Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
kenpepitonPoems
In my realm, any tale worth telling tells itself, backwards… this is part three under reproof inspection, we have tools some of us imagined, perhaps with prodding from what prodded Heinlein, his version of the Sixties, seen from his fifties; differs in tech to stretch the realm of possible, Artist's intuition that women's intuition was a thing by 1961, the year of the twist, if I recall Junior High, and who doesn't, eh, as seen on TV. We were there. There were those books, You were there at the battle for Bataan We were there books, 36, a kind of boomer canon in the southwest, some of us had grands who rode those trails. But the one I imagine I remembered reading, We were there at the battle for Bataan, that can be imagined as a ghost from the cemetery in Kingman, Arizona, on the actual road alluded to in rites of passage, all roads lead from the middle of nowhere, there's no destination known. Up on the point, overlooking my green valley, if I am an honest man, and I believe I am, sharp as a tack, tacky as a fly strip in a butcher shop, sticky in that ai ai ai madja look gleam meme, flash of white, no light, brigh'ness reflected from raven's wings, sure that is what Castaneda saw, no wu wu needed, once the plant impresses your kindness, adsorb absorb soak seep, sniff wonder, if we may imagine and we do not, we are as the being who may read and does not. Or the reader who may write and wishes to be known for the worth of the lines in threaded time through changing times, drastic fantastic changes in time thinking medium thick syrupy, thicker, honey, honey, how could such excess be? the proverb, pre installed, tic Hast thou found honey? Eat so much as is sufficient for thee. see prophecy saying the child shall shall, not will, shall eat milk and honey until it can, not may, can sense the fine-ness of the line the veil, between useful for imaginary things, how fine the film discerned, imagine that scratched with this so fine a line, that nothing is a thought, with nullness nought, not infinite, pre- punctuality, never ceases to happen and now remains, ever.
0
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 3:30 PM UTC
Part 3, third piece in fractured reflection
In my realm, any tale worth telling tells itself, backwards… this is part three under reproof inspection, we have tools some of us imagined, perhaps with prodding from what prodded Heinlein, his version of the Sixties, seen from his fifties; differs in tech to stretch the realm of possible, Artist's intuition that women's intuition was a thing by 1961, the year of the twist, if I recall Junior High, and who doesn't, eh, as seen on TV. We were there. There were those books, You were there at the battle for Bataan We were there books, 36, a kind of boomer canon in the southwest, some of us had grands who rode those trails. But the one I imagine I remembered reading, We were there at the battle for Bataan, that can be imagined as a ghost from the cemetery in Kingman, Arizona, on the actual road alluded to in rites of passage, all roads lead from the middle of nowhere, there's no destination known. Up on the point, overlooking my green valley, if I am an honest man, and I believe I am, sharp as a tack, tacky as a fly strip in a butcher shop, sticky in that ai ai ai madja look gleam meme, flash of white, no light, brigh'ness reflected from raven's wings, sure that is what Castaneda saw, no wu wu needed, once the plant impresses your kindness, adsorb absorb soak seep, sniff wonder, if we may imagine and we do not, we are as the being who may read and does not. Or the reader who may write and wishes to be known for the worth of the lines in threaded time through changing times, drastic fantastic changes in time thinking medium thick syrupy, thicker, honey, honey, how could such excess be? the proverb, pre installed, tic Hast thou found honey? Eat so much as is sufficient for thee. see prophecy saying the child shall shall, not will, shall eat milk and honey until it can, not may, can sense the fine-ness of the line the veil, between useful for imaginary things, how fine the film discerned, imagine that scratched with this so fine a line, that nothing is a thought, with nullness nought, not infinite, pre- punctuality, never ceases to happen and now remains, ever.
A long, for many attention spans, thing start to here in three parts, all with seedy burrs itching to be carried away and eaten -well cooked, yes, imagine the good we could do, doing nothing
#old#man#muse
kenpepiton
Written by
kenpepiton
77/M/Pine Valley CA
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 3:30 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem