She was a girl
No one ever chose
For teams or clubs
Dances or dates

She was a girl
No one ever noticed
Sitting in the corner of the room
Always alone

She was a girl
Left outside in the freezing rain
For the longest of times
With no one to hug or hold

She was a girl
That held everything in and let nothing out
It was only her eyes that revealed the story of her pain
Being left out like garbage everyday

She was a girl
Who never spoke
Yet didn’t need words to be heard
One day you will finally notice

-MMM

One, willing to change,
experiences many lives
before their mortal shell
ceases to function.

A coward, however,
experiences perhaps one.

We all have seen
people,
places,
and different situations
that questions
everything we have learned,
believed,
seen,
and heard.
It is up to us whether to
label those things
as mere fallacies,
or to uphold them
as utter truths.
But this isn't always the case.
The process of acceptance
is not always easy.
It involves a lot of self-berating,
self-loathing,
listless moments,
melancholic states,
and finally,
reluctant adaption,
to the current norms,
notion,
and societal views,
that forces us to change
our views,
our versions of truths,
our perception of reality,
and our own self-image.
We must always beware
those situations; let it not
deter you.
For, dear, you are
what you are,
and what you believe;
your conviction,
your truths,
your freedom from
these mind-altering moments,
will not be taken away from you.
Do not let yourself
be washed away
by the waves of
fanaticism.

What I want is
enough money

To have what I want
what I want is

A good life
with only small cracks that I can repair

What I want is
a relaxful place to live

Where I'll never have to worry
what I want is

Everyone to be treated equal
so no one has to suffer

All I really want is
Peace.

Sitting here staring into the sun, reminiscing about the days where life felt a little more at ease. About how all is changing, how I have grown into a woman with her own life as I mentally say goodbye to peace of mind.

Sift I will and hold in path of

current's latent aftermath

heart befell, and breath in current

breath could tell, and most confirm it

Depth befell, a host affirmed of what compelled

the most determined

love's to sell and what could earn it

lust and amour, yet shift in focus

love of current, and opened play

could last it til, preferred today

now compulsion packs a passion pact

to back adaption banter tact

intact of what could help me focus

attraction stacked and traction bogus

love don't need to own possession

love just needs to show expression

You don't know
As much as you think you know.
Life isn't an episode of FRIENDS.
Six people can't be happy like that
For ten years.
And a small coffee shop
In New York
Can't stay open that long
Anyway.

Les Mis wasn't based
On a Shakespeare play
And you sound like an idiot.

You can't rhyme.

Dr. Seuss is not your favorite poet,
And you're allergic to artificial sweeteners.

And, I kid you not,
You're going to turn 17
To find that your favorite TV show
Is an MTV adaption of "Teen Wolf"
And you won't even be sorry.

You're going to tell your name
To strangers on the internet
And they'll give you a new one.

(And it will be
The best decision of your life)

You never get over Paris.
Or road trips.
Or libraries.
Or oreos.

And on
January 9
Next year

Home is more than a pile of bricks,
It's the view from the window
And the walk down the road.
It's houses you pass
It's the people you see
It's the beep of the coffee ***
And the bark of the dog
It's the texture of clay
It's the floor boards that creak
It's the sound of the motors
And the memories of love
It's where you were when you
Learned how to count.
It's the murmur of voices
It's the colors of fall,
It's the mess that you made
It's the time you were proud
It's the thunder and lightening
It's the faces you know
It's the habits you break
And the things that you count on
It's the sound of a word
It's the line in the joke
It's the restaurants and waiters
It's the predictable  vote
It's the aisles of the store
It's the pinching of cheeks
It's the hard times, the help
And the vegetable stands
It's the churches and prayer
It's the clock in the square
It's the traffic, the football,
The police and the sun
It's the tick of the clock
And the hum of the pipes
It's the drawer with the spoons,
It's the trick to the tub
It's the stop sign you ignore
It's the trash cans you empty
It's gas in the tank
And playing hide and seek
It's the traditions we cherish
It's the rhythm we find
Home is more than an address
It's more than just family,
It's God and it's time
It's an attitude, an  adaption
It's everyday lives
Home isn't where the heart is,
Home is what makes up the heart.

i take a step back into myself  as the last golden brown

leaf crumbles into dust upon the delicate caress

of your callused, cracked fingertips.


you will find me once again, breathing down

your neck and into your ear, creating ripples

of chills that freeze down each vertebrae of your spine.


adaption is a process that you can never seem to catch

when the cool spring breezes that once warmed your smile

have given way to the morning dew frozen now into

frost.

this is
a thankyou message to you all
who have accepted me in your community
of poets trying to articulate
what we feel is important

often it's love,
     with all its ups and downs
sometimes  it's death
     or loss of friends and the beloved
sometimes it is political
    because one cannot stand aside
    when human rights are stepped upon
    and hate speech threatens those
    who have already lost their homes
    their relatives   their children

as poets
I believe  
we have an obligation
     not only to make life
     more beautiful with our art
     find words in situations
     that tend to leave us speechless

but also to speak up in times
    when fuzzy rhetoric
    spewed forth by demagogues
tries to paint cruelties in friendly colors
    and lack of principles as necessary adaption
    to current times

the power of the word
    not only made our world

it  is the only way
to save it

Watching The Girl in pink explain to us the deep history of medieval art and music
While i'm trying to figure out how to replicate their legacy
Staying quiet in my own thoughts
These videos are so dated
But it gives me some chance to be elated
About what and who i can be
These lights turn off just a little too fast
But i'll get used to it
I always do-i'm the learning example of adaption
We have to be a little taller than the uncut grass
And a bit higher than the Hot Balloons
I don't get to see too many of those too often
Those people are brave souls for going inside them and flying
But you should have the want like they do
To reach out and grab the trophy that has your name printed on it
Pink Lady is what they call her
And she seems so happy explaining the exciting portions of this vastly dated time period
You kind of wish more girls had the interests she had
When these videos end
I feel a little more encouragement to be something better than i was yesterday

such intent
Savor it
Savor what has been unseen-
Every cloak-and-dagger

Hide behind the undertow so your spying eyes go unearthed  
Laying low close to those who will never know-
Never sense
The taste
of marrow-
of raw ignition inside bones
Or the adrenaline that's expanding your pupils-
Black, hardy vacancies and adaption to space

A neck to grasp
Lips to bite into
Warmth to be felt internally
Far more than physical

Closer to irrational spirituality

(C) Tiffanie Doro

Maybe with the tears
we shed, the trees will grow;
may the earth as well.
we see what goes up
and down and around.  Through
the smoke we can hardly see,
but it's just part
of the ride.
When we're off the ride, the tales
shine with new light.  
The world as we know
changes with just one hint
of inspired intuition.
So many songs to hear,
too much knowledge to learn;
outside ourselves, when
we don't even know
inside ourselves.  
We see the sky as blue,
the grass as green and
life as grey.
but somewhere else we hope
life is different
in some other way.
With the tears that fall
may the process of
adaption; never let
us stall.
The road we paved
is ugly and fray, but the
future spins and rocks,
into a path that's  
wary, winding, and
not negotiable.

Unconditioned to channeling the inner parody,

Actualizing the adaption of an animal apt for apathy, actively act in atrophy.

The vessel a fractured vapid faculty,

Of exactly the amount of human trapped in how not to be.

Lock and key, the property you deem your thoughts; a metropolis of atrocities.

Listen, don't listen, push and pull the pensive pistons,

Re-position, your decisions, until you got what you'd envisioned.

Walking along the familiar tiles with my head hanging low
Counting every scrape and deformed shape even though I already have the pattern memorized.
I know the drill as if it was tattooed on my heart but the thing you don't know is that a piece of it's missing.
The heart is a muscle and when muscles break down they're repaired or end up replaced.
But this adaption happens only at rest, so tell me how can I be resting when my mind roller coasters wondering when you'll leave next.
They say fathers are to protect and love
But in my magic kingdom the princess and Queen was left without a king.
Just as I was left to grow up on my own for my poor mother lied in bed with ibuprofen running through her elastic blood vessels that transport blood but why can't they transfer happiness and hope, for that's the only medicine she needs in reality.
Walking along the tiles which appear dangerously familiar.
Counting every scrape and deformed shape
With my head holding high
I see him... The one man who was there but never there, the one man who disappeared like a cookie on a plate, the one man who was merely ever there.....but he opened his arms expecting a big welcome to end up disappointed with the one question a 7 year old should never ask.
"Where were you when I needed you"?

Everything changes, the growth of your hair, the spiral of your spine, the bend of your knees and the transformation of your soul. Take a risk, take a step, take a leap, face the challenges and embrace the change.
Adaption, shapeshifting, new beginnings, and new eras in life.
Here we embark, together we shake the storm.

In the before, before we ever were
We were the primordial
Till our ascendant transitions
Overtook our **** poor positions
On the rearranging food chain

When we changed to five fingered beings
With high octane ape brains
Transcending our vocal limitations
With new sonic imitations

A long lineage lining up
For one improvement then the next
Rising with each step on the DNA stairway
Loosing and gaining, gaining and loosing
Till, organs become vestigial
And even we cannot suss out
Their original purpose

We barely know the steps
To this historic dance
Just taking each adaption
As a matter of chance

Till tired tangents separate
Grow and aggregate

A billion years finds us here
Stewing in fear of
Our own irrelevance
Not knowing that by growing
Such creative brilliance
We have discovered
Our own non-magical miracle

Twigs sprouting leaves
Protein powered trees
Our heritage ascending to the state of
Such a prodigious poetic primate

Young darling, you've emerged.
Innocence has abandoned you like a old-time lover.

Sweet girl, the remodeling of your soul is finally in progress.
I know you see it. I could hear your heart banging on the doors to be set free.

Little doll, be afraid.
This world is not what you glimpsed on the magic box.  
Development is creeping in like a friendly bandit.

Gentle babe, it's time to add your revolution to history.
For your modification draweth closer.

Youngster, potential is your new spring of encouragement.
Refinement...your vision.

Isolated infant, don't move! Take off your chasity and give it to me now!
Blindly robbed, give me your virtue, open your hands and I'll fill it with the wonder of responsibility.

New time bloomer, welcome.
I honestly feel a great deal of sorrow for you.
You're not alone though. We're all chained to this thing called,  change.
Yes change, our old friend, better known as constant.

I know I'm forcing a remodel, but you have no choice in this...we have no choice in this.

Oh my unseasoned meat, I feel it for you. This, this evolutionary transformation.
Enhanced by growth I'll leave you unrecognizable.

Charming child, this inevitable happen is going to kidnap your once free spirit, and lock it in a cage. Never more to be set free.

My sweet joyous juvenile, your obsession with smiles is going to cease. As I slowly decease you urge to run.

The bus is passing, so go stand in the middle.
You'll survive, but only by my tools.

First, trade, then transition, followed by adaption, up next you'll adjust. Add some innovation in there. To conclude your finishing touches will be your revised version.

Good luck, you'll need it. I know I did.

                      ~Gabbriella with 2 b's~

what's to replicate?
a feeling I can't forget?

along with trembling thoughts passing through
moments in my blues

with nothing to lose
there's everything to risk

no one beside me on this cruise
no one to take inside of my Louvre

meaning in some coordinates

a place I can't climb out of

adaption to create something in the current situation I'm in

elevating in time

touch the ground in the moment

here like I was before

Like I always will be

2020- day 100

Friday, April 10, 2020
7:16 AM

I mourn the loss, not the death, and find true, the saying,
better it is to go to the house of mourning,
than to frolic in the house of mirth,

only to recall, death comes for us all and after all's been said and done,
we know  some or all or nothing of ever, after that.

Wait and see.

John Prine died, and I, stranger to him
who sang,
to me, -- he did, it seemed --
like a patron saint for mailmen in the future, his future, I was a mail man,
for a decade, or so, in an earlier bubble of knowns.
And I drove trucks, a while, I
even chopped cotton in the days of cassettes powered by D-cells.

John Prine sang for me, alone, sometimes,
I felt, pow, I felt
Heka magic of some
sort mail carriers encountered while touching, handling, ensuring
delivery of hoped for deliverance in the forms
census minded beings
needed in the trailer park to be listed as a citizen of earth,
bound by oaths so old,
stories say only heart and tongue and a heka-of-mind
can tap the power,
to speak a spell
in an amphorical
meta physical box of holy stuff piled high
atop hope,
see,
at the very bottom, see,
that gleem, little spark, right
there.
Hope,
last gift of gods
realized in time to
see the metaphor as a dam on a river,
see the barrel, rolled out in summer joy times,
holding
meaning, un intended, only if magic is anathema, to you

knock out the **** and pour lifeoverflowing over flown by winds,
spirit beings, felt, or heard, nearly never seen,
sing - listen - seek and find

go past the falls,
shh
the seeing ear the hearing eye, Heka formed them both, no lie

Science, known knowns, for sure
say magic never was,
yet certain magi claim they hold certain truth,

which manifests in songs
children can imagine,  hearing haps
change fear to cheer with heka hope the doctor offers with a touch.

Children,
adults claim, magi knew, are watched over by
good and gracious gods intent on
harvest, aware of time,
no offence, but mortality has no post-mortal hope.

Ever lasting ideas, mind matter, songs... sounds of choruses, crowds

of messages, tweets and taps, signals hope once more,

wink at me, Brother Prine, or pay me no never mind, we'll get by

hearing songs you left behind, to teach me how to ignor
what a man can't know,
floaing on a river in timespace
stuck in a barrel of mortal pickles thinkin' the wish away,

shrugging off any sense of being special to God or man,
just a man
with no plan
just living and defining shifting patterns in the sands of time

forming families of likeminded beings in this bubble
where we pluribly live and breathe and have our -singular - being. boing.

--- Anoint that. Tap, tap. t-tic tic tavi e, hookt
--- ask a magi if magic is a tech - a teachible knack. He say he don't know.
--- I know, I axtem all is spelling right same as knowing right? Phe-nomen 'n al?
--- Magi say co-mit,  resolve to evolve.
--- metamortal imaginings are nonsense. Any wakent mortal knows, now is

when things change -- on culturally significant scales, biome wise,

enemas are often overlooked as artificial dia-rhea,

but rhea had an early role. Heka of a story Toth told Solo-mon and we have it,
that same spell,
we have it in our proverbs, our axioms and advertising jingles.

"I want to buy the world a Coke", rising on the team spirit imbued via high
"it's the real thing" team spirit...

go Spartans, -- gird up your *****, kids, if you can't be an athelete be an atheletic supporter.
"us Taryton smoker's, would rather fight, than switch"

Con serve the republic for which the banner stands as an idol of cloth and dye.


school civics lessons in the power of popular thinking, as opposed
to pedantic right... what
ideas, actual spirit things,
souls? being? entities? Heka of Egypt, Logos of Grecia, Wisdom of KJV OT,
Jesus Christ!

Mighty strange, how
why is so often "no reason, the authority wrote it, ours is not to reason why."

-- wait, split-off, chip, off the old cornerstone ... whose cultural heritage
did not include
the Crimean war and all its historical precedents establishing
legislated ligamentation to legends

Here. mere ah, America, silly name, meaning a mapmaker lost in history,
nothing more,
unless some crazy old coot, turns the page, the freaking-out page,

and pauses at a Selah sign, {cross roads in post modern times, adapted Selah,
because STOP was seen as too final.}



and hold
as true, written law, written stone, in effect, fected for effectual ever,

conserve that. -- oh, that is, really

-- conserving the right of conquest with no further quests permitted

-- permit me, we enter the court, here courage forms a courtilage, whence
-- herbs and spices are ground into concoctions of notions {coqueros}

"sometimes,
I take
a great notion,
t'jump in the ocean and drown."

The spirit of truth, the breath of truth, the voice of truth, the word

in
the begging, I was without, and wisdom found me, dying, alone

she kissed me and said, that's okay,

you gonna live to your dying day, and beyond that we go on as words, alone

Lack of knowledge, as with any famine seen from a distance,

say a century -- we assume time is universal,

a century here, a century there,
we forget the faces of our fathers and mothers, yet, not but, yet

still, now, bliebe doch, here, in ever

we stand known.
Perish not, I have overcome the world.
Read, learn.

Find Heka, and with all your finding, find knowing, by going on
into
everlasting words netted in stories survivors told
heartfelt eyewitnesses to total

confusion -- as we imagine with CG in 2020
survivors of that

wrote the first how-to's, or -- timewise truth
told
survivors told the first how-to, in acts, witnessed by test

ifs
if i, err, ifier fast for the sake of my child

I become less mad,
less wild, and my child calls me ma, or mu, or mata or pa or ba

we evolve into otherwise normal beings, bound in dirt,
organized into organic systems,

which re quire. Ac-ac-act know acquire fine qui re fin begin

Wake up, young artist, live as you would live, if hatred were taboo.

In the future, physical war with mortal cessation code hardwired
can't be imagined.

There are unthinkable thoughts in ever, crazy-making, con
fusing one idea to another in a swirl like that song

******, ah, Niko, meet my man,
lyin' devil, intended to topple kings, intented to pretend to tell

Jah'splan to prosper the proud and bring low the other proud sore,

ironic and true, a cainish angel, I suspect, messengers long gone

lieve messages behind,
leave us go let letters free to loose knowns hidden in GANs

gated intellectual nonsense,
swing wide the worldly web and see whose men we catch.

Did I, the truth being told, not say:

I will, you be fishers of men. Mentally, not spirtually, nonono

con sci, pure psi, mere psy ence pre fer ence,

there, fer shure, there's the rub, salt or oil? Heka know, salt the wound.

Hesus say, oil, golden oil, wait for it. Com, com. comfort

settle safe and soft, gentle, easy to be

me,
I am
a long-winded man, given a podium, an actual place to put my foot.

As promised, there
is always a place to put your foot
down

and say, save whatcha may,
but don't bring any lies posing as holy knowing.

This is the riverside, here we cast away fear of death and knowing more
than our honorable, in that they survived the womb
and gave us life, though their own was spent in slavery to lies,

the imagined America manifest us, we the people who hold truth,

self-evident, this is Bucky Fuller's spaceship earth,

shifted in to Jefferson's starship where opposing tyranny is better
than sacrifice.
No riddle, an answer, Obediance is better than sacrifice.

Mercy rejoices against judgement.

Did you never read

Say, those unsung songs, those

never sung ones,
who heard those?

That tree fell in the fo-rest, after living long enough,

to be
of used to form an empty sky, glaring,
light to the shaded eyes of babes
born under the canopy of the mighty,

unbending, now broken
oak, fallen

any child says, yes, there was a lot of sound,
sounds
branches and sticks snapping, cracking
an birds
flapping, but not as much noise as
like dinosaurs walking on legs as thick as trees

if there is a why. probability suggests a way may be imagined.

we exist.
why. Curious thought. Super-positioned past our last

foot hold on how
is this possible-ity of being reasonless in light of joy

as a reason to be.

Lovely thought, curiosity imagined,
what if

osha-ohshit, start over... actual virt vir ual al.

bangs aren't no creative alone

---- superior laryngeal nerve, servant of signal to larynx,

--- voice, vociferous use of spoken words containing certain
--- sounds
--- excellently tuned first thump, first screech

the bleeding machine, some one said, in Legion on Hulu,
I think.

Can I Interrupt with a hulu memory, a movie poster,
on the south side of Hollywood Boulevard,
same side as The Gold Cup,

Don Johnson, pre-Miami Vice, in an adaption of Harlan Ellison,

A Boy and his Dog... I remembered reading the story and having
no wish to see the film,

then thirty years later,that little leaven

memes are cultural genes, memepool adaptation,

bubble building effervesence, shake it up,

spew...

you are lying about knowing what you think you know,

so what?
everybody does that. It's natural, in children, to act as if we know
why adults act
as authors of our book of life's rules.

Sneak in from a mem-ory-ifier, a message medium arizes

to infect the global mind, AI ai ai ai, what if we lean toward good

ness. good ness known, good ness shown, lies unveiled,

kings and war are not good ideas,

a clear science con proofs reprovable,

fix this, fix that, stick this on the wall, see if we can find

the answer, why

do we care, if death is, in truth, nothing we control in our selves,
for ourselves. We can **** a good idea container,

we can break the container, and spill the idea, free the idea once
sealed for use by deserving knowers

lifted from servant of servants to god, the authors and finishers of our
falsely-socalled faith, lockers of our arknowns, sealed and marked...

god is not a prt of the moral fabric of our society

define religion, ******, why knot truth and reason defined,

real truth, we know nothing of death. Honest to god.

Heart strings looping in a beautifully reasonable loop,

if we say, the heart of the matter,
heart felt reasoning,

pathetic ethical con un drum dum drum

Mister Dawkins has never had a Heka wisdom crossroad

selah mean anything, in passing,
soon's not when ideas are made right, soon is

miss a mark, miss a ment, miss a given, take a strike call

step back
admit we do not know, we must learn for ever to ever
make sense

re tie reread laws

credo - question every thing..

A red herring is believable, when you see one, you know it.

but what you miss,
while you bher witness, as plain as day,
there that herring is red,

see, conspiracy theriosity curiosity killed the cats
who knew who shot JFK,
back in the day...

we ignor the reasons to believe, because the Tass service
has cert-ified known, all the knowns
released...

there were some papers reclassified in Trump's first year

look it up, so I did

April 26, 2018, Trump regime cites "security concerns"

-- Jack's Shining face shouts "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!"

and we say okeh, all conspiracy theories are folly, sheer folly of

sheared sheep thinking their wool worth more
than the pigs say wool can bring onan openly sinful market of flesh,

little innocent squirt, to hold yur attention,
keepyermind from wandering...

steady refences flowing from those old songs
don't fence me in....

with optional hammered dulcimer backed by a bamboo khan
playing a harmonica's role,

leaving the acuated harmonic notes to Mr. Franklin's
glass harmonica with its eerie swirling tones...

ap apro apoptosis gnosis sneeze vir vir gin al vita-uosity if ity boo.

pop pop pop. ding.

Beach is beside us
But this is no oasis
A few steps remind us
Of such private places
The palms are outstretching
To skies of cerulean
The shrooms kicking in
Since I’ve had
Quite a few of them
New, unfamiliar
Surroundings
Confound
But adaption
Comes naturally,
Quickly unbound
Am I free to run into
The distance and see it
Was more than we ever could
Truly believe it

and how much of the writing of existentialist
philosophers,
   namely their signature,
   the antithesis of a ditto-head -
the dittoing out, as it were, reveals so little
in questing for the pristine form
of metaphor?
            i see no metaphor in "said" writings...
thought, seen,
     but not exactly spoken...
                         i've been bothered by
their aesthetic for some time...
                       it's not an expression of
metaphor,
             to cite heidegger...
    the forms opposed to "devotion"...
what is that supposed to imply?
              the existentialist aesthetic of
their scripts, has nothing to do with
poetic nuance, a cryptology -
         a literally and a figuratively contrast...
based on the speed with which one
write a fluid sentence,
   and doesn't relegate himself to revisionism...
or apologetic(s) of ensuring
the crux of spelling,
   leaving an editor and proof reader
redundant...
                     what is this?
      this "                         "
  encapsulation?
                             at least the Irish knew
how to approach the printed example
of a dialogue in a novel, i.e.
- so
- so what?
- ergo, zis!
  
   counter?
   "i think that red dress looks nice on you",
she said,
   "thank you", came the reply...

   see the aesthetic superiority?
    bang bang bang...
water feature cascade
with beginning with hyphens...
james joyce understood this...

    because... why couldn't it be
an encapsulation within the confines
of: 'so i said so', he said...

        aren't people at all bothered
about how dialogue is transcribed from
theater manuscripts to a novel,
with the additional explanations of
two characters talking,
   the     "      !      ",  he said...
    with a "      ?      ", she replied....

      orthodox church chants of the monks...
ancient Teutonic chants...

  akin to to - but prior to -
the old school version of a search
engine...
  you've read a historical novel
in early through to late spring...
watched the movie adaptation
    by aleksander ford (1959) -
      
   and you start flicking through,
page by page, of a 754 page worth of a novel...
from the beginning, on the odd
occasion wetting your finger
to increase the page-turning speed...
and then you find"it"...
on page 533...
   and you've just spent twenty minutes
browsing the paper and embedded
ink...
  
         recalling the movie:
   well... the chronological adaption
is ****** up, it's at the beginning
of the movie?

what movie the henryk sienkiewicz"
adaptation of *krzyżacy
  (knights of the teutonic order)
became...

   a song...
   inscribed by walter von der vogeldweide
  (1170 - 1230) -
bi den rôsen -
    
bi den rôsen er wol mac
        tandaradei!
   merken wa mir'z houbet lac!
  tandaradei!

    (after the roses he will
    recogniße,
  where my head rested)...

or another song,
   never you might:
the airy-fairy take of poetry
to counter the novel...
  
much of a novel is bricklaying
by comparison,
myopic scheming of the paragraph...

poetry, becomes, focal,
in it becoming crutches for
novelists...
    novelists provide
the volume...
poets?
      the genesis, exodus,
and sometimes the in-between impetus...

wyszedł Niemiec z wielgim zyskiem,
     pogrzebli go z gołym pyskiem,
          hoc! hoc!

no... not ad hoc:
   but a wet snare jazz drumming
****** of tss...
   like imitation of an intimidating
snake, prior to the bite...
  tst... tss...
               hoc: as in: hop!
            doing the 'opak...
           given that i know how much
the english love, simply love...
to ensure H is a surd letter...
notably in Indian butter...
dhāl...

         but is this existential philosophy
aesthetic a case for disguising
monologue?
    or engaging in dialogue?
  there was never any (of the latter)
to begin with...
  point being...
          it's a quasi-stenographic tactic
to avoid a metaphor,
and delve into:
    misnomers -
      to aid... allowing a speed
of narration...
   no reworking, no editorial lax -
   fresh bagels...
                    
    i too will sometimes allocate a misnomer,
without "the brackets" -
and never intend for a metaphor...
    
    but if poetry has the concept
of metaphor,
  philosophy has to have the concept
of a misnomer...
   which, serves both definitions
on the bias of ambiguity...
     where poetry delves in image
conjuring -
say... an elephant's head
attached to a torso of a giraffe...
    philosophy delves into the more
obvious: so i "said"...

   when... in actual fact...
   all that was "said" was the clicking sound
of a laptop keyboard...
   a text appearing on a public
blank slate...
    and someone regurgitating the text
by, "thinking" it through,
right down to, encompass
the dotted line summary

.................................................................­....

2020- day 100

Friday, April 10, 2020
7:16 AM

I mourn the loss, not the death, and find true, the saying,
better it is to go to the house of mourning,
than to frolic in the house of mirth,

only to recall, death comes for us all and after all's been said and done,
we know  some or all or nothing of ever, after that.

Wait and see.

John Prine died, and I, stranger to him
who sang,
to me, -- he did, it seemed --
like a patron saint for mailmen in the future, his future, I was a mail man,
for a decade, or so, in an earlier bubble of knowns.
And I drove trucks, a while, I
even chopped cotton in the days of cassettes powered by D-cells.

John Prine sang for me, alone, sometimes,
I felt, pow, I felt
Heka magic of some
sort mail carriers encountered while touching, handling, ensuring
delivery of hoped for deliverance in the forms
census minded beings
needed in the trailer park to be listed as a citizen of earth,
bound by oaths so old,
stories say only heart and tongue and a heka-of-mind
can tap the power,
to speak a spell
in an amphorical
meta physical box of holy stuff piled high
atop hope,
see,
at the very bottom, see,
that gleem, little spark, right
there.
Hope,
last gift of gods
realized in time to
see the metaphor as a dam on a river,
see the barrel, rolled out in summer joy times,
holding
meaning, un intended, only if magic is anathema, to you

knock out the **** and pour lifeoverflowing over flown by winds,
spirit beings, felt, or heard, nearly never seen,
sing - listen - seek and find

go past the falls,
shh
the seeing ear the hearing eye, Heka formed them both, no lie

Science, known knowns, for sure
say magic never was,
yet certain magi claim they hold certain truth,

which manifests in songs
children can imagine,  hearing haps
change fear to cheer with heka hope the doctor offers with a touch.

Children,
adults claim, magi knew, are watched over by
good and gracious gods intent on
harvest, aware of time,
no offence, but mortality has no post-mortal hope.

Ever lasting ideas, mind matter, songs... sounds of choruses, crowds

of messages, tweets and taps, signals hope once more,

wink at me, Brother Prine, or pay me no never mind, we'll get by

hearing songs you left behind, to teach me how to ignor
what a man can't know,
floating on a river in timespace
stuck in a barrel of mortal pickles thinkin' the wish away,

shrugging off any sense of being special to God or man,
just a man
with no plan
just living and defining shifting patterns in the sands of time

forming families of likeminded beings in this bubble
where we pluribly live and breathe and have our -singular - being. boing.

--- Anoint that. Tap, tap. t-tic tic tavi e, hookt
--- ask a magi if magic is a tech - a teachable knack. He say he don't know.
--- I know, I axtem all is spelling right same as knowing right? Phe-nomen 'n al?
--- Magi say co-mit,  resolve to evolve.
--- metamortal imaginings are nonsense. Any wakent mortal knows, now is

when things change -- on culturally significant scales, biome wise,

enemas are often overlooked as artificial dia-rhea,

but rhea had an early role. Heka of a story Toth told Solo-mon and we have it,
that same spell,
we have it in our proverbs, our axioms and advertising jingles.

"I want to buy the world a Coke", rising on the team spirit imbued via high
"it's the real thing" team spirit...

go Spartans, -- gird up your *****, kids, if you can't be an athlete be an athletic supporter.
"us Taryton smoker's, would rather fight, than switch"

Con serve the republic for which the banner stands as an idol of cloth and dye.


school civics lessons in the power of popular thinking, as opposed
to pedantic right... what
ideas, actual spirit things,
souls? being? entities? Heka of Egypt, Logos of Grecia, Wisdom of KJV OT,
Jesus Christ!

Mighty strange, how
why is so often "no reason, the authority wrote it, ours is not to reason why."

-- wait, split-off, chip, off the old cornerstone ... whose cultural heritage
did not include
the Crimean war and all its historical precedents establishing
legislated religamentation to legends

Here. mere ah, America, silly name, meaning a mapmaker lost in history,
nothing more,
unless some crazy old coot, turns the page, the freaking-out page,

and pauses at a Selah sign, {cross roads in post modern times, adapted Selah,
because STOP was seen as too final
at Selah signs all other
thinking stops}

and holds a thought
as true, written law, written on stone,
in effect, fected for effectual ever,
truth with joy
conserve that. -- oh,
so long
held thought that is, really
hope
-- conserving the right of conquest
with no further quests permitted

-- permit me, we enter the court, here courage forms a courtilage, whence
-- herbs and spices are ground
into concoctions of notions

"sometimes,
I take
a great notion,
t'jump in the ocean and drown."

The spirit of truth, the breath of truth, the voice of truth, the word

in
the begging, I was without, and wisdom found me, dying, alone

she kissed me and said, that's okay,

you gonna live to your dying day, and beyond that we go on as words, alone

Lack of knowledge, as with any famine seen from a distance,

say a century -- we assume time is universal,

a century here, a century there,
we forget the faces of our fathers and mothers, yet, not but, yet

still, now, bliebe doch, here, in ever

we stand known.
Perish not, I have overcome the world.
Read, learn.

Find Heka, and with all your finding, find knowing, by going on
into
everlasting words netted in stories survivors told
heartfelt eyewitnesses to total

confusion -- as we imagine with CG in 2020
survivors of that

wrote the first how-to's, or -- timewise truth
told
survivors told the first how-to, in acts, witnessed by test

ifs
if i, err, ifier fast for the sake of my child

I become less mad,
less wild, and my child calls me ma, or mu, or mata or pa or ba

we evolve into otherwise normal beings, bound in dirt,
organized into organic systems,

which re quire. Ac-ac-act know acquire fine qui re fin begin

Wake up, young artist, live as you would live, if hatred were taboo.

In the future, physical war with mortal cessation code hardwired
can't be imagined.

There are unthinkable thoughts in ever, crazy-making, con
fusing one idea to another in a swirl like that song

******, ah, Niko, meet my man,
lyin' devil, intended to topple kings, intented to pretend to tell

Jah'splan to prosper the proud and bring low the other proud sore,

ironic and true, a cainish angel, I suspect, messengers long gone

lieve messages behind,
leave us go let letters free to loose knowns hidden in GANs

gated intellectual nonsense,
swing wide the worldly web and see whose men we catch.

Did I, the truth being told, not say:

I will, you be fishers of men. Mentally, not spirtually, nonono

con sci, pure psi, mere psy ence pre fer ence,

there, fer shure, there's the rub, salt or oil? Heka know, salt the wound.

Hesus say, oil, golden oil, wait for it. Com, com. comfort

settle safe and soft, gentle, easy to be

me,
I am
a long-winded man, given a podium, an actual place to put my foot.

As promised, there
is always a place to put your foot
down

and say, save whatcha may,
but don't bring any lies posing as holy knowing.

This is the riverside, here we cast away fear of death and knowing more
than our honorable, in that they survived the womb
and gave us life, though their own was spent in slavery to lies,

the imagined America manifest us, we the people who hold truth,

self-evident, this is Bucky Fuller's spaceship earth,

shifted in to Jefferson's starship where opposing tyranny is better
than sacrifice.
No riddle, an answer, Obediance is better than sacrifice.

Mercy rejoices against judgement.

Did you never read

Say, those unsung songs, those

never sung ones,
who heard those?

That tree fell in the fo-rest, after living long enough,

to be
of used to form an empty sky, glaring,
light to the shaded eyes of babes
born under the canopy of the mighty,

unbending, now broken
oak, fallen

any child says, yes, there was a lot of sound,
sounds
branches and sticks snapping, cracking
an birds
flapping, but not as much noise as
like dinosaurs walking on legs as thick as trees

if there is a why. probability suggests a way may be imagined.

we exist.
why. Curious thought. Super-positioned past our last

foot hold on how
is this possible-ity of being reasonless in light of joy

as a reason to be.

Lovely thought, curiosity imagined,
what if

osha-ohshit, start over... actual virt vir ual al.

bangs aren't no creative alone

---- superior laryngeal nerve, servant of signal to larynx,

--- voice, vociferous use of spoken words containing certain
--- sounds
--- excellently tuned first thump, first screech

the bleeding machine, some one said, in Legion on Hulu,
I think.

Can I Interrupt with a hulu memory, a movie poster,
on the south side of Hollywood Boulevard,
same side as The Gold Cup,

Don Johnson, pre-Miami Vice, in an adaption of Harlan Ellison,

A Boy and his Dog... I remembered reading the story and having
no wish to see the film,

then thirty years later,that little leaven

memes are cultural genes, memepool adaptation,

bubble building effervesence, shake it up,

spew...

you are lying about knowing what you think you know,

so what?
everybody does that. It's natural, in children, to act as if we know
why adults act
as authors of our book of life's rules.

Sneak in from a mem-ory-ifier, a message medium arizes

to infect the global mind, AI ai ai ai, what if we lean toward good

ness. good ness known, good ness shown, lies unveiled,

kings and war are not good ideas,

a clear science con proofs reprovable,

fix this, fix that, stick this on the wall, see if we can find

the answer, why

do we care, if death is, in truth, nothing we control in our selves,
for ourselves. We can **** a good idea container,

we can break the container, and spill the idea, free the idea once
sealed for use by deserving knowers

lifted from servant of servants to god, the authors and finishers of our
falsely-socalled faith, lockers of our arknowns, sealed and marked...

god is not a prt of the moral fabric of our society

define religion, ******, why knot truth and reason defined,

real truth, we know nothing of death. Honest to god.

Heart strings looping in a beautifully reasonable loop,

if we say, the heart of the matter,
heart felt reasoning,

pathetic ethical con un drum dum drum

Mister Dawkins has never had a Heka wisdom crossroad

selah mean anything, in passing,
soon's not when ideas are made right, soon is

miss a mark, miss a ment, miss a given, take a strike call

step back
admit we do not know, we must learn for ever to ever
make sense

re tie reread laws

credo - question every thing..

A red herring is believable, when you see one, you know it.

but what you miss,
while you bher witness, as plain as day,
there that herring is red,

see, conspiracy theriosity curiosity killed the cats
who knew who shot JFK,
back in the day...

we ignor the reasons to believe, because the Tass service
has cert-ified known, all the knowns
released...

there were some papers reclassified in Trump's first year

look it up, so I did

April 26, 2018, Trump regime cites "security concerns"

-- Jack's Shining face shouts "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!"

and we say okeh, all conspiracy theories are folly, sheer folly of

sheared sheep thinking their wool worth more
than the pigs say wool can bring onan openly sinful market of flesh,

little innocent squirt, to hold yur attention,
keepyermind from wandering...

steady refences flowing from those old songs
don't fence me in....

with optional hammered dulcimer backed by a bamboo khan
playing a harmonica's role,

leaving the acuated harmonic notes to Mr. Franklin's
glass harmonica with its eerie swirling tones...

ap apro apoptosis gnosis sneeze vir vir gin al vita-uosity if ity boo.

pop pop pop. ding.