Chapter one:

  The strange entanglement of the sun, twisted in kooky bedlam with The Great King Moon in winter.

Have you ever looked down at yr feet on the long walk home & wondered if you’re really moving forward any more or if all your really doing is just moving the ground? Don’t answer that, its a rhetorical question. Of course you have. We all have. You think you’re moving in the right direction, following the north star or the compass in your brain or maybe just your nose or your thumb and fore finger. You  believe that you’re gonna make it somewhere, you have to believe. What else is there. The truth is, you’re going nowhere, we are all going nowhere, we just spin on the slanted axis & never really go anywhere. We have been conditioned to believe that this is the way the world works but I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t, you gotta buck up, **** up or ******* ‘*** let me tell you, yr ‘dreams’ mean nothing to anybody ‘*** living, real living is not connected to REM. That’s all just more ******* you’re gonna have to put up with people trying to sell you. Lick the boot, get over the barrel & bite down on your watch strap. That’s all there is to it. The mind is a magnet. If you find yourself staring in to the abyss: Jump right in. Swan dive. Hold your breath & wait. Everything will be OK. I promise you.

I’m writing, ah writing! Writing this worthless piece of *****// manuscript of means for you. For me, for the future, for love, for lust, for hatred of all things hating, for your mother & farther, for my friends, my beautiful angelic, clinically insane friends, for time, for the soles of my shoes with hundreds of miles under their laces, for your fat greedy pockets, for the moon, for the sun to spit on, for the wind to taunt, as he does like the great cowardly, perverted invisible fiend that he is, for nothing, for not quite everything, for your aching lovers, for your broken hearts, for the worlds water, may you always be clean & run free, for the great biblical liars, for the sorrowful wonder of the great homeless & may all their wants come to be wanted, for *******, for fumbling, for the vast oaken heavy doors on bars that keep us safe from the  horrors outside, for guilt, for sugar-blue smoke, for all the kids sitting in **** stained squat houses with half a horse embedded in their face, for my schools that gave up on a bored child, for warmth & fire & woollen clothing, for Paris where I can fulfil my great dream of becoming a sullen cliché, for the gravel-mounted marching marvel, may you never lose your way, for the Parthenon, for Aubergine, for The Firefly, the swan, bleeding,for growing up, for all the music makers,all people should play all instruments to any degree(rather than just, age & shrivel), for Howl for Carl Solomon, for every down & out that ever clawed his way up the street & through the yellow door, for all the animals that gave their lives to keep me fat & red faced, for Christ sake, for the invisible man in the sky, causing all war & so much death-thank you, for the wild west, for Bert & John, for the great literary mastodon to look down his reset nose at & ask me why. Why?

The way that old dial telephones look & feel. The questions that need no answers. Feeling down, down & out, upside down & inside out,upside in & downside out on the pavement at five am. Waking up in unknown beds & crawling down drain pipes. Getting lost in a place you have lived your whole life. Being in the woods simply to be in the woods. Drinking coffee even though you hate the taste. Never telling a stranger the truth. Living under a false name. Drinking yourself to death in the dark lonely-crowded corners of ***** stained wood floor warehouse floors. Feeling solid-sterling-gold for feeling so terribly horrifically half-corpse-like the only way you can really feel is completely statuesquely angelically magnificent and the only way is down(you really have no idea how far I fell that morning) , Only going out when it rains. Only going out in the dark. Staying up all night dreaming and sleeping all day. Remembering to forget, forgetting to remember to remember to be forgetful. Understanding that you and no one else understands nothing but eat-drink-sleep-****-death. Smoking until yr tongue bleeds and yr eyes burn like that fire in the sky in the fearful month of June. Wishing you knew how to tie a noose & writing ”suicide” on yr calender on a day you have no planned engagements. Shooting to the moon & back in the bee-bop-bo-bo-batter-batter-chitter-chatter like jazz on the neon streets of the earths mother. Crawling in to a stone cold bed after walking for six days & feeling bored & lonely again in ten minutes.

That’s why, I’m glad you asked. If I’m going out, then I’m out going with some steeze in a cloud of smoke, yr wife & I’m not taking you with me.

For all these things & more is the reason I write. To write for the sake of writing. For, some people write, just to write & they are truly the the lost meaning of it all.

Automatic travel rambles to plug up the holes in yr lonesome pockets. Blues.

Chapter two:  

Creeping moss-stick under-flowering the useless but grateful Tuesday poet, Jim Gravestone Sr.

The ghost of the monorail, living only in upturned memory sits slow & smooth/low against the Sunday evening rapture. You gotta know which way is down. Down. The dew on the grass & the creamy-green residue of the night before is just too close to a real drama. Absolute dahma. Down in the cold rising damp & the stain on your shirt.

He sits , sits like you, like me & like old Tom Mooney the prison king. If you ever saw such a sad sight as he, I do believe you would roll out your tongue on the pavement right there & then & wait for the road sweeper & all his secret, early morning charms & the great wolf man, pork chop sideburns (lupine dreams)to clean you up & clean you out. I do declare!

For he knows-for he has seen. Seen the sun rise from his pearly throne up on the dark side of the moon, the very face of Bowie, right there in the eye socket. He sees all. You can live your life, & you do, & you should, but he, O’ he, he has really been there & where & back again. You carry on with your sleepy routine of mule-back coffee office doom death jobs(you sleepy Bohemian, you)  & in you spare time trying to keep your nose from filling up with water & your private parts entwined with somebody else’s most private of parts, & on the side lines of you spare time you can deal with your family & all the friends that you’re sick of but hold on to, only for the fear of being left alone in the dark with nothing but all of the above. Then again you always have your studies(STDS)all of the ologies, of course.

Sleepology, cocaineology,rainolgy, sunology, lonleyology, depressionology, suicideology, talkology,empypocketsology, meaninglessology, masterbationology, coutntingyourmoneyinpintsology,walkology, onenightstandology, jumpthetaxiology, begology, borrowology, stealology,feelology, upallnightology, sleepalldayology, Xology, ologyology, etcology etc…ology etc.

Just find something you can care for ‘*** [insert atheist god/idol] knows that nobody is going to do your caring for you, even I they do in fact care for you.

I have been beginning to notice,that I(and I may not be alone)

always look at the past through a marigold monocle.

This, meaning nothing now ever seems to be joyous or gay or splendiferous until it is a past memory.

A cobweb. A rafter. A leaf on the ground. …I guess.

         Chapter three:

I know you know it but people that you don’t know, really are a funny, funny thing…

I stand outside the rain & watch the people passing by; really the most depressing experience of my ever increasing years. Un-jolly fat men with whiskey-nose & scuffle-feet stanzas of gibberish, talking gibberish & gibberish being their inner most self. Pre-war women with Arctic-blue hair, faces melting, everything pointing down, shuffle. Kids pushing prams full of ugly babies towards a house of who-gives-a-**** & ******* & I’m-gonna-die-here and what of it. Is there really no more to life. Listen to the top 40 on the radio, clueless, oblivious. Cogs. All cogs. Military troglodytes following them back in a dead eyed daze, dreaming of killing in the real and virtual. No you may not have a cigarette. Leave me alone, please. Let me listen to my watch ticking in peace & at least pretend that you don’t exist.

The human body is comprised of several ‘substances’

including..

Mercury,

hydrogen hydroxide,

fountain pens,

the lost dates of calenders,

various small woodland animals,

including…

Voles,

rabbits & field mice.

Other such things as…

Misplaced birthmarks(of the brain)

feelings of remorse and regret,

the stolen trinkets of past lovers,

and of course,

white blood cells,

pesticides,

and the second hand

from a 1956 ’Hamilton Rail road’ pocket watch.

E.L August 7th

           Chapter four:

Last night, last night was the last night it was the night last

Picasso raincoat. Imagelessness. Bottomlessness. I lost my umbrella & my Holden Caulfield head-wear, again. I was skipping on a rain cloud, corduroy boy and scarecrow girl, reunited in a soft entanglement sticky in the senses. Hoof! The only way is up when you walk down these stairs, snakes and blisters, but you’ll sweat it all out in babble cream conversation and love in your eyes. Tell me a story, tell me a story, tell me something to prop my chin up in this brown tunnel. Your name it is something I cant care to remember but of course I never really had a name of my own either, so we shall be the great wonder of the nameless masses, the ones born to no name and never wanted one anyway. A name is nothing but a label, a calling card, call me anything, call me king Charles II just as long as you do call me, the sound of a voice, your voice, any voice reeling off a comprised anagram of the alphabet is enough to get my short attentive ears to perk up and twist my noggin backwards towards the direction of my inbuilt gypsy sonar. So anyway, I was going to talk about something, something great… but now its gone and all I have is bloodshot eyes and sweaty liars palms to prove to the world that I had an idea once, I swear I did.

Here’s an idea for you to dig you heels into:

The world keeps making mistakes, everybody makes mistakes, its natural, nothing to fear, it happens all day every day. BUT, with every mistake we make, we then proceed to learn from that mistake, so.. stay with me here… Once the world, the whole world meaning everyone in it, has made every mistake they can make and of course and one would hope of course, that they have also learned from all of these mistakes; once this has happened, there will be no more mistakes to make, right? Therefore leaving the world perfect as a whole, no mistakes to make, learnt their lessons on every lesson and we can all go on with living a perfect existence, yes?…

No.

I’ve really thought long and hard about it -could never happen, people are not perfect, they never will be, if they were I wouldn’t want to know any of them, and the world, well the world is an imperfect place, and the same rule applies.

But let me hit you with another bit of knowledge to round things off and maybe put a positive spin on things. Hoist ye marrow-thumbs around this;

One of the many few early times that my legs forgot how to use them selves, I was sitting on the pavement, trying for one to reattach these two now useless appendages stuck like butter to my lower torso, but foremost trying to light a cigarette with my useless cold hands and equally useless matches, fearful of the sneaky clear coward, invisible old Mr wind, when a kindly stranger, half my size, red my hair, opposite my *** and now opposite my broken legs appeared like a person will appear when you mind is in other minds, a smile, a sympathetic look and two working hands to fire up the stick in my mouth. I said my thanks, babbled about babble and the generation of gibberish and im sure many other things inconceivable to the sober ear of a dame such as she, the bringer of flame and enlightenment, not of the smoke but of the simple mind, an idea is what she left with me and it never left. She stopped my rambling typewriter of a tongue and said ‘shush’ she held my head in her hands, looked at me straight,so I thought she might be death or god or that I was passing out,she all green eyed and like the woods, looked at my eyes like they were tethered together and dropped the bomb on me, she said ”if you are looking at the moon, then everything is alright” kissed my warm on frozen forehead and was gone into the night, never to be seen again.

That’s all the advice you will ever need, & so ll I will leave you with.

You never left a name, but I never wanted one anyway.

Midnight moment

beautiful rags

midnight joy.


Nevermind your little light,

set apart your golden dreams

that offen break,

& come to play.


Chapter five: There are things I want to write but I am not going to write them.

The End.

‘Stay gold, Pony Boy’

I'm just a man.
I think things can be fixed.

My first aid kit contains
Super glue and duct tape.

Any box is a tool box to me;
I'll always look for the right

***** to reattach your self-
Esteem; the right clamps to hold

Your good days together. When
You cry, I want to open you up

Gently, lay out all your parts and
Find the leaking gasket.

The inescapable thought that forever meant till death.
The indefinite idea that two souls separated at form,
were awaiting to meet each other again and reattach in passing.

The aching realization slowly started to settle in.
Forever wasn't till death do us part.

Forever was the love that remained when two beings had been  separated.
The idea and thought of the memory of love, lust and friendship were the only traits that would endure after passing.

But they move on.
Creating another forever that too will be cherished until death do they part.

A small forever was all that we needed,
to find a serene place where we felt like we belonged.

Your canvas backpack
carries books and
stories too heavy.
It is stained with
ink and coffee,
you're not sure how.
You toss is on the ground
and look for it
when it's under your bed.
You reattach it to
your shoulders
and the straps whine.
Let someone else carry it.
Just for a bit.
Just for a bit.

The thumping and darkness in the bowels of Irene
sit lugubriously on the edge of serenity
the pounding and the tears through all these years
languishing in turpitude and solace from her knowledge
unceremoniously, recklessly and without feeling
while listening to her tongue lashing and
harshness of her venomous and thoughtless words
cracking like a whip, “do you think I’m an idiot”
Not once but twice while searching through black clouds
of disappointment and destitution … no rhyme…no reason.

All due to confusing north from south and east from west
reality from fantasy as we all feel the sound of her thunder
Irene crashes on and above the banks of New Haven,
Guilford, Fairfield and the Housatonic
lapping and licking at the shores while throwing
her magnificent weight in her favor, and the swells explode
the question, “how can she possibly know the children”
Even though downgraded and ebbing
the uneven strength and fortitude asks the question
and all my determination fades in the wind.

Trees weakened as we begin to dig out and explore
power lines and internet down, hampering communication
flooded streets and nervous bridges impeached
yet Irene serves notice with an ace of her own
dressed in her sheer-like vest and turquoise ring
her hazel eye filled with scorn and distain
while brightness and candor follow her path
with her feline temperament scratched and clawed
the tears begin to taper amidst her howling breath.
Irene begins to move northward stoically away from me.

I’m not a victim so I pick what remains of my heart
and begin to reattach my churning stomach
with the threads of her words of disbelief
bringing the force she was most capable of exerting
as the storm continues her long, unforgiven journey
hatred and disdain replaced by disinterest and apathy
as the breath disappears, the light becomes brighter
and Hurricane Irene decides to leave Connecticut
impact in place, on the broken bows of the sturdy trees
perhaps she was right, after all was said and done.

From the age of 7 to yesterday

I wanted to be a magician

I wanted to saw people in half

And make friends with tigers

I wanted so badly

To own the smoke and mirrors

That distorted the world in front of me

It was in my blood

This house was built on rigged floorboards

I can fall from any height when the rug is pulled

And land safely

I am practiced in

Slight of hand

And slight of tongue

My voice is a distraction

Only convincing because of the

Way it builds

Causing whoever is listening

To expect something magical to happen

         Hocus Pocus

It really is magic to think that time and time

Again

You’ll listen

And believe me

There is nothing up my sleeve

I am still trying to find stitches

Big enough to reattach the parts of you

I sawed away

And hammers big enough to smash the mirrors I used

To lie about the way we look when we’re together

And the smoke

So much smoke building

Like a fire that was never meant to be put out

There is a fire escape

Right behind the trap door

To this whole thing

You know my tricks

You know all my secrets

You’ve fanned through all the pages of my work

Just know

You can leave any time

Right over there

Next to my pens and my poetry

Past the loose floorboards

And the hanging body of my last assistant

Is the EXIT sign

The five year mission continues, Mr Spock has got the conn
A shuttle craft is in pursuit, cos Captain Pike has gone
The illusion planet Talos Four, the Keeper there awaits
It's there in the captain's log, with other known star dates

Sent on a secret mission, Captain Kirk is on the bridge
Federation space left behind, we're too far from the ridge
Violating enemy territory, now our crew is on its own
The Enterprise Incident three Romulan ships, crossing the Natural Zone

Let That Be Your Last Battlefield, half black against half white
The Gamesters Of Triskelion, three brians gambling on the fight
McCoy had to use the Teacher, knowledge he had to gain
Medical procedures so advanced, to reattach Spock's Brain

We must feed Vaal The Apple, because it's our forbidden fruit
Gem could heal with just a touch, The Empath who was mute
The City On The Edge Of Forever, is where Edith Keeler Died
Did Kirk cause Ben Finney's death, a Court Marital will decide

If its The Way To Eden, then why have we found hell ?
Can we survive The Immunity Syndrome, an entity that's one cell
My thoughts to your thoughts, melding the ties that binned
An ancient Vulcan technique was used, in Dagger Of The Mind

Elaan Of Troyius potent tears, will make you fall in love
An endless fight where no one died, in Day Of The Dove
The ultimate threat The Doomsday Machine, a dangerous planet killer
A Parallel universe bearded Spock, beyond the Mirror, Mirror

Is Kodos the mass murderer, in The Conscience Of The King
A Taste Of Armageddon, is what computer wars will bring
Playing cards with Fizbin rules, for A Piece Of The Action
The Cloud Minders needed filter masks, to gain clean air extraction

The virus in The Naked Time, made the crew go wild
A baby was delivered, and it was Friday's Child
We've seen This Side Of Paradise, Spock's emotional from the spores
Flintlock weapons were introduced, for  Private Little Wars

Who Mourns For Adonis?, When there's no one left to grieve
The White Rabbit was late, when the crew was on Shore leave
For The World Is Hollow, And I Have Touched The Sky
Doctor McCoy was terminal, and thought he was going to die

We've explored the planet surface, red shirts have been deployed
All life has been extinguished, Cestus Three has been destroyed
Get the ship away from here, engage Warp factor two
The Enterprise we cannot lose, or any of her crew

Can Scotty change the laws of physics, when we all boldly go
Seeking out new civilisations, for life that we don't know
It's not life as we know it, but it's worth investigating
Mr Spock may raise an eyebrow, when he finds it Fascinating

Is There In Truth No Beauty?, when the galaxies edge is reached
Can Kollos the Medusan help, now the barrier's been breached
Kelvins have took over, it's By Any Other Name
Hurled from the Andromeda Galaxy, but the barriers the same

Psionic abilities were enhanced, as well as Mitchell's eyes
When we went through the barrier, with the Starship Enterprise
A silver glare is all it takes, to control the ship
The Phaser rifle has been sent, to loosen Mitchell's grip

We're leaving Delta Vega, where is the next star base
The Warp drive is offline, after the barrier in space
Heading back on impulse power, the engine's have been wrecked
We need emergency repairs, cos there's other Stars not Trekked

i just want the road to feel real again
i want to feel the cold of the snow and weep
i want to sob, hard
and reattach.

she is a charcoal sketch.
she is dark,
jagged at the edges, rough.
she is only a first draft--
soon the pencil marks will be erased
and the best is yet to come.
not only is she a watercolor painting--
pastels bleeding together until
you can't find where
each emotion stops and starts--
but also the dark Sharpie lines
etched in arcs on said painting,
a beautiful composition of
daydream and nightmare.
she is cracked clay.
she crumbles easily, powder
breaking off from her sculpture
in such a way that
no amount of glue will ever reattach.
she may be broken and
cracked in all the wrong places but
sometimes imperfections add beauty
to an otherwise ordinary masterpiece.

I will weave my strings
throughout your body
They will come in and out
across your broken chest,
down your wrists
and into your finger tips.

I will pull my strings lightly
to the surface of your skin,
wrap them around you,
and breath you in.

I will run these strings
from the top of your introverted head,
attach them to mine,
to extrovert you instead.

For to be attached
is to be mindful
and to be mindful is to be awake,
and being awake...
is freedom.

Detach to reattach,
my strings are here
to help guide you
But if you feel it to be so,
You feel it to be too close, cut them loose and let me go.

a new poem (words, words, words but another drug), bolt upright, uplight, reattach yourself to the liquid of the music,
soothe the irritation, slowdown the shaking hand,
give god or his creatures, the nocturnes and sonatas,
a chance to restore the pounding of the chest to a leveling
equanimity

to no avail, the sleep angels have fled from the
forest fires in the chest, and the helicopters must quench
with the commence of dropping clouds of wet words,
when, when will I be released from a life that has no
easements

words, words, words but another drug, a habit that gives
everything but a temporary state, every poem nothing but
another her, another lady puncture in my restless body,
another juncture, where all your choices are the way of
error

the high will last, shorter each one, but the track will exist
for all the time, a token of human foolishness, the more is
the inevitability of the ending, writ, drawn a little closer,
and comes with a hand written spongy-apology begging for
existing

in his notes, motes, dust mites of titles, single verses,
elegies, essays half written, passing thots claiming to
want to be wannabes, this appears and it's a perfect
ending

there is no security in poetry, only the unresolvable

man in his perfect certainty, never was, nevermore, n'ere will be never, and one poet walks a razor's edge, that is his three tenses struggling for mutual coexistence, one of
a calming beauty, a dark glory, a perfect closing, choosing
a final solution, a belief in relief, that simultaneously
engraves, erases, and
equates

another new poem fissures to the surface, and the palpable
is a magician's illusion, a trick, a feat of dismemberment,
an excise of a piece, a drink, a Tennessee whiskey of him,
an emission that never gains remission status, all this fakery,
a new poem (words, words, words but another drug),
excellent, worthless and self-
effacing

{|||}

3:48am-5:46am

Your hypocritical mind is un-ignorable
I’m below it holding light towards it
I don’t want it growing or rainbow-ing out of your body
Find it please, its making me cringe
Be rid of it

Don’t look down on others
Or bellow their flaws
Laughing at them won’t reattach your lost pride
Doing as they did to you will not conquer

Fight your ever oozing, flowing, growing sickening **** of forgets
Remember things you say
Don’t mock or pout at others who say the same things
Think of how you shouldn’t do as inferiors do
But do not highlight your superior-ism
Not that you even are
And you’re blind of the fact you’re conceited
You would only deny it if told

Your immaturity is spiking up through my back
And cutting me—slicing me open
But I don’t want the blood to drip in your eyes
I don’t want you to realize through the liquid of mine
But realize through somebody else
I can’t break it to you
The ice you’ve frozen is too thick for me to melt
And you need to crack it yourself

I should use a saw
to cut a path
around the spot I stand.
I'll set myself afloat
make my own deserted island
and never reattach myself
to the world

This is a poem,
This is a poem like other poems,
But this poem I dedicate to you,
And it's not a single certain somebody,
But to all of those you's,
Those you's whose dreams are just on the edge of coming true,
You see these are the you's that need to keep on going,
No matter how much life hurts you,
And with each passing day you begin to lose hope of any virtue,
You see, the you's have to keep going, have to keep on writing,
They have to keep searching,
The have to just keep breathing, no matter the pain that each inhale and exhale take,
Just don't let it break you,
You see these you's see suffer, not in vain,
But for their brilliant brains, that are like sparkling diamonds amongst the bitter cold coals that lay dead,
They are the ones who are worth it, they are the ones who see happiness, rather then ever having it,
They put it in place of something else,
The you's put up walls because their heart has already been broken,
And they won't let you in,
See they hold back everything,
For such a silly thing, like maybe hope, or healing, or if they are really crazy love,
Or maybe just someone to pay them a small bit of attention,
See these you's see the world through their own eyes,
Their own ways,
And they won't let them touch you,
And if someone whose special ruins it for them,
Well that would perhaps **** everything,
But they  wouldn't die,
They learn to somehow survive
So that's what you'll do,
You pick up the pieces they broke off and reattach,
Soon you'll be good as new
And continue chasing those silly butterflies
No matter how far away from home they fly,
I hope to God, that you's like you will still try

Reminding me of my horrors
You make sure I'm aware
I'm no perfect person
The thought I can't bare

Emotionally detach
While I reattach myself to you
Pulling away from this tug of war
Almost will have to do

Pressure is on to decide
Whether to put love aside
Keep loving without receiving
And drowning my pride

I'll be waiting patiently where I'm at
Until you choose to get rid of me
Keep in mind what I'm offering
Alone seems just too soon to be

Chest clenching anxiety
Who are you staring at now?
While chasing after your attention
I'm crazed, searching around

All I ever want is your love
Why do I need your presents to survive
When your around I'm dying
But then your touch brings me alive

What it is you do to me
In no words could I explain
All this blood my wounds have shed
I'm the only person I can blame

i thought that growing up
i would look back on all that i've seen
and see you standing right next to me-
yet
to my dismay
i am again standing in the gap-
trapped
inside.

i thought that growing up
we'd be closer than before
closer than closed doors-
yet i slam
that door shut
every day-
and i beg you
to go
away.

who am i today
who am i today
who is i  going to be
and where will that lead i?
will i be another symphony
is i just another expressed belief?
what does i believe-

oh i
what do you see and why
do you see oh i
the way you do
and why
do i oh i
still follow
you-

if i isnt me
than is me just another empty space
that i left behind
in the aftermath of
finding out who i is?
-me is just an empty lot
waiting for i to reattach to the host
-empty walls now make me i's empty ghost.

i isn't who i should be
not me
not me
not me's position to be choosing personality-
than who is the rhymer and the writer!
the pen and ink!
who are the author and who are the book!
who are they!
who are the shadows that haunt my mind!
who are the shadows of glory divine-

who are the devine
and they still make me question why
but i'm still learning tonight
and maybe tomorrow will be my last fight
with that angel underneath heaven's ladder
and i will finally get the rest i need
for it's tiring
fighting with angels
knowing that you can't win
but knowing they won't let you lose-
for i truly want to lose for once
and figure out that death isn't worth it-
and figure out that i had a greater purpose.

Descartes' verb interaction is perhaps a shallow fact to grasp, but given the word therefore is an adverb, there must also be a counter to this, given some people are introverted, or extroverted as the original cartesian model suggests - so therefore can also become what the daydreamers get up to, for if thinking precipitates a sort of being, it can also precipitate a sort of non-being (the limit of such reasoning to suggest non-existence is a bit like reasoning the existence of god); i.e. therefore (ergo) apart from being an adverb (toward action) can also be an abverb (ab-, the prefix expanded in modern tongue as: absence - the commuters on the train... just sitting) - hence the after-mentioned mathematical stimulation of deciphering would be better suggested as not =, but as ⇌.

i've noticed this when reading philosophy books,
after engaging in one, you suddenly run out
of steam, you are creating a void, and by creating a void
through lack of hope for originality or demanding it,
and by creating a void you become stalled in what
you deem to be the adequate waterfall of lettering
arrange into word on paper, you create this vast
chasm that's an "antidote" to the cartesian res cogitans...
upon reading a philosophy book you turn into
a *res vanus, or should i say, an empty thing, a vacuum,
upon rejuvenation you do encounter thought,
but by turning yourself into a res vanus you
encounter thought as equatable with your ego,
as in: this is you, narrating in secret -
unlike the 26 unit equation of Hegel plagiarised
by Ginsberg in his poem the end:
i am i, old father fisheye that begot the ocean,
the worm at my own ear (new testament quote
about escaping hell, the worm at your own ear
gnashing its silica SiO2 teeth turned into glass,
glass teeth that then shatter) - the three words of
genesis are borrowed from Hegel's outlines
of the principle of rights, he too states the same,
the i am i, and furthers it by ascribing the word
am with the mathematical symbol =,
i wonder what word could be ascribed to other
words... perhaps in original terms ergo could be
Gemini as + and ÷... the latter case obviously
symbolical of schizophrenia, - (minus) typical of
depression, and x (multiplier) and ego trip,
that ultimate trip without intake of any Amazonian
substance or ingestion of a Swiss chemists' champagne
moment on a bicycle? i wonder. **** it, i digressed,
moment of rereading to find the river once more.
ah yes, this conception of a res vanus came to me
unlike Paul McCartney's yesterday, right in front of me,
first i read the day's newspaper, very depressing
material... then i picked up Kant again,
only briefly, i felt this sudden suggestion that upon
reading philosophy you are emptied, emptied in order
to become a blank canvas for someone to paint
something into your mind, the reason being is the
championing of thought in philosophical books,
to read them you seem to have to assume being empty,
rather than being brimful with thought,
i.e. jumping to too many conclusions and nodding
or shake-of-the-head assertions - there's no
parallelism with that notion of being a thinking thing
(a res cogitans), it can only come by a stance of
emptying or a pervasive adjective (quality) omni-
as regarded emptiness. i realised that the only way to
reattach myself to my own narrative was to engage
with a philosophical dynamic once again,
prior to yesterday i hadn't bothered to peer in once more
and wrote a detail of yesterday's events, not to my liking,
a lack of continuity rose up, a fizzing nugget of
phosphorus on water. if i left my eyes strained on
merely the newspaper i wouldn't have written this,
it had to be Kant, again.
but indeed upon turning into this res vanus of my
own invention, the principium is followed by
a definite articulation (mediating away from a definite
article) in Hegelian sense with mathematical grammar
via (+, -, x, ÷, etc.) to say: well if am is suggestive of =,
mediating expressive egoism and repressive egoism,
then res vanus, has to provide a similar product,
not a parallelism whereby one man thinks himself
extroverted in the medium of thought, but actually
introverted in the medium of being, but rather a
convergence (Oxford will take years to ascribe an -ism
on this matter)... since after disengaging from res vanus
upon reading a philosophy narrative,
it is a convergence of the pinnacle of decisive identity,
in that i = thought, of course Kołakowsi would
argue counter specifications of this grammatical construct,
he already did so when referring to dancing the tango
in his book culture & fetishes, i'm obviously disregarding
grammatical categorisation as a rigid Eiffel tower
monument to human endeavour,
i can state i = thought since both are personal associations,
Heidegger's famous contribution: we're still not thinking.
i don't care to suggest that thought is an Atlas with
the nouns world, helplessly balancing the many attributes
of what we call thought: the thought to steal, the thought
to care, the thought to obey, the thought to lie...
within such a list thinking is hardly definite, it's indefinite,
but what is definite in this respect is that we can identify
thought as ourselves, this is what stems from the res vanus
principium, a principle that allows for philosophy books
to be actually read, since reading them is permitted when
the contradiction of the cartesian res cogitans is lost.

And I love you
Everyday
Even when the floods wash away humanity
I will love you
When the air turns poisonous and steals it from our lungs
You will still take away my breath
When the grounds open up and eat all the vanity we created
Your beauty will shine bright as the only thing that ever mattered
When the cruel fires turn to ash all emotion and care
Your touch will reignite my own unwavering love for you
When darkness will turn out the individuality of our souls
Yours will break apart and merge with my own
Pumping back the memories I almost forgot
I love you till the end of time
And till the universe rips itself apart
I love you when new life slowly sparks up
Atoms joining in a billion year pilgrimage
Till we finally find our bodies and reattach our souls
Strengthen the bond
And our love will  revive the unbroken promise
And live on infinitely

A nine-eleven call goes out at midnight,
It's serious: A writer of poems
At such and such street, has a word
Stuck in his throat.
Stuck in his craw; he can't get it out.
He can neither finish the poem or even
Make a lick of sense right now.
What to do?
The medical experts confer over the two-way:
I've seen this condition before, one says, wary,
I think I would use the jaws of life.
That takes too long, said another.
I have a carpenters saw in my bag
I keep on hand for just such occurrences.
Though rare, it does happen.
We will just remove the head, push the word
Out of the way and reattach the head.
Believe me it is much faster in the long run
Otherwise it could progress on to
Editors re-writes, poetry readings,
Deadlines, and who wants all that?
Poets really just want to write.
The others are in agreement.
Now they'll be able to get right to work
Without hesitating, which is the kiss of death
In crisis situations.
In asylums, they employ lobotomies
To the same result.
For the rest of us, there are the interminable
Religious sermons and services.

By AB , FA & SP


AB :
Living life on Roses to make a trip on the way to
Salvation,
I'm losing my head and my consciousness is
Shifting in and out of existence,
My mind is now gone,
I'm on my own,
On my lonesome,
It's the time of the month when my emotions
start to elevate,
What is there to love when it makes you put a
Gun to your head,
What is there to love when it rather abandons
You instead,
Making daily rounds for heartbreak,
I'm on round 16 and I'm still not turning over
In a grave,

FA:
Standiing tall...
Nothing is dragging me down
anymore.
No more insecurities  Learned how
to love myself Forgave my father and mother  
Apologized to everyone else.
Staying positive all the time And realizing
everything happens for a reason.
No longer blind,
I see the world differently.
........ I guess its true,
Demons have good in them too,

SP:
They put a gun to my head and said this was
the end But I laughed in their face and just
rose again  Because at that moment I realized
this where my life was meant to begin And all
the pain that coursed through my veins were
just meaningless distraction So allow me to just
detach these evil contraptions That were
created by the men who attempted to trap this
And by this I mean me  The beast that remains unseen  
Because he is living free in the land that
Was thought to be dream,
But no,
Positive energy is a real thing and it flows through
Me like something you wouldn't believe and with
That I end my meaningful rambling but before I
Go, allow me to reattach your sanity.

it's the middle of the night,
and i feel so empty that
not even the thought of you
will make me feel better.
not even the thought of you
will put my burned bones
together and reattach them
with elmer's glue.
because that's what always
happened in the past,
but you're not here next
to me, and i've forgotten
what it felt like when
you hugged me the
first time.
i'm sitting here in
the same spot on the couch
feeling empty
and thinking about you.
i wish you would come
here because i don't like
having broken bones and
tears that don't go anywhere.

A man who drives like he’s mad
A mirage in the summer,
And a ghost in the winter.
The air is epileptic with heat
Going on like a rippling curtain
I let go, and reattach myself
I am here, maybe there
Somehow, I grew this bitterness
Ashamed I let myself submerge
Whole hearted and light headed
Into this handsome revolution.
My lips are a clean slate,
Perhaps I have returned.

Is there a thread that binds and ties,
  an artist to his art

Is it thin or thickly woven,
  does it hold or come apart

Is it there to free or wear one down,
  with the memory of its form

Does its very nature reattach,
  when in fury it is torn

Does it link in stark remembrance,
  all that’s past and gone away

Does it keep the truth within arms reach,
—when again we’ve lost our way

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)

Repenting past lives
confirming aching anxieties
these tarnished memories
are beginning to stir.
Their perfumed ashes
choking out
asphyxiating
dulling the senses.
When a leaf departs
and lands amongst the others
it is futile to attempt
to reattach it to a tree.

the last rose
the shattered rose
ripped apart
petals scattered
he loves me
he loves me not
she has been trying
attempting
to put this back together
to reattach the petals
thread staples glue
the flower is a mess
because once a flower dies
it won't grow anymore
but this doesn't stop her from trying
she waters it with salt water
streaming from her eyes
its an impossible task
but she wont accept reality
he killed the relationship
he killed her

why couldn't you make a clean break
a clean cut
just below the joint

why did you have to go
behind my back
and pull
and pull

and pull until limb
was ripped from socket
clinging to body only
by bits of sinew and tissue

and then
as the amputee accepts her fate
you took the rotting appositeness
and attempt to reattach it

which you and I know
will disease
the whole being

well maybe
you're trying
to **** me

Awkward smiles
We try
Ha, ha, ha
Act like it’s all good
Touching the surface, greatly scratching, bearly a ripple
We easily avoid it, the clean, smooth, pristine surface
Skirt around disturbing it’s placed waters
Skirt around saying what really needs to be said
Instead we laugh, and smile
Weaving a masterpiece
Of our own

Some may blame this course of action but,
What if we do disturb the sleeping lion
What then
What then?
Are we afraid of
Our perfect facade
Perfect visage breaking
Shattering into millions of tiny pieces
Too small to reattach

“But if it’s broken can’t you just fix it?”
“How, Sweetie?”

“My mommy always puts a band aid on my boo boos”
“But it’s not a boo boo, it’s completely broken.”

“Then why don’t you just build it again?”
“How?”
“With legos! That way it’ll be taller and even better!”



Ha,
Ha, ha, ha, ha
Sometimes the answer is right there