Poems

Dear Lorenzo

That author has drawn the happiest lot who as an old man can say that all of life-engendering, strengthening, elevating, enlightening thought and feeling that was in him lives on in his writings, and that he himself is now nothing but the grey ashes, while the fire has everywhere been rescued and borne forward. — Friedrich Nietzsche, “Human, All To Human”

Dear D. H. Lawrence,
DHL,
Lorenzo,
Saint Lorenzo,
Poet, philosopher, prophet, savior
for our times:
Your writings mean more to me
than words can say.
I came so close to meeting you
through your writings
so many times
in the past,
but it took much time
before we became
properly acquainted.
It is a strange set of occurrences
that barred me from the knowledge
of your works
at earlier moments
of my personal history,
but perhaps it is destiny.
You have changed my life
for the better,
shown me a path forward,
and exposed the sham of the modern canaille.
I realize nothing I write
can properly express my thanks
for all you have given
my mind, heart, and soul,
so I will just utter the following prayer:
Lorenzo,
may you have reached the Goal,
the Dark God,
after your long journey
on the ship of death,
may you have resurrected
as the phoenix you so loved,
may you fly through the heavens
inspiring the awe of the
Gods and angels,
and may your writings
burn brightly
with an immortal flame
that burns
down
this
technological
hell!

Great Figures

I resolve, if the occasion should recur, / to uncheck my tongue and say, “I love the spectacle / of maggots condescending to a corpse,” / or, “You should be so lucky in your brainy, bloodless life / as to deserve to lift / just one of D. H. Lawrence’s urine samples / to your arid psychobiographic / theory-tainted lips.” / Or maybe I’ll just take the shortcut / between the spirit and the flesh, / and punch someone in the face, / because human beings haven’t come that far / in their effort to subdue the body, / and we still walk around like zombies / in our dying, burning world. — Tony Hoagland, “Poets of the New Century”

There are great individuals,
free-thinkers inspired by nature,
and the Gods,
but nobody reads them,
not because they have nothing to say,
but because they have too much to say.
The greats: Jeffers, Pound, Miller,
and Lawrence above all
could heal us,
and heal our world,
yet without a single public book burning,
or their books being banned—
at this time—
few have read these luminaries,
because the powerful propaganda
of our cancel-culture
fills the heads of students,
and the public,
with the psychopathic ramblings
of insane academics,
who are ungrounded in the Eternal—
and these monsters, such as Millett,
claim the greats committed some sins,
deemed as such,
by the political correctness inquisition,
held in the ivory towers,
and dominated by lesser minds,
and tools of the system—
So the greats are avoided
like the plague
without having been read,
and so our machine civilization
marches on.
We need to be saved.
The great ones can help,
but we must read them,
and ignore the
post-modernists,
post-structuralists,
post-humanists,
post-whatever
so we may
not just become post-machine,
but machine free,
and live in a world
where the great ones are counted as great,
and the writings of the
fools, liars, and hypocrites
who disparage them today
may be consigned to the rubbish bin of history
tomorrow.

We Have Fallen

Now I’ll sound my muezzin again. The man by himself. ‘Allah bismallah! God is God and man is man and has a soul of his own. Each man to himself! Each man back to his own soul! Alone, alone, with his own soul alone. God is God and man is man and the man in the street is a louse.’ Whatever your relativity, that’s the starting point and the finishing point: a man alone with his own soul: and the dark God beyond him. — D. H. Lawrence,“Kangaroo”

Oh, we have fallen!
And we fall further and further
each and every day.
Humanity is loved by God
just as Orpheus loved Eurydice,
and as such, when God’s love
causes Him to look back
upon His creation,
we fall,
fall,
fall
into the hell of our own creation.
I met a man in the street,
who was more machine than man,
and I told him so; I stated the following:
“Dear Sir,
The machine has got you by the gills,
it has its fish hook buried deep inside of you,
you have a silicon coated body,
a mind made up of circuits,
a robotic heart,
and a microchip encrusted soul.
You are more machine,
more computer than man!”
To which he responded:
“Thank you.
That is a wonderful compliment.”
So sad,
so sad,
sadness incarnate.
Now, in our desire to be gods,
we have become nothing;
entities far less than the bugs,
we squash under our shoes.
We are null, void,
personifications of emptiness.
Oh, how we have fallen;
only the Gods know how far,
and only the Gods can save us now.

Poison Gas

I’d like to share a revelation that I’ve had during my time here. It came to me when I tried to classify your species and I realized that you’re not actually mammals. Every mammal on this planet instinctively develops a natural equilibrium with the surrounding environment but you humans do not. You move to an area and you multiply and multiply until every natural resource is consumed and the only way you can survive is to spread to another area. There is another organism on this planet that follows the same pattern. Do you know what it is? A virus. Human beings are a disease, a cancer of this planet. You’re a plague and we are the cure. — Agent Smith, “The Matrix”

They speak of the mask:
The necessity to wear a mask
at all times,
but these masks they want us to wear,
do not protect us
from their solution
that is worse than the problem.
Bacteria and viruses have existed
as long as life on this planet
has existed,
but there is one thing,
one bringer of destruction,
and death
that has existed only
a few sad centuries,
namely modern man.
Modern man,
that most deadly of forces,
most deadly of foes,
enemy of all creatures,
enemy of all life,
is the true virus,
and a truly terrifying virus
it is!
Modern man, who are you
to wreak such havoc?
Even Satan would be ashamed
at having made you.
Modern man destroys all
he touches,
and spreads out of control
like a plague,
which erases all beauty
from the face of the earth.
Bacteria, viruses, and parasites
are part of the grand ecosystem,
and for countless eons
we have coexisted with them
and they have made us stronger,
but now we have become Death,
destroyer of worlds,
and we, in our hubris,
are destroying even ourselves,
in our aim to destroy the few
lifeforms that could take us down
into the deep, dank soil
from which we sprang.
So we create our chemicals,
our putrid, hateful, vile, insidious
chemicals,
and we spray, spray, spray them
until we feel confident we have
eradicated a virus,
but we are the virus,
and we have turned all places,
both sacred
and profane,
and the earth itself
into a giant gas chamber.
These gases, made by evil corporations,
Clorox, Lysol, etc.,
smell and taste inhuman,
and burn the eyes of anyone who gets near;
they reek of death.
Modern, hubristic, man
proudly seated in his machines
smiles at turning the beautiful, sacred planet
into a dome of poison gases,
but since he is a virus,
perhaps he should
—instead—
disinfect himself
by jumping off
the tallest building
he can find.
Poetic justice?
Perhaps.
Symbolism?
Certainly!
We are certainly engaged in a mass,
collective
suicide.
Everything homo sapiens
has created in the last
three hundred years
should be wiped off
the face
of our once,
and potentially still,
beautiful
planet.

Eagle vs. Crows

The motor and the plane and the great war have gone over him, / And Lenin has lived and Jehovah died: while the mother-eagle / Hunts her same hills, crying the same beautiful and lonely cry and / is never tired; dreams the same dreams, / And hears at night the rock-slides rattle and thunder in the throats / of these living mountains. — Robinson Jeffers, “The Beaks of Eagles”

An eagle outside my window:
pure, beautiful, majestic,
seated alone atop a tree
at the top of the world.
But just as there can be
no peace in the world,
there is no peace for
the proud eagle,
who is disturbed
by a frightful flock of crows.
The provoked eagle
flies up and down,
and tries many
evasive maneuvers
without lowering itself
to attack,
then comes the awful sound—
squeek—
from the eagle
as it is attacked,
which wrenches one’s
heart, blood, bones, soul.
On and on it goes,
until the crows tire,
and the eagle resumes its place
on top of the spruce,
on top of the world.
Why must the lower
always attack the higher?
Humans replace truth, beauty, and goodness
with lies, ugliness, and evil.
We think we are like the eagle,
aristocrats,
but even the beetle was sacred
to the ancient Egyptians,
whereas we are now
nothing but producers of filth,
infinitely lower than that which
the beetle rolls.
I challenge you
to name one change,
one discovery,
one revolution,
one innovation,
that made things better,
not worse.
In this time,
when most men
are soulless, mindless, heartless
automata,
who would evolve immensely
by becoming monkeys again,
it is time for us free folk
to rise, rise, rise.
We must stop being
wolves in poodle cages;
we must break free,
then howl, howl, howl
with our hearts.
We must break free
from the collars and chains
that bind us,
namely work—
for work, even willing work
is none other than slavery—
and society, and religions—
not Religion—
and unleash a new
dawn, a new savagery
upon the world.
The pampered poodle
automaton-machine-people
have wreaked enough horrors;
their time is up.
Let the new people
be like the eagle
and the wolf
and be done with the crows.
Let all that we have built
crumble to dust,
so that future generations
of woman and man
may howl at the moon,
run naked through the
fields,
be kin to the proud eagle,
and never, never
know the evil, vile, terrible
cursed machine.

Two Moons

If the Sun and Moon should doubt, / They’d immediately go out. — William Blake, “Auguries of Innocence”

By living on a planet with one sun
and one moon,
it seems to have given rise
in our very beings
to a view of the universe
that is ordered and unitary.
There is something to be said for
chaos and polytheism.
Two moons,
multiple moons may have reinforced the
ancient propensity towards pluralism.
Why then did the ancients have
such pluralistic conceptions?
For them, the universe was a wide
open space that gently,
gently, harbored the Gods.
Heidegger is not naive:
he knows that what science states
about our solar system is largely true,
but he vociferously states
that the Copernican revolution was an
abomination!
It was a travesty for our hearts
and minds.
The ancients felt that the sky was a numinous brightness
and stars were holes poked in a curtain that draped our world
to shield us from a beauty
we could not fathom.
Sure, balls of matter
and gas
may be more accurate,
but what does it matter!?
The ancient theory is far, far more beautiful,
a beauty that was reflected from our souls
as from a brightly polished mirror,
whereas now our souls,
after centuries of bombardment by unity,
and logic,
have become dull,
tarnished,
and rusty,
like an old mining machine.

Humanity is Like Medusa

There are too many people on earth / insipid, unsalted. rabbity, endlessly hopping. / They nibble the face of the earth to a desert. — D.H. Lawrence, “There are too many people”

Humanity is like Medusa:
one brief look into its eyes
and all of creation turns
to stone.
Humanity is like the Lernaean Hydra:
when one of its appendages
falls away,
another two, three, multitude
spring up in its place.
Even through all the
wars, famines, plagues,
the law holds firm:
the tentacles are multiplying
exponentially!
As Lawrence stated,
there are too many people
nibbling the face of the Earth to a dessert.
And it is true:
humans are a vicious virus
which has infected this planet.
Just look to Chernobyl,
that most terrible of calamities
for earth and animal;
even there life thrives
only after the demise of the human.
This planet is a great ship,
but the many-tentacled
Hydra-humanity with a Medusa gaze
is weighing it down,
and the sacred Earth is dying.
Linkola states that in such circumstances,
you can either let the ship sink
or grab an axe and start
hacking away at limbs.
Well, it is time to start hack—
hack, hacking away
at the terrifying tentacles
of humanity.
But no! For each slithering snake
that is cut down,
more, far more
evil serpents take their places,
so grab your axes
oh you who have not
fallen prey to the evil
of human civilization,
you whose hearts still
beat with an animal rhythm,
unlike the stone-hearted masses,
and cleave away at the
thick neck of human civilization.
Ah yes! The head is severed,
and the house has come down,
and the soulless masses of men and women,
who are no more than meat
will die.
But the death of human civilization
does not mean the death
of all humans.
There are those who pledged
their souls to the dark lord,
and whose hearts, minds, and bodies
burn with a fiery flame.
Upon the death knell of civilization,
these elite few
will be truly free,
and they will freely give up
science and the trappings of culture
to live like the animals they are.
And after some time
these free few will burn, burn
with the savage and fierce
Heraclitean fire,
and their hearts will
thump thump with the raging power
of a wild stallion,
and their blood will boil
with the ferocity of a wild lion
on the hunt,
and they will once again,
finally,
see the gods,
for the gods will have come back from
their long absence.
Zeus will once again
sit atop Mt. Olympus,
Dionysus will once
again sip wine from
the vines of Greece,
and the sacred spaces,
all of them,
will reverberate
once again with sanctity.
And all the Earth,
the birds, the beasts, and the flowers,
will cheer loudly
in their own languages
for the triumph of life
over the machine.
And the gods will laugh
in their dark and mysterious manner
about human folly and hubris.
Then all will once again be
as it should be,
and all that was
profaned
shall be sacred,
again.

Modern Minarets

Ancestral voices prophesying war! / The shadow of the dome of pleasure / Floated midway on the waves; / Where was heard the mingled measure / From the fountain and the caves. — Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Kubla Khan”

Brick by brick
they built it,
towering up to the sky;
a marvel of pure verticality.
The minaret,
the world’s tallest
was a shining symbol to
believers that we
may come from the Earth,
but are destined for the heavens.
But now, centuries later,
that minaret, long since
eclipsed in height,
and whose symbolism
is forgotten,
stands lonely
among a sea of
modern minarets;
modern monstrosities.
The modern minaret,
put together quickly from steel,
towers into the sky,
but the microwave radiation
spawning from its maniacal
structure
is a symbol of pure horizontality
in the reign of quantity.
No longer does the muezzin
shout the beautiful call to
prayer;
Instead, the modern minaret
pulses out ones and zeros
calling the mindless, robot, masses
to pray with their
worn our fingers
and burnt out eyes
to the only god—
they know—
the god of the machine,
presiding over the
church of the phone.

Everything Has a Season

The man of understanding can no more sit quiet and resigned while his country lets literature decay than a good doctor could sit quiet and contented while some ignorant child was infecting itself with tuberculosis under the impression that it was merely eating jam tarts. — Ezra Pound, “ABC of Reading”

All things have their season,
unless you are in America,
where everything is always
in season,
yet really
nothing is ever
in season.
Supermarket shelves
are full of everything
imaginable…
except taste.
Welcome to the future,
where all that can be imagined is always available,
but it tastes like cardboard.
America, land of the flavorless,
home of the bland.

Robot Imam

It is curious, too, that though the modern man in the street / is a robot and incapable of love / he is capable of an endless, grinding, nihilistic hate — D. H. Lawrence, “Robot Feelings”

He stands facing the qibla
like an hour hand faces the number twelve,
and his motions are just as mechanical.
He bows down not to God,
but to the nothingness inside himself,
just as the hour hand bows to three.
Down he goes in a rapid wave
of mechanical motion,
with nothing in his mind,
a heart of stone,
and a soul as empty
as the vast, black,
void of space,
akin to the watch reaching six.
Up he goes on his knees,
like the clock striking nine,
but the words he utters,
are utterly meaningless,
for they are recited by rote,
without the fervent devotion,
which raises one up.
Now our clock strikes twelve,
our Imam rises, and
the cycle begins again,
but it is all so hollow,
since our Imam is a hollow man,
a robot,
and robots can’t love God
and are hated by God,
and the angels.
Amen.

Clock Time

When writing was withdrawn from the origin of its essence, i.e. from the hand, and was transferred to the machine, a transformation occurred in the relation of Being to man. — Martin Heidegger, “Parmenides”

Being and Time are inextricably
intertwined.
To attain the fullness of
being,
One must unravel time,
like a chain tangles
through the ages.
To unravel time, one must
understand it,
but, alas, we are farther,
farther away than ever,
for we think of time
in terms of the clock,
but time has existed far back
in the black expanses
before even Stonehenge,
and shall exist long after
the last watch has returned
to that from which it sprung.
Time is everything and nothing
all at once;
it is the ancients listening to
their oral tales;
it is the bird experiencing the
numinous brightness of the Sun,
but it is not sitting in front of
a device.
That is not time;
that is death!
The ancients aimed to attain to Nothingness;
The moderns are just nothing;
null, void, machine humanity.

Heidegger on Bees

The world now appears as an object open to the attacks of calculative thought, attacks that nothing is believed able any longer to resist. Nature becomes a gigantic gasoline station, an energy source for modern technology and industry. This relation of man to the world as such, in principle a technical one, developed in the seventeenth century first and only in Europe. It long remained unknown in other continents, and it was altogether alien to former ages and histories. — Martin Heidegger, “Discourse on Thinking”

We are all beings
be-ing towards Being,
but to taste life’s sweet honey,
we must learn to start
bee-ing!
The Earth is a hive
filled with drones and workers,
be-ing unto death,
and the only escape
is the path of authenticity;
the path of the Queen.
The collective builds their
cells of honey, while
we build our cell-phone towers,
and we think we are in control,
but we are mindless automotons,
being called from the standing reserves.
Do you have the courage to live
the path of the Queen,
and fight alongside the gods?
For “only a god can save us now!”

Fireflies

Many a night I saw the Pleiads rising thro’ the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver braid. — Alfred Tennyson, “Locksley Hall”

When I was younger and
I looked up to the skies,
I would see a host of
beautiful, floating, fluttering
fireflies,
but now the skies are empty,
as if lightning bugs
have died,
and this realization
wounds me to my core,
and makes me want to cry.
But now the crying is done,
and I feel rage in my chest,
so I channel Thor, god of
thunder and lightning (bugs),
and I rain down horrible
hellfire on all humanity,
then risen from the ashes,
like a phoenix,
long after our demise,
the world is once again
filled with
beautiful, floating, fluttering
fireflies.

Cities of Steel

With usura hath no man a house of good stone / each block cut smooth and well fitting / that design might cover their face, / with usura / hath no man a painted paradise on his church wall… Usura rusteth the chisel / It rusteth the craft and the craftsman / It gnaweth the thread in the loom… / Usura slayeth the child in the womb… / They have brought whores for Eleusis / Corpses are set to banquet / at behest of usura. — Ezra Pound, “Canto XLV”

I walk this lonely road,
but the only thing I feel,
is overpowering hatred
for these cities of steel.
No longer are we tied to
earth, mud, mother, life,
but we build our towers
of babel up into the sky,
and we think we are gods,
but the gods laugh at us
and our folly.
They could stamp out
our cities like a boot
on an anthill…
But not yet.
There are still
believers in the hidden
dark gods,
and so long as even one
follower of the gods
remains true to
the old ways,
they will let us fight,
so we may enter
Valhalla, where there
is no glass, no concrete,
no buildings of steel.
Let none enter here who
has ever used a “smart” phone.

Death of the Worm

Now it is autumn and the falling fruit / and the long journey towards oblivion. / The apples falling like great drops of dew / to bruise themselves an exit from themselves. / And it is time to go, to bid farewell / to one’s own self, and find an exit / from the fallen self. / Have you built your ship of death, O have you? / build your ship of death, for you will need it. — D. H. Lawrence, “Ship of Death”

Crack, boom, the thunder
echoes out loudly,
and the sky reverberates
as it is filled with alternating
bursts of light.
The clouds open up and
release a torrential
downpour of rain.
The rivers overflow,
water tables rise,
and he is caught, caught
in the flood, sad thing.
Fight, fight with the
fire of your being, proud
creature, but no,
no, it is too late,
he has died
and gone back
to the earth from
whence he sprung,
but unlike us,
he lived and died
full of dignity
and fire in the guts.
Goodbye sad creature.
The death of the worm.

Sarajevo Smog

Civilization is uprising, insurrection, revolution; culture is the war of state against state, or of machines against people… Civilization is tolerance, detachment and humor, or passion, anger, revenge; culture is the entrance examination, the gas chamber, the doctoral dissertation and the electric chair; … Civilization is Jesus turning water into wine; culture is Christ walking on the waves; Civilization is a youth with a Molotov cocktail in his hand; culture is the Soviet tank or the L.A. cop that guns him down; Civilization is the wild river; culture, 592,000 tons of cement; Civilization flows; culture thickens and coagulates, like tired, sick, stifled blood. — Edward Abbey, “Desert Solitaire”

The smog covering Sarajevo
is literal and figurative:
Not only does the smog
poison the lungs,
but it poisons the hearts
of the masses.
From the coal miners in Zenica,
who have been suffocated
by capitalism,
to the people of the town
suffocated by coal smoke,
a dark, and foreboding
feeling, hangs over Sarajevo.
Once, perhaps, people were
warm,
loving,
kind…
but now they stare,
hoping to see another
experiencing greater
misfortune,
so they may feel
they are not
the most wretched of the Earth.
Unfortunately,
we are all,
all over the world,
experiencing great suffering.
The smog hanging over Sarajevo,
both figurative and literal
will soon envelop this
entire planet
due to the careless destruction
of the environment,
and the mechanization
of the modern human.
War is only a faster
version of Fordism,
so the sad faces
adorning Bosnian
cities,
soon may
paint
this entire world
a dreary shade of gray.

Eyes and Cycle of Memories

Folks should do their own fuckin’, then they wouldn’t want to listen to a lot of clatfart about another man’s. — D.H. Lawrence, “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”

Eyes

A beautiful eye is
like the sun.
A momentary glance
into the right eyes
is akin in feeling to the liberation of
the prisoner from
the Platonic cave,
but don’t look too
long or the
ensuing
ecstatic orgy
of human symbiosis
caused by eyes,
the most powerful
and most subtle
of human sex organs
will burn one
alive like a butterfly
who ventured too close
to the flame
and then
…
nothingness
but nothingness
is the fundamental
principle of
reality
it is all there
is
so let us join
our eyes
together and
see how
luminously
ethereal
beautiful
nothingness may be

Cycle of Memories

A good book
brings back memories
of late meetings
please, thank you, you are welcome
orange juice,
awkward moments,
followed by beautiful moments:
love making,
Palestine,
Black Panthers,
and cute cats.
But with the good
comes the bad
and with the bad
comes the good.
Sometimes—
perhaps inevitably—
long walks and kung-pao
give way to blood-suckers,
ghosts from the past,
and mirrors,
that most powerful
of all enemies
who tell you that you
are not the fairest one
of all
and who
poison your mind
and soul
with images of uncertainty
and doubt
until it all implodes;
the soul becoming a black hole
that sucks in all that once was good,
and when the darkness is over
love making and orange juice
can begin again, and again,
and the cycle of lightness
and darkness
continues
until one day while reading
a good book
a memory surfaces
about fun times
in the rain
and awkward moments,
and this cycle of light
and dark
and memory
continues until one
becomes food for the worms,
unless they live fearing the dark.
But without the dark,
there is no light
and
a life lived this way
makes one worm food
while breathing;
makes one
one of the living dead,
so in this short life
one should
enjoy the rainy days
and German heroines,
learning to fight
the angry mirrors
and resentful ghosts,
for soon the worms will
be full of foul flesh
and someone else
will be having memories
of late meetings,
book inscriptions,
cute cats,
and rainy days.

The Owl of Minerva

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, / The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before; / The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air, / And the clouds perish’d; darkness had no need / Of aid from them—she was the Universe. — Lord Byron, “Darkness”

Oh Sun,
harbinger of death,
nuclear warhead in the sky,
ball of fire,
Calligula’s bitch,
is there nothing
you wouldn’t do
to make people worship you?
Oh Moon,
ball of light,
or so it seems;
erotic participant
in Simo’s dreams:
from sacred darkness
your essence is shorn
to partake in the epic war
against the one named Ahura,
for what is seen is not
what is true nor what is real,
and like you, we are all light-reflecting faces
caught in gravity fields.
I, the owl of Minerva,
live in the realms of the dark night of the soul,
for darkness is my home
and through it I must roam.
Shocking as it may seem,
realms of light,
and light beams,
are not an aid to vision,
but an object of my derision.
You say that darkness is bitter
and light sweet,
to which I retort:
Without the bitterness
life wouldn’t be so sweet,
sweet as halwah,
sweet as the taste of “The Lilly of Havilah.”
Big bang boomerang,
what goes around comes around,
and after the expansion
must come contraction.
Qabd and bast,
qabd and bast,
ana-al-haqq!
Or am I?
We think we can see in the brightness of day,
and our vision will fail when the light goes away.
That is false,
it’s a lie
spoken to hide
the subversive truth that
it was the prophets,
not the Devil that had lied.
But if theirs was a lie,
it was noble indeed,
a lie to prevent corruption and greed.
Then history happened
with wars and with rape.
This is the form of our existence
and our human shape.
So to reach the Truth in this postmodern spectacle,
we must become Iblis’ receptacle.
A Faustian bargain is life’s little cure
for a sad and meandering existence,
often a bore,
for the Devil is good
and his truths are sublime,
his way is the left-handed path,
which is so hard to climb.
So I join the clan of the Devil tonight,
to seek the One who brought all to life.
I become the seeker seeking the Sought,
in this world of violence and strife.
I am the owl of Miverva,
the apple of your eye,
and the winged cherubim you’ll see when you die.
I am all of this and much more:
I am a prophet,
I am a whore.
I am everything
and nothing at all,
I am the apple,
I am the fall.