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Ken Pepiton Sep 2019
Old notes, from before

what they did was imagine a future
the future using a memory (meme) locken in their DNA to cognize

sameness

Defragmenting your mind
disassociate certain ideas from mis conceptions

cost of living, reap what you sow

Lost and know it, is there a way

What if the show (the trial) is a series of phone calls--
listener hears both sides

--- but never speaks--
When is the reward for not doing ever as great as
the reward for done?

A riddle for the robber jailed for doing?
A query for the poet who never wrote?
The singer who never sang, an audition in silence?

Eaking, painful words that say see, soundlessly

and fifteen years passed by
I must say
I know the answer there
I must say
I see farther now than then

Suffer it to be so now. See the music
sing
Sufficient unto the day (no more)

Sop with me, come and dine.

-- Ask the guest to say grace

gracefully, the guest rises to full height,

tears the heel from the loaf,
slowly sops it in the cup of Mogen David,
provisioned by the host,
slowly lifts the soppy bread to lips open
for a bite,

taken, then chewed gently, and swallowed,

Amen. The guest sits and tucks
and gracefully scoops his portion of
a side of beef and three old hens who ceased to lay.

Grace for grace, he mutters, in his own gluttonous way.
as all the tucker's tucked into him.

Smallest child asks, who invited that?

Oh, that.
That's a metaphor. A parable. You see as if that hapt,

you remember it oh so well,
then the story ended and you woke here with memories of never beens.

Not every efforting word makes ineffable sense, some must be heard
to be spoken, other wise they lie

idle, idling like dragons spewing ashes in micro bits of death,
in their slumber atop the horded
answer to all things,

money. the real thing. the idea from which it formed.

A time trading scheme.
Back in the day, we were paid for our attention to reality, then

something changed at the DNA level, down in the core of where we come from,
effortlessly, until

air, whoosh squeeze that back outa me
breathe, old man,

old notes, like we should
honest-account the smell of Dehli
diesel idling in clogs of mopeds and vespas and honda fifties
like Saigon outside Than Son Nhut when the Americans were there

such idle words as these, left lying asif believed
now as when they flowed from a steel nib pen in some era of errors past
parsing sensibly

like old photos in a family album, with no recognizable faces or places

longer lasting than our carbon foot print,
longer than the thread to Silicon Beach sewing stiches before the skein
ripped with the receding tide of couldabeens,

before there was a fast lane, a 56 K modem was a rocket ship, too slow

here come ol' Flattop, Junior, **** Tracey's cutting edge hacker,
Flatop Jones, Junior,
cruisin' Route 66, in 1956, while the Hungarian Freedom Fighter was
grasping at
a dream,

The Yanks are coming, but
they didn't.
Seeya.
I found my personal task spiral binder from the expansion of the silicon bubble into the internet through to the MyTechPeople rollout after the IPO that never hapt. A historical note.
fiachra breac Aug 2019
.
falling in love with a hurricane,
isn't nearly as dramatic as it sounds
better to rip the plaster off now
Äŧül Aug 2019
1.
The caste-based discrimination,
Warranted by caste-based reservation,
In the Indian nation;

2.
It brings people on the roads so often,
Their feelings refuse to soften,
With blood of men, roads soon glisten;

3.
Few wanting newer reservation,
Some wanting more reservation,
None thinking about deservation;

4.
They all cry reservation aloud,
Getting alms, they feel proud,
Disaster is hidden in a shroud;

5.
Politicians cash in on the issue,
If you're needy, they won't miss you,
Arrange your own teary tissue;

6.
The caste politics they're playing,
Truly careless they're behaving,
Threats they're manufacturing;

7.
Caste-based reservation is like a fire,
These crutches will take none higher,
Remember, remember this lone flyer.
The world needs to worry about the Indian caste-based reservation system, which instead of banishing the misinterpreted Varṇ Vyavastha, further making the caste lines more pronounced.

Read my novel that critiques the Indian system.

My novel is a love story of how a young man protects his fiance and fights with death once again on the flight to Hamburg as (currently only fictional) terrorists attempt to hijack it.

In the novel, "7 Seconds: A Typical Guy, Atypical Life" by Atul Kaushal, 7 July 2017 is the date that Akshant Kautilya takes the flight from New Delhi to Hamburg and is engaged in a struggle against the hijackers who demand repealing of the Indian caste-based reservation system.

If you prefer reading the hard-copy version then you can now read my novel in its hard-copy version apart from its eBook version.

My HP Poem #1760
©Atul Kaushal
hannah Aug 2019
Music is a river
That won't stop flowing
Bear me up
On cascading waves
Rippling notes
Of love and loss
Drown me
In the melancholy
Of a thousand voices
Wash me up
On foreign shores
Make me lighter
Who needs therapy when you can listen to music? *sobs uncontrollably*
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