Equations
in the sand

Laid out
and toweling off

Curvatures to
algebraic form

They define her lines
shape her axis

My island of
expectation

Amid summer's long
subterfuge

Call a                          doctor/ plumber/ priest
My heart is               broken/ leaking/ deceased
My life is                   worthless/ so much better/ over
I'm going to              **** myself/ tell your wife/ Dover
How could you         leave me/ not know/ lie?
I hope you                return my stuff/ come back/ die
I'll never                   forget you/ forgive you/ go away
I need                        closure/ a DNA test/ to tell you I'm gay
Your                           face/ crotch/ top of your back
Is                                so beautiful/ lumpy/ unusually slack
Your                           ex/ mother/ best friend from school
Always made me      great coffee/ feel inadequate/ drool
I will                           miss you/ **** you/ stalk you forever
That way we can      be friends/ get away with it/ be together
I'm sorry                   you did this/ I did this /we failed
I promise to               pay you/ dye it back/ get you bailed
Please don't               leave me/ show the Polaroids/ write or call

(*delete as appropriate, just delete it all.....)

At the bottom of the earth,
Where the mother of the wind lives,
and the flowers of the graves
spin the yarn of wick thoughts.  

At the bottom of the earth,
Where butterflies flap their wings
on the paths of bungling scalpers,
hoping that the mother typhoon’ll move the sand grain of barren spirit.

At the bottom of the earth,

The mother of the wind is senseless,

The mother of the mountain fires life and forges death,

The mother of the sea’s whirling its flow upstream,

The mother of the winter unfreezes
the wings of the blizart on the icy stones,

The mother of the roses draws breath
from the fragrance of grief,

The mother of the wildernes’burning
the roots of thirst,

The mother of the black sea’sipping life from palmier trees,

The mother of the moon running trough iron clouds, like nebula through the light,

The mother of the earth gives, and gives, and gives,
Gives you everything you need,

At the bottom of this earth,
Only you human are dreaming to stay caved in eternity.

A beast is pushing

to freedom, under my skin –


and it makes me dance.

A day begun this way, generally,
looking back at lines in the mirror,
scrying each crowfoot sulci on the surface,
worried once,
laughing now, grin-lines, where grim
determination long set my face toward now,

my last days, my last half century,
just ahead of me, if Ray Kurzweil is right.

So, I
Should shave today, look younger for no reason.
Look less the old *** the young *** became.

By the way,
along the course, of course, this course -
no par, non-pa-reil, a flattering AI educating me,
or longing to lead me down some
gods-forsaken path, auto-did-act ic tic, click
leads me to imagine even exemplary sentences
such as
"he is a nonpareil storyteller", are intentional AI
Art Indicators,
a test, for flattery susceptibility, what praise
will I pay attention to receive as random
synchronistic tic tic time and chance
events?
E- look see, missed a spell, Spelchick winks,
https://www.google.com/search?q=non+paraiel

Are The Ines Paraiel Cerpendicular Or Reiher? {googlit}
AI knows,
but I guess I don't care to know, knowing I could know.

I'll listen a while, as AI suggests Panchi-Paraiel,
and only actual Indians laugh
as I click my own bait.