Tip Your hat
And curtsy low
The masses so mandate absolute guile
A handshake, a smile, a proper and refined bow!
To adorn thy head and semble wit
And do your best!
Take pride with etiquette
If not informed
Ye won't last a mile
And differentiation between animals distinguishes you,
Resplendent child
Wash your hair and underclothes with soap
Lest ye resemble sow
And goodness dear
Have I forgotten now?
Always remember to smile!
So I'll take your Winter clothes with zest
I'll scramble on point
No unruly mess
Oh, did i forget your coat?
No, I've got it, relax, care for a smoke?
My apologies, please forgive my latency
It must be warm in here for my blood
In fact...
Boiling over kettle within
Prevent me from committing sin
I do wish to vent
Pick up this pen
And release red wells from his dainty, fragile neck
Or...
The underbelly. It's beknownst to me entrails are thick
Now whatever shall I do with this fresh clutter?
I'll act for free, so cordially!
With my chivalrous lines
But can you, my friend, respond in kind?
After all, it's only common courtesy
It's over now, my fantasy
It dissipates with urgency
And this is my confession
Yes
Imbibed in me from every grueling, tedious lesson
An implication of uniformity
The daydreams borne from the perfunctory

It all comes down to the point of sale
where will it take you
what will it say
will it last

the posed question -

Does functionality
mesh with enjoyment?​
Or will it lead to a return
to a life simpler, or more bare.
You choose.


His impressionable desire
lies within the visage of transaction
the tipping point
plagued by a facade or
impregnated with passion

A mix of both does the world fine
each art a separate truth
for a path beknownst to the two breeds.


When does it become known to all
without a ploy, truth dusted with smoke
The target no longer the focus
but the focus of mass involvement
in a movement so confidential

They gather to protest the knowledge sought.
Feeding the electrical color of the enemy
allowing for a dry flood to choke the air
keeping the gray alive.

Troglodytism. get betwixt thy cave **** rats. amass!!! beyond the wooded canvas of life.
and lay beside thy corpse of agony
in the pits of all foul'd demon beknownst to thou's angst.

there lay the chalice of life.
Oh to lay in the darkness'
o' to bask in the decadence of no light.

Anti heat
forth go ye unto distraction.
To over sensual
to photopic cancer
all bio centric failure that reveals itself in the concord of vestige

only one

only one who's skin, brines to salt. Only one who's writhed on the depth of the cave
sub terrain.
Becoming convoluted
with ulcers. In the brain.
Stomach
esophagus.
Till veins squelch the blood from oxygen as gills. Sea water.
till muscle over sinews, Myomeres.
till acts of mycotic deprecations elude your own grey. Destruction.
And sap what is left
the bends corrode all health.
You eek out a full metabolism.
You finish all hopes with each loathsome meal intake.
death.

Oysters take over.
They create their home
shell of man.
Disabled to a merman, made, morose.
Barnacles infest recesses,
chasms that held mountains of bountiful moral.
Filled till bursting in the case fit for a brain,
but these ocean vermin walk the tightropes of this goblins neural bag.
Tearing each synapse.
Like the innards of a necrotic recluse.

I am the dying vagabond of the ocean.
Finally succumbing to its ethereal pitch covered floor,
where no reflections mourn for me
and ghost wail me no remorse,
as I metamorphose.
Into, detritus.

This poem is no Billy’s babble,
I know this girl who tends to dabble,
Dabble with unkind creatures.

She’s beautious, dark, and loyalty-tied,
Non-gregarious, starry-eyed;
Starry-eyed for the inexpedient.

Wit is written on skin so fair
Eyes like skies, too deep to pare.
But pare her idea of ideal men.

Challenge, with whom her morals meet,
Picks scoundrels, wreaking calm deceit.
Deceitful words are hooks to her.

Beknownst to all but she herself,
These rogues take riches, turned to pelf.
Pelf, for she is better than them.

Too low they sink below her merit,
Her virtue, they could stand to inherit,
Inheriting her in return.

Spark up my cancer stick as the mist rolls in
Enchanted as I sit on these steps
and catch water rivulets while holding my breath,
the smoke entwining with secrets I've shed
all the while cherishing the thought of shared bed.
My wicked streak no longer welcome here
there's no room in our nest for this shame in my chest
I find myself nourishing what hasn't happened yet,
flourishing the tender side of my soul in the dead of night
I sit here alone not cold, for beknownst to me,
my inner vision in sight, orange cones surround the scene,
that cannot obscure moonlight, oxygen growing in trees
and all the famed whispers cavorting with me
All congenial with our convictions,
this depiction of snow Winter sent has me lifted
Every fence i lean over has only meant that I see you
Spring sprouts as a human,
your hope makes me feel new
I've hit the ground running to pick up your pace,
but not for a second do I feel in a race
We have hit a harmonious stride,
and Dear I do find
that your words are the grace in this ephemeral place
I'm right beside you smiling because home is your face

-------------- adjust the minute

When people go to the desert,
with no toys to play on, just,
just,
so fine a term, just is. Adjustable,

one size fits all, all together now, yup,

we done it gang, we got to the land
of refrigerators,
and global fresh produce,

the land of corn, and wine,
Beulah's land in that one song,
you knew Beulah, she was the sub-
mom, wise as a neo-oracle, on Channel 3.
She had her own TV show, and she was good.

Now, I'm thinkin', all the colored folk
I ever had a laugh with, was on TV.

For a while they had Amos & Andy, with black
actors and voices, although on the radio,
those guys was white, few knew, I did.

But I did not know how to act around a bunch
of grunts, arrived one night, like 5 Bloods,
by invitation of that mad lieutenant from Maine.

We were approaching listen, quite time,
the once in while,
seems like all the time,
the spirit of the Fishnet Factory
first six months, Forever Changes,
Velvet Underground and Nico, and Jimi

drift up -- feel a night once, with a clear
seven second flash attention paid

to a phrase, a term, in cultural pacification,
- soul brother - said by an obvious hick,
yet,  the curtain lifted when some one heard,
yeh,
really. Show us, what you mean,what you call
experienced?

Radioman dropped acid that night, Purple Double Dome,
un beknownst to any but me who gave it him,

as that question became the point, and it was
a showdown,
and shut up, because the whole place felt it
when the net settled and the framing patterns

fit both STYF with BTDT boots, stolen, and not
really repented for,
it was a stunt, I was not caught, in fact,
I shined those boots to a three day pass,

which I had no clue how to use, it was Georgia,
so,
the experience that night began, with Georgia
on my mind,
and we wandered, into realms few armed men
have ever entered,

more centered in the middle of three point
literature enclosure,

as one, zazen, me. Tom Green, with his Panasonic
Reel to Reel, and Weirder Harold, who ran the radar.

we got this signal see, we think we listen,
its like those people's courts, entertain us,
show us the law,
enacted,
with names changed to conceal the innocent,
rampant false accusations,

witness protection,
you do not need to know why wars are fought
for money,
Nietzsche said power, wills clash to prove
Lobster level stacking nature of us,
- NOISE HUGE ORIENTAL DRUMS
we, the people in any structured we, you and I,
we, are a wedom open
on allsides, as at the bottom of the ocean of air,

we live in a devilishly clever contraption,
mind you,
mind me, we become something more,
flash
ifery point imaginable as novelty patterns,
Submissive art,
-so insert Jello time - absorb
-slow thunk
- whump whump
seen through, as leaves leaving little strands
of cool shade
to mingle with light, soft, recessed lighting
reflecting from limed walls, lacing, subtile shadow

Synchronisity, simple, sure.
Madness come upon a man robbed of hope.

How come he to think of me, and wonder if
ever is itself a mythic psi-psy-science,

called into being,
by the mouth
of a major stadium mob.

In every stadium on earth, the spirit
of the crowd,

people make their living, by maintaining,
constant,
I am not them, they are the prey,
they are my targets,
look for munchies,
- faces tell every thing
look for cotton mouth, search signals sort
those ones,
in need,
Holler - I got it
as the real thing, baby, hear it sung, real,
deal done, in the spring
1970, alive and in attendance during
the cons-umption over some few weeks,
25 hits of the February 1970 Orange Sunshine.

Epic, everything, is epic, if you kept the records.

Yeah, if what we do is written and recorded,
each thought and deed, something tells me,

part of that is true.
We live whole lives, and none of any day we live,
was lived artificially, we did it, as it came to pass,

took baby steps and giant feel like falling ones,
in stride,

struttin', lookin', laughin'

we got past that,
let's celebrate we know, one trick traps,
make y'famous,
make y'ten minute rich, with five of fame,
at the end.

While we die, taking our own sweet time,
finding stacks of seven seconds on acid,
I had forgotten where I put.

time seems to pass
in spurts.
some days take for ever,
others are infinite from the start.
Rules and reasons for commas and
periods where entire thoughts screech….
to a crash, hit the wall
and bounce
ellipsis-missed stuttering futures all flash
in a wink,
we think
better to wander among lines integral to life,
than those that tie our hearts to the lie,
the big one, thou shalt not
surely
die. A subtle metaphor for ceasing to be
all you think,
in your core, where courage faces curiosity
by way of the oddly bent nerve carrying
intention to a tongue…

say, hey
the idea of anti-locks, for slowing the selahity--
ABS- fixes that --
those locked-up brakes scenes, in dreams
where you are about to hit the wall,
these days those are
set in the genes, like falling from trees,
you notice,
you never hit the surface.
You always wake in a nearly identical reality,
as when you last passed from awake and aware,
to
sleep, maybe with dreams, as it seems
there is no total recall, after.

Today we face the future, again
we imagine we
know many common things that everybody
knows, as bodies are
by nature, complicated things. More
complex than reason allows, thus

the urge
to slow the motion imagined, scrunch
each sphincter on the chakra ladder …
jah, wu wu, come up here, bunkuum bi yall,
be a me and thee, hooked to a book
swallowed whole,
when it ought to have been chewed real,
all your life, cha cha cha;
you been thinking this is how if feels, if, yes,
to be just right.
Just fine, thank you.
Fine, technical granularity in the meta data
of life, arranged in time and chance
to dance in an idea all minds name beauty,
poetry and song,
all flow into the lowest valley
where, today, we wake and
find a slew of beautiful ideas malingering,
I say I
know
that ain't so. The pond where those old knowns
were settled has dried,
due to the dams, but we can look up river
along the meandering course all flows carve.

We can find where those bemired beautiful thoughts
sprang from the first fully myelinated frontal cortex,
capable of gramary. Enchantmental
{magic-tech intuitive spelchek}
hexes and spells that repeat the effect
in gestures and words, once known
to have made axe heads float,
and fishes to multiply,
and vast armies to die at the river,
laying down sword and shield,
shrugging off the mantle,
leaving Sisyphus to keep things rolling,
-------------------
whole armies, flags to bedraggled ******
in the rereward, muttering incanticles,
we have over come,
we have reached beyond the grasp
of all our knowers,
yet they lie, for a living, to live in the lie.
Knowers who settle
in a slew of beautiful ideas,
un beknownst to them, the misery of e
vaporization
spiritualized truth, sealed in idle words,
deemed good for nothing
until these days,
this day, perhaps your first
aware
of waking with one, only, uno, uni
verse as long as life,
per se.
---------------------

As we ramble on, branching,
ever, where the pressure within pierces
the field opposing…
what
am I worth as a word writer compared
with Coleridge' the addict,
whose story lacked the wonderings of Cain-
for
Wordsworth, lacked the knack,
of knowing Cain,
murderer in the first instance, ere degrees
had words to make sense of them.
Not knowing the story,
the idea
left these novice evil thinking boys snared
by a musement of the classical
spiritual sort, either real
or fantasy, we call it
art, intuitively being attractive
to the curiosity
living in the knowing being -- you know,
you say you
tasted the Son and knew at once,
goodness,
in a word holds truth in a way,
we feel
touching each chakra, if you stop to feel,
each valve clampt to hold the surge,
urging up up up to
fill the face with bright acknowledgement,
mental
acting as known in a whatifery sense,
tasted, felt, not seen not heard in words
roger, acknowledgment sent.
ditty dum.
Free verse is worse than what,
would you say? Given a will that is wild
by nature, as you imagine nature
being, a force in physics that goes bio,
then logical,
logos
lives on as long as any knower wishes to know.
- Crime of the mariner?
he shot the albatross for the reason…
I can, I did not know of the link
to generations in the morrow,
twixt the twisted
real real alone alone as though a spell,
seeps from the story,
held with glittering eye, strange pow'r of speech
I know the man that hears me,
yes.
You know as well.

------------------

Time loops and worm holes,
time and again
the story follows plot to points we knew were
coming soon,
end of
all that was, then
this is new, reset, next level, literal game of life.

Grown out of all the dung counted
worth the recollection.
Yea doubtless,
and I count all things
but loss
for the excellency
of the knowledge
of Christ Jesus my Lord:
for whom I have suffered the loss
of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ

Wait a minute. that was a quote. "Winning" Christ is where
I draw the line…
tell me, if I know the truth, and the affect is liberty,
that is excellent knowledge,
Paul and I agree,
but what's to win, bro? Where is winning done, once
the destroyers works were destroyed?

That is the story under the headline of the ages,
It is finished, say witnesses at the event.
The Gospel is back, set in second coming Times Roman.
We won, peace on earth, good will to all who
take the grace as granted and ask what good can now be done.
We won, said the anonymous peacemaker.
We used the knowledge of good and evil, through deep
sapient
simple conditioning, over eons,
augmenting mental effort here and there with a genius off
the charts
odd
measurable in minds that imagine infinity is impossible.

In the early 1980s, Nobel laureate Paul Dirac
told Princeton University theorist Ed Witten
that the most important challenge in physics was
“to get rid of infinity.” 

From <https://www.americanscientist.org/article/tackling-infinity>

-- Disneyifity, wishery wu, to infinity and beyond

New times, new tropes, lose  slay-the-dragon,
loose distribute-the-hoard, hope to shout,
it all works out, and Jesus
fixes every thing…
someday
soon. Soon. Many sons, wombed and un, no diff.
on earth as in heaven… always answered,
nicht wahr? Immer so, amen.

Or is ask and ye shall receive,
speaking of the signal to reset your mind.
To get past infinity as a physical problem
that mortals must solve.
But what will happen to our craft?,
hear the institution groan.
What in deed, February 2021.
That passed and you barely noticed.
Not much changed among the Promise Keepers
crop of Christian Warriors marching,
as to war, with carnal weapons at the ready.

Now, as you may see, on TV, is the time to sow,
seed faith, {prove me now, pay and pray}
Yes -
All the riches to the glory of God,
building the Kingdom Now, for a while,
as it built the fabled Oral Roberts Disciples Network
of Kenneth Hagen clones clad in Lutheran sheepskins,
hiding scapula knit from Iberian goats
whose hair, twisted to itchy yarn,
made the shirt of several martyrs,
for whom towns and universities are named.
Such secret scapula
remind the faithful, fame is worth any price,
pre-pay shorten your stay,
puke
and now functions as advertised to envoke
itching to die for a try to win Christ,
by killing the enemy we love,
for Jesus… who
sent {SYTF} the comforter, to soothe the itch,
to break the bubble shaped like a tetrahedron,
for some phosphoric oomph, spilling
the golden oil -similar to the effect Aaron felt
poured on his head, dripping from the corners of his beard.

{there is legend of a prayer:
Abba forgive those who know not what they do,
I confess there was a flaw in the nature of man,
I came to fix it, and I did. Amen}

Bless me, must I know the meaning
of every thing I ever say?
Is there no easy way?

Look up. Yes, anything you wish to know,
seek and find, weigh with care,
find the measure of this to that, eventually all
leads to ever, but not hell.
Actual consciousness faints long before hell
is realer than men have made punishment.
------------
Cancel this variable with that probable, consider-ate
conscience, desider-ate desciency in constancy
- set the standard at good -
C is something other than imagined, thus
at Feynman's suggestion we swept infinity
under the rug.

Knowing all things,
It'll blow your mind.
Unsafe at any speed, be lief is the re lief…
bileave, one source claims is a noun, not an act,
a state of mind, bounded by
"confidence reposed in a person or thing;
faith in a religion…"
{granularity of substance assumed}
We can hope.
But that's after all sorts of lies have come to life
as institutions to shelter the meek from the greedy,
who then must wear this dread atop-- your's, yes
your head, wears the dread subjecting
all you know to ******* in service
of the Authorized Truth;
remember hell is as real as any place you may imagine,
given years of proper education
in the liturgy of survival
during next.
---------- seal it.
{Same yesterday, today and ever after - forever
is so ambiguous- }

--------
Gnathite seaton, right - that means
bug lips, no I was thinking Know thyself
in Latin or something
aca-deme-ware-ish, to push a button on
the whole truth
and nothing but - beginning as  belief released
as an act of will,
accepted that in this bubble
each emotion has
cause and stands accussed,
with a touch of pride
to expand the contention confidence and convening
event
soothing the rippling surface on the ocean of opinions
'pon which we bob
up and down.

Bait-taken signal to pull back on the tug,
set the hook,
feel the yelp and then the anger, of a fish
I wish
were that magic one, I never really caught.

-- I laugh, in disbelief, relieved of lying metaphors,
miss-labeled cans of worms from experiences
not common in unalienated minds.

------------------

------------

In the realm of recommending AI,
the pro
stitutes told the institutes ***
sells and sells and sells, but smack holds
their loyalty, violence
givem hell,
makem pay seven times seventy,
each child a slayer of his ten thousands,
-watcher set-
pay attention to the empath,
watch it cringe,
at
something words fail to convey, temptation
to defy a lie locking ignorance in place,
never wishing
to know all things
to prove a prophecy, such,
is only tempting if time is a factor
in the dis
cussing of certain concepts regarding the after effect
of an anointing on a lynching,
after a drowning,
and a burning while all the people sang na na
nawnaw nananana

and when the battle's over, we had lost the edge,
- contention comes from pride, and
- winners is proud, such pride has offspring
- messin' wit'cha mind… win Christ, for dung…

Covid binging
dulled
the point, but after all,
we are here and all who opposed us
now enforce the worth of words
to the wise.
It is written. So it is.
Consider a self, rich and sorrowless.
Be that a bit.
---------
Gramary is magic, Psyche is spiritual, at best.
Ach, Scheiz, not Grammerly, no, but a segue
I just did a product placement
for one of Spelchek's kids.
Gramery is spells and hexes in letters and signs…

And on TV is Osiris and Isit… bait for next

I'm spent
To this end, my life
I never meant
To this end, my eyes
Opened my soul's descent

And where the wind blows
You shall find me
And where the sea flows
You shall be drowned in me
And where life grows
You shall flourish through me
Beknownst to you
Or not
For I am everywhere

And in the darkness
As I ignore calls to warmth
I open my eyes
Closing in; my life's ascent

Treading between the leaves
Myopically stricken off the record
Keeps me coursing on the fallen leaves
Golden, brown, yellow, orange
As the height of my captivating self
Comes up with the peaceful
Suicide, orange is the new black
Of living half-conscious through memories unknown
Beknownst tripping or hallucinating
On a brimming hallucinogen, die inside or unbeing
Within the happy recess, we aren't able to say something about the same karma
The king can do anything if he can carry the humor
Spring can finally be full of mist, everything is still