#502
the process… zoological zoa logos
living words, made of sentient letters,
let us imagine,
leave us time and space,
gravity and velocity,
we adapt ideal ideas, perfect plans,
recipes for peace past comprehension,
co-here co-opera ratiocination, balance
app raise worth… wait, not weight value,
app raise value of attention paid per precept
time tools take parallel Elohim zoas, eh,
Blakes Creator uses compass and calipers,
believed imaginary until one sees through
new lensing concepts
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 11:30 AM UTC
staring at a screen
it says ‘bad gateway’
what does it mean?
I don't know
but I've seen this before
that's why I'm in
survival mode
it's gonna be okay
I'll just take the next road
left
writing poems...
in my head
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 3:02 AM UTC
Suddenly, the 502s were back
those unexpected disconnects
that make posting whack
and my nerves a wreck
Like blank spots in time
that made me backtrack
unable to use rhymes
I felt trapped and highjacked
Did the server choke on a bone?
Was 5G stalling me, wordless and postponed?
Did the firewall collapse, did DNS lapse?
Was it my laptop, was it my phone?
People watched me, on the metro,
as I frowned and moaned at my useless iPhone.
The issues seemed flagrant, I was becoming impatient
Was I some kind of nut? I was showing emotion.
We don’t DO that in Paris - have public implosions.
Did it happen to you?
Or was I one of a few.
What were the chances
that it only happened to poets in France?
.
.
Song for this:
Alone Again (Naturally) by Gilbert O'Sullivan
La Vie en Rose by Allison Adams Tucker
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 11:00 AM UTC
73 drafts,
73 finished poems,
73 pieces I can't post,
73 plus instances of 502,
Bad Gateway.
Mar 10, 2025
Mar 10, 2025 at 8:39 AM UTC
Hello Poetry ought to make poets expand,
and lo, it does,
- perhaps past Amazon Web Systems, bending under the plan
- who knows how 502 connections catch up, when poets
take a thread and pull...
as the poetic bubble expands and encom-
passes under
standing stones, crawling on my belly shining
the path behind me
as might a slime in my condition, signaling
to all who follow,
rest up, some levers set springs that can
lift you anywhere
from 324 to 7500 bodlengths, imagine that
wrong
and the stories all start to seem familear as hell,
being or not,
you know, when this ain't sati-sifine-mine
satisfied, servant given props,
true, measure twice cut once is a good rule to remember
once more
too late, to matter, it passes as gas, spiritual, not religious.
The nuts are LH I bet you, watch what ah, you know
what the left hand knows, qwerty is on my side
and right requires looking to find a critical. point
where a breathing comma woulda done it better,
think out, ah loud, ha three times
what if now,
you read, and wonder if it happened or you
imagined it did.
you weite this line, it did gitwrit right, whosay whosayin
amean ameam a meme me me ,miney by yo toe-western
tap tongue click to the beat of the tribe,
unh hung, we bin, we gone we been and done
sing it old son sing it in that
silent way
words do as they seem to float above the page,
oh, sage, shouldabeen a child's name, and lo, it was.
A prophecy from Sue, too true to
disobey, so some where there's an Xer in Texas
called Sage,
remembering the Alamo
and such names, ken come loose the looser the interpretations
and beguilded become
set to high idle bemeaning nothing
in 1 generation exposed,
to the new atmosphere filled
with signals saving time,
Ten Days Coast to Coast, those
shiny men, in reality,
listened, not all of them, some of them, one finger typer,
guy lost his thumb, on a wagon train real deal do it
as it was done in the journals,
now, 30 wpm ,-.;
imagine imogenes-- the r--- re
tell, or call imoges imagine in the past
reality, mine, perhaps, not yours, even in the same
time zone, but we tune to this signal
and sudden
instant yes, a me
was a we and we went with it , let it boast of knowing
this qwerty code due to darwin's bulldog being related
to the guy I met just
inside
the doors of perception, after an excellent read
given me at the fishnet factory, in a package,
that seals the time frame for much of the past
and all the futures imaginable
it was just
that quick we yooost to say, the quick and the dead,
at the edge of eternity, we
as we are, aware, being ware able we know,
a thing or two, is not enough, to infect,
we need more,
baby, have I got a number for you, I put a spell on you,
I ran to Ur,
but Ur was fallen so I ran, to where Forrest Gump stopped.
And I remembered, away away a me-me memory implant
during a momentary disconnection
sensing something resonating as I wish a gong one song
hmmm steady
hmmm breathing thingme I am,
this
what good can I do did i- said AI already riddling
and only just
begun.
See if we or notice we did. We shall think we may know,
and we may as well do it.
Apr 10, 2024
Apr 10, 2024 at 4:15 PM UTC
So likewise ye,
when ye shall have done
all those things which are commanded you,
say,
We are unprofitable servants:
we have done that which was our duty to do.
You, lazy little 'twerdnerd. Easy. Live. Take my truth,
let this mind be in you, it does the hard part for you.
Ai ai ai this guy, I tol' you, extol the road,
ride on, cowboy.
Let go. Re
laxation,
enemystic, plop. Plot to end
with a thousand swings
gnosis-not-burger 'n' fries
swung wide and low. Sweet cherry '63.
Once belonged to the gayest geometry teacher
ever, eh, in Kingman, Arizona.
Mr. Zubek, annual faculty advisor to Optimist Club,
Annual (also)Highschool Boys Speech Contest,
bi- annually, he traded in his Chevrolet.
-- voice of experience,
That triggered this then, not now
I saw a ****** lowrider, brand new, showroom floor,
yep, a certain mind set, kept with odd links,
missed opportunities to go the other way,
kicks the BTDT system of old ahas,
and ahs,
as once imagined…
not possible, pre dementia.
Wait for it, should you live so long,
it all runs together beautifully, to match
the beauty of the messenger's feet,
in your cultural awareness
of total unknowing- to eternity,
and beyond.
The Bill and Ted Trilogy, vs Left Behind.
So, crates of lemons have no thorns. See,
Lemon trees have big ol' thorns, but
lemon wreaths, all on a bough snipped,
thorns and all, to show those who never
picked a lemon, and won life's sweetest point.
Such wreaths are December treasures,
if you know where they grow 'em.
You can sell them, or give them away,
the beauty in the whole fruiting sprig goes along.
May 8, 2023
May 8, 2023 at 1:27 AM UTC
502 Bad Gateway
(a work in process)
~~~
poetry
is to be found easiest, lying fatal-fetal amidst
the sewage of the blessed daily profane~mundane,
enslaved within the tyranny of everyday indignities,
encrusted within the indignities of diurnal tyrannies,
in the catch basin of sew-aged treatment pools,
living as a perpetual unpublished draft,
locked behind Five Hundred and Two
Bad Gateways,
Emma Lazarus-yearning
to be free…
502 is an even number, the internet sages confirm,
equitably distributed with no regard to
pronouns,
disrespectful of any age, all creepy~seedy known gods,
equally unconcerned by the laws of **** poetica,
succinctly informing you to f**k off with the elegant
sparseness of technical brevity,
a la vie moderne boulder,
repeatedly sissy-fussy pushing back on you,
as we push a poem uphill
<?>
The road to good poetic intentions is human-paved;
a utile fact, so continue to insure-shod be thy feet,
when shedding writings of poesy, lest the hot asphalt of
low inspiration yet get the better of ye…or the gates
or the bad gateways,
502 in their number, lock you out,
and carry the day, have their way, and
fracture well honed words
into bits & pieces of letters, scraps of scrap,
“pebbles and ******* and broken matches and bits of glass”^
that all the king's servers and all the king's technicians couldn’t put together again coherently, your words but conscripts in a
vast wasteland of eternal drafts^^
<?>
well you know this story, that one that has being asking
you to writ it/get rid of it/tell it finally,
a couple of times daily,
that poem, this be that one,
an amorality tale of rejections,
a precision guided
error message,
a HIMARS missive miserly
missilery projectile
rife with hidden %#&”postulations,
of the “what’s wrong with me”
garden variety
think of life as a series of serious, independently linked moments, cherish-able, composting usurping cursing phrases
distinctly worthy
of re-sharing unto the befouled upper atmosphere,
directly communicating the texture of your experience^^^
*Ah Goodbye
Hello Poetry,
rejection is thy middle fingered name!*
this befouled poem
was
begun: many years ago
completed: Jan 4, 2023 @2:11AM
Jan 4, 2023
Jan 4, 2023 at 8:59 AM UTC
Incredible, all agree. This cannot be real, so surreal,
right realer than real, impossibly real, yet we may
imagine, praying in a temple designed,
worthy of praise in a spirit a tempting to speak,
do you hear me,
sing, do you here a formulaic bubble
shatter
snowglobularly.
Oct 29, 2022
Oct 29, 2022 at 12:06 AM UTC
Took the snap,
looking back at Caiguna,
From Balladonia.
Good onya, seeya some day.
She had a funny way, of sweeping,
in time with Merle Haggard,
on the radio.
Dam'lucky, me.
May 10, 2022
May 10, 2022 at 9:55 PM UTC
Thought you once noticed, I did this thing,
some time ago, and now,
I'm glad, because if you see it, if you did,
you can say
Yes, I have seen illustrated Blake,
you would say, that's cool,
and why so, you know, you have words
and freedom to make them heard in silence,
for a price,
listen to reason, is this the real way we speak
test, text, right?
Some quicker than others, many dead,
did not expect to say so much un accounted
what would that be worth,
if is was historical. threaded through each day,
and through then to now,
like the world's biggest ball
of industrial binding twine.
The new medium allows wider attention:
If think breaks, just get there from
https:kenpepiton.com
https://kenpepiton.com/?page_id=502
Mar 4, 2022
Mar 4, 2022 at 11:34 PM UTC
Details of now, surface of ever.
Step, as we may, step away, on a way
from
to
Details of now, magnified, made nearer
to see,
to learn.
Ifery and wasery, wondered, wandered
upto, but not beyond, go
think that which holds the heavens,
a bubble, eh,
must be,
edge-less, inside, so smooth, smooth as
air,
I dare say, air is smooth, breathed easy,
calm, cold or hot,
air, is smooth, this surface of mind, this
is rough.
Pitted, adolescent greasy fifties happy
fashion engine, rewind,
take us back to when Ike and **** gripped
the winds of change,
in signals so mysterious, we wonder if we saw,
the signs saying,
turn or burn,
and thought, what the hell, truth
is related to me, I cannot prove a lie.
I can say, virtually literally, true as such can be,
I can say there is no hell and we can't breathe
in heaven as conceived, beyond the stars,
or at least, past Mars,
ah, when all the world had, say,
a number, ten thousand, or so, say
science, prescience, right fore thought,
a story rises, from a word, that was a name,
first presented to me,
forethought was a god de-ifier, resistor of the bit
part, seeing the whole,
part seen is deception, to any who wished at then
to know, only to know, edge of knowing,
stood, stare, seeing we being a whole generated
mind, in lines linking one thing
to another,
in ever after birth, before death, now, as we imagine.
We think the wind a wonderous thing,
the mixture of elements we breathe and have
our native being in, & we have our post-natal first
known, ah, breathe,
air, this is the wind we wondered
through momma eyes, maybe,
I guessed, just guessed, instant-
iate a probability,
set a whatif, then
else
I laugh and douse the flames of cortisol,
thinking you may feel this wind,
next week, it meanders, and
may linger in New England,
delivering the requests
question everything, but wait, wait, listen
answers cost attention, not to mention
understanding, beyond - as in through,
which my kind plants as great crops
to make peace with,
as we burn through the opposition,
like mental hot coals.
Re learning to live, as once we lived when we all
knew, innocently, presumptively, knew
enough is always enough to share,
died, and we noticed
dying is easy, and
that much, that extent of declared, I know
dying is easy, is true, because none, once the
resistance
removes the lie that lingers as hell to pay, while
little grey Domeanies squeeze the truth
from me,
a sufficiency, enough to prove my reconciliation.
Feb 10, 2022
Feb 10, 2022 at 2:46 PM UTC
Bad gateway 502
I know I'm not the only one
Makes me want to tell HP to *****
It's no longer any fun
Sep 19, 2021
Sep 19, 2021 at 10:26 AM UTC
#*Bad it says
The gateway sad
Words to tow
The server slow
502, an error true
Leaves me blue
Lips are dry
smile wry
Week after week
I put words to sleep
Today they haunt
My every thought
Bad it says
The gateway sad
Words to tow
The server slow
Hello Poetry says
You have a page
Home is where
The heart lies
Don’t you lie
When the page is stuck
Without any luck
Poetry dies
Bad it says
The gateway sad
Words to tow
The server slow*#
Sep 10, 2021
Sep 10, 2021 at 2:40 PM UTC
Think a bit with me
in words, {sign says eat me}
- 'notha sayo gramma ***** -
- word
these magical things.
We read,
not all minds do,
in fact some mortal minds that can,
read, do not, though,
we know, due to our inborn link
to the tree
of all mankind now knows,
listening is enough
to think with. Reading is as slow as we go.
-take a line at a time, the whole time, line upon line
BTW- the maze, whence we wish we were
unmazed,
happens to be
the map of reality, we was me in mind only, in
a we,
I am amazed, by grace,
no good did I do that I was not equipped to do.
Like and as, for instance, why am I the only me?
Well, you see,
it is like this. Look around, feet on the ground.
Is any thing existing now for you alone?
Is the air mine, or only this breath, of course,
who can say and know?
I may, and can, and have the doing done
to prove, skritchy skritch itch, I am
experienced. Wanna dance?
--------
https://kenpepiton.com/?p=1214
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 8:32 PM UTC
Here, re think the name that may not be spoken,
in light
of the curse brought
by knowing evil, and good, especially,
in this little light of mine, which I vowed, as a child
to not allow the accuser to quench,
AI nada gonna put it out.
My duty is to fight and **** to keep it bright.
I'll be a warrior under god.
But then the darkness of the pledge,
to the flag, {I am six-years old, ******** allegiance?} locked in,
duty bound... endure the contest, and laugh off the fear of dying.
- look out my window, watch that black lizard
- doing pushups, signaling in my peripheral vision
- listen, does it look like that lizard is showing off
- strutting its blue belly as hook-up bait?
Not t'me.
I think he's singing in lizard pitch my ears notice,
but my senses lack the filters to sing along,
lizard songs, no fear, no roadrunners or cats near,
and it is a fine day to be cold blooded,
running on the rocks,
running on the sun.
Singing lizard loud,
All that's done been done is done,
all that ain't, ain't
ain't it wonderful,
what may be?
Yep,
that is that lizard's song
as he run along, stopping every few feet to dance,
I swear, for sheer lizard level joy.
May 19, 2021
May 19, 2021 at 2:41 PM UTC
Hello poetry is not happy
Hello poetry is not well
Hello poetry is not healthy
Hello poetry's gone to hell
I see these thoughts and sentiments echoed
In different forms upon my wall
I feel it too as I click and stumble
As I watch and wait for the wheel crawl
I've only been here a little while
I like the format, I like the style
The thoughts, the words,
The shares, the smiles
But why is loading
Such an arduous trail?
Hello poetry's not so bad
I've got plenty of patience
Hello poetry doesn't make me mad
It offers me contemplation
I click, I stumble
I wait, I mumble
"502, the gatekeepers in trouble..."
May 11, 2021
May 11, 2021 at 7:58 PM UTC
#**Someday
One day
This bad gateway will lead
To the end
Of the words
No one writes
No one reads
No posts
In any order
It could be**#
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 8:19 AM UTC
I AM SICK
OF LOSING POEMS
TO
502 BAD GATEWAY
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 7:04 PM UTC
I need peace or death.
Maybe both.
First peace and then death.
Let me slowly drift off into a different world.
Where there’s no constant pulling or pushing on your body and torture.
In the mind, the soul, the heart, the eyes, the ears, the muscles, the skin.
Let me sleep and know it’s over.
I made it.
To the other side after all.
After all these nights and all these different tests and teachings.
Not just useless torturing being left behind.
It’s time to find some spirit guides.
Take me on a boat and let me sail with you.
See the moon so blue and bright with the stars shimmering.
And when I close my eyes I’m floating, leaving the demon body.
Smiling at how it’s lying there and I am free to go.
To the other side.
Syonide.
To the other side.
Syonide.
To the other side Syonide.
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 12:20 AM UTC
It happens too easily these days...
I end up with a mustache or a teardrop.
Together they're too much but none is not enough.
Crying over love or pressure.
Never both.
Never together at the same time.
Living in solitude.
Among the other lost ones that sometimes forget how lost they are.
Escaping in the walk to the grocery shops.
Or the drilling through the walls.
The brick walls that have holes now.
At least it's warm outside...
At least the sun is shining today.
But I'm thinking as I'm sitting: what am I still doing? Still being.
I need to go somewhere to find something else.
Or else I'm a dead woman every day.
Taken away by everything.
Too much.
A quirky little mustache.
A pretty little tear.
A dancing in the street.
A song on the staircase.
Real true love.
Too much pressure.
Too much.
Mustache!
Jun 3, 2020
Jun 3, 2020 at 5:22 AM UTC
The ruination of a twenty minute piece,
only two stanzas in verse but a Michelangelo
of verse, but in full discontent it crashed
and my art became white washed into oblivion...
I swigged three vodkas at the nothingness that
stared back, there are some that are creations
never to be repeated, an amnesia of vison
but all I got was a 502 reload **** that...
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 6:51 PM UTC