ah man... it was just a saturday night,
wet cement
   and street lamps glaring down at me...
it has to be something to do with
password, which i created at 17 "centimetres"...
what's troubling me is the beer i had
on the way... it could very well be dubbed
nameless... bavarian...
but unlike Budweiser... no fermentation of rice...
nothing like budweiser, that ****** albino
of beers...
          no no, nothing crisp either, like you might
drink it on a hot summer's day...
this was different...
     it was extracted from wheat...
ever drink liquidated wheat?
        what, not ever?
    that's why i took the picture which is sitting
in the background...
the beer was so memorable that i kept the actual
bottle...
      who would have thought, that by adding
wheat to the usual medley of barley and hops
you'd get something, worth writing about...
of course, as i spotted the onset of spring
and trees blooming with those little flowers...
  but that beer. ****, on, me...
        it's revolutionary what they do these days,
fermenting wheat, on top of barley and hops...
you almost want to eat grapes rather than drink wine...
want to start a revolution? start brewing beer
incorporating wheat...
   i was actually walking from street-lamp to street-lamp
reading the ****** label...
you sure this isn't belgian?
           either that, or i looked completely stupid...
  it's there though... it's not a budweiser
with that ill aqua-fresh feel of fermenting rice...
it's a co-op (supermarket chain name,
also do funerals, like multi-facet parlours,
or ****) -
what a ****** name for such a good beer though?
wheat beer... bavarian wheat beer:
   made with malted wheat and barley...
   who does that to a masterpiece?
   someone who probably whistles along
to symphony no. 2 in A-minor...
and never bothers with proper titles...
    like.... francis bacon's studies of lucian freud...
i'm guessing they're lazy about naming
their output, simply to they have so much of it,
and it has to look clerical, or let's say:
    surgical, imply that against
the other dictionary that humanity possesses:
an algorhithm...
insert the words: word for surgical, clean...
   ah! there it is, the little ******...
antisepctic...
         just as well... when writing can but does not
reach an elevated status...
   isn't the thing that you take to bed and doze off
using it as a sleeping pill...
    the bit of me that already stated:
i wanna be as rough and toiling as a lumberjack,
as the lumberjack said: writing was never
about creating a *****-magnet,
a bit like a cow, in a field, less bulls to **** me,
yet more bothersome paper-clips like flies to
daunt me... or that's what a tail is for,
to disperse them...
           the devil and a tail and an impotence of
a tail that he uses for a trouser-belt, but doesn't wear
trousers, merely picks it up, that flamboyant additive,
and swings it to a twirl of full circle,
walking away while whistling
and saying: the part where i say: i've eaten the heads
either side of a cooked chicken bone...
heads? those parts that need lubrication,
so the things that are later called gensis: arthritis...
but it was in all earnest, a magical beer,
a revelation... who could have thought that wheat,
that from wheat alone, i'd be walking the night
and actually sniffing the neck of a bottle...
   like an arab in a bakery, sniffing freshly baked baklava...
and that really is, pistaschio galore...
oh right... pistachio... no s... taccos and chow mein...
apologies, i sometimes forget what the "unspoken"
rules of **** schizoi consist of...
write it one way, speak it another way -
sure show... how about a Pinnoccio drinking a capuccino
donning ccinos? again: what i see as necessarily
dyslexic: it's actually pinocchio,
   and it's cappuccino... and it's chinos....
and all that, from the greek χ (chi)...
or whatever χ was doing when the family k c q
came about... i'm thinking q is a mistake given
the already stated optical implants that really do,
deviate from how to base clear-cut memories of:
in case we need to remember.
    i still know that s z and x have a thing going on.
that beer... budweiser tastes nothing like
it might, ever, don a crown to encompass the spectrum...
you're basically drinking this beer
           and you're thinking belgium, but it's
bavarian... and i'm currently in a youtube vlogger's
punctuation mode...
   watch way too much of that **** to end
up writing like i am, right now;
                                          eeek! a teenage girl! run!

watching flowing fields of grain dance in the wind
made ripe and green by the warm late spring sun
I imagined running, falling, and rolling in the fresh wheat
getting up again and spreading my arms wide open
allowing myself to experience the oneness of us all
I felt both completely refreshed and totally alive

It is a wonderful time in which to be alive
to stand and feel upon your face the wind
skinned browned slightly by the shinning sun
matching the color of the fields of wheat
basking in the glow of spaces, wide and open
recognizing a connection to the greater all

there is a peace when one recognizes their connection to the all
akin to nearly dying but instead remaining alive
ghosts float by on old gusts of wind
unseen except in shadows elongated by the setting sun
pausing only to admire the grains of wheat
individual, perfect, and ready to be open

I sat in the car considering all of this with the window open
the low buzz of insects became the soundtrack for all
and I felt my aura was glowing and alive
my soul was taken by a flash of cool wind
and I found myself travelling etheric to the sun
I was but a speck of sand or a single grain of wheat

my relationship changed that day, to wheat
in fact, to all plant life I became more open
understanding they too were part of the all
and that we both were living creatures, quite alive
both of us forced to deal with the wind
both of us totally dependent upon the sun

I felt on my face the warmth of the sun
and looked back upon the field of dancing wheat
for one second I was totally open
and was in an instant not only connected too, but I became the all
it was if everything around me became alive
and sang together the joys of the springtime wind

I felt so alive reconnecting with the universal all
and became as open as the summer wheat
nourished by the sun and sent dancing by the wind

A song in a cornfield
  Where corn begins to fall,
Where reapers are reaping,
  Reaping one, reaping all.
Sing pretty Lettice,
  Sing Rachel, sing May;
Only Marian cannot sing
  While her sweetheart's away.

Where is he gone to
  And why does he stay?
He came across the green sea
  But for a day,
Across the deep green sea
  To help with the hay.
His hair was curly yellow
  And his eyes were gray,
He laughed a merry laugh
  And said a sweet say.
Where is he gone to
  That he comes not home?
To-day or to-morrow
  He surely will come.
Let him haste to joy
  Lest he lag for sorrow,
For one weeps to-day
  Who'll not weep to-morrow:

To-day she must weep
  For gnawing sorrow,
To-night she may sleep
  And not wake to-morrow.

May sang with Rachel
  In the waxing warm weather,
Lettice sang with them,
  They sang all together:--

"Take the wheat in your arm
  Whilst day is broad above,
Take the wheat to your *****,
  But not a false false love.
  Out in the fields
    Summer heat gloweth,
  Out in the fields
    Summer wind bloweth,
  Out in the fields
    Summer friend showeth,
  Out in the fields
    Summer wheat groweth:
But in the winter
  When summer heat is dead
And summer wind has veered
  And summer friend has fled,
Only summer wheat remaineth,
  White cakes and bread.
Take the wheat, clasp the wheat
  That's food for maid and dove;
    Take the wheat to your *****,
      But not a false false love."

A silence of full noontide heat
  Grew on them at their toil:
The farmer's dog woke up from sleep,
  The green snake hid her coil
Where grass stood thickest; bird and beast
  Sought shadows as they could,
The reaping men and women paused
  And sat down where they stood;
They ate and drank and were refreshed,
  For rest from toil is good.

While the reapers took their ease,
  Their sickles lying by,
Rachel sang a second strain,
  And singing seemed to sigh:--

    "There goes the swallow,--
    Could we but follow!
      Hasty swallow stay,
      Point us out the way;
Look back swallow, turn back swallow, stop swallow.

    "There went the swallow,--
    Too late to follow:
      Lost our note of way,
      Lost our chance to-day;
Good by swallow, sunny swallow, wise swallow.

    "After the swallow
    All sweet things follow:
      All things go their way,
      Only we must stay,
Must not follow: good by swallow, good swallow."

Then listless Marian raised her head
  Among the nodding sheaves;
Her voice was sweeter than that voice;
  She sang like one who grieves:
Her voice was sweeter than its wont
  Among the nodding sheaves;
All wondered while they heard her sing
  Like one who hopes and grieves:--

  "Deeper than the hail can smite,
  Deeper than the frost can bite,
  Deep asleep through day and night,
    Our delight.

  "Now thy sleep no pang can break,
  No to-morrow bid thee wake,
  Not our sobs who sit and ache
    For thy sake.

  "Is it dark or light below?
  O, but is it cold like snow?
  Dost thou feel the green things grow
    Fast or slow?

  "Is it warm or cold beneath,
  O, but is it cold like death?
  Cold like death, without a breath,
    Cold like death?"

  If he comes to-day
    He will find her weeping;
  If he comes to-morrow
    He will find her sleeping;
  If he comes the next day
    He'll not find her at all,
  He may tear his curling hair,
    Beat his breast and call.