Later in life, a sweet peculiar breeze
which swept me off my feet but left me wanting-
wondering if it were mine to keep;
Which has lately become a wild, world-shattering wind
where from within I withstood the terrible love.
A terrible love, my dreamboat,
As all love is eternally terrible;
But still the object of my affection
You strange, mysterious thing.
And I myself a puzzle
An impenetrable island
Whose presence is felt dearest
In absence and excesses
But yet I am different as you are different;
Difficult as all things persevering
Still, above all-
Together and growing
I would give a limb and three toes for something resembling a coherent whole
I do aspire towards the sisyphean task of exploiting complexity
But swimming unguided in the abysmal sea
gravely darkish and solemn
A fool's errand to wilfully sink
For I will sooner arrive and recollect
Than ever again march to the drum of defeat.
On the imperialism of bounded rationality:
If you reckon the theories are perforated with imperfections; the models break like glass
You either become the iconoclast and plow the rich earth of academic tradition
Or please just relent and institutionalize with standard procedure already.
Bukowski on a disconcerting dervish
Be it by fluke or some parsimonious wake-up call
succinctly and with characteristic brute. as the poems go into the thousands you realize that you've created very little.
To be young, full of ideas and stupidity.
Towards maturity you entrench yourself in something that resembles consistency and thrive on its methods just so you know the brickwork is safer and sound
Than the wrecking ball of knowledge.