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kenpepitonPoems
Hearing history whisper in the background in an aural realm I hear enkidu bled ink to fill the pens of ready writers after ever lasting word forms a name Enki, wisdom and life flowing into length of days ancient days long remembered, visited in daydreams featuring all that may have been, then. Some soporific drink drunk in old Uruk vicareate, those in lieau of you. Dying for you to go into the realm of knowns past knowing knowns now in this realm make your mind reach mine. Stand under my lines and lean toward joy good and calm, gentle waves of peace swirling fibrating threads forming woven things, matrices, see the points crossed over and under, see the edges wound around, to keep the rubbing of reality from fraying ends. did the fingers gno the math, the ciphers we see in carpets woven by magi families for centuries, ere The Prophet were told to Read, and he refused to learn, but chose to teach that which an angel of light, warned against by Paul the Gnostic Jew, taught? Told to read, but never learning to do it, because angel said, say exactly what i say... Teachers once learned by teaching, but never has reading been masterd sans sensibility of the graphemes re presenting the noises common in every human ear hearing in sapience, abruptly Hear! Easy to be entreated. You have ears? Hear. How is never asked, why is clear; ears hear, we all have ears. Not all ears hear. But eyes can learn to read, with some effort. I magine it your task. You the first speaker of your magic tongue-lung-teeth-lips, epiglot-tonsil-nasal noise making system, engineered to permit song in accord with this, our shared realm of noises, common. Ha. This tale of an angel telling a messenger to read, is this a famous story? Have I not learned of a war being waged, i.e. fought with stand-ins paid to fight, live or die. Soldiers formed from hearers of empty songs stretched to cover eyes, as well, push and pull, hot and cold, balance value weight and worth imagine knowing no written tongue you, dear reader, this book of lives in life per se, who could see this coming? Papyrii and clay and stone cities are inventions of men men who would be kings imagined delegating knack for knack *** for tat this for that all for me, the man wombed or un who would be like the most high god I can imagine ah the danger of falling into anachronism you first must imagine, dear reader, that writing is an invention intended to bher the burden of learning to remember, really, no po'etic license claimed or blamed famine of the written word negates not the worth of rhyme and dance masques and noises of roaring bulls thrumming, thundering herds screaming hawks, squeeling rabbits, caw cawing crows or ravens if that distinction is ever necessary... as the story is told, some time after ever starts. This has been a chapter in our history, dear reader from the times before the pictures were scratched on the rock Sisyphus rolls. Twixt now and then lies a realm of stories locked in idle words never written for never having a reader who grasped the message to the prophet, read. ----- Uruk, was there a ****** who watched you rise and learned to make a city sufficiently enslaving to raise a king from the son of a king to the level of luxury allowing reading all that writing demands suggestive is the fact that the written word for C2H5OH is a spirit ual thing caught in a word as old as the earliest writing remaining alcohol, spoken now, would call for a drink in old Uruk and Akkad, as would reference to kohl warm eyes, be cool as are we all, we living words spoken in times past, listing in lusting vacuums of empty songs ah, you shall not surely die, poor Gilga- mesh, the net spread in your sight, you never thought networking and weaving were skills teachable, thus this witty idea, the best potter makes only one pattern of *** all for me, I take them a ll and feed the potter meat. Mighty hunter, am I. I feed many with one mammoth I am worthy of all they make with strength taken as granted while chewing the carcass of my **** --- here it comes, civilization--- things in abundance might be made, and traded for that which we lack the knack to make so soon does some medium of exchange manifest as witty inventions emerge from seeds carried from the garden How? Now, off-scour, **** of the earth, us-all, poor you have with you always, we, the feeble-but-not-un-minded, people, whisper when we sing, shuffle when we dance, fly when we dream and live until we die and leave mere words to live ever after in the wind, making peace for the heirs of the earth.
0
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 2:45 PM UTC
Hearing Sunday
Hearing history whisper in the background in an aural realm I hear enkidu bled ink to fill the pens of ready writers after ever lasting word forms a name Enki, wisdom and life flowing into length of days ancient days long remembered, visited in daydreams featuring all that may have been, then. Some soporific drink drunk in old Uruk vicareate, those in lieau of you. Dying for you to go into the realm of knowns past knowing knowns now in this realm make your mind reach mine. Stand under my lines and lean toward joy good and calm, gentle waves of peace swirling fibrating threads forming woven things, matrices, see the points crossed over and under, see the edges wound around, to keep the rubbing of reality from fraying ends. did the fingers gno the math, the ciphers we see in carpets woven by magi families for centuries, ere The Prophet were told to Read, and he refused to learn, but chose to teach that which an angel of light, warned against by Paul the Gnostic Jew, taught? Told to read, but never learning to do it, because angel said, say exactly what i say... Teachers once learned by teaching, but never has reading been masterd sans sensibility of the graphemes re presenting the noises common in every human ear hearing in sapience, abruptly Hear! Easy to be entreated. You have ears? Hear. How is never asked, why is clear; ears hear, we all have ears. Not all ears hear. But eyes can learn to read, with some effort. I magine it your task. You the first speaker of your magic tongue-lung-teeth-lips, epiglot-tonsil-nasal noise making system, engineered to permit song in accord with this, our shared realm of noises, common. Ha. This tale of an angel telling a messenger to read, is this a famous story? Have I not learned of a war being waged, i.e. fought with stand-ins paid to fight, live or die. Soldiers formed from hearers of empty songs stretched to cover eyes, as well, push and pull, hot and cold, balance value weight and worth imagine knowing no written tongue you, dear reader, this book of lives in life per se, who could see this coming? Papyrii and clay and stone cities are inventions of men men who would be kings imagined delegating knack for knack *** for tat this for that all for me, the man wombed or un who would be like the most high god I can imagine ah the danger of falling into anachronism you first must imagine, dear reader, that writing is an invention intended to bher the burden of learning to remember, really, no po'etic license claimed or blamed famine of the written word negates not the worth of rhyme and dance masques and noises of roaring bulls thrumming, thundering herds screaming hawks, squeeling rabbits, caw cawing crows or ravens if that distinction is ever necessary... as the story is told, some time after ever starts. This has been a chapter in our history, dear reader from the times before the pictures were scratched on the rock Sisyphus rolls. Twixt now and then lies a realm of stories locked in idle words never written for never having a reader who grasped the message to the prophet, read. ----- Uruk, was there a ****** who watched you rise and learned to make a city sufficiently enslaving to raise a king from the son of a king to the level of luxury allowing reading all that writing demands suggestive is the fact that the written word for C2H5OH is a spirit ual thing caught in a word as old as the earliest writing remaining alcohol, spoken now, would call for a drink in old Uruk and Akkad, as would reference to kohl warm eyes, be cool as are we all, we living words spoken in times past, listing in lusting vacuums of empty songs ah, you shall not surely die, poor Gilga- mesh, the net spread in your sight, you never thought networking and weaving were skills teachable, thus this witty idea, the best potter makes only one pattern of *** all for me, I take them a ll and feed the potter meat. Mighty hunter, am I. I feed many with one mammoth I am worthy of all they make with strength taken as granted while chewing the carcass of my **** --- here it comes, civilization--- things in abundance might be made, and traded for that which we lack the knack to make so soon does some medium of exchange manifest as witty inventions emerge from seeds carried from the garden How? Now, off-scour, **** of the earth, us-all, poor you have with you always, we, the feeble-but-not-un-minded, people, whisper when we sing, shuffle when we dance, fly when we dream and live until we die and leave mere words to live ever after in the wind, making peace for the heirs of the earth.
J.M Roberts history of the world in the backgound listening to Sunday in my valley.
#peacemaker#make#me#a#peace
kenpepiton
Written by
kenpepiton
77/M/Pine Valley CA
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 2:45 PM UTC
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