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Never tell your lover you love love.

She will think her eyes

Must compete with a whole forest of sighs,

Each sigh betokening music.

She will think her one face

Must be compared to a human race

Of faces—when you tell your lover you love love.

She will think her mind

Must exist in differences gently, or be unkind,

And she will have to stand blindly

As the world sighs upon you kindly,

And each sigh of the forest, perpetual,

Will bring, each morning, a new nuptial.

She will know the spring, with its silver floods,

Will laugh beside her dark moods,

If you tell her you love love.

She will think the flood of sighs that pours

Over you, compares with how she adores.

She will think her own sighs

Will be compared to all—and comparisons never die.

For her, sighs will turn to roars.

Her face, she thinks, must lie

Beside a world of faces: even yours.





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Why is everyone sad? I know

Everyone is sad. They are sad wherever I go.

The girls are sad, who soon have breasts,

Lovely childhood gone, bringing grownup jests

And cruelty, and if she isn’t rude,

With a sad passivity she suffers the crude

Scenes creating scenes of shrinking space

For the crude, idiot, laughing, face,

The infantile, consumer, lout grinning,

In football jersey, because this side is winning.

And women of middle age more sad,

From this, if not completely mad.

Dignity defeats misery if it can,

But woman can’t, if it doesn’t live in a man.

Everyone is sad if the woman is sad.

She seeks good taste in loveliness,

Beauty brave in nails, face, and dress,

Which the male ignores. Woman

Cultivates woman and ends less human.

There’s her poems, describing suicide,

Rape, unpleasant men, to make poetry hide.

And if a man is smooth,

The woman fears to move.

Why is everyone sad? Death?

No, death’s a pleasant slumber—it does not explain every sad heart beat and breath.

Those in power, sad, knowing it will soon be gone,

And to have no power is misery.

You? You feel irritation at every little thing.

Your plant by the water has stopped drinking.

I wish I knew what made you sad, but my

Sad meditation itself is why

You don’t talk to me anymore.

But who knows there won’t be more sadness in store?

Oh silent one! Every dream I had

Was happy. But somehow I am sad.

Oh misery! I have too much to say.

The sad are dancing, dancing far away.







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Not from here, this train,

Nor the darkness we hurtle through,

The sun going down, I don’t have to explain;

We all know the sun is miles away,

And the conductor, is he from Spain?

These passengers, or you, or you,

Not from here, these commuters,

Already from another day

Spent, huddled with their phones and computers,

Not from here, expertise or parts,

The communication, the view,

Not from here, but here is coming due,

Not from here, but here, sentimental hearts,

I am here, here, moving into ear shot

Of the one I love,

The night, a blot,

Even as she, there, continues to move.


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I am in tourists’ pictures,

Since I walk around my tourist town,

Pictures I will never see,

Taken by tourists with me in them, accidentally.

They come to see the seven gables; the Seven Gables is famous in a book.

One thing tourists know how to do is look.

Because elephants live in books

And elephants are few,

And elephants need to eat leaves,

They may come to your town, too.

My town is by the water, which watered the tourists’ dreams:

Old World cliffs. New World streams.

I see them peering at maps, and guessing which way they should go,

Following the sea’s edge to the lighthouse;

The moss stinks, and the tide is low.

They spy a heron in the shallow harbor,

Bending its legs in the green water,

Or is that me? Tomorrow a picture will know.




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True poets don’t need to write poems.

Not being a true poet, I give you this.

Poems need their poets, and so the rumor started

Crazy rumor! That poems mark the poet,

And next to a sad poem you find a poet, broken-hearted.

But the true poet weaves

True poetry in the leaves,

True poetry in the way your eye

Looks, before beauty makes you cry.

The true poet creates the sea

And the stormy look of the sea,

And says things I’ve already forgotten,

Which she once said to me.

True poetry brings her right here,

Where to write a poem would just seem queer.




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You owned a beauty—

And while you owned it, I fed

On your glories, but now you live,

Without me, and your beauty has fallen dead.

You hated memories and pictures,

For the picture was you;

But now your beauty is a memory,

Which means you are no longer true.

I have no pictures,

For you gave none to me.

I have a poem, or two.

Would you like to see?



If the insulting is true

I must be careful how I speak of you

Because I love you, and you are a shit,

So with great care my poem must speak of it.

A poet should not be afraid to tell

What put the poet—and his lover—into hell.

Talk about it, poet, for the good of all.

Love is not sacred, except that we fall,

Like I fell in love with you.

Commandments or advice, which tell us the right thing to do,

Do not interest me.

Insult is true, and hides best in beautiful poetry.

The truly insulting hurts as much

As pleasure gives pleasure with pleasure’s touch.

Only the physical is true.

It may or may not talk. It either soothes, or wounds, you.

Two things happen: either silently we are wronged

Or lies are spoken, as if we belonged.

The truth will never be spoken to you

But truth exists, in everything people do.

The cinema is lying, and will lead to more lies.

Falsity is all and all the truth defies.

I loved you. You wished you were a little taller.

I loved you. You wished you were a little smaller.

Two inches. Twenty pounds. The flaws

Are nothing to the poet. But they who cannot love will follow those laws.



The only antidote to love is a cigarette.

What extends the feeling of love after sex can kill it.

Love will be the end of love, and the awareness of this

Is the philosophy which laughs at the kiss.

I will tell you what love is, as I smoke a cigarette.

Love is the satellite which becomes the planet.

Love is the gull flying across the waters of the inlet

Which cools you as you sit in the sun.

Love is the cigarette which sends

Warmth inside you which never ends.

Love is the contrast of your face with hers.

Love is your cat who fills your bed and purrs.

Love knows the heart is near the filling and emptying lungs.

You breathe the nothing of the empty air.

Better for love when sweet smoke eases into the lungs’ lair.

Love is the unhappy story which sings,

Or vanishes, left only with the embarrassment singing brings.

The poet cannot love, for the poet loves all,

And praises even the smoke on the other side of the wall.

Love defies the cold grave

Waiting for suicidal Cleopatra, who wasn’t brave.

Love vows, but love cannot save

The warrior Ulysses from the elaborate grave.

Men and women make each other sad.

In love, their differences drive each other mad

And so love becomes a storm that grows alone

Until you talk to yourself, and your perfections groan

And all the best of you cries, and you find yourself crying alone.

So take another drag of your cigarette,

And you’ll forsake love yet.

Heart-broken agony cries from a million tongues.

Butts litter graves. The heart is next to the lungs.








Is the world large or various?

People, too numerous to tabulate,

People looking the same, people who you kind of hate;

Why do people look the same?

Because the world is large, and to fill it,

Faces and songs need to repeat.

The world really is dull in its repetition.

There’s that song again,

Which you’ve heard a thousand times before.

Time makes faces look the same, as the beautiful, in the mist, come ashore.

Is the world various or large?

I’m sorry to say, it’s only large.

The distances of the stars,

The infinite impressions which come your way

Are more similar than you know, as you go through your repetitive day.

There aren’t enough words

To make this interesting.

The eye will never be frenzied,

But will always look and stare

Across the miles to see what is there.

People think and look the same.

Things must repeat, and the infinite time and size of the universe is to blame.

Do you know why I cried for you, and why my spectacular love for you made me crazy and weak?

World copied world, but you were unique.



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We all look better from far away.

I kiss you in the shadows,

But you don’t look as good in the day.

This morning you made a face, like something wasn’t right,

And immediately the charm fled which we achieved last night.

I hardly know you, and that’s the point.

I’m crazy about you because knowing hasn’t made a dent.

Please don’t tell me too much. Let your face

Retain secrets. The mystery can be spent

In two ways. In safety or crazy.

Crazy is not mysterious at all,

Though a little crazy goes a long way

To lend the mystery of the night to the day.

Taking a risk signals one doesn’t know

And not knowing is good. Darling, let’s go.

Did you forget your hand bag?

Did you bring an extra pair of shoes?

Is your makeup alright?

If you care too much about these, you lose.

There will be a mountain of things

And reasons to keep love

Mysterious when in the dark we move.


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The woman of two minds

Doubts that you love her

And doubts she loves you.

She knows she is

Pretty, but doesn’t think she is.

That is, she is pretty enough to despise

You for loving her physically,

But might love you for that, too.

With strength and insecurity,

She loves gays when she feels ugly,

But sometimes wants to feast on you.

You are not sure what she believes,

Or whether her knowledge or doubt

Will find you out,

But what she finds out will not be you,

And she is horrified you might be of two minds, too,

With that intelligence we can never trust,

As it drags vows and poems through the dust.

Taste changes, but it always seems unkind

When what is changeable is the mind.

But you want the cunning of two minds.

You like her; you like what her mind finds.

Other women seem dull, the ones who are kind,

And who love you unconditionally with one mind.

Why don’t you love her who loves you?

Why do you long for this one, of two minds?

Who broke your heart in two?



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This is not my best poem.

My best poem is gone.

It was almost written. But when I stopped

The poem kept going on.

Life will eclipse life.

What was it like? I cannot remember.

A total failure? A beautiful thing dropped?

The feeling attending the loss

Of the poem, which almost stayed,

Is all the poem is.

Was there wisdom, visions?  Time

Is poetry’s soul, and time on time is laid

Until hearts we saw and thought were there,

Move in a mist, forgotten;

Loss is all that’s speaking. And the poem doesn’t care.






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Pain cannot be selfish. Pain is the only proof

Of suffering—how can suffering be selfish?

Only suffering puts a person into hell.

Then why do you hate the selfish? Guess your theory doesn’t work so well.

I want pleasure, and pleasure is all we know

Of happiness, and not a lot of pleasure awaits us when we go,

So I might just stay here

With the mundane sparrow—the same fear

Felt by the weak in nature is mine.

I’m selfish, thinking of myself—in the highest circles of heaven.

You don’t know what I am in this line.

You don’t know what anyone is, in their writing, or in their speech.

My advice? Go for pleasure. Never yours. But always in your reach.


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Teach me all your languages:

The different silences, when for different reasons we

Shall be silent—between performances of sad poetry—

And melancholy rendering of mournful, aching music—

When what is said is said with smiles, or resting the head

Upon the ground, deep inside green hills, or on the shore,

The cessation of sweet sounds making us love silence all the more.

Teach me the language of your sorrowful past

So painful, the only understanding possible

Is right now proves not even knowledge and its attendant sorrows can last,

Because if I know that language well,

I will be fluent in avoiding the worst references to your bygone hell.

Teach me the language to use when sorrow

Closes in, because we will not see each other until tomorrow;

The language of goodbye is a must,

Since we need to trust that we can trust,

And when I do not see you, words

Will fly and talk, perch and plume

With sorrow, since you’ll have thoughts in a different room,

And I’ll be blind, and speech will be the speech of blind birds

Who will call out across the old, weary distance

Of old ignorance with sad insistence.

Explain the language that doesn’t refer to “we,”

But separately, with separate wants, to you and me.

Tell me the language that will explain language—

And inside that highest insight, explain you,

Who talks to talk—so is the law of talk–

Even as forever you do what you do.

Teach me how you cried when you ran and fell

As a child. Will I learn the language, or pain?

How much of your cry must I know before I can tell

If my childhood in a different land was the same?

Tell me the language you consider profound

Even if its wisdom is proven false by another, just lying around.

Teach me the language your ancient fathers and mothers knew,

The triumphant and the tragic tongue,

When vines were sweet and strong and young,

And solemn temple, and threatening throne,

Taught, in every valley and corridor, tradition and disappointment,

Filling with awe each apprenticed heart, alone,

Who hurried through each studious hour spent

Towards a knowledge of the future,

To be more than he was,

Abusing the language, which gave

Hyperbole to kings and to the apprentice a grave—

Where you first taught me to say

What your language indicated yesterday.

Teach me your language of desire,

So when we travel deeper into the fire,

And I’m tired, and want to drop

Down, without doing more, you won’t have to stop.

Share the language of every dish you prepare,

That when we are eating, we are almost not there.

Teach me your language of poetry that will charm

My brain and make the hair stand up on my arm.

Your languages are numerous, I know.

No language can help, if my learning is slow.

I saw, once, a look in your eye,

And all my languages began to cry.

Teach me all your languages so I can know

Who you love and where you go.








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How will my memory remember me?

Will it travel back to the desperate years

When I cried for you those hesitant tears,

Since, as a man, a few tears were enough,

When I loved, but didn’t quite love enough

Your face which penetrated my eyes

With youth and blonde hair the best disguise,

And that disguise even now enough

To make me fall madly in love?

My memory would have the new

Fill it up, but would rely heavily on you.

It would exchange blue eyes for black

As long as love, felt then, comes back,

When I glimpsed your blue eyes

In youthful, dim surmise.

Memory tells me your image is dead,

Like a sound sounding only in my head,

But still you are beautiful as you look down

Into life, stretched out in a long frown.

I pursued, with recklessness, romance,

Too eager, too untutored, to dance.

I drowned my fiery desire in wine

Which led to nothing, when I was done.

Any love I got was by pure chance.

I found nothing, though I ranged

In and out of haunts, to seek one

To make me happy. You changed

Into many, and my memory of many

Is almost enough to make this claim:

I loved enough, though not in your name.

I loved as my memory told me to love;

From the very beginning, you were enough,

Though we did not love, and with a sigh,

Memory plays sadly and vainly in my eye.

I still look, and still see

The merest mist surrounding me.




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Beauty doesn’t care,

Yet layer after layer you wear,

And when you go, I follow you there

To honor and kneel to you, with your beautiful flare.

You decided, when you saw me staring,

To punish me, stupid, for caring,

Stupid, thinking that for me burnished, singing beauty is blaring,

Stupid, thinking beauty is thinking

Of me. Beauty, layered, sinking

Into death, aging, finally stinking.

Remember? Beauty, starry, blinking,

Indiscriminately smiling and winking

At the plumed bird staring?

I was punished for caring:

Beauty that winks, beauty that doesn’t care.

Everything that winks and blinks ends

In death. Everything that way tends.

Your beauty disdains my stare,

And if I care, or do not care,

The care is in my heart,

My confused, enchanted heart,

Plagued from the start,

By a beauty now dying,

My poem almost happy in the truth of its crying.






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I pick my religion carefully,

By the poetry and the stories in its book,

By kindness and wisdom, but more

By how beautiful its churches look.

Paintings of beauties with downcast eyes

Are enough religion for me,

But I’ll also take heaven and light

Elucidated scientifically.

The idea of God apart from creation

Is a pretty good metaphor for love,

Though I’m not high on metaphor,

For what does metaphor have to do with love?

It’s my business, really, to love,

And to do what I want with love. Well, not really.

Actually, I picked this religion because

Nice never forgives,

And mean always does.








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Women are more sexually aggressive than men. —Donald Trump

The smart do not run the show,

Because the smart are wise enough to know

It takes too much time and energy to make things go.

Studious, shy, I took a long time to make my start.

Half-asleep, avoiding others, is smart.

The capricious individual is the measure of all:

Freedom loves the sleepy, not those who strive and rise to fall.

Don’t wake the sexy one up. Don’t tell

Her she’s selfish, she’ll give you hell.

She’ll make you sorry. She’ll look down

On you with her smart, beautiful, angry frown.

Her anger will not let you like her anymore.

Beauty is smart. What do you think intelligence is for?

Smart goes into beauty—which is health.

Breeding for beauty is nature’s wealth.

The rare beauty is the measure of all, but this truth will hide

In group-think, in the compromising homosexual’s pride,

As the ivory-towered, triggered, heroically defy the law

Of smart nature—its growth, its instinct, its claw.

Managing group-think is the polite, industrious, delicate task

Of globalists, but the beauty doesn’t need it. So don’t ask.

Pity the group-thinkers, timid, who seek another kind of bond,

A merciful one, far from the sneer of the beautiful blonde.

Oh lazy beauty! Oh beautiful disaster!

My embarrassing poems breed—for you—faster! Faster!











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If I am the only man?

I will never again

Write love poems!

I’ll demand them.

The world will need

My ejaculate seed.

I will comply,

With a keen, discerning eye,

My pleasure the only thing which can save the world.

In China—passionate to restore

Her race—I will happily pour,

In a determined ceremony of bliss,

My future.  (There might not be time to kiss.)

“O sexy Chinese women!” No one cares that I say this.

I will say anything—or nothing.

I will be a most happy king.

My glory was scattered, and this was best;

Glory does not belong in a narrow glass.

I roamed free under the sun, but let that pass.

Now I have important work to do

For all mankind, not you.

Indian women! O Parvati! don’t delay!

My fountain! And the most precious of the liquid will stay.

The future will see to it I am never alone.

I will be as sunny and bold as a Walt Whitman poem.

I revel in the sweet and sunny arrogance of the American, Walt Whitman!

To the Middle East! Greeted by the choicest women!

In my loins, the greatest prophet lurks,

Religious icon, as long as my spraying works.

Every saint who receives

My future, in the saints believes.

On to England, where woman’s lips are thin;

A freckle the source of all my sin.

But is there sin anymore

When I’m the only man on the shore?

And when I get to Africa, delicious black

Keeps me for awhile, before that hue is back.

I no longer dream. I am the dreams

Which dream other dreams.

Nothing is beautiful. It only seems

So, when you get love from the streams.

Water and wanting are aligned.

The dearest pleasure is kind.

No more minding the now, with its sorrow.

No more romance, or rivalry. I love tomorrow.




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If science is your faith, theory you cannot see

Teaches you it’s safe not to appreciate me.

Shouldn’t the moon move the clouds—just as it moves the sea?

What is an orb? What is a line? And what is gravity?

The earth is flat—that’s how it looks to me.

Science is science because of one thing: predictability.

But if prediction proves

Objects are objects, what predicts what loves?

If prediction predicts how something moves

What is the ultimate thing that moves?

Prediction predicts something, but does

Not tell us what something is,

Or why something is, or why it does what it does.

More radical even than the renegade of the flat earth,

I question even what seeing is worth.

The image projected on the back of my eye,

Could be a lie—

As science and faith must be:

A partial, pretty falsity

In which I spied you loving me.





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Pity me that I use this elaborate lie

To make me happy.

When did truth make anyone happy?

The truth is sad—or when happy, we doubt its validity,

So if this elaborate lie makes me happy,

And you detect the lie, yet, pity me;

And to properly pity me, say nothing.

I call my lie elaborate, because I thought of everything.

I live in my happiness alone

And it requires nothing from you.

Everyone knows the best lie

Requires no one else to say

Anything—you don’t need to kiss me like you used to do;

Keep on giving me that angry eye

Like you did today.

I never hated you. I love you. That’s the lie.

The lie makes me happy. And to love, I will always lie.

A lie lives forever. Only a truth can die.





The insult lovers feel

Is a hurt known to never heal.

Dido took a bath which burned like day

Before night’s insult would go away.

Insult finds you, though shadows fall.

Insult does not eviscerate partly the mind, but all.

You cannot explain away insult, it burns

Like a burning net on the skin, the lover yearns

No more for love; revenge duplicates; you take turns.

Insult destroys monarchs if it comes from low friends,

The list of wrongs brokered by a single word never ends,

And what you told me in secret last night bends

The world up to my right ear

Which now will not love my left ear.

The chief sorrow of the beggar on the ground

Is not the empty cup’s hollow sound;

If dinner come, the beggar is happier than a king;

The beggar dreads when insult comes around;

No matter how high, or how low into oblivion we sink,

Insulted past is how we love, and insulted present is how we think.

You might see someone behaving badly;

They are hoping to deliver an insult

Before an insult is thrust back at them, and sadly,

Insult never ends its tumult

Of eternal insult.

A whisper stands in the way

Of muscle and faith and happiness

As the god stops. “What did you say?”

It does not take a poet to formulate

Nice words with an undercurrent of hate,

Anyone can insult. Words know how to fight.

“Good morning” and “hi” and other phrases

Which gladden morning and brighten night,

Exist for one reason: to stop

Insult, which wants to drop;

I’m sure you can see it in the eyes.

Madame Insult dazzles as she enters the room.

If for a second, you wait, you are insulted.

You are no expert. You will be taunted.

An official consults several officials apart.

Someone is always deciding your fate.

Insult is the very beating of the heart.

Her gift to me was an insult to you.

If we can’t say things to our lover, what are we do?







Life eclipses life, the solid will always

Stand in the way of the solid,

As I once stood in your way, blocking your view,

Vast view of freedom! So many things you wanted to do!

Your life was so unhappy, you filled it up with me,

I eclipsed your body, and made your spirit see.

You looked at all the planets and feared you had found one

Who would always orbit with you and always block your sun.

I came too close; my love eclipsed yours.

So journey, again, my love, among the infinite stars.


Genius of the U.S is not in executives, legislatures or colleges but in the common people. —W.W.

I borrowed money to attend Anti-Trump University.

I read the adulterous Walt Whitman.

But Whitman is not adulterous at all;

Holy, timeless scribe, he wants every prejudice to fall;

Every man is complete, every child and wife,

Succumb not, he says, to lamentation or strife,

But love the labor of democratic works and days.

The highest act of the self is praise.

The divinity of Whitman sees and inhabits all,

He rises to the top, and suffers no one to fall,

He leans on me as I study, and sees

The comedy of Leaves in the universities.





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I was bitter about the unremarkable

And plain manner in which I followed rules and was glad.

I dressed down or up to be successful.

When someone told me they loved me, I felt slightly panicked and sad.

I never felt comfortable loving another.

They should have told me: Dionysus is the only lover.

Dionysus, with wine, and nothing on,

Is the only god having fun.

The messy, bucolic parade

Is a myth the clever Apollo made

To identify Dionysus with weeds and rustic shade.

Dionysus is more urbane, insistent and crude

Than nature. Dionysus has never obeyed

Time, or slow dripping pleasure,

When, spilling wine, or hearing music, we watch our senses fade.

Dionysus is more chaotic and rude

Than sorrow, or when the intoxicated fall.

The goal of Dionysus is to embarrass all.

Dionysus plays a tune which tortures normalcy,

A sweet tune sweet lips play

Deep inside the mind all day.

With dry mouth, embarrassed,

We watch a long, passionate, lesbian kiss.

And girlfriends and wives

Chew their lips uneasily.

Woman kisses woman, a long kiss to embarrass the woman and the man.

Who kisses and understands a kiss? Only Dionysus can.


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This girl facing you

Wants to say something to you,

Not like your ex, who runs away—

Talk only annoys her, and she has nothing to say

But this nervous and beautiful girl

Wants to, but is afraid to speak; the first

Notes are a symphony’s best;

But love’s first words, the worst.

Lovers in the middle of love’s passionate path

Recall the first clumsy, contrived words of love, and laugh.

What curiosity and respect there used to be!

Now my ex pokes and humiliates me.

She’s no longer in my heart. Her insulting attitude

Condemns her forever. True love is never rude.

Now this new girl faces me each day

As if she had something to say.

Perhaps she wishes I would say what she

Knows could possibly be

The beginning of her life.

Or, at least, a symphony.

A shower of sorrow and strife

Begins. Timpani. Woodwinds. Brass. Strings:

My sorrowful past, hers,

And then, like the first bird, after a storm,

From the clearing in the wood, a distant oboe sings.




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We shall remain

Where they put us,

The ones who love us,

The ones who know we love.

There are a few who know you and I

Love, and we wish to lie

In bed together; they know it,

Because poet to poet,

We are writing what we owe

The other, in voices low,

Hiding beneath what our verses know,

You telling me, “I want to give you this,”

I whispering, “you already gave it to me!”

Our poems whisper because we cannot kiss.

Our language is almost there

In a kiss like wine, dry and rare.

Distant, imprisoned, only our love is free.

Not imprisoned, for we have lives

Better than most. It is those material miles,

The flesh of the wide earth,

The true obstacle,

Which prevents the physical—

You and I slipping into bed,

Great obstacle! Holy obstacle!

We loathe and love in separate regions,

Different day, night, seasons,

So the earth is the bed we slip into

As I kiss your face. Or pretend to.

Would we love if we lived next door?

I think we would. And more.

On your lips not one drop of rain

Would fall and not on my lips remain.

I saw your recent poem on a bed,

And you described perfectly

A love sexy, happy and sleepy,

The words hurrying into my head,

So I felt your poem was mine alone,

Your mind’s bed more real than my own.










Image result for green islands in the green sea in painting

No one knows and no one cares.

They may seek with curiosity

The green islands in the green sea

And the one who loves is the one who stares.

But no one knows and no one cares.

Love is but an excuse to see

What the curious need to see—

Don’t be fooled by intimacy.

And while you were napping?

The curious crowd was laughing and clapping.

The curious is all that dares,

Not love. No one knows and no one cares.

As a poet, you want an audience,

Like zoos have, with snakes

Resting or eating behind a fence,

Or maybe there are dancing bears

Who later eat you. Will you see

Sex and love scientifically?

Curiosity is all there is, or dares.

No one knows and no one cares.



Image result for lovers in hell in renaissance painting

You don’t remember the pleasure you had

With me, because our behavior was bad.

What we had shouldn’t have been.

O timeless idea. Sin.

Women are better than men; they block out

The joy in the wrong, but men have no doubt.

With us, there were no tricks, no seduction. It was mutual.

We both loved. Both of us will burn in hell.

Morality has melted away.

That’s what the intellectuals say.

Of course it hasn’t.

Pleasure isn’t pleasure if it isn’t pleasant.

The faces our friends made

When they heard what we did in the shade!

In filthy places! The whole picture when we stand back

Depicts what we did as a miserable lack.

But during it, we felt we had so much.

But we found there’s nothing you can take away from touch.

You and I had what you’re not supposed to have.

Just a moment, when no one looked: we took, and gave.



Image result for wall separating the lovers in painting

Rage that won’t abate

Is partially due to love, and partially due to hate.

Love and hate are always divided by a wall.

Here’s the thing: the division itself is all.

That’s why rage is what we see.

Even though she loves me.

If loves destroys the wall.

Then love will be all.

Hate will vanish as if it never existed,

Like a knot, when the string’s untwisted.

Love must be the reason:

No other reason can be.

When the reason for the wall is gone,

And the reason for the wall forgotten,

She will love me.







I think I need to do something.

Escape the gravity of the rest and fly to you.

As kids, my friends and I asked all the time, “What do you want to do?”

To analyze this phrase

I need to turn to the poetry of praise.

This was nineteen-sixty five,

Restless Manhattan, America, rich, free, the world still old-fashioned, but jive.

Our parents were melting-pot middle-class,

An urban paradise about to pass

Into the boring white-flight suburbs

But now Riverside Drive was the place,

Riverside Park our wiffle ball, Italian ices, space.

Beatles, Monkees, Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew,

Playboy, maybe stolen porn-in-Victorian-prose, too.

On the intellectual Upper West Side, hip hop was born.

Marc Edmonds was pretty forlorn,

When, after sandlot football practice, his afro was called a cunt

By young blacks who knew what it meant

To be flamboyant and half white.

We didn’t know what to do. We liked science. It was going to be alright.

New York City was just so cool,

Though I was a little terrified of getting my change stolen from me at school.

But I had diverse friends.

Always one depends

On that. But then there was you.

It really isn’t love. It’s finding something to do.

When a bunch of people are milling about,

And you’re shy, damn, you always are, and you get left out,

You decide: there’s something I better do.

And that’s all there ever is. It was a challenge reaching out to you.

Here we are. Wherever we are. So what do you want to do?




Image result for cypress in the lake in painting

If beauty speaks,

It speaks, and then it dies.

Beauty perishes.

What beauty can my poetry save?

It is vanity that my poetry tries?

Is beauty most serene when brave?

Does the cypress apologize to the lake,

Its reflection repetitive and still?

What beauty can I possibly make?

What beauty can my poem fill

With beauty, and which beauty will this forsake?

Is beauty mine, by no accident? By my own will?

For I have seen beauty casually in a handful of leaves

Be so beautiful, beauty itself almost grieves

That beauty is a ghost, which no one believes.

Everything you say

Can be disputed.

So every poem must die—

Unless it makes you laugh—

Or if it makes you cry.




Image result for ruins in painting

With my cold grammar

I build my poems; their architecture

Pleases me, and when houses and cities fall,

These poems will survive them all.

After the kisses, and the words spoken,

Comes death. But the speech of my poems will not be broken.

Clever carpenters build in wood.

I smile, and admire the chairs, and say the finish is good;

When I tour the castle, I will be amazed;

When I tour the ruins, and put a penny in the cup

Of the dying, beside a castle razed,

I will smile, and be a little less amazed.

All these emotions, and this living, and these solid things

Will never be found in what eternally sings,

Will never be found in this, already old,

And triumphant, because it is so cold.




Image result for spring floods in painting

I forgot my wise saying. It slipped away.

So! I am no longer wise.

Let me write instead about this:

I was wise. Because a wise saying came to me,

Formed itself in my mind,

Clever, original, searing,

And now it’s gone.

I can’t remember the way I was wise.

Looks and youth fade, we know,

But where does experience and wisdom go?

Where does genius go to die?

A bird may break its wing, but the bird doesn’t forget how to fly.

Wisdom has one task: busily repair

What the lover tried to say.

Yet despite what wisdom says,

The one you love will go away.

Why be wise? Why do we have to say anything?

I’m a drop of water. Let’s see what the rains bring.

Do you remember what I said

When I begged you to stay but you left, instead?

If there isn’t a memory

That can bring you back to me,

I don’t want to remember.

Bury these love poems. Dead in June. Dead in December.

Can a greater deluge make me wise?

Will I know differences when the waters of spring rise?






Image result for abstract painting commuter

Unless you work as soon as you get out of bed,

You have to kill yourself getting to your job

Before you get killed by your job.

Your employers, who also kill themselves, expect

You dead and dead on time. Within reason of course.

Before your lover kills you with love

You need to experience dying with others so your new love

Will kill you better than the others.

You have to kill yourself before you kill yourself.

You have to borrow money to buy clothes to wear so they can kill you properly.

You have to borrow money to buy a car to drive where they can properly kill you.

Do you understand why you first need to die so then you can die?

Perhaps it’s better to be ignorant and not understand.

In that case, you would do it this way:

Wake up with a poem beginning in your head,

Perfect it on the way to where you’re going,

And get it to the one you love before you die.




When a new poem is all I have that’s new,

Depressed because the sun is setting, and the sun has set on you,

Autumn in the air, and a lone bird high above, crying,

Images fade, sky and sea darkening, the cool, late summer day dying,

I gather up in a shrinking frame of concentrated light

A small forest of sounds, and write.

All wisdom is a dream.

So Petrarch taught me, and yet, I persist with my theme,

That every part was, and will be, one,

And shadows are but shadows, and will not be shadows in the sun.

What I was thinking, while day fled,  having my cigarette by the sea,

Was you, my love, and how it was you fell away from me.

You let me love one part of you, and what you gave, I loved with all my heart,

A fading melody—there was no harmony; generously you gave a single part,

Hiding other aspects of your life; I was puzzled; I begged to see

Childhood photos; I asked what you did when you were gone from me.

You refused; I began to feel other parts of you were dead, and perhaps they were:

Life-in-death is the dire realm where fairy tales occur;

Old Persia and Germany, dark avenues of refuge by the sea,

Waiting in the morning for a stranger to go, soiled femininity,

Shortened childhood fleeing crucified manhood, a crushed regime,

The mother mind missing in a horrifying dream.

Tragedy had marked your life, and none of your missing parts

Was I able to gather together, even in my love; I lacked the magic glue

To repair your sorrow; my questions pained or insulted you;

I loved a beautiful corpse, alive in body, but true love desires all;

When your reasons died in mine—and often, you refused my call—

Our love became a twilight wood, and though we loved happily and often,

Your absences were frequent and strange—were you lying in a coffin?

Why did you smile silently sometimes when you should have said

What came about? My inquiries were innocent. You didn’t tell me what you did.

Our love was the love of my life, but I was unhappy; yours was not the love for me.

I have never stopped loving your melancholy melody,

And when I, watching the darkness come, run to the only thing that’s left to me,

My readers—ghosts too!—will hear your strange song.

Or is it mine? Is this landscape me? And is this wrong?

Morning. Nothing stirs. The sun will be shining all day.

I hear a strange, unhappy, melody playing far away.













Sushmita Gupta, painter, mother, teacher, wife, was born in Kolkata. She grew up in Bhilai, a Russian-Indian steel township in central eastern India, with perpendicular roads, and large trees which flowered during the summer and became fragrant at night. She presently lives in Oman.

She is proof that the sensitive female soul is the essence of poetry.  She reconciles the elements of the universe.

Her online site, Sushness supplies a much better view of her tasteful and prolific output.

Here on Scarriet we offer only a few poor, inflamed arguments in favor of her (the best arguments contain fire) and two of her poems.

She reminds us of Shelley, who embraced primary elements of psychology and nature.

Nor is she afraid to offer wisdom, in the ancient sense.

American poets—after Poe—a sophisticated lot, tend to be suspicious of wisdom—their excellence lies in quirky and difficult points of view.  The school of Bishop/Lowell, for instance.  Auden, perhaps, was the last poet in English who made a real attempt to sound wise.

The Bold And The Peaceful

I rushed.
It was bright.
It was crazy.
A tornado full of life.

The unpredictability!
The speed!
The danger!
My bold streak drew me to it.

I rushed across the field,
To be carried and caressed
By a tornado.

Almost there,
I stopped.
The peace within me,
Made a terrible mismatch.

The bold and the peaceful.
That is me.

In this minor poem by Sushmita Gupta, which resembles the minor poems of Shelley, we are struck by emotion, clarity, and psychological truth—the poem carries us away with its energy and immediacy—exactly like a tornado; the poem delivers its expressiveness without fuss, and because there’s no fuss, the reader is engaged; there is no hesitation, pretense, or straining after the right little details. The poem has the rigor of religion, the flow of the poem has an epic force and size, which permits the whole of the emotional expression to make itself felt. A child could understand the poem, and this is part of its appeal, and yet its subtlety is profound. The poem’s movement is psychologically astute. The key line in the poem is “I rushed across the field” and here is all the remarkable imagery we need. The very balance of the poem threatens to break it apart.  The duality is not a cancelling one, but in a brilliantly ironic way, the very source of the poem’s fury.

Sushmita Gupta is the greatest living poet.

Fame, as we all know, is based on hearsay—the T shirt is an extremely popular piece of clothing, but its popularity is not up for discussion, nor can it be mitigated by academic debate.

None can say what a great T-shirt is—it is the simple design of the T-shirt—invisible, ubiquitous—which is the “great” thing; the great poem is not akin to a great T-shirt, obviously; but the great poem achieves an excellence similar to the invisible, ubiquitous reality of the T-shirt as it exists in the practical world of clothes.

We should make it clear that Sushmita Gupta is the last person in the world who would make the claim that she is a “great” poet, much less the “greatest living poet.” She is too busy enjoying life, which includes writing poems, to ever worry about such a thing; she writes for friends, which is the practice of most poets—famous, or not.

She is humble and gracious—Scarriet makes this “great” claim on her behalf, without her knowledge, for pedagogical purposes only. We call her “great” only to advertise our own critical taste in poems written in English, which we have long developed and maintained. It ultimately doesn’t matter what a poet thinks, or whether their life circumstances justify the content of their poetry; we care, and only hope our readers care, for the poetry.

Judging poetry today is hindered by two things.

First: poetry criticism is hobbled by the cant which supposes that poetry has no relation to a made object with a clear design. “Poetry is not a T-shirt!”  Yes, true.

But indeed the poem—which belongs to life, and not to a rarefied, non-place, swirling about in a haze of intellectualized assumptions—is, like a T-shirt, a made object with a clear design.

Intellectual pedantry—which seeks to dazzle, without making sense—disagrees with the common sense premise that poetry is a “made object with a clear design,” and this pedantry wildly expands to assert that the more a poem is unlike a “made object with a clear design,” the better it is.

And so authority becomes not just partially perverted, but completely perverted. This is common in rhetorical pursuits, such as poetry, literary criticism, or politics—where rhetoric itself separates people, even though all people, in almost all cases, want the same things.

This is the first thing: on dubious authority, a poem is not recognized as a poem.

Second: although an appreciation of poetry will always exist among people who wear T-shirts, the process by which poetry is “officially” recognized is in the hands of the well-placed, academic, few—who devotedly pursue the error we just outlined.  This is especially the case, since the teaching of poetry was replaced, in mid-20th century America, by the college writing program apparatus, in which ambitious individuals transformed themselves from poets seeking fame into poetry teachers seeking fame, ensuring critical, philosophical confusion on one hand, and the precise kinds of unfortunate divisiveness and calculating hierarchy, often seen in politics, on the other—with the emptiness we would expect.

“Who is Sushmita Gupta?”

To the ambitious and well-positioned who ask this indignantly, we have no response.

Sushmita Gupta has neither bought into the expertise-cant of razzle-dazzle, formless, unclear poetry, nor has she ambitiously clambered her way into the maze of the creative writing industry.

Now obviously, this article, featuring two Sushmita Gupta poems, will not reveal to our readers what a real poem is, or any such nonsense—our argument above is not to be taken as a definition of poetry, but only a glimpse into what informs our own particular taste, out of which arises our judgment—that Sushmita Gupta’s poetry is deserving of lofty notice and serious recognition.

We spoke earlier of the importance of a poem’s formal design. Every poet should properly, and naturally, have a specific design on the reader—these two “designs” are nothing without the other—the poem’s visible, formal properties on one hand, and the poet’s invisible, emotional, and social intention, on the other. The more these match, the more successful the poem.

When we first had the pleasure of reading “His Words,” by Sushmita Gupta, we felt an emotional kick, and we were pleased at how seemingly without effort the emotional kick was administered. Only after reading the poem, again, with a critical eye, did we recognize its formal perfection.

The poem contains six stanzas. In stanzas two through five, the first part of each stanza is concerned with what “he” does to “her.”

The final line of these four stanzas reveals, progressively, the result of what he does to her.

We see effect on her, and also the effect of her—as when an image, such as “petal” is used.

The result of the last line of each of these stanzas is also her words, the poet’s, on “his words”—his words and her words contend within the poem, in an unspoken manner.

Sushmita Gupta’s poem, “His Words,” is more than a poem vindicating itself. The poem transcends its own poetic rhetoric in its final line—even as it remains securely within the arc of the poem.

It could be argued that the poet, in her final accusation—as a poet—is accusing herself, though this is not explicit.  There is meaning within meaning—within the poem, and one final possible meaning—outside the poem itself.

Nothing is left out, nothing more is needed—and every part of the poem belongs to every other part, as well as to the whole.  The measured perfection and ease, is breathtaking—even as the subject itself is a dramatic whirlwind.


His Words

He chose
Each word,
With utmost care.
He strung
The sentences
Into lyrical poetry.

His writings
Touched her,
Like she was
The most beautiful.

His writings
Caressed her,
Like she was
A fragrant being.

His writings
Stroked her,
Like she was
A tender petal.

And she felt,
Being carried,
Over the threshold,
And pledged herself to him.

He did not know
She lived.





Image result for sermon on the mount in renaissance painting

Does just being smart insult others?

Unfortunately, yes.

Why do you think the word “mansplaining” exists?

And why do you think when any large group of people feel the same way about something, that “something” is always the epitome of ignorance, close-mindedness and bad taste?

Yes. To be smart, by itself, is an insult to others.

So now we have to ask why.

Why does society hate the smart person?

Smart is undoubtedly a good quality and it helps everyone. Why is it rejected?

Why do stupid people have tons of friends? And smart people none?

Why is this?

When we find out, we will be much smarter—and hated for it. Are you ready?  Do you dare read on?

To be smart, is to know stuff, and to know stuff is to find out stuff.

That’s the first important thing to understand. Smart is not just a passive horde of knowledge—smart is a constant finding out, a constant seeking.  Smart is not just a sack of knowledge—it is a seeing, inquiring eye.

Now the second important thing. Knowledge is advantage—and this advantage applies to everyone at once. The advantage of knowing does not have an abstract existence—it pertains to you and your friends, and everyone, ultimately, all the way up to celebrities, who exist in a rarefied manner, but are still connected by a chain to a very real and substantial social reality, which reflects human interaction and consciousness at large.

Smart equals very real advantages to the smart one—at your expense.

Smart, then, means two unspoken, but very real, things: superiority, not just in the abstract, but superiority over you—for the purpose of a very real advantage over you—since society does not exist on some abstract plane, but in the constant interaction, competition and win/lose, praise/insult insult of everybody. Secondly, smart is an ongoing and smart eye which can spy on you and detect your inferiority, which you automatically feel the instant you feel annoyed by a person exhibiting smarts in an unguarded, or explicit, manner.

Nothing insults like insult, and nothing can insult like smart can. Smart not only knows, but it sees you. And what it sees and knows you don’t see and know, which makes you even more uncomfortable.

What is God, more than anything else, but the “all-seeing?” And isn’t it natural, as the power of religious belief fades, to relax, and forget our sins? For after all, we think, there is no power of seeing which sees all.  That’s just a myth. And in our scientific certainty, we smile.

But wait. What about the smart person? Curses. They see. They know. We would be off the hook, except for this damned smart person.

So this is how it works. This is why smart is the same thing as insult in so many people’s minds. This is why the antithesis of smart—the stupid—is embraced by so many people.  The many, fearing the smart, are escaping insult.

Smart does insult by its very nature.

This is why “mansplaining” caught on so quickly and is currently embraced by so many.

Because it’s so stupid.

So men, who hit and rape, and do all number of stupid and horrible things, should be socially punished for explaining things?

This is progress?  For women?

Men explain things to each other all the time. In an act of equality, they include women in the habit, and are slapped down.

This has nothing to do with gender, but illustrates how smart—or the attempt to be smart, by reveling in explanations—is, by its very existence, threatening.

This also illustrates how, unfortunately, fear and stupidity grows.

Insult, in the social realm, is, more than anything else, the chief preoccupation of humanity.

A people will let themselves be occupied and enslaved before they will allow themselves, as a group, to be insulted.

This is why smart is feared, and why, if you have read this essay to its conclusion, and understood it, you probably have no friends.








Image result for train car where people read books

My office is this train,

Squealing into Pittsburgh, again, and again.

I began my Ph.D.

When she stopped loving me.

We had an affair; we rode the train,

And hid in parks, kissing again, and again.

When I get to work I turn my computer on

To  begin my work: the green lawn

Where once we lay

May stir my memory for the better part of a day.

I write poems when the boss is away.

I don’t care if I earn a degree.

I’m a scholar in why she stopped loving me.

Nothing is methodical except as it pertains

To my poetry, as the rest of the world strains.


Image result for angry abstract painting

You once loved with all your being

A guy who loved you,

And all that guy was seeing

Was everything that guy knew,

And what he was seeing was you.

When we really love, the love tries to go through

The other person, to a purity beyond—

But that purity is only narcissus above the pond.

You have to be looked at by another, the flesh adored,

And if the physical is no longer a bond,

Even the poet gets bored.

Fake spirituality ruins everything.

Wisdom makes love a flop.

You forgot to relax. You forgot to sing.

Love continues, though you try to make it stop.

Are you angry?  Are you fat?

I’m a gentleman—I would never describe you like that.



Image result for sphinx in renaissance painting

When I asked what love was, I heard this reply:

“Love is someone better who makes us cry.

Love is the end before the end—the end in which we die.

Love is the intensity of the melody of the song

So we don’t guess the madness of the lyric is wrong.

Before we die, we sicken, so we have no place to go;

Love is the sick bed for the broken hero.

Love is more than a sore toe,

Love is the soft, deathly, passivity of one,

Once tall and cunning and singing in the sun.”

And the reply went on,

“Love is the good father who is suddenly no more,

His wife a mourner, honorable and poor,

Living in the house of the obedient daughter—

Balancing work, life, poems and horror

Of secret shame—her husband doesn’t love her.

And her handsome father is gone forever;

Hold me mama! I am afraid.

Where is love for the loving maid?

Why is love a jittery drama?

An insult? An ugly trauma?

Does all love begin in ecstatic madness, and end in sorrow?

What can love be, if it dreads tomorrow?”

Tomorrow I will travel to the valley of the bones and ask the Sphinx

What love is. I wonder what she thinks?





Image result for british rule india in painting and art

I’m not doing this right.

While I meditate, I see your lips,

Hungry for a kiss.

I sat perfectly still for three hours last night

Telling myself to let the bliss

Of the calm universe

Infuse slowly each part of my willing soul.

What I tell to go away, I miss.

So I make no commands.

Every part, by nature, is unhappy.

Unless part combines with part in the whole,

And this, every part understands.

So your lips should not entice mine.

I have my own lips, and perfectly,

Every human creature is complete;

Except when that great army,

Swelling to take each fertile valley

And the sun, other armies defeat,

And rule their women, and loss

Goes into consciousness—imbalance becomes dire,

Inflaming races to fight and capture;

Culture introduced to culture fans desire,

Competition and hate

Infuses the one world; my peace runs after,

My meditation is too late.

I want your race to be my own,

All that’s different I want to consume,

My whole beautiful being is not enough.

I shake in my meditation. I want love.





Image result for inside the commuter train

One puff was particularly good.

Smoke poured into my lungs like a flood.

One scent, which dies away

Can make the garden appear to stay.

In this moment, out of the corner of my eye,

A lover almost is. And why?

Once, I stood on a mountain top.

But here, the seasons drop.

I remember the last kiss was divine

When my soul tasted her soul tasting mine.

In this life, which I cannot grasp,

A single memory makes me gasp.

The tired and bored afternoon

Is suddenly fighting with a far off tune.

The day ending crawls into commuters’ eyes,

Alive with shadows. The sunlight sighs.

The dust covering the window of the train

Reminds me of jealousy. Its happy pain.

The scattered drops of evening are fusing,

As if melancholy could be amusing.

The stretched clouds seem near and far,

As the sun begins to set in my railroad car.

Once there was moonlight and lilies as we walked

In the quiet of the evening, and we talked.

I notice the paused train’s hum.

The filthiness of the seats. A crumb.

The train announcements whine.

The sky at sunset threatens to be fine.

The simplest repetition gives pleasure.

The measurement of measure.

The day wants to begin again,

In the sighing of this routine end.

The fluttering of the costly day

Spills gems. Valued, since it goes away.

Who cares if I don’t know your name?

I will never see you again.





Image result for father and son in renaissance painting

One cannot discuss the subject, men, without discussing everything.

A discussion of one gender will always be dishonest and ridiculous.

Nor can we forget society and nature when discussing men.

The truth about one thing must include the truth of everything, which is why very few are able to comprehend, much less say anything intelligent, on the topic of men and women. The “click bait” articles on genders, dating, sexuality, and so forth, are usually dangerous by their partial understanding; the whole truth must be understood; one is more ignorant after swallowing clever half-truths; loneliness, confusion, and heartbreak only increase among those who desperately research topics on “men and women.”

Here, then, is the whole truth: the number one problem society faces is the rapacious sexual nature of men (even if it only remains in their head, where it makes them selfish and stupid).

There is only one way to channel this potential destruction (and whoever denies this problem is creating a diversion): parenthood.

Not fatherhood.

Parenthood—men and women proudly sharing in the joint effort of creating, raising and nurturing children, whether doing this in actual practice (one does not have to actually have children) or creating the climate in which this can best occur.

A long, innocent childhood of deep reflection is the most profound measure of any society.

Everything else which diverts, or prevents, men and women from achieving a safe space for happy, innocent, children, will feed destruction, loneliness, and heartbreak.

Women should never push men away from this purpose, and men should never push women away from this purpose.

To do so will ruin paradise every single time.

It’s that simple.

As we all know, this practice is sometimes followed, and sometimes not—and quite often, not—and when not followed, creates sad, deluded, twisted, confused, and unhappy creatures—as fit punishment.  The unhappy creatures who read “How To Get Laid” articles. The unhappy creatures who condemn an entire gender, using “history” to support their claim. Those creatures.

But reform can be achieved. Instantaneously.

When the principle just explained is understood and followed, happiness will be immediately possible, and there is no excuse for not following this principle, which conforms to nature, and reality.

The uncompromising nature of this truth does not preclude forgiveness for genuine mistakes—mistakes, and difficulties, and shades of understanding and accomplishment: in this realm of forgiveness the slightly unhappy make poetry, music, art, humor, and legislation; and every good idea or material thing a person creates is joy which surrounds, protects and nourishes the sweet innocence of the child—taking his or her first hesitant steps towards immortality.


Image result for flower in a dark forest

I found pleasure without addiction,

Shrugging off debilitating love and desire,

In a green, shadowy forest, which last year

Was already gone, with the same green fire.

No need to heap up leaves

With poems of polite, sighing, words.

I have already sent my love ahead,

To be picked apart by the birds.

Perfumes touch me in idleness.

I find pleasure in small perfumed flowers,

Spreading their small perfumes,

As I hold—and am held by—sleeping green hours,

Happy in their drowsiness, in no hour remaining,

The first hour, one forgotten flower, the fled hour staining.



Related image

Does art capture what’s already there?

Or do you change the person with your stare?

Embarrassment began with the camera

To a very high degree.

She gazed with love at the camera.

But doesn’t she love me?

The camera courted her, and soon she couldn’t tell

Love from the object very well.

What we have to love and what we have to sell

Became mixed in everybody’s mind.

My mother left the room. Even she was unkind.

My father had been thinking of the camera all day,

But his argument faltered, the minute others had their say.

Like my father, I had arguments to make,

But I would not hear them, for my mother’s sake.

I went off alone, to read books

Which laughed at the camera—and everybody’s looks.


Image result for baudelaire poetry

There’s a reason why those who suffer, survive.
You exist because, in the past, someone, despite great pain, remained alive.
Do you see that star?
Because of all the pain, life is experienced from afar.
The universe is stretched out, because a star’s fire would hurt—
Like too much talk in a room. yeah you stupid flirt.
Admiration from a distance is the best we can do.
I’m sensitive, but staring, stuck in the hell of liking you.
You are one of many, and the many are more beautiful than you could be—
They all love me in the orgy of my fantasy!
You, irritated and ordinary and full of care,
Can you love me, can you love this poem, a lurid feast, inspired by Baudelaire?


Image result for lone artist beethoven in painting

There is an uncomfortable truth which sometimes arises when we contemplate how lonely we are. The uncomfortable truth is this: we are not alone some of the time—we are, in fact, truly alone all of the time.

There is a kind of cheap, personality type, wisdom, which sells the comfortable lie that we are not really alone, by presenting the false scale of introvert versus extrovert: the implicit idea is that there is a ladder which can be climbed to get closer to people—the extreme introvert hides, and, as we move along the scale, we reach the extreme extrovert, who is energized by making contact with others.

But the path from alone to less alone is illusionary—an introvert is just an extrovert who hates small talk.

And why does the introvert hate small talk? Because they’d rather be alone with their own thoughts than have a superficial conversation with someone.

And this goes right to the heart of the matter.

The scale is not from “introvert” to “extrovert,” or from “alone” to “with someone.” These are actually false dichotomies, or scales. The true scale is the lonely one: superficial to profound.

The brain functions in such a way that all outside stimulation competes with what is happening in our brains, and when the outside stimulation takes precedence, we are having a superficial experience, and when the activity in our own brains is of uppermost importance, we are having a profound experience.

When we are having a great conversation, we are really conversing with ourselves, for within our brains, the back and forth, the inner revisions, the actual creativity and discovery–the thinking itself, is occurring at the speed of light.

But speaking to another can travel no faster than the speed of sound.

Speaking to ourselves—“two people speaking” is literally what thought is—does not find us in a place where we are “really” with “another,” but this is no matter, since we are truly beyond whether we are “alone,” or not. The true dichotomy is shallow versus profound.

So the bad news is, we are alone. And the good new is, yes, and so what?

The most profound utterances we experience are when we hear a composer’s masterpiece, and experience it as such, (some are too shallow for this experience—we weep, they are stone).

Harmony—in music, or anything—is the essence of “togetherness” of anyone or anything. No instrument playing, no harmonizing note, knows it is sitting beside another. So if any two objects (speaking humans or not) are “together,” it is of importance only if they “harmonize,” and so the harmony is crucial. When does harmony occur? By script. Harmony occurs without the objects or people having any say in it. Objects harmonize better than people. People reciting/singing a script in a play, or a musical composition, are turning themselves into objects, serving the instructions of the “dead” playwright or composer. The harmonizing influence originates in the brain of the lone creator, unless objects in nature, non-human objects unaware of themselves, are luckily situated in a natural landscape. A belief that dead things can intentionally harmonize is a belief in God.

The scale from “alone” to “with someone” is a false concept, like extrovert and introvert, though it just so happens that alone, or introversion, is where the genius lives—as they attempt to harmonize within themselves.

Another false trail which deludes us into thinking that being alone is an unwanted, undesirable or depressing state: people assume the genius often has few, or no, close friends, because the genius doesn’t get along with people. We falsely assume that it is a matter of personality. It is not. The genius itself is the reason for any estrangement, not social attributes—which belong to the illusionary world in which people are assumed to interact. They actually do not. We are talking to ourselves, literally. The better we talk, the more we are creating speech in the loneliness of our brains—which is not a bad thing. The genius, the great poet, thinks up those great things alone. Idle chatter can bump up against anyone. It doesn’t matter who it is. If someone makes us laugh, the jokes they offer could make anyone laugh. The conversation does not belong uniquely to you and another.

Likewise in love and sex: We are most in love, most comfortable, when we are alone in such a manner that we are not self-conscious, not worrying about being judged.  So it is really more appropriate to say that divine love is when the loneliness, even the complete solipsism of two people, appear to touch. “Mutual” love is an illusion. Two people masterbating (with) each other is, in fact, what is happening in the most intense form of excited, romantic love. Yes, of course, X is kissing Y, but X is kissing—and this is the true act, and X could be kissing anyone, and it would still be kissing, it would still be love. As soon as we concede this, it follows that we are alone, even in love.

Agape, or the highest form of spiritual love, all charitable acts, all divine love in which we “go out of ourselves” to help others, springs from the good person—and where is this goodness?  Not in some abstract place, or group reality; this goodness resides deep in the individual person.  Why isn’t the unkind person charitable? Because they cannot find it within themselves to be so.

Being happily alone is what fully realizes you and your deepest thoughts, and nowhere does this cease to operate. It is always true. This truth ensures that you are never really with another when you are realized as yourself. You are with them, but accidentally.

This is not to reduce the importance of the other—they are just like you, and are realized, just like you, in themselves, profoundly, just the same.

None of this is bad news. Though it is a little sad, we will admit. (If you think it is very bad news, you have not understood this essay, and you are probably either a shallow chatterer, or chronically depressed.)

But yes, it is true. We are alone.






Coffee makes me sleepy,

Love forbids love,

And can I add discretely

War has been using the symbol of the dove?

The education path I travel makes me increasingly wise

But I see myself returning, burdened by names and faces,

Saying, “oh God, after all my research, there’s been a few lies.”

I have to revisit some of those places.

“Go, now, into that house you would never dare to go.

Get good and humiliated. Forget what you know.”





If we believe, as the whole truth, what is true

Ninety-nine percent of the time—that one

Percent will make a wise person a piece of shit.

They know the tangled knots of a life

Can only be untied by you. That’s right.

So we are lonely every night.

You will never see the one percent.

How it contradicts. Or what it meant.

There is no science of who you are.

—Uncomfortable extrovert?

Or were you really an introvert?—

The genuine crumbles off from the star.

It’s not polite to be happy, or saved.

Happiness involves one hundred percent

Faith, unwavering, which makes you crazy,


Ha ha ha,

Loving me.


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