Koreatown Bok Choy: Excerpt

(1) Abstract (unmetered): In 387 BC, around the age of 40, the renowned Hellenist philosopher Plato (428-348 BC) founded his Academy in the then flourishing city of Athens, only a dozen or so years following the execution of his mentor Socrates, whose purported last words were, “Crito, please remember we owe a cock to Asclepius.” By contrast, around 390 AD, on nearly equal opposite sides of the so-called Christ event, the Neoplatonic philosopher Plutarch of Athens (350-430 AD) would re-establish the Platonic Academy in Athens, at age 40, where the last of the great Late Antique philosophers—Syrianus and Proclus and Damascius—would work in the shadow of Constantinople. The last of the Academies were shut down by the Imperial decree of Justinian in 529 AD. Yet the birth of Parmenides, one of the great mentors of Socrates (and, via osmosis, of Plato), is believed to have taken place somewhere between 540 and 520 BC, on the equal opposite side of the so-called Christ event as Justinian’s decree.

Canto 1.1 (.769) 

Araqi told Jo Yu-ri

as they sat in the small hallway wide Udon Lab on West Thirty Second

right next to the Martinique

how he had no recollection of re-reading Rings of Saturn whatsoever—in fact the only reason Araqi even realized he’d started re-reading Rings of Saturn at all was a sole blue pen underline strike under the word Rumelia

right on top of page ninety nine that

now re-reading it yet again

Araqi knew all too well he would have never made when he initially read Rings of Saturn

because at that time Araqi barely knew what Rumelia referenced

but upon a second reading

assuming said second reading took place when Araqi believed it did

he was totally balls deep in Rumelia lore. For all of these reasons Araqi believed he’d only began his second reading of Rings of Saturn when he picked up the book again just the other afternoon

but in actuality

according to this particular blue underline on the ninety-ninth page of the novel

it seemed like he’d actually

in fact

recently started a third reading

not a second

but wasn’t it a bit befuddling

a tad disconcerting perhaps that a person could have absolutely no recollection of reading a whole fucking hundred pages of a novel less than five years prior

Araqi thought

a sentiment he expressed to Jo Yu-ri

and she agreed that it did seem egregious

but also perplexing and maybe even

not to be hyperbolic

but a bit ominous? But all this

the entirety of the pair’s specific stream of dialogue was abruptly interrupted when Jo Yu-ri noted Araqi’s visibly concatenating frustration as they were suddenly

violently upstreamed at the bar by some greasy fuck in a cobalt blue soccer jersey—the fact of the matter was the two friends only popped in the spot to begin with to take a quick listen to a particular "xylophone jazz trio" Araqi and Jo Yu-Ri heard playing from the foyer as they walked past on West Thirty Second

Araqi being intrigued by a trio led by xylophone

but once in line at the bar they both slowly realized how loquacious this bartender was with each customer

Araqi’s frustration concatenating with each second he continued to wait for a beer

and now

this customer in a cobalt blue soccer jersey

popped up out of seemingly thin air to upstream them

this customer

who

for his part

had apparently been repeatedly scorned in his quest to get a second beer himself

by none other than this loquacious bartender

who kept continuing on about checking the pipes in the basement

and now this customer in the cobalt blue soccer shirt audaciously cut them both in line to ruthlessly expedite his subsequent beverage. Araqi was abutting an audible complaint but remained unwilling to abandon his just-discovered excitement for this "xylophone jazz" as Jo Yu-ri noted that there was a Vietnamese food truck outside

right on the corner of Sixth and Thirty Second

that she could go get a few egg rolls if they wanted? Araqi wasn’t really in the mood

but this didn’t deter Jo Yu-Ri from ambling outside to see “what was up with their dumplings”

right as the bartender finally attended to Araqi’s pending request for an overpriced quote-unquote Italian style beer

which didn’t taste like Peroni at all

and by the time the two got to a seat the jazz trio finished its first set and began its break

lighting cigarettes and walking back to the bar for their respective

Araqi assumed

free refills.

Chris Conklin at Rite Aid

from Mechanism and Dialogue (An American Epic Poem)

“This nostalgia,” Ingo began, “ugh, it’s fundamentally an act of terrorism isn’t it? I mean in the sense that it’s working, in some sense, against the potential production 

of newer childhood memories from more recent childhoods, themselves of course fundamentally as false as our’s, but don’t they.” “Have as much of a right to exist as our own?” 

a female floor fan in Moscow named Tifa cut off, “Our own memories which we find.” “Serendipity in doubting as an act of faith?” Ingo finished, 

“What is nostalgia fundamentally? It’s fucking like ASMR or some shit. It’s just another church and, fundamentally, as Kierkegaard himself said, the Church cannot be distinguished from the State. 

Every prophet allegedly sent down to us, let’s just face it, results in an unintelligible truth and the subsequent post-mortem construction of a State that posits intelligibility 

as the crux of its tyranny.” “We shun unintelligibility,” Tifa said, “all the while remaining willfully ignorant to the fact intelligibility has no other function but to annihilate.” 

“There’s nothing lower than intelligibility really, at least as it relates to first causes, to Being itself,” Ingo retorted, “when you actually take a second to think about it, you know?” 

“Greed is the fulcrum of intelligibility.” “Why is it then that we seem to believe that it, intelligibility, is an encasing worthy of divinity?”

“Bring four witnesses to each infidelity,” Tifa said, “otherwise it’s you that spreads corruption in the land. Is that a commentary on intelligibility, to some extent?” 

“Shouldn’t the divine emerge sans encasing?” Ingo noted. “How could it not emerge exactly like that?” “Nostalgia: it’s basically terrorism to me.” 

“It’s only walking in solitude yet in densely populated areas that I actually feel anywhere close to at ease, like I can actually think a little bit?” “But the people we grew up with,” 

Ingo said, “these actual co-conspirators of our nostalgia, we can’t make ourselves known to them, can we?” “To them we remain eternally unintelligible,” Tifa concluded. 

“We’re like a local news story to them, but I for one wouldn’t necessarily take a ton of offense if they just closed the browser for good?”

I saw Chris Conklin

in line at Rite Aid; he looked 

twenty years older,

and I thought eventually 

the two of us will be dead.

“Leaving aside the alcohol and its potential benefits,” Ingo continued to Tifa, “weighed against the indubitable drawbacks, there are essentially only two choices in front of us: 

the one being to untether yourself completely from everything, and view the world and all human interaction as essentially things that require annihilation, primarily because  

there’s a next something that we should instead be turning our gaze toward. Or to basically sum it up quite simply the other option is: Everything reverts to Him. 

That, in fact, rather than untethering from everything, you should instead immerse yourself so fully in these infinite extensions that the net result is that you’re inevitably 

annihilated in turn, and the only thing that remains is His face.” “Go on, Ingo,” Tifa said. “‘Every moment my heart tugs me to the tavern - how can I remain here with these pious hermits?’” 

Ingo quoted, then said, “There’s an importance, philosophically speaking, of not making eye contact with anyone, of avoiding all eye contact if possible, 

especially in densely populated public places. The wisest of people have always understood this, Tifa. Conversely, the egregious alcoholic in some not immaterial sense 

is actually placed higher in spiritual knowledge than even the practiced monk, because the practiced monk - practicing the former approach of untethering from everything - 

has attempted to find his solace in nothingness, but true nothingness is quite elusive. True nothingness will, sure, eventually lead you to everything all at once, but via 

true nothingness you’ll encounter everything all at once from the opposite end. Whereas, the egregious alcoholic - yes, he’s taken of course essentially the opposite approach

of the practiced monk, and of course he’s landed in the same place essentially, yet viewing everything all at once from the opposite side! He’ll eventually approach everything

all at once but from the opposite end than the practiced monk. The practiced monk arrives at everything all at once from one end, while the egregious alcoholic arrives 

at everything all at once from the opposite end. You make yourself more objectionable when you drink by yourself, which is preferable when it comes to matters like these, Tifa.” 

“I suppose there’s really nothing a priori inappropriate about pouring yourself a stiff cocktail after a hard day’s work,” Tifa replied. “’Hmm, I’m just curious here,’ I thought,” Ingo continued, 

“sitting in a comfy red chair having a sip of some fairly high class Mezcal - by myself of course! - ‘yeah, I wonder how long it specifically takes for alcohol to truly leave your system?’ 

I thought, having successfully avoided alcohol entirely for a full week, for seven whole days. And on the seventh day I began to feel somewhat like a completely different person, 

as if all of my previous urges, during - I don’t know, the last two decades or so? - had shifted in some not statistically insignificant way. But it’s difficult if not impossible 

to truly map out these tiny shifts in the caprice you experience with regard to yourself, to map them to one thing at the exclusion of others, although, in a sense, 

at the time, I felt like a child again. At the time, Tifa, I was also intensely reflecting on the three plums I’d bought on sale earlier that day, and how one of them, the only one I’d consumed to date, 

had, I don’t know, a bit of a bitter taste to it? Almost like it wasn’t good at all? In turn, in addition to thinking about how long alcohol stays in your system, while drinking by myself,

I also found myself considering if purchasing produce that was marked ‘on sale’ was itself always necessarily an ill-advised idea in concept, that the only reason fruit 

would be on sale is if it was out of season, or if it was a member of a bad batch of produce, that basically some sequence of events must have occurred to this fruit 

that made it unappealing enough to the grocery store for the store to place it on sale. I finished my drink and figured I might as well leave my apartment and, I don’t know, 

fucking buy a book or something? But on my way to buy a book I ended getting a massive urge to pee, Tifa, so I ducked into the only dive bar that I knew for a fact 

wouldn’t frown upon me using their bathroom as a non-customer, because I knew for a fact all sorts of bums were using their bathroom on the regular, so why couldn’t I? 

I made literal nanosecond-duration eye contact with the girl behind the bar as I walked to the men’s room and recalled that it’d been literal months since I’d been to this bar, 

yet I distinctly recalled, the last time I was at this bar, being pushed mercilessly over the edge of sobriety by taking the bartender up on a second Mezcal, yet as I continued to reflect 

I concluded that that was actually the case every time I’d ever been to the fucking place. After I peed, I asked the girl behind the bar to get me a Mezcal and water, 

quite aware that the entire reason I went to this bar - to pee without purchasing - was now rendered completely pointless, and she asked for a clarification of my order 

via uttering the words: ‘Like with water? On top of it?’  Yeah and close my tab. I suppose it would be fair to say that I didn’t give a particular fuck about this girl behind the bar, Tifa, 

although, to be fair, it’s quite possible that at a previous point in my life I would have felt some urge to give some modicum of a fuck about her, to note some nanosecond-level 

eye contact as somehow imbued with meaning in some way. In my younger years I very well may have taken note of this bartender, now arduously tasked with constructing 

my Mezcal and water, and imagined a pretext of some sort to subsequently give a fuck about her as a person, but now, at that particular moment, sitting at the bar waiting for 

my Mezcal and water, it would be disingenuous to suggest that I gave a fuck about her in any way. Yet of course I obviously didn’t know her at all! At a minimal glance, 

it looked like she she’d hit a bit of a rough patch over the last few months - only because I distinctly recalled her from a few months prior, precisely because she was 

a physically attractive bartender at this bar, where generally speaking you’ll rarely if ever encounter anyone physically attractive. I closed the tab upon the execution of the order 

of the Mezcal and water. Like with water on top of it? Yes, that’s correct. With the water. And ice too if you have it.” “Ingo,” Tifa interjected, “you remember what I used to do for a living, right?” 

“The fact of the matter was,” Ingo continued, “that I’d crossed the bridge that afternoon in a completely capricious way! To be honest, Tifa, I was being just slightly dishonest 

when I said I decided to buy a book. Initially my thought was to just take a walk in my neighborhood. I was initially planning to take a quick walk, but I was intent on making sure 

that the walk remained exclusive to my particular neighborhood, which was on the one side of the bridge, and I was specifically attempting to avoid crossing the bridge 

and meandering into the downtown on the other side of the bridge, primarily because I’d been avoiding our downtown of late, of late our downtown perhaps even distressed me 

to some extent. This downtown contains metaphysical danger for me, I thought. I didn’t really have an urge to have anything to do with downtown at the time. Yet when I gave

some modicum of thought to trying to find an alternate translation of a book I’ve been reading - immediately as this thought occurred to me, Tifa, I took an aleatory sharp right turn,

now walking toward the bridge instead of further into my neighborhood! - now walking into downtown instead of walking further into my particular neighborhood, walking directly into downtown. 

Later on, urine officially dispensed, drinking a Mezcal and water while sitting at this bar - downtown! - I began staring into what could only be identified as pure blank space, 

right as the girl behind the bar moseyed to my end of the bar and engaged in a deep sip of her mixed drink. I continued to stare into pure blank space as this bartender, 

now finished with her deep sip, now clearly satiated by the depth of this sip, turned her back to me and sat her ass on the ice box and also started to stare into what I could only assume 

to be a form of pure blank space. She pulled up on her blue jeans repeatedly. At a glance a tattoo on her lower hip, partially obscured by the very blue jeans she pulled up on, 

seemed to depict a man flipping off the world. A drunk man approached the bar and redeemed a Keno ticket that won him one single dollar, but he only submitted the ticket 

after prefacing the submission by apologizing for even turning in the admittedly meager ticket. Yet he subsequently turned in the ticket and ambled back to the other end of the bar 

with a single dollar bill in hand. The girl turned around again and returned her ass to the ice box, her blue jeans displayed more or less right in front of my face. She pulled up on the jeans again. 

You know what my problem is, I thought to myself, Tifa, staring into this pure blank space and remaining only benignly aware of the blue jean adorned buttocks motionless in space 

more or less right in front of my face: My problem is that I actually lack a necessary derisive fervor when it comes to things - that I’ve somehow mistakenly come to believe 

I’m too derisive of things, when in fact it’s actually the case that I’m lacking in the requisite derision appropriate for things. For years I’ve considered myself too derisive 

when in reality I haven’t been nearly derisive enough! You cannot allow yourself to make eye contact, Tifa - this is the first philosophical principle. Yet, at the same time, 

all philosophical thought of any worth has emerged from densely populated areas. You must accept everything all at once, in one instant as 

an aesthetic beauty, where now and next collapse upon each other instantaneously, but in a way where it’s approached from a very specific side.” 

The Madness of a Cloud: Canto VII

 Canto VII

New Co-Op Cashier False Doppelganger Arguments

1227:1739 .706

Cloud just at that moment 

had begun to recapitulate, 

this time to the two of them—

Aerith and Tifa—

how it wasn’t actually the case 

that he’d seen the being, 

no, there wasn’t in fact 

an actual physical being 

in that sense of the phrase—

it wasn’t like the men in the black 

cloaks they’d be following in Rebirth 

(were either of them 

familiar with that plotline yet?). 

He’d just began to explain this 

to the both of them, 

and Cloud didn’t feel any different 

about it necessarily—

the fact that he was telling 

the both of them—Tifa was behind the bar 

and Aerith just happened to be there. 

It was fine. Were they familiar 

with Rebirth yet? Probably not, right? 

But no, in this case Cloud had been 

fucking, you know, just sitting 

on this carpet in Wutai at the time—

he sat on the carpet cross-legged, 

and then he suddenly intuited 

a "purely divine being" emanating 

in the triangle head encapsulated 

in the perfectly square design 

that repeated endlessly 

throughout the entire carpet. 

This triangle head was what 

Cloud could only describe 

as a "laughing Allah", 

that’s how it struck him—

there wasn’t really a question about it 

in Cloud’s mind, and it was actually beautiful. 

Yes, a "laughing Allah" 

was the only way he could describe the divine being, 

which certainly "communicated with him" 

as he sat cross-legged in Wutai 

in a somewhat mystical manner, 

albeit not quite verbally, 

but the being certainly 

communicated in a way 

that caused Cloud to smile. 

Cloud—smile?! The two women 

found that totally hilarious! 

Tifa nearly fucked up 

the beer she was pouring 

she was so surprised to hear 

Cloud of all people 

talking about himself "smiling", 

but neither Tifa nor Aerith 

found this anecdote of Cloud’s 

to be disingenuous in any way—

in fact they both fully supported 

Cloud’s confessions and more often 

than not even found them 

legitimately intriguing 

(but there were, of course, 

some exceptions!), 

albeit they generally 

found the anecdotes intriguing 

in a one-on-one setting, 

as opposed to this FFM arrangement. 

But that was clearly fine! 

It just so happened Aerith 

was around and she popped in the bar. 

No big deal at all! 

Yet, while contemplating whether or not 

another Moscow Mule 

was advisable or not, 

Cloud expressed quite vigorously 

that he wanted to relay 

a subsequent anecdote 

that he viewed apropos 

of the carpet encounter, 

if that was okay? Of course! 

Well, specifically 

it was that when 

he popped into his local co-op 

grocery store that morning, 

for just a few minor items, 

a couple hand fruits really, 

and the new cashier asked him—

right as he shifted his headphones 

up off of his ears 

to start the formalized sales transaction—

if his "brother or something" 

went there sometimes?—

to the grocery store? 

Did Cloud "have a brother" by any chance? 

Because she, the new cashier, 

felt like she’d seen him before? 

Well, 

Cloud said to the cashier, 

thinking about it for a second, 

he found it quite possible 

that this alleged 

doppelganger was actually 

fucking just him!—Cloud himself!—

that the cashier was 

in that particular instance 

confusing Cloud "for his actual self", 

that this cashier 

"only believed she’d seen" 

someone who looked "just like Cloud" before 

because she’d, in fact, 

seen Cloud before. 

He walked away just momentarily, 

he told Tifa and Aerith, 

just to toss his basket back 

into the stack of baskets 

behind the automatic 

doors. Yeah, he’d take one more 

Mule, please Tifa? 

The new cashier was chuckling 

when Cloud arrived back 

at the checkout counter 

ready to pay for his shit—

she was in the process of entering 

the item number for his red quinoa, 

chuckling alone—

"it could’ve been you" she repeated, 

chuckling, but then, 

Cloud relayed 

to Tifa and Aerith, 

she actually came around to Cloud’s particular hypothesis. 

The new cashier, 

after thinking about it, 

came to agree with Cloud, 

that she actually probably had seen him 

in the grocery store before, 

and that she’d just now erroneously 

figured he had a brother, 

when in fact this hypothetical brother 

was "actually just Cloud himself". 

Tifa considered, 

after she’d ingested the full anecdote 

and served Cloud 

his refreshed Moscow Mule, 

that it was somewhat likely 

that the cashier wanted to 

quote-unquote suck his cock, 

and Cloud didn’t necessarily 

disagree with the notion!—

he certainly considered it 

possible, that this cashier 

may have been amenable 

to something like that, 

but that wasn’t quite the point! 

There was a type of wisdom 

latent in the exchange, 

wasn’t there?—

regardless of whether or not 

the cashier wanted to 

"perform fellatio" on Cloud? 

Aerith, by contrast, 

took a more philosophical angle 

to her analysis 

of the encounter, 

because she agreed with Cloud 

that the cashier exhibited 

a certain spiritual insight, 

even if it was inadvertent. 

Aerith, for her part, 

didn’t put much of any stock 

into the cashier’s intentions, 

whether or not they were sordid, 

benign, or simply indifferent. 

Upon acknowledging this 

Tifa noted that she recognized 

Aerith’s point of view as valid, 

that it was probably 

the "right way to take it in", 

even if she, Tifa, 

wasn’t personally at the point 

of participating in quite that level 

of objectivity 

(if they could, in fact, call it that). 

Cloud noted that, 

at the end of the day, 

he couldn’t help it if 

a "certain person felt an urge" 

to suck his cock—that whether or not 

someone wanted to suck anyone’s cock 

is something ultimately unknowable, 

that he couldn’t simply 

toss potential spiritual encounters 

to the wayside purely because 

of a purported sordid subtext 

or intention. Both women 

agreed with this, 

yet perhaps Aerith 

just a tad more than Tifa?—

not to say Tifa was somehow 

beside herself with jealousy 

in any material way—no, 

this distinction between Tifa and Aerith 

was probably rooted more so 

in Aerith’s basically absurd ability 

to remain philosophically 

undeterred about other women 

while steeped in an obvious love triangle. 

Did she even like Cloud, really? 

Because it was really quite evident 

that Cloud, Tifa, and Aerith 

were "collectively entwined 

in a sort of love triangle", 

but Aerith, for her part, 

maintained quite the unique ability 

to remain essentially 

philosophical about it all—

she didn’t seem to allow feelings of jealousy 

to overcome her in the least 

when Cloud relayed anecdotes 

about cashiers that, 

if the three were being honest, 

clearly wanted to whip 

the guy’s cock out and suck on it 

for an extended interval of time. 

Did she even really like Cloud? 

His individual feelings on the situation 

were a little ambiguous, 

even when he was all alone—

Cloud was of course incapable 

of assessing his own feelings 

for somewhat obvious reasons. 

The Madness of a Cloud: Canto I

 Canto I

“The Nice Man with his Wife’s Last Name’s Form of Annihilation”

1859:2546 

.730

(3rd edition: block-as-line macrotonal)

Cloud was sitting at Seventh Heaven 

drinking a Fernet on the rocks 

engaging in light conversation 

with a cocksucker he’d never even met 

about a Queen’s Blood play-in game 

that he’d—this particular cocksucker—

requested to be put on the TV at the bar. 

Well, actually Cloud corrected, 

for the record, 

that he’d actually been reading 

a few pages of Timaeus 

prior to all this, 

making a few disparate notes, 

finding himself puzzled at 

the sensory information 

that continued to be relayed into his brain. 

Cloud basically alleged he was flummoxed 

about the sensory information that became, 

in some way, relayed 

to what he guessed was his brain?—

how any of that was corroborated, 

but more so Cloud contemplated 

the static nature of said images—

that’s what he was specifically contemplating 

when a guy with a round-ass face 

leaned onto the bar, 

seeking to close his tab, 

obviously excited to tell the bartender 

that he may need to show her his ID, 

just because he took his wife’s last name 

and hadn’t had a chance to change 

his license yet? 

The patron with the round-ass face 

noted how nice the bartender was (Tifa!), 

but what was her name again? 

He could definitely display his ID 

if she really needed, 

just because, again, 

his last name was different now—

taking his wife’s name and all! 

Of course, Cloud noted, 

that it was clear that no one gave a fuck 

about the printed name on a credit card in that bar, 

and Tifa, for her part, 

didn’t exactly seem like she was ramping up 

to suck this dude off 

just because he was a radical feminist. 

For Cloud’s part he was still, you know, 

attempting to get behind the blunt sensations 

being smuggled relentlessly 

into his so-called conscious existence. 

Everything was an image to some extent, 

right Aerith? 

Touch itself was a fucking sensory image. 

It was a quaint Spring evening 

where Cloud felt more or less 

destined to philosophize, 

having started drinking wine 

in preparation for a Friday night dinner, 

only to have Tifa bail last minute, 

because she needed to pick up a bar shift—

leaving him completely free 

to continue this wine drinking 

in a ritualistic way 

that would be conducive 

to philosophical ideas. 

Yes, Cloud continued to Aerith, 

it was basically only via drinking alone, 

but in a ritualistic fashion, 

that he’d achieved any sort 

of philosophical inquiry. 

You couldn’t just sit at a desk 

and "become philosophical", 

at least not for Cloud! 

Maybe some people could! 

But, no, not Cloud. 

He’d imagine that there were probably 

a litany of possible ways 

of becoming philosophical—

like, for instance, 

for the round-faced albino chap, 

perhaps telling Tifa 

that he’d taken his wife’s last name, 

maybe that could be seen 

as possibly ritualistic in a way, 

a gateway to some sort of 

becoming philosophical. 

This was "actually science", 

Cloud told her he thought at the bar, 

successfully avoiding making any eye contact 

with the round-faced man. 

Was it necessarily strange at all 

that once the Greeks went extinct 

philosophy went more or less 

completely and utterly downhill 

and never looked back in the least, 

that the last group to really reach 

much of any philosophical success 

made a sincere effort to conjoin 

getting fucked up with 

contemplating intelligible phenomena?—

that these Greeks attempted 

to marry inebriation and rigorous dialectic? 

That all thought since—

to paraphrase North Whitehead—

had been a minor footnote to Plato or whatever? 

The thing was, according to Cloud, 

you just couldn’t willy nilly 

"delve into metaphysics" 

completely sober! 

But that wasn’t to say a person 

should necessarily become some 

degenerate alcoholic either, 

because a degenerate drunk 

would in no way make a great meta-physicist either—

that was basically impossible, because, 

like Cloud said, 

the solo mode of inebriation 

should be done ritualistically, 

in spurts, at certain times. 

You couldn’t just be like 

hitting the bottle 

as soon as you woke from a slumber!—

after said inebriation sessions 

you’d require sobriety 

to parse through whatever it was 

that came to you 

via said contemplation, no? 

In fact, the actual science 

was nothing beyond this parsing through 

of inebriation sessions 

of rigorous contemplation! 

That was it—

what laid behind logic and metaphysics, 

in Cloud’s mind at least! 

But inebriation could be anything really—

Cloud could enter a state of inebriation 

in a car alone on a Tuesday AM, 

without consuming a damn thing. 

Aerith more or less agreed, 

adding that on the one hand 

a philosophical mind 

should be able to analyze, 

interpret, extrapolate, 

all of that scientific stuff—but, 

on the other, 

if you fail to place yourself 

in a position to receive anything to analyze, 

interpret, or extrapolate 

then you were basically screwed! 

Cloud more or less agreed 

but added that—sans this type of 

“inspiration,” so to speak—

they’d be stuck sitting 

at a table just noodling 

around nonsensically, 

vacillating back and forth 

between two types of nothingness, 

and then just probably knocking off 

someone else’s work by accident. 

But none of this was new! 

It wasn’t like Cloud was breaking news 

in any way. 

At this point Aerith asked—you know, 

was this albino douche bag, 

he was an element of this analysis? 

No, not really—according to Cloud—

maybe the guy was trying a tad too hard?—

to present himself 

as a specific archetype 

to the general public, 

as a guy who decided 

to spit in the face 

of his own chromosome count, 

which was something Cloud 

"personally endorsed!" 

Granted Cloud probably 

wouldn’t do it by taking his wife’s last name, 

because Cloud personally 

was obviously more prone 

to a type of isolated 

and overly dramatic 

self-annihilation 

than a subservient 

and disingenuously muted 

feminist annihilation, 

but he wasn’t ipso facto 

opposed to either! 

Aerith agreed 

one hundred percent! 

But Cloud still would go 

a little further, 

noting that in the intelligible sphere, 

as someone like, 

say, Proclus would note, 

that so-called forms 

were somehow able 

to participate in one another 

without mixing, 

whereas within the sensible realm 

they participated in things 

and subsequently got dirty. 

But Cloud thought that it was worth 

going one step further—

since they were discussing 

annihilation and stuff anyway, 

that the perceived mixing 

between forms that took place 

in the sensible arena 

was itself just a projection 

of mixture but not actual mixture. 

The intelligible sphere, 

being purely emanated, 

participated within itself 

without mixing itself, 

while in the sensible sphere 

it didn’t seem like that was possible, 

that by participating 

within sensible things 

they became essentially mixed 

with them, 

assuming they were categorically sensible. 

Essentially nature was tainted, 

which of course 

Cloud and Aerith knew all too well! 

Way too well! 

Hence their shared acquiescence 

toward occasional annihilation! 

But even this sensible filth, 

so to speak, 

Cloud thought, 

this perceived mixing up 

in the participation of sensible things, 

wasn’t it also a projection?—

an emanation, 

just as the participation 

of the intelligible sphere 

was also an emanation 

of the primary unity of all things? 

Which, yeah, brought Cloud back 

to that albino round-faced fuck 

at the bar, 

taking his wife’s last name—

because ultimately 

the albino’s vantage point 

wasn’t remarkably divergent 

from Cloud’s or Aerith’s, 

Cloud thought. 

This albino was promoting 

a certain type of annihilation 

of their cultural-sensible realm, 

thinking that the patriarchal lineage 

of their society was basically 

something objectionable, 

something essentially tainted, 

that should be annihilated 

in the service of something more pure. 

Okay, well, Cloud thought 

that made a modicum of sense! 

Maybe taking his wife’s last name 

was in a sense a greater form 

of purity than locking a woman 

in a kitchen and expecting 

a blowjob every other evening, 

Cloud thought. 

Just as Proclus and Socrates 

sensed that the intelligible sphere 

participated with itself 

yet not in a way 

where it mixed with itself, 

that this was distinct 

from our further descended, 

sensible sphere 

where things participated with 

one another but got mixed up 

in the process—well, 

maybe this albino man 

was noting that the patriarchy 

was a participatory mixing 

that left unseemly cum stains—

"for lack of a better phrase!"—

on human experience. 

Patriarchy, in the albino man’s mind, 

should be annihilated 

because of this sensible mixing up, 

this putrid tainting 

of what would be better off pure. 

And taking your nice wife’s name 

was a proper mode 

of annihilation in response. 

Aerith remarked that she knew 

Cloud would inevitably bring 

the discourse back to this poor chap 

closing his tab, 

but, just to be clear, 

what Cloud was saying was that 

this mixing that occurred 

in the sensible realm was itself 

just a separate projection—

just a lesser mode of projecting! 

So while the material world 

may have disgusted them, 

perhaps moving the two toward 

some sort of all-encompassing 

conceptual annihilation, 

and as much as the patriarchy 

might have seemed putrid 

to the albino husband at the bar 

who looked to annihilate himself 

by taking his nice wife’s last name, 

it could be wise to consider 

that these disgusting aggregates 

were themselves simply derivative projections, 

that they weren’t actual mixtures, 

that they were just derivative emanations 

as opposed to tattoos 

of what they thought they despised. 

Aerith was aware—

she wasn’t distressed about it, 

but she knew this poor albino guy 

would in time 

take the brunt of it from Cloud. 

Cloud questioned whether he didn’t deserve it? 

Plus like they’d already implied—

they must to proceed 

from the immanent 

to the transcendent, no? 

Tapas is Actually Enjoyable

In absolutely no way shape or form do I regret expressing my vicious disgust with modern photography among young mothers who dedicate their Instagrams to infants 

It’s essential in my mind that we question the intrinsic value of the frozen image in fact of anything we note to be quote-unquote frozen in time 

Laotian hookah bar on Douglas Avenue abandoned basketball court on Douglas Avenue recalling my own decade old imagined images also on Douglas Avenue 

Have you been by any chance to that new Tapas place off Wickendon ‘suck my penis’ I said I haven’t had exceptional sushi since Tokyo closed 

Apparently Parmenides believed a divine being of some sort informed him of a certain indivisible oneness which moved him to write a poem 

Falling in Love is Such a Bore

Blowing a shit on a city street outside a JWU dorm and then benignly driving up a big hill to buy a bean burrito at Baja’s I fucked up my brand new white vans stepping in a big puddle on New Year’s Eve 

I wish we’d known one another at another time unfortunately now you’re just a memory I’ve recalled like a thousand rewritten rough drafts 

Sometimes the people who fight for just causes are complete pieces of shit possibly because linearity has always been a pipedream for us collectively 

Inscrutable Myths: Prelude + 1st Canto

(Prelude) With a fair amount of ambivalence, knowing as well as anyone that Nikos typically spends the hours of 3PM through 7PM, Monday through Friday, verifying the European origin of his dietary tract, I approached Mr Kazantzakis at 6:59 PM, ambling toward the screened-in patio of his modest row house located spitting distance from Garden City, and began as such:

01 (.748)

Well Mr Kazantzakis

if I’m being honest with you

completely honest with you

if I’m holding back next to no honesty whatsoever

I should note that

yes

it’s indubitably true 

that of late 

I’ve found myself gluttonously chewing 

four to seven slices of gum in simultaneity

for a variety of reasons—in fact

it was just yesterday afternoon

prior to leaving our apartment to go grab a coffee 

that I indiscriminately 

shoved an entire pack of gum 

into my mouth 

and exuberantly chewed this large ball of gum

wondered if chewing gum was actually good for your teeth

when the thought occurred to me: 

Is emo the highest form of classical music America 

is historically responsible for? 

When discussing American music

I thought while chewing an entire pack of gum

a litany of genres

from post-bop jazz

to experimental rock

to avant-metal to the so-called 

classically trained composers of American descent

are discussed as ‘the truly classical music of America.’ 

‘But what if emo is the truly classical American music?’ 

I thought to myself

chewing an entire pack of gum

preparing myself to pay full-price for a coffee out somewhere

despite the fact I had an entire pot of coffee at my apartment

waiting to be imbibed for free. 

The primary conceit of emo music 

is that its creators are young and white and male

and that they originate from neighborhoods 

that are safe if not opulent and utterly hate their lives. Nothing

it should be noted

is ever proceeding well for the emo band

as the slightest deviation 

from the emo band’s best case scenario is always apocalyptic

despite the fact that

sociopolitically at least

they have everything going for them. 

The emo participant exists at the apex of the American totem pole

and despite this fact 

everything remains essentially objectionable to them. 

Nothing is going well! The emo song is

in practice

the antithesis of the virtue signal. And it occurred to me

as I left my apartment to pay four dollars for a coffee 

that would inevitably be co-opted by an art school professor

with no regard to socially acceptable decibel levels 

pontificating about people as brands to a foreign exchange student

that this type of wide-eyed narcissism

that this unironic ignorance of sociopolitical totem poles

this obsession with direct

lived experience at the expense of everything conceptual 

is perhaps the apex of what should comprise American classical music? 

And I nodded my head at this notion 

as we entered the Honda 

asking Tina if she’d be willing to play 

‘One-Eighty by Summer’ on our way to the coffee shop. 

My Oil Paintings

You said something deep and no one gave a shit my oil paintings looked like cunt fucked up at the Greek fest who said buying a subsequent bottle of Retsina is ill-advised? 

I’m ninety nine percent Pine Sol this is ritualistic writing erotic poems for Russian whores and signing my name χριστός ανέστη you can drown in a glass of water 

Philosophy still can’t save us people no longer chew wrapped pieces of gum no the industry has transitioned to free floating mini buckets of gumballs

How can I possibly concentrate on nuclear holocausts with all these big bad booty bitches around the mountain has better ears for bullshit I’ve never been a fan of camping

I’ve always found things somewhat preposterous I suppose two hookahs twist the little knob there you go I apologize for forgetting the meaning of cuando

Put some clothes on for Christ sake before you ball your eyes out I never lied about wanting to kill myself if anything the opposite! mountains have better ears for bullshit

Trees - some of them are old as fuck that’s why we built cities our fictions play better surrounded by buildings a Burmese python ate a forty four year old woman alive

It’s just like a snug little sleeping bag who doesn’t like to take a little nap four or five milligrams of melatonin why would you lie about wanting to drive yourself into a tree?

Thinking About Architecture

Thinking about architecture about the necessity of chance on a Nickanee’s patio with a group of people adjacent

Adjacent and discussing Chinese food in a manner that strikes you as the talk of pure imbeciles that like if chance is necessary? 

And it has to be necessary otherwise everything would become irreparably fixed but if it’s in fact necessary then it’s also in a sense fixed essentially being a necessity?-puzzling 

There’s a little triangle tattooed on a pinky finger there’s no individual ecstasy in architecture only during periods of intense collectivism at any given time it’s difficult

It’s challenging to quantify the amount of conversing occurring on the planet that’s architecture in a sense guy with a hook nose intensely biting his fingernails as upper middle class whites watch in awe

As other upper middle class whites recreate a modal jazz that was cutting edge in nineteen sixty five on Elmwood Avenue you recall images

Which informs your decision making in material ways recollected images are animated and in turn falsified solely in your mind

Which exists in a location that you can’t quite place at the time as you cross a windy Washington Street bridge a figure of this or that proportion is constructed in your memory

What we call your memory currently we’ll call it your memory to move out of the realm of seminal attraction into one of pure representation

An Aborted Anime Opera, Pt. 3

Two midgets eating delicious looking rice bowls at Xaco Taco. 

Repeating the phrases 

“There is no image.” 

“There is no memory.” 

There’s no image and there’s no memory. 

Sans image and memory we can start to approach the fundamental nature of the universe as such. 

Triple egg omelet 

with the kalamata olives. 

A chest crevice stained 

in a permanent ink of sorts. 

Cuddly beavers eat vegetables from the hands of well intentioned human beings. 

The small bottles of soju were only eight bucks a piece. 

Sugar Free Soju At Fernandez Liquors

The word tartuffery comes to mind we sat on the roof of Pearl Street and drank Soju out of an emptied Ginger Ale bottle and asked ourselves ‘What can a poem express?’ 
‘What exactly can a poem express’ the word tartuffery comes to mind Gabriel in the cave I can relate a musical mode no - the sound of the fucking human voice
You asked yourself what can a poem express getting drunk by yourself on the roof of Pearl Street drinking Soju out of an emptied Ginger Ale bottle
We’re not necessarily in the Thirteenth Century Asia Minor one could argue we’re in Twenty First Century America it seems a lot has changed in eight hundred years
Everywhere I look I see fucking morons scrolling through feeds scrolling through bullshit and I’m doing the same shit this is art but it’s also an indivisibility of Oneness
Pre-algorithm the feed disseminates this indivisibility an extreme compression of time the word tartuffery comes to mind the utter dissolution of memory

&&&&&

Only when performing my final four 
tricep dips on the tricep dip machine
did I notice a jizz stain the size of a Canadian quarter
clearly visible on my plain logoless
black t-shirt, and the cucumbers
at the post-wedding brunch were atrocious, and
the Vice Principal Martha knew for years jumped off
the Mt Hope Bridge, he was such a nice guy,
his wife, the daughter of Vinny Sabinski, 
you know from high school, ASKED him
for a divorce, and I said Wait is this the 
Swansea Public Library, standing in the parking lot
of the Swansea Public Library, enjoying the 
drizzling rain, and, sitting upstairs at Red Fez,
he said So yeah, when I dated her 
she wouldn't even blow me, then the next guy
she dated she ate his
ass! - and the cucumbers at the post-wedding
brunch were atrocious, as so many of
the celery and cucumbers I come across
tend to be.

Appropriately Erotic

Stretching in vaguely sexual positions

standing in front of all the treadmills

on a frigid Friday evening. I felt then—and still

feel strongly now—that getting frisked at

the hookah spot is appropriately erotic. I had 

a dream Elaine Benes was slowly 

getting her throat cut across the country club kitchen,

then woke up to find a young

black girl with fluorescent braids standing

across my bedroom for a consecutive ten seconds. 

Stretching

in vaguely sexual positions standing in front

of all the treadmills on a frigid Friday

evening; pulling my cock out

at the gymnasium urinal. I felt then—and still

feel strongly now—that getting frisked 

at the hookah spot is appropriately

erotic.

.804 (Dreaming of Upper Midgar)

Note: This is a portion of a book-length macrotonal poem (The Madness of a Cloud) forthcoming from Blue Velvet Review

Cloud found it a tad befuddling, just because Tifa said she’d had an odd dream about him the previous night, and he’d replied bluntly that he didn’t usually have dreams about people he knew, somehow completely purging the fact from his mind that, just that night, he’d had a vivid dream involving one of his first girlfriends and her current (to the best of Cloud’s knowledge) spouse. How could that have possibly slipped his memory, given the vivacity of the dream itself? Barrett didn’t have a clue either, really. His ex and her husband were living with Cloud and his fictional wife in a modest condo they’d been leasing in Upper Midgar, yet he told Tifa he “never dreamt” about people he knew, yet perhaps the most befuddling aspect of it was that when he’d said that to her he actually believed it! Cloud’s ex-girlfriend and his fictional wife had become somewhat friendly in the dream, in the condo, and the whole ordeal, in Cloud’s dream, struck him as totally fine initially. His fictional wife was obscured, a pure mirage, while his ex was an image of how he’d known her in the past, not how she was now (not that he knew how she was now!), but eventually Cloud began to come to the realization that this was his ex-romantic interest, and that his current wife and ex-girlfriend becoming friends was an absolutely cataclysmic development for him socially, that it was the probably worst thing that could possibly happen to his marriage. 

[C][l]oud [f]ound it a [t]ad [b]e[f][u]dd[l]ing, j[u][s]t [b]e[c][au]se [T]ifa [s]aid sh[e]’d h[a]d [a]n [o]dd [d][r][e]am [a][b]out him the [p][r][e]v[i]ous night, and h[e]’d [r]e[p][l]ied [b][l]unt[l][y] that he [d]i[d]n’t usual[l][y] have [d]reams a[b]out [p][e]o[p]le h[e] knew, somehow [c]om[p][l][e]te[l][y] [p]urging the [f][a][c]t [f]rom his m[i]nd th[a]t, just that n[i]ght, [h]e’d [h]ad a [v]i[v]id dream in[v]ol[v]ing one of his [f]i[r]st gi[r]l[f]riends and he[r] [c]u[r]rent (to the [b]e[s]t of [C][l]oud’s know[l]edge) [s][p]ouse. [H]ow [c]ould th[a]t [h][a]ve [p][o[s]si[b][l]y [s][l]i[p]ped his [m]e[m]o[r][y], given the [v]i[v]a[c]it[y] of the [d][r]eam it[s]elf? [B]ar[r]ett [d]i[d]n’t have a [c][l]ue [e]ither, [r]eal[l][y]. [H]is ex and [h]er [h]usband were [l][i]v[i]ng w[i]th [C][l]oud and h[i]s [f][i][c]tional wi[f]e in a [m]o[d]est [c]on[d]o they’d been l[ea]sing in Up[p]er [M]idgar, yet he [t]old [T][i][f]a he “[n]ever [d]reamt” about [p]eo[p]le he k[n]ew, yet [p]erha[p]s the [m]o[s]t be[f]uddling a[s][p]e[c]t of it [w]as that [w]hen he’d said th[a]t to [h]er [h]e [a][c]tua[l]l[y] [b]e[l][ie]ved it! [C][l]oud’s ex-girlfriend and h[i]s [f][i][c]tional [w]i[f]e had [b]e[c]ome s[o]me[w]h[a]t [f][r]iend[l][y] i[n] the [d][r][e]am, i[n] the [c]on[d][o], and the wh[o]le or[d][e]al, in [C][l]oud’s [d][r]eam, st[r]u[c]k him as total[l][y] [f]ine [i]n[i]tial[l][y]. H[i]s [f][i][c]tional [w]i[f]e [w]as ob[s][c]u[r]ed, a [p]u[r]e [m]irage, [w]hile his ex [w]as [a]n [i][m]age of [h]ow [h]e’d k[n]own [h]er in the [p]ast, [n]ot [h]ow she was [n]ow ([n]ot that [h]e k[n]ew [h]ow she was [n]ow!), [b]ut eventua[l]ly [C][l]oud [b]egan [t]o [c]ome [t]o the [r]ea[l]ization [th]at [th]i[s] was his ex-[r]oman[t]i[c] in[t]ere[s]t, and that his [c]u[r]rent wi[f]e and ex-girl[f][r]iend [b]e[c]oming [f][r]iends was [a]n [a][b]solutely [c]ata[c]l[y]s[m][i][c] deve[l]op[m]ent for him [s]ocial[l]y, [th]at it [w]as [th]e [p]ro[b]a[b]l[y] [w]or[s]t [th]ing [th]at [c]ould [p]o[s]si[b]l[y] [h]a[p]pen to his [m]arriage. 

295/367=.803814

Tricep Dip Bloodwork

Perusing a portal of blood work results in between tricep dips diagonal beams lightly envelop me as I kiss the concrete it might be that nothing is quite what it seems - - -

I’m just a giggling mist that leaves this residual unassuming Sufi poem for you she left a single cigarette on the bar counter as a little clue it was cute - - -

Naturally I took it apocalyptically you expressed yourself sincerely albeit cryptically I supported it why did you think I bought this beautiful bottle of Peloponnesian white wine?! - - -

01/a

On West Fountain 
a nod occurs - - -
Honda Accord 
car windows 
were made 
to be broken - - -
The red hand basket 
is put back 
beyond the automatic 
doors where it 
belonged! - - -
Moseying on out 
I nonsensically noted 
that I liked 
her name 
with a gusto 
that actually abutted 
sincerity.

Theories of the Western World (Excerpt)

excerpt from Metropolis + Isosceles

(bluevelvetreview.com)

.706 - .758 - .733 - .731 

.730 - .734 - .757 - .731 

Line 01: As a matter of fact, I was just telling Demo as we walked up to your flat, I’ve been just a tad preoccupied of late with a night I actually just remembered today, from years ago actually, completely non-descript, entirely inconsequential at face value, yet it was a night that nonetheless, now thinking it through, is essentially indicative of my true character. It was a night, via pure instinct, I allowed my true colors to show, and of course I was ashamed at first, who isn’t disgusted at first sight of their true colors, but as the years have passed I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s actually nothing a priori wrong with my true colors-actually, if anything, it’s quite the contrary. My true colors, of course I can’t change them, but even if I could I wouldn’t. Because even though my true colors require a prerequisite, a perhaps unappetizing prerequisite, a prerequisite that, yes, that I loathe certain people for no reason. But even though that may in fact be the case, I believe it’s actually proper to loathe certain people for absolutely no reason, with no justification whatsoever, that hating people sans pretext is in fact entirely necessary, and I may even leap further and state outright that these certain people, whom we loathe sans pretext, may actually deserve this intense loathing and unprovoked hatred, but let me begin, please. Because to begin with, it was an era where I found myself spending an inordinate amount of time at social events that I loathed---I loathed both contemplating my future attendance of these events and then my actual attendance of these events. People, ultimately, have no couth---to this day, for example, I often find myself present at social gatherings where a quote-unquote vegetable plate, along with a vegetable dip, is presented as an hors d’oeuvre, and I’m almost always a little let down by the quality of the celery. At that particular stage in my life, in fact, the era I’m speaking of, I’d reconciled myself to the fact that I had intrinsically higher standards than most when it came to celery, cucumbers as well---I analyzed produce with an acuity, frankly, most of my peers would never achieve. Having said that, to this day the majority of hosts in our country have next to no couth when it comes to serving celery or cucumbers. Forced to attend a so-called post wedding brunch just a few months prior to the events I’m about to relay, I was appalled at the quality of cucumbers served---a cucumber, above all else, should be refreshing. A piece of celery, ideally, is similar to sipping a fresh glass of ice water on a zesty summer day. The source of this regrettable degradation in the quality of our celery and cucumbers undoubtedly stems from America’s overreliance on dip. 

Line 02: Dip, in our era, has literally and figuratively become the hors d’oeuvre, it’s become culturally acceptable to utterly ignore the quality of the celery and cucumbers, two of the most refreshing yet delicate vegetables known to our species, at social gatherings because it’s assumed consumers’ attention will be focused almost solely on the dip. Yet it’s precisely the dip that negates the nutritional benefits of the celery, as well as the cucumbers. Americans no longer consume vegetables---they consume vegetables with dips and sauces that obliterate all possible nutritional benefits of a vegetable. These dips and sauces annihilate the intrinsically refreshing essences of our vegetables. Guests attending these parties could relieve themselves all over these quote-unquote vegetable plates and not miss a beat nutritionally---they’d probably even fail to notice a difference in taste, with the amount of sour cream currently found in the median American dip. During this era of my life, almost every week I would spend two to five minutes in the produce section arduously selecting only the finest celery stalks and most concrete cucumbers, touching all the cucumbers indiscriminately, with no regard for the customers who inevitably would touch these same cucumbers after I’d finally made my selection---because, to this day, there’s nothing more deflating than a stalk of celery gone flat by mid-week, yet there’s nothing more uplifting than a freshly chopped stalk of celery, and the same can be said for cucumbers. Yet, as so-called Greek-Americans, none of us should be surprised at this state of affairs, with a vegetable dip masking the refreshing essence of the genuine article, so to speak---and this brings me to a much larger point, a more grandiose issue, if you’ll allow me to digress just slightly before I begin my anecdote, the anecdote I’ve admittedly been obsessing over for weeks now, which will inevitably, I believe, become the crux of my argument here. Because there’s endless discussion today with regard to our so-called world, our alleged Western world, but it’s imperative we define our terms with rigor as opposed to carelessness---because it’s too often that we throw terms into the ether willy-nilly. In short, it’s entirely possible we’re confusing extension with interpretation as it relates to our Western world. There’s endless talk of this Western world, but let’s be specific, this Western world is, in fact, little more than an Anglo world, it’s not simply a nondescript Western world, it’s also an actual Anglo world---our civilization, so to speak, is nominally considered Western, nominally considered Graeco-Roman, yet there’s a barbarism at play here, there’s a nefarious vegetable dip burying the genuine article here. 

Line 03: In actuality, the Western world is little more than a misnomer for the Anglo world, which is essentially the American world, and the Anglo world, in actuality, is not an extension of Graeco-Roman Antiquity, no, it’s simply an interpretation of that world---and even then that interpretation was a purely subsequent interpretation, an interpretation in response to an interpretation. Because the primary interpretation of Antiquity came from Constantinople and Antioch and Alexandria, in the so-called Byzantine world, and only then did this Anglo world indulge in a subsequent interpretation of the Graeco-Roman Antiquity, based on the Byzantine era’s interpretation but also of course based on their interpretation of the so-called Byzantine world. This should be understood, that the Anglo world, in a very tangible sense, is little more than an elaborate vegetable dip itself, a subsequent interpretation, and it’s perhaps the most pervasive iteration of so-called vegetable dip our planet has yet to see-beneath it we discover the genuine article, the primary interpretation, so to speak. As for us, within this Anglo world we remain more or less glossed over, a sub-optimal fit over here and sub-optimal fit over there, as Diamanda Galas aptly put it: America is fixated on multiculturalism yet remains remiss with regard to Middle Eastern cultures, which include Greek cultures---but how is this possible? Yet we should note, we should finally admit to ourselves that the modern center of the Anglo world, America, for all of its melting pot mythology, has never assimilated, not quite, because instead it’s simply annihilated---in America we love discussing ethnicities, people wear hyphens like name-tags, but all of these ethnicities are at bottom false ethnicities, just as the so-called modern Greek, the Hellenic baboon, is a fictional ethnicity, all of our other ethnicities are essentially fictional ethnicities, they’re ethnicities at best as simulacra, and, subsequently, what’s inevitably true but will remain perpetually untouched upon is that there is no real race or ethnicity within America with the exception of the Anglo. Everyone is Anglo in America, this is obvious. Every person in America, insofar as they’ve adopted American hyphenations, is essentially Anglo---as Catholicism washed over the third world, the third world became essentially Anglo, the Puritanism of North America mixed with the Catholicism of South America and resulted in a milieu where everyone is essentially Anglo. Magic Johnson, at bottom, is essentially Anglo. Endless ethnicities have been properly identified, systematically assimilated into this Anglo-American framework, and subsequently annihilated, and we peruse their coming-of-age narratives, penned in the classic New Yorker style, and we think to ourselves, “Wow, that’s nice, what a nice little coming-of-age story, I never knew Vietnam was so nice in Autumn---” when the reality is these people have been essentially annihilated. 

Line 04: The coming-of-age narrative of the Vietnamese immigrant tickles the recesses of our soul, yet it never occurs to us that this Vietnamese person, writing in the classic New Yorker style, has been essentially annihilated. We marvel at the ethnic traits of coming-of-age narratives penned in the classic New Yorker style, yet these ethnicities are entirely fictional, they’ve been essentially annihilated, just as we, the Hellenic baboons, have also been essentially annihilated. The Vietnamese-American who penned your favorite coming-of-age story is, in fact, entirely Anglo. The so-called Orthodox, the last of the so-called Byzantines, remain unassimilated and therefore unannihilated, perhaps only because they’ve clung to their metaphysical distinctions---through varying crusades and occupations, various capitalisms and communisms they’ve clung to their metaphysical distinctions, to the metaphysical framework of the Patriarch of Constantinople. In any case, this Anglo world is no extension of Antiquity, it’s no New Rome, because its interpretations have inevitably been filtered through the so-called Byzantine, through the Second Rome of Constantine, But for the Orthodox, Christ symbolized the true, verified immanence of God, to correspond with the transcendence of God---just as the so-called Socratic Idea was at once transcendent and immanent, just as Love as an Idea was out of reach in-itself (in its transcendence), yet interactive in a relative sense (in its immanence), God was now the same, not transcendent or immanent, but instead transcendent and immanent. God as an Essence was unknowable, unapproachable, and wholly transcendent, yet, through Christ, God was proven to be wholly immanent, in addition to being entirely transcendent, God’s Energies were Energies we could approach and interact with, to become one with God, even momentarily, was deemed a possibility. Christ was brilliantly grafted onto centuries of Greek thought in a system that found its expression from Alexandria to Antioch to Constantinople, yet the subsequent Anglo interpretation, by restricting God and Person to the intellect, the conceptual to the transcendent, essentially ushered in the secular atheism that’s become our monoculture par excellence. This subsequent Anglo interpretation was markedly different---because now to be transcendent and immanent was now deemed decadent and oriental. The so-called Byzantine interpretation envisioned a God who, through His superabundance, was both wholly immanent and entirely transcendent, whereas the Anglo interpretation viewed that interpretation as both wholly decadent and entirely oriental, the Anglo interpretation, just as the Hebrew God banished Adam and Eve from the Kingdom of God, subsequently banished God from the Kingdom of Man, to His eternal transcendence. No, the so-called Greeks never killed their God because they never stopped merging with their God. The Greek world never chose to kill their God, they never murdered their God in cold blood because, in this Greek world, within this silly Byzantine milieu, to kill their God would be akin to committing suicide. 

Line 05: Whereas the Anglo world divorced itself from the Energies, became the transcendent world par excellence, and left itself no choice but to kill its God ruthlessly and expeditiously. The transcendent world par excellence almost ipso facto becomes the secular atheist world par excellence. Transcendence divorced from immanence is the primary formula of the secular. The Western world is the Anglo world which is nothing more than a subsequent interpretation rather than a primary interpretation. In America, everyone is Anglo, Vietnamese immigrants write coming of age stories that are nothing if not holistically Anglo, transcendently Anglo. And we sit, portrayed as absurdly Hellenic, as Athenian baboons, yet of course we have perhaps that “Byzantine look,” our musk is perhaps Byzantine, yet the Byzantine, we’re told, was wholly decadent and entirely oriental and no longer exists. The Afro-American Man is the Anglo Man, Larry Bird in addition to Magic Johnson are both essentially Anglo, the Italian-American Man is the Anglo Man, the Greek-American Man, despite playing the role of Athenian Baboon, is also essentially Anglo. The Greeks, ultimately, have sunk themselves, which is why they’re no longer even Greek, we can’t blame anyone more than ourselves, we were placed in an impossible position between East and West, and we acted in an impossible fashion, and now we’re no longer even ourselves. But how did we get onto us anyway, the Greeks---have I gone overboard here at all? Am I exaggerating at all? It’s definitely possible, yet I feel completely appropriate, I actually feel like, if anything, I’m being too reserved, that if anything I’m actually lacking in hyperbole at the moment! I feel like, right now, I’m actually being too kind, that if anything I’m being a tad too reserved. I feel as though there’s vitriol that I still owe, that I own considerable debt, and it’s all vitriol, that there’s no choice but to pay it back to the general populace of this country. It’s possible that I’m filled to the brim with vitriol, it’s possible that I owe all this vitriol to the general populace. It’s almost as if I’m leaving loads of vitriol on the table. The Anglo world lectured us that the authentic Greeks made anal love to teenage boys, and then when Greeks moved past penetrating high school aged men in the rear-end, when they instead subscribed to the metaphysics of the Patriarch of Constantinople, it was only at that point that Greek culture became depraved and decadent. Wholly oriental. This is what I’ve been personally taught by the Anglo so-called scholastics---and that I can tell you is absolutely no exaggeration. 

Line 06: Only the Greeks would accept two sets of ancestors of this sort then shrug their shoulders and go get drunk at a saloon. That’s what I did. It’s just audacious, that’s what it is. If nothing else I respect the audacity, because I actually have the highest respect for the audacity of the Anglo world. Our ancestors have spent hundreds of years in obscure mountains, forbidden to read or write, while the entire Anglo world has spread this misinformation about us, this slander, this character assassination, so it’s no wonder pedophiles run rampant in every Western polity---look who comprise the idols of the West! The Athenian with the beautiful boyfriends traversing puberty, as if these were the only Greeks, as if there were no other Greek eras, as if the alphabet became obsolete after Antiquity! But I digress. In any case, before I enter into this whole anecdote I should say this---namely, that I was at a restaurant across the street from my apartment for a small gathering just the other night, my good friend’s cousin was in town, and she and her father invited me to an informal dinner across the road from my apartment, so I decided it would be a little rude for me not to go, considering I lived within spitting distance of this restaurant, within minimal walking distance, and had nothing else to do. I essentially had to go but also had no issue with attending. In addition, I was aware the meal would in all likelihood be paid for, and although I didn’t particularly think highly of the restaurant across the street, I knew there was at least one decent meal, or maybe even two decent meals, that I could order and feel relatively satiated. Personally, I was a big fan of the Spicy Maki Platter, where you received eighteen pieces of tuna, salmon, and yellowtail sushi for just sixteen dollars. It’s a great meal, and because of the economical price-point you don’t feel like a complete asshole ordering it on someone else’s tab. In any case, we arrive, my friend and I, perhaps we’re actually lovers, but I don’t want to go into a great deal of detail about my private life here, we might even live with each other in my apartment, but I’m not going into that now, we’re in love with each other in a way that just feels profound, that’s possible, but in any case we’re there, at the restaurant, when my friend’s cousins from out of town arrive, and almost immediately the conversation turns to the much discussed COVID-Nineteen vaccine, and being wholly sober as well as extremely hungry I decide to have no part of it, I don’t mention anything about nonlinear distributions, the inherent dishonesty of all large governments over the course of human history. 

Line 07: I choose to refrain from mentioning Elliot Abrams receiving a fifty dollar fine for trafficking crack cocaine into every black community in America in the Nineteen-Eighties, I choose to refrain from mentioning any of this, as it wasn’t the right time to discuss nonlinearities and Elliot Abrams, this was my conclusion at the time. I wasn’t going to get caught up in the nature of probability distributions and Elliot Abrams’ fifty dollar fine for selling large swathes of crack cocaine at the behest of the first Bush administration at that time. It would have been uncouth, ill-advised, as well as completely inappropriate. But in keeping my mouth shut I felt just a momentary tinge of agitation, in hearing these opinions I inveterately disagreed with, in refraining from uttering the phrases nonlinearity distributions and Elliot Abrams I became slightly agitated, the only antidote to my agitation would be to say the word nonlinearity aloud, which I had no intention of doing. I couldn’t bring myself to say the word nonlinearity, and I had absolutely no intention of uttering the phrase Elliot Abrams at this restaurant, I couldn’t do either without embarrassing myself, and I knew it. The fact of the matter is when an opinion I disagree with is expressed within my general proximity, and I act socially appropriately and refrain from sharing my true feelings on the matter, then I often feel this tinge of agitation, as if I was put on this Earth for the sole purpose of behaving inappropriately and expressing my honest opinions, no matter the cost socially. Instead I found myself glancing intermittently at my friend’s older cousin, just shamelessly speculating on his racial makeup-which I hate. I’ve been on the receiving end of this despicable behavior, and I’m sure you’ve experienced similar, and I despise people who just shamelessly speculate as to my racial makeup, I’m sure you despise them just as much, yet sitting across from this distant cousin of my friend, my lover perhaps, I sat in this silent hypocrisy, I sat there and shamelessly, continuously speculated on his racial makeup to myself, going so far as to take specific facial features into account and speculate on a geographic area of origin. It was grotesque. But that’s unfortunately what I found myself doing in place of sharing my sincere opinions on nonlinear probability distributions and Elliot Abrams distributing crack cocaine to the black communities of the United States in the Nineteen Eighties---but of course no one can mention nonlinear distributions or Elliot Abrams selling crack anymore. 

Line 08: Governments have lied to us almost without pause since the invention of the nation-state, in just America alone we’ve seen the large-scale oppression of African-Americans over the course of centuries, the state-sanctioned poisonings of African-American communities with crack cocaine, of lower class Caucasian communities with prescription pills, we have pop stars named Little Xanax, millions of children in this country fantasize about abusing prescription narcotics before they go to sleep at night and the FDA, a regulatory body with ample funding for regulating just this sort of behavior, apparently thinks nothing of it. We have one pop star named Little Xanax and zero pharmaceutical executives who’ve been prosecuted for producing this lurid state of affairs, and that’s just scratching the surface in America, confining our inquiry to a single side of the Atlantic we haven’t even mentioned the Turkish occupation, the genocides of Pol Pot, Hitler and the National Socialists, the Gulag, the famine of Mao, or the preponderance of other occupations, genocides, famines, and general debauchery which have occurred all across the globe more or less incessantly---yet now the United States government informs its citizens without a trace of irony that a fast-tracked vaccine is beyond reproach for any and everyone, with no long-term empirical evidence available, and if we question that then we’re essentially excommunicated from decent society. We’ve become charlatans par excellence if we dare mention the nature of nonlinear probability distributions, if we mention the fact that Elliot Abrams was fined fifty dollars for selling crack, if we utter the phrases nonlinear probability distribution or Elliot Abrams was a crack cocaine dealer we’ve apparently become fascists in this country. So I had no inkling of the racial makeup of this man sitting so innocently across from me, and eventually I just said to myself---you’re disgusting, this is grotesque, take out your smartphone and dick around on that, for the sake of Christ Himself, just please remove your smartphone from your pocket this second. So we order our meals. My friend, who I may or may not be in love with, who orders right before me, orders the Spicy Maki Platter, so we both end up ordering the exact same meal, the Spicy Maki Platter, and I just shot her a look, I looked at her like Are you kidding me? We could have at least discussed this before the waitress asked for the orders, now we’re ordering the same exact meal back to back.