Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.

The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.

Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with  Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.

Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ******* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with

For ***** sake it's early
I don't know who half these people are
okay now we're hugging have I met you before
stop looking at my *****
stop it
eyes up Neanderthals
this is stupid so many young people
are they annoying or am I just cynical
probably a happy mix of the two
am I the oldest person in here what is this
If it starts raining while i'm outside I will cry
and now it's raining
Oh more hugs
seriously who are you people
Econeconeconecon oh that girl hates me I hope she isn't in my class
She is
and so is my brothers ex who hates me
and she is staring at me like I am the **** of the earth
econeconecon wait what?
I don't like econ take me home
why have I done this to myself?
And there is the stress
ohgod song stuck in my head
go away
well it's a good song at least
I'M SINKING LIKE A STONE IN THE SEA!
I wonder if anyone in here listens to nice music
maybe I should try to make a friend
I should make more friends since most people are still angry at me
or I could sit here and hope they all go away
I like that plan
Okay now trig and there is BEST FRIEND HI BEST FRIEND SAVE ME FROM THESE PEOPLE
The **** do you mean we learned this in algebra
yup i'm skrewed might as well just die now
wait is that kid Italian
he is Italian from Italy what is happening hello
I want to listen to him talk shut up trig I just want to listen to Italy over there
he is smiling at me oh jesus take the wheel
he is probably just amuzed by my extreme level of paleness wait nope he is looking at my *****
done with you Italy go away
trigtrigrigtrig
WHYYYYYYYY GOD, SHOW YOUR HAND
and time for lit
I need sleep or coffee or death
litlitlitlitlit oh this is fun wait that girl hates me doesn't she
yup i'm **** again
I just want to go home
and I really want to play pokemon why do I want to play so bad nope no bad theme song go away no you stop it right now- POKEMON! YOU'RE MY BEST FRIEND IN A WORLD WE MUST DEFEND
Why can't I be a wizard
Is that the bell
yay school

What does it mean,
To be a daddy, a dad, or a father?

A daddy…tucks you in at night.
He checks for the monsters that you believe lurk in the dark. When in reality, they only lurk in your mind.
He sits you on his lap, and plays pony-girl till his legs go numb.
He lets you stand on his feet while slow dancing at all the daddy-daughter date nights.
He pushes you on the wooden swing set that he built with his own rough two hands.
He tries to put your hair in a pony tail, even though mommy’s pony tails are superior.
He reminds you not to talk in Church while father is giving his sermon.
He holds your small hand so that you won’t get lost in this big scary world.
He brews his morning coffee, the aroma awaking you from your sleep, and you watch him, thinking, “I can’t wait to be big enough to try some.”
He will be identical to the man that you are going to marry one day.
He protects you from every little thing that scares you to death.

A dad…will help you with your trig homework, but will never tell you the answer unless you figure it out for yourself.
He sternly reminds you to clean up around the house, or you can’t hang out with your friends that weekend.
He yells at you when you pick on your little sister twenty-four seven.
He repeatedly asks you to help make dinner because your mom deserves a break.
He asks a lot of questions because you neglect to tell him what’s going on in your life anymore.  
He never lets you have what you want and always says, “do you have enough money to pay for that yourself?” or the even better, “money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”
He is always nosey and so old-fashioned.
He is silent in the car because you are too preoccupied to carry on a real conversation while texting your boyfriend that week.
He won’t let you become the adult you want to be.
He comes home, exhausted from work, and you disregard the time you could be spending with him by talking on the phone all night with your friends.
He tries to hug you in front of the kids at school, but it wouldn’t be “cool” to hug back.  
He tells you he loves you, and you can barely reciprocate the adoration that the little girl you used to be, once had.

A father…comes to **** a tiny spider in your shower when you call him, even after you have moved out.
He helps you when your car refuses to start on your first day at a new job.
He walks you down the same church aisle he watched you march along to receive your first Communion, and gives you away to another man, while holding back melancholy tears of joy and sadness.
He tries to visit you and your new husband, but you have a busy life of your own now.
He waits patiently outside the hospital room, until your husband announces that he has become a brand new father to a beautiful baby girl and that your father is a grandpa.
He plays pony-girl with your daughter, because you are much too big now, and his legs go numb.
He is getting older now, but you either don’t realize, or just choose not to notice.

He’s the man who forgot who you are.
He’s the man lying sick and pale in a cold unfriendly hospital bed.
He’s the man, once young and vibrant in your small idolizing green eyes, but is now old and grey.
He’s the man you once called father, dad, daddy.
He’s the man dying slowly before your eyes.
…and before you know it, he’s gone.

No more checking for monsters under your bed.
No more pony-girl.
No more pushes on the swing.
No more dancing on his feet.
No more securing hugs.
No more help with trig.
No more protection from the big bad world.
No more guidance.
No more.

Life is short. We don’t seem to realize that the moments in which we are living right now, will be the exact moments that we’ll wish we could turn the clock back to. People take for granted what they have, such as a man who loves you enough to indulge your childish tendencies and check for those monsters under your bed once more, just to be sure. Your daddy will always be your daddy, no matter if you can feel his warm bear hugs or not. It is hard to think that people can leave your life so effortlessly and never come back. However, what matters the most is the impression that they leave on you and the way you will choose to live your life. My dad has taught me to be smart, caring, and responsible. Along with my six siblings, my father nurtured our family with Christian beliefs, surrounded us with love, and taught us how to treat others with respect and dignity. Although my dad and I have had our numerous ups and downs, I would not ask for any other person to call daddy. Don’t forget how lucky you are to have someone to call father, dad, or daddy, because one day you won’t have anyone to call at all. I am so blessed to know that I will always love my daddy, and he will always love me.

A poem a day takes the pain away.
"It could always be worse"
That's what they all would say.

If it could always be worse,
Then why don't your words make it better?
Don't diminish what I'm feeling,
Simply bc someone's circumstances were harder.

A town was destroyed,
Lives stripped away.
My family and home still in tact,
But I too felt the wrath of that 22nd May.

The ****** and the bruised,
Don't forget the whaling sirens,
Continually speeding by for the first 48 hours.

Anything to help,
Water to the families
Prayers for the refugees.

Thank goodness it wasn't destroyed,
That football field.
What else would have sufficed?
To house the bodies,
In number, nearly 165.

Prayer and tears cannot rectify,
The pain and the hurt evident in mine eye.

Grasp hold of
The friends you were able to get ahold of.

Proud of this town I call home,
Banded together.
But my school, a whole other story on it's own,

I lived, breathed, what was just a building.
My faith in a structure,
Security and normality soon ripped from feelings.

The boxcar children?
The boxed mall children.
Diploma in a shopping bag,
Earned through PowerPoint presentations and 9GAG.

Thank goodness for glassed in boxes,
How else would I have been able to think?
Those tanks have awesome acoustics,
And hey couples can use them for **** tricks.

Build a fort of cardboard,
Film a music video that'll win zero awards!

Throw ping pong ***** over the walls,
Practice ACT while you hear the drama kids doing bird calls.

Can't use photoshop?
There's a class for that.
"Teacher" can't help with trig?
Here's an F for that.

Grief counselors available 24/7.
Doors are also always open,
So go get some lunch at the 7/11.

Took advantage of naïveté,
Skipped school to deal with that 22nd May.

But hey! Prom was still awesome,
And the seniors got scholarships,
So it's alright that my gpa was messed with.
Heck, I was a junior, easily forgotten.

Off to bigger, better things!
Forget the past,
Endure the change.

Hello MSSU or Crowder.
Community college "fo dayz"

This is how we deal with windstorms, in the little old land of Jomo.
The town banded together, but school....
It's more broken than ever.

They turn ya loose and you'll move on,
Cuz for a few years ya had a laptop,
And hey that's enough to build your future upon!

What I learned in school,
is what being damaged to does to you.
It teaches you struggle is a bad word
and that success is effortless
if you’re not perfect right away
you’re not right
at all
your words only have value
according to the rubric
your cries of pain are only noteworthy
when the wound blisters scarlet red
and sticks and stones are as harmless
as the air used to launch them,
never mind that they broke your spirit well before your bones
they’re just kids.

I was a kid too.
Yet you locked me behind
an iron desk for first an hour, then two,
because despite how desperately I pleaded,
you assumed that because you cared,
that meant you couldn’t hurt me.
I have no scars on my skin to
show you,
unless you count the words I never wrote
because thinking about this made me choke.

And writing about it made it real.

You don’t get a scar
when your body is convinced it can no longer draw breath,
and you learn to count to four and hold for four
before you ever open up a trig book
to page four.
I have scars because I am here to be healed,
I am here, still.

Trees that fall in forests don't scar,
but the grove where they once stood misses them.

This is how I rode my bike every day after school,
I rode it back home safely as I could.

Because I learned to shoulder my weight in gold
and understand on my own terms
that my gold standard
is the only one worth anything to me.

Yesterday I stole a ball
The carpet of my hall
My teacher marked me late
I read the book "Good Bait"

Johnny said I was mean
Pop, lock, drop, and lean
My notebook is red
My math teacher said

Peanut butter on a spoon
Movie in Comp about a loon
Gum that I will not share
Long hair that does care

My ring size is too big
Will I ever pass Trig?
One horn, multiple dents
Carnivals and circus tents

How do all these things relate?
I don't know but please don't hate
My mother said Halloween was over
I told her no.

stuff me full of arithmetic
Capitols, History, epitaphs,
Let me
dissect a frog, what glory!
Tell me, to forget, though, what bothers me.
I will soak in your trig geometry,
lonely,
relentlessly ignoring
your lessons.
Unless, you pay me
some attention.

The stench is repugnant
The smell of division
Multiplication
And the reeking stench of algebra
The rotting odor of trig
Is stronger than the B.O. Of the kid
Sitting behind me
This is repulsive
I fight to stay awake
But I cannot fight the urge to run
Away far away
To the deepest jungles
To the darkest depths
To that cross in the middle of two
Roads diverged in a yellow wood
Why can't I take the one less traveled by?
But instead the torture is about
To begin
Calling for my blood
Calling for my brain
Calling for my thoughts.

but somehow,
i write to peer into visualising
         my thought
pattern,
   or at least, how i can construct it
on the basis that:
i just walked about 6 miles
and drank 5 cans of beer
and smoked a few cigarettes
   and sat on a bench in a public space.

i really do believe that with man
having overcome the natural world
(to some degree),
industrialised the rearing of pigs for
pork, creating the bonsai tiger
that's a cat...
      god, i dread this anglophone
existential narrative of going way way back
and then coming into the present...
   walking zombie like
in the aftermath of unearthing the big bang
and finding dinosaur bones...
excavating Hades has never had so many
pitfalls...
       but this is the anglophone narrative,
that we currently live in,
  ask anyone in Tuscany and they're like:
come Friday, bring a bottle of wine,
have dinner...
       look at my beautiful house...
ever see the *appleton tower in Edinburgh?
built in the 1960s... meaning:
too many people were on aßid...
    c (see) s (esse) **** (ah yes)
(takes a break and empties his bladder)...
who in Venice might have a care
to keep this ref. in mind,
   who on earth, if not the english
have it? i go to Poland and people talk
about the butcher's and know the butcher's
name, small world and all that...
    i'm starting to think that
keeping the big bang ref. point in pop
culture is eating away at the everyday...
   and all this talk of dinosaurs...
   before they unearthed dinosaur bones
they were drawing dragons,
giant iguanas...
    i guess the snake is the abstract
version of a dinosaur... the remains:
no limbs...
     it has to be...
  like the way i took my tongue for a walk
today...
      what with our concrete body
and our abstract counterparts....
  one word on the tip of my tongue,
passing a bench where some would have
said in spotting a *** sitting on it...
sure, the *** look, the worn shoes...
but what *** can be seen
  eating a strange fruit from a paper
bag, watching a family of: mama, papa
and two kinder, smile and drop
that small fruit into his gob?
   as i was walking with my grandfather
he asked: who is that?
  i said: a philosopher.
   evidently the conversation was in polish
and the word in question is:
  fi-lo-zof...
the church is still there, the bench too,
the memory prompts itself sometimes,
a bit like a knee ****...
  and that got me thinking about
the concept in Jewish tradition...
   ayin (nothingness) -
             so ע‎ spoke to א (adam / aleph)...
but i need to get something off my chest...
ever find a 20 quid banknote in a puddle
or a 10 quid banknote in a puddle,
and given the current times,
an old fiver on a street pavement?
money again...
    i have...
and when you do, and then later spot
a penny on the street...
or when you have actually made
your own wine, rather than bought it
in a supermarket...
  how odd it looks, that penny,
how gravity prone,
as if it was supposed to be lost,
dropped, spared the agony of economics?
i was walking the streets tonight and
i looked at it (walking and listening
to distance's repercussions album
can feel a lot like going to a gig,
it's classified as dub-step, but it's really
ambient music,
just that the real ambient music
is, pretty much listening to a very old
refrigerator, the ones that made a sound,
had a heart of some sort,
like putting your head against an old
box, that's no longer a box, but a size 0
model... that leaves you null when
considering the static transmission of
channel 0) - oh my...
how we look into the future with
so much nostalgia these days,
  forget the ancient greeks, forget the nostalgia
of philosophers bound by that rule
of thumb in the 19th and the 20th century...
we're waving: bye bye odes to that old trash,
not to be rude, but i have been exposed to
so many technological advances in the past
20 odd years that i have no plot,
no novel, apart from the one given to me,
and if i do a pish-poor job of recording it,
then woo-hoo to me, i passed the Tao threshold,
the world can happen, and i can just
enter a realm of, finally being able to forget...
still, a penny on a street isn't a 20 quid banknote,
and given the improvement,
that it has turned all Australian on me,
i don't even need to dry it off to later spend it
if it's found floating like an ice-berg
in a puddle...
             and i think: why are pennies so real?
i mean, it's staring right back at me,
it's looks almost like an excalibur...
or the profanity plagiarised with thor's hammer...
i don't want to pick it up...
    it's so gravity prone on the pavement
like a pebble, or like a copper statue of a
"very important" person in parliament sq.,
that just get riddled with communism
in a capitalistic society, i.e. vandalism...
     the penny bewildering...
   i can't visualise what i'd do with it,
because i couldn't do much with it...
        it's just copper on stone...
     a bit like looking at a newspaper
of the day lying about at 10pm near an empty packet
of cigarettes, the sort of motif of:
let's trash the place...
      it's just one son of Hades lying on a more
elongated presence of yet another son of Hades:
copper on concrete,
   the next thing that comes after
grinding sand into glass: crunchy stone
mashed up with enough tar to make up a road...
england, of all places, has particular rooting
in a history of the roman empire,
out of all the nations that succumbed to its power
it has the most fond memories of the dusty one,
which i find quiet odd, and most of the times
slightly bewildering...
    given that i don't have it...
lucky you, an ethnic mongrel, papa was a singing
Irishman, mama was a a nigerian,
and you all ended up speaking the same tongue...
unlucky me, mongrel of the soul...
escapism of polymaths, because it makes sense,
or how mono-lingual have that thing called
patriotism and a land-to-body relantionship
in general, whatever flag is being flown...
bilinguals have a memory-to-body
relationship, it's hard to avoid it, a bit like seeing
a mountain and saying: we'll walk right through it...
so yeah,
having found a 20 quid banknote i was already
scheming for the next *****-up,
   i could already see a potential for it,
i knew it was worth something...
it's hard to see that sort of dynamic with a penny...
let's just say that sort of dynamic doesn't
exactly exist...
          the penny is fixed to the cement,
it's not moving anywhere,
    when a *** asks for spare change
you just start to think: change? spare tire?
is that equivalent?
      because money, as a concept,
as the original concept for a universal language
that everyone could suddenly understand,
or just did, once the "thing" was implemented
was the original translation vehicle...
        money is by far the sole reason we have
3 dimensional talk, why we have ambiguity,
while humanity enforcing laws is always so thesaurus
prone when talking about it,
   in the root of jurisprudence...
           i can talk idle: say things thing nothing
and then become a pedestrian to concrete items,
a daffodil, a t-****... i can relaly turn on the grey button
and it all becomes vague,
    and rarely bound to be, as a whole, bound
by a glue known as mystifying.
some might call it a case of giving account
of: ibin balām...
the other one riding a donkey...
                    or as i like to call it:
   convering with the "angel" that spared me,
who shook me into an epileptic frenzy when i was on
the verge of dying, saying:
now you, do what unto yourself, what others
did unto you.
    i have to admit, drinking myself to death is
the most pleasurable event in my life...
    it's this metalic electricity produced by my left
hemisphere, most of the time?
a bit like sitting on an electric chair,
without a wet sponge placed on my head
so that the electricity can pulverize the alveoli pattern
of my neurons... keep moist, he says,
   and i just think of my brain and the colour red,
and the decay of red, first into brown, and then into black...
and how people who deny my misery to
later become: a bit annoying, gnat-like...
still, that penny on the street,
  and how i would have reacted differently
had i found a 20 quid banknote...
and how i do...
   to see this unit of the concept, just... useless!
the concept of money becomes all the more apparent,
and i know that people in wealthy countries don't
seem to appreciate the basic unit of their currency,
they prefer fixed prices, they prefer pondering
a worth of a toothbrush, priced at a pound's worth
than care for a penny... they say
    it's so close, but so far away,
how spare change is reserved for children and beggars...
how pennies never seem to add up to anything
if you see but one on a pavement...
                it's only copper... it's not exactly gold...
ah hell... what if we really did brag about
gambling on a fixed, but an otherwise fluctuation
price of a painting?
  well... we wouldn't be saying: priceless!
   a bit like the anima of buying football players...
yes, some of us like using our minds,
to study philosophy, perhaps even lension a care
to write poetry... and all the more:
in a non-manipulative care to then translate it back
into: suppose chess?
                           only when language becomes
too 1 dimensional, or at least 2 dimensional,
i.e. verb / vector... then we're in trouble,
in the quicksand, in the mud, in the trenches...
i did mention something prior, didn't i?
ah, hebrew...
            slaves in america invented the
deconstructionism of jazz and blues...
  thank you very much... dub-step and the first
thing i think of when thinking about africa
is a drum... or knowing when and when not to
knock on things...
   i don't think the echo minds playing
that game of knocking down ginger...
    i guess i am the one left with a land
that's tattooed with germans and russians...
i get the ******* grafitti of neo-nazis who
experienced something more than the blitz...
plus, i have that Auschwitz to give caring tourists
a helping hand into sighing over...
   but all that i owe concerning myself,
ibin balām... riding my little donkey...
        ever find those riding donkeys more menacing
than those riding horses? balām, jesus, don quixote...
but it's in the alphabet of the hebrews,
i can't really get over it...
hence the original muse, a single word,
fi-lo-zof... and the concept: ayin sof...
what the greeks later made into σoφια...
yes, that monotheistic gender-neutral pronoun
some of us ascribe the noun god to...
god is such an unfatastical noun...
the real fantastic noun is the tetragrammaton...
hell... i'm convinced... i'm actually converted
in a sense of not really bothering with
the rituals... the ritual i imposed on myself
is to repeatedly think about it...
    and it really is a fantastic noun,
so mathematically fertile,
Y and the x, y, z axis of the math canvas...
and trig of W that's cosine rather than M and therefore
sine... and how the H is almost like deja vu
joke, before the tangens enters segregational...
and all i just thought is more than a thousand
bulls readied for a pagan sacrificial rite...
    it's the sof in the ayin sof that's hard to find...
say, it's easy to spew enough books to bore
a thousand people over a thousand generations
if you use a system of encoding that gives no
name to the units...
   the greeks have alpha, the romans only a.
the greeks have beta, the romans only b.
   which probably means that writing can be more
easily done, and to a greater number and extent...
but thinking? it's not really done...
people would rather be perverse and hostile and
impolite because of this shortening of said
units of sounds... which is another reason why
the anglophone world is rife with onomatopoeias...
    and how i found: singing intside your head
is half a whistle, and less than a ****...
    so how did sof come about, as a concept?
the hebrews call it ayin (nothingness),
and when next to the word sof call it
ain (without) sof (end), i.e. the endless one...
   so where did the syllable zof come in here
and where did the Greeks extend that into sophia?
i can see sof, but i can't see where it came from,
sure, there's the usual noun for a sound,
e.g. ש‎ (shin) and ך‎ (kaf)...
             forget the greeks for a moment...
  the romans wrote the music, there was no name
for a, b, c, d, e... we're talking ancient greeks,
therefore all ancients... they enclosed sounds differently
back then... the greeks ensured there was some
alphabetical cohesion, like looking
into a dictionary under the rubric o,
and finding omega, onomatopoeia and oh my god!
i know what you're thinking, semitic languages
and neanderthals... why did they persist
and having become instinct? try sanskrit and 1 billion
hindus... or the chinese... they're the same...
historically speaking...
oh please, i like the cognitive impetus of drinking:
you want to take hold of these brats on the british
isles? you have some alternative suggestion?
the roman alphabet is the gateway "drug",
i.e. א‎ (man), a, ע‎ (god), á,
  or: from above... something descending...
then i start to think it's a case of articles,
even though aleph (א) and ayin (ע) are phonetically
identical, they are totally different...
it's almost like saying: ah for that one,
and ah for a one? close proximity and the rule,
that you wouldn't say an one... but a one...
funny... english is like that, hello! welcome!
hope you realise it, without diacritical marks
being, well, i wouldn't say absolutely necessary,
but a helping hand....
too many examples to choose from,
i make so many instances of it being true that
i forget to make up my life with
a care for romantic misendeavours...
so yeah... i'm looking for O in the semitic alphabet
that still remains in use...
     hebrew... because i really can't do phonecian...
i'm loooking for the word sof...
    you know, like homeland, sol, solomon...
i want to cut off the unnecessary bits
and put a word together...
i can't seem to find a full-circle of an omicron
or omega...
  i say omega, you cut off -mega and attach an -o-,
and the thing fizzes and i write bomb!
and you cut off -elta, -psilon....
                      ah... ~appa and the need to write
pass... double consonants...
     i just wanted to write duck...
like duck the ******* bomb, rather than quack?!
the semites are a breed of people
that simply hide things, mostly vowels...
the new wave of people with robots
simply write excess number of consonants
and omit them...
     they're there, but they're only there
because there will be two layers of the same language
being inscribed... given omni-literacy...
          hence the current youth congregating under
the banner of acronyms and something akin
to sign language in their use of emojis...
  :)... no, that's bad... :(....
                                              i'm still looking
for the sof...
    the closest i came to it was with
ש‎י‎ך‎,
      it would have been easier with the greek
expression of teaching the neanderthal semites...
again, i like te jews, they're the most
"docile" / persistent semites...
   i know they're not vogue, but that's why
i rather keep hebrew than arabic...
or because of my skin, i sorta have to keep
the runes for safekeeping and upkeep...
we kept them for a reason,
    we kept the runes so this wouldn't happen,
how christianity gave us a life of psyche
but erased our origin, our alphabet,
no point calling it a "big bang",
at leas the russians got cyrilic,
and turned **** into шit...
     i'm still looking for O in hebrew, semitic,
the reason is that they're such a small number
and their phonetic encoding as as "neanderthal"
as that of sanskrit and mandarin alphabets...
  and that's the prejudice...
   i don't like it... i find all the mysteries
in my impetus to write bound to them...
    wait... weren't we not the ones stressing
the vogue of our times?
    i see a bunch of torn shirts and well worn shoes
from where i'm standing...
i'm still finding it hard to find an O in the hebrew form...
am i missing something?
    i mean, ****, cut off all the necessary
bits of greek, you get roman: alpha (a-),
      beta (b-)... and obviously the excess aesthetic
so that it all looks nice... cat, kettle, scythe...
                                           key, scatter, skew...
smooth, cool, caseload...
                 our current times will be a joke th

The Love I lost is fear I found
Face to face, with devils round
Angels falls while demons rise
Countless truths disguised as lies
My thoughts they sink beneath my soul
Bottomless Pitt or a ******* hole
Sins they feel like trucks on shoulders
My life is ****** no **** bent over

Karma flashed before ur eyes,
You felt her squirting on ur thigh
******* cheat with “random” guys
Ppl **** we don’t know why
Conversations minimized
While revenge is televised
I’m sorry Lord I’m falling but
You know my heart was meant to fly

I look my demons in the face
And told them ***** ****** try,
They told me that they in my head
They let me know don’t even cry
The actions that you thought was sane
Is causing everybody pain
Now ur time suffer right on the track just like a speeding train

Now I got a loaded gun
but my demons didn’t run
They said “***** ***** shoot, to **** us all you just need one”
Trust I was tempted dogg,
To squeeze the trig and end it all
They say they don’t understand
I leave my brains all on the wall
No u see inside my mind
Don’t forget the piece outside
The warnings that I tried to give
Was treated ill and tossed aside
Now you see the joke the was real
I’m bleeding yet I’m fighting still
Now I see that I’m still alive
**** it dog I’m gone survive
Staggered to my broken feet
Look my demons in the eye
Told that ***** ***** “look I
Know u dead but time to die
Light is dead and darkness thrives

Reached the bottom
Nowhere further to dig
          Powerless

Had no answers
Something beyond  "I"
The answers are to big
        Believe

Releave this ******* of self
Reliquish control to life's gig
      Turn it over

Past's dark doors opened
With the courage to face
What demons that may trig
     Fearless inventory

In the presence of the triology
Purge your ***** laundry
Freeing yourself of burdens
     Admitted wrongs

Come a point
Where these shackles
You no longer need
    Ready to remove

At foot of bed
Bend down and plead
To that beyond the "I"
To remove all that makes you bleed
     Humbly ask

Gather the names of those
Caught in your wake
    Made a list

To them give back
What wasn't yours to take
       Atone

With burden shed
Self removed
Feel the peace that you've never knew
     Conscious contact

With gift in hand
Tale in tow
Go and share all you know
      Carry the message

Finding pain deap in the sea
Deep in the heart
8501
Becoming the one, erasing my dumb, feeling what was numb
The green make her come but don't make her ***
Junk days are done
She made me feel good until I found out she was drunk
What a deception I knew I was done
These new girls are trash and nothing but stunts
Why are your sheets so wet? I just wanted some fun
I was destined to pull the trig when I was aiming my gun
My rights could be a lie but I'm still certain
Could be derogatory to the way you're living  
Oh well

Finding pain deap in the sea
Deep in the heart
8501
Becoming the one, erasing my dumb, feeling what was numb
The green make her come but don't make her ***
Junk days are done
She made me feel good until I found out she was drunk
What a deception I knew I was done
These new girls are trash and nothing but stunts
Why are your sheets so wet? I just wanted some fun
I was destined to pull the trig when I was aiming my gun
My rights could be a lie but I'm still certain
Could be derogatory to the way you're living

I think

I JUST CAN'T DO THIS
I AM SO FRUSTRATED
I DON'T KNOW HOW TO EXPRESS IT
I AM SO STRESSED THAT I FEEL THAT **** PIT IN MY CHEST
I CAN'T BREATH ANYMORE
FOR ***** SAKE I STARTED HYPERVENTILATING WHEN I GOT BACK MY MATH QUIZ
I'M SOBBING OVER MY ASSIGNMENTS FOR ECON AND FOR TRIG
AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHY I'M CRYING
I KNOW I'M LONELY AND I KNOW I'M STRESSED BUT THATS NOT IT
I THINK IT'S BECAUSE I'M SO **** FRUSTRATED WITH MYSELF
I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE
SO IF SOMEONE WANTS TO COME TO MY HOUSE
AND HOLD ME WHILE I CRY
ALL I HAVE TO SAY IS
please

It takes a YEAR for planet Earth
To revolve around the sun;
It takes Neptune eighty-four Earth years
To complete a single run.
 
So if I’d been born on the planet Neptune,
I say as I’m sighing,
BEFORE I even turned ONE year old,
I’d have a good chance of dying.
 
(Yes, I know that I couldn’t LIVE
On Neptune; nevertheless,
I’m using the example to make my point.
Forgive me: I digress.)
 
Our solar system orbits the center
Of our GALAXY, the MILKY WAY.
I’m sure there’s a method of calculating
The length of a cosmic day.
 
If it takes over 200 MILLION YEARS
To revolve, then it’s very clear
That our solar system has
A very long COSMIC YEAR.
 
In fact, the last time our solar system
Was where it is right now,
Dinosaurs were walking on Earth.
If that’s not amazing, and how!
 
Clusters of galaxies also spin—
Wow! This is getting too BIG.
To figure out how much time that takes,
I need to know physics and trig.
 
Grasping the vastness of the universe
Is hard. What we must do
Is understand that time is relative
And depends on our point of view.
 
My hair—once brown—has now turned gray;
My gait is slower. It seems
The world, universe, life, and time
Are nothing but phantoms and dreams.

- by Bob B

I'm really happy today.
For the first time in a long time, I don't have to fake being happy.
Early morning rehearsal woke me up
And put me in a good mood.
In choir we sang in Latin,
Which is my absolute favorite language.
In Trig I got all the answers right.
I'm leaving my 7th mod
To go to a blood drive.
That means I get to miss my last two classes of the day.
I really dislike those classes
So this is a plus for me.
I'm so happy and I'm not sure why.
Does it matter why?
No it doesn't!
I'm not going to let anything stop my good mood.
Not myself.
Not negative people.
Not even negative thoughts can bring me down.
This is my first really good day in a while
And I am so thankful for it.

a small town, inexhaustible,
somehow far from mundane,
a predictable spring followed
by a predictable summer,
and yet nature, per se,
never really allows man
a mortal fascination with it,
a mortal by that I mean,
enclosed in replicas and analogues,
with an extinguishable "self"
to boot, as if in every democracy,
one vote, one life,
the end.

                   not some mystical
ever after,
    either the materialistic
absolute, or the other,
materialistic absolute,
                   if latin could invite
itself into the schools among
which sit Tao, Zen and others...
well, drop the prefix hyphen
and call it Re...

               trill of the tongue
that begat Sisyphus who:
     not having a jailor sit and
with pitchfork nagging...
         somehow... didn't roll the stone
aimlessly...
       but, simply,
sat there, less in love with anything
that might be peered at in a lake,
and more, or less,
       a hole that his "self"
       needed to fill...

                            interchangeable
ad infinitum of:
    cube through a square hole,
square hole with a cube in tow..
cube square hole, cube square hole...
trig. meaning either
from up, to down...

      or, or at least then...
offshoot, in life through and in
death, also through...
     two schools of thought:

1. man stands above nature,
2. man stands beside nature...

comes the audacious first,
with its
Manhattan Project,
     and with Hurricane Katrina
and the fact that lighting is yet
to be harnessed, and... farmed...

   comes the awe-stricken
second, with its naturalists
and... nature without man
will run its course...

   unappreciated,
     it diminishes, is even robbed,
no sooner the suffocating
murmur of prayer,
as soon enough,
           the caged bird prays
an indistinguishable song
to the song beneath
the watchful eyes of hawks...

   yet this is but a small town,
inexhaustible,
and by that I mean:
   the pen is always dry,
the muse is always shackled
    and stands mute,
    th conversations are always
less and more a pity on
an urban chance meeting,
the book is never written,
the pen is always used as rather
a tennis racket in a game of
crosswords...

         and a deep fascination
comes across between a youth
and an old man...
     on the lines of:
myopia - shortsightedness
     and utopia - hyperopia -
farsightedness...
          for the old man sees
a graveyard, as a murky lake
of grey, in the distance
the indistinguishable corrections
of detail...

     without his glasses...
but as he puts them on,
the murky lake of grey becomes
distinct in detail, crosses and tombstones...
         what of the distance?
far away and blurry in zebra
camouflage...
        two-dimensional details
in an otherwise tree-dimensional
yawn...

               optic corrector:
no, not a confusion on my part,
nearing age 80,
    he has both myopia    
   and hyperopia,
namely his reading glasses
    and his: walking around the town
glasses: to add to the details:
that's not cascade:
i. e. respectively.
      
Myopia glasses, id est:
   details in the distance
   culminating in shadows
of trees at noon.
  
Hyperopia glasses, id est:
          details on a piece of
paper, reading.

the inability to convey
an illusion of distance,
or rather the mind, cutting
corners,
    since it was possible for
the early game programmers
to trap a two-dimensional
fern in the first tomb raider
game...

   you would walk up to
the 2D object, and it would rotate
on an axis, very much akin
to the observed and the unobserved
electron...
          
    which, to me, is a bit like
discussing black holes...
    a two-dimensional object
in a tree-dimensional space...
     when observed behaving like
an atom...
     when unobserved behaving
like a wave...
or rather, to muddle,
and craft my own Pavlov exprience
in the watering eye...
    
    through the grey lake mass of
the graveyard... in the distance
no differing contorts but:
Monet... Monet...
    the old man speaks of ills,
hiding the achievements of old age,
a seated life,
   as if: no one likes
the man who doesn't leave
an enigma of some sort...
          
does cancer plague the soft tissued
organs? when mistletoe,
in symbiosis with bark bone of trees
can thrive in the winter sun,
minimally exhausting the tree
in its seasonal coma?

   old man cynic and
the woe of old age...
     but before the story of Judas
and H'eh Zeus (in Spain)...
   came the story of -
   the old man and the sea
(according to Monet);

  old man cynic,
on the rare occasion that the old
are disabled like children
at birth...
  while in most instances,
the privilege of old age
makes them in turn
into born again children...
         but unlike children a priori,
these a posteriori children
are... outside being convincing...
     in at leat some,
of their exaggerations.

Trig class.
Oh no, please no.
I dread you to much.
Heart pounding, fear increasing.
I cannot do this. Why did I take this class?
Math has never been my strong suit.
Why am I so stupid?
I don't think I will pass this class.
This is to much stress for me to deal with.
I cannot handle much more of this.

i have to sometimes be inclined
to allow myself to feel...
dead people leeching onto me...
and this is no seclusion mentality...
given the already printed numbers
and the readily available
population numb numbing numbers...
i am well worn and subsequently
wallowing in: to come, bargain
neon tokyo proof...

James, the Earl of Moray...
and what was "earl" Fassbender...
and this not any other Macbeth...
i am living but given my prior to:
for the dead inclined...
to have to... speak their unwelcome
tongue among the living!
which makes me!

their equal in me being twice
the unwelcome inclined!
my kingdom the shadoqw,
the rust and the dust and bone
and maxim and all that is least
gracious when all, somehow,
spring back to life!
the scythe bore smile within
the glee of the moon come mid!
and all its harvest of constellations!
too dear my love... to heave me baron over
a cousin!

and you to be gladly: towed!
the beard! the beard!
give me a year to admire my own fervent
blush of ****** *****!
before your fabrege "egg"...
scouts! half-boiled... hard-boiled...
soft-boiled...
and all those promises in between!
within this given framework...
each time i feel inclined to cry...
i want to grow most cruel...
the more i cry the more i want to be
cruel...
i want to tease...................

something that does not require
"it' being teased...

thomas cromwell and henry VIII...
elizabeth I and william cecil!
"oops" via tony blaire and alastaire campbell...
doppelgänger "oops"...
but it's not even an "oops"...
herr goebbels: goebbels nicht herr...

can anyone cite the **** doppelgänger
hollywood counter plotline - lineage?!

vorstellen! finden nicht ein doppelgänger!
nein goebbels! aber sie sah...
sogar Gunther von Hagens
ist nein Paul Joseph Goebbels!

i say! the thespian autocracy! primo?!
the actor is above the painter
and all will: bend the knew before this...
lordship of the weakest knee?!

there was a time where:
a macbeth did come before
a hamlet! you *******, porky pie!
but this is no: minding a Freudian couch...
the macbeth comes first...
the hamlet second!

stiff! in my "upper"... "prime"...
the delicacy of being confined...
the thespian autocracy is still forthcoming...
the actors still hold sway over the nunnery
and the priesthood...
otherwise i would "see" the "truth"...
should i be the next to nothing next
dumb plumber with enough
of ****** to marry a woman and make callus
the offspring wishing to
have been: better bred...
or kept in better lineage.;..

a cromwell a cecil... a campbell... a goebbels...
but just one philip augustus...
solo project...
tough on the tooth and limbo jaw..
said: crown the hazelnut!
otherwise... the flag of georgia was
never a universal identification posit
for the young turks and...
when russia would alwahys yawn...
the crusader myth...
the crusader myth: we woz izlam...
and the northern crusades against the prussians,
the lithuanians...
i almost forget that some of us vicinity cracow
barons would treat the masovians
and the capital warsaw as:
not yet incorporated...

until napoleon...
but of course... not since citing the evil empire...
kazakh and what not... turks in new york...
perfectly angry... perfectly: boring and...
Philip's in-on in-oh... does it matter?
there was only this one type of crusades...
into the... Ishlam Ishmael People-Kind sorts
of: the Peoples...
there was never a northern crusade...
the Poles never defended the last pagans of Europe...
the Lithuanians...
no... no! no! NO! that **** never happened!
we woz kurds!
all the ******* time:

me alias bin-baghdadi! all woz iz woz iz!
******* uncle sam...
******* Meghan Mcmarkle!
the blocks and tiramisu needs woz to we'write woz...
coz... trig and: Fishland! bez knowz uz as
Finnishland! sayz auz!

bongo bongo... cowabunga...
seez you better... zzz... pulling this sort of **** in
Wha-wha-usher-in-us-yah!
bongo bongo? no bongo... choke...
st. petersburg'yah?

for all this "misunderstanding"...
the plebs resorted to misuse the plurality
of the pronoun "we"... via them... and they...
one royal resorted to enforced retirement...
which gave me ample time to abuse
the royal pronoun of: one... and the "concrete" we...
i iz pleb... i iz "eastern" U-rop plebz...
not Rotherham plebz iz w and "e"...
"we"... wed to the weeds on a Wednesday...
widowed come a Friday...

any scot or velsh or essex proud is not
plebz... but uz ****** lithuanian...
mid-week ukranian and not quiet russian
or igor gweek...
we'z plebz! bongo bongo: kenya two-point-oh-oh...
best: betz ugh oh oh!
we'z plebz and we drill!
drill yo! yo!

we learn stupidz in the rapidz oh oh!
we emoji and emopticon con hierogylphic oops
a daisy lo! lo!

i don't even know who, or why,
or who "invited"... "us"... i'm never an "us"...
the ****- can speak for a ****-...
the paddy can speak for a paddy...
but i'm hardly going to speak for...
the old ones from cracow would speak...
rather differently when it came
to the masovians and warsaw...
just like the old germans would speak...
much later... when... the prussians
came down with their berlin...
things change...

it would be oh so much more simpler if...
english, a language...
was not supposed to be this medieval
lingua franca...
at this moment in time...
if i really demand myself to care...
this insomnia will ruin me rampant!
i don't want that...
i will not want that...
i will have... what's leftoever.

I need to go to the store,
eggs
cheese, why do we always run out of cheese?

I texted my best friend 3 hours ago, where is she at?
Good thing I have her location.

I didn’t really understand a single thing in math class today,
but this is college algebra and trig, I go to a good college I should be able to pass

without. help.

You used to be smart and not this stupid. What made you this stupid.
How did YOU even get into this school? You’re too stupid.

You shouldn’t have worn that dress that night. And those heels?
Those were some pretty slutty heels.

You probably shouldn’t have been drinking either,

milk,

tortilla shells,

canned corn,

You could just step out in front of this semi truck, it would be quick,

cream cheese,

tea,

honey

Others would care, but honestly at this point, would you?
I mean look at you, you’re a mess.

eggs,

cheese, why do we always run out of cheese?

Every Time  I See You
I Hear Your Love
A  Community Of Wonder
For A Dove

What War Was This
I've Come Thru Now
Each Door This World
My Love And How

You Gave  Me Life
Of Hope And Dreams
Returned Art  Beauty
Beyond What's Mean

In Math The Mean
Is All Things Gray
The High The Low
Of All We Say

In Trig The Medium
A Different Point
The Range of Thought
A Balanced Joint

The World Is Soul
Beyond the  Light
For All Of Me
A Star in Flight

IShe  Who Weds
And Hates  and Cries
The One Who Fights
And Will Not Die

Exhaustions  Breath
Of What's Not Right
It's All My Own
My Choice My Might

I knew Not How
The Hate Became
A Life Once Love
Moved Well Past Shame

My Rhyth Changes  Holy Gates
To Wear these Robes Loves Strength  My Trait

My Artist
Sold For Trade
My Soul In Coffin
I Did Lay

And Now
I cannot Tell A Lie
I Try And Try
My Body Cries

Depression Did
Become My Friend
Says NO!
I Won't
Live  Lie Again

I can't Find Food
There is No Light
I Pray each Day
Dont loose this Fight

My Heart is Not
In Building Forms
A Unions Care
From Money's Storm

It's Use is Great
AND Holmes So Good
Reward ALL Friends
Give Joy!!
I Would!

LOVE CSL , Agape Too
Humanity Teams
And Facebook
Do!

So Many  Colors Follow Hope
Reward Each One
With Lifting Scope!!

Reward Each Friend
A Miracle Make
New Paradigm Thought
Inclusive Stake

Yes Angels, Please
I  Love You So
My Family Friends
Your Love Does Grow
And Strangers ...Friends
Upon the Street,
In Store In Gym
All Sent To Meet

This Game Compete, I cannot Do
Co-operate
This God Is NEW

The Language of NEW Soul So Broad
I Cannot Narrow God Above
Within Without
the Voice Says All                
Just Listen
Do Not Let Earth
Fall

A Quiet Place Within My Soul
Does Grow With Music's
Healing Vowel

The Shock Still Rings
This Golden Step
Of God LIFELOVE
My Place a Gift

It's Just Takes Time
To Reaquaint
This Psychic Soul
Without the Taint

The Question One, It  Is For Me
How All My God
How ALL
Shall Be?

It is Not As
Presented Now
THIS Piece
WE seek
That Peace
Is How

Why did you have to do that, Melany?
Why did you have to tell your mother what you saw?
Why couldn't you just be a good daughter and just keep your mouth shut?

Everything I ever taught you has been replaced,
By a world with a so-called-moral base,
That you and I both know, will only end in disgrace.

This is all your fault, Melany.
If only you had understood that I was devastated,
and that I felt obligated,
Maybe you wouldn't be so isolated.

Why did you tell her I didn't deserve her,
Why did you see what I did as ****** up,
Why did you describe the way I touched her made her tremble more than
your mother ever did after getting beaten up.

Why did you try to stop me when I hit her, Melany?
You have to understand that when a slave is doing anything but their job,
you punish them until they say nothing but "yes, sir".

When something that belongs to you is not working properly,
you bang it against a table until it starts working again.

Your mother deserved it, Melany.
She deserved it for searching through my clothes instead of playing her role.
For crying for no reason, whenever I got home drunk.
She deserved it for begging me to stop when I had done nothing wrong.

Your grandfather has always taught us this and I don't understand
why you don't seem to understand.

How many times do I have to tell you, Melany?
Why don't you get anything, Melany?
You have to focus on school.
You have to focus on school because if you don't
you'll end up as a slave and you are nobody's slave.
You have a future and you have goals that you have to accomplish,
so why aren't you learning from me like you learn from school?

You know your trig but not my trick,
The one I try so hard to carve into your brain so you'll never forget.
You can do the math, but you don't seem to catch,
That what I'm trying to teach you will forever last.

I am your father, Melany.
I made you.
You exist because of me.
Remember that.
Pay attention when I talk to you.
Listen to me.
"Why won't you listen to me?"

You ask me the same question but it is only because you don't speak.
Your headphones are always plugged in,
and your personal life is hidden within,
You look at me as if I were a sin
And  avoid the conversations whose scripts are too thin

You can't let people hurt you Melany.
Don't let these boys hurt you.
Don't let them touch, look, or love you.
I love you and that should be enough.
Is that not enough?
Is my love not good enough for  you?

I love and miss you,
and I try so hard to teach you.
You have to lie when you need to, Melany.
Don't tell me that it's wrong.
You need to defend yourself no matter the cost,
you have to do it with no fear for loss.
You have to realize this world is cruel,
and the only way to succeed is to live by MY rules.

You need to obey, Melany.
You have to listen to me, Melany.
You have to be by my side, Melany.

I did this for you.
I did this for your teacher.
Your teacher needed love, Melany.
She needed love like you needed an ice cream on that hot summer day,
and I just happened to be cold enough for her.

You don't understand
You don't understand what I do for you.
You don't understand what I try to teach you
Why is it that you seem to understand poetry and calculus just fine,
but refuse to take notes on my view on life.

I loved your mother, Melany.
I loved your mother as much as I loved your teacher,
I loved your teacher as much as I'll love the next,
I love them all how I've been taught to love.

And

I love you, Melany, as much as I've ever loved anyone in my life,
You understand?

I was never a fan of the algebras or trig
And I guess it showed
Because you were the ex
& I was always asking why
But our functions always remained undefined...

She drinks her iced tea with whipped cream
She fell asleep an hour ago;
Laptop open, mug on her desk
Her cups leave little rings on the wood-
She keeps saying she'll paint over them
There's this garden where she always finds butterflies
She has a photo album on her computer,
Calls it her "real-life fairytale"
She says that the twigs in her hair are "artistic" and that the paint on all her clothes adds character
She paid way too much for that shirt that she tore on a branch the first time she wore it,
But still wore it enough to fade the colours and soften the fabric
We went swimming at the lake: She left it at my house and it smells like her-
It smells like pinewood and eraser shavings and hairspray
It smells like the over-sweetened tea that I bring her for class every morning
I'm always late for trig after that, but I don't care
She makes me go for runs on the weekends, even slows down for me sometimes
She sings songs in a minor key every time she cooks
She makes rice almost every night, but she never sits down to eat-
Sets a formal place at the kitchen stove and plays orchestral music
She reads my text messages at one in the morning, almost never replies
But I can imagine her sitting up all alone, quietly humming or tapping her fingers on the mattress
Her hair just makes sense- she likes to braid it over her right shoulder so that it hangs when she leans over somethings

/the "incurable" truth of having read a philosophy book, aged 21, like some sort of gateway, having never been exposed to the "genre" prior to... and then realising... unlearning the rigidity of having studied chemistry in hope of pursuing a menial profession... while at the same time savouring a youthful taste for humanism, in Dante and Stendhal... somehow there must be a reconciling vein of thinking... given... sure as **** i'd settle for playing the piano in my spare time...

a rigid post scriptum, because, what else?
poetry as a form:
   for spatially coordinating an
anti-****** of narration, which is
                                  ars (poetica) per se...
esp. these days...
   coincidence of a moth being dormant
in my room upon finishing the kundera bluff?
or just allowing it to gently land on
my hand, inverted exposing a weak wrist?
moths are so much more
friendly, or rather, less shy...
                           than butterflies...
that famous persistence of a moth banging
against a lightbulb in masochism,
burn, after burn,
             blind moth flew and touched
the sun, lunatic moth spoke to butterflies
of the sun...
     hidden in every nook and cranny
during its lunar escapades...
        stupid butterflies only felt the need
to bask in honey...
            and mimic surrounding
colours...
            but moths... travelled through
spring, summer, autumn,
  and on the odd occassion...
becoming akin to the mutant generic fly
rudely woken from hibernation
in winter...
        this one, feeling a common warmth,
flew out of nowhere,
  danced the dance of thieves' knives
with me, touched me once, and subsequently
hid behind a painting on my wall...
apparently i, dormant fire,
    "unconsciously" gloated:
   ah! to hell with all this scientific terminology
subtracting the basic, creative impetus
for the language of man!
   nonetheless!
            such is the nature of originating
with the a priori of chaos...
                and the a posteriori of order...
and whatever metaphorical dualism
takes your fancy...
                   but as a sidenote,
   in pop-culture...
                 scatter-brain says:
       my thoughts are never what they once
were, in terms of coherence, in terms
of entertaining others,
    within the confines of cogitatio qua narratio...
no... the whole off-shoot
of res cogitans, is moments such
as this...
               what pop is made ref. as
ego-tripping?
               hence my attempt at my own
dialectic working from descartes...
   res vanus: empty thing...
                           i am... void-tripping!
ego attaches sum attaches potential
      or attaches a lack of potential (bragging)...
          what is void-tripping?
music, primarily...
                    an uncoiling serpent,
                 a breathing dragon,
                           a scared mammal...    
and then the collective gape of mammalian
counters to debase the crypt of
shed skin, scaly tattoos...
             from lizard, to mammal,
           and unto the insect comes the gaping
Aeon March...
              the moth, the larvae of wasps,
or as the Hindu sages say:
          spare the ant,
                          glorify the worker...
    of this genesis of life,
                       insurrected from within
by pathogens, viruses,
  armies beholding the moth-head as god...
point being...
            ego-tripping is a luxury within
the confines of res cogitans:
         of "thinking"...                  qua ego...
         void-tripping? is a luxury within
the confines of res vanus:
          of "being",                       qua sum;
void-tripping is a pulse...
    a pulsating sensation of an
expanding and contracting space...
      i can only assume that ego-tripping
is a threshold,
    a humming sensation of a past
  and future time in
  the acute sense of a blink
of an eye (calculus of the trig.
tangens f(x) - if that can be visualised,
                  rather than "understood").

sure... people can speak the language
of the people that also know how
to haggle... gamble...
                      and become prey to debt...
the lingua of commerce...
            i could write a ****-show
of a teenager's wet-dream when it comes
to love...
                  but i guess there are worse
regrets than finding the Crusoe
  of literature that's philosophy aged 21...
****... could have been lysergic acid
or something...
                and the english students
can write their english books...
                   because: english students need
to write something in english...

         i'm going to have to resort
                 to writing something in: human;
with the inconvenience of
it being written using english;
       which i suppose is equivalent to
talking about Islam in arabic these days,
must feel pretty ****** talking
about Islam in arabic these days...
                   nothing wrong, eh?
                                               nothing?
pretty much the same as talking
human feels like, talking in english
                                                  these days.
perhaps the idea is true:
   but certain tongues exhaust
       the transcendental construct of idea...
Islam has one fallacy in its current
affair with genesis:
                     the adherence to arabic...
    seen the ***** of Tangier and
                       the Gomorrah od Dubai?!

Algebra beat me up
Geometry worked me over
and Trig finished me off.

So let's not even talk
about Calculus.

Academia can *******
Had to learn trig to pass
A test pre req for a class

That algebra is all that needs to be known
Intro chem is not a place for tan, cos, and sin
Yet I had to learn and teach it all on my own

After Doing the teaching and learning
They came around and started charging
Hundreds and thousands for nothing

So academia can *******
Had to learn calc to pass
A test pre req for a class

Do your ******* job teach me how to get a job
These administrators are just some ******* slobs
Paid three hundred grand to play with their knobs

If the systems broken fix it or at least override it
Instead you support it while students go into debt
How the **** do you run at a deficit and yet

You take every sweaty blood stained penny
Shake down every downtrodden who looks sorry
Sorry that college was the only choice outta poverty

Academia can eat my ******* ***
Didn't learn **** but I'll still pass
Cause they don't teach **** in the class

Castleton in early Spring, winter lingers - slow to leave
Warm sun’s rays and chill of wind, daffodils along the stream
overlooked by distant hill the ruins of fine Peveril
And in the fields the lambs at play, never fails to thrill

Up high we climb to Hollins Cross, spectacular the views
The Great Ridge to the left and right, unsure which path to choose
The Mother Hill is calling  from her elevated height
Left we  climb, Back Tor, Lose Hill far behind us to the right

The Shivering Mountain she is known, we shiver as we climb
Strengthening gusts, our caps held down,
But on the ground time after time
We reach the summit, touch the trig, the wind still blowing strong
Easter hols and busy, can’t take pics for long

Down we go the pathway steep, look back along the Tor
Remarking on its eastern face, the mini-hills on show
The Blue John mines, the caverns, a few are further down
And weave our way along the paths till we are back in town

One delight - a little lamb had wandered, in our way
Scuttling fast at Mother’s call, she sadly did not stay
No sweeter sight, the playful lambs when gambolling young and free
If only they outlived the Spring, and always so could be

Some turn into their mothers, slow and bloated, eat and eat
and most males simply disappear and reappear as meat
To stomach such a meat as lamb repugnant to my heart
Best not to dwell too much on this, it’s now time to depart

To Spring, to life, to climbing peaks, to see the lambs another day.
Back Tor, Lose Hill to the right, to Hollins Cross the Edale way.

JG 10.4.18

can you even begin to grasp
the primitive nature of roman numerals?
      to have to share both
letters as "concepts"
                conjugated with numbers?
     a 6 would become a b,
                      sharpened mind you,
                    a 7 would become Γ standing
in a mirror...
                 2 that was actually any S
also in a mirror... later sharpened into a Z,
then hidden in either caron-like-halo
above it in the form of Š...
                                                    or ß...
ah... ****...
         concerning the extraction point of focus,
what is philosophy:
                     immediately some
claim it's an:                     art of thinking...
to me "philosophy" is:
                            a dualism / anti-Hegel
reiteration, host and parasite comparison,
              a morality with a narrative...
               there's the θought,
                            and there's the: ought i?
philosophy is such a tedious word...
             lover of "wisdom" versus:
               lover of applying the concept
of ensō (ooh ooh, ki-chu! /
                          kí chú)
                                           to a súdokū...
    or as the concession states
the narrative for man...
            you either paint... or you think.
calculus with roman numerals...
                 beck...
                        no, i mean beck's,
i.e. bremen...
                         trust the french
         to serve up diacritical usage as worth
an amputee...
                       germans are custard chemists
and english are shrapnel...
                                  or a nail bomb...
i've been looking for this jewish
formula all my life...
              to see it unravel in speaking
english,
                    what do you call an implosion
of Δ?              Y...
                               i.e. γ, god / gamma -
                           which is copernicus
doing a handstand with Λ...
                                                  a labrador
angel...               nicknamed Lucy...
                                       or as some would
like to call it: zee eckestein... or schtein...
             or even: ekkeschtein... shoosh!
    schtein-ffffRein-franken... danke...
                                **** me with all this
sharpening of "edges"...
                         more like keeping vectors
and: if we're not living in a time
when belzeebub re-emerged to peer with his
pixel eyes back at us...
              then i must have ******
off aleister crowley in his chamber of sleep
that's his grave...
               pass the torch mate,
we're going to visit haunted burroughs
   and fascist ezra,
                    and then we're going to
ohio... for a milkshake...
                                       which is probably
why i hold dear the geometry of YMCA...
  no, wait: YHWH (vowel catcher on one side,
laughter on the other)...
            and then... pin-point honing device (Y)
coupled with: do that squiggly line
            sine cosine (i.e. worm)....
                  beyond that: off my rockers,
or as some technical geeks would like to say:
ex... ponential...
                                  trig says: drool me out
a tangent graph...
         by now you can jesus christ almighty
all you want...
                                   i'm knocking
on a skull with bobby McDylan
                         gagging for a cliche's worth
of Hamlet with the question:
                                  you deaf, or is he death?
and to think...
        i read the last remains of pop Kant,
                    to produce...                     this.