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••• The International Writers Magazine - Our 20th Year: NY City Rant

Mad and starving I watch the starry dynamo in the machinery of Night

New York

If you could take a look, just a look, a glance, a simple brief objective view, as me, as a mathematical prodigy in whose eyes the universe is one massive mathematical structure and God is a great mathematician whose aim is creating ultimate beauty, a pure mathematical state expressed in absolute simplicity, like Kepler’s ellipses are far more beautiful than circle upon circle upon circle, that a star is far more than a boundary condition of an holographic state, that an Euler ingenuity of blazing sharpness of insight that supernovas away opaqueness in human thought is just the Higgs field permeating our souls, into the eye of a mathematician who sees geometric lines and sees great symmetries and well bounded solutions beyond gamma function infinities and the meanings of transcendental numbers, you may find the faintest hint of the time invariance of feeling, the signature of love in the value of pi over e

I’m with you, Carl Solomon

What is revealed in my hormone soaked body that seems to constantly yearn, always yearning for something, sometimes uncontrollably and embarrassingly stupid leading to mornings of regrets and days of depression, a self-loathing state of pitying, a hungry feeling of constant loss and hope for salvation, piled upon my weak limbs, my flabby flesh, full of imperfections, and a mind hopelessly obsessed with sex, to feel the explosion from inside, a moment when the mind leaves the eyes and the body is but a great numbness, frustratingly wanting to feel again, and again, regardless of loss or pain, regardless of who, is an empathy for the suicide bomber who releases the button, in a drug soaked state, dreaming of ultimate sex in hashish paradise while not caring, unaware, of the infant, blood covered, your blood, my blood, its mother's, the homeless man on the platform

Moloch, if on the windows of the skull the words were written, then in the windows will be found the maths.

My saba survived . . . barely . . . once a runner for doctor death, a boy who cleaned the officers stables, in his bunk he secretly learned from a great chemist, although he knew no magic potion was going to rescue him from the horror, watching, smelling, hearing voices cry in their final gasp for hope, as flames and smoke poured from the crematoriums, the camp silently Howled in voices forgotten, invisible, ignored by us, you, me, a world obsessed with more, to obsolesce, to kneel, to a God lost in the blood, soiled in mud caked corpses, corpses over the century, corpses hacked in ancient battles, pounded by the hooves of war, just pawns, children of bent broken women praying in the fields, fighting blights, locusts, rot in long winters, racing boys, the winners get to clean the stables, the losers get to stop suffering, to join their sisters and fathers and mothers and uncles and aunts and grandparents and cousins and neighbors and innocent gentle strangers, a grey smoke that drifted to heaven in the cold Polish air, not toxic, not a Chernobyl, not a Fukushima, not a Bhopal

who hung from the cross half in heaven half in a drunken nebula, naked, sweating, bleeding, contemplating jazz?

I lay chained to the blood soaked rock, the Eagle, beak coated red, chunks of dripping liver flesh hanging from the edges, a punishment for my success, to be left without praise, ungrateful people buy their Hummers to drive to Costco, to buy water bottled from a tap in Zen New Jersey, while Jesus mows their lawn to perfection thinking about his sister and her children drowning in the Rio Grande, not an asylum candidate, even though repeatedly raped while watching her husband sliced by a machete by boys brought up to believe in the American dream, my mind crazed with thoughts of Ricci flatness and Calabi-Yau manifolds, we don't travel forward in time, I yelled to the Eagle, we travel backwards, because the past is what we see in front of us, not the future

What happened to Rockland? What happened in Rockland? I can’t be there today

I sit on the park bench and stare at the wispy clouds high into the blue, contrails mostly, Rayleigh scattering, Tyndall effect, the Lorenz–Mie–Debye solution to Maxwells equations, I wish I could speak maths like Ginsberg spoke words, like the shockwave of two colliding black holes sweeping across the atoms in our minds, massively distorting time imperceptibly, pausing and accelerating our thoughts, crab cavity rotations colliding neural electric pulses into tiny flashes of ecstasy, my huge orgasm from a drunken stupor night dreaming I was at Big Sur, but not, as I played Jazz on the Go board late into the morning with homeless Gladys, former Harvard math student turned garbage diver, a Yau gang member who knew how to solve Calabi’s problem, now ambitious to be a Go master, couldn’t beat me, my Jazz was too Kerouac, ****ed, Miles Davis brilliant, the twenty-five thousand mad comrades singing Cayley graphs, Gromov boundaries in Cantor sets

Here is where the best minds have gone, maybe they got lost in dark energy, will they find the next prime? will they discover the true value of pi over e?

Dad was a drunken broken ex-soldier who beat my mother and lived in nightmares of burning villages, naked children crying over their dead mothers, hiding the grenade and ready to pull the pin when the boys from America showed pity, walking through bucolic fields only to see his best friend sliced by commies who hid in tunnels, little men who seemed more like angry hornets than men, who were defending who knows what and the American boys were defending democracy, or so they thought, he came back with a Purple Heart, protesters at the airfield, protesters in the city park, soldiers who fought students defending God knows what, coming home to me and mother, no job and half an arm, the other half buried in some ditch in the jungle, we left him, we lived with saba

What I see is the best minds, dreaming, living jazz, living maths

Homeless moving or sleeping, invisible, drunks and drug addicts don’t last, families, children, all wanting, some dull glassy eyed, some hoping to die, beautiful imperfect struggling wildflowers of humanity, conformity is not an option, trash and flies, rats and pigeons, grime covered streets, grime covered men, grime covered ladies, cigarettes forever hanging from the bottom lip, always ready to fall, ignites her sweater, to flame up like a human “Roman candle spider explosion across the stars” as Jack would say, grateful for an end, perhaps to make Google news, found by a long lost daughter attorney working for Senator Screwyou in Washington, horrified her mother smoked, took time off to complete the cremation, but never saw the wisp of grey smoke drifting to heaven from the red clay stack

I’m not with you in Rockland and I am madder than you are

A simple observation, a stupid comment, an adroit insight, a deep perception, the ability to make it simple, my struggle to stay in the light, where the warmth is, where my hands are not bleeding, a leap of faith, I can count in primes in my head for hours, going up into six figures, sometimes more, counting the primes in the prime and the combinations of primes in the various prime pairs, is there an unbounded number of primes in the highest unbounded prime possible, are there prime groups with limited prime combinations in each prime number, why didn’t I realize Galois with Euler was just Lie, a simple comment, leaving me feeling insane and wondering why God miss-wired my brain so badly, all jazz jumbled Keith Moon crazy guitar smashing feedback screeching Monte Carlo neuron firings, this is your brain on acid, this my brain on a quiet sunny day

Do all the primes appear in the value of pi? In the value of pi over e?

The patterns and the sequences are the key, she knew this, but they must be worked out, found like the next prime, calculated by the slew of supercomputers in our skull, flipping ones for years until the combination magically appears, magic, the algorithm is science, maths, but the mind that imagined it is magic, a collection of special cells exchanging little pulses of electrons, a chemical reaction that somehow is reversible until the cell dies or mitosis, meiosis, the pulses eventually fire into an eureka, Einstein realized light is quantum, he would have been mind-blown by asymptotic freedom, multicolored gluons, and neutrino's that changed, oscillated from one kind to another, like a panther becoming an elephant, or finding a fifty thousand year old person living on a remote mountain summit, it’s a crazy game thousands of years old, just white stones and black stones on a simple grid, I tried to imagine three dimensional Go, only if I get insanely drunk, it’s too impossible otherwise

Did Dean Moriarty know Carl Solomon? Did they both like Marylou?

People don’t hop trains anymore, or hitchhike, or watch movies from their car, making out with the cheerleader, my first real kiss, where I discovered how marvelously wonderful female anatomy was, while Peter Fonda biked across America, I discovered her in the back of my saba’s Dodge Dart, she didn’t like maths, she liked kissing, being one of the million of girls trembling in the sunset, a sweetened snatch, red eyed in the morning sweetening again, her flashing buttocks while we skinny dipped in the lake, jazz playing from the car radio, a time when my body and my mind couldn’t come to a consensus, thinking about solving integrals while diving under the water between her legs, dropped her home at 6am, what was her name, I remember everything about her, but her name

It is possible to jump from the Brooklyn Bridge and walk away into Allen’s "ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways”, surely someone would offer a free beer, they didn’t to me

People want to think of magic as something a wizard does, such as shoot lightning from a wand or to dissolve into thin air and reappear hundreds of miles away, real magic is much more amazing, it is the Pythagorean Theorem, it is prime numbers, it is being able to predict the trajectory of a rocket that will launch a probe that will travel the distance of over 1.7 million trips from Washington Square to Haight Ashbury, to find frozen Pluto, sending unimaginable images of ice mountains and nitrogen glaciers floating and dynamically sculpting and carving under the thin haze of a tenuous atmosphere over a huge heart shaped plain as bizarre a cosmic joke as the hexagonal vortex at Saturn’s north pole

Caravanserai was the baring of a true heart, Carlos aimed straight for the Love of the Universe into an imaginary sky of amatorially prismatic sound of mellifluous color, in Time to See the Sun

listen and you will learn how to see with your soul

My mind has always been this messed up broken Antikytherean jumble, I rarely forget anything I see, read, or hear, but it gets scrambled and comes back in some crazy order, a Kandinsky bafflement mixing of sound and color, I see numbers where there are words, I see expressions when I hear sound, when I hear jazz I see perfect geometric figures floating in the air, coffee enhanced blizzard eyeball popping Dali-like as if the Madonna and the Troubadour watched by pixel Lincoln called for the Adonian savior to blow Gabriel’s horn while the golden clock melts over my father’s fucking empty soul

Once upon a time I, too, wanted to sneak out into the night, disappear, but not to find out what everybody was doing everywhere else, that would be disappointing

on the road is not

© kab writes, plays, and works in New York City and Long Island. July 2019
You may contact kab at:

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