MONKEYS WARP MY MIND, so, anyways, here I am, ******, a spirit trapped in blood and bone, a witness to the End of Time, as human history's final lines are written in blood in a book none shall read, there ain't no sequel *******, this is IT, get your **** together or face NEVER understanding the complexities of existence & the necessity of negativity for for the possibility of transcending the human understanding of the positive/negative frameworks of perception, or, in other words: **** happens, get over it, it makes you stronger. But the longer we agonize the more we demonize the opportunity to learn and grow from our adversity. Everything has its place, in time and in space, & as the quantum fields realign to allow potential probablities to manifest, our tests are revealed as stepping stones, part of the path on the way Home. This time here is only temporary as our souls are tempered in the fires of Purgatory, but Infinity awaits, and godlike, we shall rise into those skies of heightened perception & unlimited realization to take our places among the faces of the Eternal, it's on to the STARS, galaxies and Universal templates await construction, the essence of Creation, & how could we understand it unless we'd been THROUGH it? Maybe this time we'll get it RIGHT, 'cuz we've been leaning to the left this time around & it's about ******* time SOMEBODY did SOMETHING about all this *******, let's recreate the pattern in such a way that pain and suffering have no place, and there's not a single ******* trace of injustice, a new paradigm, a Paradise, wouldn't that be nice, a place where everything's all right, and our sight is restored to be able to truly SEE the Light instead of only clawing at the walls of this darkened dungeon of filth and misery & hellish reality, LET ME RISE into that bright and familiar Light that so long ago let me go to Fall without ceasing in this neverending Pit... GIVE ME BACK MY ******* WINGS, I'M OFF TO BETTER , BRIGHTER THINGS.
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2009
In those days of woe with head hung low
In those moments of regret,
When your actions lose momentum
And your heart begins to fret.
When the best of plans do not work out
When your mountain seems too steep
And tractions lost in everything
And losing makes you weep.


Hard grafting wears your bones too thin
Your tomorrows fade to mist,
The splendour of your recent past
Despatched to moments missed.
Frustration that the rainbow plans
Have dwindled in the rain,
That your brilliant expectations
Have expired to things mundane.


Your stature has diminished
In the eyes of those you love,
Your capableness stultified
By the pointing velvet glove.
Self confidence is wilted now
Belief within less sure,
Potentialities diminishing
With every shrunken score.


Dark sombre thoughts receeding
Blue corners fade to gold,
Discontentment ****** asunder
As new amber dreams unfold.
The towering unhappiness
Diffuses to the air
And spirals of positivity
Emerge from here and there.


The path beyond the shadowed lane
Is there for you to tread,
Gird your soul for chance my friend
Discard the shoes of lead.
There must be dreams to savour
There must be goals to meet,
So launch your bold tomorrows
And delight in unknowns sweet.


You’re sailing in fair breezes now
The silver waters flow,
Warm sunshine on your shoulders
Rich contentment’s fine red glow.
For there must be dreams to savour
To hold within your heart,
To engage the thrill of living
And make each day a joy to start.


Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
7 June 2009
"There is an appointed time for everything, /
A time for every activity /
under the heavens;" /
—Ecclesiastes 3: 1 (NWTSE) /

A season has departed, /
A season has begun, /
The Circle of Life continues, /
A legacy remains undone. /

The gauntlets I have transcended, /
Have diamonded my soul; /
Therefore, I offer this solemn petition /
Knowing the fight remains to be won. /

In time, there will be tribulations /
But this heart stands adamantine, /
These eyes remain dauntless, /
My spirit is forevermore unphased. /

A time of self- (re) discovery /
Has burgeoned anew, /
We will all metamorphose /
If we look to the future bemused. /

Your potentialities are enormous; /
Together, we are a fulgurant storm. /
Rise, rise, young stalwarts /
You are a Spark of The Divine. /

The experiential cascade is perpetual, /
Incessantly persevere, /
May wisdom inhabit each one of us, /
May we each forsake not to love. /

A chrysalis has unraveled /
Diaphanous wings have been borne, /
Doubt not inviolable beauty /
Always, abides in the light. /

(—Se' lah)


07-18-2021
Excelsior Forevermore,


Sanders Maurice Foulke III, AAS
JR Rhine Dec 2015
For Aleš, who reads pacifist novels during wartime

I

For the Millennials:
Victims of opportunity,
Saviors of humanity.

Muse-less, useless, a twentynothing!

We, the Confounded Chiliads,
are the electrified pulsating
offspring of the digital age:
Serendipitous,
enigmatic
vagabonds of the modern world.

Standing juxtaposed between
two centuries,
two generations:
Redeemers of the new millennium.

We’ve read the writings on the wall,
for they have been by our own hand.
Blood dripping down the fluorescent page,
the endless scroll that consumes our gaze.

Gaping holes in our hands and feet,
screaming telephone poles pin us to the magnetic current.

We are trapped but we are not alone.

With every word we bleed,
with every eye to our flesh,
our cries are drowned in the digital void.

We have been washed away by alluded idiosyncrasies,
never unanimous nor harmonious;
feeling our fingers tie into knots,
mangled, finagled, wringing, hovering like a
Ouija board over menacing letters.

We close our eyes and feel them
burning within our skull.

So many voices, so many bodies,
pouring into our thoughts;
endless rainfall
drowning the long coveted silence.

So desperate for the parting
of ***** storm clouds,

for a sign from heaven
to pierce through the ceaseless night,

to cast its lovely gaze upon us
like a father’s warm and gentle hand,
lifting up downcast faces.

We toil in our anguish,
suffering information overload;
a whole race of individuals
accumulating into a massive “I told you so.”

Every wish, every genius mind,
every glance into the future,
every crystal ball rubbed,
Electric Eye awakened

as the dream sighs into existence;
the blending of fact and fiction
in the prophesies of Fathers Orwell and Huxley:
maddened forlorn oracles of modernity.

As we cross the rivers of Babylon
to find ourselves swimming in
the Fountain of Youth
we escape dripping, exhausted;
aching bodies shivering.
They drape expensive towels around us,
breathing warmly on our exasperated shells
of humanity.

Our mortal vessels no longer capable of
carrying our fragile identities,
we leap out of their torpid mouths
exposing the gelatinous crustacean.

Amorphous brain matter
sponge-like, soaking up
the sweat of our plunder and plight—
Clinging desperately as our liberators

pry us off the wet earth
like barnacles off a ship’s keel,
wringing us out
over the supper bowl:
the thin soup of mortal consciousness.

Feeling our voices and vices,
virtues and virulence,
mingling together;
meshing into one.

The hive mind descends upon us,
protruding a gaping straw
from its abdominous being;
sticking it into the electric ocean,
proceeds to **** life up into its
wrinkly, sickly tightened mouth.

Past the gleeful tongue,
down the throat;
tumbling over each other aimlessly
in the darkness—
limitless potentialities.

Directionless;
ambiguous
voices in the dark:
cavernous, mindless cacophony.

Echoes bouncing off
the windows of my soul,
I tumbled into the darkness
lost, and afraid.

“The world is yours!”

I never feel my feet stop moving.

Our nightmarish episode of consumption concludes,
leaving us moaning, naked, confused in the depths:
Haunting spirits wandering these novel dwellings
built on the backs of the olden brutes
and the barbarous archetypic minds of the Marxist prophets.

In this world of post-civilization,
we are post-human(e) in our efforts;
unable to gain a foothold in the foundation—
more quicksand than earth and stone.

Our seeds were thrown to the weeds and the crows.

II

Muse-less, useless, a twentynothing!

I glance at the others: gangly gangrenous guiles!
Feasting on each other, never growing any stronger;
clawing out each other’s eyes, spitting in their mouths,
screaming utterances most foul in their ears.
Climbing over each other in the obscurity, unseen.  

I want them to take my eyes.
I want them to take my ears.
I want them to take my voice.
I want them to squelch the flame
that burns within my cadaverous chest.

Surrendering any chance of agency;
if there were hands to bite,
I couldn’t see.
I hear the voices shouting,
but I can’t cut through the discord.

What if I hold my breath?
But I know that won’t last.
Feeling my lips turn purple,
the kick drum in my chest:

furious relentless crescendo
pace quickening mind’s racing
all the sins in the world
rotting in my soul inescapable
pounding at the door
clock ticking through the floor
lungs shrivel can’t take anymore—

Exhale.

Panting, hands on my knees,
ears perk up to the sound of malicious snickering.
I lift my gaze up to an eclipse of the moon,
so ghastly in fresh blemishes plaguing its majesty.

Squinting,
I see smiling faces,
eyes full of mocking laughter,
belonging to snide children
anxiously peering into the crowded fishbowl.

They watch us squirm without water,
dancing in aching bodies,
craving the touch of something cool,
and refreshing.

They dangle hope and promise like
lifeless puppets encircling
an infant’s crib.

I watch them tie onto simple strings:
wealth, and
power, and
love, and
belonging.

Reaching higher, and higher,
straining formless muscles,
feeling weakness overcome
creeping up like a tired conscience
climbing over the golden crest
atop the transparent foothills
encased in the nicotine screen skyline.

It hangs its head low
on its hands and knees,
lifting up a weary voice
so familiar and ignored.

A final sigh ringing in the ears of a generation:
A cough, and then a final weak sputter:
“I Told You So.”

III

Muse-less, useless, a twentynothing!

Anchored to the next big thing
sitting below deceptive still waters
murky mysterious
loathesome beast
peeking an eye out to catch us peering
over the edge of the docks
a glimpse at the promised eternity
immortality
delusion of grandeur
our eyes to the shore
nostalgia preserved
in the retellings of folklore
childhoods never forgotten
for fear of being lost in the present
and the forthcoming future
always a step away
how can we move on
when we’re busy cutting off our legs
to be eye level with our inner child
more like an exoskeleton
more exposed than our need
to grow
we sit huddled in our bemired despair
grinning sheepishly exposing our sin
crying out to the gargantuan
overlord of childlike fantasy
wielding our innocence
like a button-eyed ragdoll gluttonous treasure keeper
playing with fire in the alchemist’s den
so close to our material wealth
with the flames roaring lapping at our heels
feeling the dock begin to break from dry land
from the weight of our inflated consciences/consciousness
following the fangs of the snake to our parents
on the shore
with one hand sweating on the television remote
strangling in its grasp
they have no choice
but to squeeze the pump
harder and faster
legs of flesh and bone
break and give way
we begin to drift from the shore
pulling closer to the murky behemoth
that lurks under the perpetual offing
in the empty horizon we cry our broken hearts
into its cosmic bowels
feeling ourselves being sifted through
the hungry machinery of death
eyes luminous we shield our faces
from its rapturous gaze
fearful of the pillar of salt
that will stand in our place
but we look back
we take our hand off the plow
with ***** and Gomorrah at our backs
we peer through the electric eye
the sands of time
pouring through the hourglass
that spits us into the depths
of eternal strife.

IV

Muse-less, useless, a twentynothing!
Twentynothing!
Twentynothing!
Twentynothing!

Tw­entynothing in the classrooms!
Twentynothing in the workforce!
Twentynothing in the bathrooms!
Twentynothing in our parents' wars!

Twentynothing in the golden streets!
Twentynothing in the broken homes!
Twentynothing in the dusty libraries!
Twentynothing in the TV's drone!

Twentynothing in the Promised Land!
Twentynothing in the songs we sing!
Twentynothing in the secret plans!
Twentynothing in freedom ring!

Twentynothing in hands over hearts!
Twentynothing in our love in bed!
Twentynothing in the obscure route’s start!
Twentynothing in the lies we've read!

Twentynothing in the lives we fear!
Twentynothing in the scholar’s debt!
Twentynothing in our guns held dear!
Twentynothing in the tables set!

Twentynothing in the colors of skin!
Twentynothing in the reality show!
Twentynothing in the losses and win!
Twentynothing in the nightmares below!

Twentynothing in the kisses we hide!
Twentynothing in the I O U’s!
Twentynothing in the chanting of pride!
Twentynothing in the love you too’s!

Twentynothing in the hope we give!
Twentynothing in the dread they moan!
Twentynothing in the time we live!
Twentynothing in the chance we own!

Muse-less, useless, Twentynothing!

In the post-modern world aimless!

We, the Confounded Chiliads:
We are dangerous,
We are longing,
We are hopeful,
We are broken,
We are serendipitous—
We are eternal.

We Are Twentynothing.

…and that’s **** well something.
Written in Ginsberg's shadow.
JR Rhine Feb 2016
Mother pulled the beat to hell diluted blood red minivan containing my brother and I into the darkened parking lot. The car couldn't park fast enough as my brother and I tore the creaky side door open and leapt onto the awaiting pavement. We stepped from darkness into light as we hopped onto a curb to be greeted by the brilliance of neon lights erected atop a single story rectangular building squatting at the top of the rectangular lot like a full measure rest. Glass windows as whole walls teased the treasures that lay before my eyes window-shopping like madmen I felt the objects of my covetry leap from their white shelves into my sweaty youthful grasp. Mother breezed forward, stepping across the tier confidant and disengaged; the front door rang announcing our presence. Two bells sounded: ring ring. The Rhines were here. Like a pistol shot signifying the start of a race, my brother and I scampered and scattered and scuttled like wild animals, scouring the shelves that sat dispersed through the gleaming room consuming with our eyes words that told stories with pictures that danced and sang. Clusters of shelves huddled together under several flat signs hung by frail strings dangling from the ceiling displaying themes that told me where to avoid "Romance" and where to find my beloved "Science Fiction." I halted, realizing almost as if there were indentations within the itchy carpet that had alerted me to the place where I had cemented by ruddy feet countless times before. I took my roving eyes from the stalling ground to peer up into the shelves that loomed over me like giants, arching over my head like holy stones erected atop holy celebratory sites of yore. My fingers traced along the shelves trailing over the innumerate plastic spines that encased my bountiful riches; I mouthed the vibrant words imprinted like cattle on each of them and sang to myself stories that spawned off of each one before finding the paragon that most expertly weaved JR the Raconteur into its fabrications. I bore into its dazzling shell hungrily, gobbling up faces and places and names and dates I spun it over to its backside to read plots to read histories to read legacies to read memories I read and read and saw and saw my mind was never more alive with the astounding conception of limitless potentialities my night was just getting started and with my final selection--and mother's blessing--I would march home victoriously wielding my fortune, my medium for which the pictures in my mind would transpose and dance before me like luminous sprites on the brilliant splendor of a luminescent two dimensional stage that is the television screen. It was the weekend getaway I waited for with anticipation every Saturday; I was an unversed monk relishing in the ancient libraries of History.
To the video stores of yore.
ConnectHook Apr 2019
I.

evolving, thunder-struck

amino eventualities

and bio-potentialities

in the muck

re-group, protoplasmic and joyful

singing in the proverbial soup

of circumstances

and random cosmic chances

a song of differentiation

loose ends / ragged strands / loose lines

of poetry: DNA spiral dances

Precambrian time, period of time extending from about 4.6 billion years ago (the point at which Earth began to form) to the beginning of the Cambrian Period, 541 million years ago. Precambrian time encompasses the Archean and Proterozoic eons, which are formal geologic intervals

II.

the wriggling one-celled poet decides

to become complex

takes its time:

geologic / astral eons

twitching and failing

into the fabled tadpole of adaptation

to a godless universe, diverse

in its variegated futility

this idea has been summarized in the mouthful, ‘ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny’, which means the development of the individual embryo repeats its alleged evolutionary history. The first thing to say about this dictum, is that ‘law’ it is not!

III.

our fish, now fowl,

proclaims its Archaeopteryx manifesto

standing on Precambrian banks

demanding a return on its investment

in sedimentary overlays:

Ernst Haeckel !  shrieks the avian jokester

The Imaginary Monera: the eating habit and reproductive cycle of an alleged Moneron to which he gave the scientific name, Protomyxa aurantiaca 73 pages of his speculations more important than facts and evidence.

IV.

into the long long corridors

of time’s bad poetry

sleeping off the tadpole nightmare

sprouting flippers, legs, digits, wings

deciding to fly, smashing antediluvian cedars with trilobite tail

upright biped sporting body-hair

you shall prevail

descending from trees in African dreams

misanthropologically *****

gracile / robust (that’s us)

Hey turn that **** up ! yells Piltdown Man

from his evolutionary window

He believed that the only major difference between man and the ape was that men could speak and apes could not. He therefore postulated a missing link which he called Pithecanthropus alalus (speechless apeman) a woman with long lank hair suckling a child.

V.

falling for the lies

of the Lord of the Flies

Zinjanthropus asks quizzically

How much more of this

are you prepared to take
?

misbegotten centuries glimmer:

light years of bad poetry

captive eons of incoherent free verse

as we wait

for the Bronze Age Myths

to begin
PROMPT #3: a poem that takes time. It takes its time getting where it’s going,
and the action of the poem itself takes place over months.
[…] a story or action that unfolds over an appreciable length of time.

Honestly, this is the type of modernist poetry I dislike.
I wrote it in about 25 minutes, edited and formatted it
with found text & images for about 40 minutes and VOILÀ:
cutting-edge modern dullness. It was still fun though.
Connor Nov 2016
(A wall with grainy, white tile misses being appreciated by the passive glance!)

This open Hotel window reveals the encasement of a city wearing its own
Labels stirring distinctly

Monochrome sculptures
Increasing eye the gradiant of
A voice
The dialogue of a coffin sleeping
And the
Waterfront smokes tired cruiselines and
Already wishes for Sundown & good spirits.

Some burdened Animal lept from
Its grindings of clean survival &
Has written an essay on

Fire in relation to psychological warmth
& the associative memory response to comfort

(The fireplace is your Childhood & lost Faerie Mother)

The lapse of this Tidal Concerto
As wet pebbles ripple over each other like Tokyo haircuts,

I am the collector of
Distant and missed opportunities

I keep them close as potentialities and not regrets

I have a fishtank full of drowned Bees
& phonecall revelations

As Humidity only sensed and not sweated
Boils from a desk drawer in the Summertime

LAUGHING STAIRCASES/
LOBOTOMY IN NIGHTMARES OF VICIOUS ORCHIDS/
THE CRIB HAS LOST ITS FUNCTION/

           A CRABSHELL HAS REPLACED
           THE PILLOW/
          
           MY TEETH ARE NUMB
           WITH YOUR KISS
          
           YOUR KISS ERASED BY
           THE SUDDEN SALTWATER OF A
           HIGHTENED MOMENT
          
           DO NOT RETREAT BACK TO
           BRASS SPEECH
           OR COMMON BELIEF


Stresses paused on
Gysins colorful meditations
& Nat King Cole sings of no
Orange Colored Sky instead
A silent rotating lightbulb
And the sensation of lifting off my chair

(few nights in a row of this ambience behind a glass door)

"-the illusion of existing on the edge of a comforting unalterable space and in being so close to it, I blend into it!
A man with a telescope residing on a mountain top can observe the town below in a detailed entirety. It's the larger and more obvious/physically active space. The mountain distant from the town is a space of reflection, where things are less chaotic. Where peace is more inwardly recognized in its external shelter. In the corner I have this illusory telescope and I am perched on the mountain, who's properties have flattened to the dimensions of a coffee shop, or a general interior. The wholeness of the mountain reserved to the confines of a dark corner. Behind the brickwork exists a vast valley where this mountain once stood in its humble yet ferocious silence. The space which now exists in an imaginary context. The expansion of darkness in front of us!"

           Come forth from that Mexican
           Practice
           Or the vengeance of a sobbing
           Hand,
           Friend

I, willing to play weary in
ur aztec smile/
Am to slip from a shivering
Elevator
To ***** my finger with a name

A name that I have never interacted with until now!

"UNE FEMME EST UNE FEMME"
Followed by gossiping
& accommodations
Downstairs,

I hope you wake easy to find my
Skinny hand warming you from December's hesitant grave.
Kelsea Woods May 2015
Silence is deafening
Waking from a cacophony of sounds much like "A Day in the Life"
Only to find that silence is greater than any voluminous discord imagined
Feeling like a superhuman, the world is now illuminated
With choirs of percolating atoms spinning
Pure harmonious energy that goes under the human threshold

Silence is actualizing
Awakening to the potentialities and nuances lost in the clutter of prepositions and pronouns
Experiencing how momentous each rise and fall of breath erupts to revitalize the whole world
Perceptions externalized and internalized merge as one truth
Tangibly existing as a universe within a boundless wave of sensations

Silence is beautiful
Silence is breathtaking
Silence is humble
Silence is abundant

Silence is the world
Silence is the body
Silence is the mind
Silence is the soul

Silent I am
This work by Kelsea Woods is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
The Terry Tree Nov 2014
There is a
Welcoming without
Spiritual coaxing
Between us
Natural and wonderful
Wherever I am
This is my home
Wherever you are
You are never alone
How can I leave my home
When it is everywhere
And you are there?

Would it be
That we are
Matter and energy
Combined in our
Consciousness
Of one
Protected and
Wrapped
Into a bouquet of
Infinite potentialities

As every star in very shape
And every color
Is discovered
In the universal playground
Of our outer space
Shooting across the skies
Of our inexhaustible
Vision from within

We are
Resonating from behind
Our human disguise
Coexisting in
Every ripple of water
Glimmering without
Exception
Melting
In every grain of sand
That shines
Beneath the sun
We are
One

And
There is a
Welcoming without
Spiritual coaxing
Between us
Natural and wonderful
Wherever I am
This is my home
Wherever you are
You are never alone
How can I leave my home
When it is everywhere
And you are there?

What is looking
Out of your eyes
Is in me
You are the flower
That praises
The spirit that travels
Up my spine
With the fragrance of
Forgiveness
Fervently

You are the
Pure light that flows down
In streams upon every single hair
Of my enlightened crown
Igniting the everlasting soul
Of this human being
With the windswept
Potions of scientific
Insurmountable measures
Beakers of tenderness
Carrying our undeniable
Unconditional love-treasures
Toward a paramount presence
That free will floats
Into a cloud of what is
Eternally wise and
Unbroken
Free from damage
Cradled in
Supernatural
Light

We are not asleep
Or awake
We are the silent
Earthquake

What is looking
Out of your eyes
Is in me
You are the flower
That praises
The spirit that travels
Up my spine
With the fragrance of
Forgiveness
Fervently

In sweet
Serenity
Arise as
I surrender
To thee
And
Inner
Peace

© tHE tERRY tREE
Westley Barnes May 2016
The only natural poem I have consciously been involved in-
The site, not just the reporting-
was when I happened upon a sheep gazing at me
in a field immediately off a motorway in Norwich.

This was not planned, yet it was
disconcertingly poetic.

Life whispers it's potentialities, it's immovable eros
the way billboards make us aware of our melancholia.

"Your hair is flaxen"
No, your hair is just damp. "Flaxen" reminds
us of a language that according our reading of poetry
existed long before our ancestors could read.
It does, however, sound more complimentary,
therefore more sincere,
therefore more comforting
than "damp."

I wear all my pretentious vocabulary and sentimental heart-stirrings
like a cross dangling from my neck
pretty as the plastic emotions I express
Because of my dearth of enthusiasm as opposed to experience
Because of the transparency of my speaking without first attuning
to the spectre of blood which no longer clots my lungs Dominika
but now sullies my hands.

But I wash and wash, and am clean, cleaner than most.
And my cleanliness infuriates you Dominika,
it breaks your back to see me so elevated among the wrecks.
When you speak there is no air that leaves your lungs to pollute the air
there are all only words whose sounds make the other sounds commonplace.
Whereas I am all white, brilliant, brutal air.

I've calculated the effect this has on your sense of self
Dominika, of your progress, of your place in the narrative
and though you hate me for implying so if I explained
You wouldn't understand
Dominika
I made it that way.
Seán Mac Falls Dec 2015
Fall of memories
Past potentialities
All the red lit leaves
crystal rondeaux Mar 2013
Our story began in the middle; between the spaces in our lives and minds and heart s
Where we spin out possibility.   A quiet spot in a busy place;
there I stumbled upon you while lost inside my own dreaming
There I was, drifting through my days in a flurry of verbs; winding through calendars laden with intent
And then this quiet spot in a busy place
Full of intention and designation.
I may have simply smiled absently, politely turning aside to give you privacy to sift
Through your own potentialities but for the expression of kindness in your features
And as my eyes flashed to yours in acknowledgement of a space briefly shared.
I was made curious b
y the simple audacity that would challenge convention
With such a smile.

Our story began in the middle; in spaces between points of interest in our separate lives.
Began in the interstices, the borderlands, outside time and in the margin;. Left of center.
In between destinations and intentions and within the flux of other, more prominent plots.
In a quiet spot, in a busy place, I recognized you when you smiled.
Seán Mac Falls Jan 2016
( Haiku )*

1
Autumn Burns

Fall of memories
Past potentialities
All the red lit leaves


2
Crowning

At end of all days
Sky is regal vermillion
Mellow is the sun


3
Sweet Spot

O what pleasures here
Deep down in her drowning ***
Joy wells echoing


4
Verdancy

Temptations glisten
Wants of youth burn in the sun
In moist grass growing


5
Bird Song

Speaking in God tongues
Sprite melodies in mid air
Leaved bushes burning
Mike Essig Oct 2015
He stuffed
an imaginary cat
( along with
some other
imaginary stuff)
into an
imaginary box,
thought about it
and suddenly,
the seemingly
very small world
became vast with
potentialities.
  ~mce
Mary Velarde Mar 2019
You.
You were easily the light
of my life.
I didnt have walls.
I only had doors flung open;
a warm invite.
A better part of my life
tucked neatly at the back of my mind
where it had grown
a garden of potentialities
and hope
and thoughts like
maybe this time we'll do it right.
Every passing catastrophe
has taught me that the eye of the storm
is where the calmest region of the weather is;
not the opposite.
It goes to say that just because
we're caught in the middle of a calamity
doesnt mean it's always a heartbreak
from here on out.

I admit that your absence almost always
feels synonymous to my bed
stretching out to the side.
It always feels too huge,
empty,
lonely.
I admit that I have not met anyone who loved
black coffee so much more than you did.
And I loved you,
perhaps so much more than you did.
I'm still learning to accept that.
Funny,
how unconditional love comes with
an abundance in conditions.
But they say
you cant really love too much
you can only love the wrong person.

You were an interlude
to the series of my raging calamity.
You were the eye of the storm,
the calm,
the petrichor after a long period of drought.
Registered in my fondest memories.
A parched corsage in a memory box
that shouldve stayed under my bed.
Shouldnt have belonged elsewhere.
Shouldnt have belonged now.
But that's okay.
I'd argue that the imperfect line
where I trace down your spine
is where the earth grows soft.
The soil,
damped,
the last time I've ever looked into your eyes;
the last time I will ever look into your eyes.
Reeled out the last remaining molecule
of my peace
and gave it to you when you lost yours.
Loneliness isnt
the absence of peace,
I have realized.
Loneliness is just love with nowhere to go.
Like yellow cars on a bus lane.
Etched out of place
but only because the signs
are obscure and hazy;
a product of naivete,
a voluntary free fall.

You will perpetually only be
my great perhaps.
And that's okay.
I've learned to forgive myself
for refusing to believe that
in the past.
- Oct 2014
you
someone said your name the other day
while i was passing her in the hallway and
a shiver ran down my spine and
down through the very tips of my toes
and the possibilities and potentialities rush
through my head as i imagine
movie marathons, with our toes touching under a blanket and
snowball fights even though we live nowhere near the snow
Vitæ May 22
Awake from a dream
dipped in sun fire,
is a caterpillar still
wrestling in my heart's
asylum—a chrysalis,
summoned by the
wilderness, is prying
itself open.

Where the field laid
bare in a pallor of cold,
is where spring begins
to overflow, like flowers
blooming from the deepest
nether—loving death is
outgrowing this world.

I wear a cloak of patience
over limitless energy,
shedding for dialogue
between potentialities,
inside me spins a thread
of great longing, but
around me, a great hope
is bursting at the seams.

A force spurs a descent
from the cave, from the
crumbling walls I am made.
What remains lifts the
curtains before a
show begins, where
in solitude I undress to
become a house of wings.

The orchard cradles
my smallness in a
concentrated blossom—
lighter than breath,
brighter than vision,
hidden among all there is,
a great wave inside a ripple.
To be delighted is to realise,
the world you fell into is
a vast sky.
Oblatum - Magnus Volumine

John is defined in the Gospel of him as the disciple whom Jesus loved (cf. Jn 13:23). Thanks to the special signs of predilection that Jesus showed him at very significant moments in his life, John was closely linked to the History of Salvation. The first sign that showed him the great affection of Jesus was that he was called to be his disciple along with Andrew, Peter's brother, through John the Baptist who baptized in the Jordan River and of whom they were already disciples.. In fact, as Jesus passed by, the Baptist introduced him to him as "the Lamb of God" and they immediately followed him. John was so impressed by his personal encounter with Jesus that he never forgot that it was around four in the afternoon that Jesus invited them to follow him (cf. Jn 1:35-41). The second sign of predilection was having been a direct witness of some events in the life of Jesus, which he later reworked in the fourth gospel, in a theological way very different from the synoptic gospels (cf. Jn 21:24). And the third moment in which Jesus himself made him feel his friendship and his very particular brotherhood was when Jesus, about to give up his spirit (cf. Jn 19:30), wanted to associate it in a privileged way with the mystery of the Incarnation, expressly confiding it to his mother: "here is your son"; and expressly instructing his mother: "here is your mother." (cf. Jn 19:26-27).

The sources from which the data on John's life as an apostle, as an evangelist and as "adopted son" of Mary have been extracted do not always coincide. Some sources are more convergent and others are more dubious or apocryphal. From the gospels we know that together with his brother James - who will also be an apostle - the two were fishermen originally from Galilee, from an area of Lake Tiberias, and that together they were nicknamed "the sons of thunder" (cf. Mark 3:17). ). His father was Zebedee and his mother Salome. We find John in the narrow circle of the apostles who accompanied Jesus when he performed some of the most important "signs" (cf. Jn 2:11) of his progressive revelation as a type of Messiah very different from the one that the people of Israel was expected (Lk 9, 54-55). In fact, when Jesus resurrected Jairus' daughter (cf. Lk 8:51), when he was transfigured on Mount Tabor (cf. Lk 9:28), and during the agony in Gethsemane (cf. Mk 14:33), Jesus tried to make them understand that they had to transform their mentality linked to hope into a violent Messiah, similar to Elijah because, on the other hand, he was the beloved Son of the Father (cf. Lk 9:35), he was the Messiah come from the heaven to communicate divine life in abundance (cf. Jn 10:10), and that he was also going to suffer rejection and injustice from the religious leaders of his people (cf. Mt 16:21). In the Gospel of John, Jesus appears as the Teacher who also tries, in vain, to make the Jews understand the paradoxical logic of the Kingdom of God (cf. Jn 8, 13-59). His disciples, on his behalf, are invited to be born again (cf. Jn 3:1-21) to worship the Father in Spirit and Truth (cf. Jn 4:23-24); Jesus prays for them so that they remain united by divine Love (cf. Jn 17:21) and that they are fed by the Bread of Life (cf. Jn 6:35).

During the Last Supper, John had leaned on Jesus' chest and asked him: Lord, who is the one who is going to betray you? (cf. Jn 21:20). John was the only one of the apostles who accompanied Jesus to the foot of the Cross with Mary (cf. Jn 19, 26-27). John was the first to believe the announcement of the resurrection of Jesus made by Mary Magdalene (cf. Mt 28, 8): he ran quickly to the empty tomb and let Peter enter first to respect his precedence (cf. Jn 20, 1-8). Tradition adds that some years later he moved with Mary to Ephesus, from where he evangelized Asia Minor. It also appears that he suffered persecution from Domitian and that he was banished to the island of Patmos. Finally, thanks to the advent of Nerva as emperor, he (96-98) returned to Ephesus to finish his days there as an ultracentenarian, around the year 104.

The Gospel attributed to John was named after Origen. It has also been called the "Spiritual Gospel" or "Gospel of the Logos." His style and literary genre are full of "signs", symbols and figures that should not be interpreted literally. In the prologue of his gospel, John uses refined theological language to show how at the beginning of the New creation, in the New beginning the divine "Logos" already pre-existed; logos meaning the eternal creative Word of the Father, which was later translated into Latin as "Verbum". In the prologue of the fourth gospel Jesus is presented as the "Divine Word", the "Light of life" and "the pre-existing Wisdom of God" (cf. Jn 1:1-18). This gospel invites us to accept, through a faith full of amazement and gratitude, the surprising revelation that the Word of God, which no one had seen, became flesh and has made his home among his people. (cf. Jn 1:14). For this reason, the word "believe" is repeated almost 100 times, because God wants all men to be saved (cf. 1Tim 2:4) and to have abundant life through faith in Jesus Christ, God made flesh (cf. Jn 11, 25).

The Gospel of John also presents us in two very emblematic episodes the identity of Mary and the special relationship of John as her "adopted son" to her: at the wedding at Cana and at Calvary. In the narration of the sign of the water transformed into the new Wine during the wedding at Cana, Mary is shown to us as the powerful intercessor who anticipates the hour of Jesus' revelation to his People (cf. Jn 2:1- 12). On Calvary, at the moment of the glorification of Christ, Mary is presented as the Woman who is transformed into the New Eve or Mother of the disciples of her Son (cf. Jn 19:25-27). If we consider the close filial relationship between John and Mary, it is not difficult to imagine that the revelation of the figure of the Messiah in the Gospel of John has also been nourished by the direct testimony of Mary, since she, better than anyone else, in her last years of loneliness, he collected in his heart and in his memories the "signs", the "signs" and the words of life of Jesus. It is therefore conceivable that the unique experiences that she preserved in her memory, she later shared with the disciples of Jesus, and in particular with John. Therefore, it can be considered that Mary herself also progressively welcomed and interpreted in faith the revelation that the Son of her womb was at the same time the eternal Son of the Father, (cf. Jn 10:30), the only Bread. of life (cf. Jn 6:34), the Light of the world (cf. Jn 8:12), the Door (cf. Jn 10:7), the Good Shepherd (cf. Jn 10:11), the Resurrection and life (cf. Jn 11:24), the true Vine (cf. Jn 15:1) and the Way, the Truth and the Life (cf. Jn 14:6).

The three "letters" are attributed to the tradition of the disciples of John, which also have the flavor of brief homilies. The Apocalypse is a canonical book, recognized as inspired, that was born in the environments of the churches of the Johannine tradition that suffered the attacks of Gnostic doctrines. This, which is the last book of the Bible, uses a literary genre similar to that of some prophetic books of the Old Testament, such as the book of Daniel (cf. Dan 7), Ezekiel or Zechariah. The word apocalypse is the transcription of a Greek term that means revelation and not destruction, as is sometimes thought. John addresses seven letters to the seven churches (cf. Rev 1-3) to transmit to us, through very fascinating characters and symbols, a very concrete message of hope in which the slain Lamb (cf. Rev 5:12), i.e., Christ the Savior will triumph over all persecutions and oppositions of the forces of evil to the Kingdom of God and will make all things new. This will happen when God will establish his Kingdom of justice, love and peace at the end of time. In this book it is shown, with numerous and suggestive symbols, such as the seven seals (cf. Rev 6-8, 1), the seven trumpets (cf. Rev 8, 6-11, 19), the seven angels with the seven bowls (cf. Rev 15, 5-16, 21), the tiring path and the struggle that believers of all times have to face so that one day the building of the New Jerusalem will be carried out (cf. Rev 21-22), today we would say the Civilization of Love, brotherhood and care for life, when Jesus, the Alpha and Omega (cf. Rev 22:13), returns at the end of time. In this sense, the Apocalypse is also a prophetic book that interprets God's action in history, ensuring that the faithful and truthful Witness (cf. Rev 3:14) will return soon (cf. Rev 22:20) and will definitively conquer. to evil, pain, and death (cf. Rev 22:1-5).


Dedicavit

This manuscript is dedicated to Sauter Bernardino Edmundo Carreño Troncoso “ Primum Coniugem Alexandri Magnis ” of the first of the Gamelion of Dionysius of Leneo, to his Adelphos of Etrestles of Kalavrita, to Alexander III of Macedonia, known as Alexander the Great (July 21, 356 BC - June 10 or 11, 323 BC), Leonidas of Epirus, Lysimachus of Acarnania, Aristotle, Bucephalus, of the sixth of Hecatombeon, the month in which the Macedonians called him with the paelative Loios, the same day as the temple of Diana in Ephesus was burned; As Hegesias of Magnesia makes occasion for a presumption, Cassander, Ptolemy, and Hephaestion would become his lifelong companions and generals in his army. Callisthenes, another friend, was Aristotle's nephew. Dedicated to the dignity of Raeder of Kalymnos; son of Etrestles of Kalavrita, especially to Saint John the Apostle, distinguished relatives of the Transverse Valleys of Horcodndising and Sudpichi. Finally to my parents Luccaca and Bernardolipo Monarchs of Horcondising. And all the characters who will live eternally in this colossal Magnus Volumine. “Gratias Ago Tibi Propter Heroismum Tuum Vernarth, Et Doce Nos Viam Messiae” Thank you for your heroism Vernarth, and teaching us the way of the Messiah!

“I must tell you of my great admiration for my steed Alikantus, with which I will come to visit you soon, also to Kanti who have been a great precursor to take you to Athens, Thessaly, Delphi and Lefkandi. You can see that Bucephalus has joined our fight; where the “Sons of Iaveh, have eyes like a flame of fire or Aish, and feet like to go burnishing the chaff of bronze towards Patmos”, which will instigate you for the contrition of Thyatira, under the trick of my Rabbi Saint John the Apostle”


Thyatira

City rebuilt at the beginning of the 3rd century BC. E.C. by Seleucus Nicátor, one of Alexander the Great's generals. It was located about 60 km from the Aegean coast, on the banks of a tributary of the Gediz (ancient Hermos River), in the western Asia Minor. The Christian congregation of Thyatira received a message written by the apostle John as revealed to them by the Lord Jesus Christ. (Revelation 1:11) “which said: I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last. Write in a book what you see, and send it to the seven churches that are in Asia: to Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia and Laodicea.

In this regard, the Lord declared in a reproving tone: “You tolerate that woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophetess, and she teaches and leads my slaves astray to commit fornication and eat things sacrificed to idols.” This “woman” was probably named Jezebel because of her wicked behavior similar to that of Ahab's wife and her stubborn refusal to repent. However, it appears that only a minority of the members of the Thyatira congregation approved of this Jezebel influence, as the message continues to address “the rest of you who are in Thyatira, to all who do not have this teaching, to the very same ones who did not come to know the 'deep things of Satan'." (Revelation 2:18-29).

“ Children of Iaveh, you have “Eyes like a flame of fire or Aish, and feet like burnishing the chaff of bronze” toward Patmos that has freed me from your Xorki, how to say and what not to say to you; that my voice has stammered, making me feel that once I flee, I must adhere to the Eternal fire of the Mayim, children of Iaveh, the Mayim of Hydor and saint of water, the Windmill and its sad Myloi, fall on my face ”


Magnus Volumine I    


The Vernarth's intensification of this prosopography as Prosopography Magistri Militum Strategos Typology; he has used the raffle of a History it was not known but it is Vernarth now introduces in Historiography as an auxiliary. The methodological fragment could be torn apart from its screens of a mind enslaved to having to worship a cycle that condemns it to surrender to its loved ones leaving it at the same time to be sectored from a condemnation, to prostrate itself to an Eternal Life its images nor Masterful Words that would have to distinguish the parasciences from subdividing their corporality into thousands of Othónes or Screens, in order to be able to sustain themselves from others that do not compose the knowledge of what is not History; but rather that what happens typical of prosopography allows to obtain visibility regarding the different sectors of society, and the possibilities of their members to access positions of a present that never leaves the power of the Space of a Strategoi, as Time-Space at levels of superior Intelligence subject to mandates of divine Power that oscillates in a mental power of the Militum that coexists with the Community of the Strategos, creating the entire Quantum Band of the antiquity as an omnipresent being par excellence. When its ****** envelope is reflected in its Purgation, it will trigger a presence that governs itself and leads in the trend of a "Duoverse that will only be built in its Unique unity"... given the trend of all crowds that bustle beyond the mass of their Villas or Cities that they inhabit, creating sensations and an unreal genetic world even that amalgamates a large number of generations that only increases its demography based on the autarkic mandate of a history that goes back for not knowing what to imagine of the past and of a future without present that is sustained in a Spiritual Intelligence.

The sociological mutations will be circular, and the retrograde since the collective of images will exceed everything that is sustained on a material floor and therefore it denies that what develops in an empty heart will be a specialized material of a periodicity, that does not spare New Universes that a pillar or support be added that tends to calligraphy better where imagery could prevail all the limits of common language. The grammar of ancient Greece will defend periods that are neither static nor finite, leaving free space for words that are engulfed by vast seas of stagnant bibliographical records never known never written nor destined for a secular record. The Submythology Potential is provided by the entire Belt that surrounds from South America to the Mediterranean as an infinite cord of Eternity to re-hold itself in a matriarchy in the societies of the past to recognize, that femininity is the real genesis of research from where a frequent human origin proceeds, so this it is the transcended in the Universality that transcends in the investigation of the sphere of Unknown History; pretending its ligament of prosopography, and the vivifying instance of Submythology as a unifying entity to summarize the condition of Strategos/Magister Militum we have taken into consideration the situation of our utter information in this existing prosopography works. Parapsychology is subject to a dimension closely linked to non-reflection to even the Primordial Quantum to governs, and governs everything just as this Magnus Volumeni I tries to express the independence of all literary expression if it is about Vernarth, rather it is a documentary space.

Afterward six years of knowing and introducing myself to the area of   Technology, and the Science in the Tourism industry, I made my presentation at Macromedia University, Berlin-Germany. Through this university management I had the option of presenting my concept and avant-garde projects, which condescended me to get to know the E-Tourism Perspectives area of the University of Svizzera Italian-Ticino. This allowed me to meet and join an independent study challenge with the slogan of deriving a full range of analysis, and dedicated study Heritage Sites of UNESCO. All thanks to the agreement that consecrated me at the Pantheon-Sorbonne Université, specifically Maria Gravari-Barbas, Directore de la Chaire UNESCO, Culture, Tourisme / Lorenzo Cantoni, professor at USI Universitá della Svizzera Italiana.

The university has had here in South America, in Chile an intrepid collaborator who has tried to interpret the postulates of the Sciences of Humanity exposing the nature of preserving, and keep investigating everything in the lost history of Europe, which has great significance for Culture that has branched out through the Tourism Technology, and its Digital transformation for this purpose of understanding public life in dissimilar fields that are still hidden in intangible archives, which deduce important material of study in areas of Science, Philosophy, History, Politics, Geography, Jurisprudence that would add to the world of the conservation of the ancestral peoples with all its courageous identity of the Prosopography, and the archaeological demography.

The United Nations Educational, Scientific & Cultural Organization, known for short, as UNESCO is a specialized agency of the United Nations. It was founded on November 16, 1945 with the aim of contributing to peace and security in the world through education, science, culture and communications. The constitution signed that day entered into force on November 4, 1946 ratified by twenty countries. In 1958 its main headquarters were inaugurated, in the VII district of Paris. Its general director is Audrey Azoulay the specialization and search for Culture, Education and Science is a way of contributing to humanity, peacefully granting security through the entire International community for this reason we believe that this work fulfills that prerogative narrowing organically, as been always it is here with the multidimensional epic narrative that is broken down with the prose, and parapsychology other than is a field closely linked to the intrinsic link of all the treasure that has been transmitted for thousands of years, leaving before our expectation what its ruins and works have wanted to demonstrate with their laudable dedication foundations, and expansion of multiple Sites in their musings that have traveled the history of diction of the science of culture, information, communication to create knowledge that this still remains with our reality of society that has the pattern of explosive generation of the current one. One of Vernarth's is the most important premises to create the roots of systematic knowledge, that is to say to provide platforms for their family trees, prosopography and the art of writing Submythological Prose whose the objective tends to occupy the expanded universal literature that has advanced for thousands of years on the other hand, Submythology is free of format cancels many aspects of the temporary format, and creates a relationship link between the academic and the secular attracting infinities of Cultures, historical landmarks, hybridity of languages, and above all merging and re-transforming existences of the post-Classical period; where the source and personal question does not daunt the distances of the inheritable that distanced us by geological-Historical periods, rather it makes the viability of an unexplored field up to now as Vernarth is the granting a hierarchical international value that will retransmit knowledge and skills.

In this way, agglutinating ourselves in those interstices that are not visible, qualifyable or quantifiable, only have to materialize when patrimonial beings are chosen by others who are already hereditary of an industrious will it occupies the supports of a platform of earthly inheritance, and later disseminate it throughout different sectors of the field of knowledge and the research, connoting that there are many variables that could help us interpret the foundations of the UNESCO heritage, today are far removed from communities that want to invest time in inquiring more deeply about them. For this reason, Central and Eastern Europe is at the forefront of generating multi-channels that can ensure the treatment of technological routes or flourishing that want to be found again, such as the Qhapac Ñan, or perhaps the Jacobean Route, perhaps the Route from Patmos to Judah pointing to Vernarth by demonstrating that hindsight could be perfective when visualizing facts that were not witnessed or written as they should be, VG the return to Galilee of Saint John the Apostle in the Hegira to Judah, relegated to Greece by Emperor Domitian. The amendment of such a well-deserved return confirms the wait for an immortal being in the Eclectic Portal for three months, who will mean the ordinary that rises up from the phenomenal investing in roles that many times, as indicated by the dogma of the baptistery indicating that we can be saints and apostles to preserve the patrimonies to educate and retransmit values to follow.

Vernarth Trilogy II at its end, is reiterated in deliberating that this work never ends because each chapter of Paraps, inaugurates a new infinite regressive dimension as it is in the case of Poielipsis; as it is a liquefaction of the parameter of Poiere, and the inverted Apocalypse to make changes after personalities that manage to impact the successive episodes of alteration of Life periods, as in this case Vernarth when he was legitimized to assist Gaugamela by the god Spílaiaus to make the support to Alexander the Great not only for winning the battles but for saving and winning the souls of the fallen Hoplites, generating in them an idyllic prose that promotes and sublimates the possession of the principles of an Apocalypse, that suggests protecting those who should believe without pain of what will await them later for an indefinite death. The Souls of Trouvere will stand out with the bulwark of enthronement of the state of energy that would mobilize Charles the Great by taking him to the platform of conquest of Europe crowned as emperor by Pope Leo III taking the lessons strongly rooted, and letters that would subscribe the cheers where nothing dies in the center of its own fear, because that is where the edge of a sword loses its value that it cannot use the other as an arbitrary neologism of only reigning without the sacrifice that every regime bets on, including the crown when Charlemagne assumed his great legacy at twenty years after expiring later at seventy-two. This is where fears die, not being able to hope or convalesce in concepts of Energeia that vitally moved from the similar aspect to Alexander the Great in the same even numeral but thirty-two, and letters that would be signed by cheers where nothing dies in the center of its own fear because that is where the edge of a sword loses its value that it cannot use the other as an arbitrary neologism of only reigning without the sacrifice that every regime bets on, even the crown when Charlemagne assumed his great legacy at twenty after later expiring at seventy-two.

In another topic, Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run at her bare feet for those who banish with their needs on the parental scale of their range, succeeded by Energeia's need for the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, here insulting also the principle of quantum science with the spin of subatomic particles, alembicated in the timeless particles that could leave out of the nucleus the proportion of rotation of time that could be found, and rooting of memories in rectilinear lines of the imperturbable Hellenic mental axis. One could also amend here all the licentious action of Seleucus by Stratonice when she splits the gross threshold of her son Antiochus, and Antigonus I Monophthalmos referring to the father Stratonice of Macedonia for never marrying her to Seleucus. All this generates the Epistle addressed to Vernarth to solve the strident and impalpable of the warlike Diadocos that greatly affected the female descendants, confining them to their domestic avatars in disloyal empires, where these vilifications devastate the imperial partiality through the centuries of an oppressive strength, and disagreement in their moral wrongs. From this quality the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere that remains in the present, always allying themselves in saviors of oppressed and abandoned peoples who strive in the neologism of the Epsilon or Vernarth's fifth dimension, and not restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the entity towards a mono-meaning in this causal of such an alpha that says the paradoxical demonstrating diversity of optics. Prior to this diatribe, Vernarth decides his naturalness that he decides to promote the Souls that are part of both topics to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that are apprehended in the light of genius that coexists with both. What he judged us in the unfolding of his entity and will deliver it by divine intelligence so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming the presence of Stratonice on the (substitute scale of Vernarth's relativistic emotions). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of tendencies in ex-sheets that could be attributed to dimensions of the period of Trouvere's souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments.

The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to adorn the Voielípsis as an analogous addition of quantum causality and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas heading towards the mainstay in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics to put effects of the incredulous versatility on themselves, in sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of Saint John Apostle more than sub-earthly concomitance under the same axial of geological sustaining coordinate. Namely; they will live together while the temple is established except three hundred, and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of Prophytis Ilías.

The upholstery of the Pithya Herophile attacks the subtending of the flying buttress that was supported by the cavities of the volcanic rocks of Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls due to the disoriented cognitive dissonance that was generating paradigms, which tracked the stones that formulated Aquarian sounds in their dominant tonality due to the minuscule machine of light, more distant in the incommensurability that evaded its eclipsed in the resplendent major note that became monarchical due to the hypotenuse of the rectangle in three subdominant angles. This means that the Sybille was in the high point of observing her premonitions towards the creation that was born from another end to end in the recycling of creation in the dim light of clarity of the destinations that were going to present themselves as a song of remembrance of the Poielipsis, venturing the new restart or attempt of the Delphic oracular. The songs remain in the spell, and in the banal desires that would harm a mortal that will expand to the hypotenuse or line of the sentence that marked a step impelling in the misgivings and forgiveness of the banner of risk. Santiago of Compostela was going to Stratonice with his inclinations, like a geometric racconto subduing the fears that slip through the veil of the dogma of the arch where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetating or freeing oneself from what revives in fears that do not shed light on eternal life, perhaps of a the Matematikoi himself who doubts an Ad finitas basis, and who finds out without the limits leading Pythagoras to the ground handcuffed from Crotona, always ignorant of the linguistic power that urges to rewind the spheres that still weave crossed angles placing themselves in trial, and error when considering a non-renewable past the soul of the Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception in the halters of livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated to the hypogeum where the level was to stir the embankment that will merge with Zefian's Arrows.

A diminutive atonal music possible existed in the molecules, and in trigonometric periods in which the measures were united in time as a stationary whole vivifying a great variety of fractional numbers as souls of the same numeral that finally appear to be Pythagorean digits. Vernarth's military of Phalanxes in this epic made the crucial oblique moment to break Dario's troops like a dozen Elegy that was going to re-flower what he knew of his already sub-treated destinations, other than will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive in their morbidity, and the dissociated causal of immortality that will distance itself from the prohibited abstinences in libertarian exercises of any counting that ponders on the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae on the couch of joy, and serving his doctrine that saves himself that will save us in the Messiah for those who in their souls do not have the sacrifice of a lamb that feeds, nor a base that goes ahead in the centuries grazing what no one was capable of. In the second triad of Apollo the oracle of Apollo with the Souls that reveal Charles the Great to be his favorite for the protectorate of Compostela, and his spiritual regency the invitation to Charlemagne breaks out from Aachen after 33 consecutive years in the sword dispute stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne put himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence in the second concave wasteland, and the straight ascending of the Trouvere Souls crowning Charlemagne emperor of Rome and Francos chosen by Leo III, predicted by the Apostle Santiago in defensive pontifical struggles, and defenders of Christianity. In this paradigm there is a deceased seep through of an elusive world that was joining from here in the vein of Poielípsis for the sake of some eras that came from the mutes, and anonymity that augured to link them to know within their endless intrinsically organic movement, also as a diligent active cosmos of the discovery of the Jacobean route longing to be a better region than the Dodecanese merged by the twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago, brother of Saint John the Apostle, ennobled in the 778 AD tying it to Hispania. In ****** and constant fighting, Charlemagne besieged the Saxons, he entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees as an anticipation of the aforementioned the Jacobean Route, everything worsened in this way witnessing the subjugated places in the jurisdictions of the Trouvers who were Pythagoric elite of soldiers who they had be bilocated in this Christian Era, preceded by this perfidious Basque in the woods subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to pursue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. Everyone was escaping from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront in the dynamics that will reveal the Songs of the French Deed.

This previous paragraph exhibits the eloquence of how the interlining that Vernarth had to create a Brotherhood Code called "Raedus Codex" for the high nomination polished in the Infant Raeder as a twitch of the sacrifice of his young soul, who fought battles in pursuit of defenses pure and free with the freshly grown grass of the spring of the world in Genesis. The Souls in Trilogy III will be the compendium of the Codices that will enter the Wind Tunnel what will be governed by the warm Meltemi wind, and swirled by the winds of Eolonymy, ascending all those who should be admitted and not purging those in between who they enjoyed a pre-Christian heritage citing Pythagorean antiquity behind those who must have dressed it up as a Codex Calixtinus. From this arrangement Charlemagne will drive souls with antiphons, the Apostle Santiago will come lacerated to meet his brother Saint John the Apostle, his barge will be abandoned in the Strait of Gibraltar and then arrive at Santiago of Compostela from here he will make tributes of name to ascend to Patmos. Just as the end of Vernarth's Trilogy II is faithfully transcribed, also Stratonice, the Hexagonal Primogeniture, Alexander the Great, King David Elias, Malachi, Isaiah and all the acquirer flashed in Raeder and his Pelican Petrobus, as self-sustaining defenders of the Infantile Fantasies that they continued in this complex work after a finding that fed them up in Vernarth as well as everything related to their release and investiture to say that all roads lead to Patmos, as Locus Sanctus of all the shepherds who heal their sheep that do not belong to others that are populated with white souls, for the good of other shells 308 meters below the Prophytis Ilias with the consent of Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia where the pass of the centuries they would tell them about the Jacobean Route instructed in confrontations, and concordances with the airons of the Trouvere protected by a rectangle of three Pythagorean subdominant angles in dissipated darkness of the golden astrological ambiguity of Theoskepasti of the meridian of the Kimolos. He will go away saying explicitly that the darkness became visible mists where there was nothing to hide from Psathi Roadstead in Kimolos, until reaching the Agia or the Chapel of Theoskepasti that would become visible for the phenomenon of Faith, alluding to a portentous desire that everything was tied to the same sense of compression of which the image or sound of the creation at times to became invisible but precisely understandable, as it was when imagining palpable the reality of what allows the human eye to feel for an instant that everything is real imperceptible, more present of all what can be detected by superior senses more than humans, giving way next to the Raedus Codex more present of all what can be detected by superior senses more than humans.

From Ios or Nios, bordering on Psathi, the Trilogy is unleashed when the association of all the spaced Cyclades of Vernarth will come to every equinox to shine the careful nap of the villagers of the Cyclades, close to the torpor of Thira. It will raise each Hoplite that from the point of Nios drags them with its abandoned body that could never receive the roads that led to Chora in infinitesimal distances and in white spots of all the Cycladic ghosts, who try to exalt themselves and assimilate to the villagers of Psathi.

According to Plutarch, the name Ios or Nios is believed to derive from the ancient Greek word for the violets "Ία" (Ia) because they were commonly found on the island, and is the most accepted etymology. It is also postulated that the name is derived from the Phoenician word iion, which means, "pile of stones". It was called "Φοινίκη" (Phiniki) named after the Phoenicians in the 3rd century when the island joined the League of Islanders it was probably temporarily called Arsinoe after the wife of Ptolemy II. Today the inhabitants of the Cycladic Islands call Nio Island a name derived from the Byzantine era. The name Little Malta, found in traveler's texts during Ottoman rule, is related to the permanent presence of pirates on the island of Latin-script languages.
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There was an old picture of me.
Fresh high school graduate.
Long black hair, a naivety worn smile.
Earth brown eyes that have yet to grace the adventures the world will soon prevail.
So young.
The product of a mother's tender loving care
Embodied immaturity before the
Outside forces penetrated the weak membrane.

What was thought to be inevitable
Suddenly became evitable.
The potentialities all there in that small delicate frame  and pink lips, sometimes closed tight, sometimes open to those who dare cross her.
Rationality crumbled beneath her.
And suddenly this march of destiny became a sprint towards a bewildering number of paths ahead.

I peer up from the frayed graphic.
Realizing all that had fallen had fell within reason, no need to grasp.
It made space for the warm sap of passionate emotions pump through me.
Once a demure, reserved, lackluster child
Is now one who holds her head sky high
with a cool whirl of clear confidence.
Sean Hunt Dec 2016
I dare not say
“I will not die today”
Nay
I know not when
I know not where
I know not why
This holy moment
Is for me
A hidden mystery
Inside a galaxy
Of potentialities
Preparing to pop
Like kernels of corn

I must tidy my house
Today


            Sean Hunt  Dec 2016 Windermere, UK
jessica obrien Nov 2021
dry and entering a shepard tone;

endless summer, sauntering, and my inner thighs are (yawn) raw from the sauntering.
endless spring, thawing icicles into
endless christmas morning.

this is not lavender, this is brighter;
i’ve underestimated everything.

suckerpunched into the bend of me,
deepening my lean to an acute degree,
like balled fist, like fortress, like fetus: potentialities.

wild chance is a hellmouth
salivating—
“a shepard tone creates the illusion of continuously swelling sound, which can build tension or suspense.”

this is an attempt to emulate a shepard tone through poetry
River Aug 2019
Do you want to uplevel with me?
Merge together and create something splendid?
Because I can see beautiful potentialities with you,
Envisioning brighter futures where I no longer have to suffer through trials alone
But instead becoming lovers in which we serve each other as a boon,
A buffer against the raw pangs of reality

Not only are you beautiful,
Which my heart craves
Your beauty is rugged and untamed
And that’s what I like about you

You’ve evolved, and so have I
Cynicism has changed the creases around our eyes
And it’s noticeable that we’re sadder now
But maybe we can help each other lean into joy,
Uplevel into contentment

Maybe it’s not so much about upleveling,
But regressing back to a childlike state
Of whimsy, gratitude and wonder
A time before our minds weren’t strong enough to war within us

I feel my heart, like a closed bud
Blossoming
And you’re knocking on the door of my heart.
Maybe this time I’ll let you in.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
the precursors of mourning have already begun -
the shadow is fleeing:
the eyes no longer show signs of glee -
where there were once two diamonds
in the skull's sockets... are but ambers of
dying frenzy -
               these are the precursors of mourning:
it's heightened since
a daughter is crying: her son is pretenisouly
solid - a harsh connotation...
she herself has said: by tomorrow you should
probably leave the house and let
me do my girly "thing" and wallow -
a girl tells a boy he's not supposed to:
as much as he might want to allow himself
to also tow along some tears: he's not supposed
to...
seems like: perhaps i was a boy then...
and the beloved dog of the family died
and one were allowed to weep over so much
animation and nuance in a bark:
but soulless the essence died... nonetheless...
even then... the man who is about
to die ventured to restrain himself in giving
me the news when i was having a sleepover
since: boys don't cry...
it's funny-numb: it's teasing tears that
are not supposed to be shed...
in the last years of his dementia he would still
remember... that same dog...
a mongrel-esque tease of an alsatian
by the name of Bella -
              me, him and the dog taking long
walks... me climbing trees
the dog barking up the tree out of concern...
he couldn't remember details
of the lives of his children...
but me being the solo grandchild...
well... aren't i just ******* special...
- and yes these past years i already witnessed
his death: we were once the graveyard
hyenas as i took him for a walk...
to his mother's grave... to his grandfather's grave
and he would also say:
this is where the two josephs with lie:
side by side...
              i'm hour away from visiting
the old country: dear "mother" will receive me
as she always did: a comfortable sensation
when landing in Cracow...
all that is modern and horrid and competitive
and obstructive to any force outside
of its cement - Warsaw passed-by...
   i'll travel to a little ****-hole of a town of my birth
from the warsaw western termnial:
where i will be approached by a mingling of
ukrainian "tourists": i'll probably spot one
or two mongols...
if it will be a sunny day: i will feel inclined
to savour the sensation that:
even Glasgow - at its most outer grim...
it would only require sunlight to elevate
a reaping presence of glum toughening -
               such this life bestows -
                         lottery, random chance...
purposively agitated wills composed
of a **** / reaping of life...
             until this choice plateau / plateau of choices...
it is unimportant for the lineage
of this man to have survived:
after all... i have not "bothered" to keep
it... rejuvenated... i had no... lineage
quest... no family name...
although... if i invoked my mother's
maiden name: Batuk... almost resonates
like Bathory... origins in the Czech sphere:
- and he implored me to call him
once a month to talk any sort of crap
with him - i hardly ever did:
we came to an understanding that
to talk... a conversation would require
****** features contorting, eyes...
probably some hands too...
is that a regret?
                  it could very well... but not
really...
i have to "man up"... there's the wait:
from the hospice to the shallows:
grave being the riddle and as he stressed
countless times: death the great leveller -
the only democratic auto- prefix:
that no one can "just" veto...
and by all standards of mortality -
born 1939: herr! bite bonbon! circling
around 82 isn't bad for a man...
it's already pushing the expectations...
so my tearing into a soppy-****-blind-poodle
wouldn't do enough justice...
after all: aren't we supposed to feel less
grief for life stretched to its limits...
even he conceded his dementia furore as:
all my friends are dead...
i sleep, i eat... i **** i watch t.v. -
i still vaguely recognise a crossword
puzzle... all that's necessary now is to
sometimes refresh myself
with a familiar face...
i do want to wriggle in feminine emotions:
still his contest:
make your heart small...
             hardened to a coil and inviting
a pebble to circumstance it further:
then you will have all other details in your
grasp, grit... boiling over crescendo...
how i want to weep...
but this impeding ceremony...
his jokes about being buried in uncomfortable
shoes: how he joked about the hebrews
being buried sitting down: so they would:
upon resurrection... get up first...
and not too long ago... a year...
my grand-uncle died: my grandmother's brother...
etc. etc.
how he joked:
             hmmph! a sarcastic sound...
this one disagreement they had:
the accusation was on the lines of:
he said that i was brought up by the communist
party (and the P.R.L.) while this...
semi-******* of a grand-uncle... one footed
with the lost foot a ghost limb:
after this daughter had a miscarriage:
newly converted to god, church and the law &
justice party mantra...
my grandfather will die: negating
any communist party affiliation...
                      so much for Poland per se...
what could possibly need to happen...
next up on the chop-a-block of: inevitable...
my grandmother...
and isn't that going to be a woozy...
a new definition of division...
my mother a daddy's girl...
my uncle a momma's boy...
           my father? abandoned by his parents
is beside stoicism:
i'd pinch a suggestion
at psychopathy - now news of death:
just this... working up to cul de sac certainties...
hours from now and i'll be
bed-side at the hospice talking
to a vision of a corpse not yet formalised...
to exercise the final testament of
his nigh...
               - point being...
his death is what i was anticipating...
              at the end of this rainbow is
the death of "my" tongue...
travel to Poland to speak some nativistic first
coming?
with strangers?
lined up they die and i will not need
to... that's probably as it always should have been:
i can't imagine engaging in
anglo-integration projects
where the tongue is first to die:
because: i'm sikh turban pronounced standing...
i could easily be mistaken for
a german: and that's hardly a compliment...
i have been a german many a times...

- but to be prescribed so much deadening
energy: for the most appropriate masculine
traits... unfathomability and a fortitude of
changelessness -
a sternness and a bleak blind certainty...
i wish i could allow myself the same...
mollusk-esque softness associated with
a pet dog dying:
perhaps i should focus on...
a vessel of a memory of me making this
world all the more hostile and
unfathomable...

from noak hill across three country parks
i ended up in chigwell row...
i admired the sensation of
feet forged to a marathon walked...
i muttered the most inaudible:
find me more aloof... more secluded...
let me join the ranks of those
already sentenced to the base reality
conundrum:
that death is a liberty and that...
i have no fear of dreams per se...

otherwise: thank whoever it is i have
to thank for the least of my talent being
exposed:
there is no: go gently into that good night...
blindness for one...
is not the cobweb of smoke
and mirrors of dementia: the latter...
i have to cherish the exactness of my
gargoyle face to keep these last remaining
tremors of life being gifted with:
an old curiosity...

i will not rhyme what's already
a technical matter...
that i want to wed my eyes my breath
with that of death impeding
and find him there: old joseph batuk...
while my father was "missing" from
me aged 4 through to 8...
because the western lands
required brain / labour drain...
i was the one who punctured his
bicycle wheel when he was engaging his
last days in employment...
that he was a drunkard from time to time:
well... i sure as ****
out-competed him...
i became a bigger drunk than he
ever was... yet by the vanity in me
owned... and by the diabolical belief
in the hebrew demiurge:
i teamed up with project focus
and spew such details... from time to time:

that it is somehow still only about me:
is because... i believe in being
reunited... in the sacred phlegm of Hades
were i have possession
of the most essential faculties to
entertain eternity:
but i no need for ****...
or for gluttony therefore no need
for taste...
i won't be needing these ******* sacks
or an islamic sacred garden harem
to satisfy my death-robbed blues
of unexcavated potentialities:

i want to catch death with its 21 supposed
grams...
how i meditated death of late
by merely walking: expecting to
chance myself with harp and
plough...
that i am forever reminded:
      to be sitting on laurels...
   as ever... to write this belittling of such
little... to be sitting on laurels
is to write poetry:
when one is expected to churn
out expectations with hammer, sickle...
and the brood's best interest...
of which: i can disclose none...

therefore to dance a romance with death:
i want to be there at my grandfather's
second birth...
when there's a fathoming for
a necessary eternity while he's my post-stamp
collector: which he was...
where so much of a year
is me and him preoccupied with
months upon end
admiring neptune...
sending vagueness via postcards
on sunbeams:

first came the atom bomb...
then the tightening cipher of a corrected
explosion in the variant of a beam...
of photons...
terribly accurate scientific verbiage...
if only my hometown assured me
a life in his line of work...
in metallurgy... well... the town collapsed
and so my father had to emigrate...
would be tree-chopper destined
to canada: stalled in england... present day...

death so... what a fine word in
quasi-germanic...
english...
   it sounds so much more horrid
in slavic: śmierć...
no amount of diacritical elevation...
should the same word resurface in
ancient: Ruś...
                            смерть...
smerts! ******* "smurfs" and all...

death o noun too hollow...
and if i didn't believe orthography existed
in english: only spelling mistakes...
well...

death "contra" deaf...
is very much akin to:

     morze: sea -
       może: maybe...
                
        but i implore to be forgiven:
since the english tongue doesn't employ
any diacritical markers:
from either above or below...
i never thought more of expressing
nuance, regarding it...
as the base: "spelling mistake"...
hell... to elevate such mistakes
to orthography status...
you imply i might demean all
that... metaphysical jargon focus...

a. g. barr's ice cream soda...
probably the only sort of drink
worthy of culprit memory...
mine own impressions
are mostly associated with soviet-esque
lemonades...
and turbo-chewing gums...
as boys we were supposed
to have this hunger for:
machinery tip-toe ***** envy
**** magnet:

ol' grandfather and me...
i liked to test horses for a gallop...
he would... tease some others with
an apple and a sugar-cube...

a life so completed but having
to leave one so ******* empty...
i don't care if death is so benevolent in her
praises of justice:
as blind as deaf and as tongueless as
she wants to stress herself to be...
i will not dare to cry...
perhaps... a year from now...
when my own presence in this world
is gravitating toward a new assemblance
of anonymity:
when... already...
my  neighbours are hollow ushers...
imps and diabolical idling...

at the hospice i want to see death
give birth...
i want to be this fairy-godmother
of clingingness and
obstruction...
fazing...
              for the ode of inbreeding
nuances of genes: which he didn't mind...
when he would reserve a stash of
newspapers for the "quasimodo"
that above him dwelled...
and how he would celebrate the antithesis
of inquiring for scissors...
slit lick and itching for a scratch...

you can't work around
having to employ cipher! not now!

the daughter cries for a father:
yet she's so estranged from him nd was...
this supposed: for the life to be bettered
by her offspring... mr. uno!
no... she's crying out of nostalgia...
i'm wanting to cry from...
a memory of me is about
to die within and with someone
nothing this world can compensate
me with...

collateral: lizard skins and hardening...
stone baron...
furthering of life is "nuanced"...
if this is the precursor of
son burying mother...
etc. in that quadratic...
i most certainly want to play
the role of coroner...
burning of bacon...

from the years 2004 through to 2007...
the summer escapades...
bicycle... fishing...
a man can become this completeness
in a memory that cannot be shaken...
obstructed with...
how i abhor readying myself for the
ceremony and the wake...

how the death of my grandfather
is less than
the grief already testified by his daughter:
my mother...
and how my father is this...
******* limbo rubix cube of cipher
decipher cipher decipher...
numb...
               when i supposedly burry
my father i will have to borrow burrying
someone else...

but before all that:
i want to chase death and laugh:
you's one siding antithesis shadow!
you's a shadow!
ha ha! i want to become this
inglorious... fester...
as to how death is defeated...
it's appreciated too literally...
it needs to be...
i can't allow death its grandiosity of
metaphors and church / clerical whimsical churns...
death is death is...
the beauty of the scents of autumn...

- yes, now that i'm scouting for excesses
of freedoms: i bemoan all those
readily cherished...
i have attired myself a beside:
this grievance of a "patriarchal" supposition...
by no way blinded
this lost excavation posit...
  death of "one" nearing the focus
stresor of selling... bubblegum...

death has to achieve a stature of mediocre...
so human yet so debased from man...
if i were to burn upon the pyre
of pagan worship... that death might
impart onto me a wizening...
a detail left in an obscurity of creases...

after his death i might "finally"
read Zły - leopold tymrand...
which i probably will: given how mediocre
all of knausgaard had to become:
celebrating flaubert's madame
bovary...
here is a detail and a corner...
a slab of death's riddle:
stone bound... epitaph thus missing;
but the immediacy so focused
upon a serenity of disclosure...

here lies the emblem of
the last carousel of life...
best kept impossibly immobile...
to lessen the creases...
and how one might...
appease the harems
of woo...
with french poodle jarry yoddles...
no one is to wed themselves
to my "unearthng":
sooner...
this poor rabbit blind...
en route toward my escapist
foundation furore....

to be "happy" is to be hardly
conceiving of... being...
inquiring...
to be happy is to be: dumb dumb
dumbfounded:
lost for words...
a limitless "etc"...
******* dim-wit... yeah...

last "things" i wanted
from the concept of completeness
was... "happy"...
for ****'s sakess with happy...
i don't want to be happy...
i want to be happy....
i want to be "sad"...
as long as i remain inquisitive!

i die or precusror: and therefore:
"button up"... i might fidget with
the nimble crow for all
that the curation of:
that requires the edible...
regal overtones overthrows
a h'americanana... of
a lasting... impossible... first...

and there's a "thirst"...
and then there's a "drowning"...
and an expectancy of
the... great... h'american way'vre....
veer into nill!           q?!
Graff1980 Feb 2018
I come from
a myriad of
multiverses,
all times
and spaces
that converged,
all potentialities
that led up to me,
to the river that
will flow,
and the mountain
that will rise,
climaxing
in the epic apogee
of the death
of this frail body.
I am
a prisoner
of that certainty.
Ken Pepiton Jan 2020
Now, a new stream, new persona at the keys, perhaps,
we go with it,

a team thing, the old boys, who were never serious,

'til the end, amazing
grace, 'n'all that... they meet the guy that was gonzo

for Jesus, the proto-type, maybe,

but now, he's mellow, got the basic boomer

sub urban rural typical tv family of the decade types

of stories forming pustules in stages
sure to be virulent

if one of 'em pops.

Jesus, what if it got out.

Right.
That easy. Peace in the midst of chaos,

the perfect circle in the wide part of the dark paisley,

yinyangyenyank twang twang bang

stradivarian wood, we froze our buts off dis

covering the never hidden, merely,
yet to be known, sealed knowns
known in physics and biology
'n'mythical synchronal stars
all things working right on
deconstruction
zones

sorting pieces of the plans,

we have 8 strands,

3 have marks from the cain diet,
2 y carriers hold mods
from the fires
of both Tubal and Jubal, so they hold

the intuitions,

these are the sybils we were sent to make clear.
Is this clear.
Texting leaves records, as does light,

time is written in light.
May be.

So,
in the direction of the spin, we lean,
and the yingyangthang rolls,

just like ol' sisyphus's rock, perpetual motion,
with a will to live,

leaving be,
I believe you shall eventually come from under the umbrella.

I am defining my terms,
in preparation,

making up a myth, to play with, to see if ifity is as I imagine,

as enjoyable as any creative urge indulged,

in the post truth acknowledgement

beginner's pool. No disconnection here.

Look, quarter in the telescope,
out there, we are beyond all you think or ask

potentialities,
you believe the Bible, you believe me, we words
to the wise enough,

evil is as evil does, not as evil thinks it does, it lies.
I shared a sceptics view of trump and was told by a survivor of the pensacola miracle that I ought to repent of my pernicious ways, and he played right into my record of days

— The End —