Interrupted by my grandson with a telescope.
I think…
that never happened to many old men,
I feel,
special, y'know, like
I am and something like
this happened only because
I exist as this child imagines I am.
I am useless, unless I am
yet, after all,
Good at games grand father who knows stars
by name
and planets on planes intersecting our own.

_ I _ settle to see less sense intended than taken
as my reaction
results in a ripple
through time, to this place you imagine exists
as you read random lines
preforming perceptual preceptorial exploits
making peace
past all the battlefields imagined,
as legends go, we know the tropes,
all were digitized, the battles being refought result
in the same ever afters observers imagine.
No sane child can imagine studying war
no more moral interpretation
art implication
prepostper-full three decade dose of teleostic vision,
and unforgettable jingles
on the radio.
---
hit the road, Jack, jack of the lantern, lighter of lamps,
watcher in the night,
we have no need of warning,

we have drowned.

Goodnight Irene, goodnight
I'll see you in my dreams
------- farawayfaraway faraway
Home
Sometimes I live in the country
Sometimes I live in town
Sometimes I have a great notion
To jump into the river and drown

see ya'round' sunshine.

The love for you Ive always had,
Left me the same time you did
But the regretful thoughts never will

Hey grandpa,
It’s been a hot minute huh?

I’m growing up,
But its not all ‘thumbs-up.’

Ive heard so little
About your curious life.

I wish we met,
Before you left.

An amazing editor
That I admire.

How I miss you!

Even though,
In the photo’s,

You seem to be,
So very tired.

Hey son
Tomorrow will seem drunk
But don't take easy on it
If world seems like whisky tomorrow
Chase
Coz we live this life for once
Not twice😅😅😅

A heart of gold stopped beating
Two shining eyes now at rest
God broke our hearts to prove
That he only takes the best

I'm often reminiscent of times,
When my grandpa used to
Take me out on his bicycle,
We were just roaming around
His tunes always left me spellbound.
But it was so pure
He was one of those people for whom
Money held no allure
He was a man of passion and music,
He was a poet
But I didn't know it
He gave, not just with his words
But also his soul,
Even when he didn't have much control.
I would always ask him for a candy
I remember once he even gave me a sip of brandy
He never said no to me asking for a toy
He often considered me his blue-eyed boy
He would stop all his work and writing
Just to play with me outside,
Whether clear skies or lightning
Now that he's no more
I miss him and the lessons he tried to instil within me
But more than that
I often miss that genuine connection
With someone who understood so much,
But still cared enough to smile and laugh along
The man with a golden touch
With him, I was happy as the day is long.
The world will be a much better place
If we all could learn to live our life
With his grace.

a deep chthonic rumble bids me re
read
Aldous Huxley, Ape and Essence. See it, beyond the doors of perception
Brave
New World Apocalypse,

now retold by the last of those old carp,
using modern magi-tech to tap

Old intel, informing conforming minds of masters,
each holding certain truth servant but they
mention no slaves, as we imagine
all men were by right rich in time to read
and speak of things read or said
in writing found in hidden places,
lonely,
all by my self places,
said to be, places in the mind, while
places in the heart have others of our kind.

We make up a mind, we say in thought
I see
the old wise men were not all wombless eunuchs,
though many
of the idle words they left as
landmarks, lost all meaning over time
being folded up and put away,
for future perusal with intent to improve

whose angst is only felt while beating their own drum?
whose joy is wishing and hoping and dreaming the best
is yet to come?
Not mine, in my future, your now.

Now, take a thought, a non stature increasing one,
ignor the basest of
us,
the beings once mated with actual gods

Ignacio's right use of wrongs, to foil the enemy...
that thought
that evolved into,
lying for the good of the corps social structure,

the mould… formed from thinking that thought
the shape. the frame, the footing under the cornerstone
the builders rejected,

get that straight, the stone rejected for valid masonic reasons,
genuine geometric unorthonicity, not right, not straight
from one point to another,
not smooth as glass,
level as
any
still pond, still lake of your one time experience
seeing the meaning of still
water
that remains the measure of stillness,

by which all further stillness is judged.
You know what I mean, by the measure you use.

Selah. Shalom. Nothing missing, nothing broken
meanings tie us to our measure.

Truths held in trust rust through boots of iron and form the dust on Mars visible from Venus,
as we all bear witness
everything under the sun is much older than any
New World Order, on fractally every scale.