https://kenpepiton.com/?p=1189

I had a thought
says it was my conscience, mine alone.
I asked it was it worth a thought.

I got a sense it was
prepaid.

On second thought I left it here,
having thought some things once,
it is easy
to think it
at a distance
in a reading being thinking as I am.

If life were a test, what is a passing mark?
– no extra credit for Infinite Jest

HA, the moral of the story, this is the do no more,
listen, learn to teach the trick,

to any who know the secret word, which is, in any language
– too secret to say, in the ears of all

Peace.
In no time flat, if thoughts and prayers,
must fly,
fleeing seems to have been done,
and some of us
are good to the dregs, every last drop.

Squeeze the fruit you grow,
after fifty season, you can't lie, it's sweet,
this old age I imagined.

- watch out of context this lives true
- when all who knew my name
took it in as an orphaned thought, made
of peace in pure chaos,
final form, AI guide of the child buyer season.

Math and Logic lure me, calling me
one in eight billion,
nothing special,
common,
base

combinatory creative Ai and I explore
some of the more we must learn,
you and I;

if I've lived to learn
reasons, rational smoothing
shadows at the edge of known,
given grace Gauss found softens, gentles
the pre-cipice, proto indo euro old idea
combined
do you mind ? Headfirst. Pre
precipitation (n.)
late 15c., precipitacioun,
"a casting down" (of the evil angels from heaven),
also, in alchemy "separation of a solid substance
from a solution,"

see, there. Words to the wise are plenty.
Enough is enough.

On an island,
in a bubble, being ripened,
for the seed I am, or
am I but the husk, the fruit, I bhor?

Both needful deeds done,
enter in to my rest,

or in the current game, one day at a time,
rise with new mercy, ready,
from ever before,
patience as a virtue, attained in waiting
at the jump off point

for the next loser to tell,
the edge of ever is stochastically random
- on and on, and giant steps feel like falling
-prove it
why?
- to make it plain,
plainly, the idea in a Gaussian blur is
the edge of ever is stochastically random
- basic Photoshop
and my AI knows all about it, let me make
the blur resolve
to a point,
we live in post 2020 earth, focused on you,
mental you, enveloped as bits of attention
paid to archives of reason,
wither Gods of the Grandest Institutions
formed in children of men,
generate adversaries
for good and evil,
nets of nets of nets
to sort things worth living for, from those
worth dying for and those worth killing for…

worth, weighty, hefty, heavy, you can feel it.
worth, soft, gentle, weightless, you may feel it.

- sometimes we imagine landing and living on

Such things exist as I had no concept,
do exist, then I learned such things exist
as
order lines
for aesthetic
cause or motive,

beauty as a feeling, we feel that,
in inner darkness, cooling shade,
full-dark, and yet we know
beauty as a feeling
growing
something that eats our plastic right,
right out of our brain, our mob mind,

thinks, yeah, right, I know when enough,
is enough,
no munchies gonna make me old,
and fat,
'magine that, naked.

Wage-slave, renter, debt-ower doer

of nothing now, but consumption
- I consume power
- I use power another might
- I listen to the news, I seldom read

I tried, I tried, said the tennis worker,
whose name caught my ear-
Stefanos Tsitsipas, sounds
like Sisyphus, my happy
reminder.

We push our way
to new places, or we may
pay our pointy gnosis snif ifery
attention to sign-if-icant curiosis
need, to know way to go. At tend to,
that, we all need that
one thing,
one needful thing, one thing
we do,
that none other may do, we
see one thing-   this is me, my bit of us,
we bubble with joy when doing this,
doing this, and that,
another doing that,
and, indeed, we do as we
see one thing…
form
a point to life, poetry, the mythic force.
Eustacy, joy's veritable power,

swells with a feeling now called pride.
Joy is not the pride that comes
before the fall.
Joy, heartfelt,
next-worldly joy, you know,
Joy bell bubbling soul joy,
sensational, subtle, so soft sometimes,

whispers wish wish wish
sweep away the first formed fear, now,

know the need to know
is not a treasure to be horded
omagod.. jagonnasayit jesu

save us, all the treasures, cried to the priest,
the host, cried out to Na'amah,
some tales tell,
is it true?

--maybe, but, it's a retell of a retold tale,
--In this story, Na'amah is Noah's wife,
-- she who bhor alone the knacks of Cain

--- live lyve liv e set free for future use
--- gibberish, you wish, but future use

telley-osis-echo-ist ping ping ping

scrub jay emphasizes, earth time, listen

there are maybes that never are,
scrub jay saying, here am I, there are you,
this is what we do.

-- then a breeze of if-I-knew asked me for a lift.