unbroken things lacking edges,
if we augment our eyes, look close
to see creted places
fractured into

jagged edges/
Jagged edges prove the brokenness

the brokennesses prove the whole,

not that the whole was finished then as it is now.

Which phor you living for?
Of course,
the discourse of madness
self-improvement

DIY gettin' past crazy for good.

There is a crazy place, way past any we imagine,
crazier than hell, by virtue
of the fact

ya' gotta go through hell t' get there.
Practically every sage from Moses to Mises,
says that's the price we pay

for ignoring those chances, op portune tidbits of time,
to pay attention to
everything at once,

and see what seers have always said's truistic,
we find what's sought.

If nought were sought,

what did we miss?

Missing
Nothing,
ought not that
be enough to carry on with
for now?

Fret not, oughts are nullifed here,
it's a pretty crazy place.
Nothing's broken.

Sunday, May 06, 2018
4:51 PM

Failing for lack of power is a fear crop.
A fear crop.
An odd thought.

Not the seed nor spore, but the fruit.

And fruits have seeds in themselves,
All men, I say again,
wombed and un, should know that by now.

Freedom of information act fact, informed
men know when to fight and when to sow and when
to reap the crops we've sown
in our mortal moment
gone with the wind.

Not mine.
The wind is in my inheritance,
True proverb.
I troubled my own house, fouled my nest
with all the rest o' youse ab-users of life
ignoring forever like that could never happen here.

It did.
The voices in your head are never all evil
if they use words.
In the total accounting of idle words
some significant percentage
may
carry meaning forsaken.
Such may be redeemed
much as one would redeem the time.

One of us.  One of our mortal kind.

Dear reader, we say again, we ain't Legion nor his kin.

We are words once spoken in jest among fools who repeated us
meaninglessly, oh my God, you know. Per se. No ****. **** happens.
All the ****** time,
and **** and God, those two get overtime of idle utterance instances.
Though a statistically measurable deme
does redeem a significant some of those two
in true beliver
dying breath
honesty. God, they say, and die.

By my leave, I say,
I am the definition of a free entity accepted in these books.
We are voices. Messengers.
Some of us were wicked, twisted as wicker
or wire bundles. Some of us were true pass words.
Some were true rest words,
rest rooms were so named
for that wonderunful feeling we all get
when **** happens

at just the right moment

in the book. Great ideas gravitate to clean rest rooms.

this is a new book right, this reader is
whadayacallit

Vetted.
What does that mean. You know right idle heard words are
meaning less
power less.
Vet me. Am I one of those ideas, good to the core, caught up in fairy
tales fed the T.V. generation, the Boom beyond the bomb?
After school freedom and duck and cover drills,
we watched cartoons, aimed twenty short years earlier
at the wanters and wishers and workers and worriers
of the thirties, not at us. W


e Boomers, as the media hipsters have always known us,
the off-spring, often unwanted and ill-begotten, of the Greatest Generation,
the one that won the contracts to build all the bombs in the world,
tax-free.

Those cartoons from the thirties with Entertainment Tonight plots and cameos of
Hollywood stars who were Grandma's age,
that Cowboy Bob on the local VHF
(unaffiliated or independent, hard to tell a diff)
showed to us, the first middle class latch key kids in centuries,
those cartoons were meaningless, prewar propaganda
unless we match adult laughing recoging the exaggerations,
The Betty Davis eyes and Frankly M'Dear bigears
"Grandpa, who is that guy with big ears and a skinny mustache?"
Clark Gable, wow.
Who knew the "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a ****" guy had jug-handle ears?
It was diversity in the desert. My big ears no longer made me bully bait.
I have superior hearing and star power.
From my kindergarten years I have known.
I am included, my flaws are not flaws at all.
That don't give a **** guy
and I have big ears to hear better with, so
we know more. Good fathers teach their big eared sons such facts of Nature.

Take care. Don't get puffed up. Knowing too much
will fill a head with hydrogen and the brain in it rots,
intrixically.

Are we powerless? If you say so? No.
I am in control, graciously demands
no load un-bearable with Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice.

(Note: not fire water white lightning. This is
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice. Al Capp's
Personal Stash of Greatest Gen Synthetic Absynthe.
Used to **** hippie wanna-bees in farm country,
Like DDT for apple worms and skeeters,
Atom bombs for all colors of thinkin' right (but white),
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice revived many a faintin' pilgrim
follerin' John Wayne down the dusty trail,

Play me one o' them somebody done somebody right
songs,
there must be a million lying idle in blue puddles o' all kinds
of imaginary
ref-use.

Referee.
Job's Daysman betwixt us, we win. His call, not mine. I thought I lost for sure.

I was powerless, let me testify.

No. We think different here. If you are not stupid,
you are not powerless. If you are stupid, then you are powerless,
but but but
If you think you are powerless, you are not stupid. God knows, right?
Stupid people seldom see themselves powerless past the standing
under peace that's beyond understanding meat-mind-wise.

Dunning-Krueger. Again.

I buried my shadow in a concrete grave
He came back to haunt me
I could not deal with the dark of night
But all of my light hid in the gloom
so my shadow re-entered the room
All the things I buried with him began to show
The blackest of times
So with him I entered a truce
That I would acknowledge him
But I said to him I'd never let him wholly loose...

I dreamed
there was a evil man
searching for wealth
beyond all riches
hidden in the hardened
sculpture of a woman
there was a hero too
I could not see his face
he journeyed to a sacred cave
to guard the precious treasure

he climbed inside
the statue's hollow center
and held the treasure to his chest
where it radiated
with such intensity
he had to close his eyes
it gently pulsed in his hands
calming the anxiousness
leaching sour
in his throat

the villain
shrouded black
entered the cave
a belligerent pirate
yelling obscenities
where are you *****?
when I find you, you'll be sorry
you think you can hide from me?
no one will ever love you
the way that I do

his craven hunger upon seeing
the lost prize glowing heavenly
beneath sapphire stalactites
left this dreamer cold
he began to tear
at the sculpture's *******
with hands encased in forged steel
spiked fingernails slicing
until shimmering gold bloomed
in the statue's chest

zealously the villain tore deeper
molten yellow dripped
from his over-eager fingers
when suddenly from the center
came a flash of scorching fire
the villain dissolved to ash
without a single sound
the hero too transformed
into a luminous bird
not unlike a phoenix

he shook fresh wings
flexed honed talons
raised his crested head
and from hooked beak
there came a sound
like a choir of voices singing
the hero flapped three times
and soared out of the cavern
into the bluest sky
I'd ever seen

It is time to compile, as it has been a while
and it is worthwhile, to trial
an animal style, that is very versatile.

So, tonight we will do and so-with accrue,
an insight into something funky and spunky,
and do a little Kung Fu Monkey.

But not the whole training sessions,
will be spent on our Monkey Expression,
we will also train, some kung fu just plain.

So, come to training tonight you must,
just come, do not be fussed, else you will rust
your kung fu skills and health too will go bust.

This is going to be kind of like a journal entry. I never keep a journal,
but I feel like doing it, so I'm going to do it. It's like, the first step in a
long line of many, mini steps. Almost ready. I feel like I should stretch
out before I start. Ballistic. You know, like a fighter or something.
Okay. Here I go.

Right now I'm stuck in this little bubble. I got put here by some trouble
just a few years ago. Man, it was ****** up ****, like the most ****** up I've ever been in. Life, as they say, got the best of me. **** came first, then beer all day er'day, spending my living living with some ****** up ***** who's bad with money. We matched 'cause I'm ****** up. I ****** up, 'cause I shut up. First time lifestyle collaborator, so it was like, man what-am-uh-gonna-say? I feel love and I've been conditioned to just ride that **** with pride on your ****. Don't tell me I don't know what I want man. I've got my head on straight. Don't hate. Haters can't appreciate romance, bro. Come back when you learn that, yo. I don't blame the drugs, so I kept 'em when we left together, but
in different directions. Live-in gone. Foundation rot. Suspension shot.
****! **** **** ****! I hit ground with my teeth. Instead of asking
for help when it was needed I took help that kept me breathing
till I could ***** my head on almost too many terrible months in
the future which I never thought I would see in fruition, and I admit
in volition that (cough) (cough) I almost lost myself totally, ******* stripped of the holy one and only. One and only.

We've. Received. Bad vibes.

So now there's nearly nothing to my name unless you count the
meter it retains. But I've got flies in my pocket that I sprinkle
for pepper in my popcorn bag. There's no space for me here but
there's vacancy in the matrix. And I see the signs lit up. Being
singular not enough? I'd rather be rich and ubiquitous than poor
and bored while I whittle the days away, feeding my head with
whatever's left from original message I received. I've opened that **** and I tried it on for 23, pressed to impress but it wasn't me.
Listen when I say it, 'cause I'm serious, now that my name is
worthless what could it hurt to burn some synapses and knight
myself? After all I don't count on being rescued from this hell.
What's my name? Anything will do. But it's got to be very memorable
and cool. How should I glow when I get outta this cocoon? Take
it to the Max. Normal won't do, 'cause it's gotta be catchy for the
TV and YouTube. I won't be a copycat, no, never. It's just gonna be the
me that I've eternally received only under my belt, tight to the
extreme.

Like. The lost. Before.

"When the pious Cabbalist Rabbi Simon ben Jochai came to die, his friends said that he was celebrating his wedding." — C. G. Jung

I loved away my youth,
Mistook passion for a truth
By which one's will is lead.
The journey of the "dead"
Replaced my singular life,
And Death became my wife.