as any german might, or a student of
the philosophy -
applying nothing's worth of a hammer
to the lexicon, rather,
a scalpel -
          what is ontological about
the term dasein,
and what is metaphysical?

        well... -sein is pure ontology...
am i to make apologies for
the given?
       sein in German is "self"-implosive...
given that it originates
in the Kantian noumenon,
per se...
                   but it never reaches out
to trans- physics of
gender...
        and, doesn't, meddle,
in grammatical constructs...

          da-?
   what is there, to a here?
to a now, a then, a then?
    metaphysical questions...
          so...

                    Dasein...
it'­s both a metaphysical conundrum
and an ontological scoop...
but, what it isn't is
a metaphorical inquiry...
   the mind is never to be displaced...
there is no mind displacement,
the brains along with the mind
retains its intact posit to counter
the materialism of the brain
being equivalent to the heart,
  but no mind,

no mind? no emotion...
     i thought the heart was a mindless
pump for the rivers (veins)
  and tsunamis of blood (arteries)...
am i wrong?
          
   if there is this post-Hegelian
grand dialectic taking place,
to displace the classical approach,
with a globalist canvas...
  my bad...

                if you need more schizophrenics
than you can handle?
fair enough...
               if you suddenly face up
to the Hippocratic oath...
which deems bilingual individuals
as being schizophrenics?
fair enough... i'll wait...
i'm good at waiting...

       i'll have my fifth drink and
attempt to play the mythical
Mongolian harmonica...

and wait: who's about to look...
STUPID!
               but if there's a grand dialectical
working its way into conversation
outside of the academic circles...
then there's also a dichotomy...
  
  and schizophrenia?
      is the algebraic X
    rather than a grand +
                 in the intermediate
interwoven basis for discussion...

              da- is a metaphysical
proposition...
    given? there could also be a
hier-... or a nirgends (nowhere) -
    or irgendwo (anywhere) -
    
   the prefix of heidegger's concept
is purely metaphysical,
it doesn't have to necessarily translate
into concern coupled
with the purity of the ontological
compound suffix of -sein...

       to be honest? the problem with
dasein in the 21st century?
let's face it, the man wrote this thesis
just when mainstream journalism was
taking off, then tyrants exploited
radio broadcasts...
   now the broadcasters abuse the medium...

there's too much of the "da-" -
      die welt...
   which does not encourage
the -sein...
to encompass or even entangle itself
with the imminent,
   die hier, die jetzt...
          the "myopic" version of
the diabolical res extensa of
the cartesian model...
                
              the study of ontology has
to regress from the prefix da-...
         the metaphysical jargon of this
posited prefix needs to be
stumbled onto, then rejected...
                new coordinates of ontological
investigation need to be minded...
closer to the nose...
   and the index finger touching
the tip of it...

                 again...
          i can only "read" French philosophy
books by the German antagonists...
and i will never read anything
by English philosophers... Locke?
forget it...
   i hate English philosophers...
they're too practical... too sensible...
too pragmatist...
              basically?
boring as ****...
                         sensible people do
not philosophize -
  they don't create meta-narratives...
ha ha! they create trans-gender!
sensible people get hard-on salivation
tendencies to craft no
original contribution to the scholasticism...
they love to read the ****...
but hate to write it...
subsequently relieving themselves
of the originality of a cognitive genesis...
the english were always in
a Germanic cognitive exodus;

i'm speaking to the father,
i don't need some
  ****-pants half-removed son of
a Saxon ***** to tell me
what i can, and can't make
this language into.

Some girls just like something very traditional. does that make them any less of a woman. can a woman be a traditionalist and still be a feminist? I think so. I think that what we shared in that time was exactly what we wanted, to fall back into structured and secure roles, because we'd been through the centrifuge lately. And that may not have been who the both of us were at heart, but it worked to heal us, to make us both better for the future, and most importantly, less cynical. I think that what is most feminist about any relationship is the ability to choose. I've been in relationships where I'm the dominant one, and others where I'm not. It takes the ability to check your own self and being a pragmatist, because if you love someone you will change for them. You won't change your personality, but you'll change the way you approach a relationship if you care about them enough. I think that's what feminism boils down to. Allowing both partners to choose their roles in the relationship instead of having them chosen for them. So, **** it, my girl wants to be Susie Homemaker; that's her choice and I lay my head on that.

I know I'm *******
But you're ******* too
And I quite like that.

they're nothing but glorified bus drivers*,  said my father after i told him i wanted to become a pilot.

the opposite of love is not hate, but contempt.

what causes the kodachrome to fade little by little to grey? is it really bred of familiarity. the wear of gradually learning the truth about somebody. the minutiae of the everyday sanding away at the idealised, sculpural dream.

or is it triggered rather by the dull shock of an identifiable disappointment; the inevitable transformation towards sallow disgust justified by the devastation of slap-to-the-face betrayal or loss.

must we fulfill the dream simply to learn that it was only ever empty?

my father, a devoutly unspiritual pragmatist, had nevertheless as a young man fallen in love with the expansive embrace of the blue above. the son, grandson, and great-grandson of farmers, he worked his hands down to shredded red sores to put himself though flying school only to have his application for a commercial licence rejected due to a doctor's confounding eleventh hour diagnosis. colour blindness. an all-or-nothing man, my father never once returned to the enthralling blues, yellows and pinks offered up by the cockpit, and from that point forward became a farmer.

i gave up on the thought of becoming a pilot, and later, (much later), developed a fear of flying.

I'm a pragmatist: on the off chance that I see a pack of hoods drawing nearer, standing around,

acting a littering of open walkways, I basically

move to the next

side of the road, take no chances. I keep it on me constantly,

for well being purposes.

In case shooting start,

you'd be a danger I revealed to them when I, unfortunately, proved unable

permit the parcel of them into the gathering.

We're a piece of the same

political gathering, as indicated by every one of the numbers I've seen.

When I close the schools down, I was simply

doing what must be finished

to adjust a city spending plan crooked. When I put what

I found in his trunk on adjust,

it was sufficient to tip the scale

towards a lawful offense. I used to be a server, and they never

tipped extremely well as far as I can tell.

While we were putting down wagers,

I saw him tip his hand marginally and there was

a ̶̶r̶a̶c̶e̶ confront card in it. He didn't appear

like a lot of a bluffer, so I stood

my ground. On the grounds of legitimacy – that is the manner by which I got

into Harvard. I'm simply not that into dark

young ladies, by and by. That is to say, actually,

I don't SEE shading. I'm so sad, I truly didn't see you there.

There they go, utilizing that word once more:

on the off chance that they can state it, at that point for what reason right?

I can't comprehend why everyone is so touchy nowadays.

I concede, what I said sounded a tad

inhumane, yet trust me, I'm definitely not

a bigot. I'm a pragmatist: in the event that I see a pack of hoods drawing nearer, standing around,

acting a littering of open walkways,

I basically move to the opposite side.

I keep it on me consistently, for purposes: in case of a

danger, start shooting I let them know, unfortunately,

taking a gander at the body spread before me.

December's crueler than April.

Survivor stories from my youth,
Donner migrants
Athletes in the Andes
King Rat pragmatist ethic, depiction.

Whose story wins the hearts?
Whose reason causes minds to make
a way appear,
where no way was, yet now, we be
come to the future, from just now,
how come we ask?
Me and thee, alone, I see no other,
thus I read… my life,

my owned experience, true as true
can ever be, on the spectrum,
Perfect proven truth, the idea all
begins with, already

one and a, none, nada mas, only me,
I scan the ever not I
and I see. Only me, most self centered
of things,
the singularity at the core,
whither thought occurred, as what
if we knew, nothing
is a positive, point in re-ality, under
time constraints,
and breathable atmo bubbles,

dust of ever before, the just imagine,
living by faith as defined,

here, by faith, to thine ownself, be true.
Good and faithful,
servile being, you, the submitted mind,
heart-core, gung-**, rock roller,
happy Sisypheanist,
on life's downhill side.

Too true to be simple, loop de loop.

The road is a Mobius strip,
with as many twists as your average
protein molecule,
produced from dirt, ultimately,
formed from former stars's dusts.

Of course, that is, to stay valid,
on course through human events,
opportunities for the whole world

to know, a means, a use of held thoughts,
phenomenal-logos chains holding
weight a minutes needing thinking

through, dia-logos, thought filled words.
----------

The elderly Voltaire enters the frame,
carrying -- or carried on
a stipulation, a term limit, bounding
pre-suppositions… ag-response, control.

A keel and a rudder and a mast and sail,
in our mind we all have imagined,
we could, should necessity demand.

Suppose, I go light on my own  reliance
on artificial knowledge, I lean
on my leading spirits spoken words,
as spoken by my culture's steady state.

Salt, for centuries, served life. Agree,
we know Sodium is real, as a model,
made with representative shapes,
Tinker-Toy structures visible
to current-tech eye-use-enhancers,

scanning instants in the gestalt.
All the uni- units in the universe,
one time tic past last… waiting to go.

------ hours from go, begone, we are
being come
so far, so good, no pain, no sorrow,
at the moment, mindful
practice, right
in that moment, stick and stay and

make it mean something, today,
while it is called today, you may
come along, as you wish,
or feel drawn, as into a vacuous event
horizon claiming,
right, this was the edge, yesterday.

I remember sitting in
Numerous wards
And clinics
With all the madmen
Around me –
Wondering if they are dying
Or whether that
Scratch has turned
Septic.
I think people enjoy
Thinking there’s something
Seriously wrong with them,
It gives them
Something to do
With their dull lives.
But it works both ways,
Doc can feel a hero
And he can tick a box.
God incarnate,
Allah, Buddah, Jesus.
I am called in
I’m sure my diastolic is up
After nabbing a handful
Of pear drops.
“Right, Mr. Hinton, please sit down –
Are we feeling okay today?”
“What can I say, I’m in a
Practice when I could be writing?”
“Ever the pragmatist... Now let’s
Have a look – your blood pressure’s up.”
“You just stuck a rod on my arm
And contorted my arm, I’m sad
It’s not through the roof.”
“Now, you take it easy on
The beer and the women.”
“You know I won’t, see you in
Six months time, John?”
I shake the Doc’s hand and
I slink away.
Immortal for another day
*******.

if I were born a different species I would wish to be hatched a bird from an egg in a nest devouring vomitus looking over the branches at the fall watching my mother leave watching her come back seeing my brother leave and not return watching my mother leave with my siblings watching my mother return with my siblings the big day the big leap of faith the rite of passage or descension a terrible pressure much gravitas the jump!     born into a new life once passive now released a terror upon the skies or at least the rodents of the field which briefly leave their burrows to bask in the sun of the dawn but also a member of a lethal hierarchy always watching for bigger predators with beaks the size of my neck and shadows to encompass me and blot out the sun above me and swooping down upon me and me wheeling and barreling and careening and them tightening and circling and diving in a battle of athleticism for which the trophy is life or death then more vacating of the space between I and them and endlessly the pulse-driving innervating rush of imminent death surges

but I am descendant of apes, cultured to sit in desks and combine numeric symbols for collectives concerned primarily with the collection of monetary symbols and should I want any of my own significant symbols which indeed I likely should I must push harder the boundaries of my capability to mix accurately these and other symbols past that of my fellows and restrict my wonderment to evenings in which I either live through the fantasies of the television program or novella or expressive form or imbibe the socially acceptable intoxicants in socially acceptable groupings of my peers which within are also imbibers of aforementioned substances in non-lethal but rather questionable binges on and evermore and on some more until I have children and I too teach them the ways of our rigorously well co-ordinated society which is very proper very proper indeed with its unspoken rules profiting you greatly to follow oh profit so greatly oh great profit jolly good great investments great show wonderfully valuable just barmy the bees knees the cats pyjamas the dogs bone oh dear merciful god does samantha really love me is my marriage based purely and hollowly on some ingrained self-deprecating pragmatist ritualism

I will die someday and I both fear for it and desire it with exactly half each of my whole being

Before there was a field,
filled with fragrant, though strange,
flowers, stretching on forever.
It was in this place, this bastion
at the end or the beginning of
eternity that I found you the first time.
Splayed, as you often are, against the
grasses, eyes watching the clouds as they
find their way across a lazy sky.
You with your impossible answers to
serious questions. You and your
******* riddles.

There is only this room now.
It is squat, squalled, musty in now
familiar ways. It is piece of mercy,
in an ocean of hell.
Beyond these flimsy four walls
lays entropy, the end of all things.
A nothingness of another kind, like
I'd never known before, and hopefully
will never know again.

There are no windows in my room,
for that is how I have come to think of it,
as my room. Yet even windowless I can
still stare into the vast emptiness it is wrapped
up in. I can see the frightful void.
I know what lurks just behind the horrible
safety of my walls.
I scream into the void, if only to
keep my sanity.

You put me here. You wanted me here.
It was through your machinations,
devious and brilliant as they are,
that I find myself facing this nothing.
This was all just one more of your
self-serving, stupid ******* riddles.
And I, ever the pragmatist, ever the
logical counterpoint,
I played into it.

I thought we were so clever, to put
these symbols on our faces.
To shout to the world that this, not
the weak beings we used to be, but
these powerful, noble creatures.
This is who we are.
But I didn't pick the symbols.
They were always there.
You expected them to be.

You counted on my arrogance.
Oh, but you know me so well.

"Call me a pragmatist,
but I like my ***** to **** me up
and taste **** good doing it."

I didn't have the guts to be a rebel
All the counterculture called at me
Asking me to join
In living rooms with Goodwill couches
Owned by a friend of a friend of a friend
They reached out to me
Hands and hearts so open that they couldn't stop bleeding
Asking me to join them
To make what I felt
To do what I wanted
Regardless of whatever the rules said.
They asked me,

Passing the tokens of a shared insobriety
That sought out the essential truth beneath
A thousand and one layers of culture and biology and social pressure
That only ever manages to turn diamonds into coal

I don't have the testicular fortitude to forsake the gifts of my birthright
My middle-class hope
Of a sliver of land beholden to an HOA
Of a wife who loves me kind of and children that will hold me to an anachronistic social standard that will leave me wanting
But it could be mine
It could be a world of my own making
With love and joy and plenty
And the mediocrity and turmoil
That is essential to life whether it is good or bad
It could be mine

The true face of the world is violent
And life struggles unconditionally to enact it's will on a world
That has extinguished more species than are alive

We are mayflies in the cosmos waxing and waning
And no one cares
And no one guarantees that I will eat tomorrow
Let alone find love
Or persist in the presence of my ancestors.

I don't have the ***** to wager my little bits of happiness
Even if there is a slim chance to change a million minds or more
Call me a coward
Call me a pragmatist
In a century call me dead
Right now you can call me mostly happy
And I don't know if there is anything better

If the time comes when someone
Asks me, “Dan,
What one thing would you hope for,
For this world I mean?”
I guess, after much deliberation,
I’d have to say ‘hope’
I’d wish for ‘hope’,
It’s all you can do.
The hope that this
Fear that consumes us
All in concrete
And frigid isolation
Dissipates
Along with the falseness
And the corruption,
And that we are free
To seize ourselves
Seize the day
Seize everything we want to be
Maybe I would not go
As far as Blake to say
We could retrieve the lost Golden Age.
I am by all definitions a pragmatist
Therefore I am hoping.
Hoping
  And waiting

Cruising along mudddy
mountain back roads
in my father's Bronco,
A misty rain hovering,
on the horizon,

The Eagles,
Or Fogleberg,
Or Little Feat
drifting fuzzily,
into the back seat
Dad intermittently,
singing along,
and cursing the fog.

My Grandfather's musty trailer,
Atari games beeping and blooping,
from the television,
A jubilee of pixles,
thrumming on the 32 inch set.

My cousins chasing me,
through the hay lofts,
Michael falling from the rafters,
Six feet into a cow pie,
the size of Mt. Everest,
Neck high and flies buzzing,

Jake and I making the long trek,
back to our parents,
to report that our charge,
had been accidentally,
suctioned into a vortex of ****,
They were mostly mad,
that we had left him there,

The sweet strumming,
of my father's guitar by a bonfire,
Beer cans hissing and popping,
morphing into alien shapes,
in the flames.

Stars a cacauphony,
of tiny lights overhead,
If you walked just a few steps,
away from the blaze,
you could get lost
in their cosmic spiral,

My dad had a story,
about the time he saw a ufo,
in those stars,
How one shot up into the sky,
then straight down,
like a plummeting rocket,

Only he didn't belive things like that.
Ever the pragmatist,
quick to interject that we were all,
just worm food,
but when he told that story,
his hairs stood on end.

Days spent
picking grapes off the vine,
gorging myself in the,
strawberry patch,
and in the orchard,
There were so many apples
that we left some for the deer,

I recall being jealous,
that the boys got to go hunting,
while I stayed back canning fruit,
with the women.

Weirdly wishing,
that I could amass,
rank and file,
with the men,
Douse myself in animal ****,
and sit painfully still,
for hours,
in a rickety tree stand,
Our play house was probably sturdier,
and better insulated.

Looking after those stupid beagles,
and gathering eggs from,
stupider chickens,
Feeding infant cows with,
oversized baby bottles,
cradling them,
kicking and *******,
in my skinny arms,
barely aware of the pervasive smell
of manure.

Eating Papa's tomato casserole,
and drinking buttermilk,
Thinking they were only things
in his whole kitchen,
that weren't mouldy,
or mildly terrifying.

Walking wooded trails,
on cold mornings,
catching quick glimpses,
of foxes and grouse,
before they fled,
Warned off by the snapping
of small twigs underfoot.

Such rare and beautiful moments.
I didn't appreciate them then.
Only now that those days,
are long past,
just wistful songs in the mountains,
can I recognize their worth,
and sing their twangy melody,
with warmth and love.

systematized philistinism
aesthetic appeal to reason; ingenuity
iniquity within crusadery, crusadery within violence
right versus wrong versus up versus down versus christ versus jam versus peanut butter-
ceaseless competition of egoism within protectorate instincts
totemic defense of ideals
burn the effigy of the opposing party via verbose roastery
point at fingers
pointed at moon
hapless the artist,
and hapless the pragmatist
and hapless the sodden fool ye who wish to knows better
haplessly holier than thou

Maybe, maybe, maybe, if you say sorry enough they’ll believe it, know you mean it.
I think your heart could use that kind of break.
right now it’s breaking.
For some small comfort there’s the night, the silky smooth night, the moon and stars.
For the hopeless romantic and pragmatist- for we’re but a second in eternity, a speck in infinity
But what a privilege it is to be so.
And what a burden it is to be so.
To be so….what?
Because here, for the first time in a long time it’s not my poison.
It’s his and hers and theirs.
Regardless, I’ll drink to my place in forever and infinity, and in regards to how my throat burns holes in my heart as it goes down, I’ll make do as I’ve done before.
Down is where it mixes with the roots,
With the ashes from which this sort of deep pain burns in the embers of my own broken glass
That’s right, I’m filled to the brim with bottles of what used to be stale beer, scorched purple in the sun of some far off desert.
They’ve been lathered in hope, rinsed with cynicism, dried with the same snot ridden shirt sleeve that dried my tears.
From them, I’ll drink poison until their pain is gone and my wish washy smile resurfaces, blood in my teeth from a war not mine.
When the straight laced meets the twisted, who bends and which way?
For better or worse, or shall I stay here in the numb, sweet and cool embrace of neutrality?
No, because I seek warmth.
It gets more than warm, hot enough to bend steely figures into what seems human.
Don’t touch. Too hot.
Proximity is a dangerous game here, where you risk skin and bone bubbling, dripping into the fire.
Burns leave scars, did you know that?
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
Contradicting, questioning, quizzically,
I’m making my way through this like a blind man through a labyrinth of the social species.
Say maybe, so you don’t land in concrete, before you freeze from waist down and can’t breathe.
Say maybe, so time moves quickly; or stay here and bear their moment, heart and soul rough and bare.
Say maybe, so you don’t have to be sure you’re forgiven.
Say maybe, keep on holding their sins so the weight can pull you away from your own.

Cosmic tool
never stop looking
for newfangled science
procrastinate in a future scene

“Lets be honest…”

ill-mannered to speak
of perfection
in a body so busy
w/ hypocrisy

My pain ain’t yr pain
don’t think I understand you
don’t think I ain’t care
don’t think you overstand me
I ain’t believe in victims
of society on account-a
i ain’t no perpetrator

It’s not wise to wage war
on preferences
and
dogma look silly when
you’re 25 or older

Sad to hear pragmatist
is now
the face you wear
when you have no foundation
yr mouth could talk an endless mile
of rhetorical obfuscation

Gimme change for yr hope
…O child hope is but a dream
-Life’s sure a joke heh?
-O it’s just a scream!

We need divide
like the dope need a ******-vein
blood rush concrete monkey brain
Who can we blame?

Cure the myths
and **** the idols
Don’t commoditize the truth
or fetishize our differences
No-one owns the past
No-one owns the future
W/ all the guns in Chicago
we could be free (for) tomorrow
but with all the language
in our words
we could free our heads
and make enemies
into neighbors
like Grown-Ups do

Cosmic tool
never take nothing serious
play the fool
while the world is delirious
Get-a laugh
out-a the hootin’ and the holler-in’
Such divine comedy make a man spoiled.

Who heralded the news!
Who put  cat amongst the pigeons?
the question?
Who of who is whose stooge?
The truth never rings true
even when truth is by adage ‘stranger than fiction’
What if fiction was a precursor of truth?
What if in every truth there was a % of lies
and in every lie a % of truth
What if every POV changes the percentage?
The magician uses the art of distraction
Slight mind and hand
What then does miracle worker use?
The hand of faith and soul
What does the dramatist use?
Staging and emotion illusion and suspensionQq of disbelief
What does the Pragmatist use?  
What ever is philosophically practical
What does the conspirator use?
Any means necessary to move the hand of fate to seed the lies in the Eyes of those they wish to hold.
what does the truth demand?
To see the light of day,
the cat without the feathers amongst the pigeons.

Ted Slade was a Communist, an Atheist,
a Realist, a Pragmatist. All the ‘ists’…
Even as you’d see from his poetry…. a perfectionist.!
So, right to be bitter now and then,
about how the so called maker made him.
I’m right there with him on that.

How can there be a superior being… The Big ‘G’
The creator of all things living and breathing
when, he dished out the proletariat’s grand life plans…
The stoop, the damaged flesh, retracted blood and bone,
the twisted hands.

After he’d fixed the sun,
the moon and the stars
and the creatures of the sea,
he made man in his image… his own
the likes of you and me.
But Ted picked up a duff one,
an already beaten body.
Spine twisted, lungs restricted.
Unfit for purpose - ****** up.

Like a life jacket with a puncture
If he had jumped overboard with it
he would have drowned.
He’d picked up the parcel in the warehouse
that had already hit the ground.
One that shouldn’t have made it beyond quality control.
If he’d had a hand in a design that was plainly odd
he would have chosen the super deluxe model for his starring role
So he just ignored everybody else’s God
Just got on with the job…
And as such, scored an even more brilliant goal!

up to
a mouthy gauze-
a minnow's fate-
a dawnless gurgling-
Minoa-
skin caught in the zipper-
someone else's house-
melatonin-
outdated documentaries-
spilled -
actual bronze-
plexiglass tables-
vocaloid

where morgoths and mongrels
i misss my monsters
thrown lead (sculptures)in the shape of you
scripture breaking off where you
ransomed
beggars cant be choosers but killers can get you
if they want

caught top



World holder!

the lenths at wich pragmatist go to **** eachother
you make getting offended an art form, all the while calling out others as you please

This ones for you -
The opportunistic optimists,
The pragmatist,
The “we don’t have the money but here’s a kiss”
Those that always feel their on the run,
Who get excited when they see the sun,
Those who need nothing to have some fun,

Those who don’t make their own meals,
Cos the kids leftovers are always for steals,
Those who have ideas as opposed to ideals,

Those who are thankful for life,
Who have learned to survive,
Who are happy to walk whilst others drive,
Whose natural default is to thrive,

Those who appreciate the small stuff,
Whose childhood was more than rough,
Who have perfected the art of a bluff,
Who don’t really own much stuff,

So this is to those that I call real people,
Who rarely see themselves as equal,
Who regardless of circumstances are always cheerful,
Who wake up facing a daily upheaval,

This is to you to say my thanks,
Because you raise us up to be like tanks,
To protect what’s important by closing ranks,
To be naturally aware of whose on our flanks,

So this is to us,
The working masses,
Because we’re the backbone of the upper classes,
We have a go and take our chances,
So to all of us - let's raise our glasses.

The following initially crafted approximately three and a half years ago and presently brought a  much sought after surge of satisfaction while meandering along the information superhighway.

Panglossian Perspective
Pivoting Poze Pretentiously

Pacific, pacifist pampered papa
parading par excellent paragon
parent (parenthetically parochial
particularly partisan) parvenu
passive, passionately paternalistically patient,

paunchy, peaceably pepped, perfectionist,
perceptive, perennially perky, permissively
persevering, persistently personable,
perspicuous, pertinent, phenomenally philanthropic, philharmonic

picturesquely pious, pioneering, piquantly pithy,
playfully pleasant, pleasurably plucky, plummy,
poetically poignant, politely pontificating, popular,
positively potent, powerfully practiced pragmatist,

praiseworthy, prayerfully precious, precise
predominant, preeminently preferable, preparedly
preponderant, presently president, prestigiously
prevailing, priceless, princely, principally pristine,

privately privileged, prized,
proactively procreative,
prodigiously productive, proficiently profitable,
progressively prominent, promisingly prompt,
prophetically propitious, prospectively protective,
proudly proven provocative,
prudently psyched, puissant,
punctilious, punctually purposeful pygmy.

the following written
for no particular rhyme nor reason
quite aware the exit (stage door left)
allows, enables, to provide every season
with a bumper crop of dead souls.

many mortals beseechingly
lift up their hands
in supplication and inquire
omnipotent omniscient force
and ask why
since the dawn of civilization
humans dream up schemes to try
and sidestep unavoidable death,
whereby each person
in the macroscopic scheme of things
lives infinitesimal time –
say the lifecycle of a mayfly
as compared/contrasted
with birth of the universe,
yet noone can  defy
unstoppable process of senescence
and reincarnation into other matter.

no rival can outwit death
the latest craze constituting immortality
cryogenics will be tried
for the rich and famous
unlike one garden variety married man
a common joker biden his time
mortality of all will level
ever since origin of species
**** sapiens took self pride
whence began the march of time
human beings sought futile efforts
to sell their soul

to the devil who never lied
for lame excuse being brought
into this tangled
webbed wide world with invisible twine
impossible to outwit death
no matter how far
one tries to run and hide
wrenched to underworld
of Hades forced
across river Styx foul breath
from decomposition per billions
of **** sapiens that died.
  
intrepid souls stymied with infinite jest
by devising laughable escape
regarding these lovely
bones and flesh to divest
from nada one knotted loophole
tied by supreme hands and very best
no nonsense, but
to acquire every singular soul

financially straightened budget
necessitates yours truly
without undo extravagance fussed
on me, a pragmatist
to stockpile skull and cross bones,
which eventually turn to dust
enriching cadre from those
who trod across
boulevard of broken dream
capitalizing on those blessed
with booming fortune before going bust
joining rank and file of countless
anonymous graveyards  silently scream

the massed voices
who felt the fate of uninvited curse
once living in the green day of glory
before their existence rent asunder
taken under by driverless hearse
and subsequent devilish quarry

further contributing to the complex edifice
seen only by the dead
patrolled by Lucifer
for those who believe
against atheism and diet of worms
extremely well fed
those lives lost and once
whose kin did grieve

from sorrowful plight
departing with sweet sorrows rife
with natural fear of corporeal cessation
whether prematurely or
at some ripe old age
pitting impatient burgomaster
stealer of life
whereby surviving kith pay homage
on specific date of calendar page
aware that netherland awaits
without bugles nor fife.

I am the dreamer
Fantastical possibilities
and countless opportunity
constitute my reality

But now he's all grown up
and dreadfully practical
With nary a dollop
of anything whimsical.
I'm afraid the dreamer
has become quite practical

I am the pragmatist
Benign equity
and rising amenity
fabricate my reality

But he's wandering on a path of his own making,
never seeing a destination, pining for Mirkwood's treetops
and wishing for the carefree flow of the Brandywine
Who would have guessed ambition and obligation
would lead right back to the folly of childhood?

I am Zubair
Innumerable contradictions
and multifaceted reflections
make up my personality.

Black is mentioned in darkness
Blindfolded pragmatist see but don't believe that light will
puncture childhood dreams . blank wall harbor old wounds
Mockingbirds mock  the raven squawks a dire truth
Man moves his lecherous snout ,spreading his seed
The tree will cringe, yield its heart to the untoward
Man may eventually return to walking on all fours

I am both here and nowhere
Inside these words and out
Lost in a questioning, wondering, how
To be free of something that will be
To be like snow and water and cloud
To be a bit more of a pragmatist free
To be something un
Somethint that isn't all about me
Preferably now