Orientation

The God of intentions is no longer human being; it's The Bank (1984).

Some component of human innateness has been tricked teased goaded conditioned and subsequently systematically rerouted to believe--spend your days--working with The Bloodless Bank as your God-goal for those daily hours, your capacitated (employed) life.

A lie fed is are the tokens (like at a videogame arcade) that are parcelled--the growth in your own Bank; the employment "Benefits"; etc.--at regular intervals, so you feel, and are actually, fulfilling your human obligations to some extent, in your own way, are made to believe, you think, your family. Sacrifice has many hues, but is one word. The language has been manipulated through time (the Industrial Revolution) by being retained to feign noble, to justify the trading in of humanness. The rest is a lie, and, if one is speaking of a singular human and the life lived, even that human part of it is a part of it, setup to deceptively satisfy, like hallucinogens.

After college, and before hitting the ground in WorkPlace, there's a period in the business called Orientation: A sad, ambitious new hire said, "I'm not adding value to the company yet."

Love diary

It was a nice night
with the moon and the lights clouding
and we trekked through the jungle of 42nd Street
Times Square holding each other in arms still,
on the quiet evening edge of Bryant Park, huddled in one
sitting in contemplation of the day
when the world's light is on.

Hearts and Diamonds

There's no need for me to worry to the point of tripping over before traveling, speaking to others what I think of the world. I don't claim to be infallibly correct. "Infallibly," because I claim to be corrrect, because I mean what I say.

But like anything said, anything in the world, the world, what's materialized in communication with others is always potential and fallible.

Art critics talk about their surroundings but blur and mingle with the historian.

Or is what is past, history, unable to be criticized, subjectified? It is moving by its recipients, just as the art of the living is. But the artist here is dead and no longer moves in time. No longer creating. No more affecting the fates of those around him. No more breathing CO2 to this world.

We act so absentmindedly and pretend to be so methodically rational--inaccurately, consciously self-deceiving and tragically romantic.

The fallacy of the -ists.

Mysogynist. "Many consider his Women paintings of the early 1950s the work of a mysogynist." Racist. Classist. (Homophobicist? What's the deal here.) A label, for those whoi label. The labeling of labelers to round a group up, cast a wide net, form groups, PACs, to protest and fight claw and nail jointly against the -ists. I used to, at one point for the course of a few dozen months want to start a Hating the Haters group, because I thought it'd be funny, effective, shocking, pacifying, cleansing, for illogical random premeditated acts of violence against someone that hated delineated demographics--the imagery of a white hooded guy just walking from work, a dark alleyway, crept up upon like shadows, beaten actually what's the word, titillated? my humor, my intelligence, my vengeance, my hatred of stupidity.

I fall in love

I fall in love through my eyes
. . .with a girl watching
. .her eyes gaze longingly,
. .affectionately at another
. .woman's baby.

The them and I

There're those around me
And those that are like me
and the others

There's those around with me and those that are like me
and the others.
I am who I am here and to you I am Abe,
and the guy to them.

The novel? The short story? Unstructured thougths?

If I imagined myself at home,
where would I be?

If I imagined writing that would fulfill, or get at attempting to fulfill my observation, my running diagnosis, the motion of the world/exist as part of that motion,
what would come?

I am mortal, and acknowledge the short piece I do in time.

Lives come, people overlap relatives family partners of love and its enjoyment is poetry and writing is a vocation.