With linked loops across knowledge,
knowing locked in familiar settings,
holding any reader's attention,
as moments coincide,
you appear to think along as
the reader readied
through defined terms,
acknowledged truth may be projections,
backdrops, green-screened chroma keys,
filtered by ifery, pure thought, mind made
environs replat boundaries,
on multidimensional
sheered whatifications, which
start at the navel, call that the portal,
through which the egg becomes
this nexus of us, minds combined, linked
loops
across the collected knowns used to frame
this view from within these heads, hooked
at the eyes by long learned let us imagine we,
become a thread through ever, as far as we
know, we think, we say, we see, but so far, we
feel, or seem to imagine, we may imagine, we,
should we agree, mental handshake or nod wink,
to push through the veil, the imagined fifth measure,
between any now and any then,
when we seal such agreements, as warranted,
for future sanity sake, sane subjects object,
throw in the towel, never enter the fray,
but, now, we forge on, committed for the win,
our weform has ever been an entity of merest sort,
a whim, a tiny bit, fractally abstracted, thought
wise, weformed awe, right,
cothought, both minding thinking,
across mindspace,
timeless space occupied
by all the unfinished business
agreements shaken on,
begun along the way
to the edge of carnal war's finale,
ourside eliminates the other, listen, ticking,
the doomsday clock, in this crackpot realm of could be,
is set, and, for all we know today, may be counting down,
in which case, all we know now, is locked in value,
never to devalue, right or wrong, for all we know
now is the last time our we has to come to agreement,
peace, stretchers, tenter's hooks holding fabricated
locks on vast swaths of camouflaged rations, set apart,
sacred for the priests and intercessory ritual performers,
look, Spot, look,
run, Spot, run,
Inkspots, bubble up, from the times gone by,
as we hook up the old trio, shadow, echo and I,
we'll pull our reasons for being from a silk top-hat,
we'll spill the beans on Pythagorean spirit formed
norms wherewith we always circled the square,
as if we never had a clue what we were made to do,
maybe we sing, a horse clopping melody, slowing
down to turn back the clock to a novel time, long old
when we all cheered the Atom Bomb,
from a distance, and we believed Mr. Teller,
about light and human beings being both
material in vibration, and those vibrations, indeed.
Wisdom rated prophetic, unheard, silenced, let be
hindered, let be hidden as unendurable knowledge,
only after exact ritual performance, does truth speak,
breathe, commoner, breathe specialist, breathe boss,
leave be the wind in spirit form to comfort all afraid,
acknowledge luck, circumstantial evidence of grace,
as when the chain broke, and the ball rolled away,
and I was standing at the junction,
choosing a way from now on, how
all this was bound to happen eventually, as
you and I remain characters made from letters,
let be, for no particular reason, save
maybe to prevent fretting if the end is near,
a fine passtime, anti-fretting, if it is too late,
it was already and your role was either played,
or you were only simulated.
https://www.last.fm/music/The+Ink+Spots for the mood.
