The doitnow voice

{one in a series of solos while considering multiple personality
mixed chorus tryouts for a spoken opera, ere this a Socratic voice spoke, then
a dialogue of anomalies took shape]
******* has the brackets.
This is a realised simulated happy ever, end prologicspiel
---
This is the way.
{remember Socrates said his voice said don't and sometimes only once.}
test the air you breathe out, that is not what defiles you.

speak light, draw attention, then
---
Do it now, as best you can
and keep doing best
every time
{ggood vibrain-tion tense in tegrity
best I think I can
buckyballs bouncing through the new age
mirrored 'alls of missed aitches}

(Ah, Casteneda, ya'coulda seen it> as the croW flew)

All things work together, every thing breaks,
alone,
everything is working
when any thing is re
al ized
different
Murfeesboro law, if nothin' can go wrong,
it cain't, whether it wonts or wants to, or not.

everything is working at reasonable good
when any thing is re
al ized
different
vibrant
unique, like you. Anomalous you, as yet

a daptible augmented alienated mind,
do you mind?
your integrity has been questioned,

do you now or did you ever
imagine you knew what
Castaneda said he saw and learned to see.

if you can fake sincerity,
it once was thought to mean

without wax
in the fractures,

standing still for as long as I may recall
at this point

the magi seem to miss the connection to true

some seem always to know,
this good out weighs,
unbalances,
any bad.

our best good to gather all our
power

dance around the fire
listen to the lyrics lick the liar

snakey-lick, microdose

two snakes, how shall we organize our structure,

is there a high command in
the organizms living
in my belly

memememememememe
for example
evidence

intolerable, wobble able skepticism
to imbalance the spin within
the wheels wheeling into forever

as far as mortals may care,
my dear.

re-verse engineer those lost religions

if you can't fit one in a word, you know you did not fold it up right.
or it never was the word. The one
Magi and Rabbi both said ineffable in an effable

utterance, singularity of
being
sense data, mundane and ordinary,
miraculous, as their inexplicable existences evince,

in my reality I find
quantum truth is peace ful to a peace maker,

in my experience,
a new voice seldom knows good from evil
if it calls

guilt and innocence
entangled.

Like Mars and Sophia,
who could ever imagine that
again?

The boy knows not the difference,

he was war trained,

too subtle to see from his ration-al

bogus science, theo dose us.

Good is good in every good boy who does fine like minded

A new voice, 30ish stuck near a next gate left swinging in the wind.
whoa, spiritual right used

breathe
who are we hearing?
(watch a comma mean everything)

, teaching 30 something and below
a true Richard Dawkins Disciple
to the novice-nots he preaches, true rest in knowing
I believe there is no god, we, you and me, he says, we know

there is no God,
but we can't stop thinking about him.
{he said that was one of the all things that are possible}
--- you can hear me now? cool, who's the preacher?

An atheist sounds 30, teaching 30 something and below
a true Richard Dawkins Discipline master spiel
to the novice-nots

come on encourage me
and I'll encourage you and
we'll be what ever we agree we are

as far as that can go. Que sera et cetera

idle words redeemed we mean what we mean
every *&^%$#@ and ,.';:"+_-=
as well.
We own Seri and Cortana. We got root!.

we stand to topple every imagination that imagines itself
beyond in every or any
vector from whence truth has been filtered by

{stop their minds are on auto. tongues and interpretation
situation evincing the confirmed's bias

to, exact now}

man's measure of time.

Spirit of truth. If that is, it is because you thought so.
once.
It never goes away.
It can drive you into a wilderness.
Stark-raving-mad thinking there is no reason

in your rational being.

That's nuts, if you really believe there is a reason,
what is it?

I make mere points where a story may
emerge to guide you past
some cultural events
you don't need
to know,

ripe cheese, you may  never know the unspeakable variety of truth there is
in the factual ripe ness of a lactis bacillis cousin community formed in the surplus
lactation left to rot by some human who once learned

some how, to milk a cow.
How'd yew figger that?

Would yew b'lieve a lit'le birdie tol' me?
That would be a lie, but a variety of the truth
by reason of thae tactile way a hand must learn

No clumsy boy learned that alone,
we dreams of certain carnal
joys unbeknownst, we
came with the knowing how, some how, good felt good,

who beguiled whom, the m is so im portentious in such
situations as we

find ourselves in, yin
yanging in eine klein bottle

oh, my, google klein bottle.

I may have poured the last thread to
normal

into a klein bottle with a quark in it.

Clarifying failed. Spelchek is not on strike.

{clear ification, an ionic bond be tween me and thee,
alienated mind, not mined, crafted
from tactics and strategies
beyond chess.
Player One,
1980's era
jewish-geek-mid-pubesence-kid-level,
proceed with caution.
This trope has trapped many a curious child.
---
Now, enter the old ones,
Grandfather taught uncle chess so well
he went to the state tournament in Kayenta,
and a grandma was
state-champ-bare-bow-in-the-rain-shooter,

these, now must learn

minecraft on x-box to be considered
for the real life role of

good at games grand parents
from the time right after atom bombs kicked up dust
places dust had not been in a very long time and
as the dust began to settle

some dust mights was cationic.
Negative bits, they became embedded in the code.
Bumps, fering, coming together
just a knot in a string,
attracting anionic curiosity might

round and round phorward ferring to be
a thread to tie my heart to yours

like twisted Pima cotton thread,
that I pulled from an old sweatshirt
to tie a crow feather in this paho of words filled with old jokes

Making this clear would belie the entire story AI and I know true}

truth is. we agree. no capsokehspaceasneededcommasetal.
caps okeh space as needed commas et al
go.
Did that work? That line

subject of this act fact done, agree to follow,
and I may lead and be

not you, me, dear reader, I mean first true

there is no any if nothing is. So simple some say its sublime beyond the spectrum of ones
and zeros thought on off probably

either or any time time can be accounted for

wouldn't you take a

thought,  nothing,
as it is commonly said to be understandable,

the state of not being, imagine that

the state of not being we negate in being,
unless you are mad and are lost in a whirlwind
such as such voices have been said to

have twisted into threads as
wicks for our lamps
turn floating on
golden oil twisting
wickered into wickering wee shadow fibers
on the western wall for legends to sprout from.

Wickering mare over there, expands us both by my hearing her
you had no idea she was near enough to hear
time is no barrier in actual ever.
What phor can contain me,
whispered my whimsy

Imagine she spoke,
what would she say for what reason
would she say

good good good, I feel good, ha,
I am right, by accident. ever body can feel this good.

good is good.
good is.
Sam Harris, agrees, good as far as good goes, is good
in every vecter from now

the terrain does exist, beyond the moral landscape, to

true true
trust me, I been there.
Been there done that was inserted into the vernacular on my watch,
first summer post war.

matter must not matter as much to me as it does to thee, nestypass? no se?

All jewish boys have chess move metaphors.
(a phor is for containing,
bearing
meta,
everybody knows, like metaphysics,
after physics in the stack of stackable metadata)

OHMYGOD THE IDW circa 2018 -- who knew I ate this **** up?

[the old code calls for excretion of digested material
from which meaning has been extracted in the idleword accounting processor:
literal
<pre>what if utterance=****, then **** haps, no else then</pre>]

Did that happen? One of my friends told me that happened in Florida, the whole world turned to ****... for lack of a nail a kingdom was lost, they say, little foxes spoil the grapes,
hung chad ex
cuses...

Pre-expandable ROM, not magic. tech,

pre-infinite imagination? impossible.
and nothing is what is impossible with good as god.

Is there no perfect game?
is the game the session or the life of the user
offline

rerererererererererereroxotoxin, poison pen
ideal viral umph exspelliered
up against the wall

reset. We

kunoon albania omerta oy vey, who could say?
one way better, one way not? quark.
up or down, with variable spins, who can say?

Life's right,
yes. but mo'ons of other something must have been for higgs to ever matter

and it does, I got commas, from 2018.

Are you with me? This is that book I told you I had access…

You or some mind other than mine owned mind, where
my owned peace rests in truth,

otherwise, I know every any or else in the code since I can recall,
in time

if this were a test I swore to take to prove to you
the we can be me in your head

phillipkdicktated clue

if you don't know me by now, maybe we should stop.

Temptations are times. Time things. Time spans, yeah, like bridges

or portals, right
The Internet in One Day, Fred Pryor Resources,
Wu'wuchim 1995.

Ever, not everish or everistic or every, but ever
body knows,
but you.

Catch up. We left all our doors blown off, once we learned that we could blow our own doors off,

there are no open sesames or slips of leth or sibylets

shiba yah you knew all along there was a
song she sang all one and we watched it morph
before our very eyes

alone.

The magic stories words may contain, may bear, we must agree

more than we may know, by faith, metagnostic as we see

the sublime gift of the magi
become clear und

be und sein sind both trueture same tu you, we agree.
But. Lock here, no pre 2018 editing codes

validate past last go.

I don’t know what I’m reading.

I stare and stare and stare at the book given to me by my professor but can’t bring myself to open it, because I don’t know what I’m reading. It’s not in a foreign language that I’m having a hard time translating, because ironically, that would be far too easy. It’s in my native language, the words registering to my brain like breathing, but I still don’t know what I’m reading.

What are these authors saying, as they twist and weave their words into a world that everyone around me seems to understand? I can see the surface level of what the author is trying to say, and if I try hard enough I know I can scratch at it to see the layer right underneath, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

“Don’t give excuses,” my professor says, and I know it comes across as an excuse as I try to explain that I can’t tell anyone what the underlying meaning of this scene means, or the symbolism it’s supposed to represent, since it goes flying over my head like a bird narrowly avoiding collision.

“You need to participate,” my professor says, and I know I need to try but how can I when everything that takes ages for me to think of is said within the first five minutes of class discussion? What takes me an hour takes my classmates a minute; what takes time for me to raise my hand for takes my classmates to the next topic, my contribution long past relevant.

How do I survive college this way? How do I get by when writing is what I’m good at, but I can’t understand the writing of other authors and poets who put just as much work into their stories as I do? I am a fraud; the looks of confusion and shame I receive when I state my major to the world are well-deserved.

“Could you share with the class?” my professor asks before we are dismissed, the eyes of my classmates tearing into my soul as I try to bring the words to my lips that I know will never come. What could I say to everyone that expects an intelligent conversation from a college senior?

“I’m sorry professor,” I say. “I can’t.” And I sag under the weight of disappointment.

It’s not my fault, after all. I don’t know what I’m reading.

Once one crosses the forbidden line on the wrong side of sixty.
Not to venture further into the next arithmetical digit.
There begins the journey to another world, even where the angels fear to tread.
All on a sudden one comes under uncountable whammies.

A jinxed land you stray into, full of a craggy jagged reef.
Razor sharp rocks you feel at every step and bleed.
Another shell shock  I devalued you are as a condemned jalopy.
Looks of all you love, speak a strange lingo: you get a creep.

It is anything but the old warm vibes of those years golden.,
Rather an overdose of pity and compassion over-laid with mushy emotion.
A good enough gesture to an infirm or a ******* or one in dotage.
A man past his prime and relevance like a mast broken of a boat sunken.

Written off the priority roster, stowed in a corner,
Dusted, sprayed and showcased as a piece of curio rare.
mothballed with care in medicine on rationed air.
Lest unseen germs of umpteen infections catch them unaware.

An appendage fit to be dumped in old age home.
A social cure-all, as they say, concerned so unwillingly,
A haven as safe as God’s Elysium for progenitors.
To be lionized as the epitome of pride and wisdom.

So adored they are but shunned cannily by every social connection.
A persona-non-grata in all spheres save for gratuitous complimentary doles.
Being in the jinxed circle of seventy is the sin only committed.
A few blessed ones manage to wiggle into the favoured positions.

A few ministerial ballasts, a lottery coup, or a few sine cure slots, a safety net of power & pelf.
The rest for a wallow in the morass of delusive expectations.
Oodles of stale dry sympathy, deceptive tears and bogus bonhomie.
Old raw sores get abraised-the world turns deaf.
……….
It’s a poetry by late Mr S M Ghosh, my late father
An educationist, history teacher and retired principal of  Central Schools,  in India.

To grow old is not to grow wise, but to grow wise one must grow old.

Today, I am falling.
I don’t know where I am going to land
Or how I started falling in the first place
But I can feel my heart smashing against the ground
Can feel rocks landing on my lungs
I think it was a landslide.
A storm of the false assumptions my brain makes
Forcing me off of my mountainous high
Some people say seasonal depression happens in the winter
I think mine occurs during the hotter times
When things stay still and dry
But that one rainstorm can cause an entire mountain to slide
Hands no longer moving on my school papers
No longer babbling to teachers who see me as one of the hundreds of faces
What do you do when you're only memorable cause of your tragic backstory?
How do I become something more than a tale of depression?
How do I stop falling?

Today, I realized that I can never seem to stop my fall
Try and grab on to the cliff or the rocks
But they all slide with me.
We fall down together
Fading under heaps of mud that ***** our visions of life
Becoming nothing more than another lost fossil.
Bones under so much pressure we become fuel for successful people.
Why can’t I be the successful person?

Today, I wondered if there’s even a point in trying to stop the fall
Every mountain I conquer collapses anyways.
Becomes heaps of rocks and rubble for colonists to make skyscrapers on
My methods of success are outdated
For even the biggest mountains have been conquered before
I am nothing more than an unidentifiable face
That will be lost to the world shortly after her demise
Only remembered for her tragic backstory and a too short life.
They say in your senior year you should feel on top of the world
But I have yet to climb to that overhyped sensation

Instead, I am falling.