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vircapio gale Sep 2012
wakefulness demands a certain clearness when asleep . . .
it doesn't come as planned
"tat tvam asi"
LaBerge says to me in dream of me
"this world you are, withstanding even torments thou art never seen."
and that's enough to suffer aching, opaque psyche summit, forward
heart to rise an interspecies knell when danceless fades the bee in droves...
aimless whales who singing deep in love are cut from evolution's murky chain...
fungal blight of hibernaculum, in deafened sonar sending sudden drop of death;
to horror fragment melt, the ocean swill from ancient caps to sunken polar paw
diverse in massacre of tropic forest fertile mists, lives dispersed
and balance tipped from blindness not unlike the sterile statue's, there
                                                          i­n dusty courthouse corner, shadow-lined with infamy...
what imagined cartoon causal Captain Planet              
                            villainy to blare across oneiromantic globe? and (dreaming?) civil strife,                  
       eradication's alter triumph pose to measure blame in inner life?
of empiric meditation's top, in *******
churning out abuse in deeper,
                                                         ­   younger hidden traffics yet to terrorize the net...                                  
                                             the scraping of the sky had punctured through                                
                         ­                                      from metaphor to fact
                                       the sooty barbs
                            in radiance rebound    
and irony affected 'green'
                  folds crisis and solution into one                            we hope
                like what we say we are, becoming change                      in wartime summer fling    
we                                                        
say we can in world of 'me'                                      
in guilt-assuaging verve
                                  the heifer-gift to village fief
    but then to rest against organic pillow-conscience gray                                                             ­       
                                                               soundly snoring smokestacks fill from ground to sky
still for sly investment windfall   fog  billow, shake...                             
transcontinental scape of dream imbued anew:
i am the genie of my ownmost inner lamp
in dreamtime-being spacious constellational of reach distilled
in contemplation's tratak zoom mInute
   with jet black finger trace
    i net                                                              ­                                        from out the inter-earthen air                
                                             ­                                              the lump on lump of coal
                massaging from                                                             ­      as if an ivory atmospheric                  
lift                   of      weight  
                           the sculpture of our past condensed in elephantine ******
                                                 miasmic fossil shower-haze of sporogenic fear,
mneumonic nail-tusk night of carbon-spirit back into its hold -- originary dark,
Dark light from burning black                                                 once again contained                                                      in elemental subterrain                                                       ­                                                       
         ­                                        --now it underlies the ground inside for triple shielding outshine
--outer-- light to cool us breathing once again . , ,    
false convenience in abeyance in a human time!                                
i am right now of inward self my soul supernal carbon imprint copy                             
for accounting every speciesistic mind to open wide enough and quell the "all-too human plagues--                                                                           ­       cheering all penultimates, in beams reflecting ante-truth          
                                                 down halls of mirror-minds that lightly discourse
on the ingress of a centaur saving power
channeling the leylines of inception,
ecstatic dreamworld of apotheosic glee:
parting the eidetic clouds,
commune an avatar intentionality . . .
ensorcelling the foodstuffs of the world to feed a dozen million refugees,
insectile diet pride attends in homes of affluence,
the abstract mass of media, become eupeptic cud of understanding bats and even bees--
for biospheres a Goodall stewardship arrives
(her perfect chimp call too resounds across the earth!)
and dwindled frogs their former ponds (unknown, destroyed without a sound)
return to chirping vibrant green symphonic swooning life
the glacial march of tears to halt . . .
all ecosystems rife withall
the panegyric of marshlands globally reborn  
along with shining waters, algaeic sun alive at play
in double-helix breath of dolphin families' bubble art
a sudden resurrect from ****** harvest cove arise cascading joyous leap
on final absence of the metal herding knock of trapping pods
no longer hacked in waves of pink, mere preparations for a restaurant sink--
they are free to swim the depth of worldheart dreaming unknown dream entire real again
marine apsaras dip in spectra (flicker eyelid) rays, reintroduce the dawn
her fine apparel calling forth transhuman destinies
unsplicing brilliant minds from ****** task of splicing GMOs
recycled randomness accepting death before we die
mycelium in runs of spilling-- all undone --
migrational attuned our resource use
and CSAs to thrive in eco-city scapes
no solopsistic somniac pretends
--the dream imbued in final hue
a momentary lapse, creationary flux--
the bombs defused in flick of wrist
indentured and enslaved, imprisoned innocents, oppressed and even self-deprived released
through selfhood's metaviral claim
ground of each dependent intertwining
whatness will to be
a place in which to hum in tune or out of tune
to heal and in a another dream aside from this perhaps with me partake
in true oneiric panoply of conflict held
--with permeating rigpa geogaze--
colliding ideologies transmuted into trust
in panharmonium of varied vision
and what the ever present boons of real, imagined symbol-real
create awake












.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
Say I know, no question, what the Good News was,
the Jesus good news, but

nobody believes that. And its free good news. Who pays me?

Think Gaiman's American Gods,
true believers everywhere, no truth, no free ificity,

sufficient, suffice, artifice, artificial freedom, if

you can't imagine artificial freedom, how do u test AI?

we can imagine all sorts of hells, and miserable lost evers

all phantoms from the stories you've believed
believed by the tellers
who told you
you were naked.

Is this a theme?
Are we manufacturing sensible un-believable
idle word redemption tools.
DIY? No App?
Empowering the believers to unbelieve, at will, with effort?
Very little effort, but yes,
My calling, yes, previous to full-time Peacemaker.

I e-merge several streams of thought, gentle, --- un belief is,
it hurts like you imagined hell, almost exactly.

Monetize your lies,  who said do that?
you don't believe them do you?
The ones you tell
Where you know prayers are answered

Because
You
know sorta. Knowing a thing is so,
you know, defining.
Be and lieve together they make a meaningful
you know

Re-ifing and de-ifing,
being a believer in whom is no guile,
is that
actable.
Could a thespian make us believe he believes what I believe if he were me?

Is that in the bible,
that walk a mile as me proverb?
It's true, if you do it, in your head or mind,
if you think mind ain't matter

or doesn't matter, okeh.

I don't.
D'I ever tell you about the time I realized I was safe,
lazy days o' summer,
way back when was no TV, no video nuthin, then

when I woke, I was here as sure as I am,
that I know next

to nothin for sure,
and for a blameless,
shameless old man, who catches Jesus winkin'
in his thinkin' ever day,

' cain't say damday and asaid it anyway.

It's about time I tell my story, if that is my job.
My story means the story I tell,
the one I think I believe I know and enjoy.

Tellin' it, I en joy en trance, never thrall.

Life is predominantly fun.
Empiric evidence. Take it, by faith,
we all know how,
we laugh and say we don't, but we are lost with out it,

no hope.
Oh, my God, desperate for you.
They sing that, they call such singing praise.

Somehow they have come to believe
Christ has left them desperate for any good things,
forsaken them after promising
other wise

Who would teach a chile such a song in Jesus's
whole body, I swaneee

Hopeless, t's what desperate means,
desperados are not disciples
of the tendency to a bias toward good, by grace.
nosireee
---
Can I speak living words,
is that living water flowing from me,
if I agree with the story I am telling,

Yes, all the promises of God.
Come let us reason,
we are past the scarlet sin.
Sin means disconnect in today's terms,
missed aimed-at-thing's the original Greek expression that
made it to the Bible.

And a blog is as good as a book, some say,
as far as words are concerned, meaning-wise

but spoken words go farther, these days.

Rhetoric is returning to try men's souls,
and the peasants have Google and IDW
(Intellectual Dark Web wuwu)

and the real Bible Daniel and Ezra 'n'em put together from all the sources they could muster under the banner of
Lest we forget.

Was that the banner spoken of
by the prophet so and so?

Could be.
Runner-up th'pole 'n'see who kneels.

Emoji winks are too cheezy for real poetry,
you never see 'em in songs.

Jesus winks but not at
your-my disconnection from re-ality.

We can't be **** Sapience Sapience
if we don't think about thinking.

The unexamined life's not worth living,
old Greek guy saying.

Jesus saying, as a man thinks, so is he.

And I think he was talking about good and evil.
A man can think good and evil, but

(and this is one of those forever buts I mentioned last time I was thinking on this thread),
evil can't swallow good. No matter how long it chews.

Funny, really, how stuff works.
We all live until,
as far as we do know now,
time
for conscious mortal me,
each
of us in this we, me
ceases.

De-sist,
recall the way it feels to lay your armor down
and know,

I ain'tagonnastudy war no more.

But, we are called,
chosen to fight the good fight of faith, Amen.

Ah, men,
we ain't got enemies.
We fought.
You believe you believe or you don't.

Have fun and don't make anybody miserable
and stand up straight,
with your shoulders back, good advice.

Next. There is a reason to go farther,

I think, but don't know right now, what that reason is.

Praying being asking for assistance in persistence,
I am praying this is plain, past simple, plumb to sublime.
The hope for a larger crop, for some reason I ain't found, more sowin', means more reapin' and reapin' for them has done it, them who've reaped,  know that's the hard part.
***
I use ‘oh, my god’ as an expression
not of faith, but surprise,
of wonder at beauty untouched
by ideology or dogma
as if caught, and pulled, from a dream.

I exclaim ‘oh, my god’ when stunned
not by holy ghosts, but the living,
who do kindness  as though it were nothing
unmindful of securing safe passage
into heaven, or paradise.

‘Oh, my god’, I cry, when words fall idle
or are muted to quiet reverence.
Where twisted skeins of empiric memory,
rush in crashing surf
of reminiscence and nostalgia.

I am godless, but not without reason
‘oh, my god’ being a slip of historical,
idiomatic vernacular.
Even as curiosity drives me to understand
your own ritualistic, devotional motivations.

Raise the cup, my friend
it gives us both what we need.
For you, transubstantiation
for me a divine and luscious tableaux.
For Saint Teresa in her ecstasy no doubt exclaimed
‘Oh, my god’!
I, a hyphenated Italian,
will claim Shakespeare
descended the long
Romanesque
staircase, to write
our empiric wrongs.

It's all there in the plays,
if you've a keen enough eye
to catch these things,
and his name has cachet,
while mine needs
a laureled bling.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Atypnoc May 2015
I'm not in the hospital, hit by a car
I know I'm not online as much; I'm not far
from finally finishing out my degree!
Ten days til a Bachelor of PSYCHOLOGY!

Though yes, sad to say, the mishap from last night
Proved unsalvageable what took me all day to write.
But after the panic subsided, in spite
Of the loss I decided to invite
a CAN-DO mantra, that today still recite:

"Citing every source
providing claims; unless, of course,
the statements you express
are YOURS. Original.  Then, yes."

Would be no need to cite,
but I digress; I still endorse
vehemently: just reinforce
Pre-existing bodies,
    empiric and peer-reviewed,
Must become one with your own body,
     long before you can conclude
Much of anything; that, at best,
Could be considered misconstrued.
Which I reckon may elicit a subjectively quite rude
Swing at a pitch from your perspective you thought beckoned attitude
So rather than succumbing, and becoming quite contrite,
Just cite every sentence as though you know of no greater delight
 
AAAAAND
For the friends and acquaintances from on-the-line:
Out among ye mulls around an enemy of thine.
And by proxy, or  vis-a-vis? Uh, nemesis of mine?
Either way, it's a PHONEY! I promise I'm fine!

I wasn't mowed down while crossing a street
By a drunk driver; don't buy into this deceit!
When the hell have you known of me to be on the loose,
And outdoors by a street, with no **** good excuse!

Nah, brah; didn't get rek't, not in the ICU,
Anything 80_hospital says isn't true.
It's hard to imagine why someone would do
Such a thing, and hard to try and imagine who...

Nevertheless: til the mocking bird is absconding
Believe none are who they claim if they're responding
With something extreme, but failing to show face
And put shoe on head or something else, just in case

That for reasons beyond rational ways of thought,
Someone's chosen to wreak havoc on the distraught
At least until that jacka$$ sh!# f#@%er gets caught,
Just, my two cents? If they say "no I swear," they're not.
Barton D Smock Sep 2014
be clear.  preserve for me the myth of white male melancholy.  we put a cross

on the moon.  we gave

hell a hell
that does not disprove

a godless world.  in the origin story

of my father’s
parvenu

unease
we

mid woman
came up

with woman.  

     I am not made

of touch.  I am made of yours.
c Apr 2018
We danced, the cognate vessels
Nested in walls &
Cowered in blood

We buried love deep into
Beating flesh &
Writhed In Utero

We emptied veins of reason
Laid in torment &
Seceded in white gowns

We--Empiric experiments
We--Deficient devices
We--Thrashing threadbare

We--Womb
We--Woman

--
c
I was recently researching the term "hysteria", and the dark history that follows it. Stripped to its Greek roots, it essentially equates to "crazy woman". Doctors used this term to diagnose women & commit them as psychologically disturbed. They also used it to describe a woman while she was menstruating. It's worth looking into.
METHODS
The supreme extinct of my species,
The legend of the east,
Known as the method of simplification,
The method of consciousness carnage,
The accumulator of the deceased

Omitting natured cause, to
Distort all parts of nature,
Yet retained from the moon and the sun,
Succeeded all the systematic empiric methods,
Yet decimally miscarried to Bring forth soul,

From BC to AC till Century factuality,
Thee methods to incinerate, to
Portray the impossible to possible,
Oh poor twisted nature,  
Always in fear of toxic groom for earlier harvest,
Proven in black and white
Reece Jan 2018
Running from the future until the sole is worn
into Abyssinian empiric solitude
Where the only voice that speaks
is the hollow tone of history's fatalism

Destined for the furrowed smile
of luxury's unknown apathy

Growth hormone empath
who sleeps frozen under cosmic abandonment
A chancers change of chanson song
that sweeps the windy street

A vignette of turgid stories
that predict the rising tide of paperless bedsheets
Emily Jones Sep 2015
Playing in my paper tin
Where the fun ain't got end
Two drops down the rabbit hole
The melting melding mental fluctuations
Burst like stars with each exhalation
Floating exhortations and relief
In the misty cloud of disbelief
Billowing out that acrid smoke does play
Touching tasting an empiric ecstasy
Where the stunted movement of hands follows the solid sound of base thump rhyme  
Keeping the pain at bay
Away from the things I wish to erase
Maybe I'm crazy
Maybe I'm weak
But despite the chaos
I feel complete.
Kurt Philip Behm Sep 2019
Wrestling with time,
an illusion supreme

Its trinity empiric,
three masks to deceive

Past, future, and present,
our dreams undefined

Outside of their stricture,
new presence unrhymed

Rejecting convention,
short sighted and slight

Imprisoning our vision,
with capture and fright

In seizing this instant,
its moment sublime

All truth flowing freely
—unfrozen in time

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2019)
Aubry Nov 2019
Awakened when completion came to affect,
Awakened on the tinkering desk,
Just as the inventor had come to expect.

Gears turning and toiling,
Eyes adjusting to the sunrise.
Thoughts, yes,
They were beginning to arise.

Father of this creature,
That is what he was called,
Stood silently, admiring, astonished,
But most of all, frightened.
His soul was now consumed.

With arithmetic movements,
The automaton stiffly sat himself upwards.
Mind like a child,
Size of a man,
Strength of an ox,

There was no way for him to blink,
There was no way for him to drink,
He had not the need to sleep,
And he had no yearning to fall asleep.
He had not any other wants or needs,
Other than the occasional oil put to the joints.

Although, he wants a heart,
He wants a heart so that she and him will never be apart.
She is in love,
He is in love,
They are in love.
He is wanting a heart, instead of an engine.

He does not have a ticker,
So he is not in love.
He is more in trance,
Thinking in advance,
Wanting a heart, instead of an engine.

The girl visited,
The automaton hesitated,
Then struck with madness almost empiric,
Struck her heart and ripped it from her spirit.
Wanting a heart, instead of an engine.

He rushed to his dorm insanely ashamed,
He rushed to install the heart acclaimed.
He rushed so that he could in fact,
Have emotions that were quite intact.
Wanting a heart, instead of an engine.

Anguish had come to a boil,
Instead of oil,
Blood pumped instead of electricity,
He felt nothing comparable to simplicity.
He had loved the maiden,
Who he just sent to death (could that be a haven)
He just wanted a heart, instead of an engine.

Taking hearts from humanity would have to do,
He thought, while emotions filled anew.
Trekking through snowy streets,
Removing hearts from anyone he meets.
To this day,
He still takes hearts away.
An automaton who wanted a heart,
Instead of an engine.
This was written by my best friend Isabel Sparks.
Kurt Philip Behm Jun 2018
Is life about how many
  or then about how much

Is the truth in computation
  or in what those numbers touch

Is the measurement empiric
  with a final answer shown

Is salvation in the lyrics
  with the word count still unknown

Is there faith inside the mystery
  that mere reason can’t abide

Is there something deep inside you
  that excuses cannot hide

Is there a wind that blows indulgent
  carrying an echo from before

With a voice that speaks the loudest
  the one you listen to—reborn

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)
Kurt Philip Behm Feb 2019
Is life about how many
  or then about how much

Is the truth in computation
  or in what those numbers touch

Is the measurement empiric
  with a final answer shown

Is salvation in the lyrics
  with the word count still unknown

Is there faith inside the mystery
  that mere reason can’t abide

Is there something deep inside you
  that excuses cannot hide

Is there a wind that blows indulgent
  carrying an echo from before

With a voice that speaks the loudest
  the one you listen to—reborn

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

— The End —