Silly, silly me. Mind of my own,
swimmingly setting bubbles of simile loose
mind, in factors felt as real as any thought you thought.
as real as any thought you thought, this
particular, alien idea,
emerging, critique click cliché YES, all the mises, pro
liberality, certain and absolute solutions to UV salves
"Sunshine, came softly…"
The alienated minds of the children purchase in 1948,
was anticipated, seen as a future path,
to negotiate, eh, take the bold leap
over the briars, or dare
to follow the hounds,
and crawl into the chapparal so similar to home.
¿Hoy, Compa, te acuerdas… to you do you recall…
muse, imp, urge, will to know, while knowing nothing,
no good no ill, only wonder, and then not wonder if, but what?
Are you- with or con- knowledge or science, not of, or…
loving me for being alien,
nothing near real,
a familiar feeling, with no words clinging
in hope of some idle thoughts you hung out to dry,
as washed grocery bags, set to trap answers
blown by winds named now for saints,
then for powers, real as any, these
returning on circuits predicted by AI.
Santa Anna warning, strange weather all the elders say,
in the past,
these winds were earlier, by a moon,
and they often followed dry storms of lightning and thunder
fanning any smoking flax to vibrant flame,
claim the promise, Yes, all
the promises given the endurer to the end,
the only hero you personally know, inside out, is you.
Should you play a standard trope,
or seek the character's principle
shape, in formed from thought, Toth, is said to have thought
Cathar, hide, and watch, we may ask Google, we need not own
the knowing, we need not hide the hoarded secrets,
required lessons, treasured knacks and tricks for pulling wire
fine as any spider's silk, listening in every palace, believe me,
we lace the planet in silken sensing threads, singing windsongs
silly old tuners, hear for practice, the lightest test touch
there at the base of the thought, fiddlesticks, catgut crossing
eyes tight to the squint, discerning gleams
You still see that morning meadow with gold in its mouth,
kiting spider trails, wet with dew, we, atop the old stile,
standing, stone still, staring at raw beauty
saying, try to remember…
In hope, the imagining thing functions as when these winds came in September.