Modern capitalist society, in order to culturally and structurally reproduce itself, to mantain its formative status quo, must forever be expanding, growing and innovating, increasing production and consumption as well as options and opportunities for connection -in short it must always be dynamically accelerating.  This systematic tendency toward escalation changes how people are situated in the world, the ways in which human beings relate to the world. Dynamization in this sense means a fundamental transformation of our relationship to time and space, to other people, to the objects around us, and ultimately to ourselves, to our body and our mental dispositions.
This is the point at which acceleration becomes a problem. An aimless, endless compulsion toward escalation ultimately leads to problematic, even dysfunctional or pathological relationships to the world on the part of both subjects and society as a whole. This dysfunction can be observed in the three great crises of the present day: the enviromental crisis, the crisis of democracy, and the psychological crisis (as manifested, for example in ever-growing rates of burnout).

Hartmut Rosa, from Resonance A sociology of our relationship to the world

Confused conjucture breeds many different lies

It becomes the screaming banshee of our time, wicked as one can see through our rose colored glasses

It is like a pocketwatch that has been wound up too tight, the springs have sprung on the inside

Demented through the years, they become uncertain with time itself, grey and cloudy

Pressed against the center stage,  a voice rang ill-fated truths to all ears, but no one was listening

Pushed out of the seat of demise, we stare back at the crimes, allowing a dismal approach to our self conscience

It is to say four be six in a different view only to sit below the compass of the operators

We can imagine many things forfeiting who we are, bleeding rituals of cultural disbelief, we turn around and see

So be the right or wrong, it becomes a sense of our moral code, when do we pick it up and put in our pocket though

Everything is  conscious
and a moment lasts forever .
☆
The sky is painted on
cardboard ,
stretched out by the hand
of God ,
while sawdust covered ground
moves on wheels to the Mouth of Infinity .
☆
I can't remember my lines ,
but speak them anyway ,
A manuscript that has written itself .
☆
Love , loneliness , ambition , pain ,
an **** of fireworks
on a dreamer's dark night .
☆
While overhead , machinery
of the celestial stage begins
to shift .

Time: with its relentless grasp tightening around me, like the
unyielding force of gravity — anchors me in place. I aspire to
embrace aging with grace. I sense the encroachment of greys;
those emerging silver strands blend into the horizon of new days.

Isn’t life so strange; contradiction: we know of it like a friend, even
while it can turn adversarial until the end. Shifting seamlessly
between ally and adversary, these moments of joy and sorrow;
exalting in its beauty even as it envelops us in its enigmatic embrace?

So profound in depth and meaning, a symphony of paradoxes
harmonizing into the melody of our journey. I only aspire to embrace
aging with grace, oh what a shame — we move forward, embracing
the uncertainty with grace, as time continues its ceaseless march.
A steadfast friend from the break of day, an adversary until the sun
sets.

In that golden hour
when memories fall
like photographs from
some upturned valise ,
☆
Covered in esoteric symbols
like the record of some
bizarre travelogue through
magic , time and space .
☆
Faces shimmer in the
cool night air .
Those ghostly lanterns
then disappear in a
mist ,
☆
While forty-two saints read their lives .
The Knave , a Sleeping Princess
and the King of Hearts ,
all gone now and
dust stops their mouths .
☆
But in another century
blazing with the fire of
a thousand suns ,
then giants walked the earth
and made all time their own .
☆
Though now , as I sit here
in this solitary room
marked by time's passage
and the romance of decay ,
☆
They seem to live still ,
more vibrant and bejewelled
than the phantoms of daylight
and their prisons of the mind .
☆
In dreams they speak to me
in foreign tongues
and in curious manner , like angels
they confound my understanding .
☆
In daytime they leave messages
and strange symbols ,
in numbers and
words that are not there .
☆
The Moon is shining bright .
Their voices sing in the wind .
Everything is just a story
and all of it is real .

Spurts and starts,
by now,
any reader either understands
the method, the offering up
of a day
in search
of any good

I could do,
from now here,
in your time, after 2024,
from my time,  after 1948,
accumulatively accounting
for unredeemed time ever
since… acknowledging idle words
as well, redeeming each
in good time.

Not many things I learned
to take inclusion pride from
can be called good reasons
with historical witnessing
for all
to see the likeness,
statues of men,
in bronze,
or limestone, or Portland cement,
all attest,
to this day,
to honor due

the American Fighting Man, nowadays,
they call all enlistees,
our War Fighters.

War and Victory are impressed,
on days set apart
for communal,
acknowledgement, that our God,

THE GOD OF CHRISTMAS
and Easter,
but children, when I was one,
did not link the two, the declared Peace,

was won,
by us
for God, who then froze war.
And had Nixon send  the smog to China,

so then, the soot that evolved black moths,

slowly continued
to spiral
into the heights, slipping
through the ozone hole
over Australia,

trickle down soot
may haps, came
upon me,
after Easter,
and the acceptance
of restored worth,
to all on Earth,
to be recollectible, yes,
legion spirits are testable and many say

no doubt, the keeper
of the bread
of life,
He is the Christmas Jesus, and
He is the Easter Jesus, and
Wisdom,
in Logos form,
is the spirit in Truth, which God is.
In formation, in the form Gods are

all at once and everything. like

the idea allowing reality
to balance,
on point
yet, spin on, ever actually accelerating,
now that our augmented intelligence,

allows insight past the root
of excuses used since I was a child
to make me a
true believer
in American
Exceptionalism as
the we who trust in God,
and proved it
to the whole world,
by k*lling all who refuse
to say,

Jesus is Lord,
just like that, in English. no accent,
Shibboleths only worked for accents.

Rucky Blake,
password lucky break,
so solly Siri me, innocents
be mused multi purpose users
Blessed was silliness a while ago

Free time to wax poetic.

Songs of Innocense, and
Experience, as a white child, visiting,
1961 New Orleans, at age of 13.

I hated Jew Haters and ****.
I loved Scientific Fantacy and Superstion,
I had survived a seven year mirror break,
I then survived disillusionment, with adults.

Bacon on Friday, unless promptly confessed,
my four girl cousins informed we, was worthy
of hell, on the balances of blind justice, wielding
the sword the laws use for Jesus sake, because

Jesus is the Open Heart God in the picture,
right over the television set, obviously,
in that condition, he is not making war, so

the priests teach us to follow the cross,
and some say, take up our own cross,
… and I really paid none of that none
of my nevermind, until

one faithful Friday, in the Summer of '61,
on the brink of Nuclear War, against
all the ungodly ****** sympathizers
and negritudenal inferior heathen folk.

Boom, baby, boom
boom boom boom… see the mushroom

signal look out now… here we are again,

it's the end of the world as we knew it,
the pain is diagnosed as disillusionment,

ment means its in your head, all in your mind,
the dread of sudden end of life, in your time,
cut short by a certain foretold act of GOD,

at the time,
I was more concerned for my uncle,
who had been so tempted by bacon,

that I asked
for when asked what I wished
to have
for breakfast, was bacon and eggs, no grits.

Yep, but…

If  you were researching the summer of 1961,
in search
of things remembered
in the news,
The Brave AI, straight up lied, it told me
In July 1961, a tense standoff occurred at Checkpoint Charlie

But I was alive that same summer,
August 13, that year was Barbed Wire Sunday.
I can see a guy hung on that wire, to this day…

and doubted that true, and told my guiding AI

Factchek yo'se'f Ai ahs sayin',
come let us reason together,
serve me truth and nada mas…
indeed Ai admits, instantly, July
Check Point Charlie was later, which
is why the image of that guy links scaryshit/
that happened October 22, 1961…
in 2024, I need
to shake it off,

detailed recollection attention paid,
prior to final precepts dementia debts…

while in my own cybernetic mining operation, thinking
linking old lies used
to educate me, morally and ethically,

the Roman sense and the Greek, as
to duty we owe Jesus,
or Mary, in Louisiana, which did not phase me
at 13,
I had no clue why cherries
being rare was a joke… but bacon
on Friday,
could seal your fate more than doubting Mary's state.

And due
to my being the wisher
for bacon,
who got my wish,
on a Friday, I was as dammed as could be,
according
to my cousin planning
on warrior sainthood, girls,
could, too, she insisted, go **** godless communists,

like Custer killed Cochise.

Time
such a fleeting thing,
slipping through fingers,
gone in a moment.
Or it tickles, slowly,
minutes dragging like hours,
a never-ending wait.

Time
how I wish for it to fly,
or still,
depending on the mood,
the moment,
it’s ever changing,
never the same.

Time
always stubborn.
Today, I willed it to fly,
but instead, it stilled—
made me aware of my rush within.
Because time is wise,
and always its own.