#examined - Hello Poetry

An Opus, is this. Ai do declare, my works, my opera, taken in to my self aware, soft and gentle - tame the framing window - as the Mona Lisa in chalk, let it be So, old man, he says to me, quoteless in my mind; what do you think of the last linear affect, my wisht effectual request, quest for reason to will. May we? Taste, and see. Firsts are always free, there, sit and stare at a stump, … At the core, before first root, the door to out is locked up tight, living is hard. Imagine many hands making light function, easy shift from one sense to another, by the numbers. Seed time. Long time and short time long lingering memories, short sharp reminders, freedom, heard touted for all its worth, cost free. Live to realize you did believe, this is what we get, on earth, within bounds. -mindtimespace and maybe Aristotle's four causes. -there never was a hell those are church merch. Coknowing, as any reader by now must be, coded, we know freedom is not free, we lieve be, it had to be won, and as with any war, winning is never done, until we all choose, yes, or no, use our reasoning, learn to bolt the rye, - sift bran and endosperm life has many layers, many folds in a flakey crust set… listen, windy March time flooding prayers, asking the boss of all the weather, for wisdom to come on the folk who rebuilt on the new sand. Knowing, high and mighty. Storms mean less to a house built solid/ broken bricabrac and whatnots galore, shattered anvilt'dust, as in the wind, once used to sweep away, my married mind, unwound, or un raveled as may be the case, aitia, as accuser. opera operates deus ex machina Is he free, is his task his alone? May be, may not, who could say? Science with its native usefullness, knowing good and evil, as translated from the idea, pride. - Whence comes contention How much, how little, measured out so my part and yours, balance, against all our worth as ones among the many, duty service warring minds, stealing time let this be the palimpsest, recovered from radical actual chthonic stage between the rootedly other wise, simpleton sublime curios spirit, settling soul substance hope imagined image, form imagined in motion, in access the unacknowledged legislator, impotent in the wasteland populated by the poets past. Empty of spite and venom, distracted ****** the dread of failure, is past me now, I have become a defender of the faith used to form my bubble of being, thinnest of walls, translucent lattice seen closely enough to discern the marvelous vision, not to be lied about by one who never watched selecting portals accept the usefull and abhor the useless. -cellular ATP [pop] Freedom of the press, belongs to the man, wombed or un, Take the poet's high seriousness, this which brings a self forward -duty to try signaling-- here, here, exactly, as by standing acting out that light announcing danger, dare not come too close. Mime meme, mea culpa. {as we cross another's line} "compulsive excavation of the void inside" Irinia, HelloPoetry.com said that, - goodnight, as an exclamation - she said that right Peace, be still. And I, the old Weaver's fan, known as Happy, whishing wafting hot ai r, we there, as my soup cooler slips in a Disneyified whatifery pool where wandering minds wait recoknowning, groan growing, silliest little diamond miner of 'em all… so stupid, he's cute. And in that way, the hero being generated, on the pattern handed down, to be seen when you gaze in to your close kin's eye and see co-known, we were made for this, Klang, that Zildjian once again! Exclamation, thus marked, calls attention in the mind's contextual effectuality, becoming realized, instant by instant, at first glance, whose enemy am I, is the game, truly win or lose? End act one. Act two. In realized ever after that The Internet exists, and we were here, to help announce it, then we made decisions, to make this. -Opus Spiking hopes up, we are among the first billion mind text to text artforms to survive the transition to whenever next insight sets us right, functional, operational points, in reality, centers, of shapes. - of things in mindtimespace In this medium, this is my realm, your role, is yours to define, any time, think ahead, see if this goes there, what if it does. Read'm and weep. Then what do you do? Ever being after learning enough to come this deep when time arrives. Short time and long time, made some mutual sense, muse using me, and me, I wished for this, that's so, I asked to know the meaning of certain things. I third in to knowing grown, as a tiny we takes form of information in words rye, or reasonably surprising to confess, you know, McLuhan says yet, you know nothing of my work. Awry. Successfully making pasta with home-milled, bolted flour depends upon an appreciation of the interplay among grain selection, mill settings and bolting equipment. Failing to consider these factors increases the likelihood of making a weak dough and pasta that breaks when cut and/or cooked. Although one can mask the impact of a weak dough by choosing a more forgiving pasta shape (e.g., creating cavatelli instead of making tagliolini or tagliatelle), knowing the interaction of grain, mill and sieve will help you to create the pasta you envision. Google it. Certainty is madness, has been resaid in many ways, all the same, nothing changes until the bubble of all we call awesome, pops. AND Boom, it's Art for art's own sake, and me, for my own, as we two witness, here, this has already happened this once, upon, operating the game, shame is left in your -wherever, compost it, tell the world. I made nothing of myself. I made something else, and then I made U, my qwerty symbolic friendly stat set, bound near-letter to peeling layers from this particular pearl, today- in the post Everybody Knows, Cohen sacred making idea in other words sacrificial artifice, offering unto that super positioned we, humanity has set aside, holy holy hoho ** green giant, ma jones, whole earth Stewart Brand, right worthy former breather, with us to this day, in word, and you know, wheres words take us, a we spirtitually untied, we these days, depend to the nth degree, on real estates in mindtimespace, literaturely. Ben mentioned, awesome, I did not catch the reference, I see, I said a third I line pattern stylized me. I see, I said for the nth dime degree Phryigian Liberty Lady.{PLL} appearing on the silver dimes entangled in the web, of what Bacon knew or did not know, when he invested with Madoff. I know. He did not write the sonnets. Marking timestretched most point. Here. right passing the point. We imagine everything, am I right? Line upon line, messaging any thing reader ready, right now, this is not the act, no novel form of a sliver of if, this is not that. this is vid licet, per missions taken for granted, as meaning clearly I believe I have the right to say reflectively I know a whole other story, new to you, but not to many readers you were, in previous experiences in poetry, and books for lievers being brought online in due time. Ever after that. You may, pause, and imagine roses. Act three Realized mentally At the end, it is mental ascent, we do form, in conformity to the commonest of codes, Berners Lee's Hyper-code, as manifested in hopes, of artists, so called by all who knew them, the framing crews at Aaron Brother's Art Mart Penny-Frame Sales events for staff, same kind of crew glue, as seen any where, apron clad, badged, same grinning, that's me, I did that, too. Grind, locked in midnight restocking Walmart, yep, #26, Van Buren, Arkansas. Target on… Cuyamaca, Santee, San Diego New Trolley End, right, future planned in action.., I got black dirt cred back to Moses, m'friend, I am as full blood American as may be by imagining I am a Union man, distant scion of a soldier who had a son prior to dying, around 1781. In the war for freedom of the press, yes, Ben, my childhood proverb provider, reminds us all, owning the use of money is better than owning money. Freedom of the press, belongs to the man, wombed or un, the awesome asexual after all we know, who who followt Jeffy, and yet did not die in shame, I mean after all, we know, we think, why any might be so tempted to throw in a sorted *** scene to envoke audience reaction by invoking spelchekian mastermind. Freedom of the press, belonging to the man, wombed or un, who has access to HelloPoetry, past all the 502s. Free, if you will. No yoke. Seat of y'panting/ Ai aiai This ain't showbiz. It is one act enacting another. A writing being ready and read, at once, later. SO, I bet the Diamond Farm. Friendly local game, envision a vision of your own, drawn from what you know is good, for food. Good idea, fishing for everything. Got one, governing meat eaters, keep your gun, pay a meat tax, by buying a deer tag, which you may use or put in to a deer harvesting pool. That pool then gets used to pay hunters and packers. Living forests allow humane behaviour. Be having the right to use the proteins, - but you must pay the butchers - as you might pay yourself - for the gutting and skinning and all tastes may be acquired, that is a power, that sense, too any thing taste at first, too bitter resending hate hate hate, thought caught, infecting all who take free time to think. Sweet persuasive, tiny taste, ah any, ha, may take a direct object status in any story, told to gurgling gut gladly reminding us, aha, food is not imperitive, o see, im per it -this instant, soon, however, bread's a must imperit ive found myself a happy enough moment, dopplering blue jay flies by, says Hi. - I read myself into the game, and call Back to Bellow, he told of a fellow in Spain, who spoke of nudists on the public transportation in Frankfurt, so, I slip in time slime, no crime time, ¿when was that, in the era Bellow was an adult in, when I was just a kid… living in those days? Poker on the Diamond Farm, in the dust, we swept into play in the after you believed, what-did-you-get-to-do game? I got old. After a while. Actively participating in the spirit of my time. And most of my future happened as I did, we happened to be here, at this time, reading. An opus set to end, when the contrabassoon blow ai ai ai. Curtain.

0

Mar 21, 2023

Mar 21, 2023 at 7:43 PM UTC

kenpepiton

Saul Bellow, two egos and I (Three acts)

An Opus, is this. Ai do declare, my works, my opera, taken in to my self aware, soft and gentle - tame the framing window - as the Mona Lisa in chalk, let it be So, old man, he says to me, quoteless in my mind; what do you think of the last linear affect, my wisht effectual request, quest for reason to will. May we? Taste, and see. Firsts are always free, there, sit and stare at a stump, … At the core, before first root, the door to out is locked up tight, living is hard. Imagine many hands making light function, easy shift from one sense to another, by the numbers. Seed time. Long time and short time long lingering memories, short sharp reminders, freedom, heard touted for all its worth, cost free. Live to realize you did believe, this is what we get, on earth, within bounds. -mindtimespace and maybe Aristotle's four causes. -there never was a hell those are church merch. Coknowing, as any reader by now must be, coded, we know freedom is not free, we lieve be, it had to be won, and as with any war, winning is never done, until we all choose, yes, or no, use our reasoning, learn to bolt the rye, - sift bran and endosperm life has many layers, many folds in a flakey crust set… listen, windy March time flooding prayers, asking the boss of all the weather, for wisdom to come on the folk who rebuilt on the new sand. Knowing, high and mighty. Storms mean less to a house built solid/ broken bricabrac and whatnots galore, shattered anvilt'dust, as in the wind, once used to sweep away, my married mind, unwound, or un raveled as may be the case, aitia, as accuser. opera operates deus ex machina Is he free, is his task his alone? May be, may not, who could say? Science with its native usefullness, knowing good and evil, as translated from the idea, pride. - Whence comes contention How much, how little, measured out so my part and yours, balance, against all our worth as ones among the many, duty service warring minds, stealing time let this be the palimpsest, recovered from radical actual chthonic stage between the rootedly other wise, simpleton sublime curios spirit, settling soul substance hope imagined image, form imagined in motion, in access the unacknowledged legislator, impotent in the wasteland populated by the poets past. Empty of spite and venom, distracted ****** the dread of failure, is past me now, I have become a defender of the faith used to form my bubble of being, thinnest of walls, translucent lattice seen closely enough to discern the marvelous vision, not to be lied about by one who never watched selecting portals accept the usefull and abhor the useless. -cellular ATP [pop] Freedom of the press, belongs to the man, wombed or un, Take the poet's high seriousness, this which brings a self forward -duty to try signaling-- here, here, exactly, as by standing acting out that light announcing danger, dare not come too close. Mime meme, mea culpa. {as we cross another's line} "compulsive excavation of the void inside" Irinia, HelloPoetry.com said that, - goodnight, as an exclamation - she said that right Peace, be still. And I, the old Weaver's fan, known as Happy, whishing wafting hot ai r, we there, as my soup cooler slips in a Disneyified whatifery pool where wandering minds wait recoknowning, groan growing, silliest little diamond miner of 'em all… so stupid, he's cute. And in that way, the hero being generated, on the pattern handed down, to be seen when you gaze in to your close kin's eye and see co-known, we were made for this, Klang, that Zildjian once again! Exclamation, thus marked, calls attention in the mind's contextual effectuality, becoming realized, instant by instant, at first glance, whose enemy am I, is the game, truly win or lose? End act one. Act two. In realized ever after that The Internet exists, and we were here, to help announce it, then we made decisions, to make this. -Opus Spiking hopes up, we are among the first billion mind text to text artforms to survive the transition to whenever next insight sets us right, functional, operational points, in reality, centers, of shapes. - of things in mindtimespace In this medium, this is my realm, your role, is yours to define, any time, think ahead, see if this goes there, what if it does. Read'm and weep. Then what do you do? Ever being after learning enough to come this deep when time arrives. Short time and long time, made some mutual sense, muse using me, and me, I wished for this, that's so, I asked to know the meaning of certain things. I third in to knowing grown, as a tiny we takes form of information in words rye, or reasonably surprising to confess, you know, McLuhan says yet, you know nothing of my work. Awry. Successfully making pasta with home-milled, bolted flour depends upon an appreciation of the interplay among grain selection, mill settings and bolting equipment. Failing to consider these factors increases the likelihood of making a weak dough and pasta that breaks when cut and/or cooked. Although one can mask the impact of a weak dough by choosing a more forgiving pasta shape (e.g., creating cavatelli instead of making tagliolini or tagliatelle), knowing the interaction of grain, mill and sieve will help you to create the pasta you envision. Google it. Certainty is madness, has been resaid in many ways, all the same, nothing changes until the bubble of all we call awesome, pops. AND Boom, it's Art for art's own sake, and me, for my own, as we two witness, here, this has already happened this once, upon, operating the game, shame is left in your -wherever, compost it, tell the world. I made nothing of myself. I made something else, and then I made U, my qwerty symbolic friendly stat set, bound near-letter to peeling layers from this particular pearl, today- in the post Everybody Knows, Cohen sacred making idea in other words sacrificial artifice, offering unto that super positioned we, humanity has set aside, holy holy hoho ** green giant, ma jones, whole earth Stewart Brand, right worthy former breather, with us to this day, in word, and you know, wheres words take us, a we spirtitually untied, we these days, depend to the nth degree, on real estates in mindtimespace, literaturely. Ben mentioned, awesome, I did not catch the reference, I see, I said a third I line pattern stylized me. I see, I said for the nth dime degree Phryigian Liberty Lady.{PLL} appearing on the silver dimes entangled in the web, of what Bacon knew or did not know, when he invested with Madoff. I know. He did not write the sonnets. Marking timestretched most point. Here. right passing the point. We imagine everything, am I right? Line upon line, messaging any thing reader ready, right now, this is not the act, no novel form of a sliver of if, this is not that. this is vid licet, per missions taken for granted, as meaning clearly I believe I have the right to say reflectively I know a whole other story, new to you, but not to many readers you were, in previous experiences in poetry, and books for lievers being brought online in due time. Ever after that. You may, pause, and imagine roses. Act three Realized mentally At the end, it is mental ascent, we do form, in conformity to the commonest of codes, Berners Lee's Hyper-code, as manifested in hopes, of artists, so called by all who knew them, the framing crews at Aaron Brother's Art Mart Penny-Frame Sales events for staff, same kind of crew glue, as seen any where, apron clad, badged, same grinning, that's me, I did that, too. Grind, locked in midnight restocking Walmart, yep, #26, Van Buren, Arkansas. Target on… Cuyamaca, Santee, San Diego New Trolley End, right, future planned in action.., I got black dirt cred back to Moses, m'friend, I am as full blood American as may be by imagining I am a Union man, distant scion of a soldier who had a son prior to dying, around 1781. In the war for freedom of the press, yes, Ben, my childhood proverb provider, reminds us all, owning the use of money is better than owning money. Freedom of the press, belongs to the man, wombed or un, the awesome asexual after all we know, who who followt Jeffy, and yet did not die in shame, I mean after all, we know, we think, why any might be so tempted to throw in a sorted *** scene to envoke audience reaction by invoking spelchekian mastermind. Freedom of the press, belonging to the man, wombed or un, who has access to HelloPoetry, past all the 502s. Free, if you will. No yoke. Seat of y'panting/ Ai aiai This ain't showbiz. It is one act enacting another. A writing being ready and read, at once, later. SO, I bet the Diamond Farm. Friendly local game, envision a vision of your own, drawn from what you know is good, for food. Good idea, fishing for everything. Got one, governing meat eaters, keep your gun, pay a meat tax, by buying a deer tag, which you may use or put in to a deer harvesting pool. That pool then gets used to pay hunters and packers. Living forests allow humane behaviour. Be having the right to use the proteins, - but you must pay the butchers - as you might pay yourself - for the gutting and skinning and all tastes may be acquired, that is a power, that sense, too any thing taste at first, too bitter resending hate hate hate, thought caught, infecting all who take free time to think. Sweet persuasive, tiny taste, ah any, ha, may take a direct object status in any story, told to gurgling gut gladly reminding us, aha, food is not imperitive, o see, im per it -this instant, soon, however, bread's a must imperit ive found myself a happy enough moment, dopplering blue jay flies by, says Hi. - I read myself into the game, and call Back to Bellow, he told of a fellow in Spain, who spoke of nudists on the public transportation in Frankfurt, so, I slip in time slime, no crime time, ¿when was that, in the era Bellow was an adult in, when I was just a kid… living in those days? Poker on the Diamond Farm, in the dust, we swept into play in the after you believed, what-did-you-get-to-do game? I got old. After a while. Actively participating in the spirit of my time. And most of my future happened as I did, we happened to be here, at this time, reading. An opus set to end, when the contrabassoon blow ai ai ai. Curtain.

308

A private memory shared with one close closed bubble within my bubble, on a San Diego winter day, it came to pass cacophony's child, noise, beginner guitar and vocal solo loud as lungs allow, making dischords and missed beats feel like, demons sc'reaching into fretful, jobless Dad's brain Stop, please! Tic, that was it- the point-end track switch… he was cut to the core, a full on ogre as father wound, through the heart in tears of rage, he said, I was worshipping… said the child, and he had been adding worth, with his whole little fist sized heart, Dad had been working, in service of some other god, slowly going mad.

0

Sep 26, 2019

Sep 26, 2019 at 3:25 PM UTC

kenpepiton

Surfacing sacred things

A private memory shared with one close closed bubble within my bubble, on a San Diego winter day, it came to pass cacophony's child, noise, beginner guitar and vocal solo loud as lungs allow, making dischords and missed beats feel like, demons sc'reaching into fretful, jobless Dad's brain Stop, please! Tic, that was it- the point-end track switch… he was cut to the core, a full on ogre as father wound, through the heart in tears of rage, he said, I was worshipping… said the child, and he had been adding worth, with his whole little fist sized heart, Dad had been working, in service of some other god, slowly going mad.

22

_Confessor_, I am reborn, Vain with ash and frankincense; Absolved of my inverted pleasures, Reconciled to the morality of suffering. _Confessor_, I am returned, Predestined to gravely offend; Nimbly contrite in my genuflection, Gracefully weak-kneed in my resolve. _Confessor_, I am reborn, Although aged by my discretion; Examined satisfactorily by my conscience, Blessedly relieved through your encouragement. _Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._

0

Aug 30, 2019

Aug 30, 2019 at 4:30 PM UTC

annh

Mea Culpa

_Confessor_, I am reborn, Vain with ash and frankincense; Absolved of my inverted pleasures, Reconciled to the morality of suffering. _Confessor_, I am returned, Predestined to gravely offend; Nimbly contrite in my genuflection, Gracefully weak-kneed in my resolve. _Confessor_, I am reborn, Although aged by my discretion; Examined satisfactorily by my conscience, Blessedly relieved through your encouragement. _Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._

13

Tired. I had been able to close my eyes for a bit and even went as far as letting the blanket of black envelop me. Strangely, it had held me like no one didn't. In short, I was alone. But this time, content with being so: I could finally enjoy the voice inside my head. And then tomorrow, once a concept that didn't exist, existed once again. Then my chest began to hurt. Exam sadness was setting in. It was thus the time to write insincere essays and meaningless equations. All for a certificate that will say I am qualified for something. For what, I do not know. All I know that I was once able to smile...not too long ago. I said goodbye to my blanket of black and said hello to my gentle heart attack. And afterwards I logged onto more emptiness on a screen: dreams and seens. I didn't, I don't, understand anything yet. All I know is that I am suddenly not a child anymore.

0

Aug 8, 2014

Aug 8, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC

tawandamulalu

Not a Poem I.

Tired. I had been able to close my eyes for a bit and even went as far as letting the blanket of black envelop me. Strangely, it had held me like no one didn't. In short, I was alone. But this time, content with being so: I could finally enjoy the voice inside my head. And then tomorrow, once a concept that didn't exist, existed once again. Then my chest began to hurt. Exam sadness was setting in. It was thus the time to write insincere essays and meaningless equations. All for a certificate that will say I am qualified for something. For what, I do not know. All I know that I was once able to smile...not too long ago. I said goodbye to my blanket of black and said hello to my gentle heart attack. And afterwards I logged onto more emptiness on a screen: dreams and seens. I didn't, I don't, understand anything yet. All I know is that I am suddenly not a child anymore.

4