long before the Greeks started applying diacritical stresses to their letters, the English should have applied them, following their European counterparts in the use of the Latin α-β sabbatical - but of course, they wouldn't, the English poker hand had a royal flush compared with the Greek pair of tens - the reigning delusion given the British Empire? we are the Romans reincarnate - sure, it worked to produce us the Canadian, the American and the Australian accents - but they really, really have to dress-up for the occasion - it just won't do leaving the alphabet naked without stresses that invoke a spirit of universal pronunciations, leaving it a mongolian steppe instead, a wild-west you might add, adding to the social hierarchies established when the hierarchy rests with someone seeing the invisible standards of elocution in that numerous number of examples ready on hand... this is a second English Revision, the first one was economic with Marx... this is another altogether different revision... to appropriate English into what other European nations have done prior... of course, not appropriating the stresses to the fall of the Roman Empire gave them the delusion as successors of the power established - but only for so long... they're not looking over at America with admiration anymore... they're wondering: what the hell is going on?! but i deem this project a half-failure in waiting - given that establishing a universal pronunciation system will not work miracles - Silesian Polish is one example in the making, but if you at least add necessary invocations to stress certain letters, you wouldn't write poetry using the word blah from time to time - it's still bewildering in the Copernican sense that English, out of all the European languages hasn't bothered to wear a cravat of acute vowel or a belt's worth of umlaut - straight out of Eden these people are, stark naked in the moonlight - obviously because of this lack of addition the power balance rests with them, but the English know that they were once occupied by Romans, the Americans can have the naked Latin... the English aren't so sure as to why not join the exercise of additional-revision... the polygamy of accents wouldn't disappear - but the orthographic revisions would aid the less concerned with saying certain words right... but then again, it might be too late, given that because no diacritics were ever ascribed to how the English encoded sounds leveraging toward a poly-phonetic-diversity on these isles alone (let alone North America and Australia) - adding stresses to these 26 popes will have no effect at all... but still! why did the Greeks decide to add stress and eloquence and the reincarnate delusional Romans didn't follow Greek suite?! one thing is for sure... start adding them... and acronym English / ugly English will disappear - people simply need quickly-identifiable stresses, they want linguistic calculus, to ably differentiate and integrate.

after your required reading - *what did i miss?!
with the classics - you look at your contemporaries
and become slightly peeved off -
what ontology can't explain is the instinct
criticising the coal-miners of words -
you rarely see awe when the obscure nugget
of some precious metal is chiselled out -
like the αρκενστoνε - but tmesis will not be
akin to a precious stone (tmēsis - why did the Greeks
insert necessary diacritics and the Anglophiles
were so lazy reducing Aphrodite to Prostodite?
it means e.g. ex-*******-aggeration of something) -
with such a paradise some of us become
coal-miners of words, precious vocalisations -
20 carat with that ontology of yours;
poetry ought to make philosophers like heroes
of Homer's day - give the battlefields shifted to
libraries rather than pecking menus of crows
in muddy Ypres - after reading the book reviews
comparing Saturday reviews with Sunday reviews
i get the picture - it's not a beauty, it's just there -
money is not the dirt people speak of hoping for
a win on the lottery and an escape -
money invoked a necessary loss of tribalism -
of excess labour when no labour in what area was
prescribed earning was necessary -
offices hoovered like hospitals, but then hospitals
incubating super-bugs, resistant to antibiotics ***** -
a baby held captive in a cupboard -
since Hippocrates' times sadism crept in -
people are so sane they perform it automatically without
knowing - until their time comes;
every time i read Bukowski i feel i'm at home,
the latter Bukowski, the posthumous writings -
i too wish i wrote with the sensibility of philosophers,
limited vocabulary, the so called systematic approach -
they simply said: 100 words, written to the volume of
1000 pages - systematisation in philosophy involves
a limitation on vocabulary - they want to see how
far their stressed limit of vocabulary eats away at
the potential sigma of potential - poets on the other hand
rarely systematise - they'd rather jump in with
as many words as possible, and leave anyone reading
their word bewildered, because their vocabulary is
not drilled in, it's not perfected, it almost looks like
a prosthetic limb - the moment when you see a dictionary
in action, the odd word from them all, breaking
the fluidity of a poem that could have been a waterfall -
there are plenty of dictionary moments in almost all
poetry - there's no ticking clock event in them, there's
pause, reflection, revision.
for me this poem started in thinking how ridiculous
using certain words can be - Roman Empire, pseudo-Christ -
i mean, in poetry at least, such words and compounds
look ridiculous in poetry, there's no dogmatism in poetry
to allow such words a serious use - esp. when
compared with what philosophy practices -
a systematisation / containment of a particular vocabulary,
stretched to its limit, dismissive of synonyms of words -
(variations of particulars), i.e. the founding principle
of establishing universal meanings to words:
on that rainbow canvas: red is red, blue is blue,
green is green... all together they're white / mirage of paper
and sclera - the so called invisible -
systematisation in philosophy is a rejection of multiple
meanings of words (deviating 2nd through to 6th meanings
for lying / ambiguity) - and limitation of what can be expressed
with a border on tongue - after all borders exist in
landmasses and in seas -
yet i still don't think poetry is all about music -
those days are long gone - poetry started nibbling at
philosophy - they are heroes to me, i mean, Francis Bacon
died after trying to invent a refrigerator (hypothermia -
hyper-thermal? perhaps a variant of hippo or the trait
of the lizard - the lizard disease - below thermal acceptability
for mammal, true indeed) -
yet after reading the crunch (2), mahler, sometimes even
putting a nickel into a parking meter feels good-,
and esp. am i the only one who suffers thus? i just
think of C. G. Jung - i don't know why - that little
book of his i have: the undiscovered self -
i really don't know what there is to discover -
when you start writing you never actually think from
the beginning that you have it in you -
you never do! it's a lazy beast, writing is -
even a poem a day can be a welcome presence -
for me it was never something undiscovered,
discovering that i started to smoke cigarettes aged
21 after being so anti-cigarettes coming from clubbing
stinking of tobacco - the self i discovered was a bit like
a portrait of Dorian Grey (great book by the way,
better than an adaptation on screen) - that self i didn't
expect - although less ****** and definitely less
fetish spandex clubs - i don't know why i'd mingle
the abstract simplicity opening doors and corridors
to walk on that poetry is (however mutilated due to
a lack of respectable technique like some English teacher
telling you to coordinate yourself with metaphor, pun
or imagery vectors - modern painters can paint
******* and their expression is still art, but when it
comes to poetry... everyone suddenly needs old
Chaucer dungeons or Shakespeare with whip to tell
you it's poetry - a ******* black square on canvas isn't
Raphael!) - i just realised that it's not about discovery -
this is going to sound ridiculous, but it's how it goes,
i don't attack too much significance in examples as these,
i know the meaning of such example, but the meaning
is shallow due to the peddle-stool that C. G. Jung
ascribed the compound: the undiscovered self -
with poetry it's always the inner self that introverts
and shuts up when the world never bothers -
the crucial moment comes when that basic unit of life
(of course, vary it with existence or reality and the matrix,
whatever) reacts to a world it can no longer understand -
poetry then enters the realm of the individual,
the undiscovered self is found, once a healthy individual
weighing 75kg, now a drunkard at 115kg and somehow
still content (the invisibility shroud from back in school,
as with Plato: 18 through to 21 - beauty is a short-lived
tyranny - and 3 years is enough) - and the self begins
digging, and digging and digging (yes, i know, it's
how pronouns interact with each other, the ~self is never
self said - old Germanic - the telegram technique -
self said that self would - funny how all psychiatric theory
or psychology is so ****** obsessed with pronouns and
no other category of words - that's where the sharks swim
sniffing out a drop of blood from a cubic mile of sea water) -
and by digging there is no actual stasis of an undiscovered
self - there's only the continuum of perpetuated inner
and more inner; but what is discovered is not what
is necessarily categorised as zenith, an undiscovered potential,
for that's motivational speech - that little book is
about motivational talk, therapy to craft an illusion of
self-assurance... never mind... after reading
the book reviews from Sunday, most notably the biography
of Philip K. ****... i found that English is a language most
beautiful, but also a language most dismissive -
as with the late acceptance of existentialism -
the slow nibbling at the walls of English utilitarianism -
for that could only be an English product of thought -
and the results? well, teenage suicides and too much
pill-dropping to cure depression: nothing that hurts.
it was hanging in the air, like a guillotine blade -
too much faith in English sensibility and that bloodied
doctrine that utilitarianism is, it's not about big words
these days, when behind those big words there are crude
actions - talk about really inventing a blanket to cover
the crude actions behind what was said in variation of
the supposed vaccine program to make people immune toward
crude actions.

Did you know? I guess you didn't
She hid it well
Beneath the vacant expression she called a smile
Vast oceans of undiscovered girl.
Drowning tears, words without a voice, I guess you'll never know
Under the pavement she walked so proudly upon
Miles of undiscovered girl.
I guess you see the tracks now you look,
But further than that she lies
Absent minded smiles, where was her mind?
I guess you'll never know
Beneath the bed in which she lay so happily
Were boxes of undiscovered world
Nothing that broke the surface
Just undiscovered girl.

by Shannon Phillips

Hi!

I'm an undiscovered poet,
No one seems to care to know it,
I wrote 160 and more to come,
They are my feelings and mind talk on paper.
People see them as nothing but paper,
But the wise, smart, and beautiful enter them
As another world made by pen from hand.

        A new discovery is me,
        yet so undiscovered, see,
        come, come,
        cross the deep, dark ocean,
        swim my sweet sea,
        fly my fine few skies,
        get swooped up soon and soothed in my world,
        be taken by my air,
        
        WIND!!

In my world you are a piece of clean paper,
You can be anything you want to be,
Float finely like a feather,
Stay free in any kind of weather,

But still people are afraid to see through concrete,
Afraid and forbidden to see,
 
So, still undiscovered iz me.

I.

Thou aged unreluctant earth who dost
with quivering continual thighs invite
the thrilling rain the slender paramour
to toy with thy extraordinary lust,
(the sinuous rain which rising from thy bed
steals to his wife the sky and hour by hour
wholly renews her pale flesh with delight)
—immortally whence are the high gods fled?

Speak elm eloquent pandar with thy nod
significant to the ecstatic earth
in token of his coming whom her soul
burns to embrace—and didst thou know the god
from but the imprint of whose cloven feet
the shrieking dryad sought her leafy goal,
at the mere echo of whose shining mirth
the furious hearts of mountains ceased to beat?

Wind beautifully who wanderest
over smooth pages of forgotten joy
proving the peaceful theorems of the flowers
—didst e’er depart upon more exquisite quest?
and did thy fortunate fingers sometime dwell
(within a greener shadow of secret bowers)
among the curves of that delicious boy
whose serious grace one goddess loved too well?

Chryselephantine Zeus Olympian
sceptred colossus of the Pheidian soul
whose eagle frights creation,in whose palm
Nike presents the crown sweetest to man,
whose lilied robe the sun’s white hands emboss,
betwixt whose absolute feet anoint with calm
of intent stars circling the acerb pole
poises,smiling,the diadumenos

in whose young chiseled eyes the people saw
their once again victorious Pantarkes
(whose grace the prince of artists made him bold
to imitate between the feet of awe),
thunderer whose omnipotent brow showers
its curls of unendured eternal gold
over the infinite breast in bright degrees,
whose pillow is the graces and the hours,

father of gods and men whose subtle throne
twain sphinxes bear each with a writhing youth
caught to her brazen *******,whose foot-stool tells
how fought the looser of the warlike zone
of her that brought forth tall Hippolytus,
lord on whose pedestal the deep expels
(over Selene’s car closing uncouth)
of Helios the sweet wheels tremulous—

are there no kings in Argos,that the song
is silent,of the steep unspeaking tower
within whose brightening strictness Danae
saw the night severed and the glowing throng
descend,felt on her flesh the amorous strain
of gradual hands and yielding to that fee
her eager body’s unimmortal flower
knew in the darkness a more burning rain?

                    2.

And still the mad magnificent herald Spring
assembles beauty from forgetfulness
with the wild trump of April:witchery
of sound and odour drives the wingless thing
man forth in the bright air,for now the red
leaps in the maple’s cheek,and suddenly
by shining hordes in sweet unserious dress
ascends the golden crocus from the dead.

On dappled dawn forth rides the pungent sun
with hooded day preening upon his hand
followed by gay untimid final flowers
(which dressed in various tremulous armor stun
the eyes of ragged earth who sees them pass)
while hunted from his kingdom winter cowers,
seeing green armies steadily expand
hearing the spear-song of the marching grass.

A silver sudden parody of snow
tickles the air to golden tears,and hark!
the flicker’s laughing yet,while on the hills
the pines deepen to whispers primeval and throw
backward their foreheads to the barbarous bright
sky,and suddenly from the valley thrills
the unimaginable upward lark
and drowns the earth and passes into light

(slowly in life’s serene perpetual round
a pale world gathers comfort to her soul,
hope richly scattered by the abundant sun
invades the new mosaic of the ground
—let but the incurious curtaining dusk be drawn
surpassing nets are sedulously spun
to snare the brutal dew,—the authentic scroll
of fairie hands and vanishing with the dawn).

Spring,that omits no mention of desire
in every curved and curling thing,yet holds
continuous *******—through skies and trees
the lilac’s smoke the poppy’s pompous fire
the *****’s purple patience and the grave
frailty of daises—by what rare unease
revealed of teasingly transparent folds—
with man’s poor soul superlatively brave.

Surely from robes of particoloured peace
with mouth flower-faint and undiscovered eyes
and dim slow perfect body amorous
(whiter than lilies which are born and cease
for being whiter than this world)exhales
the hovering high perfume curious
of that one month for whom the whole years dies,
risen at length from palpitating veils.

O still miraculous May!O shining girl
of time untarnished!O small intimate
gently primeval hands,frivolous feet
divine!O singular and breathless pearl!
O indefinable frail ultimate pose!
O visible beatitude sweet sweet
intolerable!silence immaculate
of god’s evasive audible great rose!

                    3.

Lover,lead forth thy love unto that bed
prepared by whitest hands of waiting years,
curtained with wordless worship absolute,
unto the certain altar at whose head
stands that clear candle whose expecting breath
exults upon the tongue of flame half-mute,
(haste ere some thrush with silver several tears
complete the perfumed paraphrase of death).

Now is the time when all occasional things
close into silence,only one tree,one
svelte translation of eternity
unto the pale meaning of heaven clings,
(whose million leaves in winsome indolence
simmer upon thinking twilight momently)
as down the oblivious west’s numerous dun
magnificence conquers magnificence.

In heaven’s intolerable athanor
inimitably tortured the base day
utters at length her soft intrinsic hour,
and from those tenuous fires which more and more
sink and are lost the divine alchemist,
the magus of creation,lifts a flower—
whence is the world’s insufferable clay
clothed with incognizable amethyst.

Lady at whose imperishable smile
the amazed doves flicker upon sunny wings
as if in terror of eternity,
(or seeming that they would mistrust a while
the moving of beauteous dead mouths throughout
that very proud transparent company
of quivering ghosts-of-love which scarcely sings
drifting in slow diaphanous faint rout),

queen in the inconceivable embrace
of whose tremendous hair that blossom stands
whereof is most desire,yet less than those
twain perfect roses whose ambrosial grace,
goddess,thy crippled thunder-forging groom
or the loud lord of skipping maenads knows,—
having Discordia’s apple in thy hands,
which the scared shepherd gave thee for his doom—

O thou within the chancel of whose charms
the tall boy god of everlasting war
received the shuddering sacrament of sleep,
betwixt whose cool incorrigible arms
impaled upon delicious mystery,
with gaunt limbs reeking of the whispered deep,
deliberate groping ocean fondled o’er
the warm long flower of unchastity,

imperial Cytherea,from frail foam
sprung with irrevocable nakedness
to strike the young world into smoking song—
as the first star perfects the sensual dome
of darkness,and the sweet strong final bird
transcends the sight,O thou to whom belong
th ehearts of lovers!—I beseech thee bless
thy suppliant singer and his wandering word.

The undiscovered poet,
Sits there at her desk,
I bet you don’t know it,
But she’s writing to impress.

Her pen scribbles across the sheet,
As she thinks what to write,
She needs to make it neat,
So her career can fly as high as a kite.

The undiscovered poet,
Writes down what she thinks,
I bet you don’t know it,
But she barely even blinks.

Soon, you’ll have heard of her name,
But that day is far away,
For it’s her life’s aim,
To be heard by everyone, one day.

the future is the undiscovered country



you see tommy des ree was a scientist who really wasn’t very realistic about what the

future brings, you see tommy wanted not to die, and wanted to find a way of eliminating death,

but this was going to be tough, because nobody knows what the future holds, nobody, you see,

tommy sat down, dreaming about ways to **** off the past, despite best mates saying they liked

him back then, everyone has their problems, but tommy was different to others, but he can’t quite

figure out why he was so different, because every story he wrote about changing the country for the better

was laughed right out of court,  and tommy was having a hard time, but really any idea he had was bad

so he went away to get himself into cosmic sleeping and learn about how the cosmos can save future

existense, and no matter how hard this is, tommy will make sure he travels to the edge of the earth, to find

the answer to what the future has in store, tommy thought, a person dies, a person gets reborn, and why do we

****, we call it gas, yeah, and a baby comes from that spot, and tommy got on the internet, to learn other people’s

views on the matter, and tim who lived in wisconsin under the name of genner, wrote a story about how methane is used

by buddha to bring an old dead soul and the new soul was created, and it was caused by methane, but the atheists of the

area told tommy, that nothing up there can protect us from the future, NOTHING, I CAN TELL YA, tommy was looking at many

sites explaining about methane, so why don’t we see the deceased, why are they deceased, why do we die, but the answer

to that question is, people die to end suffering, but still tommy was saying, why oh why do we die, how can we protect the world from death,

or is death the answer to the future, like any right wing person reincarnates into a left leaning family, like a selfish man reincarnates to a nice

to everyone family, and nothing can stop his horrible moods, and maybe if people can understand what is on in their minds, there might not

be a problem to be risen, ya see, not everyone is perfect ya know, and mental illness is a form of trauma from bad karma, from previous lives

or current lives, and tommy didn’t understand, why mate, why is there supposed to be a future out there, that nobody can explain.

even if methane is the gas that burns the old, and creates the new, methane also can be used to improve the part of people’s life patterns.

sometimes the old, can’t look after their young, unless they died, and became a new aged young person, created by the new age movement,

this might sound bogus to some, but people are dropping like flies, and being replaced by other humans or animals, and tommy was having a battle,

trying to find out what was in the future, what the future has in store for him, is tommy’s mind going to be in the form of a robot ran by computers and,

everything he writes on his computer, will be in the minds of people who use computers, which makes the future,

the part of an undiscovered for tommy and everyone,

we can’t control the future, the future controls us

My mind isn't big enough for an escape
My mind, I am trapped in a disadvantage

Usually my mind is as big as the universe
But my mind, is discourage

My mind, my mind, holding on to courage
Making my way to uncover

Another path of undiscovered

I wish that you could see me,
The way I see me now.

My hair flows like silken fingers,
Reaching towards the bow.

Golden scales with a fire touch,
Like treasure now long lost.

Glinting amidst the waves at sea,
Calling men to forget the cost.

"Come to me!" I call them,
Waving delicate hands.

"Eternity awaits us,"
While smiling, he stands.

And overboard I take him,
To the depths where life is taken.

Unknowingly he follows,
No part of him is shaken.

I wish that you could see me,
In this ocean so calm and cool.

A mermaid undiscovered,
Just floating in her pool.

you stole my light
when i told you to stop
and you ignored my red light
and kept going
like my body was undiscovered land
and you were a colonizer.
perhaps my asking you to stop
turned you on
made you hungry.
you looked at me with your hungry eyes
like i was fresh meat
for you to take and have for yourself
ignoring my stop signs
cries
screams
because i am nothing more
than an object to you
made for your manipulation and pleasures.

no, darling. i do not hate you.
yes, darling. i am forgiving you. i am purging
myself of all resentment, hate, anger, conflict, and hurt
i am sweating it out, i am accepting how life is
as life is right now. ***** the idealistic idea of how i wish it were.
life is what it is and that is
enough.
you are enough.
the Mediterranean sea is in my eyes,
I am inviting you to come swim in them. I am asking you
to never dry off. You can breathe under the water
in my eyes. I promise I won't let you
die. Well, the good parts
at least, for death is a requirement for
healing. I can feel parts of me
dying with every passing day,
in a good way, in the way an undiscovered insect dies
so that their body can be used as fuel
for their young.
yes, darling I still love you.
no, darling you do not need to be perfect.
Come, dive into my eyes. can you feel the fresh sea water
embracing your skin? Are you smiling yet?
Take a deep breath and know
that you can breathe here forever,
a mermaid child that lives in the bluest eyes
of the purest heart. i promise i will let nothing
keep us apart.

I met her on a narrow street of old Verona
Her beauty’s magical, her name was Lady Mona
She rolled a cigarette between her diva fingers
A little cherry smoke around her gently lingers

She had a long deep fire-coloured autumn hair
That with the wind dance as if out of very care
Her eyes are brighter, gayer then azure sapphires
Two little diamonds that can start unholy fires

Her ******* are full of life, the sweetest goddess milk
It taste like childhood memories wrapped up in silk
The skin – an undiscovered lands of sinful wild
It sends you on a trip so rough yet very mild

She was so picturesque, a genuine sugarbomb
Like rays of sun that dazzle through a naked palm
I pray thee, Jupiter, align the heaven stars
And let me be the one who strikes of her guitars

Wish I could walk to her and ask her dearly out
I feel so brave yet nervous, want to scream and shout
I want to spill it out, express my inner passion
But that’s not me behaving in such crazy fashion

Hell to the no! I go! I’ll spit my fire lines!
I am a blonde! I curse those stupid *** designs
I’ll offer things to her, I promise I’ll pushy
****, I am gonna offer her my cola *****

If men be ***** models, I shall be one too
I have one in my mouth – a nasty point of view
If men can flirt and conquer, so can ******* I
This Aphrodite’s taken, she is only mine

I walk to her, approach her like the mighty Taurus
Rehearse my lyrics, shuffle through my love thesaurus
I smell perfume – ambrosia, nectar, lemonade…
Formation, hold up, queen of… ******* Lemonade..?

“What is the name of thee, do tell me, pretty dear
Just like the beauty goddess you to me appear
By any chance you are one of the youthful Graces?
Be careful, darling, I can see your leather laces”

I

Flowers already,
sputtering bicycles and the mad drums of foreshadowed
Springtime,
Massage therapist of the universe!
The extracted final note in a bird's outcry and my ears are full of sound
and sleep.
A cities undeterred heartbeat welcomes me to the continuous span of events only separated by the lambent verve,
windowless eyes watching each other
a signal-light blue ocean winding around a wicked mattress
seductively spinning a cowl into the night for her lover
(who's thoughts have been paused!  he's 100% clocked in and spun out, a hanging aluminum)
DAZZLING!
toothpaste spit outside into January's soft grass from a second story dorm room that's curtains reminds me of The Glenshiel..
(or maybe I'm suddenly feeling sublime death slowly knotting itself into my lungs, always been there but kinda like noticing your nose resting on your face for the first time)
On the bus home I thought of new years eve, 2015.
After the countdown, emerged from the underground
James Joyce pool hall,
rushing out to the streets
an asphalt madhouse
lunacy, absolute, and stabbings nearby tortured parkades.
Here's the new year made real,
a tangible calendar
an authoritative sentiment
while I listened to Donovan's "To Sing for You"
My new friends laughed, arms together,
I felt like I was standing on the edge of an undiscovered sun,
replaced by Vietnamese clouds
(Which I'll sail by come September)

II**

A crow waits on a balcony, wet and lonely from the rain.
Radios buzzing an electric tuba.
Smoke is the father and
dew is the mother
I am the son cold and clothed, while others soak beneath
canopies, cement gaps, they pray, I pray for them although I
wouldn't consider myself religious,
"Agnostic spiritualism"
yeah, the has a nice flow to it
but that's just my opinion..
Waking up before the sun has breathed
the first western factory.
Yellow hats
****** fists
a faint star is singing
I'm listening
ears are ringing
a static drone collapses
consciousness reaches a peak before subsiding to sunlight
(sequel to the last day, prequel to the days to come)
I'll fall in love again, I know it
I have it marked on my calendar you'll see!
Water a few hours still/room temperature/is shaking because my foot
beats against the carpet/
this music isn't exactly conventional or pure as the morning
more a glass shatter
or a psychotic scream in distant queer Victoria nightclubs.
Passing Christmas,
Oak Bay,
Spanish holiday (potentially)
and ** Chi Minh City market walks
(future events ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
A university lecture from Vandana Shiva,
watching my dad's cat for four months
(Where my room was destroyed in a forty-five minute
terrified chase thru the house to lock him in a carrier for an urgent vet appointment due to kidney stones, or what we thought was urinary crystals at the time. He howled the entire car ride there)
I think back to childhood, 1996 Apartment light and the December blizzard which buried parking lots, blocked entrances/exits n forced people to be patient for once, sit and talk, make love without setting an alarm for the morning after
(before I was even 5, or 10, long before I wrote poems, and lost those I would come to care about..)
Hopefully all those elementary school friends turned out okay.
Since moving, I've frequently passed great corner store curtains,
green and grey dusty
by the rusting tills
an empty town
where the soccer fields became overgrown and ice cubes melt slow on
people's fingers (As they wait for time to roll by like it always has)
a forgivable loss of community.
Even so, there's that consistent disappointment in lost years,
a waiting room, and I'm choking on oriental carpet threads lodged one by one into my throat and here I thought I'd eventually taste the Chinese
but it appears that they have instead swallowed me, downed me with tequila (label torn from passing months and birthdays not celebrated)
The holy temperate wind expands down and through bare branches,
argumentative hours
desperate hands
a loudspeaker CALLING!
and the WILD MACHINE cuckoo cuckoo past the insulation.
Silvery sweet, undreamed kisses, misunderstandings,
the cool reflection of a kettle while two wait for midnight and for the butterfly to creep up on their shoulders.
(cradled by cosmic lobotomy, hours where not one person can sleep,
and Sadhus give spiritual advice for those that need it, India, while I need their voices here on Vancouver Island, far from the Ghats)
When can I go for that intercontinental voyage??
to escape the warehouse cathedrals,
capital Christs,
nettled lipstick,
weariness in the age of wireless consciousness
and a spectrum of commonplace goddesses who wake with no lucidity.
My breathing getting heavier every day, with the weight of wanderlust,
an asthma designed for those who's material position is dictated by a secluded room
(slowly catching fire)
I'm only months away from the prophesied airplane..
all been leading to this
here, now
soon.

The only known alleviation
on this unrest for experience
resides in poetry.

Her lips constant at the utterance
Of sweet and serene words filled
With adoration, praising him,
He who made endless hearts
do cartwheels and somersaults
Of multiple, millions nigh and far
their hearts loving
As long as he’s living

Nonetheless, changing courses
Of history was what she excelled
One glance, one encounter turned

Her lips managing
to do none but stutter
To his shielded heart
no one managed to flutter

His deer like eyes observing
With admiration, eyes sparkling
every look, crook, nook
Of her smile that shook
The worlds and heavens
Devout in his heart and mind

His earth's plates shifting
His massive planets orbiting
He witnessed it all in one being

The gravity of the universe on her
Shoulders heavy from responsibility
The heavens challenging her capability
Her hardships conveyed as she blinked
their dilated orbs communicating
language barriers unstoppable
To what her eyes held

He understood his needs
To care, to cherish, to love,
Feeling his heart pumping blood
Faster, quicker than light
Travelling the dark domains
Undiscovered, just like her soul
That he felt the need to explore
As his heart finally fluttered

Invisibility;

it need not mean
to not physically be seen,
for eyes look on,
taking in the
loneliness
I don;

crowds and rooms
bursting loud with tunes,
faces happily grimacing,
I am grimacing back,
revelry I am feigning,
as on spins the DJ track;

professional smile-maker,
the most experienced faker,
regarded by passerbyers,
they know nothing of my
insides                     on fire;

room crowded
and still alone,
optimism shrouded
by apathetic groan;

You
see
"me,"
but
you
don't
see
me;

Invisibility.

Sniffin’ my cologne
Hair full of da gel
In like Flynn tonight
For my homies aren’t that bad
Their just a little ******* mad
Playing with sharp knives, oh no
What’s making ya bleed
What’s making ya bleed
They'll be floating through later
Maybe laying down, little white lines
I be a chillin’, by about half past nine
I’ll be a jiggin’ sum ******* da sofa recline
Yeah, your ever so kind and real kinda dope
What’s making ya bleed
What’s making ya bleed
What’s making ya bleed
What’s making ya bleed
Maybe it’s from da *****, that don’t know any better
Why no one tell him, she was my date
She done dead now, for **** sake
Thoughts about what we do and where to take
Like how now is she gunna be undiscovered
Authorities and her family, smell a whiff of her on my coat
Like sum dead wraparound ******* fox
So now I’m on the Popo’s radar
Everything I do now, even taking my mama to church
Hope she prayed extra hard
I need to teach those *****’s, who to cut and who to trust
Like I'm a god forsaken ******* preacher
I lost da last girl
I feel ****** and torn
What’s making ya bleed
What’s making ya bleed
Not again...

In my real life,
not a poet,
just an astronomer,
an observer of
universes, bodies,
places, faces,
visited, discovered,
named and oft,
best forgot.

I observe:

Some never find true love.
Some never fly first class.
Some of us
never see the
South of France.

Some of us wear
hand-me-down pants,
white lined creases when “let down,”
mocked, we never forgive ourselves
the shame of it.

Some never experience
reckless abandon.

Yet, some of us are
recklessly abandoned,
and never forget,
and never forgive.

Some of us lose
children, husbands,
avanti nel tempo,
before their time,
and
the anger is
forever, palpable,
costly.

Some of us
were raised by
someone else's parents,
and never rest easy,
the abandoned taste
always nearby,
a cruel living, breathing
teasing wasting

Some we can pass over
with ease,
as new tissue grows,
those cuts marked -
emotionally healed.

But the ones that scar,
the ones that visible scar
permanent reddened,
are the
holocaust deniers
that there is a real
promised land of
peace of mind.

Peace of mind -
not even for a second,
foretold but
unrealized,
a biblical myth,
a promised land,
a capitalist paradisal hoax.

Some never feel
public victory,
adulation, adoration,
always wearing the T-shirt labeled
Property of Someone Else.

Most of us remain
unpublished, undiscovered,
unremarked, blanketed,
cloaked in bills to pay;

Living a triumvirate of
heart ache, loneliness, worry,
our normal table fare
consists
of hand to hand
into the mouth
combat MRE's,
we engage,
to survive,
just stay alive.

We are not digitalized,
nonetheless,
we are
but digits,
our faces hidden, and
in no one's heart book
are we recorded,
friended,
yet our viewing habits,
purchases, secret sites
are enumerated, captured.

Some of us live
exclusively
in the real life,
never to escape to the
province of Wifi,
in the landscape
of the electronic mind,
an option for which
we are
untrained.

Perhaps sanctity of separation,
safety of text, email,
avec the ******* intrusion
of tweets are
the real life today,
games are always won,
and what we don't enjoy,
we just delete away

But In My Real Life
getting up is trying,
IMRL,
the trying is trying,
IMRL,
delete buttons don't exist      
in the keyboard
of our brains,
IMRL,
all we have is a
measly twenty six aleph bets
to find new ways to say
that living is striving and
what we feel is
oh so real,
not digital

IMRL,
when I laugh out loud,
the neighbors
beat the walls,
complainants,
registering their feelings
in my face,
in my book,
so to speak.

IMRL,
I got a friend,
maybe two,
all I need,
voices to help soften
the 400 blows of RL.

Their synthesized silence
of their breathing
on the phone
is precious unto me.

IRL,
limp from Friday
night to
Friday
night,
a bottle of Medoc
my weekend reward,
my bedrock cushion
in order to sleep.

After all these years,
gains and losses,
conversations with God,
I look up,
see the risk,
the slightest breeze
is a
hurricane wind.

The shaft,
of the
the sword
hanging above me
the hilt,
swaying in living color,
is no legend.

But what I have is
the ability
and maybe
the responsibility
to let anyone know
that
in my real life
anyone who touches me
with fine and good intent,
a momentary glancing blow
or a gunshot to the ventricle,
is part and parcel of
my real life.

This makes you real too,
savior, and hereby notified,
that you are not
just an observer, but
a poet of me,
an astronomer of my heart,
and namer of
a secret universe
inside of me.


Sept. 1, 2010

_____________________________
US Army jargon: meals ready to eat

She walks by without a clue
Her bubbly personality and bright *** shoes
Laughter gush and spills, free and loose
Joyous even in the way she moves

She wears the world as hot as red lipstick
Explores herself and what’s not listed
Follows the rules but just has to break them
Sings in the night, when no one listens

The sun comes out when she’s ready to play
Curls bounce as she walks my way
She doesn't even know

Has never been touched with a lovers kiss
But she loves deeper than anyone I have met
Cares so deep, hugs so sure
Trusts so venerable, loyal for sure
She isn’t the rainbow
A color undiscovered
The flavor of happy, the taste of song
Flies like a bird, dancing in the lawn

Climbing trees, hanging in the park
Sharing her stories, girl likes to talk'
She doesn't even know that she is
My shining star, little piece of bliss
Showing the way when things get hard
Laughing when I cry
Cry when I laugh so hard
She doesn't even know
She’s my window in to happy
When it’s no ware else to be found
My excitement when my life is turned upside down
Noise that needs to happen
Hug I need to have
Person I know will be there
The smiles that’s for sure
Liesel you’re my happy pill
The one for sure cure.

sandpaper reflects our damages
radio stations weave eternity into sound bytes
yet one bite is enough to give you rabies
so back the F@$! up
and listen to your luck
allow for music to flow effortlessly
unglue yourself
from the tragic and stuck energy
i am logic forging itself
in a fire of shiny metals
petals of diamonds
remind us of collapsing realities
undiscovered colors
and passages out of this dimension
into etheric waters
surface temperatures
are rising like lightning
from the ground up
find trees to hug
jumping from knees to feet
and hands to mouth
round them up and get out fast
sound is music
infinite tunes
dancing fumes of vaporous intent
sent from heaven
let me at them
remind me of the sediment
and the contract we signed before dying
high as a waterlily
proud as a wasp
rested and assured of our death
your sentence is fragrant like a vagrant
stamped with burning jettison
turning reticent
hesitant to accept this love
as gifts from above
rub our souls and polish our hearts
i am tired of these games
training wheels may save lives
but a hundred miles later
she ate her last waiter
sore as a dancer
with a heart of a champion
our uncles were dandelions
sired in springtime’s basement
i choose medicine
not this heady nonsense
resume your poetry
and abuse yourself not me

The Unknown Desert
This area has some secrets some are unaware of here is a list first material items black sand apples that contained milk and the same grasses that grows along the coastal highway in California and sea gulls and chipmunks just like those found across the Golden Gate in San Francisco in The great conservationist John Muir’s stand of Redwoods. Then a black desert a jungle a secret pass a tunnel under the railroad right next to the place where it snowed all year round and Miss America undiscovered though.

We will start in order with the black sand this was the purist black crystal regular sand not so much
Ocean beach sand has a lot of powder content this you could scoop up hands full let it do that small
Wonder usually reserved for hour glasses gently cascade out soothing as it escapes whatever had it
Bound not being involved with the Spring Side mine in a professional sense I can only guess but like the
Mighty mountain of slack that stood as a giant discard pile to the mine operation this sand now it comes
To mind it had to be a pulverized cast off type of coal dust. They had a show one time that delved into
The byproducts of coal defiantly not as tasty or wonderus as the finds produced by George Washington Carver
From what he referred to as the lowly Peanut this will lead us into the Black Desert mentioned this was
The far end of the Spring Side mine to the east along the rail road right of way Why an artist never
Painted this I guess as spoken it was unknown Donna even missed it with her camera but it truly was a
Miniature desert with the same vistas but all contained within a quarter mile the long open stretch
Comparable to a large pond bordered at the edges by dunes with these grasses found along the coast I
wonder did someone while traveling harvest some then bring them and transplant them whatever they
Thrived and had the same pleasant effect not only on the eye but the soul it was always filled with the
Quietest hush our smallest land of enchantment Georgia O Keefe would have found it matched the
Dream shapes of New Mexico only thing missing were the flowers and sculls everything else was right
Here in your very own back yard it also was a bird sanctuary and the chipmunks still scurry about on this
Now lost dream land gone just like the native tribes the I lone the Sack, Pawnee, Potawatomie’s and the
Greatest tribe the Kickapoo bet you didn’t know this used to be Black Hawk hunting ground.
The milk apples not too big of a thrill unless your six and you look across the small pasture just out in
Front of homer’s Barn was their house Miss America undiscovered lived there I know beauty she didn’t
Walk around and she wasn’t at black desert but she shimmered just like a desert princess she could have
Been covered in coal dust it wouldn’t have mattered it would have looked liked gold dust if she had an
Native American name it would have been trance maker when she came outside the rest of the world
Stopped all activity except the part of paying her homage she was so humble she killed me if they had
Those portable oxen units back then I most likely would have been dragging one around in one of those
famous little red wagons she left me breathless then like a great devastating storm the news crossed the
Yard and ally she was getting married well what should you do probably not this but this is for everyone
Who has loved a living dream then fate oh blackest fate thy name was Richard comes and steals the
Most precious living one away I just went to say goodbye outside her bedroom window that wasn’t
What the girls that were to make up her wedding party heard a mix between a Irish Banshee and a small
Calf tangled in barb wire in a terrible storm would come close as you can expect someone finally said
What is that the answer the little neighbor boy did she close the window no she sealed my feelings for ever by her action of mercy, I don’t care I passed into the far
Reaches of agonies domain but I looked up from the ground where I was laying soaked in tears there she
Was kneeling beside me these fifty six years I have never laid down this torch that almost consumed
Me that night new tears now join those of long ago she touched my convulsing body and spoke I think
From that carving so deep in my heart when death to innocence was complete the poet in me was born
She even has spoken where does the depth come from don’t you know you looked into the cavernous
Abyss that lost love created I spoke of her in three lost loves and endless rails I told her someday I will
Make her famous I’m still working on that promise the apple with milk was an old green knobby hedge
Apple good descriptor for my heart after leaving her presence that night her earthly name is Eileen I call
Her summer’s night angel.

The pass was the space between the sugar creek creamery and Longwells Pana hotel sorry it was cool to
Cut through there and we lost another young prince when Pat Longwell died he was one of the first to
Color his hair he had the air of a beet nick he just didn’t do the lingo you instantly loved him he was a
True friend he owned the name cool the snow that snowed all year wasn’t cool but it snowed those
White feathers all the way to Wadley’s chicken processing at the end of commercial alley past the
Monument company how apropos for all the chicks that said there final Farwell the tunnel was there too
Under the railroad you walked down through it on stones that kept you out of the small amount of water
That trickled through go in and then pop out on the other side or get the thrill of the train rumbling over
Head. Thats your trip through this unknown hope you enjoyed the trip my only wish is that I could type faster.

This area has some secrets some are unaware of here is a list first material items black sand apples that contained milk and the same grasses that grows along the coastal highway in California and sea gulls and chipmunks just like those found across the Golden Gate in San Francisco in The great conservationist John Muir’s stand of Redwoods. Then a black desert a jungle a secret pass a tunnel under the railroad right next to the place where it snowed all year round and Miss America undiscovered though.

We will start in order with the black sand this was the purist black crystal regular sand not so much
Ocean beach sand has a lot of powder content this you could scoop up hands full let it do that small
Wonder usually reserved for hour glasses gently cascade out soothing as it escapes whatever had it
Bound not being involved with the Spring Side mine in a professional sense I can only guess but like the
Mighty mountain of slack that stood as a giant discard pile to the mine operation this sand now it comes
To mind it had to be a pulverized cast off type of coal dust. They had a show one time that delved into
The byproducts of coal defiantly not as tasty or wonderus as the finds produced by George Washington Carver
From what he referred to as the lowly Peanut this will lead us into the Black Desert mentioned this was
The far end of the Spring Side mine to the east along the rail road right of way Why an artist never
Painted this I guess as spoken it was unknown Donna even missed it with her camera but it truly was a
Miniature desert with the same vistas but all contained within a quarter mile the long open stretch
Comparable to a large pond bordered at the edges by dunes with these grasses found along the coast I
wonder did someone while traveling harvest some then bring them and transplant them whatever they
Thrived and had the same pleasant effect not only on the eye but the soul it was always filled with the
Quietest hush our smallest land of enchantment Georgia O Keefe would have found it matched the
Dream shapes of New Mexico only thing missing were the flowers and sculls everything else was right
Here in your very own back yard it also was a bird sanctuary and the chipmunks still scurry about on this
Now lost dream land gone just like the native tribes the I lone the Sack, Pawnee, Potawatomie’s and the
Greatest tribe the Kickapoo bet you didn’t know this used to be Black Hawk hunting ground.
The milk apples not too big of a thrill unless your six and you look across the small pasture just out in
Front of homer’s Barn was their house Miss America undiscovered lived there I know beauty she didn’t
Walk around and she wasn’t at black desert but she shimmered just like a desert princess she could have
Been covered in coal dust it wouldn’t have mattered it would have looked liked gold dust if she had an
Native American name it would have been trance maker when she came outside the rest of the world
Stopped all activity except the part of paying her homage she was so humble she killed me if they had
Those portable oxen units back then I most likely would have been dragging one around in one of those
famous little red wagons she left me breathless then like a great devastating storm the news crossed the
Yard and ally she was getting married well what should you do probably not this but this is for everyone
Who has loved a living dream then fate oh blackest fate thy name was Richard comes and steals the
Most precious living one away I just went to say goodbye outside her bedroom window that wasn’t
What the girls that were to make up her wedding party heard a mix between a Irish Banshee and a small
Calf tangled in barb wire in a terrible storm would come close as you can expect someone finally said
What is that the answer the little neighbor boy did she close the window no she sealed my feelings for ever by her action of mercy, I don’t care I passed into the far
Reaches of agonies domain but I looked up from the ground where I was laying soaked in tears there she
Was kneeling beside me these fifty six years I have never laid down this torch that almost consumed
Me that night new tears now join those of long ago she touched my convulsing body and spoke I think
From that carving so deep in my heart when death to innocence was complete the poet in me was born
She even has spoken where does the depth come from don’t you know you looked into the cavernous
Abyss that lost love created I spoke of her in three lost loves and endless rails I told her someday I will
Make her famous I’m still working on that promise the apple with milk was an old green knobby hedge
Apple good descriptor for my heart after leaving her presence that night her earthly name is Eileen I call
Her summer’s night angel.

The pass was the space between the sugar creek creamery and Longwells Pana hotel sorry it was cool to
Cut through there and we lost another young prince when Pat Longwell died he was one of the first to
Color his hair he had the air of a beet nick he just didn’t do the lingo you instantly loved him he was a
True friend he owned the name cool the snow that snowed all year wasn’t cool but it snowed those
White feathers all the way to Wadley’s chicken processing at the end of commercial alley past the
Monument company how apropos for all the chicks that said there final Farwell the tunnel was there too
Under the railroad you walked down through it on stones that kept you out of the small amount of water
That trickled through go in and then pop out on the other side or get the thrill of the train rumbling over
Head. Thats your trip through this unknown hope you enjoyed the trip my only wish is that I could type faster.

Its Christmas time around
The year is at its twilight
Breathing the happiness
And memorizing the sorrows
Of the year
At a simple lane
Of flowers and sunrays
The time when I started a new way
To reach my destiny in a different phase
The memory when he left me
With a loving heart and a new life
The mask which was removed
From bloods and the promises
The time when I was away from everyone
Being with unknown people
Who were known since months?
Playing around with temporary freedom
Taking those known unknown people as “friends”
And realizing what actual “happiness”
Realizing that am not living
The life that I should live
Dreaming to fulfil that life
In the next year
With gay and sorrow
A life full of what knows called undiscovered

27/12/2015
12:16pm

On a great mountainside, a beautiful river ran, reaching all creatures across the great expanse. Glowing crystal and clear as the fresh alpine air, the water ran, as yet undiscovered and unmarred by civilization. It knew not of the impurities that other waters knew, free from the grasp of humanity and completely pure in it's design. Each spring as the snow melted, the river would charge through the forges and ravines, reshaping the ground in it's wake, changing the surface of the mountain in it's path. Stones would tumble and trees would crack under the raw power of it's force, as it gained in size and speed over the spring months. This spring however, it met upon a larger rock, seemingly a boulder. "Ha," thought the river, as it began growing rapidly, the melting snow empowering it as it crashed into the boulder, slightly changing course and returning to it's usual path. "I will be back soon." The river promised. As summer grew nearer and the sun seemed to burst from it's cloudy shield of winter, it began to show more steadily and with a greater heat than it had in springtime past. The blazing sun caused avalanches as it bore into the icy crust of the mountain top. The river suddenly felt something new, something changing, it was surely larger and more powerful than it had been in previous months, and as it charged down the mountain, it was sure of it's victory upon the great boulder. "Surely now this rock will not remain unmoved!" exclaimed the river as it flooded down the ravine, in search of the unchanging obstruction of mineral. The sun's rays had created an avalanche, dumping hundreds of tons of ice into the rushing river, melting the snow and creating a great roar as the river grew abruptly to 3 and 4 times it's previous size. As the river grew it felt a giant to all the objects on the mountain, proud and sure of it's eminent victory over the great boulder in it's way. As the water gained momentum and seeming to contain all of it's new fury in the roaring flood just for the great rock. A sleeping rock awoke suddenly to a roar and a crack as it heard many smaller boulders tumbling into the trees nearby, and the rumbling river rushing straight for him. "Aww, thought the old stone, yawning. "This will surely be interesting." As the rushing water advanced upon the rock, it had no idea what was to become of it's proud and boastful ways. Rushing water carrying all types and sizes of large rock and debris smashed into the great stone with all of it's might. The rock was unmoved. Little did the river know, this stone was rooted deep, a branch of mineral deposit coming from the very core of the mountain itself. The river had no chance. At the impact the water and debris scattered, and the river, suddenly defeated, splashed against the side of the rock and continued its usual path of the many years before. As it continued on, it felt something moving, carrying itself somewhere else, like someone or thing was pulling part of it away from itself, and it roared in agony, sending more boulders to crack into the trees nearby. Alive and kicking, and carrying it's own cry came a beautiful new stream caressing the side of a great stone in it's beginning, almost as if to thank it for it's place in giving birth to the new life. "You are welcome." Spoke the stone, supporting the stream in it's new path, as the water began to run fresh and new across the bare ground. The stream seemed to caress everything it came across, the roots of the plants and trees feeling thankful for a new source of water. Although the smallest seedlings would be lost in the stream, it was a good sacrifice to make for a source of that precious water so generously given to the side of the mountain with the large river. As the stream carried on, moving pine cones and pine needles aside, it brought new nourishment to all the life of the dry side of the mountain. As a small child just learning to walk, running to meet new people and see all the new things, experience the new life, the river ran. It glanced upon the tall oaks and the thinner pines and the smaller saplings. It rushed to meet the squirrel, carrying with it acorns fallen on the ground higher on the hill. It ran to bring uprooted fresh seedlings to the young deer. It brought with it fallen nuts and berries and left them near the bear's den. It brought freshly dropped dry twigs and branches to the wary ******, hunting for a new home. It brought with it pine needles and dropped them next to the trees with sparrows and blue birds hopping about for new materials to strengthen their nests. The stream ran free, bringing gifts to all it met with and inviting all to join it in it's path. The young of the forest gathered together, foxes and rabbits and badgers alike, to join the small stream in its journey down the mountain. Never carrying too much water as to uproot or change the surface of it's new found paradise, the stream was grateful to be a part of the dry side of the mountain, and that side of the mountain was never so dry. That side of the mountain never knew the fear of falling rocks or boulders. It never knew the fear of the flood of spring. It flourished with new life and greenery as it became privy to the little stream's side of the mountain to live happily without fear of flood or the dangers it brought. Each new day more bushes and saplings followed the little stream . The animals began to move from the great river's side of the mountain to the little stream's side. The river became lonely in it's wrathful wake, having only the rocks and logs it carried along as it's companion. Even the trees were scared to grow near it's threatening wrath. Loved by all and continually becoming the renown of the mountain, the little stream never knew such hardships. Such is why a little stream can be more changing than a great roaring river. To be feared by all or to be loved by all, is in the makings of every gaining current. The little stream never grew much larger than a dear's jump or a squirrel's leap. Except in the hearts of the lives around it. May we all be as little streams, not hungering to change the surface of our world, or to be feared. May we all live as the one who embraces all the forms we meet, being grateful for our own place among them. Then may we know what it is to live among many and loved by all. Then may we never know fear, or lose ourselves to a great boulder. May we change with the small movements of the ground beneath our feet, and carry with us gifts to all those we meet. May we be mightier in the heart than in the mind, leaving our hunger behind. May the little stream meet us too, and may we hear it's message clearly.

i don't know why i found redemption in the tetragrammaton, sure, my mother cared for two elderly jewish ladies, one escaped the Holocaust (surname Roßhandler) and the other of established English rooting (surname Rockman... thanks to her, upon completing my g.c.s.e. exams i got a complete collection of Bernard Shaw's plays) - but i find it there, ping-pong salvation every time, translating it akin to arithmetic: 1 + 1 = 2 is very much akin to Y              H            W          H, which i started calling the perfect chirality - chiral meaning non-superimposable:
                                       A                      &                  E, i too ventured to call the double H dualism a déjà vu - but i know see them as vantage points, more electrons and quantum physics than protons and neutrons - well, it ****** well fits the schematic: sine (M) and cosine (W) - sure, crude, but i'm not looking at the geometry of the mouth... language on the base of pure optics... and no, not necessarily adjective noun compounds for emphasis to argue a point, just easily an easily accessed point of reference...     so quantum physics calls it the non-independent ontology of electrons: a. particles (Y, centre 0 on the x, y, z graphs - apart from the heliocentric and the geocentric models, here's another one of similar causality)... and b. waves (W, the formerly stated trigonometry suggestion) - and hence the two vantage points bound to H... apart from Adam and Eve lodged in between... which suggests that the geocentric analogy of electrons is bound to electrons behaving like waves... while the heliocentric analogy of electrons is bound to electrons behaving like particles: microcosm Copernicus blah blah; well, more like pseudo-Aristarchus of Samos.

20th century literature is, quiet literally
something akin to the cave paintings at
Lascaux - big brother isn't watching -
nor is the publishing old guard -
i just find it unreal that so much rests upon
the internet these days, the people have no
idea what power has been granted them,
they petty the use of the internet with
their earthly squabbles of a marketplace,
while, running parallel: the lost infatuation
with democracy as necessary organisation -
turns out it's unnecessary organisation:
because we ain't go anything better -
hence political disillusionment - rampant in
what western society deems the pinnacle
and the Libra of a fine balancing act -
religiously? that famous: "mystery of lawlessness"?
that's the internet - imagine a time when you
could bypass some publisher, some adherent
to a state doctrine, when you could turn poetry
into physics, not the waffle of metaphysical Keats
waiting for a kettle to turn into a volcano
or a whistling horse, but to turn the dial to
point at the reality of things:
quantum physics (derived from quanta,
a variation of datum: particularity of input
energy) gave poets breathing space,
metaphysics became shadowy, Hades like
learning, obscure and all the more necessary
to build-up its strength while puritan physicists
lost their sway of power with the fears of
the atom bomb and all things quantum -
so while the physicists became dazzled with
all things quantum, the metaphysics took off...
entombed in an apathetic (without pathos)
subjectivity: a calm heart, much more than an
embracing heart - yes, i am aware that i have my
wacko moments of feeling, but this ticker is
made of stone - and that usually means a chaotic
thinking process, spontaneity being the key
in involving yourself with real-life narratives
then never suppose a character study: what you see,
is what you get: my sanity plateau?
talk about music rather than make poetry musical,
it's a pale shade of red or blue when you
have guitars and orchestras and the poet,
a voice in the wilderness - nothing but pins dropping
to exemplify the talk... i don't understand
the need for poetry being a kindred of musicology,
i don't understand rhyme, i don't understand
being conscious of poetic prescriptions of technique
very much akin to language's artefact minded
grammar: noun
                                v. poetry's pun
grammar's verb
                                       poetry's metaphor... etc.
my deviation? being an adherent toward music,
and returning poetry back to its true purpose:
puritan narrations - not conscious of what's
expected, or what defines the art,
very much the beginning of cubism and later
innovations in art, i just can't stand rhyming poetry -
it's too conscious of itself by what it's defined by,
we have learned of a new subjectivity:
the unconscious - we might as well exploit it
while objectivity gets crushed into bewilderment
by quantum physics -
thus said: i feel like i'm a dervish spinning
counter-clockwise in a chaos of tornadoes spinning
clockwise while listening to two songs:
tool's *right in two - and muse's stockholm syndrome:
i can't be bothered translating the feelings
entombed in these two songs with a rhyme...
poetry should be less stuffy than it already is...
it should be a statement of the supreme effort: freedom.
all of this? spurred on by rereading passages from
Jung's gegenwart und zukunft (1957), alter:
          the undiscovered self (1958) -
it's seemingly odd (but not too odd) that books
written by psychiatrists are more popular than
philosophy books in the anglophile culture -
as already stated, i can't read philosophy in english -
maybe this is why psychiatric literature is so easily
accessible in this tongue, what with the self-help
movement, it the grandest prescription that no pill
(unless it's a sleeping pill) can be prescribed -
i'd say, if you want to read philosophy in english,
i'd start off by reading a book from psychiatry -
Jung is by far more adaptable than Freud
(Freud's for the rich people who have ***
written on their foreheads in permanent ink -
        and: daddy didn't care, mama was
                                     struggling feminist who
     forgot to breastfeed me) -
       but of course the 1960s Scottish superstar
(who drank, rightly so) from Glasgow: Laing.
well, sure, the Hungarian Szasz (shash, not sas,
or zaz... shish kebab... it ain't the difficult) -
impromptu deviation: what's funny about Heidegger?
he says: you need to study Aristotle for 15 years
to get him... and that's very much true for him also...
two years... TWO YEARS it took me to read his book.
that's what's interesting about this book,
a literary anorexic, in at 79 grams (pages) -
the interesting point? in physics, there are things
that are not independent of observation -
i like that conundrum, the mere idea of it is titillating -
running joke for the past two years: ***** ***** tat for tat
months later -
                          well... i'm not the one trying to
dress you up in a straitjacket with a label: this is poetry...
can't see **** for miles with how i write.
so there's a purpose, some things are depending on
being observed - which is a good thing, which means
that this world could not be independently sustainable -
its dependency on existing lies akin to our
desire to be independent of it - so all the religious
blah blah means something - even after 3 years
of rigorous studies in chemistry i come back into
humanism with a furore of agitating religious paraphernalia -
mind you, i do have a scientific approach toward
language - grammar and algebra combined -
meaning? certain words have become post-grammatical,
i.e. algebraic - not categorised as nouns or otherwise,
but as algebraic signatures: primarily because no one
really knows what to do with them, apart from
church yoga, standardised: e.g. x = god,
            i = y                  and the                  world = z,
predictably transcending the casual use of language
when shopping for cheese in a Parisian grocery store...
err... je ma'pel gorgon, avoir vous fromage?
nope, took to English too much - i was learning French
in primary school, but i had an existential crisis
aged 9 or 10... my brain refused to learn another language
after having just learned one from scratch -
                               the mute in class soon turned into
an avaricious reader... so parallel to my life, i now hear
stories about children being diagnosed with depression...
try being thrown into the deep-end of the pool
with your former development using a language
automatically, into having to learn the language without
no major influence of a teaching authority...
                                  no wonder the accent game
   sort of imploded and i started speaking sometimes tosh,
sometimes posh, and sometimes east London oh'rite?
                             ale casem tes jak rolnik -
                            owszem, czasem jak mieszczanin też.

We drink water once swallowed by Jesus.
We breathe atoms once blown by Buddha.
We share the light of stars
     with unknown beings
     on undiscovered planets.
For this light, this water and air,
     this brotherhood
     of countless souls
we give thanks.

Prose is unpretentious, that's its attraction. Avoids bombast of line breaks but forgoes -- what -- perfect rest. Anyway today, a November day in February, no chance getting rest with the poor clay I'm made from.

With my mother this weekend, her dementia proceeding according to what plan. Saturday the kind of day I never have. Actually read three stories by Updike. One extraordinary -- Tomorrow and Tomorrow and So Forth -- which I chose from his Complete through 1975 for the reference to Macbeth and in it he so humanely, sympathetically explains through the high school English teacher's thoughts Shakespeare's mid-life bitterness or disappointment realizing few men achieve their potential in the face of history, society and their personal flaws. Making for tragedy. Hard to be humorous about that although Updike finds in Shakespeare's late plays, especially The Tempest, a resolution amounting to wisdom that there can be contentment with imperfection and partial achievement. Updike took some of the starch out of my contention that all Shakespeare's plays are comedies, impossible to take Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth and Othello seriously. Certainly not Romeo and Juliet. It is a consolation that Updike's and even Shakespeare's achievements are imperfect although it would be wringing blood from a rock for me to achieve as much. The other two stories by Updike assured me that prose story-telling is as hit or miss as poetry. Bulgarian Poetess and How to Love America and Leave It At the Same Time made me think how fortunate I had been to find Tomorrow on the first try.

Not so much luck. I was attracted like a bee to a blossom to Shakespeare's lines in my personal anthology. No anthology and the poetry dependency it has created and I might have passed over the story. But now there is this conversation between me and all other writers. The anthology helps me know what I like but now I am tempted to try to articulate why I like what I like. Like the calendar, time and all else man lays his mind to it is a matter of bringing order from chaos by naming things according to our observations.

First, I like to understand what's going on in the poem. Not paraphrase it but describe the action. In Yeats' Lapis Lazuli, in the first paragraph, strophe or stanza, he talks about a community, a city or country, in which people, the women especially, high-toned maybe?, are upset about a political or wartime situation and are too hysterical for art or grace. Then he talks about actors playing Hamlet and Lear holding it together even though their characters die at the end of the play. No shouting, no crying. Then a paragraph or stanza about how whole civilizations are transitory too. Finally, in a reference to one of our oldest civilizations, two old Chinamen and their retainer are in the mountains. From their perspective, calm acceptance and longevity, perhaps some sadness, they look on all of history and non-history with something like gladness.

From there we can appreciate the artistry -- in Yeats' case the interesting rhymes and variable line lengths -- recognizing, however, that the artistry is not so much a demonstration of skill or a performance as the particular vehicle or discipline by which this artist discovered the content of his mind. It little matters whether verse is free, rhymed, blank, or formed as long as it is understandable and meaningful. Understandable to anyone, meaningful to someone.

The oldest formulation I have is Pound's -- the great themes of literature can be written on the back of a postage stamp. Until recently, I thought you could do it but you'd have to write very small. Now I know you can do it in your normal handwriting. I think they are Love (how we come into the world), Death (how we leave the world) and Governance (how we live in the world together). It may be possible to group Love and Death together, coming into and going out of life being similarly unknowable mysteries. The ways of talking about this one same mystery are apparently endless and endlessly fascinating. We cannot leave it alone. Almost all the greatest poems are about this mystery. Life is but a dream.

Then there is Governance -- how we live in the world together -- about which there are far fewer great poems. And usually they are about how our failure to live together leads back into the unknowable mystery through premature and sometimes mass death. Siamanto's The Dance comes to mind. I think the best poems of this type are written by so-called oppressed people.

Many poems treat both themes. But on the question of content, Pound is where I begin. My anthology -- Whole Wide World -- has a section which I'll call Double & Triple Features: Poems to Read Together, which pairs and groups poems according to my feeling that they share something -- theme, voice, structure -- in common. Subject matter is, I think, the commonest sharing. If I tried to name each pairing or grouping I might then have a hundred or more themes. Naming them adequately would be difficult to impossible. But why? And why not try? It would be a necessary start to talking about the poems: I read these poems together because....

Prose doesn't have to be beautiful, sometimes it's best when it's flat as Hemingway conclusively proved and one of its attractions is you can run on and on as long as the mind goes on following a thought without a stop sign for a whole page of books like Proust or Faulkner or Joyce.

Auden's is the second useful formulation that comes to mind (besides his chummy reverence for Shakespeare in naming him Top Bard). He classifies poems five ways:

            1. A good poem that's meaningful to him;
            2. A good poem that's not meaningful to him;
            3. A good poem that may someday become meaningful to him;
            4. A bad poem that's meaningful to him;
            5. A bad poem that's not meaningful to him.

I find I do about the same. But I discard all poems, good and bad, that are not meaningful to me. I have little taste for artistry for art's sake. The poem must speak to me or awaken me. Dickinson's formulation -- takes the top of your head off -- is the same as We can't define ******* but we know it when we see it.

A short aside: it feels inappropriate to answer the question What do you do? by saying I'm a poet. It would be like saying I'm a leader or I'm a prophet. You cannot anoint yourself a poet, a leader or a prophet -- others must do it for you. I wonder if I would be more comfortable if I had a larger audience (following) like Billy Collins for example. I think not. It would be like being a rock star, not a composer.

It's much more acceptable to say I'm a writer. Then when you answer the question Oh, what do you write? with Poetry, you are not self-aggrandizing, merely irrelevant, effete. Being a poet is viewed as being a flasher or nudist, exposing parts of yourself others would rather not see, at least not up close and personal, providing more information than others need or want to have. Maybe that's a good definition of a bad poet. Self-revelation dressed in verbal prowess is acceptable but naked, abject confession is unpardonable, tedious.

Although content is requisite for a poem to be meaningful, a poem is not really a communication like fiction or essay. It is more like an object, like a painting or sculpture, and perhaps like a musical score, sheet music. Yet I would still instruct students of poetry to first read each poem by the sentence, not the line, to derive its meaning, understand its argument, visualize its action. Then one might ask how and why is it sculpted, structured, with line breaks and strophes. Ultimately, the form of the poem is nothing more or less than the method by which the poet discovered his meaning. Although it is arbitrary -- it could have been said another way -- it is the only way it could be said by this person in this time and place. I have always liked the idea of a sculptor carving away stone or wood to reveal the form inside the block.

The poem lives on as an object, recognized by many or few or none. Like art or furniture, most are briefly useful then are moved to the attic or shed where they gather dust and mouse turds then break, dry and decay and find their way to the dump, the dust heap of history, only not even human history, just your personal history.

The anthology has made me an antiquarian -- one who cares as much for objects made by others as if I had made them myself.

So how can one talk about poems? The argument that any attempt to discuss or describe a poem is better served by simply reading the poem, perhaps memorizing it, has merit. Except in one respect -- the process can take you to undiscovered and half-discovered country within yourself. Always, first, you must understand the action otherwise we are just re-reading ourselves in our own tried and untrue ways. We must not mistake an old dog dying for a puppy being born. Misunderstanding the words is like constructing a science experiment with a flawed methodology and then using the results to shape or live in the world. It can be dangerous. Therefore reading poetry is a mental discipline worthy as the scientific method itself. It takes you out of yourself.

The fun of criticism comes in examining why and how the poem made you feel or think as you did. You can read closely for the chosen words, rhythms, lines and stanzas. You may admire the skill or wit of the poet. And you can refer to your own experience to understand your reaction. You can even disagree with the poet's thought or perception, or reject the sentiment. You can say that's him, not me.

Then there are Bloom's formulations of which I am wary, he being a critic not a poet. Yet here they are. Three sources of healthy complexity or difficulty in poems: 1) Sustained allusiveness -- cultural references that require the reader to be educated beyond the poem's content, for which he cites Milton as an example and could have Dante; 2) Cognitive originality -- leaps of perception and depths of understanding that startle, enlighten and take off the top of your head, for which he cites Shakespeare and Dickinson as examples and to which I would add much of what is memorable in modern poetry; and 3) Personal mythmaking -- whereby the poet constructs over time a system of images and personal (more than cultural) references that with familiarity become understandable and meaningful, citing Yeats and Blake as examples. How to make this formulation useful.

A second formulation by Bloom discusses poetic figures or the indirect means by which poetry uncovers truth, dancing with and romancing language rather than wrestling and pinning it down like philosophy tries. There are four: 1) Irony or saying one thing and meaning another, usually the opposite; 2) Symbol (synecdoche) or making one thing stand for another; 3) Contiguity (metonymy) or using an aspect or quality of something to represent the whole; and 4) Metaphor or transferring the qualities or associations of one thing to another.

Meanwhile, here's my **** poetica:

1) Poetry is an acquired taste, like golf or wine, with no obligation to appreciate it.

2) Poetry is divination; prose explains what we think we know but poetry discovers what we didn't know we thought.

3) Poetry is one of many man-made systems, like baseball or the scientific method, for producing knowledge, meaning and pleasure. Or are they all natural as ***?

4) Of all the other arts, poetry is most like sculpture; the word "poem" comes from the Indo- European root meaning "to make, to build."

5) It is impossible to write exactly what you mean or be accurately understood; poetry uses this to its advantage.

6) Line length -- enjambment -- is the single most important feature of poetry.

7) Poems are made from ideas; poetry is philosophy but where philosophy wrestles language down, poetry romances language.

8) Meaning is the most important product of poetry but it's completely personal; poems almost always say one thing and mean another but the poet often doesn't know what he meant.

9) It is almost impossible not to rhyme or write rhythmically in English or any other language.

10) The forms poets use are how the poet gets to his truth and are basically arbitrary choices.

11) Poems may be difficult and complex and irrational but they must be comprehensible.

12) Just describing the action of the poem will take you where you need to go.

There are colors yet unknown in my finite view of Earth , artistic wonders undiscovered , to this day quite alone .. Geometric shapes where Sweetgum trees silhouette the majestic Dawn .. Enchantment with every turn go I , to study my religion by day , collect my thoughts and observations by night .. To interplay among life undiscovered  , to revel someday in its happenstance ... The weathered profiles of a million botanicals unknown or forgotten . An ocean whose riddles remain unsolved , seventy percent of our precious world where exploration has barely scratched the surface .. Dark , rainy afternoons reconfigured with burst of light , the surface of oceans ever mysterious , highlighted by the Moon on hazy nights .. I flew over Moccasin Creek to sample fresh water and take in mountain greenery ..Walked the treetops of the Oconee Forest to witness the floor of the woodlands as a squirrel , crow or eagle ..Slithered along the Georgia clay like a Black Racer , cautiously studied each image before me with the curiosity of a Red fox .. Enthralled with the Savannah Dancers of Tybee Island , precious gulls , blue ***** and brown pelicans .. Welcome every change of season , Dark pine thickets tell of death and renewal ...

                                                          II­
Jagged , blue grass approaches , green straw tops , quiet
cinnamon needle oceans connected by silver streak spider webbing ..
Warm winds divide earthen cover , lifeless termite ridden forefathers lay in testament to bitter destruction ... Our Noon star nourishes bold , sylvan seedlings , beneath her languishing February predicament however ... Grassy field roads lay locked in period of service , daylight path corrections , marble land buoy sentries within thistle , dandelion and Sawgrass .. Gold , knee high cover caresses , reaching skyward beside the field road , lying forgotten , left to the mercy of kudzu , marble and granite .. Scrags reclaim rusted encroachments , tin in battle with the tepid wail of afternoon wind as stick pines mimic the Appalachians , gently roll toward the awaiting lavender blue horizon ... As pasture returns to woodlands , blanketed in hues of brown with forest echoes , carry whispered voices into tomorrow ... Lively crows live to tell their wintry tale , resting among scuttled pulp wood entanglements , to be born again , covered in the pity of lingering broom sage ...                                                              ­                                                  

                                                        III    ­                                                                 ­Across the edge of twilight where soft lavender hues lay at
rest atop her riparian horizon .. Dandelion blooms pepper the
red clay embankments , lone bucks survey brown fields of harvested
corn ..Mourning doves cry for the end of day , wild hogs lay tracks at the rivers edge . Toms sing of their loneliness  , persimmons lay bitter along country lanes , the meat of Chestnut not harvested , the final years of tall , stately Pecans go shamefully unnoticed .. Barbed wire divisions etch Winter burned pasture , Morgans and Appaloosas graze the fertile , ambrosial green narrows .. Manmade pools dot the Crescent lady , cattle ditches appear along creeks and rivers holding Rock bass , Shell ******* , Yellowbellies and Bluegills ferociously hunting the waters surface , Alligator Snappers and Mudcats work the turbulent bottoms ... Hayfields , peach and muscadine arbors flourish , boiled peanuts and sorghum syrup , collards and sweet potatoes ...Blackberry , grape , watermelon and okra ..Water oaks have taken command of the front yard ,  moss and honeysuckle line fence rows , flowing patches of wild grass and snake berry , rocks from Cotton Indian Creeks line hand built flower beds and walkways .. Rhode Island Reds , Buff Orpington's and White Leghorns work these plantations . Sassafras and dewberry , wild plum and rabbit tobaccos . Gardenia , Crape Myrtle , Magnolia , Pine and Chestnut trees  flourish to this day .. The Old Bridge behind Millers Mill still visible , what stories this elder pass could tell before the confluence of the Indian Creeks .. Crayfish , Bream , Largemouth bass , Crappie , Yellow perch and Flathead catfish ! The tale of the Crescent lady lives forever and ever ..

Its Christmas time around
The year is at its twilight
Breathing the happiness
And memorizing the sorrows
Of the year
At a simple lane
Of flowers and sunrays
The time when I started a new way
To reach my destiny in a different phase
The memory when he left me
With a loving heart and a new life
The mask which was removed
From bloods and the promises
The time when I was away from everyone
Being with unknown people
Who were known since months?
Playing around with temporary freedom
Taking those known unknown people as “friends”
And realizing what actual “happiness”
Realizing that am not living
The life that I should live
Dreaming to fulfil that life
In the next year
With gay and sorrow
A life full of what knows called undiscovered

27/12/2015
12:16pm

Though the future is unfamiliar,
I feel the shape of you against me,
Embedded into my every thought,
Imprinted in my memory.

The one thing time can't take away,
This little piece of you I hold,
Is the only thing I have,
To warm me when the night grows cold.

When I have reached the tipping point,
And life transforms me into a wreck,
I'll just escape to someplace,
Where your breath is hot along my neck.

Although seasons are doomed to pass,
I find that I'm not scared at all,
But relieved to be free of this fear,
And ready to once again fall.

The unknown is going to come,
Whether I like it or not,
So I'm learning to enjoy,
Every second of the time we've got.

What we have; it's something new,
That leaves me breathless every day,
Undiscovered territory,
I no longer want to push away.

Somehow you've coaxed out my trust,
I don't know why you tore down the fence,
I put up around my heart,
But I'm glad you broke through my defense.

I've never been happier before,
Caring about someone too much,
I can't recall ever being so,
Excited to feel a particular touch.

Please tell me you mean every word,
Convince me staying is your plan,
Just say that who I am is enough,
Because I'm doing all I can.

I don't know if I could handle,
The overwhelming sense of treason,
That would ensue if you packed up,
And left without a reason.

I'm not eager to relive old regrets,
Or make the same mistakes again,
Is history doomed to repeat itself?
If so, I wish fate would tell me when.

Up until now I've been guarded,
Careful to protect my heart,
But the moment you appeared,
My self-made armor fell apart.

I'll do anything it takes,
For a promise this feeling will last,
At least long enough for me,
To replace with joy all the hurt in my past.

When I'm with you I forget,
Each small thing that brings me down,
You never fail to make me smile,
Only you can take away my frown.

There's no use in wondering,
If another guy would do,
I could find somebody else,
But no one better for me than you.

I was sick of being a woman,
sick of the pain,
the irrelevant detail of ***,
my own concavity
uselessly hungering
and emptier whenever it was filled,
and filled finally
by its own emptiness,
seeking the garden of solitude
instead of men.

The white bed
in the green garden--
I looked forward
to sleeping alone
the way some long
for a lover.

Even when you arrived,
I tried to beat you
away with my sadness,
my cynical seductions,
and my trick of
turning a slave
into a master.

And all because
you made
my fingertips ache
and my eyes cross
in passion
that did not know its own name.

Bear, beast, lover
of the book of my body,
you turned my pages
and discovered
what was there
to be written
on the other side.

And now
I am blank
for you,
a tabula rasa
ready to be printed
with letters
in an undiscovered language
by the great press
of our love.