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Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
This is how I saw it said John.

Jesus heard from God, YHWH, biggest imaginable mind,

mind to mind,
I and my father are one

the scripture can't be broken
if I do not the works of my father which I have been sent to finish

believe me not, I wrote. I write. There is a bubble
where if one were to say I  write
and by writing, I ask,
what are you
debating?

Who is this old man?
standing afar from the scorners

I was asked. Was it challenge, scorn or

curiosity tickling the child in the blindman who
said he could not see me writing,
therefore
I am not a writer,
in the bubble that man lives in.
He now lives in my reality.

In my world I am the light.
I banish darkness with light from my phone

Fantasize, know ye not what I have done unto you?
Granted. Ignoring is easier. Truth makes you free.
After a while, you know when you are lying.

If ye know these things happy are ye if ye do them
Some one among you
has lifted up his heel against me
has lifted up his heel against me
has lifted up his heel against me to crush my head

who is it?
Judas,

Oh, thank God, I thought it was me who received the sop.
What kind of Christian am I?

One like the writer of the manuscript taken as good news

do your works, whatsoever your hand finds to do, do it
the spirit of truth

I will not leave you comfortless,

the word which ye hear is not mine, but the fathers
My Peace Give I unto you

Did that burning monk in Saigon do that for me?
My Peace Give I unto you
he said that, I bet.

Not as the world gives? Am I alone in hope?
I do
write, hoping...
chosen out of the world, oh my am I
to
follow through
good news from a far country
now have they both seen and hated

the spirit of truth

you should not be offended.
If you are, get over it.

The sending required the going
the spirit of truth

What kind of Christian am I?
This is an old man, retelling
he chuckles when he recalls, do ye now believe?

was followed by a wink,
I have overcome the world

and this is finished, all beyond is unbelievable.

Timeless stateless state
Thy Word,
John said, as it flows from me in my comfortzone.

Be with me where I am, these have known…

Am i? Are those old words words for now, 2019?
Whom seek ye?

As soon as he said I am he
It's the next day old man John woke up

spent some time in his carnal mind sorting
things out.

If I have spoken evil,
bear witness of the evil, then the story
of Peter's tri-denial,

the poet, John, tells the tale

the legendary good news

What is Truth? I find in him no fault at all.

Barabbas was a robber. Ecce ****.
Whence art thou?

How did John know? The comforter? What kind of Christian am I?
The spirit of truth

Joy to the world, that was the message.
conciliation where ciliation itself was never known

ere now.
It is finished, he bowed his head and gave up
the ghost.

My witness is truth.

Confident, competent

compete to win
winning is not sinning

kachunkonnect
we're in.
Comfortzone verified. My peace is my witness.
Don't test me.

Patience, do your perfect work.
Truth, inspire expired hopes.
While listening to Alexander Scourby reading the Goodnews from John, the deepest walk down that road, for me, in quite some time.
Home is ambivalent agony of always endingupalone,
lion's share of my life in such ambivaliving spent shunning,
shadowstriped w/solitude of tired tiger cadging a cage.
But tho' animal me had misgivings, it must have felt l/ home
if home is defined by how many times you return,
wherever you may roam. Show me t/ way to go home,
I'm tired & I wanna go to bed
alone in ambivalent agony.

My unheimlich forever home
is a permanent pearlescent adolescence.
Opaque to myself, a reflection only of t/ present,
l/ a fleshwound of mythic marble.
I read 'Borderline adolescent' is a tautology;
no wonder being needy gets so boring,
all apologies for vicious flatline circumfrumping
t/ monotonous circle from
overgrown upturned Skoda Larkman gardens
to this Borderline 37olescent.
Assentaneous bittersweetness my last deserter.

Enough oddbouts of messy ire complex
to oversimplify infallibility as extension of aloofness,
telling a few home aloofs is rush of Unabomber smugness
at my own deviant basketmaking
a.k.a. poorman's genius. Cliched,
but an artist is a spiritual exile
a.k.a. richman's homelessness.
An omnicidal somebody w/  bespoke nuke
in a hollow copy of Walter Mitty's hollow 'Collected Poems'
- nothing them genius weenies duz really pleases us,
vice versa for earth gods amongst derfwads.
For what abode of hip food & humble ideas could rival
t/ visceral crystalclear unheimlich adolescent opacity
of eternal ambivaliving in t/ Righteous Paranoic Present?
All heres & all nows unified, underpinned &
undermined by t/ constantfeeling something unknown is very
very wrong.
So constant 1/2  t/ feeling is feeling verymuch at home w/ this.
'Swhy suicidalideation always seemed such a 1/2way house,
tho' noone can really live on t/ middle of a busy bridge.

But it surprises me how anyone can call anywhere home,
t/ universe being profoundly plummeting, pulverised fieryfroze matter,
just plummeting & scuffing & pulverising  other fieryfroze matter,
conflagrating in a blacuum until all t/ homefires of Nature's Hbombs
leave us even colder, in caliginy worse than white torture of
pool skamkab a ni ronyag airogl ginrevoc repeer migr eht.
Our peeling Nikes peeking out of a panther pelt shroud,
peeled from a panther as big as t/ guntz. Homeless,
but as its hangdog furniture t/ future's my retainer
as I mature against my better judgement.
Roots always get t/ better.

So I am not t/ Dave that rode, suicyclist
(tho' he wasn't one who drove) into O, t/ porcelain
sunset of midnite. Cliched,
but life is just such a ride by t/ seat of our panthers.
Besides, Glaswegian Dave survived (until he died at
a grand middleage).
& Marge wears a string of moons & Homer's at home everywhere.
& I do have a home under t/ pathos of a British Moon,
dangling l/ Mussolini amidst baseballmitts of nimbostrata, dabbing
t/ Counciltip - ***** of all overgrown upturned Skoda Larkman gardens
- w/ evocative rainpong, gentrifying petrichor.
& tho' most British disturbances are kept to t/ home,
what's more English than shelter? I have somewhere to go...

But I would fall into yr arms, Dark Cow,
like profoundly plummeting, pulverised fieryfroze matter
- go on, let my cuddle scuff you, wipe out yr comfortzone of  tyrannosaurs.
One can stay at home too long, you know.
As far as concepts & their tails go,
I'm more of a feeder than a finisher,
so I'll fill my writingboots, biro my toes,
by feeding home's humble ideal:
home is where we're more furniture than feature,
& neither dimmed nor bright lites can be home's diminisher.

Hi [insert cat's name here], I'm home!

— The End —