less religious? be
less signal sending?
less signal ceiving and re
cipericle
deciphering de
ceptive fashionable effectations
fectupt old
fashion once wigs and lace,
gave place to coat and tie and,
on occasion, tails
jewels and veils, seven of each was the sup
er position in the initial polarity
twixt V1a and V2a.1
We were fashioning a reality, your polarity bogus
science pierced more attention spans
than I can spare in seven minutes
define or refine, what was the resolution in reality
less signal sending?
mo' signal ceiving and re
cipericle
ceptive fashionable effectations
okeh, got it. Zero beat. Same same spectral harmony.
Nobody in hell knows ever knew that.
Lose the fig leaf, lose the tats and scars,
match the bloodshed with the idea
in
humility we acting as if we stand
as pillars
as sticks in mud, bruised but unbroken, bound
in smouldering flax,
we stand, sistere, dressed for no carnal war,
we came as poets holding up the ceiling with twigs
from the forest of trees of knowledge
the we we are in, we can stand upright, you and me
confidant
fashion is un sanct, un sanct, unsanctified
aknown known, y'know,
it's all cause play, excuse me
the uniform dress code bars what from my kid's school?
First pocket knives,
Now, a simple T with a meme,
and you co
municate, une-meme-icate,
possible be
be probable degree or dimension or layer or ply
complex, many tangled
plys of piles of pleasant points in time that did rhyme
reason
with well enough, alone
meme
is a better measure than moment, I think,
How much of never
is twixt us, e pluribis us, the unems
twixt me and thee what we are
touch
ing ting
sound, think vibratory, earth ratt'lin'
miracles, un belief
the act of unbelieving lies
as if there is a re
ality under lying
asif no lie can pass the true test
in the first theerum of one (rrroll therrrrum!)
The first of its kind from my own mind
a universe
ex
panding, like Bazooka Double Bubble.
whose lips? Jungish child askt the rock,
who sits? who sits on?
Rock staid quiet. Your lips...
senseless... no connecton to any re already re
ferred to
oh, no, bless m'soul, some lies are buts,
feeble patches
over light pierced points
in consistent insistence on possible secrecy,
nothing
empty moments pierced
enlightenment,
thin light is not no light. That is a wee
thinklink. Follow a point and find,
probably, eventually several ideas unthunk
until you imagined someone musta thunk it,
and realized
yourself,
as not Christ, and not dead,
muttering, who could not 'athunkit. How musta been involved.
from that prickofapen. Imagine a wall, not a Socratic
shadow show,
not a barrior, a plain 2-d -ic, flat wall in a dark room where
we go to pray for impossible things to be possible,
and we are answered with a scene
from the street below, through a hole in the shutter about
yea big,
camera obsura projected on that wall we all imagine
the fourth wall. A flection from another angle,
same light all squeezed through a tiny
ity bitty empty place in
time and space,
splashes up from the intersection of 3rd
and Broadway, Nashvul, 'bout a block from th Rhyman
spreads in each vector of probable vision
splashes against that wall we imagined,
That forth wall reflects each pixel, each photonic quant
you should have seen
had you ever gone there, at that time.
A poem intended to be
