This is not where this idea began but it ran and I

missed my mark. Mark sin.
-1 deficit reality quotientcy
currency.  Sure.
(Press Sure, to let the bursting pressure equilation expand at will)
Score.

That fine a level of reality
demands more attention than I have to pay.
Patient agent wait and not see or see if/then

you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are some of those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is,
but it is silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments.
Is it?

Apophrenia
or mere
Dejavu, you believe,
what if it is your memory lying by ignoring time
attention ratios determining the observations stored in HD?
What if it's just a glitch?
Blue screen of death.


If you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is, but
is it silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments?

We come and go. To and fro up on the face

messengers bearing news in both directions, watch
the trickster, Jacob, in this story, he sees the messengers from
heaven bearing leaven thither and hither

upon the face of the earth.
the wrinkling mother, smiling now, chuckle head
I ain't no ***** saint.

Jah, I know. Joy is my dance, this is my song.
Is it good Grandmother?

---- on the porch facing my west gate ---

fences don't play exactly, out acted, the role of walls.

The idea that something
there is that does not love a wall,
has frozen my pond

the stillness beyond the sylvan **** crowned head
radiates through the medium of the message to me in time
to you.

Miles to go, you recall the feeling of feeling miles to go
before
I sleep.
That was yesterday, and you know yes ter everything's gone,
roar.

Aslan can pierce the barrier between mere Christians and me,
how would be fun to know, but
knowing why would help us keep the story interesting as life goes on

Who controls my peace?
Am I a mercurial sheen in between chaos and order,
chronus and zeus?
Could be, ya thank so, ye know so, less unlessed as

unlessing means nothing to you,
that means you are visiting here.

Visting whom, vis it ing whom?
Who's in charge, where's the power
short

age, wrinkles in time, rogue waves at the quanta scale,
we were dancing
with the thoughts emanating

from some IDW smart guy proffesing
Critique-technic-magi action, post mode'r'ism
at the point of Dada und Scheizkunst,
the unmass-queque,
the line of lies awaiting unbelief,
idle words lingering,
hoping
to be noticed and added back into the story book of life,

a simple wish.

It could be every child's, should we think that
if we can or may,

sometimes I'm still, and

confusion troubles the water,
it seems,
then another hurt is healed, another lie is gone and life goes on

we won again, this never gets old,
I do love my opposition,
pressure pump
pump pump. De-us-me-can-onbeoffbeyond

five years ago unmasking and rhetoric meant nothing to me
the purpose of learning forever and never
knowing anything beyond all things

our bubble is metastasizing, a mercurial film forms
informing us
in its reflection,

this is the ying yang thang in 3 or 4 d, HD+ chaos one half

order the other,
sharpest imaginable thing
me trick being mag ift just if eye winged show

how beautiful are the feet of them who bring good news,
you see, it flows, sweetwater flows
winged feet
whish through leaving, leavin' leaven…

unleaven that which has been leaved?
Fat chance, all who
eat this bread and don't get gas,
they are our same bread people. Companions.
Vectors of sour dough,
webs of fungal
axions
make a way
bore, pore, poor-with-us, pour

in to it ish, that idea, an opening through,
trickle down good gravity leveling stillness,
gentle rocking earth
roll round and round and round

the pythagorean version
of Euclid's point in his mother's story,

the point of this song? To know the point you must have been

to the point of in-forming the point on which we dance and you recall

we come in threes, and just, we are, just, if it, that idea,
rests in your
back roads, gentle on your mind. We make peace.

Being young is easy from my POV.
I've lived in my future for sometime now

I can't say how, beyond saying aloud, this was never hidden,
in my accounting of idle words I claimed,
upon hearing the stories each contained.

i'da swore i hear that wise *** o'balaam's abrayin'
Braindeem, deemed 'eem. Wham, uptheyhaid. Relig, fool,

or chaos wins and no hero ever lives again!
Drop anchor, wait it out.
let patience blow her nose, gnostic snot caught in the nets,

nonono nothing's wasted in patience work, we make glue
from gnostic snot that patience sneezes
when reality grows cold,

that has happened, you know, temperatures are just now,
oh, wait global warming, bad dam,

Script, bust it,
leveling is essential to eventual temperature
equilibrium.
The heat is on, the bubbles are forming, informing one to another
below the surface
greasy tension, slippery slopes putting pressure on chaos
to conform to the curve

Ying yang, mercury film upon the sea of time and the scene of chaos
in this bubble of all you can imagine real.

Hows' that feel? Why?

You want that? What are you standing under? Does chaos win?
You are, as we say, cognisic magi we-ified,
practical magic at
the moment
the point
is made, then the creation begins fractalling outward

and not before or is this all
unrolling ex nihilo, no magi ever knew…
come, let us reason together,

why am I empowered? To live, first thought wise, that's good but
evil forces me to think again and I see the pattern

life goes on, John Molenkamp, Sam, soldier 4,
(as the credits role by, the name catches my eye)
never in a thousand years,
'cept unbelievable is one of those lies I came to **** by strangling
on bile while
rescuing every idle word ever involved in the infection

from the point in the absolute center of the bubble,
objectively, you see everything
that is
seeable

but would good prevail if evil had no hope?

I know that one, yes. why?
evil has no mind, soul, some think--
same same medium message spoken spelled chanted danced
who care's?
*** 'er done. Life has a chaotic side, the churning creates

number one from none, the cult of one divides itself
go do be
we three we three we three a wavy song ding ****.

Aware? Awaken? Avowed-wowed-wit-wise,
fullcomp, retired
Peacemaker. Me.

All my hero's imagined or real, were Peacemakers.
Just now, peaceful now, mindful now
we remain
the same blessing promised in the package of yeses
stolen from Cain by his older sister, his
bride,
keep that quiet, eh?

Secrets made sacred, always
those are lies, no lie is of the truth,
all lies are about the truth.

What empowers you, poet or poetry? Right, you know,
God, good god knows, resentment lives in lies

the rotting idle words deemed curses at best, secret at worst,
those idle corrupting thoughts sparking as if absolute annihilation were thinkable by rational minds

of ---wait, there's arub, a sore
ex nihilo, the homeless wanderer screams,

"May the whole world perish, may you all go to hell,"

the mad man wept his hell, and imagined his curse,

not mine,
I don't have one. I did, but I went back so often to find pieces of my heart that now I have an Elysian network woven through All-hell, the big idea that broke loose infecting the mind as wisdom's leaven builds her womb
inhabitation
placenta
stem cell informing builders empowered, pressure empowered, what must be, but is not verse, versus
us, the we that be
we must
choose,

let this be, come and see,
life goes on.
Agree, or empower us as we bubble by and
takenallwecan expanding gobbling bubbles,
good
by ye.

Once we flushed the Dada poison and let mito mom
instill the patience gene with
epigenetic peace we can pass on with a touch or a word,

we've never woven lies for no reason,
if a rung breaks
and they can, last straw and all that weight,
you know,
Jacob's ladder is an escalaltor-ladder, wittily invented,
with knots and twisted fibers electricked,
there are automated steps, algoryhmes of reasons to repair the broken rung
with a reason to believe the rung has been repaired,
only believe, take a step,
re
paired again with the idea of meaninglessness masked in create-if-ity

good enough. okeh. don't believe lies.
Don't pass undigested lies to see if farts burn.

The imaginers of now were children once,

each day they each imagined tomorrow.

Their daddies had just won the war
happy days were really here again, this time.
---
Now, we see what we see, it's not what we saw.

And this is better than I imagined.
My first oral book report was on 1984, in 1962.

Percentages and stats, the odds,
out of 8 billion…

I carry my weight, saltwise,
I'm light, too. Immaterial in fact.
I watched the internet take form
before my very eyes,
magi technic never seen since Darius the Mede.

Good job, geeks.
Reared on radio waves your
grandfathers never heard,

your signal receptors from mito-mom,
oh, what a plan. The promised ones.

Many sons.
hmmm 60 cycle white noise in the field,
the field of fields,
Future Farmers of America and stuff

Powers we imagined,
a color TV we could watch
in the backseat for days on Route 66,

a restaurant just for kids

Toys 'r' Us oh, wow,
those came and went

and our Grand kids
are imagining tomorrow,
doin' fine with less of what we thought was cool,

taking for granted all I
accepted as granted, in the "It is Finished"
Golden Parachute
Package deal,
Grace and Peace
that multiplies.

" It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews,
            Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and  
                Illuminations from one End of this Continent
                      to the other from this Time forward forever more.”
      John Adams – July 3, 1776.

Webster Groves - 2016

The Townhall fountain dances
cheerily in the morning sun.
The red-white-blue shirted crowd
rises as one for the colors.
Laughing children scramble for
tootsie rolls and sweet tarts
tossed by a strolling  clown.

         Philadelphia, July 3, 1776

        Carriages sped toward Philadelphia
        where resolute patriots
        would turn the pages of history
        and tell an unsuspecting world
        that a new nation had given birth to itself.

Sousa strains peal from the marching Statesmen,
Girl Scouts guide their well-groomed mounts -
hooves echoing through concrete caverns.
Vintage firetrucks and autos
sound their horns and sirens
as candidates work the crowd, pressing the flesh.

        Each crass insult from the British crown
        had tightened the noose on the colonial neck.
        The middle ground was soaked with patriot blood
        and revolution was the only course left.

Barbecue clouds drift over Pat and Lee’s farm
Horseshoes spin and clang and frisbees fly.
A ***-luck feast with beans and franks
interrupts the pop and glare of bottle rockets.

        One by one, each patriot quilled the parchment
        resolved to endure the costs of liberty -
        knowing to the marrow that defeat
        would spell certain ******* and death.

We reach the lakeshore at dusk -
unfolding chairs - spreading out blankets -
strains of Americana drift over the lake.
then a pyro-technic extravaganza
blazes across the summer sky.  

        Washingon’s tattered and bloodied men
        cornered Cornwallis at Yorktown.
        Then surrender - all British claims
        to American soil banished to the tomes of history.

The grand finale pummels the darkened sky
raising cheers and whistles from the crowd
Toddlers collapse in parental arms,
car doors slam, engines ignite
and head-lighted caravans, turn for home,
spiraling off in every compass degree.

“Happy birthday,” America and endless happy returns
"from this time forward forever more!”  

Robert Charles Howard

Logic లేని  love lockup  death లా  చంపింది . .
Tragic సొంతం  అయ్యేలా  తిప్పుతునది . .
Traffic signal లా  control చేస్తుంటది  
picnic లాగా  time ఏ  తెలియకుండా  చేస్తది .
Panic అయ్యేలా  పరుగులేతిస్తది . .
Expired Tonic లా  నన్ను  ముంచ్చేస్తాది   . .
Mechanic లా  నన్ను  మడతేటెస్తదీ     . .
genetics మొత్తం  జంతర్  మంతర్  చేస్తది .
Technic లన్ని  తెలుసుకొని  తారు  మారు  చేస్తుంది .
Psychic cinema లా  Tension పెడటది  .
graphic లాగా  లేనిదే  ఉనట్టు  అనిపిస్తది . .

I recently bought an amazing fad
A car that thinks. Wow, how amazing is that?
So I get it home and open up the instruction pad
Flick through pages covering every language format
Finally, I found the paragraph for me. Number one.
What a fantastic light show, as I turn on the key
Three sweaty hours later and I am done.
I soon realised to read the rest you need a degree
So I gave up on instructions after ten
I know best, and soon destinations are programmed in.
So here we go, first visit, to pick up Ben
Then off to the bar for a few tonics and gin

Six hours later and things are little blurred
My singing is great, I sound like a star
Can’t say same for Ben, man, his voice is slurred
So time for home, we head for the car.
State your destination, a woman’s voice purrs
I clearly state Sandsend Drive, or so it sounds in my head
And off we go to Ben’s as the landscape blurs
While we sit in the back, like bugs in a bed
I awaken to daylight and the sound of the sea
My tongue is stuck to my mouth like something alien
And Ben’s head is snuggled on my Knee.
What the..?  I blink against a rising sun

As waves lap around the window frame
And gulls swoop on the floating craft
I utter a screech so high, a soprano could claim
And Ben's head catapults up to the roof of this drifting raft
His cry’s join mine in perfect harmony
And I look around to survey the coastal scene
A small crowd of dog walkers are looking in glee
Laughing at sight never before seen
Then a coastguard boat assails the waves to reach
Us, and throws us a line. I should be brave
Open a window. But I could drown so far from the beach
While Lifeguards choose to risk life and limb to save

So I huddle against Ben, like kids doing wrong
Then a Lifeguard makes a Spiderman leap
Across to the car, rips open a door, man he’s strong
He throws two life jackets to us with a sweep
Come with me if you want to live, he yells
Yep, I kid you not! He didn’t need to ask anymore
Soon we are on the lifeboat battling the swells
Watching as my car sank to the seabed floor
A cup of tea at Landsend Lifeboat station did the trick
As we told them the funniest story they’ve ever been told
Lesson learnt I’m avoiding modern cyber Technic
For one, bloomin things don’t understand the spoken word.

A brownie being offered him,
the missionary cringes;

he's heard rumors,
messages have been passed on,
Sybils served tea and
chocolatte once fed gods
native to this chapparral where I dwell

with lizards and coyote, yote, like mote in y'eye

don't let the accent fool ya, said the preacher from his jet.
I say,

Wise ***** are not named otherwise, in The Bible, I mean.
SO,
lieve me being in the *******
is no missing of the message
wrapped
in Christmas ribs.

We've come quietly, adverbs being repre-ived,
at the moment
from stupid Tom Swifty readers, ****-flash

I hate lys, not because Stephen King does,
but be cause Herr Dunklesohn
mocked me
forn not recognizing a Tom Swifty as such.

Same guy told me Mrs. Malaprop was named for her
character-istic
intrusion of forced onset cognition ignition

the technic in fully articulated use of F and N in S
and M toned down to PG

when, gee, I think we're alone.

leaves us dangling near the source of Jonatan Edwards
actual
idea
the thread that holds us, for all we weigh in worthiness,

nada, right? so we ain't heavy. riiiight. bro. sos ye know,
this ain't me, we integrated, we crazy voices in the readers mind

we all sound the same so some same same-same
life goes down the drain

in one swirling direction from a solar POV, but bacwards,

not *******, blowing, in the wind, the answer,
my friend,

stupid chant an encantation from the substrata

think nothing
meditate
of it
sit

squirm and be a kid. You made it. This is the rest in the story.