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ever these occur
pop up possible means beneath the image,
that was
my goal. The kids in holocaust garb
memeing me to not forget,
but those kids
look fatter
than the kids in Eli Wiesel's Night Scenes
from the Bible,
so I was seeking the source

blurr ie smear
QR code crossover, are we in the machine?
id est
AI suggests we are of one mind,
some time
think if we
sing the syllables, roll the r's
roll all r's
- an exercise in being otherwise minded
"
Diwanit bugale
May you blossom, children
Didostait bugale Come near, children
Ar serr-noz hag ar gouloù deiz Dusk and dawn
Roit kalon din-me Give me courage
Aon 'm eus rak hon dazont
The future frightens me"

From <https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4441176/curious-fawn-makes-me-think-kalonou/>

At high tide, the sea ejects
foam and glass fishing floats.

We wait for the waters to recede,
tiptoe around anemones and *****;
I spot a small green globe.

She says it belongs to a Japanese goddess,
her eyes plucked out by a vengeful lover
and cast into the deep.

I see only an old sake bottle
crafted into a sphere,
etched with sand and netting patterns.

Tomorrow, I will look for agates
while she searches for the goddess’s other eye.

Everything happens at once. The mixing
of blue-green dropping white on cold brown rocks,
a maelstrom of water sounds affixing
themselves to fine hovering mist which talks
pouring and pounding to the surroundings,
flat river interrupted; sculpted liquid
fluctuations arising / collapsing
ever-changing life depicted in mid—
crest: trough, tribulation, swirl and foam,
scented moisture feels soft over the jagged
undercurrent. A fish jumps. Water carves stone.
We are released: through spray the river flows,
exiting the eddy and peacefully home.

She stood at the edge of a deep rock
leashed to the side of the sea
with foam biting at her feet
and waves barking at her.

She breathes a salt stenched air
and watches its jaws open
only to see a sailor
rotting between its teeth.

She swallows air whole,
call it courage or stupidity
but she takes a step towards it.

Now the hound named
"Sea"
became full
once more.

An AI fear ifier, launched on Joe Rogan,

ALARM WOLVES LOOSE EATER ROBOTS ON FLOCK ALARM,

naw, out here, on the border, well,

watch fargo, joe, we have chippers, big chippers and

plenty of retards to run them. We use AI to foment joy juice.

Don't play been there done that with me.

Money, these guys believe, as takers have told them,

no givers have shown them grace
for grace,
you want it, get it, that's the secret,
slow and steady wins the race, to get old
you gotta live this long

that's a song,
you can humm along,
any good deed is tainted by money love lessons
learned under weight of student loans

guaranteed, student for ever  or

if high school was your limit, we got sports, you can watch

and feel a weness in the strength of Sunday Gladiators,

but war is unthinkable here,
on this level of reality, mere words may **** a will,
but not an actual made way,

as in made man in the mafia movies, a way, once made

remains. Siempre phibeta or worse. Life won, that's how this was done.

In the light
of the moon,
I slowly make
my way to you.

In the night
so black,
your soft voice
calls me back.

You gently dance
upon the waves,
to my fingertips,
but I can only gaze:

beyond the horizon,
I hear and see home
that isn't of land, but
in your arms of sea foam.

The Sounding Foam of Primal Things

*(The title and the poem, taken from and inspired by
Carl Sandburg's "Who Am I?")


wind and rain pound the surf.
snow falls on the beach, on the shore.
man-observer cannot tell:
has the earth gone mad, all wet?
do the seas rise, whipped up, filling the heavens,
or does the white rain replenishes the very body,
from whence it came, and now returns?

this matters greatly, yet nothing answers this, his question.

the furious soundings, the green foam churn,
the silence of no response inebriates,
drunk on the tempest's hard wet liquor,
weighed down, sodden with the despair,
solitude, silence, absent answers,
his natural walking companions!

No Stopping signs on almost every corner,
Do Not Pass, Do Not Enter,
One Way, Two Way, No Thru Passage,
but the one sign he seeks,
"Stay On The Path" absent.

Eluded,
dispassionate endings,
the essential quietude among
furious surround-sounds of creative destruction
he ceases to ask, for unanswered, undirected.

Concluded,
either
their is no one listening, or,
there is no one caring, or,

Deluded,
illusion is truth,
he is an illusion.

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