Your time's worth, valued
at the end, when the hour's used
and next is asking our attentions
might we redeem an hour slept
dreamlessly lost completely
for what it's worth, price of freedom
paying to pay attention, loose disbelief…
PECUNIARY
PREDICTION
poet's persistance
perceived posed
pennywise
punctual precise
This being where we become persons
known to have left thoughts
erected by others of our kind
stood saying see,
never forget what we can be
we builders with stone,
we tellers of enculturating stories
that stand still, holy ordained order
persistant towers
let this mind be
"the perceptive
and intelligent faculty."
"I leave Sisyphus
at the foot of the mountain! "
he say okeh, take it easy.
You can always ease his toil,
but you need not think him unhappy.
Camus… at my finger tips
fact check m'self
"One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods
and raises rocks.
He too concludes that all is well.
This universe henceforth
without a master seems
to him neither sterile nor futile.
Each atom
of that stone,
each mineral flake
of that night filled mountain,
in itself forms a world.
The struggle itself
toward the heights is enough
to fill a man's heart.
One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
Context and loci, this enclosed space
mind's time accumulate within,
cool, agreeing we lack the same tastes,
some smells are too knotted in old
first psyche professional gnoshit wows…
cheese, I was thinking how anyone can eat…
I suspect this happens to any person,
individuated, culturally, thinking
curds in whey,
butter and honey,
take and chew and swallow.
Think how energy is life, sugars
sweeten equally,
were you born into Sugar Pops,
and Nickle candy bars,
and Talkie Radio Shows,
eh?
intimating to little pitchers with big ears,
we are learning things grown ups can't believe.
Oh, radio days, as seen
on TV
in 256 shades
of gray.
Hey, NDA, disbelieve you were ever briefed,
there is no debrief, your time is yours,
carry your own weight, or lighten up.
any attention paid is purely accidental//
Sorry, sort, indexed not good enough,
for prime time, well, then, let's say
we became free f
rom the pressure
to pay,
to learn each lesson life exams passed call for,
all ye,
each time, you heard, call
all ye,
outs in free, means somebody got caught,
and you are not it,
and your personal hiding place,
remains air tight, like a granite box
with an 8 ton lid.
Pried loose, hissing sigh
es sence we already knew
it is not good
for mankind
to be without knowledge,
in its most indigenous cognosis form, spirit shapened
the at to which your attention ties
your time investment, panning placer gold,
continuing
to feed the idea money is,
as a lovable thing, personified as Mammon,
shapeless as a wild ebullience emerging
from the mire
of lonesome disbelief,
walking while using herbs and spices,
breathe, breathing pollen and dust and smoke
- drift at cross purposes
- realized in times past
be slow to say I know
I know where this path leads, outward north
from Chaco,
maybe, but
put distance outside, put curiosity, the knack,
pastless points essential for mind travel
old ones
with sidereal recollections, point
to point, with earnest effort put
into praying
on earth as it is, even as we prayed,
we were children, we must believe
effectual, fervent prayers
of a right used, mind
made up art
form, idea modeled
on imaginable ideals, minds
in the winds,
in the inexplicable,
ration, measure
of good sense discernible
by you, dear, rare,
really weform informed
reader ready
to right think the reasons wars use
eh,
novice evangelists, and
experienced bishops and such,
strictly holy god business, no lie…
the proof of the pudding,
is in the fat folk who love it…
sweet American as apple pi
hero with the digital pen,
wirelessly offering up peace,
to happen
by chance
at touch
we let be
in us while we relax, let loose, unwind
threads
of thought first formed
from twisted cotton,
gently tugged, tightly held
pulled from a hand made chenille bedspread,
to be a twirling string I waved in a sunbeam,
I think I was three, using the life anchors
we all attached to during alone times,
less rare in the MAGA olden days,
latch key kids had plenty of time to read…
napping me, in a house I turned upside down,
in my mind, and imagined the fun of war games
with the ceiling for the floor,
transoms, windows above hallway doors,
for circulation in feng shui science useful
for creating flow
from first breath
through last
I imagine, I believe, I think I know, meaning
dhe, put here, as weform I, we think middleway
meeting where we each feel the other's knowing,
we understand the peak signal sensed as knowledge
being
used
to loose complexity, unravel the rug we pray on
without perceiving the patterns life makes
with no sense but beauty made with effort
to catch the spirit of sublime state past simple living…
Seeing the threads
in his trousers, during recollection
needed to write a record of the experience,
Aldous Huxley, public intellect
of whose work
most know some,
and many know much,
few even now experienced his as he wrote
we
however, The Doors of Perception, passed through,
as we morphed into living words,
pretending to make poetry
what it was, as mind numbing fun
San Pedro suffered from the frost, so we
made tea…
as we are the first
to have been granted highbrow access
to lectures and performances of orchestrations
inconceivable,
before the age
of information, heralded
by the late
to be ortho-canonized redacted works
of Daniel, the Babylonian bureau of internal affairs
chief, during the days of a king so deep in the orders
of esoteric missing weeks and elongating days,
as we pay creative attention, make worth
waiting for it, eh, the juice we use to anticipate
great reward, eh, Daniel,
he of lion's den and missing week fame, also spake
of the events alluded
to in Revelation 1… if symbols make us think,
might interpretations of symbols make us doubt…
rhetorically, while running
with the horsemen,
we eat what we brung.
Both vate and bard, hesitate,
has my return
on your invested a
t tension
lost meaning, morphed
into midbrow psychedelia
just looking, nothing
to buy, no clerk offering specials.
Today, the artist who works
in winds, awakes
in us,
we who happened
to share this view, Ajo, squeel
soar, look up
and see how far we are
from when this mind we used
to think ourselves wise…
once, upon a wild time…
in referential comprehension
of gaseous weformations,
clouds of unknowing, fogs
of loosed conceptions,
persistant insistance
on gravity defying perpendicularity,
at Pisa, there were Pepitons,
on Sicily, as well
to tell the truth, as far as names hold status,
according
to gens, patrimony
for the surnamed son
of my post adulting phase, so strange
- vain means many things beauty cannot.
every first phase boomer cohort, clusters
of children born
into the post fortis reality,
as the explosion in the emptiness
through which we ride the gentled bull,
Sazen,
and watch.
What time is worth while imagining a new reader, never read
the initial point made to stretch to here, where if it is fun to write,
it might be fun to read, and fun does good things to reading earthians.
