A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens

epi-phenom-enal-con-currencies-synchron-icity
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention

you see
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
not true
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
or die
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
intended
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make

this rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or

as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,

prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.52 specific gravity,
specific
specify

species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?

A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
pacing is

everything, timing is everything, time is the test.

Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
Tick.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?

Babble.

Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?

Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.

But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
Aesop taught,
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.

Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.

THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.

Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.

Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
to believe?

Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)

Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
Too hard?
Not Mohs,
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.

Outlawed
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies

Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.

Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?

Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran 
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/asunder>
----

mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?

Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.

Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.

Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock,  why even less.

Strange, not be long in this
place. if
place this be. Odd
set aside
torn asunder
blown away.
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?

Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
gulls.
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.

----

right, now, do right or

miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past

right now to more. You know?

----=

Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.

Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chailot's rag picker was my best friend.

No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.

Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
cymbals
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.

I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.

True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
----
* Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.

So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?

higher crimes and misdemeanors,
the accusations are long and detailed
just like the poems I write

the sentencing, sneeringly sententious and luridly sensational,
your vocabulary confiscated
and imposed upon you a concision (ouch)
write only poetic-succinctly

when I cried out from the dock,
“innocent!
the words own me, not I them,”
the words, my jurors, snickered,
the fix was in,
and the sentence of hard labor,
a bad rap time indeterminate,
spent in a cruel and unusual
panopticon,
a punishment to fit the crime


no, won’t tell you what it means,

a private verbalist’s hell

I’m a Barbie girl
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic! I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an 18-inch waist
because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
a neck so slender I have to choose
between eating and breathing;
there’s not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a 38-inch bust and
3-times the average amount of forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine shoe squeezed to a three,
spending three to nine avoiding meal time
because my weight-loss book says,
“Don’t eat.”

I’m a Barbie girl,
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic, but I’m
not plastic.
Bile tastes all too organic,
its taste chasing after me
if I exceed my daily nutritional limit of
2,000 calories.
I’m skinny enough that people think I’m healthy.
I’m not skinny enough for people to think I’m unhealthy.
Anorexia is as familiar as the back of my hand,
poised like a gun to the back of my throat,
waiting and ready to blow.
I’m a sixteen-year-old suicide case,
product of the war of production,
wearing battle wounds in the form of uniform lines
across the tops of my thighs.
I’ve been rewriting this poem since its conception.
I feel like the rough draft: concision is key.
(Be smaller.)
I’m trying rewriting,
trying to leave out things that aren’t
important enough, like:
four of my ribs
and my esophagus
and my stomach
and my small intestine.
I’m testing the limits of realism.
But here’s the thing:
I’m a real girl
in a real world.
Life’s not always fantastic,
but I am not plastic.

I am not plastic.

I refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range
based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
eating and breathing
like both are vital aspects to living.
I refuse to be plastic,
an actual hip-to-bust ratio
for not a thirty-year-old but a teenager.
I refuse to be plastic,
shoe size nine in size nine shoes,
trying to start enjoying mealtimes
because my “weight-loss book”
has been chucked down the chute.
I’m a living girl
in a terrifying world,
trying to remind myself that “Life in Plastic!”
is not fantastic.

take some time to count, to verb
some syllables for some wrecked
page. a Lostman's book in ****-
tered thought; nature, and death,
and sole body. then, when she talked
about her better years as those of
drug-induced past-life. younger than
yesterday kinda years. that which finds
metronome slowing, the Universe energy
vibrating weaker while growth found in
apathy, and solid death of purposeful
movement.
                         then a shot,
that moment to break from wretched self-
criticism -- that post-idyllic criticism --
that which hinders forward movement.
           the shot,
which finds contentedness thru some
repetitious mentality . .
                                                 [lost it]
         . . repetitious fallacy?
              [got it]
let's leave some break for transmigration
in thought to prelude of forward movement.
understanding now is not enough; but
agreement in hast. but dissolution to that self-
efface hit rapid. brought back, her thought
of the younger than yesterday years; now,
now is the greatest point of any a count-
less past-life. from them, no matter a sweating
season, the Long Dark, or the cycle-seasons,
             all is now. and never
did she or i talk of the past again.
                   our foci,         [one second]
drawn to point of second and next second upon
following and on for another. now, shivery
wine-drunk, reminiscent of tiny furnace and
woolen blanket apartment. that now,
that was true striving of second successful ***** Den.
        a great thought downfall; she's been long gone.
            [next second now]
she complained of the wind. her eyes were freezing,
she said; her life has begun to bore her, she said.
we moved to playground and climbed in the
slide; a nice dampening. cold plastic barely felt for
her. this Long Dark, and in it, an always fleeting
warmth.                  [break
                        ­to **** for concision in thought]
now then, a diner, of course this face is known. they also
know a companion vacant. asked of, pleasant enough;
responded, well enough.
       [disheartened, well enough]
and then, wholly intrinsic with a blasphemous self-
Oralee while passing time trying to think. unable,
if only for sole point of trying. and epochs worth,
thought and gone; now compulsive, now unres-
ponsive, now chewing lips because they're part gum.

To hold a scalpel
Above the gossamer ribbon
That is the equator
And create two halves
Of a mottled looking orange

B.C.
B.C.
“Change is one thing progress is another. “Change” is scientific “progress” is ethical change is indubitable whereas progress is a matter of controversy.

Our dealing with change is a little less studious more to do with feelings the hold memories evoke
Before change or B.C. I guess we should start with a king B.C. King was before Ridings the one stand out
Memory was a kid who was sponsored by Mopar I remember his side kick Strawberry Austin but way
Back then he raced like a demon and BC and Mopar fit the bill as before mentioned Glen Walters was
On his own I don’t know about in Nashville but around here on his own and out in the front all the time.

B.C. It was Tanners junkyard now Roy’s everyone has a Harry Tanner story how I miss all of the Tanners
My story we walked out past the scale through the gate stood there on the road Harry in his old suit and
That familiar hat he seemed to always wear he had his hands behind his back he looked at his iron
Stacked across the road he said I don’t know we ship this across the pond to the Japanese and then they
Shoot it back at us I don’t think he was trying to be funny but he hit my funny bone.

B.C. It used to be the liberty gas station now BP I don’t gun them for the gulf I just remember when gas
Was twenty five cents a gallon no hullabaloo just a small little friendly gas station the price was right
Back then when there were so many exciting places to go in our home town.

B.C. The Dutch Mill had everything and then some you could get main line goods or some things
Bordered being off the wall I just remember the pleasant good feeling I would get just walking from one
Section to another one they of course weren’t the mighty Wall Mart nor did they have to be we did live
And quiet well before their arrival I bet we would make it if they left don’t panic the rumors are not true
They will be here for a long time and the future generation will hold fond memories just like we do of the
Dutch Mill.

B.C. Remember the wedge in the family mother father and son they had the concision stands at the park
Ball field and pool they use to freeze those zero candy bars like a rock man there is a whole lot of
Knawing going on you had to go to over to the little standard gas station for pops Grapette almost ice
Cold and a Great visit and conversation with Mr Johnson he was so pleasant a true ambassador for all Who paid a Visit.

B.C. I know this is more of a guy thang but anyone remember those great tennis shoe adds P.F. Flyers and Red Ball Jets hopefully they had ladies shoes.

You - Fulgurite
Embalmed fusion
Amorphous plasma promenade
Molten concision
Peregrinate branches groping ambient orbs
Sabulous composition smoothed by bolt of lightning
Ubiquitous – infinitesimal – sublime
Atmospheric timbre brandished in your wake

“but you are too old for apprehension.” her
voice had sounded so, and of this one’s voice,
‘you are never too old for wariness of
an unknown.’ responded astute, drunk
on logic. returned was breathless thought
to the void, filling emptiness with irony.
(oxymoron) and weened the way thru,
concision turned derision with repetitious
definitions that found no actual meaning.
all thought without justification and no
thought with classification. words,
actions, wailing:
          empty, empty, empty
then existed less and less from want
of purpose. less and less from interest of
the known; this once forged fear of life. and
with impressive derangement, grabbing at the
only sober keychain. they, with twitching vesper eyes,
their hands jit’ for a false-meeting fix. to nix
the nihilism. and:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
words of this one’s voice. of her’s, “thank
god you’re alive.” from those days, when rains
ranted down, and the trains tripped us out.
those days of our wood’s reclaimed trailer. and
each syllable was never thought to be anything
until aged eyes ached for review those epochs
of breath. but:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
voiced in response to a romanticized thought. and
all epochs lingered upon are no more than a
journal of the winds that blew while we were present.
some diary of listless lust left undated. of the woods, of
a reiterate span in once anonymized transience. and falling
back, thumbing pages for proof of experiences passed into
skewered memory. left are three lines, ill-verbed, to represent
an entirety of past lives. of time once present in yellow-lit
motel room, of apocalyphic musings, and veering prophets
of doom. they, turned sincere apocalyphites. their prayers
writ boldfaced, platitudinous, in concern of endless words
restating – in constant rephrasing:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
but they just kept goin’ on without concern for the dawn.

(Flobots)
“I can ride my bike with no handlebars,
nooo handlebars, nooo handlebars,
I can ride my bike with no handlebars,
nooo handlebars, nooo handlebars,
Look at me, look at me,
Hands in the air like it’s good to be…”
Alive; I’m a happy Artist because songs like this make me feel so dope,
Because not only can I hit a note,
I speak into existence everything they wrote,
This makes me think of my generation: The
Millennials,
Because we grew up knowing we’re dope how could they possibly expect us, a collective of genius to choke?
I know I sound pessimistic, but I’m equally optimistic,
I dislike the characteristics in materialistic,
Check the statistics, it’s unrealistic,
Emphasize artistic, ambition, or even narcissistic,
Simplicity shouldn’t be complicated, it’s our form of linguistics,
For some reason, imagination is not idealistic,
So those who use the right brain are classified as autistic,
Idiocracy was an illness, it’s why we **** us,
But get this,
They said I can be anything, I picked genius,
That’ll get you killed,
It doesn’t require skill so that career is of inconvenience,
I trusted myself, I discovered the paradox of choice, and taught that,
I took the old philosophy, modernized it along with the understanding of consciousness, and promised honestly when I harnessed it that the knowing would be brought back,
Anyone who’s been following my work would have caught that,
This is potent ambition, I saw an inevitable position,
Where my peers existed; some missin,
I told God: “I understand free will and all, but it’s the reason we’re able to **** at all”
So God blessed me with another vision,
It was an opportunity based on decision,
It was one without the condition of division,
Look man, I give love, I don’t expect anything in return,
I understand respect isn’t something you earn,
You give it because you have it,
It’s not a lesson we learn,
****… I can’t form a linear thought to explain what I’m doing,
I’m just looking for ways to ensure that you win,
I studied the mental and emotional state,
Because we already have answers for the physical,
I extend my hand to heal and they pointed a gun,
Like my philosophy is something political,
“**** me if you must, regardless I’ll still love you”
POP! POP!
Two in the chest like it was analytical,
My skin is dark, dogmatic things; it wasn’t the reason,
It’s fear in others; “I’m having a problem breathing”,
Stereotypical became sociopolitical when umbilical became mystical,
I’m talking Roots, trace it back to the tree and you’ll find intelligence,
A time where humans had elegance,
Adam fell and hit his knee,
Eve had left because she thought it was right,
I’m talking Roots, where slaves are black; whom only express negligence,
A time where hell was heaven sent,
Atoms, cells, no harmony,
We thought left like there wasn’t a right,
And these two stories happened at the same **** time,
You gotta understand that this is life,
Because these two stories is why we can’t think right,
The problem isn’t man, it’s with sight, side, sign, light,
This isn’t physical, but you see words,
Assume I am bleeding,
Resume to save me IF I am leaving,
Ignore the mistreating,
Adore the fist beating,
I’ll get to my feet and walk one day,
Maybe not, walk away,
But I’ll have just enough energy to talk one way,
One word before grave,
“Some nerve of em aye?”
Because I can say “Love” before I drop and decay,
And they’ll say “Where’s the ambition?”,
Before firing a third round…
After the sound, a laugh was missing,
Looking eye to eye; the rest cried like it was I who did this,
I, was crucified,
He, was suicide,
And they, had to decide if they would choose love, or fear bassed off the previous concision…

this is the verb that we declare must stand
for place and season taken out of time
by our decision rendered full sublime
by simplest action of creative hand
uttered each morning by serene command
the sound itself is richer than each chime
of golden bells tuned to a perfect prime
while the symbolic meaning is so grand
all that we say can be reduced to this
concision of significance and sound
where every symbol strains into the light
yet not a thing is here that we could miss
even if we retreat to harder ground
since we have turned our backs upon the night