A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make
this is rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or
as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,
prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.2 specific gravity,
species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?
A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
everything, timing is everything, time is the test.
Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?
Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?
Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.
But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.
Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.
THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.
Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.
Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)
Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies
Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.
Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?
Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
A sunder mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?
Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.
Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.
Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock, why even less.
Strange, not be long in this
place this be. Odd
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?
Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.
right, now, do right or
miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past
right now to more. You know?
Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.
Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chailot's rag picker was my best friend.
No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.
Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.
I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.
True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.
So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?
Incorporating radical (root-related) definitions via cut and paste is my way of acknowledging that I have no ex-uses left for using words in a wrong, thus lying, way.