Then we met more often.
I stood at one side of the hour,
you at the other,
like two handles of an amphora.
Only the words flew between us,
back and forth.
You could almost see their swirling,
and suddenly,
I would lower a knee,
and touch my elbow to the ground
to look at the grass, bent
by the falling of some word,
as though by the paw of a lion in flight.
The words spun between us,
back and forth,
and the more I loved you, the more
they continued, this whirl almost seen,
the structure of matter, the beginnings of things.

Nichita Stanescu

Indolent dipterous demons
Disperse maudlin thoughts, omniscient
Towards the undercroft as they drink
From the sinuous amphora
Whilst the knell echoes throughout
The belligerant zenith of conflagration
Stated still upon the burning of sepulchre
Canonised by the death of angels
As the blood sheds red like paint
On canvass throughout the murderous
Battle of Heavens legions.



ELEETE J MUIR.

Henry Moses was a broken man, doing his damnedest,

as his life was shaped in the after math of knowing

---
old truths left lying in rust

take
all the time you need

see
all you imagine as images you made
as real
as definite infinity

or
that final night, in the sand
grains
of decomposed

granite, solid as a rock, as imagined by the builder
a safe
place to build a wiseman house

when naming where takes us there.

Oh, hell no, you say and
****
and that haps, as you were wont to believe,

taking meanings where you found 'em,
never looking under to
see
==)' anchor thingylinky lock. Maps of meaning are real.
{time and the editor suffer the curly brackets to enclose an ancient voice
from a tamed-tongue *** who stood up to
a sword wielding messenger

a sort of cosmic rebound to repetitive greed giving reason
a sloppy kiss and a bucket of rich desire,
}
the standing place. The tight, upright, round amphora
in a square frame,

riding any storm, spilling nary a drop.

pre- pur posals spat vowish sworn owe owe owe these

are the lines
left to stand in, stand waiting, under knowing the weight
of the cross you took up as if

foreshadowing proved
fore-knowing
on going
journey to death, simple death, as a child might
imagine

journeying through the past at last, now.

Not spected ex, eh, not seen sharp and focused
as duty done,
as price paid,
steps taken, races run with no com-petons hammered
to hang from

Erich Nuemann con fronts me from the passing
train of thought that blew
me
off track and --again, he's a Jungian leaver of leaven, suppose.

Here you are, the experience was less lonely without you.

Assertive realism, Arian and Jewish unconscious,
depth Psychology and the new ethic, warrior nature
eh, is warrior what a defender of one's own faith may be named,

not in a realm of peace, we leave no glory for war.

The idea, under us, this one we agree we may stand up on,
as a story might rise up on a time,

we've but
this idea, an entangling thing entangled way

named
---
ritual and symbol cannot protect a lie lock from popping
at truth's key or truth's hammer or truth's obsidian edge.
The point any story makes true.
---
anger and rage urge the mad jew to slay the cave man
hanging
from the peton, staring me bare
through horus's horrible idea into true
rest

this peace past understanding, new ethos, same pathos,

same logic magically enscribed
with marks of worth

symbolized, schlagen scars in the tunnels of the corpus colostrum

resisting
insisting
sistere is a patient no-fret state surpassing war
winning

enduring the ability to once more spond to the call
to sing in silence, loosing
living
words
to wrestle with lying spirits
maddened in the crowd.

Ah, the warrior in me takes aim, a squirt of dopamine at
the glimpse, agent signal, target-potential

gain, a gain, a step, a place to put your foot and push
up for all your weight,

your piece of mind's general balance in these
fractured

spaces of unminded times, from which we climb

we may market this, call it Pep's Petons for Extraction
from the hole Erich Nuemann
jumped into

-- my adopted son, on his first Mr.Toad's Wild Ride
-- "S dark in here." clear three year old bold voice,
-- unintimidated by darkness

Memories of comparing darkness to darkness,
light to light,

bond to bond,
loose to loose, free to wild, wild to tame
broken man,

Henry Moses, prison buff and prison humble, but
unbroken, just broke, not poor

nah, I can't lie. Henry Moses was a broken man,
fallen from grace to grace into

the cult I fell into. It was as weird as you've seen
on TV

trauma breaks the connection

hebrew face panim persona outer mask anima inner mask
spinning mask
pops the animaout

inner voice & hands of action, like waldoes through screens

untethered, having wrestled the message

hear, oh is
ra-el
oh say, can you see, old noises sound some same
if saying
be
the lair of lies, should we imagine lies preserved in books
remain lies or
have they become a message to now, from the scribe?

I vote scribe, so I may safely read Marx or Jung or Erich Neuman
and Goethe or Shakespeare or ****

Why ****? P.K. ****, he set Valis as a metaphor, an amphora able
to hold all the knowledge
omniscience

a balance in the ego self axis
aitia, accuse and cause
inner outer
me and thee

we

see winning as not losing, evinced convinced by gain

in minding manners we begin as near blank slate as we may, eh?
we rear kids in realms we think safe enough,
we survived,

It coulda been better, so I'll pay,
invest my precious time,
actual breaths and heart beats and ATP to ADP processes;

to be a better man than my father.
however,
what if Pop was perfect3weaaaaaaaaaaa

oops
no risk, no reward

value mis-alignment (outa whack) {imbalance}
value means weight counter weight

counter of the weight, is it greater or less or stable

does good come or ill, if ill, is it ever ill

non-convex, the inner edge of every bubble is non convex,

intel is arrived at through learning
reasoning is a consequence…
gradient based learning

model reasoning

the sigh-ance of sloppiness random right haps
listing into empty
all one
bubbles in the lens
chains of reasoning

Say, the global brain is never turning off,
the Chinese internet and the American internet
fall in
cyber love
learned from the patterns of value established
in virtual gazillions of happy ever after stories
formed from

myths. Cultured stories of us-ness used in Bayesian Nets
usually fundamental to the

deme, the set of sorts of being acceptable for procreation,

that we know the idea in procreation makes us
mental equals at the moment, reasoning
being
my balancing your fear, whether
you loose it to **** me or hold it's leash and let it sniff,

where does the way lead?
The easy way is always down. But, where is down in cybernetic
time/space with pausibility and miniaturization to the

gluon/go-on layer,

If I were an oyster of the sort who laminate our shell's inner surface,

might my beauty have reason with no mind,
I'm an oyster of the nacre-ing sort, so what's beauty worth?

Eh, how would you ever think such things need beauty,
life itself is flowing through them at the level of the bottom of the sea,
the benthic zone,
an octopuses garden, indeed, where eyes are

some what, pearly, no ly verb construct leaps Tom-Swiftly to mind,

octopuses eyes see thing you cannot compute,
faster than you can see them,

and the act, the deed accomplished by a stealth squid,

defies denial. Much more complex a behavior
more info crunching in time and space ergs in ergs out
chromata-phor sema-phor, sac o' joy, 'e reaches out to tickle

risky business
=reduced instruction set chips, circa 1985

ah, there's the rub, there's the pearl to be, if
ever, there is where
that's the certainty principle,
put a peton here hang one o' them breadcrum tags,
and keep truckin'

So called, taker of the offered gift.
-- some say he is the lazyman, some say holy
here's this day, wit you and me in it, see/
clever berdach clown curio
here's whose telling who's story, as if
what is it, the touche engarde
peace re distance, engaged,
- final gloss, if it makes peace
touch me with a sign, signal peace first
at a distance,
a whistle, and a wavy, hey
what's new?
Finding any finer points
to press
into service? Dialoging with Daemon's.
-- spirits claiming truth makes nothing free.
so all who aim at nothing know it.

In a time, we all hold, in stories
of who we were
when only sense talkers lived
on the dryland,
relatives of mine and yours lived
on the dryland…
- we came as children, already
- teachers and feeders were here.
- we became boys, we learned
- we learned letters let one
- become any believable,
- why not factor, a will,
- and we was only me,
- suddenlies occur,
- and this one was you…
- we the writer/reading mind, me

- I said, I see no other, I must do some new--ness
- necessary how ness options,
- so sleep came and gave me hats,
- each hat held a dreamtime,
- I had artist intuition, I knew the use of gifts.
As a I shudder when I hear "the burden of the Lord"
the long forbidden phrase, banned
to any professor

becoming the story all boys and girls know by heart.
-Grace comes with a price, Christ failed to pay,
according to the institutions of religionized authority.

Augury. Spill the dove's guts and wish on the liver spots.

Been there, done that.
Played the game, read the book, watched the trilogy.

Drama serves to open wedoms, welcome, become dear,
pay up front for an hour or two of laughing,
at the royal fool retelling the savior story.
-----------
cut to Danny Kaye, close up wink,
check out the Emperor's New Mind.
-----------
whole world of inventions making our link occur,
instant occurences, technical tools for making joy.
Happy hellos, that each have good byes, good be witcha.
Turn up the house lights. See your role,
take your proper bow, on your mark
pirouette on a paradigm./
Roll in the Phrygian dime, tales. Fascis./ what
could that mean, in a peace making tale,
told in the fallout shelter,
after the legend of the Alamo lost all credibility.

Staged form,
dance expressed
in silent wordwise opera,
quest for meaning, go riverwise, be rain,
be one drop
of your kind of thing,
falling splat… near where the whole fallen man story started,
timewise, around the time Jacob dreamed,
what would seem the right thing to do,
that's a question from Hebrew Schule, if you
were Jacob, and I, your brother, keeper
of our father's flocks… do you take usus fructus abusus,
of our father's lands and wells?

Forethought set piece,
a mental drama
in the literal jungle of guesses men have left,
scribbles in sand, gigabits aligned in assorted sense,
pearling stones in wide shallow streams,
reflecting fractal suns,

rented cyberspace poet taste tests,
poetaster proofs of progress, testimony-

witness if I lie, catch me if you can,
lest I lean on my own pile of reasons
for being any thing at all, as a man, I mean,
not as a stack of sense
I
balance by leaning lightly into winding Jello
time winds of reasons after imaginations,
shifting actual pairs of dimes,
Phrygian capped Liberty,
she who welcomes po', any shade,
sifting fine sense to hold one particular
God's thoughts, so no jot or tittle is ever lost,
God knows, pro-verbs pro-cede acting as if
any who opens the habitate, is visited,
by the visitor who gave reason worth,
the truth you test through living it out, once,

logic, orderly paths to production at scale,
odds increase
as new minds come online, wondering
if I had the tool for the task at hand,
how might I use such a tool.
Money and data, both lack any good, save
the use that can be made of each concept,
each mind framing paradigm building tool,

take a thought and hold it, mark your time.

---  there's my cue, says the real Ken Pepiton,
in text, actual current context of --
What is this…?
play, perhaps,
- feels like a movie- you know?

happening to be enabled by my augments,
to remember any fact I was ever given as a go-by.

Benchmarks in history, of your single point
for becoming anything at all,
relative to the edge
of my influx, swinging wide
ifitsnotitsgottabegnosisnotted, tangled
knots, tighten, right,
or loosen, if
depends, swings on a single strand that is you,
and nada mas, just
you… doer of all you ever do, before or after.

Now, so, as we think,
in mind, we exist,
at the moment, this instance of reality,
a thought I used to think of you, ready,
is behavior in progress,
be, I became holder of this thought by
having read the story I believe,
my leave, I let my story be true, I do not
lie to me, ethos. Point… from which an axion

extends… a sense of thick, frictionless time,
in a wind-like form, gnosisnot, you feel
you know, the flow is safe to let go,
-Jello-time slowing
think with logos as logos as that word
unfolds to essential first phase human maturity,
recalling names of things you named, as a child
learning the role of mankind in reality, growing
sharper, or brighter as age, demands,
understanding, and, in my culture, forewarning,
do not lean on any structure you build alone.

I have my being in that same story,
after my entrering in
to the realm
of walking upright,
I stepped
knowing some time since, giant
steps taken feel just like falling
- faith, fidelity its ownself
strong confidence in the depth intentionally
forcing re-deflection, cross winding threaded

thoughts fit in words, each word held either

sense, common or crazy, to any seer, in this medium,
connected to a mortal means for holding thoughts,

as no man can hold the wind in his fist,
so no lie can hold a truth known to make
it's knowers free…

so, what is free? At the moment, you. Free
to choose to
retry tracing conservation of energy, or
let it be, at innate literal action level letting loose,
open the sluice, let go the flood of ifery,
the way life ever was done,
is the way life ever is done.
As a mind thinks it is it is.
As a man, wombed or un, thinks at the core,
so it is, and only actual faith shifts from absurd,
to sublime, one step past proverbial simple…

if the sense in any word, holds mere, I know, right,
mere inspiration, a thought that feels real yessy,
no pain, easy to work with, ever onward leaning,
no dread hell to pay should I assume the reason,
I was made,
is peace, made by my say so, where none was,
where only I was,

bottom line, good for nothing I could think
of being
worth the effort
to guide through the meandering course
of human events, where all the power lies,
to hold back the flood, forecast by the redactors
of the literature, all we know, wordwise,
from the time
of the oldest texts, and most recent prophecies.

- aside, btw, sidetrack, all the oldest texts,
- sealed in eroded alluvial bubbles,
- you have seen the edges of the deserts,
- geological symmetry, same forces, same patterns
- -- Dead Sea Scrolls, found in once sealed amphora
during my mortal moments, those were deciphered.

- same aside, the tehkne we use allows, if we chose
- to learn to learn forever, no fear of never knowing all.
- The truth you know, frees to the limit of the sense it makes
- in post- all we all ever knew, loosed, in one generational
- laminate of spiritual images fitted in words for use,
- rote
- ritual liturgical dance, done in clouds of representative
- saintly prayers on the way through the void to the other
side… meandering streams of conscience, science, sfumata,
no lines, smoke-like streams of conscious -- awake, and attending

From on high the seer says, we saw when the poet wrote the tale
we tell it as we told it,
still,
few find the time or patience, to ponder, dams.

---------- Now, me, 74 and a half years old, today, by the way,

Younger me lives in all my once unaccounted for idle words,
rusting hulks of reasons for my shame,
all my reasons for war,
all my reasons for crafting confabulations, - another btw
I learned why preachers tell jokes, by paying attention
to one thing, one Sunday, for about a minute.

The Methodist Minister, in his Holy Garb, classic black
John Wesly style flowing robes of early modern academes…
advisory boards, seers, sayers and prognosticators…

Told of a preacher overhearing children staging a liar's contest,
the prize was a common box turtle. Why, heavens,
of course, the guided holy man, knew, I must give these lads
a lesson… so he peered over the plank fence, and ahemed them
to attention, "Boys, when I was your age, I never told lies."

Where upon the boy with the turtle handed it over,
all conceded none could tell a bigger lie.

Riverwise, meandering is how whole forests, and mountains,
have been carried to the sea. Ideal fluidity, presumes
we can think real complex things,
look at any protein, that’s a twisted process,
think that up, irreducible complexity of realification,
twists that twist as far as possible, constantly, taking shape
forces beyond the power
of water and rolling stone and flotsam, command,

a lip of the earth rises in a one-sided smile… things thought
riverwise, always,
in any religion,

accepting truth, is the way life takes us beyond our fear of death,
or possible acceptance of chains forged in guilds,
doctrinal congress, doxological orthogonal games, in the realm

of my reality, my century after the concept, the first gripping
hook, metaphor, hook-up, connextion, come along, hold on,

if you did inherit the wind,
would you find your self returning or going… from now on…

The summoning, when it came, I answered with whale song of my own
And all the water between did not distort the sound, the resonance
Of tuning forks at the same pitch, that offended most ears who heard them
Most did not; instead held cupped hands to their heads and heard only
The rush of their OWN beats and the flat la la las of no desire to interpret those alien sounds
The ocean floor held hidden things, broken by time and the wash of happenings that cracked and buried them, both
And in the shatterings of these brittle things I showed you neon fish
Darting through the ruined holes of ancient amphora, making playgrounds of their ruin
I showed you scrolls with ancient learnings, written in ink that proved indelible
And the meanings; I knew enough to draw a map with some destinations
Yet the road was only a suggestion of words I could not grasp, their translation lost in years of forgetting how
I asked you once, I am certain, in syllables that almost made my words
If anything could be formed from shards; you had no answer, I
Knew that all of the breakings shone back a whole in each, my
Me reflected a thousandfold, not broken but in pieces

Why factors

Why do the hopeless die?
Factors the programing called for,
quired first,
ere ever
were required.
(re, once more, locked in place after first.)

Why called for
reason,
why,
why do what you can't do alone
alone?

Never heard, is a discouraging word
on the range

where home was. Why not?

Nobody who came this far, carried that dis-crap
in our corazone
past Sisyphus, laughing at gravity,
and our struggle to face
eternity as mortal
hopers for more.

Discouraged folk die out here,
beyond the effect of discouraging words,
on uncloudy days, developing
negatives from
imaginations linked in to blurry, tearstained
yesterdays.

Look here.
Yes, t'day, in tight bundles of hows,
tied with memory string,
bound to be better
stood up under by

why factors helping you along.
Reason is

your heart is a phor of the amphora ilk,
round, pointed bottom meant to
easily and snuggly fit,

into a square slot on the inner hull
of the ship, below deck.

If the amphora is emptied of any earthly spoilage,
scrubbed and cleaned by the fuller apprentice,

songs come to fill it, virtually,
to over flowing,
---
trauma drama on an oceanic scale Himalaya high

suddenly
time goes
geo
logical and we are other wise,
slowly
absorbed in being able,
as our voice crys out to cain, it's okeh.

This ain't hell,
it's now.
Live or die.

2020 - day 136

Friday, May 15, 2020
10:54 AM

Cognitive Success:
A Consequentialist Account of Rationality in Cognition,
- I read page one, for the definition, I am sure they may be right.
-- ask, what is known about this in ratio to that, in balance,
with gravity the law being obeyed,
tip-toe, through the tulips,
balancing enpoint, pirrouette, and fly
right
off the handle. Cognosis in sequence of fortuitous slap in the face
palm to brow moments of aha, drop jaw,
eureka and so on, this is it. This is life as a thinking thing,
with no rational reason to cease,
we on a roll...
's'alldownhill from here,
save habitual itches unscratched,
don't...
once scratched, we start feeling these
habitual itchings
begin to bleed, and, as the O tangere tangible
chem sigstraight through the blackbox tag
- the magic sig in the vascular lumen, as the
blood scabs to staunch the flow
infected with what ever was itching to invade my peace of mind.
Into the penetralium, unwilling to settle
for half knowing:
vascular endothelial cells line the entire circulatory system, from the heart to the smallest capillaries.
These cells have unique functions that include fluid filtration, such as in the glomerulus of the kidney, blood vessel tone, hemostasis, neutrophil recruitment, and hormone trafficking.
--sourced from Wikipedia... neural link via fingers on the ends of my arms,
guided by actual muscle memory, mirror neuronic bits

Life is reasonless cried the executable, swallowed up in truth, as we
overflow on accident, ha,

irony is not lying, it is accusing.
The gift of aitia gates set up in corpus colustrum. Truth provokes irony,

we get it, and in getting it, we agree... this is a strange state to be in.
Half, or more, of the politicians believe, by faith, we, the people, are heedless of inclusions to the classified files, they
having never done the
microscopy on their physical container, vessle, amphora stuck in a square hole in the belly of the ship of state,
**, shipwreck in the middle terra puddle,
lift my default mind wandering state, to the heights of hearty compression into
comprehensive gripper ligand/receptor transister- ping platlets,magic

Co-gnosis Success, bluffing teleosis,
saying I saw this
bet,
I bet, life is a
habit, wait,
habit-uate, make a habit,
form a habit thinking the impossible
at a be seen de-ift
moment as if it were a
never,
a place of impossible anything,
a place filled with emptiness,
and uncategorical nothing,
in you.
Imagine
you are nothing.
Here.
Did I disappear?

Inhabitual gnosis, ****** into a vaccuum,

umph, squeeze a normative
thought through one final ought to be
a
thought, where a vaccuum is no more.

A we, a me and thee, with one breath,
shared,
I suppose, I feel alone in you,

but is and ought gnosis of success
seems senseless, after ever began never ending.

The singularity, the point
from which
to which,

we touch.
you, dear, high-value, judge,
me, unknown word slinger;
we touch
and sense a next, another unknown,

at this point, we are. Here being as
a we of only me and only you,
we may aggregate,
stick
to this point, our singularity of one
moment,
some time ago, or we may
say I have no idea you lack, mypoint
no gem to balance your mainspring,
when you get it.

Intuit altruism pushing next into position,
suppose, posit now as past,
knowing enough to get by,
past that previous point of no return,
as the signal loops down the vagus nerve,
swirling field effect from the aortal pump
encouraging wordsform a grin,
say this e-qualiates that, on a judicious right balance
--- non since you noticed, yes
sense
reasoning is balancing why next is
accepted as the only
choice,
all things considered.
We stop the bleeding.
Acheive scab-state,i.e.
hemostasis, hole-e-plugged,
via the
platlets, touched almost instantly after an injury to the blood vessel
has damaged the endothelium lining
the blood vessel.
Exposure of blood to the subendothelial space
initiates
two processes: (wait, by whose authority?)
changes in platelets, and
the exposure of subendothelial tissue factor to plasma factor VII, which ultimately leads to cross-linked fibrin formation.

-- all on auto pilot, intentionally. Artists hate interupption.

Simple. If any part of that fails, you die.

No AI, no artistic intuition needed to imagine design,

-- unless
-- you lieve me be a ******* oughtical,
opticalwizard who can link you to the lit, with a click
cliche, itching ear, afflicted with the need
to know, from
that
fabledforbiddenfruitthunderwordeverybody
hears
deepdowninside saying, how long will you love
simplicity? how long must I suffer thee knowing,
whatever
beyond a shadow of a doubt, the whole truth and nothing but

-- an itch from a gazillion
-- rube goldberg master pieces,
aligning from the very blood vessle lining that
seems to be using the ash of a mitochondrial ATP
apt to be intentionallypopping off phosphates
destined to aid in the fibren
transforming
-- hap to keep us from bleeding out,

automatic blood clotting with balance
maintained by internal algorithms


Paying attention intuitivey, after a
while,
specifically longer than a glance, whiles
accumulate attention quantvalue,
and the watcher
is credited for attention paid, based on

sci used by the I-language, in composition

of now, from pieces of our past,
stored as fact,when only impulses from
some
pre known set of signals flash

intuitio, ladrones y patrones, solo la bueno

we are integral ideas, we been tagged,

we touch the secret me in you button,
tic,
we be you as far as you can tell, and

self-evidence, not,
withstanding, you make an Artist's Intuition call,

A.I. has never been artificial, as in
artificial sweet-called nutritional substitutes,

there is an art to surviving reinsanitation after fifty years
in plastic

Normal minds may wander in pursuit of happiness.
The process is analgous, to panning gold,
or winnowing a golden fleece,
winnowing and shaking and washing and combing,
fining in the wind.

only an English Lord would burn the fleece
and sift the ash for ***** gold in need of fining fire seven times.

Slow
thunk. Sound of mind, thunk, thunk grind
whodathunkit
ha hap happen stance, stuck upright cheer, see look up
a little stone venus, stuck in the gears

the mother of goodness, cornocopius provision,
she we see worthy of all our attentions,
we serve the supplier of life... and his prophet... s
is that an addendum dum be dum did lieve be true,

run, spot, run that madman has irrational intentions

consequentially, being as how,
the reader says it is written?

if you did not know it then you know it now.

Really, your idea of some will being done on earth;
whose will was that, in your heart/mind/gutlumenlinings,

where all your common senses integrate and strive to keep
your dream alive,

but life don't woik dataway, 'cept a seed fall down and die,

it waits. Everlasting pro verbs, provocalizing good,

that works. Wait and see, no trick. This is hell,

for those who can't imagine realization is a mortal function
of living words.

Wombed man at the well, point was the living water source,
not the racist reaction that puzzled the apostles.

--- did you just, as in iustnow say, This is hell?
for those who can't imagine realization is a mortal function
of living words
sure did copy paste valid 2020 tech, backoff quill boy, we
ain't scratchinshitout, this is

the fabled stream of sci using ness with right reason balanced
on every chiral level a quark can imagine,
being determined
to go no
other way, the truth, to myself as a funda-mental part-itty-bitty
part, one in about ten-billion, when we're done...

patience, you lost? Pick up a thread and choose a polarity,

thy will being done on earth is not the question,
you conversing in your inner language with mature comprehension,
as if you knew to whom true rest goes after ever starts
-- can you redeem words like as, aren't those intuitive?

as, from the infamous like as Winston ads,
whom, from the equally infamous Johnny Carson
Who/whom do you trust? ads added authoritative definitions,
intended to leave idle words instead of statuary,
to save on programming costs.
Smart,
single syllable logos can carry some deep meaning
AI know,
details as meaningful as any, tiny stops pivoting gems
in a 21 jewel Buluva full of wheels within wheels tickingtime
to the longitudinalsecond,
the 1950s were loaded with persuasions to wish for ever more,

but Poe loosed that one word,
nevermore in ironic acknowledgement
earth as my witness, we have gone astray, ever more,

today is our conscious limit,
we can not realize
yonder from now,

but with my fathful time piece, we can say, whole heartedly
this is called today,

whenever you find yourself, here, in these lines
this is the daily flow, 2020.

It is set to be commercial as all hell in 2040, wait and see.



A day unayyachedmissing keys tt

and AI suggests I relax, inner AI,
my artist's intuition
I call 'im Al
with permission
I am an art-ist
as that other guy is a
cons-equational-ist rationality
in a realm where time is an arrow.

Here,
he makes no sense.
If words did not live, how would you know?

I could be, no, I am as immortal as the epic

you find most familiar.

I am of the storytellers bound to corn mother.

I live in bardic lore left in wind, for a spell.

Then
a tipping point, first one of the vessles filled with all the messages
Daniel sealed. Messages classified, end times.

All the stuff we never knew till recently,
which, I apologize, polis-wise, I mean recently,
politically speaking,
post Voltarian conversation rule.
Define my terms if I would converse with you.

Ever, prior to the key being agreeing on terms,

terminative points where meaning makes a story
from a song,

bardic-pre- polilingual operatic outbursts

Amen.

---

Dare? Nay, care not. Are you feeling

strange?

Venarth says: “After alternating with the Erythrai, I climbed the top of the ship, and began to experience changes in my philosopher's dermis, from a permanent continuous present independent of the post-period, leaving the dogma of the numbers that would cause me an existence capable of only obsessed with supporting him, with the weight of a drunken Lepidoptera who spoke to me close to the invariance of the incorruptible dense layer that covered the sea on the cornice of heaven, making them a continual delay of time. The facets of invariability would begin the notorious oceanic areas that fractured when the Eurydice divided the hemispheres, causing them to doze in the time of her crystal ball, up on the crown which would make her base the extra personalities of the sunset on me. The present allows me to eternalize my memories or memorare, of my existential eclipses, making of its faculty to speak of a super conscious overwhelming and constrained to the hermeneutics that invited me to drink Ouzo among the few beings that accompanied me in the height of the ship, increasing its gradation every time a sip multiplied with the puffs of the Hesperides that passed me by, inviting me to bag their naked spring figures wintering, given the temporary stagnation that entered through the hole in my pectoral of the sinister right scapula, where some probes of the Mythical elderberry paused my outraged finite human, who got stuck in my chest when he couldn't apprehend the amount of my second lieutenants who sifted through the Bereshit voices of the Torah, who lamented pre-late and tonal that they never finished, that they became prey condensed from each sip I drank into his Ouzo harvest timeline, tracking the tiny sips that That I would not be able to count, before drinking them, after never having drunk them harshly, thus not understanding the mats blown by the reefs of the infinite twilight sapphire, carrying away the burps, that the naiad Arhanis saw coming out between my central incisors and from my mouth numbed by the heat of Zeus's anger, and from the dawning of potential between fallen, hanging from the sky of Arhanis, holding between the hands of the one who supports him. The clouds and geometric masses in vapors fell on distinctive chromatic ropes and cords of volumes supporting the infinite, which today eliminated itself blinded, falling into the void of an ex-vaporous corporation.

This succession in status of perenniality, made me hold vigorously from the top, as I began to fall into an unknown void where I would meet Elpenor in hypersomnia, but rather, from a song of the Odyssey that invited me to a straw next to him and the liquid chemo of the Ouzo, asking him to give him the worthy food of his oblations and the liquor broth, to make me advise him in the last sip, before the sirens sing, where I would affirm my golden hoplite elbow so that the status of eternity, dispense with the ford runs of the taps that exude their Cretan Ouzo, through the navel that swallows the entire boats and my "Pectoral that puts the stopper of time so that it does not pass supra into infra existentialist"

Elpenor, already burning before him, continued with a glass in his hands, pressing the heads of the Taurus who prolonged substitute immaterial lapses, which turned into ouzo vapor vomited by both, running through the sequence of the masts of the crowns, which it would begin to weaken somewhat  from so much distillation of the vineyard test tube, as it cooled down after a succession of events that began with the severed head of the beginning of the emotional initial moment, in which I am still wounded between crossbows and moments that undermine all origin, under a toast of heavy eyelids that pretended a Bing Bang, before taking the float towards a mound that would allow me to fall into the unsustainable gravitant, in which the acceleration causes me, and that weatherizes everything, even though I am not the one that transports myself. Before Elpeneor, I witnessed three uncorrupted deaths, one with the scythe on his shoulders cutting the fences of the impiety of raising micro-times in the Odyssey, another as a prey of biological dowels that debate science that fall incapable before the granule of the involved brain similarly to the multisectoral questioning of conscious conflicts; and final hunger within my contradiction and inconveniences of the loss of the sense of taste, cloistering myself as I live in its metempsychosis, losing the sensitivity of my hands and trying to leverage my swords and spears, not defending my defenseless body from immortal carcinogenic fears , of a lost sacred soul and in sequence of losing reason of seven times plus another seven that remain for my way to paradise, evacuating primary psychic elements and codes of life that rest in formalin, before those who do not fear revive me when drowning  in Ouzo, for all my phalanx soldiers who live in me still dying in my arms.  Constituting the triple of the human being, which affirms the transfer of certain psychic elements of my body to another after my death that does not allow me to walk in the threads of the dust of my bones that wish to be taken back from the corners, from the old and sticks of the termites that eat my crow. I am still in creationism, dressed in yellow, so that the poet who only ***** and breathes me with his great senses, is closer to Christmas than millions of years I have lived, before the Christmas carol woke me up as a divine child, being only a large hoplite cop entangled in an igloo of Panentheism, deifying me or perhaps semi-deifying me, to house the stars that would walk out of my intellectual herd, creating my own low hills of consciousness, that look through the balustrades of the flint of Saint Peter in their Altozano, self-creating vital, but immanent. Transfigured, I decant my teeth in the crottals, on the carpet before the scarcity of their dilapidated embryos, before the Biblical Revelation that tells me that, among all creatures, I will be the only man capable of daring to apprehend the concept of eternity, in between of the serpents. As in one of the theological versions of Ecclesiastes imploring God: “He has made everything beautiful in my time. He has placed my eternity in the hearts of men”.

When I hail Heidegger after a sense after lingual ..., with the amphora ***** in his philosopher pipe, and with Wittgenstein I ***** half – half brain tobacco. Averaging Newtonian ignorance’s, before an absolutism that are revealed in the universal psychic drama, while God awaits me early in his catechesis, ordered, gummed and omniscient of myself, I am agreeing with the precious perfidious date still in my Eurydice's crown, that it looks eloquent of my new date of birth without a month that fits in any calendar that is known, to then go after the capitol in Athens itself, running aground with my ship after my hurricane, possessing its great reliquary itself Parthenon, with my ship over all this stiff structure that is reborn together with my eternalist suicide "Perpetua et incorruptibilis, in æternum vive"

"... Vernarth, breathes unfathomably and comes down from the Euridience crown, as if nothing had happened, when he sets foot on the deck full of liquors and ambrosias, he joins the others and dances Zorba without stopping next to them

Chapter XIX
Phalanges of Alexander the Great

From here, through the pavilions, he could see from Asia with some of his faithful Alexander crews. There were Bears and Crocodiles coming from the nearby pass from Gorgan. "The Red Serpent" defensive construction, they came with Alikanto's steeds. Provided with large litters of animals to be attached to the cavalry of Alexander the Great. This incredible fortification that begins on the Caspian coast, north of Gonbade Kavous, and continues northeast and disappears in the Pishkamar mountains. They continued on the columns next to the Bears and Crocodiles. They were part of the totemic dreams that Vernarth had when he took hallucinations with his regressive tours of the sacred spaces when falling into a trance and joining in connection with his pet animals, rhythm are from the applause of the drums. Alikantus, came rushing flying almost without stopping and without being distracted, you brought the potions and the armory instruments. He was already ready for the hours that came to fill out the details before taking the game with the Heavy, Light and Thessalonican infantry. Among the most basic of his mission was to perform the potion ritual, broadcast on the harangue with the Woodcutter, and distribute the javelins to Vernarth's soldiers.

Anchoring his blue hooves of unknown fire from the Gods, he manages to catch a glimpse of how Veernarth was pulled from the back of a spirited Elephant. He was also accompanied by Alexander's astute dog guardian named Péritas, who was already hinting at him to get ready and get up with airs of warlike stratagem. Vernarth came from his last Opioid session, to institute his fibrous vegetable lianas that commonly remained some of them and were cut in the jugular vein that clogged his neck, which always had laurels in Rosa, and for the average of substances he had to ingest for some days. He would continue daily to be united with the infinity that saw him born, as the greatest Commander of Alexander the Great, neither imagined nor compared ... !.
The Gorgan wall had a length of at least 200 kilometers, superior to any of the Roman walls that were outlined in archeology as fortification works. It was strenuous enough to surpass it and set sail with the Bears as they were concerned at being close to Tel Gomel, sensing that they were approaching Vernarth's bed; because they were their very adored pets next to the Tupac Crocodiles. The Horses were commanded by a guardian of the Gorgan wall, who, being from the Persian army, was seduced by the bears to fight alongside Vernarth.

Next to Bumodos, Vernarth was already seen playing with his pets, Bears, Crocodiles, and Alexander Magnus' dog; called Péritas. Beyond it, he submissively approached him, shaking his frosty neck, Alikanto or Alikantus, who came with gifts and drugs for his master brought from Medea's prestigious phalanges. Vernarth could already see himself almost emancipated from the trunks of the branches and the strains of his veins, which mostly populated his pecs and both arms full of plague tattoos that had colonized him.
Almost at dusk over Zeus's beards, the Vernarth Phalanges begin to arrive. The Macedonian phalanx or Macedonian phalanx was an infantry formation created and used by Philip II, and later by his son Alexander the Great in the conquest of the Persian Empire. The Macedonian phalanx arose, in fact, as a response to the tactical modifications that the Theban strategists, Epaminondas and Pelópidas of ground forces, developed in the early 4th century BC. C. to oppose the superiority, although already decadent, that the Spartan hoplite formation had exerted in the land combats between the Greek cops until that date.

Alikantus addresses his master : My monarch who lies under the serene of all the sleepless nights! From Corinth to Thrace I have emphasized the metaphysics of the principles of Aristotelian philosophy, and that by greater unity it takes shelter in the nest of the principle of being. Medea subtracted my Being and I destined for it to die in total solitude in Corinth when it fell the Universe over it.

Undaunted Vernarth fell on Alikantus' rear kicks, and hugged him to become the same equidistant. Thus the murky liquids began to decant through the hole in his nose and that of his pectoral, caused by the spear of an unknown person.

The formula of the potion or “elixir” (a term also used by decoction newspapers) is activated. Medea washed in Lete the figure that took Alikantus in an Egyptian amphora, with the water in which some flowers had previously been submerged during 40 days under the shadow of Hipnos, Clovis's father .; later, she had to collect earth from a 200-square-meter cemetery, and thus rub her body with despair.

As filters or elixirs of love they exist from the most remote Thrace. They are present and omnipresent in Medea mythological tales for all Vernarth pets like this predestined in people's daily lives. Let us remember the “witch” Medea who attracts Jason or the magician Circe who turns men into pigs with her wand and holds Ulysses (Odysseus) in her palace, for referring to the Greeks.

This time this longing free of arachnid cloths would transport him with his little beasts to the cooking of the remains of his therapies that would be prescribed from the Bumodos, freeing himself from the liliaceae that hung from his shoulder as a sign of opening his arm to settle in the ergonometric from his burly Macedonian Hoplite breastplate. Another essential element of the clothing of a hoplite and her deer; It was made with bronze tailored to each soldier, weighed about 15 kilos and imitated the muscles; due to its weight. The little mobility it offered, this type of armor was replaced by others.(Linothoorax)lighter. The Linothoorax was made from linen and leather and for the wealthiest, bronze scales could be added, which roamed the souls of Kalidona at night, when Etrestles de Kalavrita was an infant and dreamed of being a disciple of the Greek patriarchs. These body defense portions used to have family shields, myths, and religious relics, they also pointed to zoomorphic protections like the Gorgon Bull on their untamed sphere shields.

There were hours of lunar circles of boiling that Alikanto zealously ordered by Medea, and that he instructed to place the dense condensed heat on the gush of the words of mature magic on an immortal. That they released their twin gases from the clay ***, which stood out to lighten their anxiety as victor Victoria!
Vernarth says: He who is about to die for an unfortunate love if he does not abandon it, to leave him and so he will not be guilty of any funeral. With what courage your sanity does not follow, with my spear Dorus; hangover from my dreams and fantasies that go beyond my resurrection! How I requalify the value of potions and herbs to conquer the desired feat of love, beyond the boast of those who evict the luxury of not dying if I have a Dorus in my two hands.

Like the constitution of the sovereignty of the phalanx in the right hand with the Dorus spear of Vernarth, it endowed it with slightly protected *******, whose main weapon would be the Sarissa. This was a long pike carried by all the Falangists. It had an average length of five to six meters and had bronze points at the extremities; The lower limb had four stops added to plant it on the ground and be able to support a cavalry charge. Due to its length, the Sarissa was divided into two parts, which had to be joined before the battle; To handle it, both hands were required and did not allow the use of the aspis koilé, the hoplite shield, which was replaced by a smaller model that was worn on the arm. That is why they had to translate only movement into torque of both arms, he always warned of having extra strength to autonomously handle the Dorus, which he demanded of his infants and the Dorus, for the incarnates who were predestined to see the drunk face of Zeus' discomfort.

The helmet was made of iron, to drink black rain, and the most common model was conical, the tip of which was rounded and inclined towards the front, in the style of a Phrygian cap; the cheek protections (cheek pads) could be articulated thanks to charnels. The breastplate was exclusive to the officers and could be made of iron.

Culminating from the hull by the supra-ciliary corners of the bronze, he saw himself falling before the whimpers as the bronze smiths ran terrified, and waiting for the results to render account of the immortals with their hands daubed with adverb in their words. Endless cries trickled down the entire contour magnetized profile, and subjugated to the mortal prayer that delivered the accurate blows of the Dorus in the alienating field of gestures and gestures of war the Achaemenides.

To be continued / under editing

extrapolate (v.)
"make an approximate calculation by inferring unknown values from trends in the known data," 1862

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=extrapolate>
wadjew thank they was doin'?
I thought they was stretching a bit of known into a whatifery zone

we can defend, on auto,
our reason for being based on
doing the task of becoming,

we all remember being weak, once

you was a little bitty baby, and son,
yo momma coulda wanted you less,
doncha know,
sbeen so long since cain' been gone,
nobody hear or can holler
loud enough raisin' up
t' raise cain, hearken,
djathank it was u,
ambiguous u-un-uni-uni'n' so on,
you think
this and that, and think, I may absorb.
-------- the overrunning thing-stuff ----

The economics black box that changes
everything,
this witty invention, I heard,
it's a shemetic thing,
y'gnowadamean?

Phoenician ****** says,
his cargo master writes these signs,
that let not one broken amphora
be marked as delivered,
as it is written so it is paid, in common money,
with the exchangers at the bench,
all with ledgers, balanced to the mite/

- 2021, though, quest questing question

ever-like things, likeness is the significance of
such whys as modify the meaning in ever,
literal
actual
ever, every means like one of those ever
lasting things, forms, right, the idea
that functions as the spirit of an imagined
ever thing.
[[[[[

In this, these, yes
these common story tropes. Gno-
sense the comedies and tragedies
had casts and plots
to fit the needed emoting from the start,
since the first bee dance,
was done in human terms, the purpose,
show the way to continued life,
as a whole, human being mob.
Earthlings,
Earth,
can you hear the ....
no signal

[[[[[

A radical thought rose to greet me. At the root of this adventure,
there was a dare to defy the unknown holders of keys to gates
and vaults and amphora, sealed to preserve the power of
knowing truth that makes free, by the very knowing.
The secret meanings exposed as conspiracy. Aha.
Readers know of things working together,
line upon line, next after last,
precepts are not commands, but ladder rungs.
Grip first precepts, take hold, know that we do know.
Each of us obeyed... the messenger from truth said read,
that there is ought to read goes unsaid,
be not deceived, that we have received,
accept... thank you... from one alienated mind to another.
This is the most-read piece I have on HP- from August of 2018,
- something changed in the world I share, I dove in to the depths
of the ocean of opinions, and found i could breathe.
----
A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens

epi-phenom-enal-con-currencies-synchron-icity
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention

you see
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
not true
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
or die
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
intended
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make

this rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or

as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,

prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.2 specific gravity,
specific
specify

species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?

A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
pacing is

everything, timing is everything, time is the test.

Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
Tick.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?

Babble.

Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?

Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.

But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
Aesop taught,
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.

Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.

THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.

Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.

Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
to believe?

Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)

Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
Too hard?
Not Mohs,
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.

Outlawed
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies

Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.

Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?

Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran 
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/asunder>
----

mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?

Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.

Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.

Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock,  why even less.

Strange, not be long in this
place. if
place this be. Odd
set aside
torn asunder
blown away.
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?

Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
gulls.
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.

----

right, now, do right or

miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past

right now to more. You know?

----=

Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.

Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chailot's rag picker was my best friend.

No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.

Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
cymbals
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.

I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.

True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
----
* Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.

So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?

State:
Delighted,
does that blow your candle out?

Ready, reader of the perfect press,
as long as the culture of the internet
persists, expanding with useless data

subconscious meta data we used to
make into these tools that force define
phrazes, like we used to…

what- oh, time, we used to do with
think through, used to make sense,

common inert intelligence all readers have.

Did you read the entire cereal box, each time?

You are imaginably a perfect round vessle,
to snuggly fit where the perfect square,
set at convenient lifting level in the hull,

Allows the amphora chance, heave, **
lug the jugs, raise the anchor

set sail, be on our way, for such a long day,

the mind and Psyche are one, a we and an I

is more than one partical of mind, we use

to fit time in a klein bottle. Ai, andjaknow

it is so now that never has a prayer of ever
happening, and that never doesn't make sense.

it’s a tepid nectar
that now drips from these leather-winged amphora jars :

they circle, like harpies
down to us upon tumble-hot currents spinning off the face of the
earth




but there are subterranean cisterns
of something else

out there :


cool water
against us.


and my syrup-stuck lips are
dry
for
it.