In my magic library I find old Carl Jung,
read by voice
I may imagine my own,
reading in a polished Oxford accent, with the
or made an uh at every opportunity,
and no e ever unspoken {save after lone stretched vowles stretching}
each word forming as from a bubble of thought, with one
tangentle anchor point,
stretching down from that thought cloud emerging from the bubbles
bubbling
in your magmatic earthly being,
at the heart of you
where your fire
burns
piercing.
I speak, with authority, I hear me say,
I shall know I know
as much or more
of such thoughts
as these
Memories, Dreams, Reflections.
Old man visions loosed into ever, like
the preacher making many books,
vain, but enjoyable,
all the same,
after
mediating between me and the others,
out there, free in the sea
of opinions, bound only by fear of death,
to lives of quiet desparation, to ti esti in
separation from secret knowledge unearnible,
in one mortal life's longest
state of steady
concentration
on the point
of being.
at all
or having any part in this production,
blooming, ******
beat
of my heart, oh, hell no, hello
world...
we come with words formed in defeat,
defeat repeats the message
as follows
d'toes knows ken yond some kinda ying
yang warworths lisp ship cult prize thang.
Shib-o-let slow belly lethargy,
feel it in your big
toe, touch a stone and turn the cool side up
A papal bullishit bell curve
clang, gong.... wrong... good guess, give'er another go
****** right, too right, mate, take th'prize
sur
reality position superimposed over life as imagined
before the internet, but after TV... the inbetween time
seedtime, not harvest. Seed sown, unknown seed sown,
for better living, through science.
Side track: Bayer is famous for...
Xyclon B.
Right. The game of knowing going on as we wander, wondering
waht subtle subtility what keen sence of sharpness,
pointing a way, see... that pixel, upper left quadrant, in the per
ifery
edgy bit out of focus, can you
blink? Give us a clue, are we ludicrous by nature?
Are we only here to play,
to enjoy the grace of knowing God shat on all our filthy rags
and laughed as we danced around the fire,
lost in re
very very ify verity of varieties un en visioned until the release
The Alamogordo bit of my myth with you in it.
Initial response of any heroic application is denial.
No real hero wishes to be a real hero,
the day to day existence in a virtual eden, is fine.
When we get down to where jewels form latices far funner
than the jungle gym
or monkey bars of my youth, a prewar preparation,
proven to myself,
I can do this, grip and swing, and reach and grip and swing,
command the callouses to form, command the cells to signal,
more blood, more O, too. Oh, you,
wisdom coos, in that sweet way she does when we leave
those sure
bonds of earth and take a stake in heaven's will being done
in wisdom's main domain.
---
whole heart or no heart, the hero code,
probabble babble babble on and on an in fun
item left to fuggetchewwitcher doubus ****** haecceity
point.
Score. Thats the point of anything piercing everything.
It looks different from out here.
Ah, Jung, if we ever met, I would laugh and call you a figment in my quantum foam.
