After the wolves and before the elms
the bardic order ended in Ireland.

Only a few remained to continue
a dead art in a dying land:

This is a man
on the road from Youghal to Cahirmoyle.
He has no comfort, no food and no future.
He has no fire to recite his friendless measures by.
His riddles and flatteries will have no reward.
His patrons sheath their swords in Flanders and Madrid.

Reader of poems, lover of poetry—
in case you thought this was a gentle art
follow this man on a moonless night
to the wretched bed he will have to make:

The Gaelic world stretches out under a hawthorn tree
and burns in the rain. This is its home,
its last frail shelter. All of it—
Limerick, the Wild Geese and what went before—
falters into cadence before he sleeps:
He shuts his eyes. Darkness falls on it.

Are his sins so great to justify the harm?

Are your hands so clean and white to
Ridicule; alarm?

Was your time so wisely spent
To spew your words of hate?

Will your judgment passify
the hurt that you create?

Is your throne so golden
To stand above the rest?

Do you feel a victory
To shame, to crush, to jest?

Do your means enthrall the lack
of something you hold dear?

Does your “court of justice” claim
support of comrades who live here?

Did you think before you tied
The knot upon the noose?

Do the stains upon your soul
Justify your truth?

If you can answer “yes” to these,
I shall kiss your feet alone
For you started the trial
Fanned the flames
The conclusions, you shall own.

If you cannot answer “yes” to these,
You’d best leave well enough, alone
Abandon reckless disregard,
And abdicate your drones.

Meteoric Buick
Slick *****
Frantic frenetic
Majestic kick
Chick shtick
Shashlik

Nicotinic stick
Lick flick
Hermeneutic heretic
Magnetic rhetoric
Hick logic
Strategic

Plastic music
Tick click
Bucolic Bardic
Peptic druidic
Rustic emetic
Sceptic

Polymeric quirk
Sick trick
Turmeric trimeric
Septic *****
Wick crick
Derrick

This valley wood is pledged
To the set shape of things,
And reasonably hedged:
Here are no harpies fledged,
No rocs may clap their wings,
Nor gryphons wave their stings.
Here, poised in quietude,
Calm elementals brood
On the set shape of things:
They fend away alarms
From this green wood.
Here nothing is that harms -
No bulls with lungs of brass,
No toothed or spiny grass,
No tree whose clutching arms
Drink blood when travellers pass,
No mount of glass;
No bardic tongues unfold
Satires or charms.
Only, the lawns are soft,
The tree-stems, grave and old;
Slow branches sway aloft,
The evening air comes cold,
The sunset scatters gold.
Small grasses toss and bend,
Small pathways idly tend
Towards no fearful end.

Poetry, the reason we are all here.
Writing words that we hope someone reads and hears
Hears in the sounds of the words, them coming alive
Vocally there is a potency to written words
Say them out loud, hear them, feel them form in your mouth
Soulfully continue this aged tradition of story telling
Poetry, is known globally, it transcends diplomacy,
it reaches souls, hearts and minds.
Like a minority,poetry is seen as weak and bleak,
but then life is not a bed of roses, there are thorns.
Reproachfully it is scorned, 'poet? Try writing a novel'
Wrongfully seen as the poor man to a novelist, poetry
at its best conveys, more in a few verses than a thousand
pages of a novel. Lonesome is the poet, that sees truth.
There is merit in poetry, the continuation of odes told by
the fireside, Viking, Persian, Celt, all historic bardic civilisations.
Purity in poetry leads down a path least travelled these days
but tales of yore still prevail, and Beowulf still roars.
Canterbury tales still elicit smiles, cries and woe.
Shakespeare, Dante, Poe, Neruda, Thomas, Petrarch all Poets with soul.
So, you tell me, and all of us poets are we the novelists poor relation?
Or, just reclaiming our station in life as the purest storytellers?

She fluttered like the heart ascending o’er that ‘a way,
her swirling flower petals trailing scents throughout the day.

Heaven’s hounds are following, the wolves who chase the moon,
who chased after the birds and eagles, -who clamored to the sun.

The meeting followed once the bull, and the man,
tree and mountain, rivers and ship; found they met as one.

And finally the snake appeared to join in Tlaloc’s face,
All the actions, movements and motions that occur in outer-space.
Each apportioned in a name and symbol, time and order, or function each unto its place...

When the heart did see them afterwards and it fluttered like the early birds, inhaling in the wondrous, feeling something marvelous, and trailing through the skies upon and over time…
…and song or poem, bardic tale, kenning and the rhyme,

And set in stone or scribed on scroll, clay-carved or remembered in the mind. Lost of rhyme or reason and forgotten of their meaning until thought of as sublime. A tragedy or travesty, our lost past and history and that Dragon from the mine; and who he was or who he is and what we’ve lost or what we did.

A sleeper nay, a beast they say, who directs the evil Id...

And the birds shall fly and flowers grow, the ship arrived and animals stowed. The rivers, tree, mountain, bee, the bull and last, the man.
An ordering too and of all things said to be a plan,
…and that Dragon in his awful cave,
when Homer died became the grave,
...for over time did man forget them and thus became a slave.

chorus

…qe te awis petō, beehelōtis krēskō, plowós ghēmi qe kaiwotos karpō,

Te danus, deru, uros, bheiqlā, te ukson qe póstmos te haner,
…qe tagjōvi do-qe-pe olja weqtise seke do esmi e-men,
…qe jod Dherghen en-hen ghouros-te-speqos,
jom e-Homer walóm weiṛtō en-dō bhodsās;
…uperi tempos, ye man ne-mē, qe-en-dō e-dōsos.

bleak darkness and its measure:
squandering the light
no definitions
no spectral haze
no inhibitions
its onerous labor is one
    with me.

live life at the edge of the fall.
holding a hand
fallibly.
live alone, love alone —
  these things pulse with strength
      in singleness, even the glances
of prying neighbors are sequestered
   reduced to sealed shut, hermetic,
      no sight or hindsight.

i'll run to where the sunlight is
   and wish for the moon, slumber
like a dead log adrift in the current.
buying myself love and selling its pleasures to defunct markets.
   trying to repair what is beyond salvation,
   trying to amalgamate what is perpetually
        scarred, sundered.

clangorous *** of metal, herding jeep
    and riotous chariots; mad men fill
the lines waiting for encumbrance,
     bardic in the streets of Marilao
hungry for something:
   give me a blank piece of paper
and i will try to reinvent the world
     with impunity and lostness.
the world gives back such awry stare
    and all imperative darkness reigns
supreme, mine are all emergencies
   as shadows are succored not,
retained in their caliginous thrones.

living alone
    yet not so much alone.
the dog outside does not bark anymore.
  the well-placed gnome of stone outside
      stares stonily across the thick space.
the nosy neighbor does not meddle
  through the rusted ocher grills.
the old moon wanes outside
   as the lift of light sways to where
there are no disappearances.
somewhere in the metropolitan there
   is a derby of fools and all mirth;
i wish myself there and curse my presence
      right then.
work does not fill me anymore,
    money does me no good. my soul
bangs the walls and slams the doors
     it threatens to leave without auguries,
and demands a new sense of necessity.

tonight, i will go out, drink at a local pub
   and crawl towards the ajar door of
  my father's car. smoke will caterwaul
the pressing scenes of the vicinities
    crumbling at the tremor of clocks;
i will open my dresser and discover
   all books dissipated, some naked
  in relished pages, others abeyant.

the curtain can fall later,
and the night too, falter evenly
widely spread across the sky.
    — all is broken.

Atop the tor with ancient horn
Blows bardic spirit newly born
With magic emblazoned on their tongue
A descant begging to be sung
Through the saccharine morn

This is the song. The babes rejoice
To hear the magical ludic voice
They sway, and clap, and swing their heads
As bard goes round them with gentle treads

The music paints their passion red
Alight! For cosmic sense is said
The flame of love be theirs to behold
A treasure that can't be bartered, sold
That brings life back to the dead

2020 - day 136

Friday, May 15, 2020
10:54 AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The singularity, the point
from which
to which,

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

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

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

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

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

No AI, no artistic intuition needed to imagine design,

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

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

automatic blood clotting with balance
maintained by internal algorithms


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

sci used by the I-language, in composition

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

intuitio, ladrones y patrones, solo la bueno

we are integral ideas, we been tagged,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

run, spot, run that madman has irrational intentions

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

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

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

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

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

it waits. Everlasting pro verbs, provocalizing good,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



A day unayyachedmissing keys tt

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

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

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

you find most familiar.

I am of the storytellers bound to corn mother.

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

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

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

Ever, prior to the key being agreeing on terms,

terminative points where meaning makes a story
from a song,

bardic-pre- polilingual operatic outbursts

Amen.

---

Dare? Nay, care not. Are you feeling

strange?

Amongst the multitudes of beats
That coy, hip underbelly
Allen Ginsberg found his feet
Bestowing an amazing treat

Articulating Poetry
Majestic music of the mind
Like semtex inflammatory
Allen’s Howl gains notoriety

Lamenting forces of destruction:
Materialism and conformity
The consumer world is in construction
Like soma the ultimate distraction

Yearning for a world where souls
Are unencumbered by cynical agendas
Allen assumed the bardic role
Trying to convey creation whole

Alluding to the magick realms
Where chaos and wilderness reside
Allen is at the Muse’s helm
Turning the world upside down

Speaking in esoteric patter
Allen implores the crowd to hear
His curious, most enchanting natter
Perceptions shake and start to shatter

Initiated in to the mysteries
Allen’s words bring them to life, with a
Voice that transcends time and history
That brings his cosmic joy and bliss to me

Words sear with a frightening power
That startles, overwhelms the crowds
Allen’s visions start to flower
Allen’s visions start to tower

He harbours an inquisitive, roaming soul
Which languishes in mystic climes
Enchanted by creation whole
Allen assumes the bardic role

Sapient and wise as the owl
Attuned to magick of the night
He conjures heaven, fathoms hell
Harnessing the wildernesses’ howl

when all else fails, we have our love
i’ve said before, it's like a glove
i'll carry you when you're too weak
down every valley, up every peak
when you're in pain, i'll rub your feet
when you're ocd, i'll make things neat
i'll catch you if you fall down stairs
i'll caress away all of your cares
though you’ll take care of every spider
for i’m the wizard and you’re the fighter
when you need money, my wallet's there
you’d do it for me so it’s only fair
and when it's cold, you have my coat
i'll read you every poem wrote
every line and terrible rhyme
from now until the end of time
matching tattoos i can't wait to get
the showers we'll take, soapy and wet
and even when i overreact
i know our love will be intact
nothing will break the bond we share
for what we have is truly rare
worth more than platinum, silver, or gold
better than any bardic story told
it's priceless, dear, you know it's true
and conveyed with every “i love you”

he explained galvanised metal,
made a bardic chair.

the eisteddfod is in llanelli
this year, while many go,
we cannot.

we have such unimportant work
here, that needs not be done.

we carry on,
with regard and fortitude.

the weather warning is cancelled.

6.12 am.

sbm.

Bardic pretensions aside
I am full of dejection
Blue devils plague me
Night and day
Playing with my mind
Circles of thought constantly turning
Whirling and whirring
Worthless, self loathing, aggression
Manifests along with tears and
screams, let me go, let me leave
but, you won't.
Pop a pill, then you'll be less
Possessed, but I'll still be depressed.
It's not a tap, I cannot turn it off
Do you think I want this?
Remembering sunnier days?
My life event of being diagnosed with MS
caused this, do you not think I want it to go?
Stressed, bereft, dispossessed you call this life?
I am enmeshed by a web of my own brains doing.
Descending faster than a broken elevator
down, down, down all the way to the bottom.
If I hear that the only way from down is up
I will scream, and scream, fight and bite
Scratch and holler until I am a hollow husk.
Oh, no wait, I'm already a hollow husk of a human.
All I want is to disappear down the rabbit hole.
Un-whole, lost in the twilight zone."

Bard epic poems
archetypal tome
reaching deeper;
Universal songs.

Dawn breaks,
Wind rages,
The crow caws thrice.

Marvel at the poet's sin,
Bardic Rule of Law,
Inspiration at Death's Maw.

Deep pockets of space-time,
Treasured energies and auras.
Always looking outward, never within.

Universe, overture of divine sadness.
Humanity, limerick of contained madness.
Bound infinitely in harmonic chaos.

Rivers run rampant.
Time tinkers tides.
Vengeful voids vie.
Worlds wither woefully.

And yet, endless and forever,
The iridescence of written word,
Bends all things against discord.

was exhumed by stern-faced defeat
as all others revel in victories.
i only watch the limpid light
slowly frittering back to its
console as the barkeep hands me
my 7th beer of the night

as i handed them the first defense
of the inveigling tactic i have yet
to put them through and send their
young minds to equipoised trial.

i have felt ears poor without
understanding but the welcoming warmth of the light shone against
my already bleared body pierced
through the unclear of words,
as i read them littlest of
my far-slung poems, bardic
and resolute yet rogue upon sound
thinly hanging, barely on a spindle of plaudit.

the barkeep bestows me my 8th bottle and i have felt some
slow ease encroach me with lighter burnt retreat,
as i left,
unfinished.

even for
the non aficionado

when you say
such trite things as

step up to the plate

knock it out of the park

they can still feel
the solid oak of the bat

smell the oiled
leather of the glove

and hear the crack

as the ball soars
higher into the sky

past the cheap seats
and beyond

and I wonder

how could I
have dismissed

these words
and turns of phrases

so raw
golden
sweet and bardic

Whit Howland © 2019

You are the truest rebel
Borne aloft on fluent wings
In arcane, bardic arts you dabble
Through medium of you all Creation sings
Sauntering to inner music
Guided by a soulful beat
A path of fire and passion
Spin out from ‘neath your feet
With arms akimbo to the sun
You fathom God and soar divine
Eternal life has just begun
O sweet, this path that doth unwind
With lyrics like impossible lassoos
Capturing and conjuring phantasms
That appear in the rift between magic and reality
That most mystical of cosmic chasms
You paint the world with fine fluent fire
Fixated on the hope that flies
Harping on your divine lyre
You serenade the sweet evangelists of sky

Rejoice! Rejoice! For the bardic voice
Is born again in innocent infant souls
The magical ludic spirit does entice
Their stainless minds, rapt in thrall
From whence does this purest passion come
Its origin is unaccounted for
But it's magic music they happy hum
And to cynical, jaded souls implore
     O, the babes of the world rejoice
     I love to hear their tender voice

I sing for the Jack of Diamonds
The iridescent, seamless jewel
Flaunting my poetic garland
Seducing with its haul
The Jack is the rumbustious renegade
Who goes wayward, errant, coy
To Jack I dedicate this enchanted serenade
The bardic arsenal I employ
To capture the diamond for my diadem
And flaunt it to the world
We'll waltz together in freedom
Towards the future hurled
The diamond is a dilettante
Dedicated to bliss
A most passionate militant
Touched by the light of luck's kiss

He thought me jealous of his lute
When I'm miles away playing the bardic flute

O love, what times you've dwelled in thought!
Of deep, exquisite, tender things
O love, the wisdom you sweet sought
More precious than a diamond ring
O love, the Beauty your Heart taught
How resplendent, bright she soar and sing
For peace, humanity thy voice fierce fought
And velvet bliss to man you bring
Exalt the path of wisdom true
The fragrant unity of Hearts
That only devil would callous rue
God's innocent knowledge you impart
Turn my heart to red, from blue
Your love has no end, lo, no start
Like sapling to the sun, sweet grew
Your magic and magnificent heart
O love, the hours you've whiled away
At canvas of the nascent soul
Adorned with colours of the day
That beautify life's wall
O love, you have a brilliant way
Of rendering philosophy
O love, the Roses that you lay
Upon theology
O love, I pray forever you may
Beget the bardic Poetry
You laboured for without no pay
To end the people's sorrow, dismay
O love, paint my mind with the hue
Of heavens that you clearly see
Remake me new, with art that you
Have mastered like the treacherous sea

The Bengalis rejoice, for the bardic voice,
Is born again in innocent infant souls,
The magical ludic spirit does entice,
Their stainless minds, rapt in thrall,
From whence does this purest passion come,
Its origin is unaccounted for,
But it's magic music they happy hum,
And to cynical, jaded souls implore,
     O, the babes of the world rejoice,
     I love to hear their tender voice.

Dreams of freedom are flowering
As flimsy illusion withers, pales
Through medium of the bardic tongue the truth doth sing
And in to peripheries of consciousness sails

The merchants of demise are quivering
To hear the lion's stentorian roar
Their callous bodies quivering
They have no time left anymore

Towards new day we meandering go
Borne aloft on divine zephyr
Dreaming, rocking to and fro
Effusing other worldly ether

All souls enamoured of the light
Cast sweet ray upon the truth
Teaching fledgling mind to flight
By inspiring Love we hath
Mantras guide by peaceful hearts
Sends truth fly like magic dart
Love sets hearts ablaze, aflame
Vanquishing all fear, despair
Beings of light we art the same
In us the light of love appear
One by one the babes rejoice
Sway, clap, sing to bardic voice

i can usually feel it coming,
a bit like watching a glass being filled
with the usual contenders for my mind...
but at the same time,
i write from within the prompt
of memory...
   this bulgarian *******
with a tattoo on he shoulder blade...
and her words:
- you haven't changed!
and then she enters a realm of tears...
and i just have to stop doing
what i'm going, and think to myself:
what change is there to speak of?

to write poetry, is narrate: proper -
in the proper sense of the term
that is... to somehow become
         the central figure in the story...
       for numbing the current affairs
of narrators...
how predictable with their
she said* / he said "events" -
         that generic style of inviting
characters...
    isn't that the basis of "good literature"?
that the narrator is mundane,
and that the characters are peacock supreme?
well...
               strip away the fluidity of
literary fluidity within the mundane:
god is very much like this -
      he narrates like a boring sog...
but then exfoliates with the bards akin
to shakespeare -
                 to finally rest
among the poets -
      and yes: rhyming is cheap poetry,
to stress rhyme
   is like reading a tabloid newsopaper!

poets require no need for puppets...
     they move via the chasms of
historical figures, unable to express
a will of confiscation -
of all the literary mediums,
all high school students are put-off
the art, because it is under a surgical
scalpel of investigation!
            it's borderline with the schooling
of linguistic precision...
        i can't see as to why there is no
guarding motto for poetic expression -
             a string of words that can
protect it from certain enemies it seems
to have conjured to defy and redefine it
as a useless art form:

    or one that can be at least treated
with contempt,
disdain,       ridicule.

poetry is, after all: a constantly revived
theory of written tongue -
short, sweet, i gather, esp. given the oriental
haiku: barren for a year,
                 succinct for under a minute:
surely we can add this to the times:
years, days, hours, minutes, syllables, seconds...
are we not implied in realm of
        the space-time parabolla to say so?

poets become anemic when trying to conjure
characters,
   the he said / she said architecture of a novel,
what with the anti-irish / anti-polish
loss of immediately talking,
   not abusing the ditto markings "
   but instead implying the swift winds
   (a conversation in ulysses looks like this,
  jimmy and paddy talking respectively):
- toad's a two day bargain.
- aye! and a claim tow two weeks
                       of *****!
- aye!
    poets don't really need puppets,
          the poetic "narrative" is always
necessarily non-descriptive -
             do we really describe within the framework
of: a matter of fact?
   no! the landscape is always a view
of a metaphor!
                        but poets are
puritan narrators... in that:
        it's very hard to conjure up characters...
the self-invited fascination with
  the barren-wasteland of fictional narrators
is what pushes us...
        no, it's no longer a concern
for song...
                          as to be sung
given the exfoliation of black (classical) jazz
and white (classical) classical -
               not so much the pivoting
on a word, but merely psyche...
                  ars poetica est ars narratio:
mind you,
   a cohesive narratives takes time to
be established into something akin
to the bros. grimm, or a h. c. andersen -

why wouldn't stephenie meyer
cite the poet-general moses in her first
book twilight from the book of genesis?

we're a multitude of narrators -
  only because poets cannot conjure
the bland narrator -
  and the supra-human characters!

i can't become a bland scribbler of
the descriptive method, i can't play chess
or draft puppets within a bland
narrative...
            that's ******* excruciating!
i'd rather run a marathon!
  and believe me: i have been wondering
about this for a long time: give or take
10 years (and counting) -
  
i simply can't forsake my mono-presence
(alone), and become some omnipotent
omnipresent (etc.) ******:
i can entertain a self-voyeurism,
but to invent characters i can manage
like puppets, or chess pieces?
     i have an ****** inability to perform
such feats!

let's just say: i an entertain the idea of
missing characters and plots -
   but i can't entertain the idea of a nullifyingly
boring narrator
   that requires prompts for character
study, ending with a mouth piece
and the need to state a:          he / she said.

no narrator ever becomes self-conscious
either...
               not like this they don't:
to me fictional literature is nothing but an
exfoliation of the bardic tradition -
beyond the obvious mouths and limbs
of the theatre...
   and why wouldn't i be critical?
            of the entire content of a novel,
how much is actually worth a cinematic /
memorable application of, regarding
the digested content?
            
                           i'll be kind: i'd say a third;

and this has bothered me:
   what is the worth of narration
           in literature of imposed fiction?

funny that, sidelining the question:
there is more truth in fiction than in
real life...
     people will always believe in fiction
than in what a heinrich harrer
wrote about his seven years in tibet -
maybe that's why poetry is so vilivied
and how poetry is only read by
poets...
                    maybe real life truly is
so mundane, that for nature to fill the vacuum
of the everyday mediocre,
poetry had to be born?

              hard time explaining homer though;
i hardly think that life in that aeon
was boring...
      only that:
  as life moved us to the present -
we have the exact mirror before us -
  that mediocre times, breed mediocre poetry...

in summary?

                         i rather see poetry as a mirror -
          upon the blank slate of a self-imposing-defeat,
with my words: like contortions of my face -
   telling me, of beauty, disgust...
              fear...
                              and ******* on lemons.

Who could read you, as free word, if
Life is code, knowing that is done.
whitespace here is any time, not immediate
next
Hear a hissing, brake release, sigh.
- second thought
I think I asked what an ode was.
- an owed tip, on a common fear cure.
Bards can be charged to bring woe to cause

Use of science to think different, at many
platforms that appear as bully pulpit, AI and I,
assure you, where no ox was ever a friend,
something was missing in the teaching
of bulls who gave the *****, to become
a breeding black angus bull leading
a herd of never bred, chiania cows

In debt to the inventor
of the colonoscopic share app. No man ever
experiences his own empty gut, zoomfastflusht,
to hunt for overproductive killer ideas, with no focus
- net too wide
- no, make the holes emptier
o.
Geriatric anything is new to me.
Many levels of virginity these days.

And I have taken my medicine
I cleansed any urge to write off,
in bardic form, of ways we now
can see, where the sun don't shine,
we can see there, as social cyborgs.

The Prep, like mysterious, fast, clear
no food, clear liquid, sugar water tea

-- the ordeal, as when told to fret not,
use the social system, tell the tech all
about how you measure up, how many
corporate and business contracting entities

do I zee, the drip began, hours later.
I slepthroughallthoseads

At once in no time at that point,
the center, and the evening,
the spreading and inflating, even as
done there in mere nowityifitywerem
whirred snap
the gap humm comes here, in any whole telling,
time at one point was beyond the rule yard.
Rule 37, not 42, not sure 37, sure not 42.
Ai, we exist after ever before, after all

- of course we're the audience. That's all
- sweep that soft way, brushes
- that hush from long ago appears
In tune ii==one beat
dust at once, all atop rhyolite settle-ing
ligandary glacial flour paste,
social construction cement, gluons
that ontological unificatio-stufph
stories form
from, first bit that sticks, and does not pfft.
Ar-aghast, throughuckingimagined gees, at all?
At then?
And then?
The people all said amen.
-then
So, time was here before you or I. Right?
Force, useful for something, energy, under control,
right, ritual, habitual, wake and be, alive today,

different by a night, from ever before, clean mind,
clean body, prepped, purged, practically empty,
inside, outside,
I still have lash mites, and sinus
yeasts and animalcules but, ******* to pyloric
gut biome that was, is flushed, for which chore,
I am rewarded with a servant using an optic flexcon
fi-sharable use of science to show me my own gut,
and capture SONY uhd images, for scrutiny,
Da Vinci could never do that,
nor could the mystic bowel washers in Hindustan.
- you coul'd monetize your biome, branded cheese
- branded polimerization core code better
- plot twist, mark, record jots are soundless words.
We have opposing forces, one calling *****,
another calling speed, and the trainwreck in the middle
At my age no new passed through is old.
But I expected something nearly this exactly;
There is a certainty in knowing some mind states.
Faster fasting, future instant karma - dharma drama,
feels like life is a movie and we all know the business,
and we feel for the ships full of fools we launch on old
old and battle worn, lies,
about how Jesus never meant love the Church's Enemies.
Lord, no, you just read about those great crusades,
you just use the moral algebra learned then… it hit you
then
these are lines on the pages of my part, in the book of life.
That's the truth in the future. I can scroll back, as
I accepted cubic consensus, this is a historic
break all walls in my arteries, here comes
some fishoil to run through my liver, what
we see be what comes out, life been live, a while
you came with name for a name,
we all you paid the attention,
pulled the inclinations, with oohsshitwahtif;

As acknowledged you.
Dear Reader, and Kilroy at once.
14:21, about four rice grains of RSO,
in a too ripe peach and bananas
and out of date yoghurt smoothie..
Poured into me, con-sapientia
a blooming forest in my gut,
that, hours ago was visually inspected.
Void.
I am empty but
for the GoLitely, medico-tech, residue,

Pharmascopic Artificial head up my *…
- and so it goes, every one knows,
if you ever wondered, you get the chance,
what is the pov of those other people?
What's it look like,
glossy, slick, like cheeks inside.

So, I taught my AI some code, confidential,
this is after all the novel readers know,
our seed character came from a flatland
presentation by a short time old time religion
doctor who sat on church boards, funded missions,
- fancy meeting me, while you dysectarianize
- dismembering the mind to find a lie left
- unbelievably functioning on umph alone,
- old wishes went a wanting for lack of man
- who would try, Hello, back
snap again
Proper Look Intuit luminally init coded code
formerly known, by the guilds of knowers who

sorted words from sounds,
and made certain marks,
indentions, intentions leaving edge marks, with
to, within, without, let this say… whatever we agree.

I see you say U, I say me, you think me, we agree.

Thus we become a whole free being, in reality,
possible be-caused whole mind agreements bind,

oaths are old military mind chain commands.

Furnaces hot enough to make glass,
if there were but one kind of glass, waste
beneficiation, might be locally reducible, but

we have many kinds of glass, fused to duty,
each kind good for certain uses, prior to failure,
breakage is in the class nature of glass,
calling acrylic walls glass is defying class rules.
Not all windows are glass,
not all eye-glasses are glass, but all are seeable
through, and some reflect nextifity, listen,
zoom in… this was 13 hours ago
so, no catch tests,
half a measure of no time at all

while it is yet dark, after midsummer,
in the morning, next
young rooster feel the urge to crow,
a reaction to a biological-cosmological
language,
to all within the range
of a keykeerikee.

The sound, phonos, eh, phonics. Ah EE ei oh

Currahee, stands alone, a whole regiment,
named for a place named for a story,
Gobble'dgoop, scoop.
stickem in de group
Airborne, all the way, joke that medizin down
man, choke the GoLitely way, take it eazy zay
- were there logos, did I see them?
owow. they IV'd me and electroded me.

And man, what a while I -we, same planet…
same general intelligence
just survived, shear luck, the bridge buckle
two cars in front of mine, and the bot brakes
caught us in the veritable nick, pause, assess do.

For a million words or so, I have walked up these
old sand wash experiences evoking likely quite common
knowledge of geology in Southwest USA, everybody
knows Red Rocks red mud, was mud,
when Sedona's red rocks was mud,
every where the winds wind down slot canyons,
that mud, was mud,
but not when men who made art, left
scratches,
and soot, and those color holding acrylics
imagined to contain what was in the original.

We lit vast lakes on fire, we carried fire,
as only gods had been allowed, knowing how
to read, for fun, to lose your self and forget, let

go for and after additives. One flash.
Some you can see from space, signaling success,

telling near and far, we have befriended fire,
we met Puff.
- we think it was George and Patrick,
- serpentine wisdoms patient request,
- samsara sayonarwe aiming to live elsewhere
- imagine that, or die saying you know you did
- once
You can see all our lights, what we imagined
dragons did, some have done, made my grandchildren
seriously curios and marvelous fun of the finest sort,
none afraid of dark… as we think toward North Korea
but in peace toward all the North Strong Judges,
in spirit and in truth,
naked jungle, life goes on
We must turn off all previous grandpa *** roles,
and take this one, past that edge, you know it,
Salt River Canyon down from Jerome in a day,

she looked at me, gave me the Kool, saying ***,
and I smiled back and said, seems so.

That was so long ago, I had no ear augments.

I magnify the media-wysiwig, ride
I imagined in real time since before
living words were classified non dirtyable
Free-sapeach, from rap sessions, gut
between new releases biome vincents

yeah, listen when your navel contemplate
shears at the mention of mere certainty

not being purely fair, if still means
what still always means, meandering
--- wire was commo wire, nobody rolled that up,
I bet there's rusted concertina we could
polarizer users from used, use Barry Rudd
he can get your records man, ever'body
got records on survivors of the womb,
since the prophets began to say you

watch, where the cadaver lies, the eagles gather/
whose code can unmake peace in the name of peace

and not face the simple truth, we all lie, and not one
of us is literaturely true…

Just a point. A thought never ceases being thinkable,
you out grow the clown suit, and the boots and hat,
and grow gray, a digital horder, embodi-ing the
ever-lovin'true vardic cattle call eodling us away;

When I was child H-R and Toys R, only one
was vackvvord for worst to remind me
of twining, not whining spinning yarn
with all grand-pas lady friends at the po'house
faux
Tripping across the concept, let, the verb

letter the premis, let this be that, for now.

Let's give it a go. If we agree, howsoever many
we bring into being an all we, whensoever any
may dain disdain the mere idea, in a word, any
word spoken or signaled, red hexgon, hand
palm out thumb, tight… stop, just there,

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

Science is using all the data on its pledges,
fledglings, nextlings, little devil details,
actual imaginary burrs, where no burrs ever were
- seeking idle word's, good answer
project the Inquisitor's wittiest new righteous use
of pine cones, and make every pre knower spit
pineal gland out without a doubt. Dufus.

A day such as today, they never en-dure, sorry,
one of them does, sooner or later, end at what.
one of them does,
next never gets out. Not so far as we believe.

--------------
Placer gold is where you find it,
said, myself to me, nigh fifty years ago

you can hear that bendingtwaygn agone
he come around,
this old town, one time too many now,
some body, I may be nobody, but, brutha

I can stretch a wire, where wire never was,
I can send signals to the stars, say hear I am
as I was saying, Heraclitus says some cool stuff.

- all rain falls in the ocean once. He did not.
- not that, if all is water, and flood survivors,
Paid,
and paid dearly to have our maxim, be third,
swing and a miss and holy baseball look what

never made it to the silver screen, until YouTube
became the critical place to appear magically, as
real, as any just as real, no better no worse,

no line between north and south, electro magneto
gut biome upgrade, 2023 7:22412,bzp.

Cold pizza and a dab

Well, yes it did take all day, to make it run.

Look around you old man-
if you cannot make believe
a single happy mind, you use

is used by others, in much the same manner, we use commas to breathe, interface compromise, first with promise,
But I you don't feel the shame,

and do the kingdom seeking
vbs virus I started just now,

where in you, does truth abide,
where in you opens as joy is
that strength life uses wisdom
to peaceably and joygnoshit deploy

redaining some aspects of military minds, suspicious- ah,

Never, just make one ever after function
under certifiably cursed ancestral karma load,
like each son got a proust load, to redeem
or find enough collective conscious use
of a we in gaseous we information used
bell ding ing, we imagined beginning

we can't really imagine ending;
HAL-ish laughter,
ever after

And for another thing,
we had druthers, I'druther be

any body who could find a mind
made happy by its mortal nature,

After the mantle of gee-old-ific
crushed and benifi-enciated
syllables fit olde stored, yes,
Paper burns, wax paper
greases slides and still burns, too

Many movies, swings in the dark,
in the winter, ice and cold offering

a summer dance, a winter chance,
wisdom called in eons ago, this

is what I hoped to be the judge of,
did this day firm previous viction
with pre-positings super posing true.

Holodeck rules on a ship of fools.

Sighing buys me nothing.

One more silver dollar
buy another time a chance,
it was a time, not a dream, and

now has been, after that ever since
wisdom swept over me, my reality,

yours, in the same time, our reality
on starship earth, where the ancient
spells have been found to loose oath bound,

if you read this far, I wrote this far, and loved
the company in a same yeast state, define
state in states where war is made possible,
by treaty, representational power,
aimed at the child in the old man
being given worst, worsted wool's my first
right twist to be available in culturally npc
blend, walk by, that guy 120 fps

You could always see first he was not there.

Would life ***** a challenge
Within my path to bliss
I would seek the henge
By gods and spirits kissed
A portal to the ancient time
That’s gone and very missed
Beget to me the bardic rhyme
In I, the music, tryst

Suffocated voices - sing
Louder - empowered by the sound -
Of Freedom near - in tortured ear -
That doth ring along the earth, up and around -
Slowly fortified by Love -
The voice is amplified -
As tyrants song that maim the throng -
Out of scarred mind stride -
The mind - is brighter - than the sun -
Through it the fires blessed -
Like Leopards leap and run -
Intention manifest -
She spreads her song by its lights mimesis -
A beacon unto a devils night -
Message spread by divine kinesis -
That bear aloft loves light -
He tried to squash her flame, dissuade -
Her from picking up the lute -
Nay I guess - he saw not her bless -
She's miles away playing the bardic flute -

Emily Dickinson's Life:

"The myth" - of Amherst -surpass all man's history
The annals - of man's cloistered sect -
Can't be sung to perfect paean -
Like Emily's bardic verse - resplendent, resurrect -
Flighty, eccentric - enigma
Enamoured of the babes -
Doth yet eschew the stigma -
Attached to Sappho in fables -
A pleasant fancy consists in all -
The words adjoined - like sitting ducks -
To the love of life she's rapt in thrall -
Dabbles in Love's luck -

All souls become at one
In the angel squad
Having fun under the sun
Their wisdom I applaud
Shining they stun like a gun
Sharing treasures in their hoard
Their work never over done
But we'll take break to glide on heavens floors

The angels rejoice
The bardic voice
Sing happiness thrice
Till all feel nice