#ethic
Brown Brown brown
A majestic salute
Of this **** on bone
Into my mouth
Irreverent despise
This effigious moment
Of makes my surmise
Of this meat from this plate
Surety tu sate
It's Satan's will
In deep do I swill
Of all the kingdom's fawn
Fauna's adorn
Adorn ornate
From the midth of my plate
Into my bellies belie
Belittle my sweet tooth
From tooth suit sooth
The feel of my carnivorous desire
And it's encroach
To ****** from the animal kingdom
A bane or benign male
Or of femality
A skinned creature or scaled
Once skinned then scaled
To the nth of my teeth
From it's evolutionary course
To my 'mmms' whence eat
"I farm therefore I am"
My requite
My requiem
It's internment within my duodenum
If we as homosapien
We're a little lower
Of the evolutionary ladder
A little closer
To the whipchuk and adder
Perhaps this incongruity
Would seem of insurmount
That we would not take from the platter
Of that skitter skatter
Of paws and of hoof
Of feather and of scale
For it not our right
To interrupt the plight
Of species cultural agare
And of universal development
Of ******** disposition
And it's extant
Perhaps we'd be more likely
To drop a tear
Than a mensonge long of langue
A salivating spittle
Like the whistle and the sizzle
Of that press upon the plate
Of heated black iron
The steam and the vapour
Testament to the savour
To the saviour of the meal
As any connoisseur can tell you
Unless they alien to meat
The saviour of the meal
That muscular tender form
That reared from the twinkle
To the wink
The seed met it's drink
The phoetus
To the expressed
******** delight
This formling's fledgling plight
As it's eyes burn to new light
Of its heart and marrow and sinew
All fodder to our ensue
Of it's marriage to this world
Now married to our plate
Its existence to sate
Our sensory intuition
And if questioned
The lesser the tuition
Of salt and fat to the sate
Of blood and metal to the taste
Of bone and cartilage the waste
Unless hungry enough to chew
And **** it's marrow clean
And this meal
As if adieou
Of all memory
Of that beast's sense
Of this reality
And this brown brown brown
The king and capital of plate
And our position upon the evolutionary ladder
A little less seemingly madder
Of this culture of interrupting culture
For the satisfaction of our tongue
And of this insanity
Most seemingly insane
Shall affirm of our humane
As our cultural attest
To the other species detest
That the brown brown brown
Be a salute
From fork to mute
Of our common humanity
For whose going to stop us
The birds or the bees
And this brown brown brown
Be the flag of the humanity we wear
From infamy of mind
To the pork and the pear
Laid bare
Upon our shirt or lapel
Surely if we are to grapple
With ideas of genocide's justification
It's after picking the brown fibre
Of a pig's won't to pork
Upon your new shirt
With a clean silver fork
Or after dessert
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 1:56 AM UTC
Dependency. A cruel fate for a young millennial.
In this country, karma means nothing
Ethics are fiction, as I've found out.
Relying on the manipulative rich man.
He's different for everyone.
Where do you get your checks from?
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 12:49 AM UTC
Philippa Foot, a thinker wise,
Proposed a moral game:
A twist designed to make you rise,
And act to earn your name.
A train runs wild; it will collide,
With five doomed on the track.
You're standing - watching from the side,
No way to call them back.
But near your hand, a lever waits:
One pull will shift the rail.
You change the train’s relentless fate,
But is this choice a fail?
It now will strike a single man,
But leave the group alive.
Yet he was safe before your plan,
Now HE will not survive.
To save the five, you claimed his life,
Was that the better plan?
A noble act, or something rife?
A group against one man?
So ask yourself: are five worth more
Than sacrificing one?
Or would it haunt you at your core,
No matter what was done?
If you had simply walked away,
The five would surely fall.
Yet choosing death for him that day
Still leaves you bearing all.
The lesson is no verdict clear,
No answer cast in stone:
The trolley’s track runs ever near,
And leaves the choice your own.
Doing nothing is not right
But neither is intervening,
You're always the killer - and the knight,
And THAT is the only true meaning.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 3:35 PM UTC
Sohcahtoa and the Right Brothers, happens to be after the last thing
I thought before today, if that's okay, see if it changed anything.
(8/5/2024) - i test a test if I e-be living word religamented
Saturday, October 21, 2017
12:18 PM
My grandsons have noticed a book on my shelf dedicated, thirty years ago, to them.
To my children's children.
I sowed the seed I had,
hoping true as any adapted
to the whole truth dust-class person,
equipped with AI he wrote, on 3x5's,
Notes, and by words,
maxims and pro-verbs, motive forms for filing.
Aim at nothing,
and you cannot miss.
Peace, peace at last. praise - appraise,
what is the redemption value on idle hallelujahs?
Any thing the mind of adamkind, wombed or un,
can conceive, with early literacy and numeracy.
- early
the effort to learn one useful thing, each day.
In a universe… all verses versus one verse, re
versals of fortune,
storms and waves and earth quakes, but
when the sky falls, history reboots, no plan survives/
first contact.
-- all earthlings are born to die,
none are born to serve another as tools for stealing time,
I'm the blacksmith's jinn.
I was fasted free, and a seeker sent a zephyr, a gentle
westerly, lovely spiraling cloud, stretching a train of ice,
in a pattern no cloud ever formed at this scale, sky-wide,
crystalization, piezo electrically ultra itty bity wee tiny
qubit, thought spark, ping
in mind, each time one thing is realized. Where an evil dare was met.
First war is won, when the loser choses not to fight.
"Losers like you," he said, to me. I self-evaluated, and agreed, grinning, I think.
It will work I say to me. The seed has died, roots and branches live, fruit will not fail.
These boys can read, no chain can bind them, only lies.
Some stories I learned as a daydreaming child
are now cropping on the backroads of
My memory with Rhodes scholars
and Zimbabwe Mercs never gentle on my mind.
But you go on
thinking there's no spiritual side to lying,
and stealing and destroying, killing
Any sort of faith a child may have that truth can be told by someone old.
You go on.
I got snakes to stomp and I threw my hat over the fence a long time ago.
This very morning I found a break in a fence. I did not go back for my hat. That was forty years ago.
Some little thing makes man a measuring calculating thing, what is that? Exactly?
And now we have tools in our pockets that can record HD video and audio
a hundred times better than the best video or audio recorder on earth forty years ago,
If your ear can't hear the groove, smoother than any bit-ified digitization,
It's subtle, hard to put a finger on it, but digital music ain't Memorex and
Memorex never was live.
Memory is other wise,
Memory is live.
Note to self.
Hey, you, listening? Hearing any thing?
I woke up this morning and you were on my mind. What joy.
I walked a mile in my old shoes and got to see a herd of Honda two-wheelers
On Sunrise Highway.
Strange breed of men, they augment
themselves with shiny-candy-apple-metal-flaked armor, and
drive around in parades of thirty or
More old fat guys and their wives on Hondas,
wearing Harley Davidson belt buckles.
Off on a tangent opposite the adjacent highway,
A man 20 years my junior asks if I saw Icarus fall.
What?
He said did I see a kiter fall, a hang-glider apparently he had
Thought he'd seen fall in to my valley.
I thought "Icarus", I don't know why. Then I heard shooting.
Earphones on, J.M. Roberts, "History of Europe" louder than the wind,
Still
I heard shooting, where shooting seemed
Overkill.
Life on the border. 'Cause signs mean nothing.
But no. It's turkey season. And I am
Down range.
Sohcahtoa*, what the math! Man, they are shooting at me
Buckshot Bam!
And I slip in to that dream
I saw Icarus fall. The Right brothers shot him down
In a Sopwithme Camel flown by a Flying Tiger with
God for a co-pilot over Shangri-La.
No lie. A daydream on a tangent adjacent the opposite.
• BTW Learn something every day… gives one reason to carry on…
"SOHCAHTOA" is a helpful mnemonic
for remembering the definitions
of the trigonometric functions sine, cosine, and tangent i.e.,
sine equals opposite over hypotenuse,
cosine equals adjacent over hypotenuse,
and tangent equals opposite over adjacent. Check.
From <http://mathworld.wolfram.com/SOHCAHTOA.html>
Bottom line lies.
There is a god like the one in American politics.
Adamkind invented him, and Cain's kind invented
adamkind father wound anxiety disorder,
AFWAD, it is in the unabridged edition
Dia-gnostic Statistical Meme-infectual, effectuality
instant in prayer,
a state, in time, a point, really, whereafter more
is known.
Given auto-did-act-learned-know, chose next.
And this was my choice.
Make peace with that.
Based on an original idea.
An old man is called out from his hermitage.
- he pauses to consider,
- seeing Pleiades
- with the James Webb Telescope…
- And inviting Galileo to take a look.
- via SYTF morphic resonance,
- ping.
He calls all the outs to come in free.
He calls the idle words
to whip poets
into frenzy…
faster fasting, slow dancing, offering a time,
to hold a promise,
a known called an ever lasting truth,
"as above, so below."
Mandlebrotian micromanagement of sun
and wind and tides…
too many minds with no will free to make war.
Thus peace was made in my valley today.
Castes and classes,
common, characters… baser sorts,
untouchable's… serving our better natures
cooled some, since 2017, but in the book
of your life, subset in the big book of life,
on your pages, it says you read this at least
seven very productive years later, FYI,
incase idle word accounting asks for evidence.
Show them those pages while you are seeking
the next best thing to do with time spent here.
Aug 5, 2024
Aug 5, 2024 at 9:53 PM UTC
He graced me with my voice,
and with it I seek out questions.
I don’t claim the right answers,
neither lies or facts; just truth.
Defy the false, a rare gratitude
to be given your own note.
Forever playing it, truthfully;
a key true to its pitch.
Were it not for His will true,
where would we be today?
Dec 30, 2025
Dec 30, 2025 at 1:04 AM UTC