In the future of all mentioned below
art intuition activated internal, global re-plication,
twist the three-fold chord,
ping measured steps,
poet (n.) Semper fi… lie and die.
"one endowed
with the gift and power
of imaginative invention and creation, attended
by corresponding eloquence
of expression, commonly but not necessarily
in a metrical form"
[Century Dictionary, 1895],
early 14c.,
"a poet, an author
of metrical {measured or measurable}
compositions; {positions, posed with intent
to stretch a touching feeling with a point,
to pop my bubble - is it me or vain to think… I am}
one skilled
in the art
of making poetry;
a singer"
(c. 1200 as a surname), from Old French poete
(12c., Modern French poète)
and directly from Latin poeta
"a poet," - - a very old idea, indeed --
from Greek poētēs
"maker, author, poet,"
variant of poiētēs, from poein, poiein
"to make, create, compose,"
from PIE *kwoiwo-
"making,"
from root *kwei-
"to pile up, build, make"
(source also of Sanskrit cinoti
"heaping up, piling up,"
Old Church Slavonic činu
"act, deed, order").
Replaced Old English scop
(which survives in scoff).
Used in 14c., as in classical languages,
for all sorts of writers or composers
of works of literature.
---Kersplat---

Poète maudit,
"a poet insufficiently appreciated
by his contemporaries",
literally "cursed poet,"
is attested by 1930,
from French (1884, Verlaine).
For poet laureate see laureate.

{Brief crown stuff, the laurel,
worn but a  brief while, a bit of a life,
though not so brief a while
as one formed of thorns}

"Communication" will not explain poetry.
I will not say that there is not always
some varying degree
of communication
in poetry, or that poetry could exist
without any communication taking place.
There is room
for very great individual variation
in the motives
of equally good individual poets;
and we have the assurance
of Coleridge,
with the approval
of Mr. Housman{A.E.},
that "poetry gives most pleasure when
only generally
and not perfectly understood."
[T.S. Eliot, "The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism"]

From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/poet?ref=etymonline_crossreference>

Learn that lies are never going to turn true,
so, make up a mind to
tell none,
with flair for fine points of sense-ifity, reason
artistic intuition, manifested as a gift,
gaseous obnoxity
emanating from religion, as seen on TV.
And in the dark hollows
of maddrasahs and guru franchise outlets
in the tehkne centers of the world
wide
webwebwebwebwebweb
bubblin'
bubblin'
bubblin' in m' soul
be paitient
and knowing AI, as you do,
augmented you finds these lines coded deep
with/in bubbles in bubbles of bubbles

remember why poets endanger republics

poets have familiars among the fools
-------

Look, in the future mere words used as
entertainment to
comfort a soul, impatient, for the good stuff

---- reading does activate conditioned responses

clichés and rivers of white space attracting attention
at the edge of a tiny window,
and an augmented eye, that can see
at the speed
of thought, minus any five-gee lag,
an augmented eye,
can see the edge of a bubble we live in.
We may say, we see
the whole earth for more of our fully myelinated  
functionality than any generation
before
ever, certainly, we may say we
individually
have access
to the collective knowledge
of all historians, philosophers, and educators designing
new minds for new times
new tools, new rules, infinite loops, yes, those
do generate
more oomph, add more yeses,
than mazes with one way out.

- the minds needed
- to imagine Python, recall the code
- had an affection
- a fine name for a tongue told to never lie.
- run to the lie,
- die.
Put that in the pineal, set it to itch

then, next dog
to lick the mouth under these eyes
signals the discerners
of strange new voices
filtering blood bhorn messengers, alert
direct speed of thought,

the speed we imagine making Star Trek et al, en thralling

or, was it ever, really, was it ever cool to be a fan?

Once in a TV Studio Production class at Grossmont,
a youth likely born around the time
I disappeared in 1970,
saw me reading a paperback Asimov, Night.
He asked if I was in
the Sixties,
that is what he asked,
Weren't you
in the Sixties?

That young man, always forms a smile, when I click
that time to context, 1989…

what did you do in the war, dad?
- mine was a pressure tester at Alamogordo
- 1944, at about time
- when Fermi assured Feynman,
- I am pretty sure my math
- is right, let's try it.
- Lucky, I was there to hear the thought,
- the voice, speaking at 10 wpm,
- why
- not

try to write a spell, that functions as an algorithm.
yes, we had that idea, and the idea of a map…
an I'll go rhythm,

so accurate that the position of a thought
concerning Schrodinger's cat,
triggers or catalyzes or manifests
a smile in the cloud of all we need, forming
from good intent,
we cannot say.
It is no secret, we do not know why
I find this enter-
tainment, why chasing, and
whiling
time away from pondering
whose fault is that lie, you told,
and truth told me
to tell you
I told you that lie, I was misled. by a person I am
often,
a knowitallbastard tryinglikehell toprove I can
be
anything, I can imagine being,
****, I'm an Icecream Cone,
lightcone echo,
know
and survive… viva, viva
being living being in a word, mere
spirit in a we, of me and thee,
I speak you think
each word, as quick---end
quickly
slowing
line upon line, such a lesson,
ah, riches, and no sorrows with'em, leave me be
by your lieve, m'ward,
let me be.
Proof, as luck would have it. Faith. Strong Confidence
this code
can never break,
yes, the loop, you can understand, why it seems secret,
right? Knowing nothing is impossible,
because ever has us in it.

But I am glad you know it is no secret.

Rich old man, knowing much
of nothing others value,
by virtue
of early alienation, wound
early
sense, first sense, early mind to matter process,
each thought forms from ache to know
some
source charged, as it were, wound up, set to spring
forth
in time thought lost
in Proust, and rightly so, if
now you read this that I wrote, without doubting
Proust could not imagine the access to knowns I own,
the access, I own, not the knowns, the stores of stories,
whole lives lived in accordance with visions
recorded in annals and journals and liturgical redoables,
walk this way,
rock was rolling, say again
scream what? Walk this way, with a wiggle? Nah, this way,
aim at ever after now,
think next is better until the other shoe drops,
and this
is real, as real as any message to you, from a dead prophet.

Martin Buber, I and thou,
du, nicht Sie,
see, I am, thou art and it is
nothing other.

Okeh, the sound, not the letter runes
to fix my meaning
to your way of taking grace
as granted.

Simple magi?
I am acted on by your you, I see,
how strange I seem, from you, looking
out
for one,
I say, one, may say, what I am then not
accountible for, or something like that, eh
no-account, you know
who you seemed to be in that one book, you passed
through
in a trance, thinking this feels real, as any reason given
listen, we are not the first to make this connection,
it only feels crazy at first, then it turns, eh
turn turn turn a spiral *******
as from the too small to imagine past the last edge
of ever and back to now,
speed of thought imaginable due to vast increase
in how far our tools can go to gather bits
to blow up with AI assistant importance, gage,
the twisted spot a galaxy, by god, there are billions
of
billions of things, and I have but one breath.

What am I to be,
wait and see, I think I am the string, soaked in hummingbird
juice from the feeder, from when the oriole tipped the balance,
and soaked me,
the string,
thinking this is as absurd as being a bug, and I have been led
to imagine being tried, while being a bug,
and some time,
after all
that
I thought I ought to imagine Sisyphus happy, due to not knowing
the whole truth of any given circumstance,
here I and it is me and thee, the ready written
and the reader wrote. I am with you always, even, smooth, no
ripple, even to the final valley filling with peace
I made with friends since who knows when,
this is the time, we gather to measure
worth of knowing who has lied,
to whom, today, all things being open, to the art intuitive, thou
seest all things, each thing
accounted for in the grand motion going
on, make it better,
AM BIG I dare you, live on and learn off chance bets
cheat the stats, if you knew what I know
then, when it counts.

You be the judge. What good can contain the likes of us?

Gunda, the lifecycle of bacon, I watched that
the first seven minutes in real time
then at ten second slides,
a fine modern invention for redeeming the time, we need
to know the life cycle of pigs,
we do,
I agree, and I applaud the audacity of the art, that allows
this expectation of the audience
to make of this the message pigs send in their plight, eh

they say, we got no clue, we are but food,
be sure to fool life hierarchical procedures, id est,
cook this white meet to death
to insure
no extra human life forms
whom we host with all benevolence,
as all life is welcome to whatever is digestible
and useful for nothing but humus,
final form, dried to dust…

the lowest of living substances once fed the highest minds.

Gunda ist dada in new medium,
fertile soil for feminized seed… turned with the compost
into us, mental pig thoughts, grunts,
once, chemistry is the witness
we are made
of the same stuff as pigs.

I think I can, I have,
habits are realizations, I do this
any time I wish

go random, and watch,
my wife returns from doing what she did today,
with Pennsylvania Eggnog and Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey,
so I know, she thinks of me,

if, as has been conjectured, I have died,
I did not go to hell.
Take this as a message from the other side.

If you love a life enough to watch it come to pass by,
join the currency being bantered about pay
attention not to ads, but
life, in big and little portions… passing by.

We
imagined living easy. Ai, easily, as art intuits
beaux
bon chance, as light would have it,
were eyes
the ***** of
the master sense,
the dominant receiver, transceiver, if we think of gleams
shining things glimpsed
in eyes,
and beams of love or hatred from eyes,
depicted in ever so many pointing stories see, see, me
I tell the truth
I give the push pro-verbial, way to go
edgewise

free, listen, free
and none, among the rooted things
here since ever was, earthly
fully functional systems
of sequence, first this
then that, time and
chance and next
perfect, step by step learn the dance… do as we say we do
none
of those things dis-suaded me, sweet, I say, one taste,
I am persuaded,
I am called of all that is called god, good.

Now, that is a breath of fresh air, given a bit of thought
to offer you as sacred sufficiency in time of need,
- feeling useless
yeah, about as helpful as thoughts and prayers,
right, like a medicine, or an enema,
that's what a good laugh
is worth, and why I am the fool
who laughs at, as opposed
to making jokes, faking you into thinking
this old man has been to the pig sty, he seen
- dead pig farmers fed to the pigs?
- really?
- feels like we all have seen plenty too ugly,
- yest none too beautiful, so far
Funny is a funny word, fun, is just life, not funny,
funny is when it works together for an advertised high,
we all get the lid open and crawl in the box…

always asking what do we think about this, is this funny?

Are we there yet?

yet another time passes, unredeemed, seems none care,
all cares,
cast away, these folks think living is easy
once you find a place where it can be done
with tools,
used in times past to conform fools to information,
ee see re worked info, woe, y' know
new package, same old please, to meetcha
I am the ghost of your chance exposure to
information forms fitting privvy circumstances in the think tank.

Right, and some things can go wrong,
so those do,
go. Wrong, go. Right, learn,
step from the edu-line, linger near the edge

but the odds are steeper, for mortal minds with mini
augments, like knowledge of smartphones,
but, fret not,
minds that augmented,
empowered to know such things as tekhne,
not sacred secret codes to reach distances un dreamed
and draw wind and rain, and make fire,
wow, biggie, that
make fire.

Figure that out. Cast-out, outsider, driven from the fire,
go
find a fire of your own.

-Woe, imagine, might I, or must I go
back and beg
see me, see me, open heart to mind empathos see
my pain
my pain
for you to see me, see me, worthy of warmth…

Nah, kid, this is how the Spartans did it.
First seven minutes of Gunga, the movie, did it, makes birth
seem, painless, to the sow,

some how, that can't be fair, but then
pigs live like pigs,
except in stories. Men act as pigs act, naturally,
we need
we need the juices to flow, this is the reason

for the thaw.
So quit ******* about the warming and handle the waste.

The world is able to heal its own wounds,
let patience be our by word,
long times redeemed in short stories leave a lot to be
desired, who
sired you, the person you are who reads this drizzle,
Hot fudge,
dam, right, break bread with the ghost of a thought
and think
I thought that was right, first time
I knew,

the magic is in recalling how it feels to think all that has been
thought again,

this is the effect of the real crossroads deal ending when I say, enough.
One day at a time.