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Conspiracy is wrongdoing with intent, plus, the effort to hide it.

The conspiracy

thinking starts with identifying an unexpected, out-of-ordinary event, something that sounds significant for one reason or another.

The Paradox

The identification itself is usually automatically taken as proof of obfuscation and hiding (thus “conspiracy”) even though paradoxically enough, anything found is proof positive that perhaps the intention was not to hide it to begin with (or the party who did it was not good at concocting a conspiracy).

So paradoxically, the real conspiracy might be those events that we never and will never find out anything about.

Unique, Rare and Out-of-Ordinary

Here is…

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It may be all about loneliness
But we can’t leave it at that
We think we know what hunger is
But chefs, waiters, tables they all must exist.

It may be all about what we share
But what’s a little hurt between friends?
Love must bite to feed
Promises, late nights, phone calls, regrets.

It may be all about nothing, a total nonsense
We lecture, brag, then backtrack
Meaning needs a lot to persist
Videos, cards, birthdays, and bouncing checks.

It may be all about envy
Others are perfect in what we don’t know
Sometimes a dog barks without a cat
Odds are…

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Once upon a time
I thought a child
Was a small adult
Minus brains.

Please understand:
I was just starting out
With my certification studies.

I thought a rock
Could learn
How to write code
And make a lot of dough
If only it were

Ocean is water
I thought,
Sky is round
Love is peaches
And I’ll never die
Simply because
I haven’t
So far.

I wish I knew
That Hanuman
Is ain’t your grandfather’s monkey.

The wars started
With the first kill in Africa
The first gorgeous lie
Ran wild in Altamira
With the first bull on a wall…

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Variation 1 — Train to Ankara

Many years ago I was traveling on a train from the Turkish city of Izmir to Ankara.

Suddenly the train lurched and stopped, iron wheels screeching.

After a few minutes, a conductor appeared, explaining we’d be waiting for a while until “the accident” on the rail is cleared.

I got curious.

I climbed down my wagon and walked all the way to the hissing and ticking locomotive in the front.

There it was: rammed by the huge diesel engine and crushed like a soda can, a small two-door car with two bodies tucked inside.

A father and son most probably…

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A son grows into his father, perhaps.
A pony hurts to race just before the fall.

We have to step out to the shore
Wolf down a pizza, tip well and call it a day.

Stained pillows and noisy rooms with leaky units
Is the part
The management had to be creative about.

Draw from the shoulder, son
Let the marker shake with hope
But draw a plan.

Construct the city
Inhabit with joy!
Flip the switch
It’s your own grained clip
Of a silent flick.

Leave a note, not a novel
Say I’ll be back
And leave fingerprints on the…

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We are past our prime, joggers over sixty
Limbs bent like olive trees
Some money in the bank but hair falling
We either don’t know what we’re doing
Or too proud to quit,
We’re running.

I once brought back to my wife
Daffodils that I picked up on a hill
Another time,
An antique earring
The more you run
The more you find.

There’s the skinny guy with a goatee, for example
Who runs busy like falling forward
Must be an architect, a consultant, or an economist
Too fast for me to keep up with.

When I yell from afar…

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I used to cover my knees with my blanket on a lazy afternoon or a rainy evening and make a tent, sometimes with my flashlight in my hand for extra light. What a perfect place that was to read my first novels at the age of twelve, my mind pole-vaulting across the world with such joy and freedom…

That was one of my first personal spaces, followed by many others. Space was identity and it still is. Whatever that little tent allowed me to turn into, that I became.

Later in life, the tent was replaced by rooms, houses, offices…

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A slow-moving conveyor
Of molten pearl
Willows sweep its surface
River floats like a sheet of gold
Sun sparks flicker a broken dance.

There’s nobody at this isolated spot
It’s me, a cloud of gnats
And emerald dragonflies.
I take off my shoes and socks
In silence.

The water is a door
That opens to another address
I excuse myself through the phragmites
Hard rush and reed-sweet grass
Step by step I wade in
Despite the misgivings of a rational mind.

“The pants — what about the pants?”
The auditor begins to scream
Up to my knees and I’m still inching
Through the…

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It’s time to pay attention to these things. You’re your own hot dog which is fine. No judgment there. I used to gun the car at yellow. Once you called. The Caller ID said it was you. I didn’t answer. Just to see the limits of what was possible. But things have changed. Now they charge for idiocy.

For one thing, we’re running out of time. Kind people touch me with adjectives. I accept them to honor our predicament. We are the common subject of this listening experiment.

“Many who are first will be the last, and many who are…

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Let’s forgive and forget this error.

Let’s go upside down.

Ice cream cones let them melt.

Unlatch the hatch in custody.

Unzipped package at the cusp

Donated to public library.

Who’s gonna wonder next since a birth is a judgment?

Brave like a screwdriver is how we are

Hungry like a bank loan

Weather reports dancing around a hurricane.

Last call at any cost and all drinks are on the house

The ugly guy gets a coupon

The ugly girl a wall calendar.

Life is short like a paycheck but easy like an MP3.

I’m hit so many times


Ugur Akinci, Ph.D.

Fortune 100 writer. Top Quora author. Lifelong information chunker. Pattern investigator. Online course creator. Father. Husband. Brother. Mentor.

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