Miser, misery, miserable, promise me
meaning,
give me compromise…

wait.
Wait. Eject, reject, object, subject throw
down an up idea

expect inspection, look up the mean
measure
assure me we are as expected,
the promised ones,
the next to be,
after ever changed permanently to now.

Who cares if fit and right are equivalent?
Who sets equivalency?
What is prevalent,
val-ient or value-able?

The winner is the living thing,
no lie is formed from truth as we know,
you know,
you learned as taught, but
then you lived
past all that.

Now, what is truth, asks Pilate, in a thought

Save me a sunset.
Share it with the maddened crowd.
Offer them a chance to see
the salience.

Sally forth, through the fallen wall,
see into the womb and find
punctum saliens.

Leap then,
into life, as we assume a role
of actor acting on
common ground,
solid base,
pedestal of promise.

This is the mission, let go, gone
to and fro, upon the face
of the earth, whose
countenance has moods for my modes
of seeing.

Put on your winter eyes.
Remember, re join, re
call the warmth and light,
greet visitors with fruits from the fall.

Hey, whaddaya know?

My daddy had a seed, he planted it,
last winter.
As the world turned and leaned the other way,
that seed sent forth a tight-twisted up-swirling
augur spinning into sunshine at veggie-speed.

Faster than geo-speed, by a full fractal measure,
in time and space distance at light's average speed
--- time is the mortal problem liars deny,
either thought is the fastest speed or we
are lost.
Either we imagine better, or we never could have,

any way.
At this point, I say to myself, am I wrong, no,
I ask the mind around me,
am I not you,

are you wrong?

Ever, and a day.
That is the sentence, verbless
bless m'soul,

I lived this long, with you.
Since time was before now, and we
know not, but
believe
time is moving on without us, leaving us to wait,
suffer it to be,
so sufficiency is always seen enough, no
need for more,
no wish wish wish it was that other wise
way, makes it so, sufficient to the day,
to the hour, to the instant, is
the evil… is evil all it is made up to be,
or made out to be?

Making up and making out, making
differences of opinions;
kids do stuff like that.

Old men watch and see themselves grown
through the past,
passed by and by
the grace for grace, got on the way
right-used,
well, tho' less, travelled by,

path or trail or track, way
where there was no way,

this is that,
at the moment,
this is life, I read, you write, we meet in this middle
realm
of words, and words, and words and we inform
an I,
to imagine what we think we see, ifity
apps
apt to teach, reach ing
the edge of knowing, think how such things
may be
immeasurable, and we may imagine that and speak
as if we agree,
some things are so. Bigger than we can imagine,

Life is a sort of flavors!
Sometimes tastes so sweet,
some others it is just that salt.

Life is a sort of stories!
Sometimes she is the beauty,
other days she is the beast.

Life is a sort of colors!
Sometimes the moon light,
some others turns to an eclipse.

Life is a sort of seasons,
Sometimes warm as the spring,
suddenly freezing and cold just like the winter.

Life is a sort of lenses,
Sometimes the clear vision,
in others turns to blurry.

Life is a like person.
Sometimes it is a friend,
others might turns to a total stranger.

Whatever life is!
Whatever comes between!
It is always one of the two.

I think I might be
addicted to exercise -
I’m a street walker  =]

I walk in the dark,
every morning - I even
have my workout gear.

I don’t go alone
- heaven forbid a 17 year old
go frikin’ walking alone.

At five am, my "to
be named later” partner is
where we assemble.

And off we go. Even
writing of this makes me want
to go "lace-’em-up."

But no, I am NOT
addicted... quivering hands
- I’m stronger than that.

An experiment in thought at my own speed,
attested as being variable based on vocabulary of my AI,
so
pretty quick.

Establishing the point in value, the idea,
of attending to wealth while wool gathering, late
in the summer of 2020,
thinking at leisure beyond measure of any man in my class
a short time ago.
This now, a moment in a given day during
the September, final summer moon,
seventh moon on a world with a
time measured finite
seemingly, ostensibly, suppposedly -- in clumps of the three
as if all things may come in threes at one
stage in being realized
to matter --- but of the three ways to say
supppose, sup?
The answer presupposes the quest
to find it, any story told
poses the problem, the thing that catches our
attention, that thing
holds attractive value, see,

made you look, and peek-a-boo are one game.
Hide and seek is as well.

Two sides to every story, three if we see the story
has us in it. We are nothing if we share no
knowns finished and finite, as this is formed from those
early knowns we intuited everybody knew, and
these acculturation inoculations bring about socially
proper manners
in spaces with others
cultured, leavened, spiced and fashioned
thoughts we were taught,
these
we learn today
and those others everyone knows, or
maybe not,
may be otherwise… slow dawning aspect

some people never think experimentally

- experiments are guesses, rolls of the die
- I imagine we agree, but, as yet, your guess is as good as any


maybe not, may be otherwise… slow dawning aspect
as the world turns, while our attention is locked
on a star nailed
to the roof of heaven,
--- apsidal vault of stars as seen in church-like structures (1)

as imagined and portrayed prior to Tycho losing
his nose for nuance by lack of focus,
a moment of inattention,
all a magi-tech needs
- look to the quarry you come from
see, before,
back when no lens had yet been ground round
on one side,
flat on the other,
our un augmented eye could chance a glance,
a camera obscura occurrence
once each year as Sirius
rises in line with the story being told, to prove,

we know, and now, you know,
but
you don’t know how and you may only guess why.

Your mortal dilemma, you cannot imagine knowing
everything, ever, but
we
can't wish to go over the edge to learn much faster
if that means dying as
all that ever matters does,
based on experience as recorded in all Wikepedia,
if this tekhne ever fails, these thoughts
remain to be thought,
gains again are terms of worth-ship man seems the
measurer of,

I'd love to make sense of all the info in the cloud,
sort it into searchable stacks, and as I wished,
AI took that care from me
but, finding some worth in being still
demands attention for which we must pay,
and
the daily effort keeps your bowels moving in time.
Minds of our kind imagined all this stuff we can't make up.

(1)
apse (n.)"semicircular extension at the end of a church," 1846,
from Latin apsis "an arch, a vault,"
from Greek hapsis (Ionic apsis) "loop, arch,"
originally "a fastening, felloe of a wheel,"
from haptein "fasten together,"  {boing, pro-tein haptein}
which is of unknown origin.

The original sense in Greek
seems to have been the joining of the arcs
to form a circle,
especially in making a wheel.
The architectural term is earlier
attested in English
in the Latin form (1706). Related: Apsidal.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=apsidal>

In the midst of the trees
The breeze withers the stress away

Bones tender
heat within
Closeness & safety abound
Reminders of lust rise inside
They no longer hold us here
We are apart, but alive.
Fears shared, wishes parted
They alone glow beneath me
Heart sounds keep away the dark
I am awake
I am close
I am your thoughts
Warm & Alive as ever
Reminders of comfort
How it kept you safe
Moments of ecstasy rush back
Just to leave you lonesome again
****** again
Those clouds cannot hide your glaces toward me
She sees every one.

Nothing about a bird's life
seems difficult,

after escaping the egg. All birds ever called to fly,
first survive the egg.

After surviving the egg,
each bird seems

eminently able -- wait,

learning to fly,
that seems difficult

no, that, too, is automatic, an algorithm in some avian system
of cellular facility formation
while
maturation of flight feathers takes time,
not know how.

Wait, and see if

reasoning in birdbrains may be mono pole,
one aim, one direction

like by monopole
electrons driven, an action reaction loop, find good...

good? no, good? no, good, yes,eat this and
grow a few feathers,
without thinking, what are feathers for,
where no feathers were.

Birdbrains do not reason why. The baby watches
momma fly.

Unless, men have changed the program, tamed our wild ways,
fed us corn in quantities we never could imagine,

ours is but to be useful, my Raven mentor caws,
laughing like he knows I have no clue.

-- in the air a query, are chickens still birds?

Tasting milky chocolate.
Joy, happiness begins.
My taste buds favorite!
I can’t wait, let’s eat again.

My fear of poor exercise.
The chocolate calls my name.
I try to forget it.
I am fatter, eat again.

Regret, regret chocolate.
Sad and sobbing, it’s aching.
Like a sad old portrait.
Therefore the sweetest tasting.