If we as human beings are meant to bring reason
Bring water out of stone
Create fame from fortune
Then, what comes next
Probably, the study of relevant subjects
That entice us, but, what do we crave
Many of us wonder, if we want a happy ending
Honestly, we want to have an ending
The story should end, even if it not be remembered
In that sense, we are truly capable of reasoning
As reasoning requires to reject the praise and goodwill of others
For a purposeful end
If we shall truly reason, we cannot let our beliefs sway
Let alone be moved by the storm of emotion or doubt
If our mind is a sail boat, let it find it's way
On a vast ocean of rationalism
However, we will always question our own self
Seldom, trusting the route
If trusting the wind
Is faith
Reason is having trust
In your sails, as the wind may come to a calm halt someday
That is God's will, perhaps.

There is beauty in potential.
Fleeting moments of desires
to be freer than I am
come stronger and faster
when captivity has been for this long.
The potential to be free
will always appeal to me
more
than freedom itself.

We celebrate, don't we.
We celebrate celebrity, don’t' we.
Fame and fortune, apprehended while still alive,
we celebrate such aims
hit. Right on.
We worldly humus beings,
highest bits of the dust of the earth;
we,
self evidently know, in side, on the
inside of what we are,
there is an idea of being measured for worth,
by the joy you
use by right to stir the old ideas that once formed gods.

we feel the flow, we know more blessed to give,
than receive, given and given
evidence of all we know we never see
overwhelming the hope
deferred heart sick
deception post reception, too late,

the fix is in. The heart is new, not twisted, designed,
with that magnificent aortal vagus CNX action,
swirling the field of all we imagine into

watchaseeswattchgit

Hide, and watch… there is no whimper
when this bubble of been
is popped.
But its not a bang, more a hiss
or a sigh.
The
traditional medium, words,
thinking, the thinking thing seems to think
somethings
missing
something is
missing a sense of
why
mass and matter whats whats whats
first things first
wise arises as a character trait,
wait - there was a chance all hell could be imagined
as real as any thing, so we made some mods on V.2.1,
biome factors...

-- time, yeah, time is a factor, but not luck…

patience, per
fect love casts out fear, not
perfect aim.
good wins, try again

Fear not. Death has no sting.
That's it, God's own
fear fix, so low we go with this sci used,
just right, so
life always wins,
using sci-,
hence, no lie forms from truth,
no imaginable evil ever exists, never is perfectly empty.

panspermia pandaemonium psy=sci

wit use of knowns, we try
umph, and be come

at worst a proven unthinkable thing.

celebrity (n.)
late 14c.,
"solemn rite or ceremony,"
from Old French celebrité "celebration"
or directly from Latin celibritatem
 (nominative celebritas)
"multitude, fame,"
from celeber 
"frequented, populous"
(see celebrate).
Meaning "condition of being famous" is from c. 1600;
that of "a famous person" is from 1849.
When the old gods withdraw,
the empty thrones cry out for a successor,
and with good management,
or even without management,
almost any perishable bag of bones may be hoisted into the vacant seat.
[E.R. Dodds, "The Greeks and the Irrational"]

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=celebrity>

The ocean ahead of me,
with its beasts,
have my knees shaking,
as I try to dive again,
and tame the fear
of oblivion,
One more time.

Flare

let's kiss the mind with some flare every day
challenge the very core of your energy by accepting all sensory input
all the visual
all the audible
all the input thrown your way
see if that doesn't leave your mind with more flare

Brian Hill - 2020 # 164

it’s a daiquiri colored morn, countlessly
as I, gazing never tiring, of a vista I’ve seen,
awoken to, endlessly changing, voyagers of
birds and boats, the redecorating minimalists,
moving pieces on a latticed shadow lawn

the Sun eastern, asking the trees to turn and bow,
hence the shadows their branches cast are a waffling,
hopscotch pattern irregular, so jumping from/to
yellow-green sunspots, the children are delighted by a
new game, moving to and from and between an ever
changing crazy chessboard of light-patches unsquared

described, written of, yet here I am, once again, a servant
despairing, looking for new combinations of superlatives,
though I never spoke before of it as a vista,
until today, wondering why, perhaps because
it’s here, one lives, one doesn’t conceive of  being
part and parcel of a vista, humans, just visitors,
pawn observers, gallery visitors, art appreciators,
transient hobos after forty years, truthfully claiming
that they’re merely still, passing thru, passing by

9:40 am, respectable hour to meander over
to the throne room, the four Adirondacks, them,
the year round poetry nook authorities, are equal
sunned, shaded, simultaneous, stately shadowing,
observing, advertising as perfect for composing,
willing to make verbal suggestions, rhyming notions,
especially when the poem pays proper obeisance

and so it does, and so it is, as you can clearly read


9:53am Sunday Jun 14
Year of the Pandemic