This week I will pull off the impossible
I will write the greatest cases ever written
I will pull up my GPA
turn in the greatest transcendentalism essay you'll ever read
finish my APUSH
pull off wonders in AP Chem.
Ah, the life of a student
in a highly competetive, tightly-knit arena
going for the win.

Little things like drama
and social tension
just seem to fade away when you reach out
higher, harder, faster
Research, speed drills, caffeine
Lose weight, forget to eat
Gain weight, forget to sleep
But I feel fantastic.
No more emo *******
finally, after too long, I am *passionate.

I've been thinking that I'm kind of awesome lately
You know, in those quantifiable ways
The ones that don't really matter?

I've been kind of kicking *** at life
And I haven't really done that before.
It's an interesting sensation.

Apparently I can only write well when I fail, though
So that's kind of a shame.
Maybe once this high rides out
Maybe once my days aren't full
Maybe once you aren't amazing
I'll be able to do that again.

I don't really know what I am or what I want
I just know that I'm kind of proud of myself
And I don't know what to do about that.

confirmation that Joe is and has been born.  confirmation of the received body.  confirmation of a previous perception we held of the few actively trying to be prophetic.  confirmation the killed have consented to patience and will furthermore die.  confirmation of past with asterisk pending.  future confirmation that in adopting the plainspoken one will reiterate qualifiers designating poverty as a chosen residence.  have visual on verbal capital.  have verbal on holocaust.

i usually write a signature into a sudoku... namely? the last two slots remain validly filled by the greek letters: γ (gamma) & χ (tchaikovsky)... you can't imagine why i have to do this, but the aesthetic of sudoku presupposes that: well, to be honest, these puzzles look mightily ugly when not immersed in some sort of idiosyncratic culmination: after all... venus est in spectator oculus... take me to a football match? i won't chant, i won't shout, i won't choose sides... i'll be sitting silent... completely mesmerißed!

i.

i never look for "inspiration" with regards
to verse: and certainly not
poetic orthodoxy of minding technique:
but that magic of emotional
confiscation from both hate
  and attachment (akin to love) -
turned into a labour - that's both a labour
of love & of hate -
  hate refined: an uttering not up to
my standard of "perfection".

ii.

is there such a thing as the idea behind
emotional "i.q."?
   i know, it too think it's absurd...
       but it becomes less and less absurd
as i unravel the idea...
               oh i starting to get a tickling
at the tips of my fingers...
    and an itch on my tongue...
            i'm not interested whether
intelligence can be quantified...
         that's a bit boring...
        i'd rather spend the next considering
whether i can count from nought
to a century, and not lose count (d'uh:
loozzz... ******* left out the ß distinction:
    scharf s... s)
     but i think there are emotional
qualifiers for what is otherwise a brain-dead
scale of investigation...
             we know it: the idiots' safety
in numbers!
                       does it require investigation?
every time i ever did an i.q. test
i turned out a complete idiot...
   but every time i do a sudoku...
          well: turns out i'm a pretty inventive
*******...
            so... from what abstract coordinate
point of (0, 0, 0) are we talking about
the genesis of quantifying intelligence?
doesn't emtion come in play?
    well... i can't do crosswords:
obviously, my mind is focused on a different
type of "crossword" - once such as this.
i swear... there is claim to the myth
   of attributing as much idea behind *i.q.
                        to the brain (fatty sponge)
as there is to the heart...
                         why wouldn't there be?
but the heart doesn't speak about numbers
as solidifiers of intelligence,
by number alone...
  it speaks about words, as solidifiers of
intelligence, but the standard of emotional
connectivity of a haiku...
         personally? i think that western
writing standard should abolish entertaining
the notion of being able to write
haiku...
           god they're terrible...
    pretty much all of them...
we're ramblers!
                   we're not the ones sitting by a lake,
asking for a single drop of rain to
fall, and illuminate the stillness of this
watery grave, rather than the tap-dancing
deluge of torrential storm... just one drop of
rain... otherwise?
            well **** me: i start ******* into the lake
and turn into a hill-side;
but isn't emotional "i.q." something akin
to being emotionally lizard-like,
i.e. thick skinned?
                      i'm sure that if you're unable
to (or at least contain)
  being offended by something talking:
you have a very fleshy wholesome, warm
concept of being emotionally intact
and non-reactionary... a bit like
    sebastian schaw (x-men, d'uh) -
    it's not what you put into me...
           it's what i get out of it to show you...
let's face it: the chinese ascribe some sort
of nobility to the rat... if it's in the zodiac...
   out comes the nobility of aquariusl.

iii.

all it takes is solving a # (sudoku) -
     to open the floodgates for words to come
and entertain my eyes
          and the schrödinger box -
with my ego turning into a cat -
                as i finally drift from the very
masculine calculation of orientating
space within time and time within space
(space-time hyphen fission into fussion) -
of coordinating my walk down a street,
minding the traffic, while drinking a beer
and having a cigarette.

Dismal has became helter skelter
most ladies in Mayfair  seem worn
they're tired, waylaid in fur
but its still a man's world then

The soothsayers grin
England lost to Poland in the qualifiers.
The aftershock of the energy crisis
sees new Sheikhs
money rolls like oil,
it buys and buys for some
even for the horses competing
at the London Riding Horse Parade.

I was uncertain of the time frame.
At least that's what I tell myself.

How many times do
you roll over in your sleep
to make what you know you've done
wrong feel like less of an obstruction.

This is the salt in
water balloons. This is the bated
goodbye.  This is the
time of death announcement.

This is home.
This is abandonment.

This is a ****** stump
This is a phantom limb.
This is a kiss.
This is nothing.
This is elsewhere.
This is giving in.
This is sinning.
This is marriage.
This is quantities.
This is qualifiers.
This is me, I am a body.


I am words.
I am impermanent.
I am blood.
I am water.
I am carbon.
I am sorry.
I am apologies.
I am motion.

I am in love and it's
as horrible as
everybody
promised.

This is waiting.
This is timing.
This is counting.
This is praying.
This is driving.
This is coughing.
This is bleeding.
This is losing.
This is loving.
This is painful.
This is kicking.
This is thrashing.
This is sleeping.
This is nyquil.
This is *****.
This is hurting.
This is waiting.
This is waiting.
This is waiting.
This is lonely.
This is loneliness.
This is swallowing.
This is learning.
This is ******* up.

Supersonic thoughts seem to speed up the passing of my life.
Just yesterday; it seems,
love and luck laid bare next to me,
like loaded dice on a Vegas summer night.

Now I cradle the ghost of unforeseen catastrophe.
Blood from bullet wounds
prove false my bravado.

Beneath the blackened circles of my weary eyes,
sleep calls to me
like a string quartet of warped wooden violins.

My wordbook’s scribblings are just a pale excuse for my silent sins. Like neglect and
blatant disrespect for the stacking of the deck against me.

There it is again. Quiet qualifiers to mask my true intent.
Heaven sent its hounds,
to drag me down; hell bound, for ignoring the silent sounds

Of tears that grace the ground before me.
An honest mistake for rain. Pain,
is like ****** for the insane, shooting through my veins.

Feeding the flowers you think you see, blooming
in the graveyards of my brain.

i ******* hate
alcohol
don't come near my friends
my family
don't create any more
qualifiers
i will destroy the bottles
shatter the glass
drink up the blood that
spills from my fists
i will not let
you take that too.

acid poison venom
the ugly disease
the one that i hate
the one that i work to
destroy.

i am ******* immune
to this fear of mine
and i am adamant
i will **** it where it
stands

Is poetry even necessary
When it's essence is captured
In a reflective meme
Embedded in a lovely landscape
Or some such visual?

Ideas in an instant.
Deep thoughts in seconds.

Am I, a wannabe poet, obsolete,
Sitting at my desk
Pouring over a page
Desiring to share a journey to my notions
Via the written word?

Is it worth the philosophical pilgrimage
Roaming through qualifiers
And climbing over attributes
To get a glimpse of the profound,
When a simple Google search can score me
That view in a wink?

To me, my friend, the literary trek
Is worth the time expended.
The sweat and required pauses
Make that final view all the more
Delightful.

Irishman volunteers to
             sleep with any of Miss
World qualifiers if they
          contract the coronavirus
because he does not for
                 a minute believe one
word from you know
                 W.H.O. and #MeToo
will be delighted that
          he does not treat infected
women like animals in
                                    quarantine.