Wild ideas called seminal,
put forth the first root
prior to the first shoot,

first the blade, then the ear,
then the full corn in the ear,
then the harvest, gathering

fuel for the fire in the belly,
fitting frame and form to task,

as each part player repeats,
the quotidian procession
offering songs sung inside

faith formed bubbles of might,
may haps made per haps good
and easy, easing frets and fears,

recollecting known knowns,
regarding time above ground,
reminding each subroutine

to come, play the role, smile,
fix good will, first form genius
performing projection

shining on time, finding it
comforting to know how long
a time has been in process

of making up our will to try,
once more, our ingratiating
offering, whispering

fire, fire of life, fire in me a will
to find a way of worth to make
seem natural, spiritual, not flesh

the body and the mind,
the body and the will,
the body and the need, the want

the pulling hunger, the generator
calling for sustenance…

if time is life… and comfort
has been achieved, received…

life after nobility, life after expertise,

proven with the worth attested to…

urged whimsically, can we not
make a moment's peace pass

uncontested, indeed, we can and may.

Have a fine day. Or so they say,
wishing without realizing how,
the will to give an encouraging word

weighs lightly on a satisfied mind,
at the end of … ever, again.

Two questions, lost to television
"What is matter?
Never mind.
What is mind?
It does not matter."

Yet, a lifetime later, in nous sense,
minding one's own business, thinking

whose idea is this, who's testing time
for worth, weight of wisdom, left to me,

for my attention paid,
for my notice taken, blank stare, musing
using preserved utterances between we two,

me, and my own will, me and my monkey
discerning historical value systems arranged

to leave room for fruitless investigation,
to make space for ruling levels and grades,
high over low, will to make, will to use,
will to take and use to make more ease,

more peace of mind in matters of time,

offered in a poetic sense, mere mindful
ness, in nous sensed, gentle, familiar order,

at our established limit, at the end of life,
assuming time continues, only life's
artificial interesting lures, know
now urgency, generating knowledge
needing, it must seem, at the moment,
to be pre-served, as known known reminders,
the story of us, we, the people alive
letting this mind be in us, in word
and deed, in truth, we think
we may use any knowing
reproved while taking life as easy as

any royal courtier in empirical courts,

vested interestingly, if one wishes to know
what is invested in me, one wishes to know
why am I the curious kind, sorted out
to ever learn and never settle

to the bottom,
line, final word, capital idea,

bring up a child, in the way, whither
no way is commonly the only way,

but we have dug a channel, a course
to become the of course, in all conversing,

of course, along the way through life
informed as one called to learn to tell true

what was said in counsel, with the wise,
of course, those most blessed with nothing
missing or broken, comforted mindfully,

aware where gravity is enforced, we hold
the fullness of time as space in mind.
------------------------------
Informing us as knowers using
assisting intelligence's recollections…
answers in mindform, offered as news
ex parte gratis, for your information,
finding oneself in the same form as wind
metaphorically, in the same mind
curious as to what we think we know:

[The term capital]
made its first appearance
in medieval Latin
as an adjective capitalis (from caput, head)
modifying the word pars, (part and parcel)
to designate the principal sum
of a money loan.
The principal part
of a loan was contrasted
with the "usury"—later called interest—
the payment made
to the lender
in addition
to the return
of the sum lent.
This usage, unknown
to classical Latin,
had become common
by the thirteenth century and possibly
had begun as early as 1100 A.D.,
in the first chartered towns
of Europe.
--- according to knowledge accessible
by any empowered to read these thoughts---

[Frank A. Fetter,
"Reformulation
      of the Concepts
            of Capital and Income
                  in Economics and Accounting," 1937]

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=capital>

In sequence, next
we spend our rest urged on, pressed

pushing aggregational will to empower
precious personal will to accept

hold tight, the right to think, this is a good day,
where the course widens to meet the ocean,
and eventually evaporate.


Taking your time,
using your attendance, now

to extend my hope
to knowing certain ways
to inform good counselors

called, trusted advisors, seers
granted high perch to see from

to draw ever into now, to focus

our mind's eye at the point aimed
from ever's edge at the first cause

the why we are, part of every thing,
in truth, the state we find ourselves

being makers of… let this mind seem

our common sensory sorting system,

cost for not knowing, profit for knowing,

guiding guardian self preserving gnosis.

shortened breath iced with cold space
spun away from the Sun
darkness spangled deathly beauty.

~
I felt a funeral
between the timid breaths
of ruination, we plucked
to death the melancholic florals
called time flowers,
translucent growths
with crystal hearts,
gifted them to someone else's children,
placed them around the waist
of everyone else's wives.

When plucked,
that crystal core dissolves,
emitting the light trapped within.
perpetual splendor or
the endless cycles of death?
do the normal rules
of chronology apply?

Look now! here comes
the great unwashed riot,
we live in an age of visual saturation,
where tragedy and beautiful
distractions crowd in on all sides,
clamoring for our attention.

Perhaps the dystopian premise
is part of a fiendish plan,
becoming the backdrop
to a fluttering cornucopia
of florals, each outfit paraded
in the beginning of May,
a blooming display of finery
hiding a complex
network of roots –
sponsorship deals,
brand calculations,
dedicated craftsmanship,
exposure opportunities
– beneath its pretty skirts.
~

This light was not only beautiful.  
It was what you call heaven I believe.
The onslaught radiance sang across the cosmos.
A song about a forbidden divinity that should never occur.

No darkness there could stop it.
All shadows died and became light.  
The light crunch had taken over.
And I was the last darkness.

The balance was gone.
No darkness for the stars to roll on.
No darkness to sleep in.
Just eternal dawn and forgotten dusk.

It is in the smudge of mascara,
the red lip bleeding into the cracks
of a bitten mouth.
A quiet rebellion lives there.

Middle fingers do not shout;
they whisper—
a language only the tired
and the brave understand.

Running is not escape,
but a declaration.
A line of white powder,
a streak of neon—
these are maps
to the edge of something
sharp enough to cut.

They told us
fairy tales are for children.
But we grew up and learned
that happy marriages
are the most dangerous lies.

We sit behind screens,
armed with fake smiles,
perfect angles,
warriors of a war we don’t
believe in anymore.

The raves are loud,
but it’s the silence
of disappointment,
of insecure mornings,
of mirrors we cannot meet,
that tells the truth.

This is the war.
This is the smudge,
the smear,
the running.
And still,
we rise from the wreckage
like sparks in the dark,
too tired to shout,
too alive to stop.