#dangling
I was young and naughty,
Like all other kids I was.
Of the school Matador,
The minibus,
I was a commuter.
Nirmal Public School,
Was all but a
Normal Public School.
For it was a strung off
From the highway
And was my first school.
In the Matador,
The last window was
Ajar.
It was already dangling,
My friend joked,
"You can't break it."
His comment,
Me it motivated,
I sought to prove I can.
I pushed it intentionally,
And the last nuts,
They became undone.
The window went thrashing down,
And the driver-conductor duo,
Me they punished.
It was overcast that afternoon,
And they made me crouch akin to a ****
It started raining down.
Then the math teacher came,
And she vouched for my innocence,
"It was already dangling."
The bus crew,
They argued,
"But it was still there."
I was young,
Just 7 years,
And cute too.
The bus crew,
They softened up,
And let me go.
Ma'am, do you now remember me?
You travelled by the same bus,
For you lived in the same campus.
The National Dairy Research Institute,
Its residential campus we both called home,
I miss those days when I was young.
Sep 22, 2024
Sep 22, 2024 at 8:54 PM UTC
My grand daddy taught me to start a rope,
with a Turk's head knot. This be that sort of rope.
-- it takes less time to use
than to make
long enough
for any actual perfect purpose.
Mimetic pretenders,
euphoric make believers,
ritual passage over or under open limen
- cross the t and dot the ego.
- seek and find the missing pages
- all the mysteries in time
- that form our fundamental
- common sense in crazy made time
Lacunae rise from forgotten reasons used
to teach guardians
of secrets reasons
for war, how
to love,
in all the ways love is made worth dying for.
Blut und Grund, das Sein,
und mein, danke Schön
-- time ghosts pass, remarking at the weather-
-fine day, suns ablaze, breeze is light,
bemusing the beguiled thinking
'tis fairy, times fairs became cities, and all agreed,
election by contest, war in the spirit, in truth
using mere words, no audio, no video,
no styling nor fancy letter forms, unicode
alone no secret scripts, only sound marks
accented acutenesses and all,
∞ *+
y nada mas, mere words, redeemed, for this.
one new day redeemed for glory story need.
Morning glory teas,
in tiny shell shape cups.
May all magnificence be truth's.
Kernels of truth,
seeds producing tomorrow's
criteria, substance of things hoped for,
picked out details
to see in myths, the accuser's uses,
mysterious roots in ancien' riparian realms.
Oreithyia and Pharmaceia, intercession
for the poor.
Early spring
bulbs and flowers
the maenads chaos wine,
effigy effigial me, burning
for your mis-perception
of procedural authority,
instant re-co-gnosis,
vestigial dreams
time minds
in tow, riding your own
recognition,
around the spiral, down,
you would tell me if you were insane
so would I, the ego, living aight,
this it, you read, that's all she wrote
∞ *+
∞ -> =
aha, you think,
may be so,
say so, or no, go and
find the connection closed,
and energy flowing in to the either real realm,
or the null set, like old never minds, you had
while the circuits were fried
at the fusebox
for pennies
used to save a dime, to keep the energy
flowing to the magi's visual representation
of all that's known to hold attention,
by reflex,
look out, see windsense, energy electricity,
elect to let your curiousity fix all your if-I'da
knowns
open for conjecture, to catch subjects
objectified from the precept wisdom is, whole,
as the whole truth, we understand, makes sense
nets form nodes of both knowing, as a me,
we, each grow old at the same pace,
we become that which is,
at first step, precept assuring the runner,
there is always a place to put your foot,
goat-sense, Ein Gedi balsam eating
'scaped goat,
running down the cliff,
at the edge of annual reboots,
reconnecting reality, and the balm
traded for silk in Giliad, and
entertaing news
of miracles in smoke…
and mirrors of mercury, and
-------- time, out of mind dangling hook
make believe, fishing
we pretend, making be specific
imaginary gravity and survival codes,
for a chosen few, catchholds, grapples
for those not inclined
to lean
on a lesson
that demands experience,
to contend, hold that thought, this ain't war.
- Khai Vinh, set like the roof
- Ai can find the images,
- the place was real
- those were my antennae
- crazy true, after the fact, signal
- now, how much of that was CIA?
proud Mary keep on boinin', 'long
Bayou Bleu,
down Plaquemine way, deep night
on roads made from tiny wet white shells
that something made, while living in it,
- one way trace, wide enough
- for an auto me mover
- tugging my at to here
as we live inside our head, as far as
our fingers reach
from where we stand,
our feeling fingers only reach so far, so good.
Held a thought
a while back,
it may have been a trick, but listen, if it was,
I'd have taken it, and won, for midsent-morphing
turning tropes for the dopes hoping something new.
In fancy forms of wannabets.
Peace on Earth, is real.
Baby,
the price is all the attention you can muster,
and then some, as time seems
to have
modes, like we have moods, hormonal
catch and release reflexes, you know, like…
what, what, who cares why, what must be first
priority, ah
what are we intending to pretend to be?
Wordwise,
entertained, fed to satiation, what more, prior
to the next wisea** asking me to believe, in hell.
I just came to fish.
I came after the curtain was torn, top to bottom,
nothing kept secret
for the artifactual value, remains
here. You know, free as any knowing, now.
There is no enemy that truth cannot love, once
you understand, the limits
of your learning curve, ai,
you accept, no lie is
of the truth, no wisdom form
is flawed, first glance,
glimpsed, real as war
glory, as valued a common lure
to the unshined …
initiate turn on … flip
the switch.
Imagine Grace.
Riches with no sorrow,
worth the effort, found
pure, then peaceable, gentle
right snap
fit, just right, no excuses, we got the mystery
imagined for us,
in the end, pain free,
in the collective consciousness some say is spirit
of our time, our Zeitgeist, doing what it does
close up, nothing spooky at a distance, eye
to eye, mere words with wishes twisted through
outs and ins and ups and downs, and
wells
deep as pressure allows,
right, I ought to sleep, but buzz…
O' no, I said too much… or did not say enough.
Slowly, Monday came.
Morning harbinger to sailors, says sit tight.
Find a fire
far from the threshold, and wait.
Talk with the locals
from the same boat, survivors,
boast of storms ridden out, and ones
that swallowed brothers
and some malicious captains. Good riddance,
some say, while others flick a libation
offering a drop of grog across time's stream.
Lift up your eyes, look down
from your satellites and see the future
coming on the weather channel, thanking
all the forces fixing droughts and flushing deltas,
with the first of winter's predictable trials.
-------------
Hunker down and listen, feel your self, you
deep down, your sacred feeling, especial self
red sky warning seen
before by wiser men, older
by experience, made
acknowledges your luck,
as a ware for use
by innocents, listen, take heed,
all things work together
for good,
for keeps
for those with hearing ears.
Listen to the wind, and thank the dry truth
for being.
just being used to
form fibers for twisting into ties
---- long lines for this ride pray patient perfecting
Rush to judge the blown away reason.
To whom is thanks given, and why, I
the desert dweller bound for Tarsus, stuck
at the edge of the raging sea.
The whole world shuddered at the blow,
the earthquake, peleg in the old tongue,
timeless
as the story eventually got writ, in a modded
Phonecian script, survivors were mostly kids,
resiliency of innocents,
one here,
one there, some whole neighborhoods,
where all the kids were in the swimming hole,
all around the shuddering islands on this world.
It was as we have imagined,
until the grownups crossed lost time,
using lost knowledge locked in idle words,
deem the day redeemed,
feel the emotion defined
gratitude for gratified if I'd known,
missed terminals, crosst wires,
connect to the sea of God's forgetfullness,
relink the collar think canals on rivers,
holding the course men set for cities,
dhghemed damdamd-dayamd indeed…
No river muses suffer such for ever
we all know enough to be accepting
oddities in timed chance trial understandings,
we all know wills to power, and notions
to jump into the ocean and go on down,
to the bottom mind tele far long now mind
space shared across time, like the snow,
when the tv went native,
in the olden days
my minds child watched the hush of creation,
let it happen, let it be, this is it, or we are lost,
and that
is un thinkable, try.
Try thinking you do not follow the whole idea,
life
is us, all of us in our most common sense,
this one, translation by Google Bard,
passed my Hausa native speaker friend's
blind Turing test,
that happened days ago, next, ah
SYTF
precept, reception tune to the humm,
listen, humm,
call the editor.
"very interesting." Rest assured,
after accessing the way made plain,
Habakkuk habit, make it plain,
make it make the motors turn minds
in to wills, and wills into power,
pure peace
prefects feel good flicked libation.
Perfect.
Print.
The entertainment, many minds
attention paying to the shared event,
today.
Today. EXTRA, read all about it,
death has no lasting sting.
Live to the end. Redeeming your time.
Swiftly passing to the beat of your own drum.
One step past the simple, love,
you find sublime, nothing down and *****
nothing missing,
nothing broken,
as one learns to think from the heart,
part of me that's thought in you, feels as
mere words some scribe imagined hearing
as he wrote,
line upon line, asangin' twangin'
a strangle hold, twisting hairs into a rope.
A riata, I think they call em.
Horsetail lariat, patiently plaited,
to make my own noose, when the time
comes to put the tool to use.
CLASSICAL LITERATURE QUOTES
Plato, Phaedrus 229 (trans. Fowler) (Greek philosopher C4th B.C.) :
"Phaidros (Phaedrus) :
I should like to know, Sokrates (Socrates),
whether the place is not somewhere here
at which Boreas (the North Wind) is said
to have carried off Oreithyia
from the banks of the Ilissos (Ilissus)? . . .
Sokrates :
Oreithyia was playing
with Pharmakeia (Pharmaceia), when a northern gust carried her
over the neighbouring rocks;
and this being the manner
of her death, she was said
to have been carried away by Boreas."
Morally ambiguous. Us, our we, we know not valid reasons
to do useless things, making
vain repetitions, vain making of many books,
all vanity, the making of many things from nothing.
Jan 8, 2024
Jan 8, 2024 at 7:58 PM UTC
a memory dangling; a heart wrenching,
thy body has a lot to offer though,
far beneath the widespread sea- thou breaking,
I do shall return; my head bowing low
Nov 2, 2020
Nov 2, 2020 at 4:29 AM UTC
I sit with my feet dangling into a circle
whose edge I rest on
as if it were a window sill.
From here the earth looks ancient.
It’s pull mothered by the curvature
of spacetime.
The spring blossoms curving
when they fall.
Our fate floating out there: intangible–
outside this circle where my toes abide
Our fate floating in us: tangible–
The place in which my torso resides
The debate seems fresh unlike the sagely soil. My limbs alive –life giving life– emerging like the pistil from a bellflower
unconcerned with philosophy.
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 4:07 PM UTC
you dangled the idea on a string in front of me
You took the advantage of holding it up too high
In certain situations I'm able to fly
but right now I feel as if I'm drowning
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC
I’m dangling.
I’ve been hanging
for so long
my arms don’t have
the strength
to carry on...
yet here I dangle.
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 12:54 AM UTC
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) – 34
BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem
My Divine birth and moral death, in-between this two puzzle,
My dear soul, is dangling, my dear soul is sovereign’
I naturally born, before my noble birth.,
And died instantly before my noble death.
My Birth naturally obtains divine mercy of my Creator!
And peaceful death is inevitable.
In between my noble Divine birth and moral death,
My dear soul, is dangling precariously.
My dear soul, heartily enjoy a unique way of dear life.
and to voluntarily undergo the confirmed death.
My divine birth and death cant be compared equally,
In between my gentle birth and moral death,
My dear soul, is dangling precariously.
In my divine birth my active life
Dearly want to perform optimally a several journey.
And it will merely rest with my moral death.
In my moral death, my dear soul
Willingly experience the solitary journey to hereafter,
And it will merely start on the rare day of moral judgement!
In between my divine birth and moral death
My dear soul, is dangling precariously.
Allah Khair….. Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem
Ummah Thurab – Badshah Khan.
©UT-BK 2019
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 3:32 AM UTC
There are moments where I am helpless.
Like my mind has separated from my body,
and I watch myself fall,
unable to help.
My body is dangling over a mountain,
and no matter how many times I try to grab my own hand,
my fingers simply slip through my own like a ghost.
I sit, cross-legged and aghast, as I watch
myself plummet from the highest mountain.
And at the bottom, I watch the circle of people
surrounding my dismembered body
slowly walk away without a care.
I stare at my annihilation until my mind
stands over the edge and
gracefully dives down to join my body.
-abc
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 9:39 AM UTC
The horns played softly,
But my hand dangled freely.
And the show went on.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
You can only be pushed so far,
cause there is only so much rope,
till you're caught
DANGLING.
But there is an escape,
with a razer,
a gun or a hand full or pills...
BUT ALL ARE MESSY!
-Been
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 11:19 PM UTC
LITTLE MOMENTS OF MY LIFE ILLEGIBLE LIKE SCRIBBLES ON PAPER.
THE CHILD WILL NOT STAY BETWEEN THE LINES ANYWAY.
DANGLING ORNAMENTS JUST REMEMBRANCE OF THOUGHTS PUSHED BACK.PUSHED BACK,
YET STILL HELD ON TO, WITH OR WITHOUT KNOWING
THE PAUSE, REWIND, AND FAST FORWARD HAVE BECOME THE NIRVANA FOR THE NEW MILLENNIUM.
CHEW THE FRUITS OF LABOR
AND PUSH IT INTO THE HOLE IN THE WALL.
CHEW THE FRUITS OF LABOR AND PUSH IT
IN THE HOLE IN OUR SOULS.
WHAT IS LEFT NOW SLOWLY WITHERS AWAY
AS DUST IN THE WIND,FLYING IN OUR FACE
TRYING TO BLIND US.
WE MUST BRUSH OF THE DIRT EVERYDAY
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
A long time ago
a wise man once said
never show all your cards.
Dear boy use your head.
If I can give you a tip
it's keep your audience guessing.
Don't let out all of your secrets
with the words your processing.
You may find it rewarding
when your stories arise
to put a twist in the tale
and create a surprise.
When they really expect
what they think happens next
take the pathway elsewhere
with a change to the text.
And when they wonder “What now”?
When they're feeling unsure,
like an Old Fisherman
you can cast out that lure.
Surely then they shall bite,
safely caught on your hook
and you can keep them all dangling
till they finish your book.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC