Sir Karl Popper's "Science as Falsification"

Liner

Follow them rules for fun, because that's what we do - for the why.
What is that, you ask?  The tautological fun just because we're supposed to –
we do.  Just because you just told us to, we won't.  I'll stick out my tongue and break
only the rules I'm really not supposed to break.  They'll break to my will and I'll have
my fun.

Pain Convenient

Wake up
turn the lights on.
The city, the money
the hard and soft wires, waves -
forms of living that beckon you
endure the buzzing electric static between
clear pictures.  The headache in the midst of love.

Encompass Within It Et Al

We wonder here and now.  How and what it must have felt
for those souls long gone by now.  Those we loved and those we dreamt of.
The sea runs softly if you know it like a single body.  The internal sex
running along the sandy shores wrapped around our worlds, the ebbing
the webs, the eggs, waiting - floating, seeking to grow like eyes looking
toward the light of futures surfacing, beads of water falling.  Goggles wiped -
fresh air gasped.  At the permeable membrane of conscious liquid,
your arms spread apart like wings, helping just a little bit.

One Kind

The information, how it is
with the material.  It looks like something
I am reminded of.  Something similar, I remember.  In my head, mimicked or represented,
copied somehow to store and keep for later recollection, my living library inside of me,
interacting and exchanging, changing and reiterating chemical plans and random rocks falling
into place.  Codes for code, for that feeling that you and I shared over and over among all
kinds of buildings, trees, and seas.  What it meant for us, it meant only for us while we were busy
being alive.

Rest of It

It ends abruptly.  When your attention is given, sunken
into the interesting things your hands are handling, writing
descriptions of beauty in chaos observed
in the length of your lifetime you value,
you cancel the noise of other needs.
This needless chase, the cliff be damned,
running every which way, wherever we may today
the field is dreamt awake and asleep –
we run out of things to chase and keep running
away toward the new.

Welcome,
welcome,
welcome,
you.

Antipathy

The pose is struck.  The poet is shot.  The trigger is pulled first
in the mind before the finger.  In the feeling before the thought,
in the nightly lack where there is nothing where there is ought.
Lamps without bulbs, switches with no effect, the house illuminates
with imagined possibilities as simple as shining soft – electricity.  Glow
instantly revealing brighter colors than could otherwise be seen.  The silence
seems to listen, so it's spoken to.  Troves of secrets and heartfelt wordless
sense of absence.  Nothing, neither voice nor memory, speaks back.
The silence never existed, but you could have never known that.

In the Middle of My Way

No look in this direction of less more.  Shake the head –
the cocktail of thoughts for preview of a future yet unfolded.
Don't draw away from the flinching fingers, wobbling to the wind –
your feathers in flight for record height.  What you press, what you say.
Multiply them by the path they will take, the wires distribute the cycles,
the circuits race with light alongside the lead, penetrating dark bored
cavities of which pockets fueled with what many crave.  Craving etched
morality decreed through dictated authority, underneath the foot of lightning,
the rod dispensing PEZ.  Sweet and easy, an unchanging rule fading behind
the least perceptible fingerprints, the fossils of our old ways' youth.

Merrily

Space contortion loosely dense with human particles so arranged to imitate
that impression of familiar face.  Lost without the gravity of television,
man of men makes madness of the frivolous.  Feelings, thrown out to the bottom
line around a thick contour of paper stacks and stocks loaded to the brim to burn.
The joke is laughter itself and together we bring down the concrete worship of blocks.
Square with right angles and light that travels transparently through all the bodies –
my heaven alike, your first time awake.  Good morning,
dear friends of mine.

Who Waits

Sing along.
The witches wail with the wolves and invite you every evening with a look.
Burning pit of bones keeps you warm, and this is how things were since before you were born.
I know.  I know.  You talk to yourself repeating only this.  The words' meanings unknown to you.
Let things break.  All hands pulled in, back into our sleeves and cloaks, we share handshakes
with ourselves.  The wishful hungry, happy simply wishing more.

I met you underneath a tent when the morning was cold and the grass wet.
You left me with an empty cup of tea cupped in both my hands.  I waited for you
to return from the kitchen.  I wished I checked the kitchen before I awoke.
Underneath the sunlight, all your animals returned to sleep.

Tires Loose

The track runs silent.  Time is kept, numbers count nothing
and nothing persisting.
Foot steady on a pedal I'm forgetting, only feeling this color
seen night blue.
Horizons black and rolling
along this road, a highway clear of cars but mine.
Mountains rugged and jutting jagged tree lines
break the thoughts
of lost things long since trivial.  As life elongates
its brevity smiles.  Now I see the infinite pass like wind recycled
around me, the tired breath of the breathing.

Dazed yellow stream of asphalt – waterfall beneath me.

Stick

It was glue stuck between two things I didn't mean to be together.

When I said you, I meant I.  When you said you, you meant yourself.

So the hands all separate and alone couldn't clap.  The fingers clumsily

couldn't snap.  And the tongue in the mouth couldn't round out the sound.

I love you, we repeated just like they do.  On the LCD screens and at the center

of a 3D sound system, sitting obediently under the hanging curtains parted,

entering the myth of reality departed, every fantasy facsimile projected from just another

reel.

Continue? 10

We are the continuing creation of its initial reaction
but nothing lasts forever so the time comes to sit at the dinner table with the wick already exhausted and the negotiation with death initiated – immediately terminated.  The hearts' beatings stop.  Not a whisper of hope left in the ashes fertilizing reconfigured growth.
Nevertheless without –
it appears.

Love Past This

Did not love the love I had.  Slipped it on in mornings
and walked sleepy-eyed into the bathtub that collects my bathwater.
Daily soaking, scrubbing, and watching my self drain
down behind the floor.  Imagine identity invented under simulated rain,
simulated stimulation, a simulation of cleansing, renewing.  Still the same.
Disappointed.  Cold.  Shivering replacing shame and a standing upset, dragging a towel over goosebumps, I cannot command.  The lump of existence, the thought of existing
genuinely among and to the animated corpses of the acting corps, chilled to the marrow
I run for the blood.  As if running itself will be energy enough to boil the toxic in me
if only to purify partly.

Soul Skin

I enter the darkness.  It's not uniform.  Colors float in tangled mists

wading in uncertain directions.  They mix, the blue, the green, everything in between.

Separate and merging, blending behind each other, disappearing without warning.

Here, I have no limbs;  I cannot reach out;  I cannot call out.  I am here to witness

my own experience heightened awareness diminishing all the same, this time - stretching.

I can feel.  These sensations I fail to describe.  The attenuation of consciousness, losing

itself felt.  Textured fabric and cool hard surfaces, the touch without the physical exclamation.

Purely in the mind recalled, snippets replayed, looped for undecided periods.  Pleasure

dissipating into sleep.  Black canvass becoming less opaque, filled with play so free

I musn't disturb it with my silly intentions to be happy.

Hammer

Pop pop pop pop fun
gunfire goes off pop-pop-pop! Click!
click click click.  But that's not the end of it.
Reload.

We don't fight to stay alive.
We fight to be alive.

So comrades, brothers in arms, philosopher kings,
know your place and realize how far it is from where you are.
If a distance is seen, it must be travelled.  Prepare before your
adventure takes you into itself and writes your actions into its telling
of victories in counting.

Warm Shade

The world emerges without a presentable beginning, just a sudden awakening.
Body found in familiar and novel contortions.  The aches, sores, and parts that feel good to feel
stretched out and enjoyed for its stretching feelings.  We moan along with the passing pleasure.
A pause for a thought arising, a piece of a dream fading, a pause to that.  A silent empty peace
perhaps even unnoticed, shaken off with the habitual thought of having something to do.  Walk out
and the light from eight minutes dawns upon the freshly unwashed face.  The grandeur of clouds catching colors of morning light transfers itself imprinted glory upon the bloods responsible for passion in your heart.  This subliminal worship of the morning sun happens for years before any public announcement of its acknowledgement.  Most days begin with breakfast.

A Mark Left

The lake was dark.  We both knew it was there.  The glistening, the gleaming, they fractured across its length, flickering through the leaves' shadows, large rocks, shrubs, and outlines.  Swiftly concealing-revealing the glimpses of blinking silver light suggesting like shapes, ripples, and breaks.  The creases that caused themselves to speak to us – that peculiar way.  Through the folds in the winds and the water, visual voices display melody.

Silently it watched as we drove around its winding edges, passing occasional headlights.  Bright and blinding interruption and the return of total darkness.  My focused spotlight, sleepy and straightforward.  Without love, without care, we let our lives roll across the asphalt, along fading yellow lines, at whatever miles per hour time would allow.  Til death do us good, the living light of night make right the villains made this day, the lies we let lead these sorry feet into happy descent sorrowfully seen.

a bit about

the bit that flips whether the feeling is there to live or to cease, the sorting out of those that opt out of this kind of seeing.  The organization of procession is reorganized and the movement moves again, a different attempt, a different distribution - collection and corruption.  The variability sparks variously here and there.  Pockets flare and cellular attacks prove the fronts are nothing less than all options wiped off the table.  

Stress Floorboards

Running away from carpet covering half that part of the house, I jam my feet down hard into every squeaky floorboard to whine its cry throughout the rest of the connected house.  Vibrating sound travel through the beams and boards.  Make my intentions hazily known.  I step into the ground layered with the sediments of human intellect - designed into cheap components exemplifying elementary concepts - shying staying far away from the grandeur of so called chaotic organics.
Roots creep back curiously into the hollows of eyes and any crack left widening.  Absorb its manifest effect into the history of your soon to be.  Petrified man I am
, dissonance dissolving resonance reducing clarity by the grains
of film and hourglass seduction, time itself lures us to witness its passing
in pure isolation, pay homage to its theoretical reduction, this poetic expression.

Ending soon becoming
another seed of beginning, the birth of destruction as generic
as a lower dimensional symbol held high, stuck side of crude old war helmet.  Its blood dried
value increasing with the hissing of our mandatory friend, time.  Time and again
time ticks like a lingering silent virus wheezing zzz zzz zzz softly sounding omega zzz still alive in the end zzz, through zzz, zzz a visual language zzz manipulated to the extent of its zzz malleability zzz gold of alchemy zzz arising zzz from nonsense zzz relative zzz zzz zzz meanings are lost in zzz zzzzzzzzzzzzdreamzzzzzzzzz.  And but
conjoined ticks from the last remembered maybe forgotten, easily
constructed
tick, to this tick.  Oh tick.  Oh tock.  My address in time is a binary mess of mundane sameness, alternate tick and tock, repeat ticktock, refashion into clicks, beeps, silent and faceless.  Hands idly circling a center with every measured movement in circular alignment, the vortex of time flattened for the dumb in the mind.

Groundhogs day is the first movie you watch on your groundhogs day
to the day you die, a long day indeed.  Enough for you to forget which what deed might or may have led to some such pain or tragedy, so the brevity of life is conceived in the flickering glimpse you get
a rare moment of contemplation arising from the complications of being pressed to do nothing.  What vision felt like without division.  If only you could explain with the words you will return in.
A being living through the confines of life and its bodies, the beauty escapes the traps' passion to trap it.  The hardest thing to see is something to be.