Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.

And he's provocative, a provocateur, a beacon of free speech and foul speech and vague speech and pointed speech, pacing the Conference Room Alamo on the ground floor of the Hilton, testing his lapel mike, asking the crowd of eighty, ninety to move to the front rows, and he mouths something to the photographer, a dreadlock'd skin and bones white boy, and the photographer flanks the crowd, angling the shot to solidify the intended narrative: he is a provocateur, a popular provocateur, a staunch opponent of political correctness (which this bystander must note strangely equates to a champion of hate speech), a former poster child for the alt-right, but—and quoting here—he says, "I cannot be pigeonholed," and perhaps that's it, the secret to his former success, his viral, shapeless nature, a terrorist of language and persona, and perhaps that's it, the secret to his demise, his shape forming, his identity emerging from the podcast ghettos and GOP speaking gigs, and he's on the stage and he's in all white and this is intentional, this is the redemption tour, the other-side tour, and the crowd claps now as he pumps his arms (at this point in the presentation they used to shout, I should point out), and he calls Hillary Clinton "Satan's ingrown *******," and the men in the audience laugh and pant and cough, and he spends fifteen minutes on fake news and hit pieces and the nuance of video editing and how liberal snowflakes won't stop protesting his appearances (for clarity here, there were no protestors at this event), and he wraps everything rather quickly (especially for the $150 ticket price) and says he has a minute for questions, and a young man, twenty-five or so, asks for tips on becoming the God King of Internet Trolls, and he, the popular provocateur, says, "Ah. The next generation is coming up from behind."

this will make sense in the end, or at least along the way... a modern version of the Ruben's judgement of Paris, although if you watch the debate, the mediator already insinuates the "confusion": to my left or to my right, ha ha, left to right, right to left, 1st 3rd 2nd... that's putting it mildly, if i were Paris i'd have given the apple of knowing to Hera, queen of the goddesses... naomi wolf... beauty is in the eye of the beholder... and your phallus in the hand of... mhmm... softer than the flesh of an oyster at the end of the day... they did say once in times just after Pericles: make my inner as beautiful as my outer, and my outer as beautiful as my inner... then take art as not representing images: or the "shallow" arguments... any man would have given the apple to the intellectual Aphrodite (karen straughan)... we all know that antigone darling is Athena: who speaks so little you start to equate wisdom to be a distant synonym of needing courage to engage with a plebiscite crowd... oh don't give that prize to her: she'll probably tongue-tie herself and will never be able to speak into a microphone, the intellectual Aphrodite knows all too well the conundrum... it's the cougar attired in crimson that fuels the whole debate... she doesn't need to have inner beauty, you phallus is already shouting 'sir! yes sir!' at the drill sergeant anyways... you take Aphrodite as a paradoxical beauty, namely that of long conversations and not long interludes of ******* and baking cookies... you'll leave Aphrodite confused... i once heard an English motto: don't take for a wife a woman that's too attractive... that wasn't intended to be within the bias of intellect, i mean a beautiful woman within the bias of being able to manage a harem of 72 male virgins... well **** yeah, artists leave clues, whether knowing or unknowing... they're working from triangles, poets end up writing from Δ, they obscure textures and antonyms of what appears to be monochromatic, we say: red, crimson, burgundy in x-ray confines... the point being: there's no intellectual debate to be had with someone representative metaphorically or not of Hera... you can't have a Parisian fashion week catwalk where you find dehydrated beauty on the outside and an anorexic ego on the inside... what you find in Hera is a volume (voluptuousness) on the inside, within which there's a leech libido that transgresses all demands for intellect... unless it's pistons-well-oiled orientated... please, read some Marquis... if you get an ******* having read a few of his works: you're qualified - or as i like to call it: neo-classical *******... ever masturbated over Bronzino's Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time? well, if you haven't i guess **** ******* and gang-banging is your outlet: mine are pictures of Aria Giovanni and Chloe Vevraire (googlewhack no. 3!): Chloe Vevrier... but if you're never done the Odysseus pokes fun at Polyphemus... yep: the ghost hand: nobody!


you know, you can cram a lot into a 30 hour "day",
which results in the complete erosion
for the capacity to dream afterwards,
to actually work from the unconscious and create
a subconscious medium vector that connects
to points of consciousness: 30+ hours awake,
however many hours asleep, and then awake again
for another 30+ "day" to digest...
the classical definition of the subconscious, in theory,
is that you get plenty of sleep,
and it's a bit like that schematic A x B (algebraic)
A knows x     and B knows x...
   something mutual acknowledgment
via the same schematic but
A knows x, B knows x,
A knows that B knows x,
A knows that B knows that A knows x,
   which is all very Aristotelian to be frank,
it's this hyperlogic of having to acquire
great technological feats and reduce such
complexities to cat-videos on the internet as
the Egyptian partake in the genius that actually
made it possible... the slogan goes
Moses, you fool! said Nefertiti...
    so B knows x and knows that A knows x
and knows that A knows that B knows x
and B knows it's not necessarily anywhere
alphabetically less, even though the French said
a, b, c... which was very imperial of them,
that's the imperial version of what the mathematical
imperialism proved with the English inches, miles
and furlongs... but in this French case of imperialism
it wasn't a e i o u, b c d f g h j...
            that's what 30 hours awake does to you,
you wouldn't think of alcohol as a party drink,
a social barrier deconstruct... after 30 hours
you're hoping to meet Vladimir Klitschko on your
way to bed... aye pleasing Cossack, give us a
smacker goodnight... one glove it filled with
whiskey, the other with naproxen and amitriptyline...
boom! k.o. snooze, baby:
you gotta love buddhist honesty...
at least you get to see the bright side of life...
  and if people start thinking that Kant was the harbinger
of ill fate... you obviously haven't met a necromancer...
it was only von Kleist for ****'s sake!
       and he had the American option of a suicide
pact with a terminally ill woman and a bullet from
a pistol in a ditch... you can't get more romantic than that...
and there i was, mid-afternoon, having done a few of
the household chores: the washing, the ironing and
cooking a two-course meal while my mother did
the taxes (seems only mothers understand their sons
these days... women my age?
   ever see David Attenborough describe Emperor
penguins? money was invented for women,
because it brokered the end of the brotherhood of man,
we became famished by feminine needs
and have reduced inherent sports in us (hunting)
to sledgehammer bashing entertainment...
i'm the "drunk" that would rather watch ten hours
worth of ping-pong that tennis...
    i don't know why they resurrect the Olympics
every four years, have a **** coverage of it anyway
and then go back to that Glaswegian diet
of deep-fried pizza and haggis... and i hope to never know,
maybe Sepp Blatter knows...
but that's 30 hours of being awake, and only not
able to relax, by writing...
                 you wouldn't see this sort of "abuse" of
alcohol anywhere in the world...
the Soviet sleep experiment is actually not that silly...
too much sleep can also make you feel the minutes
upon your wake as if you've been stung by a bee...
three of my all time favourite songs?
the stone roses'* i wanna be adored,
    chromatics' cherry,
and finally: i can be forgiven for having missed this,
i got into them seriously with the album aufheben
and didn't really move anywhere else,
the dandy warhol effect got me...
but this song out of obscurity, 20th century technology
translated into mp3 and then onto c.d. and then
back into mp3... a song from an album that doesn't
even appear on their discography...
the brian jonestown massacre's pol ***'s pleasure penthouse,
the song in question? fingertips.
so there's that three...
      but **** on me, i half expected android (2015)
to be like ex_machina (whatever year that was)...
same topic... what the difference between android
cyborg and robot?
                                  aren't robots the proper a.i.?
as in: in production, the thing that's not hand-crafted
is artificially crafted, because it is crafted to a large yield
of a product? isn't that so? i can't distinguish (as of yet)
the difference between android and cyborg, i guess
as a Latin man (a - z user) i have to condescend the Grecian
pompousness of demeaning Hebrews (original anti-semitism
originated in Greece, not Rome, the Romans gave
the Jews not elaborate architectural schemes to abide by
in honour of Octavian, but the supposed pride in Greek
thought, undermined what later science would provide
a Latin man with, given the translation of יחֵוָחֵ,
indeed variables... i once wrote a piece about
the two Adams... namely how אָ (alef)
and עַ (ayin) are prominent letters among consonants,
but no vowel kindred of Eve is equal...
or how Eve is covered in both mainstream Islam
and orthodox Judaism... and Christianity is
a Rastafarian dream for more jerky reggae reggae...
they never sing down with Rome, judgement upon
Rome... they always sing about Babylon...
well, polytheistic or poly-schismatic,
it's all Hindu from hereon in - apart from that
here's a very tiny heresy... is that yod he vav he
or is it yod he vav het?
         there is a difference, afterall:
he (ה)        and het (חֵ) obviously differ... oh!
xet!                   god this garden is a mess,
               i guess the fruit of knowing good from evil
was intended to say: till the land, deforest,
learn agriculture... that's good, the **** you do to each
other... well: that's hardly a tonne of grain...
but they so alike though, even when you apply a noun
to these two symbols!
  could have said he xet but instead it's known as he het:
no wonder the Hittites came along for a curious look...
mind you, had not a prominent Roman, a centurion,
asked for help... we'd be prudish in runic from the northern
invaders... so thankfully no one within the Roman confines
of encoding sounds didn't have the bright spark idea
of looking at the very tiny little island of Israel and that
four lettered word and how it became known
to say o = omicron, ε = epsilon and γ = gamma,
   and cutting those things apart leaving only letter
having done plastic surgery on the noun that denotes the
letter that's denoted by the symbol, rearranged it
and got the idea of εγo: ****** marvellous!
- this is not brian pallenberg's story about the pleasure
penthouse album...
but you know what really got me in those 30 hours:
day, night, day, night: a NHLF debate between
naomi wolf, karen straughan & antigone darling,
the part where karen makes the point that
once upon a time men who beat their wives
in Scotland were publicly whipped (dhaal,
straugan), and if they were beaten-up instead by
their wives, a plebiscite of good-wishers would turn up
at the house and apply the Freudian theory of
a castration to the man, bang pots and pans,
and then in public display him having to ride on a
donkey backwards, having to hold the donkey's tail
for stability...
     see that woman in red in that debate? a true political
man-eating beast of ***** readied in atom bomb
explosions... the one next to her isn't wearing any tights...
unconsciously you're thinking: i like her french freestyle
of not having shaved her legs... the smart one is wearing
jeans and she looks oh so desperate to get out...
    the discussion doesn't even enter the realm of ideas...
hen-picking is discussed... all poetry ascribed to language
is gone... is it politically correct to ascribe the sexuality
of female chickens with the word hen to women?
behind me in Blackpool stag-dos (dos? no does...
there isn't even a ******* spelling for that phrase...
hen-nights and the inflatable Juan)...
well obviously your mind is working out why you'd
**** the middle 'un right away... she doesn't say divorcee
which is so "unsexy" but say she's a mum twice,
a mum, a single mum... polly wants a *******...
her address is new york city? ******! i'm heading there,
right now! can a white guy use urban colloquial
in the suburbs on a piece of pixel paper, which he claims
is mere the cartesian extension of his thought
and disinterest in rhetorical skills? i hope so...
it's not like herr adolf wrote a disclaimer saying:
read this or a thousand volts up your ****!
that really was a constipated debate, plus the red was all
provocateur and peppered with "you know",
   and "i know absolutely nothing": there were no ideas
in the debate! whenever there was a chance to debate
ideas, the debate turned into a debated about words,
and what words to use: to simply brush aside any clinching
to a idea-debate... perhaps because feminism is
an ideology without any coherency of ideas, as stated
from the debate: a coherency of wording: and that better
be hen = an asexual chicken, rooster = an asexual chicken...
it's still a chicken kiev at the end of the day.
now? i might squeeze in another poem...
     but it would still be great to get any kind of analysis
comparing the movie android and ex_machina...
the only problem would be: both creators are men...
so that's gender-stereotyping already...
but hell! she gets to build a buggie that she directs with
a laser pen... so that's nice...
but i'd love a discussion on these two films,
given that the music in both films is very oomph!
thriller genre always had better music than horror...
horror music is too romantic... thriller music?
***** back-stabbing you whenever you think you're
going to get a comfortable 10 minute slot...
but it's there... aside from both robotic creators being male...
woman: ex_machina - out of the machinery of man
          ergo? deus, or woman as...
i actually have a problem with the word android...
the woman is a factor of playing the two men against
each other... the android actually find a mechanical
part of himself in the way the "human" talks to the woman,
while the "android" is prejudiced against the rigidity
of his ****** movement: unlike the "human" having
an intellectual rigidity... the woman plays the two against
each other... well, 30 hours no sleep...
  i'm doing the helter-skelter trying to throw ideas
by way of remembering the actual plot of the film...
this obviously adds nothing to the discussion:
meaning i probably gave away a "spoiler" -
but more the point, i need a refill and some fresh air
to breath, having farted into a leather chair for the past
hour.

Using the 1% of those who got out of
the violent act of poverty
at the expense of billionaires
and taxpayer payed subsidies

Yes, they use the most pretentious
of our few escapees
they become a mouthpiece
to deny the facts researched
by actual experts

Truth is
what is powerful

There's no escape
from the ruler's messages
There's no escape from miseducation

The age of letting time take its
own, slow course is gone, perhaps
For every hour is rush hour,
Every meal is a quick-bite,
That cup of coffee always instant,
Honking even before the signal goes
from yellow to green, the rule

The age of savouring the moment
to its delicious limit is gone, perhaps
For every flaw is now a breaking point,
Every argument cause for a split-up
Every mismatch provocateur of second thoughts

In the age of waiting being obsolete,
Patience becoming a virtue redundant,
The plain, small joys of life becoming insignificant,
The material replacing the abstract,
The direction of the swipe on a touchscreen
Becoming the decider of the fate of love stories,
I'll never find you, perhaps,
If this world continues to function
Like a real-life dating app

friends or frenemies (feminist safety instruction card)

a coastal flight, boredom has me riffle through the various
offerings in the seat pocket, and on the safety instruction card
come across this...
<•>

she’s blunt, direct, proffers me an either/or choice,
game on either way, pick door A or B, up to me,
she’s no lady, but a hipster shooter using semi-automatics,
three lines of verse, rat-a-tat-tat, your guts spilling,
hoho you’re dead or kicked in the *****, at the minimum

if only she knew what she was up against

I got words for which there ain't no antidote,
can whip her into a lovers frenzy with cooing metaphors,
slap her with stingers so that she’ll retreat hasty to another site

friends or frenemies, how juvenile, how sweet, how absolutely
childish girl, no interest, play in my arena, I have studied with
the masters and lionesses and offer you no terms but this:

be my lover

extend your reach, speak slow and soft, open and willing,
my sonnets demand close attention, slowing and holding,
building links into chains that make boundaries into a single
tie that binds, not for now and not for later but for the only measure that poets alone command: forever

concede and give up that conceit that tough is a defense,
lose everything for rewards you have yet to witness, conceive,
in my circle is in my circle where the intuitive rules and gasps of shocking come so frequent, they are normal breathing

be my lover

knowing that we will never meet never see the inside of
the furnace that can be dreamed-created with tonguing verbs,
adjectives that dance intertwining pas de deux,
oh my femme fatale, my agent provocateur,
let us learn together how,  to teach each other
come,
will be the only action word ever required

come
come write me
come together
come close my eyes
come open them wider
come free me to be a one two

anger is false brevity - loving is the languid forever languishing flames of golden burning orange caramel, word chips of
liquidity that verses, penned passioned calculations,
see how takes many stalks needy to  birth bound into a
single sheaf, count the wips of smoky wispy slivers,
combine and separate, the calculus of recombinant,
offering a unique poem with a momentary invitation,
an equation of equality and there is no diverse different


<•>

the first class steward sh/wakes the dozing body
with an apology;
“landing soon, would you like some breakfast before we land?”

the sleepy soul replies,
come to me with water,
just water...for my dream

Passion fruit. Banana *****, papaya dreams so nice and juicy.
Papa's up. The game is down, these other kings just ain't around.
Bang, Bang, Who's Up?! Bang, Bang, Who's Down?!
These other authors they hit the ground.

I don't mean to fright, I don't mean to leave
I just got this thing that drives me.
I don't need to fight, but it feels, so, soo, good.
But all the po' lease think that it's my neighborhood.

Ooh girl I like ya'
C'mon over I like ya'
Ooh girl I like ya'
C'mon over I'll bite ya'

I know you's a freak, so bring a friend
I got rubber sheets, so I can break you in
Some other girls, think go around
But the truth is I just go downtown
The Rick Owens Store is like my homepage
If you ain't Facebook than you ain't gettin' laid
Obscur is fresh, Henrik's a boss, but I have to say
Trentemoeller really Lost. I liked Last Resort, even
Harbour Trips, but lately he's been on some ****** up ****.

My parents want me to go get a Jay Oh Bee
But I'm too busy, sleeping.
My baby's face is porcelain, but I can't afford it
So I said it looked aluminum.

Dem people not, be steppin' on my toes
Cause' I'll show up reppin' Sheridan Rd. with my Colt '44.

Ooh girl I like ya
C'mon over ya ripe now
Ooh girl I like ya
C'mon over I'll bite ya

Your black garters' hot, so is yo' lace bikini
When it comes to lingerie, I play it like Houdini
Whether it's Agent Provocateur or Victoria's Secret
I hold my *** until I can put it in your ****.

Relationship is such a ***** word
But when it comes to ***** I like 4-letter verbs
You can bring..um..whatever you want
But if you gotta ****. **** *****. I'm out.

You hide
In peaceful places
Bringing unrest
That is fabricated
Trying to mutilate
The movement
From AIM
To King
You disrupted Civil Rights
COINTELPRO
Now you’re back
In Oakland
Waving your gun
Hiding in plainclothes

“I had a plan for you, my dear;” her whisper ruthlessly pounded at Matvei's overwhelmed senses. His entire environment shifted and trailed off; his vision useless, a muddy smokescreen of shapes and colors bleeding into and breathing out of one another.

“A glorious plan, indeed,” she continued, her whisper becoming the hiss of a rattle snake, then slowly shifting pitch, going through every mode, until it was in perfect tune with the deep resounding purr of a well pleased kitten. Which, as fate would have it, was exactly the creature that had taken a seat in front of Matvei's double. The double, still suspended in mid-air, continued wrestling with his chains and screaming madly at the swirling pool of blood at his feet; the vision of the dogs violence still dominating his feeble mind.

Being so occupied, Matvei's double took no notice of the small black kitten as it lapped at the blood between its long and bassy purrs.

“You're without that precious body of yours these days, Sweet Matvei!” The woman explained.

“Or, maybe you've yet to notice that as well? You thick headed pig!”

Stolovsky's vision returned; he was back inside his body. He was the double.

“How's that, dear? Better?” the blood stained kitten at the edge of the swirling pool purred sweetly.

Stolovsky didn't respond and turned his gaze upward. He saw her for the first time; she was beautiful, ungodly so.

“Clean your head up, you animal! How dare you think of me that way!” she laughed.

Her voice returned to what one would expect from such a beautiful creature; the sweet vibrations of a woman, flirtatious and soothing to the ear of any man.

“I'm flattered, really, but we hardly know each other. At least, you hardly know me. Though, sometimes it is best that way, I admit!” she mused, finishing the thought.

“But, on to business then, shall we?”

“I don't suppose I have a choice, do I?” the words escaped Stolovsky's lips as though they were not set free by choice, but of necessity, by reflex alone.

“No. By the looks of it, you really don't, do you?” the spirit retorted.

“Who are you!?” Stolovsky screamed, unsure if he wanted an answer.

“I wouldn't raise my voice to her if I were you, dearie.” purred the kitten, as if it were attempting to instigate some sort of violent reaction from the spirit.

Those kittens, one must always be wary of a blood stained kitten! It is a thing to avoid, afterlife or otherwise. Be that as it may, the kitten's attempt at being the provocateur seemed to have quite the opposite effect.

“My name is not important.” she sang, her voice continuing to astound Matvei's senses, the sweetest evil you'd ever want to hear.

“You can call me Jehovah if you'd like!” she laughed as she spoke.

“Right now, you are my child, my sovereign property. I can do with you whatever I wish!” she paused for a moment, to allow Stolovsky the opportunity to recognize the gravity of the situation.

He did not.

She continued on, her voice shifting again,

“And let me tell you, boy, you've been a great disappointment! Did you know that?”

The rumbling of her tone, the changes in her pitch, were beginning to drive Matvei mad; he'd never heard anything like it! It was absolutely nauseating.

He attempted to gather himself; this was all so confusing. After all, wasn't he dead? Should he fear this, this, whatever it was? He controlled his anxiety enough to ask,

“What are you?”

“She's your new master, Matvei! And a wonderful master, indeed. You are very fortunate!” chirped the blood stained kitten.

“I believe he was asking me, X. Away with you, you ***** kitten!” Immediately, X vanished into thin air. Stolovsky stared downward, mesmerized, as his double was, by the pool of blood swirling beneath him.

“Am I dead?” he asked the goddess.

“You don't even know what that means, you idiot! Besides, you'll be worse off than whatever you think you are now if you keep asking silly questions. Now shut up and listen to me!” she replied.

“There is someone I'd like you to meet.”

As she said this, it appeared to Stolovsky as though the layer of existence that he had, until this very moment, believed himself to be in full occupation of, swelled outward at an amazing speed. It was as if he'd become as tiny as a quark and yet, he continued to become tinier still. He could see nothing recognizable; the sheer brilliance of giant photons zapping through space was enough to blind him. Even as he noticed this, they became infinitely larger, like suns themselves.

Stolovsky felt as though he were falling through it all, becoming smaller and smaller; or, was everything else growing larger and larger? He struggled to reposition his body. The intense pressure of the experience was becoming unbearable.

He could feel his rib cage sinking, his heart struggling, his lungs collapsing as he desperately clung to whatever consciousness this was that he was currently experiencing. X, the blood stained kitten, appeared to him just as she had been moments before.

“It feels strange doesn't it?” she asked.

“What is happening to me?” Stolovsky replied, struggling with the words.

“You're dying the Second Death. Don't worry, it'll only take a minute.”

Before the kitten could finish the sentence, Stolovsky's eyeballs popped, hurling frozen droplets of organic material in all directions.

The frozen droplets would continue to fly on for many years, some straight through into eternity. A few would be so fortunate as to crash into other, much larger, groups of particles and give rise to some very interesting lifeforms. Who, as fate would have it, would go on to destroy one another, along with one-third of their known universe, trillions of smaller universes, and something that may amount to a shoelace being vaporized in my level of existence, in a great war a few hundred billion years later. But alas, a story for another time.

“Oh, wow. That was much quicker than expected, Old Boy!” purred the kitten, pleased at this unforeseen turn of events. "Dr. Orville will be so pleased to learn of our improvement! I must tell the Master straight away!"

And once again, that silly blood stained kitten disappeared. Things were about to get very interesting for Mr. Stolovsky. The Third Life awaits.

Ivy has style
Ivy puts on dresses and heels
Ivy reads books
Ivy talks about books
Ivy lies to her father
Ivy eats at expensive restaurants and pays with her mother’s card
Ivy is beautiful and wild
Ivy is strange and vicious
Ivy drinks more than she should
Ivy eats less than necessary
Ivy has a bottle of ***** and a coke in her car
Ivy has a parking ticket on the windshield
Ivy busily rolls a joint and goes outside
Ivy sits on a cold curb and smokes elegantly
What else can I say about Ivy?
Ivy has a beautiful, slim handwriting
Once Ivy kissed as if she was eating soup
Ivy is poisonous or so she thinks
Ivy is impressed by "stupid" crazy stories, such as "Naked Lunch"
Sometimes Ivy dances to Britney Spears
Ivy likes "Love" by Gaspar Noé
Ivy likes to re-enact classical paintings: Venus, Ophelia,…
Ivy buys matching underwear from Agent Provocateur
Kisses make Ivy’s back, neck, and face blush
Not a solid fill-in red, but marble blotches
Ivy has piercings on her ******* and down there
Ivy has scars from a razor blade: a triangle on her chest and "Anathema" on her hip
Ivy has a streak of tragedy in her
I like Ivy

You were just like any other girl
Such a strange way to meet you
Saw you at a concert, Dimmu Borgir
My heart leaped, like I knew you
Nearly screamed "hi"
Oh wait, I don't know you

or do I?

Slowly start the rumors
There's a new girl in the scene
She's got puffy hair and a doll face
Loves Finnish people
Never seen Turks in the metal scene
I uncovered all the intriques for you
All the lies and stories
I'll cover for you girl

And did we ever cover for each other
Team
-Third degree concussion
"It was just bad luck"
Stayed by your bed for three days
-Mum kicked me out
Stayed with you for a week
-must've drank too much
The earth is turning
Must've smoked too much
The earth is turning
The scent of Agent Provocateur
By my side
-"you can't give me a fine!
I have diplomatic immunity!"

And nobody quite understood
Your OCD like I did
Spent hours, days, weeks, months, years
Tryingto fix you
Your crazy never held me back
unconditionally
4 years later, you're a normal girl
Two weeks apart, all undone

Two weeks apart
And I'm a hotmess
The lights went out
The world went dark
The fire went out
Dynamic Duo undone
You're a hotmess
Tears shed over air waves
Your voice through Skype

"It's a strange relationship"
Said your psychologist
"I've never seen two friends
So in tune with each other"
I have my heart full
Of fond memories
We lived a lifetime in 4 years
And we made it all count

You've been gone for years
We grew up
My heart's still full
And as I tell myself
It's all gone
I nearly hear you squeaky voice
As I read the text

*Last night I got drunk and watched all our videos. Happy birthday. I love you

sensual subtlety or the subtlety of sensuality
(HOW does size matter?)

<•>

as always the title comes first,
embalming the mind so it may voyage onto unwritten waters,
over boundaries so the provocateur provoked may safely return,
avoiding evoking anti-frieze cannonade fire

some can disable with swinging fist,
a chopping arm on an exposed neck,
a swift kick to the semi-privates

but I can do same, inflicting immobilization
with a single solitary itty bitty
pinky figuring finger

no random boast, no hoax, not chest beating,
just a fact ma’am, nothing but the facts

the sensual subtlety of the delicate
is overpowering and irresistible
making grownups revert
into laughing crying out loud babies

the subtlety of sensuality pink’d exploding exploration,
the intoxicating tiny tingling subtle and without equal,
kingdoms have fallen, paintings and poems, art all kinds,
instigated and in eye sockets permanently inserted,
history redirected

know I will no be telling details,
the whose and where,
the why and surely not the
how, not here anyway

so when you tell me in raw fashion
size matters most definitely
in the matters of the heart
or the physicality

whole heartedly agree
waving my littlest pinky finger
watching you wavering
until you’ve learned the lesson
it’s the how

not the how big

Secret agent.
Agent provocateur.
She's got herself a boyfriend now.
A human sacrifice to free.
Taken yet another lover.

Life chucked her on a rolling ball.
A downhill rat,she's running.
Cunning hits and crazy fits.
My God, that girl is stunning.

Thought she had it all and more.
Said cornflowers just ain't like like that, twiddling on the Bachelors Buttons.

Life chucked her on a rolling ball.
A down hill rat,she's running.
Cunning hits and crazy fits.
My God, that girl is stunning.

She makes no broken promises.
Stormy seas are for riding,
Forbidden to be free.
You who were perfection.
Crazy notion, love devotion.
Riding on a carousel.
For she's the lady Moriarty.
She's willing for the ****.
(c) Livvi

it was once called being intelligent... now everyone's in on the vogue of: autistic... what the ****?!

it's a maine **** that's nearing 10kg...
i pass this rooftop "mongrel"
    in the street today, and i'm like:
you torso is smaller than my cat's head,
sorry, i agree, both of you are
ginger ninjas... but come on...
                       my cat is fox sized goo
that needs pampering...
so the ****** "creeps" into my room...
i mean creeps by: he leans against
the ****** door and it just opens... basic
physics...
                 and he's inquisitive...
you sure? i'm sure. you sure sure? i'm sure
sure.
          cats can fool me any given minute,
i'm too benevolent with them...
so he's like: hmm, he's perched on a windowill,
maybe i should perch on the windowsill too...
then he plays this *taxi driver game with me,
looking into a glass window...
  and you know what "they" say about
glass windows in the night...
   they turn into mirrors...
              so he takes to his reflection and is like:
yo' talking to me? ***?!
               it's a bit like snap-chat,
cats have this nervous insect "twitch" about them...
they have the neurosis of sudden movements...
   and he's all: you talkin' to m'ah *******?!
    he tricks me when i want to spend some time with him
by closing the door he pushed open...
           and his eyes gaze at the "void"
of me closing the door...
              ****** had ants in his ****... couldn't sit it
out with me... the moment i revise my original
intention of closing the door, to then opening it...
with the window open: he's off!
   out the window!
               but the sheer insinuation tactic of
a cat's gaze... that gets you to places you've never
been before... the ****** opened my bedroom door to
play me... and he played me...
          i was duped by a cat...
   10kg pressing against a door? it will get it opened
no matter what obstructions are in place...
           i get it... it's april and it's getting warmer and
you want to sniff a bunch of trees and flowers in
bloom... for some reason i had a moment this afternoon
where i had a scent of cauliflower...
                             maybe mozart and the clouds...
    oh god, fame is ****... mickiewicz? byron?!
  overrated...
                    the whole idea of original sin
and plagiarism being the sin?            thank ****
no one really bothers milton!
      but get to the point where a cat fools you
to try to salvage the remains of the evening wondering
in the garden: for that extra hour...
         catch a frog?
                  maybe... you're into gambling... so am i.
the ****** made a stealth pearl harbor move from
the windowsill out the window when he insinuated
with his gaze at me having closed the door to then:
open it again...
                              and then the dash!
              off he went...
                                  for some reason i have no
capability to compliment myself in terms of i.q.,
but whatever i.q. score i might have attained:
this cat just undermined me to the point where
my i.q. score is 0.
             is it really paedophilia that i might say:
o'keefe music foundation's kids' cover of
tool's 46 & 2 is better than the original?
                      it's how it opens up...
the bass guitar... it sets the rhythm... metallica has
nothing of this sort of intro... a bit like eric
clapton live... let's say he doesn't solo during
the song *******... but he solos into the song /
rhythm... he does his virtuoso moment and
then gets serious respecting other instruments
and does the "mundane" of the rhythm and signature
of the song...
                     i required the p-word to release myself
for the instilling of the word: provocateur...
        america: the n-word          and now the p-word...
what's the m-word? mammoth? monthly?
                                           membrane? moth?!
why is american culture so... ******* infantile?
maybe i'm delusional, but it's like: wanna doughnut?
              yeah! and postcard from saturn too!
**** this cat... i close the door and he's uneasy...
i read his eyes and say: ok ok, i'll open it again...
   and with the window open,
he jumps off the windowsill into the night garden.
        oh here come the bets:
- i bet you my friday night will be more entertaining
  in d'ah clubs on brick lane!
- i'm pretty sure it will be... i've been laughing for
the past half an hour, so how does that even compare,
or even matter?

Throughout the muddle of to and fro
Our borrowed time, our come and go

Our constant search for the quicker way
Never owning the chance to seize the day

Only at life’s halt, do we then discover
The purpose of the quiet hour

Time to shop, no time to stay
Time to entertain, no time to pray

Of doors to lock and belts to buckle
Of errands to run, and babies to suckle

No time to smell the roses scent
Time quickly lost, time idly spent

Forgotten I love you’s, a broken vow
Speeding up won’t solve it now…

In constant motion, on the go
We say goodbye, before hello

Addiction to speed, such a real provocateur
Not worth being ill, or the Doctors bill later

Yet there is time to figure this out
To really know what life’s about

For life is sweeter when you know
What it means to honour slow

There are opportunities, from time to time, to see and meet influential people here at Yale - leaders in their fields. I write a little, so I started going to see the writers when they did readings and interviews. The writers I’ve seen so far are Ada Limón, Vijay Seshadri, Terrance Hayes, Alison Bechdel, Roxanne Gaye, Sheila Heady, Natasha Trethewey, Dasha Nekrasova and more.

Before I kick this rat's nest let me say that I’m not an English Literature major. I haven’t done “close readings” of these authors' works or performed any literary analysis. What follows are just my opinions or what I’ve overheard (and much of that I disagree with).

After the readings and greetings, I hang back in the crowd to hear reactions. Many of the Yale students attending these events want to seem intellectual and subversive - at the same time, they don’t want to be polarizing or say things that their peers will disagree with. I’m appalled at how little credit is given to writers for their earlier, groundbreaking work.

Some crowd reactions included: Roxanne Gaye “is so 2016,” Ada Limón’s presentation seemed “sanitized and censored.” Jia Tolentino, “no longer staking out controversial spaces.” Much of the criticism was that these authors were freer, as nobodies in their basements, to rage against the system but they’ve since been corrupted, tamed and rendered vapid, as it were, by the financial ties of fame.

At a reading by Terrance Hayes, he discussed the criticism that the “classics” represent the “white cannon” and don’t include alternative perspectives. Terrance Hayes argued that the “classics” are such because they present universal truths and that, like science, you don’t have to erase things to include new things.

I’ll cut to the chase - here are the three authors whose events impressed me the most:

Sheila Heady
Sheila Heady did a talk on her creative process. Which normally I’m pretty skeptical of because I’ve seen some vague, wishy-washy answers - but Sheila shared it all. She had spreadsheets detailing the time she spent writing, graphs on time spent researching, and even pictures of her desktop arrangement (which says a lot about someone). She was so open and vulnerable - almost indifferent to judgment - it was refreshing, honest and endearing.

Some days she would write for 2 minutes and on others for 10 hours. I think it showed that the creative process can be messy and we’re not failures if we don’t set out writing time every day.

Natasha Trethewey
I have a complicated response when listening to people read aloud about terrible things that happened to them - I question their motives, purposes and intentions. Natasha Trethewey however, used it as background for a discussion of her relationship to poetry and writing. It was beautiful to be in that room, it was inspiring rather than being provocative.

Dasha Nekrasova
On the flipside I absolutely loved Dasha Nekrasova who’s all about being a provocateur. Her event was chaotic and crazy. It was a Yale Political Union (YPU) event, and I don’t know what those people are on, but there was yelling, objections, people getting up, she was skipping around the stage. At first, I didn’t realize it was a debate because it had a freeform look and I came in a minute late, from chemistry class - but I liked her a lot in the debate format. I plan to attend more YPU events in the future.

I am the mountain man.
I am the shifting sands.
I am the laughter through gritted teeth,
I am the squint of concentration,
I am the missing piece and the stone that won't roll.
I am the Zeit Ghost.
I am the Underwerewolf.
I am the Pseudonami.
I am not what you say I am, until I say: "I Am."
I am the Red Sun Samurai.
I am the Locomotive Provocateur.
I am the bones of kings and slaves.
I am the breath of the wind in the trees.
I am the Electrocuted Interlocutor.
I am the whip of the matador.
I am sunken cities in the swamp.

I am Firestarter.
         Spark Guarder.
I am the assembly line whereby the machine reproduces.
I am capitulated capitalism.
I am the captain of the sky ship to
                                                        Ghost Country.

I am a natural amphetamine
         a synthetic homeopathic
         a cure for the sad
            curation for the lost
            death for the solid and unchanging.

I am the mask of roots.
I am a treehouse full of books.
I am the sword in the daytime.
I am the Day Waker, the Cloud Shaker
the Continent Unmaker, the Deep Laker
the childhood of broken dreams and unbreakable boulders.

Half-slumbering in your living room.
One eye on your joy, the other searching
for answers to the unanswerable question of:

where did it go?

Fully alive, pacing the gravestones
kisses to flowers in the new moon
and a pocketful of reality checks.

Helping you let go of everything
                                        Holding you back.

Hoping you'll hold onto me.

Sandbox constructs, talk to me.
Play to me.
Dancing straw, pull on the wind,
give color and shape, give name.
I will be straw too one time, then many times,
and will dance with the straw in the wind.
These are joyful times, all alone, no interference. No you.

Mouse you sneaks in the sandbox,
chews on my straw and nests in my sand.
In possession of some key.

(I want to ask about the key, but I can’t.
I am supposed to be made of straw.)

Perturbed, I chase you out.
My world of sand and straw is too fragile for your beating heart.
It will fall apart, will be rubbed raw and threadbare.
But you sneak in again,
and look at me as if I am not straw,
and the ground as if it is not sand
but solid earth, rich and full.

Clearing the board I start over.
Drive you out
and begin to map out the pattern of this cloth.
Time begins to unspool, following its slow track.
Joyful in this beginning, this gradual awakening.
Patience.
Humility.

I never know when (or if) you’re going to appear.
So often the game plays out without a hitch,
or you appear so late that it makes no difference.
But I hear your heartbeat now: the rapid thudding,
and know you are here.
A mouse nuzzling through the straw,
invading the gentle morning of this world
when all may be ruined, all may be averted.

Bold, undisguised you,
and I, perfect shaft of damp straw;
it does not fool you.
Discovered at the worst moment,
tender and caught.
You, unruffled by the wind, realizing the position you’re in.
Realizing the position I’m in:
holding all the keys but unprepared to use them.

You have your own plans and ideas.
You dance around me,
playing provocateur, trying to make me
show my hand, my key.
I pretend I don’t know what you’re up to.
I hope you lose interest and give up.
Hope a chance wind sweeps you up,
like a great swell from the sea,
and I never see you again.
Hope you suddenly doubt yourself, blinking,
finally convinced by my damp posing,
my mute bafflement and loyalty to the wind
and wonder, isn’t this straw?

Dare I play your game?
Dare I nod to your tune?

I use one of my keys.
Walk through a door that shouldn’t open,
you at my heels, all eager to see backstage,
to see the actor who plays me.

You already know what you have known since you saw my face.
The same face you have seen dancing in and out
of pale replicas of borrowed worlds.

And finally I let you hear from my lips
what you have suspected the whole time.
That I am not the straw or the sand or even the wind.
That I know you aren’t either.
That I know that you know.
That yes, it was a character and it was a role.
That it was a game I play, usually alone.

“It was just for light fun and idle amusement,” I say.
“Nothing was at stake.
So why the sabotage?”

Then, in spite of our twin hearts,
I see how different you are from me.
What calms me enrages you.
What worries me soothes you.
What I call “light fun and idle amusement”
you call “life and death.”
“Everything was at stake,” you say.
You say, “this world is full, full to the brim. People just like you.”

Fool.
Don’t you realize where you are?
Look around, it is a world of sand and straw
blowing in the wind.

Demagogue
Oligarchic
Nonsensical
Authoritarian
Lunatic
Despotic  


Treacherous
Racist
Uneducated
Misogynistic
Provocateur