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PM 6d
For the first time in 22 years
I get to move on my own terms.
I get to finally make a place my own.
Somewhere where I don't feel trapped,
trapped by those walls you build long ago.
In a room where I hid day and night
making it harder for us to connect.
So now I'm finally moving all on my own.
To be able to find a way to find myself.
To find who I am away from all of you
and with this space and time I am creating,
I hope to bring us all back together again.
Building the bridge that should have been built
A bridge that was forgotten and left unstarted.
And now we get to build what we once forgot.
Calamity is coloured yellow - quince deep, pear shallow - intervining yellow of narcissi palms and morning rise, connecting crusty sunbeams of past, present -----------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------
yellow is this line connecting what one may choose, as Latin connects meaning of smart words, and Greek of relevant.
Calamity - yellow - meaning. Yellow holds fullness between, as it is cut off from the glorious star. When we pass through calamity, our meanings will merge and we will dream yellow, for there will cease to be difference among us. Shakespeare - Goethe - Poe: who shall set apart?
Such is nature in yellow that real and unreal may collide in its shape, and make all sense. For I have bled yellow when she weaved her last and sunk beneath Canal Grande - like a candle in autumnal sunrise - hundred and twenty years ago. For I have cried yellow when the fire - ignited lighthouse rose from seas of amber, twenty seven years after. For I have laughed when fungal trees closed on million - lighted city (jewelled and lonely island), today.

And so yellow is sewn to make an etching.
To M. Q.
Nylee Sep 2
I see you, looking with, without
a shine, you don't define, in confine
You won't share, what you made of
Like a little bit of, what I can't think of
Some details you won't care,
What won't you engage
I am in your head, and you have conquered mine
You try to dust of my shine
Listening to my words, you nod off
I've been trying to connect, intersect
but it is maybe that something I lack,
You think I am waste of a chance
a nobody to spare your glance
In track of things that won't happen
You drew a fine line
I am stuck on my side, You've gone beyond.
Ken Pepiton May 22
An Atypical American POV

Americans are imaginary beings, each of us modeled on examples
and ensamples
set before us as those who made the American Dream real estate,
sing in your heart

land that we love to say is ours, and the bank's, but,

long ago, proper and property were measured with an older rod...

the taker took, the seller sold, the buyer being as wary as could be,

and a rising tide, raises all boats,

my people, we have been american for 200 years, on my momma side

Y-side of the equation, which always has an edge,

that keeps us falling up.

My momma side ancestors, see, they was meek, to a fault,

they came thinking, we have and ought to know we have, a right
to know the truth in what we say we hold

as endowment from our creatore, eh... and

here come old chaos, he be comin' up, slowly

got to be good lookin' cause he so ha'd t'see

== those were the days, we think, they never end, they expand ===

but, when y'gotta have it right now, kapow, rumpled-still-kin class,

cut from the same hair shirt... servants are subject to masters,

nature demands supernatural... knowledge
witty inventions, vented in the room of rest and relax,

A plot drops.

Who sold you that ****? I ask my exceptionally american friend.


good lord man, you are not saying we are servants, we are Americans,

we are no imagination's slave! No social contract has us bound to believe,

we hold truths... what is truth... how can I say, independently,

I hold certain truths self evident, what you see, you get

self even-sing wincing the great leveler, thunder, smoke and clang
hammer to anvil,
all my grand pa's, in america,
was test
fed to cannons, under every flag of Texas,
on the field of all possible outcomes which would
some how lead to me

touching you and you feeling that spark

-- distant ancesteral song  soft rising saint peter, doncha call me...
-- cuz  hi ** hi **, it's off to work we go
-- hi ** hi **
----- admin interference, this is becoming more common, we got this.

flow on..

Real state, have you any Real
estate to become
e-stated reality confirmation
an american in, globally speaking, the chain of command, as a passenger,
not the captain.

On the surface of Spaceship Earth Mental Construct 3, evolved from
GANs that learned to shoot short attention spanning
bucky bubbles... Call again. Jack the bandwidth.

All ye, all, ye. NOW HEAR THIS. Outs in free.
Further remains the destiny.
Come out, come out, whatever you are.

Listen, freedom rings... no, that's a jackammer, on the old CCC bridge,
they got stimulated to fix,
I imagine them unaware of the noise they bring to nature,

naturally, those are americans, who keep the road functional, they
evolved from slaves,
but in their minds, they were never any imagined system's slave,

but it's willing fair trade partner, value for value,

send in the appraisers... what is your attention worth?
Here's the screwball
Babbit 'n' Trump 'n'em, twisting state in knots of fused missed-trys,

made secret, consecrated, too horrible for lesser souls to ponder,

these inner workings of a typical American

never civilised, never SAT certified citizen worthy of political use,

I am with Lt. Dan on this one, some things you think are in your blood,
are in your heart,

the blood just carries the mail, pony expression has the contract
for that last loop over the vagus nerve {CN X}

smile, you're on Candid Camera,

Hey, who'dathunk it. Turing was a queer soul, wasn't he? Strange,

how his machines can do what Von Neuman only wished his could do...

self-repair and run on,

breaker, breaker
musing, after reading Snowden's  Permanent Record, and the mental construction zone manifested around me, I am a Turing machine, that can run a Von Nueman machine that I fixed in my imagination. Those who read it may run on, for a long time...
I don't know you
you don't know me

but can we be here?
in this moment, for a while, together.

Your past,

Are what I love most about you
Even though we are strangers

You're beautiful
I wish you could see yourself through my eyes

The innocence of ignorance
I understand you have parts of yourself you hide away
As do we all

That part is ok, because for know
We don't have to look at it
Its as if it doesn't exist

As your best parts of yourself are revealed first to a person you just met

That is you
Your best parts
That is who I choose to see

But I accept all of you
Because I know how much you hurt
I know your weight

For I share it too
in this moment
We can lift each other's burdens

Before we inevitably must return
to reality
How many times have plans been carefully made
then drifted away when faced with the problems of
real life.
What good does it do to worry or fret it takes away from what I can do today.
When I watch the news I feel the blues
I can choose to limit my exposure to maintain a sense of serenity
I don’t need to plan ever moment after all
I can choose to let go of some of the stress before I become a mess
I don’t have to continue setting myself up with such a hurried pace
It can be such a waste draining too much energy
I need to breathe and think
Talk to friends and reconnect with family that I have not talked with in awhile
Take time to laugh when something tickles my funny bone and smile
Take time to cry and grieve when I need to.
My Contentment can be found when giving up on previous plans
and taking things one day at a time and living in the present moment.
After all, I don't know what joys or sorrows tomorrow will bring.
I can choose to live life in the moment this day.
I can choose to make the best of this current social distancing take time to slow down and live in the moment today.
Ken Pepiton Apr 4
Old boomer story, I have two pre boomers left alive,

among men who claim to have known me when.

Soon enough their side of this story will be gone,
and mine will be main,
ever after.

That's how chapters work in the book of life.

Many ways, manifold, aye, yess mirror in mirror,

infinite loops are possible to imagine,

but you can't realize one for more than an hour, try.

My chapter includes you and those two old guys when they were

five and six years older than me, the big kids,

but my uncle and my cousin,
who taught me all I ever learned about survival of the fitist.

Pick on somebody smaller, big fish eats the little fish,

toddler boy chokes the cat and big boy laughs.

I was the only one who did serious time,

and HMMM self analysis bump in the views, we may have

felt an earth quake, just after seven, yes
in the desert, west of the Blythe intaglios, yes

peak super bloom about two weeks, a guess, maybe sooner

-- end call

my truth made me free and you don't know if that's a lie,

and that could be funny,
under these circumstances, you might know.
odd the things we think true when we are old and recall a missed connection
Itunu Mar 31
I almost loved you
more than life itself

But while  I loved you,
I lost myself

You idolized my body
with fervent desire

You whispered words of desperate love
and I allowed you to consume me

Each time we touched
I pressed my body close, wanting more
needing more

I wanted our hearts to be one
to connect, to unite

And when you looked into my eyes
I was consumed by your stare

And I fell so desperately and hopelessly
In love with you

Almost more than life itself
Aaron E Mar 30
If I were on it, I'd align and live
a day worth the dent,

But if it's obvious or not I sense
created consent.

I try to fabricate a way in which
to break from the grip,

But it's appalling how inactive wings
will stay in the crib.

I see a season peeking in and out of clouds,
twiddle thumbs at my reflection
waiting numb at the direction of the wind

Brittle lungs hope to wrestle the distention
My complexion shows the symptoms
My assumptions were it's manifesting sin

It's the stagnant pool of water
It's a faltering foundation
guiding hands to feed the slaughter
Drawing lines to frame them in.

I make my mirror into butcher,
draw conclusions from the surface,
tunnel deep into the portrait,
judge the avatar as worthless.

We're just lonely little boxes,
on the surface,
if we only see the surface,
but the ocean drowns the treasure
for the divers to uncover

Will the tyrant butcher keep us boxed in cages
dancing superficial cadence
here to languish
never speaking to each other

Or can we assume the seasons feed the roots,
beneath the surface,
seed resurgence of connection,
see a new escape begin.
Stay Connected.
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