Zlo!

Capitalism is a science with trade at the superficial transactions above like street corners meeting at Hollins and Lombard. In my zeyde's brighter years he woke me from the series of dreams with the request I see the train's in the Smithsonian. He was a worker, if there was work, where his parents were workers and people worked to live, not for the banks working off debts. After falling out of love with someone I cared deeply for, my inclination was to write in a journal my thoughts, given to me by my zeyde for a beacon in my darker moments. "Tell me about her," he asked me in later days. "We were never together."

"Doesn't want to live.
He doesn't want to die.
Wants to die. He does," and signed off, "That's life." I could say anything I thought then, which is not apparently so with the government cracked on blogs. The train is the development of my soul with no tunnel, no darkness and no shadowy cave where plants could not grow. I wanted all the elucid memories I thought people had thrust at me to dissolve like threads of fabric from ware and tear, and my quietest moments with quiet sounds as in nature. The emerging train was the change I sought for of confusing spats, and insanity was an impasse. There is nothing worse than a stale democracy, because those monsters will eat me alive. Stale bread is just that, stale bread. A witty aphorism is an acute judgement with a weighted perception, we service our own realities.

People set up distractions at every direction-such as house pets. I went about my business, and came to home to find insane superficialness to amuse me. All I care for humanity is boiled in my soul, I am a chicken in a pot of water boiling. The soup sucks up the grease, and there is always, always grease. Huey P. Newton gave sermons in american-english and to my delight spelled out love and hate with clear rhetoric. The opposite of both love and hate is indifference.

The spacial fabric became alive and active after sleeping dormantly. A room with stationary objects in my field was brimming with ideas. The taste mundane things have, I was aware after closing my eyes. I read Shelley, Edgar Allan Poe and the verse Milton penned on the devil's exodus from the old. If someone says I'm evil superstitious, me, joo, I respond in kind, "Zlo!"

"although all men observe a similar, they observe not
the same order, in the motions of the dance, in the
melody of the song, in the combinations of language, in
their series of their imitations of natural objects."

Shelley in "taste." I wrote dreams to illuminate the world, in the method losing the song. The perverse science with the basest, illest function, to live, ate away at my moral consciousness with doubts. There was something eating away at me inside, I saw as through a mirror-"vehicle of delusions! How shrunk is everything as it appears in the glass of nature." Jonathan Swift, a better doctor than t.s. elliot, who had poor health, yet t.s. elliot did not brag his health was poor, as did swift display death, wounds in mundane street scenes. t.s. elliot was acting in good taste, the opposite for swift.

Pope had an architecture, cartography for the towering Alps. The Pyrenees in south france awoke in me a parallel. Somewhere is a monastery with the meat cut off the calf, the fears the consequence of my own faint. The loss of oxygen was a picture, words with paper mache triangles all in the row-"The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, hills peep over hills, and Alps on Alps arise!"

I wanted to be the chemist. Love and action, they are the same, H20, and the binding electrons were my understanding of the universal in mankind. I drank a cup of water, and the fluids in the water shook my dreamworld where quietly my german comprehension broke boundaries. The heart beat in my breast, and my language boiled, dislocated if necessary, language out of an allusive, indistinct ration. The soul is the feelings, hunger, death and my brother disagrees with me because he has the same source.

Chemistry class in grade school was poetry in high school. I remember calcium is not natural in milk, and the elements made calcium bond with molecules, milk. A picture with every element, a character with the charged electrons bond with other atoms; I sing a chorus and the harmony disperses with melody; singing phonemes to make words, letters make sounds. Pushkin makes the assertion, Othello is not jealous, he trusts Iago. I tried to spot a nereid in the mist and became lost. Noone can boast having found God until he can lock himself alone for an indefinite amount of time, and not, think.

The language of want. Karamazof wants kill his father. The proof is in the pudding. If the pudding is the centerpiece, who eats? The table is below, and criticism best when approached from above, is best applied from beneath. In the summer of 2001, I wrote in an email thread with the topic civil rights a quote out of Tolstoy's essay On Patriotism. "The Franco-Russian festivities in October, 1894, in France made me, and others, no doubt, as well, first amused, then astonished, then indignant!"

Dreams are free'd out of time and space, lucid dreams are free dreams affected with conscious decision. The superficial is at the forefront with thoughts. Write your dreams, sure, but always take note your actions. I lecture to a young mozart whose bust is either beethoven, or amadeus with the head broken off, knocked from the top with the victrola. Fact, fact, fact, everywhere in the material aspect of the town; fact, fact, fact, everywhere in the immaterial, Dickens lectures.

Take public transport, Woolf lectures. "Went looking for job today, unsuccessfully," I find in my notes. I hate moving to new locations. Baltimore has had me in quite a few neighborhoods with me as tenant, childhood and guest. Ideas are bought and sold by a class of wealthy aristocrats in facts to deregulate the nation's public opinion, just as literary harmony fabricates mythological aphorisms less accessible, certain subjects. I am Jewish because after Beethoven, parellel octaves became permissable with an understanding. We did what's right.

The picture of an artist, Charmsky, paints sculptural subjects in a mundane fashion. Charsky woke four times before dreaming the image awoke. The artist is Chartkov, if the famous have no record, or the fates, he is dust on the broom sweeping the museum with a glee for the gloss on magazine covers glossing over the ugly, misanthrope who dreams.

Fame and wealth are the prize in the painting
that hangs on Charsky's wall.
He is no longer without, anything;
contentment breeds indifference.
Patrons shower with compliments, and women,
his goiter surpasses his gut.
Private students rival his shriveling pennies
while he passes his teacher on the street, unnoticed.
Jealousy fumes his thoughts and emotions-
repentance is bought, fruition,
but beyond him, he thinks, at such an eye.
Repentance is reserve for childhood, he is
an atheist who painted the devil and,
and he knows better.

The statesman, a young Maecenas, if he is dumb becomes supersitious too, a poor man's fool. Such is self-love envies all! A creeping skeleton with lamplike eyes watching around the frozen marriage bed, Blake writes. Those pearl-drops of love cleansed my heart, and washed my sins away. Only he who has experienced such love can know what it is, as the hymn says: Only he ~ who is smitten with the arrows of love, knows its power. Of those two aphorisms, I find the second enlightening while the sentimental tone irks a feeling of compulsion, or confession. I can say now that was confusion, and those words written by Gandhiji, were at the pulse of love. I feel words pulled out of my mouth, like stale bread pecked at by crows, and eagles, muckaws and flying birds were in the pictures Blake etched with acid and bronze on my conscience, heavy as ahimsa, or leaded water out of the tap. Nothing believes in nothing. No sooner is he gone than he's there, again. One day, nothing dies alone, around his friends and family. The superficial things that seem most important, that worries you most, seldom take notice. The constant changing self like two sides of a coin, either Abe Lincoln ... the Lincoln memorial ... it's one or the other, in the summer I credited those lines with Bob Dylan's signature, he never said such things, but the voice in my head was his. The graphic chart displayed this as a cross with a pyramidal line with a dash intersecting on the negative side at a low elevation for urbane, and at high elevation on the plus for pastoral, the title, the line between nature and the urban settings. Anything beneath sea level had a filter. Anything on the negative had a grammar filter. An author has a person describe a persona, Eugene Onegin; as Pushkin has a critical eye on his childhood, and wears glasses! Geometry represent the souls transformation to independent statehood. To walk outside in the cold and not be cold.

"Graze if you will, you peaceful nations,
Who never rouse at honor's horn!
Should flocks heed freedom's invocations?
Their part is to be slain or shorn,
Their dower the yoke their sirens have worn
Through snug and sheeplike generations.

Deep in the Siberian mine,
Keep your patience proud;
The bitter toil shall not be lost,
The revel thought unbowed...

The heavy-hanging chains will fall,
The walls will crumble at a word;
And freedom greet you in the light,
And brothers give you back the sword.

Three springs in life immense and joyless desert
Mysteriously rise and hurry on;
The spring of youth, unsteady and rebellious,
Bubbling and seething, tosses, boils, is gone;
Life's exiles of the bright Castalian fountain
Drink draughts more pure, more heady than the first;
But 'tis the deep, cold wellspring of oblivion
That slakes most sweetly ecstasy and thirst."

A person can have an interesting thought. Two people can reach an agreement. Three people are in conspiracy, and four or five is a mob. C'est du nouveau, n'est ce pas? This time I'll act honestly and explain it to you. Listen, in dreams and especially in nightmares, from indigestion or whatever it may be, a man sometimes ... Here I'll stop dostoevsky's rant. Hamlet was a hack at acting. In Rob's living room, I argued with Ainsley Ekhram about my thesis. I pleaded there was no thesis, and the argument was not all there. I was too harsh in arguing my poorly turned phrases, and Ainsley became aloof when my voice cracked with tears. Hamlet wanted in the family of lesser people so he became reckless in his desire, hurting those closest. Ophelia was more a sister than she was his girl, as Imogen was in the family of Cotton, he was in her camp. Has such artistic dreams, so complex and realistic, so full of events, even a whole world of events, woven into such a ploy, with such unexpected details from the most exalted matters to the last button on a cuff, as I swear Leo Tolstoy will never invent.

Kaushik asked me my beau ideal and I told him, Helena of Troy because of her long golden hair. I numbered countless hours wondering how to scale the walls of her tower in the monastery, hidden in the hills south of france in the Pyrenees. Father Ferrapont saw devils. He was a statesman reactionary monk. In the final chapters, Chichikov is dragged to trial in his tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino... He glanced at the tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino and, taking hold of the bellpull, rang... He collapsed at the prince's feet just as he was, in his tailcoat of the flames and smoke of Navarino, in his velvet waistcoat and satin tie, new trousers and hairdo exuding the clean sent of eau de cologne... in baltimore's democratic state, a polemic can easily argue homosexual behavior as a magazine writer critiques fashion, with an eye on the righteous and noveau; in a republican state, there are no gays. The census does not record any. If you're a true revolutionary, you've already ended up when you've started down. There is no direction, only misdirection. Expression is a spiral in the two-dimensions boxed-in, as it were. For I have always held that it is only when one sees one's own mistakes with a convex lens, and does just the reverse in the case of others, that one is able to arrive at a just relative estimate of the two. That is Gandhi's Himalayan miscalculation on the dye farmers. I remember walking home from school with Richard Lee, and bullies were following us because Richard wore purple. I told him I had a knife in my pocket... a butcher's knife, and he always left me alone on following weeks. If not the brothers, bullies on roller blades wheeled up because I had looked funny when we were walking. They broke Richard's glasses on the grass, and they all laughed. I shot the finger as they rode off, and those bullies got off the porch like hill billies and chased us, me with my contrabass strapped on my shoulder and hardly five feet tall, and made it a few blocks from my house where they caught us. Go ahead, I said, you'll have to break my bass if you want to hit me. I knew exactly where they lived.

His friends were smarter than he, and pulled him away. I wasn't afraid. It's either be the bitch or be somebodies bitch.