poem

Poetry in the 21st

Speed disciplined the mind. 

The mode: time translated to purpose.

I've considered poetry to be in-conducive, a fight with memory, shuttled through a black box.

What information do you need? 
You are experiencing through words- What? 

To sit alone and read was once strange. One had to speak the word, or sing, to an audience. Augustine appeared other-worldy in his chair, reading silently. 



Is there contempt for inner music?

The one with science and technology being sensationalized – idiosyncrisis

I express some thoughts on Neuralink, physics and AI. I consider science to exist also as a commercial industry, and much of what we know of it is sensationalized because the platforms we use to get scientific knowledge, for the majority of people, function like businesses that are selling highly marketable products (ideas), which naturally causes a loss of scientific rigour and accuracy. So we are filled with a kind of pop-science understanding of AI, space, physics, and technology. And thinkers who provide sober and realistic perspectives are less considered and more disincentivized to partake in mainstream scientific discourse. Basically, when confronted with any public thinker we have to ask ourselves: What is this person trying to sell me? Scientist I forgot the name of: Sabine Hossenfelder

There she is

There she is, my love, oh 
So pretty, so worthwhile 
Look at the hours go by
Take a look at how 
She uses compassion 
As 10 sharpened prongs, oh 
My love, 
That voice is a
Sweet prosody, hear
The sizzling of her brand
On my skin, oh 
My empathy, young heart, oh.

sometimes

sometimes i get stuck in my head.

the green of the grass outside sometimes gets stuck in my vision.
the motion blur in the car sometimes is not blurred enough.
the music in the bar gets into my veins and it’s not loud enough, sometimes.

i don’t want to keep sinking into the same old feelings,
i like the new, like changing old clothes,

it takes time for me to realize i’m not my feelings

anyway,

There is a need to make sense of experience through a language that is more authentic.

Language sets a standard to define our non-standard selves.

If you analyze yourself deeper, burrowing down to the centre (whatever that is),
the common words, symbols
become disingenuous means to express what it is found;

Convenient placeholders- ready made constructions for mass use.

Poetry is created from an inward movement
orbited to one mind
playfully engaged
in the struggle of re-definition.

decisions made between couples

Like a scene of a crime,
you come back to find what you missed
the first time.

It was too much to take in then;
the shock: too sincere;
so you go back,
and go again;
the memorable dries on wallpaper,
the senses clear
from a cloud of baking soda;

and each step backwards demands more of what was missed
until mystery writes another
same story

and
case solved;

though,

the stain of time…

near Geneva.

Elementary particles explode in brilliant fragments 
when they collide with one another 
inside the Large Hadron Collider near Geneva, Switzerland;

curious physicists from safe distance observe 
a consequence that reveals
the deepest laws 
nature keeps hidden from view; 

A kind of entertainment, really.


Somewhere out there, in countries from the 1st to the 3rd,

people,

in the thick of things,
intending or not,
collide with the world; 
exposing laws inside their own nature
kept concealed; 

consequences pending. 

Among other cases,
it’s so evident that it has become a dogma-

when authority
is not legitimate,
people
stop obeying.

They might even carry out
revolution.


But yet, consider the position of a single,
solitary,

particle

                  collision
as it obeys until          ;
and a physicist's head turns 
just in time
to miss it...


Maybe there is something deeper
than quantum physics
hidden
   near Geneva.

Everyone looks down sooner or later to smile.

Blushing at a random cool breeze,
or reminded of something
long thought forgotten,

or feeling
something
long thought abandoned.

For a moment, a stranger’s eyes roam sporadic across a busy room,

and land into mine.

The brief capture of a life,
that entrapment of time,
of memory,

concentrated in gaze.

Sometimes, I look down smiling as well.

thigmotropism

I enjoyed tangling our bodies together
like we were plants,
accommodating ourselves to a surface at high-speed.

thigmotropism, I think it’s called.

but I didn’t like the time after, where we were like plants
uprooted,
cut up, sautéed,
pointlessly
thrown
on top a garbage pile-

I still don’t know
what to call
something
like
that.

is that good?

You had this fragrance about you;
it smelled like the beach.

I always told you about it, and you
always replied “is that good?”

And I, of course, as
a gentlemen said “of course.”

That was a lie.

You smelled like one of those dirty beaches
people only travel
to because
it’s nearby
and they just want to waste a weekend.

Category: poem