I'm not one for reality
Like so many humans with their mortality
My heads in the clouds
My brain is so loud
But really thats just a technicality

Modern athletes, strong and buff,
These days are tested soon and late
just to prove their skill and strength
are free of anabolic taint.

Ryan Braun, the M.V.P.
was tested thus occasionally.
He didn't seem the type to me
to boost his skills unnaturally.

Thus imagine my surprise
to learn the ***** he supplied
contained synthetic Testosterone
Brewer fans emitted groans.

Now it seems he's off scot free
based on a technicality.
He will not have to serve the ban
imposed on many a lesser man.

Opening day, reserve the date;
Braun will be there at the plate
His many fans will come to see
Ryan Braun, the M.V. ***.

Some introductory food for thought...

“What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or in the holy name of liberty or democracy?”
    - Mahatma Ghandi

“Totalitarianism is not only hell, but all the dream of paradise-- the age-old dream of a world where everybody would live in harmony, united by a single common will and faith, without secrets from one another."
   - Milan Kundera

"Each generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it, and wiser than the one that comes after it."
  - George Orwell


Technocracy as scientific Totalitarianism?
Technocracy is the institutionalised control over all aspects of society by scientific and technological means through a centralised autocratic bureaucracy, whose totalitarian control is secured by the exploitation of its means. Universal utilitarianism over the psychologies, sociology, technology, pharmacology, etc. Whose state authority relies solely on the implementation of systematic indoctrination and propaganda, and the methodical interception of political dissidence or heresy against the established ideological order (in whatever form it takes). Human beings, as the most exhaustively studied species on Earth, have no shortage of data, nor any famine of instances littered among history that create the foundation of a deterministic human proclivity to be influenced by covert forces, often even when staring us in the face.


The institutionalisation of Peace as a political concept?
Peace, among the broader consensus, means to many and ideal not only of great significance, but too, a matter of urgency in a world of almost instantaneous advancement in the technological means of warfare, with the capability of mass destruction or even global fallout ever possible at the push of a button. Peace, however, as a political concept (like all concepts) is multilateral in the diversity of its manifestation, and is one of vague understanding to those who might purport its value, or perhaps not to those who might reap its more nefarious facets. Institutionalised ideology (possibly even Peace as a concept) has a tendency to shift to the extreme spectrum of its implementation in order to compensate for, by physical and ideological assets, the inevitable opposition that will rise in its wake or during its implementation. This is why, despite the seemingly sympathetic characteristics of Marxist ideology, it requires, when in its institutionalised from, a means of repressing antithetical views or activity, for instance, within the Soviet system. Because of this proclivity, it is thus safe to assert that even Peace, when in an institutionalised state could adopt a form of despotic hard and soft power in the enforcement of its ideological tenets.


Peace as an ideological control system?
It is necessary to understand the extent to which the concept of peace can be applied and that to which it's linguistic value could be altered or even neologistically reinvented. Peace, as generally perceived, means a vague ideal of harmony between people, generally applied to warfare and violence and the unnecessary suffering it causes. However, it is surely necessary to contemplate the id of its concept, which could still, by technicality, represent peace. Here is a legalese style list of how it could be applied, utilised as an ideological system of control:

• Opposing dialectic or political discourse between two or more groups or individuals as a breach of peace, for it produces a state of non-neutrality and thus a state of conflict (of ideas).
• Opposition to the state by activism or an expression of opinion as a breach of peace, for it may incite a state of conflict, or a spread of opposition.
• Multi-partisan politics as a concept that produces conflict (of ideas) and thus would be a breach of peace, and therefor is necessary to maintain a single-party system.

These are some ways in which I have tried to apply the political concept of peace as could be utilised for an ideological system of control through the rule of law or other means. Peace is generally perceived as a concept existing on the macro, however, here having been applied to the micro, it becomes scrutinous and can target by technicality, basic liberties. Theoretically, peace can mean absolutist ideological neutrality.


- a short essay by JDH

Dreaming during the witching hour’s like
Being under the pink with an icicle
And I don’t wanna go to hell on a technicality
So I dream under the sun
I dream ultraviolet
But then to the human race, I seem to lose the keys
And the rabbits always lead me to gardens of lust
And they’re kidnapping angels on capitol hill
Thought me and the universe had an agreement
But still I’m building spaceships the size of a pill
If you let out your monkey, a butterfly gets framed
Where goes all those who have lost their graces
This tattoo of you is a curse-
a Borneo from the bottom of a bottle
And dreaming during the witching hour’s like
Being under the pink with an icicle
And I don’t wanna go to hell on a technicality

They say we are free.
Free to bark, if no one listens.
Free to scribble, if no one prints.
Free to inhale, if it doesn’t cost too much.

This is not anthem.
This is not lament.
This is autopsy.

Let the ink blister the page
for those whose stories
were throttled before sunrise.
Let the silence rupture into
a thunderclap of what should have been...


Judas of the Womb

Her name was reduced to a whisper.
Her death, a technicality.

She died of sepsis? No!
She died of legislation—
the sanctified paralysis of law.

Izabela.
Thirty years haunted by patriarchy.
Twenty-two weeks into a doomed gestation.
One human life overwritten
by a cluster of cells wrapped in legalese.

“They’ll wait until it dies,” she wrote,
"Or I will."
She did.

The state shrugged.
Three men in coats clutched
their degrees like shields.
Guilty, but not too guilty.
Penalized, but not inconvenienced.

And somewhere behind a mahogany desk,
a BBC editor ticked the
"Do Not Disturb Poland" box.
Because truth, like radiation,
is best contained to domestic fallout.


The Jester Beheaded by Branding

He made them laugh.
He made them uncomfortable.
Then he made them look at themselves.
That was the mistake.

He survived presidents.
But not the quarterly earnings report.

The axe did not fall.
It slid.

No cancellation. Just de-prioritization.
No outrage. Just polite press releases
and quiet exits.

The revolution will not be televised.
It was tested poorly with key demographics.


Soft Guillotines

Not fire.
Just foam padding and soft lighting.

No jail.
Just "violated community guidelines."

No riot gear.
Just Terms of Service.

They won’t stop you.
They’ll just stop broadcasting you.
They’ll hide you in the cellar of the algorithm,
behind un-skippable ads and SEO oblivion.

Your words are welcome—
as long as they sell soap.
Your outrage is valid—
if it fits in a drop-down menu.


The Global Echo

Warsaw, Manhattan, Manila, Paris.
Different names for the same soft boot.
The same velvet rope
around the neck
of the narrative.

They don’t ban the voices.
They dilute them.
Filter them.
Render them un-shareable,
un-searchable, un-fundable.

We live in a marketplace of ideas,
where truth competes
with cat videos and loses.


The Hollowing

When liberty must pass through a monetization filter,
it is not liberty.

When satire must first clear advertising compliance,
it is not satire.

When journalism fears its own clicks,
when editors redact themselves,
when profit margins call the morning meetings—
we are not in a democracy...

We are in a theme park of tolerated dissent.


The Sliver of Soil

But still—yes, still.

There are cracks in the concrete,
uncatalogued by surveillance,
unpolished by PR.

In those fractures, we gather.
Not to shout—but to build.
Not to trend—but to outlast.

We will forge our voices into chisels.
We will scratch our stories into steel.
We will be inconvenient.
Unprofitable.
Relentless.

So write what they won’t publish.
Speak what they won’t air.
Sing the verses
that sour their brand strategy.

And if we rise, not in hashtags,
But in habit—
not in virality, but in volume—
not in fury, but in fidelity—

then liberty may yet bloom.
Not fast.
Not free.
But truly ours.

fed the birds.
fed the birds a
book about
my dead  
weight.
fed the
birds a heavy.
fed them from
my thin
hands. The words
that live.
The birds ate.
The birds ate words that
lived and always
lived
in
separate
houses. if...
and i mean if
and only if
they
could afford
it.
if these
clever pagans
ever had
a dime.
they found
it boring rich
folk to
death.

i fed the birds
my indigenous
nomads. they dined
in high style...
dined black and
fancy
on
shabby
addicts, as they
hopped
trains . i fed the birds
my
swarthy tribe.
and they supped.
i fed the birds
a monologue
with trains of
thought
the words i fed
them... the vagabonds...
hopped
trains.

of thought.

I fed
the birds.
i fed the birds just
outside.
i sat
and fed them
black light and Harmalade
fed them blackly
fed them with
piano keys;  the black
ones, the ones
that radiate
i fed

i watched them. watched
them fancy peck. and peck
and fancy
pluck.
i watched. they dined
on serene defeat
by technicality.
it was surreal
to watch a blackbird
pluck from black
keys - peck
a morsel of glum
from

the black rays, yes.

the black rays with
opposable thumbs
and a
lifeline. the only one i
know forbidding gypsies
with three eyes.
an open
palm.
a paranoid  
black radish
white dwarf star
with piano keys
for black rays
of

nimbus, yes

mine is the hand that bites the hand
that writes the book
it wants
to ban, that ain't
a fan

not at all. just an appendage. a pen dirge ? What ?

i  fed the flock lots

I fed
the black ones -
with dolls'
eyes...

tucked
under
wing.

i fed them, yes.

a book
about the size
of any welcome
malcontent.

i fed
them sorrows
and ellipses with
adjacent lawns.
wutherings in
stately manors, squatting
on either side
of memory
lane, like
a bourbon and
coke had
practically crawled
across shards
of hard
things to break,
with a drink
in your
hand

and crawled, well blended

down the hatch
of enormous, well appointed
gothic frogs, that -
were mostly refurbished toads
with odd columns.

i fed
the birds,
broke out the
Good
Chi
na

hang the tantrums !  

yes
One should expect
a rich metaphor to want to
watch you
eat it's every
word
or
by extension;
lick the toad with 15 rooms,
three stories, unfit for children
and a full staff
of Adjectives,
highly trained
to

short-sheet the Bedlam, and fluff the pillories.

one should sip the liqueur
off the floor, inside the huge
and tipsy
gorgon
and be thankful
for the dank
and

the solid gold flyswatters.

they're complementary. take one
as you leave out
thinking
" toads, eat flies.... so it follows...."
apropos of nothing, on the
' Good China ',

now in the belly of birds, well fed
an unwell.

a book about
my dead-weight's
dream
to eat fewer
flies and
more
steak.

to grow wings.

yes.

I would not refuse to *******.
not on a mere ethical technicality
a cursed dialectic sheared and far less pretty
than the contents of your *******
smooth as oysters lips from where your barraged ocean
falls on salty fingertips

you shall bathe in this warm artifice of my adoration
and be my play waif,
my relief from the wristed finesse
that I have become so used to

and I shall take you away from this place
where the chill of a boneless glass sustains
the shadows and fog of a self-financed ******
and Eurydice might still be expected to rise
from beneath a carpet of stone blossom

but in the sober morning a killer may raise
the bones of dead eyebrows and watch the moping steam
evanesce from the wet heart bed
bled full of drowning lungs,
the mangled target of perspective reduced
to something so blessed

Though I'm not in jail it all just feels the same
Waking up depressed told just not to complain
A shotgun to my head i feel like Curt Cobain
Not a literal sense, but the context sustains
I don't want money, success, not even some fame
I just want to learn to play this game
Each day it gets hard i just keep  breathing
Wondering how the **** this happened, it feels like treason
From a comical skeptic to a reliable source
I question the water that was gave to the horse
Viewed as a sinner but always in doubt
"Read from the scripture and figure it out"
Nightmares keeping me awake like a proxy
SO many bad thoughts I wish I could get off me
Do your 12 steps Bob, everything is kosher
Yet I wake every night screaming still sober
A stranger does the same, and everyone wants to know her
A technicality set, a glimpse for closure
Different from most but related to some
I feel alone but second to none
Shaking again always be the **** up
"drinkings a sin" Always press my luck up
Some things I will never understand
But if it doesn't change I will be ******

The passion infused plucking
like each note has a soul of its own

The high notes like pinpricks
Low notes like a loud heartbeat

The sound of content loneliness that taught me happiness

The tempo slows like water shying away from the shore

Peace born out of urgency
Love born out of technicality

The hours given to the tone, timing and tempo
The effort in perfectly letting go

Perfectly unique every time
just close enough to be the same

The beauty in form
The form in beauty

Paralyzed from the heart down,
Abandoned, lost and found,
The relinquishing of the crown,
Breathing, feeling my heart pound.

Haste takes my calm mind,
Enduring, hatred and pain,
The ropes caressing feel the bind,
The world submissive, barren and plain.

Sold for a cruel desire,
Abused, jaded and forgotten,
The burning of a torrid fire,
My soul defeated, life begotten.

Taken away from my morality,
Stolen, fought and lost,
The time considered a technicality,
The hours dragging, a heavy cost.

973

’Twas awkward, but it fitted me—
An Ancient fashioned Heart—
Its only lore—its Steadfastness—
In Change—unerudite—

It only moved as do the Suns—
For merit of Return—
Or Birds—confirmed perpetual
By Alternating Zone—

I only have it not Tonight
In its established place—
For technicality of Death—
Omitted in the Lease—

Dirt
Figment
Breeding flies
Sweet charity
Hot, stagnant breeze
Doves in a stale autumn wind
An entity so dense
Holding such little weight
Topicality
Technicality
Revelation and rendition
Something so malleable
Yet so rigid
Reformed
Thick like honey
but smoldering
Grey paste
Emotions breeding anxiety
Still getting by
Not saying, but just saying

King Kenny,
Like God on Earth upon mat...
Rising sun in his eyes for rainless morning,
And superkick party, catered and cleaned.

Technician of great finesse,
Not living off technicality,
We pay thanks to our savior
For handing out the wrath.

Believe in what I am told or what I see
This war is bitter and I aspire to be free
Free from these shackles and discrimination
Free from selective elimination
We call our children mistakes so we can free ourselves of responsibility
And our babies are dying in the streets while we accept no liability
Governed by aggression it’s said that only the strong survive
But instead of showing strength we only know hostility
Creating a place where these demons thrive

A Child’s innocence is used for selfish gain
So mommy can get high and feel no pain
A child that knows no love has no true perception of reality
And the system has no love our children are lost on technicality
Now your babies will have babies searching for the love that they lack
They should have had love unconditional
But instead they turn to crack
Because their family has made it traditional
There is nothing like the cries of a neglected child
Mommy is too high to provide
Taught too young to hold it all inside
Poison their minds with ***** little secrets they are forced to hide
Teach them to look for nothing and that’s all you will find
Because that is all that’s left inside

Fill their minds with worldly possessions
Take what you can get despite the moral transgression
Take God out of our schools because money is the new respect
Craving only negative attention
Because of the love they now reject
First born to poverty and aware before their time
Unable to provide life’s necessities
They are pushed towards drug sales and crime
Society will blame this transgression on lack of affection
But really they are affected by lack of direction
No money to feed the hungry and poor
Our inspiration is music, TV, drugs, guns and war
Poor because they have been dominated and oppressed
Look away from those in distress
Push us too regress
Give to those who already have by taking from those who have less
The only way to survive is to ******, hustle and deceive
There is a better way of life
But not a better way to make them believe
A better way to teach us to accept this fate is what they crave
A better way to give us the mentality of a slave
Their methods of birth control created to control the minority
We are now the majority
They are scared to death we have become the priority
Our people born of whips and chains and still left unbroken
Fed our children’s sorrows from which we choke
there are still too many truths left unspoken

Pushed to the back of the fridge
Styrafoams full of predictions
Of life after your childish ambitions
played out.

Carried home from a family occasion
The ideas molded
Over the ages of a chilly
Adolescence.

Now each morning
hits like a punch in the mouth,
The sour taste of last nights
Forgetfulness
Heavy on your breath.


it's always too early
To stomach the sun.
Returning to lost love
With only poison in your gut;
It's getting easier to move on.

Continue along
Hanging from a precarious
Cable car of ambivalence
Wave at each opportunity missed
As it passes you by,
your eyes
Idly on the sky.

"Next time, next time"
You mutter

"Next time I'll give it a try."

C.e.M.
2.17.15

Have you ever seen a fish fly? I don't mean a spectacular leap accompanied by twirls and accentuated by the water dripping from its scales like a couture gown. Nor do I mean the astounding burst of speed a "flying" fish exhibits as it leaps out of the water, expanding their large pectoral fins, and gliding to safety. What I mean by my question is the following: have you ever seen a fish exert the energy required to achieve take off and to truly soar among the clouds and dance at the feet of the heavens. Have you ever seen a school of fish flutter in such synchronicity of purpose and action, they sound as one creature? Have they exited our plain of view in such a flurry of color and sound as to be considered art? The answer is no. They never have nor will the ever behave in such a manner. Why you ask? It is not their nature.
To know the universe one must first know themselves, but are we obligated to follow our nature? As much as I would love to disagree, the past year has presented me with an abundance of evidence that my legalistic disposition cannot ignore. Prior to college, I regarded my resentment of tedious and technical activities as a phase of adolescence that would soon pass upon entrance to college. However, the opposite has proven itself to be true. I have become even more resentful, enraged even, at the technicality and tedium of my classes. While I have ideas of implementation and grandeur; they, the classes, deconstruct ideas until they are merely a collection of uninteresting facts and figures void of life and purpose. In just the past month, I have had my motives and resolve for engineering questioned by myself, my advisor, two professors, and many friends. The question is always the same "how do you feel about engineering?" and my response is equally predictable "I think I'll stick it out, besides there is more job stability with engineering than with art." I am dying! Like a fish out of water, I am gasping for air and nutrients but nothing is coming. My skin is drying and I am left expending what little energy I have left desperately trying to get back to the sea, to get back to art. For all the beauty of my mind, it is wasted on my efforts for this, engineering, is not my nature. I became so inthralled, so utterly captivated by the stark blues of calculations and whites of lofty ideas and esoterica, that I ignored the kaleidoscope of colors beneath me as unorganized and useless fragments of information. I never appreciated the bright pops of corals, greens, oranges, reds, yellow, along with every other color known and unknown to man until I had managed to jump clear past, what I then saw as, the boundaries of art and got stranded on the dullness of solid ground with a sound as dense as the colors. Those bright colors were not merely background noise, those colors formed my world, indeed they formed me.
The time is very late now and I am running out of energy, but I know I have to get back to myself and my nature. I'm not quite sure where I'm headed, but this little fish is going to keep swimming until sea meets sky. Who knows, maybe I'll even grow my own set of wings and fly.

In the past 4 months I've built myself a life where I could survive in a world without you. On technicality you get to say I left you. Did you ever once think about what could've been, had you just fought for me? Instead you went straight to bed with as many girls as you could.
No, I shouldn't hold that against you. We were done. We were over. But ******* it you can't beg for me back now!?
I kiss you and I wonder how many girls have been here since the last time I was.
You hold me and tell me you love me and I can't help but accuse you of saying that to everyone else.
"I need you." Well ****, where were you when I needed you!?

I used to write proses unbothered by rules,
Poems with no assurance of being read,
Words just written to be free.

Now am I one of fools?
Fearing what comes out of my head?
Afraid of what others see?

Is this the curse of technicality?
Of knowing more about reality?
Bluff is that age comes with clarity.

Here is my **** to hell I send,
Existing is tiring year by year,
Is there anything more to feel?

I am far from the end.
But I wish I am near.
I have nothing time can steal.

Teach me
lead me
which way do I go
highs lows show me what is necessary feed me your will
Let me taste your thoughts
caress your inner most desire
set my soul on fire
gasp as you enter my mentality never on a technicality
imagine we
make poetry in motion
drop down to my knees to give devotion
for you are god in human flesh