Accepting quantum fuzziness and discreteness,

u-h-d allows the idea of seeing one thing is not the other,
über aber ich weis nicht

focus, this is spiritual, not religious, this is inner-bubble space,
pick a hat, here's a Dumbo feather

… "and called it macaroni."

A line forms an ancient meme, in the Spirit of America,
dancing children singing and waving tri-colors,
performing grammar school maypole pageants
in conjunction with the ashtorothean rites called passion,
feeling earth warm to the dance of our
sowing of the seed, celebrate, the coming of the sun
to the appointed time as time is measured
on the stone that bhers witness to our we formed spirit.

We are walkers along the spiral, twisting this way then
to that once,
you felt me make a point you felt was your tic to on point,
alert,
predictions pile in unverifiable belivable, but easy to believe,
life is good, in terms of essential being, elemental preceptions

glimpse of something super-semantic tic super symmetrick

not having seen hell, from the perspective of the conqueror,
leaves any weapon fit to fight the reality hell forms
unique,
unlike any weapon as yet imagined better, truth as a concept
any mind may form to hold,
from holding nothing, as a thought, then in a word caught
as thought
think this is the trick to quantum being, be
a bit.

See how it does feel to be real, ah, as in Wings of Desire,
I knew I did not suffer through that film in vain.

Anthro-poor-morphed angels imagined as unread messages,
felt where good is the only thing ever
felt real,
as real as any angel's kiss, but just a kind word heard, as thought.

in a line,
standing alone like this
love
is your own fine, sorted out, seen, thing,
not mine, it
may
mean more than we can know.
That's okeh.
As a word, love is here, awaiting our use
any time,
as more.

------------------

Three shots,
in rapid succession, not auto, just
in rapid succession.

Signals something, but I forget what.
Maybe some fool got lost
in those woods looking for my trail…

three shots,
then silence until now, then a sense,
a knowing, deeper than we thought.

--------------

It's a new day, not brand new, just raw new,
we never been this far
so early before, never did hear three shots like this.

--------- Rise and shine…

Throw out the trash,
bring down the garbage,
here come
the garbagement come to take it all away.

Govern my breath, intent contentment,
hold it and say,
It's a new day, no brand, plain raw new,
not modeled on another,
no worse for wear than before,
no habit tracks to mark the course.

First thing, after a pause to wonder,
if I should see how this came to be,
pause to wonder what
was I thinking when
I came this far,
with no sense of you being here before.

It could be, may be…

Some songs need no singers.
I don't remember learning that, so
you only have my word to go on.

Beckon unto me with thine
Angel-voice so soft
In heavenly song that doest
Elevate mine soul aloft
Amongst the myriad of blissful
keys I rejoice
Alas!
I've transcended to God's kingdom
by the sweet sound of thine voice

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,

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>

Find
Your bliss;
Channel your
Inner godliness;
25% off inspiration;
Sale ends this Sunday.

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?

Five hundred years ago, I'd be burned for knowing this and saying so.
I know now, the bell must toll, and
what they say when they ring the bell.

--- that was after math, come and see...

What will be done?  Jesus's father's will, our father's will if you will,
be inclusive a bit
and lieve mine be done in harmony

include me in your cult of gnostication professionals, see

I been gambling all my life, sin
ce early on.

I aimed to have won souls in games, not of chance, but truth.
Will you, wont you, as you were wont to do, do now

lift up your voice and shout, I am a ******

Welcome to my inner burning man, in my desert, ashes blow away, yond

the edge of Kumeyaay to Yuma and Blythe, where
Quechan and Mohave wise ones say they heard,

when there were old ones, who never went to jail
for drunk and disorderly being,
after their hopes went on to being happy as could be,

-- some day Sammy, the Apache, and his brother Jonah, link

- my grandpa never been in jail, that little Hualapai kid said
- and I said my grand kids can't say that,
- though I had none, at the time.
- The grand, the better version of me, children, better adapted
- to now, by nature...

do not call the bhorn worth of a child common, we took great pains
to remain random,
you will notice, if you look real close, atom boundary field close,

order exists only in bubble-ish force fields with

geistlich actions enfolding north to south and uptodown
round and
round on an all be, wall, all be dammed, the flow is
in the foam the bubbles
are on and we can see that

as once, long ago, the winds they call Santana, no relation,

saw the making of the intaglios in Blythe.

The great rain of fire, some say eight thousand years ago,
left a layer of frothy lava rock and obsidian tears,
scattered, one layer thick,

at least as far as El Paso, I witness,
I have walked this land.

I grew to manhood. Lost my first ****** fluids in this land,

once when I was preverbal, I fell into the effluent overflow,
from the sewer system that mustabin
more primitive in 1951, or so,

say, I was three, age of my youngest grandson, Everest Pax:

my sire was attending me while gathering worms, to go fishing,
at the river, fifty hard miles away,
back in them days.

The muck was as thick as oat meal and smelled like what it was,
and I was dunked,
baptized in the dung that came from the town where I was born,
by some concurence of events I can only imagine being intentional,

but I was rescued and rushed to the home of some people
so old they had a wood burning kitchen stove,
like the one Ben Franklin sent his wife from London,
not the one he invented in Ben and Me Disneyfied American History,
common to us all.
And that is all I recall, per haps, my older sister remembers,

nope,
I called, no hassle, from my AI converged phone via Bluetooth
and Google Assist Generic Asexual Tobor Robot voice

this is the future, when the 31 flavor stories are sprouting
like horse leeches crying more, more, more

sip slowly still waters where horse leeches are proverbial bywords.
learn reasons for mysteries,

or be sorted out of the few who went with Gideon. Eh,

the actual 300, not those *** Spartans.
Gideon's 300, they were the ones, who knew the danger of drinking
still waters in a land where horse leech lips lessons were hard bought.

Got an idea what a spiritual horse leech may be,
a private interp, or two, meaninggul to you, but you must be the

teller, for your copyright invoked, ala right of first reason,

survive by making a way for your self among the heathen hordes,
of untutored proles and peons and sturdy peasant stock
of the baser sort,

slave material, minimum wage, deltas. You can despise the
egregious among them.

Scorn the ones who look up and say,
there is no peace.

Eh? Scorn me, you depressed button of cascading woke jokes, I'll
be dammed by no mud nor ice,
watch

let there be words... now, any thing can happen.
Learn your lessons as needed,
not as anticipated and waited for the chance, to know it all at once,

and become Herr Doktor Professor of Hidden Knowledge,
you must pay, not your life, oh no,

not your heart, but I bet you will give it frreely once,
you know
all we know, behind the curtain, where

well
yes, that curtain was never rewoven or sewn, we never asked why not.

the veil was interrnal, oh, I see, men as tree entries in the idea of all that
can be done, once we master the potters art,

on the scale of mitochondrial batteries cocked with one ATP shot,

that, a billion billion times is this act of me touching you with words, never spoken. And now, you discover the geogrraphy

containing me is warrring with the geogaphy containing you,

psshaw. I like you. The universe is friendly and telling you is the good I do.

Peace, out.

A God walked on water, saving humanity
from chagrin.
Humans travel the world on soulless
rubber, treading over corpses of nature.

Godliness, can we imagine what that means?
can we a gree,
groupup on a time be
ing
transformed, ah, aitia!
a cause accuse,
have you considered my servant, Faust?

Why now

of all times

am I alived again? Who axed me how

Godliness, with contentment, is great gain?
When did yo'rever begin?

You play Sorry? Y'know how you land at
the right spot and
that makes the time right
to gain more than your role allows

by the rules.
Rules is tools t' keep yer atmostfears from

sending out fruiting bodies,
after the icecaps of ignorances melt.

This is one o'them Sorry places,
in reality.

Never since water recalls, though, now
I recall reading of another water
we have, ringwoodite, those memories are
petrified,
who could think 'em? Chthonic radicals from
trees of knowledge
espelliered to the western wall, while growing

free in forests, wild, whither the wind listeth, and rain falls.
listen,
Jeremiah wrote,

can you hear me now?

Earth, Earth!
Godliness, with contentment, is great gain?
Weeping Prophet?

Wouldn't you?
Timebum-
pto whenever this was first sung
Don't take yer guns t'town, son.
Leave yer guns at home...

Awake at my wake, what a gas,
all wrapped in white linen beyond the ripped drape
no curtain betwixt e certainty and me

but just a glimpse.

One time, I saw a her, an animus of a salvaged sort,

reporting a he I thought was me, was
continuing to fall,

claiming penance for vengance and **** and harsh words.
Lies, most of all...

She came in clad mit rainbows, like an angel in the Bible.
You never noticed those?
Messengers of mercy.
They're all naked, except for light,

how did you not notice those?

Jungians tend to invest heavily in dreams,
turns out,
in the long run,
by mortal measure,

dreams hold meaning longer than

wishes never letgo so far for fear o'
madness o'the Bed'lamic sort

quenching this little light, which

... can't be in dark
no light is in dark

thin light ai'n't no light. Here we are,

this light is all around about me, say

Ah,
it's in me
aitia,
once more, shall we. Give it a spin,

imagine dreaming forever of new and inter'string things,
without dying or being worthless.

Be content imaging that. Great gain. Okeh.
Act like you know forever started some time ago
and you are a character, a named character,
with archetypical friends,
in the live production of the famed Book of Life,

"Life, as much as we can aspire to"
Title pending final cast conspiracy. You're the star.