With hooks, and ropes;
adorning harnesses and safety belts;
claiming base-camps, helicopters and Sherpas
With the latest theory tested to practice;
deep voiced solid narration and epic pep-talks;
tempered steel focus and hardened grit
With paving ways for caravans to follow;
circling the spoils of gained ground;
feeding the fire, trampling the grid
Water mountains they climb.
—animasuri’24
when beauty stares back
from proximity, from tip-toe distance
and with osmosing depth
i am unable to grasp it
as it flows through
consciousness: it undefines
such beauty does not get stuck
not as neurons exciting
not in thought, bouncing off
scraping cranial walls plastered
with blinding minimalism
of anxieties and neurotic echoing surfaces.
such beauty is celebration
beyond cerebral coercion
with willingness undesired
such beauty is you
without eager acknowledgement
—animasuri’24
I wake while sound sleeps
the pumping of blood
from an accelerating heart
trying tinnitus, buzzing into the brain
as far as an eye can see
no bathroom lights, kitchen lights
no late night living room brawls
nor a balcony staring back with a full glass
I wake while songs, sons ‘n’ Sun sleep
a physiological soundtrack underscores singleness:
gurgling interiors, rushing fluid
snapping joints, groans the still could hear
the acidic burn of last night’s dinner
reminds me in early hours: we carry histories
in organs, consequences in flesh;
or so I do. I do.
I wake while counting the rings and ribs
of a slice of tree and a trunk of life
it’s all there, drunken with memory
there is no serenity during one’s wake
—animasuri’24
I cannot remember your name.
I cannot remember your face.
I cannot, I can not
I can’t recall you.
you are, not to compute
If I force to re-member
lust fills ligaments and limbs
if marking of fuzziness, blurriness,
fogginess if ever a loose model dislocated
in favor of an unpredictable determinant
will we appeal, absurdly:
as bodies bouncing off
what is, what could,
a curvature into a minded murmur
what was of anyone really
if I ever meet you, as by
trigger, a none-memory,
your story, a hint of voice,
an off-the-shelf perfume
your skin as soft as
I will recognize,
with certainty
loved or yearned:
Lover
—animasuri’24
—-•
trigger
Sapolsky, R. M. (2023). Determined. A Science of Life without Free Will. NY, USA: Penguin Press. (opposing free will)
Sprevak, M., Colombo, M. (2018). The Routledge Handbook of the Computational Mind. Routledge.
Tallis, R. (2004). Why the Mind is Not a Computer: A Pocket Lexicon of Neuromythology. 2nd edition. Societas.
Tallis, R. (2021). Freedom. An Impossible Reality. Agenda Publishing (in support of free will)
Along the chilled chiseled rusticated ashlar
precipitation meets my cheek.
A gentle awakening as of a kiss from that universal lover unknown yet ever around and taken for granted.
Is the drop still whole when shǒu dāo’ed by the ulnar edge of a hand.
Tea drips down my throat. A drop of blood. Life drips the clock from edges of booked shelves.
Its mastery and peace remains; as eyes pass.
—animasuri’24
My hand, are you an extractive institution, the palpitator of the prohibited without consent, the weeder of functionality for the belly and urge you serve, the flattener of crosstalk, pushback, checks and spars. Are you the tentacle testing dryness of fertile soils fiddling futility. My hand, are you the conductor of fingers at sleep, slight of hands and sneaky Freudian slips, do you slide under tables fondling brown paper envelopes or stockings alike, protruding the questionable ever unanswerable in the shades and twilight of movements in largesse distracting from the emptiness of words. My hand, do you carry callouses as cradles to civilization building of master’s bate when imagining lands of others to caress yet ever care for by exploitation, hand-eye coordination and umping silences of labor unspeakable outside the gloss of design and architectured relations in empires handled by history. My hand, do you slap, slither, slit and slide. Do you hide in the palm and knuckles of a fist do you frequent trebles or bass or frequencies of grace. Are you daily an absolute beginner and touch the nascency of companionship with tender tips?
—animasuri’24
When Kafka types, bureaucrats look up. For a hint in time landscapers of paper, form and institute no longer rattle chains and gears for gates of chops bathed in ink-shaped access.
Shaping reds and blacks coloring moves.
Shaping steps of stairs. Shaping heights and polishing glass ceilings. Scraping pits for prescription gratings living lives here and here.
Just for a second a halt heralds a gaze. Readers could be more concerned with what the pencil pusher does, their acts are even less sexy than the words mythologized here.
Did Kafka push a pencil? Chopping heroes are distracting noises between worlds and words of whistling pedagogical battles. Literate noises as bureaucrats look up grooming worldly believes into submission: know this, not that.
Reiterative flows of taxes work sleepy workers waking work, work hard, make work, no love. The writer woks a meal for these meandering minds. Daily diversion from attention to connotations, to stipulations as punctuations.
depth and diverse conversations of listening companionships keeps the mind focused on escapisms to come. The stories that let us be sedated by mere lack of boredom are allowing grievances directed in a spittoon of a film.
criticism as a meme on a fleeing thread, is it. Threat. Excitement of reductions and slow simplicities, where you sit down with the other in silence and sense nerves flow outward in comfort: “It’s good sitting here with you ma’am, sir.” Waiting in line at the clerk’s.
It’s good not knowing you not having to catalogue as proud birds of paradise or roosters defending male hoods. Is it good sitting silently unbothered by the sectioned time lines guard-railed by raiders of open endings.
The ticket ticker tickles patience. When Kafka types on his pillow, accounting enumerates and bureaucrats take notice. “The numbers are mythic, sir. Just tell the next in line a good story,” directed the guidelines and standards.
It’s good waiting to be next in line.
—animasuri’24
It is in the abstraction I find liberation
to be lost in the all-telling nothingness
distancing love for turmoils of nuisances
from the entangled companionship
with the anecdotal other and their claws
disintegrating form, function and frivolities
a bloody scratch as a midway house to molecular absorption elsewhere well’s where any elsewhere some fare some more or less will dare drip, drop stingy scratch some more
nor some here there’s no more mass but masses of hair lost at sea of skin hairline fracture
fractured torn to wayward ways one once was a door, a carrot made of orange rope and a tuft ‘a’ green, dust, an explosion one once was
a while back in a galaxy beyond, a thread of hemp skinned from the plants potted to smoke
I pet Cat. One Once Was. That is, ‘r name.
One kettle, once clinging high pitched piercing
was as vibration onto the tympani osmosing
into the snail-like housed hairs triggering
electro-chemicals at a fraction
of not knowing yet changing: an ear, a brain
a sound sounds of an uncritical pedagogue
I no longer pet Cat. that is, f’r now.
abstraction morphs with awareness that
there is love in a cup of tea as well as
vulnerability to burn, lesions on the tongue
palms overheating and glasses fogging up
fingers slip and I am fulfilled with deep warmth
one that but temperature once was
one intercoursed with memory and embellishments of who introduced Cat to me
how fingertips touched when petting lips
that one time a cup with a rim
off hand-over-paw; sip: it’s blurry
little mouth drink cat tongue;
finger tip. tip trip trickle
I pet Cat, abstractly
then flees from me,
present under sofas,
absurdly slurp absentee
Cat once was one pet
away from teasing me
—animasuri’24
I garden. A place plays with blooms and grafts.
She flowers. As act defying pots to shards.
We tender. As biddings without compete.
It heeds. A time for decay’s decanting a lead.
As time’s bidding acts onto this place’s play.
Garden flowers tender for heeds.
Blooms defying without decay.
Grafts shard to compete and lead.
For with’s defying without
Decanting places blooming time
Leading gardens grafting heeds
Decay plays pots with tender
words ‘r’ weeds as a-pole-a-pad-a-leaf-as-paddle
for where the imaginary butterfly perched
evanescently phrasing a choreographed calligraphy
for a hovering mind to flutter a stanza anew.
—animasuri’24
Vlad sat down on that chair, with a sigh,
in what otherwise appeared to him
as eyeing a sightless single-person sofa
“So, I just asked myself,”
he cracked the silence,
“how many hours do I
approximately speak
every work week? Well,
I roughly calculated that
including two cats, two drivers,
two children, one life ‘s partner,
the sporadic delivery person,
a colleague here or there
and my own inner voice
that I speak
about 90 hours a work week.
While that might seem to justify
people stating that I speak too much,
and yet if I cut out my inner voice
it’s only about 6.5 hours a work week
of which about two hours
is spent on the cats,
resulting in about 4.5 hours worth
of human chatter other than with myself.
Of that time I speak
a little less than an hour
with my children per work week.
3.5 hours remain to be assigned.
I calculate a little less than an hour
with morning and evening drivers
and delivery people, in the evening, at times
on the phone with autonomous voices:
should I calculate talking to a phone?
That leaves 2.5 hours.
I speak a little less than an hour
a work week with my colleagues
of whom most I do not speak with
except then the daily warm hello and goodbye.
While with some not even that occurs.
1.5 hours endures the count
of which I spend listening, and replying in mind,
to you for a little less than an hour.
That means I speak about 30 minutes
with you per work week.
That’s around six minutes per work day.
Let’s make it count!” Time being up,
Vlad retreated into silence
with the exception of erecting a sigh
enabling a walk out of the room
voiced by squeaking shoes
and aging joints
—animasuri’24