Is there an order?
In there an approximation of pi
circling our first awkward flirtations?
Does a dragon curve lurk hidden as I
caress the curvature of your spine?
Where does Euclidean geometry fit in to the
first time our lips met?
Does the Pythagorean theorem detail our most intimate
love making?
A quadratic formula for the shameful
discarding of punched in picture frames?
Is there a golden ratio that best expresses
hurried apologies and frantic entanglements
between our sheets?
I know for certain there was
a simple subtraction
on the day your tears added up everything
and finally said goodbye.
Some would say there is order in this
chaos disguised as order disguised as
chaos
Continually debating pattern recognition
or butterfly effects
But I’d like to think
We were more subtle than that

Alone within my emotional wilderness

A reverie along memory lane when, this lviii sea sunned
row man (stills paddles in oarlocks and serenely quizzically,
lackadaisically, and harmoniously drifts) along the slip
stream of time. Awash on his figurative manual navigated
opportunistic prideful quintessential schooner reflects,
regales, and revisits ebbing lapsed instances (fast receding
into the past time, when psychological instability grounded
fragile my self esteem (generated venting, steaming, and
piping hot brickbats). As a newly minted harrumphing,
grubbing, and floundering dada enmeshment (analogous
to a fish caught in a net, hence quickly ricocheting, rabidly
splashing, and sloppily thrashing) predicated my foray
into das fatherhood. Aye experienced nearest approximation
Bing battered, rammed, and torpedoed from glomming
(par for the course riot ting heaps) necessarily imposed
adult responsibility. Such metaphorical motoring across
avast Battle Creek with no landfall in sight, this then nada
so Grand Turk (key in the straw) Otto man continually
snapped, cracked and popped. This human ping-pong
fitbit part player papa felt akin to subjection re: thralldom).
At this juncture in me cross currents of existence I can
harken back to those most exhausting, fatiguing, and
grueling endeavors. Hindsight offers this aging baby
boomer the luxury to cast astern. Retrospective leisurely
trawls along the shoals throes of fatherhood allow,
enable and provide and opportunity to scrutinize per
chance, where arises this on account of the empty nest
syndrome. Ordinarily the wife (i.e. missus to appear
more formal), would caw out my name nonstop….
”Matt”…”Matt”…”Matt”…, but she opted to organize
the cluster of assorted household items at the apart
ment (located in Crum Lynne – Ridley Township),
we hope to move within a fortnight. Thy spouse
volunteered her own mini reprieve by setting order
to the miscellaneous fixings gradually amassed,
appropriated, and gifted thru out the twenty plus
years of marriage, which hodgepodge of personal
possessions downsized whence circumstance dictates
evaluating goods having keepsake meaning versus
anomaly of belongings to be unloaded, repurposed
for someone else, or ordained as unworthy to schlep.
Alone asper like a very brief sabbatical from marriage
finds stillness amidst the white noise of the whirring
fan. Thus, I sit here ruminating how to dredge up
some idea for a poem,  (non) fiction or essay. This
husband became acclimated, conditioned, and em
bossed with a mate a tete for two plus decades,
whereby both thee dos delightful daughters on
Track 742 heading west. Honest to dog, I miss
the role of fatherhood when either off spring
(with an age difference of approximately twenty
five plus months) romped, scampered, and trotted
as toddlers, and upon childhood, thy little girls
found exultant excitement dashing higgledy-
piggledy, hither and yon, to and fro across the
playground as most glorious human indulgence.
Despite the plaintive wail vis a vis Juliet saying
goodnight to Romeo (…parting is such sweet
sorrow) haint pleasurable atoll. Hitherto un
known that during the most vexing, trying,
and quaking bouts when both kin of thy ****
fought like angry cats would there transpire
the occasion of sincere tearfulness ululating
vain warbling. Now a pang of nostalgia arises
when I drive past their happy go lucky stomp
ping turf, or reflect on answering the trumpet
call to chauffer one or thee other to amusement
park, play date, mall, favorite toy store such as
Fivebelow, birthday party, et cetera. Even
certain tunes recalled to mind and/or heard
being broadcast across the audio logical spec
trum a cause for moistened tear ducts. Wince
with sadness also mixed with sigh lent bundled
expostulations of joy. Both progeny metamorphosed
into able bodied, minded and spirited lasses,
whose attainment far exceeded any projections
internally forecast. Initial onset of parent role
found me all thumbs. Prior to begetting two
darling dames, this chap spent disproportionate
number of hours sequestered within some hide
away, which frequently happened to be the
designated bedroom at 324 Level Road, College
Ville, Pennsylvania, 19010. Never did thee major
rit tee days of mine life point to babysitting or
working with that chronological demographics
comprising the adoring blessed innocence,
murmuring newborn obliviousness, that bespoke
penultimate unsullied, utmost virtue necessitating
interaction with tender infants beckoning being
cradled, endearingly fondled, demonstrably easing
fondness gripping heartstrings issue jetblue kinks.
Aye felt pitched headlong into this foreign territory,
and initially experienced utmost awkwardness when
attending, pampering and pulling (albeit gently)
upsy daisy, the nascent hint of autonomy. Remembrance
and recollection of élan, joie de vivire, and yea those
ear splitting threshold of pain screaming tantrums
all boxed into tidy wholesome Zen announcing
nuggets of greater meaningfulness and absolute
value. The above long winded reverie intended and
meant tubby a semi biography, but leave hit up to
his hie n hiss, he went way overboard, and will give
a one line summarization to describe his i.e. yours truly
life sentence fate decreed. He (this Anglophile chipper
chap lived under duress of extreme anxiety, obsessive/
compulsive behavior, panic attacks and essentially
schizoid personality disorder for the greater part
of his life and hard times, which raw bits would
warrant fleshing out to extrapolate how these psychic
pitfalls represented critical factors at various and
sundry turning points in his life.

The shoes of a dead man
For you to walk
And his blade
For you to ****
Every page vanished
And every memory
But not the paper upon which it was written
And the dust
Under which it was hidden
Traces of direction
Windblown
A new future
Waiting for ripples to die
To see the reflection
And the form
That must be overcome
In the eyes of others
To determine need
Though not enough
In the eyes of others
To speak
Or live in silence
To write
Or to think
For who would listen
Or learn
From a man wearing a dead man’s shoes?
Because they are not wearing them
Only you
The blasphemy of discarding his past
But saving his presence
Is only for you to know
The willful generation
The one that learns from the past
But lives for the future
While others
Ignore the past
And die before they say amen
But not the man walking in a dead man’s shoes
Inside a book
Inside another book
Choosing the prophecy
That fits his needs
But not the worlds
Because they wouldn’t understand
Even if it was written in their language
Nobody can understand
Except the man walking in a dead man’s shoes
He knows death
And every word is life
So he reads
And prays
And does not bring who he is
Because he is not the book
He is only the man walking in a dead man’s shoes
He cannot hear anything
Or see color
Only the desperation that fills the void
Between men
And their confusion
That he is unafraid
And able to walk between people
Without explanation
Or justification
Because they wouldn’t understand
Nobody can understand
Except the man walking in a dead man’s shoes
So don’t ask
Don’t ask
You do not know how to ask
Or what to do with wisdom
They are just words
Words that amaze you
But cannot change you
Because to you they are words
To him they only describe
An approximation
A sketch
Of smoke
From a fire
That you cannot see
Or feel
Not like him
Because you are not a man wearing a dead man’s shoes
It is much worse than you think
Because you won’t confront it
You are insensitive
Dehumanized
The only ones worth living must believe as you do
Thoughts are life to you
Certain thoughts
Thoughts that may be right or may be wrong
Thoughts that cannot be described by one man the same as another
But thoughts that he will not speak
Because he is walking in a dead man’s shoes
Without the blade
For he does not come to you by the sword
For separation is only by choice
His alone
Without bloodshed
Without the desire of what you have
For he is not a thief
He will live without it
He will never take it
For his interest is not in what you have
But in what he can earn
And what is provided
As it is given by the world
As it is described
In the prophecy
That best fits his needs
Because he is a man walking in a dead man’s shoes

I lay with two women.

In an Economy seat,
emblematic nowadays of
the global economy,
"value" disguised as
a shrunken package size,
for which the cost thereof
can hardly be described as
economical.

my extremities are engaged in
extreme sport,
my competition,
my aisle mates,
young ladies both.

In recognition of the
early hour of our departure,
I have been awarded by them,
a singular honor,
a distinguished cross, of sorts,
pinned with a medal,
for gallantry under siege,
the medal is not of
two crisscrossed rifles,
but crisscrossed elbows,
for gallantry
upon the cross
of the middle seat.

Blanketed and hooded,
or should I say "hoodied,"
slumber comes too easily to
my young traveling cellmates,
as does the
flexibility of the body.

They seem to revel in the words,
akimbo and limbo,
upon my adjacent
body parts.

My sides, my shoulders,
my haunches and paunches,
punched, pillowed and pilloried,
summarily donated
(with a consent slip
called an airline ticket),
to scientific research:
"In Furtherance of the Study of
Sleeping on Airplanes."

My lap, however, sacrosanct,
how else could I type,
of heartfelt matters,
read on,
for you have been both
punked and pranked!

My mind freely wanders
while body is
captive and captivated,
(did I mention they were
young and attractive?)
to the manner
in which we
juggle proximity.

My darling:
You lie beside me,
a distance of
but a few inches,
but closer still,
for I am inside you,
I am yours
for your flesh,
I take,
a blood vow,
sealed with divine blessings
of mine own composition.

For the children of my children:
You are crosstown,
but I hardly know ya,
I am of your flesh, your blood,
eternal and immutable,
no poem can be allowed
to reveal what I owe you,
secret debts unpayable
till and after
death us do part.

Proximity in my tears,
proximity in my fears
for all of us,
for thoughts of you,
come regular,
with every breath.

Proximity at the cellular level,
until that day your
words first emerge,
your are of me and my issue,
mine to behold,
mine with which to dream,
mind to mind and mine.

So now there are two,
where speech is not
a viable tool.
Know that when
I no longer compose,
I will still eternal communicate
in ways, beyond belief.

You:
So many we touch, so briefly,
lose and fade from daily sight,
yet, forever, treasured,
measure for measured,
each one of you,
parcel posted upon who I am,
the tick in the tock
of my beating heart's
final prayer,
Grace after the Meal of Life.

At my funeral
please inform the rent-a-rabbi,
that I was this and that,
labels to write on post-its,
to be stuck on my gravestone
that no one will come visit,
but please someone,
tell him to say these words:

Between,
there was no between,
there was
no approximation,
no proximity,
there was no scientific instrument extant,
that could measure
the close love,
the heart and home
in which his faith resided,
for those who touched his life.

Drinking a Guinness Extra, an empty gesture,
Beset truly by the words of Joyce,
I am sick of the turning from text
To annotation. I wish only to read
A text as it was meant,
With the knowledge not aside
But present already in my blasted skull

It's like the modern appreciation of Shakespeare
—At best an approximation. The words that were
Common, fallen out of usage.
The words then invented, now commonplace.

Thither and hither again I will look
Tracking the details
Researching the clever allusion
Trying not to miss & missing anon
what's right in front of me

                            D.B. Guy

September 8.17am

Awake still not knowing

The time or hour even of the day

The light as bright as a new

Clear sky intimates to me the

Approximation of open shop time

Even so the streets are quiet

It is not open shop time until 8.30

There is time


At 9.30 the open shop is no longer open

Though all the street is busy

The lights flicker through

Their pattern of the day

And the light fades and quickly

Returns through the brick-built shadows

It is time


At 10.30 maybe the day will start


At 11.00 the start of the day

Is over and the streets

Calm down to a hustle and a bustle

Of tourists sightseeing

And cyclists out-driving

The constant hubbub of motors

The sights they are seen

And the coffee is served

To a mutter and a mumble of lunch and


At 11.35 when the light

Is as bright as the glass on the corner

The brollies pop up over tables

That prop up baggage of merchandised habits

And chequebooks and cards pay the bills


Round noon the young girls trip round

The young men tripping round

The tables and chairs of the fat

And the fortunate few


Two minutes past one.


1.30 A missing hour or so before

A leisurely stroll through

The shops and the inns of any

Old street in town

For the tourist a nap beckons

His hotel calls him for dinner

And his tickets for the evening

Pre-booked


1.45 The pubs spill out until two

In the suits

In the laughs

The haircuts and the ****

The boxes and boxes and stepped

Upon stubs of American brand-named

Tobacco the half empty glasses and

Unfinished plates betray an ennui

Boredom and short sight


2.30 Swept away by the staff the world

Is an oyster for the titbits that go to the dogs

Even the boss and his immediate help

Don’t leave the inn until three

And at five-thirty they’ll be back for

A pre-lunch meeting with dinner

And a bottle of wine


Outside on the street

The tourist who isn’t picks up

An unfinished smoke and sits down


At 3.30 he is asked if he would

Care to move on

For fear of

Upsetting business

He juggles his options

Decides against the train stations

Instead settles

For a seat in the sun


And at 5.30 returns to the smog

Of the street in the hope of

A *** or some fodder

The City returns its money-making

Machinery to the cafés and the bars

And the trains and the belt

Of the green that England is made of


At 6.35 the lights are alive and

The moon will arise in the day

As the tourists flood back in their numbers

A show

A show

A film

A play

Some serious art up the river

The life of an entertainments

Manager is as hectic as he cares to provide


At 7.30 the evenings begin

And the tourist who isn’t

Notes the pubs and the inns and

The food on the plates

Somehow do not beckon to him

Instead he will sit and look at his pint before leaving

For he knows not where

Somewhere

The people are not

All strangers to him

Somewhere

The people will know he is there

Somewhere

Other than here

In this trap for the tourist who is


The tourist who is and who will

And who can and who wants to experience it all

The tourist with the plastic in his coat and

The bag in his hand that say to him

And to his wife

Or his girlfriend

We’ve got power


At 8.45 a creeping on nine

The mulling of ale settles in

And the tourist who is and

The tourist who isn’t share an ashtray

Of fingers and butts

The boss behind the door and his boys

Who he pays to help him out

have left and will drink on

At home or in clubs until late and

Regretful in the morning return




© scribler 2010

Communion of Soft Fingertips

speak, modern world
we are sketched in languages of digital bits,
parity shading certainty with probabilities of truth
giving us form and existence across distance,
distilled to series of warm, invisible numbers

frequencies divided step-wise, as Fourier found them
in noise amalgamated as information heterodyned,
left to be separated out, reordered
by advanced statistical protocols
that trace our borders with delicate, unseen fingertips
 
a description of new beings, relationships between them
uncertain at first in the short trails
of data they create

but there eventually - by the law of large numbers
or acts of successive approximation

we'll find them

revealed, like a pointilist painting
or seemingly random collection of string
whose elements are alone meaningless
unless we step back to see an entirety of mass
which we recognize immediately
as true love and intimacy

check it out check it out
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's da state of this here disunion
this here bangalore torpedo seeks yer minefields
this here suffering hero
n
crows about         strafes
multitudes                 peripherally
****** blind prophets
exclaim
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's nothing but beginning
of  beginning & z end of approximation
time's sweet angry subluxation
universal caving in on U & U
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when was z last time U really loved
i mean really really really loved
ha i could only hold to z imagination
z skeleton z allegory z myth
'cause everything slides & falls
screams careens outta control
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she brought in rrrrevolution.evolution.now
is z caustic effervescence of her wit
eroding my sandy castle of deceit?
ha and repeat ha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
forgive-me-notes are written high
on z forehead of my despair
a cursive flowing interdiction
malediction cruxifiction err-u-diction
en-passant
in each pyrotechnic moment when we don't see I-to-I
on anything relevant to what we once hoped was us
but we continue dance dance dance
perseveration aberration indiscretion cha-cha-cha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she said *** is z engine of z world
like engine like world like ***
like like like
could say no more
oh it's tiresome to go on
describing that chimeric uniting
flesh-to-flesh-in-flesh eliding
we all are guilty of
do not end a line with a preposition such as
that or a proposition such as this:
given angle a prove that old triangle theorem
two simultaneous loves don't make a right
cherchez les angles les anglais la bon mot
ya know
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when i die please  bury me upside down
prone to z ground making dead love to earth ya kno
while the centuries lie down next to me
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic!
chic!

Falling
Sinking
Drowning
Redemption

Steel
Blood
Exhaustion
Black­ness

Suppose to me for a second that you ignore the cultural barrier between the man standing in front of you and yourself. This man was raised in a far away land, whose people are PECULIAR in many ways, not quite fitting into any group you have heard of. He has, in the past been referred to, sometimes affectionately and sometimes derogatorily, as an alien. He is PONDERING. You can see it on the blank, nearly expressionless face that he posits towards this unblinking world he considers void of redeeming qualities. In his land, there is a PECULIAR saying, that he keeps repeating to himself, as though it was a mantra that could somehow save him from what seems, at this point, impending. He is PONDERING this saying. The way he recites it, sometimes quietly within his mind's eye and sometimes out loud, much to the dismay of those hearing him, is "Acting with the peace of the dead." which is an approximation of the way he heard it once, when his father said it to him as a child. He is unsure what this PECULIAR phrase has been doing in his mind for the last week. He is in a tall building, on the top floor, and he considers jumping out of a window every free moment he allows himself. He has, on occasion, realized his consciousness left him during the day, only to be roused back from his PONDERINGS by the sounds of objects and people that no longer exist. He hears the voice of Him, the man who swam before him, despite not knowing how to swim. He fears that his knowledge of swimming forbids him from joining Him. He does on occasion realize that his fear of not being able to swim with Him is what some would call PECULIAR. Some would explain that he needs to let go of these foolish endeavors and let the 4514 swim along the coast, soundly. His father would have told him about the days he PONDERED the window of his tenth floor apartment as well.
He deems long enough has passed. He opens the window, and manifest before him is a bridge of RAINBOW. He steps onto the bridge and loses control of his conscious mind.

Swallowed by the dread
Swimming with the dead
The station is unmanned
The operator's ******

Let they who art one with the endless ocean
The black and glintingly specked sea of tar
Encroach you and grasp at what you hold

Let them hold you down, down under
Suffocating the life out of you
Holding your throat until you drown

Let ye, fettered traveler, join us
We are a merry lot down here
This void, this black space we inhabit
It really isn't as scary as it sounds
There is love and joy and celebration
There is camaraderie, feasts
There are memories, in many which ways
There are dreams, and no nightmares
Let ye, shackled traveler, join us
For we have sang of your exploits
For we have cried for your sorrows
For we so desire to meet with you (again)
Let ye, battered traveler, join us
We miss you.
Your hugs felt nice.
We miss seeing you grow up by our side.
Even when far apart, we would always think of you.
We love you, and we wish you were here with me.

Suppose to me for a second that you ignore the difference of corporeal worlds between the woman standing in front of you and yourself. She inhabits a world of very little LIGHT. (Though there is some.) It is the middle of the night, which she is able to infer because even though her eyesight is as SHARP as ever, there is still absolutely nothing visible in this world. Though her other senses are, for lack of a better expression, quite attuned to this world, and therefore she can easily sense her way through the room she usually wakes up in. This, however, is not that room. She stumbles immediately, and falls, to a floor that feels much different, courser to the touch. The feeling of her heart welling up the usual anxious thoughts is not as LIGHT as it was a moment ago. She is in a deep state of panic. Of paranoia. Of fright. Of terror. The darkness feels all the more encroaching, all the more terrifying, in this new, unexplored room. White specks begin to cloud her vision as she stumbles around, wounding herself constantly. Bruises, cuts, trauma. She stays down, this time. There is a distinct coldness to the floor where she lay. She gropes around, and yelps in pain. SHARP. It's a knife! She grabs the handle of it. Quite LIGHT. She decides to test out the SHARPness of this knife and stabs at the floor. Nothing happens. Her heightened feelings of panic bring back memories, unpleasant memories, similarly involving darkness, knives and unfamiliarity. She can only see one possible way out, and concurs she'd like to see LIGHT at least one more time. She falls into a deep sleep, clutching her knife at her chest and dreaming of those folks of merriment.
She wakes, still as panicked as before, but sees that specks of brightness now form around the horizon far outside her room. They don't bring any joy to her, she just wanted to see them one last time.
She deems long enough has passed. She cuts into the flesh of her body that, through the darkness, she has never seen before, and manifest before her is blood. It is a stark, crimson color, a shade she has never once beheld. Then, as her senses begin to faulter, she looks again and sees more shades, all those of a RAINBOW. She brought herself joy by managing to create color in a world with none before her. She lets herself lose control of her conscious mind.

The woman and the man meet
A clashing of two different worlds
Two different times, yet at once the same
They both open their mouths to each other
No sound comes, they stand silent

THEY PONDER THE RAINBOW, ITS PECULIAR, SHARP LIGHT.

They stand together in the space that the choir mentioned in passing previously. Waves crash against them both, yet they stand unflinching, trying and failing to scream, yell, shout, anything that would make the other one understand. Their duality frightens them both, as though they know something the other doesn't. Finally, a voice booms, it is both of theirs and yet it is not. It asks the question that they both mean to phrase:
"I'm very happy to finally be here, but... where is everyone?"

A first exclamation
Is it an approximation?
Of my imagination
Spoken determination

We are all in delusion
Sinking possibilities
Acting on this activation
A brain improvisation

A flowing dedication
Mounted city destination
Lacking in co-operation
Mounted evaluations

Investing the cognition
Is not the only direction?
Embracing the investigation
My convergence recruitment

Not even words uncovers
The layered entrenchment
Sunken lost in introversion
A day dream of absolution

shadows entangled so it happens
the oppressor and the oppressed
such an intimacy of pain terror and shame
in the quietness of the right hand the left hand
surrender to the cruelty of an exchange
to be or not to be delusional
this is a question
reality just an approximation of a terrifying
mystery without meaning

a beat of a heart alone in the dark
we have many songs but still little understanding
about the growing shadow lurking in the bright light

I would trust a word,
only when I could
go beyond it's
crusty outer shell,
fleshy girth, as well
and feel the heart
pulsating, making
red blood coursing
through the veins
speaking earnest truth
as heart beats,
what makes all words
other than this one
redundant, for that
moment in time,
stops my heart
with wonder,happiness
grief or ebullience
or many a other shades
when I intimately
knows that word.

Asleep in his cot.
Or so I thought.
I hear his restlessness
(No sleep for the rest of us)
I lie and wait for the inevitable,
His teething has been terrible.
He's about to start crying.
But the restlessness ends:

Silence is eerie when it is unexpected.

My tired brain seizes its chance,
Shutting my eyes on my behalf,
Forcing my body to relax,
Filing away my anxious thoughts,
But, no! Just as sleep takes hold,
My door creeps open.
There stands my son,
Or at least an approximation of him:

Doorway silhouettes are unnerving.

Then, a dragging realisation:
My son is just nine months old.
He cannot climb,
He cannot walk,
He cannot even stand.
The sleeping process reversing,
Adrenaline begins coursing,
The small figure approaching:

Staring and with spittle drooling.

I choose flight over fight,
Need to know my son is alright -
That he is not this thing of the night -
But the child-thing chooses fight,
Chases me, grabs me and bites.
It will not let go,
Its claws dig in,
Its breath stinking:

My son is my dying thought...

I wasn't expecting
your B or your C game,
certainly not your J or K

or any other letters
in the alphabet, really,

except that one at the beginning:
looks like a pyramid with a perch,
isosceles triangle with bottom arisen,
traffic cone alerting to awesome ahead,
space shuttle tip to aerospace action,
an upside down V with a chin rest,
upward-pointing pencil tip,
2D teepee with a loft...

or your best
approximation.

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

Are you happy?
someone asked me
of late at just
the right
moment

I hesitated
What exactly is
happiness?
Not wealth
or fame

It is not
to be found
in dopamine
or dancing
through life

Not
godliness
ascetiscism
or contentment
But it surely feels like

an approximation of a
certain moment of bliss
that even now
I cannot fully
apprehend

AH 2018

This feels
Like the color,
Purple.

My tiny dancer
Shock blonde
And cinnamon sugar
Watching Saturday morning cartoons
Curled up in bed.

The grey daze before dawn.
Like goose down and
Razor blades

I’m enthralled.
Captured
Raptured
Rising from the dead
Of long, wrong dreams
Inside my head.

Could this be?
Could this be?
Could this be?
Love?
Or just a
Weak approximation of.

‘Cause the world seems to stop
Whenever she’s near
And everything becomes
Perfectly clear.

I perfectly understand that I
Can’t get enough
Of my
Fingers in her hair.

I can’t get enough
Of her
Artificial air.

Yes, this feels,
Like the color,
Purple
Like goose down
And razor blades.