There it was on the calendar, Saturday May 11,2013. Big red circle around the date and written in black pen in the middle…SPELLING BEE. Plain as day, you couldn’t miss it. One of the biggest days of the school year for geeks and nerds alike.





Today was the day. In two hours, The 87th Annual Cross Cultural Twin Counties Co-Educational Public School Spelling Bee, would begin.  This was a huge event in the history of Thomas Polk Elementary School. It would be one of the biggest, if not THE BIGGEST in the history of The Twin Counties.



There would be twenty-one schools represented with their best and brightest spellers. The gymnasium would be full of parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and media representatives. Yes, invitations had been sent out to both of the local papers in The Twin Counties, and both had replied in the affirmative. Real media, in Thomas Polk Elementary School, with a shared photographer….the big time had come to town.



Inside the gymnasium, work had been going on all night in preparation of the big event. The Teachers Auxiliary Group had set up bunting across the stage, purple and white of course, for the school colours. The school colours were actually purple and cream, but, there was a wedding at Our Lady of The Weeping Sisters Baptist Church later, and they had emptied the sav-mart of all of the cream coloured bunting and crepe paper. So, white it would be.



It looked spectacular. There were balloons tied to the basketball net at the south end of the gym. It wouldn’t wind up after the last game, so something had to be done to hide it. Balloons fit the bill. There was three levels of benches on the stage for the competitors, a microphone dead center stage and two 120 watt white spot lights aimed at the microphone.  Down in front, was a judges table, also covered in bunting and crepe, with a smaller microphone sitting in the middle. There was a cord connecting it to the stage speaker system, taped to the gym floor with purple duct tape, just to fit in. Big time, big time.



The piece de resistance sat at the right side of the judges table. An eight foot high pole, with an electronic stop watch and two traffic lights, donated from the local public utilities commission, in red and green. The timer had been rigged up by the uncle of one of the competitors, possibly to gain an advantage, to help keep the judges honest in their timings. Besides, it looked fancy, and it had a cool looking remote control.











The gym was filled to capacity. One hundred and Seventy Five Entrants, visitors, judges and media were crammed into plastic chairs, benches, and whatever lawn chairs the Teachers Auxiliary were able to borrow, that weren’t being used for the wedding at the Baptist Church. It was time to begin….



The three judges came in from the left of the clock, and sat down. The entrants were all nervously waiting on stage on the benches. The media representatives were down front, for photo opportunities, of course.



Judge number one, in the middle of the table clicked on the microphone in front of him and turned to the crowd. In doing so, he spilled his water on his notes and pulled the duct tape loose on the floor in front.



“Greetings, and welcome to the 87th Annual Cross Cultural Twin Counties Co-Educational Public School Spelling Bee.” There was some mild clapping from the family members, along with a few muffled whistles and two duck calls from the back. The weak response was due to the fact that most of the parents either had small fans (due to the heat), donated from the local Funeral Home, or hot dogs and beer (from the tailgating outside), in their hands. Needless to say, it was still a positive response.



The judge carried on…”Today’s competition brings together the top spellers in the region of the Twin Counties to do battle on our stage. All of the words used today, have been selected from a number of sources, including Webster’s Dictionary, from our own school library, Words with Friends from the inter web, keeping up with modern culture, and finally from two books of Dr. Suess that we had lying around the office. Each competitor will get one minute to answer once his or her word has been selected. We ask that you please refrain from applause until after the judges have confirmed the spelling, and please no help to the competitors. We now ask that you all turn off any electronic media, cell phones, pagers, etc. so we can begin”.



He then turned to the stage and asked all competitors to remove their cell phones and put them in the bright orange laundry basket, usually reserved for floor hockey sticks. Each student deposited their phones, all one hundred and thirty-seven of them in the basket.  We were ready to start.





“Competitor number one…please approach the microphone and state your name and your school” said Judge number two. Judge number two would be in charge of calling the students up, it seemed. She was the librarian at Thomas Polk. She had typical librarian glasses, with the silver chain attached to the arms, flaming red hair, done up in a bee hive uplift, just for the event, and was called Miss Flume. She was married, but, being the south, she was always addressed as Miss.



The first student advanced to the front of the stage. She had bright pink hair, held in place with a gold hairband, black shoes, and a yellow jumper. She looked like a walking number 2 pencil. The two duck calls came from the back of the gymnasium along with scattered applause. All three judges turned and looked to the back, and then turned to face the young girl.



“My name is Bobbie Jo Collister, I am a senior at Jackson Williams School of Fine Arts and Music”. “Thank you Bobbie Joe” said Miss Flume. Bobbie Jo, smiled nervously and put on her glasses. “Your word is horticulture” announced Judge number one, “horticulture”.  Bobbie Jo took a breath and without asking for a definition, usage, root of the word or anything, just ripped through it without fail in three point two seconds, according to the mammoth timepiece at the end of the table. After conferring, the judges clicked on the green street light and she sat down, amidst more duck calls and clapping.



Student number two went through the entire process as did students three through eight. Each one had glasses, no surprise there, and were all dressed in monochromatic themes. Together, they looked like a life sized box of crayolas ready for a halloween party. Each child spelled their words correctly and were subsequently cheered and applauded.



Student nine then approached the microphone, stopping about a good seven feet short and three feet right of it. “My name is Oliver Parnocky” squeaked the lad. “I go to George W. Bush P.S 19 and am a senior.” Miss Flume, grabbed the small mike in front of her and said “Oliver…put on your glasses and move over to the microphone.” She leaned into the other judges, and said “He goes to my school, he doesn’t like wearing them much, and he’s always outside at recess talking to the flagpole after everyone else has come inside”.



“Oliver, please spell Dichotomy” said Judge number one. Judge two started the clock and they waited….and waited…then out burst this voice….DICHOTOMY…D I C H O T O M E E, , no, wait..D I C K O….****!” The crowd erupted in laughter, Oliver was busted. The judges conferred, and after informing poor Oliver they had never heard it spelled quite that way with an O **** at the end, they triggered the red light and Oliver left the stage to sit in the audience with his folks.



The next three kids, all with glasses, like it was part of an unwritten uniform dress code for the day, all advanced and sat down. The next entrant, number thirteen, luckily enough stood from the back and struggled down to the front of the stage. There were gasps and some snickering from the crowd. She was taller than the previous competitors,  and a little more pregnant as well. “Please state your name” said Miss Flume. “My name is Betty Jo Willin and am a senior at

Buford T. Pusser Parochial School”. At this announcement there was a cheer of “Got Wood at B.T. Pusser” from the crowd. The judges turned, asked for silence and the offending nuns returned to their seats. “Miss Willin, how old are you exactly?” asked Judge number one. “Twenty Two sir”. “And you say you are a senior?” “Yes sir” came the reply. Betty Jo was shuffling a bit as the pressure on her bladder must have been building standing there in her delicate condition. After conferring, judge number one said “That sounds about right, your word is PROPHYLACTIC”. The few people in the crowd that knew the meaning of the word laughed, while the rest continued eating their hot dogs and drinking their sodas and beers. “Please give a definition sir..I don’t believe I know that word”. The judges looked at each other with a definite “I’m not surprised” look and rattled off the definition. When she asked for usage, the judges really didn’t know what to do. Should they give a sentence using the word or explain the usage of a prophylactic, which regardless would have been too late anyway.

After a modicum of control was reached, she attempted the word, getting all tongue tied and naturally messing it up. The red light was triggered and she left the stage.



More strange outfits, bowties, hair nets, jumpers, clip on ties, followed. It looked like a fashion parade from Goodwill and The Salvation Army rolled into one. Most attempted their words and were green lighted onwards to the next round, while those who failed, were red lighted back to the crowd and the tailgate party in the parking lot. As each competitor was eliminated, the betting board that was being manned outside by one father was updated with new odds and payouts.



The first round was approaching an end with only three kids left. “Number nineteen please approach and state your name” said Miss Flume. He plume of red hair was starting to sag and was sliding slowly off of her head due to the humidity in the gymnasium.



Number nineteen came forth, glasses, tape across the bridge like half of the previous spellers. He was wearing the most colourful shirt that any of the judges had ever seen. It was not from Dickies, they surmised. “I go to J.J. Washington P.S 117 and my name is Mujibar Julinoor Parkhurloonakiir”. The judges froze. He obviously was new to the district. They had never heard a name like that before, ever. Not even in Ghandi. This was a powerful name. There had been sixteen cominations of Bobby, Bobbie, Billie, Jo, Joe, Jimmy, Jeff, Johnson and Jackson prior to Mujibar. Stunned, judge one asked “Son, can you spell that please?”

Mujibar, not sure what to do, spelled his name, unsure of why he was being asked to do so. “Thank you son” said Miss Flume. The odds on the betting board in the parking lot changed right then.



“That boy is gonna win fer sure” said Jimmy Jeff Willerkers. Jimmy Jeff ran the filling station two concessions over and had fifty bucks on his nephew Bobby Jeff, who had already flamed out on “yawl”. “How was he supposed to know  it had something to do with boats?” asked Jimmy Jeff. “That Mujibar is gonna win…jeez, he’s been spelling that name for years….anything else is gonna be easy breezy.” The odds went down on Mujibar and the money was flying around that parking lot faster than the rumour that the revenue people were out looking for stills in the woods.



“Mujibar…please spell SALICIOUS”…asked the now red pancake headed Miss Flume. Doing as he was told, Mujibar, spelled the word, gave the root, a definition and a brief history of the word usage in modern literature. Judge number one was furiously scribbling down notes, and trying to figure out how he would get a bet down on this kid before round two started.



Entrant number twenty from Jefferson Davis Temple and Hebrew school advanced which brought up the final entrant from round one. “Number Twenty-One please advance to the front of the stage”. After adjusting his glasses, after all he didn’t want a repeat of what poor Oliver did, he approached. “My name is C.J. Kay from William Clinton P.S 68” Judge one, confused by the young man’s name asked him to repeat it. “C.J. Kay” said C.J. “What is your full last name boy, you can’t just have a letter as your last name….what is the K for?” “Sir, my last name is Kay”, said C.J. “It’s not a letter”. “It most certainly is son…H I J K L…rattled off judge one. “It has to stand for something, you just can’t be CJK, that sounds like a Canadian radio station or worse yet, one of them hippy hoppy d.j fellers my granddaughter listens to. What is the K for?”. C.J said sir “My name is Christopher John Kay… not K, Kay” and then spelled it out. This only confused judge one more than he already was, and the extra time figuring out his name was doing nothing to Miss Flume’s hairdo.



“Christopher John….please spell MEPHISTOPHOLES “ said Judge one, after realizing he was never going to find out what the K was for. The crowd was getting restless and wanted to get to the truck to get re-filled and change their bets. C.J. knocked it out of the park in 2.7 seconds…”faster than Lee Harvey Oswald at a target shoot in Dallas”, one man said.



After a ten minute break, to get drinks, ***, re-tape some glasses and prop up Miss Flumes ruined plumage round two was set to begin. This went faster as the words were getting tougher, although randomly selected, judge one was inserting a few new words to keep his chance of winning with Mujibar alive. PALIMONY, ARCHEOLOGY, PARSIMONIOUS, TRIPTOTHYLAMINE , and many other words were thrown at the competitors. Each time the list of successful spellers was reduced, and the amount of clapping and the duck calls were less.

The seventh round began with just Mujibar, B.J. Collister and C. J Kay left. Before the round began the judges reminded the crowd that the words were random, and to please keep the cheering until the green light had been lit. There were more duck calls at this announcement and very little applause. Jerry Jeff was still manning the betting board, the tailgate barbeque was done, and there was only about thirty people left in the gymnasium.



The balloons on the basketball net had long since lost their get up and go, and were now hanging limply like coloured rubber scrotums and were flatter that Miss Flumes hair, which incidently, was now starting to streak the right side of her face from sweat washing out the dye. She was beginning to look like an extra in a zombie film with a brilliant orange red streak across her forehead.



“C.J.” said judge one, “please spell ARYTHMOMYACIN”. C.J. gave it a valiant effort ,but unfortunately was incorrect and the red light sent him off to the showers. This left B.J. Collister and the odds on favourite, Mujibar. The crowd was down to twenty seven now, Bobbie Jo’s folks and Mujibars immediate family.



Round after round were completed with neither one missing a word. Neither one blinked. It was a gunfight where both shooters died. These two were good, and it was never going to end. Judge one leaned over and told the other judges, “we have to finish this soon….I’m due at the wedding over to the Baptist church for nine o’clock to bless the happily marrieds and drive them both to the airport. They’re off to Cuba for their honeymoon.” The others agreed…”C.J. please spell MINISCULE said Miss Flume”. She did so, without a problem. This caused judge one to yell out “Holy Christmas” just as Mujibar got to the microphone. Thinking this was his word, he started as the judges were giving him his word. Seizing the opportunity to end it…judge one woke up judge three who red lighted poor Mujibar, ending his run at spelling immortality. “Sorry son, you tried, but, today a Mujibar lost and a B.J won.”. Before he tried to correct himself, knowing what he had just said didn’t sound quite right, Miss Flume congratulated both finalists and began the award presentations.



Thankfully, next year the eighty eighth version of The Annual Cross Cultural Twin Counties Co-Educational Public School Spelling Bee will be in the other county. Now the job of sorting out the cell phones in the orange basket begins. By the way, Betty Jo Willin had a boy …you can just guess what she named it!

I thought it right to assess some antidepressants, which philosophers are more inclined to call mood enhancers.
This was during my foray into human enhancement, substances intended to enhance physicality, cognition or mood. Nootropic compounds concern the latter two categories.

The most commonly prescribed mood enhancers are serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SRIs), but it takes over a week for these compounds reach their peak effect.
Thus I approached them with the notion that a limited dosage might point to their character, though  not reveal. These considerations in mind, I set about acquiring a few miscellaneous anti-D's.

Fluoxetine was the first successful selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitor (SSRI), better known by its original brand-name Prozac. Fluoxetine has an acute biological half-life of between 1-3 days. Presence of a trifluoromethyl group on the compound deserves note, I wonder what the presence of electronegative fluorine atoms add to the psychoactive flavor of a compound (subjective effects).
I administered a single dose by mouth, there was some indication of subjective character. Light serotonergic sensations and seemingly benign mood-dampening, there is a ****** towards the positive. Waking headspace relatively uninteresting. Observed hints of oneirogenesis, did not manifest in enough character to be detailed - a sort of vivid, 'pulsive wandering, more pronounced in contrast to its waking character.
Good experiment, interesting results.
Ligand     Ki (nM)   Ki (nM)
Target      Flx            Nflx
SERT        1               19
NET         660           2700
DAT         4180         420
5-HT2A   200           300
5-HT2B    5000         5100
5-HT2C    72.6          91.2
α1             3000         3900
M1            870           1200
M2            2700         4600
M3            1000         760
M4            2900         2600
M5            2700         2200
H1            3250         10000

Sertraline is another popular SSRI, also known by it's original brand-name Zoloft. Sertraline has a variable half-life, on average 26 hours.
It's metabolite, desmethylsertraline, has a half life between 62-104 hours but is a far less potent Serotonin Releasing Agent (SRA).
The presence of two chlorine atoms is interesting. The usual, phenomenal serotonergicity is present and pushing towards the positive.
Some nausea, particularly when hungry (this disappeared after some minestrone soup). Some faintness after physical exertion. This dose did not promote onirogenesis. There was a moment of cognitive distortion when the proportions of a focal object seemed to be growing in-and-out, shifting in size.
Site                 Ki (nM)
SERT              0.15–3.3
NET               420–925
DAT               22–315
5-HT1A       >35,000
5-HT2A          2,207
5-HT2C          2,298
α1A        ­        1900
α1B                 3,500
α1D                 2,500
α2                  477–4,100
D2                  10,700
H1                  24,000
mACh           427–2,100
σ1                   32–57
σ2                   5,297

Escitalopram is an SSRI commonly prescribed for major depression and generalised anxiety. It is the (S)-stereoisomer of citalopram. The biological half-life is of escitalopram is between 27-32 hours.
I administered a dose and thought the phenomenal serotonergicity less apparent than fluoxetine but then gastro-intestinal disturbance was noted, I surmised it has a high affinity for 5-HT2C.
Any oneiric qualities were not readily apparent after a single dose, relatively little visual imagery which is understandable given its lack of affinity for 5-HT2A. I found this to be philosophically interesting. Mood elevation observed in bursts of conversation and as odd sensations, possible mental discomfort.
Ligand,
Recptr     Ki (nM)
SERT       2.5
NET        6,514
5-HT2C   2,531
α1            3,870
M1           1,242
H1           1,973

Venlafaxine is a selective serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor (SNRI). Venlafaxine and its metabolites are active for about 11 hours.
Initial subjective effects similar to a very light empathogenic stimulant. Perception of altered attention-span/increased reflexive response; energizing yet paradoxically much yawning.
Ligand,  Vnfx      Dvnfx
Recptr    Ki(nM)  Ki(nM)
SERT  ­    82           40.2
NET       2480        558.4

Tianeptine is a tricyclic antidepressant (TCA) with an unusual mechanism of action. It is an atypical agonist of the μ-opioid receptor and has been described as a (selective) serotonin reuptake enhancer (SRE). It has a short duration as sodium salts [prescribed form] of between 2-4 hours but as sulfate this can be notably extended, some of its metabolites are active for longer than tianeptine itself.
Definitely anxiolytic, quite artificial; possible aphrodisiac. I find its opioid activity dissuading, requires caution.
Site          Ki (nM)
MOR       383–768 (Ki)
                 194 (EC50)
DOR      >10,000 (Ki)
                 37,400 (EC50)
KOR      >10,000 (Ki)
                 100,000 (EC50)
All other transporter/receptor/sub-receptor values are >10,000 (Ki).

Bupropion is a norepinephrine-dopamine reuptake inhibitor (NDRI) with affinity for some nicotinic receptors. Bupropion and its metabolites are active for between 12-36 hours. Interestingly it is a substituted cathinone.
Initial subjective effects similar to a fairly light stimulant. Perception of increased attention-span and improved cognition. It is an onirogen that is neutral in quality, enhancing vivid dreaming (a boon of its nicotinic affinity which is counteracted if the stimulant component impinges on sleep). Completely absent of serotonergicity, curious.
The N-tert-butyl group's effect is most interesting, how it affects metabolism and to what extent ROAs alter pharmacokinetics.
I took 150mg ******, as extended and as instant release (the latter was more pronounced). I thought an altered pharmakinetic profile might result from bypass of hepatic metabolism, so I tried 25mg insufflated and felt as if there was effect that it differed slightly from oral ROAs, but also worried that its metabolic fate is thence unknown (compare to the neurotoxic 3-CMC). What of other bupropiologues,
for example, 3-Methyl-N-tert-butyl-methcathinone? Indeed.
                        Bupropion    R,R-Hydroxybuprpn   Threo-hydrobuprpn
AUC               1                     23.8                                  11.2
Half-life         11 h                 19 h                                 31 h
IC50 (μM)
DAT               0.66                  inactive                          47 (rat)
NET               1.85                   9.9                                  16 (rat)
SERT              inactive          inactive               ­            67 (rat)
α3β4 nic         1.8                   6.5                                   14 (rat)
α4β2 nic         12                     31                                   no data
α1β1γδ nic     7.9                    7.6                                  no data

Moclobemide is a reversible inhibitor of monoamine oxidase A (RIMA), its monoamine oxidase inhibition lasts about 8–10 hours and wears off completely by 24 hours. Inhibiting the decomposition of monoamines (e.g. serotonin, norepinephrine and dopamine) increases their accumulation at an extracellular level. It tends to suppress REM sleep and so it lacks oneirogenic properties.
Feeling of well-being, less constrained by the usual anxieties; openness. Relatively unnoticeable side-effects when diet is carefully managed. Made the mistake of eating a cheese and turkey sandwich (i.e. foodstuff rich in tryptophan/tyramine), indications of serotonergicity later became apparent: feelings of overheating and flushing, slight sweating, racing thoughts and anxious discomfort. A stark reminder of Shulgin's old adage: "there is no casual experiment".
Combination with a select few tryptamines (not 5-MeO-xxT) should be safe, and synergistic (perfect for pharmahuasca); reputed to potentiate GHB. However, generally it is extremely dangerous to combine with serotonergic drugs.

From youth, not unlike the love
I received from my family, I surmised,
that extended love might be everywhere.
With artless, open arms and heart,
I embraced this simple notion.
In time, sadly this childish wish
was honed to a hard truth by maturation.

Friends and loves come
and go, fleeting in heart,
and committed soul.
Unreliably, flowing in and ebbing out,
like deep undulations of an ocean,
all too often with sneaker waves
that pull us under. Breakers pushing
our ship onto the rocks, in a sea
of shallow unfulfilled expectations.
Encounters becoming disappointment,
with too many frogs kissed.

My educated suspicion is,
beyond our family of blood kin,
Faithful canine love is the only
other "truly committed devotion"
we are likely to get.

In the end, that may well be enough.
Perspective wisdom can be a bitter lesson.

As he walked through the maze of streets from the tube station he wondered just how long it had been since he had last visited this tall red-bricked house. For so many years it had been for him a pied à terre. Those years when the care of infant children dominated his days, when coming up to London for 48 hours seemed such a relief, an escape from the daily round that small people demand. Since his first visits twenty years ago the area bristled with new enterprise. An abandoned Victorian hospital had been turned into expensive apartments; small enterprising businesses had taken over what had been residential property of the pre-war years. Looking up he was conscious of imaginative conversions of roof and loft spaces. What had seemed a wide-ranging community of ages and incomes appeared to have disappeared. Only the Middle Eastern corner shops and restaurants gave back to the area something of its former character: a place where people worked and lived.

It was a tall thin house on four floors. Two rooms at most of each floor, but of a good-size. The ground floor was her London workshop, but as always the blinds were down. In fact, he realised, he’d never been invited into her working space. Over the years she’d come to the door a few times, but like many artists and craftspeople he knew, she fiercely guarded her working space. The door to her studio was never left open as he passed through the hallway to climb the three flights of stairs to her husband’s domain. There was never a chance of the barest peek inside.

Today, she was in New York, and from outside the front door he could hear her husband descend from his fourth floor eyrie. The door was flung open and they greeted each other with the fervour of a long absence of friends. It had been a long time, really too long. Their lives had changed inexplicably. One, living almost permanently in that Italian marvel of waterways and sea-reflected light, the other, still in the drab West Yorkshire city from where their first acquaintance had begun from an email correspondence.

They had far too much to say to one another - on a hundred subjects. Of course the current project dominated, but as coffee (and a bowl of figs and mandarin oranges) was arranged, and they had moved almost immediately he arrived in the attic studio to the minimalist kitchen two floors below, questions were thrown out about partners and children, his activities, and sadly, his recent illness (the stairs had seemed much steeper than he remembered and he was a little breathless when he reached the top). As a guest he answered with a brevity that surprised him. Usually he found such questions needed roundabout answers to feel satisfactory - but he was learning to answer more directly, and being brief, suddenly thought of her and her always-direct questions. She wanted to know something, get something straight, so she asked  - straight - with no ‘going about things’ first. He wanted to get on with the business at hand, the business that preoccupied him, almost to the exclusion of everything else, for the last two days.

When they were settled in what was J’s working space ten years ago now he was immediately conscious that although the custom-made furniture had remained the Yamaha MIDI grand piano and the rack of samplers were elsewhere, along with most of the scores and books. The vast collection of CDs was still there, and so too the pictures and photographs. But there was one painting that was new to this attic room, a Cézanne. He was taken aback for a moment because it looked so like the real thing he’d seen in a museum just weeks before. He thought of the film Notting Hill when William Thacker questions the provenance of the Chagall ‘violin-playing goat’. The size of this Cézanne seemed accurate and it was placed in a similar rather ornate frame to what he knew had framed the museum original. It was placed on right-hand wall as he had entered the room, but some way from the pair of windows that ran almost the length of this studio. The view across the rooftops took in the Tower of London, a mile or so distant. If he turned the office chair in which he was sitting just slightly he could see it easily whilst still paying attention to J. The painting’s play of colours and composition compelled him to stare, as if he had never seen the painting before. But he had, and he remembered that his first sight of it had marked his memory.

He had been alone. He had arrived at the gallery just 15 minutes before it was due to close for the day.  He’d been told about this wonderful must-see octagonal room where around the walls you could view a particularly fine and comprehensive collection of Impressionist paintings. All the great artists were represented. One of Van Gogh’s many Olive Trees, two studies of domestic interiors by Vuillard, some dancing Degas, two magnificent Gaugins, a Seurat field of flowers, a Singer-Sergeant portrait, two Monets - one of a pair of haystacks in a blaze of high-summer light. He had been able to stay in that room just 10 minutes before he was politely asked to leave by an overweight attendant, but afterwards it was as if he knew the contents intimately. But of all these treasures it was Les Grands Arbres by Cézanne that had captured his imagination. He was to find it later and inevitably on the Internet and had it printed and pinned to his notice board. He consulted his own book of Cézanne’s letters and discovered it was a late work and one of several of the same scene. This version, it was said, was unfinished. He disagreed. Those unpainted patches he’d interpreted as pools of dappled light, and no expert was going to convince him otherwise! And here it was again. In an attic studio J. only frequented occasionally when necessity brought him to London.

When the coffee and fruit had been consumed it was time to eat more substantially, for he knew they would work late into the night, despite a whole day tomorrow to be given over to their discussions. J. was full of nervous energy and during the walk to a nearby Iraqi restaurant didn’t waver in his flow of conversation about the project. It was as though he knew he must eat, but no longer had the patience to take the kind of necessary break having a meal offered. His guest, his old friend, his now-being-consulted expert and former associate, was beginning to reel from the overload of ‘difficulties’ that were being put before him. In fact, he was already close to suggesting that it would be in J’s interest if, when they returned to the attic studio, they agreed to draw up an agenda for tomorrow so there could be some semblance of order to their discussions. He found himself wishing for her presence at the meal, her calm lovely smile he knew would charm J. out of his focused self and lighten the rush and tension that infused their current dialogue. But she was elsewhere, at home with her children and her own and many preoccupations, though it was easy to imagine how much, at least for a little while, she might enjoy meeting someone new, someone she’d heard much about, someone really rather exotic and (it must be said) commanding and handsome. He would probably charm her as much as he knew she would charm J.

J. was all and more beyond his guest’s thought-description. He had an intensity and a confidence that came from being in company with intense, confident and, it had to be said, very wealthy individuals. His origins, his beginnings his guest and old friend could only guess at, because they’d never discussed it. The time was probably past for such questions. But his guest had his own ideas, he surmised from a chanced remark that his roots were not amongst the affluent. He had been a free-jazz musician from Poland who’d made waves in the German jazz scene and married the daughter of an arts journalist who happened to be the wife of the CEO of a seriously significant media empire. This happy association enabled him to get off the road and devote himself to educating himself as a composer of avant-garde art music - which he desired and which he had achieved. His guest remembered J’s passion for the music of Luigi Nono (curiously, a former resident of the city in which J. now lived) and Helmut Lachenmann, then hardly known in the UK. J. was already composing, and with an infinite slowness and care that his guest marvelled at. He was painstakingly creating intricate and timbrally experimental string quartets as well as devising music for theatre and experimental film. But over the past fifteen years J. had become increasingly more obsessed with devising software from which his musical ideas might emanate. And it had been to his guest that, all that time ago, J. had turned to find a generous guide into this world of algorithms and complex mathematics, a composer himself who had already been seduced by the promise of new musical fields of possibility that desktop computer technology offered.

In so many ways, when it came to the hard edge of devising solutions to the digital generation of music, J. was now leagues ahead of his former tutor, whose skills in this area were once in the ascendant but had declined in inverse proportion to J’s, as he wished to spend more time composing and less time investigating the means through which he might compose. So the guest was acting now as a kind of Devil’s Advocate, able to ask those awkward disarming questions creative people don’t wish to hear too loudly and too often.

And so it turned out during the next few hours as J. got out some expensive cigars and brandy, which his guest, inhabiting a different body seemingly, now declined in favour of bottled water and dry biscuits. His guest, who had been up since 5.0am, finally suggested that, if he was to be any use on the morrow, bed was necessary. But when he got in amongst the Egyptian cotton sheets and the goose down duvet, sleep was impossible. He tried thinking of her, their last walk together by the sea, breakfast à deux before he left, other things that seemed beautiful and tender by turn . . . But it was no good. He wouldn’t sleep.

The house could have been as silent as the excellent double-glazing allowed. Only the windows of the attic studio next door to his bedroom were open to the night, to clear the room of the smoke of several cigars. He was conscious of that continuous flow of traffic and machine noise that he knew would only subside for a brief hour or so around 4.0am. So he went into the studio and pulled up a chair in front of the painting by Cézanne, in front of this painting of a woodland scene. There were two intertwining arboreal forms, trees of course, but their trunks and branches appeared to suggest the kind of cubist shapes he recognized from Braque. These two forms pulled the viewer towards a single slim and more distant tree backlit by sunlight of a late afternoon. There was a suggestion, in the further distance, of the shapes of the hills and mountains that had so preoccupied the artist. But in the foreground, there on the floor of this woodland glade, were all the colours of autumn set against the still greens of summer. It seemed wholly wrong, yet wholly right. It was as comforting and restful a painting as he could ever remember viewing. Even if he shut his eyes he could wander about the picture in sheer delight. And now he focused on the play of brush strokes of this painting in oils, the way the edge and border of one colour touched against another. Surprisingly, imagined sounds of this woodland scene entered his reverie - a late afternoon in a late summer not yet autumn. He was Olivier Messiaen en vacances with his perpetual notebook recording the magical birdsong in this luminous place. Here, even in this reproduction, lay the joy of entering into a painting. Jeanette Winterson’s plea to look at length at paintings, and then look again passed through his thoughts. How right that seemed. How very difficult to achieve. But that night he sat comfortably in J’s attic and let Cézanne deliver the artist’s promise of a world beyond nature, a world that is not about constant change and tension, but rests in a stillness all its own.

I need only to smirk and you’re mine
Anytime
If it’s god that you want
I have dozens in mind
Devilishly divine
Bending time like a grandeur delusional
Spine  

In a mad hatter ectoplas-mystical slime
A prismatic drug addict’s first nursery rhyme
Of accursed hearse verses of graphic design
Now to lay to rest intellect spectacles musing
Of selves glorified more than those of my choosing
To deify Destiny’s
Deathly serenity
Plentifully sending me vibrant surprises
And penning my ending in violent demises
Disguises surmised by the climate arises
Girl always there riding my similar waves
As I try to save face digging mechanized graves

But the cloud tentacles
To the depths
Drag me down
To demented ascension
Black holes in the ground
Where disciples of light
And my huntress in white
Vivify me by day
Resurrect me at night
To instruct and deduct
Reasoning in a state
Of a being supreme
Contemplating its fate

712

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.

We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity—

I.  ****** Transient

Overnight takes on new meaning
when the sun never sets and will never rise.

This time i didn’t bring words, i brought lines.

And Esmeralda danced circles around my eyes.
You gypsy ***** You.
Leading me confused,
                  with knees low and back hunched,
                                    into a labyrinth of solitude.

Embarrassed of what exactly?
i’ve barred scars more deep than scars
like profound pools of black sticky tar
that almost suffocates with its gluttony
and still You wouldn’t look away.
And now i pay a price as images intertwine
                           creating zebra patterned designs
                                             on the alcoves of my mind.
         Black, White
They contrast in spite of the connection.
         and I wear this contrast like an emblem,
                  hanging from my throat,
                           heavy on my heart.
                                    yet with the delicate touch of some
                                             slippery silvery chain…
                                                      It almost rids me of the pain.


Back turned or give me the front,
i still want either way.
A petrifying carnival of desire,
making my eyes tire of this display
and my lips itching to play,
a lilac purple tongue,
and bronze arms on the way.

You feign revolution by shutting the door in my face.

A shuddering sigh and flutter of a heart,
                           as caged ribs start to part,
                                   liberated room for more,

i’ve become an emotional *****,
lips wet with anticipation,
pulsating with a passion,
that You defined as infatuation.

And that i just couldn’t define.

-or rather-

defined as a transition in time.

****** Transients* would abstractive-ly be the best,
         but the abstract, once put to the test,
floats past concrete lines,
and creates a world of its own where, even as a stranger,
                  i feel right at home.
                                    Lioness of the abstract dome.


Razor sharp You
        sliced a tingling into the souls of my feet,
        and week after week i did nothing but smile at my own loss
        of balance.

The feminine reemerging as the phallus,
and the phallus in comfort with its feminine home.

         i patiently wait for my Special Kinder Surprise,
                                    and meanwhile,
                                             satisfy myself with imagination,
                                                    ­           to which an interpretation,
         would require the use of a million scholarly texts,
                                    which still wouldn’t attest to this degree
Of Vulgarity,
         or this degree
Of Sexuality,
         or this degree
Of Spirituality.

Like the slaughter of fowl for mythological pride;
                           You hide behind an altar,
                                    and with all the holiness i posses,
I intend to pull through and impress with Determination.
                           --and the petrifying realization—
that You are Artemis and i soon to be set upon by the hound
                                                           - choking ego to the ground.


But ****, it was worth it.

worth the,
vulnerability
worth the,
audacity
worth the,
ecstasy,
-It naturally dissolved within me.

Only to be pushed down by an incessant flipping of the door,
an incessant call to reality.

is the overnight truly Over?
      —or pray mercy and tell me its begun.

The rising Sun seems determined to puncture the fun,
And the valiant battle with Apollo seems already to have been won.



II.  ****** Ensnared
  
I’m getting tired of this ****.

A tantrum fit as if we were kids of three.
Stomping on adult realized priorities.
We wear our hair like a mask,
                  we analyze our clothes,
                           personify the persona we wish to adapt,
         and commend that same personal persona
         complimenting its research studied aura.
                                                    
--I’d rather stay in this dream forever.
  (you judged me by my hair
   yet remained unaware
   to what it masked.)

Please don’t preach to me about consideration.

The obliteration of that term in action shocks me.
Truth be told?—I’m quite Angry, and I feel used,
Yes, believe it or not, Abused.
Infiltrated and Dominated.

And I am a Leo at heart.

So to part with my throne will only be met with roars of defense;
                                                        ­       to be direct, Aggressiveness.


My interlude is met with seclusion—
         isolation to the utmost degree—
and I see that the world agrees, as I’m met
with a phone with no tone
and a power-cut of electricity,
while the world contracts visibly
and the static in the air
ensnares my fiery wrath,
and storms overhead
are weighed down with
anxiety and dread
that express themselves
in raindrops, that I lovingly
call tears.


I fear this is me at my limit---
        And I exhibit nothing but ferocious gloom.

This room which contains me is not enough,
And I will huff
And I will puff
Until the walls come down.
                  And the only sound to be heard,
                           is the numbing effect of silence.

My Rifle stands ready to be shot and plunge through that stubborn heart
of yours until it is rejected or until the reflected opinion dominates. Is it
too much to ask for a change of heart?
Empathy? Understanding?
Basic societ-ical handling?
Apparently yes.
So I detest
having to put in.

The waterworks that I display
convey nothing but submission
to your inconsideration.
                  And the devil in me crosses her fingers
                  for experience by example,
                  as elephants trample over logic
                  and the symbolic is simply symbolic.
                                             That’s too much reason for my taste.
                                             And I see that it was a waste
                                             Trying to impress with determination.

****** Ensnared has denied a nation of people their feelings,
                  listening, with unappealing resolution
                  satisfying herself with this conclusion:
                  “Let them eat Cake.”


--It’s true.
You can’t have your cake and eat it too.



III. ****** Verbalize

On a park bench it took me quite by surprise,
my eyes met with scripture
recognizable though not to my hand,
the band on my finger tightened and
yet the anger seized.
         -- How could I not have surmised ****** Verbalize to enlighten me?--


“Your Majesty;
         I owe you My Apology-
                  And I couldn’t be sorrier for my selfish self
                  has decided to rest after this long period.

For She was too busy
trying to make you feel safe and home
--She was too busy trying to suppress her ****** up
whipped cream so that you can have you cake and eat it too—
But She failed.

        You believe ****** is selfish,
then I’m afraid you never knew ******.
                  --****** loved you with wide arms open and she
                  Was pleased to meet you.

She hopes it was a useful transition for You.

.THE END.
The ******”

there was once a man who lived
in burnt rocky hills
village farmer frail and tilt
humble down to strips

and one day his wife fell sick
he took her in his hands
but in path for miles thick
one huge hill did stand

he knew but closest path to town
would take whole day on foot
if it weren't this hill around
get there sooner he could

even though he tried his best
kept his faith alive
yet he failed the time's test
could not save his wife

abruptly in his mind
did one thought arise
through conflicting reasons
to himself he surmised

"there'll always be dreams to live
tears to wipe, things to moan
to witness coiling stillness give
reason to your lonesome tone"

with this thought himself he backed
and let go of his fears
whom neither Gods could distract
he faced the mountain near

a modest hammer in hand
not for once dismayed
unfazed by its candid stand
he stood not once afraid

"for he was just some lunatic
who sold his goats for a chisel
for no man can do such trick
surely its all such drivel"

inch by inch he chipped away
just one stroke a time
when scorching sun endowed the day
heat fueled up his mind

seasons came and seasons went
men who mocked him too
turned to dust who crossed his way
yet he went going through

long before his life would cease
two decades marked his trial
all in sweat on forehead crease
and scratched on time's dial

and then arrived this moment
it surely had to come
for in pools of anguish spent
lilies of faith bear from

speak your will and do your speak
says the farmer's life
say you're strong when you feel weak
marching through your strife

for no paths does life forbid
it takes no account
keep on moving as he did
man who moved the mount

He lived down the street from us,
And came to be known as,
The man whose wife left him.
We speculated and surmised.
None but two knew the reason why
He became
The man whose wife left him.

He stopped cutting the grass
And weeding the beds.
He won’t play his uke
On the porch like he did.
From all accounts,
He was a good Dad,
None ever heard him
Explete a foul word.
He worked till retired,
Never was fired.
I'm told he lived a gentle life;
Never started a fight,
Or ran from strife.
That's what I heard
About the man whose wife left him.
Left to his own devices,
The man whose wife left him,
Left.

In the 2nd grade
a puppy love
crush on the
teacher steeped
deep in me

to my delight
her clear eyes
recognized the
promise of a
chubby boy
in all of his
quaint simplicity

her gentle
voice, friendly
and firm, filled
with caring instruction

the giddy class
attuned to her fresh
brunette bouffant, bunned
and perfectly coiffed,
speaking style and
youthful whimsy,
not a strand of hair
out of place

her svelte figure
flowed through
classroom isles
filling the space
with scented graces
of prescient carnations

that afternoon she
was abruptly called
from the class

when she returned
our beautiful princess
was sobbing

she concealed her face
then turned her back
on the class, crying
in a corner to dismayed
blushing blackboards

regaining composure
she turned
exposing her tear
stained cheeks
and dissheveled hair
to an unsettled class

“the President
hurt his back” she
announced.  “He’s
in the hospital.”

Whoa… I thought,
the President hurt
his back.  That's
terrible I surmised.

our beloved teacher
dismissed us
and resumed her
tearful grief

when I arrived home
my mother was
sitting on the bed
weeping.  “President
Kennedy is dead”
she blared.

my mother’s rumpled
housecoat and
tousled hair flattered
her flowing tears and
anguished sobs.

the tears of women
marked the end
of many puppy loves that day


Bob Marley & The Wailers
No Woman No Cry

Oakland
10/15/13
jbm

“We are all actors in an idiots play A tale of sound and fury,
meaning naught. Yet who would care to be a wise man's pawn
Where every twist of fate is well deserved And where a single flaw
could ruin lives? Far better to be in a madman's mind At least for
those (and are we all not so?) Whom fate has smiled on more than
we deserve If life were fair, earth would be hell indeed.”

“Macbeth” William Shakespeare.


From out of the darkness I can see an ever increasing
glow. Intensifying with luminosity as it gets closer and closer.
The blinding eye of fate is upon me. I am thrown with
tremendous vigour. Into where? I have no idea! Surrounded now,
by the blackest of blacks. I can only liken it to a bubble in a pool
of crude that flows wherever the black tide takes me. All I have is
the familiar company of my own voice. A continual narration that
one could expect from a television documentary. The life and
death situ of Michael Simon Jones, filmed in black surround
vision. It reminds me of oh so many nights, when all I wanted to
do is sleep. My mind just wants to stay awake, spouting that
continuous torturous soundtrack into the early hours of the
morning.

Through the darkness a piercing light, coming to me and
then gone, to me then gone. Do I dream? Perhaps of the high
seas. I picture a large tower, It protrudes out of a vast nothing.
The only safe path to steer by is a beam of light, cast down upon
me, from up high. Its beam Revolves continually around, a never
sleeping sun. A light that prevents many flimsy craft, from
grounding onto the craggy rocks that are hidden in the darkness
of the stormy oceanic swells, that roar below.

Again the quiet is shattered, am I not to be allowed to
sleep.
It can only be a dream, for through my bleary eyes I see a figure
of a man, sporting a bright yellow helmet. He seems to be
holding a huge lobsters claw, it is chewing its way through shards
of steel that seem to imprison me. His mouth moving, but I hear
nothing. I half expect to see subtitles appear below him, like an
old Buster Keaton movie. Then he is gone and once more I drift
into that blackened void.

Now a shadowy figure appears. Bending over me his hands
are holding something over my face. I think I can feel myself
struggling against his advances. He is too strong, I can’t breathe,
is he is killing me?

What sort of nightmare is this? Flat on my back in the
darkness, I am gliding speedily along the ground. Intermittent
lights flash past my closed eyes. I recall the deep red on-off glow
of the light, diffused by the blood that rushes through my closed
lids. Can somebody turn the ******* light off, I’m trying to sleep.

Gaaaaa………… I am blinded by the worlds brightest
light! Where am I? The light subsides and I can see, but nothing
is clear. It is like looking through a frosty glass window. There is
movement below me and the bleeding blurs of colours finally
evolve into recognition. What is this? What’s going on down
there?

Rather, what the hell is going on up here? How did I get up here?
I am suspended in mid air. Look I can move my legs. Holy Mary
mother of God, I’m naked! Naked and floating around what looks
to be a hospital operating theatre. Hovering above several
gowned professionals in the toil of their labour.

A naked satellite orbiting above the planet NHS.

Now tell me if there is something wrong with this scenario, but
this is totally not normal is it? I just hope I don’t need to have a
****. I believe that there can only be two possible answers for my
predicament. First is that I am in fact having one totally out of
my head dream.

Second, that I am experiencing some sort of out of body
experience. If that is so, then I can only assume, that the person
lying on that operating table, somewhere under the mass of green
hat and gowns spread eagled on that table below, is me! If only
that fat doctor would move his head out of the way.
Bah! Only so another head can immediately take its place. I think
I now know how a ****** feels when he cant get a clear shot. Oh!
Hang on a second, the assassination can go ahead. I can see!
No that don’t help, I can’t tell who the guy is, he has a mask
covering most of his face and more tubes coming out of him than
a Scottish pipe band. Oh my God! Who else do you know with
that tattoo? I should of known that an indelible red cartoon of the
devil would not be the luckiest thing to have etched into my skin.
I wish now that I’d gone for the Sacred Heart. That might have
been the healthier option and may just of tipped the scales in my
favour. I can’t really see Saint Peter letting me through those
pearly gates with a picture of Beelzebub brandished for all and
sundry to see. Oh ****! That’s me okay, and from this position I
don’t look at all in a healthy state. Can a spirit or whatever I am,
throw up?

But how did I get here? I can’t remember anything that could of
led to this. I do remember going to bed last night, I had an early
night, don’t know why though cause I never get to sleep before
4am. Its a bit laughable I suppose, an Insomniac reading a book
called Insomnia. Perhaps a novel called sleeping tablet would be
more apt?

Unless of course…………… If I can’t remember anything since I
went to sleep then perhaps it’s because I’m still asleep and that
this is merely a dream. That makes more sense, doesn’t it? What’s
happening down there? Something doesn’t look right, things
seem very intense. If only I could make out what they were
saying, everything is silent.

“Hello! What is happening down there? Hello! Hello! Can you
hear me?”

They can’t hear me, no, of course they can’t but why can’t I hear
them? What if this is no dream? What if I am really dying on that
table down there? I can’t make out what they are doing to me but
it doesn’t look good.

There’s a lot of blood.

I wish I had taken more notice when ER was being aired on
television. The only thing I know for sure is, that is a scalpel the
surgeon is holding. The guy at the head of the table should be the
anaesthetist? the woman to the left whom looks like a nurse and
is passing the instruments, is a nurse. But the others I don’t have
a clue.

If only I could hear what they were saying. ****. This is a
nightmare, I can’t believe this. I can see them, why can’t they see
me? Oh please God let them hear me.

“I’m up here, listen to me you death ******* I’m up here.”

So close yet so far away. This can’t be real, this can’t be
happening, not to me. I’ve, never done anyone harm, I've worked
hard all my life. Always been a popular guy, never had a problem
mixing with people. What’s that the nurse is pushing around on
the trolley. I think its one of those crash box things. That’s it, a
defibrillator! *******! I don't think I'm breathing. Look at the
screen, I’ve seen enough movies to know that the green line
should not be one continuous solid.

Oh no, I’ve flat lined! I’m dead! Oh God no, not like this. Looks
like they are going to try and defib me. Here they go.

BAM!

Oh no, the line is still flat. They’re going at it again.

BAM!

****! Still nothing. What they doing now? No don’t stop!
What are they talking about? What have you got to discuss? Just
get on with it, this isn’t a ******* seminar. I’m dying down there.
Just crank that hunk of scrap iron up and send some volts through
me. God, I sound like ******* “Frankenstein,”

That’s it, he’s greasing up the connectors, here we go, here we
go.

_When I came back to the real world I had been in the land
of Coma-City for almost three months and for all of that time it
had been touch and go. It was later explained to me that I had
been involved in a RTA.

It had been surmised that due to my sleeping disorder I had fallen
asleep at the wheel of my car (A classic American 1950’s plated
Cadillac) and had veered into the oncoming traffic. Hitting at
least one vehicle and careering off road and down an
embankment. Finally coming to rest three parts of the way
through a brick built structure, this in turn supported a steel
constructed dome. Used as a point for ramblers trekking high
above Sheermont Cove and offering excellent views across the
horizon and out to sea. An ideal location in particular for budding
photographers to shoot the best possible images of Sheermont
Bay Lighthouse. The Caddie precariously balanced with its long
bonnet hanging over the edge of the cliff top.

In fact I believe that it was the domes heavy steel frame that
secured my fate. The brick walls now demolished beyond
recognition caused the now unsuspended dome to fall onto the
roof of my vehicle. Pinning it solidly to the spot, it crushed the
roof in on top of me, also saving me from plunging to the depths
below and almost certain death. I was trapped under the structure
for almost six hours. I remember very little of the ordeal as I
tripped in and out of consciousness. My rescuers had to cut me
out of the vehicle, with a tool commonly referred to as the Jaws
of Life and I was flown to hospital by air ambulance.

And here I am to tell the tale. But!

Did this metallic redeemer smile on me that fateful night? Saving
me from that almost certain death, on the rocks below Sheermont
Cove?

I think not.

The Dome. It saved my life I know this but the price I would
have to pay was far to high a toll. As I spend the rest of my days
drinking my food through the proverbial straw with only my own
mindful narration forever keeping me company.

I pray to die.

The cloud settles over the moor.
Scottish peaks and thistle
darkened to shadow;
voids within voids.

A sheet, a film
of papyrus copper
plays reality.
It approaches the single paned window,
the abandoned outhouse.

It is deserted here;
one-and-a-half living souls
‘cross the entire landscape.

The story is in the air,
the tension toiling my innards,
scaling my arms to gooseflesh
and my mind to trepidation.

She’s here.

She is here and at the window.

Please, I hope, please
let it be a billowing of plastic
caught in the wind, movements
stifled by a telegraph pole
or some other cursed sign of company.

Occluding mass, she hesitates
by the window, I daren’t look,
but she is there all the same,
wailing achingly silent for reprieve.

I know why she is here.
I see it:

Thick rope. Crude, unrelenting knots,
I feel them press, cut with friction
into my wrists, twine like snakes,
devoiding me of life

one eternal day after another.
He prowls the door from time to time,
I fear it but it’s all that I have
save for the songs of the Tree Sparrows
that warm the winter.

He comes in to shed light to the room,
brings bread and milk, sometimes fruit.
More often than not he brings just himself,
presses me to the cold floor,

tries to make me feel something real,
demands my artificial praise.
He climaxes quickly, fills me with life, he says,
clutches my ***** hair, wracked with lice
and pregnant with the renewed hope

of his mercy.

None coming, I’m returned to my holster,
a stool upon an opened barrel,
I leave my messes behind,
the stench rising between my legs

and surrounding my senses,
until all of my life is nothing more
than excrement. Recycled, lived once
and then forevermore.

I live in my mind. Only the single-paned
window in this outhouse
offering an alternative;
most usually slate grey skies
and a barrage of hail upon the tin roof.

Outside of the window, I know
that life is something else. No books,
no words, no love, no music;
yet the weak Scottish light still
pierces the glass,

light always finds a way.

And then one day or one passage of time,
it matters not,
my hero, my villain, my father,
came to me no more.

I rejoiced. I rejoiced in my starvation,
the waste of my muscle,
the overflow of the toilet bowl,
skin reddened and bruised and eaten.

No one would come, if indeed there was anyone at all,
I knew that.

So I waited for death,
as death had waited for me.
We greeted each other as friends,
archaic pen-pals, acquainted at last,

I embraced his touch,
felt more life in death than life
had ever cared to bestow.

I kissed death on the lips,
told him of my long-sought desire for him.
He turned, a glint of silver,

and I found myself
on the other side of the single paned window.

Looking in, I saw only my regret.
The stool, the barrel, the waste
that had strewn the floor,
had surmised my life.

It was a sight unfit to un-see,
and so I stood in my perfect sanctuary,
never turned to look and face the light,
and instead stayed only to lament.

And so now I look into the old outhouse,
decades of decay improve its sight.
Old moss gathers over the fingernail marks
that I had carved so desperately
into the flooring.

Forevermore I stare upon my regrets,
forevermore I opaque myself
in half-existent smoke,
tapping on the window.

Upon this I look, a deep plunge of horror;
my heart freezes in frame,
upon a young woman’s face,
no more than fourteen years.

It is locked in a scream, a sense of despair,
eternal and rite, forever in shame.
A life lived in terror, naught but a tirade
of brutish **** and desperate privation.

We lock eyes for a moment,
enough proof thus,
that there is life beyond misery,
if one cares to look.

Content, with a tinge of love,
I repent
All I've given up.
Realize what I've surmised
Is a traversed trial of fire.

Higher, higher;
The atmosphere you admire:
Lighter breathing,
Muscles beating,
Entreating my desire.

A pyre,
The phoenix feeling renaissance:
The lover's having ---
Once the want to be satisfied ---
Which was, while shattered, reconciled ---
Compiled a mile-long list
To mist the ever-flowering tree
Of prospect,
Respecting past
Opinion.

Your dominion over my
Ever-subjugating heart
(Pulsating a Morse message)
Belittles meaning in
Stockholm Syndrome,
For I am no
Shackled drone;
And, forever,
This you've known.

We are symbiotic.
We are psychotic.
Celeritous symbols
Sampling this:
Extended metaphor.

Extempore, we entertain and
Adore each other,
The world we are to each.
So: teach me how you look
With beseeching reach
Into deep territory in sleep;
Incept directly
And affect me
Romantically.

Augment what is meant and true.

as i approach 50 I think
how did this happen...me getting old I mean.
I know the alternative is not that appealing...
but perhaps a granting of my own personal groundhog day is a worthy wish....it doesn't matter which.
I could craft most any day of my life into something spectacular!
Is that wisdom?
After almost half a century, I've surmised to be suspended in time the best I could ask for? well maybe, perhaps then I could amend all my imperfections... reform all the mistakes I've made and re-emerge a better man...
just now it occurs to me...this could be my groundhog moment...the epiphany that the next 50 years brings me living a life well thought... more compassionate, more open, more giving, more alive!
....more likely, just more use of adult diapers...

Once upon a time, there lived a lady Gem
When she cleared her throat, she went ahem, ahem!
not to take anything cold, so was she advised
but she didn't care as much her doctor did; so I surmised

The aroma ran sweet when she started to cook
Her tasty muffins' recipes could easily fill a book
Her friends who ate them wouldn't just stop with one
And in the end, she would normally be left with none

When it came to work, she was conscientious
And in all that she did, she was fastidious
Though sometimes one could say, her mood was capricious
In all that she did and said, she was simply courageous

She had a large heart, and it was not just with food
In every one's life that she crossed paths, she blessed them with good!
Anyone who asked for help, would never be told no
She was one of the kindest souls one could ever get to know!

Machiavelli spoke of prophets, and surmised that it is only those prophets armed by something that have seen their message spread.

Arm me then, arm me with your nightmares and your suffering and your nights filled with wailing at the sky.

Arm me with the anorexic teenage girls, with the empty eyes of the hobo at the liquor store, with the broken hopes of a *******.

Give me your shame at the mirror's lies, give me your self-inflicted scars, give me that loathing for yourself.

Give me that need for one more shot, give me that hopelessness after ***, give me the knowledge that Mom is never coming back.

Clothe me with the skins of a hundred thousand suicide victims, pour over me the tears of a million hungry souls, burn me with the fire of ten million hearts broken under the heel of a dying world.

Do these things, and you will see me become what you've been trying to turn me into all these years.

On the dusty slopes where there's still cowpokes, where there's yet more sky than land,
In the Big Sky State, back in thirty-eight, they were hiring at Fort Peck Dam.

In the open skies where I get my highs, past the spill-way and the fort,
A small town looms where there's more saloons than a feller like me could sport.

Came a Texan bloke who was almost broke (and I'll tell you right now, it was I).
I was looking for work, something of my sort, but I'd take any job to get by.

At a cowpoke's inn where I wet my chin, and while standing at the bar,
I watched a girl who could dance and whirl to the tunes of a wrangler's guitar.

Every eye in the bar watched her jiggle and jar, not a one who wouldn't make her his own.
But, in spite of her shaking, I could see she was taken by a gent who sat back all alone.

And I saw in his face that he felt disgrace, Saw the jealousy seethe in his eyes.
Though he sat in disdain, and he never complained, his displeasure was easily surmised.

In a place where legends and tales abound, where circumstance rules the day,
Shaping men's schemes and frustrating their dreams, Till their willpower has no sway.

Where fate may run contrary to plan, frustrating our deepest desire.
It has often been shown that the life of a man can be changed when his soul's set afire.

I can only tell what I know is true , what I saw with my very own eyes.
But the man, alone in the back of the room, had a murderous look in his eyes.

I left the bar and went up to my room; tomorrow I'd be working for sure.
And the music still played, but the blare and the din didn't keep me from sleeping till four.

The morning came fast, and now working, at last, (for they'd hired me to work on the dam).
I worked and I toiled and I know my blood boiled pouring concrete for old Uncle Sam.

I gave no thought at all of the evening before; soon the whistle blew, ending my day.
And a drink with the crew seemed the right thing to do. I still had a few bucks I could pay.

At a bar back in town where we all bought a round The gossips were whispering a tale.
It seems like the girl, who knew how to whirl, was being held down at the jail.

A body was found under two feet of ground in a newly dug patch of her lawn.
And no one was missed from the residents list but her husband, nowhere to be found.

The body was new, but was nothing to view. It was burned beyond recognition.
Folks came forward to tell of a marriage from hell, of suspicions and speculation.

They had argued and fought over things she had bought. Some said he had threatened to leave her.
And a weapon was found laying there on the ground. He'd been slain with her brand new meat cleaver.

It was open and shut, they'd arrested her ****. and there weren't any clues to redeem her.
The gossip was keen and vicious and mean. Every woman in town would demean her.

Then a telegram came and I got on a train to a Texas town on the divide.
Where my father, quite ill, was having a spell and I wanted to be by his side.

I was well out of town when I happened to hear a railroad detective named Sam
Tell a story, quite odd, of a hobo he thought was asleep, by the track near the dam.

He had gone off to chase the *** from his place and had tossed a road flare on his bed.
But he fell to surprise when the *** failed to rise; and approaching, he found him quite dead.

He left him to burn so the next one would learn that "Old Sam was the king of this road."
But when he went back there was nothing but track, not a sign of the *** or his load.

Then I had an idea, for it made me recall what I'd seen that first night at the inn.
In the look on the face of a fellow disgraced, who had now vanished into the wind.

Had he buried that *** and planted some clues, then departed on this same train?
Sent his wife off to jail and covered his trail-- to start his life over again?

The poignance of a well lit room
overshadowed by impending doom
the effervescence loom
the smoke screen hues
lyrical debauchery of the cacophony of the bees
the monotony of human bee-ings
the trees sway unrest
the roots melt with soot
the oaks bent their heads
raise a white smoke flag in silent victory,
Where are we lifeless or livid again ?
Are we questioning dreams of ourselves?

These veins **** as a toad hops,
onto the gravel of a broken pavement
from a shallow pool of naked warmth,
somewhere deep hidden under these falls,
a white sleeve of corporate piety;
human mirth of bilious greenery,
crackling like bones,
the froth of jealousy pools
as teary eyes roll over
rapid.eye.movement sleep,
it lurks behind crimson bushes,
eyes glinting like headlights,
glitter fury.

You’re an abomination to every blood-poem
I’ve surmised so far, no matter how far.
Your eyes match the size and shade
of my backyard moon orchards.
A satiable reflection of what we used to be,
In a spectrum of green.
I cease to be.

They exiled him from their loveless land
for willingly breaking its rule again and again,
he was asked to **** love, once and for all
love that moves as silent waves of the sea,
never ceases to move, within the depth of his heart.
He was chained and treated like an outcast,
how could a loveless world understand,
the meaning of his passion, that binds him with hers.
He was out of his mind they surmised
never could they imagine they were the ones insane.
Every morning a grubby voice will ask him:
"Do you still hear the music of love the waves play?"
he was calm and said"I am yet another one, like Prometheus,
this is my fire, I stole it for me, her and all  other lovers,
your heartless world can never ****** it from me,
not till the moment my soul departs my body"

Thirteen steps in, nine steps right.
Un, deux, trois.

Follow the flow, dear. Don't lose faith. There we go.
Have you been practicing? It's much better than the last, much better. Yes, I know. It's too soon, isn't it? Keep practicing, though. Get the jumps right, dear, you do, ah, tangle those up, don't you?

****. He won't like the jumps then.

She quietly swore as Madame left the room. It would be minutes now (and it seemed like less) that she would feel his hands snaking around the arch of her spine, his emotionless voice softly murmuring 'A little right, you've got it. It's never too difficult for you.'
Effortlessly smiling. Surveying the smooth movements in her limbs his labor translated to.

Stop it. What was the point. He was gone before he even..oh, what the ****. It didn't matter.

And she gave up trying to resist his memory, because it was like smoke inside her head, clouding up her survival instincts and filling her with the warm drowsiness of his caress. With his breath on her shoulder and the faint scent of mint and depression that hung around him. She used to tell him that he would smell like hospitals and he would grin (not those idiotically crooked grins the boys in her other class would throw at her, but a proper, ridiculously wide grin that made him look fumbling and slightly simple and made her feel something special) and he'd tell her the story about the first time he broke his shin and he'd stayed for three days in a hospital room that had no ceiling, and it was the most incredible thing ever, because you could see the stars.

'Stargazing', he would tell her, 'is a bit like looking into the past and the future all at once. Light takes such a long time to reach Earth that the light that reaches us from, say, Deneb, which is one thousand four hundred and twenty five light years away, is exactly that many years old. One thousand four hundred and twenty five years old. And you can see the light now and your three year old cousin will see it when he grows up and life forms from other galaxies will see it a million years from now and you can never,never stop that light even though the star itself will one day explode and collapse itself into negative space. But the light, until it is seen by somebody, anybody, until it forms an image on someone's retinas, will stay alone in the universe forever.
Beautiful, forever.'

Or for at least one thousand four hundred and twenty five years.

He was a lot like his stars, she surmised. His after-image seemed brighter than him, enough to burn your eyes and leave your throat parched and make your heart start aching.
But the boy himself was full of ****.

It's sad how everyone says 'he was' now. Not is. Was. Past tense, like they couldn't see his light still running up his ******* one thousand however many years. Like the negative space he occupied wasn't ******* burning up the sky with its brightness.

Or maybe he was a black hole, mercilessly engulfing light into its emptiness, spitting it out into another dimension where only she existed. Where the light was only for her and was invisible to the rest.

Or maybe he was just plain gone.



She hated believing in death. As she danced to Prokofiev she thought about how much she hated believing in death but now she had to because she couldn't feel his presence, and there was this little hole gnawing at her going 'gonegonegonegone' because he was dead and she was dancing and she wanted to stop the unfairness of it all because he was always the better dancer. He was always the better everything.

His voice faded in her head and his arm slipped away. She wanted to turn and say 'No, no stay. Don't go, please love, staystaystay.'

She didn't.
She didn't say it.

So maybe it was good that he was dead to everyone else and dying to her because she liked the idea of him slipping away and her head being occupied by her own thoughts. So she just kept dancing because *******, that's what I loved doing before you came along. And she pliéd and battement glissé dégagéd into position, two steps forward, one step right, finale chassé
and
then
allegro cabriole.

The feeling of flying. Her legs crossing and extending in mid-air. Her muscles screamed in pain and her face broke into a smile.

And her feet hit the glossed wooden floor. En croix.
A sickening crack. Her feet gave way.

But she was smiling.


From the window, Madame watched and thanked her son's ghost for finally letting go.
As the final bars of Prokofiev's coda emptied its lucid notes into the rattling vacuum of the city's pandemonium outside, she contemplated going in and helping the girl,
but.

This
      was
  her
        fight.

And what doesn't **** you.
   Makes you wish
it
*did.

I found your letter today, and I went to the woods to read it.
Autumn robbed me of solitude in the tree-cover,
The wind eventually would chase me from the fire-pit.
That broke, then the snow fell accordingly, seasonally.
The solitude returned in the white and cold,
chased everyone else away, to drink and dance in their homes.
I bought my first overcoat before I caught my flight back,
a woolen grey to hide dirt I’d sit on to hide the tag.
In it the inner, right-breast pocket, I held you’re letter.
I remember its first reading in my room, on the coffee table,
taping the scissored quotes from the envelope to my mirror.
I have yet to do anything out of fear. That, I recall I laughed at.

You’d be the reason I move back west,
you’d be the reason I go backwoods,
go suspend myself between roadways.
Albeit, though, despite & regardless,
was my thrill for fear made me wanna talk,
***** the desk drawer for my metal box,
savage my skin on the lonely walk.
If fear is as atomical as you say,
a lie on the tongue of every cell,
then, I could, if you’ll say, meet
every mote as it falls—
put my hand out to see
my first snowflakes.
they are not like this,
they are not like this at all,
so crystalline, back west.

Was fear that hid me this summer from you—
true, I used to fear the way you’d kiss me.
On the dock of the lake drinking wine, I told
that I was terrified then, then retracted,
said I was discomforted by myself.
Back then, way back when, ha,
feelings came thence beyond me
like the King of Pointland dethroned—
“What It thinks, that It utters;
and what It utters, that It hears…”—
myself was suddenly not mine,
I moved unprovoked and unprovoking,
finding myself in my bed
then on the porch smoking,
later then, sitting in your café,
later still, giving you my poetry,
but then, the levees break
and I wake in bed alone and
you’re on the floor in a heap
or, worse, gone soundlessly.
And here I find myself full-suited
in the mess of snow storm,
your letter in hand.

Trip tip-toe step walk into snow; a depth unknown;
trying to light the dark spirit eagle cigarette.
I find a tent in the wilderness and pitch it.
I spend two hours in there, wet, watching snow
build up until the roof gently pushes me out.
I still don’t know if I can read it.
It is only a rereading, but it’s weighty, regardless.
I emerge from the woods to the hill overlooking my life,
embanked by a line of pine. I stop here, relight myself.
The ash blends with the snowflakes
and the snowflakes melt when they touch the paper.
Have you loved? God, it’s an assurance I want.
Really, though, could I doubt it? if it is
only my love that I deem insufficient
to recquit the typed affection before me.
I kneel and read further.

To my surprise a golden-furred dog ran up to me.
He licked me, he smelled your letter, he smiled
and asked me to pet him and to not despair.
Leave it to an animal, beast in the snow
to so recognize, too, significance.
“How do I feel?” The beast frowned,
nothing hurts more than being asked
what you mean.
I got up and left when the owner’s whistle
called him away from me.

Walking back I found that I was missing a glove.
I looked behind me and I saw –against, -down the hill
the left-hand black-leathered eyelash in my tracks.
It was the same hand that you dropped from the dock
into the water this Christmas which I fished out and
fought off your apologies with. How I loved you then.

Then I must re-emerge onto the surrounding fields
and am hit with the wind that I hid from so well
in tree-cover. Then I must grapple with the life
I only half-cherish. Must think in sentences
and hyphenated-words—and dashes! ****** them.
Then, then, then! What happens next! eh?
In the steam tunnels with Carter, smoking, I said,
“I am ruled by fear. Even now I’m palpitant.”
I wrote, in the movie theater, whiskey in the soda cup,
“I am addicted fear, or so I have surmised.”
Hush, hush, hush!

If I fear I cannot love, I know that much.
If I love, as I believe I do, then I am only in denial.
True, small enough to see pure perfection, molecular.
Like the snowflakes back home which, too, are crystalline.
But it’s not visible to the naked eye, thus inconceivable,
given you’ll probably forget it. So it is dead to me.
No, God's not dead he's just not that kind of guy.
Brr, the decisive breeze. Well, then.

And with that wound to the heart born of cruel enlightenment -
I am affected, and afflicted, to find that He has finally decided to love another.

Who might She be, so superior to me?
How beautiful, Ethereal, Godly must she appear to Him?
Whom could never suffice to provide,
how lowly then am I?

I surmised as engaged that which was nothing but courteous exchange.
His pity shed for foolish me, anguished for His affections,
I was so simple and narcissistic, to imagine any potential ever living.

With that, I am crushed by the weight of a deserved but savage modesty.
How insignificant to His life, diminutive, unworthy must I be?
The sinister sentiment - that He has chosen not only not me, but She - devours all sureness of self and all of my esteem.

Spiteful as I am, I will deny Him tears.
I will cease gratifying such an immense ego and perchance depart with some pieces of dignity.
It is so hard, despite it so long since His immensity last gratified me.

He will never realize the plague on me He's infected,
Never witness the wounds on me He's inflicted,
Never recognize the hopeful heart He's afflicted.

After all this time, perhaps I've accepted that when I come back to You I meet Defeat.
This time, instead, perhaps I take what's left of myself and leave.
Perhaps, I beg, perhaps...
We'll see.

I was the queen in quest of your dreaming teens  
You were in race to trace my grace of beaming beauty
Your shower of love was to catch my fragrant flower
Life was like amusing laser show for a major glow

A fresh breeze of life I felt in your lifelong lease of love
Your fast love at first sight was forthright, I saw it so
Your love was on a broadband channel, I surmised,
On high frequency at matching wave length you promised

Love was in fairy air you craved, cared n’ carried thru’
I molded to your mauls, for I rejoiced your choice  
I was mild and yielding as you stepped up wielding
Rendered and surrendered to your shabby game of love
You left the fruit of your lust in my lap in a decade’s gap.

Embroiled in undue deal, you now embraced
Unhealthy wealth than wealthy health
Lavish lust, peevish love and selfish life
Lo, love is to collate not to collide n’ collapse
I feel sad when our lad says my dad is bad

My love was one popped up from heart
Your love pepped up from crazy corner
The kid is keen to pick up your kiss
Welcome to hold me to your fold, don’t miss

All I need is your towering love
Not your quivering ivory tower.
All I wish you is not to rewind
Your tampered tape on kin akin

And with that wound to the heart born of cruel enlightenment -
I am affected, and afflicted, to find that He has finally decided to love another.

Who might She be, so superior to me?
How beautiful, Ethereal, Godly must she appear to Him?
Whom could never suffice to provide,
how lowly then am I?

I surmised as engaged that which was nothing but courteous exchange.
His pity shed for foolish me, anguished for His affections,
I was so simple and narcissistic, to imagine any potential ever living.

With that, I am crushed by the weight of a deserved but savage modesty.
How insignificant to His life, diminutive, unworthy must I be?
The sinister sentiment - that He has chosen not only not me, but She - devours all sureness of self and all of my esteem.

Spiteful as I am, I will deny Him tears.
I will cease gratifying such an immense ego and perchance depart with some pieces of dignity.
It is so hard, despite it so long since His immensity last gratified me.

He will never realize the plague on me He's infected,
Never witness the wounds on me He's inflicted,
Never recognize the hopeful heart He's afflicted.

After all this time, perhaps I've accepted that when I come back to You I meet Defeat.
This time, instead, perhaps I take what's left of myself and leave.
Perhaps, I beg, perhaps...
We'll see.

Frost spoke,
of ice, and fire
in apocalyptic prose
proffering different opinions
of the earth’s demise
if it be fire,
he surmised it was because of the ire
of raging hearts and unfulfilled desire
not of splitting atoms and infinite fire
if it be ice
he said that too would suffice
for frozen hearts do not feel the pain
of millions starving on the blighted plain
funny, ice has shrunk since Frost’s time
but few would argue we are more sublime
for denial and avarice are alive and well
and whether fire or ice, it can still be hell

I want to see ol’ Warren’s face
When I claim the Billion prize.
When my perfect bracket
takes the cash,
Buffett’s sure to be surprised.
The odds were set against me
much higher than  surmised.
Like making sixty free throws
in only fifty tries.
I’d have a better chance,
They said, to date a super model.
The sort of girl I never get
And google just to ogle.
I bet with Buffet’s cash on hand
I’ll attract their sighs,
Kate and Emmy will cat fight
to be first in my eyes.

So I got caught up in life like so many other stiffs.
So I work two jobs. So I'm
twenty-three. Halfway dead, quarter-way dead -
Percentages and figures surmised by a
fictional statistician in some far off laboratory
wearing a handsome tweed sweater
despite the heat, helping to contain his
paunch.

So doctors have told me beer will **** me.
So they advise that I not indulge in any illegal
substances. We do not debate the validity of law. The
role of fear in today's culture. Hysteria. So I'm on antidepressants.
So I'm a candidate for pharmaceuticals. So I drink when
I can, which is just about every day. So I had a problem in
the past, so I spent a month locked away. So I'm not taking
a class. So I'm just about white. So I share a room with Phil
and a house with five other young men. So I had *** with
a girl I pretty much just met. So my drugs are right next to my bed.
So my *****'s *****. So I'm a brother and a son.

So I'm my own man.

Your dismal looking is to see me
But your frowning look
Like a vaulted dome
Why it rises up?
Deliberately keeps
Your lustrous eyes
Not to meet mine.
Because it carries
The untold stories
Of inner selfsame hearts.
Livid with rage of love
Yet a lingering look
I surmised that
You might have been
Wistfully unanswered.

Late last night I had a date with Death
And she wore a corsage of my last breath
Around her wrist and
I dressed to impress
Half-heartedly desperate to look my best...
I wore a sweater-vest

With a spoon, I slit my throat
And pulled my tongue through the narrow hole
I figured I was getting dressed to die
So I wore a cuban neck tie

I picked her up at eight
On the street parallel to the eastern gate
Of a golf course adjacent to cemetery trees
... Seemed about right to me.

We strolled through the evergreens
And a thorny briar of trees
Silently chewing on epitaffy

I was unsurprised that there was a plot
I had not surmised
And when we found ourselves raising hell
I checked my watch for the time

I walked her home along the shores
Of a river called Styx
With a gondolier called Charon.
And despite his non-speaking tone,
It was nice.

We walked to a house made of brimstone and bricks
I found myself standing at Death's door
and peered inside expecting fire
But instead the fireplace was roasting goat hide

I smiled
And I leaned in for a kiss
Instead of a kiss, all she gave me is...
A pat on the shoulder
And said we could still be friends
After all, we'd be together in
The End

And the bell tolled in
  ascertained moments,
    as the moon
      rounded gold dust,
   surrendering
             ashes to infinity*

there are no last chances
       in surmised sunrises

Coenesthesia replicates and assimilates the pataphysical constellations that constitute the bulk of the perceptible but, because of a strained echopraxia that adheres to aleatory mathesis, the subconscious imprint of permutations of an integrated reality differ by capacities of percolation of the corporeal through the lavaderos of limit and the strain of hypertrophy or atrophy. Consciousness is like a shattered mirror that is corrugated through spatiotemporal circumjacent boundaries that constitute the psychogony of complexion rather than reflection. It is a comprehensive if beleaguered sentience that caresses the subliminal and accentuates the caprice of esemplastic tentacles that span variable gamuts that are ultimately subordinated by a celation that borrows from girouettism to create a shared approximation that circumducts around the babeldom of conclamation that is a categorical mutualism which becomes the nomothetic girdle of differential gradients of idiosyncrasy meeting the normative constraints of algedonic psychogony that deviates greatly from geotechnic optimum and even greater from geotechnic pessimum (by the necessity of dampened Brownian Motion which is defied by the congenital syntax of learned organization). And because the sum of conscience results in ecclesiarchy hobbled by impetuous purpresture of habit we can similarly conclude that the sum of consciousness is the percolation of both intrinsic valor and inane echopraxia into a contempered emancipation of the compounded breadth of learned cathexis and the depth of innate gangues that embody a flash of literacy augmented by flexible subroutines of habit that are the motatory rebhibition of sociocracy flimsy but inveterate to success and forgetful of frustraneous debacles if never in enantiodromia.
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The concatenation of idioglossia (instinctive childlike communication; gabble) for example reflects a shared orbit of personas that share different gradients of volatility as the ludic fouter of the quintessential protoplasm is an origami of perception magnified by an inherited caprice that is the mandate for a terpsichorean but sympatric sphere of contraplex vectors of category intersected with the mutiny of syntax to abridge and simultaneously expand the protensive durative process of cohesive bricolage prone to the intuitive tenacity to absorb and then manufacture a farrago that abides by evolved awareness and churns a consequent solidarity found in definition but beyond the surmised threshold of the callow retread. I conclude, therefore, that consciousness depends on the superorganism of the macrobian and lively interaction between shared experience which centuples only if by a cultural imprint that is either hobbled by uniformity to result in a reductive certainty or a blandished flummery of the hackneyed (when collectivism is imperious draconian conformity) or an expansive tug of idiosyncrasy to sublimate in divergent imagination that is the stew of redintegrated ingenuity. Therefore consciousness began as an insular nesiote that is the primitive primogeniture of the canvass of circular dynamism but evolved into a superlative and supernal field of variable constitution that embodies both self and other but neither in totality.
I believe, therefore, consciousness began with an insular awareness incapable of anything but instinct which became the primipara for an advenient conjuration of language hobbled by the nomadic sprites of the protensive fouter with aimless lunarist siderism and eventually into an ethereal medium hypostatizing a replication that with virulent force and vehement conviction motivated fractured piecemeal dirigismes that confound boundaries of raw uniformity and ideal ipseity of the individuation of seminal rather than frustraneous ideas that collapse on algedonic ritualization. Consciousness, therefore, is both the measure of the collective weight and gravity of contraplex ideas differing their orbits but remaining reconstituted as unitary forms that achieve both sprawl and speed and simultaneously the constrained sphere of self-aware reticulation that bowdlerizes (depending on the age and capacity of intellect) the axiomatic and outmoded procedures such that what remains requires is somewhere between the conversant and the ineffable. Consciousness is more unitary than dualistic but it requires the projection of the known and the communication of the obvious to form the bulwark of the arcane and the degrees of the metemperical are actually an apagoge of academicism and acatalepsy because in good fortune we find that the reach of culture is the replication of stratified and replete originality contempered by the necessary politics of skeletonized frameworks of vulcanized but inflexible models to become the mainsail paragons of traction. Therefore consciousness is replicable and idiosyncrasy is unmistakable but the divergent imagination is intractable but rarely ever untethered to the humanity of culture rather than the mechanics of dehumanization.

Trees are inevitable,
For something must grow higher than the rest.
Grass is inevitable too:
To carpet the world.
So are fish, to swim the seas,
Birds to fly the skies
And human beings to walk the plains.

All Life is inevitable
Springing from a chemical formula or two.
The Universe has Rules
Which make it so.

So, is God inevitable?
I have to ask.
Is there bound to be an Overlord
Responsible for All?
Or is it all an Accident?
Chance Happening?
A spin of some Super-Galactic Wheel?

It’s Logical to have some Being
Who’s Omnipresent, Omnipotent, Omniscient –
However many Omnis there may be.
Or even a Race of Gods
As the Greeks and Romans surmised.

Some say that We invented God
And that is very possible.
Some claim there simply is No God,
Which is quite possible too.

All I know is that I’m here right now,
Living in the Hope
That somehow I’ll survive
My Final Demise
A certain thing that is
For all
Inevitable.

Paul Butters