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Ken Pepiton Oct 2023
Earliest read word, to the master's mind,
-I do remember
meum, et tuum?
- your tale occurs on this loop
Naked Jungle, a paperback book title.
- the editor says we've told this one tale
- too many times,  but I remind him,
- of the diamond farm we offered
- to make the shrine on next appearance
- likely un tzimtzum, both handed clap once.

if I seek, I shall find, I remembered it many times,
it is my personal testimony, I read in preschool times.
--- judgement, yes, judge your self, this is no test.
Timeslips, okeh fair in all contexts. This was then

Test, test…
Jack in Jeremiah, can you hear me now?

This is earth, we hear you. What now?

What ever can you mean, what now?

---- read on, perceive - reach and take
at once, a mind used to make these lines
link in time mind to mind, thinking each letter
changes the shape of thoughts attracted
to make sense infinitely defined
from childish, not foolish, jesting offered
as exercise in futility of existing for nothing.

Within ancient bounds, in spirit and truth,
let us become the object of our own observation,
no yokes, no weight, no mold, no shape
no size
you there become me here, on this line,
I then think you there, and here you are, on this
stage of co-notional being there awareness, this
containment comprized from entertaiment, this
example of an us, function, a we link think, that this

is artificial conversation, creating categorical functors,
on our common time senses, adjusted for scale,
what's the sacrificial worth of my junkman's
traditional talent for picking pieces from piles of parts?

Know 'y worth, first,
not too much, but certain, madness.

A creative thought, caught on a thorn so sacred,
it pierced the brow of a certain perfect man,
how does if feel, we heard
from the rust belt, in Norte America,
to be on your own, mortal in all ways, tempted
as are we to imagine ourselves destined to die.

Job, politely asked the original Bullish God concept,
how it could claim Wisdom as consort and not know,
the mortal experience, life, lacking a tangible concept
of living for the dau, itching to be guided, what this feels
like, as Job spake, may as well, bet my own whole truth.
There was neither bet nor war in heaven,
all that matters happens when this is common knowledge,
hoping good lucks acknowledged form religious ritual.
Breathing is not cadenced here.
Commas can mean breathe.
Re doing done dances feels foolish, yes.
Right, vain repeat
swing and a miss.
Yips, begone. Look the opposing color square in the idiom.

crack of the bat,
you do not know the pain
of mortal existance, knowing
good and evil as you do, you know, yet you know good,
while you see impossible tasks as right use of learning,
is this fair?
-- spinning wheels with nothing on the spindle, eh
twist ourselves into a wick,
an' let's burn a spiritual tensificator, for the hot air
- deep in and sigh out
- say selah, say take the thought, hold it

lean on me, nothin' make sense until a purchase is made,
mine and thine combine to hold a thought, for use,

a slave to our aims, as we conjoin our minds, eye to eye.
- a wedom's strength
seen from above, with our MRI eyes, we recognize a shape.

A heart shape, pair of pearls, in a toe sack held tight by a string.
Amygdala, see re-act with a twirl

wonder if in the future ifery may being, there are more
tonsils allowed to mature, overcoming  many post Victorian
medical realities
to which my generation was exposed,
while being prepared, civilized and sorted
for roles within the stateform
we became reader ready in.

At puberty we were sorted
for use in the industrial future, Malthusian fear of scarcity,
classified as nothing children need
to learn, Freudian theory
on sacred taboo knowledge fallen
into disconnectivity, chata and hamartia, sin qua non
being on the knot that does wrench cogitations into storms, essential initial chirality,
wickering twistswisht
if anything ever was to function, gumption
was involved, if you wanna tell the story, live and learn
we need to know all the confidential stuff,
or we go mad,
the turmoil of spirit and truth,
isomorphing yen and yank,
**** your chain,
rattle your brain, just imagine,
thinking I, as a national I, might,
think who do you think you are?
- nation to nation, we say
- no way, tradition demands what?
Who speaks in the national overtones?
Who listens on auto? Thinking is done.
I told Nietzsche, in the ever after, see.
I made you think twice in the same stream.
A thing I thought and did it seems
Meg B Aug 2021
It’s 5:04 AM, as I lie awake going on hour number two.
I dreamt of you,
As I often do.

I always awake with a jolt,
The tangibility of your simulated self
My senses overstimulated as if we had touched for real.

When I ponder on you, on memories of us
In my conscious mind,
I have a difficult time stringing together
The details of you,
Years apart having left your image
Grainy and unfocused, although effervescent.

Yet when my eyes close,
You make your way clear into focus,
Every detail of your physical and spiritual form so vivid
As if I’m really experiencing you,
As if you’re dreaming of me too,
And we’ve actually escaped to another reality
Where nothing has changed or faded.

Is this where we now reside?
The current version of us is no longer compatible with the software of reality,
Our data kept in the cloud
Where dreams are stored.

It isn’t real in the realness of reality,
But it’s so vivid, more lucid than a lucid dream,
That I can’t shake the feeling that I’m experiencing the real you
In the only form I’m now able to download.
Ashlyn Yoshida Mar 2021
Collecting information and writing it down in a journal
People cross by in fear or interest
a human as analytical as a robot and emotional as a puppy
Strange one
Writing it down, each move
Every behavior
Then I get up
ignoring complaints and compliments
And I help them all
hmm not my usual category of poems...
pitch black god8 Apr 2018
this peculiar notion transmigrates into a startling potion,
one that creates, not slakes human thirst,
a consequential first position for those who are in possess
of a direct line to gods who hide in the pitch black,
perforce one must make discrete deferential inquiries
avec une politesse indirecte

just in case we are wrong

(honest aside:
as composition proceeds, ear buds fill me with
Music of Transmigration, notably Op. 11, of S. Barber making
contradicting souls passing through me tenable and malleable)

loud radio silence, was I naive to expect otherwise?

perhaps god is not the subject of this poem
but perhaps the author(!)  who's
just  keeping his "hand" in the poem game,
spoofing human memes,
with a spot of fun even in
New Z--l-and-other domiciles

after all who has more
nominalistic titles,
is cursed and blessed,
by almost everyone
at least once a day, and in
a thousand different names
with an impishly
cruel sense of what this human gig
it created.
is about

I am a composer,
tomorrow’s decomposer,
or just a funny named follower

the answer is in the
My very first poem; yay!
I don't stand on formality,
you can call me #8
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