Salcedo Rains

High rise condominiums you see
How many checks, how many bees, no one can have things to be monetarily free
How about visiting Rodic’s Diner? Reminiscent of past Blue¬†camaraderie, those faded days.
Art comics mural by a distant relative, incandescent flicks, accurate lines.

You have to deal with the indifference of the steel jungle, the way bricks are formed
To satisfy high-minded people with rising goals with large fortunes to buy casino chips
You notice the hard works and wails of constructions¬†workers shouting for a night’s beer and a
The dial of their favorite karaoke songs in your head. Drowning Keynes’ idea away.

You see the missed call of discreet damsels smiling for something,crying for nothing, vice-versa
Notified by the idea of immense irregularity mixed with the logic of fairness.
Thanks to the Jollijeep, the meryenda of yesterday’s amnesia, savory Lumpia.
Putting your hands inside your jean’s pocket, you get a bread to give to a random beggar.

Torrents of water go in your umbrella’s resistant skin
You walk forward holding characters in your head, the variance, the systems, the binaries of memories
Mixing the semicolons of statements, where you sometimes break in and out your own parentheses.
For better times, for better place, for planning, for discipline of activities, for Cosmos’ embrace.

Writing Is Fine

Writing has its own share of drawbacks as with anything in life. You write stuff that virtually no one cares to read unless consumed with biases and opinions of advantages.

People are selfish. All of us. We filter events in a fashion that suits our preconceived notions, beliefs, triggers, biases and dependencies. What the heck, are we in trouble? Nope, everything is fine. The place is nearly the same thing as before, our perceptions are really at work.

You may feel and see like a somnambulist pieces of flesh walking, thinking, acting the way we are.

Our expectations are awful, beginning to cheap shots on mixed effort from random causes. Everything seems messed up while you see them being connected too.

What I am concerned about is that writing is like a for-loop habit, you write, then you write whatever is on your head. When you are done. No one reads it first except you.

I don’t know. I just feel the futility of expressing the strength of writings in a healthy layers of doubt. Like moving winds to the windmill of a slow mind.

I have come to admire the works and papers of Djikstra, Von Neumann and McCarthy in the most hair-raising and eye-opening way.