Butterflies

Today I am sticking to a theme: butterflies.

First, an old poem:

A Web Spun By Butterflies
---------------------------------

Why cannot the butterfly
Construct its own web, create
This beautiful prison (an ironic cocoon) which
Embraces each of humanity's souls,
Embraces us among that that is beheld
And referenced as being only love?

Why has this empty containment
Of all matter and energy and
Existence, why has this which is encased inside
What we are aesthetically deriving
(And living upon), why
Has any of its forms been ever capable
Of pretending to be as so magnificent a spider?

For such an entity, although uninspired,
Has already spun
These galaxies and prisms and smoke
From threads still never explained, still
Forgotten, despite

The iridescence of this one, this solitary,
And, as is conclusively implied, this which is (as prior)
A truthfully unseen and unloved butterfly.

Now some pictures:





(Pictures' titles: Butterfly Redeemed, Imprecise Butterfly, As A Butterfly.)

Another poem, a little newer:

Of These Enlightened Wings
-----------------------------

These wings extend beyond their suffocation,
Beyond the shell in which we all are encased.
And in this expanse I am found to be beautiful;
In this blur my ugliness becomes me again.
Oh, within the soul of the amorphous butterfly
Are made such profound fantasies rising
Unto that distance where we transpose our thoughts.

Oh, inside the trajectory of this lepidopteran
Are the atoms of reality's whispers. Inside the song
For which we endure are the molecules of image,
Are the utterances of our flight curving upwards,
Are the asymmetries of these enlightened wings,
Are the patterns of oblivion transformed anew
Into perfection and perception surely actual.


Some more poems:

Poised Upon The Pinnacle
---------------------------

An asymmetric butterfly was poised upon the pinnacle;
It rises up from this curl, it rises to float
In its balance and its incompletion. Oh, underneath
The twine of cosmic distance, this insect is remade.
And in its confusion it too is dim, it too becomes
The silhouette of the eclipse formed by such a sky
In retrograde. Ah, this bug surrenders to the light,
To the voices aglow and fuchsia. And then it
Transcends its stench, transcends its convolutions.
And then it floats above the entirety of all,
Surely to settle onto yet a peculiar point.
Ha, numerous are the arcs, are those crescents spun;
Numerous are the symmetries of ambiguity, of
Impact and isolation, of innocence fluttering but yet
Fulfilled by the conjunctions of our levitation.


Of Butterflies We Detest
-------------------------------

A nonconformist butterfly,
It knew what is its shape
(However clear and glowing).
It knew what is (its) madness --

And so this discernment ever yet
Counted the multiples of 1, of 0,
Of our own selves.

It knew, it flew, it transformed
Despite its cocoon
Into waking, into voices,
Inside itself alone, inside this
Watercolor a solitary knowing,
A knowing of
That which we knew,
Again
Knew of the shapes, of the madness,
Knew of butterflies we detest,...
For they are our aspirations proclaimed.


Of
----

Derived from that
Which was either trivial or wrong
And which was of that which was of
Such derived again of every derivation
Implied by its own subscripts which
Are all themselves
Implied by the definitions defined
In terms of definitions of
Words spoken of mouths
Of virgins quite virtuous and of
Vice so honestly of the inner atoms
Of our souls each
Of a reality remade as its
Own past transforming into
A metamorphosis
Of this unimaginably nimbused
Butterfly always
Aglow and always the very representation
Of the circle of every and all
And infinity and but only one
Dimension not quite understood
Nor uncertain nor
Anything else but again yet
Derived from its own
Originality. (period)

Okay, one more:

Chrysalis
-----------

Awake, my underestimated butterfly,
A winged glowing fuchsia lepidopteran,
A dangerous monster in four dimensions.
Wake into powdered sugar and ash.
Wake, for this dream has already
Gone on too long, gone on eternally.
Break the plaid that encompasses our world,
That ties together this universe.
And fly beyond the singularity
Unto divinity and pleasure.
Wake unto that existence
That we have been woken from.
For our sleep is the Mobius-strip,
An irony defined itself ironically.
Wake, my strange sleeper.
For your dreams are still more weird
Than any possibilities ever conceived,
Conceived among the mannequins and colors,
The colors cast
By the prisms of the mind.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Visions Seen

I am sick of poems today. So here are some pictures of mine instead.
I have posted here two color images and two black-and-white images (as you can see for yourselves).







The first image is titled "Pinnacle Of Dreams".
The second picture is titled "Calligraphy Of Riddles".
The third picture is titled "Ironic Eclipse". (It is ironic because this planet's sun is in front of its moon.)
And the final picture is titled "Of Mechanisms And Flatness".

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Two New, One Old

Hey, I am back. I will do something I usually don't do: I will post a poem I wrote the same day (today in this case) that I am writing the blog-entry with the poem.
And I will also post a poem that I wrote yesterday.

First the poem I wrote yesterday, then the poem I wrote today:

Moon-Dial
----------

Assumed were the measurements of time. Assumed were
Our collapse and our redemption. For I gazed
Upon night's clockwork, the moon's sundial before me.
And Luna, Earth's glowing companion, rose above us,
Above the clouds of my psychosis. And it
Begat the shadow via a cursive gnomon.
And it told me of the hours, of the minutes,
Of such a glass sphere hovering within our souls.
Oh, it told me of my own mind. And I knew
That time would be forgotten when the daylight
Tempts us each to wake. And I tasted that shadow
Of purity and sentiment. Then I recoiled from
This moon-dial, from what is an inert and spiraled
Hourglass, from what was but a strange and
Subtle depiction of gibbous lines, of encirclement.
.
.
.
Ornithopter
-------------

This is the contraption epitomizing all
And its eternity, epitomizing zero and its finitude.
This is the mind's wing, is the intellect's ascension,
Is the ornithopter both delicate and artificial,
Neither truthful nor inarticulately imagined.

This is the machine that flies through the sphere,
Is the strange tableau of wires and cloth and
Stone inept in its hallucination. This is our
Human entitlement, is our dominion raised
To believe in that which is above us. This is
The air engulfing our shape, is the redemption
Of our previous failures. And I will depict
My verticality within the wisps I create. And
I will finally be what no one else can be,
Will finally float upon our reality, float as but
A remarkable bird, as but the metaphor I transcend,
As but the certainty seen in our sky, as
Our presumptions of surrender denied, our presumptions
Of every chasm overcome.


Yeah, that's what it's about....

Okay, since I posted something really new, I will now post something really old. (Man, my style of writing has changed over the years.)

Photon
---------

Yet light is invisible.
We see it pass not
In front of our eyes
As it traverses the edges
Of the ether, of space-time.
We notice it not at all
As it becomes every color
In the rainbow, in our minds.
We notice not as it transforms
Its variations, its levels of gray.
Yet we perceive its presence
In dreams, while our eyes
Are shut tightly.
This is the paradox
Of light, of particles
Becoming waves.
This is the illusion
Of truth, the truth
Of illusions made flat.
This is the paradox
Of the invisible becoming
That which enlightens us.


Well, I am in a hurry to get out of here. So I will have to leave you without any final thoughts. (Sucks for you...)


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Something Dreamy, Something Gross

Some of you may have noticed that I am not the witty quirky type of writer who usually writes blogs, although I claim to have been that type of writer in the past. Bear with me; I have yet to hit my stride. But before that happens I will apologize for wasting all you people's time. (In any case, I think that NO ONE reads my blog anyway. Who reads blogs anymore these days?)

Okay, a poem or two or three. I'll start with something mild, then move to the relatively tough stuff.


Clouds Of The Moon
--------------------

Jagged are the clouds of the moon. Oh, I
Look onto their ghostly curvature, look onto this
Humid thought once destitute. And I enclose inside
The glass this crescent, enclose these wisps of
Silhouetted breath. And I stare into that glow
Unseen as the daylight, stare upon the delicate
And topaz inexistence in which I am secluded. Oh,
There above us is that lingering eclipse, is such
An eye watching our human obscenities, is that
Tapered sky both blasphemous and yet strange. For
Jagged are the clouds of the moon. Yes, they have
Become earthen, have become dim in this ascension,
Have become equal to the void beheld, equal to
Those denouncements of just what cannot surely be.


The above poem is one of a few astronomy-related poems I have written. Stay tuned for more later, perhaps.

And now for something completely different...
Here is a poem inspired by a dead animal I saw on my walk. Actually...I think what I saw was just an animal part, not the entire dead animal, as I recall.


The Slaughter
--------------

Once, I was but equal to my own self, as I stared
Upon my shimmering life. And then, then I heard
The shouts of whispered evil. Then the monster came
And surprised my shy imagination. Then that beast
Grasped me, tearing into my tender thoughts with
Its horrid claws. And I never before had known
That I could ever understand such intensity,
Such misery, such anger.

Oh, then, as if infinity was simply zeroness, these
Fists and talons pulled at my flesh and its extremities.
And, thus, I grew sick as this devil tugged
And then -- exerting a force far beyond any I
Could have resolved -- it, despite the screams,
Shredded my being, rupturing my soul.

Then, thus, therefore, our viciousness wounded me,
Dissecting my body into an inexact and bloody existence.
Then I became that mangled conflagration, as I
Gazed onto my innards strewn and ghastly.
And then I became rancid. But surely, certainly
My naive dreams dispelled themselves until
Death resorted again to its haphazard euthanasia; for
Now I am shapeless, I am putrid and delicate
In my abbreviation, am delicate in my transmutation into
Yet the miniscule fodder for such carnivores each
Ironically beautiful, strange, and timid,
Each grotesquely asinine.


This next poem goes well after the previous poem.


This Carcass
---------------

Dead. It rested horizontally upon our meaninglessness.
Its mouth gasped, but then so did its skull.
Its flight was mortal; its ascension had been
Darkened by that sad truncation of purpose, of
Purity currently vain. It withered as the flower,
Its shell equaling just a skeleton; its guts
Had become rotten and unidentifiable. And this carcass
Has stained such beauty, has remade each atom
Of concavity into that wind inside where it once
Flew. But now the silt overcomes it. Now
That flower is without shape, is without
Perfume. Now it is the amnesia of a forgotten life,
Of a simple noun seemingly haphazard,
Certainly dissonant and callously vague.


Well, aren't you glad I didn't post a picture related to the last two poems?!

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

Profound Trapezoid

I am going to attempt to post pictures now, since I think I have figured how to do it, finally. Bear with me....
Yay!
These are the two pictures I had links to in an earlier post, "Profound Trapezoid" and "The Shape Of Meaning". (PT is the squiggly wire and ellipsoids. TSOM is the egg.)

Leroy Quet

Vanguard

Back in the day, long long ago, like 5-10 years ago, I was quite the clever writer. (Trust me, I was, at least as compared with what I am today.) Well, I didn't write fiction; but I wrote, as I do now, poetry; and more interestingly, I invented paragraphs upon paragraphs of word-play, wrote of my philosophies on various topics, made up band names and jokes, etc.
I had FUN with language.

But now, now when I actually have a blog, my creative mind is numb.

So sorry, people. But my creative mind is dead. That must be a fact of aging, I guess. Maybe I just need to drink more coffee, I wonder. But, ah, I drink quarts of the black elixir each day already. (However, coffee is my only sin, my only stain...)

Okay, and now a word from our sponsors:

Here is a poem I wrote not too many months ago. It is probably one of the very very few poems I have written that rhyme.
I don't actually like this poem much, except for the last line. That last line sounds really poetic to me.
Here is the poem:

Of Wind And Whispers And Imagined Vanguard
----------------------------------------------

The clouds are hollow. The lens is rotten.
I stare upon specks of amnesia forgotten.
I have stared upon ruptures of soiled madness.
Thus, in all capacity infused, I certainly had less.
Thus, in this equation of glass, all is presumed.
And randomness' thoughts are poised and attune.
And finite scrawl abandons its syrupy wrath.
Oh, the clouds are hollow in our aftermath.
Oh, before the night chokes death from its lust,
I encroach yet always into such purposeful rust.
I encircle the shapes, and there I cringe.
And still I am stained, and still I singe.
And still the clouds evoke that blasphemous shard
Of wind and whispers and imagined vanguard.

I have got to use the word "vanguard" more in poetry. What a cool word. (Ha!)
As those who are familiar with my infamous poetry know, I like to repeatedly re-use words between poems. I don't re-use the same words much within any particular poem (except words like "the" and "this", which often occur repeatedly). But I will use the same words in many different poems.
This is just my style. It is, however, I admit, an annoying aspect of my style, at least to some.

Okay, one more randomly-picked poem for today -- not a rhymer.

Three-Fourths
---------------

Three-fourths a ring without center, without
Any hole but the single point in amongst me --
I look upon such a torus. And in it is
The arc of triangular cosmos, is the coil
Of concurrent shape. And I cling to this
Dichotomy of unpredictable darkness. For it
Is erect, rising from the tableau. It is
An incomplete, yet beautiful, circle, is but an
Ellipse compressed and punctured. Oh, I am
Obsessed with the images of symmetry and,
Therefore, of asymmetry. I am as opaque as
All reality. And I touch the substance; I am
Touched by these sharp cusps. Ah, I am
Enumerated, as are all perplexing assumptions.
And I formulate my dreams from three-fourths
Of this concentric truth yet specious but
Restlessly sculpted and then, afterwards, conceived.

One last thing before I go: I bet the fact I am submitting my poems to this blog out-of-order might become a problem after I have posted quite a number of poems. For, I might accidently re-post a poem or two. Hopefully, you all will forgive me if I do that.

Leroy Quet

I am: the fundamentalist agnostic; the weird-shaped thing; the madman paranoid in my enlightenment, enlightened in my paranoia;
I am: celebratory of my celibacy; caustic but not callous; confused by insight; particular and peculiar, under-lapping, sideways, diagonal.

Okay, today's first poem is an oldie. My friend says she likes it, but other friends say they don't. Sorry, I am not in the mood to proof-read this to make sure it is acceptable for this blog.

In this Beginning {not the biblical {definitely not the biblical {for I have real problems {God, do I have some real problems} with the Bible {and mostly with how it {the Bible} is interpreted by the Masses}}} Beginning {Oh, maybe a little biblical in this beginning}} {a Beginning much as the End {not the biblical {either} End {for the biblical end is just an apocalypse} {but the End I’m referring to {the End much as the {non-biblical} beginning} is but an apocollapse {Apocollapse: the final collapse of the Universe to a point {by gravity or by its sheer evil}}}} there was only thought {whose thought, I do not know{some {those biblical-types again most likely} would say God {but God must then transcend time {which some {those biblical types again } would say He {She? It? } does} {anyway}}}}. {Look, a period!} But this thought had only itself {thought itself} to ponder {and maybe a few visions of naked super-models {assuming God {if we’re indeed talking about God’s thoughts here} enjoys staring at super-models {if I were God {and I thought I was God once, though now I don’t} the super-models would all be short and fat {beauty is subjective} {though the way tall and thin people are treated in our society has me believing that God {the God of America, anyway} enjoys seeing tall and thin women}}} to ponder in the magazines {magazines existing before time ?{before reality there was only the surreal}}}. Then thought wrote a poem {maybe structured like this poem {with levels within levels and self-reference} {Is this a poem really?}} about itself and the Universe {What kind of universe did it write about, I wonder {and so did it {thought} wonder}?}. The poem {and therefore thought itself} so impressed thought that it decided to exist {in a capacity other than in a state of existing only for its own sake {and relative only to itself}}. And so thought said, “Let there be Everything!” {This definitely seems kind of biblical.} And then thought decided, “Hey, I’m going to have my name capitalized from now on {Thought}.” And then Thought looked down {or within} upon the Universe {not just the Earth {as those biblical-types would {probably} have you believe}{not just any particular one thing at all {for that matter}}} and thought about Thought {thinking about thinking is the essence of consciousness} and thought about its creation {everything that exists {not just for Thought’s sake}} and realized all {should that {all} be capitalized too? {All}} was vile {at least in Thought’s estimation } and hate-filled {there is so much about the Universe that is hatred incarnate {all bigotry and anger within us {including you and me}{we wish the worst for our “enemies” {who are our real enemies? {you and me}}} all of this hatred {this pleasurable hatred}} including {yes} you and me}. And so Thought said, “Fuck this!” {Thought ceases to be anything but apathetic. {Thought ceases to think even about thought.}} ..............................
The End {not the biblical end {though in some ways, yes, the biblical end}}


I haven't written a poem like that in several years. There is one more parentheses poem I wrote write after the one above. Some people like it (mostly women). Some people despise it.
Here is that one.

The Question
----------------

And the lovers {they didn’t realize that they were lovers yet {they hadn’t even met}} moved closer {they were originally across the room {a 30’ by 50’ room} from each other} and closer {moved by unseen {and {therefore} taken at faith} forces {What kind of forces? {fate? gravity? the gods of lust and passion?}}} to each other, until their gazes {their wandering gazes} met {by accident or by those forces {those unseen forces}}. What happened next was of infinite {in the rhetorical sense of the word} consequence. {For they felt {both felt} such lust and possibility. {But this was purely superficial {as it always is}.}} They felt {both felt} such indecision {proceed or retreat?}. For if they proceeded {as unknown {but hoped} by them}, their lives would of been forever changed {Drinks? Yes. Dates. Sex. Passion. Love. Marriage. Etc.}. If they {on the other hand} retreated then their lives would continue as before {Loneliness. Watch TV. Masturbate. Write poetry of loss.}. They hesitated {for what seemed an hour {but was actually 3/8 second}}. Then the decision {both making the same decision {a consequence of their compatibility}}. Look away {quickly}. {“Hopefully the other didn’t realize that I’m a pervert.” {They both {a consequence of their compatibility {again}} thought.}}. And so, into the night {such a typical night {filled with loneliness and poetry of loss}} they escaped back into {never to see each other again {except when they next masturbated {their soul-mate seen in their minds}}} the night {a night of loneliness and darkness {yet such enlightenment {the enlightenment of loneliness}}}. And so they finally became lovers {3/8 second lovers} {but now only in their fantasies {such superficial fantasies}}, such lonely lovers, joined only by intention {and intention is all we sometimes ever really have {Isn’t it?}.


Like I said, these two are the only poems of this type I have written.

Here is one more recent poem, randomly-picked, something more conventional in style:

Clockwork Made Strange
------------------------

Disjointed are these wheels and gears of such
Clockwork made strange by its angles drawn,
By its arcs and atoms placed darkly into this
Rhombus, into the swirling prongs of our
Pernicious hallucinations. The trapezoid has
Been subdivided so as to be perpendicular
And substantive. And it ticks in its form
Of horizontal diagonality, in its forms seen
By time ascending into sterile asymptotes.
And turning are the cogs, are these spindles
Inside where we have mutated. Turning are
The uncounted hours, each devoid of revolution,
Each rotating ambidextrously the assumptions
Of truth afloat among the wires, yet among
The geometry of those complications, of that
Causality encircled by the permutations of
Thoughts asymmetric and coarsely intricate
But undisclosed.


Okay, one more. Encore!


The Egg Pretended
--------------------

The egg pretended to envelope itself in its
Pretension. And it pretended to redeem itself
In consequence and trite shadows. For it
Contained a white of imbalance and purity.
Yet, such was selfish, if it too was bland.
It contained a yolk of its own ghost. And
In this yellow syrup of implication, it saw
The shapelessness of perfect substance. And
Surrounding that dichotomy of white and yolk
Was the frail skin of soft solidity, the shell.
And such a coarse glass of calcium carbonate
Faltered. Then it shuddered, then split, forming
The lines askew of random firmament. This bone,
This ellipsoid, it cracked. And forth came our
Longing and chasm. Forth came our betrayal
Never to be remade. For the young bird
Is to die. And the flesh of this zoological seed
Excretes until we provoke its timidity. And we
Pretend that we did not shatter that egg.
We pretend that it is meaningless to our
Dream, pretend that it was meaningless to
Our decay overwhelmed by such circumvention.

See you all later.

Leroy Quet

A Swirl Of Poems

Okay, my mind is currently dizzy in its turmoil of emotions. As usual, the news is upsetting me, even though I am not as angry or sad as I am most often about it. I guess I should ramble on about my state of mind or something, since this is a blog. But I will spare you any more of that (for now).

I have nothing better to offer right now, so I will just post some more randomly-picked poetry:
(If you don't like it, that is okay. I don't like my own poetry, actually. My style has changed over the years, so maybe I will post something you do like on occasion. Enjoy...or not.)


Inside The Rainbow's Glass
-----------------------------

Inside the rainbow's glass, inside this arc, inside
The vague parabola -- Those droplets of our whispers,
They are inside us surely; they are beheld
By truth's apparitions, are again betrayed by
Truth's expletives, are beautiful in their submission to
My unexplained blood. Inside the fumes of such
Spectacular and glistening anger is, is my own sight
Of sterile inflection. Inside the world without
Cusps, without maxima or minima is the curvature
Of dreams once amorphous. Inside us each is this,
Is thus the thought of crystalline sewage, is
The thought of madness truncated by reality, of
Mandalas severed from their linearity by the bending of
Both refraction and oscillation made anew into these
Unexpressed geometries I have conclusively divulged.


---

Iridescent Mauve
------------------

Benign is the grandiosity of this iridescent mauve. Such
Imagination expressed distracts our lines from the concave,
From all that pretends to be convex. Such lucid diameters
Repeat then coagulate -- because none are perpendicular.
Such erosion converges so as to eradicate this dream
Inside where I am invisible yet afloat. Therefore,
Benign is the gradual overwhelming of our salvation.
For in the causality of the metronome I am sipped,
I am shown to be distant and unseen. I am obvious
In my contagion, yes. Because benign is the sugar
That spills from my flask. For it descends
Into my final waking; it ascends unto my indecision,
Unto the scarlet of our blind prism, of our
Perplexing emptiness counted and then discarded
From intersections superimposed but epitomized surely.


---

Beneath Such A Tableau
------------------------

Inwardly the sphere became the cusp became
The ellipse tilted within yet another, touching
The edges of elongated circles, concave, convex,
And utterly perpendicular to its own exaggeration.
Beneath such a tableau existed all reality and
It desires denied. And these fumes arose from
That subtle fist. And they performed their dance
In conical observation. And so, beyond the scene
Resides both direction and refraction. For I too
Was a lens. I too was a raindrop falling
Onto the mesh before us. Ah, surreal was that
Loop of glass. And yet the image breathed.
Yet it understood its dimensions as if it surely
Remained a dream again. But I have forgotten it; I
Shunned this clockwork atop the table, atop
The thoughts of beauty made, atop and amongst
This fascinating spiral devoid of angle, but not
Of design, devoid of my essence,
But not of my epitome.

---

The Arrow
-----------

The arrow without shape, it touches the ground,
Touches the sand that it severs, cutting such blood.
The arrow without hate, it wonders why, why does
It deny the kill? Oh, I took this pointed mass,
And I became it. I thrust myself into resurrection,
Held and beheld by a naive bow. Drawn back,
The string is more strained than I. And released,
I am flung forth through subtle air. Oh,
I am not a killer, but why am I human, then?
I am more than a spear, more than a sword.
I am soon to collapse, for the wind is arousing.
And I am alive and spilled unto all transition.

Oh, I pierce the beast. And it screams of its
Dark agony. I slice its soul with my sharp cusp.
And I suffer too, for this death is not mine.
But I am damned despite my longing, am damned
To a hell of selfish slaughter, am damned again
To undivided truth and its peculiar blasphemy.

---
(Okay, one more, an older one:)

Not Quite A Palindrome
----------------------------

Beginning.
One, two, then three.
The universe expands.
Thought becomes dreams,
Becomes vision and color.
Our being finds purpose,
Our being finds wonder.
And the gods torment us,
As they pleasure our enemies.
And so we desire redemption.
We desire virtue to fall upon us.
And then we wake.
And we finally realize
That our dreams are but this reality,
And that our reality is but a dream.
And so enlightenment fails us.
And we fall asleep again.
We desire the vanquishing of our enemies.
And we desire vengeance.
We pleasure ourselves,
And we curse our gods.
Our being hides within ignorance.
Our being hides within oblivion.
All becomes blind and darkness.
Dreams become thought.
The universe collapses.
Three, two, then one.
The finite completes itself.


Thanks,
Leroy Quet

PS: By the way, here is my email address:
q1qq2qqq3qqqq
(AT)
yahoo
(dot)
com

Amorphous Trapezoid Lives!

This is the first post of my first blog. My plan for the blog is to post miscellaneous ramblings, rantings, poetry, mathematics (rarely), games, fun stuff, serious stuff, whatever I feel like posting.

Let me start with a poem. It is by no means my best poem. (I have written thousands.) Nor is it my worst. (Ha!)

Ahhemmm....


This Triumphant Dawn
----------------------

Flat upon the floor, the butterfly has descended.
Its wings are outstretched and symmetrical
And painted in such a mediocre glow. Oh, then
The rain ceases, and then the sky tempts
This anthropomorphic lepidopteran. Then one wing
Is raised into dimensions beyond us. Then
The bug is perpendicular. Then, upwards
A single dream tilts until the tiredness remains
In that insect; yet it does not retreat,
For it has already become what it may become.

Oh, thrust forward, the butterfly levitates itself
From its prison upon the Earth. And it
Strains, although it endures. And, therefore,
It is vertical once again. Freed from
Its sickness, it flutters slowly then faster.
And, finally, it lifts itself into the cosmos.
Its exertion becomes its enlightenment.
And it flies forth as it had before.

Ah, but I, however, remain flat and desperate,
Despite my possibility. Because I am not a butterfly;
I am not more than human. But yet I am
Also symmetrical; yet I am also introverted
And glistening in the tautologies of my
Ambidextrous and superstitious extremities.

And so I wonder if I too may someday float
Above my meaning, wonder if I too may
Express the flight within me, express this
Triumphant dawn that each person tends to obscure,
That each person hopes to soon be our own
Very spectacular and personal ascension.

--

Poetry not your thing? Well, even if it is, you may enjoy my webpage of computer art.
Here is a link to my relatively low-resolution and unschooled computer art:

[deleted]

I created most of these works with Photoshop. But I have neglected to use many of the spiffy filters that would have taken away from the works' originality.
Sorry about my low level of talent. (Some of my works are rather cliche, as well.) I am not a professional artist.
But I have created a variety of types of images. If you don't like something I did, then hopefully you will like something else I did.

If you are more a science person than a humanities person, it should be noted that from time to time I will post mathematical results here. But don't worry if that is not your thing. I don't plan on posting much math on this blog. If, however, you would love to see some of my math, I have posted over the years many math results and games to the Usenet groups sci.math and sometimes rec.puzzles. Check it out.

I can also get political. But I think I will leave my politics for another blog.

Thanks,
Leroy Quet

PS: Another randomly-picked poem:
(By the way, I make no claim that this poem is written in even close to the style in which I most often write poetry.)

Hieroglyphs
---------------

I am the obelisk afloat
Within this fluid of bubbles,
Bubbles each enshrouded
In their own shadows,
In their beauty made from
Our enumeration, made from a
Gathering mist we did once strive
To braid, did once strive to funnel
As each night through its dreams,
Through sands expressed upon the clouds,
Upon the gasping uncertainty always
Ambivalent despite its horizon, despite
Its forgotten prism into which we seek
The torrid elongation of these numbers
And their cement still strained,
Still inflected but seen
As obvious, as understood, as vertical
Yet without form, without any solidity
Except its own hieroglyphs aroused.