Monthly Archives: October 2024

text | poetry, visual | poem

<< Lover >>

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)

text | poetry, visual | poem

<< I, Drop. >>

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

text | poetry, visual | poem

<< Hand >>

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