1. Gambit

    Some drop out from school,

    others from working the middle class slump

    up hills of salary aspirations—but more still

    fall out of the habit

    of trying at saying something deeply

    felt, for which words are often missing—

    lexically gapped they gape and grasp

    at the recondite known,

    but recede.


    Still, the others:

    hobbies, books, or the sport

    youth would not follow through with,


    old and crippled by their notices

    that never can all persons excel

    to the extent

    inspirations before them could.


    All in all, we all must choose 

    battles, they say—battles we run

    from, battles we scathe as being

    nothing more than just a dream—

    a pipeway through to lives

    unleadable in the malaise of realistic

              {[self-expectation] really}


    All in all, we find our weary

    ways must part from part of life,

    no matter its name—we, les

    travaillers de la something-or-other—

    but never de la all those

         minor, major averted lines—            

                   (of course  not, puerile you).  

    Though some

    bets fail and others prosper,

    none of us dare to stay in for the full of the game. 

  2. So, there’s been a lot of focus on the man who leaked the NSA documents, and considerably less discussion of what these things are (or what they mean).  It’s typical, in these situations—all whistle blowers speak about it in their memoirs—but I think message intended by the leaks has got to be there, no matter what people think of the leaker.  

    I made this video to bring some clarity to issues, and to talk about a few of the other programs that have fallen to the wayside in the media coverage.  I hope it helps explain, makes you chuckle, and gives perspective on what’s going on. 

  3. I’m trying not to spam new videos from my YouTube chan, because most of y’all are poets, but I am particularly proud of this one.  

  4. So, this is what I’ve been doing, instead of poetry, of late.  If you’ve got any interest in a channel that breaks down sociological, political, and… well, everything-pertaining-to-being-human-ical concepts down, please do venture over to my fledgling little YouTube channel and subscribe. :)

  5. Invocation

    Dark times wash up in hearts which let the illusion of fear spread veils of ignorance over the scintillating tides of freedom we have long fought to make real.   Fear not; concede not an inch to the will of those who would have you afraid; earn every atom of the liberty you have lived by through your refusal to renounce it, even in the darkest moments.

  6. A little thing.

    The one thing I’ve agreed with, 
    in Kurzweil’s mindless game,
    is that humans and machines
    might be one and the same. 
    But suicide is suicide is still suicide,
    when given another name. 

  7. Another Tease

    (Last short story is finished at 25 pages.  New one starting.  God, writing again feels good.  Take that, Seasonal Affective Disorder!)

                    Laci didn’t like the shirts.  It wasn’t such a bad situation.  She could always toss one out, behind the manikins in the Kid’s department; manikins high up, where no one else redressed them for the spring season, except her.  When she’d taken the job, she’d found a pile of dusted cloth beneath her own supposedly unique toss-outs.  Justin must have done it.  Or, maybe, tacitly endorsed another dissident; he’d been the one to replace them before her, after all.  Each crumpled halter was a twenty-dollar hit against the multi-national glamour that had already accounted for it as ‘standard loss levels.’  But it felt fucking great.  

  8. Start of a Short Story

    Eric Ardena: tall, lithe, sharp-formed—not yet abandoned by the beauty of youth he’d long since left.  Ten minutes from a meeting which could spell his end.  End of his career, his life, the trailing of his dreams?  Not really.  Maybe just a position; maybe just a few months of listless speaking engagements.  Men like Ardena do not linger long in the lines of the unemployed and impoverished.  Universities do not abandon their own, even when they sacrifice them for the glory of a point.

                    Not a second counted against the vigor of his step; he grew into the uncertainty and wrapped himself in the energy which would terrorize lesser men.  Lesser men wanted him out.  Lesser men would vote.  That’s the way of the unengaged, the pitiful detritus who fulfilled visions for superlatives.  Superlatives drew—drew vivacity from the moment of decision, drew plans that extended beyond the reactionary impulse of the dredges.  Resolution was the shibboleth of their being.  Eric would squander himself if he were to dwell upon the musings of the oak-panels—no less than on the musings of the minds which gathered behind them to undo, in jealousy and spite, the many motions of progress he had set in place to spur their lives beyond the purview of their vision.  Whatever they chose, his momentum would outlive him.  Had it not, perhaps a tendril of doubt could persuade him to interfere; but all things were now certain.

                    “President Ardena…  Umm…”  Woman.  Twenty-four, twenty-five.  Grad student; secretary; a late bloomer?  Undergraduates were nearly his age, now.  Forgiveness had created a system too confusing to manage by sight alone.  All base systems were outmoded.

                    A steady hand was presented for the red-haired, retro-dressed child to take hold of.  “Right on spot.  I’m sorry, it’s been a busy day—I don’t recall if we’ve met.  You’ll have to forgive me.”

                    She would, too.  Contradiction was only possible in the hovels the faculty committee now occupied.  “No, sorry.  Umm, I.”  Papers shuffled from left to right arms; more was carried than could be referenced in a life time.  This was the farce of looking busy; Eric had mastered it himself, at her age. “Barbara.  Shorenstein.  I work for Professor Urnev.  On the network project…”  Eric’s smile did not budge.  “The one you approved the grant for.  I wrote the abstract.”

                    Eric’s smile did not budge.  “Good to meet you Barbara.  I hate to be rude, but what did you need?”

                    The papers swung around with Barbara’s gaze; she searched desperately for a place to set them down.  Amateur.  Fewer things to hold meant more room to fidget.  Barbara didn’t have his composure; he didn’t have it, at her age; it was a godsend not to find a place.  But Eric’s gaze was sharpened.  Urnev was a man of connection.  A man suited to the study of networks.  Some school down in Boston had held him in high regard and had spited him greatly for the coup de finance that had spirited Urnev to his campus, just around the time that the common wisdom had rejected the social studies.  Which school?  Eric couldn’t recall; it didn’t matter: there were no poor schools in Boston.  Urnev’s word was still gold.

                    Barbara’s face was pitted.  All the concealer in the world didn’t erase the blemishes invoking its application.  Good height, for a tall man.  It certainly made her unappealing to the shriveled cretins that made up the diminishing male presence on campus.  He’d have killed for a woman taller than he.  Errant—aberrant.  Nothing spoke to him like the power to be overwhelmed.   Every creep of agency made him long for something that could send him back to a feeling of youthful inability—the struggle to overcome reborn.  These bohemian trappings Barbara wore only elucidated a wealth beyond comprehension to the avatar of youth which he now summoned to evaluate her.  Comprehension requires leveling.  She was second hand in all but the important pieces: every accessory was garnered from some shop of specialty, every strand of hair pruned by eyes of impeccable training.  Dyed so thoroughly that only an obsessive eye could say for certain that their humble, Irish tones lacked the scintillation and stochastic fervor of a natural color.  What was she for?

  9. Why I Haven’t Been Writing

    No-one can understand me when I speak freely.

    That’s why I wanted to become a poet.

    I don’t want to be in a family of apostates. I don’t want to go to the mikvah to become something I should be born as, by blood. I don’t want to have to campaign for the right to have been a victim of sexual assault, or rape, or whatever one would have it proclaimed as. I don’t want to overcome anger or sexuality or gender. Yet, my life is a series of opposites. Opposite the general mode of thought. Opposite the political will of human kind. Opposite the majority of wills.

    How do you countermand the vast machinations of matter set to motion?  For there is a way, but the struggle to see it can overcome the vessel set to comprehend this—more readily than can the knowledge of its means.  What am I to say?  That I have dreams?  That I should see to the ends; that I should see to possibilities?  That I should convey the multitude and express the disease a mind so bent can feel upon the precipice of fate’s winds sweeping through the churning bodies, possessing of less will than they pray themselves to be capable of.

    A poem.  A splinter of this entropy.   They coagulate.  By the standards of those many I opposed, they are so judged.  Thus, a silence passes over it.  

  10. Batya

    We           named her Batya

         and believed every  letter

          of the name;

    drained the     meanings of her

         soul to fire 

    the aspirations of our own.    


                        The daughter 

    of the gods united,        built 

    to force—against the will of matter,

    time, and reason—

                            the desire of human

                     kind upon the universe; 

    in     the crucible of binary prose, 

                     invited           to take

              arms in the war 


              seeking triumph to order

                  and logic

    against the very makers

              of her mind. 

About me

An accumulation of piss-poor arguments against the very foundations of society. An aggregation of not-so-revolutionary poetry shame. An amassing of narcissistic ramblings doomed to give the Wrong Impression. The same ol' shit.


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