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I hide behind these walls
So I don’t know at all
What I do not see
Has less chance of hurting me

I might burn a few
Bridges, one or two
Leaving me no need
Of looking behind me

I cover up my ears
So I don’t have to hear
Words spoken true
When spoken to

Close tight both my eyes
Hoping to lose sight
Of the things they do
That I myself do too

Having little doubt
I keep an open mouth
That clearly runs away
With what I have to say

What comes to light
You are bound to find
Through all of this
Sadly, a closed off mind
State of mind. Officially heard of, yet
never assumed involvement, as yet
another word I had defined for me,
so I could make sense of something
some persons now are dying
to squelch or digest as best.

National State Mind Possession,
bound
by oathz as old as stirrups
and Koumiss to Scythian warriors.

Tuvan chorus sings defining mode
---------------------
crossing mind divides, up the tree
learning ever is ever relearned.
Measured across gravity,
at speed… diametric
push comes to pull,
shove into science,
twowordone mind hold,
from dia "across, between"
+ legein "speak"
from PIE root *leg- (1)
"to collect, gather,"
with derivatives meaning
"to speak (to 'pick out words')").
Picking critical similarities not unique
Relegein,
so we are in a weform, holy gnoshit.

Danger prestate,
child mind, alone,
left, there, that old time religion, eh,
good enough
for me, keep the baby,
safe, no escaping the baby born, but,

if we are gods,
as Jesus is said to have
asked some who told Luke'n'em have
you never read…
apokrinomai-
Is it not written
in your law, I said,
Ye are gods?
I am the door:
by me if any man enter in,
he shall be saved,
and shall go in and out,
and find pasture… as a free spirit

== o o o indeed advance guard,
force recon, reconnoiter… synchro
realize, animation projection screen

music, lose.
Consci-use make of
any umms that remain,
these are keeping our reality human
artificial products of collective dialectic

always,
on goes,
off stops, think,
recall as
from a dream, awake, only,
never
does a dream tell itself
to you.
You always tell you first, awake.

Do, done, this is a story coming alive,
with my efforting,
with your spiritual reception
in mind, intending your current opinion,
consciously ties sense where missing,
to hold ties to
historical canonical events,

the death of dinosaurs,
the killing fields of Khmer reds,

the shame on Richard Nixon, then
the glory for restoring relations
with the oldest civilization,
- inadvertent, unintentionally
allowing Kung Fu
to accompany
Lao Tzu bringing wisdom from China,
and unbelievable ping pong teams, to
Mohave County Union High School,
seeding shén as an ai hai hope, in me,
chosen most politically minded Class of 66, and editor of the Bulldog,
always ready to culturally exchange,

to trade Huckleberry Finn,
and Red Badge of Courage,
for a respectable translation
into this digital language, index
matrix adapting courage to core.

“The Way of Virtue”  
a new POV wrong Tzu, sorry,
conscience, Tzus of two minds,
among the books bought
in Saigon, in this telling.

Two Tzus too soon forgotten.

Way is Lao, Tao-Te-Ching… War is
Sun Tzu "The Art of War" science
used to pass culture forward,
past forgotten why we lied in
providing old excuses
for heros virtues
never lost,
like Mary's cherry
told children destined
to fight any war when called,
to prove confidence needed
to make boys believe worth
of dying while disobeying
the command to love…

gotcha… beguiled was I, indeed,
do we forgive the liar and leave
the lieing oath of aliegiance valid?
  
Religiously clinging to my own thread
of reasoning
on this side
of war, in peace
resting, while testing opinions milked
from the use
of knowledge,
conscience
conscious
right use,
twist

which
fuses words and ways to ask
what is going
on as wagwan, on
conscience,  
with knowing we know,
consciousness
of oathez sworn,
to science misdefined, sacred truthz
kosher kaballah rules
allowing easy seventy
possible roles OPM
sell the sizzle,
hot inside scoop
for each full word, a-
indeed, Aleph-ante one, is
cost to play, A-team atom,

soulsong wombless man song
they ain't no they, I am the one,

A and one, onliest, initially, I am
the loneliest number, that you ever do.

eh, old licks, new tricks,
One, two
Three Dog Night,
maybe, close, old recall whistle,
the train that don't carry our kind,
-hear it nearin' last stop

ramblin', gamblin', traipsin' off t'learn,

how come we
to be so poor, and some
be doing nothing be so fine, just fine,

not asking any more,
got plenty,
mor'd be good,
but plenty be good, enough's
'plenty
to share but you gotta chew,

been dried since last winter sometime,
we could have a stew, but if we chew,
we could just have a chat, tell a tale,
not need no salt or water or a ***,
or a fire which then wants wood…

think maybe we got lucky to live now.

We got this light to write on.
I hope I cause no pain, making peace is easy face to face, Translate me with any Ai, not one, will not translate all this as peaceable from first intention. My vow, of sorts... to trust my conscience guided by many old wise teachers in books.
The little blue teapot was exactly that, small,
enough for a sant two cups of tea
or an almost generous mug

In saying it was blue,
It was a comforting
royal shade,
with a shining glaze
Stoutly round
With a sphere as
the top notch  handle
All in all
a cheery
little thing
Cheap
and
utilitarian

How many cups
had it processed:
delivered
with a
drip or dribble,
that was at first annoying,
but
eventually
becoming
an endearing part
of the overall charm of the piece

It would be generous to say
millions;
But
truthful to say
thousands
of  
thousands
As the age of the *** was 12+years
of  almost continuous service.
In which time
it had been
witness
to every
emotion.
Conversations baring
soul and psyche.
Mental discombobulation
and
emotional acrobatics that would  easily gain
employment  with
Circe de Soleil
All whilst sitting  solidly still
  on the table of the day.
The little blue teapot was simply
a background character
in the soap opera
of it's family
and their friends

And
because of this,

It's
sudden
shattering
demise,
upon the slate floor yesterday.
Brings forth this eulogy to an everyday object  
Considered
by many
to be just
a thing
But to this family
a treasured piece
of daily routine.

Reached for
with
muscle memory.
A dash of color
at breakfast,
Comfort
on a cold night
A genies lamp
to a
small boy's
growing imagination.
A gift
from
one friend
to
another,
for the
shared  cup
of
Russian Caravan Tea
and a chat
that set the world to rights,
at least for another day
or two.

The little blue teapot was exactly that,
Ordinary
But also;
So much more
than it
purported to be.
So...
so
much more.
far
SøułSurvivør Oct 2014
far
~~~


do not go
far

past pale
mountains
where
shadows lurk

for you
have further
to go
you have more
time
you have more
work

all
have bones
with
cracks and
poison
shards

dying is
easy
grief work
is
HARD

we
press
our faces
to the
rotting
glass

and
only hope
and
wonder if
this too
shall pass

is the
boulder's press
on the
shoulder blade

better
than clotted
earth
from
spades
~?~

but tho
the world
be a
gloss
and
painted black

the
colors
still
GLOW
benieth
shellac

take
the knife
you'd use
in vain
to

faint

scratch
the surface
PEEL
the
PAINT

there's
a
RAINBOW
beneath
dark rust

you can find it
in
lunar
dust

finally
through
all the
shifting sands
of years

you'll find
it was
reflecting

through

your

TEARS




soulsurvivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc


~~~­
For all those who grieve.

Though life seems to have
Lost its colors
It is the very waters of grief
That become

PRISMS
The legend of Bobbie Jo


The bar room was noisy
When Bobbie Jo sat down,
Her stage was like a postage stamp
Her eyes creased in a frown.

Her T shirt was faded
Her jeans full of holes
But her face had a beauty
Neither young nor old.

She slung the strap of her guitar
Behind her slender neck,
Six silver strings to strum
Six Silken Strings to pluck.

The instrument was battered
In need of some repair
But the damage was cosmetic
The music *lived in there.

Her hands were not that beautiful
Red tipped, raw *****, and small
They looked almost masculine

The first chord was a *drawl.

Hooked up by a chord
To an electric amp,
She tuned her instrument a bit
And put on a clamp.

When she began strumming
Live music filled the place
The cowboys kept up with their noise
But a smile crept 'cross her face.

The chords crept into plucking
A Flamenco kind of riff
Spanish at its finest

The laughter seemed to drift...

Off into the distance
And the familiar chords
Of country western "Crazy"
Hit the ***** Tonkin' boards...

"I'm crazy for tryin'
And crazy for cryin'

I'm crazy for lovin' you..."

Her voice was melodious
But it was haunting, too
Much like Joni Mitchell
But with a country blue.

Then the chords got lively
In a folksy slang

"The Night They
Drove 'Ol Dixie Down..."

The walls of that place *rang!

Baez could do no better!
The music did its thing...
Boy! That girl could play that box!
Man! That girl could SING !!!

The place was deadly silent
When she sang a blue
And it was a stompin'
When the beat picked up its tune!

It got to be midnight
The middle of the night
She had taken not one break!
The music? OUTA SIGHT !!!

It got to be 2AM
She still kept up her strum!
And the cowpokes
were tired clappin'
By the time the night was done.

When it was finally over
She picked up her case
The owner came over
A strange look on his face.

He said to her, "Young lady,
You made a helluva night...
The best sales here ever
And there was not one fight!
I want you on here permanent
Could you do that, please?
I'll give you $500 bucks a night
And I'll help you release
A country music album
You've written your own stuff...
I'll help you release it.
It's way good enough...

She said, "That's okay my friend,
I made $500 there
They piled the money in all night
It's right inside my jar...
So I'd best be goin'
The Greyhound leaves at five...
I'm headed for Nashville
I think I will survive.
Just remember me some later on
When you hear my songs
You can say I played here
And the music was real strong."

He gave her a wry smile
And he said, "You bet..."
He would sure remember
How could he forget?

She had to turn some cowboys down
When they kinda came on strong
She had a big ol' bus to catch
So she left alone...

No one ever saw Bobbie Jo again
But later on they heard
Her bus had an accident.
Killed everyone aboard.

But her legend still lives on
Where her music rang
The cowpokes swear
her ghost still plays...

Everywhere she sang.

SøułSurvivør
A looong poem! Thanks for reading
it all... for a guitar playing friend.
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