all a teacher can do is learn and live,
see.
Situationical, long ago, tradition
Teachers tell stories,
with force. Whacks and such.
The reason, once, one time,
the ruler to the knucks
was to loosen a stuck clutch o'
clingers to the edge, who knew what
could be known,
who were
witnesses,taught to see
perceiving sub til ity plowing furrows
through explosions of new math,
new bombs, new moms,
new wars for no reasons, the edge
clinger fingers
let go, just before
a teacher who
they knew learned,
as he lived,
to hear whos
beyond the bubble's edge.
slip
yet no sense
{clique}
Filter Heinlein through Vonnegut,
squeeze the dregs,
sort each bubble by whos heard.
--Suess, a gain, point ought ever one,
heare that? That is an echo. A bubble pop echo,
in the halls of all imagined worlds
redeemed by children seeing the meaning
wave form on the GB scale storys are sung to.
Waiting is, on the BE scale
the ceiling leaks in the poet's prison,
but his window faces west,
so he is pleased to watch
the wind he claimed
bring rain. And so it goes.
How long do stories live these days?,
Asked the peacemaker, in the distance.
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 11:25 PM UTC
all a teacher can do is learn and live,
see.
Situationical, long ago, tradition
Teachers tell stories,
with force. Whacks and such.
The reason, once, one time,
the ruler to the knucks
was to loosen a stuck clutch o'
clingers to the edge, who knew what
could be known,
who were
witnesses,taught to see
perceiving sub til ity plowing furrows
through explosions of new math,
new bombs, new moms,
new wars for no reasons, the edge
clinger fingers
let go, just before
a teacher who
they knew learned,
as he lived,
to hear whos
beyond the bubble's edge.
slip
yet no sense
{clique}
Filter Heinlein through Vonnegut,
squeeze the dregs,
sort each bubble by whos heard.
--Suess, a gain, point ought ever one,
heare that? That is an echo. A bubble pop echo,
in the halls of all imagined worlds
redeemed by children seeing the meaning
wave form on the GB scale storys are sung to.
Waiting is, on the BE scale
the ceiling leaks in the poet's prison,
but his window faces west,
so he is pleased to watch
the wind he claimed
bring rain. And so it goes.
How long do stories live these days?,
Asked the peacemaker, in the distance.
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