i have accumulated around 13 tokens in
my minds.com wallet (1 token = 1K views) -
and for the longest of times i wanted
to spend them: to gain 1K boosts
to something i might post...

such is the nature of meta-currency...
for months i was trying to:
place the tokens into the wallet,
which i already had...
never mind the "money" therein...

i'm 33 and this new game of crypto-currency:
or meta-currency is...
i'm 33 and i feel like i'm 83 being
bewildered by: the internet...
i can still see and therefore fathom
such alien 20th century concepts
as a paper cheque...

goodness: i sometimes withdraw paper
money, buy something and get
the coppers in change to feed
a sense of gravity for my pocket -
after all: the stereotype that
the english have bad teeth is not,
not as bad as: the english do not have
any money in their pockets...

so much for conctactless "furthering"
adventure... i much still like the grasp
of reality of rubbing the Queen's nose
on a 50 pence before throwing it in
into spending money...
money still needs its:
transvaluation of "all" values...
i.e.: i dub thee queen elizabeth II
on a piece of metal that would
otherwise become a metal rod:
and i will subject myself to the social
contract of: buying gold with it -
or some other: mystical experience
of materialism...

talk about a transfiguration of
worth: as long as metal ore is shaped
and is given a face and some writing...
the over-inflated price of certain, other,
crude materials...
in and of themselves they are not
worth that much...
a diamond is worth: what's it worth...
but it's hardly the point
of usefulness when not shattered
the glass resembling -
or rather the glass itself in a window...

so i thought: there's not point raping a "retrospection"...
and counting on some distant
cognitive-reflex is in no way
an safety for a worthwhile reflection...
i can't simply write something:
if i don't believe in it...
if there is to be a narrative as an escape
plan from glorifying the terse eastern
assurance - of the maxim...

Li Po went drinking, alone,
with the moon as something
not only worth contemplating:
in order to not step on it,
but also as a drinking buddy...
Li Po or no Li Po...
the grandiose mystification in
a terse manner: succinct -
i dare say...
narrative was never a strong focus
for the oriental "cuisine", was it?

if you have letters that might as well be
physiognomy... call it what you like:
Ezra Pound and the ideogram...
i can't exactly force myself to work around
the heard: limitation of sound...
but also the "subconscious" depth of meaning
where almost anything can be
"represented" but left: "unsaid"...
notably from the ping-pong syllable
of Li Po Ma Chong - Cheng Wui - etc.

there's absolutely no point writing
if you don't believe in it...
as much as:
to write is to be: now...
and you need to believe what you're writing...
there is no point making
an "investment"...

zen, tao / dao etc. - the late blooming greeks,
those chinese were...
so much for a freeom of speech
within the realm of the ideogram:
you're not supposed to say "it", are you?
you're supposed to revel in
the automated non-verbal presence
of: the red traffic light...
the green traffic light...
the amber...

we have borrowed non-lingual cues...
yet less: x-ray visionary...
blobs and colours...
shapes and... oh our eased curse
of having to still be writing in this Latin script...
that... apparently... anyone can learn!

i live in the past as much as i worry
about the future...
the, "here" and "now"?
a personal library... i have to relax and tell
myself: that in the past 6 weeks i've read
more than in the whole year...
to "reflect" and not immediately
succumb to "some sort of" cognitive reflex
of a constipated writer:
with this... "somehow" being the
manna from heaven...
to... un-constipate me...

i do believe that tomorrow i'll head into town,
to one of the last remaining HMVs
in the vicinity of central London,
and buy myself a jazz vinyl...

it just bothered me...
something terrible must be happening...
if a man who is so adamant about listening
to music and not bothering himself
with the sound of engines revving on wet tarmac
or a woman's orgasm...
that he would somehow (around now)
gravitate toward wanting to listen
to people talk...
to "give advice":
to stage either rhetoric pure and simple
or some unobstructed dialectic -
all opinions are true...
in a medium that doesn't lend itself
to question... or question-worthiness
(as heidegger would have put it)...

it's like that very british phenomenon
of BBC Radio 4...
clearly the people who have exhausted
listening to Classic FM had to gravitate toward
listening to talk-radio...
and i don't imply talk-radio in
an american sense...
something horrid must have happened
if a man abandons music...
and turns to listening to people.... talk...
why did i abandon music
for the lesser pleasure of listening to people
talk?

BBC Radio 4 has a special place
for some people... i can't say that i quiet like
exhausting myself with classical music that much
either...
drones... give me anything by the trance genre
and i'll tell you: and that's for
the bass guitar being hushed in the rhythm
section of most pop / rock records...
metallica "complex"... drums, rhythm guitar...
solo...
and the bass is, where?
at least in jazz you have...
that sort of quintet / quartet -

trump, sax, bass, drums, piano /
drums, sax, bass... a fucking clarinet...
because you would never write any bit of jazz
with a violin:
would you?

- and so much for the hope of bypassing
editorial staff... rooting for the public...
given how i know my own patterns of reading:
there is zero... expectation...
but at least there's also less day-dreaming
having to fuse greek myths into the equation...
mythology - history - journalism...

between me and Achilles and a tomorrow?
i do fancy myself going into town
to buy a jazz vinyl...
while also heading to the recycling center
and blitzing some glass bottles...
then cooking a meal...
and having some tea with milk come circa 7pm...

perhaps i will be felt grateful of being
alive by an impeding December air...
a crisp dry cough air...
and a half moon come noon somewhere
in the south western part of the sky...
and the sort of blue of sky...
that only winter can cling to...
and perhaps that will invite me:
to also complete the day...

wanting too much is just not worth
when wanting: just enough...
allows aspects of "too little" to equilibrate itself
in a sigma of: all the day's events...
and idiosyncracies...
everything that begs for a librarian's
attention to detail...
a bureucracy of a day...
so many people live by this standard of events...
even politicians...
a day requires a certain type of bureucracy...
or nietzsche's: that pocket "thing"...
a day can be lived if one has enough pockets...

the concept of boredom suddenly
fizzles out... what is there to be bored, about?
am i a deaf / blind earthworm
with my senses being replaced by
overcharged impulses to do what's intended?
a blind mole is blind in order
to have an impetus for burrowing...
perhaps i do not conceive of a 6th sense...
in order to think and "think"
i.e. abstract and narrate?
and if any hallucination should come my way?
well... it's hardly a phenomenon
that can be shared with others...
it's in the old Kantian verbiage:
a noumenon: a res per se...

but that's jazz for you.