Turn up the boom box
Let’s hear some classic remixing
Close the curtains
Turn down the shades
I am the lady of the night
Let’s rock away
As I wish not to sleep
But just have some fun
I want to go back
When loving you
Was real
When kisses and roses
Were romantic
When music was sweet
Soothing to ears
When the taste of love
Was irresistible
When music and love
Was at its best
Write your name across my heart
Was my song
Sealed with a kiss
When I was your lady in red
Turn down the shades
Close the curtains
Let’s hear the classic remixing
Turn up the boom box

Christena Antonia Valaire Williams
found in the Archives of The Gleaner Company of Jamaica

I must be incredibly wary
and alert
and I gotta follow my gut because there’s a reason to why
it aches
or jumps with excitement;
it knows
much more than my head does;
and I must hold myself firmly like a proud statue, but I can’t just stay in one place
I need to tiptoe on a tightrope
I mustn’t fall, but if I do, I mustn’t fuss
just get back up again,
just get on with it

I went to an art gallery this afternoon
and the theme of one small contemporary art room
was,
“just get on with it”,
(I decided that myself anyway);
there was a painting of an airplane, resting on snow,
that one was obvious
I said, “just get on with it, then, fly”
there was a painting of a snowy road,
that one was obvious too
there was a painting of a sad girl
again, obvious
but then there was a painting of a person
with a large smudge of green on his face, he barely had a face
and a large smudge of white on his waist, he barely had a waist;
I concluded,
“sometimes you don’t have a face and you just need to get on with it”
because my mood was easy breezy silly this afternoon;
but now I’m thinking
sometimes you lose your identity
and you just need to get on with it

I can barely take anyone serious when they ask the question,
“who am I?”
the answer is obvious if you allow simplicity into your heart,
“you’re what you are experiencing and feeling and being right now, and it’ll change all the time in every moment”
so,
I feel kind of commiserable
and much of a parody
for sitting in a busy mall foodcourt, with a cup of coffee I didn’t even buy at that foodcourt,
remixing an old song on garageband,
then looking up and realizing I’m surrounded by all of these kiwi strangers
and finally asking the question
“who am I”
oh I’m a lunatic, aren’t I?

I must be open, but not too open
and easy to get along with, but not too easy to get along with
I must catch a wave on the first try,
but if I wipe out, I mustn’t turn red;

I need to watch what I say
before I say it
but also find the courage to speak
when I’m shy
and I must be considerate
but not let people walk all over me

I can’t be a pushover, and I can’t be too much of a leader
because I don’t know what I’m doing
here;
I can love but I shouldn’t fall in love
at least for awhile
because I’m still high from the transition and I’m dubious of how
authentic and sincere
my falling in love
would be

worrying is the most unnecessary thing
money isn’t an issue
(right now)
and loneliness is a blessing
but it’s also a sickness
and I must remind myself that I’m worth not being lonely
and instead being free
and above all,
I am capable of anything I set my mind to,
even if I forget
“who I am”
or “what I wanna be”
above all,
I must always be me.

the caffeine is crucial
for this day-time creature,
the low-lit room an optional feature
for my attempted artistic-flair
paint brushes discarded on the floor
i took up drawing, graphite stained hands
and red eyes in the light of morning's sun
through the cracked window
of my old apartment-turned-studio
it was that morning i realized
the faces on paper would never
come to life
or serve a greater purpose than
good looks and candy-to-the-eye
it was that moment, i realized,
there was much more than re-creation
remixing and redoing
redundant copies of someone else's idea
and in that moment, when i realized,
talent is subjective and in the general eyes
of the artistic world, i was **** on the side
of the street where van gogh and picasso
strutted their dead-man's artistic *****.
and now i know that there's got to be something
more than staying up all night drawing from a
photograph a classmate gave to my sight
and earning ten dollars for every hour spent
dragging pencils across leaf-thin skeletons of
plants that could have grown to serve better.
and now i know i was made for something more
than sitting on my **** cold bedroom floor
and replicating the eyes of a sixteen-year-old
spanish self portrait photographer.
in the western world, the people want me as
an artist making prints of their faces and loved ones
but for the rest? my hands are needed to build homes
for those who have not had the privilege of holding a
pencil or seeing their faces on a mere piece of paper.

Forget Portland and Austin and Santa Cruz.
Those famously strange places,
where the tourists gawk at local weirdos.
Here is not there.

Here is the place of advice such as:
“When life gives you meatballs put a wig on a dog.”
—True story.

Here is the place where:
“With all good things in life you just have to wipe the bird **** off.”  

The place where steel and marble Confederate ghosts,
watch the wealthy renovate their westward homes along a cobblestone road.

Where paintings are propped to rot up in alleys,
and buzzing twenty-somethings on their way back from a show,
shake it and tilt it and carry it home.
—Gilded frame and all.

This is the place of painted concrete where walls are canvases,
and red bricks pop out of the ground,
the tree roots poking through to trip you.

Here’s where the People’s Beer comes from Milwaukee,
but we replaced the R in ribbon with here,
and sell it by the caseload when it rains and when it’s Tuesday.

Where young people go to find themselves getting lost becoming someone else,
remixing history to not admit naivety,
before they’ve been sandpapered through experience.
        —To a core.

This is an ink-stained but not splattered place.
Where lines are careful, permanent and abundant,
and on Fridays can cost 13 bucks.

Here is the place where people roam like that restaurant rabbit:
listless and nomadic and stuck.

Where there’s a wild streak in its heart that follows the tracks,
and cuts the city in half.

This is the place that Carvers itself out into cultures,
and you can be from the Bottom,
or proud to be a Rat.  

Here is where you night-drive over the bridge,
see the skyline and feel restlessly content.

Here is home.
—For now.

Walls I'd
Carefully erected
Deconstructed in
A few moments of
Brutal honesty and
Embraced doubt
You'll run
You'll reject
Never forgive
Heaven forbid you forget

Those doubts, crushed
When the pressure couldn't
Be handled and
I combusted
Wall deconstructed
Those bricks held in place by
Mortar mixed with my lies
Set carefully by insecurity,
Crumbling in the explosion
Telling me
To just be

But now, not
Too long later,
I'm scrambling
To pick up the pieces
Gathering bricks and ashes
Remixing my mortar of lies
Trying to reconstruct
My walls

I know
That it isn't good, but
It sure as hell feels easier
Stack brick, on brick
Hide away,
All hide and no seek
I know it's no good
But it sure feels easier

I know
Out of ashes can
Come a beautiful new creation
Redeemed and restored
Because
Lighting and sand make
Glass in a storm
Combine enough
Pressure and heat and
You get a diamond

I know beauty comes
From ashes and
I'm a rough cut diamond crafted
By Greater Hands

But I still want to
Scrape up the ashes
Mix my mortar,
Build my wall
Because it may not be good,
But it sure as hell feels easier

Help me believe
Your diamonds are
Better than
My bricks
Don't let me reconstruct
My walls of
Insecurity and
Self-sufficiency
Deconstructing all
You've built in me

I have
To love You more

Skimming the surface
Of a sweet thought
Dissecting it
Ever so slowly
So
That
It does not
Become stale.
In my mind,
Rewinding.
In my mind,
Replaying.
In my mind,
Remixing,
This sweet thought
So that
It does not touch the ground.
Just as I did as a child with a balloon,
I’m bouncing this sweet thought
from wall to wall
My skin, warm.
My hair, static.
My heart, beating.
Raking the surface of this sweet thought
Just as I did as a child,
I  am jumping in a pile of leaves--- for
This thought makes its quite easy to fall.

.
        2 + 2 is a tautology of 2 x 2, isn't it?

of note, both Joyce and Beckett sampled
something of a learning,
in terms of understanding
the alphabet of surds:
    of musical notes, in writing...

you fit me a ******* symphony
of music encoding into your brain...
and i tell you:
you're playing hum
of the vibrating universe while
you're at it... savvy?

year 2019 contra the year 2018...
and some think that mixing
whiskey with anything,
which included ice cubes
and pepsi is a profanity...

i once ****** into a a glass
of wine and made the salute:
and here's my blood,
i bit my nails and said:
and here's my body...
might as well add to the mix...
but... kalimotxo:
god and the high heavens
forbid this to be a profanity!

what comes first,
coco in France,
or kalimotxo in revising
my numbed *** sitting on
the yet to congested
discovery of boredom?
probably the latter:
in that...
  oh i'm far from bored...
i've experienced something
that dictates to me:
death is but a precursor...
i'm not afraid of death
therefore i can't seem
to succumb to boredom,
it's this persistent
agitative nagging of:

well...
if you can't conjure up
a ******* hammer...
might as well be the nail,
or a gaping lack
of either hammer, or nail!
****...
productive "thinking":

if ever an antithesis
of "nothing"...
well... i can only think of one...
the only antithesis of
"nothing" is: thinking,
or...
the over way around...
the only thesis
of nothing is: "thinking"...

metaphors salute!
custard pie in the making:
fudge for logic...

why did i abscond
remixing the "blood of Christ"
for the **** of
alcoholic norse gods
raining on
Scotch hinter canvases
of fields surrounded
by mountains
               and lochects?

mind you...
******* into a glass of wine...
is not very much
akin to pouring
pepsi into it...
but in terms of:
adding to the experience
of the living poetics?
hum...

exactly!
the only antithesis
of nihil (nothing) is cogitare
(thought)... or?
   ratio (reason)...

nothing is not a geometric
entity...
forget looking for it
in Buddha's third eye /
the Hindu bindi...

nothing is neither
"existent" or "non-existent"
it is no thing
in the same way that
it is no void /
or absence...

           it perpetuates
the cycle of living off
thought...
  or thinking:
if thought can be a continuum
known as thinking,
rather than a random
array of "plagiarizms" /
eurekas of an idea...

nihil est cogitare...
how much of thought
is lost and never materialized...
it has to "go" somewhere,
doesn't it...
isn't that what is the antithesis
of that German's
da-sein?
   i.e.
                wo-nicht-sein?

wonichtsein...
  
  where is non-being?
isn't that the same as....
there is being...

where's where   (?)
   (tautology inquisitive)
and
   there's there   (!)
   (tautology self-congrats.,
like some Taoist monk!)

well **** me...
where's there?
  and...
         there's where?

THE-ER IS "WH'-ERE"...
ah...
   i see...

but no one can still point to novels
from the 20th century,
i.e. notably Beckett and Joyce
and how...

they were able to write music...
i can't read music...
all i have is
the concept of the ring,
a circle, and nazgûl:
or rather the language they speak...

close to the circle... shh...

prove:

   that ℕ was not borrowed
from                                                ᚻ...­

right... instead of musical
notes...
to write a piece of logic...

******* in a glass of wine
to double up on the poetics
seems much "easier"

well...

    cogito (A) ⊢ sum (B)?

or: encoding math is a music
you listen to:
on funerals...

→
   well yeah ¬(¬A) "=" A...
the negation of a negation of A
is... A...

what would have happened
if Nietzsche wrote:
beyond truth and falsehood...
unless

      ¬(¬A) "=" A isn't good
then i guess
    
    so much for the "beyond"
or good and evil...
now we have rampant
indifference to any
   ¬(¬A) "=" A

   and a "dignified highground"
of observable
"nuances"...

   infernal tautology:
good isn't good is good,
i.e. good (A)
    
              A(¬A(A)) -

good isn't good is good...
  
i'm not even going to start to understand
this infernal shortscript
language competently...

so much for propositional
logic...

isn't metaphysics:
prepositional logic?

         or is that: post-positional
              logic?
after a while there are just too many
nouns laced with synonyms,
a yard becomes just as much
as a mile,
and neither are at all differentiated,
then nuance comes in
and even more is lost...

you want mathematicians
to go crazy?
give them a ******* thesaurus.

------ Lack of moderation,/  so I've created sensation,/ Debaucheries ,/ the world's mocking me/ Stalking me/ Remixing/ Poisoning Elixirs/ The pictures i've painted /Will not be famous/ Filter out the strangest

Dichotomies started the economies / there's no third eye/ I learn the truth off the third lie/ bird eye's view of prey/They artificial with the Self sacrificial/  the fake spiritual/ instead of logically solving the issue/
seal your fate for being fake/

with one shot of the arrow/

ignore christmas carols /

got bored with the correlations of cows /

experienced the highs then said how,

NOT why, understood the lows, to flows like a shadow, my failures became the saddle /

negative energy/

the beams from the grid make it easy to walk through walls and **** ya *****!/have you stuck with my kids, at night i abduct and then sell for the highest bid but i cloned em before i sold em, so you're stuck on the poem on HOW you don't notice/ i reflect G /the better me/, the setting me up to die, so i rolled A SEVEN with one die, then sold the lie
/the (die-oh-knee-sis) dionysus, got you to be obsequious/

rhymes don't need a technique *****, i mean at least you can make money off thesis/Jesus code, natures story resold
.
.
.
death ,
.
.
rebirth,
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
value
.
.
no worth

stress
.
.
no work

I love the magic inside you,
the spectacular memories
that you bring to me
on rare occasions,
creating epic sensations
as I breathe in your serene chemistry,
feeling your love
glide down my spine.

There you are
in my dreams,
appearing so supreme,
comprehending my emotions
and unspoken poetry,
remixing the lyrics
inside my soul
as you flow
like a wave over me.

Been lost for how
To save lost spaces—
Backtrack in time
Can't erase this

Rewinding in rhymes (over & over/ asleep & awake)
Tape cassettes made
In Retrospect—
Spinning and remixing
Sealed in semi-broken plastic covers, buried in a glove box disaster
      Scene ready to be rediscovered
After years have passed and time has advanced
Playing for all time—
Sealed and safe
free to replay
For decades
Until they are replaced

And if the universe allows it,
They will never be lost again,
They will always have a place
To replay

I believed fortune cookie maxim
cryptic message couched
Apple Macbook Pro update process
alternately titled “markedly
a Luke warm welcome Matt unfurled
courtesy Jimmy John,
who embarked on
imp apostle bull mission
going to find Mark Twain.”  

After wracking my brain
deducing I declare what
constituted impossible mission
to delineate purpose of these words,
after initialled written
about six and a half years ago
my best hunch (backed up
while holed up in Notre Dame),
I agonizingly dutifully didst attempt
to distract anticipatory anxiety,

(analogous to an expectant father)
while delicate protracted procedure
ticked away the minutes,
where learned hands
gingerly tweezered various and sundry
state of the art electronic
components while trained fingers
instinctively, expertly, and admiringly
wrought awesome results
bitta bing bitta bang under the hood

of cherished Apple product
courtesy wizards hunkered down
troubleshooting laptop to restore functioning
of sophisticated electronic machine  
to ideal factory settings
quality control capability promised
nothing short of a miracle,
whereby engrossed deep thinkers
echoed the sound of silence
thru the corridors of time

olly olly gluten
free ranging NON GMO, oxen
oiled lubricated cloven hoof
nsync cup aided toot tune
to clacking choppers
activated after this chap
dialed up favorite technical director
using his latest smarts
vaunted from years
of breathing, eating, and living

malfunctioning circuits
housed on motherboard
exemplifying divine computer devices
generated by brain child
videre licet avast array
of embedded electronic components
back in the day
Electronic Numerical Integrator
and Computer (ENIAC),
completed in 1946

necessitated taxing physical prowess
additionally forced human interventionists
to shout over din o'er
loud grumbling within bowel
of bulky binary beast of burden
along vaguely similar scenario
buzzfeeding abdominal anatomical beast
easily appeased when yours truly
a gluttonous gourmand,
tasking me to commence upon

ordering food glorious food,
which magically and mysteriously appeared,
after manifold fiery breath
spewed by amazing dragons
**** forming breath taking
heart stopping mind bending
sensational aural and visual feast
low and behold
wresting, teasing, releasing soundcloud
an appetizer to sense
and sensibility tete a tete

while inhabiting (neigh – riding)
caparisoned painted ponies
segueing faux horse sense
(animated, captured, framed
and linkedin within carousel of time)
courtesy tony Apple iPhone X - 256 GB
Silver Verizon amazing pièce de résistance,
sans technological fetes
with CDMA/GSM ringtones,
where a pleasant fecund female

bot tilled voice didst greet
prepping, priming, promoting
Crowded House serving
blue plate special of the Green day
dis "FAKE" kin listener eagerly
awaited: salivating, simulating
****** soothing sans savory souffle,
the first culinary ******* savory dish,
after aye parked,
positioned, and plunked gluteus

near swinging doors leading into kitchen,
where this word maven strategically
dip posited said maximus to attempt
futile gastronomic endeavor
tum maximize tempering torturous tenacious
devastatingly deadly assault steaming enemy
disarmed disguised, and dismantled,
resplendent redolent redoubt
digitally remastering and remixing
non discerning indistinct aromas

emanating from naked lunch to supper esse
overwhelming paroxysms to gorge
putting a ritzy lid on heated fiery dogged
craving powder milk dog biscuits
(an impossible mission), where oozing,
licking, insinuating filaments
commingled as cutthroat
nemesis cooly whipped
devastatingly weeknd ecstasy
wickedly wafting, seducing,

satiating, and salivating
courtesy olfactory foramen,
deflecting incessant onslaughts
induced famished fellow
to reevaluate, relinquish,
and revisit his Weltanschauung soup per bowl,
while simultaneously commandeering cutlery
to attack, besiege, conquer
condemning delegate
of China ware without tea zing,

thence indiscriminately marshaling choppers
to set up base camp at Oral-B
(heeding flying pie warnings, where shewing
should desserts foe ment Hunger)
eggs sauce er baited
onslaught of herbaceous,
fabulous, delicious, and bodacious
culinary cuisine aromatic eats
thoroughly teasing growling stomach
steeping interminable suspenseful,

seven star Michelin magicians
empowered to transform most anything
(such as bilge water,
road **** or septic tank)
gourmet experienced huckster longingly *****
doubled as famished
Norwegian Bachelor farmer,
equating odoriferous garbage truck
on par suckling swollen teats
patience caved to restrain noshing

impaling his strict credo
on dustbin of his story
never again *** chew gnawing
even knuckles sandwich of fingers or toes
squishy human digits
texture of imported dates,
which hunger artist experienced pangs
voilà nothing short
of Pan's Labyrinth lesson,
did justice minimally satiated afterwards,

a restauranteur hoof hall
hues highbrow opinion,
hence a short survey about ambience,
yours truly will rate
perhaps unwise of an every
Jimmy John Joe gourmand
tubby biased after an apple ala carte blanche
preceded with delicious
hors d'oeuvre high marks
more nerve wracking
than going on a blind date.

And of course with enticing
forkful of flagrant food
Beep ping Update
completely disrupted first mouthful.