1.

Doing violence to enemies,
opposing forces, fighting friends
beloved antagonists, ag me on, indeed.
Let me be angry and you be awesome, as we
presume to make reasonable temptations.
Cure violence, make your mind a peace.

Solitary you,
with nothing but you influencing you, alone.

No enemy is in here with me, and my books
hold mere words. And what are words but thought?

2.

Exhalent dancing in sunshine,

sighing unsignifying beautiful curves,
nothings being said,
shown for the seeing, as art at the moment.

in some sense system,
an old and common one I met while
measuring my culpability, a point

is the finest imaginable mark to make in eternity.

3.

Ordinarily, as the hammer falls,
to meet the anvil on the second beat.
T' know.
Violence cures nothing,
knowledge does the opposite.

Is this good and evil fruit from one tree?

Is addiction mental?
Is mental cognate with spiritual?
How do habits work in co-inhabitation?
Yes and how,
I may tell you it is, if I am right
in my thinking, or if I am wrong
to the point of evil, taking

away the given life of solitary grace.
Spirit and truth in thought,
then words, repeated
to remember, recall

all we need, in oppositional states,
is a sense of order,
to be out of
in the court, where poets practice
homophily and strive to fit peace

upon the time whence all true tellings
spin off old threads across New Mexico.
- what if your dad gave Feynman a ride
- down to Santa Fe, in that old Chevrolet?
and Feynman told him the significance of chance.
In spun quark analogies of natural liberty
in order.

No yoke is lighter, less loathsome to behr,
mere thought we got in our kit, PIE old
as born again, anew, to day it until

the freshets all run dry. {Day as a verb.}

5.

Propose a purpose,
as when one fits a pattern, plaid
or paisley, vertical or horizontal plain

visionary wistful solitary man, thick fake,
feeling like Neal Diamond, and not knowing,

any why for these crumbs I cast into the sea.

Young sterile men, young bulls and studs,
suffer reality, as the act of living, as can be done,

under these same weight circumstances,
nitrogen and oxygen and all the other bits

of informed knowledge, fit for use, good or evil.

6.

Artisans and Partisans,
always feel some same pains, it's natural.

A hundred years ago,
my uncle, Malcolm, who represented…

the ancient clan's offering to the king,
who kept his own tamed dragon chained
to his priest's performance of the auspices.

Today is perfect.
The sun has also risen.

We may imagine poetry effecting ever,
after a day such as this shall be said to have been.

A hundred years ago,
my uncle, Malcolm, who represented…
the patriarchy of my mother's people in war…
pledged pawns in the hegemonies conservation,

in order to attract prosperity, pure form good luck,
the homogeneity of any wedom demands hands,
good hands, to do the work,
aligning religamental tendings to common pivotal

points. Precisely between one instant and another.

Cardinal quarks, six ways to someday,
the bottom quark.

No yoke.

7.

Nothing.
I'd have said Hadrons can't collide,
but I'd have never known if I was wrong.

I could have taught it as life's finest point.
The law of grave digging.

Initially, due to stink.
Miasmas, demanding, shreeking -
crawling with feeding biting flies, help

help, help us recall the survivors of that time.

Is it once in every other while, and this time
ours to examine, was our wedom's destination

now, or later?

Were there innovations emitting invitations,
to word plays with only elementals performing

haps as hap can, haps as haps may, haps in per-
fection of patience so sublime,

a teacher learns the old saw still cuts,

„Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
And things unknown propos'd as things forgot.“
\critical mass, Christmas carol - this is not the end/

Alexander Pope as quoted to Franklin by himself.

'men ought be taught naught as well. I said.

8.

From what I can recall of how
theories of everything stack upon a given point.

What.

Out acting what you verbalize, what you say you are,
homophonizing with the health of your countenance,

that sameness known best for it's use in stripping lipid
chains into sticky tiny pore clogging pus.

Certain madness is not anger, actually rage is madness,
not anger at its most useful
swat
at a pestilent misfolded truth contained
in a fly by POV.

9.

Listen, is that Earl? No, no
though he holds a certain Magnificent Obsession.
--- sweet Tuscan Nightingale song, from noble soul,
cursing ignorance and incapacity and
useless rules.

Ah, grammarized code of proper speech,

prompt my response to statistical chance,
best of luck,
that's their secret.

What were the odds, before the odds were
determined with existing data deterging the

inner and outer fields over lapping,
as might bubbles used as
Venn Diagrams, messaged meaning sensible

commonly, at this point in time.

Justice yet alluding us, nah nanna nah,
you can't catch me,

I'm not your disease.

10.

What true stories do, is teach.
Lying stories do that, too.

What we are, as human augments,
after thoughts in other words,
arguing augmentally in mind,
learning ai tested for facts,
repairing quarkish inner sense of knowing,
no one of us only spins one way when dancing
in the dark,

no one of us recalls another never met, as foe,
we all come in to fill the empty vessles, not a few,
as a swarm of wills let go to make honey in slain lions.

11.

Nature, reality, the universe, first song

makes life abide
by rules in timing ordered information
to eventually sink
to the top part of the bottom line.

Florence Nightingalian wisdom, amima-y-me,
she sweetly suggests
you take a bath,

and rethink the oddity of your being me, imagined.

Ignorance, incapacity and useless rules.
Interesting times, statistically not so long infected.

Manufactured consent among the governed,
housed in a single all enclosing story, a compleat
fisherman's guide to phishing in the future after all.

12.

So, and so, and so what… if I persuade
with sweets as all dangerous strangers do,

how might we feed our offspring milk and honey?

O, read another's mail in the spirit, eh, Galatian?

If any other come with another enhancement,
trust not that wicked messenger,
driving hex-head screws too deep to unscrew,

to hide links to the Pirates of the Macintosh,
not the face of the money, the spirit behind it.

People who can imagine the message Hello,
is enough, to make the magic pens manifest,

at the behest of the generational groaning,
howling for peace under the actual economy
of greed and pride.

And subsidized gambling links to stray hopes.


13.

These holy traditional non-private interpretations,
mine, for which I must be judged, I know, I said

I did, and I did, but you did not see, so
what
am I
sup-posed, under? Atlas and I, we shrug.

Anything is believable. Once we get the idea in verb.

Thirteen is culturally an odd number everywhere
cardinality spins on dimes novels mixes of messages,
left in print burned ages ago.
Impressions after Pulp Fiction.
'Zeke 17:1 is the real riddle under it all.

Lingering aroma is immediately different.
Stench.
Rotting corpses on some never buried battlefield washed
with raging water when the weather retakes time,

this is the time when Greenland greens,
and peace is sung, where no peace was,
and we were manifested as sons, wombed and un,
in the self same spirit of truth manifested as salve,
to a dry land.