Graham Words

The light resigns, like the honor of a decorated soldier who just lost the war, those ribbons and medals losing colour to the overcast. And that empty moon, how it shines like a coin at the bottom of a well, or a marble in the corner of a basement. It looks lost, is a mirror to the solitude of man. And nobody's coming for it. The sky is black and starless, as silent as a withdrawn friend. As if the wind that thrashes like a drunk weren't enough, man himself refuses the night. In his galaxy of thoughts, there's just one more piece of missing knowledge and a million imperfections to worry over— up until the wheelbarrow of ideas becomes too heavy to push.

Motion hangs like a picture on the wall, circumscribed by four sides, floor, and door, while process and idleness play tug-of-war Get up—but from boredom to boredom I fall Towards novelty, the other side of home Solitude is parched, for I am not alone With distance kept, the lap is nearly made, when suddenly, looking unto thrice trees, none cast their own shadow, but a unity Yet this separateness of self, I did not trade

[It is December 15, 1999. David works for a dot-com company in El Paso, Texas. The corporate office is donating to a local food bank this Christmas, and David has bought some groceries for the occasion. He comes back home from the store around lunchtime one Saturday afternoon, and his wife, Violet, opens the door...] Violet: Oh dear! That is a lot of groceries. Why, you have nearly two bags worth. Is this all for the food bank? David:  ( His eyes dart from left to right as he stands still and sheepishly for a few seconds .) They were all going to be for the food bank, but we could keep some for ourselves if... Violet:  ( Her eyes widen .) Are you crazy?! We can't do that. That would be stealing from the food bank! David : ( He ponders for a moment. ) I question the logical coherency of that statement. Food banks give people food for free. Is it possible to steal something that's free? Violet:  I believe it is. You were not offered food from the food bank, which furt...

I am a poet Sometimes I rhyme, sauntering like a picnic ant, not wishing to surprise Other times I am a topsy-turvy wordsmith  who doesn't make the... Should I claim a blue-collar work ethic, saying I produce poems like a printing press, or should I upcharge the simile and call myself a mystical artist instead? (Can I be mystical and verbose? Wittgenstein, John of the Cross, those observers of apophatic silence, would they not be provoked?) The literal is not that far from the mystical, for both methods are direct So lead me to the gallows for creative philistines and liberals who worry about consonants and vowels  and question why figurative words are more valuable than literal Besides, Peter van Inwagen's metaphysics would have me say that this poem does not exist anyway "The Anti-Poet" is a composite of elementary particles arranged word-wise, so its poemness is merely a product of mind Therefore, I am not a poet, though I did initially try my hand at some verse An...

At the heart of logical positivism was a novel way of dismissing certain non-scientific views by declaring them not merely wrong or false, but meaningless .  According to the verification theory of meaning , sometimes also called the empiricist theory of meaning , any non-tautological statement has meaning if and only if it can be empirically verified. —Aaron Preston, "Analytic Philosophy," Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy Please let me introduce myself: My name is Robert Ralph, better known as "Rob the Ockhamist", your trusted logical positivist. Bored on this winter day, I go outside to play, and as I see a snowflake, my thoughts begin to quake. To say that "snowflakes are white as angels" would not be valid. In fact, it would be rather mystical and pallid. Snowflakes are ice crystals, not spirits in flight. Contrary to appearance, they're clear and not white. It is true that it is snowing, for it is false that it is not. But to believe in a Wint...