2020 - day 146
Monday, May 25, 2020
7:48 AM
A creed of mathematics and mud, said
in what may be
metemperical
utterance from the ghost of the late,
and likely,
no longer lamented,
Sir Leslie Stephen, author, and,
therefore,
authoritative voice in the matter
of his own mind.
He apologized for the state called
Agnostic, lacking gnosis, may I say,
I know more, in fact, if I count my access
to knowns,
along with my access to the sequence
of knowing;
I know more than any prominent literati
in the time before Google's
manifestation as an idea shaping tool.
What do I know?
I know how to use the Internet to learn,
in broad sweeps through the remains of
empires,
into the dustbin of history for which we stand,
ready,
as a nation,
to build new and more destrucively effective
petards.
Blow your mind, hoist, lift-off, on your own farts.
Passing wind,
did you smell it?
❖
Mental as opposed to spiritual,
hmmm
this will need some study...
a little think,
an imaginary journey,
from here to... where? Where,
or when,
if
we were to change the world,
as we know it;
say,
we did. Say we changed the world,
who would know?
Who would care? We have yet,
breath, and fuel, and functionality.
We have movement, and a grasping,
holding, using,
sense
a natural, from the womb, knack
for making a fist.
❖
Womb survivors of the world, unite.
Defined to the finest quarkish sublimnity,
we entangled creative
thoughts being spun into the wind
passing, rising
from bloated corpses,
we all may witness, as real as you may imagine...
in 2020, we have eye-witness visions made plain,
we have seen the bodies stacked in carts,
we have seen My Lai from the sky,
we can imagine
being there... but don't, I mean, Memorial Day is...
maybe, it is... evoking memory of madness,
how is war good? It is good for the greedy, no one else.
We watch our hero's die to stop the evil, then we watch
the bankers free the last Krupp cannon molder,
to spite the facts we can see, as seen at Nurnberg.
That injustice, was done in my name, if I believe I am
pluralized as we, the people who hold truth,
the Yanks, ye' know? Yankin' y'strang, stranger... did you
stumble into our historical records of all the good
war has done? Nay,
we came to remember peace,
in high definition resolution sharper than the
unaugmented human eye can detect,
see that guy's head, or his helmet, look close,
no head remained in the helmet,
but I knew the head the helmet was hoisted from.
I watched PFC. -name redacted - die,
-- did you know, did you learn, ever, the meaning
of being hoisted on one's own petard?
A petard was a bomb. Nothing fancy,
a bit of alchemical magi-knowing of laws yet to be
discovered in the rubble of guesses as to cause,
accusations of arrogance and hubris, combound to whys,
never examined, never lived out in vital awareness.
❖
quenching a flaming spirit, is ill advised...
but it happens,
all the time. A heart pouring hope
into a mind jumbled
with signals and signs and pleas;
stops, stutters, and aches for
more
meaning meaning meaning in the
tinkling bells and crashing cymbals.
Hope, ash of aspirations inspired
by
love, as a thing, a noun, not a verb.
Love is a verb. Not a thing, an act.
Indeed, done, love is easy to think wisely done.
No announcement is needed,
long after the tale is first formed,
the legend rises from resting in peace,
to give a lie an opposing force, not a war,
a flood.
A deluge of lusion, a seeing at augmentedus
resolutions into further and beyond,
all we can think, or ask
into life
dimensions
former-wise, formerly, unknowable, now
known, according to the pundits,
these are not the days of Lincoln,
craming laws into his head by firelight,
calloused digits flipping page after page
of proprietary rules governing
the white man's burden.
---
❖
Staunching the flow, of blood, particularly,
meant stopping the flow, usually
stopping it from
flowing out of course,
flooding
the plain, flat, seeming, surface of reality.
Reality not being as defined as we imagine, in ourselves.
This being the flow,
if we pay attention, focusing on a point,
fixing a line of sight to a distant thing, a star will do,
planets,
no, those won't do, you see, the planets, now we know,
the planets reflect light,
they bounce light back to our eyes, which we invariably miss
when our attention is owed to the habits we hold.
Our daily grind... growing, or surviving in hope
We guess at many next right or otherwise, standing,
based up on a pedestal, a riser,
lift up your head, egregious though you be,
easily seen, so
easily you see as far as I'm concerned, dis
cerned, re
fined to the innermost edge,
ground to a halt... pressing blade to ground to scrape
a living
plowman, plow me a furrow, for the flood.
Maker of ways, form me a way to flow,
channel my worth to the dying seeds
scattered, so long ago, on the thread of time we ride behind.
❖
a bug, an insect, not an arachnid,
by leg count
class-ift, insect extremely delicate, what use
could this bug be to me,
a mayfly,
that I did pay it this attention?
Did I mention, no,
sequences in re
telling, consider starlight bounces from sunlight,
but reason and gravity suggest, those
waves of starlight intermingle
with sunbeams.
A mote in my eye may have bounced once from the moon,
as a made its point pinging a receptor some where behind
the window of my soul
to make a ligandary acceptence of influence, from the Greeks,
in an instant
Zeno, doncha know, decided, made a cut,
skience is the conscision, the cutting into bits, until
no further cutting may be done,
and we are dust,
at best.
Flakey humans. Homes to literal gazillions of mites,
hunting and gathering epidermal
flakes of us, digesting said flakes, into demodex *****
{demodex, face mites, are as old as **** sapiens}
as we are in didactic tic mode, ******* meaning from flakes
rubbed off during the itching ear phase
of dust mote formations, see
a mite eating the scales of our bodies, our subjective habitats,
where we hold our habitual rituals;
a mite eating those, fecates and defecates, fecation required,
in consequentialist thought, prior to defecation.
Fact or fiction? Science, as we know it at grade eight,
on the global scale of common knowledge,
science is what we are convinced we know in useful ways.
Knowledge is our opinion of
what we think we know. That is a guess. Not quite right, flow
past
the missed try, reach a next un ex spectated, un i magined
ic tic tic
time passing options, while a life away, or wait
wait and see, or come and see.
I say go. Where this river runs, reach that place,
get all salty, then
lay in the sun and evaporate. Ex sciere, rise, sublimated into ever knowing more,
scient-if-ic known knowns within the un gated narrative we occupy.
We live in an atmo-sphere, a bubble, with a core- inward pulling force
which rolls the rock down the hill, as me and Sisyphus spend a pleasant afternoon
watching all our effort play out...
❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖
forgive me if you already made all the links, I found the scient bits glittering in Old Norse skita,
science is ific in its will to be known truth holding, bogus science is willing to lie, for prestige.
skei-
Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to cut, split," extension of root *sek- "to cut."
It forms all or part of: abscissa; conscience; conscious; ecu; escudo; escutcheon; esquire; nescience; nescient; nice; omniscience; omniscient; plebiscite; prescience; prescient; rescind; rescission; science; scienter; scilicet; sciolist; scission; schism; schist; ******-; schizophrenia; scudo; sheath; sheathe; sheave (n.) "grooved wheel to receive a cord, pulley;" shed (v.) "cast off;" shin (n.) "fore part of the lower leg;" shingle (n.1) "thin piece of wood;" **** (v.); shive; shiver (n.1) "small piece, splinter, fragment, chip;" shoddy; shyster; skene; ski; skive (v.1) "split or cut into strips, pare off, grind away;" squire.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Sanskrit chindhi, chinatti "to break, split up;" Avestan a-sista- "unsplit, unharmed," Greek skhizein "to split, cleave, part, separate;" Latin scindere "to cut, rend, tear asunder, split;" Armenian c'tim "to tear, scratch;" Lithuanian skiesti "to separate, divide;" Old Church Slavonic cediti "to strain;" Old English scitan, Old Norse skita "to defecate;" Old English sceað, Old High German sceida "sheath;" Old Irish sceid "to *****, spit;" Welsh chwydu "to break open."
This began when I noticed science is from the same root as all those old words for post digestion of chewed up stuff.
