For Kant

Is language the true barrier? Then why don't I write?
If thought is its own pretense, why does it delight?
Who am I to think me changed? The former or the latter?
And why is it so hard to keep myself from scatter?
Is Kant's frame enough or is it too little?
How can I go into this in any great detail?
"Sapere Aude!" he exclaimed,
And are the rest of us condemned?
The categories are our judges,
Juries quick in there to find us,
Human beast or Human being?
What is thought? What is meaning?
Verdict accepted and denied,
On time's anathema's we must glide,
Seeking no substance but our own,
To transcend that we had grown.


On a personal note: grow up, don't grow old.

Travelling Without Moving

I hear the distant rumble,
The dusk sky seem so bland,
Quiet in this weary breeze
Of a long afternoon.

It is coming!
No need to place my ear against the dry soil;
The itch has finally caught on,
Catching wild fire at the remnants of my heart,
Captured in that endless struggle between hope and peace.

The calling is within, now perhaps more than without,
A silent reminder of what never was,
As it slips its thorny caress around my breast,
My nakedness bathed in blues and crimsons,
I lie awake, awaiting the tomorrows.

The caravan, long delayed,
Still echoes its slow wheels,
Those chrome tinted spokes of promise,
Crushing underneath a yellow road afield,
Landing at the appointed gate until dawn.

For morning brings the crystal quality of dread,
That wanton old faithful,
And pondering remains, as I greet the new sun,
Where is my pilgrimage setting? How many roads?

The Invasion (a methodical pause)

I've scribbled this silly little ditty for Robert Lee Brewer's poetry prompt on the topic of "Invasion". It's not surprisingly titled: "The Invasion".

I was there the night they came,
I searched they sky, I saw their plane;
Its form seemed to wildly shine
As it disgorged those conquerors of mine.

Look over yonder, behold their hair!
I cannot help but dare to stare,
The atmosphere suddenly electrified
And their presence there intensified.

I told Parker, and he could not believe:
"This is our time, our time to live!"
But even we, poor boys, had no clue
When we saw the British through.

Inner Voices

Those inner voices - what are they? How do we relate to them? How do they relate to us? What
kind of existence do they have, if any?

By inner voices I mean those quasi-collections of thoughts and emotions that act as representations of 'Significant Others' in our mind. Those we consult with, those who tell use to do this and not that, those who we imagine what they'd say and think about our choice of clothes. I'm not talking about a modern Jiminy Cricket or a Freudian super-ego, nor the detached voices that often plague a schizophrenia patient. Those voices represent others who we care about but they do so by being a part of ourselves, by being our own creation. They are an integral part of the human way to internalize others (and so play a pivotal social and ethical role within us) while also manifesting and testing desires and thoughts of our own (thus enhancing our creativity, our sense of order and our cohesive-seeming Self). Sometimes, they show that we are not alone in the dark.

But how is this phenomenon called? Why do some people get 'internalize' and not others? Are all
the representations the same (in essence, power, function, internalization status)? Where do they
fit in in relation to our 'own' internal monologue, our own main 'Stream of Consciousness'?

I'm looking for some answers.