Hearing history whisper in the background
in an aural realm
I hear enkidu bled
ink
to fill the pens
of ready writers after
ever
lasting word
forms
a name
Enki, wisdom and life
flowing
into length of days
ancient
days
long
remembered, visited
in daydreams
featuring
all that may have been,
then.
Some soporific drink drunk
in old Uruk
vicareate, those in lieau of you.
Dying for you to go into the
realm
of knowns past
knowing knowns now in this
realm
make your mind reach mine.
Stand under my lines and
lean toward joy
good and calm,
gentle waves of peace
swirling fibrating threads
forming
woven things, matrices,
see the points crossed over
and under,
see the edges wound around,
to keep the rubbing of
reality from fraying ends.
did the fingers gno the math,
the ciphers we see
in carpets woven by magi
families
for centuries, ere
The Prophet were told to Read,
and he refused
to learn,
but chose to teach that which
an angel of light,
warned against by Paul the Gnostic Jew,
taught? Told to read, but never learning to do it, because angel said,
say exactly what i say...
Teachers once learned by teaching, but
never has reading been masterd
sans
sensibility of the graphemes
re
presenting the noises
common in every human ear
hearing in
sapience, abruptly
Hear!
Easy to be entreated. You have ears?
Hear.
How is never asked, why is clear; ears hear,
we all have ears.
Not all ears hear.
But eyes can learn to read, with some effort.
I magine it your task. You the first speaker of your
magic tongue-lung-teeth-lips, epiglot-tonsil-nasal
noise making system, engineered
to permit
song in accord with this, our shared realm of
noises, common.
Ha. This tale of an angel telling a messenger to read,
is this a famous story? Have I not learned of a war being
waged,
i.e. fought with stand-ins paid to fight, live or die.
Soldiers formed from hearers of empty songs
stretched to cover eyes, as well,
push and pull, hot and cold, balance value
weight and worth
imagine knowing no written tongue
you, dear reader, this book of lives in life per se,
who could see this coming?
Papyrii and clay and stone
cities are inventions of men
men who would be kings
imagined
delegating
knack for knack *** for tat
this for that all
for me,
the man wombed or un who would be
like the most high god I can imagine
ah the danger of falling into anachronism
you first must imagine, dear reader, that
writing is an invention
intended to bher the burden of learning to
remember, really,
no po'etic license claimed or blamed
famine of the written word
negates not the worth of rhyme and dance
masques and noises of roaring bulls
thrumming, thundering herds
screaming hawks, squeeling rabbits,
caw
cawing crows or ravens if that
distinction is
ever
necessary...
as the story is told, some time after ever starts.
This has been a chapter in our history,
dear reader from the times before the pictures
were scratched on the rock Sisyphus rolls.
Twixt now and then lies a realm of stories locked in idle words
never written for never having a reader
who grasped the message to the prophet,
read.
-----
Uruk, was there a ****** who watched you rise and learned
to make a city sufficiently
enslaving to raise a king from the son of a king
to the level of luxury allowing
reading all that writing demands
suggestive is the fact that the written word for C2H5OH
is a spirit ual thing caught in a word
as old as the earliest writing
remaining
alcohol, spoken now, would call for a drink in old Uruk and Akkad,
as would reference to kohl warm eyes,
be cool
as are we all, we living words spoken in times past,
listing in lusting vacuums of empty songs
ah, you shall not surely die, poor Gilga-
mesh, the net
spread in your sight, you never thought
networking and weaving were skills teachable, thus
this witty idea, the best potter makes only one pattern of ***,
all for me,
I take them a ll and feed the potter meat. Mighty hunter, am I.
I feed many with one mammoth
I am worthy of all they make with strength taken as granted
while chewing the carcass of my
****
--- here it comes,
civilization---
things in abundance might be made,
and traded
for
that which we lack the knack to make
so soon does some medium of exchange manifest
as witty inventions emerge from seeds carried from the garden
How? Now, off-scour, **** of the earth, us-all,
poor you have with you always,
we, the feeble-but-not-un-minded, people, whisper
when we sing,
shuffle when we dance, fly when we dream
and live until we die and leave mere words to live ever after in the wind,
making peace for the heirs of the earth.
J.M Roberts history of the world in the backgound listening to Sunday in my valley.
