Old notes, from before
what they did was imagine a future
the future using a memory (meme) locken in their DNA to cognize
sameness
Defragmenting your mind
disassociate certain ideas from mis conceptions
cost of living, reap what you sow
Lost and know it, is there a way
What if the show (the trial) is a series of phone calls--
listener hears both sides
--- but never speaks--
When is the reward for not doing ever as great as
the reward for done?
A riddle for the robber jailed for doing?
A query for the poet who never wrote?
The singer who never sang, an audition in silence?
Eaking, painful words that say see, soundlessly
and fifteen years passed by
I must say
I know the answer there
I must say
I see farther now than then
Suffer it to be so now. See the music
sing
Sufficient unto the day (no more)
Sop with me, come and dine.
-- Ask the guest to say grace
gracefully, the guest rises to full height,
tears the heel from the loaf,
slowly sops it in the cup of Mogen David,
provisioned by the host,
slowly lifts the soppy bread to lips open
for a bite,
taken, then chewed gently, and swallowed,
Amen. The guest sits and tucks
and gracefully scoops his portion of
a side of beef and three old hens who ceased to lay.
Grace for grace, he mutters, in his own gluttonous way.
as all the tucker's tucked into him.
Smallest child asks, who invited that?
Oh, that.
That's a metaphor. A parable. You see as if that hapt,
you remember it oh so well,
then the story ended and you woke here with memories of never beens.
Not every efforting word makes ineffable sense, some must be heard
to be spoken, other wise they lie
idle, idling like dragons spewing ashes in micro bits of death,
in their slumber atop the horded
answer to all things,
money. the real thing. the idea from which it formed.
A time trading scheme.
Back in the day, we were paid for our attention to reality, then
something changed at the DNA level, down in the core of where we come from,
effortlessly, until
air, whoosh squeeze that back outa me
breathe, old man,
old notes, like we should
honest-account the smell of Dehli
diesel idling in clogs of mopeds and vespas and honda fifties
like Saigon outside Than Son Nhut when the Americans were there
such idle words as these, left lying asif believed
now as when they flowed from a steel nib pen in some era of errors past
parsing sensibly
like old photos in a family album, with no recognizable faces or places
longer lasting than our carbon foot print,
longer than the thread to Silicon Beach sewing stiches before the skein
ripped with the receding tide of couldabeens,
before there was a fast lane, a 56 K modem was a rocket ship, too slow
here come ol' Flattop, Junior, **** Tracey's cutting edge hacker,
Flatop Jones, Junior,
cruisin' Route 66, in 1956, while the Hungarian Freedom Fighter was
grasping at
a dream,
The Yanks are coming, but
they didn't.
Seeya.
I found my personal task spiral binder from the expansion of the silicon bubble into the internet through to the MyTechPeople rollout after the IPO that never hapt. A historical note.