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Ken Pepiton Jul 10
Were your mind the soil from which words rise,

filled with meaning-ment-al
ready to write asif

you exist, dear reader, and know
people are some different from

Gaijins, gegenes, genetical offspring of Gaia,
I imagine, gollum mud men, goy-soulish sorts,

were, once thought,
asreal as death itself, by those in the know;


we never know ever, ever being as it is and

this being mortality,
the act of dying,

asif we were seeds, words whispered in darkness,

come and see. Buy of me gold,
without money,
without price.

Grace, take it for granted, and grow on.
Become that which the seed demanded you to be,

when autochthonic was re
cognized as some word Nunzio Corso knew, but you

never heard of him. -- How many poets have I never heard, who found solace in such a once dark word by adding self. Self-chthonic, almost spontaneous generation of more than existed before the word came to be known, and shared, just in case you never gave it any thought.

— The End —