but the characters leave like chemicals, elsewhere to

congregate with the brown clowns and homosexuals who

call themselves the great creators, but we can all see how

that functions, hence the piles of ruins and gibberish. It’s the opposite

of civilization. Lubrication flows freely but only in the ruins

themselves for that’s how it works, and then they cry about how lonely they are

because they have nothing else to connect with but decadence and disease.

Birth rates they spiral downward like everything else. What can be expected from ruins,

replacements and poisons for food. Dispersals. Wanderings. Snake oils. The gypsies were more honest, it turns out.

The whistle blows, and the water ejaculates as the kettle was overfilled. No one and

nothing was harmed as it’s all inhuman, and how did that word get to be such a pejorative, for their is spirit in all things. This where true genius comes from,

not the caffeine itself. But it just sits, and doesn’t sink in.

It’s not like humans can create geniuses themselves. They are simply born to be stifled and eradicated. Choked. And quickly. Gagged. Buried, while excluded from even the landfills where they might be chanced across.

I can no longer see, as the sunlight shines too brightly on my monitor, at least it’s natural. There is nothing that can be done. So this is where the poem ends. Unseen, as if it never started.

Around twenty five years ago I read some essays of Dante’s and in it he defined free will essentially as being free to submit to God’s will. It changed my perspectives on some things, having only been familiar prior to that with the more popular definition of free will, I realized that somehow that was not at all what that band Rush was gushing all about in that song of theirs, nor any of their others. Though I wouldn’t go so far as to say that they were a particularly satanic band, but cases can certainly be made for it. Speaking of ..

There’s also the small matter of Satan being described as the “accuser of our brothers” who accuses believers before God “day and night”. This is as apt a description as one can make, as true as Christ is King. Although there was a time when it was lost on me that this also describes Protestantism, in a nutshell, to a T. But forever no more. I mean, it’s right in the name, after all. (no hate.) Tying this in with what I said above, I’ll always have a love for RC Sproul and his writings, his Chosen By God I found especially insightful. I appreciate some of the old Quaker writings now and then too, in modernized English or not. It all puts me in a state where I could be a king, dear, uncrowned; humble or poor, rich or renowned. Sorry, singing along with Dean for a moment again here. I won’t stop before I’ve grown accustomed to your face, people stop and stare, it’s so hard to bear. Or is it bare? I think it’s bear. I’ll add here that the approaching strings in It’s The Talk Of The Town get me every time, they complement his voice so supremely, and they sure don’t make’em like this anymore, so to speak. Not that Rush were a bad band, they had some good songs, a few great ones even, but they didn’t age so well. Not like this. Incomparable. Reading Peter Wohlleben’s Secret Life book when it came out made me realize that Rush’s song about trees didn’t age all that well either, right up there with Dylan’s The Hurricane.

So much of this world, the humanity portions of it anyways, is all so sketchy. It’s a rare man that’ll age like sharks, I mean there’s Hemingway, Ellul, and most of the rat pack. Leonardo, Bach. Maybe Dali. Tesla, but not Musk. The latter is a moneyed man which gives him access to people who are far smarter than he is, while fluffing himself up on their works, and in some ways I get why people find him to be so relatable. Forty some years later and rap is still a fad. Russell Simmons is still a household name but who the hell remembers Lyor Cohen? Chest beating and all. Gertrude Stein, she was more of a Monkee, I’d say, but we can love monkeys for what they are, too. They may not be a part of evolution, but they are a part of the intelligent design.

In my brief time on Substack here, I can’t say it’s all that impressive. Cheap and easy, sure. Probably not for me, so not sure if I’ll stay or mirror the posted content so far on a better pasture, once one is found. If this site gets any visibility(I mean, above zero and showing in Google search), I’ll stay, but from what I’ve seen it doesn’t seem to have much options or chances at that without a preceding online presence, which I don’t have as I’ve long loathed social media, so … the last time I had a blog/journal or anything like it being published was on Google’s Blogger, I think it’s been over 25 ago years now. I may go poke at that, as I see it’s still around.

I was going to comment on the difference between vacations and vacatings, but I suppose I’ll save it for another time. I guess one we’re expected to come back from, and the other we just eff off regardless. Not sure how much more additionally needs to be said other than that, really.

update: after further perusals, Medium looks like a far better option than Blogger, that’s probably where I’ll end up.

poison and pathology, a fix for no one.

Any kite will soar, but only if someone will hold onto it.

It’s rare for them to take off on their own, and they don’t go too very far,

when they do - wrecks, often tangled. It leaves peoples interiors disturbed.

Laws of nature and its order forever being what they are; no one truly escapes their designated home.

Post poem, it occurs to me that there is no further beauty to be had from humans, only rehashings of prior ages, simulations. This is due to technology and dysgenics - some would call it entropy or some such, but it’s not that, as we’re no longer driving the machines or tools. As a collective and as individuals both we haven’t been driving our own vehicles for some time now, thanks to the likes of Edward Bernays. Human innovation has petered out, intentionally smothered like hope. Tesla is kind of exemplary of this (no hate). There will never be another Coltrane or Sonny Rollins either. Nor Miles or Chet. It’s never been lost on me that all of the jazz greats were junkies, so it’s not so much the excess and traditional vices that does people in. More the loss of connection, with natural order especially. An abundance of absence, in its stead. Don’t know if this really counts as philosophy, but there you go.

I’ll mention the Taylor Swift wedding here, on the off chance that it brings me a few more page views than the standard 0. Yes, it’s an arranged marriage, but most marriages in the upper echelons of the upper classes are fake and arranged. You get what you pay for, which is basically an empty nothing but it looks good on the shelf for awhile. As much as I dislike auto-tune, it is so very fitting and exemplary of our societies these days. Sharing the bedroom windowsill with the maranta is a pink panther, a king on his cross, and a few plastic succulents which look normal and colorful for years round, presumably until they start to fade. Props kept as a display of normalcy, no cares needed. Occasional pests wandering or hopping around amongst them. Such is life.

The day’s sun continues to rise, and shall for a few more hours.

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