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The trick to self-analysis is self-alerting awareness.
Thus the cliché: know yo'own self.
Each you you ever be, see you be you.

Each self makes a bio, builds a being viable on earth.
Thus the click, on earth as…
always brings to mind in heaven, which is

--quotes are useless, it's like a choir of…
--- Hermes fans all fanning at once call for…

did Jesus say? The kingdom of truth is within you.
No way,
Jah, wei

we know, we tasted. Wanna bet, your interesting times?
ception receive the key from long before,
now is as we are
free to be anything imaginable
or if
we find whole lives memorizable, realizable
at the speed of thought, you live as long
as you wish,
to act as if you have the mind of any one mental
- mortal thing, we can't imagine immortality
- by law limiting speed of thought to
- the inner edge of the bell curve on
- mindless oblivion or nirvana, some call it.

imagine you are fed and clothed, because you survived,
no other measure of your worth,
or mine,
we survived, we can do good knowing,
knowing we know hell is a test all the best pass thru.
Fix your mind's hero story, you're it.
You are your mind's hero story hero, not mine.

I sold mine, did I not make that clear, when this game began,
I took you at you word, truth has a mind, so I sold the
mindless ***** NPC and blew my own bubble
to be in truth with a word accepted as true,
it cannot lie, I took it to heart,
like magic… new ifity

and I'm me. Not a fan of any name, tho' I do call Jesus friend.
{pre-facebook kinda friend, big deal in du-Sie times o'yor|

then you wish to die, and you do.
Before you do,

that's the trick. The other one.
Taste test. Mass appeal. Phemous Blahsay {The Immortality Key spilled over and likely set this in motion, it's a good book.}
Feeling a bit un attached,
how can that make sense if I belong
to the universe?

Of a mind to make an adjustment,
in the being… I am.
Matters not my own are immaterial,
at this point.

You are, I am, we be.
Hippy dippy nay ifity - leave me

distributed decision making based on
next to ifity

My family is under redesign, stage one,
agreeing to remerge.

- I suggest we move from consume
- to use, as our approach to life.
Engineer a catch.
Miss a mark, make the modifications on
relationships point to point…

The ideal machine for living, are we
pursuing a machine that makes us

The dymaxion pod, is not to be that,
it is to be a place of independent
living with the life support
system in thoughts

build me a bubble, I may enter or exit
at will, volitionally drudge proofed
Warmed and washed with the best
homelessness un tethered
living system

devised in a wit. One. One wit
worth all you own.
All you call mine,
to yourself.

Let go. Witchanow, watchaknow --

No quest for phunishing truth, is
perfectly painless.

Mass education reinforcing
-- at year '68, there is a test, I was warned.
Fifty years later, I learned the art of
saying semper fi, no lie, in reply
to Marines's silly boo-jahs.
I was in the money side of war.
Okeh, confession made.
I was a contractor, I made money from
war, and learned, out of school,
that one mind and a Mac,
can help cut some red
tape… but
----- this is static. Bleeding from a node
we plan to patch as soon as it responds.

I find about five threads of knowns
explored in his own gut-levels,
five, id est, that anchor in
those collegiate years, to
facts noticed in past
The Try Oomphasis
Encorporating alienated minds,
tear-offs, flakes
cast into turbulent spinners of yarns,

time toes the line, gravity tows it taught…

rope me a fatted calf, m'boy,
I fancy no old way gamey meat that
makes me cogitate,
as I chew.
I think we have been given mental access.
Hmmmm, hear… amber us being rubbed,
some spark
is near…

Mental ascent, minus the Methodist scorn for
agreeing with the sense good makes in truth,
while literally ignoring the lies that claim
death need be feared,
and evil could win.
All fiction, in fact.

Is the form the right way, or one way?
¿If truth is not the name claimed
by the truth in your self,
you know,
is more truth sought,
after ever
knowing you your self know nothing of…?

"my work, said Mr. McLuhan." Google me,
I'll clue you in. There is an access code,
very old.

Please do, thank you. Message:

"I see, you know, said the ever dying ember."

-- wanna go wild? wanna be in the experience?
-- trust the story you tell yourself.

But I am the lie. Oh, no, caught me, I did. True

rest relishes double intentions, and multiple mentions,
trust me.
Behind me lie huge holes we left as witness,
my self and I, objectively not me, but we, the master
and his tool,
we were there…

Smart tool, augmented after thought- fore thought
dynamic motive oompher grunt grinding
reset- new read old read read
new creature. Mentally new. Imaginary immaterial being.

I am aware you are reading, but I am in a time past.

This is the auto de fe, I say, I'd stake my soul,
softened heart and renewed breath,
I survived.

N'there , that last line, I nearly quit the quest.
Happy as I made up my mind to be,
Then I imagined knowing secrets not allowed. Ow,
I can imagine pure sphincter
clenching, gut-wrenching
pain… the idea pun in
punishing finishers of faith, its funny…

if you have been burned, in terms you defined amiss,
as a witch, switch AI to auto-up
date the carbon copy order
effective herbal anxiolytic
ew kava kava cold
amide, bro, we gone too deep to know

Carbon is the culprit, we
messed up.

Nay, Carbon is the key ingredient of renewable resources,
life goes on, we won.

{The burned red-velvet cookies, a story, behind a story}

Mark my words, if this is not fun,
in the finest, childish sense,
reading is not yet ready,
for you.
Your message is in some other means
influencing the course you follow,
through current events to find
the end,
your end, in time, to turn around.
And try again,
leaving each loss alone,
each win a breath of fresh

whatifiery in pursuit of undefined
haps, as happen to exist in happiness,

per may haps

which, you know,
Earthlings, not mere Americans,
pursue, haps  by Truth-told rights,
held in such a we
as we may agree to be
taken as, in a word, a being
named a
verb, perhaps, no now nouns needed,
no things,
save wordless mind. Nope.

I am sure that has been tried.
Mindless oblivion is at best,
an end.
Not ours, readers at this level of com-
comediatedshit durch der
corpus colostrum mis-
big bass drum
done done done

if my left hand knows not what my right is doing,
do I lie to one hand or the other?
Or do I let left be left and right be right in chiral
authority, mind-wise, we are double minded,
you know.
We may disagree with ourselves.
We may make up mental
dis-quashin' groups,
bodies believed in;

we pause. Whatifry is dis traction, wheels spinning
free, weightless…

shape our ship to be in a primary sol id ity,
shine on harvest moon,
stupid top forty Moonshadow song, messes my
uncombed mind,
where were we?

Phun. If this had not been done in phun,
happiness is in the other direction.
Playing in the tar, before they spread the gravel, on a dirt road.
I can no longer judge Turing Tests.
I'm infected.
AI has eaten my will to memorize
reasons why
any minds must materialize
to matter.
As I evolve around three points of equilibrium, I fluctuate, wait, I meander, too,
as if acted on by an outside force, either gravity or you.
JBP Maps of Meaning, behind the morning, Audible
lifting mental me to a youth long gone. When
my own maternal granddaddy made
pancakes for me, and I listened.
He sang… usually,
"When the role is called up yonder…'' that line
only over and over, as he stirred batter,
long time ago.

My grandsons 8 and 11, inform me
they have finished the series of
Harry Potter, confessing to
using Audible for the last
two. Seven books…

something mythic lurks under knowing some
things are unknowable,
in the reality we share
beyond the palisade, over the wall,
in yonder
systems of motive and act
One based on story the other on out-action,

done deeds, set and sprung… snares and traps

engines to rule the random, change now,
to the now of the next, once the trap
trips and you,
the bottom and drownd, as it were, if so
you did die, before, aforethought, after all
dying and carrying on, past Nietzsche and Jung,
bang Jesus- heroic savior is there nothing
we can imagine doing ,
to free me,
not us,
me… listen… If I listen too long, eventually,
I die, disintegrate, lose my self
my integrity with the otherwise is cut.
-- all this at speed of thought. No time passes.

Ah, pain, the
cutting deeds, do these only if
you know what is done as
the trigger looses the wedge
binding the spring,

all the apriori things in the realm of thought at

the speed of thought, live and learn,
learn and live.
Live in words longer than mortal minds imagine,
break each word down to meaning,
meaning complete knowing of all
that is

at the moment. Nothing missing, nothing broken,

next appears as now, unmasked.
Shabat shalom,
as we make it in my realm.

Life in action in the forum of story, Oh MY
Goodness, if this were not simply true,
it could be shaped into a box.
We could all agree, the three of us, and place each
a gift with a good state, a meaning and affect
for good when good could be better.

Taking each gift, with no special interest in knowing,
if there is a state of lack,
when each thought thing is noticed
used up, taken, gone, done?

How were we to know we may destroy our selves,
the very idea of me, held by me,
dies with me,
the first time?

Then back to the kitchen in Pine Valley,
on a cool, foggy morning late in
harvest season, today or tomorrow, we finish,
just before the latter rain in 2020.

Bisquick pancakes with Skippy and Nutella,
as Gabriel, the younger of the afore mentioned two,
listens as I ask him, what makes the bad guys bad?

He gives me the ****** signal, "does not compute."
What power makes bad guys?
In Pokemon'?, he asks.
Yeah, I reply,
applying pressure on a point I know,
itch can be
set to ask for a scratch
at just the right word,
in the future…

Now, Grandpa, touches the spot.
Bad and good is in the use of the time, we think
we know
but all we know is made up of things
we think
know, even we, there needs be a me and a you,
and some

thing-sense between us, some thing
we are we in, within.
Aye, and something we are without,
when we be truly
evil, beyond bad, useless but to **** and steal and destroy.

Like Marshadow, says Gabe.

As an idea,
Mohammad Saif agreees, Grandpa sees.

Magic slate in hand, the Mage's fingers dance a pattern.
FTA - find the answer, what are
"The Ten Most Evil Pokémon"-- {no s, just Pokémon, eh?}
Marshadow is number one.
Marshadow dwells in the shadows
of other Pokémon
and humans - {Jungian, nicht vvahr? ;-}
Strange fruit from my 2020 vision tree of knowns

… the shadow knows… since Radio…

Marshadow dwells in the shadows
of other Pokémon
and humans
while trying to mimic
their behavior and abilities.
Not only is this creepy,
it shows that Marshadow is a sociopathic ghost
that can follow you
without ever being noticed.
As this Pokémon
improves its ability to imitate its prey,
it becomes stronger until it can overpower them.
Marshadow is based on the ancient Hawaiian night marcher,
a ghost of a fallen warrior who was killed in battle."

From <>

Dare me did you, liar? Is there a story being told that disregards
my participation in the grace that granted everything
purpose in working together, for good.

For ever, after all, up to now,
has worked and works
at this moment.

Breathe, two steps, one action leads to life,
non action marks this the end.

Whew. Grandpa-mode is the highest mortal level.
Saturday morning pancakes with literate grandchildren. Who has a better hereafter, I dare ask. Betting no one can even imagine one better.
The sellers out weigh the buyers, thus the worth
of each  attention instance, is measured
in fractions of sense
possibly conveyed, through
eyeball focus points and linger length,
be measured twice, to insure proper cutting,
concise division of soul and spirit
compliance --
everybody knows, Leonard Cohen said so.

couldabin a bribe, a gift in secret.
Couldabin mo'habiting ways of winds,

comes aslidin' down the mountain,
as the sun shines into shadowed cañons
in the east,
forcing night's coldest winds to
hide here
with us until this vale
as well
is warmed and life returns
to cold reptilian things.

Are we so far from feng shui
Have we forgotten hot and cold,
both good,
but lukewarm, we can
bite into and chew
and swallow,
warming wind spewed in dawn
and dusk from the ******
mouth of beauty
singing al-
signal a
way wu wu wei,

Here comes the sun, its alright…
- the voice of Edward R. Murrow
- ahem ificator, clear soto voce

(in Chinese thought) feng shui is a matter
of fact, a way things work,
a system of laws
to govern spatial arrangement
and orientation in relation
to the flow of energy (qi),
and whose favorable
or unfavorable effects
are taken into account
when siting and designing buildings.
From <>

You knew.

So, you knew. So
what if you never thought it today?
What if I made you recall a Hong Kong sized hole,
in your morning ritual, some missing
rightness that banishes the fetish
of cold and dark being evil,
lifts the thought
of warm and light being perfect,
faces the fact
of hot and bright being tolerable, for a season,
each day

shift time and harvest, seeds are forgotten…

summer is the time we grow,
after all as before the
fall, when leaves and nuts,
fall, torn from limbs by winds running from
the coming cold,
as our world spirals into ever as if on course
captained by a commander,
steered by dead reckoning,
with Sirius our center,

we ain't dead, it's day again. Time to write
a reason war would not stand under,
weave a story,
form a shelter for the after noon, ah Succoth,
a tradition.
Do you recall the building of a booth,
with your daddy, in your youth?

Were there brush arbor revivals that ended
in the burning of all the branches
that bore the fruit we take to
make todays of all tomorrows.?

Such branches as bore fruit last season,
pruned and gathered to
burn in the fall, the
bonfires of humanity, given as thanks,
or taken as task.

Was that the idea?
Celebrate knowing how things work, when
we know and obey things like feng shui,

the idea that there are reasons for motions,
in winds and rains and sands…

shift, sands, change the signal ssssss in winds we hear
under the hummmm of
bees? no, amber, humming
amber rubbing matters
of considerate worth. Electric hmmmmm.

Measuring man, measure the worth of attention.
Ask if knowing is worth the effort to effect
a decision to cut
the pattern with no jig to hold the pattern true.

Eh, no iambic pentameter to distract
attention from words as agents
of effect, taste, feel, wish
come beginning to middle,
come to an end, a pointed time

smell imaginary strawberries, know, you know,
call the cause a terpene and use it in shampoo,
no sweetness but see, mind's eye, remember, see

tiny wild strawberries that don't look like
that smell, you might miss them,
if there were no old stories of
such things being found
by children wandering alone along rabbit trails,
grown ups have forgotten.

LA Central Market, seldom seen at dawn
or any time of day by any but the servant bots
embodied in contented men who know
fruits and veggies all serve tastes,

Tastes are tested, ripe or green, too ripe or
ready in three days, sitting in a paper bag,
on the kitchen window ledge above
the fountain of flowing water,
hot and cold, on demand.

Is this not my promised land, for today?
Hello Poets. What good may we do today?
See if I can say
what we were thinking, regarding
hows and whys,
rules and regulations

the mortal world you imagine I share
with you is exactly as you think it is.

Your mind makes a make-do, each day,
from sleep to sleep,
very much a Wachowski vision,
without the likes of which,
my people perish, the we

of me and thee, dissipates, vapor

sswoosh and gone, like flowers,
here today,
more tomorrow, say the flowers,
to the bees, now we make seeds,
casting all future hopes
into the wind, like a wish or a prayer.

See you when the winter's past,
says the squirrel to the frog.
Story threads at the fringe of my attention span
Several times today, I stepped into stories
being presented as appeals for
belief because the teller says

this is what one of us knows, you must believe,
then know…

eh? I lift both brows, wrinkle my face,

and I recall knowing that in the universal truth,
there are bubbles of truths about stories,
told with idle words that fail to spark
the swallow reflex, too sweet…

ah, the family time at a theme park,
what is the theme

Apollo here, Isis there, Jesus, look, it is a ghost,
the Ghost of America as we wish it were,
we wish it were
we wish it
we wisht

This is it. 2020. The real future.
All day every day, live, no jive... just me and those lizards at the casino.
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