I put my hand in the hand of the man from galilee
Or I thought I did, I imagined he would walk with me
and talk with me
and help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which i think may have been blind, at one time,
I have memories like that guy, Gold-something
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom. Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled
Google The Global Brain, where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.
And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but
these, heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.
Fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,
the point of the story was made, and there is no end in sight.
Pop. Another apocalypse bubble eclipsed by mortality. Whaddyaknow?
What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tensionpowerloss collapses the bubble?
You should think you know atoms work, like
not a cloud of super positioning, elect-
tric-magi-tech, touch screen at the quantum accounting point,
not that, but
a bubble, powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
What an electron does. It goes,
as soon as any sense can be made of it,
oughtaouta hear
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...
Hell,
somethi' from nuthin must ahapt one time,
but ya'll take no heed, m'fallin angel droppin' in olfren, tricky hybridbast...
Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth found in wines that moved themselves
aright, slurry tongued, but pisstoff
The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...
Who told you I was naked?
-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.
Things were said, that maybe were forgotten, after a while,
But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.
The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.
It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
No,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.
Somethin', ain't it? All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.
Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,
that was the trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.
Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec. Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,
everything that's old is only old, not rotten.
Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the worth of all your eyes behold,
If, if, if you are alucky winner and you arise when I call your name
to come on down
fall on your knees and declare the worth...
pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize,
how do you declare such a thing worthy,
A feeling? What's it worth? Depends. Safe? Priceless. Don't shout.
So we sell walls. We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened by those we make
feel safe.
That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.
Workers will work for food and a feeling. And Facebook.
They choose, believe what's easiest, they are told,
you are absolutely co-rectallatime, tekayepeel.
There are such wishes being made, on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters. If wishes were asked for, whatif
connecting to the source of haps that are
all happiness can possibly
consist of...
Oh, consist is a sticky, gluten idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand. Sistere.
This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!
Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.
But, maybe this is me interrupted..
Whatif, nothing is immaterial, as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
Ask the pilot. What if,
asking for help helps? Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea?
Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.
Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore, quotheraven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories of all the things that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,
when ya stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,
whatcha learn can change the world.
Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
In my younger days, I visited folks in county homes, the rest homes that once were called the po house, and sometimes I'd just sit and watch Jeopardy, and hold her hand, while listening to conversations with angels, all around me.