Encorporations, Liebling --
Weforms, y bubbles in being buvvles.
Ancient knowing, long sacred, hidden,
as with the legend of confused names,

Epimythiums accosting promethean bets,

day and night, eat  your heart out, free
from regrets, satisfied mind, okeh, free

to act as agent
for lady liberty, here post feudal self,

as discovered in a canyon, much the same
as Sha'gri La from story, Havasu Canyon,
as home of a boy I knew, whose grandfather

had made peace, with good intention,
to remain in Supai until the end of time,

then, there come the missionaries, guessing
Victory in Jesus would rouse the innocents
to repent for never having imagined Hell,

as sure as can be made believe,
by **** sapien innocents,

never led by setters free,
into known uses
of old Eber clan ever words,
otherwise, still, small, breather thinking ideas,

whims like what if this is that, and we ready,
readers like think as fast as we can write,
as if we have been taught to dance
as when we drum along and dance

in mindful memorizational motivational wills,
to live the story we form as our weform agrees,

these are the realms of spirits, these are words
enough for the wise in any situation, sent, willing

to breathe, and feel, the whole wind working bit,
the smoke you may use, indeed, see believing
work out a salve for that itching ear, feeling

we form on-demand, at hand, at touche', indeed,
doing done, done did get done, this away from that,

back to the future,
through common senses used,
globally translatable
with Google Translate, using

copy and paste
of encoded letting out of dogmen,
from another mindform mingled

with mine, shall we

imagine Ancestory.com as a technology needing a lie,
to make believers
in what DNA can prove today,

if we go back far enough,
we were masters or slaves, and masters knew,

what slaves were not at liberty
to know,

without former knowers telling, so

dystopia ontological negative hope,

the princess and the pea, and me,
the wildass idea,
in the vineyard,

as the a sunbeam purpled
in a cluster

carried me
in a reverie
of poetic grandeur

indeed, into the afterward, ward after last.

Have you noticed how once we start getting happier,
we tend to write less?
atleast I do.
I think its because all we ever do is complain.
and once theres nothing to complain about,
theres really nothing to talk about, nothing to write about.
I guess you could take that as a good thing,
or maybe a bad thing.

One who self assuredly
lieves be a self governing code,

watch where you are going,
trust
the practiced habituation,

rising
to the upright pose,
standing
on my own two feet,
stepping
into my own time alive

with Justin Johnson mellow blues,

mellow mental slow dance,
walkin'
by the windows,
looking
through my own reflection,

at whats appealing
to me, please
see something you want and need
and can afford,
you hear

the window dresser
thinking
to himself,
see my artful display,
and imagine owning the desirable

baubles
on display, but, not today,
too long ago
to care, yet

fishing
for forgotten goods,
thinking today could be the day,
when all involving my ever after
happens
to ever
after mean what me and you
think ever and after
at once do mean

can we signal senses
we think we share,
no question,
I suppose,
the answer is yes, we share
the very air we breathe,
with music in it.

But, but, beware,
the back beat,
telling me I have wasted all my days,

I glance back,
and see my shadow,
so I laugh, inside, seeing my progress
into the light
of ever after all I lost…

asking strangers
for a few minutes
we can someday share, sure and certain,
it was as real as anything,
at the moment

our selves are
not ourselves, not
another pair
of people facing after all,

we form a bubble
to be in, only we two,

could be
we must imagine some sense
we feel we must squeeze
from sense
as common as
the air we share.

That's life.

Yes, those, these days,
the survivors
of these days,

we saw things our fathers
never imagined mortals could see

subcategorical weforms, evolved.

Some… subcategorical weforms
informed the world's conservative
branches
on the tree
of life… some
informed the latest cultivars… some
branched more citrusy, sour notes
become letters loosed
as knots
on ancient init-iation rites, keys
for the priesthood
of qwerty people.


the exalted authority
of incense burners,
and chanters
to the eerie flutes
of bone,

the high church liturgy
of order preservation,

Jongleurs, called forth,
as organizing engineers
of interfacing windows,

all, could leave, let be

the universe-ifying re-
ality, as realizable,
awesome
as a we
really
as a we, if
we agree, aggress
progressively, re
garding who can
know which lies

are legal,
because the Bible depicts
Yah himself loosing a lieing spirit, yes,

long justified
in all Bible authorized churches.

Evidence, that one may lie,
to protect the innocent or
to revive the mystery…
to be revealed…

As has hapt… evidently
we got away with it, that they say,

this we, we involved
in evolving,
as we think and reason, balance,

ratiocination, really, weights
and measures, balance useful

against cost
to become useful

what does it cost
to worship life? Value, at scale?
What price has been put on grace?

Knock, knock yokes.
Open deception,
become broke
beguiled, but convinced,
there is a trick
to making life,

some secret, kept
so some souls enslaved
by fear fed them as a child,

become guards, predicted to be
needed after prisons went commercial.

Train up a child
in the way it should go,
when it is old it will not depart
from the greatness made believed.

Witness those bred
to play football, the attitude,
is always ready, for some football…

mind relaxing Aztec version,
heart and soul, all in, big time!


The hero sees the end, his own
steaming heart on the altar.

My mind is a
scrapbook of
tattered
memories and
ghosts that waltz to
sullen Cohen
songs in my heart.

Sometimes
it hurts
like a
rotten tooth.
I have a foul and
electric
taste in my mouth.
A metallic bitterness.
There’s a febrile and
pale stranger in the
mirror that cowers
back at me.
Tears, like candle wax.

I used to
try and drink the
pain away.
Chase worldly
pursuits, like a
dog at the track
after that mechanical
rabbit.

As I get older,
I try to practice
wisdom.
I got off that
dirt road to
damnation Island.
We are in this
carnival of ****
together.
I seek a higher love
and try to ease another's
aching,
a pursuit worthwhile.

For once, I would like a ruler.
A really big one, large enough to span all time,
or my time at least – which isn’t too much to ask.
To draw a straight line through life,
and make it all fall in, drill sergeant style.
Free me of all the jumps and bumps,
dancing about the hurdles which
slow me to halts,
as if life were a blob of mashed potatoes;
surfing through its smooth white clouds,
like a true California girl.

For once, can it be a tunnel?
No more mazes of roads and streets,
avenues, crescents, highways and lanes.
To close  my eyes, raise my hands,
and push my bare foot into the pedal,
unafraid of the walls of people.
For it all to be a bowling alley
with the railings up and a ramp to slide down.
To shamelessly ride with pink, bedazzled training wheels
and a lemon learners plaque
to blind all nosy parkers up my ***.

For once, wouldn’t it be nice if it all could line up,
so I could be, for once, entirely happy.

only good girls go to hell
'cause who else would take
all that suffering and pain?

The day I shall bore this egg
along my will, beside my Witt,
With dreams to **** or more .

A sway I can't ignore
Born and be reborn like Christ
Around my faith, all that await.

Life is a deadly gift
I am a living rift
With my surplus goals and desire.

Nor those vain glories to acquire,
Zeal above my will, debase me still
Please write down my will.