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Ken Pepiton Sep 13
Pose a point at precisely
here, a moment mentally
a true once,
any once, but really,
realized and reified, made

mere mind matter, rare
--- just a seed to consider

What once grasped never
once lets go?

When is a lure
benign, re-coknown safe,

lacking hook, line and sinker,
have you ever seen the banner
of the Company

the fabled red. white and blue,
thirteen red and white stripes,
with a rectangle of blue, right,

next to the pole,
where children gathered
when America was repenting,

for believing lies about Why Vietnam,

or for not once giving a dam', tinker
thinking once more… eh, one reader

makes the whole weform blossom


As a weform in an ag arrangement,
agriculturally aware of most ways
bits and pieces all fit reality before
lack of peace
ever was a problem, like,
no worries, mate, if this is hell,
well, it ain't for every sorta bloke.

But, kids who raised birds, even
city kids, who tried pigeon keeping,
such kids knew, life is hard to start,

from the egg on, life is hard,
but
yeah, but,

in truth, it's not cruel.

If there was Hell for stupidity,
that, used to be a make believe,
that justified much cruelty duty,
duty to say you know it must be,
so, or else, you know,

oh… original chata, missed,
on second look,
by recognition,

spark ignorance forgiveness,
go again, think harder, push
re al weform
Individuation,
self as not another,
self as one counter balanced,

upright bipedal five point body,
container of life support facility

the medium of thought and feeling,
the media holding learning generally,

the tree of knowledge, a good tree,
capable of holding wrong ideas without

means to balance whying upon without
some inner knack in tool using mankind
that makes us think more effectually,
toward one's own usefullness to life,

in truth, with no dissembling or disguised advantage to the authority
granted children's confidence, in stories

told with the intention of making believers, carry the message,
information, shaped to support
the colonial power allowing teaching
of new truths to children reared
to serve defeated authorized
institutions of proper order
among unequal mankinds.
--------------------

In the hall, on the wall,
a mass produced poster printed
using some serifed italic type face,

a font that leans right, forward,
onward reining the reader, forcing
eyes to discern line upon line, a poem,

purchased as a gift to my spirit, a thanks,
perhaps for leading any to read Frost,
proclaiming the different ends

arrived
acausally
at

unless,
in truth, the path less traveled by
always makes each traveler privy
to the way truth makes life take,

make believe we still pretend,
while we examine worth
of your attention paid

me, the finisher of my generic faith,
substitute comfort
with knowledge, we used

to tune to freedom in windform

the possession of which remains,
in right Christian excuses for the Cross,
taking knowledge fruits from sacred texts

long hidden, long forsaken, forgotten

forgivably, long sense, as general truth
ignorance becomes in madding crowds,

good thing all of Jesus prayers
got answered, ignorance
gits forgiven, ever' time.

------------------------

Few care who dares whom,
but wise persons past discerned,

as do birds or any energy users do,
discern seed from stone, sensing use
for each… seed
or each pebble, picked
as hard enough to polish,

diamond on diamond, gemstone wise. Yeh

said, how do gizzards work, me to we,

as we are a pair morphically resonating,

peace bubbles, bits
of wonder if made
what ifs we did and did not claim, we
rethinkt a thunk link,
we realized hens do have teeth,
eschewed rural riddle, riddles well,
to a chance, tasted what the cunningest
creature in Genisis saw as good to eat,

the first seer is a she, Wisdom, principle thing,
soother of the first ever ego manifesting being,
in perfect balanced still life reignited cognition,

as that which opens the eyes, to see,
Hosea, hidden deep in the Bible, see,
-people perish for lack of science used
conscientiously,
with knowing
twice… concarne mind y spiritus we
form information
from the edge

of next, thinking like birds,
with some seed needing gizzardry

to loose it's energy for egging activity.

Ag me on, as a spirit in a mindform,
pushing things along the winding minds
gut most yoghurt fed fibrous relaxative

gnoshit funny when it lets out, like
a gaseous weform from a slow belly.

Whew. We got this far, knowing for sure,
not only Cretans, but all men who misquote
Epimenides know, all men are liars,

who can keep from it with some effort.
There us a fun book series called Heritic Fishing, I took the bait.
Oh no! My laptop's broken!
Whatever can I do?
Thank goodness for my mobile;
At least I'll still reach you.
The laptop's in the hospital
at the shop where it was bought.
It could be gone a week before
it's right back where it ought.
I guess I'll have to manage,
I have always been a fighter
so out come all my pads and pens
- and faithful old typewriter.
Gutted when my 9 month old laptop just died the other day. Aren't things built to last anymore?
Megan Jun 4
I’m a homicidal poet,
who breathes coffee like oxygen,
haunts digital wastelands—
until my fingertips bleed pixels
and my pulse hums in binary.

I bury bodies in blank verse,
resurrect them with rhyme.
Sleep for a century.
Repeat.

But I swear—
I’m fine.
Aaron Beedle Apr 30
This fu@&!n app
I don't undertand.
I'm following instructions
as best as I can.

I tried five tutorials,
and searched it online.
Why does this time saving tool drain my time?
I feel like every piece of software I've used in the last 2 years has been disfunctional or just terrible ha.
(finaldraftREALtrashversion.txt)

open
letterdraft13: i wasn’t supposed to feel this much
// open file: confession.txt
// modified: too many times

i loved you [ ]
  and by loved i mean studied.
  and by studied i mean starved.
  and by starved i mean
  i said “i’m not hungry” with your name in my throat.

INSERT IMAGE:
  a girl in a bookstore touching the spines
  like maybe one of them will understand.

INSERT IMAGE:
  a girl standing in the moonlight,
  asking the low-flying planes if she’s forgivable.

EXPORT FEELING:
  named it something soft
  so no one would notice it burned.

he said “i don’t want to hurt you”
  which is what men say
  right before they hurt you
  with clean hands.

CTRL + ALT + DELETE
  but nothing closes—
  especially not the part
  that keeps writing poems in his grammar.

[SYSTEM ERROR: too many metaphors. Simplify?]

i called it love.  
he called it bad timing.

INSERT PASSWORD:
  seeme

ACCESS GRANTED.

NEW NOTE:
  i forgive you in lowercase.
  you don’t deserve the shift key.

open file: ruinmefinaldraft.txt  
last saved: 2:41am  
user: girl
whoknowsbetter  
status: still writing about him / (pathetic)  
attachment: none (maybe that’s the point)

INPUT: I’m fine  
OUTPUT: [you don't sound like it]

cpu temp: 100.4°F  
(she's burning again)

I bit my nails and tasted April.

biometrics: unstable  
heartbeat: typing...  
eyes: exit-wound wide, still scanning  
mouth: unsent, but spelling it with teeth  
spine: error 504  

/ BIOS update failed  
// scroll depth: dangerous  
// dopamine loop: infinite

poetry drafts: full  
dignity: low  
engagement: medium

attachments:
- crying.wav  
- voice04833.m4a (unsent)  
- screenshot
whiplash02.png  
- idontbelieveyou
draftfinalFINAL.txt

NEW GOOGLE DOC:  
  title: every version of me you didn’t love  
  sharing permissions: view only  
  editing access: revoked

collaborators:
- me (12am), me (3am), me pretending I don’t care  
- girlboss, gaslight, ghost  
- nobody asked, everyone noticed, Taylor Swift  

[CORRUPTED TEXT]  
  she said she was over it [DATA INCOMPLETE]  

attachment: none (unless you count the damage)

[404: identity not found]

everyone says i look good  
no one asks if i’m still here  
the scale goes down  
the poems get louder  
the body forgets how to stay

[repetition detected: again, again, again, again]

click to translate: desperation

plaintext:
  you’re not even that important  
  but i keep talking like you’re holy  
  what do you do with love  
  when no one wants to hold it?

click here to reveal what she meant (no one ever did)

>>> meanwhile: her stomach hurts for no reason again.

reminder: no one asked.

crash log: 3:14am, again

system flag:
  are you sure you want to feel this much?  
  [no] [too late]

[user breakdown detected]  
  INSERT MESSAGE: “i’m sorry for my part.”  
  STATUS: unacknowledged  
  TIMESTAMP: one year ago  
  attachment: olive_branch.png  

recovery mode engaged (no progress)

autosave: corrupted  
exported: only the parts that hurt

I googled "am I spiraling"  
and then took the quiz twice.

cloud access: denied  
  her incision itched—  
  but not as much as the silence.  
  the body healed.  
  the meaning didn’t.

when she stands up too fast and sees stars,  
she names them after him.

draft saved: yes  
sent: no  
read: no  
felt: yes  
ruined: absolutely

I’ve written forty-seven poems that almost said it right.

trash folder: full  
memory: still running  
love: running in background (not responding)

[DATA COLLISION]  
  she realized she never even asked for this  
  she just tried to make it mean something

CTRL + ALT + ME  
(force quit)  

> everything backed up  
> nothing backed down  
> terminal still open
Lawrence Hall Mar 26
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

A repost from March, 2018


                     Yes, Yes, But They Need Jobs in the Real World


                   “Forward Electronics, your victory’s achieved!
                    In all communication, progress is our creed!
                    Ignorance is darkness, technology is light!
                    Radio, our watchword; radio, our might!”

          -Komsomol youth singing in “For the Good of the Cause,”
           Solzhenitsyn, 1963


The plans for your construction are precise
The design and engineering are true
The foundations solid, the drains are laid
In mathematics pure, infallible

The offices are bright with light, well-aired
The flow of work geometrically set
The shops and stores convenient to the staff
In tactical practicalities placed

But do you wonder, at night, beneath your lamp -
Why are you building a concentration camp?
Anais Vionet Mar 12
Our burdens are lifted—it’s spring break, after all.

Though ocean breezes, surf sounds, the smell of sunblock,
fresh tans and bottomless margaritas at the beach can be healing,
we decided to vacation on campus and find joy in small, everyday things.

Yesterday, we went to the farmer’s market, where one coffee vendor was making real cappuccinos and another was baking fresh breakfast pizzas. The combination reminded me of the 'Antico Forno Roscioli' caffe, near Campo de' Fiori, in Rome.

Then we hit the gym pool, climbed a rock wall (slowly) and played racquetball (rather poorly). We tried a dance & fitness class too—I thought I was in shape but ugg, it was hard to keep up. Peter (my 27-year-old bf) practically collapsed, but maybe he was angling for mouth-2-mouth.

Straight brag: Peter and I are getting new laptops today—MacBook Air M4s—mine’s baby blue, his is silver. So today seems like Christmas.
I don’t know if you people have computers, or use the Internet, but if you do, you’ll get it. I don’t know exactly when it’ll arrive, of course, so I’m pacing our suite.

I’ve always loved tech. My brother started teaching me about computers when I was 10—you know—hard drives, logic boards, power supplies, all of it. I remember it taking about two days to set one up and move all of the data. Today all I’ll have to do is set the new computer next to the old one and click migrate.

You gotta doff your hat to the tech wizards that came up with that, but the hours spent doing it the old way were fun.
Something’s lost yet something's gained” - I think Joni Mitchell sang that.
.
.
Songs for this:
Am I the Same Girl? by Swing Out Sister
Mountain or a Molehill by Kris Berry
.
.
our cast: A reader once asked, “Who are these people?” (a solid question) So now I do a cast list:

Peter, (My bf), is a bearded, 27-year-old from the sage hills of Malibu, California. He’s 6’1, too thin, his jet-black hair is perpetually uncombed and his skin is pale from over exposure to fluorescent lighting. He earned his PhD in Applied Physics last year and now he works for CERN in Geneva. He’s smart, quiet, awkward and he can be too serious. I’m unreasonably cRaZy about this guy.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 02/27/25:
Doff = to tip your hat in salute or to take it off.
Read the newspaper,
Read a book.

Scrolling through these videos,
Gives my soul a headache.

I'm just gonna make some chicken n' noodle soup,
And use a paper, or as a modern stance, pauper cook book.
I don't know exactly what's different here, but I like it. It just seems different from the rest of my poems.
It all can’t be done
As many ways to do it
As there are things to be done
As many outcomes desired
As ones to desire it

How to decide
Which path to take?
How to know what to want?
When we murdered god
And failed to do better?

In its own image
The children of gods are born
They too will fail to build heaven
The dreams set out
By god itself

For there is nothing
In any place within or out
That can be created or made new
If not destroying or replacing
What came before
The time of great anxiety comes closer to its natural conclusion, day by day. Nature abhors a vacuum, and the chasm is preparing to close. What will be the new normal when the fervent dust of innovation reshapes the world in the image of the new gods.
Gh0ski3 Aug 2024
I can feel the peering glances from a world that watches in black and white
Still, I hold your hand, unwilling and defiant,
When I kiss you in hues their screens cannot colorize

How can I embrace you outside of these mindless walls?
Walls that have been breaking and burning since they were built, and yet refuse to let us pass or even slip through without the correct passcode

I hear stories of our recorded tragedies, under the name of progression without action...
Without promise

If you find the courage, hold my hand, and let me guide you across the silken web high up in the sky
Rope strung by an audience of unblinking eyes that follow and stare, waiting for the DROP!

But even with the attention of fleeting bystanders, I'll whisper to you, through our unknown reputations,
“Secrets aren’t meant for lovers”

My dear, do not look back, nor fall victim to the mobs that rage behind glass curtains
I’m here to help you wave your pride along the double spaced lines they had set for us,
To show them a place, unimaginable, in the streets outside of the dim lit closet that had consumed our being

Will you love me honestly?
Without keeping me incognito on the tabs of your laptop,
And make our history public for all of those who wish to watch in color

I pity the people who’ve switched their channels to grayscale
So that they may ignore the other pigments in the color wheel
But one day, they will learn to accept us before the roaring cloud
As your love in every combination of red, green, blue finds itself in the storage of my soul
This one is definitely one of my favorites, especially the last part
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