By: Nabs

    When I was little, my mother often gave me flowers.

She would make me a crown of Primroses that smells like the day my father left us.
I would smile and dance a little twirl that had her smiling fondly. Her little princess, Said she couldn't live with out me.
I believed her.

Right before my mother decided to stop breathing, she gave me a bouquet of Lily of the valley.

I never knew that apology was poisonous.

    The day I turned fifteen, my grandmother gave me a book on flowers, It was written with green ink and bound in human skin. Said that It was family heirloom. Said that the universe needed someone who understand Hana. Said that I was born to understand only them and to remember that flowers are ephemeral.

I cradled the book, feeling as if the world was spinning. Opening it feels like coming home after a long time of drowning.

By the time I realized, a bush of Basil and beds of Petunias were growing in my home like ****. The color should have been red instead of purple.

      I met you when you were giving a bundle of daisy to a boy.
The boy scoffed and slapped the daisies to the ground. It's petal were falling apart just as blue and black blooms like an eager bud on you. Your body were taut as a string but your face was smiling, the kind of smile I couldn't decipher the meaning.

I picked the daisies up and asked if i could keep it.  You said only if I gave you my name.

You were wreathed with White Hyacinth and Pine leaves. It suits you.

    You told me one day, after you gave me a Bleeding Heart, that I needed to learn more than the languages that flower speak. That I needed to learn human.
I asked to you why do you say that?
You looked at me, with a little smile and a soft look on your face. Told me that I was too oblivious, I was more flower than human. I frowned and said," That hurts".
You laughter was much more sweeter than any Honeysuckle.

Though I still didnt understand your laughter nor the bleeding heart.

    The sight of our hands lacing together, looks much more delicate than Queen Anne laces. It made me aware of the dips of your lips, how warm your callouses hands were and the way you sometimes darts to sneak a glance at me with warmth in your eyes when you thought I wasn't looking.
I would feel my heart thumping loudly and I would disentangle our hands, trying to hide the tremors in my hands. You would pursed your lips and cracked a joke.

The next day I received a bouquet of Lilacs and red Peonies. It was too beautiful and I was already withering.

    You often asked If I was ok. I said I was. You would go rigid at that and started to pull down all the blinds to your soul. But that day when I answered I was ok, you gave me an Orange mock.
Said that I can trust you. You left with out meeting my eyes.

That night, I left a single Aster on your window sill. Hoping I did the right thing.

    The thing was, I was scared. Not of you, no never of you. That I swear on White Lilies and Myrtles that we bound ourself to.
It's just, every time I'm with you I want to bare my self naked. To let you see how the parasites are growing inside me, withering me as it did my mother. My grandmother would say that it is our legacy we cannot escape. To grow and bloom then wither ourself after the peak.

My Grandmother was a Sakura tree, My Mother an Ajisai, and I was a Tsubaki.

My mother was supposed to lived longer than me. But Hydrangeas needed their rain or they'll wither away.

    You told me once, that I remind you of Wisterias. Always enduring even after the cruelest storm. I grimaced and whacked you on the back. Said that you were an idiot for thinking that. You laughed again and tickled me until I asked for mercy.

I feel less Tsubaki and more human with you.

    I never let you go to my home because I could not bear the thoughts of you seeing the lawn strewn Marigolds, the grief that latched itself to the soil.
How the yards was filled with weeds and plants that was tangling them self to choke each other. How the walls was bare and the furniture was only enough to survive. The only thing that was lending colors to my home were the branches of Plum Blossom and bouquet of Lilacs and Peonies that seems to not wither away.

This home would not hold further.

    I gave you Blue Carnations the night when vines were choking my lungs, making it hard for me to breathe.

You said they were beautiful, and smiled a serene smile. I wanted to kiss you so bad, but I was leaking clear salty sap, that was rolling down my cheeks. I told you all about Hana and all about my family. How bare my home is and how you are my Iris, my good news, my good tidings.

You hugged me, not minding the sap that's staining your shirt. I didn't see the Red Camellia you were tucking in my hair.

  The day when I almost gave you Red Daisies and Lungwort was the day I found out that you had severe allergy to flowers.
That breathing their pollen would shorten your life as the breath you took became a privilege that you were slowly losing.
I asked, "why would you endanger yourself like that?".
"I love flowers, that's all", you said with an uncaring shrug.
The thoughts of you withering away, made me nauseous.

I went home throwing away the Daisies and Lungwort, Burning down the marigolds and Petunias.

The only thing was left were Hana and the bouquet of Lilacs and Red Peonies.

  I never get to told you that my roots was withering.

  When you found me lying on my home, covered with Primroses, Camellias, and Blood Red Poppies, I know that you knew. In your hand were Peach Blossoms and they were so very beautiful.
You cradled me close to your chest. Whispering that I will be okay, that It's unfair for me to do this to him.
"I know", I rasped. My voice was barely working and Black-Red sap was steadily tricking from the corner of my lips.

  When I saw my mother walking down to me, carrying a basket full of Sweet Peas, Volkamenia, and Yarrows, I understand what your smile meant the first we met.

It was Red Camellias, Love and acceptence

Your love touched trauma
as my body shuddered.
Tension released
tears poured out as I wept in silence
as I wept in darkness
as I wept, a master of deception
My pain stayed outside your awareness
Your hands across my chest
created an image
of a baby being dried after taking a bath
both of your hands were enough to grab my torso
and I became painfully aware of how feeble I am
weak and dependent
Harsh thoughts, pethetic
somewhere, somehow seeking redemption
while there is nothing to redeem
my challenge lies in acceptance

A path my mind created to stray
A path my mind created to survive
Acceptence for me will be the end of me
this me, fitted to survive in a world no longer this world
but the previous one, another reality
that has been explored and discovered.
But just like this world and the previous one
I always defy the reality that I see
Because the reality that I see doesn't coincide with
what's inside this core of me.
This core of me desperately trying to break loose
in this pethetic shell,
I WANNA BE MYSELF, YET I'M STUCK IN THIS SELFMADE PRISON, IT'S HELL
YET I AM THE WARDEN, THE GUARD AND THE GUY DROPPING
THE SOAP.
I HOLD THE ******* KEYS YET I DON'T KNOW WHERE TO GO
ALL I CAN DO NOW IS SIT BEHIND MY DESK, ROLL ONE UP
AND TAKE A ****.. so...
I don't have a ******* answer, I simply don't know.

Are we not all equal?
Are we not truly free?
Are our decisions truly ours?
Or are they preset for us?
I couldn't tell you,
But I can remind you
You are who you are.
Accept it if you must
Deny if you can
And keep in mind that
The only way we can be free,
Is to free ourselves from the
Only prison that truly matters
Our minds.

I see no degradtion
in my broken passion of words
these words I speak from my deepest creases
my secrets hidden in the birds

I let you read me in my peices of peices
and I am called absurd
I let you let me shift you with my magic
now your vision of me is more blurred

Ill let you hunt me down
so lopsided and up and done battered
I open the door hallucinating and tattered
its not not like you never mattered

I just have remote in my hands
I have intrusive in my wastelands
now my lungs expand


slow
ly
I lift my eyes and bend my head
without voice I preech muse of the dead
Im yearning for more than lifes bread
and we yell enough
enough
was said
but I get on my knees and I beg
life I say might there be something better that you can
grant
to express myself in ways purer than this
because I feel that I cant

I will carry my mind somewhere further than any foreign land
somehwere to a brutal coma
where little aliens of dripping uphoria exsist
hidden deep in every uncharted abyss
they will come up from the mudd
I will unravel them with the unraveling of this flower bud
I will lift my head up then nudge
in acceptence of all these empty cabinets
they have been emptied out by my wet mouth
to ease the pain and **** the drought
that burries itself like a baby
under the sheets of blood in my eyes

God is wearing many different shades of Orange in this gorgeous sunset over the water tonight

God is working in my life in various ways that make me get down on my knees and pray in thanks

God wears the face of a man l've only recently met who has lended me so many helping hands

God is working to restore my soul to the original mold before I grow too old

God wears the face of a dying drunk to show me if I keep doing wrong  then that is what I will become

God is working to restore my faith so I will truly let go and finally accept His loving grace

God, wear me, so I can show others what you have shown me

My parents often ask me, why are you so stressed, why are you so depressed, . . . . . why are you so . . . crazy?
Here and now I am going to answer that question.

1. stress

The main reason I stress is from responsibility.
RESPONSIBILITY
The word makes me go insane
All of it causes pain.

Sibilings, five younger sibilings,
they all have their things.
they each have someting that either causes me a responsibilty or stress, because its a constant worry, love.

School, all eight classes,
you expect aces.
I can't be perfect, but you want me to be, and that is a huge responsibility.

Home, all of it,
every single bit.
A home requires everybody to have a responsibility.

2. deppresed

The main reason i am often sad, mad, or a mixture of both is that you wouldn't accept me.
NO ACCEPTENCE
To know that you would hate me,
stops me from being free.

Gender, i hate it,
why do we label ourselfs why dont we quit.
I just want to be free and ya'll dont like that, so i can't.

Sexuality, mine is different,
and you would accept it.
The world is different why cant you see that, why is different bad?

Religon, the worst of all,
the lectures make me feel so small.
You force and force and it makes me wat t be farther and farther away.

3. crazy

I am crazy because you dont care.
OBLIVION
You can't see me trying so hard,
the only things you see tears me apart.

I am trying, cant you see,
being perect for you is always who i've been tring to be.
Don't you see me working, all the time, trying to please all of ya'll.

Perfection, its impossible,
nothing can be perfectly aligned on the table.
Why do I have to be your perfect christain daughter who does so well in school while I am unhappy? Why can't I be your unperfect person that follows their dreams and is happy?

- Your unperfect human, Zan.

selfish is as selfish does
i make my attempts to refuse cowardice
and mine for the gold in your heart
and ive delivered acceptence and determination on
the wings of carrier pigeons
you broke my ring
and you stick out your tongue
bitter little *****
i asked you to be kind
kind of kind
due to fragility
i know im damaged goods
and all damaged goods are a burden
and i am a beast
and i am a god
and i am unlubbable
and tonight im knocking on wood
because you wont even say hello anymore.

dont fret, disinterest is not individual folly
but shared in the space where we used to lay.

I see no degradtion
in my broken passion of words
these words I speak from my deepest creases
my secrets hidden in the birds

I let you read me in my peices of peices
and I am called absurd
I let you let me shift you with my magic
now your vision of me is more blurred

Ill let you hunt me down
so lopsided and up and done battered
I open the door hallucinating and tattered
its not not like you never mattered

I just have remote in my hands
I have intrusive in my wastelands
now my lungs expand

slow
ly
I lift my eyes and bend my head
without voice I preech muse of the dead
Im yearning for more than lifes bread
and we yell enough
enough
was said
but I get on my knees and I beg
life I say might there be something better that you can
grant
to express myself in ways purer than this
because I feel that I cant

I will carry my mind somewhere further than any foreign land
somehwere to a brutal coma
where little aliens of dripping uphoria exsist
hidden deep in every uncharted abyss
they will come up from the mudd
I will unravel them with the unraveling of this flower bud
I will lift my head up then nudge
in acceptence of all these empty cabinets
they have been emptied out by my wet mouth
to ease the pain and **** the drought
that burries itself like a baby

Shattered glass and troubled winds Fear maintains persistence

Hysteria, muted
Alone, and rebutted
Latching onto resistance

Desperate, for fun
Out goes my heart;
Here I am, pint of ***

The night has yet been dark
The mood is nothing, but dreary
Our lives have only begun

Patient hearts have untrue intentions
Acceptence, for only a night of pleasure

Shadows hide a past of gloom and spite
Morning creeps, and souls, they scramble beneath

The poor, the lonely unwanted soul;
They see no clear reality

They roam helpless and scarred
They are indubitably unsure

We are here
Gone

you have created a positive energy within me
that gives birth everytime you linger in my presence
my womb explodes with your static blue
leaving permanent goodsebumps whispering
the deepest tales of forbidden love

my cheek has found its warm home on your chest
listening to your heart beat
my ears have longed for the noise of your life
flickering beneath me like my ghosts that burn
when you place your hand so simply upon mine

you are water to my soul spreading like
glowing beams of light through my frail body,
sustaining and giving me the power to open my eyes from deadly sleep

drag my being into infinte space and I, because of you
can light the darkest edge of the universe
you have given me the power of 10,000 burning suns

I feel that anything is possible, strangely enough
and for the first time I have placed a pressure
upon myself to become more of another human
full of hope and acceptence, you move me

there is a eager passion waging war inside of
my arms to fight any army to bring you near me
let me protect you. let me be the one to bring
you more sincerity if it be possible
can you be filled with more love
I want us to build our home with the seeds
we have found in each others secluded gardens

while I write the lines that make us beautiful
and you sing them with your trembeling voice

Looking around I see the faces of broken men
bore into the dredge of life
on a train going nowhere and nowhere too go
sitting waiting for the next stop
a life thats broken
broken of will

a shout goes out its their number up
time to move on now
make room for another drudge
I see in their eyes a look understood
a nod of acceptence
a mirrored tip
my life on the train now ..
time to get off

Ha, isn’t it funny?
We all say we accept everyone, we don’t.
That’s what everyone one says about our country,
However everyone is guilty, and few people know.

Your either against or not.
Like if your homophobic or gay.
Of course before you shame me give it a second thought.
Doesn’t matter what you say it’s always yay or nay.

There are different levels of acceptance.
Maybe we do accept, however not in our minds.
For instance there is a group that makes you ******
But you accept them, showing you care, even if there just lies.

The only time this is not shown is when you grant pity
Like on a family member or a close friend.
You can always show to be gritty
But a small part of just doesn’t want to offend.

Soooo sorry to offend you, finding this racist, homophobic, sexist whatever.
You can think your accepting people because you happen to be different but let me tell you.
No one accepts everyone, whether its for right or wrong. Whether its due to an endeavor
Or none at all. We can’t lie you hate someone for a belief and you know it, too.

Lets not forget the people who get shunned for pursuing their beliefs that the media hates.
They attack the races, orientations and gender, i mean i hate the majority of these people.
Like i said you're either against these people are not, so you belief in the good that is greater.
Well news flash, acceptance is about the greater good or correctness, we aren’t medieval.

Acceptance is about pity and pretend
Because they’ll accept for a reason
Maybe to feel good, or to gain something still they need to comprehend.
Comprehend that acceptance is a truthful lie, it exist to at least look decent.

Self containing vessles, not a few,
were gathered to be filled from one
small cruse of golden oil, pure as time.

Invitations echo, "Come ye, buy from me,
without money, without cost." Freedom from

cultural constraints, traditional right privileges,
customary tribute due the mightiest military mind.
----------------------------

Whistling editor of all of us,
in these and other words,
insert myself among
those entering the container
nearest you, be the self most honed.

--------- art's sakes alive,
no jive cat act, you know, this takes all day.

Sinking hope weights our bait,
dropping down to Cod level,
deeper than
our cultural bouyancy, sinking

through time climbing down
an actual ladder that was, that is
rusted to uselessness now, you see,

you fell, I climbed. Missed concepts
can take your breath away.
Sudden wisdom is not cheap thrills.
Same gravity, same air, same words.

We may imagine we form another mind,
we, you and me, combined, a new mind,
we, in an awesome state of knowing access.

Holy days, sanctified by family traditions,
expanding in the age of printing machines,
exploding in the age
of mass media via
psuedo infinite compute.

Science used to fool the foolable, magicians
all agree to be discrete, the enter-dance
is keyed to the most discerning
exercise of image forming,
will you, won't you,
join the dance
thinking seeing is the act of acceptence,
not thinking taking the act in conception.

He does not steal from me, who lights
his smoke from mine.

I arrive late. It is my way. I do use vegetables.
Excuses and excauses, we have in abundance.
When killing the opposition was first response,
we passed through a hisseephit pfft phaze.

The first thing. The Principal Thing. Peace
upon the figurative brow of the frustrated one thing.

The terror of ever being one thing and no thing more;
God's own dread, we may imagine, feels like ours,
boredom becomes insanity and insanity is mortal hell.

Wisdom, offered in doses from ancient runes,
discerned from evil uses of knowledge, actual useable
Wisdom is first sensed peaceable, then gentle, not wild
skittish, gotta be tamed and mastered to be used, no,no, no

First peaceable, no push toward your opposite bias,
no feeling of imbalence down in you guts,
no angry creator jealous of the tempting knowledge.
Forest copious abundance, with know how.
Use of good,
and useless destruction of ancient good sense.
Who lies about you.
Personally, what living hate do you appropriate?

The idea that Christ, that word, holds a preconceived
story hook to a promise, an other word, progressively
pulling the thread through gnosis knots too tight to comb,
so we twist dreads into fashionable cool.

Truth in numbers is easier than truth
in otherwords aligned,

listening to everything, once, in a while.

Understand, when we conserve a westate, you and me,
we are the medium we exist to conceptualize in, within.

When the best combined minds in Mathematics
do agree, rarely, but when that instance of truth,
pops
backed by the Universe in which we live,
and, truly astoundingly, do breathe and have being,
ex nihilo as far as we may know right,
now
we as a whole, the species adapted to the times
we were born to mature through, to this end.



OK, in that curious bubble…
dear reader, this novel event is recorded,
to flashback in the future you need directed

steps, ah, nexts, in time, is one way,
memory is all over the place, but next
is always toward the not known yet.
---------------
Found a four meter San Pedro,
on Craig's list, free, some may say

it is a sign, some message to a shaman
of the original dreamtime rerouted to now.

Some how we affect world peace, taking parts
less likely to effect fame and fortune, fool's roles
local poet
and studio talent anonymity,
aficionados only, olé.

A story genisisatates, blooming possibilities unimagined,
yet, apparently blooming in my neuronic memory,

Barrio Logan, boom, there it is, the real deal

achuma wachuma, calling my curiosity, come see.

You have heard the adage, "what you see Is what you get."

What you believe you get, you get, once you see you got it.

This life, our combined realities, as bubbles in the human foam,
rising on the surface of Earth's dry places… the we we form

can be led to lieve being true, stranger things than oath chains
that turn to torqs and eventually to full Windsor knotted ties.

The collar of the loyal oppostion, turns fashionable,
included in the mindset finding fashion cycles
common since the distinction was made.

Many long times and wars and running aways ago,
we learn to be us, the holders of these truths from them
who begot us in this land.

-----------
Nah, Eve, she was not the culprit, truth be told.

Have a little talk with your Jesus, there in your core,
if you have formed a concept you hold true, Christmas
Peace on Earth, good will toward mankind, good news,
causal inferential essential entity, in a word, a little leaven.

What does one do
When their own blood
Treats them like ****
When they arent welcomed in
Their own home anymore

When the razor blades are rusty
And the well of tears run dry
When their heart aches and breaks
For it is love and acceptence they desire

When curling up in a ball
Naked in the bed doesnt suffice
And banging your head on a wall
Does nothing but anger your so called loved ones

Friends say "two more years"
But I will die, perish into nothing
If I must wait two more years
Trapped inside a hell

That they call home

Love is war while at peace,
Never won and never beat,
Love is when you feel the heat,
The heat of a quickening heartbeat,

Joy, pain, and sorrow,
You'll barely last 'till tomorrow,
Through the rain you will gain,
A heavy heart filled with pain,

With this pain you must choose,
Open heart,
Or
Frozen stiff,
Trust me this is no myth,

What you choose is what you'll be,
Will you choose ice and snow,
Or
Will you choose to really know,
Acceptence,
Or
Rejectence,
Its up to you.
Now its time for you to choose.

the voice,
sultry, smooth...
like warm cream
sings, songs
of sad acceptence
as we drink,
our gaily coloured
cocktails
and talked
of small
and always,
insignificant things.
his breath warm,
insipid, sursurrating
upon my ear

the l.b.d.
still has power....
to attract.
the wearer
however
is far past ...
bored,
with the swirling,
synergies
of the academic pond.

......too many barracudas

and the voice
sings on...

2020 - day 146

Monday, May 25, 2020
7:48 AM

A creed of mathematics and mud, said
in what may be
metemperical
utterance from the ghost of the late,
and likely,
no longer lamented,
Sir Leslie Stephen, author, and,
therefore,
authoritative voice in the matter
of his own mind.
He apologized for the state called
Agnostic, lacking gnosis, may I say,

I know more, in fact, if I count my access
to knowns,
along with my access to the sequence
of knowing;
I know more than any prominent literati
in the time before Google's
manifestation as an idea shaping tool.

What do I know?
I know how to use the Internet to learn,

in broad sweeps through the remains of
empires,
into the dustbin of history for which we stand,
ready,
as a nation,

to build new and more destrucively effective
petards.

Blow your mind, hoist, lift-off, on your own farts.

Passing wind,
did you smell it?

❖

Mental as opposed to spiritual,
hmmm

this will need some study...
a little think,
an imaginary journey,

from here to... where? Where,
or when,
if
we were to change the world,
as we know it;
say,
we did. Say we changed the world,

who would know?
Who would care? We have yet,
breath, and fuel, and functionality.

We have movement, and a grasping,
holding, using,
sense
a natural, from the womb, knack
for making a fist.

❖



Womb survivors of the world, unite.

Defined to the finest quarkish sublimnity,
we entangled creative
thoughts being spun into the wind
passing, rising
from bloated corpses,
we all may witness, as real as you may imagine...

in 2020, we have eye-witness visions made plain,
we have seen the bodies stacked in carts,
we have seen My Lai from the sky,
we can imagine

being there... but don't, I mean, Memorial Day is...

maybe, it is... evoking memory of madness,

how is war good? It is good for the greedy, no one else.

We watch our hero's die to stop the evil, then we watch
the bankers free the last Krupp cannon molder,
to spite the facts we can see, as seen at Nurnberg.

That injustice, was done in my name, if I believe I am
pluralized as we, the people who hold truth,

the Yanks, ye' know? Yankin' y'strang, stranger... did you
stumble into our historical records of all the good
war has done? Nay,
we came to remember peace,

in high definition resolution sharper than the
unaugmented human eye can detect,

see that guy's head, or his helmet, look close,
no head remained in the helmet,

but I knew the head the helmet was hoisted from.

I watched PFC. -name redacted - die,

-- did you know, did you learn, ever, the meaning
of being hoisted on one's own petard?

A petard was a bomb. Nothing fancy,
a bit of alchemical magi-knowing of laws yet to be

discovered in the rubble of guesses as to cause,

accusations of arrogance and hubris, combound to whys,

never examined, never lived out in vital awareness.

❖




quenching a flaming spirit, is ill advised...

but it happens,
all the time. A heart pouring hope
into a mind jumbled
with signals and signs and pleas;

stops, stutters, and aches for
more
meaning meaning meaning in the
tinkling bells and crashing cymbals.

Hope, ash of aspirations inspired
by

love, as a thing, a noun, not a verb.

Love is a verb. Not a thing, an act.

Indeed, done, love is easy to think wisely done.
No announcement is needed,

long after the tale is first formed,
the legend rises from resting in peace,

to give a lie an opposing force, not a war,

a flood.

A deluge of lusion, a seeing at augmentedus
resolutions into further and beyond,
all we can think, or ask
into life
dimensions

former-wise, formerly, unknowable, now

known, according to the pundits,
these are not the days of Lincoln,
craming laws into his head by firelight,

calloused digits flipping page after page
of proprietary rules governing

the white man's burden.

---
❖

Staunching the flow, of blood, particularly,

meant stopping the flow, usually
stopping it from
flowing out of course,
flooding
the plain, flat, seeming, surface of reality.

Reality not being as defined as we imagine, in ourselves.
This being the flow,
if we pay attention, focusing on a point,
fixing a line of sight to a distant thing, a star will do,
planets,
no, those won't do, you see, the planets, now we know,

the planets reflect light,
they bounce light back to our eyes, which we invariably miss

when our attention is owed to the habits we hold.
Our daily grind... growing, or surviving in hope

We guess at many next right or otherwise, standing,
based up on a pedestal, a riser,

lift up your head, egregious though you be,
easily seen, so
easily you see as far as I'm concerned, dis
cerned, re
fined to the innermost edge,

ground to a halt... pressing blade to ground to scrape
a living

plowman, plow me a furrow, for the flood.
Maker of ways,  form me a way to flow,
channel my worth to the dying seeds

scattered, so long ago, on the thread of time we ride behind.

❖


a bug, an insect, not an arachnid,
by leg count
class-ift, insect extremely delicate, what use
could this bug be to me,
a mayfly,
that I did pay it this attention?

Did I mention, no,
sequences in re
telling, consider starlight bounces from sunlight,

but reason and gravity suggest, those
waves of starlight intermingle
with sunbeams.

A mote in my eye may have bounced once from the moon,
as a made its point pinging a receptor some where behind

the window of my soul
to make a ligandary acceptence of influence, from the Greeks,
in an instant
Zeno, doncha know, decided, made a cut,

skience is the conscision, the cutting into bits, until

no further cutting may be done,
and we are dust,
at best.

Flakey humans. Homes to literal gazillions of mites,
hunting and gathering epidermal

flakes of us, digesting said flakes, into demodex *****

{demodex, face mites, are as old as **** sapiens}

as we are in didactic tic mode, ******* meaning from flakes
rubbed off during the itching ear phase

of dust mote formations, see

a mite eating the scales of our bodies, our subjective habitats,

where we hold our habitual rituals;
a mite eating those, fecates and defecates, fecation required,

in consequentialist thought, prior to defecation.

Fact or fiction? Science, as we know it at grade eight,
on the global scale of common knowledge,

science is what we are convinced we know in useful ways.
Knowledge is our opinion of

what we think we know. That is a guess. Not quite right, flow

past
the missed try, reach a next un ex spectated, un i magined
ic tic tic

time passing options, while a life away, or wait

wait and see, or come and see.

I say go. Where this river runs, reach that place,

get all salty, then
lay in the sun and evaporate. Ex sciere, rise, sublimated into ever knowing more,

scient-if-ic known knowns within the un gated narrative we occupy.

We live in an atmo-sphere, a bubble, with a core- inward pulling force

which rolls the rock down the hill, as me and Sisyphus spend a pleasant afternoon
watching all our effort play out...

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖


forgive me if you already made all the links, I found the scient bits glittering in Old Norse skita,

science is ific in its will to be known truth holding, bogus science is willing to lie, for prestige.

skei-
Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to cut, split," extension of root *sek- "to cut."
It forms all or part of: abscissa; conscience; conscious; ecu; escudo; escutcheon; esq­uire; nescience; nescient; nice; omniscience; omniscient; plebisc­ite; prescience; prescient; rescind; rescission; science; sciente­r; scilicet; sciolist; scission; schism; schist; ******-; schizop­hrenia; scudo; sheath; sheathe; sheave (n.) "grooved wheel to receive a cord, pulley;" shed (v.) "cast off;" shin (n.) "fore part of the lower leg;" shingle (n.1) "thin piece of wood;" **** (v.); shive; shiver (n.1) "small piece, splinter, fragment, chip;" shoddy; shyster; skene; ski; skive (v.1) "split or cut into strips, pare off, grind away;" squire.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Sanskrit chindhi, chinatti "to break, split up;" Avestan a-sista- "unsplit, unharmed," Greek skhizein "to split, cleave, part, separate;" Latin scindere "to cut, rend, tear asunder, split;" Armenian c'tim "to tear, scratch;" Lithuanian skiesti "to separate, divide;" Old Church Slavonic cediti "to strain;" Old English scitan, Old Norse skita "to defecate;" Old English sceað, Old High German sceida "sheath;" Old Irish sceid "to *****, spit;" Welsh chwydu "to break open."