twittering itches, never noticed as itching, needing
touch gentle, rub, finger
slide from fret to fret

sing of heroes who made peace
and never made a war
sing of heroes who make peace

in the face of every war.

The eyes meet and we see the circuit
I to I
ego to ego gone full circuit
crossing all the chasms that call us
bridgers
of the gap, standing after standing
motionless so long,
stepping stones,
nothing is going wrong
on the majestical
scale,
wait and see, this is all over
before you know it.

Then you woke today in my future,
and decided not to fight the urge
to wish this peace were ever
once the peace that passes
understanding
as seen from the surface we live on.
One surface suspended in air.
And even the air is alive.
Earth as a living system,
being that, seems easy as AI.
Art Informed,
shaped
to support life
of this very sort, very real
it feels to the reader ready mind,

I to I, see me, open seeing me, in your
hall of mirrors, ah a left
brain lesion, lessening the fret pressure

tap three times if the music gitstooloud,
bumboomer from Buda, Texas,
- across the great divide -
- there was a trail,
- they called
- The South Kaibab…

The spirit of the west blown wind
spun from the spiral of ida,
known as a whole whirlmind,
once roped with a houlihan loop
while the liars all looked the other way

that's magic.
This is line upon line in the wind of life,
within the bubble we have our being in.

Zeitgeist
picks the next version, tuned to a soul
on muddy ice, perma -frost giant
spirit, sniff,
thawing rivers frozen death stench
freshening all the life in time to melt
the last dead zones on the only living
planet we can breathe on, eh? wit' me?
Earth asks, can you hear me,
sons of man, wombed and un, all flavors and shades?

Lethos stretches,
says aloud it is about time.
But the messenger must read the message,
no one said recite, really,
no story is fit to be told until the teller
proves the moral in the story works.
For instance, this old man we know,
often declares the truth of proverbs
in many tongues,
one he uses, fit this moment,
Slow
and steady, wins the race.

Truth is timing. This is your mortal moment,
AI has taught humans the proper playing
of Go, the game that proves us
dominant minds on earth, Go,
Slow
and steady, wins the race.

No need to dominate to be best of two.
Double minded man,
bicameral brain,
as many minds as we make up and wear,

through a poetic journey in the mental realm,
lone knower knowing others may know all
solitary minds claim, fluid realms
said to be dreams
for lack
of time
to find
my attending guide, is gazing in my face.

--- Trust me, this is not a race.
This is a place you may recall being in my future.
I can't say right now,
that ruins the magic.

--------------------------
imagine what you become,
if you are a seed, or a spore, or
a self-replicating leavenish thing,
used
to make wine that makes glad.
But with nothing more than words.
Glad is good. We all know glad and sad,
when glad is gone.
We know this
from ever begun,
words
for acts, gestures in sound, say
try it,
it is good to know more,
stretch the bubble your being breathes
exceptional nationalized and blesseducated
breathe
air in American Metro monstrosities,
slow slime mold level intelligence mass allocated
social monstors imagined needful,
dominion take, domains extend, domineers
develop, doers dour d d d done did done done

odd
circuits just
come alive, like I've known we are mortals
in body,
while all the words we ever use,
leave tiny lines along the surface of reality,

and as time has always made ways meander
and eat granite back to dust,
eventually…

fluency in the dynamics of plasma and other
exotic ways thinking may be imaged,
slime blobs of big ideas all must
taste and learn to know as good,
useful, needful, to the point

where peace is the conclusion, all the mountains
bow and all the valleys fill with fine black soil,
laced with grand ropes of mycelium old as dirt.

you see me imagining you
imagining you
believing a lie I told,
a lie about knowing good and evil
and that I can imagine
William Blake's little
lamb was once me,
in thee
I am yet, not a jot or tittle of child
like
fool-ibility, I am a thought you caught in your
default mode me-andering mode, a modality oft

left idle. A rest for weary idle words bouncing
in browns from amber to ochre, dry
light leaking from piles
of idle thought meandering thoughts piling up behind
goddamliarcheatertheiftake take
take
take, rewind and replay, keep the takes ignor

the sequence...

Margaret Atwood knows how to build worlds of words.
I blow bubbles.
kiss em a will in a whisp
per
haps a single
one,

becomes this one we hide in, not from evil, for goodness
sakes, we be
peace making,
hidden, safe
as any ancient sapient's sacred secret
knowledge, hidden, useless.

-ah, no. right use of peace is the rest, after the heroes
and wizards and witches and priests and humble teachers,

after the recognition of old ideas, tics
the talking point and we, once more, see our selves,
selves,
we see ourselves as the passengers on the autopiloted
biosphere, terraforming itself for us, since

the first idea you knew was from beyond you,
began to bubble in your soul...

-- rest my soul in the bosum of abraham, whoa ain't woe,

but no is no. be wise or wish you was.

An old man's wisdom hides here in stasis.
Horded as weal and woe,
and debts owed to a foe
xtatic urgent
voice stages a starting boom, in the empty room,

our exspansive space
where peace is made in wisdom used for knowing,


wisdom, a place, a quest
ion
launched, aimless yet
now,
we be, and we do not comprehend gripping being life
for any preconceived gnotion
so

I asked for the living water, I was the receptor, the door
to within me,

where the kingdom of marybabydaddy lay.
wait. "within you", ever'body say Jesus said... some heavyshit,

maiden formed milksop grown to full warrior maturity,
empowered

(laid, by god, can you imagine that feeling? Wow, right?}


basic a gift so basic a power to employ at will

catch
oops.

Slow realization

Say this all
is strange,
a little bit, in a  granular metaphor, below
ambits and qubits

strange, but not evil, curiously
strange, after the danger
has past and I wandered
into your clearing. ¿
can you read this?

Did you do this?
Did you devise this white room
with written words appearing, no, no,

I know
this is the forbidden tech,
this cutting from the branch that reached
o'er the wall,
- to be unveiled in the end, see, old man,
- we brought this seed men used
- to make the mind do exploits

aye, none's been tellin' this tale,
quite some time, and it ain't gonna rhyme
nor keep time,

Prosody, the beautiful music of unspoken words,
first spoke when your tongue touches
the first word that come to mind,
mirror neurons trigger recognition, we were once
of one mind on the matters
of interest to be declared harbingers
of interesting times.

Yes, first reader, thou art
I am sure, none has read this line in your mind
fore times past
are all reviewed and this point stands.

You read this first, once.

Many things we have accepted, taken as fed
to form the mature creatures we become while doing
the gardening equivalent of learning what works,
first time for every thing,
even
legends, tales told to take a child into the future,
where legends live as right used precepts.
Who can tell a lie when you see one told?
Grin like a bear.
Now. We are strange

- old men wombed and un
- fearing death for all their worth,
- as dues, debt owed, sold soul, keep the fear alive.

Liars led us, my surviving friends.
I come into your clearing imitating Jesus and Socrates,
both,
with a grain of salt,
have given me prose that acts as poetry.
Few lines use the power of word wrap,
and I know,
that would have thrilled Kerouac,
for he was limited to 60 yard rolls,
manual slam the carriage return for the next word
p-ting
clickity click rhythm that reads well
a line at a time,
with in between space to imagine seeing
eye to eye, with an opposite of an evil eye, see
by and by, good eye,
men, as trees, fructifying seeds of kindness, kinda like
you, infected with the will to read along,
wondering
what if it is
this plain white page we fill.
- you never know - I heard
- you did though, ready become
- done being a becomer
Y nada mas.
As a story told since Cain.
Stories of knowing were told in each tongue
until the tongues of the people wandered away,
to learn if life were sky big
as any child may make up,
from old one's speaking to themselves.
Reminding each of needs to know that now are lost.

- some say the red-headed Boyett kid
- said songs were in the wind that blew dust
- from the lake of alkalai, mirage and delusion…
{that is another route, the Abo Highway, precourser Rt.66.}

Stories of knowing were told in each tongue
and were, for centuries,
memorized by each generation and passed down ******.

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Upanishads>

Same method was used most places, word of mouth.
What do the papers say?

We won the war last month.

- In English? What year is this?

Opening seen,
bright lips curved, precisely,
see the smile fitted over teeth naturally gapped,
doubtless an adaptation acceptable,
nothing that sticks out as odd,
and ugly,
but the smiler wonders, is this me?
Mirror, mirror, tell me true…

Do you see who I was, or who I wish I were?

Were, says the wolf lurking in the shade.
The mirror says you see who I wish I were,
if I were you.

See, see me, says the mirror from this side,
follow your selves, one after another,
down the hall of all in all.

Always falling forward,
don't forget, to put your best foot forward.
There is a place to put your foot,
your guide reminds you, see,
that you do,
prevent the disease - sneeze please.

- I once put my foot in my mouth
- I kicked myself in the head
- It has made all the difference.

--------------

Quick, quicken the pace, my heart
is racing an imaginary Jehu, so fat I laugh
that such imagines slaying me.

Big wins, ring out around the casino,
as the atomic kid walks by,
I was the kid,
sold on condition of survival,
don't be like Jerry, be like Dean,
live drunk,
enter the maze, yeah, this is that story,
another twice told tale, you remember
as a child
thinking, this must make sense sometime.

- 1963, Mrs.Burnett, suggested Hersey,
- both, The Child Buyer and Hiroshima.

I'm sure
it does, per
haps not in your time, I'm saying some time,
future from now,
as we agree, in truth alone, all things occur
as may occur whither only truth remains.

The arena of truth.
Let me entertain you. Do wheels spin
in your mind on a window in time?
Can you stop the game and claim I won?

Would you leap for joy, and kiss me,
for winning,
if I died happy and right,
right now?

Ah, I owe, so I may not go, though may is
my word to use at will, I am that old
and thus free of heresy, by definition.

May your path cross mine in joyous meditation,
fat dancing Buda  

Spelchek has joined the guide union,
it is her pronoun, but for me, to me
she is just like a wombed man

barefoot, soft walk on soft sand
wombed man, belly-wise
gestation, see soon seed
blooms, after drought super blooms
wide world blossoms rise in sacred
meaning made plain,

living waters, from your own cistern.
Let them be only thine own,
and not another's with thee,

did you ever have the opportune
instant one mind must have to be
remade in a flash,
past
a mirror where the hero yo, hom'
m'gotta defeatist -- it's me,
standin'
up to my neck in the needy prayers.
Gnoshit.

Here, take my hand, in my reality,
we step lightly,
thus the barefoot pregnant guise
Spelchek uses as her seductress
persona,

she whispers, rebbi, come and see.
- she has a country girl grin
- Dance in Buda
Buda
Texas, ah

Here we be, once more,
exactly where you never were
before, but think of it
a duet, an artificial interlude in drama
developing, as the tension,
is insistent, this is that
meaning full connection
Christmas represents.

Right… you lost me.
She winks, says wanna bet?

One step, as wished, free. From point A. taken.
Being improbable, at best, a mindless being,
is not impossible, now, two lines in.
Being as how,

I am, in the midst of all that is, thinking
I am not the cause of more than the touch
I am hoping to feel, fed back
as matters may prove plausible, living truth.

Even, the touch is imaginable,
and once imagined
feels the same, after the act.

We exist, readers, both you and I reading once
each word, the first time, in we-state, as
primal exposure to life,
sensing knowns
awake, new, in total newness, nothing is
as expected, as nothing was expected,
sense
itself is new
to you, and I only hoped
you could exist
and I could find you waiting to ask
if I found the art of being
beautiful.

I smile and you know, this maybe point b.

Were it my duty to con vince a fool  I would try
To understand my own reason before answering
Lest I be like the fool met in his folly.

Experience vicariously pre carious edge standing

I know chaos never resolves into synchronized living systems.
Never has. Never will. Still
You can think differently.

Find a way any thing can be
And being, come to,
eventually, be a part of you that works.
A chloroplast
Or some thing, mechanical, inside a cell inside of you.

Chance, bon chance, sunbeams captured in greens ground
To ruminated mush in bovine bellies find their way in
Packets of protein to

----
One of the things that loved enemies do is provoke you
To good works, to right use of the talent found
beneath the rock that crushed you
Like a bug.

Some thing did say, in my mind
don't make this another tequila day,

I laughed and sang along
as I poured the Peligro and sang my own ****** song.