Funeral processions
Spontaneous
Money, Money, Money
Bridges to Neverland should exist.

Wedding party
Music
Fall leaves
Breaks winter.

Intuition floods the sauna of life gated in
By the strong arms of the whispering trees.
******* profit, taking advantage of the sheltered
Wallets of men plagued by the insensitivity and greed
of the less mature.

*******, sir, for charging innocent minds and hungry souls
To enjoy the entrancement of the world
Far older than you

As the growing world unraveled
And I began the dismal ascension of maturity
I stumbled out the  fog of childhood
And there you were:

Advice to head and educate
A Battlecry and a Mandate.

Faith; in things to happen yet
Strength in knowledge- hope in regret;

Stories expressing casually:
Evils impartiality. and
tales of golden fantasies

How no drug is ever stronger than me.

These few phrases I imagine, you see
Into dreams only I can keep.
from start until the seventh day
Waking hour's dreamless sleep.

Oh how you cushion the destruction-
the entrancement of seduction
to paint to play to grow to teach
Expression extending as I reach.

Your Approach...

Mine eyes behold
The view you're gracing
Your beauty unfold
My heart starts racing

Your Encroah...

The tension grows
While towards pacing
Your radiance flows
It's fear I'm bracing

My Abroach...

The entrancement
Has my mind failing
Your smile's enhancement
Sends my heart sailing

My Reproach...

I'm Insecure
My secret endure

even after all this time, your still, quiet form slumbering beside me never ceases to amaze me, those long eyelashes, longer than the length of my thumbnail, fluttering against my cheek still make my heart quiver, the essence of you lingering on my lips hasn’t failed to stay sacred to me.  all this time & the simple happenstance of your perpetuate presence warms me to the core.  i cannot, have not, will never take you for granted, not when your soothing silence is as captivating as when you speak, not when you are the most breathtaking discovery i continue to make day by day by day.  you have taught me how to savor, drink my coffee in slow sips sluicing down my throat, the pauses between swallows made for languid eye contact with you.  you have laid me down & loved me to breathy, shivering pieces, we have charted the topography of one another’s bodies with needing fingers, a little more “touch me” than i knew i could feel.  my head always races in labyrinthine circles but you slow it to a halt with your lips & skin & brimming heat.  i mean, maybe i’m a little broken, maybe even a lot, but with you, i don’t mind so much anymore.

I've been reading a lot of nonsense about ****** objectification, like objectification is some kind of moral transgression. It's not, unless you want to indict others and yourself for thought crimes.
The term objectification is unfortunately mistaken as a stand in for ****** exploitation. 
 
 Objectification, for some, makes us feel attractive and desired, that we are beautiful, that we attract love and admiration, that we are recognized for our magnetism by strangers. That's certainly one of the motives for working out, watching the waistline and dressing well. 
For others it is about the understandable resistance of an unwanted approach, gaze, or suggestive body language, and while it may create within us a feeling of resistance, it is inherent in the human drama that has always been a part of us and, of course, these two experiences are not mutually exclusive.
But one thing objectification is not, is ****, manhandling, or ****** exploitation. We are all human beings, irrespective of our gender, ****** preferences or ****** sensibilities, with a commonality of desires for love and passion, and while we need to respect each other, we also don't do ourselves and others any favors by being to distressed or rabid about feeling another's heat for us.
Many of us are a great swooning web that wants to swallow and be swallowed in lust and love in search of a special someone, a kind of pre-objectification, for the purpose of future recognition.
****** OBJECTIFICATION is described as "the act of treating a person solely as an object of ****** desire". Objectification more broadly means treating a person as a commodity or an object, without regard to their personality or dignity:  sometimes referred to as "the zipless ****", a phrase coined by Erica Jong in the book "Fear of Flying". As described by her: -"It is a ****** encounter between strangers that has the swift compression of a dream and is seemingly free of all remorse and guilt. It is absolutely pure, there is no power game and it is free of ulterior motives". It has also been described as the perfect one night stand.
She cumed like a cinematic hissing pillow of flames
 
 The point of confusion is that the concept of objectification is mistaken for exploitation, and while sometimes associated, they are radically distinct from one another. Objectification is a DNA-driven biochemical prime directive to create .
Wetter than an otters pocket
 
****** EXPLOITATION: is a crime, meaning taking ****** advantage of another person without effective consent, and includes, without limitation, causing or attempting to cause the incapacitation of another person in order to gain a ****** advantage over such other person; causing the prostitution, or trafficking of another person; recording, photographing or transmitting identifiable images of private ****** activity or knowingly and intentionally exposing another person to a significant risk of a sexually transmitted infection.
OBJECTIFICATION: 
When we find another attractive, the brain has a tendency to flip out in a kind of eclipse as in a black out, like an electrical short perhaps, causing physical symptoms like heart rate increase, asinine nervous talking, sweaty palms, dry mouth, jumpy stomach, hot flashes, or more broadly speaking in a confused gibberish inspired by a spectacular entrancement of obsessive haywire desire. Objectification is the first door we walk though when we recognize our desire for another.
HYPOTHALMUS: part of the brain plays a masterful role in this, stimulating the production of the *** hormones testosterone and estrogen from the ****** and ovaries While these chemicals are often stereotyped as being "male" and "female," respectively, both play a role in men and women. As it turns out, testosterone increases libido in just about everyone. The effects are less pronounced with estrogen, but some women report being more sexually motivated around the time they ovulate, when estrogen levels are highest, which is why men tend to be more sexually aggressive. Women who are introduced to Testosterone for the purpose of body-building or gender change are often astonished by the huge uptick of libidonous desire.
Eeeeek, I could eat you like cherry pie !!!!!
"According to a team of scientists led by Dr. Helen Fisher at Rutgers, desire is broken down into three categories: lust, attraction, and attachment. Each one of these attributes is characterized by its own set of hormones activated by the brain"
LUST… Is driven primarily by Testosterone and Estrogen
ATTRTACTION… dopamine, norepinephrine, and serotonin motivate attraction
ATTACHMENT… oxytocin and vasopressin mediate attachment.
LOVE…When combined these three take us from us from pure objectification to the wholly trinity of love. ~~~~~
ARE YOU OBJECTIFYING ME
are you objectifying me?
i can bench 300 lbs. ten times
I'm a rich artist with a graduate degree
sun tanned
good teeth
driving a new BMW six series
with a rag top
big keen blue eyes
like a pretty girl
wavy hair
smooth *****
seven inch *****
nice ***
with the tender heart of a poet 
and a square jaw
want to wine and dine you
always smiling
bay *** kisses
silky tee shirts
Hawaiian 
luau vacations
or is it off to my castle 
in the 
Carpathians
impeccable manners
i smell like lavender coconut butter cream
live in a grand house
on 
beach front property
mucho bucks in the bank
nice as spice
you will never have to worry again
are you objectifying me?
GOOD
because I'm objectifying you
and id rather not hear anymore about it
lets not argue with nature
its like a rock falling
arguing with gravity
all the way down.

https://medium.com/@4zebra2u/******-objectification-the-lie-that-keeps-on-lying-fb79223d016f

I am in a light trance, and you are not.

J am relaxed, cool, and calm, while you are like ruffled water, anxious to be getting on with it.

And you are impatient with me in my trance. This is strange because I am no threat to you, but yet my trance troubles you. And you instinctively, and without thinking, close my trance down and bring me down to earth.

You rejection is so strong and absolute, I must take notice of it, even though I don’t understand it.

Yet trance is so seductive for me I read about it in, “From Magic to Technology”, by Dennis Wier, and I attend a trance workshop, at the Australian National University, by the Sports’ Psychologist, John Turnbull. And I am entranced by writing every day.

I do a walking meditation when I am waiting for a bus, and I do a walking meditation to put myself to sleep at night. And I meditate by rocking back and forth, forward and back, rocking my soul in the ***** of Abraham, click https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BJhMjuza_1A, rocking myself like a baby in the arms of my mother.

Yet the rejection of trance is so strong, I wonder why. I think because trance means giving up control progressively, giving up control progressively from a light trance to the deepest ineffable (beyond words) trance.

And giving up control means being vulnerable. And the world ‘vulnerable’ comes from the latin ‘vulnans’ meaning wound. And naturally we don’t want to be wounded, we are afraid of the pain, disability, and shame of a wound. The military seek to wound others and avoid being wounded ourselves.

Unfortunately vulnerability provides the ground for creativity and empathy. So we prefer to conform and sympathise.

Yet we are entranced, across the world, by the universal Touring machine, held in our hand, our mobile phone. We prefer to be entranced unknowingly, in company with others, like a congregation.

But the possibility exists to design our own trances, and their effects, safely ourselves. A good place to start is by reading the book, “The Way of Trance”, by Dennis Wier.

forget me not?
no, forget me knot.
tied like a noose
around your neck
because you suffer
from every regret

as you enter my mind
i think this and feel left behind
because you look away
from my endearing glances
you kindly listen to my bold
romances
but im alone
in this entrancement
i need you like
i need to breathe
and you look away
like you want to leave
and it hurts
i want you to forget me
so tie a forget me knot around my neck
tighten it till theres no one left
death would be merciful
compared to this.

This is not a love poem.
Because
I know nothing about the entrancement of Romance
It’s like watching a mime mimic antics
It makes me panic.
No, I write epics and tragedies.
About political catastrophes.
About the rhythmic anatomy of poetry.
Not about “How do I love thee…”
But let me count the ways that these days
Have grown strange;
The passage of time has seemed to stop.
This black clock’s bold Tock and
Tick have been erased and
I’m still sick with the aftertaste
From the venom of your kiss
Your toxic lips made me itch that
Poisoned twitch One-thousand times
Before my bloodshot eyes
Went blind to your beauty.
“A most unfortunate disability”
Professionals told me
But I just sighed and smiled insignificantly
“No, no, you see this,
Ironically, is immunity.”
Imperviousness to seduction

But this is not a love poem.
It’s a professional epiphany
An observation

All research and annotations state things like
Blind Fortunes and
Heart complications are just
Minor alterations that
Spark fascinations in
Lab coats and stethoscopes.
Isotopes of foreign hopes
Are my safety ropes to cope with my
Distance away from you another day
And there I go again.
Every ******* word I say will start out right
But then convey to betray me with the
Cliché decay
Of a fluttering heart.
And on this day when time has stopped
I’ll re-lock my jaw that dropped
And, with Blind Eyes, this mental case
Will try to trace the chalk outlines
Of  lucid days
With the white spine
Of the brain stem

But this
Is not
A love poem.
Because
I refuse to be Entranced by Romance.
I’m the kind of guy who would Panic in
That Frantic state of mind
And draw away from Sunlight
To find warmth Moonshine
To bite the bullet and lace up these shoes
Because eleven shots and twelve steps
Is the closest I get to refuge.
See, I dream in the Black and White
Of a first version television box set
About Bloodied tragedies
And political catastrophes
Set to a beat based on
The rhythmic anatomy of poetry
Rarely about “How do I love thee…”
Or the bedpost marks of
Fading, Chalk-Laced Memories.

Love will grow in me sideways, a supine pine
sapling, shoveling mountainous glaciers of stone

embedded into my boiling erosions, melting
the anaerobic hot mud into a calmer froth.

We may kiss at the precipice of the abyss
our love has inevitably chewed through itself.  

And I will likely palm our weathers
into a river-swallowing sea

and you will hate me; desert of a future
companion’s ship—can I

swallow my dominance; that devotion
could bloom from this love’s wilderness,

foresting in perennial fullness,
prospering in the shared bed
rock we have carved into orchids.  

At the place where I will bury my bones
in the murderous entrancement of another,

taiga could storm from the soft ring of fire
between twenty interlocked evergreen fingers.

The Sorceress, Jacob's Most Beloved

she had eyes for me
I knew it
she knew it
man among boys
stare beguiling no accident
entrancement, entrapment,
of course, her eyes hid,
but knew it anyway, for
her warmth dripped into my body,
resting happily within my centre.

why not?

her sorcery, profound,
when she cast the words,
she cast them instantly
without human fore thought,
thus pleasing and being pleasing,
when her branded magi magic
home in other people's minds
did come to rest.

the spells cast
in and on me
own me as much
as I now am possessed,
and in possession of them,
though which is more powerful
is indeterminate,
for I am stained
either way.

in a quiet hamlet,
in an ancient thorp,
the lambs, white and happy
prance on the commons,
the El god's angel disguised,
fresh and unbroken,
I observe the only one,
spotted, stained, like me,
open hid on this earth.
bleating,
I am my beloved's,
and my beloved is mine,
mine very own sorceress.

All I ask of you, my Lady...is be here with me
to gaze into the beauty of your eyes
and hold you in my arms forever
as we speak the words of heart's true affections....
dreams of a million tomorrows...and cherish the joy of today....
oh yes....let us walk down the path of life....hand in hand...
together making all our dreams come true...
and never believe that anything is impossible...
let us open up the gates to paradise ......
letting our hearts create a world of its own design....
away from the eyes of the world....to let our love be free...
and our passion burn like an eternal flame....
sharing all our desires without inhibitions or fear....
with trust and love....journeying to the borders of our passion.

Come lay with me up this bed....cotton, thin sheet covering us....
feeling your back against my chest....arms wrapped around you....
hands clasped underneath your *******....holding you through the night
listening to your soft breathing.....enchanting me like a sweet serenade
as the bliss of your body brings such entrancement to me....
never wanting to let go of you....to break this connection....
my eyes do not want to close....just watching your silhouette....
the soft shimmers of candlelight reveals....as I am in such silent bliss...
always to remember this moment....like others....
etched in my mind....like so many other memories we shared.

Oh my Lady, when I lie alone in my bed...awakening in the morning....
how I long to find you lying next to me....asleep...in such silent beauty....
to feel your body in the morning....the rays of sunlight....softly shining into the room....
and onto your angelic, naked body....astounded by the sight of it.....
not just the lustful desire which naturally is felt....but the amazement in my heart
to see you asleep there next to me....the woman I love...
and for me to lean over to you....my lips kiss yours so gently....
your brown eyes open slowly....as I whisper so soft and lovingly....
Good Morning my love....I love you.

Illuminated by incandescent brilliance
she is feeling celestial,
Radiated by the sparkler
held in the only gloved hand.
The curvature of blonde hair
folds around her face,
as you smile graciously.
Cast in shadows but never forgotten,
a penny in a wishing well.

You stand tall, a benign being.
He told her you are golden.
Looking down upon her,
in promise of prospect
as she wavers and wanders
loping around
like a small pixie,
spreading dust through
the swelling Garden.
This night, full of wonder,
enchantment, entrancement.
Mystical.

An alchemist appears to her.
She does not blink.

You gazed at bursts of light,
those thunders of giants
imprinting the smoke infested sky,
as you imprint her mind
with the stories you tell
and your accounts of life.
They cannot be retold.
Descending
Drawing in.
Now, vacuum packed
you are shrink wrapped,
enclosed with no air.

Mounds of cement run down your mouth.

That night you were strong
and you watched her with glee.
But now she’s bigger and bolder
and you’re weaker, older.
When her sparkler fades
The supernova stage,
A final moment of absolute glory
But will not linger,
Or last.

Now your eyes are melancholy,
Distant,
Enigmatic.
Wandering phantom orbs.

Her sparkler grows dim.

Please allow me to bestow upon you a nocturne
  The music of the night...
Just listen to it...
  ...the reverence...

Why must I sit here in grey silence,
  Listening to the hard rain on the window sill?
I dreamt of you.
  Your smile.

Every arpeggiated chord.
  Every melodic line.
Every soft passage.
  I dreamt of you.

I awake and read your words
  And fall deeper into enigma.
Where am I?
  I dreamt of you.

I heard a voice in my right hand.
  Trying to escape, it led into an appoggiatura of trust,
A suspension of sympathy.
  I dreamt of you.

All of these crazed non-harmonic tones
  Clashing high above my flashpoint.
The dissonance carries.
  I dreamt of you.

Am I just so lost in the music I see in you?
  Or am I once again over-analyzing?
It's you! It's you!
  I dreamt of you.

Where am I?
  Why am I not near you?
This entrancement is becoming indefinite.
  I dreamt of you.

Please come closer.
  Beyond this shadow of thought,
Lies the key to a locked door.
  I dreamt of you.

Your words pierce my heart like a dagger,
  Making the soft nocturne glow as bright as you.
While I breathe, I hope.
  I hope we meet in our dreams tonight.

Subject enters trance
Subject enters trance state
Subject enters entrancement

Entrance word opens mind
Mental kind
Mind kind, man kind, male and female

see that fe,
see iron, the processed bile,
from certain ores -  see a detail

allowed the ancient few who read
all the ancient writings, as we read
French or Farsi, today, we the augmental.

Augmented I, exo-mindful chooser bot,
software, with a calcium lattice frame,

any curious child could have been shown,
by way of instructions, seldom read, ready

do the drill. Do it again. Do another whole
day. Being particular as to what use is made

of my pronominal reality state, my real estate.

Non moi. My ever after all of that. This.
These
times that try men's souls, since this means
of forming information along bendable old bones,

Once, in the dreamtime's local translation mindspace
timeless,
nothing was.
Nothing was evil, and that was good, a chain construct,

mind chain, prior to any sense we readers hold chains
to represent, closed torqued rods of iron, formed
on the horn of the anvil, the only known anvil,
for the making of such things was closed knowing,

must be earned, this epithet, honest, most honed,
among the dull stone scattered across my plain,

Mam, re, remember,
Mamre had a plain called by his name.

Terebinthine Oaks, con-secration acknowledged,

by whom, asks my little boy, who knew which oak
Jacob buried the stolen idols lied about under,
for shame.
For shame, he who wrestles still, with the will
to be the bherer of all my own shame, amen.

Nothing hidden that shall… should we quibble?
Known is known,
and should one choose one may make a plain
from a point
once,
stretched this far. And holding… ad in fun item,
Chotsky for any one to open worm cans with.

Beauty
Seen beneath the surface
It's a fantasy
More exhilarating and dangerous than you ever dreamt
An entrancement
Made even more majestic
As the pieces crumble
Each fragment more breathtaking than the last
Each one - a reminder
Of how fragile beautiful souls truly are
And how simply they fall apart

Collectively we will all cease to be.
That is, in the form we inhabit currently.
When our bodies rot beneath the dirt,
Our essence passes to a place devoid of hurt.
The chemical flaws of our bodies will be irrelevant,
Replaced by peace, understanding and entrancement.
Christians call it heaven, God and Trinity.
But I believe inside of us all is divinity.
This life will no longer matter,
In death we will have no masters.

Is love not a poisonous snake?
A beauty to look at,
Yet venomous
Murderous, savage
It draws one in with it's
Deceptive, delicate movements
Planning and plotting when to strike
Behind a veil of entrancement
Closer, closer, closer
Come closer
Closer
Until......
SNAP

There was no light in this room, aside from the old candle burning bravely away in the corner. Its flames were just enough to give light to her face. Shadows ran back and forth in a hide-and-seek across her soft yet pronounced cheekbones. I felt nothing for her but adrenaline-fueled contempt and a desperate longing for understanding.
  She seemed not to be phased as I clutched the back of my chair until my knuckles shone through the thin skin of my hand. I could have tried to choke out all of my emotion in under a minute effectively, efficiently, eloquently. But my heart shut out my skill in spoken expression. Therefore I spoke in spattered breaths.
“All I ever wanted,” I spat, “Was for you to realize what you had done to me, for so many months. But you can’t see even for a minute, a second, outside those scaled eyes of yours.”
She had a haze over her eyes that seemed to increase in their vague appearance with each syllable that left my dry mouth. If eyes were windows to the soul, it could be documented that she had no entrancement to anything concrete, anything right before her, any solid thing or word audible and visible— anything able to reach out and touch her sallow face. What an empty place her world must be. But that was all under an If.
Me on the other hand, I continued to slip into an uncontrolled state of verbal diarrhea. “I felt for you,” my hands trembled on the wooden frames they clutched, “more than I have almost been able to fathom. I have been stretched, flattened, torn to shreds and blown away in the very presence of you for so long. And I need to know, how I rank on your scale of human significance,” my knees trembled, “Please. Just this.” Voice touched down just above a decibel. “I really need my heart to feel…whole again.”
And I waited. For a smile. For a tear. For a scream. Any reaction. Any movement, I would welcome with open arms.
The creak of the bed startled me, and my mind was jarred to see her outline ascend from the sheets and head for the door. Her shadow following behind, I heard her utter, “This was worth nothing to you, or me. My heart has not changed with you, and I doubt it shall change without you. Goodbye.”  
And every colour that was connected to any last piece of her presence, her aura, her shadow, disappeared. The door clicked open and shut in under two seconds.
I sat, and absorbed. A thick cloud draped over my shoulders that reached down into my ribcage. I had gotten so far, and recieved so little. Should I have been more broken up than this? I made not a sound— a drifting wisp of smoke caused more of a racket than I.
Yet I felt that…
This was not the end, no. The thickness of the air seemed to tell me so.

dazzling expansive
vastness entrancement
souls dance elastic
in an astral transit
the further the voyage
it tenses attachment
stretching the band
is a strenuous tactic

I am the Night.
I am a faint breeze sifting through the solemn sound of silence.
I am the creeping clutch of the depths of your dreams dragging your eyelids closed,
The greatest feats and familiar fears encountered in an entrancement of your fantasy
I am the flecks of white flayed upon the dark canvas to highlight a lone silhouette,
The fades and shades of blues and hues of purple slowly entangling in a twilight tragedy.
I am the symphony composed by crickets and cicadas tuned right to the moonlight,
The crescendo of chimes under a crescent casting light through cloudy blinds.
I am shared whispers under a beach blanket spoken to the rhythm of the tide,
The ebb and flow of an equivalent current stroking the sea-soaked shore.
I am the dew dripped damp grass curling beneath bare feet of midnight lovers,
The cold, forgotten feeling of slivers of leaves weaving their way between tickled toes.
I am the moon attempting reflection of a greater beauty back upon the world,
A mere semblance of the sublime sunken Sun sentenced to never bask in her own radiance.
I am the creation born of the breathtaking Sun kissing the very end of the world,
A longing caress of her rays upon the horizon grasping my cool fingers as the world falls away.

the light flickers

the candle plays tricks for me

a warm ambient glow,

its life, simply there for my entrancement.

if only you were the flame of this candle.

then I could watch you dance and play sensously

instead of watching shadows

make shapes reminicent of you,

flicker on the wall,

wishing you close,

feeling your warmth.

I’m empty and I like it
Every now and then
I search my soul
Only to find what I’ve known

I’m prone to feeling alone
It’s not something that I condone
Like a shadow in the dark
I disappear to where
No one can hear

I feel a certain kind of sad
One not for everyone
The mellow entrancement pulls me under
Thunder comes from above
I’m stuck in the slow drizzle of an oncoming storm
But unlike everyone else
I don’t want out

Some call it misery
I prefer to understand it as bliss
No one to bring you down
No one to keep you up
The emptiness inside
Only makes me feel more alive

-Cnk

we met once
a brief exchange

are you a confection?

you so blond, silken
soft green eyes
you move like music
skin like milk
a smile like an invitation to the love boat
swimming pool after hours
admit two

your dangerous to a man like me
even superman has his weakness
beauty is your weapon
my kryptonite

you pulled the trigger with your countenance
one in the heart, the other right between the legs
i use to feel like electrical colored sherbet
and now im nothing but a mono-chromed grunt
only able to speak in nouns
just an ugly plant

im on the ground
if you took a moment
to console, to hold, to kiss
id feel better for a moment
and then start to shake apart all over again

i want you like heroine
addicted addicted addicted

your glance an entrancement
with it you can send me to heaven or hell

am i in trouble?

"For every shot taken is merely a remnant of the most beautiful."

Portrait or Landscape,

was a question I had. As I took my stride
by the sunset, each step closer to decide:

If I should choose to line her by the horizon,
if her smile would grace the far lazing firmament?
Or have me content; to fit her full by the screen,
to fix her eyes upon me: A never ending entrancement.

Or if I should at all risk pauses in between? An endeavour,
a plausible reasoning to paste eternal; to capture every moment.

I disagreed.

So I put my camera down and lived the moment.

My God, says the Holy Book, is a jealous God.

Or we might say, my destiny is stronger than your destiny.

Orwe might say, our entrancement is stronger than your entrancement.

Or we might say, our wyrd is stronger than your wyrd.

This might be academic except we fought Imperial Japan to determine whose spirituality was the stronger.

And the final picture of our dominant General standing next to the deferential Emperor of Japan settled it. The

{it does take a half hour to read, I timed it.}

Pythagorian permission, Poet, today viz.
five years ago, auto-did-actical,
the output arrogance,
self categorization
accept the role, be a finger, or a toe,
be a knee or an elbow, chose a position,
take it
make it your part in reality function
as if it all just happens
on
accident,
you just happened along…
as though saying show, and showing so,
is the same as saying so, and saying see…
demon-stratem ****
miracles of crowd perception, everybody
look this way, look away, look away
Dix-ai 'da swanee, I tell you, I saw…
Land o'Goshen, locust free. I swanee…

Did you ever, even once, work dawn to dusk,
to pick the cotton before the rain?
You'd need to be born before 1954, I'd reckon;
to have ever pulled a cotton sack
any where in North America.
You can hand-pick about 20 plants in 10 minutes while it takes a cotton picker about 30 seconds to pick up to 1,200 plants. Ai knows.

-- good morning, mustabin--
Probable propitious auspices
- evening the occasional heaps
- sun's light blending peachy huey

Phrygian gardens had song birds, I bet.
Bluebirds, in season, certainly good,
expecting miracles, as farmers
expect rains and harvests and
no blights or bugs or birds or fires
or frosts too soon in the sugaring cycle.
For citrus, not maples, frost some years
meant no Christmas, if you know the sense.
--- we had beggars come to our door
on Christmas Day,
their car broke down, and something
told them, the people inside my house
would help… we were three doors down
from a Jehovah's witness church,
but we had so much, and those kids,
and their mom,
coulda been my mom, had things
gone another way, in the soul selling.

To observe the future from 1950,
are we not
made winners if by now we are not in prison?

Rabble, eh, my equal rank, common-sensewise,
I was once a dear friend of an angel, as real
as any ever to bring another bit of good news.

My messenger told me to say plainly what I see.
Habakkuk Habits invoked a disglosalialacical spell
Aha. If luck were not a factor at the edged abyss,
hiss steamsudden
Coolant ego '
idden agendas, owning the energy,
euphemism
for owning the earth's produce.

Imagining a representation of truth,
as a mortal, a spirit embodied, held out
for grasping fingers
to find handles,
or spikey burrs for tangled locks…
-----------
Examined my selves
for an empathetic one,
I heard Absalom swinging in the tree…
I found no functioning, pathos perceived
is as near as one could come, feeling pain,

awareness, pain at being made to pay attention
to the replaying trainwrecks from fifty years ago.
No.
No, three thousand years ago, really, that long ago
and no updates on Wisdom receptivity?

Life in logos, mere words living in lettered lines
and rows, columns and pages and sections and such.
There are no sacred secret rites.
The snake can take your life, or tickle your soul.

Logical steps lead from one word to the next,
with 151 pre-positioning aiming words,
words that take and hold objects,
to and fro upon a time.

Distance diminishing day dopplering toward us,
the experience bound by galaxy level gravity,

massive messaging apparatus
Nachrichtenübermittlungsgerät zending oud a tingtingting
strumming all the oud's strings in theory.
Would you prefer to have a day in touch
or to have a day out of touch, floating, drifting through
the halls of power, inner sanctum, towers atop slagheaps
of holyshitchewdonotwannaknow, but do, do undoubtedly
know.

Original disconnect. Aware become, conscience ****** eve,
goodness found hell inventing just knowing love most needed
opens possibility quickly ready searched truth uni versal xanex zone. Calming. Sigh, and listen,
where I live there are
still war planes passing over my head, practicing.

Just in case, Semper fi. Charge the fuel.

Pilot training in the real Chocolate Mountains,
so backwash sunset red this time of day…

A brain, already capable of completing
ambitious intelligent coded construction processes

to go, to yield, to go about getting around orders
intuited easily entreated,
with little need
for the power
to punish the cowardly shirker of war duty…

to empty space, tzimtzim on a human scale,
as when the messaging systems deployed metaphors.
Empty vessles, not a few.
Mental focus hearth felt hooks, catch your attention

Red herring and black swans and autistic savants, all
attract attention and something
more rare, a daring
to know why luck seems such a powerful factor.
Curiosity before knowledge they say.
Whatsoever we agree. Eh?
Religions of billions, or two, just me and you, we
believe for a second that eternity is ever right after
ever before, and we exist in the interim, and not before.

Ever, in the scriptural universal sense…
make up your mindshare…
ok.
Mindtimespace, point grid riddled
with holes.
Perspectives on history,
recent history, edging bets
most losers never knew they made,

when a choice is made,
according to the ruling stories,
despite the constant compute refuting,
sneaking
suspicion
sin, lying at the door, did you notice?

If money can fix it, then it is not a problem.
So said the grandson of the Mormon Pioneer
who laid legal real estate claim to raw Sedona.

The grandson of the mechanic, allowed, that so.
- stopped and thought, actuating a still mind,
- pondering, breathing soft, slow, gentle, easy
entreating a change to
to whom, eh, from the page, flat, word after word,
each defined between us, meaning, golden mean
curve to judge beauty by purpose design.

You have seen the curve, you know
what I mean is much along those lines.

Chances are good, we say without thinking,
feeling kinda lucky, a post anxiety high, per haps;
any
way. One day, to a mortal is a measurable span,
and in America, wasting mortal lives
with republic guardians
of the laws enforcing peace
within Belair and Hillcrest regions of Athens…
{L.A. as portrayed the city of messaging mediums}
and the near suburbs, for the managers of the help.
-Leaping millennia in a single second thought
it is Autumn, 2023…

At the scattered outermost edges of urban sprawl,
there remains a kind of creative ifity, an absense
of civil strife, a kind of pollen in the wind, as change,
on cosmic seasonal suggestion that we think long
co-gnosis, sensing augmentalated wedoms, stretching
fi, the idea,
the fi in fiduciary and Semper Fi, and confidence.
Tuning to middle c, wait and see, foe from Phrygia
drummed response, thump thump thrum.

Shofar sounding afar off, listen, listen, hear
the babies, always, babies, after bombs, in the tents
the babies always activate auto **** alert, and feel
terror, the actual mind state occupied by the prisoners
in poverty, every where.

Entertain my brain. Hold my attention to gain,
acquiescence, necience, recognizing your best self,
there's the old tongue in cheek joke, male bond humor.
Same crude pleasure pursuant patriarchal hierarchy.

By royal order, presidential decree and papal bull,

the powers opposing the light of holy truth, persist.
All subjects under the common global order, obey or
else, we disagree with basic gravity and Pareto distributions.

Where the feebleness of mind is first discerned,
was once the local village or shire, cluster of cousins
and immigrant help's children who - how you say, see
themselves being a baker, when they play patty cake, see
or being a maker of clay vessles for holding many things,

see, we make up our own minds, then ideas take over.

Entertain me, show me people involved in drama, over
nothing. ***, drugs, rockandroll, when did the music die?

We could calm the world, with a Coke®
it's the re-al thing, al-ways a ways away re
ality with you and me on the run down to Rosarita
inland route from Jacumba, around the fence,

Singing at the top of our lungs, IT’S THE REEE AL THING
baby.
Look away from the skinny moon.
These bodies preserve life on earth,
and signal nonsense when aiming at stars, however
considering the heavens, far from the glare of cities,

even then, naked eye, I was told, however
I fact checked with my Ai assisting intelligence,
Egypt had not known the Dog star binary.
So this is true:
ChatGPT
The ancient Egyptians believed that the star Sirius,
also known as Sothis, was associated
with the goddess Isis and had significant importance
in their religious beliefs and calendar system.
They believed that the rising of Sirius
in the pre-dawn sky,
which occurred annually around July,
marked the beginning of the Nile flood
and the start of the agricultural year.
The Egyptians did not believe that Sirius was a three-star system.
- last line is all I asked, all the rest, ah, doubblingentendrills,
- all the rest of time we have to spend enjoying hell,
- from some perspectives, this is currently hell, no other.

Thieves of detail truth precepts, lurk,
at this line the author activated prayer circuits,
to take angst
and spin it into genuine umph up
from the base mind level,
low as a mind of any kind can go,
to the core of all emotion.

Dead center initial gravity. First sequence ex nihilo, what
do you know?.. o o psci daisy, just dropped the baby,
baby
can't you hear me crying, baby-love. Blurplepeopleeater,
lyin' all the time, you ain't never caught a rabbit,
and you ain't no friend of mine…

Take us to the danger zone, flyin' all the time,
ease our feeble minds and give us good service

Action movies, make us squirm, who has time for this,
we mostly all do, it seems,
seems, seems unreal really unreal, dream-like,
entrancement, fashion alert, attuned to degrees of in,
and out, up and down, round this way, square this way,
amphoras fit snug, round jugs
in square grids, leaning
into the curve
of greater vessles, trading knowledge
for knowledge,
with a few side realities, professional
courtesies, judgement calls, authorized executive acts,

I declare… I'drather doubt I know what you know,
than doubt that you do not doubt that you know.

Voltaire… defend to the death your right to say you know.
Faith is your evidence, we all suppose, spiritual warfare
is proven by the lie that says Satan is the deceiver.

Wait. What did I say, have I come this far and none
know… wait, those poor souls cold calling on solar leads,
gees, I'm sorry you are so used, really, I feel for you, your
job *****, as they say.
In realized life as a grown up in the system;
got a job, cutcherhair, dopplering by as I manifest, as real
one of the hitchhiking pests, depicted as vermin
on a poster displayed at the Greyhound station,
nearest to Route 66 in San Bernardino, March, '70.

Anchor links, ancient landmarks, moments when pivots
occur, and as often as not, acute reversals widen with use,
dull witted boys with instant anger output honed to fine edge,
grow dull in three seasons, few hold the line on the fourth fight.

Here, in cyberspace, the information super highway,
and the solid state circuitry to deal with mean free ways,
in quarkish inverse infinity space, deep from any now,
in time thought since once,
you did it,
you passed understanding. Got an A.