'Put my hand in the hand of the man from Galilee,

that song keeps playing in my memory, and I recalled

Or I thought I did, I imagined he'd walk with me
and talk with me
Along life's merry (or was it narrow?), way

a light touch, his arm around my shoulders,
as boys are wont to do,
I axed 'im,
help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which I think may have been blind, at that time,

I have memories like that.
packed away in old memes. That mean something...
Gold-something...
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom.
Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, Howard Bloom,
where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but these,
heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Here a seeing being done, words appearing...

fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made,
and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble collapses by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tension-power-loss collapses the bubble?

You should think, you know atoms work, this way.

Touchy bubbles disappear when their form is disinformed,
the wall of a bubble,
one quanta of power thick,
vanishes
as the charge that formed it flees.
That bubble,
not cloud-based, random super positioning,but
elect
tric-magi-tech, a touch screened
at the quantum accounting point of real-ification,
but, probably,
a bubble,indeed,
powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
(I charge thee, son Timothy, go)
That's all an electron does.
It goes, as soon as any sense can be made of it,
outa here, oughta hear it, clear,
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...
No, ah, when I think about that..

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin musta hapt one time,

but ya'll take no heed, this voice,
m'fallin angel, Tantan, droppin' in ol-fren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth
found in wines that moved themselves aright,
slurry tongued, and laughin' but pisstoff.

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Old story, God damened 'em, not me, I just
built the box.

Who told you I was naked? Noah queried Shem.

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe could be forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.
Forgot can't be forgiven it seems, sometimes...

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

I've looked so long through that lens,
that I began to see the bubble formed around me,
charged powerfully with fear,
'yond my bubble monsters lurked.

But, my bubble bumped another,
purest of happenstance,
the bubbles merged and merged again,
their power building to a wave,
crashing to the shore and no more
was I bubbled in my safe place.

I found this trail up from the beach.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
Did you regret the defeat at Ai,
or were you
Aachen, bold?

No, irrelevant, obtuse allusion to Yahshua,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Information unformed begins to boil deep in me.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick. Elect trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening as an event, in the Deep Field,
is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  
Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,
to learn. Fifty year'r longer.

Everything that's old and still works is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the potential worth of all your eyes behold,
behind the curtain,
lies the prize.

If, if, if you are a luckywinner and
you arise when I call your name
to come on down,
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, 'smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize, what's the diff?
How comes a thing to be worthy,
in your estimation? Tell me no lie.

A feeling? What's it worth?
Depends.
Safe? Priceless! Don't shout. There's money to make.

'Got a busy-ness pre-positioned high above the rest.
A super-positioned superstion. The darkness.
See, safety is a human right.
So we sell walls, impermeable. It's always, lights on
within, then
We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened
by those we make
feel safe, from the dark unknowns seeping in.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we saw the Power in Myth and
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Within these walls workers will work for food and a feeling.
And Facebook.
They choose a place and stand, and do what comes to hand.
Heartily
grip what's easiest for you to hold on to,
they are told.

Attendants bring the meds, settling every disruption
of the peace the patient craves in his comfort.
The price ain't right, m'mouthmumbles...

You are absolutely co-rect-allatime, tekayepeel.

There are wishes being made,
on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters.

If wishes were askings, what if
connecting to the source of haps which,
every expert knows, haps are
all happiness can possibly
consist of.
Oh, consist.
That sticky, gluteny idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand.
Sistere. Shield-wall and all that. Turtles all the way down.

A disruption!
Day room Now! Granpa's shouting,

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!
I'll drop it. I swear.

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted... in my meander.

What if, nothing is immaterial,
as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
If nothing can go wrong, it won't.
Ask the pilot flying by faith in his checklist.

What if,
asking for help helps?
Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea? An answered prayer?

Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore,
quoth the raven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories,
telling eventualities that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,

Stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
Grandpa made some sense and we built a fort, of pillows

words have never been enough
to convey what's on my mind
i'll never tell you
what you should pay attention to is the pauses
between my fleeting
i'm okays and thank you for askings
if you listened closely
you may have heard
my cries
there is much said in the unspoken
if you looked closely you'd see the red ring around the area just below my elbow
i'd fallen asleep at my desk again
thinking
sobbing- that's something you'd have noticed if you saw the puffiness of my eyes
then you'd know i cried this morning too
you'd know that my smile
was a mere facade
and if you'd understood that
and if you listened close to my heart's thump
then you would have noticed the hum of suicidal thoughts running through my veins
coursing through my very being
feeding into every cell
ringing in my ears
like a mantra
like a death march

No easy ends - no simple way
to create a finale
of all that feeling,
buried deep. Trapped.

The heart - conduit
of all the good, and pure,
loving and fair
in that childlike innocence,

but too the cage,
controlled, emboldened, refused
by the cerebral gatekeeper.

Why let that emotion
out? Is it self-sustaining?
Should it be?

Searching in the thickness of grime
and the transparency of glass
both to find that balance
between self and self;

the self that needs its own,
and the the self that needs
its other.

To what end is the search
viable, in being separate
from the internal pervasion
of anxiety?

What does it mean to err irrepressively
from one side
to the other -

a seemingly ceaseless internal script
written drunkly, incohesively
scribbled across the walls -

is it damage?
A calamity of mentality
and an unsaveable prospect
to none of earth - and perhaps she knows.

So many things to ask, each
with an answer he doesn't have
or doesn't want to, tied
to questions he can't put into words,

for her sake, for his, for fear
for love or selfish compulsion -
there is no knowing.

Wordsmith indeed, unable to weave
the most fundamental askings,
but foolish enough to think
he has done it in his moments.

The tale of saving the broken one
has outlived its life
at the forefront of storytelling.
And still, she saves him.

In every word,
every touch,
every grasp,
every time
and every day,
she saves him.

And to think herself the wrong,
to take on the trial - the insanity
of only the loyal,
of only her.

The story is titled simply:

a crooked man,
and the perfect lady.

Polite conversation, versation

passive voice of conversare,
literally "to turn round with,"

run along with, become
associated within determined

pleas… many askings
if it please the crown,
with mastering mind's mission

per
usual suspicion, sneaking from
under stood stones been up holding

all we are allowed to learn by law of sin.

For we are in the only atmosphere in ever,
now, where we are acidifiable in base time,

converted using sublimation, suggesting,

sub certain chthonic sense, a shiver,
a quake in fracking joined terranes, uplifted

as the staked plains in Texas,
and the Mogollon Rim, in Arizona, as seen
using augmented eyes, we wise, we see

we have seen farther than any actual doer,
of the process, form and function as a one off,

once through the wringer, then stretched
on real tenter's hooks to dry and bleach,
to sun bright white, crystaline face stretching

feeling joker urge, make a
mind chuckle, think it through to a what if,
in no time at all,
imagine all we know is, was
not made as we may think we might
have, in essence, in us, as we think
we might have the exact same key
fit the exact same lock on instants,

timeless instants we may play

for my creator took away my askings. not because i am ungrateful. yet instead as punishment. for putting up with the pain of my destructive gifts for too long. he has stolen them from him. in hopes of greatness to come. for am i the one who lost her dangers for better.

Holy man say I can say I spend my day in prayer,

the answers,
not the askings.

I say, so
I know that, and
I know this:

Wiseman say wisdom pay all my way some day,
called today.

I say, I know so,
I think I am happy.