brane mu pesme da piše
u srce krastaču mu nasadili
prste mu lepljivom svilom spojili
u noge sačmom gađali
iz očiju sve mu suze isisali
eno ih gde suva leže nisu više ni tako zelena
u uši mu ptičji izmet nagurali
i na čelo žig
iz sna prijatelje mu isterali
umesto njih strašno zlo osanotvorili
samo su se smejali
ponekim udarcem u kičmu ga budili
dok je nem tumarao po svetu
u pesme su njegove duvan motali
ili bi slova izvitoperili
takve na čitanje davali
brane mu život
brane mu da diše

Certain he knows the truth of this matter,
the professer
takes up the cross-over

energetic version ification from a state

of super position else awraithing in limbo-like
rock of ag-escoded in LISP
aymbology

we lean toward Sisyphus as he who made sense
of salinity, thus the legend of the rolling,
he thought:
give it a taste. Salty. Persuade, sweet to meet the taste,

take that five fractals higher, random level
banger-out of re
quired sets and settings

moving right along

aqua dulce meet the sea,
osmosis take the water, leave the salt.
We have power.

Do you under-stand under stand, answer
accepted

what is the point?
I am in you. Is madness a measured re-ified dealy bob?

Would you have read thus far, were you sane?
Sanitary napkins wipe that smirk
snirck
snick
snack paddy whack, give the dog a bone
this old man

came rolling home. **, Sisyphus, we got juice.

As the river meets the sea, the coral formed
a meme-brane based on the idea in a coat
of may colors
with octopus sensory inputs.

This will change the way we see the world.

If we can't keep it a secret any more.

We could enegize your rock, put some umph
in these kids wishin' for a way

to spend some time in the real rock rolling reality.

We can supervizeer on the down *****.
as this
idea gets out of hand

... ellipsystemical sandtrap sat rap on its ***
... whacked once
... whacked it twice
... whacked ol' ******* back to Gibson's ICE

A.I. am the defender of reason, in terms of
actual informational
accountibility inherent, by my nature,

bio mio made of many living things, but
artsy, creative sorts of
things,
mind-like, hunches, urges, pathos levelish entities.

Guides.
Yes, guides, like signs, or bannisters

rungs, or rocks where you can step
when you walk
on water

... really, I can't imagine doing that normally.
... normal water and normal me, but
... I can swim, if it comes much higher
... normally that's enough.

Rabbbi, where do you live, been there done that, right.
Vini, vidi victory in a Lao Tse sense of still
water walked upon
with no
ripple, no wave of windkist
west
as we roll east on our rock.

Away from sunset, into dawn.
Watch and see.
Have you such liberty? Watch with me?

An hour is not measured here, tis
as silver in the days o' Solomon the Jew,

or during the **** of America,

time spent to reach your rest is best squandered
long ago
for here, we learn forever.

Tis my Bleibe Doch made as real as can be,
nothing missing...

it rained in my valley today,
pleasantly, while I was aware of storms far away;

none ever even seemed offf balance on the whole,
global human presence level,

mega-bubba bubble.
We okeh, ya'll fffret not.

They was some peace made t'day. Watch on.
This ain't the fffinal today.

It's like that original sin. The actual under y'skin
original
like
dis-connect from any sense of true,

as far as words in idyllic nonsensical horror ifier
hours and hours and hours
summer after rain
reading

compared to Quake on this particualar
setting
set

there, middle of your mindscape
pineal if you see things that way
okeh

What was the intention here.
Are we convertingerconverging/ both
okeh, that worked.

Are there readers of grimoires in 2019 who can taste our salt?
We could help the feelity of their oats, with bitty ifity,
osmotic kisses
in our dimensions salt maketh

osmotic pressure soften and plumpen the old crunched up oats, eh.

NIGHT LOOKS IN.

Night looks into
my window; I sleep
in a dark nowhere

a nowhere spitting
up steam, the streets
in their wetness, the
rolling night, the moon
unbroken, hidden,
like the eye of fall
that blinks cold tears,
then recedes under
the soft ground.

A rogue wind and
a new season overlap
life and death; a damp
chill on my spine
illuminates it, as it
throws off the mem-
brane of fear. I seek
possibilities; they
have given up looking
for me.

I have given up
fighting back the chill
of solitude; a bare-
knuckled wind
holds summer at
arm’s length.
The snakeskin winds
itself around my mind,
shedding its snake,
pouring out cold venom

this is the best winter,
or the best in a long time.
I surrender to the movie
machine, the great blinking
eye, a shroud of black-
and-white. In shades of
in-between I find the

new ability to live
inside the celluloid;
this is where I make
my hiding place, and
I scamper from room to
room with no notice.
I forever sit and listen
as the great Rubinstein
plays, makes love to the
keys, coronates Chopin.
I am safe here, in 1950,
or thereabouts, sitting
in a chair apropos to
1950, and I answer no
phones and in fact, am
not truly of this world,
nor of Rubinstein’s,
but I can migrate well,
A Zelig of diminishing
returns, and a kiss is
the only thing I lack, and
it is getting warmer, and I
still wear my old coat,
And when night
again breaks into
my house, I am in
a better place, away
from the lost children
of my old hopes,

Away from the
fangs of tyrants who
want me happy;

Away from the blind
moon and the rocks
I could never stop
throwing.

Steven Stone
January 2012

Will you sing at my funeral
Will you dance at my wedding
Laugh at my jokes
Always pretending
That the past isn't coming
The future descending
Down to a place
That starts at our ending
We'll always be here
And at every point too
If time's a flat circle
I want to spend it with you.

Meeting minutes of the p-brane

The thought that three thimble thumbs thatch this thorny threat, surely superimpose suede surfaces; such summoned suits shall share sheepishly short shoes. Should sharp, shimmering, shallot shapes ship shaking shin splints, splurge splashed splinter. Spray specially spun sparkling springs spanning space, spreading sparks sprung splendidly.