Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #6

I cross the way

As you fall
               in the 1810s
a new century
Call of the spirit
               of Tecumseh,
               of Geronimo
Dancing ghosts;
               if history as, why
wouldn’t it continue
               on cosmically,
Extends into the heavens,
               then in truth,
One day we shall overcome
               these earthly dominions,
Shooting star.


Sky rained not clear;
drizzle billions, not downpour
How does each bead of the monsoon link up,
Dressed up Elf asked. . . then in the backyard : click, clack. .
Nickety-nack with the gnome goin’
on about subterranean bee’s wax

Taxed in the nuts up from the government of animal kingdom to squirrels. . . through old-fashed fax
The paper squeaked through,
‘who xeroxed they nuts on this goddamn photo-booth?!’
While numerous general skunks boozed-slapped each other;
drunk confused, funny pics oozed
Caught with their military fatigue pants down,
how many goddamn generals it take to screw in a frickin’ halfway decent society, not go around killin’ folks, by gawd

brought the generals’s father’s daddies in Japan in some forest witless since the English screwed ’em over thoroughly
Buggering each other thoroughly and the planet too and all its inhabitants, and calling it Civilization
Realization of schmucks in the jungle wasn’t quite the idea yet at the time. . .

Civilization has created our concrete jungles,
where war and poverty and suffering and misery are the fruits of it
Bit by bit, clouds drain from above for a whole day;
squirrels wondering question: what civilization?
Can I sell deez nuts for a Porsche?

What’s posh is the nature nurtured not by rods, not?
Or would squirrels rather drive a McLaren in jungles?
All creatures have a car farting up the ozone,
oh no now the rain falls a Civilized Brown
Game of crown played in the animal kingdom found by a shepherd;
later sold the game idea to a fame-famished clown who breeds lots of skunks

This odoriferous code, a trinity of programming language,
hieroglyphic beginnings start on square one in the pharaoh dreaming of eternal life, eternal Rule 
Blew in the cool breeze of moonsoon
when a wizard named MickeyMouse pass gas : Buzz!
Fuzzy Dumbo then the Trademark put a sleep in all the people’s eyes,
can you smell that smell,

Belle then asked the Beast : did you just break wind?
No not I, said the fair Prince, while that stupid fucking candlestick was like, ‘aw fuck’
Who utter the F word?! : yelled Duck the Donald.
Ol’ Grandaddy Scrooge! His flappy orange hairpiece eclipsing the sun,
and Farts ruled for a century. 


Really? Who’s the grandpapa of that orange moron? :
asked Pooh Winnie who was made in China.
Winnie Winnie Winnie can’t you see,
sometimes the Dragon Lord hypnotize me

Hypnotic KungFu Panda jumped in and he went :
I am the dragon warrior. . . wu. . ha ha ha. . .
Monkey King grow out of the rock on the hill,
enlightened with Tao,
no you are the emptiness of your Dragon Mind

It’s time you dine with your bananas, bro! :
cried the Pig to the Monkey. : & we’ll talk about Dragon Mind
after we get rid of some snakes, eh? : he added. . .
Fall one banana. Grown to the size of crescent moon.
No a helical serpent. ‘I am goddess of wisdom.’

Crimson creek in concrete jungles wonder :
why does she not make the water pristine with her wisdom?
For God came, binding her with power lines,
pyramids of skyscrapers, and banished her to the ancient books. 

Divine not God, for banishment’s not
what a true deity would attempt if he or she’s good
Indeed for Jesus the Conqueror in the name of All that is Good,
kicked the shit out of all His enemies.

Believe or be good or will he be
his own enemies? : is the question we need.
One’s enemies are also one’s self, ah yes
for the true conqueror first overthrows
the violence in one’s self!

How often do we reflect our selves
from the inside? : ask ourselves.
Which is the true mirror : the mind,
or the Endless Yearning of Farts
to be smelt and dealt, out of a Screen?


We are born into a world that
               cites as facts
the absolutism of the reflecting
that the imbecile omniscient
               has their proof!
And all is everywhere
               no more a miracle
               than tuned, programmed.
All is confirmed forever
               in the absolute mundanities,
Even the last revolution
               passed without much thought,
Till even the reality
               of thought goes
Leaving us in the fantasy
               of our clockwork

Ghosts of fallen souls risen again holdin’ branches of flowers poking the soldiers’ & the generals’ conscience 
To see if the murderers have hearts & souls who hold the oath to protect yet destruct 
The very people who employed them to avert danger fallen to the country 
Now look at us, do we still need this self-destructive army?
No. . . blood we can still breathe. . so, please. Breathe. . . . deep. .

I read a book about the
meaning of life in my dreams,
While keeping me hands clean
amongst monstrous scream. . .
Me felt a wave of energy,
like a roar of a ghostly train, 
Enter terrain of bloodthirsty
creatures draining crimson
from atop, insane.

My mind squirmed in its hold,
desperate not to catch the disease, 
Oh please : said the crazy monkey
to whoever with the disease. . .
               breathe. .
The breath was golden light,
confusions began to clear, 
Fear not, dear : send the message
from the book : for over this territory,
               there’s beer;
Brews of intoxicating amber color,
ideas and words blurred,
a Oneness of existence
Bluntness in honesty rewarded not
by people with integrity :
said the Whiskey to Fermented Liquor. . .

Now the booze was talking to each other,
the Beer said to the Whiskey,
what do you mean by a Reward,
what do you mean by Integrity?
Dependency on each other
are what they mean respectively,
dummy! : clowned the Whiskey
to Beer the dizzy, yet both in lunacy.

The dizzy and the lunatic,
relieved in their passing gas
naturally, though then were
approached by the
Drug Administration : No,
one can’t be farting here,
to the dungeon with ye!

No. . . no. . no. No off they go
somewhere else for the breaking
of wind without being heard or seen
yet they make sure the gas
is thoroughly smelt.
And we were tagged
with a birth certificate,
endless government documents.
A celestial bureaucracy which
watches us from birth to death.
Face analyzing software or rather,
can and bottle analysis, found
the Whisky and Beer in a crowd. 
Big Brother say : There is a structure
in life we create that denies the fact
of making a fart behind
               little White lying!

               Aye, here goes : poof. . .
& Whiskey goes : the other boozed
               can just passed gas!
Beer got gassed. Punishment of death.
Whisky got a bunch of Indians shit-faced,
then became an American President!

“There is only one path to happiness and we can only get there by overthrowing the following systems: 1. The state: [. . .] The state creates law to restrict our freedom; it forces us to fight against our peace-loving nature; it encourages us to compete with people of other nations while we are supposed to help each other. [. . .] 2. Private property: private property is the reward of pillage. Property was originally shared by all people. However, some men, either by using their intelligence or their strength, began to occupy public property or made many people homeless. They also began to hire people to work for them. The products that the workers produce are only enjoyed by their bosses. This is the most unjust example in the world. [. . .] 3. Religion: [. . .] Religion teaches us to believe in superstition while we should search for the truth; religion encourages us to be conservative when we should act progressively,” Ba Jin (巴金), 1921.


Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #5

ValidateExploitFish plays in the PollutedInfoFoolLake with SystemicCrapCrammedShrimp and both of them enjoy MuddyShallowMarsh because they get to SwimDiveDeep together JollyFunGood


Like swimming in poison

the psychic atmosphere

of this eon,

               a dominant ideology

                              is hidden & toxic,

all one can do is remember

               to breathe deeply

And to, like a tree,

               suck up this latent toxicity

                              & produce a cloud

               of equanimity.



Drifted off shore floor earth touched electrocuted by lightning
sky dark yet no rain . . .
Then heavens untamed. .
Pained waves of stormy sea strike as tsunami lives in agony
nonetheless the crazies can still find joy in miseries


A Haven Made of Memories

by Zo

Back when I was 4 or 5 years old, I used to sleep in my parents’ bedroom. There was something peculiarly cozy about that bedroom which still sends a warm soothing feeling down my spine whenever my mind wanders back into the elusive memory of it.
It was a small, windowless room directly beneath the only staircase of the house. It was so small the sides of the bed touched three of the four walls of the room leaving only a narrow space on one of its lateral sides that acts as an aisle between the bed and the only door of the room. Not only was the room particularly small and dark, it was also dimly lit with only one small electric light source that blankets the entire room with a comforting faint glow; all of these added to the whimsical atmosphere of the room.

Besides the observable features of the room, what also made it special are the memories tethered to it. I remember waking up late to the mumbled voices of the rest of my family chattering at somewhere that sounds far away from where I was snuggling amongst the piles of pillows and heaps of blankets. I also remember waking up early and listening to the distant sound of my mother’s gentle footsteps roaming around the house doing chores before dawn. I remember the crackling noise of the radio left turned on by my father who had already left for a morning walk. I can even remember the slightly rough touch of the cotton bed sheet and the tender fluffiness of the woolen blankets which I liked to mindlessly caress with my small palms and feet. In the mornings when it was raining, I would nestle inside the embrace of the thick, soft blankets as the blurred cacophony of raindrops hitting against the roofs lulled me back into my nocturnal dreams. Some mornings, I would quietly read a book or a cartoon journal that I snuck into the room previous night under the poor white light of the room alone. However, some other mornings, my cousins who lived next to my house would sneak into the room and then we would have pillow fights and wrestle among the messy blankets as we laughed and shouted in silly voices. When I was sick, both of my parents would stay inside the room with me and I would crawl into my mother’s bodily warmth as I was listening to my father telling me stories he had read in the books.

Whenever I think of such memories, I can taste the bittersweetness of them for I know that I will never be able to recreate those memories ever again during the remainder of my life as much as I know that such is the very thing that makes these memories precious and special. Nevertheless, at least, the room with its memories will always be a haven inside which my inner child can snuggle up among its wrinkled bed sheet and piled blankets whenever I want to escape from the overwhelming hustles of life no matter how many years had passed.


A crow with uneven feathers at its wings
Took flight
Like a kid in delight fly a kite 
With a kitten by his side
Oblivious to all things aside
Obliged not to any adults ‘coz he knows not wrong or right
Fight for his own joy wherever he might 
Till he finds in a park, a slide 
Much of oozed joy, what a ride!

MarsDust, 8:09, 30 June 2021


In the screened porch

The paradise of inside

for a stray


what’s in there but

               clammy solitude?

O the world is yours,

               unowned feline.

Why gaze through the window

               into the emptiness of the


               isolating; what desires

Are to be believed fulfilled

               in these animal cells?

Your fur is dusty,

clinging cobwebs from repose

in a shadowy nook.

Your tail curls up in

the window reflected.

Did you find your worms

that ate the rodent,

               little bird?


Insein the panopticon
which shades our brains like a Giant-Eye
Defiant individuals slain behind bars
Yet asked the remaining freedom-lovin’ ones: How far?

How far is control willing to go to punish defiance,
making those who fight to be free or those who wait
and see believe they have it already, lining their
prison cells the idea in the punished brain, “I am free,”
those who fight against it will Punished be.
Pen fished in papers and questioned the heated brain
to the punished and the murdered: is it near?

Distance seems to blur, the pen seems a sword
of power dangling precariously above my head,
my thoughts are they near to the Truth I seek,
or does this Image on the screen
pull me deeper into the Money Magic Machine?
Funny tragic “Kaching,” pulled by slick billionaires
with pandemic states of minds, sick frisked in time
and we still know what we are deep down
so tell our selves: fear not dear. . .

Hope but not the phony Wall Street Obama
doin’ drone strikes on our brothers and sisters kind,
pardoning Chelsea Manning who sits in prison again,
how not gone Insein
Assange deprived of his mind 24/7
and thank you Mister Trump!
While I can feel it, the souls of the murdered
Became an image,
a memory, this has happened before
O to all the young & old proletariat, 
Freedom Fighters committed to nameless graves
or Numbered of an asylum
Still Kaizen is what drives ’em
citizens be citizens in responsible selves
and despite laws flouting itself though times are tough;
then ask our selves: how well can we preserve what
we value while still holding our lives on the line. . . .

O the flower of life worth preserving,
O everyone creating resistance to Tyranny
& beauty in their life-lines of Art & Poetry
O get me out of this Pandemic State!
of mind, of body, of Soul,
Your sickness generates more profit
& control part of
like a global chessboard Monopoly game,
I’m going Stateless, son
we all Live under the holy light of yon up there Sun,
O light which shines the disinfectant of All
Peoples working together in global cooperation 
Not your sick Corporations, son!
Bits of demonic gold rain down from the crimson sky
and will we clink the clank or will there be any fair trade
of pure air for gold just for us to breathe?
Metallic breezy evening carried with it
an eerie helplessness. . .
still hope ablazed. Burning. . .

Seas rise like the Creek, will We?
Breathe. . survive. . . thrive. . . build we hives
fight not caused till all our wits lost,
cross we boundaries of thoughts at times.
Blinded and fold ‘fore we go, into the hell hole
boldly some gave lives, some gave others hope. . .
some survive. . . but mostly hope.

               A & M.


Thy smoked finely wrapped tobacco
Chewed in red nuts packed in betel leaves
Breathe in moist air on the bridge across the green creek
fecund with different breed of fishes & birds
Then walk thy across the street deliver looks of fury
on thou betel chewing visages
Yet laymen choose their attention in turning the pages
which seemed to take flight by rages
of flapping wings above still water
Why ask we not ourselves to reason out of blind faith
paying homage to only the creator within us, without
breaking trust to our own selves? Take a deep breath.


The illusion of progress is a carrot on a stick
that masks the possibility for immediate justice
in the present.

Life has no meaning in words alone.
For only words can mean, whereas life can merely be.
And yet being has a meaning singular to itself.
Hence all words are a metaphor.
Language has precisely the same function as
symbols do in a work of literature.


SnotBoogerStickyMaskBabe yelled at BlurryDirtyWrinkledFaceshieldTom when he was about to go for groceries shopping: Don’t forget to put on your NewMaskWithFaceshield so you won’t die! 


Got anything to contribute? Contact Marshall at Heuristic Halo, or Alex at ascottbuch@yahoo.com.

Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #4

Today’s dispatch includes a contribution from new author Maung Pyae, whose attribution is P, below, collaborating with Marshall (M) on “Mysterious Pines.” Another guest author is a former student at Heuristic Halo, Marshall’s school in Mandalay, who goes by Eric (E) in collaboration with Marshall on the poem which begins ‘Cold shower bleak weather blizzard. . .’

            Language is like a conquest of information.

NeverAttemptShitYouNeverTried and DareDevilMotherfuckinDickhead watched a documentary named HowToSuckBallsLickPubicHairStubs&SellBullshitOnline and have a brainstorm section afterwards and come up with an innovative idea named “ButtStuckInFrontOfDeviceAndFartAerodynamicProducts.” They then asked FamousPlushYoutuber called BallJuiceSipSickPrick for feedback on their idea and the CelebratedBallsyYoutuber said: Don’t go out and get you ass dry or you’ll waste shit to sell.


On Speaking with my Buddy Marshall after the Video-phone

A laugh can settle the
disturbances of bygone years
Shaking up joy from the belly,
my old friend;
Overhead the hum of war-crafts,
the gasoline scent of mown grass,
the stillness of centuries-long enforced
Though I still have my laugh with you
and my soul is settled,—
The hopefulness of being humans
who do not sacrifice truth,
even when the weight of corruption is
heaving its great mass,
            smooshing like a glorious wildflower
the People’s Head,
Smashing the people down,
robbing the soul of its humanity;—
No, for a moment we laugh,
but do not forget our duties to future generations;
Our soul-words like a banner,
our laughs like a weapon
which we shall wield in vigorous honor
to the end of Incarnations.


JollyGiraffeBond, GenerousCatSally and FabulousChimpJenny talked about how to fish in a pond and MightyBruteAlligator suggested them to go deeper into the water.

PurchasedTwistedMedia shouts in the sea afloat when it sees SlyFoxPickBucksBags on a nearby island and asks for help. All of a sudden Kim’sTestedNuke just annihilates both including the island. 


Mysterious Pines

Faint flight voice up high the night when insects delight: dark yet bright, plain sight— blithe

Night light bring the life into being, feeling the dull side of life

Lulled by nature, walked I onto the grass scattered with leaves and gazed up: misty, moonlit sky of foggy texture

Fulfill the mind with light ciggies, seating on the cozy iron, musing the peaceful gift underneath velvet sheet

Kites of streamed thoughts drifted with the humid breeze yet wondered the beast beneath the tree smokin’, see nothin’ but life’s miraculous blessed beings sounding obscure in the vicinity of stark dark illuminated by yellow bulbs

Track through the windows of eyes: haul the deep thread of sophisticated minds, found the descend of painful asphyxiated lines.

Brine contemplation sought outta timed compilation— fine revelation seeps into the ears of kind personification under the pines’ chilled decor. . . behind hill hectares. . bind ill scepter.  A fine spilled factor made of ancient lacquer. . . bittersweet nectar.

M & P

FakeNewsMedia and FuckedUpInternet talked to MindlessProleDumbShitsPublic about how the world should be and everybody went nuts.

PervertedGoatInBeachPants asks BeautifulSheepInSwimsuit while they’re relaxing at the beach, “How do you choose a sexy bikini?” and she reply, “Why don’t you Go Ogle it?”


Garbging Trhgi

Search birth certificates online at

the mark with blue “f”

Sagged lives with brag rights pass

gas of sad pike swinging rich flat

plight on websites

Everyone’s on a heist for attention

Anxiety rises the web delighted

Beg the kite of hope for an

optimistic dive

Yet it hit the little high tree

destroying the home of bees

Hive lost

Yet the resilient insects still find

ways not halt :::::::: the narcissistic

show, not stop.


Cold shower bleak weather blizzard
Discarded dreams still stream at heart
Fire of youth is all but ash
Yet from the cinder lies change
Fame clouded while young, life’s blurry
Flame youthfulness built families named
Youthfulness paved way for rushness
Dreams built upon emotions, heard only void
Sight not in void, dive lost in divide
Kites fought in flights yet slight thoughts in
            of a young child’s mind in delight
With every fights reward a scar
Each scars disclose signs aiming for the
            so very close, yet so far away
Bay and the ocean touch yet there’s a
Define, “far away,” asked the bay to blue
water from ashore
            & the water said, “Ask the ocean floor.”

M & E

Is it evil,


in the best

            sense of the word;

Aye, when it


It’s not about immortality

or nothingness

but merely

the will

to carry through

what you can’t

give up on anyways.

Never trust anyone with a profit

motive, I always say!

Yeh the Romantic is simply one

who sees in the Satanic

rebellion against God

the affirmation of the

            original sanctity

            of Nature.

God is an illusion

of the reality of Power. 

See the creation of God

            like Ideology

is the accumulation of Power

behind a veil

            of secrecy.

The modern World

is shaped by the Philosopher’s

            Will; civilization

or the State is the Power

            of ideology.

This is the World of the Philosophers

conceived during the Renaissance

like in ancient Egypt,

a creation that echoes

like the Godhead of the future

from our distant


            Time is a place.


Hierarchies are

the establishment

of systems through time

that preserve a transformation

            of space.

Ancient history

as the far distant future

            of another race.

Though to separate the human

from inhuman is to make

a hierarchy of life.

Creating shadows to fear

out of a flame

that binds us all the same.

            29 March 2021.


Contribute to Heuristic Halo Press, send ideas, expressions of all kinds, poems or prose, to ascottbuch@yahoo.com; the project of Investigative Poetry is that of all citizens of the World.

Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #3

Universe become a black box like the individual human experience, our

Souls delimited into a control system

. Rather than each individual being a part of the whole universe, we are subjects of a control system, the environment is excluded from the cybernetic mind; becoming a resource to be exploited like human consciousness becomes an energetic mine.


Texts flatten youth,
like possessions use
the classes their rulers make up.



            Mooned by full moon, dark strikes not the bright light
                        Up high in stark quietness obliged
Not by the divinity of any holy ghosts spirited in wind, swiped
            Pipe smoked the devil stashed tobacco, debacle beneath hide
                        Fleas bite the imaginative corner of totalitarian dream, might
Does not make right of fleas bite into an alligator strike
            For the people, not blind
            By the people, odds dined
            Of the people? . . . . neigh
Find cosmic rhymes in dictatorship: a butt-kiss sick sign {-}

25 June 2021; 1:12pm


The golden apple
is the struggle for immortality,
power and knowledge.
It is hierarchical permanence 
or more precisely its
           striving forth 
which drives all conflict.



Beauty, easy to say yet gorgeousness boundless on earth neither heard nor seen by the herd. . .
Birds flitter wings of anxiety amidst the dark clouds of perplexity, rushing home to their families for the lightening brings with it the thunderous roar moments before the downpour, no mercy at all. .
Bald mountains slowly take shapes, like monsoon green cakes, here and there we see emerald flakes, rocks of dark crimson lay awake down from the peak creek, deep not the crystal water clear albeit the top it’s near. .
Flocks of flight dotted the sky: draw lines, take shapes, rainbow curved up the eastern horizon coloring the ranges, river to the west reflects sliver though sometimes the silver-lined clouds cover the setting sun. .
Bountiful gifts of nature nurtured not by citifying but by dumbing all of us to natural state of minds blinding a bit at times.

12 June 2021


General Strike as a State 
           of Mind, for
The Market is all your Life
           has in store.
The World is War, all the 
           Time, war. 


We want you to contribute to the transformation of INVESTIGATIVE POETRY into a movement that transcends this website and all websites, for this is our world. Shall we imagine it better? Send your poetry, articles, essays, cartoons, photography, illustrations, jokes, to: ascottbuch@yahoo.com.

Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #2

One can no longer simply be in the world without complying with the System that governs how to be in it.

Religion is the conservatism of spirituality, meaning that it is directly connected to power politics and defending the status quo.

Tough Raw Confectionery in Sky Lane

Flow of clouds amongst the crescent cake float in sky lane

                                    wrote the wolf to wildflower “Jane”

                        Rain not today yet cloud & wind play drought game

            Pain in Jane, unable to enjoy wolf’s cake

For the other beauties in flowers the tamed take

            the idea that Jane’s malignant breeding hate

baked bread and cake in underhanded deceptive drape

Nonetheless, what matters to Jane’s not other flower’s idea

            but some simplest question from wolf as in: Why, dear?

That moment, moon, cloud & the dark sky on a windy day disappear

                        into the next dawn of hope to see fear more clear

                                                                        feel dear more near

                                                                        heal tears for years

Tyrannizers, no matter who or what,                     here Jane & Wolf clear

Look back at thousands of years of histories & humanities         the smear

            always get backstabbed                   of all your blood, sweat & tears,

                                    my dear                                                          all my dear

                                                            were closer with each step and the




                                                                                                Mars Dust

                                                                                                19 June 2021



Soon It Will Be Midsummer

I let that bramble star flower go,

O lily of the Lethe

I wanted to trade you for an apple,

            that peach-tree blossom;

With the sun pouring over the hill,


Pan the crow,

peter-bird in the Rodeo.

In a trash bag of leaves.

The mush of pomegranate.

As the severed head was lured back

            into the lair of the incubus,

The astral flight became like

            a circumcision of my soul.

And I began to wonder, do those

            who love God, love people less?

Do those who love God

            love less?

            20 June 2021


Beaten and shocked by the professionals

A young brain morphed

Into names of unimaginable thoughts

Lost not in solution of whatnot

Professionals got caught

While performed under the poorly taught

Wrought not the knife for a knight

Like a street vendor would make kites

Fight not the obliged souls

For warm hearts in ‘em won’t turn cold

Fold not to injustice like a dream

For your dreams gotta come clean

Flights taken to heights of heights

Yet down to earth here I stand upright


The crystal lucidity of the sky

framed at geometric angles in time,

By the shape of trees spangled with yellow-green

that differs now and than from what it means.

The TV cackles like with a signal,

Wondering about the ring of Saturn;

On a day that recurs with things we’ve learned,

An anomaly like a silver ball?



Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #1

Introducing Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press, founded in 2018 by Kyaw Zin Myint (“Marshall”) and A. Scott Buch (“Alex”).

Today we are featuring two poems by Marshall and one by Alex. Please feel free to share this Dispatch, or even to contribute your art, your poetry, your thoughts and words, in the future. Send them to ascottbuch@yahoo.com.


Dog-Hare of the Firewater

I see Maung Maung again in Thailand

Not Maung Maung himself but the spirit of Dionysus

A ceremonial den like a cow skull,

The holy mischievous law-breaking that is

As much of Karma, especially in the Abyss

That we must in tantra have

Subtle wind through our bodies

And the blood of a god intoxicates

Us, who see in the fabric of a day

A great pattern of ecstasy like silk lingerie

Who wore out our bodies like clothes

Until there was only mad spirit left,

And there you glared at me—you rascal!—

Until I became old dust,

The distillation of existence

Pounded out of the Milky Way!


Petals of roses red whizzed by a gust

            Flat on dried earth spiraled touching gently on the spikes

                                    of branches, no thrust

                                                kissing the primitive floor of nature

                                    Fertile soil mothering thorny stalks beauty on top

                        Crossing everyone’s sight: delight

            Obliged not regardless of whoever the gardener be

Fantasy of a magic garden still in every bees’ instinct, beautifully

                                    ‘fore all the delicate parts rest beneath earth.

                        Water flowing down from the north to the hearts

            Of the plains nourishing, growing and multiplying more plants

Blooming not only exotic flowers but bearing heavenly fruits

            Regardless, as bees don’t fly around instantly causing flowers to bloom

                        Who are we to yell at seeds to grow trees

                                    Let alone what those tree might produce

                                                Till, individually, we improve. . .



Who will stand up for Myanmar

Largest book in the world is contained here, at Kuthodaw Pagoda (ကုသိုလ်တောဘုရား) in Mandalay, Myanmar.

Dedicated to my
friend Marshall,
my friend Dennis,
my friend Leo,
my friend Stanley,
my friend Maung
all the friends
of Myanmar,
especially every
single student
that I ever

Folks of the Ayeyarwady River (ဧရာဝတီမြစ), near Mandalay, not far from Sagaing.

Who will stand up for Myanmar

when life itself has been gunned down?

Who will stand up for Myanmar when

Being is held in such low-standing,

who will stand up for Myanmar, who

            believes Western democracy is real,

            who believes the West is real.

Who will stand up for Myanmar

            who would stand up herself

            if not for the Golden Triangle,

“[F]or the poppy rules the world”[1]

as the whole world is colonized.

Who has stood up for the memory

            of the 8888 Uprising,

Who has stood up for the Saffron monks,

Who has stood up for the murdered

            and raped Rohingya,

Who has stood up for the million

            who’ve been displaced.

Believes that sanctions will,

            or ever have done anything

                        about this

And who enable the proliferation of

            military dictatorship the world over?

Who will

            stand up for the tortured

                        denizens of Insein Prison,

Who will read the

            interminable discourse already produced

                        on this subject,

And who will read this poem.

Who will protest nonviolently

            to the end global capitalism,

            with the indomitable spirit

                        of a Theravada monk,

And who will unite across

            every religious division

                        arm in arm, who

Will give up the religion of

            global capitalism.

Who will

            wake up to stand up

Dreaming in their violent mythologies

            to know who wrote

                        Burmese Days,

            let alone there’s a country

                        called Myanmar?

Who will stand up for what

            they regard

So cheaply to be bought

Turning the entirety of their backyard

            into a sweatshop.

Who will stand up for the workers

            of Myanmar

Who will stand up for a nation

            not their own

Who will give up the violent dominion

            of all nation-statehood.

Who will stand up

            for Marshall

beat repeatedly in the head,

threatened with firing squad

For merely spitting on a police car.

Who will stand up for Myanmar.

Who will stand up for the migrants

            of Myanmar,

            of the World

forced into modern slavery,

And who will stand up for this fact

that slavery is worse than it ever has been,

            throughout the entirety

                        of your so called progressing of Civilization,

            democratic values!

Who? How?


Cow outside a temple near Bagan (ပုဂ).

[1] (Jim Morrison, Paris Journal)

The evanescence of property.

Intellectual property establishes a dominion over time in the way property does space. This is because concepts unfold in time in the sense that language is syntactical.

            Modern science corporatizes intellectual property. Establishing an interdependent relation between power and knowledge, this is analogous to the interdependence between political power and wealth.

            Concepts are a reflection of illumination, a consequence of the conditions for existence made up of electromagnetic gravitation in a void; the emergent property of consciousness in a system; or the complex order arising out of chaos, making up a whole composed of parts. This is precisely intelligence, the ordering, the structuring of a vast infinitude of data.

            Ownership of intelligence implies an individualizing or atomization of intelligence which is specifically human insofar as the human being creates hierarchies out of its understanding.

            The problem with this is existence or the world as an environment, gets excluded from the system of understanding that informs our understanding of the world. In other words in order to create a system out of something one must isolate a part from a whole, effectively complexifying that part into its own whole. For instance, in the structure of language that is a system of communication, this system effectively becomes a parallel or mirror reflection of the world it enframes by signifying. Signification itself is a mere reflection of a state of affairs; and explicitly not that state of affairs in-itself.

            And yet, in being a snapshot of a state of affairs, it does manage to be an illumination of conceptual knowledge, knowledge being not intrinsically separated from the power that it mirrors, its absolute existence as energy; existing under the relative conditions that make it perceivable as matter, distinctly reflected through an apparatus which has evolved over time to be sensitive to light in specific ways that create perceptions.

            Trying to “own” something as evanescent as this is the very definition of illusion. For to “own” it implies that it could be grasped once and for all, and preserved in a specific state. Which is not only impossible—for it is impossible to grasp one’s own reflection—but also betrays a deep delusion to think that the reflection has existence in-itself, in the same way that it is a delusion to think that language is precisely reality, or that these two things are necessarily separated by an absolute border.

            That border is purely conceptual. And this is why knowledge cannot be “owned,” for it betrays the fact that this flows equally through everybody.

Reflection of the Moon

The universe is like
a piece of paper,
A bounded infinity
with determinable shapes.

The world is like a constellation,
made out of fixed stars
          that the mind
Connects distinctly at places.

And if a concept is a reflection
then what’s reflected is light
Like sun energy
            shining on the moon;
As matter condenses
            because there is shadow
I can understand, you.

On sex-positivity & reaction

Conservative ideology must be sex-negative and acclimate the perspective to a pessimism for life. For several reasons, for instance the class hierarchies that are grounded in injustice are to be seen as natural, and hence the miserable world they create must also be seen as natural.

            The things in life that are inherently positive, like sex, must be governed through their enframing as negative, for sex-positivity would inherently create a more balanced world insofar as the human reproductive function can be linked to love and not violence, freedom and not slavery, equality and not compulsion, and so on. This sex-positivity would threaten the hierarchical order of things, and hence sex and therefore life itself, the consequence of sex, must be pathologized; constructed through sex-negativity if the order of the world itself, as Western Civilization as such, its supremacy, is to be preserved.

            Sex-negativity as status quo then, also the conservative position, with the upper hand but also the mandate to preserve, can attack progressive forces which would seek to liberate sexuality as degenerate. Without addressing the systemic nature of sex-negativity, conservative forces can criticize left-wing forces for being idealistic, not being able to see the presupposed naturalness of sex-negativity.

            By negating sex, construing it as negative, the bad consequences which come from this, can be framed as natural, when putting the abstract concept of civilization before the anthropological reality of human beings.

            The conservative ideology will put the abstract concept of civilization before the anthropological benefits of sex-economic progress in order to preserve the hierarchical structure of class relations.

            This is why the conservative ideology will sacrifice individual happiness, by acclimating the perspective to pessimism regarding life, because the imperative to conserve general power privilege through class relations overrules particular instances of truth-knowledge or individual self-control, happiness or contentment, for the sake of this systemic goal.

            The contentment of sex-positivity in the broad anthropological sense as sex-economic, threatens the structural violence that grounds civilization through the power of hierarchy and class relations.

            Another way of putting it; by linking the idea of sex-negativity to civilization itself, the sex-negative position becomes the correct, or moral position.

            By linking civilization to hierarchy, it becomes moral. Injustice and inequality by degrees are also moral.

            Sex-positivity becomes immoral, and linked to the idea of degeneracy, or “anarchy,” the dissolution of civilization.

Fragments of a concept of cyberspacetime

If postmodernism is in a way characterized by an eclectic return to the past, then in what comes after postmodernism, the singularity of information which characterizes a control society, has flattened the former distinctions between spacetimes altogether. This is perhaps the capitalist realism effect of cyberspacetime.

            Rule by cyberspace time is algorithmic. It facilitates the gig economy, a way of personality construction and hence memory-making that is image-cinematic, based around profile building; and a generalized understanding of everything that encompasses the self and the world, which looks similar to a kind of generalized mental disorder.

            Despite its real material, technological character, cyberspacetime is primarily a mental phenomenon.

            Whole patterns, phases, fads, memetic stages play out in cyberspacetime, in ways that are cyclical with similarities to actual spacetime, but ultimately in a separate realm though this area is, as I speculate, still largely in the mind.

            In theory cyberspacetime could fuse with the brain in the way that language capacity became a biological inheritance of human beings. This concept seems to show the fluidity between the technological and biological. One begins to wonder if beings evolved a capacity for language, becoming human beings, through generational contact with the world. Cyberspacetime wouldn’t so much as be fused with the human brain, as be a catalyst or stimulus for the evolution of new neurological capacities.

            In conclusion, we may be approaching an analogy between something like the psychedelic experience and representational thinking. That is, a drug can change brain chemistry, in the same way a mere experience can change brain chemistry. And prolonged experience with a certain kind of chemical reaction could create transformations of a so called alchemical nature.

            If duration is the embodiment of spacetime, then cyberspacetime is like a cell of duration. In this way cinema is both its precursor and most apt symbol of representation.

            The Influencer is cyberspacetime embodied.

            One quality of cyberspacetime is that it is at once eternally fleeting and oppressively permanent.

            A reified Now that swells and keeps swelling infinitely to monstrous proportions of seeming omniscience, it occludes the impermanence of mutability in the natural flow of things.

            The algorithmic influence of cyberspacetime is ultimately psychological, that is to say the artificial intelligence of the algorithm learns enough about the individual user to make them feel like they are being influenced. This feeling of influence is real though real insofar as it is psychological. In this way the effect of influence is similar if not analogous to the effect of ideology; of propaganda more broadly which has always taken its manipulative techniques from psychology.