#sequel - Hello Poetry

Sententious -ness - as a memory lane in the rest home. Commit your works unto the way truth makes, and your thoughts shall be established. - mind-up, game-on, - psuedo sci-psy-psi surfers - versus cowboys, and creeps Trust in truth with all your wit and courage. Breathe. Each in an out from here on out - a cough an'spittle swaller - callit alla adjustaknot, a'ight Sententious old men spew galling shame on systems existing still to instill the heart, drip by drip- instilling peace of patience informing con courage, mental-gut-genug from heavy duty hero worth displays, bend and prove the worth, be lead in proven paradox, and laugh - Imaginary worlds are possible, not real. Imagining is mere what ifing, in deed. As when a man sees a wombed man.. -selah'alslates wiped, right, -to compute the vacuum for the spin, the emptiness must seem to breathe, hmmm, how can men lie to make believers, by believing lies, by God, I believe that's right. Or could be. Ask and accept the first sensible answer, on a per-usual rate per using faces, as messengers come with news, ahoy, what of the night? Night's gone at dawn. All's well, sacrifice worked, the sun rises not in vain, again. -stretcht point t' flat permeable thinness- next to nothing be ing tween ever and us, meaning nothing, but to the child, seeing the Liberty pose, as she is about to fling her torch, to burn all we left behind over there over there… -geo measured First World War, for the secrets saved at Pergamos, leaked in mandalas made in sorted sands aspirational spirals of winding patterns escape, A big Hualapai man, face as dark as the Christ robed and crowned, hung at Volta Santa de Luca, by that face, in memories of passes, clefts in rocks, to see the backside of all we hoped to do dying in sorrow and confusion, and grappo by the gallon Juaquin and Ezelda, Hualapai Survivors just barely getting' by fifty years ago, now, I see him painting with sand, and feel him praying… say this -- dedicated to his spirit, the idea of the man. Which panta rhei - evokes in mind, same ford affording this not the same flow, these stones are far shinier, this time, the old steps have been washed out and faded as spells cast to drive purple fringed, white witches away - bloodoheysus in de face o'de luca - gone y'lyin' lyin' whatchacallem Delirium Tremors, imagined, on acid, here a statue with a machine gun, under which I played, dedicated to another Hualapai veteran, reminds me, Sammy, the Apache, whose brother Jonah was a barfing drunk in jail with me one night in May, 1970.. Jonah was a Korea War vet,… he reappears to give me continuity… persistence in bending lost time to be redeemed, by observation, ask was that day applied to the cost of today? Free time, take all you wish to spend, how little could we know of the life to which the monument was dedicated, the year my mother was born, 1928, when the last who knew Sam Swaskegame came to the big parade, to unveil the dedicatory mon-u-ment idolizing the willing ness to use the science of war… to tame the wild… chaos set to tempo, left, left right left - 76 trombones, 30 were bass brazen trumping rah rah rah unveiling the composition representing spirits, one of a soldier, standing tall, unafraid, brandishing grenade, grinning, gonna getcha; one of a sailor, waving his hat; one of a Colt 1895 machine gun, aiming at the future, neither soldier or sailor saw coming, one facing south, the other north, as the gun aims west at the sunset. The parade took fifteen minutes, from the fire station on Fifth and Beale to the courthouse and jail at the top of Fourth Street… when the last who knew Sam Swaskegame, laughs the tears irony makes, "Lest We Forget", we who served the story told to keep the flame alive, see that man? Really, son of a man, he was just a boy, ready made warrior from conquered locals, tamed by Crook. Sam Swaskegame, died at Marne, for my country, five weeks before the the holy day we celebrate, to show our boys and girls, this is why we fight, so we can make heros to inspire you. -------- Sam Swaskegame, a member of the Hualapai Tribe, who was killed in action at the Marne River campaign battle of Blanc Mont, France on October 7, 1918, … 35 days before the end of WWI From <https://doughboysearcher.weebly.com/kingman-arizona.html> ------ There could be a picture here. I played in the shadow of that grenade, as a boy in the Boyett-Dancer Keltic Nordish clan, I walked past the jail, almost every day, and I was afraid of the men behind the bars. I had seen some of them, drunk, -- I was a child, they always laughed, when I stood and listened to them rant, like I understood a single word. Sam Swaskegame, Sam I am sure, I knew Sam, from Green Eggs.\ thus the war memorial, E. M. Viquesney posed, the grenadier same stance as Lady Liberty, supposed to remind us, the children born long after dead Indians could be remembered as Doughboy's dads and granddads and uncles Sententious "full of meaning" (a sense now obsolete);

0

Apr 11

Apr 11, 2026 at 8:31 PM UTC

kenpepiton

Weighing Nothing on Rt. 66 -

Sententious -ness - as a memory lane in the rest home. Commit your works unto the way truth makes, and your thoughts shall be established. - mind-up, game-on, - psuedo sci-psy-psi surfers - versus cowboys, and creeps Trust in truth with all your wit and courage. Breathe. Each in an out from here on out - a cough an'spittle swaller - callit alla adjustaknot, a'ight Sententious old men spew galling shame on systems existing still to instill the heart, drip by drip- instilling peace of patience informing con courage, mental-gut-genug from heavy duty hero worth displays, bend and prove the worth, be lead in proven paradox, and laugh - Imaginary worlds are possible, not real. Imagining is mere what ifing, in deed. As when a man sees a wombed man.. -selah'alslates wiped, right, -to compute the vacuum for the spin, the emptiness must seem to breathe, hmmm, how can men lie to make believers, by believing lies, by God, I believe that's right. Or could be. Ask and accept the first sensible answer, on a per-usual rate per using faces, as messengers come with news, ahoy, what of the night? Night's gone at dawn. All's well, sacrifice worked, the sun rises not in vain, again. -stretcht point t' flat permeable thinness- next to nothing be ing tween ever and us, meaning nothing, but to the child, seeing the Liberty pose, as she is about to fling her torch, to burn all we left behind over there over there… -geo measured First World War, for the secrets saved at Pergamos, leaked in mandalas made in sorted sands aspirational spirals of winding patterns escape, A big Hualapai man, face as dark as the Christ robed and crowned, hung at Volta Santa de Luca, by that face, in memories of passes, clefts in rocks, to see the backside of all we hoped to do dying in sorrow and confusion, and grappo by the gallon Juaquin and Ezelda, Hualapai Survivors just barely getting' by fifty years ago, now, I see him painting with sand, and feel him praying… say this -- dedicated to his spirit, the idea of the man. Which panta rhei - evokes in mind, same ford affording this not the same flow, these stones are far shinier, this time, the old steps have been washed out and faded as spells cast to drive purple fringed, white witches away - bloodoheysus in de face o'de luca - gone y'lyin' lyin' whatchacallem Delirium Tremors, imagined, on acid, here a statue with a machine gun, under which I played, dedicated to another Hualapai veteran, reminds me, Sammy, the Apache, whose brother Jonah was a barfing drunk in jail with me one night in May, 1970.. Jonah was a Korea War vet,… he reappears to give me continuity… persistence in bending lost time to be redeemed, by observation, ask was that day applied to the cost of today? Free time, take all you wish to spend, how little could we know of the life to which the monument was dedicated, the year my mother was born, 1928, when the last who knew Sam Swaskegame came to the big parade, to unveil the dedicatory mon-u-ment idolizing the willing ness to use the science of war… to tame the wild… chaos set to tempo, left, left right left - 76 trombones, 30 were bass brazen trumping rah rah rah unveiling the composition representing spirits, one of a soldier, standing tall, unafraid, brandishing grenade, grinning, gonna getcha; one of a sailor, waving his hat; one of a Colt 1895 machine gun, aiming at the future, neither soldier or sailor saw coming, one facing south, the other north, as the gun aims west at the sunset. The parade took fifteen minutes, from the fire station on Fifth and Beale to the courthouse and jail at the top of Fourth Street… when the last who knew Sam Swaskegame, laughs the tears irony makes, "Lest We Forget", we who served the story told to keep the flame alive, see that man? Really, son of a man, he was just a boy, ready made warrior from conquered locals, tamed by Crook. Sam Swaskegame, died at Marne, for my country, five weeks before the the holy day we celebrate, to show our boys and girls, this is why we fight, so we can make heros to inspire you. -------- Sam Swaskegame, a member of the Hualapai Tribe, who was killed in action at the Marne River campaign battle of Blanc Mont, France on October 7, 1918, … 35 days before the end of WWI From <https://doughboysearcher.weebly.com/kingman-arizona.html> ------ There could be a picture here. I played in the shadow of that grenade, as a boy in the Boyett-Dancer Keltic Nordish clan, I walked past the jail, almost every day, and I was afraid of the men behind the bars. I had seen some of them, drunk, -- I was a child, they always laughed, when I stood and listened to them rant, like I understood a single word. Sam Swaskegame, Sam I am sure, I knew Sam, from Green Eggs.\ thus the war memorial, E. M. Viquesney posed, the grenadier same stance as Lady Liberty, supposed to remind us, the children born long after dead Indians could be remembered as Doughboy's dads and granddads and uncles Sententious "full of meaning" (a sense now obsolete);