People think that pouring gold onto our skin,

and dressing in Gods’ gown and Jewlery

will spring angels upon our plate,

and we can feast like it's our last meal.

but our skin is rather useless,

it hides our heart and soul,

drowns it in confusion and

stabs its arms and legs to a cross,

lingering in the single moment,

never to move with the essence of time,

Frozen.



Our hearts are who we are truly,

not the skin we wear,

or the snapshots of their whole existence  

we have imagined

to capture the essence of their character.



People are more than a moment,

they are a transcendental soul,

trapped in the weak boundaries of human nature.

Sohcahtoa and the Right Brothers, happens to be after the last thing
I thought before today, if that's okay, see if it changed anything.
(8/5/2024) - i test a test if I e-be living word religamented

Saturday, October 21, 2017
12:18 PM

My grandsons have noticed a book on my shelf dedicated, thirty years ago, to them.
To my children's children.
I sowed the seed I had,
hoping true as any adapted
to the whole truth dust-class person,
equipped with AI he wrote, on 3x5's,
Notes, and by words,
maxims and pro-verbs, motive forms for filing.
Aim at nothing,
and you cannot miss.
Peace, peace at last. praise - appraise,
what is the redemption value on idle hallelujahs?

Any thing the mind of adamkind, wombed or un,
can conceive, with early literacy and numeracy.
- early
the effort to learn one useful thing, each day.
In a universe… all verses versus one verse, re
versals of fortune,
storms and waves and earth quakes, but

when the sky falls, history reboots, no plan survives/
first contact.
-- all earthlings are born to die,
none are born to serve another as tools for stealing time,
I'm the blacksmith's jinn.
I was fasted free, and a seeker sent a zephyr, a gentle
westerly, lovely spiraling cloud, stretching a train of ice,
in a pattern no cloud ever formed at this scale, sky-wide,
crystalization, piezo electrically ultra itty bity wee tiny
qubit, thought spark, ping

in mind, each time one thing is realized. Where an evil dare was met.
First war is won, when the loser choses not to fight.

"Losers like you," he said, to me. I self-evaluated, and agreed, grinning, I think.

It will work I say to me. The seed has died, roots and branches live, fruit will not fail.
These boys can read, no chain can bind them, only lies.

Some stories I learned as a daydreaming child
are now cropping on the backroads of
My memory with Rhodes scholars
and Zimbabwe Mercs never gentle on my mind.

But you go on
thinking there's no spiritual side to lying,
and stealing and destroying, killing
Any sort of faith a child may have that truth can be told by someone old.

You go on.
I got snakes to stomp and I threw my hat over the fence a long time ago.

This very morning I found a break in a fence. I did not go back for my hat. That was forty years ago.

Some little thing makes man a measuring calculating thing, what is that? Exactly?

And now we have tools in our pockets that can record HD video and audio
a hundred times better than the best video or audio recorder on earth forty years ago,
If your ear can't hear the groove, smoother than any bit-ified digitization,
It's subtle, hard to put a finger on it, but digital music ain't Memorex and
Memorex never was live.
Memory is other wise,
Memory is live.
Note to self.

Hey, you, listening? Hearing any thing?

I woke up this morning and you were on my mind. What joy.
I walked a mile in my old shoes and got to see a herd of Honda two-wheelers
On Sunrise Highway.
Strange breed of men, they augment
themselves with shiny-candy-apple-metal-flaked armor, and
drive around in parades of thirty or
More old fat guys and their wives on Hondas,
wearing Harley Davidson belt buckles.

Off on a tangent opposite the adjacent highway,
A man 20 years my junior asks if I saw Icarus  fall.

What?
He said did I see a kiter fall, a hang-glider apparently he had
Thought he'd seen fall in to my valley.

I thought "Icarus", I don't know why. Then I heard shooting.
Earphones on, J.M. Roberts, "History of Europe" louder than the wind,
Still
I heard shooting, where shooting seemed
Overkill.
Life on the border. 'Cause signs mean nothing.

But no. It's turkey season. And I am
Down range.

Sohcahtoa*, what the math! Man, they are shooting at me
Buckshot Bam!
And I slip in to that dream
I saw Icarus fall. The Right brothers shot him down
In a Sopwithme Camel flown by a Flying Tiger with
God for a co-pilot over Shangri-La.

No lie. A daydream on a tangent adjacent the opposite.

• BTW Learn something every day… gives one reason to carry on…
"SOHCAHTOA" is a helpful mnemonic
for remembering the definitions
of the trigonometric functions sine, cosine, and tangent i.e.,
sine equals opposite over hypotenuse,
cosine equals adjacent over hypotenuse,
and tangent equals opposite over adjacent. Check.

From <http://mathworld.wolfram.com/SOHCAHTOA.html>


Bottom line lies.
There is a god like the one in American politics.

Adamkind invented him, and Cain's kind invented
adamkind father wound anxiety disorder,
AFWAD, it is in the unabridged edition
Dia-gnostic Statistical Meme-infectual, effectuality

instant in prayer,
a state, in time, a point, really,  whereafter more
is known.
Given auto-did-act-learned-know, chose next.

And this was my choice.
Make peace with that.

Based on an original idea.
An old man is called out from his hermitage.
- he pauses to consider,
- seeing Pleiades
- with the James Webb Telescope…
- And inviting Galileo to take a look.
- via SYTF morphic resonance,
- ping.

He calls all the outs to come in free.
He calls the idle words
to whip poets
into frenzy…
faster fasting, slow dancing, offering a time,

to hold a promise,
a known called an ever lasting truth,
"as above, so below."

Mandlebrotian micromanagement of sun
and wind and tides…

too many minds with no will free to make war.

Thus peace was made in my valley today.

Castes and classes,
common, characters… baser sorts,

untouchable's… serving our better natures

cooled some, since 2017, but in the book
of your life, subset in the big book of life,
on your pages, it says you read this at least
seven very productive years later, FYI,

incase idle word accounting asks for evidence.
Show them those pages while you are seeking
the next best thing to do with time spent here.

Bad news come for evil yet rules
And more evil yet cloaked until
In triumph in all the world
In the news from its knees rises

The Devil, ceases its pretence
To pray; And all barely sheep-cloaked
evil bared, and with whip commands
As I knelt now bow before me

All eyes in heavens and all earth
Will see that you in your free will
In your calculated choices
Choose Evil and reject the King

And they the exiles in their homes
The aliens from Eden on Earth
Aggrieved beyond bearable grief
Shall see judgements and wondrous grace

If it's not something others will do,
If their governments will not hold their leaders accountable,
Then we need the Paddys, the Svens, the Pablos to;
You cannot wait for a criminal
To turn themselves in,
For they never shall.
At their level,
They will avoid prosecution
Till they swim in the lakes of hell.
And meanwhile, how many
Will they facilitate in the deaths of?
How many innocents murdered?
How many must be "martyred?"

I may be onto something new,
I put it all into everything I'm told (I'd) do,
But always in the end you stand there
Telling me where I have been, where
I intend to be, and then that I will never be
Free. Should have been careful from the start,
Though in life we are all walking in the dark,
You had to put up with my bitter judgement,
While I had to give you my second
-Yet very last red cent.

And still you say I complain to much,
Give me a pail I will fill it with water
But bringing it back you would never trust,
It's a lot of work but in the end,
I know you'd still secretly take a drink, my "friend!"

I told you everything I know,
Yet safely-at arms length-your gifts bestow,
I guess in the end it's no surprise
It was me who was telling all of your
Modern lies.

This here is my home,
metal sides of cold.
Death drips,
from the roof and mold.

This here is my home,
I run away far with my car.
To find myself parked,
staring through the dark.

This here is my home,
the walls mutter judgement,
charred with abandonment.

This here is my home,
It's gone now,
Burnt to the ground.

This here was my home.