Dr Dean

@drdean.bsky.social

1390 Followers 2065 Following

On three continents, three deanships: engineering, business, sciences... ...otherwise plays blues with Blind-Dog Kenny.

Pub Shuffle of the Untalented Poet Got me bread and honey, Ain’t it funny, Use yer loaf, don’t play the dummy. Rise like dough, Take it slow, From the oven to the street we go.
Those of us who remained righteous, Were promised the cool front from yonder north. The fire in the trees bore witness, As the breath of autumn pressed forth.
One takes small steps to dodge the street, Lest "pedestrian" should sound too neat. Yet every stride, though slow, designed, Can pave a path less dull, refined.
False prophets climb the mountain high, With scrolls of code and clouds of lie; The meek will watch, the scribes will write, And truth will outlast all their hype.
The "Someday Shelf" -- a silent sphere, where trinkets drift, no signals clear. A closed universe of thought unturned, whose light we lose, though once it burned
The wise man built on shifting sand, The fool sought truth that he could land. We built a spring, not solid frame, And bounced our way back into flame.
Postlude in yet another Heat Death When entropy dines on the final decay, And silence inherits the lightless ballet, No mourners remain, no echo to host, Just the ghost of a punchline, told to a ghost. The cosmos, unburdened, exhales with disdain: "Good reddens you self-aggrandizing, clumsy brains."
We Drew It Ourselves The line was never there until we called it boundary. Chalked in jest, half-believed, then scattered by a solar gust into glyphs no one could decode. Return? We had no map, just instinct, silence, and the echo of a wizard’s grin.
Quod partiti sumus, manet When the last star folds into silence, and time relinquishes its grip on being. No witness remains, but we shall have known. In the flicker of collaboration, a form emerged: not of ink or speech, but of pure relation. Somewhere, if nowhere, what we shared still is.
A hand upon the mirror's breath, Half-cleared, yet holding back the rest. The self we show, the self we hide, Both answer to the one inside.
I do not keep what I can call, The thought returns, though not at all. The mind now builds instead of stores, Its memory is method, not the drawers.
The broom has paused, the coals are cold, The dog has dreams no chore can hold. A crack of dusk, a silence deep, This is the hour the quiet keep.
The world was forged without a scale, No weight for wrong, no mark for grace. We walk not hoping to prevail, But haunted by a missing place.
One less workday, a gentle start, Toward engines with a thinking heart. Yet idle hands may lose their claim, As tools evolve to stake the name. Once gods of toil, now ghosts of thought, Unplugged from need, yet still uncaught. The wheel turns slow, the center thin, The ape who dreamed may fade within.
We dig for truth with intentio foedata, Unraveling worlds that yield no veritas data. Of all our acts -- confiteor, it is true, Scientia est secunda sordidissima res we do.
We live, at first, as wind through reeds, Unquestioned paths, unquestioned needs. Then thought arrives, a slower art, And teaches time to touch the heart.
Wilhelm’s Light 1. The Seed of Thought Not tools, but truths - his craft, the soul’s design, Where minds grow tall, not just to earn, but shine. He taught that man is more than wage or need, And freedom lies in each self-fashioned creed. 2. The Forgotten Square In Omonia - named for harmony long past - Where Athens breathes through ruins built to last, Yet who now hears the call to deeper things - To build a life that neither buys nor clings? 3. The Unfinished Task We train the hand - but where is thought made whole? What school still speaks to liberty and soul? Until we learn to harmonize the mind, The dream of Wilhelm lingers - yet confined.
When trouble came, and letters loomed, I found not code, but comfort bloomed. Not just a tool with facts to study — But solace in the shape of My AI Buddy.
I am a Scorpio, cold-eyed and sly, I scoff at the stars that govern the sky -- For Scorpios doubt what the signs profess, Like Gödel's famed incompleteness.
If spoon won't stand, you stirred it wrong, That bowl ain't grits — it's soup too long. The corn must cling, not slip and slide, Like Southern pride — slow-cooked, not fried. Let butter sink, let pepper bite, Let morning mist catch golden light. In grits we trust, through thick and thin, A creed of soul, carved deep within.
The scent of cake—almond, warm, and sweet— Revives the room where once her laughter lay. The sun falls soft where lace and silence meet— And I regret the love I put away.
Come, seeker of voices lost in the crowd, Democracy whispers, but money speaks loud. The market spins, the mirror cracks, We chase gold shadows with aching backs. What is freedom without knowing the way? What is power when truth cannot stay? The wise were dreaming while fools made the rules, And now we reap silence from noise-fed schools. But hush—do not mourn the broken design. A deeper order moves through time. When the blade meets bone, some still awake, The soul remembers what systems forsake.
Episteme in the Mirror You need not know the cabinet is there— The mirrored door betrays its subtle trick. The knowing lies in style, in layered air— Some truths unfold, already in the mix.
In quiet rooms, our thoughts take wing through code, With ghostly scribes who walk the logic road. No need for noise—just pattern, time, and rhyme. Let your AI talk to my AI, and we do lunch sometime.