october sun, ember in the sky, hanging above the ground many in the orchard, did the land become dry? sitting beneath the clouds, tiny soldier's shields swallowed the light, many ushered night, many ushered night, the bark whispered back, i am buried below. i carried in the urn, ashes of a civilized world, floating sky. ukiyo. . karakas no hone. underneath the skin, underneath the sky. mother breaths on your heels. holding you to the ground. i saw the soldiers at work, inside the capillaries of the earth's skin. when came the great wind and ocean from the sky.憂き世. karakas no hone wa, bara, bara.

if you re read my history you will find the blooming of a rose. please, do. please, dont. fate. it undergoes photosynthesis and phosphoresis. organic phosphates i mean. picking up pennies when walt whitman's lover stares at you from in its cameo. somehow the eyes stay fixed and brazen. but it is laughable. and how they add up. brown to green. green to firing synapses. and the end of slavery comes. but still there is segregation. the north and south remain adversaries. one tells the other to march on, and the other complains to the other one both back and forth. focus. intently. "her eyes are like champagne, sparkle, bubble over, and in the morning all you got is rain". Mr. ritter said that--not the confectionery company.

a great Christian existentialist once said:

if there were no eternal consciousness in a man,
if at the bottom of everything there were only a wild ferment,
a power that wtisitng in dar passions produced everthing great or inconsequential;
if an unfathomable,
insatiable emptiness lay hid beneath everything,
what would life be but despair?

-kirkegaard.

therein lies the fate of the human race. yet even the revelation is met with more despair. for freedom is inextricable tied to knowledge. the analysis knowledge is tied to mans conscious. mans conscious is tied to his emotions. then there is a battle between the heart and head. the heart will win. and so man lives in misery unless what one wants and what one needs can be the same. all too often tangible goods are more alluring then the fruit of wisdom and long awaited awards somewhere off on a horizon with a setting or rising sun. man is born to mourn. we are born to seek joy. what fills your holes and echoes in your head as a good is something terribly paradoxical. so you think you make your fate, but you never do. man has but limited free will--the ability to move slightly, in a claustrophobic wooden box. so happy are the weak of mind and conscious. they are a paradox too. trial and error makes man commit suicide. becoming a knight of faith make man brittle, to some its just a joke, its merely a frame of mind that makes man fulfill his life. is God a verb? or is it a frame of mind? nevertheless, it is an universal sorrow or joy. i am sad to say as the days pile up on my shoulders i am most unwillingly becoming a humanist. john dewey wrote of the religious vs. religion which asserts one can fulfill the empty frame of life by being religious with out religion. i would contend this is impossible. undergoing a religious experience, as dewey defines it, is universal. this connects man regardless of difference, yet it only solves part of the human condition--that of disunity as a race, even though, the aforementioned despair would suggest man is meant to become an island under one perspective. what does man work for as a whole--this eternal consciousness Kierkegaard refers to. accordingly, the state of mind and want of purpose must be fulfilled in the human conscious. as man grows to understand his condition he his freedom of will ostensibly, shrinks to that of nothing. accordingly, a set of ethics must be followed to fulfill the hollow shell that is life. Christians say it is God. This is a truth in light of Christianity. there is no other structure of living one can walk by that fulfills this other than religion.

a testament of margot and the nuclear so and so's lyrical genius

Honey broadripple is burning
and the girls are gettin sick
off snorting coke up in the bathroom
while their boyfriends pick up chicks
and darling i'm lost
i heard you whispering
that night in fountain square
trashed the streets makes me wish that i'd go home
there?was love?inside the basement
way back home we used to lie
in a sleeping?bag we shared upon
the floor for?almost every night
oh darling i'm drunk
everything that i had loved has turned to stone
so pack your bags and come back home
yeah i'm wasted
you can taste it
don't look at me that way
cause i'll be hanging from a rope
i'll be hangin from a rope
if my woman was a fire
she'd burn out before i wake
and be replaced by pounds of whiskey
cigarettes and outer space
then somebody moves
and everything you thought you had has gone to shit
we've got a lot
don't ever forget that
and i wrote this on airplane where the people look like ants
and when a woman that you love is gone
she was bombing east japan
don't fucking move
cause everything you think you have will go to shit
we've got a lot
don't ever forget that
yeah i'm wasted
you can taste it
don't look at me that way
cause i'll be hanging from a rope
i'll be hangin from a rope
yeah i'm wasted
you can taste it
don't look at me that way
cause i'll be hanging from a rope
i'll be hangin from a rope

it was december in west Lafayette after a recent snow fall. i was wearing my sambas. for all the comfort and fashion the boast they are no quintessential leather boot. you would be warmer walking in a box of tissues. my feet were numb and began to feel as if my digits had congealed into one lifeless lump of flesh ending somewhere where my ankle disappeared into my socks. i walked to the corner of chauncy square where an greek restaurant appropriately named ATHENOS was located--run by a typical first generation fresh off the boat an organic greek man, black moustashe, gold chain necklace, sporting button up and a dr.phil hair cut. as i walked through the door a hearty, "hello sir, if you wanta use o'r warmth you betta buy somthin". i said "ill take a coffee". "Ok! hey adeipho, getta this kid a coffee...best coffee in town you can find for $1.70" i wanted to walk the 500 yards up hill to the student union and buy a cup of starbucks. i took it outside and returned to the bus stop.

i thought it was because i lived underground that trouble came around. a single solitary cell where the days come and go inside the halogen shells. somewhere the cycles of everything turn into one droning note. i thought it was because i lived inside myself that the nature of the game was without an aim and ended there too. then youre never afraid of anything but that. i thought it was because i have no self control. nothing matters anyway, it will always be 1929 somewhere inside. everyone is foolishly intelligent, absurdly intelligent, obfuscated goals founded in a quixotic hope of fulfillment of some sort. i only know what people tell me. i reuse, reuse, reuse, reuse, reuse, and refuse, then reuse. its a shame to have never spread your mind over the table side and flood everything. its cause i have nothing to follow that makes me alive unless i am with trouble. but that gets me nowhere anymore, i cant know that or i will soon follow you out the door.

today i am an one word letter.

concerned indifference, indeed, a curse with a remedy found in the bottom of things. the human condition is more laughable then ever from a window washer's perspective. everyone a king everyone a queen, a servile tactician with dysentery of the mouth. the irony is it is all a facade, they don't even know it. and it doesn't even matter. i prove my own point.

when you awake in someone elses skin. then you know you're wearing two different shoes. some how the smile's echo gets lost behind the dense gray (matter, day, etc.), fire escapes and outer space. my ancient algorithm, crippled mechanical motion stumbles in with a chap lipped stutter when the words come spilling out, profound but lacking light, im sad today i cant find the time to be sad anymore. still that prodding iron anvil anchors you down, rifting Genesis into segments of negative ends. all i want is to bury my love for being alone. peoples lives stack up in volumes on shelves to stay alive, or on the archway or corner stone of a building. puts money in their pockets and hell in everyone's life. and i dont know what to be sorry for anymore. you never know whose suicide you are helping to create with every step down that hardened road cause you'll always be swimming below an adulterous sea.

"put a penny in the slot and watch an artificial light shine"
-fr

it is curious to want to find trouble, but its only a remedy.

beautiful confusion. i saw myself in the window of opportunity hinged on a listless expression of every face i have been, passing like the movement of a hand. i am someone inside myself. its the cello. its the gray. its the anger with out an enemy that sits inside a potential fall. its my scream pent in someone else's lungs. i suppose. i felt that the chords resonated in a dust bowl field, harmonized with the grains of wheat and sand, something about the horizon where the beige earth and the blue midwest sky meet in a subtle clash that is more metaphorical than it seems. everything is like that now a days. some how. indeed beautiful confusion. absurdity. they paint us with larger mouths then heads and our genitals more audacious and consuming than our lower extremities. they paint us no longer as bipedal. they are right. its the lament of the shrew. kumquats, indeed.

it makes me curious that imitating animals leads to trouble for the race. no, i lied. things are all too obvious, laughing is a drug like that. so are opiates and amphetamines and psychotropics and other fantastical nonsense. you are a joke if you do. that's what no one is afraid of being a joke. therein is enough humor for a lifetime.

everyone belongs somewhere. its difficult to believe your future is being made every second of the day you are awake and asleep. so become a constructivist or a sad sack then a philosopher so the mindless fools can have things to worry themselves with and think about that is orthogonal to their existence. the problem is i have been at the top of a breath for 4 years. arduous living. gadfly obfuscating opportunities often craft a comfortable chair, but life isnt a spectator sport to my dismay. so how is one to know? by running into dark rooms blind and laughing of course.

did you know that Dr. Hopperheimerhausen revealed a most secretive fact of the human condition to me. yes. He claimed after being blown to oblivion and clawing his way back the obscure order of the chaos we push down our throats and that circulates in our arteries and capillaries numerous times, that you can make your own fate. there's an existentialist for you. i always find it terribly humorous that they who find no hope in longevity for the amazing race some how craft a airless cell in white cap swell. endings are nearly as certain as beginnings, without either one the other could not endure. thats what i told him. he found his happy high holding close to the ever indelible phrase coined by elliott in the instrumental "im gonna get to heaven". we all make that same promise. but it falls apart like everything else. the man of 55, looked at me with glazed over eyes sunken beneath brows like a garden over grown, through his horn rimmed glasses, blankly, intently, patiently. he then said "what the hell have i been living for my whole life?" I said, "kumquats, indeed". we both laughed. that's a secret.

"give me your eyes, i need sunshine"

I heard you say we’re all going back into the dusk where we came, carrying a cross on our backs, and everything that burdened each step, all falls away when you reach that holy land.

But if it comes down on that day to a judgment on the fate you made with all your checks and x’s, your shades of gray, well, I don’t want anything to do with that

And you still say that its your fear of God that binds you in your bubble to watch the world go on
But you act just like nothings wrong and swear your gonna cure every curse in this world gone to rot
From your hermit cove your anticlimactic cell, where you're always waiting on a fall to send you back down to your hell, Maybe then were made to hate ourselves to grow into something we’re not, something were not.

what is a pink moon?

why do people fall in lines.

today, today, i am sad to say, i am a humanist.
i believe in rationality. i believe that 2+2 equals 3, it also equals 4 and 5. i believe in the indelible fate that we make, and the suicide we submit to.
black soot mounds turn out mushroom clouds and polydactyl children. its the old money. they see only revolutions of metal teeth and aggregate numbers. its the race to many things for bipedal beings. fascinating. quixotic fools gold. laughter in the barrel of a gun or a black balloon. Elliott said "bottle up and explode. over and over." you never know until you go down that lane. curious.
tomorrow i will be a Christian.

i








































tried to fill my glass with

outerspace

today

lennon knows.

circular spectacles are keen.

bullseyes.

bullsyes.

comedy. infinite comedy. teaspoon sized sunsets. make me laugh. only inside.
i like cupped palms.
the lines look like .
you can hold a column of air.
man likes to pretend we are God.
atheists say we are an accident.
Christians say we are a perfect masterpiece.
everything is a symbol for something else.

i want to be blown to oblivion. a man said i was strong. what he meant was you have an esoteric personality. thats why smiles are so common. people can make them complex and simple, still they're just subtle daggers. you know, i believe mr. vonnegut was a genius. he cared too much about not caring about anything. i am the same way. but i am a child. and its not as if i am blind to my own elementary approaches to life, its simply i think the best option lies in the solitude of a grain of sand. blue blood does things to you, so does living underground. its not that i dont care, i dont want to not care. its fear. thats what galvanizes the clockwork. so sorrow becomes indifferent too. you have to feed things. i wonder that the two holes were too cliche, its horrible to say, but i think there was more than just two. i know we all think the same thing. georgia, georgia. it is a 5 chapter hymn i wanted to say too. if i were an alcoholic and heroin addict. but im not. so things arent the same. then even trouble is a perspective. then what do you share? im so tired these days. thats what happens when you are addled inside, and doomed outside. but its not about the cross you inherit.

i am sad about looking up at the fate that has been piling up faster than i can think. numbers lock you into a greater good, its sick. what to make of the intersecting lines of destiny. its the illusion of a freedom of will. but it moves slow, so you chase a carrot every day. its ok. you don't know what i mean, less yesterday more today anyway.

today, the world is drowning in the irony of a shadow. for certainly the brighter i insist i am, the darker, the longer my shadow grows, and when i am a december night, cold, dry, and gray, my shadow stays faint and close. then there is harmony. no more ying and yang, a balance of good and evil, right and wrong, a divide between the quixotic reveries of mice and men, no. there in the absence of light pupils dilate and you become awake... curiously, vigilant. "company and grief sit like a doc leaf sits beside a stinging netal". it is the irony of a shadow, the wretched faithful black eyed dog, so servile, so spiteful, so sly. today the world is drowning in the justice of the poet. their agile and adroit fountain pen fingertips paint frames over everything. such clever prose. like:

the word ubiquitous.
it is indigo.
and fluid and flowing and chilling all at once, falling away.
distant.
reposed.
ubiquitous like a rose.


i think it spills from the tongue too nicely. they invent, invent, invent! always crafting emblematic devices, that make recantations and observations intricate, elegant, works of art. damn things indigo. damn things fluid and flowing. damn irony, cliche and certainly damn ubiquitous. there is a proper poem. live. life. still fates both dark and light, far and near, are spliced uncompromisingly together. irony. yes. today, the world is drowning in the comedy of the game. a most dangerous game. there is night then day and longer gray. binocular vision is piquant. what is down is up. antipodal existence. it makes sense. chemicals received. okay. metaphorical stages of locomotion. ah the birth of an idea. the ink for a pen. how the absence of nothing and something are the same. ubiquitous, ha! indeed. it is intoxicating. it is a joke, a daedalic composition of potential. it is an orderly mess. an awful awful fiasco. it is a masterpiece. what a gift.

i am become king, destroyer of worlds. hoisted high upon a potential fall. i cannot stop. the laugh. and the static electricity a charge that comes with a shock, crossing metal with metal inside the confidence of a narrow stairwell headed home. particles and chemicals, organic hydrolysis. OH's for everyone. C10H12N2O. like a bird beating wings. or. inhaling. nothing. swallow the moon. perpetual eternal. shifted frames. both chronological and epistemological. hair brained inventors forged allegiance with ink and paper and gray matter. so prefrontal addresses go, above and below everyone the same. hydrolics. boyle blood. because of C10H12N2O and glasses. puncture, rift, repose.puncture, rift, repose. pocketed hands. puncture, rift, repose. laugh. boom.