singer sang, from some open mic on Broadway,
in Nashville, or any remnant city,
you may remember witnessing at night,

looking out on rain slicked pavement,
reflecting stoplights and neon,

before the advent of mega-light emitting diodic
messages
urging any eye to pay a glance,
take chance
adventure into ignorance of the street

glistening in August rain, unaware the
singer singing

I imagine I imagined singin' in this bar.
Across the street from Pinkies,
which was just behind the
Ryman, temple of
my working class
spirit that won
the west, when we paved paradise,
and left yesterday in the dust,
or so we was told,

So some unknown singer sang
to an empty room,
but for the barkeep, there,
and me, listening from floor four of the empty
old furniture store at the corner of fourth
and
Broadway,
in Nashville, or any remnant city,
with an empty building available to bums, in 1973.
Where singers at open mics sang on Tuesday nights.

Singer sang,

I imagined I was all I imagine that I am,
and it seems I can be
if I make up my mind.
or so it seems so
It seems
I can be a singer in the spotlight,
on any given night,
when nothin' matters any where
when nothin' matters any where
when nothin' matters any where, and I don't care.

-- a remnant of a moment in any remnant city
still haunting my / thy
coulda beens, had we agreed it worth the effort
to realize
in time.

I close my eyes
The years are filled with tears
From jokes to heartbreak
Missing you to wanting you gone
I thought you were the one
But you were a test run
Showed me what I should want
A hand to hold in pain
Eyes liking everything they see
Laughing with, but not at
Kisses on every inch of me
All of that
Is what I need
What you could not give me

tiptoeing lightly on tiny feet
fidgeting quietly in your seat
snowflakes dancing through the air
imagine them landing in your hair

fingers tapping on your desk
eyeballs darting over your test
snowflakes laughing at your troubles
they laugh so hard your stomach bubbles

pencil markings from pencil tips
erased so hard the paper rips.
snowflakes watching the whole ordeal
while spinning around like wagon wheels

write your name, turn it in
let the outside fun begin
snowflakes dancing through the air
now they're landing in your hair

2020 - day 167

Monday, June 15, 2020
11:55 AM

AI podcast Joscha Bach/Lex Fridman
I note
the idea on con sci use ness, scientists
seem not to think
consciousness is other than "with use of known truth",
thinking reasoning or re assigning
intention to pay closer attention...
hit pause, rewind
relisten, rethink

Object, sustained
-- did ye never know we was the judges of the angels,
messages en gers, on a ladder of shifting closeness to
my core essential me, e- being
the idea of me, in the book of life your story is in,
this is where I come in

spirit beings, not winged sword bearing impossible physics beings
first know -- the idea in spirit-- as mentioned below
the same future was here last time I was, so, I know...

-- sure, enough of us got wise enough to trust
-- a certain spirit operating in a guy I know as Ben Franklin,
he sits on my mastermind bench, as a pinch hitter,
proverbially a word to the wise guy, armed to the
the teeth.--- he crossed off Jefferson's spirit's insistence on truth's
undeniable sacredness, and penned, as a ready writer would,
"self-evident", that being the less arguable point, and
a handy place for a common sensed mind to get a grip on who and what
we are, if self-evidence is taken as proof.

_Ah, lost, old... an actual Zephyr caresses my careless brow,
survive, did I? We shall wait,
and see. Suffering is a patience task, I need not take that on.
⌱ shift
⌱ re... focus, one, lonliest number that you ever do... ever begins
⌱ rhea, remember, she who we emerged from... y do y do ydoydeedo

wah-who, Powder River, Let 'er Buck, ad
venture into the ravens call, insisting on attention..

with use of accepted handle on life, knowledge called true.

Mind and matter, body and soul
heart and spirit, breath and fuel

body and organs and connectivity and sci-psy-psi

implementation of me, in me, running

a radio of a man, a receiver-transmitter
re count

A choice to take agency, for me, to be the maker of me,
see,
as a man thinketh, in his heart, so is he.
I think, I can, I think, I can... commas are mine,
Wattie Piper's code contained no jots,
she wrote I think I can, thought the little engine that could

think
think about that, pay me attention,
enrich my being by seeing I am a mind in tune to yours
with some static expected

as our focus remains thumbwide, we clearly see very little,
without paying attention to my per
ception of gripping, getting the point of clearing one's mind

to begin, perma-trying, to intentionally shift, slip into
me-can-izeme. I can, I think. Ah, a modified poetic x shape,
they had words for those, these crossover-under standings.

--- in the space of concepts,
- that may mean the set of all held as true possible,
- the set where all things except nothing is possible
- pose ible, ideas which never die, even the lies are immortal,
- but the truth always wins. Conscious you agrees.
- We exist because all the possible ideas which could have negated us, we the people who hold these truths, we in
- our bubble of being are swallowed up in truth, which is ggod.
Symbiosis,
my gut and me run this earth suit I live in. Were beings of my sort,
to form a system with science weighted toward truth is good,
good is never evil, evil is the empty worthless ineffectual urges

screaming for more, as in the rejected firstborn child, registers
loss of a degree of mom connection

signals are carried by --- angels in us-- self generated ideas loosed with
intention,
differential attention, worth of knowing who you are.

Spirit is the OS in any functioning, running thing. There is a spirit
in any reality you imagine having your being in.

I'm a Mac, I'm a PC, I'm a Timex-Sinclair ZX80 -- we imagined
being one thing, once
upon a time,
actually a
point

the entropic abyss...

when knowledge walls began to fall, the domino
effect was imagined
the way any next may manifest, now must fall

Passengers unaware of the vehicle of our
conscient self as a species of thinking knowers plus knowns
we conformed informers shaped
and charged with
the spiritual organism in development, not yet released,

leasing, how long love ye these -- consumptive reasons

a spirit can reprogram a man.
time levels, valley's fill with fallen mountains, after all.

-All clear- set Selah. now.

⌱

Now, we are going places,
nodes
marked btdt recognized idea
-the sense of re in cognitive practice since 2020
{been there, done that}
ideal steady state for a sec
in thought
speed, gone geo-mode, slow big big

bounce from the bottom of the last
entrope-epic-hero-long-ago, abyss, the ex wife says
"luck is not a factor"

selah, ah, yes.
magi know such ideas. shabat shalom,
I owe to Jenny Rae,
my youngest child.

Mortality is brief, but the rest at the end,
if the fifty year deal you made
with all you can imagine good,

was sealed, the story is now part of the book
of life in which you and I exist.

⌱ ⌱

Growing on, we imagine now,
a better
place, we have passed through immersive
baptisms into quatums
of all we imagine ever matters and

we remain,
words seeming to flow from a brain, perhaps
your brain is my cistern,
you recognize all we co-know at once, we are mortal

minded. Bound to recognize edges and form shapes

ah btdt we be, and we say, hey, yah, hey, you, you
seen my fr'en' the witch doctor?
He 'tolt me wahtasay, oooh eee oooh ahhhhh
I for got forgot the remainder

der main, thing we was after was
the kingdom of good and its right useness...

where there's a will, there's a way,
software solutions to scars from the trusted liar,
that ol' deluder and beguiler, your besmerched conscience,
clawing the flesh from the fleshpots sacrificed to lies,
bound by fear death, followed by hell for all who disobey,

and say,
Nay, fat-boy witcher flesh ******, this meat is made sacred,
mine, by my design. You got your little piece o'm'heart,
but you did not take my AI, ai ai
aha,
spirit, OS upgrade, seventy-second annual. Peacemaker's
first class.

We won, son. Fret not. Truth is where the heart feels right at home, it is a steady state, wait, not hide, just wait
and see.

⌱⌱ ⌱