A petal picker walks backwards.
A petal picker has a stupid man gripping it's ankles.
A petal picker thinks too much.
A petal picker kills children.
A petal picker doesn't talk a lot.
A petal picker is amorphous.
A petal picker has no face.
A petal picker lacks in poise.
A petal picker makes up his mind.
A petal picker smokes cigarettes.
A petal picker sleeps in the daytime.
A petal picker sleeps in the nighttime.
A petal picker loves the outdoors.
A petal picker adores the beautiful things in life.
A petal picker wears other people's skin.
A petal picker wants to do things.
A petal picker sits down very well.
A petal picker remembers a lot.
A petal picker doesn't do anything at all.

There are some people on this planet, that came here years ago in a space ship. They are called Pickers and they came from the planet Bnegative, in the Talkalot star system. They had to flee their planet because they had amassed a great negative attitude, which caused the planet to be swallowed by a blackhole.
     You can usually avoid the Pickers if you see them in time.  Here are a few examples that will help you identify Pickers.  Pickers amass a great negative attitude that repels other people.  For instance, if a Picker comes into a crowded room, the crowd will bunch up together like a school of fish, hoping to avoid eye contact with the Picker.  Also, when Pickers find something wrong they will immediately  correct you, then go on to tell you why you are wrong, when you became wrong, and what went wrong.
     Pickers will pick, pick, pick, pick, pick at you until hell freezes over or the PickEs clothes catch on fire or dies.  In that case the Picker will immediately find another person to complain about the cold, heat, or smell, of last said person.
     There is no way to win an argument with a Picker, so it is best to nod your head in agreement until an escape route can be found.  As a last resort you can grab some poor soul  as they walk by and quickly introduce him to the Picker, then walk or run away, leaving the innocent bystander in your stead.
     Pickers believe that if someone is wrong and they do not immediately tell that person they are wrong, the earth will  then blow up.
     Now, occasionally one Picker will find another Picker and start Pickering the other Picker.  This usually ends in spontaneous combustion for both Pickers.
     But, recently, scientist have found a planet that is suitable for humans.  So pack your bags and grab your ticket to the planet Apossitive in the Farout Galaxy, where nothing is wrong and everyone is right.

Tumbling-hair
              picker of buttercups
                                   violets
dandelions
And the big bullying daisies
                             through the field wonderful
with eyes a little sorry
Another comes
              also picking flowers

A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens

epi-phenom-enal-con-currencies-synchron-icity
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention

you see
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
not true
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
or die
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
intended
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make

this rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or

as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,

prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.52 specific gravity,
specific
specify

species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?

A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
pacing is

everything, timing is everything, time is the test.

Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
Tick.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?

Babble.

Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?

Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.

But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
Aesop taught,
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.

Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.

THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.

Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.

Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
to believe?

Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)

Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
Too hard?
Not Mohs,
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.

Outlawed
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies

Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.

Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?

Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran 
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/asunder>
----

mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?

Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.

Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.

Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock,  why even less.

Strange, not be long in this
place. if
place this be. Odd
set aside
torn asunder
blown away.
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?

Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
gulls.
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.

----

right, now, do right or

miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past

right now to more. You know?

----=

Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.

Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chailot's rag picker was my best friend.

No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.

Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
cymbals
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.

I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.

True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
----
* Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.

So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?

Rag picker on the street
Dust eater and maggot breather
She can tell the smell
Of burning plastic and paper
Of turning dung to soil
She knows the ways
Between the hills of refuse
Between the footfalls of her children
But who cares who she is
The lost and never found
Inherited a kingdom thrown away

Who cares what she thinks
She finds meanings in a bottle
Looks at a glossy magazine and wonders
Her slightly bent back aches
Sun ravages her skin each day
Brazen with resistance like herself
Her skin glistens with labors each day
Filling her heart with hazy dreams

Who cares what she sees
She hears those kids play faraway
A world insulated from her own
Where plastic is used and thrown away
And the worst smells won't make you sway
She sees the worth of this world
For what it truly is
She lives in the belly button
Never forgetting it was the beginning
And it may be the end

But who cares what she says
She's just another sweeper
Another rag picker
Treasure hunter and bounty filler
She sings old forgotten ballads
Songs with no beginnings
Songs with no creators
As she looks for something
An old school bag, a plastic earring

But who cares who she is
Just another one of these
Souls in an eternal sea
They never were
They never will be
An entire generation
Of nonentities
Forgotten children of Destiny

How silly is the little flower
to think that it has such a large impact
on anyone's life.
It's as if it says
"I know I am just a flower
and it's well past the hour
but you picked me from the rest
so I must be the best.
So when I leave,
don't forget me please."

But it's just a little flower
that was chosen for no other reason
than to bring a little bit of happiness.
Yet the flower still speaks,
"I don't understand what you understand
but I know that I am not anything grand.
But it was me that you chose.
You watered me with the hose
and I have grown to be old
but now everything I feel is cold."

Poor little flower,
how long have you been here?
Shivering and shriviling.
But bless your soul you still speak.
"I know some time has passed
since I saw you last.
But I remember your sad smile
and how you had to sit down for awhile.
Your thin white hair has become flat
and I no longer see you sit where you sat."

That small, old flower,
drooped one last time.
With one last sigh
the flower picker spoke.
"I'm sorry little flower
it is well past my hour
and you're as thin as my hair
that has become so brittle without care.
But don't you worry
he is coming in a hurry
and I will not forget you
if you will forget-me-not, too."

My destiny is becoming quicker
I'll bound to be a middle aged litter picker
I see the cans and mackie dee's wrap
I see the hedges full of crap

I walk around the block 'n shake my head
I come across discarded plastic 'n shake with dread
The old woman waddles with her ID badge
I'm on a mission, watch out Madge

I envisage buying the remote grabber
You know the one that'll make me madder
All I need next is a bag
To pick up the sea of discarded ***

I see an old guy bending over
Perhaps he's checking that there is some clover
Perhaps he's comes to get rid of blue
No, no, no, no he's a middle aged picker too

The human soul was threshed out like maize
   in the endless
granary of defeated actions,
   of mean things that happened,
to the very edge of endurance, and beyond,
and not only death, but many deaths,
   came to each one:
each day a tiny death, dust, worm, a light
flicked off in the mud at the city's edge,
   a tiny death with coarse wings
pierced into each man like a short lance
and the man was besieged by the bread or by the knife,
the cattle-dealer: the child of sea-harbours,
   or the dark captain of the plough,
or the rag-picker of snarled streets:
everybody lost heart, anxiously waiting for death,
   the short death of every day:
and the grinding bad luck of every day was
like a black cup that they drank,
   with their hands shaking.

you're the silly lover
picking flowers for another,
don't you see the thorns that ***** you
when you love like no other?

From the humblest of beginnings
Began a tough innings
A family deprived
His dad had died

So to work he went
To help pay the rent
From a teen to a man
In a short time span

He had many a job
Hard earned each “bob”
He was a keeper of bees
He picked beans and peas

With marbles and shanghai
He had a keen eye
So rabbits he’d stalk
Their pelts he sought

A butcher and baker
And fence post maker
A fisherman and fruiterer
And even spud picker

A shearer of great ability
Those shears he clicked with agility
From morn to night
He worked hard alright

Met a girl and made her his wife
Ten children now blessed his life
He provided as best he could
Forever working for their good

A large family and so little money
Life, of course, was not always sunny
Simply he lived, simple his dwelling
The trials he faced so very compelling

A ****** awful thing was done
A terrible tragedy stole his son
With grief immeasurable and untold
He held together; staying controlled

Children struggled to forgive their mother
As she left him and found another
Yet for her he would always stand
Always hoping to win back her hand

Another tragedy claimed a limb
We thought it would be the death of him
His work, his wife, his health now gone
Yet silently, painfully he continued on

We knew his heart was terribly broken
Yet always forgiveness he had spoken
We knew he lived with daily pain
But silent and strong he would remain

His strength and courage was beyond belief
But for him there would be no relief
His children were now all grown
He died, one night … alone

He perches in the slime, inert,
Bedaubed with iridescent dirt.
The oil upon the puddles dries
To colours like a peacock’s eyes,
And half-submerged tomato-cans
Shine scaly, as leviathans
Oozily crawling through the mud.
The ground is here and there bestud
With lumps of only part-burned coal.
His duty is to glean the whole,
To pick them from the filth, each one,
To hoard them for the hidden sun
Which glows within each fiery core
And waits to be made free once more.
Their sharp and glistening edges cut
His stiffened fingers. Through the ****
Gleam red the wounds which will not shut.
Wet through and shivering he kneels
And digs the slippery coals; like eels
They slide about. His force all spent,
He counts his small accomplishment.
A half-a-dozen clinker-coals
Which still have fire in their souls.
Fire! And in his thought there burns
The topaz fire of votive urns.
He sees it fling from hill to hill,
And still consumed, is burning still.
Higher and higher leaps the flame,
The smoke an ever-shifting frame.
He sees a Spanish Castle old,
With silver steps and paths of gold.
From myrtle bowers comes the plash
Of fountains, and the emerald flash
Of parrots in the orange trees,
Whose blossoms pasture humming bees.
He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke
Bears visions, that his master-stroke
Is out of dirt and misery
To light the fire of poesy.
He sees the glory, yet he knows
That others cannot see his shows.
To them his smoke is sightless, black,
His votive vessels but a pack
Of old discarded shards, his fire
A peddler’s; still to him the pyre
Is incensed, an enduring goal!
He sighs and grubs another coal.

I am sitting on the surface of the stone faced moon
looking in through the gray above the green
hanging over the black shingle roof
of the room where I am sitting.
I can't see me resting here.

The streets of my youth are out my window
through a hole in the trees in the still autumn night.
I must rise to the call of the bread truck man,
to the whinny of the rag picker's horse,
to the distant clanking of a slow freight train.

So far away on the stone faced moon
how long my ears have thirsted
to drink the sounds they cannot drink again,
to sponge the voices from the streets of my youth
and squeeze them back a drop at a time.

Sitting on the surface of the stone faced moon
I can see the globe rolling cars upon it.
Outside my window into autumn is
the incessant din of transportation,
the percussion of outbound movement
toward the stone faced moon where I sit.