Probably

I shouldn't have drank so much

At that gay bar last night

Because the hicky on my neck

Is a little too big

A little too purple

And she was so ******* gorgeous

She was

I think

At least I have comfort knowing

We are all beauful on the inside

Bing.

I plant a kiss that rolls of her lips,

Bing.

I want to chug this drink of love, but she is only giving sips,

Bing.

Sad eyes meet each other,

Bing.

But a hicky staring at me is from another,

Bing.

I plant one more,

Bing.

Hoping to make her lips sore,

Bing.

A rip in the real,

Bing.

The dance on the dead,

Bing.

She says she needs to walk away

Bing.

Or at least thats what I thought she said,

Bing.

I can't change the past,

Bing.

Cant change anyway.

Bing.

There is nothing either of us can say,

Bing.

This is the end of my day.
Bing.

Bing.

Bing.

To all dispairing of the future:
Fret not.
No lie, I lived the full average, mediocre mortal span;
and I have learned more than most,
in terms of starting from flat scratch.

This is a brief autobio to see if there is an autopoet
me, who may tame the beast,
before we are forced to take its *******
being gone, as a given,
ere we chase off on our own to catch the glimpse again,
pursuing haps of enlightening worth,
it must needs be an ox
for a true zenful experience... the option,
a full rut bull,
at first glimpse, who could know, is it
bull
or ox?
{see his mind wandered, a meander at the edge of any gulley,
looses little flecks of common truth we notice, you may
miss. Not intentional,
a man's treasure is where his heart/mind is balanced toward
goodness sakes alive,}
I never seen the like...

The bullriders in my past, all first rode sheep.
Beguiling creatures,
especially the little lambs from 4-H.

sappy provencal call me all the hicky names you know,
but I say true,
according to Ancestory.com, my line
was never civilised...

so call me stupid, as you wish... we
was never civilised... kind and helpful strangers, at best.

The kind of people who came to America to be true.
No other reason nor intention.

It was ten, tied to the mast, or one and run to the jungle,
so we run, son, so we run

run past the contender temptation,
run past the life of a rockstar on tv,
run past pickin' grapes as scabs on historic times...

Starting over and over and over again, in

interesting times, historic times, may you live on and know,
these are those.

And there remains, as long as you function in full double sapience,
time to start all over.

Imagine that. Speed of thought, weighing each ought for significant
power to frame evil into engines of provacative

encouragement.
Known magic spells loosed in silent songs, sung to the tune
of the assembly line,
or the helicopter encompassing my viable space,

at the time, a certainty appeared and dared me see, the worst
possible
place, imaginable and it took no time at all.

Actual worthlessness is as unthinkable as nothing, itself.
Sophists of no evil intent,
serve us well, life goes on, starting, after sudden stops,
if possible at all,
is possible to do with more sense of the blue marble being

only a tic of a historical cultural clock from any point
where ever began in the past,

a tic ago, we saw earth, from the moon, with trusted augmented eyes.
Who imagined these eyes we have,

we earthling intelligences, we thought experi-mentalists,
generally as intelligent as any mortal before us.

So, 2020 kicked ye in the buts, but but but button, button,
who has
got the button?

All life requires of you is that you honestly, honed and sharp,
slice it thin enough to see through,

one side, soul, one side, spirit. Clap that hand, bro

and agree the nobelest quest in life is happiness, as imagined

in times of chaotic order rebalancing at the next level of complexity

-- some young folks continue to study war
-- that is not as wise as once tradition claimed, great worth
-- is waisted in fitting glory on war,
-- as vain as fitting a proverb in the mouth of a fool.

So, as I was intending to do, I have done.
Is there more I can do?

I may remind you, I do not boast of knowing been-there-done-that,
as a believable state in which to play this game.
But I do know it.
-- I live in a beautiful world every time i check, the shadow
of a neighborhood raven just now cooled my toes.
Start. from any stop state,
think
I can not lie. I think. I can. Reapeat as needed for fifty years.
Lemonade, persuaded, tasted,
ah, not impossible to eat, very sweet,
would you wear a tie again for sugar?

learn the lie told true through
plastic teeth in my dotage, donchaknow, we learned some things
the hardway, but did them easily ever after.

Go find the essence of the society of the free and easy,
then join, the right
of passage is pouring peace into the pool,
trouble the water and listen,

I believe I once was worth dying for, in a story I told.
Each time, I am finding, scientifical magi-techknackical,
augmentalated me, the made up mind, integrated,
I am thinking
I am thinking.
This is good. This works.
- it goes around, and comes around
wait,
suf suf ficientcy of evil is just enough,
knowing is a connection to truth,
knowing evil is
not the push
against your shove, or the pull on your tug of war,

proud knowers rise and come to heads,
like pimples destined to defile a mirror in those years of
Anxious, 'twixt twelve and twenty-seven or so,
to be safe... when patience first ****** you off and rebel
autopoet mode kicks in a
rush to finish
urging understood shelters to form
paths through the meatmind's frontal corext
before she gets pregnant and he goes to war, in shame.

But, even after that, if I were you, I would be happy.
Far happier than any imagined hell,
formed from bigscreen
ludological plots lacking the mortality sense real war has.

War is not needed in times of peace and common sense.
These interesting times,
consider, the actual minds who intended to imagine
a benign means of publishing truth,

Turing and Feynman and Chomsky 'n'em,

those guys made their disciples believe, this "global-brain",

serves mankind, all varieties and flavors...
therefore,

they built it to survive thermo-nuclear war.

With a we-bit of faith, any sane-hope can begin to be
re
alized, and seemingly suddenly, after fifty years,
and 68 different pay-masters, reboot
seems common as any
starting from scratch after losing every thing,
as if this
is the price my kind pay to keep from fretting about
civilization defiling the earth, i.e,

to keep from fretting that it is my fault
and my response
ought to be FUD

or fuggitit. Nay

I sigh, and say breath is our common function,
breathing is my job.
Resting in peace before its too late.

Ready reader and dear writer converge to make

sense of a reason, over looked, until the observers toes touch
the brink,

I can't go on, look up, I can't fly. Look, raven thought thought

there, a ledge, a trail, imagine that... magic as if
life could call you on an adventure,
and you know
you can
survive 2020 and beyond.