I was buried in a pleasant cemetery,
Beyond the walls of the city,
Near the banks of the Mississippi,
When my body was stolen from the Ground.

I died as I lived, languid and cold,
My corpse interred beneath stone too old,
My heart placid, as hard as gold,
When my body was stolen from the Ground.

At my funeral, you were first to attend,
The last to leave at the bitter end,
My lesioned heart you tried to mend,
When you stole my body from the Ground.

Warmth floods through glutted veins,
As you cleanse my soul of its pains,
I am bound to you, my love my chains,
When you stole my body from the Ground.

Chaucer. Cantebury Tales Thunk Another Time

might be
unimaginable to most

Urbanites of several recent generations
in
These untie-ted states

city folk have never told stories
by the mile,

with piles of rocks marking trail tailin's

so old
that trail, marked by that pile o'rocks been
so long since foot trod that path

only scratches on the rocks say which way we
all
got
here. Today, as we call it.

Hueta, esta dia, right now

here. Walk a while, we're off to find reason
to believe.
Someone I heard thinks we all do.

I believe we do.
---Wha'bou' un believe? D'jewthank we'all'kin?
kin we all un be lieve,
leaven well left alone, hill folk, some say...

...hidden things thought thank worth,
beauty, as an idea,

for instance.

Sunsets.
... ...Yes, and the early morning does
have gold
{}
In'er mouth,
privilege all ovahdat.
Got the rot
all dug

dig it, all dug out cavity, crowned in gold

turn that empty cavity inside out, the wise hermit's cave is paved.
Plenty room for all his eukaryotic friends

then flouride, po-luted our ****** fluids.

Play that song on that ***'ar wit thraystrangs, po'man lute
Jew or juice harp
poing poing poing y'ken?

and keep time wit' the walkin' drum. Do that
dentist drill dance, then sing us a
song o'six penitents
patient sufferers o'the way thangsbe,

left well enough alone.

Strange love was to my tale as, that Bannon guy
might be today. Trump's last quarter email player?
Y'know the guy. He's Youtube famous. Bannon,
(Steve,

or Bruce? )
No, Bruce Banner, was the hulk of burning credulity, the pile
symbol
driver. Digging down to bedrock
.... That's how the Macedonian kid did, at Tyrus. ( ify'wishy'knew)

Pier pressing past the farthest reach of tide.

Past where pearls take graunular expansion to

knackerin' gnosymagi  levels of possible hidden glory believeable by few.

Teller, the infamous Mr. Teller, he taught me duality.
Im balance, make fission, break, slam fuseconfuse, blow

don't burn the whole higgsian bubble to expel the very idea of anti matter, it may be useful,
rightusable or ible

Moby grandular totally tubular, what a clam can do.
According to that story, why not feed swine pearls? I'll tell you.

we may come back to right here, this here here,
if 'n' only

if we do not forget where we saw that

landmark a cient elder mustaset

Straggler mumbler, you okeh? Y'got a story.

I'll listen. It's yetawhile
t' can't we bury it.

---
is the granularity of perception adjustable or ible?

We are li'ble to learn, 'fwee

live so long. Said the old caned creature, in the way back.


-------
At the edge of credulity, eh

how far is how ever, far or ever, time space

same same, but

right. Re
al ity ness realreal reason able ibility

we, you and I, this state of least sharable ible ness
we, at this point,

dancing hermetical waxen winged shoes into flames. Teller level flames.

-------
what lies did I un believe? All of'em.

You seem real. (dear reader)

A pier past the last tugged tide, into the deep

-----

peace, in fly-over country on a sunny day.

Ah, where I live, there in
my peace valley overwitch the marines fly every day

and I talk, in my revery, basking in the sun with my lizard brain in heaven
I talk to the cadre controling machines named for
subjected peoples, Apaches of all sorts.

I knew Johnny. And I knew his brother, Jonah.

Johnny Appleseed and Jonah Whalepuke.

They could been twins, save
the smell and wind's role in the story, when it all

stirs. SSTop and ask, dear reader, is this safe, this place?

Adlebraned idyl word forms framing un imaginable worlds.

Goodness gracious sakes alive gnostic means

you know. Here's one we agree on:

Heretic tic, there a tic tic time you re

call the warning bout finding one's ownself in the book of life?

This is that. You can't get past it on your knees,

this is the bar, you don't pass it, you cross it.

Who inherits the wind if the meek inherit the earth?

inspire expire it is breathing, all the way down.

bubbles. ity bubbles ify bubbles some time bubbles

awefilled imagined bubbles in bubble forever,

mazed bubble pops

those aren't real. Gnostic heretic is one who thinks
he thinks and has all the knowledge

in the real world,

in his hand, and
it ain't even five gee. We can go faster or deeper. You choose.
We gotta understand what standing and under mean as a thing

we can miss. aitia indicates wisdom is not pre packed with
understanding.

She says, you should know by now.

Nothing missing, nothing broken, though ye walk

through the valley of
your own shadow death as I drip drip drip

hear me, gotcha once, gotcha twice

ripples in time can you hear me now?

Thanks.

Seed. Time. Harvest. Information re
garding the entire process

was intentional. You reap what you sow. That is kharma.

Life ain't fair eventually. The good guys always win. It's in the hermit's will.

You can read. It's said, the man
wombed or un, who can and don't's no better armed then than
the critter that can't

read the sign that said stop.

So who is this Soul that you sing of?
This silent witness
Who counts the leaves off  of trees  
instead of gathering them?
And raking them into a funerary pile,
Into the giant pile that your better self will fall from,
Or jump into.
Up to your eyeballs,
Up to your own private crown of thorns.

I....I can't breathe
It all started when my feet hit the floor
I walked out of my room and heard whispers
You no longer look at me anymore
With every step I took
I wanted to cry out
My legs just shook
I went back to my room
I can't decide whats better
a coffin or this tomb

I feel nothing... absolutely nothing

I cried it all out the night before
So I sit at my computer and write a little note
This time my words won't be ignored
As I write my heart beats faster
DOES ANYONE CARE!! DOES NO ONE NOTICE?!?
Look.... I want to apologize to our pastor
You'll  stand up on stage
to say some half *** message
While my mother cries
as you read the rehearsed words on your page

How many people showed up?
Or did people stay home
because I was a **** up ?
Did he come?.. see he was my last straw
Did he look at my casket and wished he would've  texted me back
when I reached out vulnerable and raw
Did he cry?
I hope he did
cause he gave up on me
so i figured, why even try
I'm sorry to my sister
The pain got worse..I stopped talking
every word was a tongue twister
I prayed for the end...and it came
My cries echoed off the walls
To say my death was an accident
would be just to avoid the blame

Yes I believe God was with me that night
The demons left when he came down to hold me
His tears washed away the hurt
As my lungs finally gave up the good fight
He spared my soul ...well what little was left
I'm in the clouds now
Wishing my life wasn't a victim of theft

When we all go to Memphis, we spread Ludington sand in Matt’s flower beds,  like somebody died, and a silence falls as we let the sand sift through our fingers like ashes.  It smells like Michigan, like seashells and ***** lake water,  and it drowns out the construction workers making new-money houses.
Instead of funeral hymns, we’re blanketed by sawdust and cigarette smoke.  We sip and savor Evan Williams and for once, none of us speaks.  
Our veins light on fire from the whiskey, and our souls share a collective ache,  like our bodies are made from some sort of symbiotic cell.  

After The Spreading Of The Sand, we go to a haunted bar where entry is a password, where there’s a frown of a front door, and the exposed brick walls reek of the dead girls upstairs. I think, This is Memphis, a very loud city with louder secrets –  the overpowering shadow spreading its fingers in all her corners, silent until she swallows you whole.  

Memphis realigns your center –  
a snap of the blues, a crack of whiskey and,  all of a sudden, things run much more smoothly.  

Memphis, she’s known as the City on the Bluff,  a place where summer storms split at the river,  don’t reconvene ‘til east of Arlington.  
Her protection, it’s always there.  
Like DNA shared among siblings,  blood is always thicker here in her quarters.  

Memphis, she tells me I should’ve kicked Worry to the curb all along.  

Memphis, she keeps her people safe.

How come
I am always dying as a martyr?
My thoughts constantly drifting
To funeral marches and sobbing relatives

How will I die?
A botched parachute jump?
Saving a small child
From a moving vehicle?

My funeral will be adorned
With white icing
The flag of my nation
And a flock of doves

Testaments
To my infinitely philanthropic nature
And unending commitment
To human liberty

Why is it so easy
To tack a medal to my breast?

Maybe because
I exist
As my bloodline
dowses its progeny with ****** praise

So eager
to bathe
In the violent tears of this world
That are ancient castles and monuments to men wearing wigs

Or maybe
Because I'm just selfish
And I often *** all over myself
On my paunchy stomach