#anointed
Ginsburg threw me a line…
"on the black waters of Lethe", as I floated by.
A ware, launched in antiquity as tonal code,
lazily waiting the call,
dum did dum dum dum, drum drum drum
Big bass,
tickled in tune to the whistler washing dishes,
in the back, we've all seen
in the back, on TV
but are you,
really, for all reality is worth,
are you experienced, have you gone this far
before?
Have you changed a diaper on a rich old lady?
Seems like, right, one word to another,
line upon line, precepts perceptively retained.
Precious little is as it was.
Pre is a time-wise measure, how can we think
past thoughts,
we never cross the same river twice.
No question demands an answer in truth,
demands are put on servants, while we
are known as friends,
to all those floating on the Lethe,
well below the leavee, see, there those
same ol' good ol' boys discerning whiskey from rye.
They see time's a river, and I agree,
says this story to me, but
I say, it is a river of light on a bubble's inner edge,
I been there, Age of Lethe, a game I invented,
-- a virus, plays by lethargic rules, no effort needed,
living to steal and **** and destroy,
a minimalist First Person Shooter, steal **** destroy,
then it was hacked, steal **** destroy, mutated into
take **** destroy give,
which was odd, because all truth comes in three
pointy things, if then else
oops opposites spoo ffffffff effect
****** drama writ large, it was us,
the muses, dis-mazing the mazed again
a loss of time,
too bad. Three points equal one try. Aim.
So sad. Grieve for the fallen all we never knew,
the heroes unsung.
Goto the ant, thou sluggard living in a floating Barco
Lounger, drifting aimless--- ah, what if not,
what if I know a place,
just around the next bend, and
we get off there? What then, it's my story?
Dec 24, 2020
Dec 24, 2020 at 4:46 PM UTC
2020 - day 193
Sunday, July 12, 2020
8:03 AM
Peer Gynt, self aware, self fulfilled troll-like
being ghostly,
projected before me, on the wall that is not there
- callin' all in, all ye outs, in free
- hear ye, hear ye
- the day of judging is this one called today.
See that pile of idle words, find the ones y'know,
use'm t'make sense
since you know sense, on sight, you re
co-gnostically be tuned to the same
signal. {soft call to be true to your self aware
you are so naked
but who knows?
right being you, not me,
selfless lost in the mix,
billions of bits being bet on yet
more
hope, faith and love
these
the trying trinity judging me...
can one tell one story, or must one,
take part in one,
as in the
one story being
the whole of all stories,
yours, as well as mine,
told in words we all know you all know
y'know waddamean.
tell me wha'd I say? Baby, be old,
turn and turn and turn
night to day, in time after time after
ever
ever
ever
being floods reality with
those three triers used to try men's souls,
attention, to the trained, means one thing,
stand up straight, eyes front, hup, now
to the beat march,
as to war...
We are off to meet the Manicheans who
swallowed all the hate once given
follower of Nicolas, in Antioch,
given hatred taken from the revelation,
interpreted by the time
stage acting as now,
the day... back when a hundred monkeys
were imagined able to use
a machine that made sense from chaos, over time.
ሴ
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
bada bump bada bump badabumpbump bumpbumpbump
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
ding
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
bada bump bada bump badabumpbump bumpbumpbump
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
ding
the dance of graphical images mages form
as words flow from fingers into magical machines
imagined
famously by a Huxley fellow, convinced life happens
on its own volition
using right, as opposed to non working trials
abandoned,
{when the band broke up, 1970, or so}
but the music never died
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
bada bump bada bump badabumpbump bumpbumpbump
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
ding ding ding
writers of types of tales barred from publication,
suddenly appear
as it were from the type of word processors {Wangers}
that one Huxley envisioned responding
to a hundred monks who saw nor heard nor spoke evil
but
tapped, and at each tap a letter formed
to let a sound be heard
no levers stick, no carrying platens signal need to
advance
ding
tic, steadying sounds calling next from a habit
formed to the beat
tic tic tic
squeeks
as common, common conie-like rock squirrels
squeek squeek over the steady everthere sixty cycle
hummm
hear it, little dog, not too far away; adding music
to your day, which
grew from this seed, a little spore of living from
my state of being
informed
this day,
it was mine,
when first I noticed, this being the day.
I have power to live,
today,
I slept through the night, quite comforted, indeed.
Each new day
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
has a rythmn
sometimes it's steady, some itssteps stutter, some say
sibalent whistles signal something, in the spirit,
sssssss
wait, too late, we made the story and let it fly.
ሴ ሴ
Lessoning myself in social graces,
I wash away my stains, my graffiti screams whispering
see me, see me, see me say
trolls exist in this place. Those who mocked knowing thyself,
and called evil good and good evil,
call fair foul and fould fair,
say sould souls were stolen, when we know the deal:
the price agreed was paid.
I insist enough
insisting for any rational troll,
knowing you are enough is enough, is part and parcel to
the act of being true to you as you
may say you wish you were,
free as truth in ever after...
- ain't nobody got no papers on me....
The sybils all told you , furies may come, but did you imagine
the wise principle thing promised riches beyond rubies,
for what a ruby is worth,
we have no clue.
What's a ruby worth to you?
Are you hungry? Here, eat a ruby.
Auto, self, did, done, act act, ionic become charged, my son.
Mama. ah. the old wounds we cherish.
Times before now, states of decay, shedding of skins to be
wise
as a serpent, like, that's a good thing, as good as
harmless
as a dove, on which poets rise in mind's eyes to see
sources of courses through the shallows near the shore
we all meander nearer now, swamped in ante
cipitation, capere, take it
take it, take it and move on. Live and learn,
follow the flow,
when you are snow, when you are precursor of coal,
go
on, no shortage of power,
like in America, where the power is always on.
Or was always on, in my future,
which is already
your past.
So fast,
but
its all realted,
it is all one idea, in the end, we each are given one last day,
to make up for everything, or make up everything.
The latter, I think,
today.
ሴ ሴ
ሴ
You men ideas, furious in your raging, sing to us of
Gracious slaves of justice,
wake the lost hope of truth in
misformed
messengers whose every efforts fall mortally short.
Leaven a lessoning of habits formed being as a binding,
tied to each part of any whole
re-li-gated, ifthenelse ifthenelse ifthen else
re-legate, make a rule,
you
too
late,
we was e-pluriblized afor you was
aware eveh had begun,
The Pax of Everest living radiant as ever was imagined.
Peace
on earth, good will to the kind having hearing ears and
seeing eyes and slich oily minds,
anointed minded ones,
tested,
proven to have survived up
pop this very mortal moment called today,
to then, when you became dear reader in this medium
of mass messaging
lacking
any organized haeceity of pure me, not thee, not
other wise
ways wise men walk, watch, watch the liars strut,
do wise men walk this way?
Live and learn, we always say,
when given a day,
to think about it,
before dying and knowing, or not, if the point
is ever made, or was
already made before I started trying.
ሴ ሴ
ሴ ሴ .._. _ ._
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 1:49 PM UTC
I will dance like little fairy
spreading the love in poetic genre.
I swirl I twirl
and drift with pen,
with words that tickle senses.
When breeze is felt.
you’re touched by my fairy wings of love.
Your anointed to fly
inside your own dreams.
Do fly fly fly,
with sigh sigh sigh,
and feel high high high.
A new dawn is here
stand up tall to cheer,
inside a poetic song
that echoes with love
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 3:20 PM UTC