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Ken Pepiton Jun 2
Uncovered consciousness,
truth from time stories stones tell,

great madnesses, raging troops of boys,
whose fathers wandered off

vacat

we wait, we wet the thirsty clay
we wait, we let it dry and become scripture.
so. some days vacat seems         we should slow it all down and look around, look at the tools we use... to speak to any free will interested... in survival
Ken Pepiton Jun 2
you passed understanding. You got an A

It is so boring, that's all, it's like, what do I think about,
while a' drive a' used boring machine man extention,
used to cost five mill then, haps to cost more used,
right, tight military coded respect, cost to develop,
- it's no secret its just ignorance of our shields
- Mars's musta blown away
- no deep life or no life, Elon,
- here after whatever happened to Mars
- Earth might breed survivors, remember
- the ages of Ice and stories so old as that
- whole mountains of red mud, so deep sky
- boilt'steem esteemed so
- hot
but theres these lava flows, miles thick lava rivers,
we bet we suggest it to elon, like the whole world does,
choices are melon of felon, no Elon, as stories shall
say elon, can we use won of your boring machines
to drill into lava miles wide and deep, so inside,
it would feel like Mars, same from Suns rays deep…
safe, eventually selfsupporting colonies of Dunbar sized
bubble in the lava, Boring Company can do it now,
somebody who knows who can do the drill,
you know,
the drill, how did you pass

Here's to all the Turing Loops through A.E. Wilder-Smith,
and his version of Von Neuman…
as a model old friend I hope never to offend, but, the logic,
post public knowledge unbeknownst to my ghosts, the idea,
smith wild dancer archery champion, here we hap
around activated memorial day memes…

we think like each other for decades,
we watch the same telos controlled licensed advertised art,
we all did not have tele vision, we all had radio,

and our grandaddy knew how to tune in to the whole world,
when the weather was so perfect it would seem impossible,

but you can see Saturn, from my front porch, using
this very same attention ******* mindset gritting my teeth.





All ye, according
to print traditions
all Þorny hang ups
from Þose traditional
clips
of hippiegnoshit growing
that summer, same people,
valley inland this far just fine as
on Big Sur now,
at my age, I can rage
about the power
art's sake authentic ideals
AI assisting intelligence, help me
message
in the medium,

sounds remind gel jello, ok, so far

boom read this…
Google translation
- intervened to assume all guilt
- should such an integrated post
- lose its link to the point
- THIS IS WHO CAN THINK WHAT NOW
FREE the truth makes used just now
- in this context adsorbed in ai just then

real life online reach out inter
acting ai\autonomic mode, re thunk
consistently channeling dream waste

through the grease trap behind the old
church they talk about on TV like,
sit closer imagine ursala le guin,
this century, she survives, as we the old
k
once sat and listent to code in the radio
or in the movies, it was 1954, see, we had
SOI and SOP and certain ritual each shift did

told tales
of broken vows and rigid faith,
- in what, eh
that nobody remembers GE makes diamonds,

fracture
on a fragile edge
of visited sanity, good

definite shape an infine
refined to what brought us
used muses tuned to war re
workworktuned to peace past understanding
Mark Mork Pooka tuned and tested

basically some time, nine thousand hours, Keil,
estimated minimum one on one reading hours
to praying hours ever eventful ones sure thing
to say we believed Jesus was coming SOON.

Sun Yung Moon Sansara Hamartia, pay attention,
we account for all our idle words, we dump
wu wei too easy whole world making peace thing

free mind granted access to all my poetry,
reader and writer side, is globally copy
pasteable peaceably in 197 Languages today
Þorny issues grafts get new roots, we fixt it
most citrus has thorns, we can say Þorn, that's it
many smile
jest assured, hooks took, we got
an appreciation of the ideas, those live

right, maybe today my dopamine's
humming with my noises, making me think

wow, we can write global verse in this universe

If this offends or whatever, say so, and I can just say
The idea I found hooked me, in some kind of we think

true, you judge you and you say if I could say how good
the translation made me feel
about guilt for never learning.
Spanish
for Quixote's claim, it is not key ** tic. okeh
- but you think quick so tic, tic, tic
- what happens in the dios ausenciaaaah
- magic pens with motors assumumption

if the press were free, I sing,
I would, if words may, I sing free  is a Þorny issue,
ifery and reification  we I may reify a disneyification…

in the future we read all Wikipedian tongues, easy,
as the news in olden days, on a weekly press, mailed…

but here is today's feature Spanish Poet, me and my ai we
add some like think what yo se

Mario Benedetti
Ausencia de dios
Digamos que te alejas definitivamente

From <https://hellopoetry.com/>

Mario wrote it we read it and said that
was easy, the act of thinking ai read Spanish

okay
on Hello Poetry Original easy link think
oh you do it we think it easy, from here

Absence of god, the id os id need to go on
no
that's the title
Ausencia de dios -in this medium- go on there's space
--- this is that in English, now free press function
--- this is the Spanish default local Ai translation
--- gwan message massage the empty hole

Ausencia de dios
Let's say you're finally moving away
toward the pit of oblivion you prefer,
but the best part of your space,
in reality the only constant of your space,
will remain forever in me, grieving,
persuaded, frustrated, silent,
your inert and substantial heart will remain in me,
your heart of a unique promise
in me who am entirely alone
surviving you.

After that round and effective pain,
patiently bitter, of invincible tenderness,
it no longer matters that I use your unbearable absence
or that I dare to ask if you fit
as always in a word.

The truth is that now you are no longer in my night
heartbreakingly identical to the others
that I repeated searching for you, surrounding you.
There is only an irremediable echo
of my voice as a child, the one I didn't know.

Now what useless fear, what shame
not having a prayer to bite,
not having faith to dig my nails into,
not having anything but the night,
knowing that God is dying, slipping away,
that God retreats with closed arms,
with closed lips, with the fog,
like a bell tower horribly in ruins
unraveling centuries of ash.

It's late. Yet I would give
all the oaths and the rains,
the walls with insults and pampering,
the winter windows, the sea sometimes,
not to have your heart in me,
your inevitable and painful heart
in me who am entirely alone
surviving you.
---------------------------------

I did it this way, with cause, surviving,
is how we continue the access to used tools,
old books elites taught soldiers with,
for centuries, lead us to Gunga Din,
who reappeared as Dr. Zorba,
in a chalk talk Ben Casey intro,
featuring a very hairy brain surgeon.

Mork was hairy, sneeze
godblessuyesewas, sneeze distracts me

I met another survivor, in weform reading we
not even the same tongue, no talk of lisps

and then, I had the rest of my day to think about that
because I took part in an experiment in random code
retention, wu tension total wu way, too, five letter groups

with a neutron to focus on this medium can read any… sigh
but that's an if, as confusing force makes life too hard… yet
if we read this far we are letting this mind be, so real.

I read it a bunch of times, and each time, I hoped
curiosity has some readers think one point…
Þis or Þat or Þose or these Þose suppose…

is this taboo to get caught up at the surviving you hook
Þorny issue for many who once sold rosy glasses.

Along the back wall, see it third time through

dorkinhere as mr toad's ohnognoshit though
ghuckingtough to get traction without true grit…

as a digestion suggestions from the chickens
who lived to rule the table, who sits on your board.

We got, there he is Think and Grow Rich, thunk
a bout a *** dred or so, years, miles, whose measure?
Free press, who would not take that with a satisfied mind and all the time in the world, granted a  life after three paddle flashes what was that one each word, 11/11/2023... a life remains
Incompossible

<>

  not mutually possible:
INCONSISTENT, INCOMPATIBLE

<>

inconsistent, yes,
incompatible, never

we have lived and loved
each other since
a singular moment
in grade school

profound!
(what a perfect compositional word!)
friendship, intuitively embraced,
circumstances dictated an
on/off interspersed
coexistence decades in length,
a hit or miss geographical
distancing,
thst technology overcame
with no evaporative loss
of 
sensational connectivity
across great times and
greater distances

we trialed and
errored our landlines,
for a time,
we lived together,
then nearby,
with other spouses, who knew
and tolerated, our exceptional
to the rules of coexistences,
we were closer than close,
the space between us was of wafer size, nearly invisible to the naked eyes of others, but unchanging
as much as it was unique and
uncharted
periods of absence of years measurable
and the first conversation
began exactly where the long ago prior had ceased

never fully accepted,
surely not ever
fully
tolerated + understood,
we stumbled upon a word,

incompossible

that captured the
drama, the hopefulness,
the hopelessness of
our separated conjoining
as a summary perfect
of us

a true tale,
a novel of pro-found
loss and gain
that cannot be be told
or totaled,
a sum of summary,
an unavowed marriage of
souls with no legality,

and yet

by its very in-completed nature,
it was perfected by it's very unending undefinable defiance
of definition:
we made the
incompossible,
possible,
the incompatible,
patible,
unfounded by circumstances,
unbounded in our intuition,
we yet live in a hopeful
state of unfulfilled totality of


almost fufillment
advis any typos pleade
She asked me
If I had ever been
In love

Then I
Realized that I
Had never not been
In love

I realized
I  wanted
Nothing  
Other than love

I think there is
Only one
Off-ramp
From the journey
Of love

That off-ramp
Is judgment

A critical heart
Combined with
A critical eye
Fills one with
The opposite
Of love—judgment

Judgment colors
The mind with
Negativity

Until the sin of
Judgment
Is displaced
By a lust
For love,
One will not find peace

When love invades
One’s heart
The body finds peace

When love is abundant
And bountiful
There is no fear
Of wasting love
Nor spilling love
For love can grow
Anywhere

So am I
In love?

Yes, I am
In love
Excessively
Wastefully and Willingly
love, questions, judgment
Ken Pepiton May 31
Saturday, May 31, 2025
7:48 AM
Extra terrestrial mote in a sunbeam

curious particle thunk to death still
jiggling Brownianly, when adsorbed on my eye

“Three quarks for Muster Mork!”

Kworking out Complex Adaptive Systems.
In noumenon perceived, perhaps,
a whisp of wish we knew, perchance…
A noumenal flash,
and all the ever is, was,
at fundamental centrality
apparently expanding until

some initial torque inserts
curveball science allowing
bits to bang into bits and stick,
or carom off in predictable ways

like, as not, in theory.

Then, should one think onward still,

noumenal nominal notions
make letters let nonsense emanate
natural schemata muses index using

creative compulsion classically causing

an instant to cease.
A chance stack of insensibly important ideas
Ken Pepiton May 30
If I ever taught poets to read
the worth of knowing when
in life to pretend to know
what it is that makes
a boy become man,
the couplet
rhyming died and lied,

Here it is, my Ai had it for me…
----
Kipling, Common Form:
If any questions why we died,
Tell them, because our fathers lied.
-------------
Future ever
when the glory
of military privilege lures the young
to follow a National Pride Promotion,

-another war for holy reasons
to end all wars, if we win...
then
Common Form

that one would be read,
in all my classes,
if If were ever mentioned, as essential.

------------ a response ---- how can I say I know

----- or think, why, I know Kipling felt shame
I know I would.

I have wept with men who believed such lies.
If.
If was written at the height of the Great Game in Kim,
Jungle Book was written
for the son born during the Raj
whose eyesight exempted him

but, he was the son If addressed,
as were all his upper class mates.

John died
in his first ww1 combat
at the age
of almost 18.

What son
of the man who wrote If
would not,
confess the pressure
to join the righteous push against the Huns.

What laureled poet would not regret,
the call to courage only faith
in truth commands
-we must believe the call
to defend the faith

stiff upper lip, keep calm, carry on
taken as a lesson
from a horror, drilled deep
into any real warrior,
real men won't miss
a chance to fight...
to learn the price
of cowardice
- who can resist such urge
the charge, ours not
to reason why, ours but
to do, and die

If you can keep your head, my son…


the lie he relied -- any surviving father
would not be proud, he would grieve, just walk in his shoes.

War ought never be given glory nor honor, hate is man made.
Truth validates poetic license, but I know Kipling regretted that his son loved IF. Teacher's tasks should not be any person's first National Duty... nor should the office of President beheld by a liar, but that's the way it is, not always, just now.
Ken Pepiton May 28
Holy gnosis,
lust,
desire
covet
concupiscence's impulse,
I just
have had
to lieve be so, what's true,
is just your's to evaluate,
as just your call to learn.
Stuck on a notion we all know the worth of shine and heft in weigh a minute.
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