They, Thus Created

Black fire

which does not burn

drowns each in the amnion's bliss.

Black fire

athwart the warm-blooded

still mourning the deaths of gods.

The now

self-idolatrous masses

thus, created in their image-

the sensuous abyss.

The sun hangs over this darkness.

We watch it rise and fall,

the moon.



Black fire surrounds us.

Even in Sinaloa

it is raining down.

We can not hear the melody.

We can explain,

we can explain!

Black fire is the engine, is the crucible.



Black fire in the palms of Socrates,

whose optimism quells

the dithyrambic pulse.

At last- we discovered the heavenly farse!

Now we do not need to die.

In one leap, no birth, no death.

A leap without feet or eyes.

Black fire surrounds us

in our image.

The abaddon of the senses

folds unto itself,

the soul and the myth.



Even in Sinaloa

it is raining down

on humanity.

We can hear the melody.

We can explain,

we can explain!




But,

the sun,

moon.

Poem of Longing- For Igor Lesage

Coming to, count four walls
One, three, the puerile frith
Between opening eyes
And seeing.
Wiry light befalls the
Hemlock

Does glaze the iris
Of my fevered gaze.
There, on the stool
Old ink once was
Speaking
Now quiets itself

In an abstract
Frontispiece.
Shh, stifling wind
The unwavering carnifex
Purloigns the mercy
From ripening

Slavic fruit.
Shh, stifling wind
Wears led
From the ground
In an iron
Mantilla-

To feel restricted is
The wind's secret to life.

Nine from the Spring

There are false muses bending before you in fits of laughter,
Writhing in groves where flowers have fallen into
Sacrifice before the ancient roots of weeping trees.
Who now will write of these monumental structures of nature,
As we no longer look to their dumbed greatness?
We shall not turn the abstract into a God,
And we can not hear that universal snare being
Released from the bell tower- for the old iron of
The bell cries but a distant echo,
Startling new birds from their perches.
All is wrapped in black smoke and even the sun
Sees the abyss and wavers across the sky in drunkness
Like a beggar crying on the cathedral steps,
Where is my Madonna?

Indeed there are false muses winding clocks
With filthy hands in pools of memory.
Herald I must, that not reverie alone concerns me,
Nor other naturally occurring whims of humanity.
It is a testament of today that I struggle to endeavor,
While false muses do cantor the spirit of the time.
That which has past occurred is the premier curve to thought.
Insoforth, an understanding of genius has died.
And it is just that we should suffer so, our past grievances.
Those men that have died in the laps of others and
Been sculpted out of stone, have not been made gladder;
For they have been forgotten not once, in vain, but twice more.
Fear will reverberate upon every turn of the century.
And thus will go on, the poet without Mother, until
A crowd has gathered to shed light into
That tenebrous spring.

June 9, 2009 To Berlin

Deep into the Deutchebahn, people lay naturally sunder. I suffered their words through the hill-ridden landscapes of Belgium and to Germany, whereupon every hill mounts a monument or temple, exemplary and for-noted, as many before me would attempt to harness its magnanimity with not my pedant inking, but commendable toil and fist. And every so often, bold letters do punch from the squarest of buildings. Difficult is its breath, like rusty pulses of trains gliding rail to rail, yet there is an infinite sadness in the wind quaintly tussling the trees. Blankness wraps itself 'round the muscles of windmills which redirect the wind in places it has not the strength to go on. Regard, this feminine wind playing softly with stiff German fingers. Discreet wonders emerge from the distance as the sun's last rays illuminate the gossamer skin of all things. Much more languidly now, we roll along the thick of the forest where, sustained are, long dead branches by the neighboring bush, and drowsily, they drop to the floor into an anonymous chaplet of thorns.

Aix-en-Provence

On the Cours Mirabeau,
There are sculptures of Herculean men
Supporting wrought iron balconies
Where aristocracies once pulled their shutters closed.
Forsaken from the impiety of plebeian mannerism,
The vehemently blessed hath renounced their divinity
In a religion of mirrors telling nothing of the soul.

Much has passed unseen as fateless clock hands
Do not recall the spaces between their bold-faced destinations.
As if, per chance, something has keeled over
Between the gaps of this great net that shall result
By no other murmuring than cranial capacity,
Then let it be- a singable notion,
This humane naivety- unknown.

But save all conception of time,
Now I sit on that same gentile Cours
Whilest pondering leads me to people
Walking freely in the street.
I know not bounteous claim of the multitudes
Of black cloth flapping its wings as precisely
As hands flipping pages in belfries of books.

The French are as quick to change society
As they are at conforming to that which
They have molded accordingly,
But what would any poet have written
Of mortality this or that?
Regard, the strategically lined trees
In uniform rows, aesthetic bliss!
Louis the XIVth wroughtly desired to
Cantor outside through a corridor paneled
With the paintings of nature.
He was too fat to look up at the opulent sky
And see the vision of Cézanne stroking
Its graces with pink elephants.

Cars are dancing around four fountains
Whilest those same inglorious people
Are seeping through,
And in a dark corner on the Cours Mirabeau
The poet's eyes grow fat like sponges.

The Gate

And nectar, which provides fair bugle for the feathered humming fowl,
At once removed, remains the pith of a flower.
Earth be protected from the prurience of life-
Thy golden sliver of renaissance persists between
Petals and air.
Such is the purfled gate whereupon wing and beak do twitter
Further searching and anon to golden water at no end.

Hence due it may be to pay homage to Bacchus
Who did have in the depths of his red-stained glass,
A bundle of pearls.
Into these depths 'scaped the bundled sea virgins
Filling his belly with disagreeable coil.
Let it be known that even the wine god, bastard of vine,
Lay immobile betwixt common medlar,
Seeking refuge among its cool verdure-

Hereby posing candidly impositions of desire;
At once, which is the flower that boast the nectar most divine?
Here the flower hath birthed a most treasurable serum
And, in turn, it hath flaunted thine serum dubiously so.
The hummingbird hath taken with fervid insatiety
Therein, 'tis not the flower that boasts
Profoundest sweet nectar,
But the blind captors.

And the birds are flying with much difficulty,
Oyster shells lay barren and exposed,
Bacchus curses his hands.
For in these hands he can not admire
With mind of that mingling
In which they are accused.
And to tempt oneself impetuously with slanted joys
Is to redefine humanity, mocking demi-god to god.

Who, I ask, shall consider thyself challenged
With one hand full of pomegranates
And the other, hard rubies?
Was it nearest today that I gathered,
It is only when one does require
This which nature provides,
That we shall defy indulgence
And be quite still, as she.

Moth Elegy

I.

How impatiently do I take life's lessons
Spoon after spoon, in mouth again?
It is sojourned, a cycle of measure
Whereby stands before a ladder betwixt.
That which divides soft heat of the evening
Is a roof that I should hope to ascend,
O' sweet corpulentia, seraphine evening
Forever, definitively, makes amends.

II.
A sentient master opens his book
Whereupon I graze listlessly upon its bound spine,
Amongst its blank pages, a pitter-patter
As I continue trailing nothing behind.
And much like the courier with his sachet of letters,
Uncertain- his foot holding finds no peace,
How precisely he delivers of that unknowingstly,
A duty kempt with incorrigible ease.

III.
And still the mystery one delivers
Stains the palms with chimerical ink,
O' what qualms progress from days of naivety!
Still, I am spoon-fed by the ageless rind!
Uneasy is the fledgling mouth which
Distracts fresh thought with movement.
Pitter-patter,
Trailing nothing behind.

IV.
The solitude of human action
Trots lightly like the cupboard moth,
Its diaphanous wing bathed in solace
Chary as not to shed its dust.
For it is the cupboard moth who seeketh the flame
Despite the flame be not the sun,
It leaves no trace for I beseech
The journey long be quite my own.

V.
How austere the world for newborn moths
Who cling to bulbs with no effect,
And tedium clings also to the poet
Who suffers near drearily, the dimness of light.
It flickers and flaps from the poet's own candle
The effect be most gentle save obscurity to sight.
As wax curls the wick in dulcet waves of a shoreline
I continue trailing nothing behind.

Counsel to the Patrons of Tragedy

"Then there was the one, Don Juan of self-delusion..."

There were pillows on which acid sounds

kept the moment.

There was sex one would call success.

Filling pockets with sand

Feel it there now

Those dirty remnants of old stone

Shattered by clockwinds.

Inability to keep each singular grain

These have already learned to accept their meaninglessness.

Voices indicating some functioning world

Are but amplications through the bloodstream.

Does one keep moving and working hard to make

Soft waves curl over the shore?

O' surely not.

Patrons of tragedy,

Sit by the window

Rest assured,

Exposure to light

Is good for you.

Lesser Concerns

A dark woodgrained curl rests spiraled
Over the shoulder with a suppressed passion
That only a Mother could bear.

How tightly does each hair cling to another
Despite trailing years of sporadic growth?

All that has fallen together from birth
Has but dual fully died at the moment
Of its inception.

Death, not a moment alone
But a passage of time whereby destiny is determined
With the teeth of a material comb guided-
By the hand of Man.

Those hidden beneath layers
Remain soft and wealthy
With the utter security of darkness by another name.

O' how they tickle the nape with divine caress!
How they propogate and consume guilt-free!

But let us not concern ourselves with the charm of weaker beings.
It is time to speak of an end to old strands
When the dying fill the world with such stench,
When the hairs tangle and split reaching
Into lows of botched ecstacy-
When the bitter knots have freed themselves in acts of suicide,

It is given;
This in which was born next to that
Shall forever remain.

Where There is no War, There is Only Sleep

I find myself walking through wet streets
Moving slightly here and there
Whilst glancing longingly at the full grey sky.
It is a soft pillowing breast of sky
Weeping out "The sun is gone!",
In great mourning.
I may choose to thank one of many Gods
For this perfectly solemn day as it
Plays effortlessly my inner concerto.

You see, I am numb in tattered boots,
Laces dragging niggardly through
Wrinkles on the ground.
I am numb in tussled worry
Caressing my frame from the space
Between my eyes to the twirling
Innards of intestines large and small.
I am numb sucking dopplebock
Through the soft mouth of an amber bottle
Pedagogically speaking to the Mother inside.

O' great worry, I feel it on my brain.
Like an old girl playing hide and seek
With children, I will avoid the cupboard
That echoes their graceful breathing.
Can you believe it sky?
I am numb and your sun is gone.

To focus on my sentiments I must
First fold the paper crepe-like
And start so very small.
For a poet, the horizon may seem
Overwhelming as it lives and breathes
On a monotonous plane.
Then there is sunset and colors
Go suffocating the Goliath that
Lives in all things conquerable.
I am most hesitant that I should
Write these words, yet I know
The following to be unfeigned;

Where there is no war,
There is only sleep.

The indolence of my years
Binds me in sheer torpor.
I am numb in virginity
Holding precedence over
A panting soul.
In the midst of this pain, so shallow.
And pleasure, so hollow,
I find the most petrified middle-road.
I liken myself to the listless few
Who walk away freely from murder.
Do they cry out to God or sit
Quietly in the many lurid
Rooms of Purgatory?

In the distance I see legs of horses
Plucking puddles on the ground.
I think of the burnished strings of
Violins, where there is no sound.
I wait here with nagging patience
As I remember the darling liquid
In my body warming bones and,
Like a curse, working its way out.
Tears slide on my neck and then die
And the space between my eyes
And their watery graves is also numb.

A doughty knight rides his horse
Underneath the same full grey sky
And laments "The sun is gone!"
He sees a young woman dying
And weeping of a numbness
Spreading like the plague.
He pierces his sword deep into her
Heart, and this she feels like the sun's
Return to the morning sky.

Ouroboros, Crown of Cronos

Here, a chancy thought
Of rolling sweet 'bacco on the palm
Before a window anointed with the beasts of today.
And respectfully, I shall not smoke this brute stick.
Tis' but a mere trifecta of the hands,
The direct manifestation of my soul.
And to you, most indelible reader, my pleasure.
Slow death will not impress,
That there remains the deepest space in my mind
Until I am whitewashed with lone reason.
And why reach out to answer its cardinal vexes?
Let it ring and taunt with rouge wings.
Such is not a youthful guise
That I should call for arms, or carry on the merry wings.
It is my mind that coils itself like a snake,
Then again, then again.
I speak to its inertia; Adieu, be with God.
My etiquette for you, Cartesian crown of body
Enunciates thine tempestuous calling.

A young boy's flauto dolce stirs a song
That should implore you to your knees
And still, you suffer ages of iron and bronze.
Still, scanty madness goes exalting the sound.
Peace is shy of season about my intimate brain.
Let us not forget of divine fatality!
Whilst a gentle question rests among
The ashes of a flickered flame,
Why does the feathered fowl mock in vain?
Does it not know we are but one in the same?

I observe humanity as a glim row
Of peckish birds lined on a string
And unbeknownst to them, their smiles
Are the masks of frowns underneath.
Tremulous beings, they undulate in flocks
And will my improvement with backless reason.
For there exists no finite impotence
Save the seeds of Gaea, immovable Titans
That were cursed to the earth with indulgence.
In fountains of gold they cupped their futile
Hands and insatiety bore witness.

And so, I will my eyes to be engraved
At the top of my skull so as to stare
Into the depths of a distant Father.
As now, I endure life spine to the sheet
Nearest the breast of a reticent Mother.
Who, but a female that filled me with
Intoxicating drink and quenched my soul
And mused the attainments of many men,
Filling their chalices with saccharine certainty.
She, the darkly saint with a heart pumping sweet wine.
Yet Father, bearer of good thought,
Logic, and truth, who betrothed me with
A substantive carcass in the head,
Remains the infallible protector of all that is written.
In passing sapience, I look to thee.

There must be a way to know
The mind without losing it.
The earth quakes exquisitely in hamlets
Of the world and opens its abyss-like
Mouth to breathe new lust.
Its core longs for the familiar caress
Of the sun that muses its craters with
A transparent skein.
This lovemaking ebbs through the veins of time.
It is homage to the wind that gives birth
To serpentine waves, homage to the butterfly
That catalyzes the experimental feet of a child,
Homage to the nocturnal sounds of my
Somberly sleeping soul-

In these moments, I am shrouded by
A cloak of madness, however inglorious,
Imperviously deep in thoughts, monads, vestiges
Of mercy, apocryphalic wondering,
Believing in reality dictated by preeminent
Dreaming, and of chancing upon water
From a foot bridge and knowing why it
Reflects the sky, why in Father there
Is Mother, and why the act of discourse
Is but another patch on the charlatan's disguise.

Humans are made of varying shades of
Water, the most pellucid reflect more candor
Of the world, akin to those ancient lovers
Who birthed poetic thought against
The vast indifference of each waning day,
Each benumbed star!
I see those peckish birds on the line,
Do you not see?
I am but one in the same.
I hear their calls and virile singing.
Yet they do not call my name.

I suffer,
As I have not known God.

And I will die,
As I come to know
That which is thee.

What is this Physical World? I Know Only of the Sâcré Vent Blowing Through It.

I hear that the sâcré vent blows
Superior, with sibylline reason.
Somewhere between Siberia
And Ménerbes, a love affair
Of the two points seethes so
Rifely, the people can feel it.

From one phantom soul to its distant other:
"I am an expanse of sapped land. There exists
Merely imminent disaster that could bring
Us together. If only, if only, reveal yourself
To me and I will learn to touch you from
A distance."

Somewhere between Siberia
And Ménerbes, the earth flattens.

"I see you. Of all the people that have
Tramped my streets prospering off
The throbbing currency of mine ardor,
Of all the nimbus that I have worn on
My head like a crown, of all the exquisite
Cairn erected in my honor, I have never
Known a face so deific and true.

Govern me by your seasons.
Let us grow decrepit and crumble
At once. Let our people die and our
Memories perish so that we may
End our lives in dust face down on
A crusty earth that crackles with
The madness of our thoughts."

Somewhere between Siberia
And Ménerbes, the flat earth
Enables the wind to take route South,
The sâcré vent is born.

The Folly of Mesmer

What was the purpose of our time in Cythera;
But to honor the Goddess of beauty and love.
What was the purpose of our time after Cythera;
But to honor her temple, a euphonious sanctum
Cast at the accord of our hands.

Bear with me.

It was not solitarily you that I found
Under Aphrodite's young shadow.
There were suitors strapped to the lambent horizon
Offering Lydian silver and rubels of blue jade-
Glittering sublimely august in its baronial pageantry.
Yet their words held bandy, I harbored disdain,
And all the while, a trembling light shined
Through holes in their souls.
None can survive as you've taken from me!
And I ask of you, to the people passing
Mild-mannered in the streets,

Give me deliverance.

Our thoughts are protected by the potency
Of laurel leaves, so thus.
I spend my youth, a vagabond, wasting no
Folly on you, so thus it be-
One shall not drink from the chalice of
Holy water to be made whole,
One must come forth with verity and troth
On their hands demanding to quench upon
A fountain of blood!
Likely fluid of appetence!
Prurient descendance of life!

Like a Bacchic rite I am entitled
To endure this crucible,
To desire to rest my head upon your lap
And whimper there for all of time.
Infernous man,
Grant me this passage of Gloria.
Pray you, eventual of the hour,
To hither save the passing frost,
Save the dumbing bodies, and
Save us from the servitude of
Modern days.

To yesterday, we shall pray for
Redemption of our divided ways.
Today, I laugh at the folly of
Internal Mesmer.
Instantly, an epiphany begs
For my open ear.
Have you seen the face of
Mortal understanding?
It is angelic in its ageless confession.

O' Folly of Mesmer,
You have led me astray.
It is not man who will give me deliverance.
It is only I.

A Letter to My Utterly Amused

Amused one,

I look for you through windows
In faraway paths assaulted by the wind.
I spot, a tall figure pacing toward me
With familiar hesitance, like
Sacred breath shared in closets
During wartime.
Don't you know I've felt with you
Like children hiding from some fear?
Just yesterday we were reaching out
Of windows as being, for us, could
Never be contained by walls,
And tomorrow, may never hither to.
But listen, in this maniacal embrace
I am weeping with desire.

What is to become of our cherished
Existence that has behaved like
Water on glass?
Tis' but a romance everlasting?
I begin to feel as if it is a romance
Of its own right,
As if we have written a novel
With our hands loyally anchored.
I lay still and time possesses
My surroundings in ribald cups
Of coffee,and in little molds of my
Feet resting in piles of boots, and
In the tresses of my hair reaching
To my hips like a distant hint
From your hands...
The clouds are filling with
Frigid wishes.
Soon, another winter will
Bury our prayers and I shall
Lay here, still, possessed.

I think of you in a carmine coat,
Undressing.
I think of you out of a carmine coat,
Of all that remains.
You, who roams with a joy only
The modern world could encumber-
You, who comes and comes again
With tireless entrance- You,
Who finds a foreign father in my skin.
O' Fickle brother, literary lover, I have
A soft, dark place for you to rest in.
You, you, amused.

Let the prudence of condemned
Lips unfold without delay.
Let the ideas of solitary nights
Become something finite and forgiven!

Amused one,

If you will recall;

I know you then,
I know you now,
I will know you all my life.

Man's Heart Hath Thorns

This flinching man
Hath thorns deep in the heart.
His defense from the many
Coquettish daphne driving them in,
Is that of a neighbor's dog
Playing Dead across the yard.
Thorns thus embedded are likely
Talons arresting life into death.

Flinching man,
Macrocosmos of man,
You escaped to the south
Seeking refuge in the run.
Indoors and in piles of wires
And cords, in work, out of work.
Last I heard you were swimming in a pool;
I am in a Charybdis uncleansed.
I am stuck with reason.
What seperates men from animals-
What treasure?
What nightly terror?

Awaking from a dream that,
Like a mother, knows just what to do,
And like a child, disobeys utterly, sweetly.
I awake with chains.
The duty of interpreting your presence
Is fit for a martyr.
No, a prophet.
Have you not created a religion?
Have you not thirsted for a river
So wide of my blood?
I loved you like a tyrant to his throne.
I know why I can not love you now.

What wound cuts deeper than
A mother's betrayal?
I will give you a clue,
Amongst the perils
Of an antecedent life,

You were my son.

The Throbbing of Propagation

Women love like hunters.
In men, they see the truly
Beknownst beauty of prey.

Drooling in tall grasses,
They become keenly witted
With soft paws poised to the breast.
The meat before them is a feast
They have waited for all their lives.
To viscerate upon the brink for some,
I tell you, will reckon slumber for
Bellies full with veritable answers
Like a tranquilizer to the wound.

Watch, as the hunter cuts off her
Arms and lays on her side
While few wonder what one
Feast has to do with their minds.
Like-minds, they molder!
Remember, Antigone wanted to die.

Must we perpetually invade amniotic
Spaces to make it with our prey?
If, in the ephemera of a moment,
Our bellies and minds come to a
Truce of contentment...

Then I shall wonder, what
Of my heart.

My Soul, Beyond

It was not the length of time
In which you left,
You could have been gone a year
Had I not sought after you.
It is time in its aching hours
That deemed me alone.

In folds of blankets I saw your face.
In the deepest of night I feared
The infiniteness of the world.
Cats shuffled across the
Wooden hallways and cried
To the corners of the walls.
I blamed you for this fear.
Through the uninterrupted mind,
In hours of silence and hermetic thought,
There lies a clarity, much like
The center of a still pond reflecting
The light of the sun perfectly,
As gaily as ideas becoming truths.
I had begun to resent the absence
Of your ears to whisper secrets into...

Now that you are here,
Your welcome will be this:

I am beyond you.

My soul has traced the outlines
Of the first human with its hands.
It bore each new species from
My marrow and bone.
Knowing fully well that each is I,
I have quested to find the one
Who remembers me without skin.
Without this face and without this body,
I am a layer of the atmosphere
Joyously reaching down to hold you.
O' when you feel the reigns of
The illuminate OM tightening,
I will come to you once more and whisper:

I am amongst you.

A Moment is Yours

By lamplight, I lay at the farthest end of the bed to read
And I feel you staring up my legs
Tracing scars and silently shadow puppeting
Ankle to cheek, as if your fingers were monsters.

Your hands, brittle and sweet
Sneaking fruit from the trees
Embracing slowness, slow lover
Learning to admire childish
Shadows on a canvas
Of woman in between-

Is that your love?
If one beckons gently for their
inner desires, why does another
remain at the end of said bed?
Monsters, that's just it.

They are as frightening
Up my soft legs as if
Before me now.

Their garish faces tickle and taunt
The mind, convinced of a joyous
Reeling and further contained
As a sacred ritual underground, inside.
The monsters are not mine,
They are not real,
So, the monsters are all mine;
As I would imagine, and to let
Them desire from a distance
Is passion at its least solicitation
Yet most intrinsic spring and
Boundless you.

Spare you not a minute of beauty
To reflection.
Have it deep within your soul
Now,
For the hell of it.

For I- could not look
God in the eyes to show
My gratitude for life
Whilest living it.

What Joy? To an Empty Inside

I've been sitting in the stuffy rooms of Boston

By a window with an aimless breeze

Coming rare enough to bring down

My heavy veins, hot and buzzing, God loving

Off half a bottle of brown ale,

To, an empty inside. To long life.

To an empty inside, the wind rustles

Like crumpled brown paper.

There, my reflection in the window.

I crumble my hand into a fist

Like a stiff brown bag-

I've been reading Milosz, friend recommended.

He writes from Kraków, a city where I've breathed.

How have I been there?

Of all cobblestones to walk upon

Tracing the steps of my past life

I return to this culprit fold

With an ancient tickling in my heart

To feel at place with my old places.

A gerbil squeaks its wheel in the cage

Living and dying for its one dimension.

Brown ale, heating my chest now

My hands feel weak.

The window, again, I am

Understanding my angles.

What is true about Boston or Kraków?

Everything feels brown to us now.

Modest Prose on Staring

When one looks into the world, or as far as my illusions reach, dimensional sphere of another, one is staring once one consciously becomes aware that they are doing it. Staring is accomplished with the motivation of two instances. These instances stem from mortal curiosities and needs. At first, staring becomes realized when one desires to learn something nouveau. The will to learn shall be seperated from the will to feel. The unknown is involved in the learned stare while often that object of attention creates a feeling of satisfaction of even repulsion. There is no socially constructed bias in what one should care to feel when staring to obtain new information. Since humans are affected by the external sights of what they lack as beings, they are often magnetized to the aforementioned event. At once, humans will interpret their oddities in two ways. They will either be humble in their appreciation for a powerful and alienated beauty, or they will remain threatened by a fair portrait of the bounty of their own personal maladies, or more accurately, insecurities. These physical realizations, which exploit one's meniality, can be inversely viewed as shamefully as sins. This law does apply to staring at one's reflection in a mirror. Further yet not forevermore, one does stare in order to elicit a response whether it be the attention of another human or an antiquated form of communication, as existed before the dropping of our species vocal tract thus enabling us to speak. This is a bonfire of will against will, however, not a spoil of free will as human nature does not allow for the ability to choose whether or not to succumb to staring. Staring may parallel tropes of primacy such as eating, scratching an itch, and the simulation of re-population. We can not help but stare.

Hallelujah!

I am conscious as to why you, sir, are staring at me, and I am staring at you, save when the pen hath "glean'd my teeming brain."

Alas! I am humbled by this instance in so forth I must flee.

Do you hear that?

My unborn children are singing!