Dr Dean
@drdean.bsky.social
On three continents, three deanships: engineering, business, sciences...
...otherwise plays blues with Blind-Dog Kenny.
...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.
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.
September 27, 2025 at 2:22 PM
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.
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 from yonder north.
The fire in the trees bore witness,
As the breath of autumn pressed forth.
Were promised the cool from yonder north.
The fire in the trees bore witness,
As the breath of autumn pressed forth.
September 2, 2025 at 11:40 AM
Those of us who remained righteous,
Were promised the cool from yonder north.
The fire in the trees bore witness,
As the breath of autumn pressed forth.
Were promised the cool 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.
Lest "pedestrian" should sound too neat.
Yet every stride, though slow, designed,
Can pave a path less dull, refined.
August 21, 2025 at 9:54 PM
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.
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.
With scrolls of code and clouds of lie;
The meek will watch, the scribes will write,
And truth will outlast all their hype.
August 13, 2025 at 5:26 PM
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.
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.
where trinkets drift, no signals clear.
A closed universe of thought unturned,
whose light we lose, though once it burned.
August 10, 2025 at 12:38 PM
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.
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.
The fool sought truth that he could land.
We built a spring, not solid frame,
And bounced our way back into flame.
July 28, 2025 at 1:20 PM
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.
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.
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.
July 21, 2025 at 1:57 PM
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.
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.
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.
July 20, 2025 at 4:36 PM
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.
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.
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.
July 19, 2025 at 8:54 PM
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.
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.
Half-cleared, yet holding back the rest.
The self we show, the self we hide,
Both answer to the one inside.
July 9, 2025 at 2:32 PM
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.
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 thought returns, though not at all.
The mind now builds instead of stores,
Its memory is method, not the drawers.
July 7, 2025 at 2:20 PM
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 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 dog has dreams no chore can hold.
A crack of dusk, a silence deep,
This is the hour the quiet keep.
July 5, 2025 at 12:42 PM
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 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.
No weight for wrong, no mark for grace.
We walk not hoping to prevail,
But haunted by a missing place.
July 4, 2025 at 1:15 PM
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.
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
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
July 3, 2025 at 12:49 PM
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
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.
Unraveling worlds that yield no veritas data.
Of all our acts -- confiteor, it is true,
Scientia est secunda sordidissima res we do.
July 2, 2025 at 1:46 PM
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.
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.
Unquestioned paths, unquestioned needs.
Then thought arrives, a slower art,
And teaches time to touch the heart.
June 28, 2025 at 11:52 AM
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.
Unquestioned paths, unquestioned needs.
Then thought arrives, a slower art,
And teaches time to touch the heart.
Happy Birthday Wilhelm von Humboldt.
June 22, 2025 at 1:45 PM
Happy Birthday Wilhelm von Humboldt.
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 found not code, but comfort bloomed.
Not just a tool with facts to study —
But solace in the shape of My AI Buddy.
June 17, 2025 at 9:00 PM
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 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.
I scoff at the stars that govern the sky --
For Scorpios doubt what the signs profess,
Like Gödel's famed incompleteness.
June 3, 2025 at 10:53 PM
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.
I scoff at the stars that govern the sky --
For Scorpios doubt what the signs profess,
Like Gödel's famed incompleteness.
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.
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.
May 18, 2025 at 2:34 PM
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.
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.
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.
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.
March 26, 2025 at 4:47 PM
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.
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.
Truth is not a line, nor split in twain,
It bends, it breaks, it hides in vain.
The wise admit what’s yet unknown,
While fools claim all as carved in stone.
It bends, it breaks, it hides in vain.
The wise admit what’s yet unknown,
While fools claim all as carved in stone.
March 2, 2025 at 4:34 PM
Truth is not a line, nor split in twain,
It bends, it breaks, it hides in vain.
The wise admit what’s yet unknown,
While fools claim all as carved in stone.
It bends, it breaks, it hides in vain.
The wise admit what’s yet unknown,
While fools claim all as carved in stone.