Image result for the lonely walker in painting

It is best for you to be true, and practical,

Even if it means you are dull;

You should work hard and be sensible.

A lot of people depend on you,

And people are generally kind, and work for your benefit, too.

It is easy to understand this—and I do.

But if there is one who ventures, in silence, into gardens,

Who walks beside secluded lakes, or mountains, or fens,

Who dreams of poems in the chilly weather, while animals crouch in their dens,

Who smokes a cigarette, as the end of their fingers freeze,

Who takes pleasure in lonely outdoor walks because their own thoughts please,

Their own words a devotion converted from a life with no real care,

Can we allow one, at least, to go out there?







Image result for lightning in the fog

All that is below me,

Everything ephemeral I notice and feel,

The fog, accident, electricity,

Cheerful conversations, music, a good meal—

The picture which combines a human with an animal face,

Neither one real, and even less real the hybrid which takes its place—

All that lives below the soul of my highest thought,

Things which in my highest examination and love are caught,

In my absent-minded mood for the pleasure I might derive

In all that finally proves nothing; in a bad mood I watch them go,

For they are neither consistent, nor lasting, and only seem to be alive.

I must learn to say goodbye to them—my knowledge is how I know they go—

All that is below me is nothing.  So, easily, the physical you I adore.

I love you deeply and love you more

Than all the thoughts and things which live below

Think I can. I am what tomorrow I will think.  You are everything I know

And believe and taste and notice and feel

In the forest of these shadows which love me, but are not real.





Image result for rainy suburban street at night in painting

How do you know you’re home?

The sight of your station when you leave the train.

When you first got on, something seemed wrong,

Things outside the window looked unfamiliar,

But it was only the rain,

Or the ongoing urban alteration,

Tearing down and building, station after station,

Passed with machine-like precision

By the wheels and the crew and the schedule of your train.

When you climb aboard, you may be home already,

In the warm, lighted car of the stealthy train.

Later, among dark, rainy streets,

You look for home, again.

Home may be when at last, you fall into bed

And dream of the combed green graves,

Home to the noiseless dead.

Or home could be in the arms of your wife

Who gave herself to you, and gave you life

Again, in children. And their home and the home of your wife

Is the home you find in the streets,

Which tonight the rain invades and eats.

The rain falls on the roof and eaves

Until the last meteorologist leaves.

Let yourself out. Now it’s safe to go.

Time to pity seekers, adventurers,

Famous poets, heartbroken.

How do they know they’re home? They never know.




Image result for embarrassment in renaissance painting

Embarrassment is thought.

The embarrassing situation

Of no money makes us do

Embarrassing things for money.

No money, no food.  But starvation

Is a physical fact beyond thought.

Embarrassment is thought.

Embarrassment keeps us from starving,

Makes us say hello, makes sure we do not

Embarrass ourselves on the job

Interview; embarrassment makes sure

The driver does not crash the car, the accountant

Does not get the figures wrong, the speaker does not forget

The words to the poem or the song.

Embarrassment is everything.

You listen to embarrassment, or listen to nothing.

If you say, “I love you,” and she looks blankly,

Embarrassment calls the cops, for every embarrassing

Thing has been extended into law.

When you talk out loud to yourself,

It’s embarrassing. You jerk,

You say to yourself, don’t embarrass yourself,

Do you want to lose your job?

How will you live? How will you think?

It’s going to be alright. We’ll survive this embarrassment.

What is this invisible thing called thought?

What did I do?  Was the message sent?



Is a poet a smoker who doesn’t smoke?

Who looks at a tree, as if the tree in the winter silence spoke,

Who knows the tree will never speak,

As every word of the poem burns to ash,

As the nicotine strikes, and makes the poet weak;

Anonymous, common, unknown as cash

For secret and dirty uses

Every word the poet uses,

As the smoke of what the poet expresses,

Drifts into the stark branches of the tree,

And the nicotine rush interpreted by me

As smoke, is the smoke of the poetry?

Is a poet one who breathes the air,

Invisible, necessary, and everywhere,

Through which the world is seen

And lives? The drifting, invisible air

Which the poet pretends to own,

And pretends to give, so the invisible reader pretends to care?

Is a poet a drinker who doesn’t drink,

And moves off from the gathering,

Lonely, to be alone, and think?

Is the poet one who loves, but doesn’t dare?

Who moves off to think, thinking poetry is not anything,

Thinking perhaps you wait there?


Image result for dark earth at sunrise

Without introduction or preface,

I offered my line

Right there on the Internet,

So you didn’t know the poem was mine.

All human error looks like this:

In love, you either did not kiss,

Or did not prepare them for the kiss.

You did not tell them at first

That you would always love.

Handsome houses have handsome introductions,

Long porches with pillars which welcome you in.

Madness is an introduction,

So we can see we might be walking into sin.

Life is introduction.

Remember to introduce yourself. The sun

Snakes along the horizon of the frozen earth,

Prior to your darkness spotting the gold above.

You know I am the one.

I am not just quoting the sun.

You can tell that it’s me.

I understand your poetry

Not because of the chatter, not because of the wounded earth,

But because you introduced me to poetry,

And love, and all that love will prove to be worth.



The poet loves the symmetry and the resemblances,

Melodies which sing inside of melodies,

Intricate, but almost the same.

This is why the poet loves the love,

The infant face, the rhythms inside the harmonies,

All the sweet mimicries of love,

And every love by poets achieves its fame.

If you see the close resemblances of arms entwined,

If you hear in the songs the repeating idea,

The poet approves, and dies

To live again inside the repeating thoughts repeating themselves inside the beautiful eyes.

Did you think your strange behavior

Wouldn’t be repeated in the lake?

Did you think your unkindness to my love

Would be the only mistake?

Justice and love are similar.

Love returns to the love, and the love is always sure

The final love resembles love’s ingredients made in the original cake.

Justice will arrive when the night arrives.

Justice dreams at night. Love will be as brutal

As justice in pursuing the revenge and the heart ache.

Violently justice will make the lover cry and shake.

But this is simple. From justice you get what you deserve.

Maybe you didn’t expect this, but you should have expected this.

But you loved him, they told me. Why did you throw him the curve.

You embarrassed him. Was that just? That took a lot of nerve.

I did love him. Love, even more than justice, does not swerve.

He was not straight with me, so I threw him the curve.

It was the true song. Maybe not beautiful. But the poet always gives you what you deserve.





How did I get pushed into love?

Pushed and pulled into love?

I didn’t want to go.

I wanted to take it slow.

I wanted to examine what it would mean.

Who pushed me? Who gave me a shove?

Who pushed me into love?

Today I’m changed. I feel I can get away clean.

I wasn’t ready for that shove.

The eyes got me thinking about love.

Looking into the eyes I wasn’t prepared for the shove.

What shoved me into love?

Will someone push me again?

Push me, like I was pushed back then?

I was pushed into her. We bumped.

We struck lips, we talked. We laughed. We humped.

Will someone push me again?

Easy, isn’t it? To love like I loved back then?

Like Mozart writes music: a childish laugh and a shove;

You push two together and say come on, you two. Love.

But when the evening ends, you put the instrument in its case.

You look at the person and the embarrassment starts up in the face.

You hope for another good shove. One more good shove.

You hope. But what is hope? Hope is something. But hope isn’t love.






Image result for socrates and the symposium

Socrates shocked the crowd:

Love was not pretty, but obnoxious and loud,

Love wants love. The paradox is this:

Love is cunning, not ready for a kiss.

Love incapable of love. Does that seem dumb?

Well you haven’t read The Symposium.

Beauty for eternity is the goal.

Simple. All want this, if they have a soul.

Beauty is the only thing that’s loyal.

Beauty causes all treachery and toil.

After the confused person is gone,

Only the beautiful person lives on.

Love is when beauty is only for you,

But beauty is desired by others, too.

Sad: Beauty cannot be mortal and true.

Disagree?  But I’m more attractive than you.

Love loves. Love loves! But love does not love, too.








Image result for how do you light a pastry case

A truth is never a choice

Because a choice is never true.

You could easily have made the other choice,

Couldn’t you?

The difficult decisions are simple

Because you are simple.  You don’t understand

The life which has happened to you.

You have no choice but to put the glow

Of the pastry case in your poem,

Selecting words in the café.

As a poet, you must find descriptions for your words;

You must put words and pictures together,

If weather contributes to mood—or mood contributes to weather;

Or, you could make it all up: the huge wave of rain,

The corresponding reasons for discomfort, cloudiness, or pain,

Which, if questioned too deeply by the critic,

The poet may count as disdain.

What if “married” were the same as “gay,”

To choose whom you sleep with, or never sleep with? Who is to know?

When you found yourself loving Bobbi, you examined the pastry case glow

On that rainy day,

Writing meditatively in your little café.

When you decided to go, only then did you know where to go:

You went directly to a word meaning stop instead of a word meaning slow.

The poem’s choices are not the poet’s, displayed in café or rain,

And your choices are not choices, because they were made in pain,

Which has nothing to do with the poem composed on, or in, the café.

You write the perfect poem when you throw every choice away.



Image result for billie holiday

Misery is not the same thing as sadness. Misery

Belongs to the history of the world; even the mineral world

Invokes misery: stone in the dark, buried deep under stone.

I worry about going into the ground when I’m lying on my bed alone.

Lonely misery is commonplace

And misery is written on every older face,

Even the handsome ones having affairs to remember.

Sadness isn’t misery. Sadness is thinking about September

A little sadly, in a slightly sadder spring

Because the calendar—a practical invention—

Turned device to make reflective sadness a thing,

Like the phonograph record, a thing

Used by the recording industry, which found, accidentally,

If a miserable woman, in a pool of light, will sing,

Sadness can be boiled down from misery,

As when the distiller makes good whiskey

From plants, fermented—which once grew

Towards the sun, happy, exactly like you.

Did you ever hear sadness like Billie Holiday’s before?

Or do you buy it like eggs, at the corner store?




You don’t understand. A broken heart

Is not a metaphor. The person

With a broken heart

Cannot love anymore.

A broken heart lies hidden away.

Love’s invisible. Love cannot be seen

By a doctor’s chart.

Love could be polite, or want to play

In the occurrences of every day.

Love might keep one up at night,

Because fear and hope are love.

Blue is blue and green is green.

A broken hand is a broken hand.

But a broken heart cannot be seen.

This is important to understand:

The person with a broken heart

Sleeps. And cannot love anymore.

The broken heart becomes a rapist,

The broken heart becomes a whore.

The broken heart is real,

But can’t be measured. What we feel

Is more important than what we think.

Love cannot be felt

By the broken heart. When you knelt

And prayed in the vestibule

She laughed behind your back.

He’s a rapist. None can measure

The rapacity of the whore,

The horror of the heart which cannot love anymore.

It’s hard to see who doesn’t love anymore.

This is what the rapist seeks, not innocence,

Not love. The rapist seeks the whore.

The rapist does not seek the fool

Praying in the vestibule.

Rape is bold, because the broken heart,

Deeply hidden, which loves no more,

Is what the rapist searches for.

The word is “searches,” not “pleasure.” The modesty

Of the heart which has not been broken

Cannot be detected by what is spoken,

Cannot be seen by what you wear.

The broken heart isn’t here or there

Except in the secret behavior of the whore

Who appears normal, but can’t love anymore.

The urgency of the rapist is to find the whore

And ravish her once, and then no more.

The rapist seeks the broken heart

Which lies. And lies away from every chart.

A broken heart is not a broken hand.

A broken heart is worse.

Subtle. And not. Do you understand?





Image result for shadows holding hands

What do I say to you now?
There is too much to say.
Everything says too much.
So I’ll put this poem away.

What happened to us
Was a misunderstanding, then.
But now—should there be—
A misunderstanding again?

Remember the day
When I reached for your hand?
You were angry with me, then.
Love had a different plan.


Image result for fires on plains

I want a man with no desires.
This might be difficult to explain.
In my valley, there are fires,
And fires along my plain,
Fires are burning in my breast,
Fires are trembling in my brain.
If a man has desires,
The burning, lustful kind,
He will not appeal to my heart,
He will not get in my mind.
But if he is cold, and has no desires,
I will give him my love. He can have my fires.



This life appeals to the poet in me.

Maybe I made it this way unconsciously.

Did I make sure, after many years,

There’s nothing left of the greatest relationship, but tears?

And this city by the sea, with just enough street lights to obscure the stars,

A history, a museum, a few cafés and bars?

Civilization means a certain lack of people, and if you’re lucky, not too many cars.

I found a sea town somewhat isolated, where traffic is thin,

Because who wants that highway insanity or the bustling neighborhood din

Thronged with trash, people over-dressed, under-dressed, chatty, too fat, or too thin?

A poet needs beaten-down people, otherwise they’ll be in his face.

Don’t shout good news. Slink by. Give me writing space.

It’s nice to live walking distance to the commuter train.

I invent a poem as I amble with a coffee towards the station.

Once in a while, I’ll wait in the freezing rain,

But a new poem keeps going in my head as I step into the warm car.

That’s it. I take the train to work. It’s not far.






Image result for the islamic muse in painting

If she knows you are trying to manipulate her

To restrict her freedom,

She won’t take this lightly.

A self help video

Told me a great secret to know:

Add the phrase, “you are free to choose”

To everything you say.

Otherwise she’ll go.

Freedom will be defended to the death.

The one you love, even to lose love, will go away.

But you don’t need to convince me

Of this. I see it all for what it is.

Think outside the box, they say. Accumulate

Capital. Don’t work for someone else.

Be entrepreneurial. Don’t wait

For others to tell you what to do.

Build a skyscraper. Don’t feed on filth.

Don’t hide and breed like a rat.

Cooperation is key; only the best

Build the quiet dreams of the democratic West.

Yes! Freedom! But—I only listen to my Muse.

She’s calm. She doesn’t hate Jews,

Who cleverly build wealth—good for them.

They’ve been hated, they want freedom—good for them.

They don’t want the woman in a shawl.

Will Islam succumb to freedom. Will the veil, too, fall?

My Muse is not desperate. She smiles

And gets along with everyone: the slaves,

Those who don’t want to be slaves. She sees

Every motive in my mind, the lazy

Desires, or those slightly crazy.

Nothing escapes her. Is she free?

No one but my Muse is free.

She hurts me and cures me,

But I want to be cured.

She says whatever she wants to me,

And I, enraptured, listen.

She doesn’t pretend I am free.

I know I’m not. My slavery

Is love. And she knows that she

Will be loved, even if I’m on the bottom,

Her face looming, spitting at me from above

In the most reckless manner,

Crying, wailing, helpless, telling me,

Call this poem—The Slavery of Love.

I do.  With certainty, or doubt.

This is my pleasure. My only pleasure.

Until my lover who hates me finds out.





Image result for old song books in antique shop

Life is new. Life is new.

You have no idea how much this is true.

Do you know how much is forgotten and old?

Which laughed and burned, but today is cold?

You don’t believe how old the old is, do you?

It’s unbelievable how much is old; a few

Minutes ago is dead, and that’s not life. Life is new. 

The world, old and forgotten, is vast.

You sit on it, new—compared to the past.

Have you examined the shop which sells old things?

Beauties now forgotten? And unknown kings?

Dust and darkness fell upon the bold,

The world’s fame to ignorance was sold.

The songs—then—would be popular—now.

They are. Look. They will tell you how

Old things become new, then old, then new.

Some—who are dead—look exactly like you.

The night and the night’s bells don’t remember each other.

Nothing does. Don’t surrender.

And that moment in which she—

The one you loved! What did she do? The past is sketchy.

The past is troublesome. The past won’t do.

Your odd dreams are dead. Life is new.

The cover of an old book on Yeats. The dry river bank still thrills.

Dreaming closets. A painting takes your eyes into squiggly hills.

Here. Bring this picture into the light.

The color one. Look. Here you are in black and white.

Tears! Nostalgia! The blank and writhing world still loves you.

The world, seen, has nothing else to do,

So woven clouds move to this cloudy street where you

Duck out of the shop, in reverie. Life is new.




Related image

Every morning I am bombarded by riches.

The darkness told me not to get up,

But with focus, super-human, I picked out, and put on, my pants.

A poem is a minor thought,

My ordinary movement, a dance.

The sunlight in a puddle is Renaissance art,

The air in the train is warm, made slightly warmer by a fart.

Who farted? A question for the ages.

Who is guilty? Give them higher wages.

The most beautiful has some creepy and ugly, too.

This morning is exactly beautiful. And exactly true.

The exact is reality. Focus on that,

Not what someone says about the weather.  Don’t. Shut up. Take your hat.

The exact is what you always do.

So you are beautiful in this morning, and true.

But the exact enslaves you, too.

Love is exact. Just you.

Poetry is unfortunately exact. Isn’t that true?





When Mr. West wakes,

He checks his clock

To see how long the night has dreamt.

He checks his clock to see how long

His life into a dream was bent.

Did his dream invent a song?

Mr. West checks his clock.

How long did his dream keep his life from harm?

His dreams swim in dreams.

His life is a preface to a dangerous alarm.

He checks his clock to see if the clock dreamed.

It did not. But still he’s alarmed

To think his dream perhaps by his life was harmed.

He checks his clock. He dreamed

Longer than that, it seemed.


Image result for the bright dew in renaissance painting

Poems are never written. They ooze, they drop,

Like tears, from saddest members of tribes or nations.

Poems are not made by those on top;

Only by those in exile, looking for revenge.

Poems are never written by the witty,

Only by those reclusive, broken, or sad.

Don’t trust the lightning poems of the verbose

Dashed off by seducers in the city,

Voluble, punning, ironic, glad.

Equality is impossible, the gulf

Between death and easy songs too large.

Poetry is the dew that never vanishes,

Gleaming in sorrow beneath the stars;

Poetry is not a prize for the wealthy,

But the sorrowful glory that is ours.



Image result for percy shelley in cavern in painting

Who could have wed

Those images of fragile life to this poet, now dead?

The slender poet, who died at sea,

Who called you a midnight cloud?

Who, despairing of himself, courted natural scenery,

Sun, cloud, moon, mountain, sea?

Cavern, with stream in it, dark and loud?

All readers found

This poet’s death more than profound.

It almost makes me want to die,

Before I’ve crossed my last “t,”

And dotted my final eye.

Is love mutability, too?

Is all porn ephemera?

Is it all acting for the camera?

Or is this couple, panting and kissing, like you and I,

In love for all eternity,

Infinite and true?



Image result for spanish lady in renaissance painting

Seductive simple phrases:  Are you free?

You learn the direct and the polite, which is how you’ve always dreamed the seductive is.

The rest is chatter. Or filling out forms.

Where do you live?

A new language seduces you.

With her pronouns.

She approaches you mysteriously.

In that dress. By the mango grove.

People really speak that language. They sing that language in songs.

Why is it all your lovers have been bilingual?

The second language is the mother of romance and song.

Why didn’t you see it before?

She loved the new language, not you.

We are the language. Not ourselves.

Learning a new language is blunt and polite and mysterious all at once.

The promise of a kiss is only the promise of a newer, simpler language.

Simplicity is the seduction. What we call fate sometimes.

Life is simple after all. The genius of ease is all.

That is that. Speech. Translation. Love. That is that.

You are that and new in this new language.

That. That is new.

But noche is something you knew.

Try pushing your tongue forward a little sooner.

Seduction is limited to a few simple phrases;

After that, you are completely on your own,

And it will become very uncomfortable.

Enjoy it while you can. It really is the same old thing.

That is new. This is not.

Are you busy? Will you walk the streets of dark poetry with me?

Lesson number two. Are these your hands?

Lesson number three. How old are you? Can you give me money?  Can you give me a home?

Lesson number fourteen. Here is the world. Here is heaven. They said we can do it.

Are you hungry?

No, my love. I am very, very tired.






If a critic came from outer space,

With criticisms of the human race,

Criticisms listing vanity or helplessness or sin,

Would be attentively heard—but criticism from within,

Would not be heard—the human race would not be free

To listen—they would nail the critic to a tree.

With rage against the critic spent,

The rage itself would not relent,

But live in the symbol of the tree:

“Do not dare to criticize me.

My only king is gravity.”

Gravity has no voice. Gravity has no face.

Newton’s gravity, invisible, odd,

Suffocates the scientist who dares believe in outer space,

Who dares believe in God.




Image result for toothache in renaissance painting

Only a dentist can fix your teeth.

Only a professional instrument

Can find the disease lurking beneath.

Only a bank knows the worth of your home.

Ask the movie star where your girlfriend went.

Only a famous poet can write a famous poem.

Beethoven is too sentimental.

The mass shooter is not.

LSD is good for mind control,

As Ovid and wine worked for Rome.

The best story is absent of moral and plot.

Only a famous poet can write a famous poem.



Image result for madman is renaissance painting

Are you saying I cannot say what I see?

What I’m seeing happened a long time before I began writing poetry.

I’m making this poem as obscure as I can;

I don’t want you to think this poem is the same as the man

Who wants you to see what the poet is telling you to see—

After all, if I tell you what I see,

You’ll confuse the telling with the poetry.

You might say you cannot see what I see.

There is none as beautiful as she,

And from all distances and angles,

But what do I praise, if I assume visibility?

You are right to condemn this poem,

For, of course, you cannot see

Her, and further, she happened a long time ago,

When I first dreamed how poetry

Would depict her in her individual actions—

When I first thought of poets, and their lives, and their factions.



Image result for abstract painting sunset

Here is the future,

For those who don’t like the past.

Days and nights which go too slow,

Days and nights which go too fast.

The sun climbed the sky deliberately,

And the direction and speed

Of the universe was a mystery;

But it was you, and your only need.

Life was nothing but, “how fast?”

So here it is, the future!

For those who don’t like the past.

And you, who loved the past?

Even its agony and fear?

Who love and cling to the past?

The future, too, is here.



Image result for abstract painting husband and wife

My wife offends.

The police and courts cannot help;

Her offense is too small.

But love is spied by all.

A drop of rain which falls on my head

Feeds the industry of bad weather.

The models in their rain gear

Are beautiful and pleased.

At first, my wife teased

Me about the arrival of rain,

And when I lost my umbrella, she teased me again.

The leaking ceiling will drive us mad,

But the courts do not consider this bad.

Who said her love was innocent?

She was happy, but known to complain;

Offensive humor, sadness, rhetoric, argument, and pain,

The symbol which clouds over reason,

The rain that drips down the face of the old,

Above the muddy pit. Shakespeare had dreams

Of this. The weak can breed sympathy;

Weakness can breed resentment, too. The drip, drip, drip

Of doubt does not kill. My life doesn’t break. It bends.

I need to tell someone. My wife offends.

Her insult was too small

To hurt love. But love is surrounded by all.




Image result for abstract painting black heart

Do you want love?

You already have love,

It’s yours—you cannot give it back.

Love is always yours. Love is a lack.

When you dare to hold another,

And dare to tell them you’ll be true,

That’s when love flies away;

That’s when love looks strangely at you.

“Who is this, with skin and hair,

With eyes and flaws? Who lives here?”

Desire is all you are.

You are a window with a morning star.

You are a hand unlocking a door

Patiently for centuries.

Be patient some more.



Image result for madman is renaissance painting

I want your love, or I will go mad;

First, missing your love; second, mad;

That’s doubly sad! Which is worse?

Love is precious, madness a terrible curse;

And you will never love me if I’m mad.

Yet this is why I’m mad,

Because you won’t love me; it’s sad

That love always turns into madness,

But love perhaps is mad from the start?

No. Love lives in the gentle heart,

And desires to kiss and bless

The sweet and dear beloved.

When I was first, by you, sweetly moved

To love, you sweetly changed me.

The madness is this. You cannot kiss a tree.

You cannot kiss a dog or cat.

I’m a man. I cannot love like that.

I need your lips, similar to mine.

I need love, kisses, a sprinkling of wine.

Without your love, I will go mad,

Kissing anything. Pathetic. Crazy. Sad.

Rejected only once, everything is bad.


No one is as smart, or as beautiful, as you think.

Smile at peace with yourself, with this knowledge.

After getting a degree, you stay, and end up working at the college;

What makes these things is safer than dancing with these things on the brink.

A brush with fame at the commencement ceremony,

A nice feeling stayed with you all summer,

Surprised at how good you felt from the second drink,

The nice things he confided made him seem like a fool,

But you let a tipsy compliment flatter,

Intrigued that he would soon be teaching at the school;

His foreign policy creds garish and suspect,

A family friend once owned a condo in Trump Tower,

Some talk of Syria. His handshake was nice when he had to go.

He claimed to know about Putin. On his phone was a joke about Brigitte Bardot.





Image result for landscape with jungle and river

There are two kinds of errors:

Those we make in hate.

And those we make in love.

Every mistake looks different from afar.

Some fail, like an unnoticed star,

Pining alone up there in the black,

A faint blip of light which wants its girlfriend back.

Someone else uttered something cruel,

Forever a fool,

Thinking it was a joke.

A joke! A joke! God help me, it was only a joke!

That mistake looks like a distant swirl of gray smoke.

A life can be destroyed by a single piece of cake.

How lavish, how sweet, how delicious life sometimes is, how fake!

The jokes and the lies everyone is giving

Are too numerous to count. This is how we are living.

Mine was a mistake in love.

I was thinking about how much I loved you.

You remember? My action which seemed like hate?

It wasn’t hate at all.

Hate is the error itself.

Love is what explains the mistake of its making,

Which is how we slip through the wall.

When you walk to my mistake from the valley,

Going north along the river,

It still stands. The monument I carved

From the woods for you,

When the whole valley was ours,

And trees hoisted their branches in so many different directions!

In the valley, what I did looks like hate, but when you go by

In a plane, it looks like love from the sky.




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We fall in love so frequently,

We begin to think falling

In love is a random calling,

As common as looking at a face

In the market, a train, or anyplace.

I only admit secretly to my eye

How easy love is. Women say goodbye

To a roving eye. The insult is

Love’s a look. Unfortunately it is.

Women are touched by looks and story.

They love a little more sensibly,

But loving for them is easy, too.

To love is easy. All that mattered was being loved by you.



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As one who loves science and prose meaning,

I defend poetry in this way:

A poem doesn’t have anything to say

Except that it seems profound

Merely on account of its sound.

Poetry experimented long ago

With utterance as a way to know,

As sound which helps us know where to go,

As sound which is beautiful, and can see,

With sound, you hiding in silence,

Alone, unloved, and without science.

A poet is a piece of curiosity

Who asks, did God make a sound? Did you love me?




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During a warm evening,

The grass visible, somewhere behind tall buildings, the sun,

In the privacy of a park bench in a small park,

I sit in languid thought; I think sweetly upon

You, and everything associated with you,

Musing sweetly upon those things, too.

They are sweet, and all my poem brings

Is sweet because of you; you make sweet these things.

There are times when I don’t know what to write—

I prefer to sleep in the middle of the night,

But if you wake me, I snap on the light,

And take up my trembling pen

And write to you, as if our love were new, again.

I prefer to drowse in the middle of the day,

But if you come into my thoughts,

I say hello to you, as if you hadn’t gone away,

As if you were smiling there in all your beauty,

Listening to exactly what I had to say.

I prefer, in winter, the crystalline sleep,

When the frozen, and the freezing, find it difficult to weep,

But if, by the fire, in anguish, you cry

Dimly in my thoughts, in my thoughts I comply,

And by candlelight write a rhyme and then why.

But during warm evenings,

When I sit in the park,

Where we used to sit until it got dark,

Poems are easy; you arrange the things

As if you were writing the things for me,

In love and for love. The poem sings,

And sings with alacrity.

A rising moon brings poems and love.

There it is. Do you see it, love?



I can no longer praise you.

The whispering crowd is the enemy.

Love is only love in secrecy.

I died when I found out what they knew.

Damn my passivity, and when ambitious men

Make my passivity seem self-satisfied again.

You are wanted when men want you—

Men know I love you, so they love you, too.

Finding love, gangs repeat it,

And once known, fame

Kills the secret,

Removes love from love,

And stamps it with a name.

Why marriage? When I took your hand

Love knew love has no secret plan.

The law to love is a law to ban.

And I can’t prevent it. No one can.

From love’s dream, one of us, in hate, woke.

A thought, once spoken, cannot speak again.

The moment I spoke

You gave your life to other men.





Image result for naked under a mink coat marilyn monroe

I wish, like a coat, I could wear

The impressions my letter created,

When you read my love’s apology, alone,

And you ran to me, in grateful tears.

But when we express what we feel,

It plays along the nerves, and tickles along the love invisible—

The faintest light, which ends its dying flight in evening mist, is more visible,

And the same with my poetry.

You grew into a collection—resented, and lugged home

By students, lost in documents, who ridiculed,

“Here is the best knowledge kept in parchment for the young.”

Coldly my quiet poet’s name became known,

But this fall day, with new chills in the air,

The tickling chill tickling the hairs up and down my arm,

And you somewhere—would you appear?

The weather, the cafés, the people, the boulevard, about the same,

Or never, this was already—was it long ago?

And you, my feelings, and you, and you,

The jacket, or a coat? something you and the world might see,

Is it here, and what else to you might be pertaining to me?



Image result for flowers in renaissance painting

We keep on wanting this.

Even reality gives up after a while,

Unable to conform to our thoughts.

Reality, random thief, enters the home,

Never welcome in the poem.

Facts have no idea what they’re looking for.

And it’s hard to exit through another person’s door.

The art of conversation is dead.  We complain.

We say nothing.  We talk around the stain.

Nature gives up on us, too.

Nature gives sweet flowers to me to give to you,

But winter kills fast.

We want the poem of personality to last,

But it never will—

In every case, to keep talking means you’re an imbecile.

The song must have an end; they all end.

Did you notice this?

A pop song ends, perhaps slowly in a fade,

But it ends. No matter how wild or elaborate its parade.

A symphony ends. The timpani ends. The composer wants to get paid.

What do we want, then?  This or this?

Millions of rain drops quit, as well.

Heaven is great, but not if it lazes into hell.

The bottom grins from the bottom of the cup.

In my beautiful dream the most beautiful face

Was mine to endlessly kiss—

But my dream gave up.

There is only one thing we really want.

To keep on wanting this.





Image result for venus and mars in renaissance painting

We are what we are not.

The pleasure of kissing

Pursued. When?  How?  Why?  We forgot.

The warm chill you were feeling

When she wanted your face,

When hers hovered over yours,

Hidden, the time, the reason, the place;

You drank her in, it was drinking,

When you licked her on all fours;

Neither time, nor space,

Explains what you were,

When, in light, you were kissing her.

You were both what you were not

Because you kissed each other a lot.

The genius, to be a genius, must forget

Anxieties and troubles. He is loving you yet.

All pain he walls off

When he forgets to worry and forgets to cough,

When he forgets to see

You, he sees you in eternity.

You did hurt him. He did fall.

In the pleasure of the present’s idle wing

He forgets all

By remembering.







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I perfected myself when I was alone;

All that makes me worthy was secretly made.

Common things grow in the sun,

But winter hides genius in the deep, cold shade.

You didn’t see what I was—in my behavior,

My speech, or my designs.

All you saw was false.  Obviously,

You can’t ignore the obvious—

But you never saw what was going on in the mines.

You added things up, but couldn’t understand

How my pleasure was the largest sum.

You didn’t see how often I denied myself

Before I whispered to you, “of course, my darling, I will come.”








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The problem is this: the smarter a person is, the more aggressive and creepy they are.

You can’t have smart without creepy.

The smart, the talented, the perceptive—these are highly prized and necessary for the ingenuity and force which builds a comfortable society. But unfortunately, the smart, the talented, and the perceptive, are not, as a rule, nice.

The tales and sentiments of woodsmen, who reject society, and monk-like, tread the wilderness, appeal because this is one solution to the dilemma—raw nature cancels out the unnatural.

But in the cities, in the electronic boulevards of society, the unnatural breeds and flourishes, for the aggressive qualities of the talented have no outlet and exist in exaggerated ways, separated from the virtuous qualities which serve that very society. Forceful energy, on one hand, and rapidly efficient intelligence, on the other, which combine to burn with a lively, successful, flame, also go, when the work is done, in two different directions: As virtuous intelligence helps, and earns praise, its jealous brother, the necessary energy of pitiful desire, pursues avenues garishly lit.

War and love share qualities—and this sharing overthrows human happiness.

Efficiency and intelligence are synonymous. The efficient is the same as the smart within temporal/spatial existence. The efficiency of time-saving is the soul of every invention.

Love, by its very nature, doesn’t fight—war must fight for love, condemning both to exist, always.

Love and war, as a twin necessity, finds, as this unfortunate twin necessity, an unfortunate life in the hearts and minds of the intelligent—the efficient—as the same activity: love and war at the same time.

Love and war are practiced simultaneously by the intelligent, because of its efficiency, which is all the smart really know, and this is the reason why creepy and rapey are common in refined and respectable society, in the otherwise successful institutions and practices of civilized life. Women who are assaulted by the creepy are being assaulted by war and love at once, in the name of efficiency. Men are trained to fight, and they fight women in the name of love, just as they love men in the name of war (deceive men, by “loving” them, since deception is the most efficient weapon in war).

This is the number one problem facing society—how can we have intelligence without the creepy?

The intelligent, we would think, would be “intelligent enough” or “smart enough” to know not to be creepy.

But this is to confuse intelligence with refinement—they are not the same at all, and we confuse them at our peril. As explained above, the smart is efficient only, not virtuous or decorous.

So the sad truth is, that the man who, without ceremony, hits on women, is displaying intelligence, and the successful man will tend to be creepy in the same ratio as his intelligence.

But can’t refinement and virtue live with intelligence?


They are opposite qualities.

The refined, by deferring pleasure through art and manners, is highly inefficient.

Virtue, by deferring pleasure through self-sacrifice, is also highly inefficient.

This is why the religious, who put their faith in repetitious iconography and ceremony, are viewed as stupid by highly efficient and crafty intelligence—crafty intelligence which does whatever it takes to win.

This is why women, who traditionally guard against the immediate gratification of pleasure by aggressive males, for the sake of pleasure-deferring childbirth, and serve a higher purpose divorced from the smart, the intelligent, the efficient, and the crafty, are mocked by society as stupid.

We mentioned at the beginning of this essay the man of nature, living ingeniously outside of society, as one solution to the problem.  The “off-the-grid” sensibility is inefficient—like those who are religious, or fashionable, or poetic—and in the religious, the fashionable, and the poetic, we find the ignorant, who are holy and sweet and kind and nice.

The woman, who is condemned to be virtuous—as a counter to aggressive male intelligence practicing the efficiency of love and war at once—is protected by clumsy and artificial societal constraints—clumsy, because society further punishes the woman when it keeps her from the dangerous territories where intelligence/efficiency aggressively dwells; society condemning her further to her ignorant female existence, and also clumsy because in a “free society” women are victims of love/war creepiness and aggression.

All that a woman is—protected as the virtuous receptacle of pleasure-deferring childbirth; or somewhat protected, by law and rules of decorum; or not protected at all as a complete person free to integrate herself into love/war intelligence and cunning—makes no difference to society. Society does not give a fig for nature or woman qua woman, and never will; society will always be a walled fortress against nature, the very efficiency which nature cannot, and does not, understand.

Nature, out of necessity, forms woman as the central child-providing device.

Society, in a moment of ingenuity, will bring men together as lovers, who adopt, taking up into their care, in double fatherhood, unwanted babies—or any combination society efficiently desires.

Society is too clever and ingenious for the natural to withstand.

Society laughs at the cow-like stupidity of all that is natural, and this includes the “living-to-serve-mankind-as-a-mother” woman, who, in taking seriously this role, is inevitably religious—and the religious is always mocked by sophisticates and progressives as backwards and naive. Precisely. The virtuous, in society’s eyes, is always ignorant—which is the tragic state of things we are attempting to elucidate in this essay, as forcefully and as simply as we can, by pointing out that the smart is efficient and unkind, and this is always so. Intelligence and creepiness always co-exist.

The religious essentially imitates the time-honored precepts of nature—which is why it is mocked, victimized, and betrayed whenever society reaches a certain level of love-as-war and war-as-love sophistication.

In the same manner, aesthetes—whether in fashion or art—also imitate nature, as they reproduce natural qualities found in colors (flowers), order (perspective), romance (birdsong) and the sublime (mountains, oceans). As with the religious, in the artist we often find virtue and naïveté and all those sensitive qualities which at first may attract us, but which society finally mocks and condemns.

The virtuous poet and the virtuous woman fall in love: she is rich in maternal qualities, ablaze in physical and spiritual loveliness—he is docile and sensitive, with a sweetly unsophisticated freedom in his humble expression and shy desire—both belong to nature; he, in the worship of all that is orderly and beautiful; she, in the obedience to divine child-birth, and in her love for all that contributes to a happy family.

But this relationship cannot survive in society—an outburst of laughter, a single whispered word, destroys it forever.

Destroyed, it lives on in refined and outdated books, but not in the city—where knowledge reigns in a glance, and millions of men and women hurry anxiously to and fro.





You were resisted at every turn, learning

To understand not only you, but everyone is turning,

And the moon still is,

Serene in its mathematics,

And the chemistry of the sun, burning

Hasn’t changed either, but you

Are now losing the ability to renew,

And they didn’t teach you this,

Otherwise, you would have begat

Before you learned to kiss.

But fashion and technology exploded just like that

With everything contrary and different from what it seemed;

The big thing dreaming was just something a little dreamer dreamed.

Love is liking what you are not supposed to like.

Young in the shadows, youth crashed the bike.

Hate is not liking what you wish you could like.

Come on, let’s get out of here. Do you think we can?

I’m still working on this poem. Let’s see your plan.



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The justification of myself is complete.

I believe in myself, and this belief is sweet

Against my tongue, in my thoughts, tomorrow and today,

The whole world conspires to feed me and show me

I am the author, the actor, the audience, and the play.

If I don’t get it, the world—not me—is guilty of delay.

The forest exists, because I am the tree,

And the tree grew, and knew

To grow into a forest, flowering around you.

Can you point to some other tree

To prove that the whole forest is not me?

I am the whole forest; I am not a part

Of anything. Love, love me with every trick used by art,

Faking the real, exposing the fake—my whole heart

Is every single piece of the world, and more,

More faithful than the wife, more beautiful than the whore,

More open than the mind, which opens, closes, decorates, the door.

Here’s my taste, my sight, my judgment. Mozart, listen to me! I will soar

For the sake of you. The poem is the world.  This is what the world is for.



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Time is long. We can use some of this.

The physical founding of spirit is rare.

Not too shy to thrust—but too shy to kiss.

Hardware is more important than software,

Though software talks—and talks—and talks

And tries to convince us otherwise.

The Republicans are wise and stupid.

The Democrats are stupid and wise.

Before he writes a poem he walks—and walks—and walks.

Not your poetry, it was your eyes.

But the poetry, if you want to know the truth,

Bored me to tears. Sidney’s lies.

Philip Sidney defended poetry against Socrates:

When you admit you lie, you can’t lie, but this was just a tease.

The voice always tries to speak for its skin,

Never knowing what kind of trouble the love song will get it in.

I want love. I don’t what trouble.

Software turned my hardware into rubble.

Trouble was the raging sea. Love was a bubble.

I thought I could love. But love was trouble.


Where God hides, there is a certain delight—

Light mingles with water and water mingles with light.

God is the day hiding in the day,

A glory ashamed, and trying to get away.

Fairy tales of fairies hiding gold in a stream

And every story told, which is only a dream

Is God, the hidden, hiding,

Secretly behind the secrets, secretly abiding.

What you thought was magical and completely untrue

Is the God who knows there is nothing magical in you.

God knows you are mortal, and fragile, and you will die,

And that is why He is glorious, but hidden, that is why.

He cannot face your death, so He hides in the leaves,

In the water, in your face, and the dark, which hardly grieves.




I wish I could repair

Your beautiful arms, your beautiful hair.

I wish I could make better

Your old, favorite sweater.

I wish this argument would end.

It seems real, but it’s only pretend.

I’m not going to impress you with candy.

The grownup only needs a sip of brandy.

I wish I could go into my favorite store,

And purchase, until there wasn’t anymore,

And take it all home and be

A store, myself, in sad satiety.

I wish I could win with words.

I can’t. I don’t like words. I do like words. I don’t like words.

This wants you to have sex immediately.

Immediately it wasn’t me.

The whole collection of event-chains

Never falls apart, even when someone is sick, or it rains.

I wish I could be nice and tell you what is wrong

With being nice for so long.



This conductor is an actor,

Enjoying the sound of his “ladies and gentlemen” voice

Booming to the end of the car.

But this conductor is as quiet as a mouse;

And we barely glimpse the engineer—this train is his house.

We can throw ourselves into our seat and forget everything

And it really doesn’t matter if the train conductor wants to sing

Or the stop is announced, or the sun

Is pouring through your window as the train curves around the swamp.

It doesn’t matter who is sitting next to you,

Or if you lose your gloves. The performance

Will soon be over. Tired of him and his lovemaking,

You’ll need to tell him what you begin to rehearse in your mind

Without thinking, a thoughtless performance—

Or, with thought reviewing thought, so you won’t seem too unkind.


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How do we protect women? Shame the dick-mind. Shame it good.

The Evil Empire of the Rapey Male is pushing back against the Me Too movement.

First, let’s admit that every mass movement, such as Me Too, is going to have excesses.  And yes, it is absolutely true that accusations can be slanderous—and this will always be true, and we all need to watch out for this, vigilantly, and always take this into account. Absolutely.

Rape is wrong. Slander is wrong. And between these two is a sea of accusations, traditions, manners, desires, loves, hates, power plays, court cases, and confusions.

The good of the Me Too movement, however, is making things uncomfortable for a certain type of person, one who secretly applauds the world of Harvey Weinstein—but now the energized Weinstein creeps are fighting back on all fronts.

If the Me Too movement is saying anything, it’s saying: “Don’t be a creep.”

But creeps will be creeps.

The case of Aziz Ansari has the creeps cheering.

Why? Because here is a case, not of rape, but of a famous man, and his female admirer, on a date gone bad, written up on a feminist site, with “feminists” protesting.

The Ansari case is “proof,” to the creeps, that the Me Too feminists have gone “too far.”

For the creeps, the Ansari case is the Waterloo of Me Too.

The Ansari story is important for the creeps because this is how the creeps think:

It wasn’t rape, so shut up.

You women want to be equals, but then you cry when a man is boorish.

And worse, you feminists are trying to make everything look like rape, and creating a climate of crackdown and fear.

In the Atlantic, and now more recently in the New York Times, the Ansari story is being used to ridicule and shame Me Too feminists—and the whole Me Too movement.

It is often said that the victim of stupidity is the victim of—yes, their own stupidity—and this is true, and it’s always neat and easy to blame stupidity on one stupid person; in this instance, the young trusting female.

Yet we, who blame, are always stupid when we victim-blame—while failing to see stupid overriding systems of behavior and thought, as we fail to recognize our own victim-blaming stupidity.

There’s two people involved here. Just as with Harvey Weinstein, and his victims. Grace (not her real name—she is not a public figure like he is) and Ansari.

To blame Grace, and only Grace, is stupid.

Don’t blame Ansari.

But then don’t blame her, either.

And, even more stupid: why blame the Me Too movement?

Have any opinion about Ansari’s lousy date you want.

But don’t use it to attack Me Too.

Do you think Ansari should blame his failed date on Me Too?

What kind of stupid, pathetic man would he be if he did that?

There’s a whole spectrum of women as victims. There’s brutal, physical rape by a stranger.

What Grace suffered was far more nuanced. But she’s still a victim.

It’s not that we need to destroy Ansari.  But neither should we use Grace to dilute Me Too.

Me Too is valid, and it will always be valid, and it doesn’t need to apologize for less offensive things on the spectrum to the point where they seem: silly immature women behaving unwisely. Silly immature women behaving unwisely is still part of the wider problem. We should still care, and not scornfully assume this is not on the spectrum and part of the whole problem. Perhaps we are being too hyper-sensitive and hyper-chivalrous, but we doubt it.

Ansari was trying very hard to “close the deal,” whether she wanted to or not. That’s a rape-mind, if not actual rape. You are not allowed to violate someone just because it’s in your apartment. The whole thing is too close to Harvey territory. He should have waited for a second date. Not poured her another class of wine, after she verbally objected to him moving too fast, and said, ” this is the second date.”

She does sound naive. But respect that, then. Don’t take advantage of it. That’s the point of civilized society, isn’t it?

The Weinstein creeps are rushing in, and their opening is that unlit gap between rape and boorish behavior.

The Weinstein backlash against Me Too reasons from the lowest possible place: 1. listen creeps, don’t get in trouble with the law and 2. listen, creeps, don’t get falsely accused.

But being a creep is fine.

And if you object to the creepy, you are a creep. Because, you know, men are always horny, and they will be disgusting, but that’s just too bad, and it can be funny and charming—look at movies! Look at TV! Look at comedians! Ha ha ha!  In fact, respectable films (the kind of Harvey Weinstein might produce) portray all sorts of creepy behavior—but who are we, stupid old-fashioned, butt-ugly, feminist, nitwits, to judge? Right?

Well, we can judge. And we are going to judge.

We owe it to ourselves, as a society, when we have a discussion like this, which affects everyone in society, no matter what age or gender, to focus on more than just rape and sex. The “enjoying sex without breaking the law” part and the “being safe” part are important—and we expect these two things to always be in the forefront, but every aspect of human happiness should be considered.

The synopsis of the story is: Ansari and the anonymous woman known as “Grace” agreed to go on a date; they started at his apartment with a glass of wine, went to a fancy restaurant, he hurried through the meal to take her back to his apartment, they got naked and kissed, he wanted to take it further, but backed off when she said no, they put their clothes back on and watched some TV, and she ended up being upset, and told him, in tears, “You men are all the same,” and left.

The date was detailed on a feminist website called Babe—provoking sympathy for Ansari and anti-Me Too outrage in the larger media.

The latest anti-Me Too cry is from the animal rights activist and famous French actress from the 1950s, Brigitte Bardot, saying Me Too actresses are just “looking for attention.”  And…the creepy backlash continues.  The great backlash of 2018 seems to be coming mostly from boomers and older folks.  Who should know better.

Let’s be truthful for a moment: it’s heartbreaking to find out a man only wants to have sex with you. Women want men. As complete partners. 

It’s heartbreaking—and what is commonly called a “broken heart” is a psychological trauma, and we are not talking about a “bad breakup” here or there, but the reality that the majority of women in society, from a young age, live with broken hearts their whole lives, because the creepy man is accepted as normal.  And, men, too, will suffer, because if women are deeply unhappy, men will be unhappy, too.

Here’s the thing. A long conversation over dinner, with wine, in a nice restaurant is the most wonderful experience in the world.

To want to rush into sex right away is Weinstein-like.

It is entirely correct for women to protest this.

When all things are said and done, the heart is finally more important than fun.

The attitude “it wasn’t rape, so shut up,” is part of the general problem. If we don’t care about the heart, we create the climate of the creepy in the first place.

This does not mean we get out the torches and pitchforks and run Ansari out of town.

So far, Ansari has only apologized to her, and that’s good.

We agree it’s not rape, or the worst thing ever, by any means.

But here’s the thing: to scorn the woman in this scenario puts you on a Weinstein slope.

Poor Ansari!

He just wanted to have a little fun!

This, in our view, is the most significant aspect of this story:

Creeps are using the Aziz Ansari story to creep back to acceptable creepiness.





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The biggest asshole is the one who insincerely takes offense.

To be offended, as wrongs go, is a relatively harmless thing in itself, and often earns the offended party points for virtue—and here lies the insidious nature of the insincere who are always offended: their bad spreads and increases, inspired, and under the cover of, the apparent good—which makes the insincerely offended impossible to stop simply and virtuously.

To take offense is to give offense—the offended shame the other by being offended by them, even though the “offense” is harmless—and sincere. And here the insincerely offended strike an even greater and more insidious blow against sincerity: when they insincerely take offense at something which is offered sincerely.

The asshole’s insincerity—because it hides behind virtue—is protected, increasing the truth of its insincerity. The asshole’s bad—which hides behind the good, is, for that very reason, is even worse, as all that is insincere (and called good) gradually chases out all that is sincere (and called bad).

This common, yet applauded, wrong, is able, like an infection without a cure, to spread harm and mischief vastly, and incalculably.

Justice longs, like any pressure, or force, to manifest itself in some way—for it would not be justice otherwise.  The more wrong and the more torture the faculty of virtue suffers, the greater likelihood of a dramatic reversal of the state of things—perpetuated over time by insidious wrong which hides itself inside the good.

Murder, and other truly criminal, brazen and anti-social acts, don’t happen out of the blue, but we are nonetheless often puzzled by the sudden and seemingly unexplained ferocity and evil of human behavior. These terrible offenses, replete with horror and irrationality, come about, very often, from the far less harmful, but constant, behavior of the assholes—who are able to seem good as they constantly shame and torture others.

The insincerely offended asshole is the root of all evil.

The good person is made to feel bad—even as they know themselves to be sincere.

The good person sees the bad person winning, as a seeming good person—and there is nothing the good person can do about it. Good is defeated by the bad, as all the good is sucked out of the room.

Good can, and will, suffer, in silence, knowing itself to be good.

Good, however, in a weak moment, may take offense itself, because of the insincere strategy of the bad who are offended, and good, now offended in turn, and rightly so, transitions to the idea that all offense taken is insincere, and bad is all—good succumbs to the atmosphere of bad, believing there is no more good, since being offended is the only reality, whether it is sincere, or not.

Since taking offense sincerely is actually a more helpless order of being than taking offense insincerely (the latter perceived to be more clever and ambitious and socially successful) good falls in line with the prevailing bad behavior—which ambitiously and insincerely takes offense.

The bad perpetuates bad as normal, and the bad flourish in their status quo status, insincerely offended by every means and manner one can think of—since the world is imperfect in every way, there is an infinite store of things which offend. “To be offended” becomes not only the de facto normal and safe position, but the strong and superior position.

This is how, in a normal and self-perpetuating manner, the bad grows and flourishes, always on the offended end of things, while the just and the good either convert to the bad-and-insincerely-offended normal, or, the good ineffectively fight back, either violently or pitifully, committing more harm, and looking truly bad, and becoming truly bad, in the process. The good is not only defeated by the bad; the good ends up becoming even worse, making the triumph of the bad even more certain and inevitable.

But take heart.

Build a house–or a poem—which doesn’t fall down.

You are good.

It is them, not you.

The world is more creepy, unfair and crazy than you ever dreamed.

But we’ll find a way out of this.

I promise.



If the introvert is really so,

Where can the introvert go

To escape public notice—their fear and doom?

They just slip into the bathroom.

Whether in a public place, or at home,

There’s a place where the introvert can truly be alone—

Better than the living room, or even hiding in bed,

Where someone else might lurk, the introvert’s dread—

Is a private room where the introvert really spends their life.

Look around. Where is your moody wife?

You might speak to them as they half-listen, half-hidden by their hair;

You might even make them angry. They aren’t really there.

You might feel fortunate to get them on the phone.

The truth is, the introvert is always alone.

The introverts, silent ghosts, climb inside their walls,

As Churchill’s voice looks for them, echoing in the stalls.



Image result for entrance with blue pillars

The entrance is all.

The entrance allows you to enter,

Unless it is locked, or too small.

This entrance seems meant for you,

And, as you go in,

You hear the sounds of love,

And feel the grip of sin.

The entrance had blue stone

Pillars on both sides

And marble for miles

Which no one derides.

The entrance is expensive

And when you entered it, you were

Different afterwards. But don’t ask her.

She is the queen of entrances.

She is official. She knows

Death is the entrance

Every palace shows.

This entrance, however, is so tall

You don’t see it. The sky

Seems to beckon.

But you are too small.

At the beginning of the entrance you die

To get out. She knows why.

You signed up with the others.

They waived the entrance fee.

And now you’re in a submarine

At the bottom of the sea.



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