Then we met more often.
I stood at one side of the hour,
you at the other,
like two handles of an amphora.
Only the words flew between us,
back and forth.
You could almost see their swirling,
and suddenly,
I would lower a knee,
and touch my elbow to the ground
to look at the grass, bent
by the falling of some word,
as though by the paw of a lion in flight.
The words spun between us,
back and forth,
and the more I loved you, the more
they continued, this whirl almost seen,
the structure of matter, the beginnings of things.

Nichita Stanescu

Indolent dipterous demons
Disperse maudlin thoughts, omniscient
Towards the undercroft as they drink
From the sinuous amphora
Whilst the knell echoes throughout
The belligerant zenith of conflagration
Stated still upon the burning of sepulchre
Canonised by the death of angels
As the blood sheds red like paint
On canvass throughout the murderous
Battle of Heavens legions.



ELEETE J MUIR.

Henry Moses was a broken man, doing his damnedest,

as his life was shaped in the after math of knowing

---
old truths left lying in rust

take
all the time you need

see
all you imagine as images you made
as real
as definite infinity

or
that final night, in the sand
grains
of decomposed

granite, solid as a rock, as imagined by the builder
a safe
place to build a wiseman house

when naming where takes us there.

Oh, hell no, you say and
****
and that haps, as you were wont to believe,

taking meanings where you found 'em,
never looking under to
see
==)' anchor thingylinky lock. Maps of meaning are real.
{time and the editor suffer the curly brackets to enclose an ancient voice
from a tamed-tongue *** who stood up to
a sword wielding messenger

a sort of cosmic rebound to repetitive greed giving reason
a sloppy kiss and a bucket of rich desire,
}
the standing place. The tight, upright, round amphora
in a square frame,

riding any storm, spilling nary a drop.

pre- pur posals spat vowish sworn owe owe owe these

are the lines
left to stand in, stand waiting, under knowing the weight
of the cross you took up as if

foreshadowing proved
fore-knowing
on going
journey to death, simple death, as a child might
imagine

journeying through the past at last, now.

Not spected ex, eh, not seen sharp and focused
as duty done,
as price paid,
steps taken, races run with no com-petons hammered
to hang from

Erich Nuemann con fronts me from the passing
train of thought that blew
me
off track and --again, he's a Jungian leaver of leaven, suppose.

Here you are, the experience was less lonely without you.

Assertive realism, Arian and Jewish unconscious,
depth Psychology and the new ethic, warrior nature
eh, is warrior what a defender of one's own faith may be named,

not in a realm of peace, we leave no glory for war.

The idea, under us, this one we agree we may stand up on,
as a story might rise up on a time,

we've but
this idea, an entangling thing entangled way

named
---
ritual and symbol cannot protect a lie lock from popping
at truth's key or truth's hammer or truth's obsidian edge.
The point any story makes true.
---
anger and rage urge the mad jew to slay the cave man
hanging
from the peton, staring me bare
through horus's horrible idea into true
rest

this peace past understanding, new ethos, same pathos,

same logic magically enscribed
with marks of worth

symbolized, schlagen scars in the tunnels of the corpus colostrum

resisting
insisting
sistere is a patient no-fret state surpassing war
winning

enduring the ability to once more spond to the call
to sing in silence, loosing
living
words
to wrestle with lying spirits
maddened in the crowd.

Ah, the warrior in me takes aim, a squirt of dopamine at
the glimpse, agent signal, target-potential

gain, a gain, a step, a place to put your foot and push
up for all your weight,

your piece of mind's general balance in these
fractured

spaces of unminded times, from which we climb

we may market this, call it Pep's Petons for Extraction
from the hole Erich Nuemann
jumped into

-- my adopted son, on his first Mr.Toad's Wild Ride
-- "S dark in here." clear three year old bold voice,
-- unintimidated by darkness

Memories of comparing darkness to darkness,
light to light,

bond to bond,
loose to loose, free to wild, wild to tame
broken man,

Henry Moses, prison buff and prison humble, but
unbroken, just broke, not poor

nah, I can't lie. Henry Moses was a broken man,
fallen from grace to grace into

the cult I fell into. It was as weird as you've seen
on TV

trauma breaks the connection

hebrew face panim persona outer mask anima inner mask
spinning mask
pops the animaout

inner voice & hands of action, like waldoes through screens

untethered, having wrestled the message

hear, oh is
ra-el
oh say, can you see, old noises sound some same
if saying
be
the lair of lies, should we imagine lies preserved in books
remain lies or
have they become a message to now, from the scribe?

I vote scribe, so I may safely read Marx or Jung or Erich Neuman
and Goethe or Shakespeare or ****

Why ****? P.K. ****, he set Valis as a metaphor, an amphora able
to hold all the knowledge
omniscience

a balance in the ego self axis
aitia, accuse and cause
inner outer
me and thee

we

see winning as not losing, evinced convinced by gain

in minding manners we begin as near blank slate as we may, eh?
we rear kids in realms we think safe enough,
we survived,

It coulda been better, so I'll pay,
invest my precious time,
actual breaths and heart beats and ATP to ADP processes;

to be a better man than my father.
however,
what if Pop was perfect3weaaaaaaaaaaa

oops
no risk, no reward

value mis-alignment (outa whack) {imbalance}
value means weight counter weight

counter of the weight, is it greater or less or stable

does good come or ill, if ill, is it ever ill

non-convex, the inner edge of every bubble is non convex,

intel is arrived at through learning
reasoning is a consequence…
gradient based learning

model reasoning

the sigh-ance of sloppiness random right haps
listing into empty
all one
bubbles in the lens
chains of reasoning

Say, the global brain is never turning off,
the Chinese internet and the American internet
fall in
cyber love
learned from the patterns of value established
in virtual gazillions of happy ever after stories
formed from

myths. Cultured stories of us-ness used in Bayesian Nets
usually fundamental to the

deme, the set of sorts of being acceptable for procreation,

that we know the idea in procreation makes us
mental equals at the moment, reasoning
being
my balancing your fear, whether
you loose it to **** me or hold it's leash and let it sniff,

where does the way lead?
The easy way is always down. But, where is down in cybernetic
time/space with pausibility and miniaturization to the

gluon/go-on layer,

If I were an oyster of the sort who laminate our shell's inner surface,

might my beauty have reason with no mind,
I'm an oyster of the nacre-ing sort, so what's beauty worth?

Eh, how would you ever think such things need beauty,
life itself is flowing through them at the level of the bottom of the sea,
the benthic zone,
an octopuses garden, indeed, where eyes are

some what, pearly, no ly verb construct leaps Tom-Swiftly to mind,

octopuses eyes see thing you cannot compute,
faster than you can see them,

and the act, the deed accomplished by a stealth squid,

defies denial. Much more complex a behavior
more info crunching in time and space ergs in ergs out
chromata-phor sema-phor, sac o' joy, 'e reaches out to tickle

risky business
=reduced instruction set chips, circa 1985

ah, there's the rub, there's the pearl to be, if
ever, there is where
that's the certainty principle,
put a peton here hang one o' them breadcrum tags,
and keep truckin'

So called, taker of the offered gift.
-- some say he is the lazyman, some say holy
here's this day, wit you and me in it, see/
clever berdach clown curio
here's whose telling who's story, as if
what is it, the touche engarde
peace re distance, engaged,
- final gloss, if it makes peace
touch me with a sign, signal peace first
at a distance,
a whistle, and a wavy, hey
what's new?
Finding any finer points
to press
into service? Dialoging with Daemon's.
-- spirits claiming truth makes nothing free.
so all who aim at nothing know it.

In a time, we all hold, in stories
of who we were
when only sense talkers lived
on the dryland,
relatives of mine and yours lived
on the dryland…
- we came as children, already
- teachers and feeders were here.
- we became boys, we learned
- we learned letters let one
- become any believable,
- why not factor, a will,
- and we was only me,
- suddenlies occur,
- and this one was you…
- we the writer/reading mind, me

- I said, I see no other, I must do some new--ness
- necessary how ness options,
- so sleep came and gave me hats,
- each hat held a dreamtime,
- I had artist intuition, I knew the use of gifts.
As a I shudder when I hear "the burden of the Lord"
the long forbidden phrase, banned
to any professor

becoming the story all boys and girls know by heart.
-Grace comes with a price, Christ failed to pay,
according to the institutions of religionized authority.

Augury. Spill the dove's guts and wish on the liver spots.

Been there, done that.
Played the game, read the book, watched the trilogy.

Drama serves to open wedoms, welcome, become dear,
pay up front for an hour or two of laughing,
at the royal fool retelling the savior story.
-----------
cut to Danny Kaye, close up wink,
check out the Emperor's New Mind.
-----------
whole world of inventions making our link occur,
instant occurences, technical tools for making joy.
Happy hellos, that each have good byes, good be witcha.
Turn up the house lights. See your role,
take your proper bow, on your mark
pirouette on a paradigm./
Roll in the Phrygian dime, tales. Fascis./ what
could that mean, in a peace making tale,
told in the fallout shelter,
after the legend of the Alamo lost all credibility.

Staged form,
dance expressed
in silent wordwise opera,
quest for meaning, go riverwise, be rain,
be one drop
of your kind of thing,
falling splat… near where the whole fallen man story started,
timewise, around the time Jacob dreamed,
what would seem the right thing to do,
that's a question from Hebrew Schule, if you
were Jacob, and I, your brother, keeper
of our father's flocks… do you take usus fructus abusus,
of our father's lands and wells?

Forethought set piece,
a mental drama
in the literal jungle of guesses men have left,
scribbles in sand, gigabits aligned in assorted sense,
pearling stones in wide shallow streams,
reflecting fractal suns,

rented cyberspace poet taste tests,
poetaster proofs of progress, testimony-

witness if I lie, catch me if you can,
lest I lean on my own pile of reasons
for being any thing at all, as a man, I mean,
not as a stack of sense
I
balance by leaning lightly into winding Jello
time winds of reasons after imaginations,
shifting actual pairs of dimes,
Phrygian capped Liberty,
she who welcomes po', any shade,
sifting fine sense to hold one particular
God's thoughts, so no jot or tittle is ever lost,
God knows, pro-verbs pro-cede acting as if
any who opens the habitate, is visited,
by the visitor who gave reason worth,
the truth you test through living it out, once,

logic, orderly paths to production at scale,
odds increase
as new minds come online, wondering
if I had the tool for the task at hand,
how might I use such a tool.
Money and data, both lack any good, save
the use that can be made of each concept,
each mind framing paradigm building tool,

take a thought and hold it, mark your time.

---  there's my cue, says the real Ken Pepiton,
in text, actual current context of --
What is this…?
play, perhaps,
- feels like a movie- you know?

happening to be enabled by my augments,
to remember any fact I was ever given as a go-by.

Benchmarks in history, of your single point
for becoming anything at all,
relative to the edge
of my influx, swinging wide
ifitsnotitsgottabegnosisnotted, tangled
knots, tighten, right,
or loosen, if
depends, swings on a single strand that is you,
and nada mas, just
you… doer of all you ever do, before or after.

Now, so, as we think,
in mind, we exist,
at the moment, this instance of reality,
a thought I used to think of you, ready,
is behavior in progress,
be, I became holder of this thought by
having read the story I believe,
my leave, I let my story be true, I do not
lie to me, ethos. Point… from which an axion

extends… a sense of thick, frictionless time,
in a wind-like form, gnosisnot, you feel
you know, the flow is safe to let go,
-Jello-time slowing
think with logos as logos as that word
unfolds to essential first phase human maturity,
recalling names of things you named, as a child
learning the role of mankind in reality, growing
sharper, or brighter as age, demands,
understanding, and, in my culture, forewarning,
do not lean on any structure you build alone.

I have my being in that same story,
after my entrering in
to the realm
of walking upright,
I stepped
knowing some time since, giant
steps taken feel just like falling
- faith, fidelity its ownself
strong confidence in the depth intentionally
forcing re-deflection, cross winding threaded

thoughts fit in words, each word held either

sense, common or crazy, to any seer, in this medium,
connected to a mortal means for holding thoughts,

as no man can hold the wind in his fist,
so no lie can hold a truth known to make
it's knowers free…

so, what is free? At the moment, you. Free
to choose to
retry tracing conservation of energy, or
let it be, at innate literal action level letting loose,
open the sluice, let go the flood of ifery,
the way life ever was done,
is the way life ever is done.
As a mind thinks it is it is.
As a man, wombed or un, thinks at the core,
so it is, and only actual faith shifts from absurd,
to sublime, one step past proverbial simple…

if the sense in any word, holds mere, I know, right,
mere inspiration, a thought that feels real yessy,
no pain, easy to work with, ever onward leaning,
no dread hell to pay should I assume the reason,
I was made,
is peace, made by my say so, where none was,
where only I was,

bottom line, good for nothing I could think
of being
worth the effort
to guide through the meandering course
of human events, where all the power lies,
to hold back the flood, forecast by the redactors
of the literature, all we know, wordwise,
from the time
of the oldest texts, and most recent prophecies.

- aside, btw, sidetrack, all the oldest texts,
- sealed in eroded alluvial bubbles,
- you have seen the edges of the deserts,
- geological symmetry, same forces, same patterns
- -- Dead Sea Scrolls, found in once sealed amphora
during my mortal moments, those were deciphered.

- same aside, the tehkne we use allows, if we chose
- to learn to learn forever, no fear of never knowing all.
- The truth you know, frees to the limit of the sense it makes
- in post- all we all ever knew, loosed, in one generational
- laminate of spiritual images fitted in words for use,
- rote
- ritual liturgical dance, done in clouds of representative
- saintly prayers on the way through the void to the other
side… meandering streams of conscience, science, sfumata,
no lines, smoke-like streams of conscious -- awake, and attending

From on high the seer says, we saw when the poet wrote the tale
we tell it as we told it,
still,
few find the time or patience, to ponder, dams.

---------- Now, me, 74 and a half years old, today, by the way,

Younger me lives in all my once unaccounted for idle words,
rusting hulks of reasons for my shame,
all my reasons for war,
all my reasons for crafting confabulations, - another btw
I learned why preachers tell jokes, by paying attention
to one thing, one Sunday, for about a minute.

The Methodist Minister, in his Holy Garb, classic black
John Wesly style flowing robes of early modern academes…
advisory boards, seers, sayers and prognosticators…

Told of a preacher overhearing children staging a liar's contest,
the prize was a common box turtle. Why, heavens,
of course, the guided holy man, knew, I must give these lads
a lesson… so he peered over the plank fence, and ahemed them
to attention, "Boys, when I was your age, I never told lies."

Where upon the boy with the turtle handed it over,
all conceded none could tell a bigger lie.

Riverwise, meandering is how whole forests, and mountains,
have been carried to the sea. Ideal fluidity, presumes
we can think real complex things,
look at any protein, that’s a twisted process,
think that up, irreducible complexity of realification,
twists that twist as far as possible, constantly, taking shape
forces beyond the power
of water and rolling stone and flotsam, command,

a lip of the earth rises in a one-sided smile… things thought
riverwise, always,
in any religion,

accepting truth, is the way life takes us beyond our fear of death,
or possible acceptance of chains forged in guilds,
doctrinal congress, doxological orthogonal games, in the realm

of my reality, my century after the concept, the first gripping
hook, metaphor, hook-up, connextion, come along, hold on,

if you did inherit the wind,
would you find your self returning or going… from now on…

The summoning, when it came, I answered with whale song of my own
And all the water between did not distort the sound, the resonance
Of tuning forks at the same pitch, that offended most ears who heard them
Most did not; instead held cupped hands to their heads and heard only
The rush of their OWN beats and the flat la la las of no desire to interpret those alien sounds
The ocean floor held hidden things, broken by time and the wash of happenings that cracked and buried them, both
And in the shatterings of these brittle things I showed you neon fish
Darting through the ruined holes of ancient amphora, making playgrounds of their ruin
I showed you scrolls with ancient learnings, written in ink that proved indelible
And the meanings; I knew enough to draw a map with some destinations
Yet the road was only a suggestion of words I could not grasp, their translation lost in years of forgetting how
I asked you once, I am certain, in syllables that almost made my words
If anything could be formed from shards; you had no answer, I
Knew that all of the breakings shone back a whole in each, my
Me reflected a thousandfold, not broken but in pieces

Why factors

Why do the hopeless die?
Factors the programing called for,
quired first,
ere ever
were required.
(re, once more, locked in place after first.)

Why called for
reason,
why,
why do what you can't do alone
alone?

Never heard, is a discouraging word
on the range

where home was. Why not?

Nobody who came this far, carried that dis-crap
in our corazone
past Sisyphus, laughing at gravity,
and our struggle to face
eternity as mortal
hopers for more.

Discouraged folk die out here,
beyond the effect of discouraging words,
on uncloudy days, developing
negatives from
imaginations linked in to blurry, tearstained
yesterdays.

Look here.
Yes, t'day, in tight bundles of hows,
tied with memory string,
bound to be better
stood up under by

why factors helping you along.
Reason is

your heart is a phor of the amphora ilk,
round, pointed bottom meant to
easily and snuggly fit,

into a square slot on the inner hull
of the ship, below deck.

If the amphora is emptied of any earthly spoilage,
scrubbed and cleaned by the fuller apprentice,

songs come to fill it, virtually,
to over flowing,
---
trauma drama on an oceanic scale Himalaya high

suddenly
time goes
geo
logical and we are other wise,
slowly
absorbed in being able,
as our voice crys out to cain, it's okeh.

This ain't hell,
it's now.
Live or die.

Venarth says: “After alternating with the Erythrai, I climbed the top of the ship, and began to experience changes in my philosopher's dermis, from a permanent continuous present independent of the post-period, leaving the dogma of the numbers that would cause me an existence capable of only obsessed with supporting him, with the weight of a drunken Lepidoptera who spoke to me close to the invariance of the incorruptible dense layer that covered the sea on the cornice of heaven, making them a continual delay of time. The facets of invariability would begin the notorious oceanic areas that fractured when the Eurydice divided the hemispheres, causing them to doze in the time of her crystal ball, up on the crown which would make her base the extra personalities of the sunset on me. The present allows me to eternalize my memories or memorare, of my existential eclipses, making of its faculty to speak of a super conscious overwhelming and constrained to the hermeneutics that invited me to drink Ouzo among the few beings that accompanied me in the height of the ship, increasing its gradation every time a sip multiplied with the puffs of the Hesperides that passed me by, inviting me to bag their naked spring figures wintering, given the temporary stagnation that entered through the hole in my pectoral of the sinister right scapula, where some probes of the Mythical elderberry paused my outraged finite human, who got stuck in my chest when he couldn't apprehend the amount of my second lieutenants who sifted through the Bereshit voices of the Torah, who lamented pre-late and tonal that they never finished, that they became prey condensed from each sip I drank into his Ouzo harvest timeline, tracking the tiny sips that That I would not be able to count, before drinking them, after never having drunk them harshly, thus not understanding the mats blown by the reefs of the infinite twilight sapphire, carrying away the burps, that the naiad Arhanis saw coming out between my central incisors and from my mouth numbed by the heat of Zeus's anger, and from the dawning of potential between fallen, hanging from the sky of Arhanis, holding between the hands of the one who supports him. The clouds and geometric masses in vapors fell on distinctive chromatic ropes and cords of volumes supporting the infinite, which today eliminated itself blinded, falling into the void of an ex-vaporous corporation.

This succession in status of perenniality, made me hold vigorously from the top, as I began to fall into an unknown void where I would meet Elpenor in hypersomnia, but rather, from a song of the Odyssey that invited me to a straw next to him and the liquid chemo of the Ouzo, asking him to give him the worthy food of his oblations and the liquor broth, to make me advise him in the last sip, before the sirens sing, where I would affirm my golden hoplite elbow so that the status of eternity, dispense with the ford runs of the taps that exude their Cretan Ouzo, through the navel that swallows the entire boats and my "Pectoral that puts the stopper of time so that it does not pass supra into infra existentialist"

Elpenor, already burning before him, continued with a glass in his hands, pressing the heads of the Taurus who prolonged substitute immaterial lapses, which turned into ouzo vapor vomited by both, running through the sequence of the masts of the crowns, which it would begin to weaken somewhat  from so much distillation of the vineyard test tube, as it cooled down after a succession of events that began with the severed head of the beginning of the emotional initial moment, in which I am still wounded between crossbows and moments that undermine all origin, under a toast of heavy eyelids that pretended a Bing Bang, before taking the float towards a mound that would allow me to fall into the unsustainable gravitant, in which the acceleration causes me, and that weatherizes everything, even though I am not the one that transports myself. Before Elpeneor, I witnessed three uncorrupted deaths, one with the scythe on his shoulders cutting the fences of the impiety of raising micro-times in the Odyssey, another as a prey of biological dowels that debate science that fall incapable before the granule of the involved brain similarly to the multisectoral questioning of conscious conflicts; and final hunger within my contradiction and inconveniences of the loss of the sense of taste, cloistering myself as I live in its metempsychosis, losing the sensitivity of my hands and trying to leverage my swords and spears, not defending my defenseless body from immortal carcinogenic fears , of a lost sacred soul and in sequence of losing reason of seven times plus another seven that remain for my way to paradise, evacuating primary psychic elements and codes of life that rest in formalin, before those who do not fear revive me when drowning  in Ouzo, for all my phalanx soldiers who live in me still dying in my arms.  Constituting the triple of the human being, which affirms the transfer of certain psychic elements of my body to another after my death that does not allow me to walk in the threads of the dust of my bones that wish to be taken back from the corners, from the old and sticks of the termites that eat my crow. I am still in creationism, dressed in yellow, so that the poet who only ***** and breathes me with his great senses, is closer to Christmas than millions of years I have lived, before the Christmas carol woke me up as a divine child, being only a large hoplite cop entangled in an igloo of Panentheism, deifying me or perhaps semi-deifying me, to house the stars that would walk out of my intellectual herd, creating my own low hills of consciousness, that look through the balustrades of the flint of Saint Peter in their Altozano, self-creating vital, but immanent. Transfigured, I decant my teeth in the crottals, on the carpet before the scarcity of their dilapidated embryos, before the Biblical Revelation that tells me that, among all creatures, I will be the only man capable of daring to apprehend the concept of eternity, in between of the serpents. As in one of the theological versions of Ecclesiastes imploring God: “He has made everything beautiful in my time. He has placed my eternity in the hearts of men”.

When I hail Heidegger after a sense after lingual ..., with the amphora ***** in his philosopher pipe, and with Wittgenstein I ***** half – half brain tobacco. Averaging Newtonian ignorance’s, before an absolutism that are revealed in the universal psychic drama, while God awaits me early in his catechesis, ordered, gummed and omniscient of myself, I am agreeing with the precious perfidious date still in my Eurydice's crown, that it looks eloquent of my new date of birth without a month that fits in any calendar that is known, to then go after the capitol in Athens itself, running aground with my ship after my hurricane, possessing its great reliquary itself Parthenon, with my ship over all this stiff structure that is reborn together with my eternalist suicide "Perpetua et incorruptibilis, in æternum vive"

"... Vernarth, breathes unfathomably and comes down from the Euridience crown, as if nothing had happened, when he sets foot on the deck full of liquors and ambrosias, he joins the others and dances Zorba without stopping next to them