Why is something that is an annoyance a “pet-peeve?” When I think about the word pet, I actively, lovingly touch fur or watch my cat (my pet) do miraculous things. Peeve is peevish with agitated reactions or just a complexity for a constant state of being in a realm of annoyance, meaning agitated. It feels like a collapse of two extremes of unrelated emotions, since I never want to pet my peeve. Especially when it is isolated with a dash in between, I kind of just want to either ignore its buzz or just whack it like I would a fly. “Pet-peeve” is an idiosyncratic, neurotic, passive aggressive want of attempting control of something that cannot be controlled. Even as dense as a Germanic language, English still ends up being as stupid as its formulaic gratification of being right, better than… The compounding of two unrelated meanings that are juxtaposed, and are separated by a simple dash, or without, suggests, randomness, a coinage that survived the stage of gossip in a pre-existing internet world, these words that historically symbolizes some kind of “this occurrence” of bringing together a verb/noun with another verb/noun, “pet-peeve,” a reactionary attack to I dunno and I kind of don’t give a fuck on its etymological existence of how it became established from possibly being slang to accepted usage. All I need is a door with a knob to turn open, a physical door, maybe even a window to crash parachute on concrete face down, to separate myself from whatever it is that annoys me.
*** This title makes no sense. But whatever!
The esteemed regard
estimated in a held possession
of precious numbers…
Stifled in its infinity
a box, stilled, contained
with desired importance
so cherished in great value
Fire spooked my desires
balked flames of wilderness
Dream into a flame
that fleets towards an edge
that shivers strong in the wind
the desert’s dry wind
Ready to mean
Ready red feathered herring?
Since I’m not a magician
I’m not going to rob you with illusions
alluding to what miraculously went missing.
Since I’m not a magician
there’s no glittered confetti
at the end of each act
since time lacked any patience
to steal your heart or mind away
you might want to depend
on all the comparisons
you were told would
make you subjectively better
and then call it FACT!
In the perpetual hum for purposeful sound
in the perpetual sight of recurring triggers
in the cerebral cortex where it all begins
rest, and arise in distortion, I’ve located
the injury that can never heal, and has now
grown into a germ, a seed that multiplies
that yawns at its clones, admiring its progress
reverberating proof for its recurrence.
Disguised as neurons, spreading its message
holding the nervous system hostage, it clings
to the mind and develops a language, its own
trapping the heart of memory, its function is to
inhabit, to encumber, to ill assess. I’ve discovered
when it became The… It occurred simultaneously
with the struggle for words to dissect the point of
these proofs, but my discovery was too late, The…
created its very own elaborate function, a syntax.
They tell me there’s still some purpose for its existence
an invisible membrane, which when made aware
acquires a self conscious bruise: a quick kill for a study
of overreaching steps, spent too much in a cocoon for self analysis
falsehoods for comparisons, error messages prompting no end
never having a place, a cause as faceless as an unknown not.
And like the study of broken, it still makes a whole.
so touch, gulp, then grab onto anything
anything keeping you still alive. With this point
reach for something else other than infinity
my fingers cross as we begin to drown for branches
they grow old reaching parallel but never touching.
Oh I hear
I can’t wait
Knowing isn’t implied
it is a false comfort, for
a quality achieved
an enlighten thought
that only reveals
a place that you
arisen to accompany
a place that
change does not come in the form of a dollar…
Oh, to be covered in your form
would mean more than actuality
understanding, because presence
requires the involvement
of a better world…
I was the last to recognize the rain
to hear its trepidation, gently at first
on rooftops; distinctively you can hear
its harbinger, a forceful few drops
splashing the likes of endeavours away
leaving remnants of lost desires:
fallen leaves, wet guttering leaves
ruminating over the first time you dealt with
the hours, the seconds that behest hope.
Like no one else has dealt with pain
you tell yourself yet again another lie:
I won’t care so much, care so much
I’m a new person
cold and unforgiving.
a torn form
it isn’t full
a nightly fixed
as blood clusters
full of signalling(s)
of not much
but awkwardly offers
another encouraging, a beggar…
I’m not a robot nor secret agent
manufactured and trained in a factory
of compartmentalized parts: none and feeling
as this will interfere with my true joy
when and if I do experience the purpose
of this fleeting exercise of being happy
there won’t be any need for giggles
as a solid laugh will be more evident
of nothing and everything…
The cling of residue is not as listening to the end of rain… It is more like a dangerous virus indulging in its wasteful raillery, or letting itself kill you. Yes, this is my poor excuse for feeding a discomfort of a terrible year which ended in even more grief for my graveyard.
It is incredibly difficult to find footing on any land, when even believed concrete pavements can quickly become invisible… And all that is left is a chase to keep as much physical form, ground, so you can still at least walk. This is what I attempted in last month’s broadcast of Washington Heights Free Radio’s (WHFR) Broad Strokes hour with Calypso Sally. My attempts failed immensely…
Even though I spinned a lot of deeply felt tunes, and I like the mix I eventually came up with, my commentary was fucked up. So as an apology, my redemption to WHFR and my likely listeners, I am going to re-play the tunes from last month’s broadcast. No commentary next Wednesday, February 27. Indulgence necessary!
far more pronounced than the darkness for heads of states
as their only purpose is to feed on what is left missing
what is ignited, as in a promise, or what vanquish as
the ideas of a contender, even as we are still prisoners.
So restricted to a mode of black or white
that the existence of surprises are still
unfathomable, anomalies of miracle
is a thought for the pursuit and praise of gratitude
in whichever remedy of victory, glory:
a sport of claim for whomever finds it first…
I’m tired of saying thank you to people when their ideas of living works solely for them, and not for others. It worked for you, and I’m thankful that it did, but maybe those principles are not going to work for me? Just maybe, our experiences in this world are such that they are so unique that even your schematic method wouldn’t work for me (I mean I am unique, and far from mass production right?)? Did you think about that? Did you think that maybe there are other variables involved? And to follow a particular technique, path, and or principles and glorify them are just another mode of destruction, another source of alienation from others? I understand the need for structure, but maybe the idea of “structure” is far different for each and every individual?
I was forwarded a link to Brain Picking Weekly, and one of the articles listed was Anton Chekhov on the 8 Qualities of Cultured People. Not only did I have a problem with the word “cultured” (we’ll get to that later), but the number eight being suggested as a be all and end all, (I dunno, I think I would come up with qualities for each year that I’ve survived living, but that’s just my opinion), also I’m not a white (possibly straight) Russian man with a poor perspective of the current state of life in MOSCOW, 1886.
I’m currently living in 2013, and clearly none of these social and personal modifications suggested as qualities have changed the world in a positive way. If anything they have perpetuated separation, elitism, and shame. The very idea of being labeled “cultured” by the means of a certain palate of establishment, suggests a separation. The very word itself elicit classism, a degree of hate that augments the idea of inferiority, when most of our precious ideas are very subjectively spawned, and angst by others. And never-mind the history surrounding “being cultured.” How about we talk about that first, the chronological idea of culture and what that means before adopting principles of a dude in 1886 Moscow!
please, as your
slow and painstaking
walk to nothingness
isn’t an awakening
at all, at all, at all
you’re of a cyclical
a pattern of recycled
swarms, a cluster of dust
trying to out filter the
gravity of self-worth
How can you have “common sense” when the introduction to your indoctrination probably differs from so many…? Maybe the question is what is “common sense”? Should you dissect each word into syllables of variable circumstances, as to discover what is meant? Maybe a Venn Diagram would be useful, as to pin-point where common sense is truly exhibited in all human occasions of which that validates worth: labor, money, intellectual bullshit…
If you consider the consequence
of a loner’s heart, an irrationality
beats full of irreverence to relativity
to spatial dynamism.
Wanting a ruinous rain
to rid these cursed thoughts…
If you consider these
then they will appear
when you believe you
need them the most
and hope will transcend
into belief of the undoing
trust won’t be an instinctive
feat of the mind crawling out of body.