7/20/25
Upon the welkin on a ride, I become one of pulchritude’s eyes.
Yet I cannot spy clouds, the firmament’s blue, or white. Nor e’en gaze at the earth so boundless and alive till the sea which has no equal in this life. The love that I dared wrought mine, sleeps fine upon the shoulder which a lifetime built to harden ond soften per the age ond design. Blithe would be mine by this I could witness ond invite. Although instead I am left teary eyed looking upon a death that was nought mine nor any man’s except Him that in one imagination of a master did live once goneby afar ond agone fro’ I.
The final message of this fiction is deathless light, ‘nd I wonder what is my own fright before that power which dominates upon the hours? Death is inescapable, it is a certain vower so why should any live beneath its clangour? Such we that profit fro’ senses and vision above all bower, why doth we hurry to know the last petalfall of our flower?
We are e’ery each a bastard to the nuclear power, the result of death given new flame in these our modes to reveal for ourselves new throes. What are these pains we feel for each trite inconvenience, before the implosion of purest light to become a black star?
Ruin
Wroth
Rage
but to result solely just some wraith
We cannot teach, alone proclaim, seeking observations of the age, that one may result wiser than those alongside their race. The endline will be ignorance, ond nothing greater than what he was, at the beginning of his pace. The finish is nought the policies of reprobates that perchance benefit or neglect the mankind he utterly forsakes. It is that beyond which he could e’er weigh, or await.
For godhood we prithee, beg, and our very selves forsake, when at the continuous repetitious ends, we only humanity will daybreak.
Beauty e’er illusive and obvious, although our fate.
۱۴۰۴/۴/۳۰
7/13/25
Voices fro’ dreams as mares call aloud— so in the crowd where is mine to sound?
Radiance abounds, there is naught which could cease its rounds but darkness boundless ond alone the sole faster ond more powerful still than allights amount. It is not devilry, evil, or elseother scorned name to pronounce. For dark is nature’s nature till lords and forces began themselves to announce. With night is sublimity that cannot be found in the waking world that rules ann determines our fetters ‘n’ bounds. In silence that cannot exist but in the vacuum toward no man, beast, or creat’ e’er will rebound. In such solitude sought where perchance a dreamer could cross but no real body e’er happen upon. That a man’s heart may reach that place of nought where penetrates no murmur touched by neither whisper nor whiff of thought. Could one discover then that mind floating aloft which dared to break the particle that born the star?
In dreams fro’ which no effort may waken my soul but that desire to live another day below the constellations and the planets that are the last glow, in this e’erobscuring ond bleakening realm. It is fro’ these dreams that each palpitation quakes so that I may inhale again that most purest aid. Again, again, again, to find my way and breath dearest life with all its ponderous weights.
As you, I continue to wake until that instant to something else I must be fate. There is no despondence in my days except, the will of man which declaims create! Then I must ask to which reason shall I abate? Every form to which I could relate is the lesser to that I wish most to be asame. A fiction, a fixation, a fantasy, an imagining, a theory I aspire to formulate, a hypothesis, or merely a question that in its utterance can neither be answered or relate.
I am among men and not the creatures so content to live as organized. If I am reduced to or risen to madness would it be so petty ond pathetic, as so often in the raging ond the miserable I have viewed? Couldn’t I have a prophet or saint’s insanity, that I may weave such magic for others to witness Beauty so absolute?
Altho’ I am jealous sans end of any thing that can see more colours than I can. Or e’en those which’s eyes has real ond other vision I could ne’er hope to glance.
Nathless by this writhing envy I contain for the sight of mammals, reptiles, avians, insects, flora, ond fungi of alkind. Paramount I can declare myself the devout acolyte of Beauty, the master supreme ond rippling through alifes permutations ‘nd’ guise.
Trivial is my trite
Of words labyrinths I birl for what already fore’er is in your eye’s world.
۱۴۰۴/۴/۲۳
6/29/25
I ask for blind ignorance before the dawn,
before the colours that surge through the clouds and reign supreme above them still in hues profound, that’d the welkin refuse as it strives to be of one tincture proud. Yet to the magic of this eye e’en the sky is beholden to its curious prowl. As it gazes through heavens only to seek patterns, forms, ann shades abound.
Ond why to beg, that I be bewildered once more as the first time I was revealed the firmament’s ken? Why prithee to know fro’ naught the glory the sun wrecks?
—That that first instance of Beauty sensed, may be felt again.—
I have been in this history of my time lent, so dearsome blessed, as to have dreamed the instant that Poetry became my quest. Yet since the fantasy of a lonesome stag singing and bounding through glen, forest, tundra, desert, mountain, ond strand. Until the moment that I dove/that I road the hurricane of my own spirit breathing its wonders ‘nd’ depths. I recognize the very fetters of my yen.
Liberated by the art one pretends but asame to it solely set. It is not a suffering, a pain, or death. It is a life meant ond in the turn of form is proven that it was sent.
One’s eyes determines the world’s lengths 'n’ breadth. One alive will always reason that he is first, albeit althings tell him he is just the most recent rent.
So to wonder, muse, and invite what was the origin that brought Beauty to life? What was this infinite thing in timeless time that the God decided to itsself ignite? Ond hence to let all fly, or if it were built, why ann how so try, the work to hide?
You as I are the conclusion, the next in line, and that which will be passed by. A truth nought meant to spell doom instead to elucidate ann refocus upon this existence within here ‘n’ now we move.
Like the gravity of a star catching e’ery rock, ice cube, and shreds of other impossible parts that these may dance its one art. The Spider is not so unalike sitting upon its invisible tapestry that only in our sight maybe seen the glistening of dew on the knots reflecting the sunlight fro’ afar. Our sight is their brothers ne’er apart. Witness to the changes eternity unto infinity bears upon.
We are as the blackholes that capture the stars, for nothing escapes our ravenous sought and for this, how dearly we ard.
۱۴۰۴/۴/۹
6/22/2025
A hymn whispered in the very air turns as the sole comfort a friend could bear.
Some solitary beam in the night, waves its radiant stream, ond solus by it may I see. The endless cascade of untold droplets surging through the scene. Is my sight obscured by a fantasy, or the real dew that mine own body weens? Why do I believe that in my despondence The God seems to join me? Am I alone, or is it that through those thousand thousand instances beyond e’erything that is I'; I seek patterns so to comfort ond resolve my plights? Red blinks of ardence ‘n’ danger in my eye ond somewhere afar blue twinkles its calmness so to reach my mind. Yellow is sparce but alive demonstrating that in the distance others live their unknown lives. Orange fills the sight but it is nought the sun almighty blazing its incomprehensible bright. Measly those se’eralsome lights that pock the setting to give a frame amongst the night. Then returning to this one veritably ancient white, there are giant moths dancing themselves gaily unto to death to this, their new moon or sun.
We before Beauty settle upon new harbors that we may determine the course for the future we write. Seething at ourn fury, discomfort, ond inconvenience looking towards any small clue that garner for us some respite. I am a man born of this age and was welcomed by nothing less than e’ery fad technology that has unimpeded arised. Yet there is something so cruel ond benine that in my soul cries that perchance that ancient grandfather farmer, of neither renown nor might, that a serpent so simply ended his time, had a more wonderous if nought curious life. Or even that grandmother whose very name was nothing more than slave, till a paper granted her a name that I so late may read that a portion of the past regain. Or to learn two generals beared both my names and in long histories each other would have outright murdered if nought solus just maimed, now achance by blood in my heart be joined asame. Ond the result of so much more which cannot be dubbed, honored, nore e’en named. A person as any living creature is the art that results fro’ Beauty’s unceasing wrought.
Come now us to the crux, another focal point in our sign for that we grant the name history ond time. Yet, naught will last that isn’t one of The God’s very own arts. We may despair and suffer a million ne’er predicted hardships ond odds. Yet there is no evil which fore’er can wrong. For pain as sin is equal in their spawn. An instant that is decided upon without conscious uur thought.
I wish, that mine own words I could adore, and discover in them the peace that would quell this rage that cannot desist in either its cry or fight. Nathless, I am reminded still of one truth, which ne’er our hunger, sickness, pangs, pain or anger may refute. That beyond e’ery horror, terror, or abuse , It continues.
We’re not inheritors of any absolute, simply the form changing
as all the cosmos too.
۱۴۰۴/۴/۲
6/14/2025
Yet another conflagration wraths its tremors through the world.
Howe’er such is Beauty’s worth, its whole deference dedicated e’en still to a greater work. As falling stars across the heavens clash to birth the smallest novas that prove such dastardly pains and hurt. Still the butterfly sits upon its bough’s perch. Seeking to spy the next flower so to carry its love unto another that in the boundless rounds perchance more florets may sprout. The frog among the jungle’s foliage and dirt. Leaps its way surrounded by its kin seeking morsels upon which to feast and make their colours brilliant still, than those, they were gifted in their birth. The animals wander still the vast stretches of their hearth, which is nothing less than this entire world. The green serpent slithers through the tree seeming another of the swaying leaves. The millipede lugs its thousand through the rainforest’s deep, hidden in the black, and who knows whereso it speeds? Miniature monkeys lunge from tree to tree, hoping to find bugs or fruit that their offspring may continue to healthily ween. A caravan of camels lead themselves to an oasis that deeply they may drink. A herd of elephants stomp their way through the road that for ages they trod before e’en man upset their lot. The bear awaits the perfect instant as the multitude of fish surge through the stream in their yearly riverrun. A tapestry hangs in the forest and its maker has no equal among mankind. Patient it awaits without avarice or lust, that who may be caught sole her art may promise ond prompt. Already it is riddled of the stories of those that she wrought but still, she seeks a grander art as one another more now is caught. The clouds, those merciless, those indifferent, those innocent, continue to bound ond across the planet to jet around. A single greatbird flies o’erhead glaring as it soars so proud. Under its shadow mayhaps its a simurgh, an Anqa , a fænix, the very roc. But its target isn’t time, destiny, or following gods’ call, it is the songbird or the pigeon before my vista that sits cleaning its feathers or dances with its togethers. It seems, as sole a man could discern, some rhythm persists fro’ the infinitesimal to the infinite.
Our disasters are Beauty’s opportunities. Where this creature makes a mess, Beauty works its best. As the succession that wroughts itself byn a paltry flame that burns throughout the entire woodlands shade. So is our lot as we bring about horror ond devastation that we conjure without shame, ond fix believing there is no panacai. Yet let man for an instant wane and Beauty is without pace.
So many greats predict ond blame a lack of love, albeit love can also let itsself demonstrate in the most tremendous acts of rage. Nothing in humanity’s nature is a thing sole to blame. Nought his ignorance, arrogance, sins, debasement, animalistic qualities, his virtues defaced, or e’en a turning of his positive base.
The conflagration is the dragon, the asura, the daeva, the oni, the djinn, the ghoul, or the ghast. The bewitchment, the ensorcelling, the enthralling, the deception ond trick, is your indifference, your antipathy, your will that wills itsself so slavishly. Conflict is a work besides Beauty a natural occurrence that must insist that Beauty may continually persist its writ.
Yet this that occurs is Ugliness, the only true enemy. Nought that, you feel for shit, sickness, or dirtiness. Something else dividing the pure esse of THIS IS IT. God(s) you predict is the cause of each terror or quip, but such being(s)is too far beyond this. This is Man and Man’s ambition in the stories that to himsself he fibbed that brought about this. Either the story is set or it isn’t. Truly nothing is an incident as it is a result of a myriad of prior instants.
Thus hwæt to derive from this prattle ond preach. That we beasts must rebound to act in accordance with that very thing that brought about our vision, our be. Beauty is relentless, ond sans cease, we as all creats are its means ond treat. It is nought some enigmatic force that works between. It is the heart you live, see, feel, ond breath. The instinct that tells you our lives tread the wrong course and must be freed.
Evil ond Ugliness cowers trying to convince you that what is ugly, mediocre, horrid, despondent, deplorable, or temporal must be vaunted, cherished, and vaingloried
Yet Beauty needs no words to sing, and say those monsters must be diminished ond ceased. It holds them to the rays ond gleam and as they shrink, persists to gloriously sing.
As you, that have fallen atrap to these. ”What could you have been?”
۱۴۰۴/۳/۲۴
6/9/2025
Hwy does man await the end, hwæt spell is this that the finish becomes his world?
Ash ond sand spin in the air as the wind turns apace. Two dogs play before a lake, each other they chase, merrymaking till asudden they rage, but then again so soon pacified as if not one tooth was flashed a second away, now they jovial race. A skeleton of a bull is withering to naught as those blessed black birds congregate to feast, and past the oncoming rain, to pray. They seem putrid ond vicious as they rip into the carcass the sun baked. Yet they art nothing less than the most holy vagamonds, wandering the long stretches of sky, time, and dawn. That one on its gladsome way may pass on through its dusk, so they may come and spread on the matter and esse of that thing gone. The cracks in the clay mend, the grass as always feels its own confident stretch, the foxes lunge beneath bushes, as rabbits do to their hovels. Pumas hide beneath outcrops or if lucky in their cavern sought. Birds seek out their roosts, the dogs head for their master’s saferooms. The man as the woman asame runs to his shelter built or bought. The cascade bears, the thunder sings, and the lightnings dances to the gods’ tunes. All passes and it would seem e’en in autumn that spring is due.
A cheery memory is nought far off, of wandering tangled through bush, bramble, thorn, field, and ri’erside to find nothing more than open firmament past e’erything that the forest tried to hide. Of a boar mother or don, locked, and the mass and power at once pronounced itsself evident at each grunt and swinging struggle of this hog. It was dirty, furious, ond strong but althewhile there was nothing lacking from this daughter or son. Encircled by predators ann foes and inconceivably enclosed it still lives truth. Ready to face, fight, and if the need kill us if it feels soo bold plus. Yet it sprinted as the gate loosed. We the joyous only to have met been in his view as his in ours too.
This fixation, obsession, ond inescapable frustration. Praying, hoping, fiending, craving, raving for determination. How plentiful the tales we offer across the span ond lands of man, of promised saviours, coming villans, desired or abhorred environs, ond resolutions paradisical, miserable, e’en unclassed. Throughout the long strand of man’s achievements and balderdash how many conceptions has he imagined of how it all should turn out. Some wish one named conqueror to come about as another a figure of pure fiction to revive and horrors rout. Anothers desire a peacemaker to return and solve each doubt, others simply that a new time’s herald resound his shout. Yet what inherent arrogance is ours to wrangle with and bout.
Look to no conclusion, nought e’en that one, that now you are step-by-step choosing. When It swings and dances Its glee to embrace thee. That occurred as was envisioned by neither mind nor decision. As so you, so the other, and the ne’erperishing more. We can concocts a billion blames for the master we write ond ponder, but Beauty The God is beyond e’en all that we can muster to conjure. Consider ourselves victims or the oppos to that which made the very wonder. Futile It is inevitably ne’er so, make ourselves enemies or moralists to judge to that which is ultimate, eternal, infinite, or without start or finish. No apologetics or logic can stand before even the startle one feels at the shock of a tremor or the thunderclap of a tempest. There is no reason although you may dearly seek, that which is bound by elements is only a further distilling concoction of the very same fundamental segments. You are not mean’t to separate fro’ the tremendity nor could you e’en if you dearest believed it, as you will so.
How pathetic and insulting to drive for the ending, why did Beauty manifest itsself for you, that you may perceive it in this contending. E’ery vision you have of the finis is but the blending afterimages of this life’s most pleasant scenes.
Do not forget you live to see, nought that some other thing you may be.
۱۴۰۴/۳/۱۹
6/4/2025
۱۴۰۴/۳/۱۴
A life is free that one may spend it damned to seek.
Urged at once by both an impulse and compulsion to do as his will is reined in to glean, or at his leisure to commit a thousand free. Beholden to the rays blasts in their cannonade across the heavens. We assume they gleam for we, as but by their action can we have motion ond material and dare join in the revelry of their commotion. Yet I cannot spy an image of the galaxies in their expanding array, or e’en so simply a thing, as one of the nebulae (those bountiful star cribs) and conjecture so arrogantly, that it is sole for me. I am born of pure elements that at the instant fused to create my mind and in turn gifted a gift so fine as time. Yet, just as soon as I breath in to cry of glee I am also smiling through that ultimate exhale whereat I remember all that made up my lease. Thus again those elements fly (Do I join their flight?) becoming the unlimited as they shift, turn, sparse, break, combine and again will another live through those I declare were mine? Ond if nought, what occurred to the esse that was my life? What is time to that which discerns no time and concerns itsself with no concept that confines? Perchance oblivion is nought ours to mind. Mayhaps nothing as nothing is nothing to the eye.
Howe’er how generous is all that I can gaze at and try. As the smallest sightless ant wandering its epic stride that could our greatest heroes hath e’er dared would have resulted no more than corpses on the wayside ne’er meriting a line. As the waves in their ponderous swell and world spanning tide ride their fury beyond soaring heights only to crash upon each other or reach the cliffs and beaches of the continents that reject across the epochs to sink. As the coconut that from its palm descends to roll seaward that a storm may take it then. It rides the tempests and with its three eyes rides the boundless ocean without hope that land again may it e’er tread. It sails the endless depths through seas that each color dreamt. To find a rock mid the expanse that It cannot best and here upon this newfound sod it seeds life where fire meant only barren death. As the stallion that leads its kindred at the head that’d men would insult as wild but here as it draws its steaming breath with all its harem and progeny just beside ond behind. This beast is no creat’ raving and unkempt, it is blessed by each hoof fall in the present and the next. As the star that one moment is born from an explosion and at its demise will cause a multitude more to be chosen. As the silent lightning that dances through the air and the thunder so powerful and ponderous althou’ only heralds that rains comes to fertilize the world. As sunlight spreads upon the falling sword lighting it ablaze as it strike upon the fruit tree only that the farmer may bring his family a joy to eat.
These each are just a glimpse of the unlimited I can seek, though asame discover me. Revelations that in their course are unique or repeat, each revealed by that master that does nought speak but through the sensations, the sentiments, the real, as the dreamed perennially sings.
5/25/2025
Ash descends as both a mist and torrential rain.
While a man’s eyes are sealed closed,
enthralled by a greater whirlwind of musical notes.
He is becoming a gray flurry as he dances proud.
E’en agin the volcano some things do nought rout.
Thus when this human transforms into a clamouring cloud
Who else to receive him but the firmament’s boundless shroud?
Fro’ the flaring lamps bespattered about the earth, their luminescence bouncing gleesome upon the encroaching dark of this sublime night. Then unto the air toward the immeasurable height turn the grand alsubmerging clouds hiding the cosmos from sight into a soft orange flame undulating throu the skies. Two lover’s cross by underneath sight, speaking nothings of daily plights ‘n’ soon to come delights. A vagamond in the midst of the peak of his respite so twisted he cannot walk for long upright, slips and falls his way down the hill to his hovel. Where perchance a patient mother or a distraught wife waits. Ond if no one more awaits, at least a calmly cold floorboard, to rest his head flat upon, that he awake another day alive. A base of riflemen sits down below, both in the do of jungle and barracks at once the two. Where a company of women ond men lie slumbering to the tune of “morrow what’s next?” Each soldier, each policeman a different dream this night dreamt. Some to their wet dream leapt, imagining the most buxom uur handsome for which they would fret. Others their family missed recalled recollections of memories they lived once, ond in these nachthallucins repeated only again ‘n’ again. Others as in this other vision were swept, sole the commander they met, who so desperately they detest. Some committed heinous wrecks killing that creature with all their sweat. Then anothers cowered, fearing as to e’en their own shade which only spoke so truthful as a man to himself may power. Then finally another scant few saw nonsense which either they forget or lacked any ability to avower. A’last a hundred machines have passed throu and e’en the clouds uncaring have changed the view. Such we are left with a just palm’s prints marked upon the window and query “Beyond, what is true?”
How may one describe his very existence, by perception, by sensation, by causation? How can we discern the real lived before the perceived ‘n’ concocted will? Lies there a greater something beyond sensation or station fro’ which may be discerned this sought affirmation?
What is, ne’er requires to describe its will. What exists, is neither the property of the perceived or something that by instance need conclude or discover to be fulfilled. What is, be a product beyond the assertion or articulation. It is an esse same the shape it takes. Fro’ so measly a thing as the stone none has e’er witnessed or relate as the beast or creat’ of ne’erending fame. These each are but of the limitless reflections of Beauty. That that is the entirety, the sole being, ond asame the perceived tremendous entity. Oft adored as abhorred, lo Beauty!
It you seek to describe and verify, look to find the plucked petal’s eye. Then, when at last revealed ho what will you cry!
۱۴۰۴/۳/۵
5/18/2025
Thick droplets descend o’er the vista and seem to pull forth the oncoming mist.
A little girl dressed of a hundred colours runs. She speeds past the grasp of her juvenile mother and her grey grandmother only that her pristine doll shoes may make the running waters jump. As once more, those tiny shadows again ride high above, they are jovial as they jaunt in formation only to break and hide within each’s secret spot. The scowling worker lugs his great bag down the slope ‘tis perchance of fruits, cheeses, metals, bamboo, or whate’er else he worked to accrue. While another rises and he yells in repeat with songlike harmony the name of that which he wishes to sell for a pence or three. A runner that hoped for sun now walks in the storm looking at his feet hoping he doesn’t slip and break his feet. From the distance rings the bell “alfaithful hither here” Ond to that place arrives a well garbed kid, a child ready to admit to their sins scarce knowing the meaning of this rit’ or to what he admits. Another awaits, a bright purple in this perennial rain. She is impatient so her peering back and forth demonstrates. Who comes, who goes? As before the puddles in the field where the downpour accumulates. A tyke picks up a snail only to take it a seemingly safe green place. When a grand beetle alongside and of a sparkling bronze walks calmly at its own pace. This is the certainty that all described occurred ond at these instants in their instant or in their plenty as they one after another congregate. E’ery occurrence is as it was meant, a numberless ongoings that in their own space have a meaning which alone mayhaps something divine could discern to characterize. Yet how simply a man may classify, here is fate in its truest guise. The billion interacting that none could control, that were one observing or nought, just happens to materialize.
To describe a single scene that its totality may be entertained one must god’s eye obtain. Yet man is nought privy to such strange arts that all to him might be witnessed. This detail that e’en a painter attempts so desperately to achieve lies fore’er beyond his wand’s tricks. Yet still what is this glorious gift if at least not the instant may be grasped. Time can be rift ond wreck to be once again reborn spliced ‘nd melded into a new vista ann script. One second cannot be grasped but a multitude reforged are created into a newer wonderful unified whole. Beauty that was not born but has always been form once more changes to become naught more. Now so simply unbound as it was in the many before, only in this present recalled to be refound.
۱۴۰۴/۲/۲۸
5/11/2025
Vapor veils the night
and alone just calmly will ‘o’ wisps blink their coruscant lights
proving there is life.
The petals of the orchid curl, it is brilliant alabaster matched to a lightest pink that but the name of the flower can describe, and then to complete the scene of this most precious serene, it is touched by its own origin with the most seamless honeydew green. A’last only to be reduced, as the leaf begins to tube, turning its new russet hue. Now this bloom is accompanied by a rose that of no gran stature stands beside, a mere floret, yet its madder red before these encircling walls of bone is a blessing that allows none to resist to note. There is a home that one fills of many thrones that a plant may rule its zone. Bamboo, basil, mints, and even ambitious grass that would invade every realm were it nought contained in its own. This kingdom is filled of nature’s perfumes by the plants surrounding and a eucalyptus that in all corners is abounding. This is a heofonum of two that dwell a new world alone.
Without words how shall one discern? We mind in a thousand forms that from directing the blood to flow, breath to blow, as horror as good to know and perform. Albeit what of when ones lacks the names to describe the deed? Shall there forever be a ceaseless inventing sole to catalogue each action that Man ongoes presenting? Which follows which, the name or the form?
Is form the start of Beauty that we behold or instead is it the conception from where we derive the truth to uphold? At first perchance one would assume he could nought or even ne’er know. But I stand resolute to what has been assert, and that which I will persist to aver. Beauty is the very sight you swear, it is in the multitude of patterns found across the earth as so in the formations you create in art or elseother works.
Beauty is the tremendous without apology or reverse. It is that, touching upon your vision at e’ery beck as does ugliness that you without thought or perception utterly reject.
Certainly you will encounter those things hideous ‘n’ grotesque, manifold, as you explore and inquest. Whether by aimless congress, whether by rendering death or suffering its wreck, whether by vices that a thousand terms hath blessed, whether by irrationality that none may best, or o’errationality which is asame ann abreast. Lo, our works sole to obfuscate and avoid our own deserv-ed consequence. Brother this is as inane as avoiding all pain by endless petty jests.
Ond Beauty is ne’ertheless the very fulcrum of your ken
though alas you shall attempt to object.
۱۴۰۴/۲/۲۱
5/4/2025
Though hidden beneath sought shade — still the warmth invades.
The tiniest shadow so sprightly and fine is grand as it flys. It is an itty thing, something that were one seeking they would not find. It is a gay ink dot that upon the firmaments endless canvas of intermixing grays blues ‘n’ whites curves, swipes, surges, dives, and sudden darts whereso it decides. It is nought painting something new upon the page but it is alive and for that the eye can do nothing but solely follow as it glides. There somewhere behind pop those colors man loves to blast upon the sky but they are just pretty and lifted for dear pride. This creature so small that would not merit a story’s line is the proof of Beauty divine.
A downpour is raging, thus all the verdure glistens. Light is in e constant alternating flow, for the stormclouds keep overlapping or breaking to ‘n’ fro. Lovers rush by or at times calmly stride, each avian huddles with their kind waiting for the sun to arise that they their wings may dry in that prayer a dervish recites. Ond byn the cascade fro’ on high every of man’s creations are imperceptibly eroding to this such simple occasion doing as it was devised.
What is that inkling that haunts? What is the clue that keeps on the sought? What are these mysteries that confound ann nathless press this desire upon, to figure their reason ann endline? We humans are assaulted by countless wherefores and whys presented from the day we entered life and alalong our lengthy time. Yet such is the distraction and the theft of our ride, obscured by a million conceptions and perceptions of this that we experience in entire. It is fun to conceive, contemplate, and consider every justification, logic, myth, and lie. We pretend ourselves the better informed and ever more the wise that so many ideas and things we have pondered or tried. To experiment is a skill you’ve harnessed since you first cried, and we consider or moralize or claim the right that all is mine for I have received this one plight. Although how foolish we these trivialities entertain and imbibe.
…So friend
Have a great love for life
It’s the greatest thing that’s occurred to any of we
It must be
Since we can’t remember a single prior thing
And anything not worth recalling is completely unimportant…
Now ‘tis eternally true and ineffable truth This Is It — this is your due, it is your opportunity and your only go at the booth. But existence is nought at your behest and It is far beyond you. From the dreams or mares that in your dearest sleep brew, to the lived reality with all its cruelty, profanity, privilege, or happiness. To the greater infinity wholly surrounding that were you to try to understand It… You’d only fail to.
Such your world is an infinitesimal portion concerning just a few. Ond albeit how wonderous and utterly obtuse, that you may interact with, feel, and comprehend all that is undergoing within your view. ‘Tis truly difficult nought to be an egotist, to be self obsessed and make of yourself the judge of every encounter and sleuth.
We wish to box our world into quadrants or works, and we will use what manner of names or verbs to make a single belief the sole determinant of our world. This is the complexity we wrought for ourselves in the earth. Can we elucidate beyond this nightmarish spell?
You have argued and would compel that every act undertaken is mine own choice, and my deserv-ed result. Humility, shame, modesty, and magnanimity are worthy nought for their worth among men who themselves would corrupt these selfsame words, if it’d prove an advantage or useful to tell. These that we call virtues across the many perceptions of mankind, are reflections of that singular sign that through a multitude is revealed in miracles as it is, in a child’s wandering eyes.
Remember the heart ann love of those who wished you a better life, of those who affected you, worried, fretted, and so long stood beside. Not for ideals or prattle, but for the true love of you that are the human, the fool, the friend, the child that by so many moves both seen ‘n’ unseen were wound.
Apt to oblivion, this is humanity’s blasphemy. Howe’er, there is a force neither forgetful or temporal: Beauty, which enlightens the instinct that tells so straightly what is abhorrent, and what is natural and important.
۱۴۰۴/۲/۱۵
04/27/2025
On the riverrun before the mountain’s scars.
Smoke runs as a sprightly breeze is having fun. The water froths its course upon the rocks and akin a timid child in its fun the sun peeks once, then asudden hides among those billows so o’erflowing ond tremendous in their design. Chrome beetles aimless fly while bees like gallivanting swains make love to each floret as they pass by. Hornets alike hunters intrepid ann tireless zoom to end e life. Birds no larger than a thumb demonstrate themselves auspiciously spry, playing the daredevils as with such celerity they ride, dodging e’ery single jungle bramble ond vine.
Nothing ceases for e’en the stones ‘n’ pebbles cannot deny somehow they are present and can eye. Some quality in the wind, the streamlets whim, ‘nd’ the unending variety of colors show this. Certainly Beauty plots no tricks — It but is.
We the many would wish for one man e sole harmony among so numerous our disparate clans. That all mankind be universalized ‘n’ indivisible under some unifying creed, belief, logic, or pact. Yet these ideas of oneness are repetitive passing fads. Man has will ond wit enough to pretend himself master of each tract ef land. In his wake to alter all ann attempt to succeed at e’ery ludicrous endeavour byn which to control the entirety. Ann though in an era he may fool, subdue, e’en rule a myraid of his fellows. E’en to great success obliterate any rival, foe, or trial. Such is nature to divide, spread, multiply ond by unnumbered tribulations changed — still thrive. No order is fore’er except that one set by the god(s), nature, space, ‘n’ time.
Now I too dream of being divine, heroic, indomitable, and sage-like. Howe’er the mountain as the sand grain, the ocean as the leaf blade, the constellations as the quartz beaming in the riverbed despite the waters bubbling pace. Show to me so plain that I am nought wise nor should I be so callous as to adore mine own pride. Althings in their ceaseless tread relentlessly contend ‘n’ diversify.
This kind’s wealth is that fro’ flesh to mind we a love of life emblemize. Not a single thing in life is the equal of another, e’en if so we would judge or categorize an asame type. As although twins or clones appear so alike such is this power that no result or time will repeat twice. Let no happy fiction cause upon you confusion uur derision. Man is nought at odds with his brothers or beasts ‘nd’ albeit travesty abound he as any other is simply doing his rounds.
Conflict, consternation, opposition each and e plentitude more to dub a phenomena that is required to undergo measly for existing another day more. It is your eating ond drinking, your hiding fro’ the rain, the heat of e’ery form to prevent the cold, your hate, your vice, your temperance, or advice. Your clinging to sanity beside all trauma & the boundless other deemed madness, your medicine for each disease, that that you read, watch, ‘n’ glee to distract, stave boredom, enjoy wholeheartedly, or use to hide fro’ those things you’d ne’er wish to speak.
It is a something fundamental. Therefore go on justify, reason, rationalize, whate’er you will but it does nought beg your consent for death uf e’ery kind and at any stretch is only a’last that you encountered it which you could nought resist.
Although mistake naught for apathy. It is your right to disagree ‘n’ to strive. Certainly you must die, but until The Time — you have to try. As well those of lesser mind would so criticize with platitudes attached to whys but such is vain ond trivial whine, because as you live you prove the line.
Beauty is there within, around, beside — for veritably it is the drive.
۱۴۰۴/۲/۹
4/19/2025
A memory reruns as I observe the threads of ice roll in my glass.
Again, I return once more o’er there where unnumbered snow paddies rove. We were quietly summoned from sleep to see. Where it ends, and by ending repeats. An immensity runs the horizon and I am betaken in whole, thus here I am compelled to know. It is a giant imperious thing, a monument so titanic and so cyclopean I can barely pretend to comprehend. It was nought made for men to ever enjoy or eye. The sculptor how subtle or of what power! Such force, wonder, fear, and beauty harnessed them, then in this work so effortlessly compiled. A masterpiece at the brink of earth with each masterstroke upon its face that showed the work. For it was real, nought some fiction so easily conceived and in words believed. The height, the depth, the detail, the texture, and the age almighty that shoots back to the countless eras ‘n’ instants for which even my very race was nonexistent. It was fact an undeniable entity although now I stand so distant from it. In lands of other miracles, across those dividing seas that themselves hide so many unbelievable acts.
Yet there must be a magic, nought some conjuration, divination, nor some pretension to power agin all that is called man. It is that I could witness what was made, or what is happily happenstance. That life is conscious, an unceasing interaction from the most seemingly simple deed, as drinking from a glass, to those which are impossible to understand. As the e’ery atom that makes up our esse and Am to those molecules at this moment shooting through our beings and going on with their eternal track.
Vultures fly o’erhead and songbirds wait for the bowl of rice that made a mother sweat. Ant-scouts bravely seek sugar or something dead. A feral dog in its vagmamond tread, is smelling to see if nearby there’s a foe or friend. The trees imperceivably stretch. While children play their games, making best-friends, fighting over trifles, or when no one sees, kissing their girlfriends. The billows keep on their merry tread, and the wind both becks ‘n’ bends. Beauty is no statement, aesthetic principle, nor a concept to be debated, ridiculed, or that that asks even to be sensed.
It is the undeniable, the felt, the instinct. That alone which is truly heavensent. The veritable divine spark that tells you do good and make more of you. Though perchance in your challenges ‘n’ trials you wonder why no angel, god, or miracle comes to your defense but why do you ask this of the supernatural when the point is, that it is the present and natural. Creation is not separate of its creator, this distinction is but a mental defect that whishes to subjugate, categorize, and hopes to somewhere connect. I ask you, would you ask such trite requests from a leaf to be your defender and portend? It is the ever-present fro’ which you cannot desist. Life is the gift, like the one that it befits.
You are borne an inheritor of truth, ond though as a tyke it is not so readily understood. Why do you play, and why is every little thing so interesting to you? Fire, snake, and even poop you would so readily touch unless someone taught you good. For nature is so easy to you, but just asame so new.
Beauty is intrinsic, the deity you seek in things and circumstances has never been absent or obtuse only obscured from view by the chances. In fact its reassuring truth is in the very things you everyday ignore, ond in the course of those impossible things you cannot know. Even in such unimportant an event like the floweret that though plucked ‘n’ dead will by beauty’s endless artistic work once more in a thousand others bloom again
۱۴۰۴/۱/۳۰
4/13/25
Night beclouds the frame.
Nathless there are lamplights that in their unceasing blaze, aid that I can make out the forms of those patient masters to whom aldays are sun, water, air, and grace. The mountain’s jungle takes a million modes in this dominating dark as if drawn just by shade. Lo, dearly I would peer, seeking to know what hides there so near. Yet before everything stands the apparition of my own face. How could I engage with this world so agape, mysterious, and frank? When before even the door stands the reflection of that which is the gift and the boundary line.
Howe’er perchance this belief is in of itsself a crime. Accountable to none but that which is experience, life. Such conjecture of man’s bod ann mind to render it but a prison or some limit on time, this is a subject pervading so deeply throughout the conscious of our humankind. When I was a child I fond remember a conclusion to which I had arrived. That man oft does not appreciate life, because he is flesh ‘n’ incomprehensible mind. So he has to both suffer or relish of what comes with existence. He cannot be content at the instant he recives anything delt and must seek on unsatisfied.
The perpetual chase for a material solution to solve these things one has yet to figure or resolve in their soul and brain. Is as to sail in doldrum, mid the sea, and without escape.
Where may be seen is a raucous hate for life ond death asame, both the unavoidable way. Too many speak of the end of days, at every turn of history humans exaggerate. And still there is a ‘morrow that awaits, man loves the comfort he has made. So the end is only when it erodes or is blown away. But whether man is an accident or made we are that which cannot escape. We are so equipped to dream of being gods albeit no matter what we fabricate we are that which had to make.
I believe in the afterlife no matter how it may arrive, whether the material takes its other forms as my atoms are scattered through a billion roads. Or if there is another life yet still to rove. Or if a certain place is chosen or destined by creator or fate. A poet cannot be an atheist or else what is his art’s destination or starting place. To verse becomes an empty prattle ann race that will resound only to pronounce his emotional dribble or his political complaint.
We cannot dodge, evade, break, that which determines we are creatures. Change all, take all, even the blood ‘n’ air that is all. Become machine, become those thousand things you mayhaps so desperately dream. You will be just a mere thing, and how happily is the glee that we can see—sense—feel—be.
That that lives should ne’er be embarrassed, instead rejoice that it is present.
Beauty is the determinant it’s that that is inherited, thereof we must joyfully cherish.
۱۴۰۴/۱/۲۴
4/6/25
Among the verdure nothing is alike as each leaf gleams its own green.
The gray breaks o’erhead, and white blaze begins to frame the calmly azurine. Far beneath, orange florets pock the scene, a weed, but they are the thousand hornet eyes that eye the setting. Yellow cream flowers leak their nectar that the hummingbirds may feed. Purple bouquets crown themselves kings among the jungle trees. As paradise’s blooms stretch themselves in an array of hues to mimic the singing fire birds regaled of lemon, flame, crimson, ond blue. Whilst red blossoms stay close to the earth humble ond content with their work. The sun is sightless but it has ne’er disappeared. For by its at once hidden ond manifest beams, I can see e’erything.
A hero went to the end of the world bow, arrow, hatchet, ond knife at hand. Having promised to his native land, that’d he seek what dwelt there where nothing stood and bring back a prize so grand. Vast he traversed o’er hillock, tundra, desert, sea, ond strand. Without repose ann without vice that may his travails ease the go. Headstrong, lionhearted, and brash swiftly he journeyed to reach the end of all main, continent, ann welkin. Many he met that urged him on his quest as many he encountered who promised him disaster. Other tasks ond livelihoods he undertook to carry him fore, on what he vowed to conclude. Long was life and longer the route, that the search took all his youth, his strength, his wit, his looks. Until after so much trod he arrived at a cold place others clued him to. Whereat tho’ rugged ‘n’ aged, he scaled this barricade as if asudden all his prime regained. So perilous was the climb others would later only refer to demean him as deranged. Yet nonetheless our hero made it up the rise, ond saw the e’erstrechting distance of white covered with a thickly breeze ‘n’ mist. Surely he figured this must be it. So swiftly he loaded his arrow, thinking god shall be my quarry and I cannot miss. When this hero let the shaft fly and nothing was hit. As the gale carried the bolt in the wind toward far off where none lived. He wondered long if his mark had been biffed. However past a time the blizzard reduced, then a mount’ was revealed where before just a white desert stood. The old man looked eyeing the entire view of where a mountain range with volcanoes spewing vapor were put. Now asudden he knew, whilst the cold took him as he reviewed the life he went through.
Man seeks the conclusion but it shall always elude, for even at his death his body shall be renewed. The material taking another millions modes, as the sprit that lived in some other unknown, continues.
The world now is gallant, monstrous, as always, obtuse, seeking the resolution to injustice, that a myriad eras have been mounting to. Where does it conclude? It cannot and never would. One impasse will another brew. Yet that which is perpetual stands true. How little is man’s perspective that by the animal in him he cannot see farther that what he thinks is his due.
I am no exception, as I am ever contending betwixt my selfishness and compassion too.
Now we think our enemies resolute, unfailing, and determined to all the wrong they do but they are men e’er ailing ‘n’ faltering too. Nothing is forgiven or should, and as men all resistance should be accrued. We must face the foes of Beauty with all tact and certitude.
Bamboozled by the hope of the future it has just as well been taken and we made fools. The Utopia of man is sole found after his role ond act. We are the breathing, and Beauty is the principle to enact.
Every art that is not in the service of love is an affront, an insult, and should be confront. Man is ugly and crass but he wishes to dream even of the nature he adores and sees. To remake what the gods made but with his own hands.
The invisible statue, the white canvas with but a dot on its blank land, the verse without more than a complaint of government or some nag, the dance that is no more than preparation to the sexual act, the film that does naught but preach at what its maker deems is bad. The pretentious, the arrogant, the crass to be crass these are the evil to which we must lambast and stand steadfast.
Play and Pain both intermingle in the creation of Beauty, neither is a separate fact. It is lived as it is created.
۱۴۰۴/۱/۱۷
3/31/25
Dusk descends o’er the clouden realm of the Andes.
The moon beams a sliver of e crescent as a shadow outlines the entirety of its face. The billows clamour as they gracefully race away into the opaqueness of the gaining shade. There is e tranquil blue setting over the frame as the city lights sudden alight but farther on villages show their life as they become but will-o-wisps in the jungle’s night. My own window frame from where I write I’d hope to appear just asame, a spirit’s flame traversing throu’ the dark. A portent of good tiding or ill-befalling.
Thus I turn to describe the plot:
A vile rises in each artist’s heart that is besmitten with his own prowess or if he is worthy his touch of the divine spark. Ond they who seek to sound their voice desiring but sole to profit in fame, power, riches, and lust is misguided in whole, and surely nought the one Beauty stalks or wants.
So should I fail like them, what would I become but another pretentious bungler yet one more preachy, niggling, nagging, and shrewish poetaster. Yet with hope instead I intend to attempt to divulge what since a child’s first breath was sought to be said. Do the words elude me e’er still? Sole the mind(s)that dreamed the beginning of the worlds can reveal such a spell.
I am young as I write this, and better than this I would say I have been a muse of fortune for much all of this time. First to begin at the start of my life who just as easily the black rider could’ve carried off such a suddenly sickly babe. Then afterward what a life so far, with experience, sight, beauty, will and the dearest love of family, friends, and at glorious last a wonderous wife that but serendipity and a dream revealed.
So truly and highest I must compart the deepest gratitude and apology to each prayer of my grandmother, to the boundless patience of my mother, the guidance and vision of my father and his wife, the stonelike loyalty of my sister, the camaraderie of the man I honor my blood-brother, the affection, compassion, and tolerance of my woman that sweetest flame. Ond at last to e’ery heart or soul I touched upon and in turn so did to me and by this world’s inexplicable workings has nurtured me.
Once upon I wrote of a kid whose wish was this:
Now be presented, my covet,
Is ðe becoming of ðe world to be a dream
Ond ðis desire how to accomplish I have wondered
Ðrough ðe tongues of ðis earþ
In ðeir dance unkempt
ꝥ does horrid crime
To stride far from ðe mother of all songs
Who we all know well, if e’er about in ðe nights or days
Ðere was more ðan ðe silent void
Once your peering holes were rest
So I will awaken ðe machinations plots ond galaxies conjured
Coating ðis cosmos transforming to be ðe dimension of all desire
——————————————————
Ond tho’ of such a dream I have ne’er been rid, all children must become men and know the world cannot be e’er be this. Yet perchance if in the man the child somewhere lives he would strive e’er still to keep to it.
Don Quixote was who I wished to be when I was an imp and although I know the theories, the interpretations, the literary elements, themes, and elseother verbose prattle or well-pleased wit. I abscond and forswear the tragedy and choose gladly obstiante, the myth. Of that a greater fool never lived but how beautifully he did. E’ery wrong how dauntless would he right, and albeit he erred tremendous as he did. The ideal, the conviction, and that brilliant madness resound so higher still than all of life’s cruel will.
I could nought such luck have had to be a knight yet was my lot that I be borne another occupation just as ill-o-mind in our time.
I am poet and my call is one that I must dearth to try and like a prophet, madman, or vagamond gone awry I have word to spread and things to describe:
Beauty has been left wretched, raped, berated, forsaken, and destitute. I have heard her plea and summons and have been faithful, living to be so till my quietus arrives. I aim to make Beauty known to you, this is why e’en to this void that man has made, I throw out my name.
Beauty is innately understood but alas something that can be forgotten and twisted untrue. I will continue to jot what I believe, know, and search for. That others may remember Beauty. For it needs steadfast friends, needs its advocates, its preachers, its defenders, and its miracle workers.
Howe’er a note, there is a universal knowledge shared in this world no matter where you tread. Women and men know that something is ill at work in such many forms it oft can scant be described with clear words.
I am nought equipped or desiring to answer this with another deception as the unlimited that already spread through the earth. Ergo I offer no politic, religion, or philosophy by which to convince you it will change the practical problems by which we are suffering and hurt.
Yet what is wrong, ugly, and urges death in numberless forms ond for countless ends. Fears one thing sole:
Beauty, who is all opposed and of a singular all-piercing peerless glow.
۱۴۰۴/۱/۱۲