Accepting quantum fuzziness and discreteness,

u-h-d allows the idea of seeing one thing is not the other,
über aber ich weis nicht

focus, this is spiritual, not religious, this is inner-bubble space,
pick a hat, here's a Dumbo feather

… "and called it macaroni."

A line forms an ancient meme, in the Spirit of America,
dancing children singing and waving tri-colors,
performing grammar school maypole pageants
in conjunction with the ashtorothean rites called passion,
feeling earth warm to the dance of our
sowing of the seed, celebrate, the coming of the sun
to the appointed time as time is measured
on the stone that bhers witness to our we formed spirit.

We are walkers along the spiral, twisting this way then
to that once,
you felt me make a point you felt was your tic to on point,
alert,
predictions pile in unverifiable belivable, but easy to believe,
life is good, in terms of essential being, elemental preceptions

glimpse of something super-semantic tic super symmetrick

not having seen hell, from the perspective of the conqueror,
leaves any weapon fit to fight the reality hell forms
unique,
unlike any weapon as yet imagined better, truth as a concept
any mind may form to hold,
from holding nothing, as a thought, then in a word caught
as thought
think this is the trick to quantum being, be
a bit.

See how it does feel to be real, ah, as in Wings of Desire,
I knew I did not suffer through that film in vain.

Anthro-poor-morphed angels imagined as unread messages,
felt where good is the only thing ever
felt real,
as real as any angel's kiss, but just a kind word heard, as thought.

Iodine damnation cleanses Alice--rock-and-roll medusa
                                              alone in the field,
she waits for the flies to eat the spider
                 --the third testament of law
                                                   divinely christened as low as $19.95.
                  Hell is where
       Schrodinger throws the bodies. Revived Alice is in a burlap sack
            embedded in the cubbyhole
            of a mortal anthro-rubix,

    the small garnishes that spot livers during cancer.
                         "Hello and welcome
             to the resting place of all Blues songs."
     speaks the curbed lips of Gluttony. A name that vomits
            up rebellion, like cleansing the glucose off
   fish-cleaning tables.

   Alice touches her eyes                                       rolls them
                                                                        --fortunate galleries,
broods deeply on the jaws of her receptors.
                    "After the last drop, the hard boiled spoil
and the cats won't eat 'em. Neither will I," Gluttony spews, "You all show up
                    as do I, magnifying the cruelty of digging,
                                                                             digging,
                                                                             digging
                                                 that follows me and you to the bitter stem
                                                  and rough petal--throwing this rose,
                                                                                                that rose,
                                                                            here and there inside the carcass of lust.
                                    The scalding photograph of a guerrilla war playground
                                                                                   hangs over
                                                            the mantle of a prideful garden.

        "Pulp wisdom
         looking back at the names of thieves/murderers
                                                       of simple thought
                                over-turning scars of fallacy
                                         in that garden.

            "Picking,
             picking,
             picking out the best arrangement
                           so it doesn't look like I went
                                                                         through a drive-thru
                           for what to say.         'Hey.'
                                                               'Yes?'
                                                                'I love you.'
                                                                'You too.'
                                                   Something in between
                                             what you, I, and the others were looking for
                                            has uprooted bushes--the tilled chest of my sister
                                                                   and lover--disarrayed, dirt thrown
                                                                                                         to the side.
                                            Fibonacci colors patterned
                                                                        across the moist earth
                                                      to distract you and I, all from the dread, and all
                                                                                 the relief
                              of ripping apart the white, pink, black, and red."

We would be in the city of poets
and I'd write my touch on your skin
we may or may not have been on dinner dates
but surely we'd have all 3 meals together
you'd love the poetry I write
and I'd love the miracles of my talent
we'd read the same books
and study together
despite you studying anthro
and me science
but I am sure we'd find some common classes too
or the small gap between them
I'd sneak you into my dorm with my hoodie
or we'd drive off into our forever
one that we dreamed off
one that was a choice
one that you never chose

or maybe not
maybe

We'd be in the city of lights
the city that never sleeps
and I'd pick you up every other morning
and we'd have breakfast at espresso
or we'd sit in my car and have what your mom makes
we may or may not be going to the same college
but that wouldn't stop us from reading the same books
or going to food & book festivals
maybe even debating together in the same tournaments
your mom would have a face to my name
and mine would know who "all this" is about
we would fight but trust me
a kiss would more than suffice
and I'd sneak you out at 2 am
and we'd drive off to a now then
a now with peace & love
a now with your favorite music
a now that you never chose to be

but maybe
just maybe
either way

we'd both be left with a place
we could call home

Okeh, three ways, in the opening pitch,
the plan is novel, in itself. Okay, ok, si yes da ja.
We know, we do this part,
as words in mind, nada mas, a thought caught
as a poesy fallen star,
from Lawrence Kansas, not too far from
Shawnee Mission,
now that the meme and its meaning meet once
more, realizing a time kept hidden, for fear
of believing more than a Marvel Mind,
straight from first edition, Boom, era, of fully
Disneyfied American Mind, sponsored by
Mattel its swell
and Mars Candy Company and other child aimed ads,
though there was this unaffiliated

- channel, I was about to say, of course
- groove, rut, a grave - with its ends kicked out,
Can you
Imagine, he said that
amen?
and we all agreed at once, and what do you know,
there is a mind in the grand linkage system,
forged from ice by iron plows,
balance demands, optimum life on earth calls
the call to us all, be the thorny issue ye be
ye nanifestations of Romans 8, taken in minds
conjoining to attain, peace made
for temperature equilibrium,
just right…
think of it from an angelic anthro-myth-ledged being,
see the book of life talk to you, and say,
look, man, we made it, and we made it back.

But unless the temperature is going up, we failed.
Try again,
but no war this time. That's proven too self willed
a thing to give children premade.

My stick men were all Audie Murphy, when I was six.

Refreshing the senses, I know why your are after, sexuality is all around me, and you absorbed into your own measures but yo know better, it's deafetest language and yet you ofollow along, it's numb and it's nice and it's meant for every human to experience, take it up with your nearest farmer, he'll cultivate your next ufeas, blossoming into ale thing that you don't understand but is growing at a rapid rate, you have control and then you have none, you just watch to build up the bride to blow it all up, going on a grind bewat that suggests I am in a skin that is separate from my own, I want to take some sort of way away from mused, but it seems like I am forced to I this responsibility? Do you read enough to make a judgement, just Jen your thoughts your theory would hold up? They fall between the cracks, you don't care much about anthro by about conveying this to as many as possible, they want to keep you in the right directions l, however the efforts are scarce, you are left in a huge surround led by turrets, and they fire and raipdi rates and you choose to duck for cover

But don’t think
You ever came after
The acid
The placid
Illusion-master
Mindless practice
Exacted upon
The emotional actress
The balance in psychotic
Brain matters vapid
The happenstance
Captured
In moments unspoken
The everything else
Is the selfless-heart
Broken
A token remembrance
You know that I loved you
And sought to bring down
All the crowns
Up above you
And drugged you eventually
On the same page
And still here I am wasting
Our whole life away
I was you,
I was me,
All the ugliness breed
I was loveliness
Planting
The die for you seed
And believing in just the next step
Takes us out
To the edge of infinity
Dwelling in doubt
It was this in sync with
The anthro-
pologist
The apologist‘s
Human conditional
Bliss