1. A bundle of Osama Bin Laden urinal targets
2. A defective billy club
3. A handful of Disney-flavored condoms
4. A Madonna pap smear
5. A 1982 head band

Think of the moment when someone finds out their "true love" doesn't love him/her anymore.

Think of when Al Gore, bred for presidency, wins the popular vote and loses the electoral.

Grow a beard. Work it off.

When the rug gets pulled out from under you and you realize that there is no floor.

When the minute stimuli of a thousand little truths paints a picture of soft denial, and the levee breaks and your mind has no place to stay.

When the levee breaks you get swept in the current, and grab onto a branch. The branch is just in your head.

But you need something to hold onto. You cannot walk around all clothes and no body. So you make something, and apparition, and apparent appearance of what you think you are.

The man in the mirror is often absent from reality.

(a pic of an azalea [1])

I picked an azalea
And brought it home.
Now when I contemplate it,
In its crimson dye
I see the color
Of my lover's robe.
—Lady Izumi Shikibu

I used to ridicule Haikus and other short Japanese poems for being what I called "wanna-be zen." But as I'm digging in, I'm unlocking their hidden beauty.

click here to look inside this book I'm reading

Here's the trick to reading them. Take an index card and cover every line except the first. Read the first line outloud. Think it through and visualize what is being said. Repeat this for the other lines. And then re-read the poem quickly from top to bottom. Soon a strong dream-like scent should manifest, and in some cases, it will put a light sting into your heart.

Haiku syllabic form is 5-7-5. And Tanka's are 5-7-5-7-7

Here's a Tanka I just came up with:

In fall's cobalt dusk
A reminisce of you heats
My hands in caress.
Hand-in-hand we used to stroll
Down the middle of the road.

Writing this down kind of makes me shiver.

Let's see if I can write a Haiku

Microwave love notes.
Papercut your right pinky.
But let your heart bleed.

.
.
.
.

I've never been a fan of poetry. Or let me correct that. I've never been a fan of reading other people's poetry. Writing poetry is a different matter. Self-expression is what I'm into.

Hmm, but I'm starting to like these condensed form poems. In a way, "the medium is the message" once again; the short form forces compressed impact. Haikus and Tankas are short on story and narrative, but strong on straight emotive wiff.

And, I've been going this route on my mind blog with various one-liners:

• I'm looking for my peace-maker.
  
• you're going to poison your ontology
  
• why do I check my e-mail?
  
• I'm trying to get from A to B, but I just don't know where B is.
  
• free will is the ability to back intention with action.
  
• metallic paper cuts
  
• dream about washing machines
  
• virtual blood transfusion
  
• filipino sand castle
  
• 60 minutes of awry.
  
• Dreaming of ostrich eggs
  
• all your candy-colored lipstick smears
  

In these short-forms, I'm looking for sweet partnerships between words and concepts. A conceit laced over the right thoughts can drop a mini atom-bomb. datz why I like poetry.

PhilDhingr: ATM. At the moment.
PhilDhingr: In this particular moment, my headphones are on too loud.
PhilDhingr: In this particular moment, you, the primate-cum-computer is processing these words.
PhilDhingr: At this moment, everything could collapse, but it doesn't.
PhilDhingr: The now is in such a rush to become the past.
PhilDhingr: History is a wheel.
PhilDhingr: Boethius.

In other news

Placebos!

http://www.healthtalk.ca/placebo_09192004_7832.php
A survey conducted in Israel suggests placebo use among doctors and other health care professionals is running at about 60 percent. And in most cases, patients are told they are taking real medication.

Isn't that a trip?

Imagine, if 60% of what you said were lies? Time and the rest of the universe is lying to us right now. Or maybe the neurons are our placebo-dispensers.

These kids shoudn't be called doctors, they should be called placebo-ists.

But they cure right? they do the job? it gets the job done. The lie, the deception. Time decieves us, and it gets the job done. We have no time and so we work. We have free time, and so we play. Good enough for you and me, right?

the comedy of infinite sadness

the punctilio of tryptamine

punctuated equilibrium, is just another old white man's dream of beating Darwin.

patricide is the soft genocide resulting from mass twentysomething angst

punch-drunk love is subconsciously sober

incontrovertible evidence suggests that introverts have all the real parties.

the silent conspirational spying eyes.

the dance goes on in his/her imagination.

while as the extroverts' goes on outside the body, in the liquid of hands, hips, and hellos.

the heliosphere combines the heat of hell and the sweet of heaven concept.

mafiosos wear chains with christ on their necks to form a resigned halo that is choking them with guilt.

preface your pre-face with good intentionality if you desire to let your neurons do your bidding's will.

Below is my quote un-quote Dadaist insightful freewrite of mine.

Continue reading...

Why am I the bucket at this intersection of consciousness and flesh?

This would be a teleological fallacy on my partial differentiation of the function that is life.

What are the zeroes of my purpose? Where do my lines intersect what I expect?

If you are not experiencing the depth of this poem, continue reading for liner notes

Continue reading...

Overarching complexes floating in space.

But space is here, and the Big Bang of technological explosion has closed all mind and space.

CO2 but we all see through this, let's do this. After the war is over, can we have a party?

I'm mouse clicking, speed surfing, sifting through the foils beneath the silicon surface. Blades and screens, and xerox machines. Nothing but cheese is oozing from this, super-sized AMD anthlon XP.

From this little machine by my right foot pumps the philosophistric mind candy to the masses. Or mini-masses. We bloggers are the mini-bosses, moving with the pen, oh whoops, keyboard. Taking out pages of bits in our table of wit.

Get with the program, jack yourself into the Matrix. Let's get on, with the spe-ci-fix.

The trumpet's in the living room of the lion's tongue. Inside the pink peddler is trying to sell his soul to the orange biker. Together, they form the dynamic red-orange team, an offshoot of the spiraling shitzu cult that found its home in the incisors. They wonder about the putrid smell and hired a prophet to guess what the various smells meant. In other words, the Lion is the God and they are the lemmings awaiting their fate.

Orange Speedo man, call him Carl, talks to the Red Peddler, Jimmy.

"Jimmy, what is it that is so important for you and your peddlings"?

"Carl, you don't understand. You never will understand. Knowledge is power and you have none.

"I seek intuition, I seek feeling, I seek, bikes"

As Carl took his bike and moved around, the lion's tongue was tickled. The incisors opened and closed.

I felt in disorder upon seeing this scene, I wanted to pull the lion's mouth open to understand why these germs were plaguing him. He wouldn't let me, so I just took my laptop and smacked him in the face. Fortunately, he was drugged up and not in his usual feeding frenzy, otherwise I would've been bored to death watching him feast on leftover snakes that I had put in a bucket.

I wonder if he has a preference, boredom or death.

I sat back down and I too pondered, why, why must I think? Is there a purpose. Does the Lion think? What would he think if I sat on his back and started to use him as a tool for my amusement, like in an amusement park.

The prison gates of this cell that the Lion was in was kind of haunting, I wished I too was out. I needed a job to get to work. But back to the biker and the peddler.

The Peddler was watching the sights that would come across his mind, and the biker came back up to him, said, hey, Jimmy, why are you so dreamy?

"Because it helps me understand the universe"

"Why?"

"Always with the why, and the when, and the questions, the questions"

"What is the most vexing question that you have to answer"

"I think, life" Whathat is life for people like you and me. I get bored sometimes man, imagination feels the spaces.

I try to go biking every once and a while, that's my boredom.

"Aren't you just buying time?"

"And what do you call hat you're doing"

"Progress"

Ironically, they were both paddlers, one of knowledge, the other of bikes. Both of progress, one of the mind, the other of physical space.

I too, was a peddler of sorts, of drugs for this Lion. I took it upon myself to do a handstand. thought that maybe if I could get my shoes to touch the ceiling, gravity would be reversed.

But, my teacher Mr. Madkins told me something about cost-benefit analysis, and then I had to start thinking about whether it was truly beneficial to reverse gravity.

Beyond the gate was Kelly B. Kelly B be the cutest lionkeeper co-worker that any teenager could dream of.

She liked me, I could tell. There was something about the look in her eyes that said, "I am going to get you"

"Hey Phil, do you want to sleep with me?" .. I imagined her saying.

I decided to be arrogant that day, I had French wine or I saw the Merovingian in the Matrix who reminded me of french. Somehow I felt that arrogance was expedient. I said no, a second time.

"No, no"

"What are you saying no about?"

"I'm frustrated with this lion, it has terrible germs, and I can't clean them"

"Let me help and massage your back" ... I imagined her saying.

She opened the prison walls and sat next to me, thinking, understanding.

I decided I would touch her, but I didn't. Kelly B started to talk, or at least move her mouth open and closed. She had gum in her mouth, pink gum I could tell. She did that thing where she takes the chewed gum, puts it halfway outside of her mouth in between her incisors so somehow someone else could see it.

I didn't think it wsa attractive at all, this extra tongue that was coming out.

"What do you want to do tonight?"

... this I wasn't imagining her saying. I hoped. I responded anyways, but gave a vague response so that if I was wrong, it could look like I was talking to myself.

"Go to the movies."

Apparently I failed in that ambiguous statement.

"Which one?"

Good, she did ask me.

"I want to see, Tiger Eat Cantalopes"

"Wasn't that on Discovery?"

I decided to invoke arrogance again and remained silent.

Silent except for the chewing and the rustling of the Lion.

Water started to seep into the room, it got my feet wet. Kelly kind of was stressed out by it. I fancied that maybe I had somehow changed gravity enough so that a new tide came in. That would've been nice, to change the sea through gravity. I herad the moon does that occasionally.

Bac kto the Peddlers.

"Carl, why are you so gay?"

"Please, none of that derogatory stuff. It's bad enough that the incisor people won't talk to me, and now I have you."

"Aight, I'm just making conversations."

Why wouldn't Kelly B sleep with me.

"What, excuse me, did you say something?"

"Yeah, why is the canopy opening over me?"

"Is that why you think it's getting wet?"

No, I bet you're getting wet.

pause...

good, she didn't hear that.

"Well, I'm going to see the supervisor."

"Yeah, you go do that"

"No need to be so sarcastic Phil."

"Uh, um... OKAY Kelly"

Kelly left and I was all alone with the lion, the water, and the peddlers. I wonder if I could speak with the peddlers.

Did an open mic for the first time today at Galokas in San Diego. I dressed in all black, had my hair combed ultra normal, and did a few twisted things that I doubt anybody noticed. Nontheless, it was really fun. I was hella nervous before, and going up there to stand and deliver was not what I expected. I expected to just be nervous and wanting to dish out what I said, but instead, it turned into something powerful. After I said, "Man is just" I paused in silence for a good five seconds--eternity in spoken word--and then, bam, bam, bam, like the daggers of thought I intended to lob, I delivered. The applause I got was comparable to the others, which was comforting.

I had criticisms of all the other spoken word artists, but in quickly sharing it with others, I find that it's just not popular to share such a high bar for art. I always believed in Nietzsche's conception of the Superman, and I wished others would try to make their art rise beyond the mundane. See, already, you are hearing the negative vibes: pessimism, cynicism, arrogance, and just plain bitterness. Why? Why? This is why I don't like revealing my personal thoughts or relating my personal experiences at times. The Truth, or at least my Truth hurts. So when people ask me questions, I try to only tell the part of the Truth that doesn't ruin the conversation into a wrestling match. The match usually ends with me losing and the winner being somebody who just stands over me and says, "See, you can't say X". Don't get me wrong, I enjoy everything. The ceremony of spoken word that processed before me was dope. It was funny, entertaining, and clever. But I must be honest when I emphasize how much I desire improvement and higher forms of art.

Hmm, something is wrong here.... I feel it's a waste, self-indulgent, and plain boring, to talk about my "standards" of art though. I think the compromise I can make with my socially "arrogant" attitudes and my desire to be a generally nice guy, is to be silent and prove my ideas through example. What you say says nothing. Action is what counts. And yet, with friends, especially close friends, I think speaking your mind is still a strong imperative.

I spent the time there with Chaz and Elaine. Elaine had heard of the place and helped me get the link on the left ("Urban San Diego"). It was really nice having friends with me. You can have all the theories in the world, but when you sit down after speaking and a friend gives you a handshake, it feels good. Plus, NOW, there's a whole world of San Diego culture to conquer! (dah!... maybe I should just go screw it, this is my blog, my space, let the arrogance flow like spit)

Here is the poem that I spoke:

"The Gay Funeral"
By Philip Dhingra

Man is just
An informaton processor
When we follow our passions to make love
and subsequently have sex
We are merely exchanging and merging blueprints
To create more information-processors
Who
Through the course of their life
Will struggle to exist
And repeat
what you started.
Now
That is not what life is ALL about?
At least for non uber-hormonal college students.
There is
ART
There is
science
and there is
war

As I take quiet walks
--a rare task these days--
I am always surprised by how
unaware we are of the superstructures
mushrooming around us

From drugs
such as TV
religion
courtship
shrooms
and real mushroom clouds over Bahgdad

The question then emerges
Who
Rules this earth?

Nietzsche once said,
"God is dead.
And we have killed him"

I revise and say,
"Man is dead.
And we have killed him"

Man first died when he chose to speak
When he chose to love
When he chose to submit his activities
To a greater good.

We are gathered here today
For another kind of greater good.

A pow-pow of the most
meta
significance

And we are also here to mourn
the impending death of man

But this will be a death
with little bloodshed

And as the movie The Hours
showed us
Death can be a gift
unto the living

But
What will live on?
Who will live on?

The struggle for existence continues.

I'm in no hurry though
I want to enjoy the Singularity
one precious bit
at a time.

###