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I am currently reading Nassim I am currently reading Nassim Nicholas Taleb's "The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbably."
The term comes from the European belief that all swans are white since that's the only kind they had ever seen. Then the British began exploring Australia and what do they find?
Taleb refers to Black Swan Events. An event that is so improbable that it can't be fit in the traditional Bell Shaped Curved. I'm just getting a good start into his work, but he's a good read. So far, he is making the argument that these BSEs...to create my own acronym...are the driving force behind history. That human history doesn't just roll along nice and smooth with one event being caused by preceeding events and then, when it has happed becomes the cause of other events.
He rather argues that history does not grow logically and rationally, but rather is a sequence of unpredictable leaps caused by unpredicatable events: Black Swans.
He uses 9/11 as an example as well as the emergence of the In
Fred died tonight. We rescuedFred died tonight.
We rescued him from a family that was calling him Bocephus...Hank Williams Jr...of course, we took one look at him and said there is no way this bassett hound....this big lumbering short legged hound dog with ears that hadn't gotten the memo yet and were still long enough to stir the dust and waft the scent up to that CSI Superfly Noze of his. You see, bassetts are according to legend bred from full sized blue tic hound with a Dachsund or some dog with short legs. They are short, but still are classified with the big dogs.
We both took one look at him and as soon as we drove away from the family that had to get rid of him because of a landlord we looked at each other and said, "There is no way in hell this dog is going to be able to pull off Bosephus. I can't remember which one of us came up with it but the name, once spoken aloud was his and his forever and that was...
We brought him home seven or eight years ago and we weren't sure how ol
from karl marx to pale jesus from karl marx to pale jesus
i don’t want you to
accept my beliefs
i want you to question your own
why should i care
if here and there
there were little phil jarrett clones?
make up your mind
but not like you make
the bed in the morning you leave
all tightly tucked corners
with no room for doubt
is no way for a man to believe
furl flags on the ramparts
paste poems on your prius
and blog till your bloggin’ content
these words that you mutter
you might as well utter
so pull up your thesaurus and vent
from riots to revolution
there’s no easy solution
left untried then put up on the shelf
from karl marx to pale jesus
there’s a repeating thesis
the only change you can make is yourself
*Past and Present*One hundred years ago
When summer cast golden glow
Weeping willows, river side
Cast gentle shade, punts could glide.
Mild, quiet summer day
Strawberry smell and smell of hay
Silken dress on a boat
Shaded by parasol, afloat.
Today loud music rocks river
Weeping willows really weep
T/shirt slogans, blue jean rule
Now we’re noisy but very cool.
GatekeeperDrawn by a single angelic finger
As white as cotton clouds in morn
The flesh a child's in innocence
Where all its grace is well adorned
Veins of blue as bowl above
Where overflown the rain descends
A healing joy hid by that cloth
To ask for time to make amends
Fabric flown in wind through sky
Two halves crack the door
And all is seen in sightless peace
To feel a moment so implored
Expend an energetic wave
The site where there is shown
From inside out exuberate
Touched by one's own
There is a line now held in place
Behind which mirrors shine
Reflect back the present gazes
Who drive to ask before their time
Only be a part of passage
Depression's saving needed
When pouring gifts lie mouldering
And oldest wisdom unheeded
When eyes are rivers in themselves
Come in the loudest spike
And silent yawn the gates awake
To coo the crying souls alike
Imagined paint will always be
The master's tools to colour all
The mind a much creative being
That needs some help after a fall
So come and pierce the
The Guardians of Childhood (Poem)
The spirits of an innocent childhood, from long ago
Arise and always protecting, the innocent
Children who’s dreams are filled with hope, with belief
With happiness as golden sand, takes the shape
Of their deepest dreams, their deepest goals,
Their deepest desires, as the sand takes on these,
A small, silent golden man, sandman, who holds the magic
Sand, that fills the kids with dreams.
He is the childhood guardian, that protects children’s dreams,
Their innocence as they sleep, like soundly angels,
Smiling in the dark. This was the guardian I use to always be told
About, in my mother’s stories. His golden sand illuminating
The pitch black night.
Another childhood guardian, she is the one who
Protects a child’s memories, and will always hold them
Dear, whose little fairies collect their teeth without
A sound, she is Toothania, the guardian, that is as kind
And as silent as her fairies. Always letting them know
Where they can find the children’s baby teeth.
The Beginningons ago, before time and space,
Was born a set of twins who took its place.
One had eyes of daybreak and hair of sun,
The other, hair of night and eyes of blood.
Born to Laelia, Singer of Light and Love,
Husband to Laelius, God who rules with a fitted glove.
‘Twas a difficult birth, screams echoed through the empty world,
But Laelia was never alone or so the story told.
Lucifer was first, life entered with hollow cries,
Laurentius was next, his smiles greeted by butterflies.
Both welcomed with joyous celebration.
Excited Laelius, humans, his creation.
The Twins then never left each others sides.
Except when heavy choices caused morals to collide.
Vulnerable YouthPaper hearts from bright pink tissue meant for presents,
fanciful butterflies from orange dashed cardboard,
five petaled flowers danced around the sentence
of simplicity, ultimately to discard.
Tender thoughts from censored, guarded minds,
boldly do the simple stubby fingers strive to hide
the gift from Mommy, so that she can't find
the secret depth of the darkest snide.
The gentle pressure of acknowledging gestures
even the meaningless thank you cards
meant to send you on an emotional adventures,
only to be shredded on cynical hearts' shards.
But it is the thought that counts,
those sweet little eyes haven't yet been renounced.
NeedlesThe meat is cold from bloodless lust
My organs are damaged
Path be taken down range-
-And end with chilling wall
Forest of needle spires climb
My height cannot ask
Deem the stars they point-
-For reverence physical
Destroyed as winter comes
Invested into my stock
I am bought and brought home
With no escape from the lock
Needle sew a coat of iron
Black with the char left by
Remembrance make me a scion
And kindle a soul inside
Lids have shut and no key breaks
I cannot see between blades
Cut the night to ribbons-
-Now banners to losing way
Imposing in my blindness wait
My feet are icy cold
The forward march is death incarnate-
-Though I am numb to catch
A fabric stolen mask and clothe
The boundary pointed shed
Once streamers bleeding dry wove
The semblance of disjointed ends
No try can match the mind at work
For ochre has my pallor drained
This raiment bears a doubting murk
Through glacier impassive face
My asking wanes with setting freeze
The armour frozen bites
A pleading body already w
Poem for Lou ReedTruly singular, an outsider’s outsider,
He learned well life’s hard truths, and was walking proof that
Your thoughts are only as deep as your faults.
Subjected to psychic savagery in his youth,
His mind took on an ever-changing persona
Always shifting between fame and failure.
A misfit, a hustler, a rake, a transformer,
A rogue, but not a charlatan, an objector,
But not a coward, never a coward.
An expert spinner of verse, he possessed a knack
For feel, impact, attitude, style; he always knew
Which words were those worth the listener’s while.
His means and his methods were fittingly erratic:
He would spend his days crafting curiosities
Only to then neglect and forget them.
What was important, though, wasn’t his works or quirks,
Nor his talent for causing a storm at a stroke,
But what he and his friends set in motion.
They would, unwittingly, forever change the way
We’d hear the sounds the mind thought it already kn
The Day She Falls Off Her ThroneToday she stands tall
On a mountain of deceit
But one day she'll fall
She'll be tossed off of her feet
And when this day comes
The day her reign is put to an end
She will have nothing left but crumbs
Nobody to attend
And whose fault will it be?
Her Mother's, Father's, or her own?
Perhaps all three
On the joyous day that she falls off her thrown
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