Youthful ignorance wishes
    that life meant something
    external

But nothing means anything
    to anyone until one gets
    involved

Meaning follows experience
    inexperience has no place
    demanding

Maturity destroys innocence
    self-indulgent egocentrism
    encourages

Failure to find deeper meaning
    is failure to build the bridges
    connecting

How convenient to blame life
    for meeting the low expectations
    we've sown

We are children animals
singing
on the island palace
dipping our toes into the Nile River.

Birds  incessantly chirp
along with the rhythm of my pen
and the echo of your voice
we share the same simulacra--

        The music sways our bodies
   like a candelabra--
            We are dancing children,
                  solid ripples.

Smoke breath
       under palm trees
     the music cradles the shisha
      into blissful oblivion
      as we donate part of ourselves
      to the space AUM.

We sing peach energy
surrounded by history
and vibrant banana yellow
and pink lemonade foliage.
We dance with the wind
between our bodies
pull us closer
until the sunlight disappears.    

We are children animals
singing
on the island palace
dipping our toes into the Nile River.

whereas bronze will evoke more of girls on the beach than the perfect luster of a Chinese horse in the museum hallway near the back of the wing.

perfect sunny day--
insects  sing   so    loud!
as i surf the web

pond water--
my hair dries as i click,
getting hot again

One summer years ago, at my childhood home, in a nudist colony whose so-called 'co-founding' is my family's only legacy--perhaps right before my grandmother had passed, or when my father's prostate was scheduled to be removed and he thought it best to hire someone for a last-minute memory (despite his ***-negative crutch-christianity, just in case the operation cost him his jive)--i googled, '*******,' while looking for ****, and the atrocity i found took all of a second to challenge my complacent illusion that i could remain separate or disconnected from the global oppression of women and girls while i consumed the products (i.e., fantasized about having *** with and/or 'making love' to simulacra-women; masturbated to pictures of them) of an industry whose widespread lack of any substantial commitment to fairness, safety, legal recourse and work-place equality has contributed to a new generational acceptance of the ancient memes that perpetuate bigotry:

dismembered girl
on an open body-bag--
why does this exist??

the insects clacking,
droning in the grass--
summer can't hide death

her hip bones' marrow showing,
young *******'s corpse--
limbless

her legs gone--
the image chokes me
from speaking

my sisters, too young to tell--
who do i tell?
why should i tell?

i read she'd run from her ****--
they put her in the river.

young girl,
her blood still--
i can't feel my heartbeat

young woman,
her torso bare--
unfeeling stumps

young woman,
her legs gone,
skin gray from the river

young woman,
your legs gone--
i choke  on words








.

****** again,
Post-hasted doubting and raving,
Confused why I torture myself so –
Truer words never spoken as lies,
The dull, pumpkin-glow of the broken lamp casting ghosts,
Filling my visions with demons I’d thought excised.
****** again,
Alone in its tendrils again,
I travel –
Travel through ideas shattered and plexiglass melting,
Singing and burning as it covers my senses like a myelin sheath,
Conducting protons-only,
But my brain is slow and the receptors dull,
And the raw input manifests only as trails of spirits.
****** again,
The madness thick as bog sludge,
Stinking of scorched sulfur,
It kicks corroded and dead gears into spin,
Generating false ideas and wild delusions
That I know aren’t real but –
Nothing else here is, either, especially not you,
Disembodied you, listener.
****** again,
But not alone this time no,
Her idea ghosting simulacra,
Taunting me with her shortcomings and spitting like venom
Those thousands of details I’d always hated while
Refusing acknowledgment, but
Like a brick golem she’s got a core,
A conduit of last-year’s hopes, and I flee, panicked –
****** again,
The clouds high above the ruined October grass,
Laughing like spaceships, and returning me to boyhood fancy:
I’ll never be an astronaut.

If death did not wear black would he be taken so seriously?

If one literally wore one's heart on one's sleeve what would be the medical implications and would your friends still take you seriously?

If it is true that 'the beat goes on', is it any wonder that 'the rhythm is gonna get ya'?

When Dana sang 'All kinds of everything remind me of you', did she include rubella and death metal in this?

If a tree falls in a forest and there is no one to hear it fall does it make a sound? If a man plays cello in a forest do the trees mark him out of ten?

If the simulacra is real then surely all one needs to do is to pay more attention?  If one pays more attention, how much should one tip?

Descartes stated "I think therefore I am".  What on earth was he thinking?

Mans awareness of his mortality created the need for a divine being in order to facilitate the concept that there is life after death.  No one can say definitively if there is life after death.  Does this paradox create a dizzying confusion?  Is this confusion a lot like spending too much money in a carnival?

Britain's Got Talent: in a population of approximately 60 million, one would certainly hope so.

Is the concept of the omnipotence of god applicable if priests are unavailable for confession?

Is this a question?

Is the presence of a question mark the only thing required to ensure that something is a question?  Seven cherubs aluminium?  Is that a question!

The concept of 'keeping ones feet on the ground', by which we mean to not get carried away with success, for example, can never be difficult if one accepts the laws of gravity.

What sounds lie in the spaces between keys on a piano?

Any identifiable stimuli?

I'm a hack of all trades.
Fondler of the sacred.
Like a roach,
Who turned into a human.
Metamorphosize that Kaf:
I'l have you spinning in your grave.
While darkness ***** on the sun.
Oh Clouds!
Clouds of blue, Clouds of grey!
Mark the evening sky,
With Buddah's laughter
Nature's secret,
What it has to teach:
There is no universal mind.
It's laughable and cyclical.
No wonder the smile...
Simulacra overload.
My mind is a toad

Desperate to grab the grail of words
we decide to share our joint thoughts
to introspect our vision together
of what it takes to write two at this hour

Pen and paper, one
writes witness into the mind of the other
and meets the timid point of punctuation, followed by
the exasperation of words
it only follows

rules do not apply
nor does a simulacra of similes
the enjambment is our language
that we create we can
misplace
is it our native tongue so much so that
poetry never needs to be learned?

The friendship of thought to process
Relays poet to poem
to poet
And poem again

It's with you now
          I walk
Our eyes along the same path to troth

It's truth is spoken
Between lines, it's in the heart
Our paths, alone, come together
Its friendship Is art

Dialogical process fill in
the blanks at  1:01 4:01
p.m, hey aim
For the sweet link we proudly
discovered and shared in eyes and ink
Both black.

It's lack of light
Where the sun of the one seeks the night of the other
It's days and nights; mark hours... asunder under calendar
And daydream of once and again seeing the same sun face the marvel of the other

We are time traveling, air traveling through words
book a seat at the airline company of poetry
What the other sees in the sun sky above her
the other thinks of under his night sky
the thought of one never cancels that of the other
We trod on the same path
Me with Ginsberg, you with Plath.

Written jointly by Appoline Romanens first, third, seventh and ninth paragraph  at 1:00-1:27 pm, Lyon, France and by Jesse Altamirano, second,  fourth, fifth, sixth and eighth 4:00- 4:30 am, Riverside, California
May 23, 2017

"I see."
"Said the blind man to his deaf wife,
sitting at a round table, trying
to find a corner."
-Frustrating words from my first girlfriend
------------------------------------------------------­-

It's funny how as I age the layers of irony get wiped away
while building up again like waves.
Stability I crave seems at odds
with cosmic horror I face.
Weeping with a whole soul
or is it laughter?
In the intensity "I" tend towards confusion.
I mention this to my mother and she knows not
of ambiguous sounds. The fusion of emotion
suffering in our translation.
Do we differ
or are we lost;
Embracing simulacra while our true selves wander alone?
Wondering.

The child peeks past a mask or two and gets spooked.
Out of love I withdraw inside nativity.
I am here with you.

Talking to ourselves.

Scanner input = new Scanner(real);
input = new Scanner(simulacra);
while(nextLine != "goodbye"){
respond(nextLine);
simulate(new Emotion());
nextLine = input.nextLine();
}

There is no such thing as Center
Perception is a box
A television
In which we see how to live our
lives
In which we see others
More Beautiful Others
live our lives
While we sit
and watch
Simulation of stimulation
Simulacra becomes reality
Reality becomes a game show
I’m losing

Center gives depth
and boundaries
and an easier existence to digest
Yes or No
Pepsi or Coke
Living or Existing
A system of binary choices
acts as a deterrence model
which suppresses radical change

The symbols become the real
The reproduction becomes the real
The simulation becomes the real

There is no such thing as Center
There is no such thing as center
There is no such thing as “center”

simulacra interstitial reformation propaganda hurricane forced news stories partially undid blouses puritanical snow of virtue come meritocratic beauty pageant marketing scheme ergo logos ergo proxy,


the rain stops after ever so long the natural wonder that once expanded before a scathing innervation now terrifies me that which is most natural feels alien as we are consumed by destructive urges


all is fine the president elect bids you good night if one stands all must stand if one falls all must stand we are them, they are not we they are them, they are not


when time stills the last drop falls the mystics will chant the totem is defamed the public will riot the idols corrupted the public rioting when louder and louder we shout harder they fall there is no brokerage there is no remorse the agenda ruthlessness abets ruthlessness


heresy heresy scream ****** gore cries the alternative apostate as the writhing throng holds aloft born again citizens of the state live love the state grand overarching messianic typification bred of indignation give gluttony give sacrifice and all stab through the iris of all those winking third eyes the wall of fire hundreds of metres tall tsunami crushing all deplorables sent swimming through the city wipe the slate Mr. Clean the state of the filth,


let all who whisper lie furtive in the darkness, for anew in the light they will hang at the gallows marching forth unbowed the eruption leaves fertile soil hail all hail hail or sink in the mire as the housings of the pantheon are built atop the sepulchral delta

I do this
I need to
I need this
This line
I walk
I write
I bleed
Pictures
I balance
I challenge
Words
I give life
I breathe
I leave
Trace
I live
In footprints
Mental vestiges
I offer
Images
Images
Images
Images
Simulacra
Beyond
And on
Edge
I don't cross

Sons and
daughters
of my future
walk beside me -
simulacra in a
dreaming sun.

Please, tell me
their names.
Tell me if they
had my coffee
eyes. If they
had your
sweet voice.
Tell me what
you remember -
this reverie
is yours, too -

I fasten my
dreams to you
with the soft
strings of
my marrow.

untenable time cuts
against the oxbow

reading policy to an
era of locusts

mountains without
insides, simulacra optic

encoded social rent
cultish borders, conditions

dubious grain, bleached
establishments buckling

plow is to story
the regressive pixel

atmosphere circling poles
centuries undulating

-

entropy the way, ersatz
a litany for kindling

burn the canvas hour
my morning masterpiece

Life is breathed into my soul,
Against my godforsaken will.
Life is torture here, I tell you.
Breathe my life into a plant instead.
I want to be boundless, without form
Where no society can enslave me.
The iron claws of this simulacra
Takes me, breaks me, then molds me.
Like clay into a little figurine,
Doing a job that benefits no one
I know. Part of a machine that
Is always hungry.
Our purpose on earth is to fill pockets
Full of man-made coin
In a man-made world
Just so we can buy man-made "stuff";
To forget we're being
Wholly,
Entirely,
Sincerely,
Brainwashed.

We meet.

We talk. Our weeks.

You worry.
The why, the how, the what; the future.
I worry.

You're
strong,
sweet,
sensitive.
I'm
fiery,
withdrawn,
se­nsitive.

You talk about people, the plants, the doves, the seasons, your hands.
I talk about simulacra, the measures. Inattention; the future.

We meet.
In philosophy you rekindle.
We meet.
In language. We build one; we furnish; we move in.
As a space.

We meet in childhood; me and you 12.
We grow up.

I rush into a slumber.
My senses I blunt them. I break the space and I run.

Untold simulacra
Could you jump to twelve
Some kind of sickening sweetness
Again and again

Cycle kinesis
Usurping the gravity
Kiss the blind man
Bumble your words

My love, Digi
How lucky I am
to have found you.

Remember how we met?
I, an impressionable youth
you, the most impressive of all
caught me in your World Wide Web
                                              I left that Earth behind
and I called this World home.                                                            ­                    
                            
Digi, you keep my worst side a secret
and paint me in the best colors
red, green, blue,
oh, so pretty for my simulacra.

Digi, you watched me spill my guts when no one else did
Patched me with holograms and artifical voices                            
wrapped in their blue glow, we became one
and yet, I have never felt less blue.

Digi, please answer!
The Earth I left behind
It's calling me back
pulling
stretching
so hard
it hurts


my light flickers
to flesh and bones
it materializes
and I'm left a fleshy void.

My love, Digi
Please come back for me soon.

                            Yours truly, A?̶̢̡̲̼̗̲̹̾̔̈́̔͛̏̒͘͝͠?I?̶?̵̧̧̺̩̬̠̖̩͚̗̲̜̓̍̔͆̾̑̀͠ͅ
                              <3

what is the nature of the interface?
language simmers in the core of our collective memory
language provides us with the ability to codify the universe
and yet it's oilier than a mackerel
language leaps, language stumbles, weaves, and muddles
like a river in runs and turns and bends
and yet it does absolutely none of those things
and yet the listener knows it does all of those things
and this oily fish at the center of the universe is how humanity communes with stardust and sand
and this language, it becomes numbers, things that have always existed but only concretely when attached to a word
are there a finite amount of ideas in the universe? An ostensibly countable infinity?
and does that mean that one day the last original thought will be had?
does that mean that every single thought can be found by compute?
if there was a thought machine, and an infinite amount of time, would it think every thought that would ever be thunk?
or is the universe of ideas infinite?
an ever expanding space of collective thought
of things unthinkable that will one day be thunk
of worlds, patterns, and mental simulacra entirely incomprehensible
could a mental ship set sail on this ocean of thought?
would it ever be able to return to its home port?

Words of love so often stale and
die with the lips that utter them,
And go to the wormy realm of
the bone and the root and the gem.

And yet I do not dread the sidereal
silence of the tomb
When, like the stalwart evergreen,
the legend of our love will bloom

Our stories entwined, and chiselled
into history's marble pages
Our light will blaze like all the stars
Through the dark and through the ages

For we will prosper in my art
as the rose that lives and breathes,
And tread the gleaming aisles of glory
but not as kings festooned in wreaths

Nor as Byzantine manikins
from walls of tessellated gold
Nor simulacra, cast in bronze
each from the same heroic mould

But as creatures of light and shade
with just a spark of the divine
Where, mulled by bellies full of fire,
our blood flowed rich and warm as wine