Tiny ideas link us to the political world of laws to prevent
the plugging of *******, but once

when I was younger,
I attempted to **** a future Congressional page, in a rage.

Temper tantrums twisting in
memes of me used to sew my shadow to my soul
with
Super strings of things, actually,

matter
of fact, from Higgs's boson \ piercing our skulls and groins

we rest on Sagan's pale. blue dot
and learn
to tune our thought filters to muses

intended to stretch reality for the hope of the blind,
and deaf, and
for the hope of the sane who suffer
the boistroous entertainment of the educated,
mad hatter
crafters apprenticed
in the city

to be properly ensourceled with trade secret confidence
builders by professors and doctors who sell cheat sheets,
cribbed from the "How to win friends and influence people"
final exam  that the real Norman Vincent Peale

used to make the dance card at the white house,
when no Baptists were invited,
it worked you see,
this way,

these best of the best educated

were taught the reason to dance
for the needful lie's
traditional prom-
enade long
before the test to make
the quest to rise to the level of advisors of the most
mortal
powerfull poser posers,

to stand,
smiling on the Capital steppes
under the grin of bronzed freedom,
Lady Liberty's wild cousin who works for the bread
and circus division of the military dust trials,

basking in irradiating poise and power from
the alu-minion pinnacle of our founders ******* reminder,

full of fashinonical statements and promises to consume

only the best
of the boys and girls offered in alliegiance, under God,
the one on the money, whom
we trust.

--- old men, chatting, as they say on the internet, the net

cast in the sight of free birds, flocking
under the god trusted by Solomon Chase, whose long range

economic perception
placed the trust phrase on Yankee Green Backs

back in the day.

We were born for times like these. These times need old
fish stories.
Old men, like me, owe our survival to the story
that ties us to  reason, per se,
as knots
to hold the cargo safe,
until that distant shore signaling us, go around the rocks,
I feel a tug,

I got a thread that led to me,
past state of read is read,
the key is coded,
a riddle. Color coded, no joke,

scarlet, blood-red thread of twisted Hopf fibrational
eventualities
vying for per-
fect ex-ceptional stability on a scale our minds call

infinite.
Infinitely measurable, imagine never having known
the measurable fact that
the light is the leave behind, our seeing made
the waves drop each photon you noticed
bounce off objections subjected to peer review
when, then,
after our meetings of the mind, our bubbles of being
filled

to over flowing
inform
conformation to the plan, the balancing of everything.

1/10 to the Seventy-nine Thousandth power,
is the tip. Cluesus Gratiatus Pension Tension , tighten,
lest we perish,
on the rocks,

ages roll by, I age and see you missed the curve,
too bad. We could have mad sweet music,
but for a missing e making mad
my intended point, piercing posers lieing in the dark.