In my realm, any tale worth telling tells itself, backwards…
this is part three under reproof inspection,

we have tools some of us imagined,
perhaps with prodding from what prodded
Heinlein, his version of the Sixties, seen from his fifties;
differs in tech to stretch the realm of possible,

Artist's intuition that women's intuition was a thing
by 1961, the year of the twist,
if I recall Junior High, and who doesn't, eh, as seen on TV.

We were there.
There were those books, You were there at the battle for Bataan

We were there books, 36, a kind of boomer canon
in the southwest, some of us had grands who rode those trails.

But the one I imagine I remembered reading,
We were there at the battle for Bataan,

that can be imagined as a ghost from the cemetery
in Kingman, Arizona, on the actual road
alluded to in rites of passage,
all roads lead
from the middle of nowhere, there's no destination known.

Up on the point,
overlooking my green valley,
if I am an honest man, and I believe I am,
sharp as a tack,
tacky as a fly strip in a butcher shop,

sticky in that ai ai ai madja look gleam meme,
flash of white,
no light, brigh'ness reflected from raven's wings, sure
that is what Castaneda saw, no wu wu needed,

once the plant impresses your kindness,
adsorb absorb soak seep, sniff
wonder, if we may imagine
and we do not, we are as the being who may read and does not.
Or the reader who may write and wishes to be

known for the worth of the lines in threaded time through
changing times, drastic fantastic changes in time
thinking medium
thick syrupy, thicker, honey, honey, how could such excess be?

the proverb, pre installed, tic
Hast thou found honey?
Eat so much as is sufficient for thee.
see
prophecy saying the child shall shall, not will, shall
eat milk and honey until it can, not may, can
sense the fine-ness of the line
the veil, between useful for imaginary things,
how fine the film discerned, imagine that
scratched
with this
so fine a line, that nothing is a thought, with nullness
nought, not infinite, pre-
punctuality, never ceases to happen and now remains, ever.

Part 2 read first leaves one wondering tense…

Plucking seeds from threads so twisted…

Division deceptive guess I know
you know

I know a man, caught up to third heaven

on behalf of this man, this sentient being
living in me, by fi
do or die,
- I shape as story formed from facts
- as mirror neurons bher witness,
- yes, we saw, as fate
- might have it
- a mote in one's own eye
- detected with the beam in the gleam
that bit herein
therein sof-ein, tic
we are in
the book of life, as opposed to one of the
books in life, though
as we know, although, you may doubt,
knowing doubt is so good, it is hard wired.
Think
whether in or out of the bubble we breathe,
I have no knowing, un re prove able,
as a witness of truth being known, I know
relatively
nothing of the daily habits Plato had,
or even if he hated that name, it signaled shame,

what if it were not shoulders broad,
big ol' Hoss Cartwright
or Mean Joe drinkin' m' Coke, big as an Ox.

A castrated bull, you see, in a world lit
only by fire, every boy knows how oxen
are made
to pull the plow, bulls are made for cows,
and hides.

--- okeh, reproven, this is that, we have
a salty trail forming,
tear tracks.

These, in ever after ever before,
these lead to lost souls, soulds, sold ones, yes

this is the good we may do, should we wish
Tom Cruise never replaced
Marshall Dillon's brother, in the Mission Impossible
Drama reoccurring phenomenon, we see it
the impossible mission accepted

Great Red Spot, drifting in the swirl force
upon it
as a point in a sub-known-use of story per se,
si, no, se we know,

---- real time, long past, save we know, all things
reflect
and defracts, signs found in faces or traces of tea,
we make up what we wish you
to leave
be true,

do, and say, I did. That's done. Amen.

And Forrest looked behind him,
-- in the future, we have links, you may see
what any true heir of wind would wish to see

View of Monument Valley in Utah, looking south on U.S. Route 163 from 13 miles (21 km) north of the Arizona–Utah state line.

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monument_Valley>

however Fustus wit' d' Mostus namesake, a fact
I was aware of due
to John Kenworthy, who played ball with Roger Staubach,
and was a clerk-typist Marine in 'Nahm, he stressed,
while telling me of learning the knack
the key to the short story, which is

Know the story before you tell it.
Covey, the Mormon guru of success habits, said
Begin, with the end in mind.
In mind of that, I think, I remember Brenda Lussier,
had a meme, in the form of a poster, same thing, really.
It says, as it remains memish once it functions as a meme:
If YOU aim at nothing. YOU will hit it.

compliments of adult children of alchoholics, non-profit
meme makers aiming to make it all better. Small print.

Tell your muse to slap herself
buy a gun and cap yourself
buy a farm then buy the farm
buy the sheep that spins the yarn

take your words and shove them!
take your birds and love them!
put nothing else above them...

not even air

tell your side to ready for battle
by some fencing and by some cattle
buy a ranch and buy the farm
shave the sheep that spins the yarn

i'm not giving up, i'm just giving in
like a ghost in the world you're just living in
i'm not taking out, i'm just taking in
all those words you're just breaking in

i'm not standing in, i'm just standing on
that soil that you're just not landing on
i'm not sitting out, i'm just sitting in
that train that you're just not getting in

i'm not living up, i'm just living down
thankful to the gods for just giving ground
i'm not dying out, i'm just dying in
a world that i should be just flying in

i thought about joining the crowd and writing about poets, poems, and poetry...then my muse cut off my hands and typed this

Blackest nights and hearts of hearts
As the feeling hits my bones
Vast illusions take their hold
Welcome evil to its throne

Embrace the stars that guide my fate they've often burned when I arrive too late
It seems I'm running in a vector leading myself back to what I hate
I picked the crown from all the roses, chose to drown yet dreamt of floating, spending precious time just hoping, loves a drug so now I'm doping, heart so broken no use coping, all this ink black blood is flowing, spilling from my tongue it stains the ground pollutes the mud

Wasted words, from wasted tongues I think I've fallen out of love and now this freedom cuts me open just to rip out all these pieces, voices, words, and thesis I've been Clinging to this life, God should just hand me the knife, I'll carve myself a new beginning.

Stab myself with a thousand needles to drive it home once more that there is no growth without pain and from me all the hues of red and black come pouring out in a catharsis of the self inflicted damage I've pursued in the twisted notion that accepting this pain will leave me with nothing left to lose and everything left to gain but as it turns out the gods were never so cruel and never so kind as to let me weather the entire storm to prove to myself that I was truly alive.

No.

No.

Take me, break me, shatter my illusions, drive my mind into confusion, take from me everything I hold true and run it through the strainer that's
you, God of wisdom take my hand and drag me through the burning sands, and take from me right as I bleed through every wound you set me free, crush my faith, tear out my eyes, if I don't make it death is fine, gifted wisdom from divine, is worth this anguished mortal life, show me death and show me light, show me plenty show me strife, cast upon I beg of thee, make me listen make me free.

Dance is the shape that body gives to music.
As your dream unfolds, words fly backwards at the speed of sleep.
He disliked the word “stalker.” He preferred “scientist of solitude.”
Leaving a message to his former self, written in pills.
His muse turned out to be mere longing in ordinary darkness.
This was the choice:  hear the music or feel the cold at the base of your spine.
I asked your heart, “Sit next to me?” You apostrophized to a tree.
Order cannot contain itself. There is always remainder. Flecks float in sunlight.
Stop laughing at my jokes and let me get on with this suicide note.
You stared at a white index card, waiting for a prayer to appear
A rhetoric of purpose is a philosophy of decay.
Keeping darkness at bay with the failing light of poetry.

~
Here is an assertion
and showiness
in the expanse
of white skin – from her
high forehead,
down her graceful neck,
shoulders, and arms.
Although the black
of her dress is bold,
it is also deep, recessive,
and mysterious.

He stalks her
as one does a deer,
his palette composed of
lead white, rose madder,
vermilion, viridian,
and bone black.
A dash of light rose
over the former
gloomy background,
you see, and
the élancée figure
shows to much
greater advantage.

Her body boldly
faces forward while
her head is turned in profile.
A profile of both
assertion and retreat.
The table provides support,
and echoes her
curves and stance.
One strap of her gown
has fallen down
her right shoulder,
suggesting the possibility
of further revelation;
one more struggle
and the lady will be free.

Everything converges to
imply a distant sexuality
under the professional
control of the sitter,
rather than offered for
the viewer's delectation.
Her untamed wilderness
remains unseen.
~