Discussions in the Wilderness

Discussions in the Wilderness.

By Egan Maxwell Click

For the year of my life I found myself in a city.  To everyone that found me in that same city.  First off, Jackie for being my roommate for another year and my lover for more.  For Brooke and Cody for doing this with us.  For Sam & Sam for quitting and joining us. To some Columbia students. To some University of Illinois-Chicago students. Also thanks Andrew and Anthony for giving me a job where I could make money, live and always be working while doing this.
























Excavation

Simply, crawling through a crawl space
walls covered in cobwebs,
 clinging to my knuckles when I try to squeeze.
But there is no ceiling and
black lights hanging onto wires, still.
Trench warfare, nowadays,
is out of the ordinary. 
We could fight for months,
only a mile or so of territory to have,
that we both somehow need,
it will give my family security, but it’s only
one on one
and my trench walls
form a maze. 
I’m lost trying to find north
and south
but I have to strike fear screaming.





















Bye Bye Mr Nice Guy

Do you ever feel like your brain might just want to escape?
It throbs painfully but it never fixes itself,
just the rest of your bodies.
Maybe if I broke my skull, or at least had it fractured after my full development
it would tell me the answer. 
It could stay, to afraid to be away from home or
leave me dearly, letting my body limp majestically,
absorbing nothing but just a day. 
A day. 
A day.
Never the same because our brain puts everything to a frame of reference
but now we’re separate and as i am floating through absence
and my brain is happily on it’s own
discussing the difference between totalitarianism and fascists.
























Talk about it like the Moon

Filtered out still impure,
eyes washed away with waves,
only see the salty taste,
the dehydration

Soul-less foods
eaten to make the stomach swollen
aches as long as an earthquake
but there was no plate to begin with.

Solemnly squire,
Divest in the medium,
poorly; show me a blank sheet,
and I’ll show you a lonely day.

Open up, why not grow
but up and down are just directions,
positive and negative are just subjective
it’s always easy to say;
to speak; but it will never equate.

Talk about it forever,
these ideas are like the moon,
it just keeps on showing up,
where’s the radicality?
we have never changed with an idea
just been cynical with
this living organism; society.










Introvertalitis

Type B personality,
disorder, can’t find my keys,
find me at a Mexican restaurant
eating a taco, washing it down
with a bottle of coke from Mexico.
All by myself.

You’ll be studying, rewatching
that comedy series showing a new friend
a glimpse of yourself.  New friend
never laughed.  skipping scenes, making
it worse till the plot is diluted, finding
the perfect moment.

I come home, doors locked
I knock but my room mate can’t here
over his explanation of a scene,
the new friend tries to tell him threw
expressionless eyebrows but decides to get up
himself.  I need to piss, go off the deck.
Room mate turns off the show, no empathy,
I hear footsteps coming towards me so I shove
my dick back in my pants, still dripping as the
new friend opens the door and sees the tip
of it.  I’m sorry.
He’s shy.












Notes on Writing #1

I just want to tell a story since it could give the reader all the information but also feel like they are in a stupid position.  But I don’t know, it’s interesting but all that is on my mink is marketing.  How could I market myself?  No clue.  Hey, publisher, do you want to read a story about a guy with one eye?  It’s pretty interesting...no, I don’t know the audience, people that like to read maybe.  What is an audience, I read what’s in front of me so hopefully there are people like me, I suppose.  I’ll go back to my minimum wage job now because I don’t want to sell myself, while selling myself some bullshit.































BarBack

Everything seems long
days last way past the sun’s departure
over the descending buildings,
our eyes can hardly meet,
like a moth, I only want to state at light,
try to main some form of me.
I feel you looking or at least glancing
but I am sorry that my head will only acknowledge you glare. 
All I can say is life isn’t fair
but I brought it upon me,
I’m arbitrary to my own lush experiences.
Trying to script a comic while drunk, sports watching fans
try to shake my hand, “watch my stuff” they always plea,
I must oblige it’s the easiest job I could have.  Lifting 160 pounds
in a compact cylinder up 17 steps, repetitively.
over half the day, seeing so many lost faces,
answer there questions, they turn around agitated.

Sorry but I just told you the honest truth and if you thought that you
vacation would float, transcend, or set you in nirvana, well sorry, as I say a lot, life is tepid, uneasy and stressful.  Yeah the bathroom is getting cleaned for a reason, like when I punch out, I do it with emphasis.
















Was that My Name?

EGO, he shriek was heard throughout the halls and finally settled, after bouncing off the framed pictures of Chicago memorabilia, but I was already jogging trying to find the origin of the noise, the pool tables are vacant, I check the back, look into the soda storage supply, nothing but an organized mess, I turn off the light with a string attached to the ceiling, I walk and decide to check the beer cooler, no one is back here, kegs and whatnot are cold to the touch, how are they colder then the cooler, but I hear it again EGO but only in the back of my head does it register, I glance left and right trying to find the culprit but it’s still a mystery so I push at the back and look towards the bar, Its empty practically, fewer people drinking draft watching the Hawks game, bartender [Insert Name] probably Kristi or Kristen but I give them I have work signal consisting of throwing my hands up like what do you need but they look around at the corners of there green yes like there aint shit to do so I carry on, EGO, one last time but this one felt directed, less intense so I walk throughout the dining room, people leaving there food, half eaten all over there trays like a  school cafeteria and I spot the short chef wearing all black by her hat and she’s trying to triumphantly hold the hot wings over her head and I begin to lunge toward it, grabbing, nodding like I should of known better as I take it she says thanks and I do too, I don’t know why, but it’s for upstairs, freedom, so I begin to trudge through the station, I am already asked by a stranger, where’s the bathroom, follow me and I point it out to him, get that a lot and I walk through the middle of tourists and commuters waiting to board there trains, say their excuses and I head up on the escalator to the food court, advertisement trainsportation or transportation.

















My Shoes Need to be Mine

I never want to wear black shoes to work.
Polish shine, see my reflection off my sole
going to and from, beauty triumphs form
efficiency develops into complacency
appear to be all right.

































Just Transfuse

The only way to gulp down the day is to try and fit in
but that notion is to small like an elevator at lunch hour
no democratic line, the old people just rush in
business men just sneak by
I’m left waiting for the next one, graceful opportunities
maybe I can finally be there
if I shoot the niche and crannies
finally absorbing in the sense of normalcy
I’m here but not falling from the clouds
taking hits from the wind
until I glide
Until I strike ground


























Beginning of Abandonment

break the lock
stunned in shock
end the situation so I am blameless
walk around the city waiting for strangers
to tell me to taste this
drunk on seasons, leaves made me wasted
the decay of trees almost made me naked
wood floors, those are sick
obliged to expose the trees
inhale until your eyes twitch
surrounding arms turn to sticks
wrists inserted images in the mirror
bones the size of pins
capillaries tied in a noose
sight crossed after the bridge
fear to steer, no intersections
i add my own meaning
look into my black, work shoes
to reflect my sole
worrying about emotions then
the extremities of poles
directions, inanimate
static like a  fence
but I wasn’t having it
like the beginning of abandonment.













Notes on Writing #2

Ever since I wrote the title for this document a month or so ago, I’ve been trying to explore what I wanted to add.  I know it was going to be another journal like my previous one “words for myself.  That was evident because I enjoyed adding all my left overs to my journal.  It was fun going over those scribbled notes and adding and editing them.  I want these journals to be me but also more free then that.  I want them to be transparent from my voice, it’s another area to explore.  Words with myself was me, all my internal thoughts over a little over half a year and you know through the title the meaning for those words.  But Discussions in the wilderness is something else.  I want it to embody my transitional stance from home to my apartment but also about leaving suburban life to urban life thus where the wilderness comes into the title.  The discussion is clear through the page be it poetry, story or natural journaling.  But the wilderness can’t be found in the city, it’s ironic and abstract but I wanted it to be a zone of retreat, a zen to escape to.  Hopefully you enjoy this but it is just internal, spontaneous thought.

























I am ready for something new

I’ve been listening for days.  Reading words that form a story or a justified statement.  Then routine, work, hours of pacing around waiting to be yelled for.  Paranoid, If i’m out of reach, are they still yelling to muted ears.  Then class, listen to stories I read outside of class, recall what I read, to donate my memories and it’s perforated capacity.  Then listen to peoples analyze the same book for three weeks trying to decipher some mystery  in between the lines.  There aren’t present unless you believe in your authoritative principle of self-conception.  Use any knowledge, made up or referenced in the work, defend your statement that you turned into an argument.  I listen but I hardly want to.  Wish I could just yell, we are fighting over distinctions based on a narrative story.  Seems worst then sticking up for an imaginary friend because at least it’s yours.  we begin to analyze nothing but personal preference and it goes around the room, everyone is laughing at some pop cult reference or made up words.  to easy. I follow the blatant rules.  Easy.  I feel neglected by all that surround me.  I want to fuck this all up.  People trying to destroy the stock market but imma going to bomb this literacy world.  Some are sunk in it and others pretend it’s real.  Writing, look I can do it, and so can you.  Me. But why did I decide to walk in a realm that I hardly enjoy anymore?  Such a sentient question, I can’t hate the students, they don’t know any better, there just trying to do their homework, I can’t blame the teachers, they just have a job, a curriculum, like I do at a bar.  I guess it’s my fault, I didn’t know I would fall into cynicism, this lust for creativity, originality, and not caring about the previous or present.  I love writing, I can do it whenever, break down my thoughts into a shimmer of clarity, and understand.  I listen but I refuse to believe.  I’m either a skeptic or uncertain.  Skeptic because how could I believe this, or course the story can fit into a construct, like a story arc, if you want to cram 300 pages into a 5 part timeline.  It doesn’t help the story whatsoever, it just helps us comprehend it which is an idea we should steer away from.  To much education, remembering, acronyms, dates, timelines, gimmicks is not helping the living world behind us.  It’s not pushing knowledge, it’s keeping us in the static realm of architecture, we are just building on the old, on the old that could be wrong.  We are adventuring out of this staleness searching through a world that we already know has been explored.  We push and push but after a point, you break from actual reality into fiction.
    Then I’m uncertain because what can I do.  I can work and produce work but I can’t change anything.  If we can’t believe the words read in fiction then what about scientific work.  If I don’t believe anything than I just sound foolish and childish but my uncertainty just needs to shift.  I don’t want to paralyze anyone with my incorrect words so wouldn’t i be doing a bigger favor for society and just censor myself, stitch my hands together, stuck in prayer.  Revolutions don’t work in 1st world powers but publishing is down but supply is ascending.
    I feel like the only one challenging me is myself and no one else wants to worship in the glow.  Everything is easy, convenient, which is nice and beautiful but how do you expand if everything is given to you.  I just want to have my mind numbed and I feel like I am marching down that path.  Hello, savior, goodbye impossible wants, I should just worry about my needs but I already have those.




































Even eyes can’t stare into Experience
or Just try

I don’t why you looked at me
eyeballs upon eyeballs searching;
many things, many dreams.

Just kept staring, nearly fallen from your path,
my sight twitched once upon your face;
lost touch, pure disconnection

Walk away forever, never seen again,
to many feet stepping through portals;
a delicate spell, hypnotized fornever

A bodies framework is more appealing,
the never ending negative space allures;
tempting the internal, aspiring your external.

A seductive vanity takes work,
discouraging the afterthoughts bridging sexuality;
desire diminishes thought, ends in perspective.


















Passion Fruit

It was Kris and I,
surrounded for years by these succulent, seductive fruit.
While stocking, rotating, fingering each fleshy exterior,
fondling to find it’s decay date.
Still soft, not squishy or morbidly moldy.

It’s just us two tonight,
to try the treasures of the exports of the world.
Exotic like a paradise we recall ever eight hour shift.
Start grabbing the unknown flavor trying to taste
them through the air behind our loathed laughter.

Run, run to the back room,
grab a knife and split it in half.
Passion Fruit. Sliced from top to bottom,
inside looks like a spawn pool,
seeds ooze out oils,
that we take with our upper lips licking
out the pit.
Grinding eggs on the tops of our mouths,
taste transforming each swirl of saliva
from salty solids to cluelessness. 
Do we swallow or spit?
Eyes turned up on dimmer switches,
sweet sexy tastes of magical fantasy.

Kris spits his but it looks much like a loogey,
I swallow as the seeds sink into the gaps of my teeth,
silently staying, waiting to be watered.









Notes on Writing #3

I’ve been at a crossroads with my writing.  Stories don’t seem to serve the same purpose that I have been trying to say.  Words just put them down on page, usually snippits of my actual thought.  It could be the structure surrounding a story rather then the act of writing.  Writing is easy because it is a thought but in any principle, there is professional and amateur.  I guess I am still at the stage in my life even though I have moved out and I am living on my own that life will someday be harder.  It could be the structure surrounding economy.  Money just makes things easier.  I can do something I don’t see helps me in any way, only helps others by an obscure rational.  It’s the difference between making money on what you like to do or giving up and settling in the easiest way to gain value.  Value is completely fake it’s only an emotion.  There are other ways around it because like everything it can be faked.  But soon the value will never be backed, value isn’t anything if it wasn’t a previous thought.  But a pay check is something I get every two weeks and how much of that value is given away before you even see it.  Cash is a pretty boring sight.  I like living on my own so I need cash because every piece of land is already sold, I can’t build my own community.  Or can we?  Should we be striking instead of realizing that it’s to hard to try and rely on everyone aka the economy.  Is surviving not that important.  It’s hard to blame a system that has always tried to find a new soil.  Power is nothing.  The only thing that power means in all aspects is how much a person has the capabilities to get away with killing you.  We live in a system that promotes individuals.  Yes I love being myself but being able to live by yourself is ridiculously stupid.  I’m not talking about living in a house and being able to afford the new gadget because that is temporary happiness, short term value that will always need to be fed.  Its consumerism which will help support capitalism.  Consumerism isn’t all bad but it is an addiction that can be fixed.  Before just getting something, buying a certain thing, actual weigh it out based on price.  Good thing we are pirates now and have the system to give us that possibility.  It’s one of the only cases that this isn’t system of living isn’t one way.  We shouldn’t have to pay for everything, if their is a chance to live without paying for anything.  Receiving money for what you think is what you are good at destroys it.  One can still write after that moment but one should never rely on the payment.  It will push you over the edge.  The real beauty of writing is being able to take a thought and almost let it go.  You are giving it away in a sense.  It’s hard to picture someone paying for that process. 






Propaganda

Are they not conscious enough?
the ones below our feet
to give up breathing
to grasp the power of treason

symbols referring to hatred
engraved in generations
continuous to growl
hopefully pressure under currents
our slow rate of round consciousness.




























Generalization

Fantasy falls down the middle.
It’s tempting to fall in
I usually just look
but the crack helps you fall
but some days you just need a new familiar
but where we are always the hero
































Meditation on Futurism

Talk in the future
so you never have to stay in the current
slowly sailing a loose destiny through a present thought



































I need to start relying on a God

Can’t focus, meaning is tangible by these breaks in coercion,
stiff nut, won’t break my day dream.
our endings never clear unless predictable.
body in transit
mind is transient
never startled with a soul
a dream, or a future.
Paranoia attacks like a fever on
my mind bed ridden and while the
time re-ravels to me, the problems start to exist.
Lock the door? maybe
but that's never good enough.
I’ll only learn from failure and the education comes in forms of complaints.
Blank ends loop.
A never ending story, an impossible reality because
eventually the reader wasted their life believing and the book
gets thrown in the furnace so we can inhale the knowledge,
discovering mysticism and immortality.  Death through contradiction.
You will see your muse eventually.



















The reason for why

I understand the use of why.  It’s on of the fundamental questions.  It’s one of the first ones you learn.  Rather then saying it, asking others to answer your curiosity but you need to ask yourself “why.”  Figure out yourself, answer your own questions because why can be daunting and can lad to an indefinite question.  If asked why enough one needs to also ask why why because if you are willing to explain a subject and wonder why that comes to shape then the recipient is fair to wonder why you care.  Any why past the 2nd degree is pure nonsense, it’s can create a circle that strays from knowledge.
    Example
    Why is the earth round?
    Rather then explain it’s necessity in Astronomy and physics, the recipient, who knows the answer can ask
    why does it matter?
    And this furthers conversation because not only are you hovering above the initial objective but you are also analyzing it’s importance or why it deserves a question but if asked into the next degree like
    why does it matter if I care?
    which leads to simple, standard affairs, it’s a question you should be asking yourself and that is what the recipient is wondering. 




















Selling living body parts because I can’t feel em

take away the fever forever
before the chemicals on a
periodic table start
withering my cells
duplicating waste
over time
years
could only
lead me through
life
with positivity,
if i am dying
with veins decrepit,
could never mesmerize
the mistakes
worry about the troublesome
of living
if we are in a
constant awareness of
when we are going to die
everyone’s life would
be achieved differently
and the blood, unfiltered
doesn't trail as far,
fingers numb
thoughts uninterrupted
as their resources become unused
breath lingers
move slower
all switches timed on emotions
wondering why I was waiting.







Surrounding Holidays

In a field waiting to be fed
the breadths of the shallows
the batteries bountied, split in
propped up like a scarecrow, the better of the four,
the only one desperate enough to scare even if it was just a movie,
timeless they say
as the newly colored edition loops on the hallmark channel as
the family gathers
a few still coming through the open door policy
too many characters
this dinner is going to be like a revolving door
can’t follow my own lead
cant make limited selections and
savior the connections
can’t with all these
ancestral strangers
wont even remember there names
even when I participate
in the holidays every year.



















My Symbols on Your Page

These words fall gracefully down the plywood stairs;
my symbols on your page;
actions meet consequence.

A tender rose dies in it’s own abolishment;
beauty starts to internalize into depression;
one can never forget their lives.

Digesting what you love;
love is a sentiment, a constant occasion;
If you stick with it long enough you will learn to love it.



























For someone I forgot
Part I

You must put on your socks only if the owner is a dead man
one at a time is for the witless,
the anonymous that trails in speck,
my feet, I wash them after I put on the socks so the forgotten soul
can finally be cleansed by me.
These socks aren’t what you think they are, not beloved or sacred but just socks.  They go the same place your whorish wife goes when they are done being used.  Because socks, my socks, don’t come in pairs until I forage for them.  Letting them rot in the abandoned place I live.  I reuse the old like all of our tempered discrepancies and won’t take them off until I’m imprisoned for vagrancy.

Part II

When was the last time I took off my socks?
None of your fucking business you enthralling spy,
you pompous nose bandit.
When was the last time you changed your face?
After I got through with it I suppose.
My home smells like foot, the foot of a man that’s tread on too many smell men. 
Oh, my socks, the one’s owned by a dead man
given to me by his whorish wife after I through her in the waste basket.
My socks aren’t beloved or sacred, just socks. 
Mine never come in pairs, I adjust them that way.
Never remove them until I can peel off the skin.













Philosophy is my Thought
(Before it was Slope of Convenience)

Its time to stray from our state of being
the monies worthless so start collecting them
putting them in plastic sleeves like collectible cards.
If the Internet crashed we wouldn’t know where to go,
to hide when we worked to escape into anonymity,
because when we our by ourselves,
we wish to be seen, noticed. 
Information spread thinly, easily accessible but only for it’s trivia. 
Knowledge is not power, it’s just structures you can’t forget.
but we can still text right?
Instant gratification for friendship, the lust of social activity
right here, right now.
Not like mail where thought is implied but texts are so short, bitterless.
We are funny and surrounded by endless amounts of mediums,
so inspired, ingrained, by pop culture, “I didn’t even know I was referencing that!”
But, no, the towers were bombed, the systems are down. 
We need these to survive!  No we don’t,
guilting our uncertainty on living, if people say I need this I must because
I’m a person too.  How would I know if I needed this to survive, when have we ever had to?
The flood has stared and we are drowning.
Living isn’t supposed to be fantasy, a world that reflects similarly but it fits better,
feels more familiar or I want it to be more familiar
because outside, it’s considerably scare,
abrasively serious, triumphantly tragic every day.
Which to live in?
Positive reinforcement and dragging behind the societal norms  where we choose our own path because it’s a desert of information and connections.
Or the opposite, we struggle, no bodies equal, but it’s necessity,
where we can touch the tangible but our hands could be cut off.  And how would we type?
Ignorance is easy, right?.  It’s why we go to work.  Capitalism wants us to stay as far away from simplicity.  And our fears put a bubble around any life we can squeeze onto. 
We fear change because we never had to.  We take pride in supporting this veiled infrastructure.  We don't care who is controlling it because questions tend to slip on the slope of convenience.
----------------------
So Pessimistic, just Reality.

Hooray!  The author who will never see the published page.
The author who writes with no motivation, has no set goal,
doesn’t want to stretch his credentials to fit in,
the author who has no place in his economy,
the one that rather break his back so he may never sit in a chair to write again,
the author that doesn’t settle into one story, still exploring, how pretentious.
Yeah, the author never read,
the artist never seen
it is me, it is me,
yes the author that only hears scenes in the prospected, emerging writers
but no scent,
no transition,
which is where I can fit in.
For once, but never again. 
An author in a rut, aren’t we all.
a Novel never finished, a story with no glory, a character that attracts to no one.
Read once, written once, never recalled.
The author that has loyalty to himself,
only has one audience.
I am that author,
that artist that cannibalizes his own work.
The author that enjoys all.
The artist that sees no originality but his own.















Masculine

I like to call it destiny
I like to tell myself to not ascend fate
because my mind can get the best of me
it's still just testing me
finding faith in genitals
only naturell when they are hairy
only angelic when they are used
rubbing my ring finger
ring-less until I feel bone,
pull the excess skin up until
the fat looks normal

I still look around
not as a predator
but as an observationalist
but I was nothing before her
never received any glances,
just old woman praising my golden curly curls,
thinking I was a girl.

I'm trying to co-write a thesis on asses
sexuality is ambiguous
homo--hetero are just extremes
that never exist
like opposites in nature.

Girls look, not women.
I always think they know.
I hear about a study on how men
with wedding rings
get hit on more.
Makes sense
-Reliable
-Relationship ready
-Obviously interesting enough for another girl to love

Stricken by paranoia by the whites on the side of their eyes.
Anytime I go out I just get hit on by gay men.
Makes sense
-I dont talk to women
2 fears
-Mixed Signals &
-Her judgement
-I'm usually dancing out of my self-controlled body

Women tell me their fears openly,
maybe I should be a corporate therapist to
relinquish hope in their lives.
How could you be afraid of death?
It's inevitable.
How could you be afraid of the dark?
It's inevitable.

I could never leave,
I've never wanted to.
If this was easy, convenient, stress-free
then it wouldn't be worthwhile.
-we get along
-we smoke a bong
-we chant songs

We share our interests,
more me then you.
We share our bodies.
We cuddle underneath the pressure of reality.
Our apartment gets one inch smaller everyday,
losing room to stretch our arms.

We try to go to bed, finger tips away from orgasm
because my dick fell limp.
It's hard to leave the room when
you sleep naked next to me.
but reality will always be outside those walls,
waiting to play like yesterday.

I wait to see a new scenery
but it's the same scenery (scenario)

I’ve been called an Alien and a Time Traveler

It would be nice to be an alien.
An official outcast.
My friend believed I was from the future.
That would be nice,
some fate to suck on.
Some faith to grip onto.
Something to wish upon but
chance insists I must work to live.
Chance tells me that
I just need to try, right?
Because when I was a kid,
that's what the school system told me.
Trying doesn't react with success.
Success is limited to a few especially
in the genre of academia.
End up being disgraced, scholarly
because that's when I could possibly fit in
because that's all we want because
I don't want to be lonely anymore.
I don't want to stare cluelessly anymore.


















Generational Gap

We are just shadows of our siblings generation.
Before, born into video games. After born into the Internet.
Me, the middle child, just stuck in between the two new cultures.
They correlate only for a second's take until you
witness their analogies.

































When everyone starts looking Weird

I think my glutton to change anything has passed.
I just want to write, paint, play, listen, talk about absurdities to sincerely, satirically mock our sensibilities, our lust to prove
something out of nothing but behind my mask, it will be serious,
finally answers to my own questions that I only would
think of.
But no one listens to this nonsense.
This nonsense that's been going on for years.
Creativity is just stupidity veiled by artistic credibility.

Fuck this.

Fuck words when they are formal.

Fuck grammar when I use it wrong or not at all.

Fuck me for never trying because I know if I promised myself to try harder, I would quit like everything else.

I would leave behind this therapy, only to lose myself now.
Would that be so bad?
No one answers because no one cares.
I've already passed the wandering, vantage point.
I'm out of frame,
out of focus,
out of exploration.
Just ready to work (7)(12)=84 hours a week to deny access to my true loves because what do I deserve anymore?
A constant misery because this has gone on to long.
But nothing in this universe is absolute law because the word uncertainty exists and I rather doubt then dream, but I rather dream then live.







Old Ideologies

An old retired guy at the bar I work at said that he has never smoked anything and now he was too old to try. I wanted to scream at him. When I hit the age of not trying, I'll hopefully be increasingly dying. You are retired, living off my social security that I pay to not have and I respect that. But at least cherish that. Tap into what you missed out on because of societal pressures, love life, what have you. You aren't even living, retired from life, watching your health as it slowly slips.

Fuck that guy and his seniority and his geriatric arrogance.






























For The Verbal Hologram

open minded, severely blinded
why am I next to you?
who told who?
born out of the blue
with antique news
trying to get you to
subscribe to our mirror
emotion is more clear
since ambiguity leads to fear

I have amplitudes that are minimality
story ideas that pass as posh
and actions that speak as brash
but the new year brings me opportunity
because your failure will only grant
my existence with immunities
Some say impurity is what lies in beauty
if that’s true then why would our sight be
so puny
U C Me
I’ve been here all too long
and when I die I’ll say the same thing
because it has the same ring
and the same sting
actively trying to be ludicrous
pledging to Allah while I
shake a Buddhists fist

Being served by a number
lost in this lumber
focused on location
misspent on vacation
possibly equated
faded
in the last luck of mystery
were thoughts find the light
from darkness, a fight,
a few rounds of straight punches
from the right
different position, same strategy
it’s the line between insanity
and democracy
where we charge people dying in a hospital
or try to find prehistoric clues through fossils
who knew life disposed such options
through operands
looking for beliefs that’s been stained since memes
come on, ideas passed through genes
that's obscene
because my presence is all that matters
in a moment so serene
and I’m picking out the words that
will sound perfect without esteem
because cliches are only spoken
because their truisms

We are all hearing trying to be shooters
but I can be nice with out a conscious
the perfection expression of a Madonna
so don’t get lost unless your perspectives vary
and taking breaths can be quite scary
you don’t have to stare into objects
floating around promises
no space for time’s sake
because my rhymes fake
I just pick the slope of convenience
because I’ll be teased to be pleased with
the ease of me
find out that my words were unoriginal
obviously because this craft
has safeties that unforgivable,
one’s with fingers are unwinnable
except these words determine our life span between zero
and infinitable
and my theorem might be out there
sound, stare
but we have only one fair way to know
to let the objects speak for themselves
and let the no’s be the no’s
so we can all get on with our life and
leave the absurdities on the tip of our nose
so when we look crossed eyed
we will be able to see the differences, I suppose.



































New Years.  I write about it every year.

  I didn’t think there were that many people outside.  All sitting on curbs waiting to be picked up by taxis or by the wind, hopefully they don’t stray to far from their group, crossing streets while a hand says no and a cop turns his gaze.   Everyone gets home safe or as safe as you can  be as the sun rises.  New years, new resolutions to better ourselves.  Quit smoking is a common one but the problem is much bigger then a measly cigarette.  The change of a day, this countless cycle we enjoy daily, is hardly a device to lay your weaknesses on.  People here, the one’s that really want to change, don’t look like they are in the right shape to think about their flaws.  The girls tried to look perfect for this evening but when they entered this club, they looked up and realized their only differences were in hair style, eye color and dress length.  Men didn’t care about trying to stand out, they did the expected.  Suit, button up shirt, and they knew they would be identical but their personality would stand out.  Open bar, no one finishes their cups so they can save money on free drinks.  Litter on every available space except the couches.  Hopefully I am writing this right, just liked I remembered it during new years at Excalibur.  But I don’t really have the time to so I have to rush it.  Running back and forth because this place was designed by managers.  It all makes sense but sense never dictated function.  No gun upstairs, must run back and forth for soda and juice, back and forth, seeing the same people waiting for their turn at the other bar where I fill pitchers, push through them like they were packing peanuts, you are trying to have fun while I am working.  Move.  So I squeeze by, probably do inappropriate stuff that I didn’t mean but I saw worse during the night.  Dry humping when one could go home and do the real thing.  Making out in the most inconvenient place on the dance floor so everyone is watching, can’t side step your inconvenient passion.  Hours fall away as sweat clings to the layers of shirts I wear.  Watching these customers, patrons, whathaveyou eat a buffet while promises for lunch were thrown away at midnight.  Only a few more, out of water, 5 dollars, and I think I might fight someone.  two other bar backs have, one is bleeding, still carrying buckets of ice, still opening the liquor door so we can mirror bottles.  House, house, house, in well, premium and super.  No one can tell the difference because no one is even drinking.  They get the cups and take one sip and set them aside, forget about them because their is a new object in their peripheral.  One that is more manipulable, farther from the truth, and deviantly unperfect but tonight's the night for change, for embrace, to explore who you want to become.  That person you were told to be, or that you reminded me of but now you are just the same, lusting for change, but just staying the same.  Resting on the opposite of mature, noses pressed together, as the object blurs.  A person can be easily controlled, you tell yourself, while you sip on your free drink that you actually paid for.  The mind is a terrible thing to waste, but a body is a terrible thing to hold onto. 

Discourse

    Been thinking about arguments.  How to hold one's grown in a verbal match.  I can't really fine any insight though, I guess I could remember the ways of reason and logic but does that really help in a duel.  If I know a technique, doesn't that make me just look experienced.  Ahh should I just speak from the heart or read my planned speech?  Should I appeal to logos or ethos or just pity myself and not stand up to such claims?  All I can do is question until the words finally come out into smooth verabalization but should I have a plan.  I can easily come up with a strategy because in a court of justice and laws, the public appeal is important.  If there are bystanders should I try to get them involved and make me, paint me, a better a picture then my opponent.  Can one really be right in an debacle?  Especially if it's over no actions, just words. 
    I could bring up a disproof on his statement by petty attacks on his character which, in my opinion, is versatile and usable.  But that would be too easy, I could just try to stick to words, not just romanticize this endeavor into a way to hurt feelings but I should care about winning and that means talk on experience.  You could say the greatest things known to man, disprove god in a few short words like "One can not simply be god because I am like we all are to ourselves" or something of that structure that merits insanity but it's just an example.  But those words don't contain context if you haven't experienced it.  Weird, strange things exists and your perspective might be disgusted by them, might even be angry too but one cannot attack a reason from the outside.
     I can't go to another culture and say you are doing it wrong because I think America is doing it wrong.  I live here, I can only be vocally critical on the things that I am present for.  I can speak on behalf of cultures that are in my views irrational but I can't blame the culture, they are living just like you and I and in my retrospect, that is all that matters.  Does it work? Meh it's such a broad, elastic term "work" to put in specificity.  If people are living then it must be working.  It's the same claim on communism.  But none of this helps me with winning because winning isn't everything because it usually tends to show stubborness especially if no judges are around.  Even if you are judged and always win, I wouldn't say that is truly a blessing but actually detrimental to the growth of one's personality since you are sticking to your sound technique while people are learning from their "mistakes" and evolving stances until either they are right or someone tells them they are. 

    This could be a continuation from my last passage or not, take it or leave it, but since this is written a few days later, I feel like I need to separate the two ideas.  I feel like the life of finding who we are is under rated, isn’t substantially thought upon.  We are educated on finding who we want to be way to early and what kind of question is that?  Who do I want to be?  Isn’t that just living blindly.  Example, if I wanted to be a politician, I would imagine it and the only people I could mirror are the people that are politicians.  They live a certain life based on their social/economical status.  So the only way you can live like that is either start living like them or wait to live like that.  It’s a dream which in my sight, is gradually declining. 
    Beliefs only provide a few things that I witness.  It gives you a group to reside in and something to support but while you support something such as god you are against another belief such as science.  This duelism is found in anything that is publicly aware.   The duelism I reference needs more to be a theory.  The idea is simple, it’s a teeter totter if I should put it metaphorical.  It only matters who has more members for your belief to come true right.  Isn’t that what an idea or a belief is supposed to do.  It’s not trying to prove to be a truism because the justification is absurd.  I don’t get why believers don’t just come out and bring up historical evidence in it’s favor.  Is it because if they did, there belief would be viewed as harsh. 
    Theology has brought people together by making the nonbelievers a informal painted picture.  The battle is necessary, it forms teams to reference all of humanity, trying to determine the winner in a game of life where the only duelism is life and death.  Is there more to logic then nature itself where the natural theory is derived from?  Science is beginning to decay because we don’t have anyone we can call a genius.  Einstein was but now we are stuck trying to prove the theories that are current state of science is built upon.  Isn’t this backwards logic?  Is there a way to prove a theory unless by watching or should we just refrain from living and accept all logic as a truism or a belief in the truth.  Nothing is so absolute and that is beginning to shed some light on our cause of being right.  It’s just an archaic way of living, to prove in the truth, but the same strategies our viewed identically on both sides because there is only certain ways things can be done.  Is that true or should be look at revolutionary events only successful because it was their time.
     Fate is chance and it’s not because they had faith for it to happen, it’s not because it was ready, it was because it was inherent, the probability was in one sides favor.  Or was it always in there favor?  It can never be determined if we always look at events as a technique because there are specific, even labeled as psychology, to appeal to mass public awareness but all science is done based on hypothesis.  The sad thing about an hypothesis is the claims that if the experiment didn’t prove it right, it must be changed. 
    Science, truth, logic or whatever else you want to hand to such a word, intelligence?, or just the duelism between logic and emotion, the fastest way to prove everyone wrong except the scientists in the field.  Who cares what we can predict, isn’t the abnormality in the world, nature, equally as important in the field of science.  Isn’t everything notable?  But science has been bought out by profiteers such as religion so let’s just drop any claim that they are trying to help our lives in anyway except if help, you mean by simple tricks to deceive our awareness on our survivals.  But I guess it all goes back to the original duel, night versus day.  The real question is what do we do about it?






































Tripping back into Art

Close your eyes till your headphones start to speak static
and your body falls back into a sand dune
so you just stand still
letting the individual particles
fill up the crevice between your eyelids

Being a transient can’t be a bad thing
Especially if each task was different
like I was building up to a revolving dream
but the beaches aren’t what they used to be

When sand engulfs you, it doesn’t feel like
it does between your toes
it doesn’t give you the comfort of a sand bag
but your throat starts to burn from breathing
and your teeth grit

The tide comes,
once in a while when the darkness creeps up
and your thoughts start to run dry

I’ve never heard an hour be
called desertification
but there slowly creeping away from me
until I can’t keep track
in an hourglass












Missed his Chance

Bunnies chew holes in couches
and never know when you are yelling at them,
he’s just a furry rat
that pet specialists call intelligent
but what you heard is true
all they do is poop and try to hump you.

He hops on the wooden floor
trying to remember where he’s been
before.
Never doing anything he has never
done before.

Open space, free world, eternal existence
all the options promised to us
comfort provided by furniture
but even with all the precautions
he still hits his head on the coffee table
on the way down.
But the next day, we’ll forget all
about the accident
and he’ll look at us on the couch
and jump up so he can
deserve some attention.














Outside of the Wilderness

You guessed it, the last child to carry a message
blanked out on servitude
and spent his life serving food

But why would it be another way?
a kid’s predictable
their actions stay through the next day

The real worry is you,
preserving conservatives,
like the past was not a fool

Isn’t that where the story comes from?
That picked human nature from it’s bungalow,
a twisting of fiction, a separation from the soul.

Holding together our insecurities,
yesterday is already the past
but the stories you tell influence us

So instead of telling mine,
my mind tweaks and tells yours
and yours becomes ours

and soon we are just saying
the same thing in different accents
and our ears only hear the noise.











Kids will never be perfect

Shins creak under succession
through the passing  nudges
by big wheeled toddlers.

Darks underway, lights are turning invisible
And the last thing’s will see
will be our surprised faces

Turned under cemented shrubbery
as our memories lose context’s.
Sight never seemed important anymore.

Farther in, Rage is just a quick fix.
Your sulking eyelids shut slowly
evading the shards of opaque darkness.

Embodied indefinitely until accepts isolation,
contact has only existed through influence;
the harder you want, the more you live it

But contained delusions cause controversy
loneliness seeps into their being,
personal personalities emerge.

Separation from our identity
entering out, figurines bow
with a twist of drawn capillaries.

Your kin set sail into the surrounding ocean
like all fantasies with predictable fatalism,
eyes wake up with the worms.







Tech Crunch

lying bone dry on the porch
while Jimmy played me his
glitch synth so I can remember
not to get my trash turned into
plasma.  I don’t want people
making endless profit off
what I deem nothing. 

Gliding on my rocket chair
post apocalyptic utopia
with eye drops of angel wings,
bright lights and circuits.

Teeter totters become the
next American past time
except it’s virtualeality
with each drop your feel wrong
with each raise you feel right

down on the craters of
devalued land, we see new wildlife
a flying lilium, floating roots that
itch your head on the way by
domesticated nature,

part time livers, on an oxygen binger,
human hibernation swept
through the man made Ice Age
trying to prove he was King Cryos

but an HVD tastes like
soft serve, and the external
memory is easy to imagine.





Old Values

Aging encumbrance
people buying sums of it
blunder a handshake
try to take a moment to
associate judgement

eyes relate
to present dancers
wasn’t a delusion
only meant to be an answer

and our machetes can only
chop like my hand can only hold
Trees touching, roots intertwined
soil erodes leaving hair to
play in.

Immaculate bodies strung out
on bristol boards.
Audience only waits to
see immunity harmed.

but my arms can only be wayward
my legs are revolving, tactically
even when I have sand dreams
exploring the desert for luxurious artifacts

I can only face the uncomfortable
like a penny
In the roller coaster queue,
admiring the mechanics of metal,
of fear, of excitement

Taking sparse moments
like cleaning the kitchen,
shaving, and seeing your dog die
and pushing them through a meat grinder.

Endless amounts of seas
to vanish into vapor
expand our lungs like the universe.
It’s already there
but I can’t seem to roll up my sleeves
enough, to get these hands
to hold onto disbeliefs
like accepted truths
like bread comes from wheat
and social norms
like owning a gender





























Fork in Frequency

I.  Amber State of Grain

Seldomly held opinions,
relapsed on adversity like an enthralled pear.
Tirelessly bashed from odd ended, blue’s sweatered spectre.
One legged begging as the tailored suit coats
filled with jest filled twenties and antique photographs of ashtrays,
golden hazed glassware holding onto sunken grayscale ashes
full of burly guilt and one side fits of embered rage
But the insides different
then the triumphant outside.
The silver luxuries only cleverly speed when seen
in brick layered alleys
and the beggars and peddlers
only tell you they are
unless when they forget to selfishly pray.

II. Humming a Dew Drop

Floating on green buoyancy
waiting for the sacred fresh water to sneak out from under me
like doing labor without any value to show or
for a man made wave to bombard, trying to turn a pet
into a one off slave.
Staring at where clouds used to feverishly evolve
when association meant abnormal
and word play was a sex game, not an effective technique,
just a way to bang a black sheep
because their opinion of you was handsomely strange
and mentally able to bid on a farewell.
But I could never shamefully kick her out and the esteem
and she wouldn’t passively passionately tell me I was full of nothing
and starved on biscuits filed with absolute innuendos.
She willfully passed away after our first vacation
to the attic and I tried to educate her on
stuffed similarities and seductive semantics.

III. Being Told Later

Six pack plastics lining a tub full of delicately used ice chips
bought out by precise pigeons wanting a place
to tremendously crash.
Only when the awry robbers come out do the self sufficient,
double blinded humans show up to wait,
black denim khakis, long banks lines that double as death sentences,
winos trying to act tempted by the lush beaches
of Barcelona where age is nothing but an illuminated filament
in a heap of heavy star dust.  Carbon meddled down to complex basis,
left eyed stasis besides a myriad of parallaxes.
I always loved staring at the cracks, separating the pixelated grooves
of sidewalk because they reminded me of dying sunflowers
being prescribed  out of date penicillin providing immunities
for therapy.

IV. Calming Essence

Grit over the Mahogany coffee table, missing legs
like a childhood memory still stuck on the trunk of their
now axed apple tree.  Not even a ladder could pull
us together even when it’s made from splintered words.
Tenderly pressing up against the momentum
that swung down the types of gyrations,
capillaries hibernated in the desolate icy strife
of memorable mnemonics.  Fate always seems to
miss when shot towards sun rays and family hay,
grouping pieces of tether under sloppy weather,
the kind you salivate to, the touching of nail
clippings in the toilet bowl, and only when
the figure of a meat head shines through
a dinner tube will I feel
biblically cyclical, naming patterns
like a group of neo nerds plausibly
calculating the reincarnation of heaven Gates
or the returning of middling Jobs.

V. Wandering and Wondering

The optometrist recommended me shattered
glass to prevent my disorder.  It’s like a round robin,
heads on soss hinges, never a mood to articulate
under the tunnel from seamless up and
draught down.  Bounded by discrete alienation, the kind
when the proprietor is only chasing down a one eyed
Saint Bernard.  And numeric's  lead me to fenders,
tramp packed in a Blue Moon soaked napkin,
scent of blood orange’s nostalgia sting underneath
those external bones, binding those stray, loose
strands of cob webs tossed on barb wired tents
contemplating Lucy and her band of mixed wicks
like a sunder under the Pacific,  Rusted pedals
hyped up to be a new changeling.  Seeing in
the fog of old men’s stench went through the
percentage of tomorrow.  In it for a future’s vision
on a thyme leaf later lent out to a cricket
thoroughly reminiscing on a banana jacket,
refining a pig silhouette to be unafraid of a
trumped step.

VI. Produce a Serpent

A green black board full of dots
like a universe covered in backwards t-shirts
used as smocks.
Sprinkled acrylics silvers measuring the seconds
before the chaotic taps of the paintbrush made
from dissected shoelaces as it’s hairs.
College backpacks in direct violation of a cosmetic affair.
Clashes with grave stacks and moss stashes that
only a pairs burden could negotiate with.
A dimpled cheek that only a blade of artificial grass
could interrupt these slow tides of sanctity because
when I view the fishing boats sail down mud raked rivers,
bending at every trigger finger, where many wedding rings,
each detached contain the lost souls of a steadfast maturity
that once seemed so extremely branded like a dinner table
but ended up notoriously bland like mixing all the colors.
And that's when the young, self sustained import adult
could finally abrupt their Netherlands and waste their
abundant time to reclaim their primary feather.







































We evolved from what?

When a chump man revolves to a hairless chimpanzee is
the only mirror, shear clear of clippers when calming dullness
betwixt linearity, tender side and button side
is when two low lines could finally touch,
no more theatric parallels by a formatted smell, perfumed
musk like a poachers tusk right off the smugglers raft
only abandoned by a home brew draft, enlisting
phobic membranes turned on their panicked backs.  Where
are we located on the bottom of our boots sole,
deteriorating over falseness, our pumpkin bread breath
can’t supposedly see.  Come to strangers,
reliving their diluted ancestries, to barter, meander,
or gloriously sell our red blood cells to nourish
the blankets bleakness, wool header,
Do you know the Time Setter?
He settles with gold under a bamboo coconut tree
and most importantly he canceled our third date,
when a purgatory human is passively expecting to hit a peak,
a sea spot, a vulnerable weak mock,  The ceremonies details
never arrived unless that maple leaf
that I found underneath my feather imbedded pillow was supposed
to be a surprise.
My neighbors trespassing ghost told me I was once
an Invisible Ant and now I am one.
Velcroed state I.D.’s
collaged together to form a mirage of everyone
that actively smiled at me.  Withered translucent monument of
a minnows mutilated head.  Erected like a fish knot waiting to be
tied around a chopped oak trunk.  Silently waiting for the sea salt’s
smell to erupt noise from the endangered branches of Pangea.








Notes on Plato

Plato isn’t disgracing art by calling it imitation but he’s just classifying it in a rational way.  He does it very meticulously through Socratic dialogue.  He sets it in this one way conversation for a specific reason and that is to show dominance over Socrates thought.  If all artist’s work from divine inspiration or as he puts it, through a muse, then all blah blah blah.

































Freedom of speech

Gunshot with fragile momentum
blended through the monks, honestly tempting.
Saints only heard the steadfast broadcast
while the politics wanted to see how long the bread would last
Whole Wheat, stained defeat
while the caricatures hailed “glass mountains” up the unknown street
passing out gluttoned pamphlets for these scavenged people
only clawing the scorned pages fir disdain,
to remain deceitful.
the only message that stuck after
the gloss through was
[Your parents were your producers]
and
[You are nothing but a diffuser]

Prop 8 propaganda, slight viewed; slated understanding,
demanding the supply of some clear view, and not the right to choose.
Those city folk only spoke the blues,
trying to settle an allergic stomach
but only crossed a strayed fuse.

Absurd monotony, bodies embodying, loitering lotteries
with possible common etymologies.
But no one but the poor would pay for these,
panoramic outlooks with a subscription fee,
trying to prove that words worth reading were never
supposed to be for free.  Authors are a dossiers,
mosaic with complimentary parsley,
farcing with the editor,
but the concept is betting on him,
do it quick
lie a found cane when you needed a stick.

The writers wanted an outcry
but the public was just abruptly shy.
The pencils made from branches held back the commotion,
and the pages was no thinking potion,
just a boulder in the ocean,
paper just static,
no discourse by enraged romantics
over the cultural niche.
The Fingers only like to mix match when
faced with sudden fear to
discourage creativity and the architecture
The Brain only wants to take the disconnected;
a river filled with dazed days, a memoriam and split rain;
and placed a patch.

And a bridge won’t last forever,
no matter which direction you decide,
obliging over broken holes
wanting a mountain over moles
until humid proximity become lucid fear
and an occasional necessity, like a jigsaw puzzle of
the Badlands, only waned out in perpendicular monotony.























Eulogy

The Clock was winding down.
    And he just gave me his small memento.  His name was Johnny like a rock star or two.  I held that wooden cross like a switch blade as if I didn’t know I would be using it to make a straight angles in my memory.  I only wore it once when I stole that V-Neck, so I could show off my man chest like I wasn’t a boy, like I was a snake still shedding it’s vinyl skin.
    The posse told me he died in NYC, watching Saturday Night Live first movie.  Concave overdose on the usual's.  Headr ush until the bloods crushed.  He was stripping off his own cuticles.  His brother, Derrick, found him, it was brutal.  Slow veins still feeding his limp cadaver with toxic fumes until his mind wandered and eventually popped bcause his mother said it bloomed.
    Johnny, oh his little boy charm and Anarchist trepidation.  He wasn’t just a childhood Neighbor.  That motherfucker owed me a favor.  I was too late to cash in, the debt un-cleansed like a pig’s pen.  He had a warrant out for his arrest before he died.  And for me, he owes me those beautiful blue eyes, so I can see into Darkness before the Shadows engulf me.  Bring me those charming eyes.
    Oh Johnny, just say please.  I won’t send you a prayer, I’ll just drop to one knee.  And put my fists to your funeral’s welcoming mat.  Never had you strayed to far, Not once has Johnny ever named an animal, and I rocked out with him on weekends.  I need to find Derrick, your younger kin.  He is slightly less important in my life without you here.  You two drew my attention but with only one of you, my attention is torn.  Johnny, take Derrick with you, because it would just be easier that way.  Derrick please leave the funeral.  Johnny wanted to always be a transplant, never liked it here because he didn’t like his childhood, but remembered who stayed for you all.  For all those years he waited for you, his damn family, to get over him.   To bring back Johnny!
Even for a remainder of a radius!












How I can blame the city

When I was a kid in middle school I would leave school and live a life of spontaneity.  Meet up with some friends and do the most un-expected like start on our skateboards then go do hilarious acts of stupidity like falling down carpeted stairs or just ride around town on our bikes looking for jumps.  Now every day feels routines but I use this theme in some of my writings.  The main characters work to watch phenomenon's on the television but we do the same thing the same day.  Living the grind, waiting patiently, for out of the ordinary circumstances but I feel like while I'm writing, I am just missing.































If I cook

eating at home, hamburger helper, salted beef, enriched grease slides down with the aid of saliva.
Contrived by the size of my stomach, I could keep eating, throbbing.
Cigarette flakes off, tobacco, sticks to the upper lip, lick, tip of the tongue
sinking to sleep under a store front, in class, arbitrarily awake waiting for my thoughts
to stumble
to a stop
to begin my story.
Whenever that arrives, on top of my tongue or below my brain.





























People can be nice after a cigarette

I meet people everyday at my job.   I work at Union Station in a bar.  Probably one of the most perfect hubs for not only commuters but travelers across the world but also a lot of homeless people and beggars.  A lot of emotions fly through each encounter.  Just like anywhere, you get every type of person.  Rich poor, open, closed, shitty and awesome.  I wish I could tell you the definitions of shitty or awesome related to each person I meat but everyone has their own criteria.
    But some people stick out.  I won't even mention the drunk sport fans or the business executions to us travelers.  There are certain people I met just having a cigarette, most of the time I would borrow a lighter or they would bum a smoke.  Here is my list so far.
-Minnesota Guy:  Met because I forgot my lighter.  We talked about Ratchet and Clank and he wanted to stop smoking for a month so he could afford a ps3 for his kid who was with him.  This led to me asking him about Minnesota.  He said the living was great.  They bike everywhere in town and it's cheap.  He was in the city visiting his first marriage's daughter.  We talked about life.  I took a picture with his kid.  He was really nice and genuine and kept telling me to not hurt my back at work because that will bite me in the ass later in life.
-Hustler:  I met a guy looking for money for a train station at 11 o'clock after work.  I don't like being solicited at work so I said "no" and kept walking but he got agitated.  I didn't listen to him so I let him go on and eventually gave him a dollar.  Two weeks later he came up to me and I said that he already did the same spiel 2 weeks ago.  He told me that he wasn't going to kid me and told me he was a hustler.  We discussed why Union Station was such a good place to ask for money.  Travelers who you are never going to see again and rich commuters and just an abundance of food and cigarettes.
-Bryan:  Met him after work when I was working at a chef in the kitchen.  He sells papers out front of Union every week day.  I have gotten him beers and he told me about his son in Wisconsin, his dad dying of cancer and how he lives at his Aunt's house.  I've also revealed secrets at the bar so he could drink the cheapest and watch the football games.  Miller High Life.
-Emil: He was coming from California on a train that took two days to get to chicago.  His daughter lives here and he was staying here for a week and then going to South Carolina.
-Shane:  From Downers Grove.  He asked for a cigarette and showed me how to roll a cigarette perfectly but his teaching skills werent the best, I told him I went to Columbia for Fiction Writing.  He asked me what for and I said just to write like a hobby.  Then we talked about life and how people are being to over protected and closed minded.  I said life was playground, we can't just assure what we see and hear but we should experience it in some form.  He said if I could write like I talked that I am golden.  We were sadly departed by work.







































Pet Peeve of mine

A girl repeated a joke I said in the same class
joke: It's kind of a pet peeve but I'm trying to get over it
Said verbatim twenty minutes later.



































The Last Pilgrims

We are the last pilgrims, the only thing left to explore is space.  An impossibility.
Resources that could be used usefully, full always, misused, in technologies next generation.
Yes, we can recycle but it want be intact.  The money, support, idea will never
be around the exploration, too busy turning our world into what it's not, a market
instead of a soap box, living to please without worrying about survival.  We are
the last ones to decide the path but it's fighting a battle against all the classes, all
the worlds, against the intravenous world, all schemes, to keep what they have.  Anonymity and Money.





























Working without money isn’t work

Where I am headed?
Heading?
I have no route, no dream that is reasonable, a nonforprofit, art studio, push content, push artists, find them.
Stretch my creativity

































ASS (A quick reference guide to asses)

-sexuality
-emphasis
-homo//hetero
-Irony
-Lust for new beauty
-Fertility
-Anonymity
     -To watch without being noticed
     - To show without being seen
-Symbolic
-Proximity



























S & S

Hey you looking at me you seem fine and I'm so happy.


Clocks can’t always Melt

I can't find my time
doesn't matter where I look
change occurs every
chance we cook,
worlds collide,
what ever that means
like a culture shock.


























Philosophy plagues me

Lets start from the beginning so my mind, solipsism,
can stop grinning
because a win isn't the same as winning
and even if i'm abnormal
there's no place for me,
so my mind, skepticism can trace the paths to live free
but where am I at?
the middle, or is this the present
day always a constant
conclusion,
the end never comes when my mind, absurdity,
will never predict it unless I can
inflict it because I'm to ar
into being a simpleton
to know which would will win because I'm just a white man
in a white room
trying to define these infrastructures
that have existed throughout
I'm just complex if under the accepted nations, same context



















Gettin’ Sticky

And my minds in the gutter
broken leafs and split glass
dampened down by big brass
grates that rust hates
but my feet, scrapped in good will boots
are stationary and the sidewalk is waiting
to be followed, to copy the next
sterling passenger because this hole
in my head is stuck in fulfilling a function
but I don't vocalize
so I can't hold a memory
which gives me cynicism for whole hearted empathy.

No faith, just fate
just different
with separate faces
you can't run a business with complicatedness
and I can't run a life through high stung, long browed latencies
all these eyes tasting me, patiently maneuvering their views
so they can get the greatest seat.  But the thought
never forms into words, no linguistics, just a scene of a picnic, as my wife
squeezes fruit as the juice drips thick.
















The weirdest possibility of me

Me, A telemarketer trying to sound out the dialects
I hear everyday.
Why did I settle for this?
Every job is a juxtaposition to the next.
Because you are the constant.
I really wanted to be a stay at home husband
But I never had any kids to watch except the one's on
television.
So my wife quickly left me.
Did you mind?
No I can't stand laughter or doubted happiness.  I
would hear her giggling over a text
and I would pass up sex.
Over her pleading me to go to bed
I would hum loudly, incessantly, and masturbate
in our water fall shower.
What do you do in your free time?
I lost all my friends when they told me I was now living
the single life, the real life.  Free time is like real life,
all moments are real and all time is free.
Egan why do you exist?
Easy enough.  Animals primary goal is to procreate, to live
another era and the longer you live the less you fear. 
Accumulate knowledge, memes, coping mechanisms and techniques on living,
survival.
Egan doesn't believe in destiny because I'm an author.  I create stories,
I don't live them.  But I guess I live to feed off pop culture, to support the society
where I was born.  To watch bukkakes but never imagine partaking in one.
Egan just wants to view life behind a glass,
to feel like my interests are being fulfilled even though they are given to me
without my consent.
Will you be going to heaven?
Only if god has a posse and at the pearly gates, he is surrounded by GZA, RZA and ODB chanting
"Wu Tang Clan ain't nothing to fuck with" and I would agree.
What about hell?
Egan thinks hell comes from inside.   It's your conscious, an internal conflict and the way you deal with them.  But if it was a place, it would be full of honesty and everyone would only talk about you while they talked.







































Connections connecting my poem

People always tell me it's not what you know but who you
know
but
isn't it when you know.  Instead of this flat saying, predominately stereotypical.  The rich versus the dumb.  The only way to make money is to make someone more money or you have the money
but
saying it's who you know says that pick your friends wisely, closely based on what you want to do in life.  Use you friends to get on their level or above.  If it was what you knew, everyone would be on the same line because the brain holds the same information just with different context and content.
but
if it was my suggestion
when you knew,
it takes both forms, one for the intellect and the other for the social life and belnds them.  The when places you in time.  It's what you know because correlation doesn't mean causation and who you know is based on improper living, it's living a world you have seen, a metaphor.  To live, or necessarily to get ahead or get where you want to be, in the present, is about timing, based on chance and much as possible the balance between intro/extro (verts)


















Tech problems

I've been getting quite frustrated with my computer, a compaq laptop from 07.  My agitation doesn't stem from it's slow, declination into obsoletion but just on the infrastructure, so I think my problem would be universal for any computer I touched.  To record music, live music in general, I need to run a program called abelton Live.  It's intuitive and easy to follow and after I set up my condenser mic on I can see the levels rise to each shift of my frame or to any words I mutter.  I prep it, get it ready to record and set up the next program called Reason which lets me and my keyboard produce sound.  IT has drum machines and different synths to play. It's a playground for anyone that searches for sounds and likes to bend them at their will.  But I don't want to produce and try to shape on song, I like to record live not only for the length which is usually five times longer then anything you would normally listen to.  It gives  you time to make mistakes, correct them and create a song almost completely spontaneously.  So I need the knobs on my keyboard to effect the sound, change distortion, pitch, frequency and decay.  So I needed to update Reason.  Illegally of course so that took me an extra day to download and another to get it working properly.  The process between iso and exe is random every time you do it.  Then the remapping didn't necessarily work but I fought it.  Then while these two programs run together, Reason becomes a slave application to live.  I thought they would do this to simplify things but I still don't understand what the function is except to stop sound from coming out of the reason program that would lead to a loop of sound growing exponentially like a nightmare.  A long tedious process to just record music organically.  All i want is to enter my room and make and blast music and record but so far I've spent ten hours with nothing to show for it but a drum beat to lead into an experience.















For my Father, Kevin Click

Nickel me, Kin,
Click, I am
even in veins
Kick me evil
all in
Neva liked me
all even'
Clever, in name
livid
cancel all
live



























Notes on Plato #2

Thesis:  Socrates brings up a good argument against the quality of art or an artist because he comes from a stance of logic.  Left brain, skill, while an artist isn't accepting truisms in his work, is entertainment not suffixed enough to deserve a way of life.  Does art not educate, inspire and live on as ideas, architecture for the future such as knowledge. 
Not only do I believe Plato is opening p a discourse between emotions and knowledge, left and right, art and critic, is a very duelist point of view and I would classify Plato as realizing the duplicity in life especially appearance.  In opening this discourse, he takes the vanity of another poet, an artist and is trying to put it in the public's eye.  That logic, skill and craftsmanship have the same (destiny?_ since it is the opposite.  Plato he could be jealous because there are prizes and glory for artists and even imitators rather then philosophers and thinkers who are generally looked up to but frowned upon as well.


























Meeting someone new in the trash of copy machines

I was just star struck outside of Columbia College on Michigan.  Sharkula! was out there trying to sell his cd.  If you don't know who Sharkula! is, he's basically a bum that makes hip hop music.  He only freestyle's and to compare him to another guy, he's the MF Doom of Chicago.  I didn't have five dollars for his cd but I did pay him a dollar to freestyle.  He's just great because he's not high profile, doesn't brand his music, he just rhymes and is usually hilarious and at times, awful.  I've met him before outside a cunninlynguist concert in December of 09 and haggled his cd to 2 dollars.  I bring it up to him and he told me he lost his backpack that night.  I've laughed so many times listening to that mix tape that I bought from him.  A quotable line is "I'm smart as fuck like Einstein, Bagels I eat them in the morning."
Outside during his freestyle he ended it by saying "Oh there's my cell phone, android, I phone, Oh Phone, Oh no...."
Then we talked about up incoming projects, how he makes his cds which he burns himself, and he goes to his buddy's studio to record.  I think he is a perfect example of a future artist, sharing and creating and just trying to make it by .  He references culture, authentic, genuine and it's easy to seem me doing this, just not in the physical sense, I already have a portfolio online.





















Graduation

Since I'm in advanced fiction and advanced poetry, a lot of students have been discussing graduation.  It's really close, being done with my undergrad with a degree in Fiction Writing.  What to do what to do?  I've been applying to internships, hoping to work in the industry or just a job where I could sit and not have to lift shit heavier then me.  But an internship could still feel like school and the place might just be looking for free work, not an actual employee or maybe I don't have it in me.  At least I have a job that is already paying all the bills with me in College.  So I could always bar back, it's easy but I don't know what I would do there for thirteen hours without homework.  Should I seriously apply to grad school?  I don't want to pay though, rack up more money to laboriously exhaust my conscience.  I can make thirty grand in two years so Columbia's tuition has been pleasantly decreased thanks to my years at MCC that I hardly remember.  most of our problems deal with the financial, will I be able to pay off my loans, will my job support me?  Do I want to keep this job or go for one in the industry?  But how much does work really matter to me, I've worked a few different jobs, cooking, cleaning, retail, food service, bars, cashiering.  All the primary tasks for a minimum wage job.  I just need to keep creating, experimenting and eventually sell some of my shit, put it out for money rather then free when I feel like I deserve it.  But it's not really an adept business model.  I have a strategy.  Produce, produce, produce in all my mediums, art, writing, poetry, music and just put it out for free.  Get fans hopefully and then start putting specific things out for cheap along with free things.  Invest in physical, preorders but always have a job, always be set in the real world, not just my imitation of it.

















Fishing for a thought

tugging at the yellow anchor
while gathering agave
for us lonely feathers,
friends are mere illusions,
with their blue bark speech,
toss their remains under the stars,
the grass was greased for weeks
as the shifting of eclipses didn't account for anything
but all that jazz
and bees knees
all off a sudden, gestation in a nebula.



























Phone Notes

the beer buyers.  Men who stock up and sell liquor from there refrigerator.  Inventory check lists for tabs or money deposit slips.

-----

when you can’t stare at humanity you tend to look upon nature
-------

book idea.  Historical significance's looked objectively on the viewpoint of nature
---------
on most days it hard to decide what to do, on others it’s already made.
--------
we are the same people in different stores
----------
a death is just a memory
---------
moving like the hour hand on a watch, watching everyone just pass me, over and over
-------------
my dreams are probably never going to come true.
-------------
faces painted red, stones bled like candle wax.  I wish I could bring you back.  Not live like a series of nostalgia’s stack, searching for the number.
--------
we can always see what life we want to live if we skim through history.
-------
living with no prospects, residing in the opposite of a project
---------
are we ever not a number?
-------------
if humanity truly wants to be better then everything else then we should stop relying on nature and stop comparing ourselves to each other.
-----------

I’m a fool just trying to drool all over your dreams




Discussions in the Wilderness

These small whispers could only be heard as discussions in the wilderness.
The leaves continue to blow away to the north.
I don’t know when I should impregnate my words or
if the names of my past friends are truly involving themselves.

I only have a few alternative motives,
try to express freedom through my term limits
or withstand the embarrassment of my head lamp, damn ergonomics.
Branches our preposterous if they really can’t hear me.

I use my strength to recycle myself,
trying to decide on what to keep like my good luck
or if I should wait patiently for my speech to reverberate throughout the forest.
I can only yell voraciously for so long without a response.

The soil was an understatement, I felt growth.
As the oddity of waiting between maple trees
made the agoraphobia thrash within.
I only heard one answer but was inaudible through
the falling of the trees like a domino theory
and the ruffling of leaves underneath my bare feet.

















Splitting too fast

Bodies divide under a mile high mitosis,
splitting frantic personalities,
always on,
updating,
search and destroy,
from these shifting identities,
fitting deceptively through velvet curtains,
mirroring images of harrowed duplicities,
homeless children tend to bend at a characteristic,
living like a wolf, with a wolf.

Rich men, the ones the strangers are scared about,
speculate on how to be above the wolves,
to send the wild grass and the un-touched nature
and set it on fire,
to unleash the smoke above our heads,
even theirs.

But it can only hover for a moment,
a time between minutes and decades,
viscous thoughts will plague the mind,
 like why is it so hard to control a cry?

You over hear your Grandpa dying in his room
two away from yours.
You have been waiting there for four days
with the rest of your father's family,
you think the tears will come on there own,
you have been waiting enough
hoping they were held in storage.
But you force it.

You see a man being diagnosed with cancer
on television,
in a movie,
and while he is making his rounds,
telling his relationships,
breaking the mold,
capturing his misery and
your sight becomes blurry,
at times the scene stretches
adding a duplicate to each vision,
and the man made water drops from your eyelids,
filling up like a river bed until they erode
the grime on your cheek.

Nietzsche, Hegel and Aristotle come to mind.

Mixing art with reality was supposed to drive insanity.
But when art is nothing more then imitation,
and life even starts to replicate our senses,
our imminent domain,
and confusion rings,
repetitively,
because you want to be able to hold on to your emotions,
that surprising incident of rarity,
I want to feel,
but viewing a scene,
mirroring my own life,
will give clarity to my actions
while I gag on this Catharsis in my throat.

















Too Many Teeth

We should never feel the icicles on our back,
let the waves pull me away,
down the creek,
over polished rocks that smooth out my muscles,
a chuckle, the same staple as a buckle,
only shown through on my passing face
got a hand saw with 27 grinning teeth,
left dull after cutting through that birthday cake.
No way to clean it with blood shed
but I can't put it back in my garage
like picking up used equipment on the side of I90.
The plastic cup is broke,
liquids release leaving my holding hand as an object of desolation.
Clean black grit under my finger nails,
So i don't have to pay myself to put on those
powdered latex gloves.
Can't clean the handsaw, blood is envy
and an enemy,
and so is my reflection in the bending mirror.



















State of Education and other Musings

We like to mask our appearance by the sake of free will.  We change our names for a new identity.  We are a strict being, a human sapien, that is supposedly evolving.  Our name, genelogical make up, necessarily our roots are stuck down in a name.  Perhaps we do things, title, generalize, categorize our existence, not just ours but our races, history, noosphere, for easy of memory i.e. convenience.  We have a serious, paradoxical, dilemma on our state of education.  There is two ways to summarize our noosphere and that is being giving the straight facts and moving on, building up the architecture to our culture.  Ours as in present day.  This is historical data with no context.  We can view a piece of art the same way, the first piece to exhibit a certain technique is certainly praised and appraised more then one that has nothing new to it but it’s frame. 
    Then their is the history with context.  We use our experience, our life or what we percieve to be who we are and what are phenemological senses tell us, to guide us through the facts.  We pick out importance like famous people.  Who did what, in what time, to what group, to what era.  The more we wittle down the clues to the importance as we call it, the more complex layers we need to secede through.  Each layer contains others to judge the person against.  We are selecting what needs to be presented to pupils or students or people that are seeking to be taught education.  A tricky situation.  Are we learning what to do with this information or are we being shown who we must become to land firmly in your destiny.  What we are being taught is the barrier of entry into the social strati.  Noticed that I did not say stratus.  It could be both, if we want to pluralize independent situations, we must see them as not being new, like the saying history repeats itself but truly it must, we our still learning as a race, but it can’t be singular.  It won’t be, due to context and placement in our short period of existence.  Things didn’t start mattering till roughly 5000 years ago, Egyptians.  But the only way we know that is through symbols, communications.  Can we learn through communications or through the process of learning that we find evident in communications.  Here lies the reactions accordingly.
    When we here about an event, are told, and have it broken down for us we tend to lose interest.  The reason we lose interest is either through convenience or relatability.  It’s hard to choose but I would then say it is both.  These two culprits plus other outliers tend to disconnect us from the “education” that is given to us.  Education can be explained as clearly as art can be.  We could even say education is art and art is education if we wanted to.  The two terms are purposely ambigious and can only be explained in the context of a sentence.  Education is not what we know but how we care to understand the things being presented as an object.  We look at an object and can determine it’s function.  Equipment is certainly easy.  A chair is for sitting.  Bike is for riding.  But an object can go onto a separate layer.  It can go down and out of awareness.  I sit in a predetermined action.  I do not pick out my seat, my vincinity or my proximity.  I just sit down.  Or it can go up into another layer.  The chair means something, it’s history is gradual and electrifying.  I can learn how a chair has changed, all the different forms a function has appeared as.  The word, the object is a chair.  The function is to sit.  But a chair can also be on an emotional relation, I am comfortable when I sit and I need to relax thus sit in comfort.  And convenience.  We pick a chair which suits us, which one is comfier or closer to the object to relax us.  We relate ourselves to an object that we like to determine is in our interest to like it.
    We do this.  We educate our self on the existence of ours self before we even experience it for our self.  It’s interesting because we do this throughout our life, determine what would be in my best choosing to do a certain thing.  we pin point or bookmark our prior events for the ability to vacate, our in a spiritual sense, to cleanse or even tabula rasa. 
    The thought has come that the nature of education is the nature we reside within, but out of focus, is the entirety I wish to grasp. First, I must explain nature and why we (usually when I say we I mean me but also this definition that I am proposing could apply onward, externally) talk about the nature of things we say it with conviction like the know how of nature is a simple subject to grasp upon. Nature equal fear, no guidelines but an ecosystematic structure that takes shape through our perception even thought we adhere ourselves from it's grasp. We are in it, there is no way to deny that, but we consider and even act to become secluded from it. We are separate entities, a supernatural force, within this lower level that we call nature. That is as of humans, we value communications over survivability, history over the present, knowledge over living, we want to live in a world furthest from survivability, but nature is our impeding reciprocal. It is always there, either we are above it or below it. Then nature; or the reciprocal of humanity, of education is the design, the significance aspects to the organization that forms, not shapes, without acknowledgment of it.
    Acknowledgment, the retrospect, looking back on the awareness of your (or ours if centralized in the thought of the noosphere), is when we observe externally, and catharsize on the shape (the emotions that exist in us (individually) and that duplicitely interfere in us through all of us (group.) Without our acknowledgment, since we have been stuck in a statis of a sylabus, of specifics that we all need to absorb in our concrete sense of educational facilities (school,) we tend to let things generally slip by, let architecture take shape without an architect. We view the framework as complete, hardly contemporary and never present. Not much is done to post modernize the development of our education, no reforms, no discourse. It is commonly accepted as a thing we must all do because education and the ability to be an intellect is valued in our moral society.
    Before I begin to possibly talk about changes, either unitary or retroactively thus system or the people, I must describe our climate. Not in the sense of our natural climate, Midwest and our nativity but our, the community climate that is intrinsic to each other. First we are a democracy which Socrates in Plato's "The Republic" says is the fourth worst justice system. We all believe we have an individual voice. Next is capitalism (a capitalist-democracy.) Certainly I am not saying anything didactic, or new, but in the core of all discourse, I must imitate the world I see, what I( truly think is our appearance (climate.) Capitalism sticks to free market and the dream of wealth. What is not considered is the quasi-relationship between the consumer and the producer and in fact, the need both to make the system even work, to strive for perfection.
    Next up is anthropology, the hardest to classify, the narrowest percentages, but to my degree (or knowledge), I see us as individuals, we refrain from talks on our community, we tend to see ourselves as being just one identity, we block out (even negate) the authority that we our a collected mind (ideas passed down for generations (future and past), an adaptive, group, unconsciousness. But just like our opposition to nature, we oppose community too. The sense of need and the ability to rely on others, the "Others." We see them as shadows, these strangers (that we could possibly know) but we call them a stranger because we tend to disproportionate our external knowledge of a persons internal virtues. It's an absurd concept I took from Camus who, in The Stranger, showed that events don't happen for a reason but happen to us for us being in the situation. We have the intuition to lead ourselves into the events but do we necessarily decide our friends/identities we come in contact with on a daily, communal, basis. No, I would presuppose that we don't and never will unless we lead our lives into an arrow of seclusion. We are or are striving to be thought. (Secluded-individualistic-capitalistic-democracy.)
    There are surprisingly more factors to this social equation, many outliers to equate but I, this is when I become cognitive, say we are either striving for this equation, to become a separation of nature and community, or are stuck in stasis on these goals (?.) If we think in the limits of possibilities, knowing that everything is not possible in a system, like a computer can not keep an object within but can only hold its imitator or presence, we come to the realization that there is only one possible route within an equation. Outliers can't become the common denominator by definition, so as long as we hold these extreme values over us, like space or a cloud (constantly), we can only walk/follow linearly until we hit point B which is being in perfection. Perfection is either death or immorality.
    Since we, as in our notion of time, live the work a day life, are going somewhere, I feel like we must start analyzing the important question. The survivability of our being (death.) The giant question is intertwined between using resources to support us presently, for a slope of convenience, trying to push our technology (equipment) to nail a threshold, a common ground of futurism or should we prolong our existence and try and shape existence into a form. Existence will be a form no matter our participation based on ecosystematic structures (that I talked upon earlier.) Forms develop without our acknowledgment or awareness. In this case we are relying on nature (fear) to sort out our evidential clues to form a system naturally and organically but in a race of beings that have thrived to understand, shouldn't we become the hands that mold us. We can become the future, at least do the active duty of shaping it for the long term.
    Another part of the equation is short term, thus changed to and rearranged into (Short term- individualistic- secluded in a capitalistic democracy.) If we have negotiated in the separation from nature, we must explicitly do this, to thrive for the seclusion. We shouldn't rely on the nature of anything, or God. The unknowable Other. Hegel says it best, to light nature on fire so it can become a spirit, it can become its own identifiable identity but exist through our compulsive obsession with organization under us. We can passively control it, even manipulate it to a high percentage, into total domestication. If our ideologies are truly separate, not the same, we should break. We need to start observing our reality, like a sociologist, like an anthropologist, but do it from the origin of a birthing state.
     If you are familiar with Marvel (comics) mythology, they have a character named Uata. He is positioned on our moon (satellite) and watches everything on Earth and only interferes if the survivability of the planet is necessary. This is the task of the observer but we would need analyzers as well. 
    Even though I feel I have rode from the state of education but I feel like my stance is important I have gone full circle.  Education has become a realm of my equation, it’s not only become a strict sense of principles in our culture and our nationalism, but has become a business.  The closest educators we have are the teachers, the active ingredient in the facility.  Teachers are or should be viewed as artists based on their knowledge of techniques and also their style (personality.)  With this they could persuade students intimately like an artist does with his voice or a brush.  The teachers pick what they want to teach from a bracketed (closed off) border of materials selected from executives (the higher in the hierarchy of education, above teachers) to qualitatively decide upon course material.  The teacher takes the given materials and uses this equipment to analyze it and either beak it down or demolish it like.  Like in all things, teachers have the ability to become a subject of subjectivity.  A teacher has the capabilities to persuade or disengage a student from not only understanding the role of education but also to find interest in learn to become a healthy citizen (intelligent.) 
    Should we blame the vessel of communication or the communication that is to be passed down as prophetic scripture.  We educate for a stance that finds it self on a pedestal because certain information is now quantified as being on a layer of another, a hierarchy of levels, an intelligence caste system.  This makes the state of education into a game, different paths lead to certain positions, specialization is valued.  Credentials only devalue the content because it builds up the value of words, instead of the various interpretations of symbolism.  It’s the dual battle of strict (professionalism) and loose (amateurism.) 
    Education if not fundamentally, constantly changing will only leave the world in the same intelligence with a changing, evolving, culture to mimic the flow of energy that can now only change through population (adaptability.)  The noospehere is expanding but our cognition, our structured education isn’t expanding but stretching.  Everyone in a class is necessarily learning the identical thing.  There interpretations are varied but a into a specific route, being able to explain yourself is appreciated, even valued more then the unique point of view on the material (equipment.)  The changing of old material into a new thought isn’t valued because education, the public’s perception of it is supposed to be strict.  Generations want to learn the same thing, stay in relatability with one another. 
    It’s not just absorption of knowledge but also the ehtics and principles that are preached in school.  The deflation of this is that the same front, phantom ethics, is found throughout the work place.  Education has become work, a confusion of intelligence, the drive for professionalism that is occurring around us.  The bubble that I perceived started this is the level of intensity focused on design of everything (but this is for a different dissection.  We want to be strict so we can follow the structures that are set, the closer we become to the rules, the closer to professionalism or perfection we think we are merging with.  This is what is taught in our houses of education, where knowledge and intellect and opinion is supposed to be held within, but is that education as we know it, perceive it, even want it or is it integration into my equation.
    Education isn’t growing our race, its keeping us absently blind to the rules and roles that surround us in our humanity, that have been stenciled in by the “Other,” or even without acknowledgment and awareness.  Education just works to bring us up to a subliminal measure, a level that can only be attained by strict measures, guidelines and revolving equipment.  It limits us to a bracketed reality, into no linear time that grades intelligence.















Beyond the Moon

Beyond the Moon, again and again, beyond to forgive
that space, the one that abodes astronauts to relive
dreams not meant, never preferred by us humans
Sumerians predicted the future in their ancient ruins
carved rocket ships that went-- Beyond the Moon.

The un-explored tempts us to seek shelter in rumors
Looking up, night or day, the area is massive
Now we just have to find a way to introduce consumers
to go-- Beyond the Moon.

Worrying about our future, giving up our rights in the present (where we live)
one small step for man but a big gain on the triumphant, the computer
But at least that dense area is good for one thing, our garbage, our sins
because we can’t see it-- Beyond the Moon























Beliefs

I don’t know why we write with words anymore. 
I guess it’s a belief in our traditions.
We have been writing for many years...

Take out the archaic designs in our lives.
Sleep is only for positive thinkers.
I dread or I had a dream. 

Words constitute nothing.
Do I feel smart for saying “aficionado?”
Absurdities.

People complain about word choice but
critics’ brains are all the same
connected by cables.

We are the New Generation.
When we were kids we only wanted to watch
our eyes.  Ratings are to put words in jail.

I watched the suicide.  It sit differently.
A guy jumping through his own bloody glass.
I think I’m marketable but not for protection.

Welcome to my heartland, where definition,
synonym, antonym are words I can’t spell without guidance
Pyramid of intellect, they only see white space.

Fuck this scrutiny up.  I already can’t follow a sentence
unless the audience makes those words bloom from a
completely blank self.







For Brian

The only thing that is left anymore is a decaying stadium that fills with many fears.  We are all artistic, the words have been giving to us, but the sharing is the hardest part.  We can keep it for ourselves and let it slide away because it wasn’t good enough to show.  Or we can get up on stage and watch the audience tear us to part with their eyes, their heckles.  Unless you form to pop culture, pay value to tell a story rather then have your values in the story, the audience will forget it.  No one goes out anymore.  If I got up on stage the only people watching would be people waiting their turn. The world hasn’t gotten any smaller and we have been telling the same story for countless years.  I’m not here to absorb, rehash, reinvent, remix.  Hasn’t that been done before is all I say while viewing the curtains of the stage being close to entertain our thoughtless brains.  Is this what I got into?  I don’t want to just have people read my lines, get addicted to the words, the imagery that I create.  I want them to learn, to find the courage to go home and do the same thing because if we all did this, created our own worlds, we could nurture ourselves.  Because, I don’t know about you, but I never grew by watching.
























Can I make a hobby my career?

I am just flimsy swaying to close to the core.
Discussing subjects that I have never explored.
I feel clued in like the body I have has been shoed in.
Have you found out yet?  You have to search between the details.
I’ve known for weeks. 
But I hardly edit myself.  I’m deaf ears upon a grave.
Half my thoughts are run on.  The other half just fall off
never to be see again.

Writing is too hard.  One day I’ll be able to relocate.
After I go of course.  Hopefully my funeral will be a party.
No regrets on my passing, Fuck me.
I never did anything to deserve life.
If I’m about to be murdered, I’ll tell the culprits to
make sure to rip me apart so I can conserve the space
underneath us.  I’ll tell them “Soon we will have to shoot
the lifeless into space or throw them in the ocean to
recycle ourselves into nature’s abyss.” 
That will get them to kill me.

I can’t say I’ve been floating, my feet our too sturdy.
I hate personality tests or anything that has to do with
grouping.  They are to quick to judge your path.
I can never find mine because I take the helm fast,
over think the situation, never analyze the fun,
and quit.  I erase my own entries because of time.
I don’t have enough of it, to work all day, to go to school
on my days off.  It would be easier to quit the only thing I have never quit.
But you know what they say
“Died too soon but began his career too early.”








Case of Books

Six slabs of wood
nailed together to form
storage, pieces of paper
filling it from side to side

Can’t find one, already
read that one, the white
oak cloaks the literature.

Warped from the stress that
suffered from the printing
press, need more space.
Fact of life.

Couldn’t move now, just
arranged them all in order,
in no specific order.
A horizontal layer on top
of the vertical row, then
a few in front of those.

I should probably sell
these but how do you put a
price on words, on paper?
Charity could be the only answer
but what have I been saving these
for?  What if I find myself
stranded with cancer.

I guess there’s always
libraries but there’s nothing
more financial then ownership
I own those phrases, these epilogues
to a degree but the book
case will always hold jurisdiction
over me.


The Slow Perfection


The movement through the light.  Were you supposed to be known?
        From all sides of perspective, you cast a shadow that moved slow.

2.    Walking with your luggage trying to rush while present with your past.
        Eyes tracing out a silhouette, searching for a clue so you can be slow.

3.    Rejection sheds while you gather layers, clothes worn perfectly,
        holes reveal fresh flesh, the contact makes each blink slow.

4.    Every time we have sex we never know how we got there.
        But I stared at your hair, the backs of tattoos and each grasp for air, so slow.

5.    Trying to leave while the bed is so hot where our love flourishes
        but we are in rush, work, school, trying to get away but at least we go slow.

6.    Walking or riding, it doesn't matter because Egan, you are always in transition.
        Will we finish?  When will the to-do list vanish?  Never, it's growing slow.




















Education

Same old, same old
I was told, that everyday
is the same old thing
and everything mimics the old.

Same old, still cold
chemistry teacher said
“no such thing” but
he’s never been outside.

same old, still old,
life references itself
we fathom these possibilities
because it’s the
same old, same old.

It’s like life is perforate
and can be folded like
a parallel dimension,
same old, same space

the present is the past,
we are just building on
top of the same old
so one day are children
can be told

“to live by our morals
and to never fear
but embrace
the same old, same old.







Commune

I stole a town once
in Norway
between a hill and two mountains.

I invited all my friends.
We ruled like the old Christian’s.
The gap we had between us,
the townfolk and my friends
were citizenship and city planning.
They lived there while we made living possible.

The town would hold thousands at a time
but we didn’t put our safety in citadels.
The need for swords and jesters has passed.

Even though my friends were the politicians
we supported the peasants and made them sacred.
They were all the pebbles to our own path.

But we noticed the Cistercians wouldn’t partake in our city.
We made it to the end
strong, safe and peaceful
and look at those black robed monks
still studying us like we were the
robbers still reigning evil.













Cities

These
Faces
Constantly Growing
Flesh still fresh,
Out of place, from Nowhere,
Pushing Sapling Seedlings till they pass finally.
Buildings forced into troubling. Strikes, Riots that never look
Quite right without faces,
Windows that could reflect, holding onto numerous obituaries.
Referencing the deaths of socio-families,
Bones still cold.
Old
Cities.













Drunken Debris

[Scattered, no moment to soon but,
they seem to be forgotten after the end.]

The bricks layered before the blue prints were started.
Locks bought at truck stops,
doors made from cardboard found in the salvage.
My new apartment looks to be recycled.

Just moved in; first questions:
How did the past tenants break so many tiles and
leave behind there multitude of precious pubes.
And what is that on the wall?

Insects started me, the deck didn't pass safety code
but I sat on it for a month.
Everything that comes with living on your own,
those green dreams, were crushed with drunken debris.

But maybe I can improve my luck.
Get my parents to call the landlord and complain.
Throw away my belongings that were maliciously infected
by bed bugs.  And each time I killed one they would leave
behind my blood/red stains like polka dots.

Give it all back for good will and a physics smile so
I can spread the bad evenly, passing the fragments onto
defenseless strangers.

Soon the whole city, Chicago, was known for it's epidemic of
blood transmitted diseases because each artifact was stained with red.
Everything sold under clearance, even the people, marked with
red dots of impurity. 






Education

same old, same old
I was told, that everyday
is the same old thing,
and everything mimicked the old,

same old, still cold,
chemistry teacher told me
no such thing but
obviously he’s never been outside.

same old, still old,
life references itself,
the only reason we can
fathom these possibilities,
is because it’s the
same old, same old

I was told, dialogue
can never be bold,
it’s just there, drifting
like the same old, same old

it’s like life is perforate
and is in a fold,
same story, same morning,

the present is the past,
we are just building the
same old, same old,
so one day are child can be told
to live by our morals
and to never fear;
embrace
the same old,
same old.



Slope of Convenience

Its time to stray from our state of being
the monies worthless so start collecting them
putting them in plastic sleeves like collectible cards.
If the Internet crashed we wouldn’t know where to go,
to hide when we worked to escape into anonymity,
because when we our by ourselves,
we wish to be seen, noticed. 
Information spread thinly, easily accessible but only for it’s trivia. 
Knowledge is not power, it’s just structures you can’t forget.
but we can still text right?
Instant gratification for friendship, the lust of social activity
right here, right now.
Not like mail where thought is implied but texts are so short, bitterless.
We are funny and surrounded by endless amounts of mediums,
so inspired, ingrained, by pop culture, “I didn’t even know I was referencing that!”
But, no, the towers were bombed, the systems are down. 
We need these to survive!  No we don’t,
guilting our uncertainty on living, if people say I need this I must because
I’m a person too.  How would I know if I needed this to survive, when have we ever had to?
The flood has stared and we are drowning.
Living isn’t supposed to be fantasy, a world that reflects similarly but it fits better,
feels more familiar or I want it to be more familiar
because outside, it’s considerably scare,
abrasively serious, triumphantly tragic every day.
Which to live in?
Positive reinforcement and dragging behind the societal norms  where we choose our own path because it’s a desert of information and connections.
Or the opposite, we struggle, no bodies equal, but it’s necessity,
where we can touch the tangible but our hands could be cut off.  And how would we type?
Ignorance is easy, right?.  It’s why we go to work.  Capitalism wants us to stay as far away from simplicity.  And our fears put a bubble around any life we can squeeze onto. 
We fear change because we never had to.  We take pride in supporting this veiled infrastructure.  We don't care who is controlling it because questions tend to slip on the slope of convenience.


Lentil Mud Rake

Fishpond Engineering, practical and simple
I was wondering if, soon, neuroscientists
will announce the large rake.

Seeds were merely thrown upon,
set them aside to cool,
a compendium of human knowledge.

Long term survival,
reduce access to forage,
and hand your wedding band back.

I could barely lift my sneakers,
and have combed her nearly every day,
dead growth, stray leaves, twigs and winter debris.

Idyllic beauty coexist,
authorities said they found two more victims,
he works with it in a dream.



















Roads

The stirring of the streets, as
we dive from changing lights
our hands are in each others pocket
trying pathetically to achieve.

we dive from changing lights
finding a moment between spectrums
trying pathetically to achieve so
these floating thoughts can explode.

Finding a moment between spectrums
is impossible in our existence.
These floating thoughts can explode
but time can bury them.

Impossible in our existence is
trying to find out why we live.
Time can bury them,
the lives we wanted to surface.

Trying to find out why we live while
our hands are in each others pockets
The lives we wanted to surface
through the stirring of the streets.














Puzzle

The objective is simple;
Wiggling free of despair.

Open the treasure box,
the key is that way.

































Milk

I forgot to pick up 1% milk,
slipping my mind while pacing past Walgreens.
Remembering when it was to late,
I was on the blue.

My wife gave me a clue earlier,
breakfast, cereal.
Now I am a fuck up instead of a hero.

She’s going to yell, I should tell
her but maybe she has forgotten.
It is dark outside, exterior passes over
interior motive. 

Walking home, no corner stores
just high rise hospitals.  Get home,
lock the door, turn off the lights,
glass of water for bed, brush teeth,
do anything that will help ease the screams.

Take off clothes on the other side
of my bedroom’s wall, enter, greetings,
were both naked, I take comfort on the bed.

She asks if I got the milk, No, she says okay.
Good night, I love you.

Morning, she is going to blow today.  I get up
and walk out to the kitchen. Smell steak and eggs.
She’s holding a knife.  Tells me to sit.

And eat.






Memory; to Salvage a Shadow.

    Levinas opens his discussion of art with a subtitle “Art and Criticism” and does this throughout Reality and Its Shadow.  He is putting his argument, or his thought would you, into genres.  He does it twice (the other being when he breaks his conclusion to this essay with Philosophical Criticism) when not referring to what he is musing about.  Usually genres are used to categorize art and can help in grounding’s ones work with the general masses. 
    He states that the function of art is expression and that it rests on cognition.  To do art is for it to rest on the artist knowing what he is doing.  This comes from technique, education, and even time.  He says artwork is ineffable because the artists says it is.  Either Levinas didn’t hang around the art crowds or, during the late 40’s, a micro switch occurred in the art community that didn’t escape and progress the art world.  Art is supposed to be criticized. If only viewed through the senses that the art implies on you and not thought upon, then the audience doesn’t not come an artist but just a spectator.  But in the regards of ineffable, if the work is so then it must be placed above reality since reality is spoken about, broken down to be understood.  Art, in Levinas opinion, is like a cloud above us.  Except we know that there our different clouds, clouds can help predict weather forecast, clouds can also block the sun’s light. 
    When art is finished, or completed, Levinas says that it “remains essentially disengaged.”  It is emotionally detached.  The clear way to read this sentence would be to determine that art can’t have emotions, or reflection, since it is only an object and is essentially work.  When such work is finished, it is in a state of purity or saturation.  The art is refusing anymore work like an oil vein runs dry or when a war doesn’t have enough man power to strike victory.  But this is when the artwork takes on a form of a personality.  We have not condemned the artist for lacking skill and foresight but we are giving the art it’s metaphorical wings.  Note that I say we, since we are all in common agreement.  When we witness art we tend to always assume that what we are hearing, watching and reading are finished products.  Is not this a delusion that needs to be reevaluated since such things are never stated.  Levinas holds art in time, “interstices”, but is art understood only in the present and when we shift, generational or larger, are we removing our self farther from the art?  But I disagree with this, art might have been misunderstood or even art can change conception through the audience.  Just because a cloud is a cloud doesn’t mean it can’t represent, symbolically, something much more different.  Children point up at the sky and use their imagination, teenagers count the clouds passing by and adults use them to plan their day. 
    Then Levinas changes his function of art into a question.  “Does not the function of art lie in not understanding?”  As if art is supposed to be a metaphysical ideology and be put in brackets to quickly categorize and to be filed like a genre.  Levinas says if this is true then “art does not know a particular type of reality; it contrasts with knowledge.”  Since art does not deal within our reality or even our universe then it goes against our conception of it.  He says it the event of art obscuring us from the real, it becomes “an invasion of shadow.”  It don’t not only replicate our reality but becomes an adaptation of it.  Since it is an invasion or becomes harmful upon entry, then art must not only be a duplicity of our reality but a coercision of our reality.  We view our shadow as not only above us but as ours as well.  Levinas says art can not reveal or exist on the plane of creation since it is a shadow, it’s stuck in not only a moment but is a direct imitation of another.  There are many clouds, no one could put an amount to how many clouds have thoroughly been involved in our atmosphere.  A numerical value wouldn’t matter but is the cloud ever the same?  Are we ever dealing with direct copies of anything, can a shadow or a cloud form a shape of something that is not?  Is that not it’s allure.  Isn’t it the same for a work of art.  Not that it is only an imitation of our reality but how the audience relates to the imitation. 
    Levinas states that “The most elementary procedure of art consists in substituting for the object its image.  Its image, and not its concept.”  We hold it dear to us, the concept doesn’t always stick, the image that is memorable and its a checkpoint.  Even if it is not memorable we still say “I think of heard of that, or have seen that. This is because thoughts seem to drift and a thought or even a theory tends to slide away, because of our negligence, and even change because we have.  But an image has entered into us, not processed like any thought.  “An image marks a hold over us” is correct but we are the ones that hold the image.  The image can and will easily change one’s life.  A cloud is so simple, elegant in it’s predictability but a cloud can simply cause a drought or a famine.  The cloud contains power we haven’t granted it, we have lost our “freedom” because we still need to survive first. 
    Must we come upon a new delusion, one that places us on top because we hold the definition of it, which would be an area free of fear.  If an artist “harkens to a muse” then we are giving the art another set of wings.  We are saying that art is the byproduct of a god.  The reason is because no artist can induce a community, hold reflections over thoughts, act as a cloud and a piece of equipment.  If we are completely “absorbed” into art, spending our time on it; working, are we not using it as equipment?  Do we not put away the equipment and come upon it at a later date like any shovel, lawn mower, or even binoculars?  We have an exteriority of the inward because we need to let our thoughts known, whatever might be in us.  Art gives us power to express our inner.  In this regard, it gives us the freedom to it.  Without art, the casting of the shadow of ourselves and what we think is real, we wouldn’t be able to view things in genres, and vary our perspective to view art as ourselves or as some occasionally do, view art as the artist. 
    We tend to associate reality with not only what we experience in it.  Not only is art held in this but also work, friends, school.  Things we could possibly never escape.  Levinas says “What is today called being-in-the world is an existence with concepts.”  We have structures to follow such as laws.  In our reality we have a level of professionalism.  There are grammar mistakes, business attire, and fallacies.  Not only do we follow concepts but we stick behind them like a drill Sergeant.  We never leave the shadow already cast over us and it’s growing.  If “sensibility” is only realized by the “imagination” or the act of imitation.  With this notion, nothing is then truly inspired or creatively unique and neither can our emotions be. But then he comes back to an object.  He calls a “represented object” a “non-object” because it simple wants to be “an image.”  It disembodies our reality because art strives to be it.  If art wasn’t trying to be our reality, if an artist isn’t truly trying to represent what we know through their perception, then art would not hold a relationship with its audience.   If a person views a cloud in one area and sees a dog and another views the same exact cloud in a new area but sees anything but a dog, is it not the same cloud.  Are clouds the same as they were 100 years ago or do they just look the same?
    An object is an image because of it’s “resemblance.”  It not only becomes the image but it also becomes a “symbol, a sign,” and a word.  A thing becomes something when it not only looks like what it is supposed to be but is actually it.  Levina’s refers to it as a shadow or the resemblance of a shadow to its object.  It’s a mask to the truth.  It elongates and doesn’t correctly portray the object.  But it becomes accepted because it truly is the image of the object, it is not it directly but it is it a representation of it.  Truth and image are simultaneous because they are shadows of one another.  We can not tell the difference because they both represent the positive and negative of truth, of an image and an object.  We are “being” because we are looking out for our better interests.  We can fuse the two ideas not because they both are truths but because they are relatable to a degree of purity and the audience has acknowledged this.  We don’t view art like a cloud, it’s not just an image or our imagination, it must hold a deeper secret.  What is the intent?  What is the concept?  Art is always the image but the audience makes the work strive to something it can be. 
    But “Art then lets go of the prey for the shadow.”  We tend to flock around art, go out and see movies, listen to music in our car not to be relatable, not to think but to escape.  It is so close, the adaptation so pure, that it must be a better place to be.  Levinas says “to appreciate a novel and a picture is to no longer have to conceive.  We don’t need to be intellectual, to grasp the inner workings of ourselves because we can escape into the shadow.  We can turn on the things we were taught, the education we received because we have the power and the freedom to end up in escapism.  An artist will want to make his atmosphere so “lucid”, transparent, that one things he is in the world he is reading.  The words become a place to go into because our mind can interpret them.  They use not only the words on the page but the layers of shadows built up, previously, to absorb such a sensibility.  Not only does the art give us the power to escape but we give us the freedom to obtain the relatable.  A cloud will only be a cloud if we give it the right to be.  It is still there as nothing until we see ourselves in it.  We could never be in a cloud but we have the obscure knowledge of what it might feel like. 



















Plato's Dilemma

    Before one begins to discuss Plato's theory on art, one must analyze what Plato is doing in his piece The Republic.  The Republic is a Socratic dialogue between Socrates and Plato's two brothers Glaucon and Adeimantus.  Socrates begins his criticism of art by talking about community.  Necessarily, he talks about how mankind needs each other to survive.  But not only surviving, actually how to survive the longest.  Once we cover our necessities which are food, shelter, clothes, shoe maker and a doctor, Socrates then worries about specialization of these skills.  A farmer should only farm and by saying this he actually means that these citizens should provide because if everyone provides as much as they can then, the city would be thriving.   If a city is thriving it would have to grow and actually battle for limited resources such as land and if we must battle and protect, we must then train protectors.  This is where the first mentions of art such as fine art comes into the conversation and where I think Plato is implicitly making ironic claims on the wants of a city.  Socrates is just building a cities structure based off of our history; general knowledge.  With him doing this, he is a causing a false dilemma.  The world which Socrates is calling for has to represent history and also be perfect.  This is the place Socrates is trying to find answers, in a place that is a utopia.  In Greek, Utopia is actually derived from no place.  I think this is Plato obviously showing humor in his piece and not trying to be an argument for justice. 
    If we begin to tear Plato from Socrates, the character he has made in, we begin to see the huge differences between them.  Socrates views that there should hardly be any art besides for education.  If this was Plato's view on art and if he despised it then he would be a hypocrite.  Plato is writing this in a narrative form based on real people but in a fictional conversation.  In 376d9, Socrates says "falsehood has no good features" which easily contradicts himself.  If Plato was thinking that philosophy was the best and if he truly believed in what he was writing, then he wouldn't write this in the form that he has chosen.  But no, Plato is writing just to tell people what he thinks but by using the Socratic dialogue, which is a writing technique, he is implying that he is looking for an emotional response.  The argument for justice or a perfect place is only a heuristic theory and a one sided rant.  If Plato really thought this about art he wouldn’t have left the conversation strictly on Socrates even though Socrates continues to shoot down what Glaucon and Adeimantus have to say unless they are agreeing with him.  To me, by Plato showing one extreme with no juxtaposition to the other side, he is obviously be ironic and ironically saying that this is what art would do to someone.  If one did not either partake in crafting art or viewing art, the world would be destined to try to explore the perfect routes and problematically be stuck in a state of arrested development since we would only focus on logic without expanding into a world full of imitation.
    Plato is showing that their is two extremes in life or in other words, a duality in nature.  There is logic which pertains to philosophy and then there is emotions which stays with the artists.  But this duality goes farther out to what we associate the sides of the human brain to be.  The left side which puts things in knowledge and the right side which is the creative side.  Once we realize that Plato is setting up this duality we can actually understand that he isn’t criticizing art but actually trying to bring it into the world of education.  This is shown when Socrates begins to talk about educating our guardians.  Even though what Socrates is ultimately talking about censorship in the means to have the most adequate but desensitized army, Plato is actually giving credit to art and showing how necessary it is based on its power to motivate and disrupt human beings lives.  In 377b5, Socrates asks Adiemantus “Shall we carelessly allow our children to hear any old stories made up by anyone, then, and to take beliefs into their souls that are, for the most part, the opposite of the ones we think they should hold when they are grown up?”  This is not only an argument for censorship but also Socrates is exposing the magnitude of art in the human’s soul.  It’s not only motivational, a human uses art to get through life, but also inspirational as art begets art.  Plato is a believer in art and by showing us it has power on many layers, he is really getting to his most important part.  While he is showing us the disconnection between art, left side, and logic, right side, but while doing this he is opening up a debate that holds no absolute answers.  Plato is correctly showing his audience that there needs to be discourse between the two.  One should not favor one over the other but actually in response, openly talk about logic and art as a political opportunity.  I think that since Plato is willing to show the extremity of logic, he is actually making an open argument against philosophy. And by doing this, showing the separation of the two but also implicitly the unity of logic and creativity, Plato is opening up a discourse on both subjects.
    Even though my argument could be taken with a grain of salt, I am just trying to implicitly find out what Plato is saying through his characters, his story, and his techniques.  One could never know what the author is trying to say unless he gave his own personal account for such a story.  There are plenty of different directions Plato could of possibly went with “The Republic.”  One I was convinced by was his jealousy of art. Art, or the right side of the brain, in society has been prided over more then thought.  Plato needed to carve out a spot exclusively for philosophy and the best way to do that is to attack the most popular.  But I do not think Plato would make an argument to provide a solution.  His intentions with The Republic wasn’t to create a perfect place because he would not have showed us that the humans that need to exist in such a place would have to be so desensitized, emotionless and only worry about their specialization.  Another could actually show disdain for Socrates and his ways of logic which would be actually throwing philosophy under the fire.  Socrates uses a very one sided, heuristic approach to trying to find an unsolvable question.  Rather a rhetorical question such as justice.  While trying to explain it he goes off on levels of separation to try to eventually go full circle but what that really does is loses the audience and people just tend to agree with the person who is doing the most talking.  Even though I do believe that he is showing this by the extreme brevity of The Republic and all ten chapters but I feel like their isn’t enough evidence for this.  Since Socrates stays Socrates the whole time and never breaks character to even poke fun at himself, I must think that Plato is trying to write this as close as fiction can come to non-fiction.
    Discourse leads to education because it is an open debate, a conversation, like Socrates has with Plato’s brothers.  It is not as deadly as war because it is just your present thought not necessarily against anyone else’s but held in the same arena as the next.  While opening up a discourse between the two sides of the brain, Plato is showing how education can be attained through critical thinking and being able to let your opinions be known in The Republic or a public domain.