Schizoaffective

by Dan Uppetreloc Blowing cigarette smoke out into the falling snow I realized that smoke is snow is smoke. I say this because they look similar, especially when a wind is blowing the snow. My breath, of course, drives the cigarette smoke as it dissipates into the falling snow. What is the line between falling snow and smoke? What is the line between you and me, reader? It could be a lot of things. I improvise these lines and you, I suppose, peruse them or maybe even interpret them. Right now, as I right this, I cannot tell you where I am going. How does, or perhaps "should," this affect your interpretation, if, indeed, you feel like making one? It's all as relative as a roll of the dice, which is, of course, dependent on fingers and wrists. Any line is partly random and partly intentional, I guess. Speaking of lines, what is a line of poetry? How does it relate to the difficult-to-discern line between smoke and snow, especially on a blowy day? For a line of poetry is, li

guest post by Reynaldo Ishiwasho   just feet from me sit three women talking in a coffee house about this and that and other things I pay little attention to   they are mere feet from me   on the table next to this spiral notebook sits my phone a powerful computer more capable in itself of the super power sent on some early apollo missions   with it I can push buttons communicate instantaneously across the globe with some compatriot who I know only by those buttons and a pixilated image on a social media page   should I celebrate this strangely small world or should I mourn for not knowing these three women whose real voices and concerns I pay no attention to and instead think only of these pixilated images of unmet compatriots   I am confused   I know I communicate across the world on the basis of mathematics a two-0digit system where everything is translated into a zero and one and then back again   back and forth back and forth   mathematics masking and unmasking my possible words t

by Red Rocks IV gee y'all Red Rocks here feelin'— well topsy-turvy emotionally as if strange yes foreign emotions & moods are taking possession of me way up here in not Manitoba & knot not knot not maniiitooooba 'cause Manny ain't one ain't too either Manny is manny things ands I not (k)now as Red Rocks banish these intrusive emotions and moods from me somehow someway to be me yes me without them bye bye possession HELLO! Groovy hello glorious yes yes yes Red Rocks signing off to have a groovy & glorious day to the extent possibly oh, y'all, I mean to say "possible" gee gee gee gee _______________________________ Guest post by Red Rocks IV today. --- Jay Paul, schizophrenic, uh, schizoaffective, whatever

"Time dilation," reportedly discovered by Einstein (or, more probably, Einstein's first wife), in the early years of the 20th century, refers to the relativity of time. Put simply, the faster you move, the slower time passes. At the speed of light, time moves so slowly as to be nonexistent. For something barely moving, time moves quicker, quite literally.  "Literally" means literally—astronauts traveling in space actually experience time moving slower than they do on earth; however, they do age quicker because of the stress on the body. Speaking of body, parts of the body experience time differently. Think of the nervous system as it pertains to skin. It almost instantaneously responds, in some sort of rhythmic way I suppose, to outside stimuli. Right now, I type this blog post with my fingertips, which instantaneously respond, rhythmically to the keys and to my unfolding ideas. (Where, oh, where do my "ideas" come from—what rhythm helps them to emerge