Tag Archives: poem

text | poetry, The field of AI

<< teleology >>

<< teleology >>



The teleology of the grapheme is the punctum,
while the pun is Möbius’ tummy to my ruler
The purpose of the rocket is to pierce
There, I’ve said it?

While Pierce pragmatized meaning,
and the aim of practical effects is consequences only
while a phalanx’s goal is to substitute the chess game
And yet!

narrative closures can be essentialized
by either absurdities or patriotisms
with a dash of law and order
and the theoretical realities of practical abstraction

Are these morphemes mere synonyms,
or are you, and only you, their author in reboot?



—animasuri’23



—-•
Triggers ’n’ sprouts:

Scheurich, J. J. (1995). A postmodernist critique of research interviewing. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 8(3), 239–252. https://lnkd.in/gbXXtb3t

text | poetry, The field of AI

<< Explanatory Wooden Frame >>




On Sundays at an inspirational 10:14AM
while others are sat on benches and fed sermons and prescriptions
I atheistically regress into asking child-like questions
aesthetically expressing my mind’s lane hanging out to dry on a world tree

An automated inner voice machines questions
as if tooling on lathes and laser cutters
I play truncated chess with logs of languages to the reckoning of numbers
as plastic as the output from 3DPs from which I construct a story; yours if you like

rathe creations blooming early shavelings
shave and burn and cut imagination, dumb it down to a stump,
sharpen it to Odin’s spear on the cheap compressed wood that is my brain
polluting the reader while satisfying a shifting use.

Darwin, you erased Aristotle’s question from the mundane:
why have certain species not materialized?
in flesh, blood and other liquids; what took them out of the sane?
I demand explanations of patterns, I demand frames:

There are unicorns, but where is mine?
there are gnomes, as alternative truths, do you lie?
there is you, as a flower self-reflecting on a murky water surface
there is peace, as a chain smoker quiting, in between puffs

I knowingly sip hot water crystal clearly misting spectacles, intentionally
sorting out the Babel evidenced
on Sunday at 10:27 I succumb to shifts and dislocations in explanatory frames
on Sunday, more Woden Wednesdays are near.

On Sunday autumn leaves plays and mind’s a page.




—animasuri’23




—-•
Triggers and Seedlings:

Garfinkel, A. (1981). Forms of Explanation: rethinking the questions in social theory. New Haven: Yale University Press. pp. 9, 19

Activate to view larger image,

text | poetry

<< Calculat'd Forgott'n >>

Can I calculate the moment, its envelope, or the number of the memories I have forgotten? Even one?

One September fifteenth, oh as I remember it as a Friday, I have entirely forgotten. And yet that then holds as much confidence within me as stating: “this statement is a lie.”

Can I calculate that moment when I looked up at my son and he suddenly seemed just that ever little length taller, at about zero point two four seven three five eight zero millimeters, than my life’s partner? Things fell apart as things grow beyond. That is via a model of my son that was ignoring the layers and swirling of his hair sticking out well beyond his parent’s height.

Do I remember the color of the t-shirt he was wearing that day, yesterday? Oh, as I remember it as a bright reflection with a dash of four point forty seven times ten to the fourteenth power. A kind of red I might assume?

That day, I do remember clearly, was not September fifteenth, no. it was a day, at seven fifty in the evening, within a timezone likely not that of the reader of these words.

I count on it: will not forget.

—animasuri’23

text | poetry

<< ’t Is Where I Lay>>

In the vast fields of the mundane, the conceptual lingers
through the patches of the practical poking shoots and hatchlings
are sprinkled abstractions, patterns and theories
interweeding with chaos and brown noise

interloping the hurricanes of action
and instant result cross-pollination blossoms absurdity with irrationality,
reason with awareness, determinism with serendipity as wildness of life
joining streams of uncontrolled thoughts with the unintentional wetlands swamping mind, measured matter, consciousness and ephemeral information in dark and intangible laws of natures unseen.

’t is where I lay.
undefined
by names given, occupations imposed,
labels carried or roles maintained.
You cannot join
since joints forge separations of what was already one

                                                —animasuri’23
text | poetry

<< Álfröðull >>

Sun, in disjunction with blue skies,
clarify’d by dark wolverine’s welkin trails:
how ever when, where ever how

She did did she but upon herself
through the treacherous language we gave:
set; she did in fact not, zest she did give

It is us who turned away
it is us who turned our backs
and yet not free willed

pulled by Presence and Absence
we were reverted, turned and exerted forward

as a ball of life on a spit
she spat her beams

for as long as she attends to us

                                 —animasuri’23
text | poetry

<< Anything is Awkward >>

play the piano,
use a 3-D printer,

check out everything

books to ice skates
chopped gherkins,

three white Finnish men

sour cream, and honey.
butts and boobs everywhere

“Let’s go smoke a cigarette.”

everything is awkward
everything is right

where it should be

                   —animasuri’23 
                   appropriational note-taking 
                   The stolen word series

source: Collins, Lauren. (2023, June 12). Pilvi Takala and the Art of Awkwardness. The New Yorker. Profiles June 19, 2023 Issue. Via Dr. WSA

text | poetry

<< An Opera of Writing >>

a metaphor for sorting met with force of sorts
violence and love matriculate bars, tempos, lessons, lesions and doves

an opera of metaphors, there falls a pencil on the sand-ridden wooden stage, ergo faints an earthworm when brushed over onto the cobblestones, back there through that door, there where word mills a’ churn’n of left-over grandeur, pomp and praise and a snippet of score left bleeding ink darkening moss, there endings stop displaced tails of the conductor’s left gliding pincer grip, there words brood cheapness to counterpoint with cheap life as notes are as in cheap candy bars: could you imagine —waking and walking back inside as a second movement— an interlude, with vendors of sugar and crunch? Is my repertoire but a page away as bassoons ‘n’ bullfrogs announce me o’ they shall some day, some day they shall

Me my mi me do mi sol mi minor mi that chord as manure’s manners of ding dung ding when writing smells of opera, opera appears brass necked in the breath of a drunken sailor from across the street smudging the last bit of green, slipped on the wet flowerless street plant that lacks true roots in the dampness of dumbed down dumplings from next door’s hole in the wall: the opera house’s back door always slams composure.

—animasuri’23

via The Financial Times,
via Benjamin, George,
via Dr. WSA.

“Composer George Benjamin ‘Writing an opera is like diving into a pool for the first time’” (Financial Times)

Uncategorized

<< Ignoring Bodies of Work >>


wishing a painting
ground pulped juice
with pigment of berries: circular red

wiping with Gustav
fills lips color
worn bodies of reflection: citrus gold

windows on soles
hold ceramic deeds
would wooden surface: crunch popped

when stills notice
gushing feeding hungering
wayward digitization exhibition: crippled voyeur

wiping with Gustav
feet fingers faces
wiping sour I was there: criminal allure

                                   

                           —animasuri’23 





           ref: IMG_20230708_084746_1.jpg
           8 Jul 2023, at 15:42 via Dr. WSA


Epilogue: “IMG_20230708_084746_1.jpg” or a picture speaks a thousand words. What if one hints at these thousand words and then removes the picture? Does this pervert, augment, represent what “IMG_20230708_084746_1.jpg” visualizes or what one imagines it visualizes?

text | poetry, The field of AI

<< 1 >>

One will take or harvest what One will. One will create what One will. One will manipulate what One will. One will invest in what One will. One will impose, share or scale what One will. One will let go of what One will. One wills the number lacking debate. One wills half too. And, then, One also wants critics two remain silent at all times


–animasuri’23

text | poetry

<< Glean >>


Pincer picking leftover facts

pinched with eyes as sheers
tense and pale we peer at the broken soil
almost all out of dust and fall-out

we share a basket, you and I
woven in stories of ancestral techniques
we share a hunger, you and I

wielding a collection of crumbs and threads
following a harvesting of the gross
kneeling on eagerness and foraging for the best

we journeyed on to the neighboring field,
we stay close ’n’ won’t journey out too much
weaving green then yellow golden

and then turned within the pale
our ignorance, that is,
we know of you and I

we glean the grains of our ignorance
it is pure it is spotless, as clean as unknown
we glean there

And we hope for, and heaps more

                            —animasuri’23
animasuri’23 << Glean >>