bad hair day, mindwise. Too much good stuff,
as the munchies ads for AM/PM mini marts said,
using the idea in too much good stuff, to lure
the fat freaks addicted to good stuff, twinkies flash
screaming yellow zonkers, wow,
America, home of many very fat freaks/ who code.
And don't read as much as listen,
multi-tasking scatters the noise, so signals are clearer.
Knowledge portal, from Terraria X-Box to Darwin's Black Box.
You bet I knew,
I bet I didn't. … irreducible complexity, manifolded protein tech.
who can lie and call life, the whole idea, all inclusive
unto the nth degree,
stuff of stars we are. Dust in a pop song.
--- stage is bare, the narrator, walks in, unscripted/
this is it, he says. The real thing is us inter-acting,
thinking in parallel, serially infectious,
whistler's teeth and tongue, call in the hounds.
When one thing bleeds into another, there is a roar,
and the echo of that is no doubt maddening,
and far from that maddened crowd,
we saw a lost soul land, and say, we gotta at least try
to own this view.
I have hordes of sunset series, from this landing zone,
where we have grown news, from dry bones,
ground to the essential message in the marrow,
we are all variations on a theme,
adaptable to most any realm where a kilo is 2.2 pounds.
---------- shaken, not stirred, pretentious ***, licensed
There's your hero boys, JFK got away from the madness of DC
in the pages of cold war confabulation, fueled by Ian Fleming's
little trick with the knack of persona-ification infection,
a cultural carrier dis-ease, trains of thought
running through the rust belt
tracks and rederailed
that Zimmerman kid, was it something we did?
I played around, and stayed around, that old town,
now, relative, this to that, chart of consequences,
right, this now. Reader POV.
And this is the page we are on. - self query RAM
this is all she wrote. Return to sender.
I heard Zinder, all my life
I looked for Zinder, and never found I mistook the entire song.
And here is where, the dust settled.
Gabe, my readingest grandson, so far, calls, me, really,
Look, Grandpa, I got a portal, I'll show you how it works.
Back to X-box, those black boxes are dark, take a light.
for now 502 is easier to deal with than required contests at Allpoetry, someday, maybe.