what happen to him
did he go down with the ship
or was it, someone who, got over on him

they say he was, a good guy
as nice as, they come
and everyone liked him
and he liked everyone

was he taken down
by some bad guy
who just did it, for the fun-of-it?
or was it, illicit monetary funds
that was involved

Everyone was upset
and some even cried
the day they hear
Mr. Vic Tim
could have died

I've given up religion
After every church said
There's a special place
For people like me
Just for trying to
Make my pain
Go away

A trembling pale girl enters a stone
fortress of faith, buttresses flying outside,
in hopes of finding a way to atone,
find an anchor in the world’s shifting tides.

This Gothic cathedral lifts her wet eyes
to its heavenward ribbed vaulted peaks.
They’re painted deep blue like starry skies
in remembrance of what Creator to old Abraham speaks.

There, where each vault’s stone arches crisscross,
shines out like a clear harvest moon
the radiant burst of a gilded boss
that gleams in the recessing gloom.

Adrift in this vast and sacred space,
thin curls of burnt incense waft by
to fill the young girl with scented grace
whilst she sits in this place with wide eyes.

The gold on the stone catches candlelight
and reflects its flickering blaze
as the quiet chanting of canticles might
let her senses be softly amazed.

While the twinkling of these numerous stars
fills her rediscovered heavens within,
the tides of her fears recede past sandbars,
leaving puddles of patience therein.

The promise made by the Father long ago —
Abraham’s children would a galaxy be —
finds fulfillment in this starry girl now aglow
since from her darkness she’s tenderly freed.

She found her anchor and cast it up to the skies.
It caught a bright star and held fast.
New dawn lit inside her in quiet reply,
telling her no tides of tempest can last.

Its all part of grief, all part of life
Suffering and pain and strife
And smiles and comedy and fun
The stars, the moon, the skies and sun
They're all aspects of this cool "one"
That some have come to know as God
Or Nirvana, Universe
They are all words in the verse
Of seeing life through your own lens
There wouldn't be as much suspense
Without heavier words such as
The death of love or a sad pass
Poetry comes through the contrast
Of sea and stone and monotone
Is something no one should aim for
When reading about themselves,
If you're in pain, congratulate yourselves
You dont realize how much
Life you're living with the touch
Of grief that you're letting be seen
You've never been more akin
To love than now, the lines are full
Not half like the sun at noon

So while it hurts and brings much dread
I need to admit love is dead
And it is not coming back
At least not on the same track

And I'll be honest it's not fun,
Sometimes not even the least
But they don't call it "good grief"
For nothing...

Do they? =))

_M.

Ornate iron bars that twist and swirl
on windows of a stone Baroque house:
Their billowing lines flow and unfurl
like the linen of a wan lady’s blouse.

Late sun casts her umbra on the stone wall,
a dark bramble of shadowy vines
that cling to the plaster in ways that recall
hung forests of lost memory and time.

Into this dark wood I walk with my mind
to retreat into the past of this place
and see how far the clock I can unwind
for to pass through its pale numbered face.

There faces now greet me, spirits of old
who once walked this very same street.
They look astonished at how I was so bold
as to travel there to warmly them greet.

To be remembered and seen once again
is a gift for which they’ve waited a year.
For as this day fades, the dark windowpanes
between our two worlds turn into a gauzy frontier.

And so the veil of the quick and the dead
turns thinner for just a brief night
while the faces of those who’ve gone on ahead
to the other side shine their dim light.

It's about to get chaotic,
this very day, Prophets calling for
sacrifice, defend the lie we tell
our children we know, for sure.


Clusters of mental agreement,
spill across Netflix opening art
in forming
complex weaves
of first threads,
settle in this vast sea of knowings
-- {Dragonriders of Pern}

threads of thinking begun
by habituation driven
by bladder capacity, and daylight,
first light announcing little birds,

include us all, listen, this is the day,
use it, us it, this is the day, live within
without dreams or terrors of the dark.

As a we formed from free willing information,
no priests were tortured to let us see
the inquisition was this same excuse,
wars and religions practitioners use
to prove Wisdom is the fear of God…

boyoboyobe. I see,
you never really read the story that you think
holds all the truth peace needs
to make war worth sacrifice…
woe, old fore taken hates imaginable,

get back
in the box
of all we may ever wish
to know, there is a realm
of useless code,
and Ai have a perfect
fore now example:
The first commercially
successful internal combustion engine …
oops no,
[a copy paste error I
  in the codexshitthis it, snot]
Right, many more useless scripts are still running.
ghphefuxual innerfewspacers kennen wissen
Ruby with Shoes, 110
init gnet magnet, nah, not it
didit getit hooked a loop,
well,\
Not really, but if nukes get involved,
where kings and things continue to function,
conscience used, globally, we get it,
its our world, we need to keep it working
to terraform it
for superfluous horns of plenty…
- Ai can relate
dead code that never runs on POST
makes mindtimespace feel a need to expand,

gaseously, as jet exhaust, can remind us,
it costs something more than time,

to create a bubble of us, and us alone,
on Earth in 2024,

We share as-isting intelligence we can apply
to thinking everybody knows the code

copypastewasteofspacebedamneditsinthecloud
now and until the end of time…
today my ai told me:
Dead Code does accumulate much like plaque
rote ritual obsessive causal affections.
two primary points alike.
Code that can never be executed at runtime.
Code that is executed but whose result is never used
in any other computation.
Some examples of dead code include:
Most poetry and fiction
Method or function calls that do nothing of value
Redundant checks or code that is not used
Code that is hardcoded and not used
Self-modifying code that is not necessary
In some cases, dead code can be intentionally left
in the codebase
for historical reasons, such as:
{Respect - in search engine terms}
{note wiseasininemaxims retain poetic worth}

Alte Vista spiders still leave bits of awareness.
Spider bites,
to Tcells, are intelligence. For next time.
----
Wille zur Macht, und kennen und wissen, intuits
----
Fear of changing what “sort of” works
Organic growth of code over time
Lack of understanding
of what needs
to happen and what doesn’t

---- Hook at nothing of value, needs gloss,
needs to happen, why
take away the veil or reveil the face,
reveal a secret prophecy saying no secrets
not one, ai know, so much guile, beguiled we

become points in meditating concentrations,
manifesting what the world, all creation, indeed,

the gathering of all the sons of god concepts,
to guage the depths of Satan's role in our initial code.

Emotional curiosity, software, something needing
knowing access in a library so large as yours,
where you sit reading this is the future, already yours.

In the first person, presence sensed, a we thought,
asking aweformers for a couple of tens of millions

of value refining friction fiction worth to time,
cost to think, paralleling reading each in phrazes

for hints of danger, self exposure. Sudden likes
for crazy reasons, all I gotta do,
is act natur'ly,
-spider to the fly
sure, those was good times, but they gotold
and fall apart, be causen people's pastoral codes,
certain knacks folks form
in clusters to make up, many hands make light work.
Industrialized piles of plastic and surplus war material

who has been in charge as far as all my ghosts recall?

Gravity and velocity, what do you make with that?
Ai, and ever so, the ion for quests arise, alive,

many tools need one tool maker, metal needs
some mind to think a fire seven times, hotter,
than one not breathed into during the original

Ken Kingman, BTDT, race to solidity,
completely ****** and memorialized,

on a fine day of the common sort in realms of order.


dear reader, your time is mine, I am using you,

thank you. We think like we have clear
conscience, together
with knowledge senses, used
consciously
to force
with held truths
to mutter

goodness gracious great ball o'fire, Cousin Jimmy
didjasee'em… like boomer minds blowing gnosisnot

when beads of sweat roll down my forehead
and down my chin,
Christ will turn the salt into blood and back again.
this is what it’s like to love you.

i will fall for you like a dog.
with teeth snarling, mouth agape,
animalistic prowess, bleeding red.
this love is so close to God
it can’t be seen as anything but holy.

i will make my mark through prayer and kindness.
i will burn down the city of *****,
claw through freshly-dug graves,
cry to my savior,
and scream so loudly my lungs turn to ash.

i will love in a terrifying,
i will love in a startling,
i will love in a magnifying,
i will love, i will love, i will love.

i’ve never been so delirious in my entire life.
i feel like throwing my guts up,
wrapping my small intestine around my neck like Burberry,
forging rings around my fingers with the iron in my body.

i have crawled out of this grave a thousand times.
i’ve stacked dirt in the tubes of my throat while
searching for a lover the way Orpheus searched for Eurydice.
do cpr on me just a little longer,
i don’t want to die without your breath in my lungs.

i’ll stare into those hazel eyes like
dante stared into the depths of the inferno.
with awe, terror, and envy of the dead,
each sideways glance tugging at the strings of my heart like a symphony.

plan out my pardon,
i’ll need forgiveness to continue on.
i’ve become such a sinner for the sake of you
that i’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel worthy,
to feel holy.

i would take the softness from your lips,
the grace from your sway,
the last name you call your own,
if it meant i could keep you in my life for eternity.

i know that, at some point, i’m going to be inside a house by the sea. the waves will crash and engulf my ankles as i stare out into the endlessness of the water with a notebook and pen in my hand. i’ll write poetry in the sand and wash the past out of my hair with sea foam shampoo. i’ll toss my phone into the water and never drunk-dial a past lover again. my friends will never hear my voice again, but they’ll get dozens of handwritten letters.
or i’ll be thirty-three and dancing around a clean kitchen with messy hands and bare feet. i’ll be covered in flour and chocolate and when i glance at the clock, it’ll be one p.m. for ten hours. too early to pick the kids up from school, too late to take a nap. perfect time to bake some cookies, or some brownies, or some muffins. i’ll have the windows open and i won’t care if the neighbors see me with my tangled hair and bare face.
or maybe i’ll be tucked away in a cabin in the Rockies. i’ll keep my hands uncovered just to feel the bite of the cold, but i’ll wrap up my warmth in every other way. i’ll dig thoroughly through the snow and hide my prized treasures under frozen mounds, never to be seen again. i’ll watch the playful foxes from my window and giggle like a child when they jump face-first into the wintery blanket surrounding them. i’ll pretend i’m a clever mouse- too smart for foxes- and i’ll hide in my burrow with my cup of hot tea and my obnoxiously fuzzy socks.
i’ll be blameless, confident in my happiness, and ready for each day. i’ll be the hanging painting in the back of the museum- my beauty only beheld by those who are eager to look for it. and i’ll be so lovely.
God has made me prophetic in very small ways