persuasive psychiatric silently suggestible arrest my subconscious with positive words digestible but don't digress at all because I'm highly impressionable and impressible highly strung and suggestible though it is questionable my ability to think with agility which gives my mind mobility although no stability free flow like Jack Kerouac beat beat beating the general jilted generation of my era who can't see the woods so clearer for the amount of trees stood near her rambling rambler rambling on ranting and raving all night long expression is for everyone    
fornication sedation adaptation elation
medication probation spiritual ******  
beg bleed sorrow slumber
salty seeds mindlessly wonder
sultry mistress in solitary slumber
signs pointing to a magnificent magistracy  
push and punish set me free
persuade psychology

I listened to an old queer speak words of encouragement and wisdom last night
Their glasses slid down their nose,
their shoes were for comfort,
and they talked about their average, 9 to 5 job

But even so
as I leave their words shake in me
like the rattling of the old busses that speed
up and down the hills to my apartment
to my home
where the words follow me.

I bathe in them.

I light them like incense and inhale the smoke
I carve them like orange slices and **** their juices off my fingers -
   the closest I've gotten to *** with another person
   or at least the closest I've felt
Because with this I can breathe them in like oxygen
instead of pushing it out of my lungs and
out of my clothes and out of my mind.
In a way my asthma is cured.

I believe in these words.
I clutch them like my keys, like pepper spray
and they keep me safe just the same - maybe more
   (i still have trouble walking in the dark
    and i wonder if he does too
    if he ever did
    if his environment of 160 people fuels the same fear i have within thousands
    or if he feels as secure enough in his "passing" as he seems.
  
    i've never heard his voice.)

As I cried out in my mind
a man cried out an echo in his seat
and though we cried for different things it was the same
"Oh god oh god."

-

I wrote this on a bus three days ago
and now I don't even remember the words that had touched me so deeply
and I don't remember why that man was shouting
and I have heard my friend's voice and it was beautiful.
I think.
My memory is fuzzy.
I wonder if I even want help.

I find that I **** the emotions from things but
I absorb none of the words, the meaning
I read dense materials and listen to wise speakers and
I feel empty and clean and in touch with profoundness
But I leave realizing I learned, I gained
Nothing.
I am fooling myself.
I've always been an actor.

But now
I find I don't have to act. Not as much.
I have a few more scenes, a few more calls to make,
where I'll raise my pitch an octave or two so the adults think I'm polite
and then I'll drop the act until it's Christmas or the Fourth
and I'm surrounded once again by the boggy South and all its creatures
    (my relatives, to put it nicely)
the bigoted undertones to all they say swelling into great Alabama lakes.

I ride across their words, across their lakes, on tubes tied to boats
and like tubing I allow myself to be slung across it all
until I'm hurled around a too-tight turn.
I crash hard into their words until I'm drowning in them,
choking in them and wishing for air
before I'm bobbing back up again
Alive but bruised and breathless.

I climb right back on to do it again.
I don't know any other way.

-

I listened to that old queer encourage me to
"Get out of Georgia,
get out of the South"
just like every old queer before them
and every time I feel the urge to flee immediately.

I'm prone to suggestion, easily twisted,
I take after my mother in that way
A prime cut grade-A pushover
Malleable in the worst of ways,
And I fear that I've suggested my way into my own identity
That I'm so suggestible that just the words
"Transgender"
"Asexual"
Sculpted me into something I'm not
I worry that I'm pretending, that there's nothing queer about me
That I've literally been pushed into place by nothing.

I wonder then if that's the case
Why couldn't I have read the words
"Successful"
"Independent"
"Motivated"
and let them push me to do something, to be something.

If I had read those words enough,
maybe I'd be out of the South by now,
Instead of stuck here trying hard to remember what else that old queer said
so I can obey it instantly and without question

The whole of human history
is but a memory
I can't speak for you
But if I've learned anything
It's that nothing is more fickle,
more malleable, more suggestible,
than the fragile tendrils
of human thought

History is an old man
With weak knees and arthritic fingers
Drunk off the non-existent
fumes of long forgotten glories
His cracked and bony cane crashes,
crushes, and disperses,
seemingly indiscriminately
He who grappled with Stalin and Caesar
With kings and commoners
With everybody who cried 'Wait! Wait!
More time! More time!'
(And everybody who didn't)
And this request they were granted
by the old man
For time he has plenty
Understanding he does not

Suggestible me


I had ended up in a country with a strange pub culture
and obsession with the class which I found restrictive.
No posh pubs if the working class and not slumming it
if you were middle class, and the rich lived in Bermuda.
I was full of terror and uncertainty this world was
not of my liking to get through the day I drank a lot
mainly at home or in the park.
My new wife said I was an alcoholic and a nice man
from AA came and took me to a meeting where people
sat around a table talking about themselves and how much
they had suffered, while I am just getting out, was a full
of the terror of agoraphobia.
I suddenly had many friends, but they were mates only
as long as I went to their meeting, that over time became
repetitive like reading the same book a hundred times.
I stopped going to their gatherings went to the library instead
and spent happy days reading, but lost my friends.
Finally, after a nervous breakdown, I got much help from
a psychologist to confront my fears.
But I was never at ease in this country I left and is blessed
in Portugal where no one knows my name.

I need to express myself
For my mental health
Not to melt
But I don’t make art
Because it’s torn apart
Like a bleeding heart
Eaten by seething sharks

In a match of the friendless
Versus the defenseless
It’s the pretentious
Who condescend us

They hit all
The pitfalls
With wit small
But sit tall
Behind thick walls
Of vitriol

They see examining art
As a way to prove they’re smart
By blindly rejecting what others like
And enjoying the obscure
As if being different makes them right
Which is obviously absurd

On a plane where opinion
Is treated as fact
They claim dominion
Over the artistic track
By shooting black flak
Until I angrily react
And flies I attract

You might take the angle
I think everyone is painful
I’m not saying there aren’t angels
But there are definitely demons
With no explainable definite reasons
Why they call some artists heathens
Based on the nonsense they believe in

Pretension and ignorance
Have a large difference
But both are carnivorous
Most of their comments
Aren’t very honest
Nor are they modest
They just burn the hottest

Their judgment stuck
On calling everything putrid
The best filmmakers ****
The best musicians are stupid
They can hardly be called lucid
Trying to be the negative Confucius

Their hate reaping
Gatekeeping
Breaks peeking
Artists seeking
One day reaching
Public preaching

I start to withdraw
Once they’re near
My heart won’t unthaw
Frozen in fear
The crowd is suggestible and fickle
So one negative trickle
Causes an avalanche of icicles
Knocking me off life’s bicycle

They discourage people from putting themselves out there
As they turn culture into a doubt fair
Only producing shout air
To reroute stares
Away from emotional expression
And toward themselves
With their rhetorical aggression
They put us in hell

Dumbfounded, speechless
who. You and I were
there,
we did not see the Who Horton heard on TV
Related to this argument was Wertheimer’s concept
of Pragnanz (“precision”)
in organization;
when things are grasped as wholes,
the minimal amount
of energy is exerted
in thinking.
To Wertheimer,
truth was determined
by the entire structure
of experience rather than
by individual sensations or perceptions.

From <https://www.britannica.com/biography/Max-Wertheimer>

Dynamic living history, reaches to to -Toto, here, Toto

cognitive revolt
piled on the new left right brain uses
sorting and finding worth
stacking and digging

having being
active dynamic being, thinking this can
go on and stay on
ever after if we accept the mortal limits
stories mental

this is like that was, only now, not then

the motion is time, time moves

field- corn or force? field cybernetic
Norbert Wiener- Warren McCulloch - Grey Walter
men who math
The Human Use of Human Beings

how do we instruct ourselves

we have knowledge, knowing is a knack we have

co-gnosis mind you, is something we do, abstractly
pulling
right from wrong.

--- Acadamia, the elite among learned-edu
matrixilated hacked't adams henrys
on the grid of ganz gestalt, das whole enchilada

LOUD - like Owsley's Wall of Sound - broken
by feedback, and
we can imagine that, we
can depict it
as seen on TV, my generation, the actual Archons,

the few sold first, first realized the end means,
now
in the course of human events, this is the realm
of all possible things,
and nothing remains
impossible, no joke, once everything

is swallowed whole, nothingness is not a
ganz gestalt aspect in the whole truth and
nothing but
the truth…. shooeee, too deep for me, I plea
and
pass. Psst, come and see, if this gocognosticism
functions as funk, was imagined, what
is that
thing they say, jive, is jive, is being jive
being good
or being good for nothin', real evil, nothin'.
you ain't
nothin' Ha

Reader be ready, steady, gone on to dis
cover -we all got songs we oughta remember

easy links to certain rhymes in the common tongue
of our time, we pidge-on bits of rap and old TV
add some Johnny Cash,
ev-boo'nighknown, ring o' fire, dance
redun
this is the Goethe flow, I suspected could exist,

P.K. ****, and Wallace of Infinite Jest, each
thought this act might follow wholes
of any perceptual samenesses,

the depth of an exploratory shaft, certain
sense of suggestible camera obscura,

tiny, pin-hole in the dusty velvet curtain,
shine, see on me, I feel, I see,
left eye
right eye, two things converge and doubtless,
both sides know, right
in front of each of us, is a blind spot,
what
is that absense? Is it a story wishing it were told,
or a fact you can follow to your gravest self,
if your will is such that, some how,
you must

well, maybe, we can help. AH, that is cheating yes.
Have you learned to lie to the devil,
did you ever meet him, her, it, one of them

spirits spoken of in spooky-geistliche,
olden days, and olden ways,
witchers with wands of willow, not of copper,

splash. dead rat
aqua dulce memories, these
bubble from a spring,
these feed a cistern of my own cleansing, done right,

I used bleach, Purex Bleach and an old straw broom,
I scrubbed any bit of drowned rat from that cistern,
I rewove the rips in the screens,
I called it completely clean and crawled out,
with bucket, and broom, empty
cistern echo, boomer
memories are the last in America, pre-TV

think about that a minute,
see if there ain't something in it, this us, we are
this classified mindset, set between '47 and now


for shared time cones merging now
way out there, eons ago, geo speed.

--- you had a hard time, I see, I had an easy time.

When were you worldly minded?
--- same general time as you, if this is 2021 tech
we are'n maybe weren't meant to be so loud,

there are reasons we did not learn some things
in school. Talkin' 'bout my

generally speaking, world wide, now, first time ever,
the aged
around the entire liveable band of post cataglumic last
time long ie live-life-able
I
enjoy the effort, let the dam break, the cleansing
right, as usual, is done.

Last time, the end was a surprize, this time,
this is the end, and it runs on to heat death in
the coolest of times to be alive
and
and have history to backup the *******…
are you
really
experienced, skritchy skritch skritch,

well,
I am, and, this has been my last show, re done
as a musical in mindfields back home.

Shout out as they say, Truth known is addictive

-- so where did these knowers post conjectors
as to how next is any worse? Hello Poetry, okeh,
tell the Alte Vista spiders we found
the joker who lied to the thief.

Women as they actually are:
******, Suggestible, Selfish
The Universities have collapsed
Better to walk alone.

Nihilism in the Night
Vegetarian sausage
Speeding tickets
Cell phones

           Coulianou. Ioan.