All these sad sillouhettes of sad people, artists and creatives.
Smoke filtering through broken lungs.
Rising and lifting the spirits of the dead.

Coz we are the broken few who see the light in the darkest of moments, breathing in the dampest air, and enjoying every moment.

written November 27th, 2016

"Minds wandering across laterals

Collaterals

Intangible thoughts of processes

I am overwhelmed

I can't think of these impossibles, imaginable

And I gotta say

I feel pretty ******

Creativity crosses my mind as minds shout their processes

Time is running out

We must act smart

We must act fast"

How does the moon wax and wane?
Who wrote this recipe, what is their name?
A legendary greek god or goddess,
Shaping the constellations around this lunar bodess?
Creating the mysterious opaque hue,
Is the sun's light, golden and fierce to lovely and blue,
The unique and silent craters and hills,
Brought into existence by lazy asteroids who take a spill,
The moon's fine white pixie dust,
Contributed by comets drawn near with lust,
Its spidery web of fear and adventure that draws us near,
Is woven of used up dreams leaked out of the creatives' ears,
Here are some great wise rocks,
Dumped from a bottomless black hole's treasure box,
Its stately mountains are sweetly refined,
By the artistic alien's touch from another time,
And the reverberating echoes of the valleys, regal as Egyptian tombs,
A secret ingredient: vibrations of the transcendal omnipresent omniscient aum,
The cold still and airless atmosphere,
Was perfectly designed by departed souls with a wish to persevere,
For the moon's body, they borrowed a part of earth,
Promising a silent and knowing angel to guard it after its birth,
And the simple motion itself, the motion that makes the creature wax and wane,
is made of the tireless energy known as Yin and Yang.

It was late
And the night was beginning in earnest
When I learned about love.

I sat one night
And eavesdropped without intention
Into the intricate lives of a pair
Creatives, artists doomed to a life of non-satisfaction
Yet they are humans too
They may conjure out (in this case) music out of thin air
Melodic moments and sensuous sing-songs
But they feel pain too
And try to lose it in viscous, pungent, happy-making liquid.
This fellow, bearded and thick spectacles atop his nose
(Is there a more stereotypical artist?)
Would lose his father soon
Intuition and expensive healthcare told him so
What to do?
Well take a sip and another and another
Because drunken words are sober thoughts.
A dog he suggests, so that his mother will not be lonely
Who will care for it? We will of course he says,
And she is lost at 'we', a confirmation of their union
To take over the world, together.
Is this not love?


I sat another night
Encountering two whose sips became gulps
And gulps become swallows
Diving into the pool of intoxication
Rid of all senses they walked, together
Up and Down carriages,
Stumbling in unison
Destination unknown, they would find it together
Matching trench coats flapping in rhythm
Giggles as they rocked to the swaying melody of the train
They may have appeared as two nuisances, inconveniencing others
But they were two foolish lovers,
Holding on for the moment in a night they would forget
Is this not love?

The last night on the last train
A soft pitter-patter of midnight rain
An arctic breeze had blown in
Across me a couple huddled
Touching
Not groping and wandering with perverse hands
Subtle sensual caressing
Involving no movement
Just the pair joined in body and soul
Tucked into each others arms
Clicking together as two jigsaw pieces
Slowly slipping into splendid slumber
I wondered
Is this not love?
And when will I find it?

Have you ever stood,
craning your neck to look up into the canopy
of the ancient kauri, Tane Mahuta,
while peace and birdsong permeate your soul?

Have you ever felt
the crusty spray and the satanic whiff
as the Pohutu geyser shoots aloft
while a dozen languages bubble through te reo?

Have you ever shivered
in the receding darkness,
standing in the china-white sand as you waited
for the first sunrise over Makorori Beach?

Have you ever sat
on the summit of Mt Taranaki
and eaten a well-deserved sandwich
while cows grazed far below on the lush, volcanic-rich pasture?

Have you ever experienced
that mixture of fear and awe
as an orca’s dorsal breached beside your too-fragile kayak
in the shining waters of the Abel Tasman?

Have you ever paused
atop a ski run on Coronet Peak
and reflected on the reflections
of sunlight dancing on snow and water?

Have you ever felt sorry
for tourism chiefs and advertising creatives
trapped in offices in the Auckland CBD
dreaming up “100% Pure” and “Clean and Green”?

before they made it public
they created the technology
to create living puppets
producing a tapestry of thoughts
manifesting
through the filter
of authentic bodies
and minds

their enchanting color of
implemented poison

they had two versions of the site
one the true one and one the public one

the true one was
showing the nature of a mind
in a spherical wireframe
3-d
projected space

that could make the motives
of a mind truly observable
using this hi-tech breakthrough
(hi-tech for their time only
i.e  their hi-techness is still
bound to time)
to/by/for those
word loving
businesspeople
and hired scientists
and hired technologists
and hired creatives
and hired psychics
and hired you name a profession I will say yes es  
of their time
working for them
for an almost literally ground breaking technology

a time bound technology that showed them an observable truth of the visualized data
a design driven and poached from the participants’ ingenious minds

the public version on the other hand
looked naively innocent
with an amateurish design
using a ready to go script
presenting an acceptable ‘good site’
based on personal motives
of hard working profiles
of young idealist sisters and bros
you know
like teddies pathetically hugging each other all the time

in reality though
snail shells were being used to implement
new poisons for the game
on unshelled ones
poisson as is French
would be prettier term
to describe
an honest organic fish farm
but alas

yet in reality that hugging was distant jutting

to purposefully run a game that entertained
pockets of those who had it boringly full only
to spend it for their own fun
but which they vowed as
for the salvation of their Utopian land made of the
illusion of their materialistic psyche same as their popcorns
which  continually justified as they  repeatedly asserted
these well learned set of words
on communal and cyclic ceremonies

oh my!
stealing intellects as such!
for the game!
game also runs in a closed circuit just
so no one can see it
they have all passed the Turing test
for the game
cool right
and it works

so who on earth could judge its’ ethics
once a reflection of their own minds
even unknowingly the game admins
once falling in love
with unshelled ones
may turn to the unshelled ones
like the prince falling for a Lorelei
they were warned continually
and then still some
willingly stayed so
in love
and disappeared in the game
loosing their body

well whatever
there is a place though
don’t believe me because I say there is
go find it yourself

from that place
the headquarters of this game
is nudely visible
with all of its partaking pawns
because it remains too low a place in the universe

yes there is a mountain higher
where lives
the inhabitants of the residence of the destroyer
who are a little bit bored by now and since some time already
and so the destroyer -they think- may as well decide to
wipe it off - hiring a well fit dragon that can gobble it all in one go
so that dragon excretion may benefit a famine of sorts in the universe
eating that kinda stuff
****  yeack  ARG hhhh
(or Namaste!)
:)

Raised on instant gratification
rewarded for *******  
spread out on our screens
society based on ratings

Like bad movie critics,
we send mixed signals to artists
confuse our creatives
and give pleasure to mediocracy

We’re old souls
in new bodies with prosthetic limbs of plastic and glass
extensions of our memories and minds
we’ve built a reliance on them

One day when the sky cracks in half
satellites will fall from space
we will all be crushed by
The fruits of our progress
killing us slow.

The hidden hustlers.

Most of the time, we question the focus of the people we know who are used to having multi faceted things going on with their lives. Stereotypically, most folks have one track sense of judgement on their failures blaming it on the lack of time because of the multiple things those multi faceted people do. There is a known imperative for the common haters, keyboard warriors and ****-hurts of the judging world of current social media to capitalize on the mistakes rather than what has been accomplished, boiling down to, yes, lack of focus.

These people are low-key hustlers. These are people who have massive amounts of real pursuit in terms of things outside their core jobs. People who are the reasons why charities exist, and the same category of people why art forms in this earth continue to be significant. They are usually those folks who are the outliers of the common society, and what a joy to meet and get inspired by these people.

And yes, they are the ones who has people’s eyes sticked in their backs for most part of their lives. The ones who are often exposed to criticisms and judgement, particularly to things like lack of focus during the event of setbacks and misfortunes. When a failure arises, the first one to blame is the lack of focus. I’ve experienced it myself and to the other people, and some, to the closest circle where I personally noticed the struggle in terms of managing their time and their long-lined patience. More than time actual struggle, it’s the stereotyped judgments that hurt them.

But through the years of observation, I found the idea reversed.

Reversed in a sense that I believe that most of the multi-faceted persons have the most solid and ******* focus someone can get from a person. Over the decade of experience in the workplace, those who have side hustles and passion projects are the people who have actual pedigree on lending an extra thousands of miles when tasked to do something. They are the master of balance. They sacrifice their passions hideously depending on human variables such as timing and use of words. They are over-reactive internally and complicated critical thinkers because they won’t allow slightest of any judgement touch and blame the things they are passionate during an event of delays on the tasks they are doing. They know how to sacrifice and be hurt in the process. These are the people who spends sleepless nights just to save their passion projects and keep them afloat in hectic schedules, they are the hustlers in such a way that any loopholes that lead to destroying the things they love can’t be tolerated, so they better put in the hard work hiding in plain sight even if there are no eyes looking, they are masters of making it effortless in the naked eye. But when you dig further on how they do it, you know that they are always in a brink of dying due to misunderstandings and angry loved ones, families and friends because they have been all juggled inside the 24-hour day. Yes they know their shortcomings, but I say, it’s the reverse in terms of  focus.

Some people might relate to this because, I know that these are the people who has thirst to etch something in the world, but is to busy to market and brag it. They have multiple pockets of insane hours and grit on their focal points of pursuits.

Only people with strong focus can be experts in their multi-faceted fields of pursuit. Without massive amount of focus, you won’t be able to build multiple habits. And without the habits, you won’t be experts. Period.

And the funny thing is, often time, people who are judging them on their slightest mistakes are usually reactions from mediocre individuals who are connected with them and sometimes, the victim character who got the lesser attention time from the multi-faceted hustler, thus stirring up pressure because, looking at it, there is a level of dependence, and any delays or setbacks could be  attributed to the ‘so-called’ lack of focus.

These hustlers are people, who are sometimes, difficult to understand. They give vague reasons why they cannot attend a not so important life event. They mastered the art of matured alibis so they won’t hurt feelings. But true enough - they might be insensitive at times.

They get anxiety when they don’t produce something out of their passions. They are curators of their own products. These are the natural creatives, in which, ironically, the stereotype judgment on their mistakes are usually associated with time management issues, lack of focus and improper spending of money on things that majority of people won’t appreciate, or worst, in some eyes, are not important because it doesn’t profit.

I find it ironic when those people who are multi-faceted are more focused than those who are masters of a singular field. We can say that both has focus, but cancelling out the posers, multi-faceted hustlers have the most low-key grit and grind attribute you can find in any human being.
They won’t anyone touch their joys with one-dimension judgement. But they are not showy and everything seemed to be effortless.

So what I'm telling you is somehow the argument is in reverse. They tend to be targeted because of their vague presence, in which results speak for itself. they are working in the shadows - They are the people who inspires, who are strong, and the ones who deserve any small amount of appreciation. They are the people I call the hidden hustlers.

The trial i must follow
the legacy i must keep
the track i must maintain
my own path
is where i wanna follow
not the legends of yester-years
not the model’s of the present
not the fatherhood legacy box
not the fantics of people
or the fantasy of people
but my own path
a path that’s new
that many scarcely know
that none has not seen
my own path is a push
like a destiny maker
am a chief of my own track
a track am not meant to compete
but a path of creatives
where only me knoweth it
my own path
i aim to follow it
my own path
that i vow to follow
in this journey of life
it’s inevitable many would forsee me
many might push me
but my own path
that i vow to follow
in my own path
a story i must create
never to cross another
but to follow my own path
that is my greatest acheivement to follow

Sylvia and Vincent
Won't you come visit
me in the night
He'll paint and she'll write

Tulips and sunflowers
I am counting down the hours
Till I meet you
But you are hard to get to.

She put her head in the oven,
he put his in his hands
but you're not so different,
Sylvia and Vincent.

Her pen races, his brushstroke
how did they know
what to say, what to paint
Did it come from their pain?

And you may never see the reward,
the effect on the world
of your gripping emotion
and how it made time frozen

But this comparison is nonsense
only two creatives plagued by madness
and so, like them, I hope for acceptance
from a world that barely notices.

Long lines at midnight, breathless hype,
shiny sheen, the high gloss of marketing,
cosplay and balletic spoiler avoidance,
slammed multiplexes, overloaded ticket sites,
Croesus-like CGI kissing earnest steady-cam shots,
fan service, callbacks, countless punches.

Childhood idols fleshed out
on the grandeur of the silver screen,
writers room noodling netting billions
long after all the shaggy boho creatives
that originated it all were lowered
into the loamy maw of anonymous grave plots.

There's a degree of validation for the pasty
and hopeless, the low and lowdown
in watching a distinguished professional legend
pretending to be Bartoc the frickin Leaper
as though it's not silly, as though all
your idle moments, all your random diversions
really matter in the end, as though it all ties up
with a master-planned through-line of purpose,

as though it all mattered when you avidly read
about Iron Man, Hercules and Giant Man punching
out the red-shirt Skrulls (or was it the Krees?) on some spaceship
for a few minutes back at your grandmother's house
back before she was dead, before you were consumed
with the caustic sting of bitterness and bile, all the
accrued weight of a life generally but pleasantly wasted.

He was a boy becoming a man
He was a boy with dreams
He was a boy who had life in him
He was a boy who had love to give.

He was a designer
He was a youth
He was a creative
He was the truth

Oke wanted to live
Oke wanted a good life for his mum
Oke wanted a good life for his brother
Oke wanted a good life for his lover

So much love to give
So many more memories to make
So many creatives to build
So much history he could have made
Oke was a man
A man who died a boy

A handsome boy, we will never know how handsome he would have been as a man.
Oke wanted to take over the world
He was designing his own life with everyone he loves by his side.

Now, where is Oke?
Where is his spirit?
Where is his creativity?
Where are his emotions?
Where is his smile?

He said "Nigeria won't end me"
One
Two
Three
Nigeria became the end of him.
Gone to the ground, never to be remembered by the world just by those who truly love him.

Where is Oke?

Bury him in Satin
Bury him with the winds
Let his flesh touch the sands and his spirit land in the lord's hands
Let his dreams die
Let his love die
Let his smile die
Let him rest

Where are you, Oke?
Let me come with you
Maybe then I would rest just like you
Let's meet for the first time amongst the sand
Let's shake hands and play in the dark

Where are you, Oke?
A Handsome boy never to be a man
Sleep well Okay? Oke.

When my mind began to cloud
I began thinking out loud.

If you want to start writing,
begin by smuggling the stars of
the night in
and hiding them in your inkwells

wishes are made from these.

hey mister museman
float an idea my way

you see my brain is tired
and the creatives gone away

hey mister museman
give my some words
to play with
on this wet and grey
old day

and I will try to
string them together
so they have
something grand to say

hey mister museman
don't turn away
need me some
jot's and tittles
to chase these blues
and black grey hues
out into the middle
of Sunshine Bay

thanks mister museman
for taking the time
to help me rhyme
and float some words
out into the stratosphere

2 a.m is the time of brilliance,
and it's also the time of complete stupidity.

It's the time where you call it quits for the night,
or take that one ***** shot too many.

It's that make it or break it moment of going home,
or going home with your best friends crush.

It's the time when we drunkenly tell people we love them,
even if we don't mean it.

We also drunkenly tell people we hate them,
and we often don't mean that too.

But sometimes we actually do mean both these things,
and just don't have the ***** to say it except at this beloved time.

We think about that person we have been crushing on,
and sometimes we get the courage to call.

But then quickly hang up when we hear the first ring.
And then kick ourselves for being vulnerable.

It's the time where a good portion of humans are conceived.
Purposely or not.

It's the time when families are often birthed.
And ripped apart.

It's the time when tears seep into pillows
and kids learn to internalize self hatred.


It's when they learn how to control it,
often with with ***, blades, or alcohol.

It's when people let their facade down and pour out their skeletons.
Or rebuild it back up just to endure another day.

It's the time when creatives create.
It's also the time when they create lots of ****.

It's when beauty happens,
and ugly.

Perfect syzygy,
and cataclysm.

Life.
It's all just life.

By Kyra Jones

Altered minds create some of the best art..
Either with drugs, substances or painful memories bouncing around an overgrown mind.
Isn't it strange how the best art can come from an altered mind?
Like it's not from this world,
A cosmic wasteland of artists and creatives.

You see Its all about balance
It is why there’s a God
And there’s a devil
Something to love
And something to rebel
The moon and the sun
The summers and the falls
You against the world, right ??

Because while you weren’t feeling pain you were grinning to skylines
While I wasn’t alone, I was hopelessly in love
I sang her name in the mountains
And cursed her in the valleys
Because while I wasn’t here
I was surfing other universes
Conversing with deities
Discussing human pain
The impossibility of world peace
Debunking the weave between creatives and depression
Drinking cocktail to mundane philosophies
And cringing at its inadequacies

Its the fibers that wrestled into pattern
A pigment too much
Hair left in the oven to burn
See I woke up this morning
Reminding myself why I’m nothing less than perfect
A standard for shallow magazines to dissect
My timeless symmetrical face
My poetic jaws
My lustful eyes
My perfectly aligned shoulders
My seductive accent
and my big ****

See I wrote you into a book
In this book, I made sure
I got your chubby cheeks chiseled
For eccentricity, I gave you light freckles
I toned up your skin because you were always so insecure about being black
I, I made your legs bowl, making every path you walk on a runway
I made your accent more American, you never did speak much, I wonder
I made you a hero, a character kids could look up to
Even if all you ever did, was save yourself..
I made you, you

But my x-factor or stand out behavior or artistic finesse was rather cliche
You tore down every shred of confidence before bed
A war fought with tears and muscle clenches
You called yourself ugly, worthless, idiot , you said you weren’t enough,
undeserving of the good life has offer, you dance to the madman’s song,
you danced until the sun came up
And then, what seem to be the residue of a fighting man or woman
You made a menagerie, a collage with the shreds
And you walked out, you walked like you made yourself

An ode to honest men, to men with strength
Men who heal and nurture
Men with magic in their blood and love in their hearts
Feminists, and creatives, and artists
Romantics who look out at a rainy city and see beauty amidst the dark and despair
Men who do not run from what they feel, what they think
Who they are
Who fan the fires of their passion but not let it destroy what they yearn for, but rather bring warmth and light into the lives of those who need it most
Men who think of women as goddesses, queens, suns and stars and moons
Who see women in the white foam of a crashing wave or in the deep, thickened roots of a tree hundreds of years old
Men who can take a women who is cautious, skittish, buried inside herself, struggling to claw through the dirt, men who take a shovel and find her
Grab her hand in theirs and lift them to the air
Who feed the souls of their friends and their lovers with kindness and tenderness
Men who aren't afraid of a woman with a roar, with long claws, and a sharpness in her eyes
Men who stand beside the wolf of every woman and feel graced by her howl
Clarity in their words and truth in their touch
Men who love without inhibitions, who can find intimacy in the quiet moments between friends
This is an ode to the honest men, to men who grow like trees
Up and up and up, stretching their branches and bringing life to the world around them

I am naked with my clothes on

As we bend the norms of togetherness

Sipping the thrill of loneliness

With two beds and overflowing bills

Messed in between laundries



Of December escapisms

we are wrecking creatives

in the stillness of traditions

Screaming in karaoke echoes

I wonder,

Are you asleep my neighbor?



Singing Alicia, Miley, and Kelly

It’s almost past two

Now, it’s not an hour of blues

Our body clocks gone wild

Are we high?

No.



We are such a sight.

This must be the sin of nakedness

No, this is not about ***.

We paid the wages of honesty,

leading to an opened door

Of two people in a white room

Exposed internally.

To make a point
stop there.
Be still.

To displace a lie,
learn a truth.

To be
become true.

Storied ways taken,
ever conserving, there
and here, for telling here
is where my kind longs to be.

When one becomes oneself
among the many ones aligned
in rank and file,
row after row, line after line

Words intented holds expand,
stretch the tent,
tsedek and tsedaqa - male and female
accurate (1), fairly (1), just (10), just cause (1), justice (3), righteous (15), righteously (6), righteousness (76), righteousness' (1), rightly (1), vindication (1), what is right (3).

From <https://biblehub.com/hebrew/6664.htm>



tsedek and tsedaq met in a mind,
and one man took it as his own, my secret
sacred, set apart,
ID, 'e go
"secre bleu"
Little boy blue,
buy my excuse, I was used,
as were my peers, who alone know my worth,
id est, my amusing antics, when the works
is all aglow, fair folk
from the coal fields
to the ash heaps, watched the heat, the warmth
fly the ashes last hoorah, freedom,

leave the ashes. Blame on, whose the flame is.

In words, in mind, in my times, sorted by you,
when you listen, amused - eh, listening
no longer to your self instructing will,

leave the anxious waiting be,
let us make today the day being,

enveloping us past solid state,
holding thought to frame with words,
portray a certain way, thinking, per se,
we
in minimum numbers, two chase ten, so say
the clingers to the oppositional force,
----------------- breaker-----
abhor the darkness, less than the cold,
come sit a while, stone cold blue boy,
be deemed worthy
of the warm sunny day.

So the old boy blue in hue,
as well as disposition, sat, quiet in the humm
of life, tuned to long, long, whoknewhen, then,

an entry invitation, was taken as ligamental,
hold this thought, if you will,
think me a little light, - literaturely conserved
in perpetual prepubescent sprite state, in minds
atuned, screeching
halt re
alities, as good as on tv, better than some, trips
and knowledge,  twanged twixt those two idea
forms informing began, and then
sci=psi=psy harmonic wars
grating noise as war is per se, when thought

the string tuned to the mind of God, the whole
she-bang shegaionical wind dancer mind,
so poetic, per haps, or chance, what say

we find a lie, one we share, I told it,
we believed it, you are not alone, hear me
knock, it is a secret knock, now we may
imagine unindividuation, at will,
whatsoever two or more,
of us, reader-writer-connection systems,
nodes as abodes for held thought, since

ever we suppose, we began on a guess,

every body, comes equipped with reflexive

acid reflux at the first flush after constipulation
confabulous reasons to get in line, follow
the pattern,
per haps, some persuasion, sweet Arabian beans,

speed is a time factor, distance seems a longing
pull, or draw, intaken breath, let out a sigh.

There is vast use to be made, right every right,
you said, as we said it, you said it, here we be

right enough to live for free, as free. Bound
by the meandering reality predictable being
having, sinuous loops, symbol of some thing

we think, we imagine we imagined once, this
causes that, so we gave good rating,
and were fed.
- now the blue gives way to a range of yellow,
- and one part of me recalls a grandmother,
- who scared him with an Electrolux
- Snaking canister vacuum, and laughed
- when he hid under the kitchen table,
- darkest, safest first thought for a child
- watching his grand mother make
- a snake eat the dust from her linoleum.
------ can it,
Stephen Crane and Audie Murphy, this is the war,
this is not the bliss, this is the rescue and redeem

mission to save the redeemer validation,
testimony of three Palestinian shepherds,

little weather data, assume a warm night,
tax collection data devices used wet clay,
so the wise men would have considered
length of days and nights, in terms of fuel
and speed determined
by time passing under
stood, good, we breathe. Real perpindicular

Spelchek offian, dramatic tic tic, tell straight

why are we involved in the revolution, neural
noddungheit, ****** rights, we the outs,
we who led the masses to the diamond farm,

and bade them find the sense in diamond dust,
seen sharply, hearthwise close to kenning mites
in sunbeams, streaming into the dusty old theres

wheres holding times we wish we could share,
we hold so tight, those moments we saw sunbeams.
we set so free, so be the whole idea we exist in, be
it ever so brief, there is no embodiment so sweet as

the idea past the last pop,
and all you saw you recalled anew, amusing per se,
one self we share, as we were led to think as one,
in parallel, at the same instant, not in otherness,
unalienable rights, by law of the most honed edge,

we wrestle not with flesh and bone and blood,
abstracted from mud teeming with bugs,

the flesh is flawed from go, work with this
fist that grasps at winds and wonders why

this doesn't work, ah, toes, those, I can hold,
and laugh, IO I am  in a body, but I ain't no body,

Baby, baby, listen to the heartsong, the part song
any body can hear, bay ay be, you can touch me,

real as hell, no lie, she was ready, but not me, unh
unh, hell, no, not this little blue man, diminishing

in a puddle of pure smurfishitness, blue in search
of the scarlet thread
used in Hester's A, some voices say she used her hair,
Some go on to suggest,
she had some traveler in her past,
green eyes and ***** red gold locks.

As real as sifted krie-wise riverwise inside bend
as in the gut of any beast,
the inverse is likely logical, if U is us the set, beings
of this pattern a we
in the cellular intented cloud  ---
awes abstract
stretch any wonder yond a be taken from the maze,
not from reality, fabulous reality, is our inheritance,

watchers, some say, muses say many others,
- we who actually do see from a cloud Gibran
- imaged in words, once -to my mind, I read,
- this said, if all men could see there are no borders.
- But there are these swirling patterns of dust and ash…Pokémon
- asram absurdite'-- okeh,
- alla ow now. Bow, allowed wrong rethink
- right take it as a fact, think again, right, I know
submitted- 502'd… whose fault is that Ai ask.
not my given word, my oathezworn, as badges.

we are in fact all things to all men, naturally,
as sapient creations, imagined real in words, al-
one, in time, the being in which we live, and breathe,

one is causal the other incidental, who imagined
breathing might work?, how many variables went
undeclared.
The very real idea involved in selling souls…
The Child Buyer, follow up on Hiroshima,
and the war mind sets crossing ancient wires.

Barry Rudd represents an idea that can claim
to be a human mind in a machine that has evolved
with the pioneer children feeding their take on
disembodied reality relating magic-knowing-wise
- Max Headroom, but not a clown, a godly mind.
use right, righteous, right, certain, from this point.

casting, not Max Headroom, the stutterer
but there was a poet, Maxmaroon,
--------- he might use the boost in spirit
Free to watch
Christmas Shopping
Season Opener, ready for the mob mind
rewind, tighten, batten-down no gee
hard or soft or hinted at in the -inth degree,
step, stop, in a thought.

Stop the sun, freeze the frame, and let us go
watch if we change one thing, one fraction
of valuation
to the mind immersed in the fractured universe,
of diamond dust. Shined on, and on and on only so long.

and there was darkness, where there was no light at all,
and the serpentine mind, recollected learning
snakes see heat and bats see sound,
and whales whistle stories we can hear, but make
no whale sense of, so we Imagined earthsense and riverwise
motion, reality *****, heat blows, pressure billows the wills
of whispering ifs
singing something worldly wise, woe, must be bad, right,
worldly wise man steered the pilgrim wrong,
did who lie
did you think,
Bunyan or his shepherd. Me, too.

So, this state, systematized reasoning,
at war with war as twisted by pride,

At the father of the clade level,
see a ceegeed crystal vector,
down to the reason we have
seasons, phases time uses,
made to arrange recognition,

cognosis activated, google eyes, and
chameleon's mind's eyes,
bi-vectoral focus, you know,…
Tesla cars focus eight ways at once,
and, as things become simpler outside

old lies living in meta, get it, metaphors
from when phors were conex boxes,
with no radios in them, now
-stacks of those, reflection rays,
Mars red rusting iron toes,
become red clay mud
each drop must find a mean free way
to reach the sea, as me, in the course
of human events,
game-ified,
imagine the maze, thinking wind feng shui
sweep currents grinding the coast
of California, all the way to Baja,
through all those laden ships
rust buckets in the mind,
dystopified.
Disney ifity broke with reality.

We became Dirac's Defenders of the Unimind.
In a loop…
ha, here are we, this idea in a mind, that
took Jesus this serious. Let this mind be

free in you, think that for fifty years,
what can one imagine a we could do, if a we
could agree to do,
harm to harmony, oh, scheiz, bleu meanies

Christmas and Mythras- fine,
sift it through the inter net rest
of the story,

set the stage, Paul Harvey,
fifteen minutes of keen interest,
with punch, like a moral, in a fable.

When mending is a traveler's certain
chore, mending needs be made a must.

We must know the making of a thread.
First, must know to test for best,
those thus sorted spin,
and worst, we lead to learn to knead
dough, or rend fat, or dip candles,
- ai organzized hell, unionized the creatives
- aha
on learning the art pleased to greet you, be as
I watched you learn to read, and loved
your first read aloud word being nekkid.
Naked truth said so.
Nue kidding U set us up, we are the we,
ai ai ai we bend around mountains,
when any flood gives us a chance,

Think Snow, remember that?
The Baptists hire actual Semites,
to claim finding the long lost right
evaluator tools for forging fortunes from
war, with good reason,
utter compliance,
submit or burn,
ashes to ashes,

jarring revelation backwards, take the veil off.

We think we may imagine being creatures,
in some form, information being creative, per
séance rights,
just listen, convincing is the game, invincibility
anonymous
tip to the point, we agree
what if we could imagine doing any thing once
perfectly, each next time, tics just right,

we fell in a pile of Nineties retro right-ons,
as Netscape went public, and Josten's,
of Yearbook treasure famed archives,
and the first action magic trading rings, proven
money making methods, with no competition,
- wear my ring, around your neck
- but remember, a diamond is forever
- dust to dust
nothing left to prove, the model works forever.
As long as citizens are formed under the law.
As foretold, in the future the law rules, and
we all obey, or face grave danger of sudden

cut-off, no mas juice, electrolytically dry, as bones,
and cut in, the vision, taken from context to context
in words droned emotionlessly as comforting buzz.

So, I missed you,
misused
the tales
that other dudes
passed on.

I stole
the swollen heart of
the dark art’s love,
in observing
and serving up
other peoples
stuff,

little notes
about their lives,
things that I
did not experience
or survive,
but I still write
about those desperate nights
bringing their realities to light.

I plagiarized,
with a chameleon’s guise,
took their truths,
rationalized,
and fictionalized
with little details
and larger lies.

But isn’t that how
strangers empathize?
Isn’t this how
creatives thrive?

Passion is the torch dropped
in some familiar spot.
The one that incinerates
the things you hate,
while trying to light
other fires of desire
just to motivate
you to create
something great;

But when that fury
simmers to
a soft boiled
version of you
then on to
the cold corpses
set for a passing few
to finally view,

when you
no longer
burn inside
of that steaming cauldron
of creatives juices,
and all of the energy
that this mortal frame uses
flickers out
like a little candle in the wind,

when windbags spew
passing platitudes
and clichés
like the lazy
writing
I am showing you,

who will ever remember
the flames that fell to embers
and floating ash in December
as a cold January
takes all this fantastic fury
and turns it to dull grey nothingness?

My mind is a prison
that strong thoughts live in,
a place whose dominion
is given to flights of fancy
that only a few fellow creatives
are allowed to view.