i want to end the monologue.

i want to end the inner monologue.

i want to end the inner monologue that kills.

i want to end the inner monologue that kills via adjustment.

i want to end the inner monologue that kills with calibrating second thoughts.

i want to kill this judas, this calibrating inner monologue before it kills me.

IWANTTOENDTHISMIRROREDMENTALTREADMILL
IWANTTOWANTTOENDTHISMIRROREDTREADMILL
IWANTCONTROLOFCONTROL
IWANTAPIECEOFMIND
NOTEVERYTHING
GRASPABLE

___________________________________________

the gun slung over his shoulder, his
body perpendicular with the ground
neither his loose shoelaces
nor his fraying cuffs - no,

NOTTHE MOON SLIVER-

can rouse facticity's flatlining stoicism

dark stormy city nights
create a glowing gray dome
that shakes my blood
and closes my hotelheart

sorrysorrysorrysorry
we're too full now
check the library
check the archives
under greatest hits

but you won't find anything

even relatively speaking

you won't find anything

well maybe relatively speaking


and calmbright days will
hand me full jars of mom's jam
will shake me still, tranquil


i can't but willingly
reach my hand out
obtrusively
interjecting
a skid mark
never really striding
but always striving

it's the only way

the red sweater that blinds and bends,

whether upon your shoulders or empty chair,
heralds a new(!)new(!)new(!)NEW(?) day
that flickers, dawning but just yawning

i'd like to write you poems
earthquakes shaking, uprooting
forming new ranges where
our peaks compete for clouds

i'd like to write you poems
that break all the mirrors
rip all the right wires out
let you smile/let me be me

i'd like to write you poems
simple, earnest words
that lay your smile upon mine
summoning oracles to the truth

i'd like to write you poems
cause your pen to turn and say,
"hey, hey come join my story
no, no - wouldn't have it any other way!"

no i wouldn't have it any other way.


no i wouldn't have it any other way.

those longlong days formed of a newly known absence,
whether a trembling eternity or confident, placid moment
turn on the faucet, fill my abscess heart, rawpink, tense
in nearlynotime. your red sweater sits empty and cold.

my apologies wreak and reek
psychohavoc and locker room sock puss:
idon'treallyknowyouyoudon'tseemtowanttoknowmebutmaybeitsjustagamed
idn'tsomeonesay"playthtegameKNOWYOURAUDIENCE"butmaybethegam
eisbeyourselfbeyourselfandmultiplyflourishpursuehonorobeynotcareeverjust
staystoicstoicstoicmaybbeittakesamaybeittakesafewmonthsihearmanylegend
arypassionateromancestolastforevertogetstatuesin-
maybeyouhavereadthatstorymaybeyouhaventjustignoredmeiamastormchaser
maybeittakesa-
maybethegameisbeyourselfbeyourselfandmultiplyflourishpursuehonornot
maybeshehatesmaybeshe'strappedbehindadesksittingtherelikeaprefracture
wishbonebutnotawishboneyouonlyseemlikeawishbonetomereallytoyouyouare
anuncomfortablepolitegirlwhoreallyjustwantstodoherjobandmakesomemoney
somaybeshecanactplayapartwalkuponthestageandattemptomoveatheatreofmay
beunmovablepossiblypatronizingpatrons maybe
ittakesafewmonthsihearmanylegendarypassionateromancestolastforever
togetstatuesintheirhometownstartfromdisdainorworseambivalenceorworseyet
midnightlakeignoranceawellspringofabsolutenothingnesstotaldisinteresttothe
pointofnonconsciousnesswellmaybesubconsciousrightmaybesubconscious.

you romp around my clouds:

you are a dancer
but my longing makes you
an elephant in pointes;
you’re so heavy you’re light
and to lift is to live

your shoulders could hold
no more than a dinner plate
but my life wants no other home
for in your eyes
I see the god of spine

and so ill be a competing lion
lyin’ in your waiting room
for your entrances and exits
and the glorious time in between

What is a Human Life? What is to be done?

Statements can be either descriptive or prescriptive. That is, they can either assert a particular perspective on the way the world is with varying degrees of limitations, or constraints - in short, a definition of what the world is, based mainly on the scope of the subject lens (e.g. individual or community, which are also of course subject to definition) Alternatively, a declarative statement asserts that a particular course of action is the right one, it applies previously-concluded abstract rules to a real-world problem (1). This is done through an assimilation of the issues into a coherent view (in the particular thinker's opinion, of course) through prioritization. This prioritization reflects the individual's value hierarchy, whose genealogy in turn reflects both degrees of dogmatism and reflection. It is this mixture that this magazine intends to address.

This magazine is concerned with the primordial questions: what is a human life and what is to be done? The Human Lobby does not purport to exist simply as a meeting of the minds venue (2). Though this locus consensio is a fundamental goal, the overriding standard at work, running throughout is pragmatism. If there is not a direct correspondence to the real world, then we're not interested in it as an abstract notion. We are not interested in conflating this modern notion of bipartisanship with agreement. Bipartisanship in American politics could refer to our one party corporate state, but I'm invoking it here as an example of our sick culture and as anything but agreement or compromise. Democratic legislative initiatives require Republican support almost universally. So in order to garner support, the product includes both the initiatives of Republicans and Democrats. This causes a schizophrenic society where tensiosn build up around the different courses of action dictated by each bill. I do not intend to argue here that a single ideology is the answer. I'd like to end ideology as it currently exists in its dogmatic, entrenched turret.

As such, we are concerned only with ideas that bear directly and most presciently upon the most important question facing human beings: what is the best human life and how is it best achieved?


(1) [the age of the conclusion does not bear directly on whether the conclusion is dogmatically followed or constantly calibrated and adjusted, prone to radical ideological under the proper skies of justification (not necessarily limited to those evidentiary means flowing from the purely rational faculty, which seems indeed to be a myth.)]

(2) or as a repository for mental masturbation in any way

A Snippet of The Iranian Election Aftermath Coverage

Boston Globe's photographic coverage

Very moving pictures. figuratively, of course. one picture that really sticks out is this one:



Most of the fleeing people here wear frantic, focused expressions, but the boy wearing glasses and the dude in horizontal stripes are smiling (they are to the left and slightly left-center in front of the woman in the blue shawl/half-burkha, respectively). They're running from thugs who wish to beat them for organizing to protest an election stolen by said thugs. and they're smiling like they're running away from an older brother or towards a girlfriend exiting a train.

This is not simply zeal for a political candidate. This is zeal for life: thinking, speaking, acting without respect for any probable consequences doled out by an authority, only allowing for their conception of "right." This is idealism. It's the only necessary part of every single step of human progress worth keeping and advancing towards.


Aside: Another very positive "news item", and very prominently featured due to its importance, is the integral role of social media. Twitter has been invaluable as a means of communication between protestors and other Mousavi supporters. It shows that despite our usage as a fan for our egomanical flames, these mediums, like Facebook as well, can serve not only constructive but revolutionary purposes.

Also, a link to what many believe to be the first bonafide revolution to use these technologies, as well as a link to study of the internet's effect on democracy in the light of 2004's Ukranainian Orange Revolution:

Moldova's Twitter Revolution

The Role of Digital Networked Technologies in the Ukrainian Orange Revolution

The Human Lobby

purpose*

use available/appropriate mediums to discuss/report/speculate/analyze the experience and meaning of being human, contemporaneously, historically, and eternally

bridge ideological gaps, bringing both disparate points of view and communities together. the latter composed of people who share philosophy but for a variety of possible reasons have been isolated. common reasons include cultural marginalization and characteristics essential to the philosophy which don't commonly/naturally precipitate, or suppose/contemplate organization

engender more cohesive human community, focus on unification

play role of The Human Lobby

*there will be, of course, more specific ways to characterize the overall philosophy (which is to say the purpose), but, for now it remains very much amorphous, awaiting not only the particular ideas of artists-yet-to-be-determined but the push-and-pull resulting from the interaction of the common and disparate philosophies we share. therefore, in the interim, this is all we're willing to identify as far as content, but we most definitely have our contributions to this philosophical scrum.

format

web-based, no physical product
advantages: lower production cost and wider spectrum of available mediums outside written word and images, that which can be expressed in print

mediums*

written word:
short-story and novel-length (perhaps serialized) fiction, poetry, journalism, philosophy,hard/soft science and political essays; more "pop" cultural directed essays on topics like music, movies, television; and the intersection of the foregoing

music (#)

moving image (#)s:
short and full-length documentaries, short and full-length movies, serial programming

still images (#):
photographs, paintings (tho this seems to blend with photography since it
would be a photograph of a painting), cartoons and other drawings.

# due to potential physicality, these could be part of an off-shoot project which would basically be an art show: movies, concerts, painting, photographs, etc.

blue balled/on glory's teat

"... -s ball hit well...TO THE TRACK (!),
TO THE WALL (!)..."

the batted ball lands in a mitt
impotent as
uranium with ghandi


"...5 seconds to go.
...he crosses over.
FADE AWAY JUMPER..."

the ball loves to become
tremble on rupture
spinspinspinning
spinnin'round that rim:
it falls off the wagon
into a gray oblivion

_____________________


"...right on, right on."

"..."

"yeah, no one really gets that."

"..."

"..."

"...pedestal, dude."

"..., cynical bastard...
................................
..TO HOPEFUL ROMANTICISM!"

"give me a call."

days later and they
in localized catatonia
think of past glorious days
muttering,"End Trivia."

Moving -
at a great height,
at all times:
threadbare,
rapunzelled -
too many variables,
too much sheath,
no sword:

i can't lie
though you will and do,
by the by:
i always run from the other shoe

ill seek knowledge of the gods
and burn at my own hand

my mind stalks my heart
in an empty brown school-bus,
watches it undress
staring, jeering

i can't help it:
i hate you us all.
you've we've done as much as a beaten child
but less than the proverbial hypothetical scorned

pillows and blankets and
baskets and chalices and -
funeral laughter - cackling,
like Mephistopheles' fire, crackling

skin so thick to inspire
a tree trunk's envy
o, cold and forsaken sensitivity:
how does the seed bring the rain
and laugh in doubt's face?

but these are mystical questions
i have no need for them
a bayonet pen to my throat -
and all of humanity watching

watching. they do
"do" - in their own way.
but, also, all over
all art and science,
all that is worthy of Man.

She sobs, testifying
in a shrouded, dank courtroom begging,
her killers,
however powerful,
no matter their entrenchment and multiplicity:
be
put
down.

groping at the mirror
like an infant towards anything
or an
epiphanic horizon-hating helio:

i wonder why i
don't remember my dreams --
vacuous black snowflakes:
o, will i ever catch their nothingness?

these palpable privations tumble downward
visible only to my
unpryable third eye.
i don't look anymore,

but sometimes
some Me
somewhere
- I'm not in the loop -
will show home movies
of his dream realities
and remnants will reach this
cogito's city limits:
terrifyingly earnest and pure,
my breached forgetfulness
puts happiness on a milk carton

descartes' evil god lives within
me.
it has written, edited and
re-written the book on me.

he is a contrarian:
for happiness is not sought,
but, rather,
the greatest possible sorrow
for the ever singular Me of tomorrow.

and i am most certainly to blame.
i know the location of every empty throne
and that these moments pass
for which i can never atone.

it's not that i
dont know where my interests lie;
i'm a master theorist:
my chair's arm is scalding.
but a philosophy is primally a thought
disconnected from action
by a wide emotional chasm.

i disagree with philosophers
that will look to their peers
for human nature:
all that's there is us,
no human being as such,
only the hands of our time and place,
like Jesus' Anglicized face.

"when i think
that i can't blink
without writing:
nothing happens.

the meaning-stuffed-mind
sits satiated
upon its toilet-throne -
erm, chair
- in consternation
linguistically, neurally, constipated:
where's the _________ fiber?
so that my feelings may pass
so that i may feel the cleanliness and solitude
of an enematic colon.

alas -
more marination needed
more time for the parts of my whole
to write their reports,
talk to witnesses -
or: more time.
just: more time."

"what is the sheer passage of time
but the heroic villain,
the will to ignorance?"

"NO!

we must choose -
whether sedentary, on a paved road or
with a machete in the brush.

And so it is with my salty blue pen and blood-lined paper:

I can't control that
I can't write when
I think I should.
But I can accept it,
Waiting for release,
Enjoying the suffering,
That only precedes meaning."

"... "

"No,
We can."

the best Happens:

it does not want.
it does not equivocate.
it does not project, simulate,
extrapolate:

unified - not-sliced-and-diced
- skilleted -
it simply is:

willed but not forced
surreal yet natural

i'm not a man for all seasons:
springs and summers are bottoms up
even falls mostly enthrall;
but winters have long, spitefully introspective youths:
terribly meaningful brief bursts of
awareness,
acceptance,
immediately preceding paradigmatic shifts;
but this:
winter-but-not-winter,
spring-but-not-spring,
fall-but-not-fall,
this clipped wing, peg-legged sprinter,
modernity,
where our mental bris stays for dessert
until we look down and see curly hairs

where:

instinct's under quarantine and observation:
for fear
their superiority is originarily arbitrary,
their morphogenesis obsequious,
their self materially, annoyingly, inchoate;

it strangles everything natural
in favor of artificial nothingness.

relativity frightens,
absolutes somnambulate

unconnected dots may soon lie dormant

is meaning's ambulance enough?

enough to squash and splatter

the now disparate back together again?

my mind is the intricate lattice of

intersecting tree branches:

each rising from its trunk, its mother

each lying to me: for they never, ever touch

- but my thoughts do -

they:

fornicate like romans and

teach like the greeks, but
their halcyon dreams will die in utero,
for they are:

American:

They know not how to choose:

(which is to say: what)

They do not do.

(which is to say: dead)

you cant fall in love with every pretty girl you meet:

a voice that runs marathons through tires
and a microwave smile;

Or, induces insanity-infused storytelling at the
FIRST IMPRESSION,
nuking my lamb shank-heart;

Whilst holding
the heavily foot trafficked
street corner's
street bum's sign:
Will Be Honest/Weird For (soul) Food
like a Doubting Thomas begging,

begging

that:
you might string a supple sentence:
there's something sexual surfacing
inside my mind as your word play spins normatively.
eye up their incorporeality
just past your nose
- in between us.
spit those language loogies sincerely
and:
i may forget beauty ends me.
i may remember.
i may remember i ripple the water
so that i may forget not remembering.

must find actualizing, not paralyzing:

my dreams, my ideals
leave me a motherless white elephant,
contextless
without hands that live in iceboxes

i knew a girl once that
fervently walked the plank:
self-constructed outta
gold and plutonium
- but mostly guilt.

she'd look in the mirror
with lust, towards divinity.
and then whip the knife out:
slandering, plunging deep, and
no longer strung out.

it hurts so good
to own it -
to not die but whither
under sky blue skies.
there is ambiguity and there is idiocy..

heavy and light -
i fought for the right
that you might freely choose me:
put away the stencil,
grab the brush and paint

acceptance and change
theres a time, place.
if everything is perfect,
where is meaning?
you must be dead.

so she'll lie and lie
loving, learning, growing, peachy
check, check, check, check, she'll intone
but then she'll write by the thousands,
salty, stomach-descending poems

her guy's nothing special,
but that barely stated implication
makes him the mythologized High School Jordan,
lends him the principle with some heavy juice.
someone will pay that debt.

and she'll look in the mirror,
yearning brown eyes with rls,
but she won't stretch or take her pills:
obligation, self-loathing, or a dancing dick?
she's not here, not there and never will be.

the wandering warbling warty warrior wears
silencing self-snapped shackles
bloody burnt toast crumbs adorn her lips
- she gulps ominously.

there's no god but us
we judge
we create
we subjugate
we die empty or full
so just try

don't you hear yourself cry
or remember your forgetfulness?
how long is your pillow dry?
long enough, i guess

when the static becomes the swamp
in suffocatingly muggy despair of
knowing self-sabotage:
isn't it time?
isn't it time?

and when the swamp comes not just
bimonthly but biweekly and
parks itself in your groove
puts it feet on your ottoman
smiling at the slaughters you won't remember
the pieces you won't fit together
though they hover,
nearly colliding:
passionate but glancing blows
you swerve right into the swamp's nuzzle

i walk around
the Universe in my pocket
your memory just waiting
to expand into longing
creating worlds i can't bear to see anymore
but it doesn't matter:
my weeping wounded heart is a compulsive elephant:
cinematographer, editor, director, writer of
the best and worst film ever.