the n factor

of course, you could always glance at me across the seats, always eager to speak to me because you know how much i know yet you would never allow it out of pride out of egotism over your flowery poetry with nuptials and strange barbed words spread at every stanza. no i don’t find it strong, profound, or even remotely tasteful, perhaps because i am a mere layman atrophied by equations and formulas related to all the macro and micro, my brain hardwired to become to architect circuits  designate wave forms manipulate numbers – i didn’t study literature or english or poetry in my university – i know not what is past present principle tenses verbs nouns in all their confusing trajectories – nor do i know art or philosophy psychology social theory – marxism confuses me, nietzsche disgusts me, freud bores me jung eludes me kant i cannot fathom sartre makes ponder but kierkegaard delights me – i never studied german or french or japanese enough to translate them to use them in my letters or tweets because i don’t want to suddenly be asked how am i progressing along even though i have all three lessons and dictionaries in my room – i don’t suddenly secretly address people ff in obscurely written essays in to appear intellectual because i know i am not i am extremely limited in my capacity to understand all the isms and dualities – i don’t even understand love or angelic references because i don’t like to read nature i let it seize me with feelings and awe not with words and colors – i am no artist and i have no eye for the particular i let things and people and scenery imbue me but i cannot paint them with expressions. i am merely preoccupied with my own world and the little bits that i pull from everything. so  yes, my opinion, my words; they don’t have the least significance to you, o great poet, they only occupy a little space here and nowhere else.