Theorie de ma Connaissance

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Randomness & Silence. The Inquisitor & The Anarchist. In a time-space continuum, spinning a warped reality. Relativity and Authenticity. Authentique mais pas vrai. Esprit. L'existence ou l'essence.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Sexual impulse is the severest of human reflexes


I love the concept of a question. I have often asked myself a lot of questions. That is a silly statement – because we all ask ourselves questions. But I truly love the idea of a question, an inquiry, a search for more than is obvious at the time. I love the question, more than the answer.
But I love the answer too, the witty answer, the right answer, the wrong answer, the stupid one. I love them all. Why? Because they bring me questions. I love that question, - why? It is so…so sufficient.
Why? Why? Why?
A rose by any other name will smell just as sweet – but a rose is a rose is a rose.
So many questions.
I have often asked myself, who is this girl? What is this place? Where is this mind? Where is that soul? Who are all these people? There is also this question – of essence, of universality and diversity and equilibrium in this anatomical marvel –actually, not actually?. But still.
I ask about leadership – those people, these people, our people, their people, your people. Whose people? I love that question, even better, which people? Those by your window at night –listening. Those at the podium – speaking. Those at the table – judging. The leaders. I ask a lot about these people sometimes. Particularly at these times when I am inclined to inquire. I love the idea of a question. To question.
I question them. I question me.
They are those at the podium – not listening. In your bedroom – not speaking. In your face – still judging. I love these judges. Okay I do not. But they do intrigue me. These ivory tower princes. Royal thieves. Simple leaders. I love the intrigue. The concept of the conquest.
I try to discern with these limited, perhaps infantile means the concatenations of these cataclysmic anabolisms – constructs of clearly feeble, fearful, insufficient, uninquiring minds. I peek. Another way to question. Suggestion. Suggestive?
Of what –
The ladies with no knickers. I saw them naked. Silverless and cloudy.
I saw them, the sires with faulty wiring. Wippity, wobbly on their old mares.
I shuttle between consternation, think of constellation, and then return, perhaps revert to the idea of the irate old man interjecting “what about our homes?” What home. I caught myself, enjoying the idea of a question. Tried to hide it with that period. They do it too. The final labeled tentative. The ephemeral concrete jungle.
I see no dreams here. Frosty milkless cerealed ambition. Cotton picker!
Black soul. Dead soul. They are not equivalent.
White soul. I hate the idea of imagery and connotation. Bad white soul. Irate. Inot. IU. This is cheap, cheap like the fruit of a transvestite loom.
I see you too.
Then I remember the purpose – they have failed, have they not? They are bad, are they not? I wonder. Another question. Another question. Because I see you too. Do you never ask the sufficient question, will you, can you, are you?


I remember how lovely you looked, cheerful too
So neatly wrapped in those lifeless things
Transparent thank goodness
And you were beautiful to behold
So many of you
How come
Born of camaraderie, appreciation, love?
Tighter sealed
Held closer together
These creases barely showing
You were special; different
Chosen specially
Wilting regally and prematurely
Disappeared first, wasted away
The deep blues wouldn’t hold you
Not much longer
I could see it all fallen
So crestfallen I let you go
Only two remain
Looking apart
From each other
Diverging at a crossroads
Love? Camaraderie? Appreciation?
I cannot tell which to call you, how to mourn you
You look apart
You too crestfallen
Soon, you shall have to go too

Sticks and Stones

Break my bones
You lied

What is it that makes them

Fixed it
Lives a life of love and meaning
Drops it

Breaks it
Can’t break broken bones
Indeed you can
Mend what’s broken
Break what’s broken
New tools each day
Wreak the havoc

Just listen


Tiger with a Crimson heart
Nay Crimson neither novel nor art
Coursing blood –ubiquitous
Yet striped and healed, remarkable

Candle wax

See this bright light,
Look into my eyes.
burning from crude thickness.
Keep breathing.
And on that candelabra it rests, now tall.
I, am never leaving.
Thick wick residing in oil waxes,
This exists in forever.
Bright light.
Keep looking into my eyes.
You can see the love can’t you?
Deep and passionate


Oil wax melting,
On the numberless sands staring into the ocean,
Such unbounded vastness,
Perfection, don’t you think?
Oozing and dripping in limbless majesty.

And the energy,
all of that existing from one infinity to the next
no birth,
no death.

Even when the light is quenched,
I can scarcely remember the beginning
Drenched wick black.
Do you see an end?
The candle wax remains.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Off a trajectory

Off a trajectory
I said knowledge is a function of experience...
So I know I can't know everything
But I have neither defined experience nor knowledge

I make statements about the way things should be
Concerning the maintenance of standards and the abandonment of double standards
I speak against unfairness and injustice

I do not appreciate the heavy jumps
Vous passer du coq á l'âne et pour moi, ca c'est complètement inacceptable

Because I have never claimed to be perfect
I have never claimed to know everything
I make assumptions like everyone does...see this too is an assumption
I make mistakes
I can be wrong
I am wrong some of the time
I just choose to preserve my right to be right and right to be wrong
This is paradoxical but not contradictory

if you choose to never speak because you stutter and I don't
Please don't try to hold my mouth shut

Cor prudentis possedibit scientia
et c'est avec la gaité du cœur que je dit
je suis vraiment désolé
mais je ne peut pas renoncer á ma droit d’être

Trouvant et vivant la vérité
c’est ma raison d’être