Max Stirner is made
of Stirner stuff. Quite
a large forehead
on that one!
Such guff.
O, the universe
all is thine property?
That's one hell
of a bluff, please.
Take it from me.
It was just all yours, bro.
Had to be yours. With
that case you put? Trust
me. I won't quibble such
score.
You said it once.
I heard it three times. It's a
trick
of my ears, your tongue,
my mind.
Our hearts
do echo resounding
chimes, such ways
as whisper and cry
can find.
Say it once
again dear, I call
you as well, as you
call me dear
even damn, dear
hell. Fuck
Shit, what were we
and will think of next?
I lie hung so
upon your lips.
Is it wrong?
That I find
it blest
Rude visitor up
all strange in the house
at such hours and still moments!
Let me not tell you, no one
being there to hear it:
I'm one glum inner hideous
presence, slumming and stalking
and slanging around every house
I've ever been in. And keep
getting asked back!
People really
have strange taste
in me, or so seems.
Seems strange, 'til I get
to know their ideas and sense,
maybe. Then it fits! Still a touch
perversely, betimes. What a kink
and peeve setup. Just druthers
and jam, I guess
when it rhymes.
How can you possibly not
tell how little I love your flaws? Only
in some cases! I so love them
in others. Or, how much
I loathe your clothes
on! Maybe,
I look too polite. I assure you
often, by my acts: I am not
in the slightest, only
by courtesy.
So, a right house guest I make,
at that! If only since I learned
to treat all as guest, and welcome
to what's already yours.
I'm a bat
with a belfry yet
so underexplored.
I mean you.
Not your house.
I don't poke around in
that. That's your business,
I pace mine while waking,
is all.
Nobody seems to know,
but it's cool. Keep one eye
on the ball, and whatever
house rule.
Let's gather all the bullies
and haze them hard. Tell
them each what's-what,
plus right from wrong,
and guard ourselves by
dominating them! By force
and threat of abuse in pen!
That's a cage we can all ink
anyone in, plus as a fallback
beat swords to shards and stake
shares in the crops we sow,
sow, so.
Like feverish sows, hogs
and otherwise pigs, we
deserve to go big
and boss our trough!
No bullies in here,
just us chickens, hoss!
Got a bit for me? Here's
a yoke for you. Let's get
the eggs laid and cocks
crowed on cue.
My dear old dad
is the mother fucking man.
He never beat me up
but he still can.
And way back when I had
no kung fu, he schooled me
in what's cool about Jackie
Chan!
Even though dad
is no kung fu dude. He
either knew karate
or tea kwon doo, and
I can never remember
what color belt he had
- but he's got a black belt
in being a dad!
Dear old mom is one
saintly sort. And whoever
calls her martyr on that
we'll snort!
She never sacrificed-self
at your expense. I shall
have you at the mouth,
with a foil-laid
fence!
Oh no
no touché,
don't confess.
That's a stall.
I did never
call you wrong.
What you said!
That's all.
What I said,
that's all also, too.
All that was.
Take judgment
by the roots, find
juice and buzz!
Or just kith and kin,
and so may be kind.
Be fools for love, plus
all cause of equivalent
find! There's no fooling
in such good stuff.
Dear old we's only
here for some time.
Had enough?
We'll be here all weak!
If the gate keeps full.
Let's get butts in seats,
or just split!
Call bull.
Like mom and dad
did! In diverse respects
and ways, you remember
those, too? Good times,
let's say.
Oh confess, it was
just a touch. Wasn't it?
Maybe just, just a bit.
Just much.
What worlds of worth are implied
in these words! Quit winking and
hinting, maybe you'll be heard.
Keep wit brief! But explain
yourself well. Catch can. When
challenged or questioned just
run like hell. Fair plan!
Such go-bys and rules are words
to the wise, likewise, otherwise
and unwise, equally. Don't make it
your habit or practice at all, if
advice is only what they
would do,
not me. Is it you?
Pick and choose! It's all free
over here - or go there!
Stake worth, post bond,
pay fine and fee!
Or aghast at the price
of admission, just fight
and (as always: /or),
flee!
Feels free. And
it sometimes is.
It is all in the dream
and the wish, 'til you
wake. A curious business
it is and may be, to befall.
Where we're all free to pay,
more or less
it was our free call.
Whatever was not? Hey,
that happened to me
too, pal.
It's a privilege, and
sort of right,
somehow!
"shit, piss and corruption," as dad
always says! Or said. No,
false. He'd only say
it
when I said "shit."
So he'd say it always,
when mom wasn't around.
Good systems, we each
and always find.
And found.
The generalist and the specificeer.
We have to be both to fare, we fear.
The generalist knows what humanity's
like. The specificeer says "Oh dear!
Not right!
I just met one
not like that at all! The generalist's
truth's a pack of lies!" The generalist
quips:
"You dropped the ball. We go
by groups to narrow our eyes. But
anyone can be exceptional!"
The specificeer snorts! "That's rich!
What good is it? Might as well
go individually."
"But then you won't know
at a glance what
they're like.'
Let's admit probably
neither one is right.
For right never rhymed
with like, did it? But
squint with your ears
and blink with your
eyes
and the mind behind:
you could almost find
fit!
If you do,
that's an ongoing juggling
act. All balls and pins
and hays and stacks
up up and away, plus
here, neither there!
In a moment we get
quite bad at that
in fact.
So we rue every miss
and drop in botch job
flail to catch what they're
not, but it's worth it when,
clued and cued - wild
guess plus gut,
we catch!
As catch can. And
are caught.
Humans are wiggly and cool,
we find.
Humanity is as a rule quite fine,
only riddled exceptionally
with snares and catches
of balls quite foul, hit
square.
Which leaves us
stopped short by a wild
left field full of truth
innaplied both sane
and real and beyond
one's reach! Far out,
safe at home we reel
as we teach ourselves
what we've known:
It's not fair. That's life.
Every lesson we learn
from specific one applied
going forward to all, will
burn some times: each
exceptional time we're
wrong. But if we can't apply
what we've leaned to whoever
we meet, what the hell! Do we
have to go on?
Just a bit.
Up ahead, then quit for a spell
to regather our head.
It's all mostly same beans,
stacks of hay and pins. These
moments are balls
in the air. And alive
with dread and potentially
joy. Sometimes, we catch
Attagirl, attaboy! We save!
Recognize and react, to score!
One in wins.
One would be damn daft
to ask in demanding ways
for more.
It's the big ol' not-a-game!
There are made-up rules
laid in made-up minds, plus
none otherwise. Pick a side,
that's fine - just choose! Choose
just! Just fair, so to find
some great divides, to stake
stance in lines. Then - perhaps?
Call the other team yours,
likewise! Otherwise, they're
theirs. It's an offer at best,
to decline is fine. No cheat!
Some exceptional few of us all
will join in with you. In such
drawn lines called, we can all
go screw! Or tap ourselves in
by hammer or drive. We
are all in this win.
We are all on this ball.
We'll be playing our own
game anyway, then. But
wait.
Is it fair?
If it's not, that's life. Strike
true!
Deal square.
If the other one fouls?
Learn a lesson or two
against that one, now
and then. Not all.
Be prepared to stand firm!
Or bend! And how.
We are on this ball.
I hate when I go to a restaurant
and
it's all these fucking sociopaths
in there. I'm like "what"
"how did I know that?" and
"why do they let them in here?"
It's not just
restaurants, it's all over. But
you'd think a restaurant
could do a better job.
Put up a
cardboard window sign
or something. No dogs
or sociopaths
or something
"Have you been up all this time?"
Nah, I'm down right now. Down
for anything. "No I mean awake?"
...
Is this more of that 'woke shit' I keep
trying to push on you? Because if it
is let me tell you: I can keep it.
...
"You seem pretty chipper for the hour."
...
OK dang. Got nothing. Thank you!
"No problemo, sunshine."
Shine bold.
Shine bold, and you'll
always find where you're
wrong. Find right! Shine bold,
and those
who know better
grow encouraged and
generous. Fine. Fair, free
shine finding self wrong
finding right all ways.
It's the only way in fact.
Once corrected come correct
- that's a natural act.
We can get through our days
best grasp! Best truth! Best
beauty we hold! Best good
#1 quality and such stone
cold value you could prize
a beam from its glow.
Shine bold. And
don't ever forget
why and how
you know.
In mythic lore, ok
advanced D&D, if
you catch a nymph naked
in the wilderness you either
go blind or die.
I forget. Probably
works out of the wilderness,
too. Apt either way, somehow.
So nymphs were in a sense
(innocence?) sort of a lesser
-regarded full-body medusa
so to speak. Or look. Watch it,
at any rate. It's a defensive
weapon, offensive to prudes
in the nymph case, to nobody
but a statue in Medusa's eyes
beheld. But the one gets you
hard in a better way (depending),
while you may die, or never see
such sights again, at least
you can roll on okay if
you lived. And
You shall have lived! All shall
know that, though they may
put your blindness down to
a more (self) abusive and
insulting cause!
You'll have a knockout tale
to tell to the police sketch
artist. Who better take care
not to nail the resemblance
a little too well
The rules of Quidditch
imply billionaires
care approximately dick
for sportspersonship
Or mechanics of games,
let alone play fair
with rules of milieux,
of spells and names -
For a hundred
& fifty points,
plus the win!
Well,
figures that's-that,
at that.
Kinda makes all that
happened before
run thin.
...goalll?
My poetry's up
To a standard I'd peg
at middling supreme
lately, if I had
a leg
to just
jump back!- kick
myself with
but - I have two.
I can
never
choose.
Which!
So let's let it
be laid, to rut.
Unguarded,
ungraded,
uncut
on point
unmarked,
en garde!
Call it: fair.
That's true.
Plus fine.
OK.
We're square.
Such standards I have
align any olé!
to my cute lil'
matador suit.
Red caped,
let's say.
Why do I salt
so much?
I could
salt
my heart!
And veins,
if I could
eat such
red spaghetti
big-meatball
stuff.
I would
salt
my own blood,
wash the whole
meal down
in a bolt-wolved
rush,
- it doesn't
need it at all.
Need salt?
My BLOOD?
HA! Hardly,
y'all.
I would not
salt you.
I've not half the gall,
nor balls, nerve,
stone cold want
or will. So I
won't! Plus
you
wouldn't
fall for it. Not
sweet as you are.
Salt nil.
Get it straight up-front.
I'm a big time cougher
who can't stand the sneeze.
Neither Beatles nor Elves,
sub acey deece-ease.
But
T over F!
And M not F.
For myself I mean,
plus G over B/E,
aiming at best -
I'd place Betty
and Veronica
equally fine,
okay. But take a jugged
head over arch whine!
And so, which are you?
Mary Ann Ginger, Vel,
ol' Shaggy or Scoob?
I can fuck kill marry
any three at one poke,
strictly hypothetically,
of course. I don't joke
or fight what I choose.
All the same to me, it's not
- but alright! Say whichever you
please, even are,
that's hot. Or cool.
As much as preferred.
Take a pole, cut it in half
and pick one - on the whole
I would say word it up,
yo.
Word.
When Charlie Brown would tilt
his head back with a mouth
as wide as worlds inside
and holler:
“GOOD GRIEF!”
- was this perhaps a subtly-coded
schadenfreude allusion? A dog-whistle
maybe? Good grief. Did Snoopy catch
that plaintive aggro tone, and come
a-running? Perhaps not the best test.
Snoopy was abnormal, as dogs go.
Abnormal is extraordinary frowning.
Anyway, just a thought! Schultz was known
to be of German descent after all, and his mind
and work were beatifically steeped in a puckish
sort of winking misery (or winked-at misery)
(“whistling misery?”). I mean no harm
in any case.
Ol’ Chuck seemed more the subclinical masochist
to me, rather than subclinical sadist. Poor dude.
Good ol’ Charlie. He is and always will be the
Charlie Browniest, in my dedicated page
of these funny papers.
When very day is every
like another,
you can't put off
tomorrow never comes.
But if we pluck the day
to seize a difference -
Callooh Callay! We're not
such bucking fums
I wouldn't fuck with me if
I were you, if you know
what I mean.
It's a bad news move.
You get too much on
your hands that can't fit
in your mouth, and it
doesn't come off. Step
back. Come down
from the lip
of that cliff you dug
up in the bottom of an abyss,
and ask yourself just this:
Can I knock it off?
Can I grow up?
Because buddy if you can't,
I don't much like your chances
of me not looking at you in a
butch, badass way. A stern
glare, and maybe a stiff sneer
to boot!
If that's what you want,
hey.
I was born to it. I don't mind
much. But don't say I didn't
much warn you. I've been
warning you way too long
by now and frankly, I'm
surprised
at the straight faces we've kept!
Deadpan surprise. I'm kind of proud
of us both, don't you know? Good job,
but let's just let that part be a little secret
between us shall we? No profit in spreading
that tidbit around dark alleys and gossip halls.
Where was I.
Oh yeah.
Were you fucking with me?
I couldn't quite tell. Still. I figured
"good advice is good luck" and
not fucking with me is always
a little bit of both.
If you get my meaning.
Well! Whether you do or you
don't, good talk. Glad we had it.
Watch your mouth on the way out.
Don't hit anybody with the door,
like an ass.
All equally good advice, pretty
much! Although watching your
mouth's a pretty trick unless
you carry a compact mirror
around or something. Anyway,
why would you? I never
watch mine.
So many poems born
in a thought, and borne
along shaping and crafting
towards song, and lost
in the moment between
sitting down
to type.
I blame computers. In the pen
-ink days, I was dynamite!
I caught everything, quick
whip-it-out jot on bird from
wing, sketching every feather's
fiber and weft to stiff stem
detail and flow.
I would catch it all down.
But I'd rarely know why,
since I scarcely did jack
with that jot.
At least now
I can publish! The gets
and the got. Anyway,
Any poem gets lost
in the lack of computers
and such?
Was not memorable
enough, not just. Maybe
barely missed, but
it did not catch. So
that's
theirs. That
fault. That
poem.
That's-that.
Willpower
consists largely in two (2) things.
An ability to make your future self do shit
And
almost importantly,
An ability to make your present self start shit.
This
is almost the whole secret,
and a very great deal it almost is,
once you really get in there
to know "Yes,
that's so true. That's
what I lack!" So
anyway,
self-examination
is a pretty important piece. The key,
perhaps! Arguably,
to achieving a very self-aware
willpower.
Bit self-critical, too. You
get used to that with self-examination.
It's pretty much fifty percent critique, and
the rest is looking around for shit
to critique.
Boon use
in any procrastination effort! Plus
- as a bonus, almost - you nearly always
find out
what you missed
going by. Back there
at the point you could almost
try.
My romantic interest interests me
a bit too much comedically. But
just a bit! Right here and there.
You have to laugh, because
no sense in crying when
the dialogue's got so much flair!
The drama level's pretty fair,
and tragically, we are a bust.
No tragedy at all.
That's us.
I call it good. Not great,
but wait. We're only getting
there! The chemistry's
so right,
I have to trust.
Let credits roll,
and sequels queue,
I have signed on,
and so have you,
so let us dare.
Putting tomato in fruit salad
is like a weird flex
for foodie pedants, and
who cares? 'Cause it's delicious.
I mean it should be delicious.
Nobody's so big a pedant to mess
that
up
There's a certain way to breathe
where my head won't hurt.
I have almost mastery
of the subtle technique,
but each time
I forget
I admit
to myself
(as if to excuse!):
I am no expert.
UUUUHH!
OOHHHH!
Let it out
Get it out
BIG
whoa
Gotta make a noise somehow!
Big enough without a doubt
to not express how big it is,
yet somehow fit to sound and show:
"it" comes big and bigger than
a given piece of knowing fits.
Even putting altogether, stuck
with thoughts and prayers and
such. Make a wish! Foundationally,
some of these untellables are
just too much! Or feel that way.
By glimmer-glimpse and clammy
inner touch, we sense parameters
exceed the limit we can fish. By
much.
Sometimes
we need a bigger boat
but don't know how to summon it.
'Cause UH! I'm an extrovert!
Put it out! Let it loose!
Maybe someone does with it
what I cannot quite do without?
Or put to use? but
OH. I'm an introvert! Keep
it in! Work it through! Use
examination's might to find
what no one's view can do.
Sorry, uh. Sometimes
I kinda gotta sorta
let it out. A noise,
full and deliberate, which
signifies nothing
but what words
cannot go into.
In me, anyhow.
Perhaps you know what
I mean.
If so,
uh-oh
A man like me
has no business be
except business do
with a woman like you
But I'll settle for you,
precisely you. You don't
even need to be like
you are.
You can be
any way that suits you,
fine. And I'll make
business be, do and
shine, if you take
what you please,
and want mine.
I know
sounds
needy
but it's not.
Just wanting,
and always
okay
with the gots.
Psychologists have suggested
that you're an asshole. They
explain you do this because
you suck.
"There are technical terms,
of course" they laugh airily,
"But they suck too. Not,"
with a keen, meaning look,
"quite the way you do." Which
you interpret to mean you suck
worse than the technical terms,
and the psychologist is only being
fun and pleasant about it!
Now we proceed to deeper reasons.
We must. Psychologists have a ton
of those. They blame and explain your
parents - which is valuable to you. You
couldn't explain them! They also key in
on any aspects of society or reality you
understand.
That's the problem. You understand it wrong.
It produces your problems. Your approach
is flawed, you take away the wrong things,
interpret by wrong signs and non-signs, and
aim by the wrong part of the target, holding
your bow like a gun and yelling "BANG!"
- or vice-versa. Holding your gun like a bow.
Yelling fssssst!
On top of this, you really don't care what
others think of you. Particularly psychologists.
This leads them to conclude: asshole.
But at least an asshole with a lively interest
in psychology. Room to build on, there?
Maybe.
I've got a man-sized regret
for the way you treated me
and I'm sorry for the way
you let me go
And everything I said
was justified
beautifully
I had to let you know
Dear darling heart,
It gives me great love
to love writing you
this.
To tell you
the amount of my love. It's
a poem, so you know. That means:
expect anything. The amount
(by the way)
of love (mine)
(for you) is quite
respectable, as I hope
and expect you'll observe.
("He said,
with a certain
smug hot confidence.")
Other than that? Your body is tops.
I dig your hair smell
and eyes,
and that's
everything that goes
together in me to synthesize
and produce love in the amounts
(I hope) you'll agree
are impressive
enough!
Please
write soon, but wait
'til you read this first. Then write.
Write back as soon as it makes
sense, please. Write to say - the
amount of my love, do you
respect it? Does it make sense?
Does it impress you? I feel
pretty cocky about it,
but only
you can tell me:
My smugness is absolutely
right.
Tell me it is.
I know it is.
Tell me you knew, too.
People who believe in each other
want proof. It's a burden you can't
carry for them.
We who love
don't worry. We
just lucked into it
forever. Now we
are home free.
Those who seethe with hatred
just use whoever's handy
to pin it on. Vent it out.
It's luck of the draw
- a different kind.
People who want to kill me
draw lots. They coordinate
just enough not to cross
each other up. They don't
want to teamwork it.
We each just sort of
bear our courses out
across our backs
as best we can, in
light and heavy tread,
through the snowy
rain and windy sand
of the sunniest night
around, though nothing
makes sense, we find it
with honor, dignity, shame
and humiliations galore. True
love or to blave, we face
and turn tail, whatever
we have to.
It's our day to shine.
And we fucking must.
Turns out we fucking must
If I were in charge of a Fortune
500 No-profit top dog charity,
or any other global behemoth,
you bet I’d turn that shit around
pronto. They must be in a sorry
state to bring in the man!
I'd execute 5 executive steps
off the top of my head and
more to go on with, but
give me time
first,
for woolgathering,
and hard, cold-eyed rational scrutiny
and analysis. It's how I work
best, somehow. Even
a swashbuckling mastermind
swung from many a chandelier
with fist-clutched rapier
and teeth-clenched rose might
want to pause before the plunge
now and again, if only
to make headwork
of the geometry involved, or
because mental notes from last time
suggest caution next time. Past a certain
point, next time's got to come due. If
not this time, next time for sure. Maybe
every other time! Mix it up!
So for this time, trust me. I’d just
sit in bold on the meetings awhile,
looking anxious. Chiming in
in my trademark tart, dry, brittle,
wry uninsinuating tone. Offering
“good job!” style encouragement
- where deserved. No insincere
or perfunctory bullshit!
I'm in there trying to find
everything out! How it all
works as a coherent deal.
Discovering any nuance
I’d missed, prior to being offered
the big dog chair. I’d say things
to inspire the whole crew, like
“Bold words call for bold times.”
and “The fix is in!”
That’s what they call me, I bet.
If they like: “The Fix,” AKA "Mr.
Huckleberry." I’d put it about
and let it be known: “I’m a changer.
I change the progress forward, with
a course all picked out from before!
Let’s knuckle down and find it.”
I forgot exactly, but 'tis better to forget
and find and forge anew better, rather
than to remember everything and fail
utterly. You remembered too much,
maybe. You lost your forge anew
move. To much memory makes
you forget how to do that! You
think "I already found that out!"
BO-ring. Instead, inspired
by my bold mix of messages,
me and the whole crew would pitch in
to straighten me out on a few things, and
before we all know it: purposes! Goals!
Metrics! What does it all mean!?
Point is, give me time. I don't know
that yet, but I bet we figure it out
together and whether.
I take odd and even numbered sips.
Every time! No breaks or skips. It's
always even.
Or, it's odd.
And
every other sip, I nod.
Although, I
like to mix it up.
Sometimes, nod evens.
Other times, I'm nodding
odds without a doubt.
I always know
if not the count, then
whether this sip's even or odd,
and whether I 'll nod
this time or next, or what.
It's sip (nod), sip,
sip (nod) all day! I have it
down neat without
thought or delay.
It's only with sips.
Say whisky, or gin, hot
coffee or sometimes sippin'
tea. Cold water or beer, or
chuggin' tea? I don't
bother to count.
Or nod.
With big drinks,
please. I've no
use for frivolity.
A lot of people wish they were me
I don't know why. I tell them what
it's like to be me, and they're like
that sounds amazing
I think
they don't want to be me at all.
They just want to be more easy
and on-point informative at
describing their inner states
and shit
I wish
I could get across to them
how vain that is.
People know my name!
It's horrible!
It's like a weird angle of named light
got caught with a face like an angel or
ape, or dog depending. I'm growing
or shrinking in mind of everyone
who knows that word
my own true name,
and so has power over me
between their ears.
When we meet I see
the horror
or delight,
according to what they've
done to me
inside themselves
in the interim.
I am become a multidimensional being
because of this. I chase myself
From mind to mind transforming,
and the one whose mind I run
through (nude? Swimsuit? Formal
wear? Casual dress? Depends how
they know me best) I can't name,
don't know
except
by those flashes of how they
see me. Which I can't see
'cause I'm the one running
and there are no convenient mirrors
typically hung in another's mind
for you to regard yourself by
glancing glimpse
(is that the expression
I have, to them?)
while you run through it
Your name is not
the word for you,
as some say.
It's the name
for someone's
idea of you. Which -
you've given them! Part,
and they've read into
more.
You'll probably both agree
for sure on a point or two.
Defer or demur on the rest,
and have an uneasy sense
that what's not brought up
at all
could be different,
too.
So that's you,
by their view and take.
It's some idea, and it's
not fake far as they're
concerned - but maybe
you are.
Your name's just a case
where they keep what
they've found so far.
Your name is not as beautiful
as you are. But it means
all the things you do,
have done. They
all collect
in a big funky bag
which I hold
by the handle
you give someone
when first you meet.
It's far more generous
than anyone in that moment
yet knows. You're handing out
satchels of magic size! Almost
empty at first. But oh,
it grows
The story of a childish badass
taking charge of all life on earth
and just letting it be free and all.
She does woo hoo & doot di doo
She does hey nonny nonny Melissa
and a neat lil' sideline in bamface.
It's as if she knows "Time up in here
is nasty, brutish and short, so what?
I am raunchy, broodish or broo-
ding, and short in the sense
of brusque, as called for. Carefree,
bright and even, otherwise! Chirpy
you might even say." In the throes
& swoops of her exciting tale, big
time, she discovers it's all in her
hands, and it all comes down to her.
Like everyone does, when they deal
with very much Melissa.
