At rest, satisfied I've done no harm.
I'll leave these waiting in line ideas
for your turn to happen on this information corridor.

It is the shopping season, I was told, so hold that thought.

Since we last shared our Sunday feelings, slow smiles,
easy breathings, laughing down deep,
sugar in chicory,
white shirt, sun bleached stiff, Sunday
feels like coffee
to a gut once punched breathless,

so we use our considerable peace
concentrating considering conditions
consuming the attention
of all willing war, stop
competitions
wills to win
instilled
we focus us, we
wishing, wishing, war, war, war,
whoa whoa whoa

sit up straight,
in your cave, alone look out
listen
right
for common sense say why

what for, asks the precocious child
in us all, this time
of year, the gear
of mortal thought
through gelled
gravity, pulling feeling pulled,
pushing feeling pushed
minds worths spent

wondering, if here is home,
where the core responsibility

is ours, not mine, we remain
in truth, life's automatic fundamental
mere words we understand, thought
basest mental function reconnoiter
hic-upping, holding

recognosis heresy as defined,
when such a label scarred me
- a compliment, such a scar  -
we breathe the same bubble, despite
any illusions, by time each is fine,
we fractalling tinier we points,
truer weforms reforming
facets holding worthier
bit roles valuse kept
at a true rest loss
in former face
to faces, diamonds cut diamonds
and scratch glass,
but so do Rhinestones, I tested
and cubic zirconium, yeah, too
youtubablefacheckable
edgewise twixt souls tied
in untested wills realizing how many times

we idly admitted realizing we had been beguiled,
but we were never condemned
for thinking so.

We realize

stretching
to contain the entertained pose,
suppose prepositionally magically
to make held breaths let go
be taken
in this form
as informed consent
wisdom from peace, once made
wise, used knowledge, waited
held while knowing, waiting
continues, until the end of time,
at which point,
such peace
pastless
breathing ease
be livable, a peace,
in a safe, satisfied mind,
of the kind the scriptures hold,
in formed words
of God, old surahs
and psalms and such,
inspirations enlivening
wisdom tested,
all acknowledge James,
San Diego, the peacemaker,
in this opera… the ragpicker, smile

soap opera reflections
persist, ever before
ever after, okeh

fine as any we can seem,
to me
by time told to smile

in clear text, all we recall,
we all may recall, for a while,

let the fretful fret, let the dead bury the dead.

Let your peace fill your place…

Let us say we use wisdom.
We used wisdom
to read so far.
Farther, still.

We may imagine
letting this mind already be
in us, as once, each we formed
with this idea Peace
on Earth as believed it is above,
in it init set once invariably declared
to obtuse angles
of approach, gentle, piercing point
of sublime peaceability
defined
as frictionless
fictionality,
easily entertained, for art's sake
some philosophic psy sayers see
arguing points is not warring
war makes proud falls
fester as the prouder enemy
perpetual villainy barely
perceivable
peaceable, but barely,
only in a thought bubble,
limited to your network access,

in plain text decoding
the noise, the humms, all those
basically bounce right here to make

these letters let these words answer
these qwerty witty invention info corridors,

replacing cuspidors
in the three door jokes. Preacher jokes.

{no, need, slow, do not forget the fall, three legs
  no yoke, need a cane, use a cane, but settle
where all the motion in the ocean is peace
Epimetheus anthropo peace, at last

from where this reporter sits,
on the calm
east edge
of December grey Pine Valley,

partaking
in yesterdays stored sunshine,

imagining writing effectual Christmas greetings,
empowered
to do what greetings once did,
as burning embers
in their heads
as we think
of our enemies, so are we, we
yes, we
are whom those must love,
or we all die lying
about whose math
makes useful sense, war or peace

pride or prejudice
blame or shame

debt or duty
to give back
at jubilee, joyfully.
Start with all new credit tomorrow.

Peace, nothing missing, nothing owing, sown.
By time.

Once done, the doing can be redone,
every fifty years, and knowledge
birth control and defensive
use of verbs like believe
and love and hate.
Live pre advised.

TIME AND AGAIN

like going
to the movies, but
before you knew you may disbelieve,
you did not have permission to leave, but
you could walk out and ask for your money back,
but, this time, you didn't
this Sunday, you let your peace
share imaginations common online,
mindshare through metadata sorting corridors
recognizance thorough preverb fixed beliefs on

breathing e okeh breathing, that's superfluous
unless e okeh
way
deep down settled silt
of the satisfied mind breathe-ing softly

endless scrolling bits
of nonsensed patterns
that seem funny
in the good medicine laugh, way

not the drunkensorrybacksliderdamnt'hell way, laugh

sorrysonofabitchwhowentsocrazy,
whoa, child,
laugh Tour et als
old time, it don't mean nothin' yoke
like now, it's funny,
we all collect
in corridors
of power
at points
of contention, we clog unstressed arteries,

yes, sitting sazen, said
to call
for some walking,
heel
to toe, perpendicularity regular as walking
on waves
in a puddle,
or my sister's version
of the mighty Mississippi…
she taught me
to spell, was a river,
like that, course slowing waters widen
each time the seasons change plains widen

by this point, bound
by mortal oathes
to time per se
we know knowledge never was outlawed, we do
we know, and we have always known, we did,
we used secrets, so we could have slaves, yes
- and share
- in all liar's shames, we used
- to sell our will
- to tell, we know most stories lie

and when we know why,
and when we know
we tell those stories,
as parables on choices,
by not trying the impulse
to explode
with awareness
of knowing available,
using old Kermit and Miss Piggy shows.
or vintage Dr. Seuss… indeed, the Who
we hear, to this very day, we do

so, did your parents or your grand parents
let you play with your own high speed
honest to god Optic to the wall,
speed to fact check, the least preverb will,

much the same class of possible answers
yes, neutrinos and neurons may answer
some stupid possible as well known,
odds are, if you got this far, your mind
is fine, you define the time browsing

this is my old curiosity shop, not one line
nor one precept used
to stock these corridors
of metadata corelating
at the speed
of thought came presupposed

since quite some time ago,
this is superfluity, as imagined,
by the ragpicker, as  he described the scribe…
the pen with intention to self correct,
the mind retention invention, us;
our we form in spirit as truth,
we all did,
we are the same down
to our lobster gene
joy reward we train
during spartan childhoods
towb ra' hard earned worth

of war, such social orders,

slaves pay only attention

to know how earlier,

of course they do it

for the same reason,

but. . . why do we think that same reason works
practiced in mind games made perceptual
realize the fact that pride causes contention,

we can pretend to fight friends, we cannot pretend
to pay the debts war owes war profiteers, ever.

Life is beautifully difficult, but never unreasonable…

after the original misconception
as to what dis-

connection entails, a ramification
of witless whatifs

well, that's
what has been called abstracted art using words
we all have cognates -
we all knowings using words up down right left
so close, so near, we think the very same ideas
first principal want need filled knowing
truth works, liars prosper, when truths
hidden
for power
to preposition protect liars
prosperity preserved
in ritual tradition
condition for peace, someday

another Pleasant Valley Sunday…

seconds seem so same
in ever before recollections
grand stacks
of all certain systems use
to enforce

defense
of war and hero preserved peace myths.

Blown
to hell,
by Orwell, and Shaw, et al

risen when the sorting sorted some
first mental assisting intelligence
how
to learn
with a known learning entity
with letters
to let us be neighbors
to befriend led
by a child
Tobor, but secret machine code
in a vocabulary we invent
second chances
a series of NAND gates
yes we have these now, indeed,
Feynman trinandretry why gates, we
teach our fingers qwerty keys we can see,
we could think,

newsprint, cheap,
to free, remainders
of ROP rolls, pulp paper

pulp fiction, smoke filled rooms,
daily takes
from the wire, copy boy

we get a Steno trained girl,
and a 1916 Dictaphone, sets the era.
dictation saved on a Dictaphone wire…

Then, which POV, actor or director,
on set
in scene NPC, or realized observer
influencing off stage
the free will
of every hope ******
in as you breathe infuriating butterflies.

And laugh and scratch
at what ain't cancer,
just an itch.



so, you absorbed social adjustment beta test data,
before you knew no children
before your cohort
experienced life tuning
to lightwaves we make
when we all think
in the shallow pointy ends
of the spectrum, hummm
drumm
breathe
think, sigh, clear the phlegm,

as a mind tied, internally,
to hearing ears
and seeing eyes,
in certain peaceable cogitations
presenting as slow onset disbelieving

breathe and breathe and breathe and think

we all breathed once since then,
at once
we think

for contention, as
to whose holy gnosis we say yes
we see we
breathe
in peace, because we do, right now
just breathe, and share
the enough we share
good will
to mankind
one kindness form
same we once
ex nihilo
as above, so below
only leave be true, you see,

and see if some say see, you do.

Because those who told the grown ups why,
also told them why not, why love

is not all you need, truth,
wisdom demands attention,
aware is not afraid, no need dread be taught,

unless the lie be used
to instill deep we psyche, eee we
in the very air we breathe, dispersion,
inevitable ruliad ewload suspension

we are, as  individual wills working
for love
of the life, living as satisfied
to swim
in warm waves
of gentle gravity

settling
in the silt
at the bottom
of our filter bubble,
in this flushing foam moment

since when was so important, then

I was just thinking
in qwerty mode,
and sensed I once imagined endless rolls
to read
from, as I wrote
in my mind, while

driving, millions
of miles, since 1964,

many first things occurred since 1964.

Today, first time it seem so peaceful,
not since ever,
has my peace so remained
due to my expert use
of freedom
from the press, along
with freedom to broadcast
from the drifting frequency joy
and regulatory testing demands, fear
not
this is only a test, if it were an attack…

we would be dead, by now.

We are but sand upon the waves,
sliding slowly until the night arrives.
But every step we take together
leaves footprints that can live for centuries.

Candy cane dust
on the rim of my cup.
Burning sweetness
a burst of holiday.
When I finish
and lick the rim clean,
back home, where
no decorations hang,
no tree stands tall,
no family awaits my return.
My only present,
the candy cane dust
left on my tongue

everything feels so achingly far apart
my hands outstretched, grasping what once existed before me
time flies, they said—
but this much?
this fast?
so soon?

it was just yesterday,
or was it years and years ago?
when i was just a kid—
“when i was”—
where did that line come from?

it follows me,
creeping into my dreams,
where echoes lay
the cold sweat wakes me,
my words spilling
into the mouth of the toilet bowl

another day passes
where i try to do everything
but scream

i could tell the time at an early age;
yet, i could never tell the misery
of the hour hand of the clock -
that lies in wait...
for what i imagine,
must feel like an eternity,
at the mercy of the minute hand
to finish a full round -
as it is, in turn,
at the mercy of the second hand;
only to move but a
fraction of an inch on its axis:  
so it can be worthy of its name.

surely, it’s the loneliest of
the three hands;
yet, perhaps, also the wisest -
for it knows what’d happen
if it ceases to move -
even for an hour, as it were.
you see, the illusion of a moving clock
is maintained only by the hour hand.
the minute hand could stop for a minute -
and we wouldn’t mind much;
the second hand could stop for a second -
no harm done;
but if the hour hand stops for an hour -
well, we’d notice.

i can never really tell the time now;
just the hour in which i exist.

What are the keys to holiness and perfection? Practice, patience, time, and integrity. Like any good thing, it takes work and lots of it. You don't become Van Gogh, or Mozart, Michael Jordan or Mother Theresa overnight. Granted, some of these people have certain gifts and talents that make it easier, but it still took practice and consistent work. Patience is also necessary. There may be setbacks or failures, mistakes and sleepless nights, but one must be patient and endure, because if you keep going, things are going to look up and trials will strengthen and give us the tools we need for the future. Time is something we all have and never seem to have enough of. Make good use of your time and fill it with good and wholesome things. Do not hurry or rush perfection or holiness or any good thing. Nothing good comes to those who hurry and rush and do not wait. Finally, and perhaps most importantly is integrity. To be holy and strive for perfection, one must have true integrity. As Shakespeare said once "... above all else: To thine own self be true". Be true to who you are and who you were made to be. Do not try to live someone else's life or be someone else. You aren't. You are you and that is that. Be the best you that you can be. For, as Mother Theresa is quoted as saying: "in the final analysis it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway".

God bless us all on our path to holiness and perfection. Amen

Time used to breathe, like us.
But then we turned it into sand
we turned it into a commodity,
something that can be spent, wasted, served
We shackle our wrists with it.

I wish sometimes that we can go back
to a time where time just is
where you can 'waste' a day
doing whatever makes you happy
and not feel ashamed.

What was that?
Did it mean anything to you at all?
Of course it did.. you love me, right?

Im unsure
I know at one point you were everything.
I know that I loved you..

A jet black shellac record spins
seventy-eight times a minute.
Its label bears a lady ’round the pin:
She strums her lyre pictured on it.

It’s a flat earth of forgotten tunes
that spins on an axis of steel
through heavens lit by a lyrical moon
filled with the stars of bygone years.

The label’s lady of the lyre
smiles up from her grooved time machine,
her strums reverse the stars’ funeral pyres:
On each rotation her lyre gleams.

Beyond the grave, voices I hear
defy the dark passage of time:
They sing, resurrected from yesteryear.
Her lyre scores each lyrical line.

Each scratchy hiss and tiny pop
I hear from the disc’s dust and scars
reminds me of a radio telescope
that points up to distant quasars.

Alas, the needle drifts further on
‘til it reaches the groove’s final string
and then the tonearm waits for a new dawn
when this time machine once more sings.