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Ken Pepiton May 2023
So likewise ye,
when ye shall have done
all those things which are commanded you,
We are unprofitable servants:
we have done that which was our duty to do.

You, lazy little 'twerdnerd. Easy. Live. Take my truth,
let this mind be in you, it does the hard part for you.

Ai ai ai this guy, I tol' you, extol the road,
ride on, cowboy.

Let go. Re
enemystic, plop. Plot to end
with a thousand swings
gnosis-not-burger 'n' fries
swung wide and low. Sweet cherry '63.
Once belonged to the gayest geometry teacher
ever, eh, in Kingman, Arizona.
Mr. Zubek, annual faculty advisor to Optimist Club,
Annual (also)Highschool Boys Speech Contest,

bi- annually, he traded in his Chevrolet.
-- voice of experience,
That triggered this then, not now

I saw a ****** lowrider, brand new, showroom floor,
yep, a certain mind set, kept with odd links,
missed opportunities to go the other way,
kicks the BTDT system of old ahas,
and ahs,
as once imagined…
not possible, pre dementia.
Wait for it, should you live so long,
it all runs together beautifully, to match
the beauty of the messenger's feet,
in your cultural awareness

of total unknowing- to eternity,
and beyond.

The Bill and Ted Trilogy, vs Left Behind.

So, crates of lemons have no thorns. See,
Lemon trees have big ol' thorns, but

lemon wreaths, all on a bough snipped,
thorns and all, to show those who never
picked a lemon, and won life's sweetest point.

Such wreaths are December treasures,
if you know where they grow 'em.

You can sell them, or give them away,
the beauty in the whole fruiting sprig goes along.
I lost count, but this is all winding together after all.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2023
502 Bad Gateway
(a work in process)

is to be found easiest, lying fatal-fetal amidst
the sewage of the blessed daily profane~mundane,
enslaved within the tyranny of everyday indignities,
encrusted within the indignities of diurnal tyrannies,
in the catch basin of sew-aged treatment  pools,
living as a perpetual unpublished draft,
locked behind Five Hundred and Two
Bad Gateways,
Emma Lazarus-yearning
to be free…

502 is an even number, the internet sages confirm,
equitably distributed with no regard to
disrespectful of any age, all creepy~seedy known gods,
equally unconcerned by the laws of **** poetica,
succinctly informing you to f*k off  with the elegant
sparseness of technical brevity,
a la vie moderne boulder,
repeatedly *****-fussy pushing back on you,
as we push a poem uphill


The road to good poetic intentions is human-paved;
a utile fact,  so continue to insure-shod be thy feet,
when shedding writings of poesy, lest the hot asphalt of
low inspiration yet get the better of ye…or the gates
or the bad gateways,
502 in their number, lock you out,
and carry the day, have their way, and
fracture well honed words
into bits & pieces of letters, scraps of scrap,
“pebbles and ******* and broken matches and bits of glass”^

that all the king's servers and all the king's technicians couldn’t put together again coherently, your words but conscripts in a
vast wasteland of eternal drafts^^


well you know this story, that one that has being asking
you to writ it/get rid of it/tell it finally,
a couple of times daily,
that poem, this be that one,
an amorality tale of rejections,
a precision guided
error message,
a HIMARS missive miserly
missilery projectile
rife with hidden %#&”postulations,
of the “what’s wrong with me”
garden variety

think of life as a series of serious, independently linked moments, cherish-able, composting  usurping cursing phrases
distinctly worthy
of re-sharing unto the befouled upper atmosphere,
directly communicating the texture of your experience^^^

Ah Goodbye
Hello Poetry,
rejection is thy middle fingered name!*

this befouled poem
begun: many years ago
completed: Jan 4, 2023 @2:11AM
^James Joyce’s words
^^^ unknamed professor
Ken Pepiton Oct 2022
Incredible, all agree. This cannot be real, so surreal,

right realer than real, impossibly real, yet we may
imagine, praying in a temple designed,
worthy of praise in a spirit a tempting to speak,

do you hear me,
sing, do you here a formulaic bubble
is it memorex
Ken Pepiton May 2022
Took the snap,
looking back at Caiguna,
From Balladonia.

Good onya, seeya some day.

She had a funny way, of sweeping,
in time with Merle Haggard,
on the radio.

Dam'lucky, me.
I married her, and some photos, remind me, it did not happen then. Moving over from Hello Poetry, where I leave a million words. I write in living typewriter style, or magic pen, when my characters are too old to tolerate Spelchek demands. I hope to help, not hinder.
Ken Pepiton Mar 2022
Thought you once noticed, I did this thing,
some time ago, and now,
I'm glad, because if you see it, if you did,
you can say
Yes, I have seen illustrated Blake,
you would say, that's cool,
and why so, you know, you have words
and freedom to make them heard in silence,
for a price,
listen to reason, is this the real way we speak
test, text, right?

Some quicker than others, many dead,
did not expect to say so much un accounted

what would that be worth,
if is was historical. threaded through each day,
and through then to now,
like the world's biggest ball
of industrial binding twine.

The new medium allows wider attention:
If think breaks, just get there from
Perhaps you never felt the effect of water colored stories, so old, the medium
flowing mind and color and time
Ken Pepiton Feb 2022
Details of now, surface of ever.

Step, as we may, step away, on a way

Details of now, magnified, made nearer
to see,
to learn.
Ifery and wasery, wondered, wandered

upto, but not beyond, go
think that which holds the heavens,
a bubble, eh,
must be,
edge-less, inside, so smooth, smooth as
I dare say, air is smooth, breathed easy,
calm, cold or hot,
air, is smooth, this surface of mind, this
is rough.

Pitted, adolescent greasy fifties happy
fashion engine, rewind,
take us back to when Ike and ****, gripped
the winds of change,
in signals so mysterious, we wonder if we saw,
the signs saying,
turn or burn,

and thought, what the hell, truth
is related to me, I cannot prove a lie.

I can say, virtually literally, true as such can be,
I can say there is no hell and we can't breathe
in heaven as conceived, beyond the stars,
or at least, past Mars,

ah, when all the world had, say,
a number, ten thousand, or so, say
science, prescience, right fore thought,

a story rises, from a word, that was a name,
first presented to me,
forethought was a god de-ifier, resistor of the bit
part, seeing the whole,
part seen is deception, to any who wished at then

to know, only to know, edge of knowing,
stood, stare, seeing we being a whole generated
mind, in lines linking one thing
to another,
in ever after birth, before death, now, as we imagine.

We think the wind a wonderous thing,
the mixture of elements we breathe and have
our native being in, & we have our post-natal first
known, ah, breathe,
air, this is the wind we wondered
through momma eyes, maybe,
I guessed, just guessed, instant-
iate a probability,
set a whatif, then

I laugh and douse the flames of cortisol,
thinking you may feel this wind,
next week, it meanders, and
may linger in New England,
delivering the requests

question everything, but wait, wait, listen
answers cost attention, not to mention
understanding, beyond - as in through,
which my kind plants as great crops
to make peace with,
as we burn through the opposition,
like mental hot coals.

Re learning to live, as once we lived when we all
knew, innocently, presumptively, knew
enough is always enough to share,
died, and we noticed
dying is easy, and
that much, that extent of declared, I know
dying is easy, is true, because none, once the
removes the lie that lingers as hell to pay, while
little grey Domeanies squeeze the truth
from me,
a sufficiency, enough to prove my reconciliation.
I say, I do this because
I can, and did, but you might not know, so I said so.
Alpha Jan 2022
Bad Gateway
Error Five Zero Two
Bad gateway,
I hate you.
UwU Don't ask.

Edit: As I wanted to publish this, bad gateway struck again, by the way...
Zoe Mae Sep 2021
Bad gateway 502
I know I'm not the only one
Makes me want to tell HP to *****
It's no longer any fun
Bad it says
The gateway sad
Words to tow
The server slow

502, an error true
Leaves me blue
Lips are dry
smile wry
Week after week  
I put words to sleep
Today they haunt
My every thought

Bad it says
The gateway sad
Words to tow
The server slow

Hello Poetry says
You have a page
Home is where
The heart lies
Don’t you lie
When the page is stuck
Without any luck
Poetry dies

Bad it says
The gateway sad
Words to tow
The server slow
Yet another, error 502 inspired thoughts

Last one for the night :))
Ken Pepiton Jul 2021
Think a bit with me
in words, {sign says eat me}
- 'notha sayo gramma ***** -
- word

these magical things.
We read,
not all minds do,
in fact some mortal minds that can,
read, do not, though,
we know, due to our inborn link
to the tree
of all mankind now knows,
listening is enough
to think with. Reading is as slow as we go.
-take a line at a time, the whole time, line upon line

BTW- the maze, whence we wish we were
happens to be
the map of reality, we was me in mind only, in
a we,
I am amazed, by grace,
no good did I do that I was not equipped to do.

Like and as, for instance, why am I the only me?

Well, you see,
it is like this. Look around, feet on the ground.

Is any thing existing now for you alone?
Is the air mine, or only this breath, of course,
who can say and know?
I may, and can, and have the doing done
to prove, skritchy skritch itch, I am

experienced. Wanna dance?
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