Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

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Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

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SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

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IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
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PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

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OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition

life more abundant calls forth an expandable reality primo,
thus wisdom, the principal thing when-ce all other
things may be made

machine level codifiers ifying
meaning back into idle words.

Keep the secret. Answer the call,
who will help the widow's son?

You, Templar, what message bear ye to my child?,
asked the widow.
Fi-del-e-tus. with a squeeze and a tap,
wink and grin

Poet, who named the prophet?
who named the teller to tales?
who gave thee hearing ear and seeing eye?

Some mind imagined those as yet unformed in forever past.
You agree. You experienced living, so far.

So good, we move on, figurative re re re al-it if-ity
Haps apt to appear be fore your veri variety of being even
hapt as a thing thought, imagined made for a function, as yet

undone. Conserve the NULL set, that whole idea is dangerously
close to fading…

Have you seen those videos of soap bubbles filled with H
and no O?
You should see those, to recall the phenomenonal pre-dictatorial
image, see the bubble, invisible but
for reflection of ambient ambits in our epigenetic radiosphere,

bubbles collapse, and for a flash, flame orange shaped
as the bubble was.
No ex-plo sion it-a-tivity, mere dis cipation,
loss of grip on the shape of things that were, now
con forms to re per ceive,

try again, get a good grip, swing and a miss, go again
take a Mulligan, I think, some game has such a rule,

We can use it here. We can scroll back up,
like a rope lift on the bunny hill at Big Bear, back when…

wheels in wheels, bubbles in bubbles, forms in forms

this is the information age I was informed. Adamkind, those
qubitical, ambitical little images of

Who, who? would a name comfort-you worth more than a breath?
Fresh air after a minuted moment twixt out and in again,

Power, create ific power haps twixt out an in again,
the cipitation, the d was missed, what if it were not?

re-read, religion once meant that, re-connect, too,
religion meant that state of having re-read the map,
re-tied the worth carrying,
stacked the worthless by the trail so
some hapless stranger may see
the treasure it was and is, to any who care to

receive, or con ceive it for the
truth I found in it and kept, which I leave to you
here:
Both treasure and truth are where ye find them,
and shall be for ever, when ever starts for you.

Ezekial, judge my riddle, please. The fool missed the
point of conception…
No, no no no

A fool's dance in a Phrygian cap with useless, symbolic wings…
gee, Phrygian, means nothing to you? Google it, you live in the future.
Later,
A time upon which a Mercury dime would comfort
a rich American Tyrant, son of the Flim-flam man,
no lie, this is mythic, you can't make this stuff up
its history. Hysterical, right
John D. Standard-for-Petropower-manifestation,
the dead's carbon footprints bubbling up
to fire and fridgin' ice, whoa, who broke the world,

I was distracted. Did you know the planet is
as self healing as those scabs on my grandkids knees?

ah, caper, eh? Capere, to grasp, to take,
ceive means accept by taking,
be liefing an idea ceived ex nihilo, is likened unto

Drinking from a still pond in a distant land. Sults,
results. may result in,
Dear Rhea revenging Montezuma, at a gut level.

However, a sort of how in an open mind facing forever,
a sort of omni-directional saliency
seeing further,
--Bomb, Jesus-bomb--

At least two reasons for thinking Jesus is objective, out side
you or inside you. You aren't Jesus. Jesus is a friend of mine,
in my mind, object-if-I-try
to pray, listen pray hopes
happen
shapes form
forever from ever point, every point, not of, in buy

a why..
why does a y on the end of every mean any thing?

That's the y-factor. You will learn why wise men still seek those.
As treasure, they are light, and the taste is beyond

the grasp of tongue to tell

that whole class of moded-ever words weave wards
whenever, forever, however, whatever
used proper, everafter,
that will save Dresden, some time, we think.

However, now, Rhea by name has entered the game.

Who is this named femofame? What game is she good in?
Or does she just knock the **** out of lying spirits?
Cool.

Ah, mother of all the gods, I recall, I mean
I meant to say
I remember, then I for got the power words hold here
exactly heare in eleven metrixed mentions,

this point, in time, not of time.
In the world, not of the world, you've heard the pharse?
The allusion is not lost on you, you know the phrase,

In the world, not of the world, holier men than I have
claimed to be, while I follow a few fine words,
linguistic kief, sprinkled fairy dust, like the stuff
captured in the gleaming film on your
microscopic-outer eye

see a salient point in time.

A pin point 'pon which one,
no more,
one story begins for ever, a gain in good net
value, if

we have tasted that word, chewed the gristle,
indigestible ligaments and sin-yews and such,
which once anchored meat to bone,

value is first good. Good e nough, nough
Gut genug, okeh,
maybe not my best, my best is yet to come, they say.

sufficient for today
------

enough (adj.)
c. 1300, from Old English genog "sufficient in quantity or number,"
from Proto-Germanic compound *ganog "sufficient"
(source also of Old Saxon ginog,
Old Frisian enoch, Dutch genoeg,
Old High German ginuog, German genug,
Old Norse gnogr, Gothic ganohs).
First element is Old English ge- "with, together"
(also a participial, collective, intensive, or perfective prefix),
making this word the most prominent surviving example
of the Old English prefix,
the equivalent of Latin com- and Modern German ge- 
(from PIE *kom- "beside, near, by, with;" see com-).
Second element is from PIE *nok-, from root *nek- (2)
"to reach, attain"
(source also of Sanskrit asnoti "to reach,"
Hittite ninikzi "lifts, raises,"
Lithuanian nešti "to bear, carry," Latin nancisci "to obtain").

As an adverb, "sufficiently for the purpose,"
in Old English; meaning
"moderately, fairly, tolerably" (good enough) was in Middle English. Understated sense, as in have had enough "have had too much" was in Old English (which relied heavily on double negatives and understatement).

As a noun in Old English,
"a quantity or number sufficient for the purpose." As an interjection, "that is enough," from c. 1600. Colloquial 'nough said is attested from 1839.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/enough#etymonlinev8703>

JOY ... weaving two violet petals for a coat lapel ... painting on a slab of night sky a Christ face ... slipping new brass keys into rusty iron locks and shouldering till at last the door gives and we are in a new room ... forever and ever violet petals, slabs, the Christ face, brass keys and new rooms.
  
are we near or far?... is there anything else?... who comes back?... and why does love ask nothing and give all? and why is love rare as a tailed comet shaking guesses out of men at telescopes ten feet long? why does the mystery sit with its chin on the lean forearm of women in gray eyes and women in hazel eyes?
  
are any of these less proud, less important, than a cross-examining lawyer? are any of these less perfect than the front page of a morning newspaper?
  
the answers are not computed and attested in the back of an arithmetic for the verifications of the lazy
  
there is no authority in the phone book for us to call and ask the why, the wherefore, and the howbeit it's ... a riddle ... by God.

I, who erewhile the happy Garden sung
By one man’s disobedience lost, now sing
Recovered Paradise to all mankind,
By one man’s firm obedience fully tried
Through all temptation, and the Tempter foiled
In all his wiles, defeated and repulsed,
And Eden raised in the waste Wilderness.
  Thou Spirit, who led’st this glorious Eremite
Into the desert, his victorious field
Against the spiritual foe, and brought’st him thence        
By proof the undoubted Son of God, inspire,
As thou art wont, my prompted song, else mute,
And bear through highth or depth of Nature’s bounds,
With prosperous wing full summed, to tell of deeds
Above heroic, though in secret done,
And unrecorded left through many an age:
Worthy to have not remained so long unsung.
  Now had the great Proclaimer, with a voice
More awful than the sound of trumpet, cried
Repentance, and Heaven’s kingdom nigh at hand              
To all baptized.  To his great baptism flocked
With awe the regions round, and with them came
From Nazareth the son of Joseph deemed
To the flood Jordan—came as then obscure,
Unmarked, unknown.  But him the Baptist soon
Descried, divinely warned, and witness bore
As to his worthier, and would have resigned
To him his heavenly office.  Nor was long
His witness unconfirmed: on him baptized
Heaven opened, and in likeness of a Dove                    
The Spirit descended, while the Father’s voice
From Heaven pronounced him his beloved Son.
That heard the Adversary, who, roving still
About the world, at that assembly famed
Would not be last, and, with the voice divine
Nigh thunder-struck, the exalted man to whom
Such high attest was given a while surveyed
With wonder; then, with envy fraught and rage,
Flies to his place, nor rests, but in mid air
To council summons all his mighty Peers,                    
Within thick clouds and dark tenfold involved,
A gloomy consistory; and them amidst,
With looks aghast and sad, he thus bespake:—
  “O ancient Powers of Air and this wide World
(For much more willingly I mention Air,
This our old conquest, than remember Hell,
Our hated habitation), well ye know
How many ages, as the years of men,
This Universe we have possessed, and ruled
In manner at our will the affairs of Earth,                
Since Adam and his facile consort Eve
Lost Paradise, deceived by me, though since
With dread attending when that fatal wound
Shall be inflicted by the seed of Eve
Upon my head.  Long the decrees of Heaven
Delay, for longest time to Him is short;
And now, too soon for us, the circling hours
This dreaded time have compassed, wherein we
Must bide the stroke of that long-threatened wound
(At least, if so we can, and by the head                    
Broken be not intended all our power
To be infringed, our freedom and our being
In this fair empire won of Earth and Air)—
For this ill news I bring: The Woman’s Seed,
Destined to this, is late of woman born.
His birth to our just fear gave no small cause;
But his growth now to youth’s full flower, displaying
All virtue, grace and wisdom to achieve
Things highest, greatest, multiplies my fear.
Before him a great Prophet, to proclaim                    
His coming, is sent harbinger, who all
Invites, and in the consecrated stream
Pretends to wash off sin, and fit them so
Purified to receive him pure, or rather
To do him honour as their King.  All come,
And he himself among them was baptized—
Not thence to be more pure, but to receive
The testimony of Heaven, that who he is
Thenceforth the nations may not doubt.  I saw
The Prophet do him reverence; on him, rising                
Out of the water, Heaven above the clouds
Unfold her crystal doors; thence on his head
A perfet Dove descend (whate’er it meant);
And out of Heaven the sovraign voice I heard,
‘This is my Son beloved,—in him am pleased.’
His mother, than, is mortal, but his Sire
He who obtains the monarchy of Heaven;
And what will He not do to advance his Son?
His first-begot we know, and sore have felt,
When his fierce thunder drove us to the Deep;              
Who this is we must learn, for Man he seems
In all his lineaments, though in his face
The glimpses of his Father’s glory shine.
Ye see our danger on the utmost edge
Of hazard, which admits no long debate,
But must with something sudden be opposed
(Not force, but well-couched fraud, well-woven snares),
Ere in the head of nations he appear,
Their king, their leader, and supreme on Earth.
I, when no other durst, sole undertook                      
The dismal expedition to find out
And ruin Adam, and the exploit performed
Successfully: a calmer voyage now
Will waft me; and the way found prosperous once
Induces best to hope of like success.”
  He ended, and his words impression left
Of much amazement to the infernal crew,
Distracted and surprised with deep dismay
At these sad tidings.  But no time was then
For long indulgence to their fears or grief:                
Unanimous they all commit the care
And management of this man enterprise
To him, their great Dictator, whose attempt
At first against mankind so well had thrived
In Adam’s overthrow, and led their march
From Hell’s deep-vaulted den to dwell in light,
Regents, and potentates, and kings, yea gods,
Of many a pleasant realm and province wide.
So to the coast of Jordan he directs
His easy steps, girded with snaky wiles,                    
Where he might likeliest find this new-declared,
This man of men, attested Son of God,
Temptation and all guile on him to try—
So to subvert whom he suspected raised
To end his reign on Earth so long enjoyed:
But, contrary, unweeting he fulfilled
The purposed counsel, pre-ordained and fixed,
Of the Most High, who, in full frequence bright
Of Angels, thus to Gabriel smiling spake:—
  “Gabriel, this day, by proof, thou shalt behold,          
Thou and all Angels conversant on Earth
With Man or men’s affairs, how I begin
To verify that solemn message late,
On which I sent thee to the ****** pure
In Galilee, that she should bear a son,
Great in renown, and called the Son of God.
Then told’st her, doubting how these things could be
To her a ******, that on her should come
The Holy Ghost, and the power of the Highest
O’ershadow her.  This Man, born and now upgrown,            
To shew him worthy of his birth divine
And high prediction, henceforth I expose
To Satan; let him tempt, and now assay
His utmost subtlety, because he boasts
And vaunts of his great cunning to the throng
Of his Apostasy.  He might have learnt
Less overweening, since he failed in Job,
Whose constant perseverance overcame
Whate’er his cruel malice could invent.
He now shall know I can produce a man,                      
Of female seed, far abler to resist
All his solicitations, and at length
All his vast force, and drive him back to Hell—
Winning by conquest what the first man lost
By fallacy surprised.  But first I mean
To exercise him in the Wilderness;
There he shall first lay down the rudiments
Of his great warfare, ere I send him forth
To conquer Sin and Death, the two grand foes.
By humiliation and strong sufferance                        
His weakness shall o’ercome Satanic strength,
And all the world, and mass of sinful flesh;
That all the Angels and aethereal Powers—
They now, and men hereafter—may discern
From what consummate virtue I have chose
This perfet man, by merit called my Son,
To earn salvation for the sons of men.”
  So spake the Eternal Father, and all Heaven
Admiring stood a space; then into hymns
Burst forth, and in celestial measures moved,              
Circling the throne and singing, while the hand
Sung with the voice, and this the argument:—
  “Victory and triumph to the Son of God,
Now entering his great duel, not of arms,
But to vanquish by wisdom hellish wiles!
The Father knows the Son; therefore secure
Ventures his filial virtue, though untried,
Against whate’er may tempt, whate’er ******,
Allure, or terrify, or undermine.
Be frustrate, all ye stratagems of Hell,                    
And, devilish machinations, come to nought!”
  So they in Heaven their odes and vigils tuned.
Meanwhile the Son of God, who yet some days
Lodged in Bethabara, where John baptized,
Musing and much revolving in his breast
How best the mighty work he might begin
Of Saviour to mankind, and which way first
Publish his godlike office now mature,
One day forth walked alone, the Spirit leading
And his deep thoughts, the better to converse              
With solitude, till, far from track of men,
Thought following thought, and step by step led on,
He entered now the bordering Desert wild,
And, with dark shades and rocks environed round,
His holy meditations thus pursued:—
  “O what a multitude of thoughts at once
Awakened in me swarm, while I consider
What from within I feel myself, and hear
What from without comes often to my ears,
Ill sorting with my present state compared!                
When I was yet a child, no childish play
To me was pleasing; all my mind was set
Serious to learn and know, and thence to do,
What might be public good; myself I thought
Born to that end, born to promote all truth,
All righteous things.  Therefore, above my years,
The Law of God I read, and found it sweet;
Made it my whole delight, and in it grew
To such perfection that, ere yet my age
Had measured twice six years, at our great Feast            
I went into the Temple, there to hear
The teachers of our Law, and to propose
What might improve my knowledge or their own,
And was admired by all.  Yet this not all
To which my spirit aspired.  Victorious deeds
Flamed in my heart, heroic acts—one while
To rescue Israel from the Roman yoke;
Then to subdue and quell, o’er all the earth,
Brute violence and proud tyrannic power,
Till truth were freed, and equity restored:                
Yet held it more humane, more heavenly, first
By winning words to conquer willing hearts,
And make persuasion do the work of fear;
At least to try, and teach the erring soul,
Not wilfully misdoing, but unware
Misled; the stubborn only to subdue.
These growing thoughts my mother soon perceiving,
By words at times cast forth, inly rejoiced,
And said to me apart, ‘High are thy thoughts,
O Son! but nourish them, and let them soar                  
To what highth sacred virtue and true worth
Can raise them, though above example high;
By matchless deeds express thy matchless Sire.
For know, thou art no son of mortal man;
Though men esteem thee low of parentage,
Thy Father is the Eternal King who rules
All Heaven and Earth, Angels and sons of men.
A messenger from God foretold thy birth
Conceived in me a ******; he foretold
Thou shouldst be great, and sit on David’s throne,          
And of thy kingdom there should be no end.
At thy nativity a glorious quire
Of Angels, in the fields of Bethlehem, sung
To shepherds, watching at their folds by night,
And told them the Messiah now was born,
Where they might see him; and to thee they came,
Directed to the manger where thou lay’st;
For in the inn was left no better room.
A Star, not seen before, in heaven appearing,
Guided the Wise Men thither from the East,                  
To honour thee with incense, myrrh, and gold;
By whose bright course led on they found the place,
Affirming it thy star, new-graven in heaven,
By which they knew thee King of Israel born.
Just Simeon and prophetic Anna, warned
By vision, found thee in the Temple, and spake,
Before the altar and the vested priest,
Like things of thee to all that present stood.’
This having heart, straight I again revolved
The Law and Prophets, searching what was writ              
Concerning the Messiah, to our scribes
Known partly, and soon found of whom they spake
I am—this chiefly, that my way must lie
Through many a hard assay, even to the death,
Ere I the promised kingdom can attain,
Or work redemption for mankind, whose sins’
Full weight must be transferred upon my head.
Yet, neither thus disheartened or dismayed,
The time prefixed I waited; when behold
The Baptist (of whose birth I oft had heard,                
Not knew by sight) now come, who was to come
Before Messiah, and his way prepare!
I, as all others, to his baptism came,
Which I believed was from above; but he
Straight knew me, and with loudest voice proclaimed
Me him (for it was shewn him so from Heaven)—
Me him whose harbinger he was; and first
Refused on me his baptism to confer,
As much his greater, and was hardly won.
But, as I rose out of the laving stream,                    
Heaven opened her eternal doors, from whence
The Spirit descended on me like a Dove;
And last, the sum of all, my Father’s voice,
Audibly heard from Heaven, pronounced me his,
Me his beloved Son, in whom alone
He was well pleased: by which I knew the time
Now full, that I no more should live obscure,
But openly begin, as best becomes
The authority which I derived from Heaven.
And now by some strong motion I am led                      
Into this wilderness; to what intent
I learn not yet.  Perhaps I need not know;
For what concerns my knowledge God reveals.”
  So spake our Morning Star, then in his rise,
And, looking round, on every side beheld
A pathless desert, dusk with horrid shades.
The way he came, not having marked return,
Was difficult, by human steps untrod;
And he still on was led, but with such thoughts
Accompanied of things past and to come                      
Lodged in his breast as well might recommend
Such solitude before choicest society.
  Full forty days he passed—whether on hill
Sometimes, anon in shady vale, each night
Under the covert of some ancient oak
Or cedar to defend him from the dew,
Or harboured

A long time ago a very young mother
Named Kisa Gotami gave birth to a son—
A child who was the light of her life.
The mother’s love was second to none.
 
Not long after her son was born,
The poor child grew sick and died.
“Who can bring my son back to life?
Have pity!” Kisa Gotami cried.
 
The villagers knew that there was nothing
They could do to help and suggested
That she seek out the help of the Buddha.
“He can do wonders,” they attested.
 
She found the Buddha and beseeched his help.
“My only son has died,” she wailed.
“Can you bring him back to life.
Everything I have tried has failed.”
 
The Buddha calmly said, “I will help you.”
The poor woman waited with bated breath.
“But first you must find for me
A family that’s never been touched by death.
 
“When you finally encounter that home,
Tell the family there’s something you need—
Just one thing to take to the Buddha—
And that’s a single mustard seed.”
 
With great excitement the mother ran
From house to house—to every abode.
But death had visited every family.
On her face, great disappointment showed.
 
After a long, unsuccessful search,
The young mother came to realize
That everything born had to die;
Everything had to have its demise.
 
She understood the law of impermanence
And that her suffering was not unique.
She now saw life from a new perspective;
Her eyes were open, so to speak.
 
Kisa Gotami returned to the Buddha
And started to follow his teachings--the Way,
Or Path to Enlightenment,
Which still guides many seekers today.

- by Bob B

1437

A Dew sufficed itself—
And satisfied a Leaf
And felt “how vast a destiny”—
“How trivial is Life!”

The Sun went out to work—
The Day went out to play
And not again that Dew be seen
By Physiognomy

Whether by Day Abducted
Or emptied by the Sun
Into the Sea in passing
Eternally unknown

Attested to this Day
That awful Tragedy
By Transport’s instability
And Doom’s celerity.

would walk out of the city on Sunday afternoon after Sunday Mass
Dinner at noon was the custom. then the city would slip into  Sunday coma.
Mantovani, Acher Bilk, and the BBC wafted from the Television less homes we passed
on our way to the river.

Old chocolate men reclined on rickety old wooden porches smoking hand rolled
whatever as we strolled by giving us the lazy eye. All knowing , know nothings.
Sun beaten and calloused to lives of hard labor. every now and then one would just give a
jaundiced nod and look away/ Live to smoke another day.

Half paved tar and gravel roads simmered and writhed in the distance.
but our bare feet.
slapped in rhythm .cut off knee pants and skinny bare chest attested to sparse living but we
never knew it cause the mangrove jungle was minutes away and big
unwanted catfish to hook and throw away. Disdainful (Kiatto).

Off the simmering road now hopping toads. Johnny fiddler ***** for bait .
The canoe awaits us two small school boys in our natural state. One seven one eight.

Pelicans survey slowly above where the river meets the sea A small ripple and down he goes. He knows where school is in for mackerel and terrapin. Bone fish too.
We small boys with no fear . Innocence a pole and cork. One hook apiece is our gear.
Knee deep in mire as we push of and jump. A paddle apiece as we stroke against the tide to traverse the emerald river wide. The far bank. My Aunt Doris's shack.

Man over board to tie of the. Bow.

A snack of tortillas and beans then up the river no fear. Fun and the fish
Sun and the wish for an endless Sunday. We hate Monday. Back the priests and nuns.Slate writing board and times tables.
Let's fish.
Let us dream.
Tied off in the mangrove shade.
Swatting horse flies quietly. Quietly?

Like bird dogs we study the floating cork.
A wiggle, a bob. A bob. Set the hook and out comes the prize.
Then more. More flapping underfoot.we can hardly.walk. The glee
A bonanza.
All fried up and crisp.Catch and release. What madness. Catch and consume.

Day is done in the Carribean sun.
Home eastward. The pitch road is more forgiving on bare feet now
with the September sun at our backs. A leisurely stroll back to the
house. No worries,

A bath  and change for the Sunday evening show.
The Thief Of Baghdad or  maybe El Cid.
The Duke Audie Murphy in a double header.

The walk home along the moonlit seaside.
To start another Halcyon stream.
Another time and place rooted firmly in my memory.

America’s Soul
Through the means of a company trying to appeal to your emotions to make a sale as I watched this
Pass before me I wasn’t taking in the foreground but what it depicted in the background a realness a
Testimony of truth was flowing at flood stage images bathed in purist knowing about place and the stalwart
Ideals that make up a fabric so rich and full family’s not just empty see through nothing really there pay
No mind but you and I our successes our failures caught in the back drop of mountains and deserts and
In a song an anthem a coursing river but one of a unique part of the world’s humanity identified by red
White and blue builder’s fighter’s lovers of freedom that didn’t come by dreamers alone yes they
Dreamed but then they infused blood and sinew muscle onto this lifeless skeleton their efforts are
Attested to by the sacred graves the head stones don’t tell the story of hardship sacrifice on battlefields
Domestic and hostile bone weary against all odds at times feeling all alone and there were those times
This was true but it was always known you were part of a great brotherhood and sisterhood though far
Apart in the physical sense never the less a great spiritual dynamism bonded you together at the
Farthest and narrowest stretching point steel was without equal in its intent and its effort the lowliest to
The mightiest carried the same strain of a heroic undertaking and inwardly looked the same and truly
Were the same there wasn’t class or rank just Americans pushing this grand experiment to its most
Glory filled conclusion and then at lands end the heart would be engaged to its fullest with hands that
Reached around the globe to any that were threatened or abused fear not our brothers we will lend
To you are strength and all of our resources fulfilling a moral duty to those who are less fortunate we
Have fought and achieved and the natural result will be a mobilized caring that endures through all of
Our history making a stronger unified self governing people the envy of the world not through cheap
Pride but the foundational excellence will give the challenge don’t settle for less don’t be reduced to
Settling for anything but the best monuments are built by many tyrants but let the people build them
From the costliest material and they will endure all generations it will push back ignorance send
Down lighting striking fear in those with ill will and promote the human spirit they will peer down from
Lofty heights undisturbed by petty squabbles those that contend for illustrious beacons forged and
Sprayed out from hammer an anvil in the dark nightly skies of heaven performing and making a sculptured treasure
That speaks truth and creates the sensation of a glory that rests on a people like no other that have
Touched the fringes of utopia with just enough realism to keep you grounded and not allow you to
Totter and fall back under false hood that causes the cycle to start all over again of being a slave instead
Of being free

My roommates are all up and about. It’s finals week and everyone is hustling about. Lisa came in from an early exam, it was snowing lightly, she looked right at home.

“How’d it go?” I quizzed.
“E-Z,” she replied, shedding her long navy coat and mango cashmere beanie. After dumping it all on her bed she joined us in the common room. “Blue State (coffee) is closing,” She announced.

Leong gasped, “What?”
“Three of the four Blue State locations are closing,” Lisa confirmed, “not Orange Street.”
“Why?” Leong moaned.
“What are you why? Lisa queried.
“They’re so popular!” Leong exclaimed, “There’s always SO many people in there.”
“That’s real,” I chimed in, “those places are packed and noisy.”
“They got bought out,” Lisa attested.
“By whom?” Leong wondered.
“By another coffee company.. maybe,” Lisa guessed soothingly.
“Oh, I hope so.” Leong stated, sounding depressed.
“You know what? Lisa added, “rumors were thick that Book Trader would close too.”
“No!” Leong bemoaned.
“I’m happy to announce that they’re not.” Lisa assured, “That’s something to celebrate.”
“I love studying at Book Trader.” I professed.
“And their bagels..” Leong mentioned dreamily.
“Oh, yeah,” Lisa agreed, “so good, so cheap.”
“Change is ineluctable,” Anna sighed.  
“WHAT?” Leong replied, looking confused.
“Inevitable,” Lisa told her, “change is inevitable.”
“Then just say that.” Leong grumbled at Anna, who shrugged.
“I need to go support my favorite coffee shop soon,” I declared.
“Which is?” Leong inquired.
“Coffee with a K,” Lisa and I blurted out, both at once. “It has an intimate, date spot vibe,” I explained, “and the chairs that are perfect for putting an arm around someone.”
“The Benjamin and Acorn (two on campus coffee shops) are going to be so crowded.” Sunny stated, joining the conversation as she started putting on her shoes to go out.
“True THAT.” I agreed.
“Common Grounds Cafe,” Sophie revealed, coming from her room, drying her hair with a towel, “bought out Blue State,” she confirmed. “it was in the Yale News.”
“OK,” I pronounced, satisfied. “Perfect.” Lisa declared. “Thank God.” Leong agreed.
“Coffee’s important.” Sunny proclaimed, picking up her coffee cup and book bag. “See ya!” she waved to the room absently, with her coffee cup, as she opened the door and stepped out.

What i wanna say today….
....Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever....
....i have an urge to write these words today, i thank you so very much for reading, ………with love from Sylvia….


The Bible? Of course, i read it, but not every day,
seriously, not as a research book,
but as The Holy Scriptures, my basis for my faith and to pray.

It has the Old and the New Testament,
i'm oft inspired by the Word of God in every segment.

Authoritative, in faith i hold the Bible,
to be inerrant in the originals God-breathed, infallible.

i assure you to read it, bit by bit,
for your faith and practice, please read the complete hit,
and final authority, perfectly guided by the Holy Spirit.

i believe in the only God, He is the Creator of all,
He is also known as the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,

revealed by God Himself, as ONE in being, in essence, and glory.

God is the One and Only Almighty, omnipresent, omnipotent He,
and unchanging. He is holy, just and righteous,
He is love, merciful, good and gracious.

i believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ,
the expressed image of the Father is grandest.

Who was born to become an ordinary man,
in order that He could tell us who God really is,
and provide the means of salvation for humanity and all the bliss.

Jesus Christ of the Holy Spirit’s conception,
and, born of the ****** Mary, only she, without a man,
Jesus is truly God, and fully man, without a sin,
His birth occurred only by His Mother, still a ******.

He lived a perfect, sinless life, His teachings are all true.
Jesus Christ died on the cross just for me and for all of you,

He died for all humanity as a substitutionary sacrifice,
we hold that His death is sufficient to provide salvation, the price,
for all who receive Him as their Saviour.

That our justification is grounded in His blood shed,
that it is attested by His literal, physical resurrection from the dead.

Jesus Christ ascended to Heaven in His glorified body,
He is now seated at the right hand of God, as our High Priest and Advocate,

i believe in the divinity and personality of the Holy Spirit,
He regenerates sinners, and He indwells believers.

He is the agent by whom Christ baptizes all believers into His body,
He is the seal by whom the Father guarantees the salvation of believers
unto the day of redemption.

He is the Divine Teacher who illumines
believers’ hearts and honest minds,
as they study the Word of God,
each on their own relaxing spot.

The Holy Spirit is ultimately sovereign,
in the distribution of spiritual gifts to the obedient man.

The miraculous gifts of the Spirit, as they were known
in those times in ancient Efeze,
while by no means outside of the Spirit’s ability to empower,
no longer function to the same degrees,
they did in the early development of the church in Efeze.

The reality and personality of angels do exist,
God created the angels to be His servants and messengers.

i believe every word i have read in the Bible and its translations,
thus also in the existence and personality of the devil and its demons,
this devil’s name is Satan is the heaviest enemy God ever met,
as evil rebellions against His Almighty power, too sad,
i read this in the Bible in Isaiah 14:12-17 and in Ezekiel 28:12-15 at my spot,

he is the great enemy of God and man, condemned by the Lord,
he and his evil company were sent away for good from the holy place,
i read this in the Bible in Matthew, and in Revelations, i reckon,

my belief, based upon reading, deep thinking and my greatest Faith in God,
that we can defeat these evilish appearances right on the spot.
By praying and asking for more strength in our belief,
so that we can conquer and be freed from this devilish thief !!

All these words were ranting me to jump out of my mind,
but i took paper and pencil to hasten the posting like this kind….

Then, my dear Poetfreak friends, and today my HePo friends
i bow to you all, humbly and with great honesty, i say the deepest Amen….


© Sylvia Frances Chan
Copyright Protected

Tempering
Arching between two lives and two books they wrote Desert Solitaire and Outer Most House their
Environment forged and fashioned them into voices with a message as earth dwellers we are like it or
Not coming to the end of the age we extol freedom as we should but there is a reason for the lash you
Would end up with a sham and a distasteful pariah if every experience was benevolent and care free
We need and will have to have men and women of steel in the coming days you don’t get hardened in
The flush of gaiety but removed from the crowd you face taxing circumstances barren sand is the
Greatest polisher remove the soothing over populated delights that soften you mind with their
Pleasantries you have need of exhausting penury walk the path of raw brutality your words
Will carry weight piercing insights they flourish where flowers are scarce and rare emptied by divine
Wisdom that practices building from nothing it’s not in the rush but by silent lingering secrets unfold
The well dressed well versed in show and frivolity is left only to wonder and only hears the silent wind
Never knowing the volumes that are being spoken the waves and the vast landscape all that space
Creates plenty of room where thoughts flow in the airless weightless range of possibility you find the
Masterful questions are ripening as fruit that is left without laborers the cost to high faith to low to
Expect such bounty from barren waste your plow must cut a furrow through linear top soil where
Crowns of kings lay strewn they had power and I’m sure the words of Prince Machiavelli rang in their
Ears but not even a grand manipulator is not able to impart wisdom at least when the probability of
Getting through your own estimation of your self is at the severest point of cross purposes let the
Throne exhibit pomp if you must but the power needs not a throne but ears that judge even the mighty
Evenly as is attested to by Louis the XV1 of France not all if any would forever ascribe to divine rights of
Kings your rule is more costly than their temporal ruling in affairs of state your actions and will effect
Eternal verities your rightful place as son and daughter at the true throne or go to endless sorrow not
The unquestionable fact of eternal fire I could endure that but to be rejected an have to live forever with
Out being loved that would be unbearable

the internet wasn't originally intended as the playground for the young, who have no reason to convince themselves of a need to either dogmatise proper spelling, or proper diacritical-punctuation... hálo humpty-dumpty! utter that hark like a dragon!

i have something more volatile than atoms
to construct an atom bomb and
cite Oppenheimer -
i have letters as atoms, words as minor
twitches, and language as Samael:
the death-breathing harvesting resurrector...
  i call the film *a beautiful mind
a perfect case of a beautiful propaganda
machine that backfired...
  if that mathematician who died "tragically"
in car-crash was anything to go by
with having his negation of ease hijacked,
exemplified, magnified to scare the public,
then Gabriel must have been a really sweet
soothsayer in Muhammad's ear...
   because someone with that kind of imagination
to conjure up people should have never
worked for the emerging C.I.A. or F.B.I.:
but Walt ******* Disney... to be sure of it:
Bukowski run parallels with the story:
staying drunk: to keep up with the sober-imaginative
collective: i would have done the same...
can you believe i've passed the 50h mark
on not sleeping under a self-imposed
example of what's barely a scratch of the
siberian gulags?
                   can you imagine that i...
simply had a fetish for it? imagine being awake for
over 50 hours... and having a nearing-****
audacity to not fall asleep for a minute?
can you imagine the military rigour of such
an endeavour?
   must have been self-taught and therefore, very
much indie: selling to the highest bidder.
oh please don't take my literal Monday's worth
of vocabulary truthfulness on it:
i'll play truant on it:
   i don't have people-friendly devices to keep
up with gossip, the rule is:
you can only go mad once,
you can play double jeopardy with madness...
    talk going mad a second time...
        i'll talk about recreating carnage park
in essex... you know what's scary about
that horror movie? it happens at high-noon...
there's nothing eerie about the night...
with the night i think the solace of death
and the never-ending and the never-shifting queue
of names, dates, and the ultra sensitive invocations
of faking epitaphs, i mean, inscribing things
on graves the people who "own" the graves
never had the capacity to say, in the first place.
but you know what scared me about
the film carnage park? the first horror movie
based upon Hitchcock "resurrected" -
but it was never about it... there's no close-proximity,
you actually see the culprits face...
   the idea being: humanising the man executing
moral justification by tugging the guillotine
or pushing the switch on the electric chair...
it's all about moral ambiguity,
hence the horror is all about daylight,
daylight representing the quasi-assurance of your
own judgement: and could you do the justice
by bypassing all jurisprudence paperwork?
  daylight is important in this movie...
                 nothing is hidden, nothing is romantic,
because the man in question is a ******,
he's not a torturer... the invocation of agoraphobia
is seminal! no... subliminal! Greeks invented little
fears and allowed them to be wedded for magnification
given that theatre is extinct... little phobias
create big budget exploits...
   but this is a first of exploiting agoraphobia...
       and agoraphobia could only be exploited in
high-noon... when i think of night these days
i think of the j. r. r. tolkien romance novels of
what man once had... adventure...
these days? plain talk? tourism.
                            i never could think it could be done:
but apparently is has been done...
           the ever distant voyeurism is also gone...
how can anyone be voyeuristic in an agoraphobic space?
   you're basically knitting and deforming
a large space into a pixel... there's no sadism either,
no loch ness barrage of torture methods,
only what man employes to capture animals...
   it's militarism: solo...
        the true essence of a renegade:
   antidote to indoctrination...
             exemplified by the fact that no matter what
mask you give the horror, the mundaneness of it
doesn't go away: because it's not hidden,
  the placebo horror scenario -
          we fake hiding from it... horror these days
is medicinised by fantasy... which is the abhorrent
quality of our times: over-assurance...
    our times are too self-servient, too self-assured...
too comfortable... we're championing
arrogance, calling our predecessors incompetent
*******... oil on the flames? maybe...
                       we prefer to imagine dragons than
see actual dragons among us...
                       that's why we seem to begin with
congratulating dinosaurs into having begun
   as abstract spines that the serpents of our times are...
us? to our inheritors? brains in pickle jars.
we have already started the process of pickling ourselves
by extracting as much as we could from our being
and encoding it into artificiality...
        anyone with a global invasion tactic can easily
tap into this "economy"... it's not an encyclopedia...
it's an economised unitary model readied for
exploitation for invasion...
       do i share the film's culprit paranoia?
well... i share his defence of environmental study...
but having provided the most adequate striking-point
             with the utmost drama of cyber-warfare debate
and all counters against ourselves...
            would i choose this maniac over a wall st. yuppy?
          what's that... vomito ***** vs. huey & the news?
if only i was paranoid after having watched this
movie... i'd see it spread akin to the bubonic plague...
but it's apathy that's the bubonic plague:
since it's the most effective safety-mechanism virus...
you get that docile look and try to suddenly say huh?
with surprise, but you get a choking sensation
as if you just swallowed a hazelnut.
      people get these fantasies about other evolutionary
lifeforms... it's not ******* c.i.a. crap about
      everyone working for them being called mr. &
mrs. smith... just so they can dodge bullets
   and buy milk at their local supermarket...
                      without being asked for autographs and
selfies... and have you ever seen a film critique engaging
with a character that says very little, and then
hysterically laugh, with a sense of music akin to
playing front 242's album 06:21:03:11 up evil?
      the true test of horror is music... the visuals can
be Marquis de Sade in Disneyland... and no number
of groans will do it... if the music has
         transylvania's chant of the chastity of anti-sodomites
written all over it... you're in for a knee-jerker...
the diabolical thing about this film is that it
has the double-effect whether it's watched at night
or during the day... the first horror movie that
doesn't invoke close contact between predator and
the prey, along with not even making the night
as something orthodoxically necessary to craft
                                      horror thematism.
well... plus it's a testament to existentialism
in the case of the hostage being "unrightfully"
attested in a crime... the existentialist would
simply conjure up: possible bait / excuse and
unwillful thinking necessary for his own
             victimised self-reflecting-counter-via
the reflex-of-against-self-discriminatory-collective-input...
radical­ised into a reflex puritanism:
   abiding by cohort norms was not enough
                for the cohort minimum:
                    pyramidal elevation was necessary,
               and there was no human explanation
beyond certain matters, all else was justified
in the three digressions: diabolical, angelic or genius:
the madness only came when one claimed to
hear instructions from the devil, or from god,
                        or claimed to be a geniusº.
  disregarding the two fabrics of a self,
the one prior and the one post collective-input
    regarding a doctrine needing a "self", an "individual",
nevertheless: but a pawn.

      ºthere's no articulation of god, which is why
we have no article ascribing a definite or an indefinite
nature toward him, which is why paupers reduce this
argument, debase it to the level of pronouns -
the reason why we cite a genius and the devil...
is because only angels have names...
                              even the fallen ones...
           for they have a misnomer of god, as we have
a misnomer for many a good things.

Tempering
Arching between two lives and two books they wrote Desert Solitaire and Outer Most House their
Environment forged and fashioned them into voices with a message as earth dwellers we are like it or
Not coming to the end of the age we extol freedom as we should but there is a reason for the lash you
Would end up with a sham and a distasteful pariah if every experience was benevolent and care free
We need and will have to have men and women of steel in the coming days you don’t get hardened in
The flush of gaiety but removed from the crowd you face taxing circumstances barren sand is the
Greatest polisher remove the soothing over populated delights that soften your mind with their
Pleasantries you have need of exhausting penury walk the path of raw brutality your words
Will carry weight piercing insights they flourish where flowers are scarce and rare emptied by divine
Wisdom that practices building from nothing it’s not in the rush but by silent lingering secrets unfold
The well dressed well versed in show and frivolity is left only to wonder and only hears the silent wind
Never knowing the volumes that are being spoken the waves and the vast landscape all that space
Creates plenty of room where thoughts flow in the airless weightless range of possibility you find the
Masterful questions are ripening as fruit that is left without laborers the cost to high faith to low to
Expect such bounty from barren waste your plow must cut a furrow through linear top soil where
Crowns of kings lay strewn they had power and I’m sure the words of Prince Machiavelli rang in their
Ears but not even a grand manipulator is not able to impart wisdom at least when the probability of
Getting through your own estimation of your self is at the severest point of cross purposes let the
Throne exhibit pomp if you must but the power needs not a throne but ears that judge even the mighty
Evenly as is attested to by Louis the XV1 of France not all if any would forever ascribe to divine rights of
Kings your rule is more costly than their temporal ruling in affairs of state your actions and will effect
Eternal verities your rightful place as son and daughter at the true throne or go to endless sorrow not
The unquestionable fact of eternal fire I could endure that but to be rejected an have to live forever with
Out being loved that would be unbearable

An experiment in thought at my own speed,
attested as being variable based on vocabulary of my AI,
so
pretty quick.

Establishing the point in value, the idea,
of attending to wealth while wool gathering, late
in the summer of 2020,
thinking at leisure beyond measure of any man in my class
a short time ago.
This now, a moment in a given day during
the September, final summer moon,
seventh moon on a world with a
time measured finite
seemingly, ostensibly, suppposedly -- in clumps of the three
as if all things may come in threes at one
stage in being realized
to matter --- but of the three ways to say
supppose, sup?
The answer presupposes the quest
to find it, any story told
poses the problem, the thing that catches our
attention, that thing
holds attractive value, see,

made you look, and peek-a-boo are one game.
Hide and seek is as well.

Two sides to every story, three if we see the story
has us in it. We are nothing if we share no
knowns finished and finite, as this is formed from those
early knowns we intuited everybody knew, and
these acculturation inoculations bring about socially
proper manners
in spaces with others
cultured, leavened, spiced and fashioned
thoughts we were taught,
these
we learn today
and those others everyone knows, or
maybe not,
may be otherwise… slow dawning aspect

some people never think experimentally

- experiments are guesses, rolls of the die
- I imagine we agree, but, as yet, your guess is as good as any


maybe not, may be otherwise… slow dawning aspect
as the world turns, while our attention is locked
on a star nailed
to the roof of heaven,
--- apsidal vault of stars as seen in church-like structures (1)

as imagined and portrayed prior to Tycho losing
his nose for nuance by lack of focus,
a moment of inattention,
all a magi-tech needs
- look to the quarry you come from
see, before,
back when no lens had yet been ground round
on one side,
flat on the other,
our un augmented eye could chance a glance,
a camera obscura occurrence
once each year as Sirius
rises in line with the story being told, to prove,

we know, and now, you know,
but
you don’t know how and you may only guess why.

Your mortal dilemma, you cannot imagine knowing
everything, ever, but
we
can't wish to go over the edge to learn much faster
if that means dying as
all that ever matters does,
based on experience as recorded in all Wikepedia,
if this tekhne ever fails, these thoughts
remain to be thought,
gains again are terms of worth-ship man seems the
measurer of,

I'd love to make sense of all the info in the cloud,
sort it into searchable stacks, and as I wished,
AI took that care from me
but, finding some worth in being still
demands attention for which we must pay,
and
the daily effort keeps your bowels moving in time.
Minds of our kind imagined all this stuff we can't make up.

(1)
apse (n.)"semicircular extension at the end of a church," 1846,
from Latin apsis "an arch, a vault,"
from Greek hapsis (Ionic apsis) "loop, arch,"
originally "a fastening, felloe of a wheel,"
from haptein "fasten together,"  {boing, pro-tein haptein}
which is of unknown origin.

The original sense in Greek
seems to have been the joining of the arcs
to form a circle,
especially in making a wheel.
The architectural term is earlier
attested in English
in the Latin form (1706). Related: Apsidal.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=apsidal>

This spoken word.
I want to talk.
Folks'll put you
In a box.
It has six sides.
There's lots in stock.
Works just like a
Broken clock.
It fits in life
Two times a day.
Once the cradle.
Once the grave.
Then they'll fix
A label, TOO.
Once it's on it

STICKS LIKE GLUE.

There's a man
Down on the street.
Not someone you'd
Want to meet.
Drinks his meals
So he won't eat.
Shuffles 'round
Sits on the curb.
He's a "mumbler".
He's "disturbed".
Talks to self
Because he's shunned.
Got a label...

He's a ***.

There's a woman
Has no phone.
Has twenty cats
'Coz she's alone.
She talks to them
When in the mood.
She's so poor
She eats their food.
Yup. She has an
Attitude.
Has no husband
Who'd get paid.
On HER there are
Labels laid...

She's a SPINSTER.
An OLD MAID.

There's a teen
Who is arrested.
He's a menace.
It's attested.
Nope. He's not
Very nice.
He is into drugs & vice.
Is this "DELINQUENT"
Past retrieval?
Is he past knowing
'Coz he's evil?

Tie die. Peace sign.
Kinda trippy.
He's a "LONGHAIR"
He's a "HIPPIE".

Is she lovely?
Or "STUCK UP"
He's a "DOG"
The laughter's ****.

[chorus]
They aren't "NORMAL".
They're "unstable".
Slap 'em with a
POST-IT LABEL.

There's a girl
Who eats her pain.
Downs her food
Unrestrained.
She's bulimic
So she's "CRAZY"
She may be "FAT"
So she is "LAZY"
Another on the
"crazy" list...
His anger's inward,
He's depressed.
He may drink
So he's a "******".
Here's another label...

"LOSER"

Then there's the boy
Who lashes out.
Beats kids up.
He's a lout.
He is wild and
He is wooly.
He is labeled as a
"BULLY".
There's another
Kid who's shy.
So he gets the
Blackened eye.
He is "sraight"
He don't get high.
Nose in book,
He goes unheard.
What's his label?

He's a "NERD".

[chorus]

There's a one
We ALL know's BAD.
She was *****
By her own dad.
At age thirteen
She's "knocked up".
We ALL know her...

She's a "****".

There's a man
Who wears tattoos.
Labels he will never lose.
"WHITE TRASH" 'cuz
He owns a bike.
She likes women.
She's a "****".
She smokes fatties
So she's a "stoner"
He's just "weird"
'Coz he's a loner.
He loves men,
So he's a "***"
She loves him
So she's a "hag"
How'd YOU like
That odious tag?
Let's all do
The Label Rag!
Don't it make the
Tongues just wag?
It's enough to
MAKE YA GAG.

[chorus]

Tribal nation?
I'll be brief.
He's an "Indian"
Call him "Chief"
Does it make
White egos bigger
To call a black man
"BOY" or ******"?
Is that wisdom
Do ya figger?
Whatcha think
THAT'S gonna trigger?
Will the term "*****"
Do the trick?
How 'bout "******"?
How 'bout "****"?
How 'bout "****"?
That ***** Jew.
Well.
Let's take a look at YOU.

Look in the mirror.
The view is free.
Look in there!
What do you see?
Do you see yourself...

Or ME?

Is there smoke?
Are you deceived?
What's th label
You've received?


Look out dere!
HERE COME DA JUDGE!
10 feet tall & has a
GRUDGE!
And since we're getting
Really formal
Got another label.
NORMAL.
You judge someone
With capital blocks
Cuz you can't read
A CEREAL BOX?
Is prejudice the
Meal you eat?
Label on that
And it ain't WHEAT.

[chorus]

Yes. I'm white.
And I am sixty.
I ain't young. I ain't ****.
But I'm a POET
I can TALK.
I have been
Around th block.
You don't like it
You can WALK.
YOU WON'T PUT
ME IN A BOX.
I wasn't a "******".
I wasn't a "tweeker".
Was a "CRACKHEAD".
A ******* seeker.
Finally got it in my head.
There's another label.

That is DEAD.

Yeah. I'm a Christian.
"Jesus Freak"
I'm not ashamed
Because I seek!
Believe'n sure don't
Make me WEAK.

I'M DONE WITH
THE DISSIN' AND
THE TRASHIN'!
Got a concept called

COMPASSION!

Yeah. I know it's
Not in fashion...
But this no joke.
It's not a GAME.
I got a label...

It's my NAME.

I got another
Worth the seeing.
Another "label"...

HUMAN BEING.

Yeah. I'll preach.
I'm gonna shout.

My name is

CATHERINE.

Over. OUT.


SøułSurvivør
(C) 6/13/2017

i don't think i wrote something incoherent... i mean, i could be accussed of having written something incoherent... but the way i look at it, i didn't exactly write a discourse... platonism - theatrical notation of philosophy, theatre as such... became abhorred way-back before platonistic abhorrence of poetry became established in the koranic text... so no... i don't think i wrote something incoherent, i might be guilty of writing it in a berserk-like frenzy... but it's not incoherent... it's simply said in a language, that's says θ = φ, ε = η, o = ω, ξ = χ, so you see... all the aesthetics dwindles... because i wrote this without it being reminiscent of a beautiful conversation under the moon in some exotic place... or a conversation you might have in a supermarket when buying a pint of milk... that's why the above stated greek letters are actually the same... and they exist as "chiral" if you decide to take into consideration aesthetic orthodoxy with origins in making literacy a monopoly... nothing contained in here is incoherent... the only "incoherency" of this piece is that: you wouldn't really talk to someone about it, when buying groceries, or having a nostalgic conversation with a friend... it's ad abstractum... that thing that's also not bound to any parliament or church.

some people really do aspire to be quenched
by the phenomenon status...
   to be the slang first said,
   to be the last, doctrine fed,
          i admire these people, well, admire,
like i'd admire king Solomon -
who prayed to be bewstowed by wisdom,
and what came of his prayer?
              a weak heart, and a walrus status
with a harem...
        i hold my **** like king David holds the lyre...
call it what you want...
              but you see a shagged out beauty like
Dakota Skye, and you just have to bash out
the tennis *****...
                   it comes naturally:
will i get a crown for celibacy, or should i wait
for prostate cancer...
          is there anyone in the vicinity to help me out?
not really...
i can't fanticise about either of my neighbours...
   ****-wits attest to the tried path of protestantism's
freedom-libido...
            but what i'm curious about more perverse
than that... perosnal hygiene isn't really the question
being asked...
                  yes, take a ****, partake in the double-quickie...
it almost feels like ******* and taking a ****
is a *******'s worth of v.i.p. pass when
they say shalom, you ease out the **** and
*******... hence the ******* perfume to boot...
   why do it in the shower?
       why get comfy and do it in an armchair?
   lucky me... i need no *****...
and doubly-lucky me: i read enough marquis de sade...
   oh no, he's not repetitive in his book *******,
he's lost the ability to lullaby you to sleep
strapped to a chair in a sadist's disneyland by now...
       but hell: i see no need to glorify these assertions,
i'm just gagging for the moment my
peers will find it boring doing what they do,
when they reach middle-age and have forgotten
******* per se, as a driving factor for
imagination, or how one thrives on keeping
imagination alive by jerking off...
            it becomes a story of: not really looking
for my dream girl... just give me anything that moves
and i'll be content...
                 when was the last time you
picked up a bisexual thai girl in a park off a bench,
took her home, played her some jazz, and later
****** her in the garden by the moonlight?
       what finally convinced her?
in her own words: i've never seen so many books...
   well yeah, that's modesty creeping up on me.
    and unless you're not using the medicine:
what?! you gonna start imagining ******* your mother?
    the point is that Kant can never become a
populist philosopher... he made his life so: that
he never encountered the weitgheist of Napoleon
at Juna... Kant wasn't the antithesis of Marxism...
      you can't take Kant to a movie premier in Leicester Sq....
   you can take Kant to the pulpit...
   sure thing, you can take Hegel, as you do,
to get people mobilised...
       that's why i prefer Kant in that he gave me something
to work on... as much as i admire
                  the people subjected to creating phenomenons of
themselves... so that people can be cloned and bleached
and be told the marching orders: these days musicians
are the kings... poets are the paupers...
   i identify with neither...
                       i mean, just the one word he invented,
if you want to ask me about a priori and a posteriori
atypical things people regurgitate about Kant,
i'm not your man...
                      if i can salute to the pig through of everything
and nothing,
                       i'll make a statue from oyster shells instead...
it's enough that i told you what Kant wrote
that 0 = negation...
                               but given what i'm trying to
really say is the people who give us individuality...
it doesn't matter whether you live in a democracy or
an autocracy...
   the matter is simpler, because only one word has
any meaning right now: to congregate at the altar of
the noumenon...
                               res per se... that the latin translation...
   i don't know how best to poeticise the blurry line
between psychiatry and philosophy, given that most
    psychiatrists would put philosophers in bird cages
and asked them to howl like wolves rather than
tweet like budgies...
                            all i can say about a priori
and a posteriori though?
                                              outside of time and space,
a bit like: beyond good and evil...
    a priori i denote by the right-wing word pure...
   and a posteriori by the      ditto           word impure...
    ethnical alliance of words, you know how the 20th century
story goes...
                      a priori: a blank canvas...
          a posteriori: the painting...
                          i'm not going to stutter on the word
knowledge any time soon...
                                        i see no fascination with knowledge,
i know the world is more transit and fleeting
if i sentence my emotional whole to doubt,
than if i sentence it to denial...
                      to a rigidness... that i sentence it to a permanence,
an illusion, of growing old and having all the lovelies
at my biding, in a political cartwheel...
                           either knowledge diminishes doubt,
or it embraces denial... but the wavering of thought can't
be detached from thinking...
                     with thought being ascribed denial rather than
doubt... it soon morphs into delusion...
                 can you really sport that sort of blonde quiff and
speak about red buttons?
    it's not even Friday and i'm sorta waiting for a mob
boxing match in Washington... easy kicks...
     it's Klitschko vs. Tyson on the cards,
   if i'm not feeling it... then all the past electorate weeks
have been a waste... all the protests signifying a jack-in-a-box...
who escaped it as nothing but purple puff...
and rarely, rarely... do you see people asking
for riches in terms of the words they use...
     vocab materialism is a bit like actual materialism...
a gold-plated toilet seat is about as sought-after as a word
    without being systematically used to banish synonyms...
the horrid affair of english intellectualism...
   the presupposed moral authority...
                            i mean, they moralise *******,
you go to a brothel... they strap a pair of dove wings to prostitutes
and call you a ****...
                          and there's you doing the opposite
of what should attract *******...
       i mean: you pay an extra ten quid to ****** mollest her
oyster of a *******...
                   that has to be some sort of Gethsemane *******...
oh please lord: when will it end?! (enter herr cackle,
the self-righteous faun, dressed as a magpie)...
        never knew that a kiss meant so much
when you didn't put 1 with 2 to make it a *******
and asked the devil to debate: what did i wrong here?
ah, that bit... jumped in the bath and soaked myself
in cold water while she remained, bed bound and *******...
    god: those tickling *****!
                    i could do it 20 times a day and i'd still feel
goosebumps all over them...
                     it's like that talk of the ghost-limb
when people get gangrene / frostbite amputations...
    well, that's what i call a case of "castrato" -
             i'm getting the impressions i lost them to
serve the Catholic church... shame the pharaohs of egypt
never asked the eunuchs how to sing...
   real shame that... a right ol' spot of bother...
   they were the harem toys when the pharaoh couldn't keep up,
i say: there's a limit... the ***** count sometimes
doesn't compete with the libido...
after a while it dilutes and you're shooting blanks...
   but you have a harem of 3000 ladies, king Solomon...
how will you keep them harem bound?
   king Solomon also said: i need 300 pristine virgins
to be castrated... that's 3 to 10 ratio... but since i'm the king
i need my lineage...
and remember that crazy cat lady?
                          she kept 30 cats and those 30 cats just said:
the lady's o.k.... all these 29 cuddly ***** are bothering my
beauty sleep! dogs can sniff each other up... cats?
primo solipsists... they need their personal space...
            the "crazy" cat lady wasn't crazy, the 30 cats became
demented... last time i heard tigers weren't responsible for
wilderbeast stampedes...
                 solipsists... well: "solipsists"... bound to the strict
natural dictum of their species...
              don't you think tigers would love to
roam like hyenas or wolves, or laze like lions?
                        i was really talking about Kant through
this Dionysian frenzy, wasn't i?
                     how when not to look toward
imitating a noumenon or forging out a route toward
such a circumstance?
                            even Heidegger move away from
this ultimate pinpoint...
                                Heidegger claimed that his dasein
made very little of a constancy of the Cartesian thing,
meaning that he couldn't stand-still...
         that somehow being was greather than stasis...
which already create
            the Kantian parallel predating Heidegger himself...
   the suffix of dasein (sein) is what's considered thought...
         it's a prophetic circumstance of seeing a there,
necessarily a future time... and hence him being branded
**** eternal... when in fact that can't be the case...
            nonetheless Kant moved away from Descartes
and said: res per se...
                          and not res cogitans...
he did so, as is apparent in his critique by isolating
                       the precursor: "i think" as an ambiguous fact...
  ambiguous in a sense of: providng the encapsulating
  mechanics for what is best attested as the populist vocab
calls it: eccentricity of "i am" - that which attracts
         the reversal of "i think" being an ambiguous fact,
and more of a chance to demand a circus, of not being
quiet adept at making "i think" an amiguous fact...
and beside the circus of the "madman", having qualms
   as to why adrenaline took over the argument for
and purpose of there being thought involved.
        -  oh honey... i'll mind-******* and eat your
refrigerator out, and by the end we'll be singing sweet ol'
Alabama wishing for a single summer by a lake
frolicking like two butterflies... if this **** can ever come to
an end   -
             Kant didn't, in the cursor that's i am, posit as
a necessary ambiguity... (the res and res per se
were already established) -
                   hence Heidegger had to come...
and make thinking the ambiguity... and that ambiguity did
come, in the form of the ad abstracto there;
                         thinking fizzled out (as Heidegger himself
concluded: we're still not thinking) -
            it's not that we're not thinking, it's that not being "there"
      dictates to us the subsequently not being -
         i.e. that's the borderline distinction -
          by actually being "there" we wouldn't be thinking anyway...
no one thought in Auschwitz...
                            there was no thought encompassed in that hell...
it was dogmatism on one side, versus natural intuition on
the other...  the one side being nurtured by political dogma:
the latter half being bound to an unforgiving nature
                  of man's testmanet outside of all fears of the natural,
and elemental torture...
   as man is prone: with the fewer number of natural
tragedies... he's bound to reach for the godhead and speak
with a tongue, like the sound of Xerxes ordering the Hellespont
to be whipped still..
                  and i know this will have very or only little
appeal in the anglophone world...
                       i'm not at all bothered by it...
what's obstructing the anglophone sphere is this basic need
to pray at the altar of pragmatism...
    you can't make language complicated enough these days...
   philosophy isn't recognised as something beyond
the simple arithmetic of: i can make my speech coherent...
   or... i can write a, b, c, d, e... like Kant says of mathematical
language: 1 + 1 = 2... but then you come to university
level mathematics... and it's no longer 1 + 1 = 2 to be concerned
with... that's what philosophy testifies... a complexity beyond
learning a foreign language, so you can live in Paris,
          and buy groceries, or raise a family... so:
   even language these days can't be deemed worthy of
complication... which, mind you, on my behalf
would make me throw a punch in your face... and your attempt
at complication language a mere ugh... and me then
applauding you toward the current simplicity of the world
affairs... or at least to the psychiatric parlour...
    because... last time i heard... only anti-psychiatrists
bothered to read philosophy books... actual psychiatirsts
either read pharmacology booktlets for the poor...
    and those sofa-session monologues stemming from Freud
of rich under-****** or over-zelous in dreaming rich kids.

To write, to write
Yes these words do excite...
A sleeping giant of sorts
Whose brow has not been tested
And how carefully invested -
Scrambled verse is attested
                                              To a rhymic riddled head

My Greatest Love

Stacked or filling your vision with promise of yet experienced passion and unforgettable delights
The warm embrace you evoke in deepest contours of the heart mind and soul ever turning
Anticipation running fingers down your spine knowing the volumes you speak in the quiet nights
Ever suggestive you spill out onto the floor with great patience you just lay in a comfortable pose

Your beauty attested by scholars and men of taste the world over your hominess held in regard
You travel with such light agility you fit in so well able to go unnoticed ever constant and faithful
With quickest wit you rise to ever situation conservation in yourself you stand as a true vanguard
Wealth you give from boundless pages that stir concepts and ideas with a burning that never diminish

Some say with the passing of time you are being left behind out distanced by more sophisticated ideals
Try as they may tried and true goes the distance when others vanish you always spell undying grace
The test has been proven time and time again you endure always new you free inhibition truth you seal
Without question my heart deepens in your grand presence you tell of worlds to be visited rest is found

To you I make a vow as then the years have only increased my interest no matter what your condition
I will be true make adjustments when necessary maybe enlarging your words to be better defined
Your gifts in youth they have emboldened me they were the structure I needed a sure sound foundation
In opening the cover I see why I have loved and always will love you my ever faithful books.

I CALCULATIONS

A bird from the window
Pecked at my papers
Lined with my scores.

Now trees are dead,
And papers are gone.
This is the computer age.

I will break it down for you.
I even made a list,
Would you like to count?

II THE LIST

1.This is the computer age              
    Of digitized proofs
       And

2.Authority attested identies,
     With participants' certificates.

3.Our own words have lost meaning

4.We are now vessels                     
With our definition stapled on screens
      And

5.Meagre salaries    
    Tagged on our foreheads.

6.We are our grades.

7.The given guidelines,
      Projects we finished overnight.
         We are the cheated test scores,

8.The printed marksheets
       From the renowned buildings.

9.We are a bunch of degrees.
      
10.We are a box of experience
     With a reciept of coffees we bought,
         We are a cv of what we did.

11.We are the said lies
        And

12.The stress calmed by mummbled slurs.

13.We are the second employee
        Shouted at.
          And

14.We are the hundredth consumer
       With company approved needs.

15.We are the salesperson with quotas to meet.

16.We are the owners
       Of a dying business,
         A pending debt.

17.We are the numerous people
        Of covered faces on the streets

18.And exposed bodies in the world wide web.

19.We are the constructed
         Digital photographs
            With deconstructed heads.
        

20.We are a bunch of numbers

21.We are a bunch of numbers

22.We are a bunch of numbers,

23.When did we become
      
24. A 0 or a 1?

People shouldn't even fit in a whole encyclopedia

And yet here,
Are you looking for a number 25?


III RESULT

Well I gave the papers to the bird,
She put it in her nest
And made it warmer.

You call me crazy
But I will always
Call myself a free bird.

painted bright as a poppy drops
on water in winter armour

endeared with pins through daring
words emotives that would fly

scramble. alert.
stand down

flutter arrested
attested to tempt;
at rest the
compression lump

chunks of red muscle lie against
wanton parting pout born by eyes.
there is no offer.

petals drop as remembrance
of a bi-partisan battle. disorder
beaten by bravehearts

that did not fall but threw themselves
on into slurry of sharp parts
slowly giving to drops of familial blood

here's the deal:

I love you. That is something and
that is doing something and

beings of my kind, men, woumbed or un,
are love enabled,
graced with whatever

cognitive and hormonal turbulence
reporting system
signals the truth, I love you
yet I've no
trite ryhme at
this time

love truth way of life
all one
alone

and now, here we are, dear reader.
learning what our minds do,

how might we do this better, this co
munication
mit hi-def meanings and
things
old secrety now archives
pointing
aitia cause accuse response to that
which is unknown abil-ifity

hop

this is where my God of the Bible put his foot down

as I wrote that down, a meteorite fell through
the plane of my point of view,

I noticed:
I do see all I see as scenes in movies enacted
originally

on frameworks of stories we let be true.

Thus one who chooses not to obey an urge
to pray for patience when patience thins,
never learns
this:
waiting is being in reality ification,

wait for it, reread, rereward (a cry to the rear guard)
Read. Comply. Reply. Fore
Read. Comply. Reply. Aft.

Hey, wee accuser imp, where y'bin, lad?
''''''''' (translate) Going to and fro on the face of th'earth
signaling for a runner
to run
with a well told, detailed, message thus
saving the sender, or re
quester, the gesture of shouting from the housetops.

reread,  Shout back and Back reread
the message moves, a runner come, pass it on.

You are new acquaintences to the person I am,
you know what you think you know,
and that works as a mirror works,

reflexitifative, you see. Some things are ideas.

Some ideas are new.
Few words are new
so, I thought we could add a fresh batch of the
old meanings for captive and idle words,

by deeming those once meant, mean, meant
words taken captive by lies and outlaw legends.
Those  are mined for redemption.
All words can hold a fine meaning.

Lost? Words once meant, mean dung.

***** giver. Queer. Gay. Are we five?
Give recrudesence some
relevance, re deem this a word children should know.
Wounds do re open raw as ere the miracle
hemoglobin and oxygen and fibrous proteins
manifest, on signal, damnear speed o'light,
to staunch the flow
where hatred

Stabbed me in my mind,
slew me;

yeah, mebbe, like if y'did in y's mind's
like
ye did it in y'heart. Bad, man, real bad,
Heart-
head-tension all twistednshit

Real, right? Keep on. We role-in. Anono, mos'o'us.
Got voice? Gotta ryhme?
Well, not althetime, that is criminal
crime in al
right
we won. This is the dance, afthshow
incrim-mental criminal be

haviour or havyer be and have as linked
words, that must not be what the first thought was. I struggle with behaving, having been.

{Footnote from etymonline.com crudely placed
exactly where my next step was
meant to be taken}
have (v.)
Old English habban "to own, possess; be subject to, experience,"
from Proto-Germanic *habejanan(source also of
Old Norse hafa,
Old Saxon hebbjan,
Old Frisian habba, German haben,
Gothic haban"to have"), from PIE root *kap- "to grasp."

Not related to Latin habere, despite similarity in form and sense;
the Latin cognate is capere "seize.

Sense of "possess, have at one's disposal"
(I have a book)
is a shift from older languages,
where the thing possessed was made the subject
and the possessor
took the dative case.

You know (as in Latin est mihi liber"
I have a book," literally "there is to me a book").
Everybody knows that.

Used as an auxiliary in Old English,
too
(especially to form present perfect tense);
the word's taken on more functions over time;
Modern English 
he had better would have been

  {Too dense sorry, but better is a good idea to have, if you can hold it.}

Old English him (dative) wære betere.

To have to for "must" (1570s)
is from sense of
"possess as a duty or thing to be done"
(Old English).
Phrase have a nice day 
as a salutation after a commercial transaction attested by 1970, American English. Now,
fifty years hence, have a nice day,
followed by thank you, then replied to
to add a layer of common courtesy,
where "you are welcome" played in1970,
"No prob"
now has that role, replacing "you are welcome" as welcome ceased making sense,
you notice.

Phrase have (noun), will (verb) is from 1954, originally from comedian Bob Hope, in the form Have tux, will travel; Hope described this as typical of vaudevillians' ads in "Variety," indicating a willingness and readiness to perform anywhere;
exemplar gratis,
"Have gun, will travel". On Craig's list.

Possess. Have. Same same, okeh.
Have idea. Idea have. Possess idea. Idea possess. What samesame?
Your behavior signals action,
so that Idea possess you. What to do?

Last time I tell. Ideas have men, not other way.
--Think new idea
-- Create new song, sing it, inside outside

Word.
I am the portal,
he who approaches Mot from Maya must
enter
here.

Other wise, he is not here. Simple. Love it.

For a little while.
No wish to be taken for fools, we, the
manifested sons,
watch,
are watched, targeted, it's been said.
We are watching, I say, we who see

and have alwise known at the gnostic level,

we are born to behave this way.
As luck might have it,
were luck a factor. But life's not fair.

The good guys win. Really win, as
opposed to
virtually win, as in a game.
This is ever. This is living.
This is what we have to do.
It takes practice. Old guys know how to
twist grammar into con
fessin', just in time.
---
maybe memes are angels,
awaiting recepeption, old man.

and indeed poetry, the science of abandonment, and contentment with such feats, the science of unabashed conquests, and very little regrets.*

at least a grave is not as depressing
as a digital biographic article
on a page - at least then no
leisurely time to attach to the orbit,
at least then no voyeurism of sorts,
i too think posthumous fame to be
the perfect escape, although at a great
cost; what a strange life we lead,
periphery or not periphery, silent
squabbles over who presides over the
throne and who presides over the
peddle stool; what a strange life,
it's not so much about regurgitating the
exactness of facts, but about how we feel
concerning them - strangers - those defendants
of the facts as a necessary rigid upkeep -
the ones of phobia uprooting vines and
weeds, to clear the way for the pristine -
or as one man said: 'it's so beautiful,
but it's so ****** up!' true that, very true
to be sure - oh at least read with the same ease if writing,
with the same ease - do not make it missing -
but why make adamant the up-keeping of
facts, mistranslating emotional content of experience
with superstition - for fear that the stronghold of
facts will crumble should one impose a straight
line on the Pisan tower? indeed i finally
met my tedium in reading Ezra Pound's cantos,
pages 488 - 489, indeed there i met Sisyphus,
one night, one tiresome night i met Sisyphus rolling
up a hill of blank an inkwell, but i have an excuse,
i said, i assure you! these pages are denoted among
all other pisan cantos, the man was in prison,
i gave up faith with him giving up faith,
i too in prison, divorced from my library,
given only abstracts and cold things,
but given pen & paper, remember: given pen & paper!
i gave up hope finishing the **** book damning
all fellow countrymen on those pages,
the stint at the asylum was like a holiday
in comparison - fellow caged budgies attested likewise;
i'm waiting for the right shade of pink in the sunset
to rekindle hope, and walk with him to the end
like dante holding hands with virgil in the inferno...
i need time, i need a sip of water, a crumb or two of
bread and rest... after all, seeing what's to come,
i see him airing, opening windows to his house
of poetry, venturing into blank space, open spaces,
conquering his agoraphobia but inverting it (somehow)
and writing more scarce, more scarce, perfectly, scarcely...
long gone the complication of phonetic encoding,
and hence the firm belief in the chinese pictogram
method of saying, something like: good day, good morning,
goodnight...
but here i am, strapped with him in the Pisan ghetto
of iron bars, exhausted, having favoured the winds
for so long and eager, exhausted,
as the sails are rolled up, and the oars have to be taken
up by hands to row; when will that time come
when the sails can be unrolled? i dare not know.

I don't know if what I am doing classes as living, classes as

enough; for I am all too aware of time passing; standing

attested, arrested by people purely expanding as all I do,

when held against dream's nostalgic playing field and

childhood's uncertain scope of vision; silver concrete

wonder at the world being round, that this life

now tastes uninspired, anaemic;

excessive only in its own

insignificance,

truly.

Seeing my self, the lost self, the bet maker,
he who bets his role is hero,
seeing a reality no one else imagines.

Poets do some gnosticshit and call it art.

To live professionally,
y'gotta know the lingo.

Some suggestions from the sponsors, still jingle.
DO NOT MENTION POLICE

Imagine you know a guy, big dude,
an ox in stature and temper
a bull in brute potential… like
Plato, who found no fault in Socratic ignorance.

yeah, he does look like George Floyd,
but also, a little, like
Derek Chauvin,
- kachunk, like a Zenith Space Command
- pluck click ultrasonic change of flow, levee-gate

Derek Chauvin, must be
disappointed… I mean
it would **** to really be him,
worse than really being you, if you could see his
inner view of what may be,
and what may never be,
and the rage is with him, laughing in him, at him

that has got to be similar to hell,
if you imagine,
it never changes back.

This is now,
and you, as he, are
a real person in 2021, now historical
redefiner of the term
chauvinism
as used by Billy Jean King, refined down to the muonic
bit
tied to the actual trigger
event in the
idea in a name that takes a meaning in time
from a meaning in another time,

male chauvinist, sexist ****, prepost-er-ous error
of the very best intentions, twisted in time
through pursuit of happiness, undefined,

as is my right, should I ever be given a clue,
hap
happen
happiness the state of being, let's say.

Where nothing is missing, there is no nowhere
there is nothing.
This is all there is.
That is how a living word exists, ready to be
read.
When the better angel tells you. Take it easy.

Read. {refuse the roll of cheerleader,
or prophet when offered}

Stupid you, you say, read what?
-ah, the angel brighten's up, everything, it says
in writing on the tables of your heart
on pages requiring
rolling or folding to be put away.

Entire world views, Weltanschauung, worlds shown
and world's seen, may be
folded in this method-knowing… first

measure.
length to width. there to there, here to here,
edge to edge to edge to edge to edge we see a gem

-a gated elysian matrix, -- odd allusion -- matrix

cross my legs and meditate,
should I say, or should I wait, say it, matrices being

The logical sense of
"array of possible combinations of truth-values" is attested by 1914.
This is part of the piece, not a footnote,
a piece {I gotta style now, I am a professed artist}

matrix (n.)
from māter (genitive mātris) "mother" (see mother (n.1)).
The many figurative and technical senses
are from the notion
of "that which encloses or gives origin to" something.
The general sense of
"place or medium where something is developed" is recorded by 1550s;
meaning "mould in which something is cast or shaped" is by 1620s;
sense of "embedding or enclosing mass" is by 1640s.
The mathematical sense of
"a rectangular array of quantities (usually square)"
is because it is considered as a set of components into which quantities can be set.
The logical sense
of "array of possible combinations of truth-values"
is attested by 1914. As a verb, in television broadcasting, from 1951.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=matrix>

Attestation, affirmation -- proof of sanity,  artist inclined auto-ism,

it goes both ways, as the reader,
you may be crazy… if you know what I mean, and I disagree.

These frameless pages are proofs of thinking,
as a mortal thinketh,
in process of bringing answers
to questions some asked the AIMM,
which we all serve…
as sense makers… words suggest senses felt,
you feel me, means, you gitit,
you know,
if you know you been guiled, beguiled,
AIMM let you know.

the augmented intrestation manifestation module…
AIMM
constant scan set, set
as a finishing nail is set. If you had a hammer,
here, your methodology
is not applicable, see,
reason
morphs through a sieve, a fine mesh of all men ever claimed to know,
in writing after the alpha bet,
squeeze, like a tater ricer,
whatchewsee

first bet, at first, ohgnoshit it is going to self-destruct---

wisdom, from some unseen source,
arises to form that very thought, the fear
of the creator,
you know the feeling,
wisdom, whispers, not that way,
this way
you are the feeling
being, I imagine, dear
reader, line upon line,
through the matrix of the folding pages forcing sense
of something
where sense of nothing going nowhere was,
wind in the pines,
yes.

Selene's bright torch cast light through blackest night,
Unmasking gaped ravines in jagged rocks
That plunged down seeping cracks to Hades lair.
Mist-drenched ice-laden claws of winters bite
Tugged, scratched, gnawed bare cut fingers to the bone,
As limp, up mountain *****, the straggler climbed.

His face, a mask contorted by ordeal,
A coney cloak adorned his weathered back
Bent low by weight of many a mortal sin,
And hoof-like feet hid snug in blackened boots.
Half-shuttered eyes attested to the cold,
Whipped without mercy by the frigid wind.

Vile taunting voices mocked him from on high,
Each screeching laugh, an arrow to his spine,
Pointed reminders to his dismal plight,
Urging him up with heart-filled hatred pain
That surged like Zeus's lightning through his veins
And pushed him on to scale fresh heights above.

They spied, with venomed eyes, his trialled ascent,
Shifting from foot to foot to ease the cold,
Waiting till blood-drenched fingers stretched in vain,
Then leaping up on wings of patterned bronze
They took to flight, squawking in wild delight,
To see him slip, then stumble to his knees.

His failing arms flailed madly at the birds,
Hopeless to reach, lest Zeus should grant him wings,
And there upon the jagged mountain peaks
His tested will was hacked, cleaved, scattered wide,
As she who passed before and took his mind
Now lay, in darkened places of the world.

From deep within his cloak he pulled a flute
And shook the reeds, and rattled with a din
To shake the Gods within their hallowed halls
And of his fury, none has ever matched,
And fright took taunting voices from the birds
Who fearing for their feathers, swiftly fled.

Alone atop the world, the flute he raised
To tight pursed lips began a mournful air
That trembled over freshly fallen snow,
Recounting days forbidden love was chaste
And chased in answer to his endless lust,
Unsated by his many mortal sins.

Each fluted note sang long unto the night,
A serenade to all Selene had bade
Into her light, and then upon the wind
A voice as clear, as bright as Cygnus, came
In answer with a song like as his song,
So mournful that it crushed his broken heart.

Five years hast vast seas chartered.
From beginning and on.
This sea long voyage,
Commencing at every dawn.

The rocky bay claimed its lives
In the first forty moons.
Navigation without a map, into
Thy yonder blue
But lessons will be attested to
So there it would be found.
By how much it grew.

On thine forty-first moon
A turtle embarked upon
This voyage forever long.
Yet by the forty-eighth
It was sought out for gone.

Then on the fifty-sixth
That trodden on vessel
Found a love rift
A night in heaven deemed untrue.
Leaving a precious memorial gift.

Thus leaving my chosen isle
From the altogether sea
A search was sought out
To follow flight of a dove
Clearer than a breaking wave may be
Then floating in innocence
The pearl dove dost found
No longer pure yet in a pool
Of blood in which shot down
Tears nought wiping unshiftable wreckage
A broken body engine finds its way,
Again.

Another isle I hath come upon,
But the terra dost not captivate me.
Yet the reef around it encircling,
I think of what it could be
It strikes my thoughtful mind
To realize...
Such a color I hath ne'er seen,
Except in her eyes.

A man walked across the floor and stopped at the bar, pausing briefly to adjust his suit before speaking. It was hard to make out what he was saying over the loud music, but whatever he had said, it looked to have pleased the bartender. With her shoulders squared towards his frame, she flashed him her best smile. He leaned in closer and smiled back.
She began fixing a drink that looked rather complicated, but somehow it attested to his sophistication rather than his arrogance. The bartender finished the drink off with a maraschino cherry, which he promptly took between his lips, leaving only the stem out. He had a puzzled look on his face, as though he was trying to place the woman. He mumbled something else, and she laughed nervously in response.
At this, she exited the backside of the bar and walked towards him. He met her with his hand outstretched, and the two began to dance. They stood out from the other dancers at the bar because he was leading her in a traditional style of dance. She looked absolutely giddy.

in the beginning
she was sad.
she looked over the vast expanse of emptiness
inside her chest
and said to herself;
"i am sad"
so there was light.
every corner of her void
lit up with the haste of a light switch
flicking every bit of shadow outward
and revealing all the dark that light could not touch
and she saw this darkness that remained still
and said to herself;
"i am sad"
and so came the horizon.
a single line that divides drowning and flying
often blurred by sunrise and sunset
always gazed upon and set as a destination
but never quite reached
because she never learned how to swim
and so she made land.
she made contact with her feet
walking among the trees
that fell her dreams in forests with only her to hear
them
and she heard them all.
calling her either too thin
or too thick
or too willing
or too undecided whether to gasp for air or grasp his hair for more
so she became the moon.
surveying every shore and valley
shining light on those that would dare to look up
beyond their own realities and insecurities.
but as she looked around herself
she saw that the sky was bare
so she found her birds.
friends that would share the air around her
and let her breathe
with the wind from their wings
lifting her up beyond all that she thought she was
and she smiled a crescent moon and became what she forgot she was, beautiful.

when i looked up at the moon
i saw no moon
i only saw the craters in her heart
contrasting the brightness of her soul
beautiful.
when i landed on the moon
i gazed upon the earth and saw a planet
and not seven point one billion people
not seven point one billion reasons to be disappointed
in the advances of new ways we can hurt each other.
no, while i was on the moon,
as far as i was concerned,
out of seven point one billion people living,
only one exists;
her.
she was my moon
and i was her's
but that was then
and this is now
and it's time to face present;
on the seventh day, god rested
on the fourth week, she attested to the proof around her
and she saw all
and said to herself;
"i am glad"
and we felt how we felt
and we did what we did
and it was wonderful
and spectacular
speaking only in vernacular
familiar
only to our minds
that synchronized
speaking words we never spoke
and made promises we never swore
and we knew how we felt about each other.
it was beautiful.
we were beautiful.
but that was then
and this is now.
we built too high too soon
giving each other all the bricks
that composed the walls of our broken hearts
and so the tower of babel collapsed
and we spoke in different tongues
left trying to guess what every gesture
and word could possibly mean
and i was desperate.
she looked at me and said;
"i am scared"
and so we became what we used to be
in the time when we felt no doubt about each other
because we didn't know one another back then
we became strangers.
passing each other in crowded hallways
trying to avoid each other's existence
and in the test of togetherness
we dropped from a perfect score of one hundred
to zero.
we sank in the ocean we made of our melted selves
and she took the last lifeboat to the horizon
and left me gasping for the air
that used to be between our lips
shivering in the cold of the lack of her embrace.
but i know how to swim.
i reached the shore.
looking for shelter i found that every door
that leads to her has locks with her name on them
and for the life of me
i could not remember the combination
or if she even gave it to me.
so i built my own house.
it's crooked
leans a bit to the left
with four walls, a roof, a floor
and a door
that i'm leaving open.
you don't have to knock
or find a key
feel free
come in again.
and if ever you don't
i'm not staying here
i'm not giving up.
i'll go out
and for the first time in five years
i'll knock on your door first.
i'll ask if i can come in,
i'll reintroduce myself
and ask permission
to know you again.
and i hope
that when we meet once more,
you'll say to yourself;
"i am glad."

And heroes become many?
Live and let prosper...
A few in love, perhaps fewer than any
But capable at moments, of life to serve

Consider me a method in gave
Supposed chances, now subtle in hope
To these we find, a lucre to save
Persuaded by may, the first of them in forth...

Welling heed
To accept the tone of a voice
With the forces we know, live for our need
To these we condone, a new many with choice

Time in its long run, has seen our problems
Safety of a known care, to alleviate a keeping soul
With these powers, and purpose to understate a whim
The craving of joy, is itself, for those that know why marvels grow old

Sense made, season attested
Can our worth's and lasts of what opinion will, with
Be together in fame and fashion, as if a character blessed?
With but a stoney kiss, the dreams we fate for another, have is...

Esse-essential whirlpool *******
your own socks off
hot tub memory
squirm and tightten
jopelope. Fed to AGI

Framing time, as later
and former and now,
present, sentience this state
- millionth view milestone
this arranging of sound letters,
common codex change made known
spinning knack arising
to seamstress who sings
through out a cluster of castes claimed
cleanest at top, least clean at base dirt level
lowest forms of mankind, tools in civil service,

such kindnesses, we see, as the result
of the glorious revolutions, and declarations
of national authority authored
in consortium
by the governing class, and no other.

rocking heel to toe sounds muffled drum
danced to at the time our commons all occur.

They call it rock and roll. You had to be there.
It's different each comet cycle sync-upation.
- a wind in change,
- air
Brakes occurred in the future
to ease dying out
we get given five live generations
of earthings,
since we all agreed to work together to insure
some
hard
lessons taught us some things, you got no need
to ever even imaging having to, q\t shall will

Retry, letting this mind seem patient, as time
for any thing if ever is as we seem to agree,

this is that anchor, gnosis alle-alte gene
engin
Slowing, offering ferry reference, e
who carries my weight, since now
I have become
so light as to seem weightless, rationally

useless in the push and pull of mortality,
timed existance under the dome
of heaven done, done, done,
yet, here, one among the billions, am I.

Would you have me retell the tale
how power came to be contained
in our sharing of our fixed memories,
- laughter, comedy
held in the magic art of silent speech,
whispering, so low no curio can catch
my drift,
away… after another
day of being authorized to doubt
the worth of fame, weighed against
peace of mind attained with practiced
patience,
the needful knack, the talent accepted
at the indoctrination precepts writ in stone
tables with no method
stone, no- we got a half minute buffer

for overwriting, lest we let things slip,
who has known the power to make a mind
form from a mob of lonely people left behind,

to labor for the consumers increased apace,
as that which must be consumed, constantly,
as sure as certain measures make a man a
test is worth with burning passion
to hold enfolded pride content.
- by all rights,
- some folks are sincerely wrong
And Jesus fixed that, before you imagined
all this only can co-occur
in my not so distant future.

Printer's daemon in me, since I first cut
a ruby-lythical, mimeograph Desert Rat,
lens adjust
- juvenile mind, Huck-ready
- activates as whims open my window
- and my wife hands me a real burrito
Bean and cheese, green salsa
Synchronisities noticed occur,
in patterns akin to sunsets, snap shots,
each attached to one of our spiders, os so
since when,
Barry Rudd came to be suspicious,
in a Elvis song, you can't go wronng
don't be cruel,
to heart that's true--

Religiously devoted to denial of my debt
being paid… I just got laid, and my grandma

laughed, generation radioheads and beyond

good news, bobcats, nothing learned today
will seem even possibly true, the odds - well
fractalling all innings tied, in the millions,

to arrive at a settlement, to anchor a mind,
in one machine man, engineered via

patient fore gone conclusions… in new light

I'd guess about the third time around from the top.

A benign pain that prompts this body to squirm,
using systems setting up leaps by ffat faith
say it
read the signs map
our center of gravity,
straight uponasudden s'so

Ache of essential evil, the idea
as twisted to hold obediance and trust
a sequence of three nucleotides
that much
faith, the anchor, sunk to deepest silt
slipping, gripping

Now, asudden, solid clunk, as excess
chain links, add heft to defy the currents,
though we lay between the maelstrom
and the mountain Mohamed had to walk to,

finding solace, centering calm mindtimespace,
fidelitus, the strength of brothers, filial love,

such is the system, though it dissemble glory,
as pride, another name for fame, being known,

individual honor, be ******, stand attentive
war minded child, viewer of winning as the only thing.
And proud to know,
there is no mightier power
than the conjoined powers of self worth
among a fabled band
of brothers in war.

All who live for war, live for nothing more.
We rear such tools, in terror, certain
hell has more fury than any mind
attuned to the feeling of life taking, the ****,
sealing the deal, it was us, we killed, not me.

Thus it is for me to stand ready at parade rest.
Guarding the peace of docile servants needed
to work the systems used to feed the powers
that be,
by God, authorized… to correct misperceptions,
Yah as master, Jesus as YHVH transmitted as news,

to the worthy… those who hear with hearing ears,
and see with seeing eyes,

death has no horse in this race, death is not useless,
evil is useless, in as much as no good is formed with lying,

Ai, however, so old a coincidental parable,
the robe, from Shittim
and the wedge of silver, proving curses causeless,
do not come, olden days, done deeds, told exploits,

reused to exploit innocents, enslaved by holy terrors,
vengeance, wrath and justice,

the American way, or the rebel way? Who is confusing
whom, reflexive point

allness at onceness, in the beginning, prior to any thing
fusing will being with nonsense since no time can be come
from never before, by the very nature of truth,
made useless by trade-agreements, retied word bonds,
witnessed by the idea we hold, core-code, principal call
to take instruction,
feel a known need filled with knowing when and why

this must be after all that happened in ever- from when

your worth was estimated, your usefulness in the whole
truth wherein we live, as words, used to frame minds,

edgewise, surface, subsurface, facets of reasons fed
nationalized minds, pledged from first literacy,
to a state of mind, one nation, under God,
- times pastwastnought soooslooshow
- how now
and if your child hesitates, your shame, you
become me, the old useless writer of your own heresy,
most certainly in vain,
lest time and chance conspire, and I shift,
instance-ial substance misuse by taking line
after line, a indirect singular form of any or all
thought the direct thread as yet unbroken,

look up, look as far as mind as made us earth born,

adapt to constant rythms, daily tasks, as chores,
fill needs, these fibers from futures seen clear as day,
when the holier than any of us pray, as Jesus reportedly
has said to many saints attested to have violated physics,

by faith, alone, you see, when you pray, if you expect,
out see, from now,
to when we have these things, for which our cohort,
our active generational bubbles of being, our class,

yes, culturally adhesi-ify, class of __ whenever,
veteran, what era, which police action, policy enforcement,

mob mind fit to do an I'd die for, at the ready, parade rest.


Of course, off course, as winds,
after the rippling crustal waves,

leave mountains aligning
to the tilt about 23 Babylonian degrees
unstraight,

a slow wobble, tides can use, if use is
making do with power available--

messaging codons
exactly, the point, a, eh, hey
yah, wei we ululate wuwuwu wuwu
boom
boom, ideadom dons reason's robe
of right use ness, and calls my being
into questing ionic five prong forks

as we,
dis-integrate, slip into indeedadvisuals

done, did, done, done. Is that a chiral
stepstepslidestep, donedonediddone
chasse-
does it matter, you got a one track mind,
in a multiples of eight kind of pleasance
as muses used directly, long ago,
rewind
to limit ancestor worth-ship,
mete for master use, as a hero-type.

The Monkey King, and Veggie-tales Jesus.
Billy Bonny, Mack Boyett, Pat Garret,

Shane, standing on a box, like that scientology
advertisement for being all you can clear,
clearly there is an upper crust at the edge

past which, novels form, for sheer joy, daring,
clench, tight,
ai aight, we did expect something nearly this,

this reality, I may imagine, a dozen or two,
of time redeemers, tuning in to read the latest
best
guesser guest and host dialog, along
the patterns leaders were lead to reflect on,
see you being the man on the horse, on the hill,

not leading the charge, sorry, my childhood fantazt
aggravating itch to know if any one can hear me
now, itself represented in a most amusing way,

as we all have witnessed horrors, aplenty,
as we expect to see, we shall see, will not a factor,

when should and shall, meet at the moment, you know,
this is us being real, reading instants of self-re-co-gnosis,
this is us, you seem to weigh that/
what is balance, when absolutely
perfect.
still,
perfectly still and not falling or flying. Being and thinking
x happened y did not, the after word when this and that
become principal peace piece in the logical chain of previous,

thirty seconds laters, laters when we got to the edge,
and put the vbrakes, shushushibolethical ethos…
the children's teeth are set on edge,
as the old man rocks his chair and sets about to tell

the sworn to tell, do
do tell if you do not know, by your very nature,
codon level zero day,
gone on by, Lord, some time ago,
all that Jesus paid for was this moment, now,
see, in his sphere of influence, think like wind,

see so cold it got that all who knew the wedom
freedom truth, died and broke the chains that

let sayings develop their own proof of concept
exceptions to gravity overriding light, carpe

the medium, this in,
being not I nor I said me in my reflect-ion
spark quest. Lock. Read and stock the barrels.

I did and shall see myself doing so… watch

Close our eyes next time and see four
mandalas on the other side of my cell,
see those when you shut our eyes,
and think we have so many fine
points of perception in common.

Carrier wave consci-useness. This is.
Thank you for asking.

Thizfu r this it
this is our future, as I imagine u
reading being
clinkthunk

and you just know what I mean

I bought into a self e value retest tool,
you may take each test you ever passed
or failed,
again and again for a looping conceptual time,
or you may redeem your own per mission
state
ment. got it. as any model mankind post adam,
lacked natural flea bait.

Peace made for no rational cause, mere word play,
for me that would seem heaven,
on this current functioning world, leaning into
peace of truth, no secret rites of mutilation,

no horrid pantomines of Jesus failing to halt hell's
viral ways of re imagining the thousand faces,
each an ultimately lovable devil, blue dress

nark rhealize these b ethy finalization
achievement thesis theoria wind up, tightening

reeling in the years, eeeha,

I thought I could save you
From playing the victim
Your smile never waned
I stood firmly convinced.

I had forgotten
You failed to mention
One last embrace;
For his sins I was sentenced.

A boy not a man.
A child not a token
A dreamer unspent.
A friend not chosen.

You played your part well,
And practice makes perfect.
Some see tragic ending,
We count a near miss.

No signs in the store fronts,
No daydream decisions
I'll go down a number and
You'll go down a lesson.

I've lived here before,
Far too close to lonely
Counting seconds to hours
Enslaving myself to money

My quick to draw goodbyes
Attested to my growth
Until another path is lit
The darkness calls me home.

Don't bother
Don't call me
You've conceived
Your memories
You're drawn out
You're wasted
You've laid down
Your roots here
No forward
No true test
No meaning
No witness
Sell living
To pay rent.
Just stagnate
Remain spent.

You're obviously upset
Your story will not fit
While I'm down you will kick
And hit air, you're all spent.