2,020 words on 2020

This year, I buckled down to pursue a personal mission I’ve been cultivating since 2017: https://www.lapressclub.org/hypothesis/journal-for-healthcare-quality-instructions-for-publication/29/ essay in 4 hours go site https://cwstat.org/termpaper/bullying-research-paper-introduction/50/ essay contest purple january all but dissertation signature source url archetypal theory essay depression thesis chapter 2 top rhetorical analysis essay writing service for college trop de viagra download free dissertation report marketing https://simplevisit.com/telemedicine/cymbalta-allergic-reactions/16/ http://www.cresthavenacademy.org/chapter/about-me-articles/26/ go to link quoting in an essay apa https://smartfin.org/science/abilify-viagra-interaction/12/ engineering project list resume effect of viagra on female statistics on homework assignmenthelpline com parts of a thesis research paper info on viagra cialis and levitra https://ncappa.org/term/example-of-an-essay-paper-in-apa-format/4/ critique thesis example frutas con efecto viagra buy cipro 500mg https://earthwiseradio.org/editing/biographies-examples/8/ cuanto dura el viagra en el organismo as carbon dioxide concentration increases the rate of essay ativan viagra interaction follow site to bring the spirit of Paul Erdős to writers.

Paul Erdős was a 20th-century cult figure, a social mathematician who co-authored 1,500+ papers with more than 500 fellow mathematicians. He was a global gypsy, crashing on different thinkers’ couches for a few days at a time, pushing the limits of their intellect until they said, “Enough, Paul! I’m going to bed, and I’ll finish the paper without you. Please go somewhere else now, thanks!”

Erdős was able to live this unusual life because he had 2 superpowers:

  1. Living out of a suitcase indefinitely, fueled by grapefruit and amphetamines.
  2. Advanced collaboration. As one of his contemporaries put it:Erdős not only asked the right question. He asked it of the right person. He knew better than you yourself knew what you were capable of… he had the unique ability to identify problems which were just beyond what you could currently do.

Thanks to the Internet, a 21st-century Erdős wouldn’t need the first power. That’s great news for me—I don’t do amphetamines, I dislike grapefruit, and I enjoy the comfort of home.

For me today, serving writers the way Erdős served mathematicians requires only the power of collaboration: matching people with problems they (sometimes only they) can solve, understanding people’s potential, and asking the right questions of the right person.

I’m humbled to say 2020 was a breakthrough year for me in my quest to exercise that power. So much Erdősian work came my way that I had to build a new Erdősian team.

In 2020, my team and I collaborated with dozens of great writers from around the world. Some of their names are widely known—Nir Eyal, Derek Sivers, David Perell, Gagan Biyani. Others are not (yet) as well known—Shripriya Mahesh, Pavel Brodsky, Michael Ashcroft, Michelle Violette, Erik Kruger.

By inviting me into their creative process, these people brought me further into my element than I’ve ever been. For that, I feel intensely, profoundly grateful. If I do have Erdős’ power, you’ll see great things from them in 2021 and beyond.

Having said all this, 2020 was also a painful year. I experienced loss, fear, and conflict, and I know many who lost far more. I’m fortunate to have had the unwavering support of friends and loved ones, and I intend to pay that forward.

What more can I say? The remaining 1,592 words of this piece take the shape of 18 poems I wrote over the course of 2020.



Under an unfamiliar sky,
on an unfamiliar planet far away,
stargazers, much like us,
look up and think—
“Are we alone?”

We’d be aliens to them, almost
as much as to each other.



Nostalgia is a spotlight cast
to flatter features of the past:
  the undiscovered virgin land,
    the happy time before the masks,
      the age of long attention spans
        before the tweets & texts & tasks…
Nostalgia keeps us on the fence
about today’s experience,
since if that memory is true,
the future might get brighter, too.



What do you yearn for in your 💙 of 💙s?
I know you’re, like, allergic to clichés,
but cut some slack for me—I’m in “the arts.”
The Muse commands; the lowly scribe obeys.

So, what, deep down, can set your 💙 on 🔥?
What can you do all hours & yet not tire?
What purpose can you infinitely serve?
What would you, at your lifetime’s cost, preserve?

Your answers could be many. You’re but 1.
But out of all the races you could run,
by running even 1 with all you’ve got,
you may make greatness your companion.

What do you yearn for, in your 💙 of 💙s?
That wonder is where all our greatness starts.

Context: An English teacher insisted, “Emojis will NEVER have a place in poetry.”



There’s no excuse for cowardice
no honor in deceit
no ransom sum for innocence
nobody death won’t meet

no victory in bigotry
no sanity in hate
no substitute for dignity
no foresight into fate

these facts I know
but even so
I’m ignorant as Eve
without you, Love—
without you
I have nothing to believe.

Context: written for my beloved life partner.



When the world speeds up, slow down.

When the world bows down, stand up.

When the world shuts up, be loud.

If you have no tribe, be proud.



Kill her with disparity
Kill her with despair
Kill her with the thousand shocks
to which flesh is heir

Kill her with brutality
Kill her with red tape
Build a deep surveillance state
no one can escape

Kill her like an animal
Kill her in the street
Kill her like a cannibal
Kill her while you eat

Kill your poet all these ways;
then, if still alive,
kill her with the loss of love—
THAT she’ll not survive.

Context: written shortly after George Floyd’s death.



Since I’ve sacrificed
so much on your altar,
I hoped I’d see some light
one of these days—
no longer.

Whenever I try to wrestle you down,
you’re stronger.

Now I’m hoping to write one song
long enough
to make you known—
no longer.



Where are you, Muse,
that you forget, so far,
to sing of that which makes you
what you are?

What plagues you, Muse,
that when I’m nature’s prey
you push away Love even

Return, neglectful Muse,
& resurrect
the passion that connects us—
so no one can disparage or forget
the power of a love-infected mind.

Context: written at the start of lockdowns in the USA.



Forgive me, Productivity!
Distraction had its way with me
while Time escaped away from me;
I’ve scarcely seen success before;
I’m scared there’s gonna be a war;
I have a cold, I have a limp,
I have a pimple like a blimp,
I made a mess, I took a nap,
I drew a dragon-doodled map—
I’ve got excuses out the door
for why I don’t possess you more!
I guess to keep track of the time
until you’re mine, I’ll make this rhyme.

Context: Inspired by conversations with Nir Eyal.



I visited Madam Sosostris:
her neck was as long as an ostrich;
her fingers were spidery thin;
her eyes held the future within.

We sat on the floor at her table,
immersed in her incense & chimes;
we traded in gossip & fable
& traveled to faraway times.

Her one law: “No breaking the trance
by trying to capture its dance—
no notepads, no pens, no recording.
Breathe. Let your soul do the exploring.”

& so I have no souvenir
to show off the place I went then,
but, somehow, my compass points North—
I know I will go there again.


Context: Inspired by conversations with Shripriya Mahesh.



Atlantis—dream of future
Jerusalem—dream of past

they rise
out of the dead land
again—it was never over,
not when we split the atom,
not after Troy, even—
myth of future & myth of past
tie our fragile being
to the mast

now in Atlantis
the Stargazer returns to his
accustomed toil
strengthens the soil
harvests the sun
makes machines run
for everyone

now in Jerusalem
two bodies face to face
fly on fleeting kite
strings in
a violet

Atlantis—dream of future
Jerusalem—dream of past
tie my fragile being to the mast

Context: inspired by conversations with Marc Tarpenning.



“I know the stars by heart,”
said the night watchman.
“Under these stars, my boy
was born and raised;
under these stars,
my mother taught me well;
under these stars, my empire
rose and fell.”

“How many nights
have seen you here?” I asked.

“More than you’ve ever slept,”
he answered me.

“How much of fate is written there?”
I asked, studying Cancer, Gemini & Mars.

Laughing at me, he said:
“I know the stars—
that doesn’t mean I know
what’s in the stars!
Under these stars, I fell
into love’s spell;
under these stars, I rang
the temple bell;
under these stars, I lived
and maybe well—
that’s all my fate
and all fate I can tell.”



What game is this, John Nash?
Good men
equipped with strength & acumen
remain imprisoned, while the worst
defile the streets—
what game’s this cursed?

What game is this, John Nash?
Great souls
prepared to make us healed & whole
are shouted down by demagogues
& muzzled like distrusted dogs.

What game is this, John Nash?
Good news
is throttled, but false prophets’ views
are broadcast from the highest peaks,
for he who brings the money speaks.

What game is this? What is its field?
And is our fate to play it sealed?



Down with foes of liberty
Down with ships of fools
Down with thieves of dignity
Down with the rules

Up with ships on rocket fuel
Up with sapling-trees
Up with tightrope-walking clowns
& gypsies on trapeze

Look around: much lonesomeness
will meet your naked eyes
Both oppressors’ & oppressed
faces fail to lie

Love is born for times like these
For time to freeze



We named it Pandemonium—
the capital of Hell—
where Satan takes the podium
& poison floods the wells
& slaves & masters, both of them,
are slaves to Satan’s spell;

we tired of Pandemonium;
we wanted to live free,
& so we got Newtonian
& found our gravity:

we rallied every rebel soul;
we battered down the gates;
we reached the sacred sun & soil
where liberty awaits;

we saw the sunlight, all of us,
& rang the holy bell
& left behind
in ruins of time
the capital
of Hell—
we fall again…
who’s ready to rebel?



Have you seen a top achiever
in a sport, pursuit, or craft
at the height of that bright fever
that engulfs them in the act?
Eternity is passion!

Where the dead trees give no shelter
& the dusty rocks no shade,
where the sweatless reptiles swelter,
even there, where things decay,
eternity is passion.

Why get dragged down by minutia?
Why let beauty pass you by?
Why not build your chosen future?
Why not sing into the sky?

Yes, this road runs right through failure;
yes, your heart will sometimes break—
but you’ll be your own worst jailer
if you chase a prize that’s fake.
Eternity is passion!

Context: conceived & written collaboratively with a small group of poetry lovers on Twitter. Title courtesy of WB Yeats.



Staggering, the weight of it—
Blinding, like the sun—
Yes, I am afraid of it.
No, I will not run.

Let the stars throw down their spears;
let volcanoes roar;
as the old world disappears,
I will find new doors.

In the horror of the shade,
gripped by time & fate,
yes, I’m mortal—and afraid—
still, I will create.

Yes, I am afraid of it.
No, I will not run.
Fear—man isn’t made of it,
so the battle’s won.



each great man at some point becomes
a philosopher (a lover of wisdom)

philosophy floods in when you’re short on time,
yet you have all the time in the world

philosophy is a guilty pleasure—also a lifeline

philosophy can help you evade chaos

philosophy gives you a torch to carry


a great man is a torch-bearer
disguised as a teacher.



This one’s for you, my leaders: I can see
in you the strength to topple tyranny,
to carry those who travel wearily,
to grapple monstrous Chaos in its tracks,
to lift oppressors off their victims’ backs,
to open minds & hearts & avenues
to know & love the truth so much abused—
& even this weird year,
I’ve seen
in you
the vision that beholds the future’s torch;
it’s in your reach—believe it!—you are free
to take that torch, and march it to the sea.