Their idleness, aimless and languid airs.

As far as the chase goes
fast miles after imaginary tails
Without trace nor destination.

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.




 

A pittance for my thoughts and wordless prose
The trying hours knocking around
Looking for trouble and meaning;
That which I am I could not change
Believe me I tried.