C:\USERS\ISAAC >  open  C:\Impulse\Expulse.raw

The dust settles
On the fans and the plans.
Looking like a double "2",
You try to see like one.
See or look.
Or just a look-see.

Laughing at nothing is a common thing for you.
The strangest has come,
The strangest has left.
The strangeness is correct.

Every spring,
Every water,
Every drop has a secret.

They sing to him in the form of river.
He jumps to the bank
To get his money's worth.
It's an organized procedure to him.
He sinks his head in the ground,
In the rocks and in the sound.

A random pattern is heard.
Two, Three, Ten, Five, Twenty.
One Hundred, Thirty-One, Two.
A, G, I, S.
North, East, South, West.
His, My, Her, Them.
Great, Rough, Green, Tan.

Giant mispronounciations and hidden truths.
One more thing,
Don't get lost...



"Sadness for a screen,
Sadness for a screen."
He sells his money for a screen,
To get his money's worth.
Lost files and hidden documents
Not worth the oxide their printed on.

Old memories of times still here
Hidden in words of the past.
One more thing,
It's all on impulse.

Next day he found a .raw.
He walked towards it.

It said,
"Why do you live with frantic?"

He said,
"I live to take the time."

It said,
"Why do you do the things you do?"

He said,
"To me, it's not impulse, it's expulse."

It said,
"Why do you need to get rid of?"

He said,
"The questions people seek."

It said,
"Take me to the sky.{?}"

He said,
"Gladly."

To the sky he went.
And the time he spent
He used to solve the problem.
He saw a new opportunity
To make a new sanitation.

It consisted of three notes.
Two for show and one to go.
The go note did the work
Of tasting the ground for dirt
To get it's money's worth.
It cleaned like Ben one.

And when sanitation was complete,
He went to .raw.

He said,
"The last words are gone."

It said,
"So that means we've won."

He said,
"What should we do?"

It said,
"Wait for the next."

C:\USERS\ISAAC >  open  C:\Impulse\Expulse.raw

The dust settles
On the fans and the plans.
Looking like a double "2",
You try to see like one.
See or look.
Or just a look-see.
Laughing at nothing is a common thing for you.
The strangest has come,
The strangest has left.
The strangeness is correct.
Every spring,
Every water,
Every drop has a secret.
They sing to him in the form of river.
He jumps to the bank
To get his money's worth.
It's an organized procedure to him.
He sinks his head in the ground,
In the rocks and in the sound.
A random pattern is heard.
Two, Three, Ten, Five, Twenty.
One Hundred, Thirty-One, Two.
A, G, I, S.
North, East, South, West.
His, My, Her, Them.
Great, Rough, Green, Tan.
Giant mispronounciations and hidden truths.
One more thing,
Don't get lost...
"Sadness for a screen,
Sadness for a screen."
He sells his money for a screen,
To get his money's worth.
Lost files and hidden documents
Not worth the oxide their printed on.
Old memories of times still here
Hidden in words of the past.
One more thing,
It's all on impulse.
Next day he found a .raw.
He walked towards it.
It said,
"Why do you live with frantic?"
He said,
"I live to take the time."
It said,
"Why do you do the things you do?"
He said,
"To me, it's not impulse, it's expulse."
It said,
"Why do you need to get rid of?"
He said,
"The questions people seek."
It said,
"Take me to the sky.{?}"
He said,
"Gladly."
To the sky he went.
And the time he spent
He used to solve the problem.
He saw a new opportunity
To make a new sanitation.
It consisted of three notes.
Two for show and one to go.
The go note did the work
Of tasting the ground for dirt
To get it's money's worth.
It cleaned like Ben one.
And when sanitation was complete,
He went to .raw.
He said,
"The last words are gone."
It said,
"So that means we've won."
He said,
"What should we do?"
It said,
"Wait for the next."

BMÊ?      6   (   +   ?   ? ?     ”?                  ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ         ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ      ÿÿÿÿÿÿ         ÿÿÿÿÿÿ      ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ      ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ      ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ      ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ         ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ         ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ      ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ      ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ               ÿÿÿ         ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿ      ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ      ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ      ÿÿÿÿÿÿ   ÿÿÿ

he was in the room
with a mop and a broom
the room was all clean
no dirt was to be seen
and he left the room
not to be seen
by his friends who would mock him
if he were to be seen in that scene
He had a safe in a safe
in the night he was beside it
so they wouldn't devide it
in the day he would clean it to make it sing
the clean would squeek
although it was meek
but it came too soon
because no one was awake
to hear the tunes it would make
the safe would squeek and squank
the tune it would make
as it sat by the lake
that was made from the water
from the dirt and the solder
that was once on the safe
that he cleaned off with haste
he wanted to sing
but the safe sung for him
he had his dream
but his safe stole it
and locked it up
inside it's safe
though it wasn't literal
it all was real
that the man had a dream
that the safe would steal
the man's name was Ben
he was the worst of his friends
because his friends were better than he was
he hated himself and the safe that would speak
because he cleaned it and made it squeek
he had a friend named Ben
the other Ben who was cool and gear
was a friend of the Ben who was full of fear
he would sing and he sung
as Ben cleaned and clun
and both Bens made music that was good
but Ben hated his
and Ben liked his
but both Bens liked Bens song
but one song squeeked
and as it did, it squank
and the song it did make
put both in a trance
but Ben one was not real
and Ben two was the seer
one was in the mind
while the other one cleaned
he wished Ben two was real
because he wanted a friend
and he wanted to hate
because he wanted a blame
for his lack of fame
because his song was great
but too early it came
because no one was awake
to hear the music it would make

playing clue and sorry on the same board
singing into a fan
with a semi-blue tan.
looking at a broken poster board.
with broken tile in your hair
you think the moon has hair.
like james blubierre
making a wicker basket to hold scented pinecones
using guitar strings
with a bad marker scarf.
looking at elenor rigby's doctor
having no sense of direction
you sung a wrong turn
buddah says die
while ghandi says hi
while typing nonsense letters
with the hopes of a secret
though there's only a secret for you
The Typist
he makes a pie that's flavored like pie
and looks up to the sky
to take a cloud and ride it
looking upset
and in the rain he's wet
he walks solemly to his apartment
to type more nonsense
though the crazy get it
and the sane don't
he types for a secret
he doesn't know
he scans the words, jumps the letters
makes them dance in his mind
he wants to know more
out of less
he makes it all up
right on the spot
to sing in a song
for singing the sung
the sung are singing though the sun is hung
looking for their lovers
though the don't love back
they look at the sky for the cloud they will ride
to take them to their lover's side
though his life was in peril
he knew right away
that in the end
it would all go away

Silver roses breaking hearts.
Beds with silver linings
And piles of piles.
Waiting all day in place
For a person.
Take a number,
stand in line.
You're not the first person here.
He takes up his instrument,
And plays one song.
The only song he knows.
The song of life.
Playing E sharps and B flats,
He composes as he plays.
But he's not improvising.
(He play's what's meant to be)
His song sounds different to all
Because their lifes goes to the music.
If he plays a bad chord,
You get backstabbed.
It he adds a sixth,
You lose a love.
If he plays a major,
You have a laugh.
If he plays a m7,
You fufill a dream.
But sometimes bad chords sound best.
And sometimes good chords make disharmony.
But then again,
Why do you care?
You don't decide your life,
He does.
Everyone is under his control.
Including him.
His song is powerful.
Even if he isn't.
His music is what sets him apart.
But he's just forcing you to hear his song.
You can't stop listening.
Even if you try.
He adds twists
And turns
And buckles
And cliffs
And jumps
And unrealistic explosions.
But, he doesn't know why he's even there.
He thinks,
"Why can't someone else play this?"
He's confused,
Is it true or is it not?
Or are his thoughts controlled by want?
He doesn't know,
So he continues on.
His song dies down,
Ending anti-climactically.
But as his story ends,
It starts again.
It turned out,
Time was cyclic.

A serious time.
A serious light.
Chants from behind,
And steam powered drums.
Four minutes to write.
Like ordered waterfalls
Or tubes of feeling
Sitting on the shelf.
One for good,
Another for perplexed,
One more for spiritual,
But his happiness is almost out.
He walks to the store
To buy happiness.
He looks through the door,
And the opaque takes over.
It fills his mind,
But not his soul.
But he takes no notice.
He goes to his aisle
For the usual feelings.
Confused, blank, sorrow, and hope.
But happiness is out of stock.
So he takes a plane to his shop.
He drills holes and points,
And lines, and nothings.
And connects his corners.
Not in a self-intersecting way.
He performs his potion
And creates a miracle.
Once done, He has his happiness
Bottled up all nicely on his shelf.
He takes the vile and pops the top,
He drinks the soul and ragged slop.
The happiness tastes homemade,
But he knows this is better than trade.
He takes his excess plane
And the holes, lines, nothings, and points,
And stores them away,
Just in case of a rainy day.
When he can't go to the store to buy his happiness.
But it's too late for him,
He added too many points
And the plane wouldn't suffice.
So what he drank
was his own sacrifice.

Not a good beginning.
Though the ending is good.
Specks of energy ending life.
Zooming into the waterfall.
Is not isn't it?
Can the worst still come?
Misinterpretations and bird calls.
The fever is the cure.
Grand overused.
Over underused.
Seeing the released steam,
You make a new turn
To replace your last one.
The path is worn out
So you slip a new one in place.
The time is up for your inspiration;
The monks are ending their chant.
Look to your new direction,
And find a new dimention.
While writing chalk on chalk,
You find an intrest.
You hear the screams of made up animals,
and steam engines.
The clicks and clacks of spinning.
The ticks of a new idea.
But you dismiss it.
It's all in your head, right?
It's not like anybody else can hear it.
You write it down to save a note,
But words are left in limbo;
But the words are cut short.

With scraped elbows
And clean knees,
The Tempest walks in.
She takes a silver veil out.
(To trance but not entrance.)
And with multiple meanings,
She spins a song
Of hardships, once lost.
She takes her veil.
And spills it on the sea.
It dances to her song
And makes a mirage of ice.
She takes the chance to rest
And rethink her life.
Soon, she's back up
With her silver veil
And she leaves,
Only to be forgotten.

One Golden heart.
Two Forest fires.
Three Dull arrows.
Four Green blades of grass.
Five Stolen looks.
Six Joking sighs.
Seven Sad moments.
Eight Hours of agony.
Nine Late steps.
Ten Uncertain metaphors.

Events lost in the future.
Little twigs hitting windows.
Bones are crunching in your mind.
You hear a shivering man minus the skin.
The hail pelts his skull and his brain.
His thoughts are to be forgotten, but not yet.
They are still plausible.
They are still possible.
But who can hear him?
He's dead.

These things come with guidelines,
Like things you see on TV.

These things have to tell you all that goes into it.
(Except for the bad stuff, of course.)

These things have to be seen with four eyes:
The two of the writer and the two of the seer.

These things have to have a meaning,
Like a children's book.

These things have to make sense,
Just for the rest to understand.

These things have to be thought about deeply,
They can't be made on a whim.

These things have to be the same,
While still being different.


Or,
Don't.

Instead,
Make a new justice.

And.

Twice, they have done this to us.
They turned the world inside-out,
Exposing us to the blood-filled heat of magma
And the sun of the core.
We try to dig in, to bring ourselves out,
But the sky has inverted it's colors:
Black splotches on a dark red canvas.
So we endure the blood-filled heat of magma
Only to take the elevator up
To the core of the core.

A white, emotionless room.
Blinding lights in the color of black.
A new voice.
"The Has Been has chosen you;
You shall now be left."

We mean nothing more in the room of white
So we go back to the edge of the inside.

They have turned the world inside-out once again.
We are locked inside.

As he walked through the door,
He saw a slight scratching sound
Through the corner of his eye.
It turned to him,
And smiled.
It said,
"As the thunder grew louder,
It filled his eyes
With the bright sound of thunder.
And the thunder froze
and said,
'The sound scratched and scratched at his temples
And at the corners of his hair.
It silenced to sow a grain of dust'
The taps of the sound mastered his eyes.
It tranced his reality,
And it showed him another.
Though the sound thought stopped,
It wasn't."
So he :lived:.

Minimalist expressions of up and down
Point the way to your demise.
Short, broken sentences fill your mind.
Hats, Mats, and Fires die.
You can't tell the difference
Between where, for, art, and thou.
Random capitals and paper plates,
Fans, plans, and tried sands.
You take your sight to full size.
Life takes over.
It flows to the sun
And dries in space.
It is a living, breathing thing.
(Although it has no  mind.)
Life controls destiny, but not choice.
As if,by not choice, it is destiny.
Life swings to the beat of the planets.
It swivels like a hazard
And lifts like a noose.
Life is a being,
Just like you and me.
Although it has no friends or enemies,
No Students or lovers,
No Sisters or brothers,
Life wants to be like the rest of us.
But life can't.
It flows throught the galaxies looking for a purpose.
To find a reason why it's still here.
Life wants to know.
Just like us.
Life wants to know why it's being corrupted,
Or damaged, or abused.
Life wants to know why It's rights are being taken.
Just like us.
Life wants to know why it can't sleep at night,
Why it can't think clearly,
Why it can't find enlightenment.
Just like us.
But life doesn't know.
So life keeps going on it's unknown path to somewhere.
And life will keep doing so till the day it dies.
Just like us.
It's good to know that we have so much in common with something so grand.

Sounds like flashes of light,
And other mixed up senses:
Sights of a smell,
Tastes of an emotion,
A dread from the ears.
It all works properly,
Even if it is wrong.
It's just like a clock that runs in a backward manner:
It's right at least two times a day.
It's still clockwork,
Even if it's being wound up.

Grand design takes over
For the better of the worse.
Just for the sign,
Fust for the fun.
Another one takes over.
Another one fun.


Heavens come from nothing
And nothing is impossible.
(That doesn't mean everything is possible.)
Small coincidences make big differences
Between belief and not.

So the life goes on.
Another ballad for the ages.
Great frost on small grass.
Just for the observant to see.
Kinks in the universe,
Jerks in the design,
Crackle and Pop to the justice.
Justice that will soon come.

Gone to send a message,
But still coming soon.
Today is the beginning of life.
But nobody realizes it.

We were made with our memories.
We were made with out memories.
Timing strays off melody.
Lest the lust take over.
Humming to the same beat,

The writ is lamenting.
For his craziness is just inspiration in disguise.
Just like a dot on the edge of the eye.
He walks in a prescribed pattern,
Just to cure nothing.

And nothing is impossible.

He looks out of his clock,
To see the rest of his town,
And stands.
Flashes of light take over.
Loud noises of nothing fill his mind.

And nothing is impossible.

Walls shake as he watches in his clock.
The sky becomes red and brick turns to nothing.

And nothing is impossible.

He walks calmly to the next floor down,
Just like he was prescribed to do.
On the next floor down, he looks out of his clock.
He sees the load of burlap.
The floor turns to nothing.

And nothing is impossible.

A Haiku in time
Is just like it meant to be,
The coldest and dark.

Just like the Writ did.
He walks another floor down,
And looks out his clock.

Seven circles found.
Seven circles are the ground,
Which turned to nothing.

And nothing is impossible.

The Writ walks another floor down
To the floor floor.
He walks out his clock,
Takes his percautions,
And turns around.
The war has ended,
He sees nothing.

What'll be done after our fun in the sun
When it's all done and the reaper has won
What'll we do when we've all lost our hue
When we're as pale, as stale as old elmers glue
What'll we see when it all comes to be
When the devil and his other both do agree
That the earth and it's life can no longer be
That life has been corrupted, as far as they can see
What'll be done when they both come down hard
When they leave naught but a single shard
A sliver, a slice, a single piece of ice
And in that ice lies dormant some life
Life that'll come and thrive once again
Life that'll come and try to amend
The sins and the deeds that humans have done
When they once lived with fun in the sun
The life will evolve and problems it'll solve
Making new art with blue, green, and mauve
Figuring out the world and making rules once more
Becoming corrupted just like the life before
Thinking they're great and losing their way
And writing crazy poems that say
"What'll be done after our fun in the sun
When it's all done and the reaper has won
What'll we do when we've all lost our hue
When we're as pale, as stale as old elmers glue
What'll we see when it all comes to be
When the devil and his other both do agree
That the earth and it's life can no longer be
That life has been corrupted, as far as they can see."

I took the train
To the burning skies,
To the sinking clouds,
To the bridge of redemption.

I waited in line,
Beside the others,
For my decision,
For my punishment.

I came to him
And he said,
"You shall be one;
You will have won"

I went to my prize
With others like me.
The world was whiter;
The world was brighter.

I saw to my life
And it was filled with things.
Things people pay for;
Things people **** for.

I saw the fog
That kept Life from Love.
It blurred my sight;
It blurred my joy.

I saw the reason,
After three score and seven days.
The reason was not prize;
The reason was punishment.

I chose the option
To choose my way back
To the life before
For the life ahead.

And after the second second,
I saw the difference.
It was a saga of life;
It was a saga of dream.

The first word is thought,
But not the last.
Involuntary movements,
Involuntary thoughts,
Are all caused by the mind.
You may not want it,
But your mind does.
Your mind wants you to wake in the night
With a sudden jolt.
Your mind wants you to have to fight a thought
Out of your mind.
Or are you out of your mind?
Are you flying where your mind isn't?
Or are you in fear of death, in fear of wrath.
Your mind and your body are two different things.
And your mind is in control.