Some roses are red
Some white
Or even yellow
Without
Thinking.
Percipio
Ergo
Sum.
I’m keeping the roses.
Politics is a thing in itself it’s a trust of most trusted
A part of reality akin to weather you take as it comes
Choose or not what is chosen for you anyway you’re adjusted
To a fate of some nation from which to drop out there isn’t a chance
So in the evening, beside the desk, you take care of the news
Seeing your facelessly multiplied fate in one line maybe two
Feeling generalized for just nothing you’d consciously use
You envy Descartes, and the rose in the garden that’s growing for you.
Had It Backwards,
Too?
You'll Figure
It Out.
gigglechuckleteeheehAWW...
HONK!
-Gray Squirrel
10-18-2025
'Cogito, ergo sum,' René wrote
I doubt the following is what he had in mind
(I think, therefore I am) take note...
if you think you're thirsty
in need of a drink
and find yourself in a bar
then you probably are
or if you think you're dirty
need a bath really stink
and no one's around you
then perhaps you truly do
and if you think you're crazy
in need of a shrink
no ands ifs or buts
you definitely are quite nuts
I don't trust politics, therefore I am
Otherwise I've no chance to be me
But somebody else, quite a different man
Not the one that I happen to be
I believe in love, therefore I’m a lover
And you must be a lover as well
Otherwise we might be undercover
Of something that looks quite like hell
They count our money, they want us to reveal
All that we are, very small
Subjects they scrutinize to make us feel
That we do not matter at all
But I do agree to be that matterless
No reason to argue with them
Anyway I’ll be taken for somebody else
Not the real person I am.
Some think of geometry as art,
but I don't include Renes Descartes.
A philosopher of calibra,
he combined geometry with algebra.
When in a pickle or a fix he
was not only just whistling Dixie.
He was writing down equations,
perfect for geometric occasions.
I think so I am,
Thank you Descartes,
She dances samba, so I’m,
She likes strawberries and roasted chestnuts,
So I am,
She has butterflies in her eyes
So I am,
Thank you Descartes,
It is not enough to think
To be happy,
She shows me her breasts in the mirror,
So I am,
She dresses for the carnival,
So I am,
Thank you Descartes,
It is not enough to think
It is enough to be loved
To think.
Je pense donc je suis,
Merci Descartes,
Je danse la samba, donc je suis,
Elle aime les fraises et les marrons chauds,
Donc je suis,
Elle a des papillons dans les yeux
Donc je suis,
Merci Descartes,
Il ne suffit pas de penser
Pour être heureux,
Elle me montre ses seins dans le miroir,
Donc je suis,
Elle s’habille pour le carnaval,
Donc je suis,
Merci Descartes,
Il ne suffit pas de penser
Il suffit d’être aimé
Pour penser.
I. Noise in an empty hallway:
My old leather shoes protest as I hurry down the linoleum tiles
Like I'm wearing a little piece of history older than I am.
II. Headlights on a dark road:
Speeding down narrow country roads
windows rolled down and Autumn wind rushing through the car
Ripping my hair from its tie
My arm stretching out the window, numb in the night air.
III. Ephemeral beauty:
For a moment, life is endless and incredibly brief
Stretching before me like a dusty trail at sunset
Disappearing into the trees.
IV. Origin of life:
There is this vague, unnamable incomprehension in my chest
Like euphemisms, that is the easy way out
This is the hard way: I am alive, alive, alive
When one cell became thirty trillion, I gained consciousness.
V. I am not the sum of my parts:
I don't have the faith to believe
That all my thirty trillion cells are a fluke of nature
VI. Evidence:
I am the proof of divinity's existence
A signpost shouting "I am alive" thirty trillion times with all the power of my lungs
Designed for miracles
VII. Rene Descartes:
It is not
I think; therefore, I am
It is
I think; therefore, He is.
If consciousness dies
is that all there is
or does some higher state
reimagine what was
When consciousness dies
will birth reoccur
no longer indentured
to time and its spurs
If consciousness dies
do rainbows of light
take over our essence
transcending our sight
When consciousness dies
is confusion bereft
as reference get buried
—and prescience resets
(The New Room: March, 2023)
Decry and damn dualism,
for what has it wrought?
A delusion of soul,
of separation and isolation.
Minds absorbed in endless
effort to divide.
Let’s start again – tabula rasa,
and vanquish the mind
to the void where
thence it merges with
the Singularity – the place
where Beginnings begin.
"i think thus i am"
thoughts...they're just passage of time...
a non existent
self that's of the world
as the world is of the self...
both just rationale
not truth but true...yes
there's awareness or world thought...
clear or color blind
appreciation
music love freedom...let go
"i think thus i am"
stan sand
From life’s final dissertation,
logic must be barred
A blueprint of our limitations,
its legions burned and scarred
In that last final closing moment,
transcendence kindled bright
The strictures of its failed excuse
—left victim to the night
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2019)
The account of Descartes was redoubtable:
“I exist, since this thought is undoubtable.”
Mister Hume peered inside,
Said, “I see naught besides
Just my thoughts, so your logic is floutable.”
Before Rene Descartes does this world depart
he gives analytic geometry its big head start
from bugs that draw graphs crawling on his ceiling;
as he lies sprawling, sick in bed, reeling.
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