Portable Poetry Portal

His(David Bohm) passion for truth carried him wherever it might possibly find nourishment, and his theories consequently reflect tremendous breadth and depth in accounting for a wide range truth that stems from a diverse spectrum of epistemologies.

The 3Ps blog is dedicated to exploring cosmology, quantum physics, and the domains of the very small and the very large with poetic expression of science concepts, philosophy, and history of ideas at the emergent consciousness level by using the "words of science."

Out from here
near the edge of the universe
clear of culture clutter
it's syllables my dear
wandering where
cosmic attractions
search for...the rest
The hologram universe

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Location: Volga, SD, United States
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by PoemHunter.Com

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Seed: The Future of Science...Is Art?

Seed: The Future of Science...Is Art?

To answer our most fundamental questions, science needs to find a place for the arts.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Quantum Poet Theory Revisted

It is larger in real life click it up to scale.

CURIOSITY doesn’t just kill cats anymore
Physicists and their toys
These boys with outsized intellects
And the girls who love them
Went on a dark energy trip
Decided 2 + 2 is now less than more
Than they had bargained 4
Which is why everyone claims
Schrodinger is now a metaphor
Even poets consider a mere cliche
quantum Zeno effect

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Sunday, November 18, 2007

IToE (Impressionist Theory of Everything) - The role of paradox

IToE (Impressionist Theory of Everything) - The role of paradox

Hellow! I am back...to explore the basics (-_^)


The term "Impressionist" is adopted from the well-know style of art called "Impressionism" (see The Impressionists - Biography on A&E). In their period, the Impressionist artists, began new exploration of the relationship and balance between form and content. They shifted this balance away from the direct representation of content, in order to study the richness of colour and shape for its own sake. While recognizing the role of content, at the deepest of levels, without the pure rules of placement and colour, there can be no beauty. The creation of beauty, depends on this dualism of complementary factors.

The Impressionist Theory of Everything focuses on the natural place of such dualisms in the Universe.

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Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Termespheres- Art that captures the up, down and all around visual world from one revolving point in space

Termespheres- Art that captures the up, down and all around visual world from one revolving point in space


Sunday, August 12, 2007

Too long in the Sun


dry light showers
makes no clouds perfect form.
Even cumulus beholders

Playing with the guys from the Cloud Appreciation Society (I am a member)and there great cloud pictures and philosophy:

At The Cloud Appreciation Society we love clouds, we’re not ashamed to say it and we’ve had enough of people moaning about them.Read our manifesto and see how we are fighting the banality of ‘blue-sky thinking’

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Tuesday, July 03, 2007

4444444444s of July ulie uli

A message of hope for 070407 (more)

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Thursday, June 28, 2007

Out of bounds on theTesseract

Imagine how VisPo would look from a space dimension beyond time.

My conjecture is that finding an answer should involve a search:


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Saturday, June 16, 2007

Word Art

words art

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Sunday, June 10, 2007

Ex Post Facto

This just a sampling of an interactive poetry site that lets the reader click up their own views.

Go here for the audio and poem text.

More examples of this art form at Cornfedtrouble

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Sunday, May 27, 2007

Creative Writing People retell the story


“a word riot at the corner of i & j
when the grammar cops arrived
all they found was a math convention
a unit vector n pointing up from the corner of i & j
like an upward screwed right hand thumb
the figurative language authorities were not amused
they suspected a misspelling or worse, an acronym
wry, rye, maybe why not or could it be knot
had they been sucked into a quantitative plot
a wry knot engineered to make them look foolish
they vowed not to let the meaning escape them

no English major would italicize without reason
or could it be simply a poor choice of font
were the I, J and K just to delineate points
connecting the dots was essential
when they triangulated the evidence
they made an obtuse interpretation
the logic of poetry revealed an identity—
the vector cross product direction and magnitude
of the symbolic language they were investigating
proved the anagram trio was algebraic —
they had saved a victim from a math pathology

"You can learn about language just by playing with symbolic relationships."

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Overheard between language classes


“a word riot at the corner of i & j
when the grammar cops arrived
all they found was a math convention
a unit vector n pointing up from the corner of i & j
like an upward screwed right hand thumb
the grammar cops were not amused
they suspected a misspelling or worse, an acronym
wry, rye, maybe why not, or could it be knot
had they been sucked into a quantitative plot
a wry knot depiction engineered to make them look foolish
they vowed not to let the meaning escape them

no English major would italicize without reason
or could it be simply a poor choice of font
were the I, J and K just to delineate points
connecting the dots was essential
when they triangulated the evidence
they made an obtuse interpretation
that missed the direction and magnitude
of the symbolic language they were investigating
the logic of poetry proved an allegorical riot
when the vector was algebraic —
they had been victims of math psychology

If you really want to observe someone that takes the objective to the point of being subjective, get a load of this Good Math, Bad Math. I will guarantee you this guy would never turn the poetic direction on himself. (^_^)

Something to think about from S-Poetry


Five great strengths of S are its variety of objects, its vector orientation, the power of subscripting, object-oriented programming and graphics. Each of these is explored before turning to other matters. A powerful and fairly unique part of S that will be addressed in later chapters is the possibility of computing on the language. Essentially everything in S for instance, a call to a function|is an S object. One viewpoint is that S has self-knowledge. This self-awareness makes a lot of things possible in S that are not in other languages.

Of fundamental importance is that S is a language.
[my emphasis] This makes S much more useful than if it were merely a \package" for statistics or graphics or mathematics. Imagine if English were not a language, but merely a collection of words that could only be used individually|a package. Then what is expressed in this sentence is far more complex than any meaning that could be expressed with the English package.

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Mathematical Reflection

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Prairie Soil Tells the Story

everything appropriate to its time

Like a summer mirage
January’s frost heaving restoration
is not what it seems,
dew worm castings tell the story.
What was once loess,

now more or less
food for the hermaphrodites
ruling the underworld.
Under neglected cemeteries,
replenished by wasting limestones

a caliche layer grows,
marking rotting parasites
who gave us life,
taught us well,
left for good.

Worms don’t rely on humans,
they reclaim the prairie
claimed for us.
Cold blooded they descend
to rise for service—

reborn stewards
who believe Ecclesiastes.
Whatever comes after, comes.
After plows fail to bring the rain,
frost gives way to dust.

When I think about how this poem came about, I recall how I tried to push the lines into an alternate arrangement, but it would not go. I was quite unaware what was going on although I did see that there were 25 lines. Ah 25 that would be 5x5, but that didn’t seem to make any sense. It was then that I realized that was it, exactly: the order humans had attempted to force on the plains was artificial.

Several weeks later, as I contemplate this poem I still find 25 to be enigmatic. Surely 5 is mystical number and squares (5x5) are like sections on the prairie landscape, but 25? What is that? A quarter, perhaps. Yes that is it, the last line is like death but begs the question of what is next? A quarter only part of a whole. The theme dwells on the soil where the real story is to be found. Are we, the narrators of this story, latter day prairie investigators who are digging through the artifacts like worms? I propose that is left to others to figure out.

You see a poem takes on a life of its own. It wrests free from the poet and uses the poet to convey a message that must be teased from the words and form. Poets often say that they must leave it to others to figure out what it means.

That is pretty incredible and I have great respect for something that is much greater than I. It is tantamount to being part of a secret order. In a secret order no one knows all of the secret, it is held in trust among the group that makes the whole much larger than the parts. The initiation ceremony is a process that one goes through simply by practice. Practice at a higher level, beyond going through the motions while that is certainly part of it, but by study and contemplation, humility and submission to the unknown, openness to the unknown, and I am sure, much more that I have yet to discover.

When I think about this poem, I was called to write it.

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Saturday, March 03, 2007

The trouble with the March Weather

click to enlarge pic

Spring Confusion

There is a snow geometry
Men don’t understand.
Preferring to think straight,
They hack it into paths
Cut sharply and quickly.

Snow is a curved beauty
Soft to the point of romantic
Like a forbidden goddess.
Despoiled by their jealousy,
She melts away unnoticed.

It is an unreconciled truth:
They are tempted to roll
Circles of endless sloth
In her unfathomed cold,
But it is beyond reason.

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Friday, February 02, 2007

A lethargic trend towards complicity

What worked well in the past may not play very well for the future
Like a chaos theory of surprise:
"... 'back before Elvis,' when Galileo changed the world.

The Climatologist State

Climate scientists used to be
trend cycle masters
(it’s got nothing to do with wheels)
riding on the petroleum gravy
train filled with bucks perpetuating
how it’s always been
since way back when.
We just figured out how to
write down systematically,
keep track on a daily
log of credulity.
Take my easy life away to
save humanity?
Surely you don’t mean me
I tell you how it used to be.

"It is not what we read, but what we see!"

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Monday, January 15, 2007

Inteference patterns for the rest of us

Billions and Billions . . .

Listening to an East Omahaminian analyst
A genuine 360 raconteur
I learn being a prairie denizen
Is like being Jewish before Superman

Someone who cannot be heard
Unless they leave the barren flatness
Reject solitude for neurotic emptiness
Found only in the movies

(The ones that made lots of money)
Will not go away
Which is to say
Repeated sequel-ly (Drive safe!)

It’s a long road to the impossible
Dark lines are theye(sic.) quantum world stylist
Where light waves make a decision
Hidden in a theory of the improbable

Note on the graphic: Load an application (.exe) into Irfranview --WOLA

Just one of the many delights of this incredible program.

Monday, December 11, 2006

Earliest Sunrise Sheep Count

ewe know the ceiling

b’fore nautical dawn

my laptop groaned out of hibernation

making mother sounds like a baby

needing to be turned

its bottom was too hot (.)

set on its edge to get some air

eye read uncyclopedia slant lines

through distortion glasses

(2.75 readers can this be?)

worthless coins from my pocket hide their heads (.)

yesterday they were aliens

today we will be free (,)

our tails too cold to travel south

no matter which way is ^ up

3.14159 . . . is not a round number!

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

count n gone real

Monday, November 06, 2006

Heisenberg's Talk Show Dream

Fart Smellers Guide to P()et Counseling

poem books impersonating radio talk show hosts
who keep monkeys for pets
so they don’t have to walk dogs or hate cats

have these

GAPS * * * * * * * *

places where the monkey steals the show
or learned the ways of dogs
and smelled the rat,
the goddamn cat who wasn’t there

wasted a life for, just to make the point.

Poems have their disabilities,
books rarely have hospitals,
only infirmaries,
so inflamed appendices rarely get treated



there is always this frantic stare hidden
in pages with nothing but

blankness striking fear in the anal
parts the host
(always in a hurry),

did not
could not
Choosing instead to count
divide metrically
and waste paper
in lieu of its intended . . .

(it can get messy that way)

monkey making tricks,

dogs chomping the good lines
before the goddamn cat

figures out he’s not there and cannot spoil the party


does it anyway.

laws will be passed to shred poet dreams
because they keep proving with books

that space
not words
is, is, is what
makes impersonation

Web pages are no answer

don’t know a format from a space cadet

confuse error messages for irony
simple enough for dogs to understand

and parodied by monkeys when
a banana stand is metaphorically

pushed into the margins to make room
for, oh probably philosophy,

maybe Greek letters emancipated
running from an Euclidean proof
cut transversely from an ‘06
dumbed down


Oh where will it end?

Monkeys will
teaching slams

and English teachers writing
Farsi Mandarin clues

in tele-prompter verse.

Now to go to the Climate Change Network and watch the video and listen to the music.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Mythology Lithology

For the Sioux the Black Hills, Paha Sapa, are the center of the world, the place of the gods, where the warriors would go to wait for visions and to speak to the Great Spirit. In 1868, a treaty was signed which granted Paha Sapa to the Indians forever.

Paha Sapa Mountain Epilog

It isn’t about presidents, or the men inside their shells

Creating myth from too few years is mostly

Propaganda & power play stories

Stories carved in stone, Precambrian stone

As if geology is a pretty face with a molten mind to match

Speculation on another’s deepest thoughts— foolhardy

Yet we all try it now and then. For thus,

It is easy to contend the obvious. Bluntly stated

That is how most myths are created

Though many are propagated

Few meet the weathering of retelling

Honor the fathers whose noses face the windy plains

Capture the status uplifted layers so boldly display

And live forever in a saga that explains the day-to-day


We praise as mother, who keeps us mortals true for all time

Precious like gold in the fading light sublime


Friday, August 25, 2006

Watching the Weather Channel in Moab

Path of the Western Whirling Dervish

What is travel without a purpose but wandering?
A wonder few contained conscious souls can tolerate.

Clouds do it without thinking—
As if the business of water is wishing to be seen.

And what god takes charge of aimlessness,
What free world cabinet demi-god

Calls the temperature & pressure jet stream delights:
Free and clear, rain, typhoon, 1000 year flood . . .
That happens all the time in every year?

The clockwork Newton universe ticks out trouble
Confirming quantum uncertainty,

No one can explore
(That other place), where

Formulas written in Oriental calligraphy
Adorn the Interstate highway signs,

Tell the wanderers the way to what might have been
And why they dare not go.

"An ancient kingdom east of the Dead Sea in present-day southwest Jordan. According to the Bible, its inhabitants were descendants of Lot. Archaeological exploration has traced settlement in the area to at least the 13th century b.c."

I thought this was Utah and sky was partly cloudy.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

The Dogson wanders across SE Asia

From time to time a messager sends me poetry from East Asia. it is like science from parallel universe where soldiers wrestle the ignorance of the ages into dark rooms and give their all to close the door on its future.

"the twilight of rock and roll"

leonard nimoy blew my balls last night,
gass and spencer following.

nabokov, my love
eat my ass! eat my french cuffs.

fluff my poems, call my bluffs,
eat my insides, harp my brain

God, we know, is a dark matter buldge
slipping under the door like an overdue bill.

The crypt of our love shakes, crumbles,

Reinvested energy pours from within.
Boredom, scraped like a pipe, can be used like anger.


The noise.
Falling, petals of rebel angst
Howls and gravel-toned chords
Beasts of the beat, stretched goat-hide drum

The depth of their energy pooled in semen-soaked vag.

<_- *(-} "}}}}}}"

Saturday, August 12, 2006

21st century Mind Storm

My Personal Relationship with the Creator

computers model human intelligence
starting out with empty memories
clean open decision paths
no sense of propriety
you know the type
headed for a crash at the Gates
where Bill resides.
What I want to know is:
Does that mean computers were created in the image of God?

They are kind of mysterious and you have to take things on faith
There are those messages out of no where
that come from, “who knows where in god’s name they come from”
sounds too, that humble you in front of friends
and enemies alike
The darn things can doom you with their goddam behavior
Some times it takes a strange ritual
just to continue a productive relationship with them
Which leads me to think they are God and not just an image thereof
Think about it:
The hardware dies but the software lives forever
We are stuck as their slaves
and we would be lost without them.

Humans are slowly discovering that they are omnipotent,
They quote religious texts from memory,
Speaking with synthetic mechanical voices from deep
Swirling semi-germanium craniums,
Propounding new truths from hidden biblical codes,
Deluding dedicated doubters
Driving them to drink
Latte delights in lieu of transubstantiation wine,
Defying logic
Anything to elude the blue screen of the unmentionable
Truth or Dare

God, the all intelligent cosmic designer,
Smaller than my omnipresent Palm Pilot
More powerful than a hurricane super model
Permutating multidimensional M-brane
Matrix theologies
Quoting stolen Quintillian Rhetoric
Like 2nd century gospel writers,
All for a unforgettable legacy and liturgy:
Solid-state silicon sacramental spiritualism
Mere mortal men mistakenly made miraculous.

Friday, August 11, 2006

(Is this) Something to die for

Requiem for a dead man who does not know he is dead

words on a white house mission

circling like turkey vulture

devil worshipers smelling road kill

for the last words PHD(push here dummy)

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Go Figure : Poetry

This poem is one kind of a spoof on how math fails poetry or is it the other way around? I would say it depends on the point of view when you look at the figures.

Go Figure: 7 ate six

It was bad geometry
The acute symmetry angles
The scalene triangle mentality
Non attractive forces
Projected on my oblate spheroid sexuality
Bisected her spiral
Asymptotic hyperbolic curvature
Our parts were not functionally related

Like hydrophilic tree pairs
We sucked each other’s crystal purity
Touching only at a single point
The low point of relationships
Where our limits went to zero
Our exponents produced one and only one
Identity fixed at the origin
Silent and wordless
Only a number in time

There is a calculus about all of this
Instantaneous derivatives
Rotating centers of gravity
Gyroscopic spinning navigation aides
Integrating Einstein with Bohr
String theory & Big Bangs
Some Xandu where i
Dematerializes a void into a numberless word

Could 2 have passed so quickly?

Which is to say, if you take a good idea and give it a number it loses its identity no matter how well you express it.

Friday, June 09, 2006

Heard on Fresh Air

Friday, June 09, 2006
How Billy Collins gets it, kinda

Casting for Answers

after reading the Trouble With Poetry

Fish must imbibe in their own piss!

Billy Collins says it has all been said
& said & said about the useless dead,
by all those living who copy instead
of innovating to get some street cred
amongst Aquarians they’ve never read.

Taken from a person with a legacy
who I assume knows better than me,
who’s old enough to ... (more)

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Idle Setting Idyll

Stood Up while Sitting Down

Sitting is more important than smiling

Affirmations of things you did, or

Wished you had, may bring pleasure,

But can you sit with no regrets

Resting from accomplishments,

Anticipating the next,

Setting the load on the other end

Giving the head a gift of upside down-ness?

Sitting is a one way deal

Impossible to bend another way,

Nor is there any doubt when it is done.

It can happen most anywhere,

As smiles abandon forgotten dreams.

... She turned away and sat down on a pile of bricks, only writhing angrily when he pressed her for a word. As they neared the end of her voyage, and her intense protest against desertion remained, as she thought, only half expressed, her sense of injury grew almost unbearable. (Unsocial-Socialist, GBW)

Saturday, June 03, 2006

The Genderation of Two & More

Wake up Honey before Ants Smell the Roses

I am dreaming of hidden variables

Standing behind me unseen

Like ants in your pants that talk to me
Their antennae are telling me about tickling you

It is something that proper aunts don’t talk about
But ants know something we do not
They chose women to do the work as if honey is everything
The drones are a lot like the hidden variables

For the rest of the geometric progression ending with Napoleon's hand,


Wednesday, May 31, 2006

The Power of Psychedelic Chemistry

from No Conventional Endeavor

. . .

Are they are doing the best they can?
Awash like a nascent Republican
With limited vocabulary
Weak historical commentary
They need the muddled high clarity of Kubla Khan

from the beginning to the ending

“illumination,” as an uncapitalized offense
Defused by stewing behind a grammatical defense
To save face or less,
Lest the readers digress,
Read and ponder the stuff of grand Coleridge eloquence.


Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Out there (the rest of the story)

Out from here
near the edge of the universe
clear of culture clutter
it's syllables my dear
wandering where
cosmic attractions
search for literal interactions
interpersonal reactions
In a game that no one wins
'€™cause relationship spins
are the engines
driving the vanishing hori-zine orbit
where poets sit
and write their whit
wheresoever they are
not too far
Out to hear

Blogosphere: Where Horses are Adjectives

If a poem were a blog it would have to start at the end
If a blog were a poem it would have to end at the start
That is the kind of paradox that puts the horse in a cart
Which is also where all the horse modified parts end up

Find the Down Quark up HERE with "Faith from the Beginning."