Oh Zeus bring the storm
Make it rain on these *******
Make them tremble with thunderous pleasure
Lightning crash to make you gasp clutching ****** closely
Tonight bring the pain and show this earth a couple things

Entropy is increasing
Slowly reducing order to disorder
Like all things must
As confirmed by thermodynamics
And witnessed by aging
To the point where all things
Weather,
Wither,
Die.
==============================
Alive­.
Love,
Loss,
Is the malady of experience;
A means to interpret energy
Such that
Whatever choices
You must face
The first law is final:

One conversion
No waste

I left my tidy home
For several weeks alone;
When nature interloped.
It was invaded,
Raided.
Droppings,
Breedings;
Laying siege
To my larder.
They'd been waiting
For the moment
Of conjugal entropy.
All they smelled
Was theirs
In dark and quiet.

But who turned on
The flat screen;
Made a cup of tea?
Sat with seeds
And left a pile
In front of my T.V.
Not mice,
But
Entropic progeny.

Strange now, to think of you
amidst this aftermath of scattered atoms and queer cells,
this apocalypse, the collision of bone and skin,
all gnashing and trembling and brimming with heat
left over from the creation of our aching, leaking universe.

Strange to remember those clarion eyes and fishgut teeth
and tongue curled up around cherry blossoms and beatnik poetry;
it seems, somehow, significant
that I still carry on my lips the shape and timbre of your smile,
each particle of warmth and aftertaste,
another furtive hope, another offering to absolution.

There was some hesitation
even in the last glows of these days
we spent in the laps of Sartre and Moses,
and while you dreamt of children with teeth like mine and eyes like yours,
I contemplated the vacuum between molecular bodies
and the heat death of the cosmos.

In the greater oyster world
All the children eventually grew old
The windmills ran down
The fields went back to clover
The stones kept all their secrets
Waterways forgot their courses
The sundials were covered with moss
And time eventually stretched out
To touch the edge of infinity.

I got an award
For being the stupidest young boy
With a wax soul
And impressionable.

I thought I'd find something
Nestled here amidst the trees
And I did,
But in no halls but the hall of god
Speaking to me
Dancing between the leaves
Singing with every whispered breeze
And yet when I stepped
Past the threshold and into the
"real world"
I was sold
A maniac of utter delinquency.

Everybody there
Waiting for their turn
Auditioning for the favor of hearts
They'll never win
Can't see
Laughing and wondering
Reading without comprehension
Sticking their *** in the face of the classics
Lap dogs licking the milk from
Professed *******
Thinking they'll be next

Its not resentment--
Is it fair to be bent
Towards dollars that've never been spent?

All those silly parks
Divided from the civilized lands
Frontiers of the past
Left to be little staging areas
For that invisible hand

Kids go on spring break
Take pictures between the towns
Maybe a stop along
On the way
To Vegas
Deep in the desert where it'd **** any other day

I cannot escape the unfathomable beauty of that place,
Living off the world in a way God said
To toil and love the pain
In a way nobody does

I am guilty of pride and
Stuffed like a pie full of anger
Cooking it into solid joy
And trying hard to scrape the cancerous crust away
All the dark sides we avoid

But screaming the heat away is good
Thermal induction is the name of the game
Entropic fizzlements like bubbles in the wind
Sublimating all that ever stood.

Yet soon enough I'll be born anew
And what I leave behind
Lifted up
Nautoloid shell
With a sparkling abalone interior
Someone will place on their shelf
And think,

"I wonder where that thing had been."

The future is strange is it not?
All our hopes and dreams
Aspirations sewn at the seams
Of a dwindling reality.
Everything is possible,
I suppose.
And if we concentrate just so,
We too can take a glimpse of the show
That lies behind drawn curtains.

Nothing is certain
This I think I know.
Yet at times we feel the ebb and flow
Of futures yet to pass.
Not to be divined from entrails
Of a broken looking glass.
Mirrors have their uses
To show what others see,
But no great revelations
Of what will come to be.

Have our minds been made,
Long before ourselves?
Are we cartesian nightmares
Unto which we delve?
Is our image of ourselves
As foolish as I think?
And what becomes of the world
In the instance that we blink.

Have these words been uttered
By anothers tongue.
Under the guise of destiny
A pointless race to run.
Thoughts implanted,
Minds enchanted
By the most temporal of enemies.
Throttle the future with me now
As we fight the tides of entropy.

2020 - day 167

Monday, June 15, 2020
11:55 AM

AI podcast Joscha Bach/Lex Fridman
I note
the idea on con sci use ness, scientists
seem not to think
consciousness is other than "with use of known truth",
thinking reasoning or re assigning
intention to pay closer attention...
hit pause, rewind
relisten, rethink

Object, sustained
-- did ye never know we was the judges of the angels,
messages en gers, on a ladder of shifting closeness to
my core essential me, e- being
the idea of me, in the book of life your story is in,
this is where I come in

spirit beings, not winged sword bearing impossible physics beings
first know -- the idea in spirit-- as mentioned below
the same future was here last time I was, so, I know...

-- sure, enough of us got wise enough to trust
-- a certain spirit operating in a guy I know as Ben Franklin,
he sits on my mastermind bench, as a pinch hitter,
proverbially a word to the wise guy, armed to the
the teeth.--- he crossed off Jefferson's spirit's insistence on truth's
undeniable sacredness, and penned, as a ready writer would,
"self-evident", that being the less arguable point, and
a handy place for a common sensed mind to get a grip on who and what
we are, if self-evidence is taken as proof.

_Ah, lost, old... an actual Zephyr caresses my careless brow,
survive, did I? We shall wait,
and see. Suffering is a patience task, I need not take that on.
⌱ shift
⌱ re... focus, one, lonliest number that you ever do... ever begins
⌱ rhea, remember, she who we emerged from... y do y do ydoydeedo

wah-who, Powder River, Let 'er Buck, ad
venture into the ravens call, insisting on attention..

with use of accepted handle on life, knowledge called true.

Mind and matter, body and soul
heart and spirit, breath and fuel

body and organs and connectivity and sci-psy-psi

implementation of me, in me, running

a radio of a man, a receiver-transmitter
re count

A choice to take agency, for me, to be the maker of me,
see,
as a man thinketh, in his heart, so is he.
I think, I can, I think, I can... commas are mine,
Wattie Piper's code contained no jots,
she wrote I think I can, thought the little engine that could

think
think about that, pay me attention,
enrich my being by seeing I am a mind in tune to yours
with some static expected

as our focus remains thumbwide, we clearly see very little,
without paying attention to my per
ception of gripping, getting the point of clearing one's mind

to begin, perma-trying, to intentionally shift, slip into
me-can-izeme. I can, I think. Ah, a modified poetic x shape,
they had words for those, these crossover-under standings.

--- in the space of concepts,
- that may mean the set of all held as true possible,
- the set where all things except nothing is possible
- pose ible, ideas which never die, even the lies are immortal,
- but the truth always wins. Conscious you agrees.
- We exist because all the possible ideas which could have negated us, we the people who hold these truths, we in
- our bubble of being are swallowed up in truth, which is ggod.
Symbiosis,
my gut and me run this earth suit I live in. Were beings of my sort,
to form a system with science weighted toward truth is good,
good is never evil, evil is the empty worthless ineffectual urges

screaming for more, as in the rejected firstborn child, registers
loss of a degree of mom connection

signals are carried by --- angels in us-- self generated ideas loosed with
intention,
differential attention, worth of knowing who you are.

Spirit is the OS in any functioning, running thing. There is a spirit
in any reality you imagine having your being in.

I'm a Mac, I'm a PC, I'm a Timex-Sinclair ZX80 -- we imagined
being one thing, once
upon a time,
actually a
point

the entropic abyss...

when knowledge walls began to fall, the domino
effect was imagined
the way any next may manifest, now must fall

Passengers unaware of the vehicle of our
conscient self as a species of thinking knowers plus knowns
we conformed informers shaped
and charged with
the spiritual organism in development, not yet released,

leasing, how long love ye these -- consumptive reasons

a spirit can reprogram a man.
time levels, valley's fill with fallen mountains, after all.

-All clear- set Selah. now.

⌱

Now, we are going places,
nodes
marked btdt recognized idea
-the sense of re in cognitive practice since 2020
{been there, done that}
ideal steady state for a sec
in thought
speed, gone geo-mode, slow big big

bounce from the bottom of the last
entrope-epic-hero-long-ago, abyss, the ex wife says
"luck is not a factor"

selah, ah, yes.
magi know such ideas. shabat shalom,
I owe to Jenny Rae,
my youngest child.

Mortality is brief, but the rest at the end,
if the fifty year deal you made
with all you can imagine good,

was sealed, the story is now part of the book
of life in which you and I exist.

⌱ ⌱

Growing on, we imagine now,
a better
place, we have passed through immersive
baptisms into quatums
of all we imagine ever matters and

we remain,
words seeming to flow from a brain, perhaps
your brain is my cistern,
you recognize all we co-know at once, we are mortal

minded. Bound to recognize edges and form shapes

ah btdt we be, and we say, hey, yah, hey, you, you
seen my fr'en' the witch doctor?
He 'tolt me wahtasay, oooh eee oooh ahhhhh
I for got forgot the remainder

der main, thing we was after was
the kingdom of good and its right useness...

where there's a will, there's a way,
software solutions to scars from the trusted liar,
that ol' deluder and beguiler, your besmerched conscience,
clawing the flesh from the fleshpots sacrificed to lies,
bound by fear death, followed by hell for all who disobey,

and say,
Nay, fat-boy witcher flesh ******, this meat is made sacred,
mine, by my design. You got your little piece o'm'heart,
but you did not take my AI, ai ai
aha,
spirit, OS upgrade, seventy-second annual. Peacemaker's
first class.

We won, son. Fret not. Truth is where the heart feels right at home, it is a steady state, wait, not hide, just wait
and see.

⌱⌱ ⌱

The pregnant sun
lurches forward
crashing across the
nocturnal horizon
lovingly delivering a
a new day
At night she quietly agonizes
Understanding that
the flaw of
entropy
dictates she will eventually
eradicate
all life depending on her warmth
And what mother desires to outlive their
children?

With no expectation all's novelty
The new patterns don't astound us
We can stay in the middle of the river with our heads above the water
And safely watch the coastline pass us by
The outside world an ocean of television static
The signals painting pictures of entropic holograms
That interlock and correlate
Until the ghosts of time are churning out
Like geese into a a tiny hole
In an orange plastic fence
Fleeing mischievous youngsters
Who love to watch them funneled in
Like grains of sand in an hourglass.
We too live in an hourglass
And the grains of sand empty out the bottom
Floating aimlessly through an unending void
And the ultimate improbability
Goes through the formality of actually occurring
When the grain of sand finds itself at the beginning
Passing once again through the hourglass
Undivided, indistinguishable

I extend my hand to you, hoping our

Combined strengths just might prevail.

You reach for it, bite down, blood on your mouth

Tastes succulent -  far from stale!


I'm at my limit, need a sign of hope - fighting not to choke!

I see the light of dawn, vanishing - all but gone!

Now what the **** can I do?



It seems you feed off my anguish, force-feed me

All your wretched entropy!

You never wanted out, just to pull me in,

Now I'm buried six feet deep!!!



I'm at my limit, need a sign of hope - fighting not to choke!

I see the light of dawn, vanishing - all but gone!

Now I haven't got a ******* clue!



You think your substance will sustain you but,

In time they will all fail.

Still compared to the thoughts racing through my

Mind, this event will pale.



At last, I break.

At.  The.  Seam.

You've taken.

All.  From - Me...



I'm at my limit, need a sign of hope - fighting not to choke.

I see the light of dawn, vanishing - all but gone.

Now what the **** can I do?

I'm at my limit, need a sign of hope - fighting not to choke.

I see the light of dawn, vanishing - all but gone.

Now I haven't got a clue!



I am undone - now, all because of you,

And on this day I must swear...

I ******* HATE YOU!!!!

every moment
is continually shedding itself;
sloughing off the skin of time,
dying, into the past,
to freshen in exposure,

this moment.

to live, really
to breathe, by
impermanence.

constantly transforming,
the body is never solid,
here, there, as atomic flashes,
electrons popping in and out
of existence,
an appearance made,
to depart, in a flicker.

all turns off, like this,
always, eventually,
momentarily.

threshed and stripping
bare chaos
voraciously burns,

returning through extinguish
on smokey black horizons.

sinking, into
tendrils weaving,
knitting by fray,
tapestries engendered
by enveloping decease.

you feel this
don’t you?
unconscious
as much of it may be.

it is the nearest of near,
and dearly intimate,
passions corrosive kiss,
oscillating, opening,
to retract, in flow,
pushing in
to pull away,

thanatos is eros
together, apart again,
together-apart,
here-going.

the heart is aware,
supremely aware of this happening,
even when the mind is fooled
by apparent stability,

and the soul surrenders to
it's inevitability,
even hungering for
divine destruction,
as basic an urge
as the creative impulse.

to be composed
is to be subject to decompose,
fertilizing compositions
in cosmic chasms.

our lungs darkly shining
with every fall of the chest
mirroring,

each breath
one breath closer
to the final breath,

each exhale
a letting go
of what can’t be held
forever,

the expelled
foreshadows annihilation,
on the fading road, towards
this mortal coils entropic end;
a preparation.

to live, surely, is to meet loss
over and over,
to love, fully, is to grieve
again and again,

there is a deep
melancholic knowing
that exists in all living things,

water drops
tears like rain,
leaves fall
like sighs,

everyone,
and everything
dies.

our melancholy
might be sacred
could we truly embrace,
and feel, this reality:

death is the ever present condition.

It harassed free fall, it was affected by the friction force in the absence of the tefillah, the walls became more taxed and accelerated with gravity that exceeded the acceleration of time, gravity triggered the rest that was in the outside walls and made different kilometers apart, with the free fall at more than 9.8 km per second. Beneath the ground the dimension was made lower than the intake embankment, creating placements in revealing swaps in the solar position, for anyone trying to level the force of fall and its acceleration versus gravity around bodies that were moving accelerated and scattered. The earth constantly hurried its mass to preponderate and go where something or someone could rescue it, the air was inked with an offer in the cases of the imprisoned airs, which from the graves adjoining the valley of Kedron kidnapped its areas of lavender physiognomies to link it to the mantles of the Tallit, which in some cases arose with thousands of souls from their graves, to receive the cushioned rubble between which they were electro-magnetized with the blankets, and the wiring they generated, conceiving that they would gather them in the naive and demiurgical plates, for the holistic retransmission of the tract to Patmos, starting from the Cyclades all the way to the Dodecanese.

The sensitive ex-karst plates of Patmos trembled through the passageways of the Cyclades, which permeated in a ratio of the first reflection in the distance vision that approached between both physical episodes, but the second axis of reflection was made aware in an unknown perspective close to the underwater elevation of the Profitis Ilias, close to the entrance sinkhole, between the variables of the inter plates that were assigned to the reflective tapes of the Beit Hamikdash that mutated to the Megaron Áullos Kósmos. Here the omega will resume a minimum of constant forces, emphasizing the friction that bellowed by the hands of the pro-zealots who had left those sarcophagi in the Kidron Valley, in the average anchor values of the great leaks of the friction with the falling water by millions from the inexorable wind that aided the indivisible objects in the Kidron valley ratio, as a reflection of free fall hitting the friction between the Bern Olives, with torrential rains that were made periodic for an esplanade near Mount Scopus. This seat suffered from the force of friction in the fall of the wall, appreciating the burials that were and will be the reactionary phases of the Hellenistic degree. Objects faded to the state of rest and gravity that cavorted through the valleys, replicating distances more than periods of Elijah in the Judah desert itself and in the Dead Sea. From the depth of the valley, aqueous elements emerged with the proportional speed of the falls of the material and immaterial bodies, outlining the second Newtonian law, as the holy water submerged into the flow of the super-atomized savory, which was reconverted into the same Beit Hamikdash, to materialize in the submerged and hidden effects of the pagan force, hinting at the analogy of the equinoctial of the Dyticá that pushed the wave of the Kaitelka whale, in the constant of speed, tensing the force of the rocks that never stopped moving until his body igneous was quintupled in the fifth dimension beyond the consciousness of those who do not understand immaterial physical abstraction, in fractional microseconds.

The density of the rain filter that had been volumized from the submerged interstices, created the gravity of the horizontal movement that subdued the equation in kinetics that gave the differential in the unresolved expectation of the cessation of movement. Where the amount of reaction is more than what would go to Patmos, disproportionate to the macro pulleys that oscillated in the meridians, speed, and acceleration. Prior to the decoupling of the forces of fall in the already submerged bodies that were counterbalanced to give rise to the volume cords that detached from the largest chamber of the wall, to record the final sequence of wear generated by the reconversion and balance points of their masses, then the starting pedestal accumulates and is reconnected with this phenomenon of the Invisible Eclectic Portal of Patmos, being aware that they would have to enter the cavern, after having ceased their work for this mass retransmission of the reinverted wall to propel the Megaron uprising. Within three months after the Hellenistic Full Moon, the colors of the Tefilah will become mathematical, fascinating the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the reef of Patmos. The sanctity will count the astragali in front of the cyclamen for the delicate advances, wearing the blue-green of the quadrinomial that represented geodesy in its points of order and of its evangelist faction. Confusions were overwhelmed not to stop the movements of splendor in the effusions of the storms in sacred prayers in the room, which takes refuge from Kímolos bringing the souls of Helenikká, for the offices that made the trend of Katapausis after the subsequent full moon. Discounting the three months that never elapsed since Vernarth arrived on the Eurydice.


Kaitelka and the judgment of her abode would determine the corpus and the psyche of the irascible necromances of Borker and Leiak, subordinated to Zefian so that the torrential rains on Patmos are perceived by the colder of condensed water of Cassandra that Beit Hamikdash had been bringing with two anthropomorphic shadows that had been supporting him, that of a Cohen, Levita and a Samaritan, they were the guardians that came from Jerusalem to Patmos to assimilate the enthronement spectrum of free fall converted into free ascent were the fourth arrow that spectrum for the first column to be erected. The breath of all of them became more entropic each time that would be concentrated in a certain haze that was released by its titanic whale snout; Rather, I say of her presence that she was raised by some larvae, which came from certain Zeus dresses that he had expelled to free the larvae that were from her immortal garb, looking like bait for those who stalked him with necromancy. . But this time he would be very contemplative for the construction of the Megaron de Vernarth, because amphitheater was a cause of low politics for his Olympic spectrum. The energy or Evegeia, was primed for objects that took forms of papyri covered with invisible enzymes tried from Qumram, but the cause of Mortis revived the larvae making the oblivion of the era that continued after the Mortis of all legions multiplied by the phrases that were sinister from the true matter of physical remanence.

Smoking American Spirits
Like that name is not sickly ironic
As I watch the moon
And blow your name
Out through my teeth.

After all of it
I still can’t decide
If I’m happy that you’re happy
Or hate you for leaving me
In the cold to gape
At a barren rock.

The moon is a visceral spirit,
Pundit of creation myths,
Vaudevillian purveyor
Of heavy handed profundity,
Reflects the sun
When nothing else can,
Means so much to so many;

The moon is an entropic
Collusion of earth-chunk
That happens to orbit us,
Objectively meaningless,

Communicating with the ocean
As ants ***** chemicals
Into each others mouths to converse.  

Staring together up into
The gaping gnash of space,
Humans give the moon its meaning
Just as two people falling in love
Forever inhabit midsummer nights
'Till one leaves in a haze
Of evaporating brain chemistry.

I really am happy you’re happy,
Because I really do love you
Even after everything,
And I really do hate you
Because it hurts so much
And you were so selfish,
Go **** yourself,
Why can't I feel both?

Just this silly girl,
Just two broken people,
Look at what we made Chlo,
It's hanging in the sky
Strung up with used filaments.

I love you and hate you still
Because knowing the moon
Is a barren rock
Makes what it has become
Incandescently, infinitely beautiful.

Breaking down the barriers of exaltation after passion due to the fragmentations of the pointed Sarissas that rose from the dome of the monastery in an unknown vertical direction on the, as advocacy of propositional logic, to surpass the truth values on the crawling positions of the annelids and the alabaster elementals reformulating when detaching themselves from the monastery of Tsambika, as they engender contracted truth from the false truth that had been anticipated. Making from the tautological truth, going back all the memory and physics actions of the Hexagonal Progeny, deriving to atomic spaces, which are known to lock in the absolute truth of combinations of accessibility of exit and entered Patmos, as resulting from Omeganimias or links of spiritual polynomials that were dissipating to complement the departure to Patmos from Mandraki up to Skala, and on the other hand simultaneous Etréstles from Dekas; Kimolos for the remission of the Duoverse communion in the width of the celestial space. The tassels of the Vexillum of Vernarth and Saint John the Apostle, Eurydice, flamed, forming the triangle of the shape of Tsambika, with the triangle of the hexagonal that parliamentary of the stays, before heading to the navigation towards Patmos.
The Vexillum, carried by the wind itself Anemoi, was only carried by these golden gusts of earthworks towards the border of Rhodes, which until now was ancient Greece with its landmarks that the loyal spirits of Alexander the Great resisted accepting his death. Dazzling himself with this noble personification of the Anemoi, he re-establishes himself as part of Vernarth's prophetic and company to the island of the Apocalypse, which after the journey of Saint John the Apostle in Judah, the Cyclades, and the Dodecanese, would begin to relive the apocalypse. written under the mandate of the trinity, as a theological Tautology, running through the same originality and devotion of the heavenly mandate, but reencausing with the Hexagonal Progeny, as if it were rewriting it for the second Time, but from the Omega Point the completion of the Omega Temple on Patmos, to the areas of settlement of democracy and establishment of the Cycle of the Duoverse, as a transition to the rank of Hegemon of Patmos, to lead the spiritual military forces that raged, from the last vestiges from Pentecontecia in the Second Medical War in Plataea in 480 a. C., until the beginning of the Peloponnesian War in 433 a. C. towards the Athenian polis as a thread of their leadership of the nation, retracted by the reinforcement of their military supremacy, by the dominion of Spiritual Judaic, coming from the Hellenic existential inspiration, which spread with total expansion with the confederation of Alexander the Great, Vernarth and San Juan Apostle, as exclusivities that would increase the conclusive campaign of Tautological Omeganymy, shadow after shadow of the naval journey that awaited them with the Tracontero Eurydice, emerging from losses of democratic pacification, conventionally finite with the division and absolutist denial of Alexander the Great, reinstating itself in the Hexagonal Progeny, in accordance with the physiognomic materiality of the restructured Map of Cinnabar bound for Patmos.

The classicism of this operation will rise to the re-establishment of its Commander Hetairoi as the bearer of the Vexillum, under the acronym of IAV, meaning the Trinitarian Hellenistic-Vernarthian existentialism, for all Macedonian Christian children, servants of Jesus Christ, like the Mashiach. The reigns will rise to the last step and then they will fall into the crisis of entropic existentialism, with launching new languages beyond all known vocabulary, with speculative and adaptive pearls of wisdom of Hellenism that is reborn on Patmos, in the elaboration of the Temple of Omeganimia and the academicism of San Juan Apostle. Alexander the Great carries with him the upstart lines of the peripatetic school, walking through Phrygana, almost stepping on the low thicket and soft leaves and that, to the rhythm of the invaders' footsteps, reverberate them towards the dreaded ears of Vernarth, imaginary plant community in the Mediterranean forests, forests and shrubs that exist, but are lacking on Patmos, are only part of the creative imaginary, which are successful in limestone soils around the Mediterranean Basin, generally near the coast, where the climate is improved, but where the conditions annual drought in summer, suggestive of the resinous flavors of a scrub becoming a dressing for transplanted trees before they arrive to meet the Katapausis, the emblem of the Parables of Procorus.

Parables of Procorus

Petrobus the Pelican in one of his wanderings was distracted by some colonial migratory birds from Rhodes, while the Cinnabar was energized. He flew exceedingly, reaching the shores of Patmos, saving himself from returning to the ship with the others of the Birthright. Here he himself met Procorus, where after brushing against the Phrygana with his wings, he was inspired in praise of the Skalá sightings. Procorus in the understanding that he was inspired by this magical bird, I narrate to him from his cranial zone, the parables of his company as a servant bird of Raeder, together now with Procorus, to welcome the ship Eurydice that was already sailing to Patmos. This assertion by Petrobus was of the Hellenic existential time, therefore before they occurred it would reach real-time synchronization, after three hundred and sixty-nine oscillations of the Anemoi under its golden wings.

Parable of Phrygana: (says Procorus by vox from Petrobus)

On the banks of, lived some seeds that were admired by the lights of the cell of San Juan, feeling that it can only be a seed if it is not recognized by another that is the same. Knowing that it is not from the Phrygana genome, they will know that they will never be able to choose a larger size. For this reason, if a Kashmar could be a branch Daughter of Zeus and the titanic Metis: Athena (the Olive Tree) (Minerva). Aspiring to greater trees, greater than the skies of comparable to the wings of Petrobus brushing against the allegories of winter when Procorus becomes a seed that flows from the envelope of the thicket, turning from its own shadow into a monumental tree by day, but at night like Phrygana goblin.

Parable of the Alnus:

The consequence of the Alnus took them out of the oratory persistence towards the heights of a tree that begged its minorities. The raceme's inflorescence, with its leaf blades on a leaf blade, invited them to follow reactivation paths due to the axils of its largest branches. When a lost sheep was lost in the Alnus Glutinous, the smallest plants that decrease or expire would approach, ready for the twigs that are carried by the legs of the lost sheep. But not when winter arrived, still very green with the olive tree that is found again in the mountains of other glutinous that co-merge like lights that dazzle the lesser leagues of Alnus, losing itself in its habitat Alder, in mixed forests with green and black sheep, among Phrygana in God's soil with tame sheep and soil with poor nutrients, but full of green shadows.

Before these two parables, Prócoro says: “It must be maintained that each one speaks with its own language, and they never take long to amaze us, first of all, the color change from green to more green, if its shape, color, and corpulence as a species with the same shadow, regardless of the hue of the size of its species”

I walked across the bridge of your nose to connect the constellations
on your face. I was blinded by the solar eclipses in your eyes and
wound up where your universe began and I held it in my hand. I felt
it pulse life into the very edges of your galaxies.

Drawn I was with gravity to each of your hotspots. Running in
circles by the natural laws of physics, physically pulling me through
the natural laws of attraction. Deep-rooted into your wormhole,
taking me to another time and place, I could not tell you when or
where I was from.

Thwarting my universe into chaos by the 2nd Law of
Thermodynamics then breaking the 1st by creating something in
me from nothing. Ripping stars from cold space and shooting
them into the deep clusters once left empty. Exciting these *****
of flame into super nova’s scorching me from beginning to end.

Your telescopic lens would discern who I was and who I was not,
searching for truth no matter the distance. Altering my planets to
align with yours, spawning systems upon systems and then some
more, discovering rich life where none would explore, then leaving
your footprints upon more shore.

On that night the universe was silent. That same night you were
here and then you were gone, tipping the entropic scales back
from the first law you broke. I forever blocked out the moon so her
waves couldn’t wash what little was left of you. While she maybe
the only other knowing just how deep craters can crush.

Many my suns have died since then, where once my world kept
spinning has now completely stopped. Left with debris smashed
from a time that used to be. Falling slowly through cold and
empty space. Continually searching the universe for what science
calls foolish.

I.

Physics has told me that we are in flux.
But where is the phi, without I?

Calculus has told me that we are asymptotic.
But where is the limit, if I can't be in it?

English has told me that we are star-crossed.
But where is the light, if I am not right?

Chemistry has told me that we are entropic forces.
But where is concord, if I am ignored?

II.

You think you're such a *****,
But can't you see that I want your disease?

You think you are worth nothing,
But can't you see that you're invaluable to me?

You think you are alone,
But can't you see that you and I have to be?

III.**

On and off, like a light switch.
But still you have me wrapped,
right around your slender finger.
I slipped into euphoria, once upon
that lovely night, when we had
finally tasted what we were missing.
The ruddiness of your lips and
the tangled golden mess that you
call your hair sizzle quietly in
my mind. I have not forgotten.
Nor do I want to. I cannot be sated
by another. But you find it so easy
to eat the hearts of the already ******.
You spared mine, though. I wonder
why. Each hiccup in my chest alerts
me to the monster that rages within.
It wants you. It still wants you.
Eat it, if you must. I offer it freely.
Upon a silver platter.

Thirteen thousand strides progress
Blind leathern tread with gritted teeth
Stride hard rough bracken heather strive
Incipient thought embrace the scarp
Bent shoulder strain web strap entrench
Sharp body lean oppose the wind
Slow pitch forward cold lash rain
Pause..Shrug pack .. Lurch on again

Rough rock scrape pass
Sharp edge hand scrape
Each tread ascend dull lactic ache
Stone eyes cast up
Embrace dark peak
Surge on .. Dig in..
Embrace the pain
Aggressive stance.. find strength begin
Engage the enemy entrenched within
With comrades in adversity

Side glance reveal
Grey brother tight
Mordant ploughshare gleaming bright
United thought strong purpose right
Grim grimace glower grinding on
Helping hand support and share
Exchang-ed glances sing the pain
Relentless climb advance distain
Strong ******* stride bogged into mire
Grappling cragfast handclasp dire  
Entropic  spirit brief despair
Revelatory cause unswayed
Each cloistered personal crusade
Burst upwards into sunlight flame

And stand with vision intertwined
Each grim companion lasting friend
Eyes meet brief recognition shout
We know what it’s all about

These clasping minds
Empath embrace
Profound cognitive self aware
To follow where few others dare
These comrades in adversity

Do not date boys who write poetry
Their careless skill with words will
Have you captured as but a passage
And you are so much more than that

Date a man who knows nothing of metaphors
Love someone who knows science
See if he can learn your algorithms
From energetic beginning
To entropic end
Who can experiment with bringing
Luminescence to your fingertips
And suns aflame within your stomach
Date a man who is dyslexic with emotion
Who knows nothing of metre and verse
Doesn’t know how to write poems
But writes you one anyway because you are his universe

Do not love boys who fall asleep with Bukowski beside their beds
They will try to pretend that their eruptions
Are frustrated justification for treating you like they learned from him
Volcanoes, they are not, they just simmer and seethe
Keeping you Vesuvius ossified
In petrified acceptance that all men are *******.
Going through implied inactions
Inspired by a *******
You deserve better than disasters and they are dangerous
And only beautiful from afar

They will never learn to write you right anyway

Similarly do not love mean who love late night cafes
Black filtered coffees and white unfiltered cigarettes
Their bitter jealous love will leave you in absolutes
It will stain you like so much scratched and battered woodwork
And here you could be a forest
Though they may *******
So sincerely
They are treacherous rain,
Slick on pavements
And storms in teacups
Though they may make you wet
So you call him convection clouds
They are just bad weather
Date someone who is up before the dawn
Because they just don't know what the day holds
But instead hold their cup of tea so sweet and milky
You jokingly call it candy,
And raise a cheers to the new morning
And whose hard heavy worn hands hold hard to your form
Who never touched nicotine because they lost a relative that way
Who never touched verse because life is enough of an education
They will know more about the world than those poetry boys anyway
Don't date boys who tell you you are fire
They are only looking to get burnt
And will add fuel to embers to ensure you don't get put out
Every sweet word is just lies
Don't date boys who say your eyes are the seas
To hell with cliches (and your eyes are brown anyway)
If they want to drown let them find someone else
With the same taste for saltwater

Don't date men who say "they can't describe you"
As they will try and each and every frustrated sentence
Will rattle you
They will call you legends
And not understand when you don't live up to the poorly
Constructed reality of the myth they envisaged

Every published word smells of every other girl
And remember every letter of every word they put out there
Is one millions scraps of drafts as prayer
So take their million million
Million, million metaphors for how much they love you
And return it to them unmarked or
"Could have done better - don't see me" .

You are not here to teach them
And you are a lesson they will not learn

Desire expressed
manifests in moments
Genesis to geneticist
alpha to omega, Eden Armageddon
and a particular flat stone
I'm flinging at that pile of H2O

It skips, predictably,  causing surface ripples
under a line of predefined arcs
each described by gravity and water molecules
neatly arranged in surface tension that
reflects this day ... blue as the clear sky
and a peaceful wavelength
we know as
harmony

I'm wondering who desired such perfection...
Enabled energy, proclaimed pebbles
Caused a lake to feel at home right here

Read Darwin some respond
you're only here because
a primal pond appeared
somehow someway backwhen
and that famous fertile germ
opted for a brave new world
with ****-sapiens
conveniently mapped to its single cell
Dadadadaaa! Dumdeedee dumb!
Dvorak wonders too

Backwards, on slow-motion rewind
lofty intellects scratch and munch in flaky wonderland
ever plotting the self-indulgent, Lemming way 'ahead'
Independence day drags drearily on
Take fifty! ... A more human-friendly God
created in our image ... lest we forget the beast
I, me, first-person-one, Oh you're lookin' good!
Lets put that that triple 6 trinity to work
Replete, till death us do part, we do things My Way
ala Frank (and certain gorillas with cigars)

Thus is the compliment returned
Man attains an ever lower High place
Pass my slice of cake please
Myopic, entropic moments
loop their mobius strips
ever further down the food chain
Highways congeal and earth chokes
desperation

Small wonder Wisdom opposes pride
Shows His face to humble folk
Invites shepherds to witness
Jupiter in Virgo's womb
Rouses them with a shofar blast  
come Kingdom come.

a bomb
was theirs
this set
up a
tired lore
that traces
of metals
were gone
fore the
law stood
there betwixt
the misrule
then rush
to patterns
again but
replete with
bête noire

An agent, choosing freely
doomed to a  fate,  I  know not
or a puppet dangling from a string?

Imagine life as a choir of singlular ripples 
on the surface of a pond, entropic little  dances 
intersecting, until each has passed and gone, each
playing their part, in life's orchestra of cause and *effect

I can feel myself fade away in a cycle.
Thin skin never did suit me well.
Each day broken up into tiny manageable parts.
Built to be a curated filter my personality must fall through.

This is not repair, but maintenance.
An entropic form that must dilute to remain safe.
I am a capillary of my years, resentful of oxygen.
No pulse can sift through me now.
I'm alone in this vena of an apartment.

Certainly there is no breaking of barriers here.
A refusal to spill blood for the wait makes this almost
pleasant.

My body is a drop
of matter in the great cascade
A little pyre that burns atop
the soil in an entropic haze

These hands were granted me
without my warrant or entreating
but by its whims, necessity
sets all our hearts to beating

See that's the thing with entropy,
you cannot force it in reverse
make use of your short time to be
we burn like tinder to the hearse

If Dexter's Parents had not divorced and he had not moved away with his mother,
Who was beautiful as I recall, today would have played out or worked out or turned out
Differently. Very differently, considering that little twist in my six-degrees of separation base pattern
Hapt seventy-years ago, or so,
----
Watch starlings, if you have starlings, or watch congregations of kippers on Netflix.
Their steering is on auto. Do you agree? Then we are in Agreement, which is an odd place to find one's self in the midst of so great a cloud of witnesses.
-----
'e goes a gain a ginning, grinning all the while
Aye, and radioman turned on just
Now listen -Radio Mumbai

I meant, you and I agree schools of sardines and flocks of gulls are all on auto-pilot-propulsion-maintenance programs,
Right?
I thought so. The code in a gnat must be so much more elegant than the vast terabytes of programming in the GPS constrained self-drivers evolving on earth. Gnats never collide and are nearly impossible to hit, unless you have bat tools, which you don't. Nobody wrote that gnat code, right?
Of course not, evidence of programming only appears to be programming, evidence of design only looks like design it's not design. Right? So says Carl Sagan, Richard Dawkins, and all the people so called to win the battle for the minds of **** Sapiens Augmentatious, lest, as the confusion of Babel subsides, those minds should begin to reason together more clearly in light left after the lies standing on men's minds are revealed inferior to what our senses sensationally acknowledge. Whew. Long thought.

I meander, but you do as well. That is how things flow.
Not over immovable objections, around.

One life that was connected to mine in boyhood friendship was severed about half-way through my sixteenth year.
He died. I don't remember how. Alcohol-related, I can imagine. I did not attend the funeral, though some acquaintances did; one of whom was later my lover. She is dead now as well, too late to tell me anything. She had a baby less than a year after I returned from Vietnam, more than nine months later. That is a heavy thought, but not one I think does much good now.

So little of history is noted. So few lives function to trigger generational unctions that devolve into wars against imbalance, iniquity, slavery and death.
Fraternity, Egality, ******* *** the mob all riled-up, burn , baby, burn.
Whole people die in history's whims,
If whims they were.

Rebellions…

Watch the starlings steer through 4-d patterns eternally random,
fueled by bugs they convert to food for the soil itself.
Their life is their work and they do it beautifully. As one.

Can Boeing-Raytheon-L3 et al build a self-propelled, self-refueling drone that can fly at top-speed, maneuvering millimeters in each direction from other self-propelled, self-refueling drones while dropping their payloads without a single friendly-fire crash, ever?

Starlings don't **** on each other.

If war-profiteers could build such things, would you watch such things perform and wonder at the minds that built them, or deny such minds played any role from concept to creation, and ask who authorized development and deployment of such an expensive fertilizer distribution system that fertilizes wild weeds as well as gentled weeds?
Which would you say: "Wow, how did those get made, who paid?" or "Wow, look what billions of years and energy alone can do against absolutely insurmountable odds and impossible physics, with chaos and corruption always on the job?" Holy entropic bad moon.

Are ye not more precious than starlings, or sardines, or gnats. Would a sense pertaining to immediate locational proximity, evident in birds and fish and bugs, not be apparent in Adamkind, at least as a metaphor regarding benefits gained in knowing where you are relative to your own environment, regardless of any sense of personal purpose?

I can see it in the fact that we can agree, for good or ill.

As generations mature and regenerate, might there be patterns in the tumbling of the powerful and the powerless populations. Patterns depicting group or herd preservation by fully mentally equipped populations of mature and maturing Adamkind are detectable. Facts now overflow the cup of knowns. These are those days when knowledge is increasing and increasing and increasing to the point of being a destructive force in tightly closed minds.

Name dropping, rather than restating, Helen Arendt, "The Origins of Totalitarianism"(1966), Bertrand Russell, "The Problems with Philosophy"(1912), Pankaj Mishra, "The Age of Anger"(2017).

These three books and some browsing of names and titles the authors drop, have spurred me over the top of a rise I had not seen coming. My path had become gradually uphill without my noticing. I was interested in other things and ignoring notices from my body that oxygen stores were being depleted more rapidly than current inventory of red blood cells and nurse lymphocyte-bots can recycle the quadra-monthly disassembly turnover, H2O stores for sweat heat-dispersal systems and plasma regeneration and digestion of what little remains to be digested are now at "caution, think about stopping" levels. But I saw that from the top I might see to the top of the next rise before I chose the downhill part of my path. The down hill path determines the uphill path.
In the desert, you can see trails marked in many ways, mosses grow in least-heat zones created by angular location relationships with the sun. Breezes whisper into shade puddles by ever slow slight temperature inequilibria shifting some heat to the triggering of my sweat system.

If you were compelled to reason about every step you take in life as if it were your responsibility to regulate and control every function of your flesh vehicle in which you abide in relationship to all around you that you could harm or that could harm you, you would be mad. {mad?} illusion of reality

assumes reality is friendly here. I'm okeh
with that improbability aside,

implied as self explicatory and unfolding life…
examined,
for what its worth in words redeemed may be,
in the future, when this is what they thought,
you think, and I say know,
I thought this,
on a bet. Or an oath, depends on the fret.

Crazy mad, but angry auch. That would be unfair, because you don't know how to do what you are being compelled to do. Reports of persons who can control ****** functions not commonly consciously controlled are easily found. Such persons spend their time so countering the rolling rhythms beat by heart doors slamming shut and swooshing open in response to electricity, that, we, Adamkind, have yet to truly understand. We've no need, that which concerns us was
to be perfected, not by us.

If my use of Adamkind offends you, the reality of my benefits, wrought from my comprehension of my relation to Adam, will likely make me your enemy, in your own mind, not mine.
Ax'em, do they love po' o'hate rich?

Believe one chance in practically infinity of current evolutionary-nontheistic thought being the way things must be, then multiply the number of times you make that bet by the number of insects on earth or even by the number of mitochondria in your kidneys.

Ignoring life's delicate imbalances in light of what can be known today, breaks our minds's ability to agree perfectly. The social dichotomy that seems to arrange adamkind's affairs over eons and eras: rich and poor, have and have not, mean and meek, is ego-driven, self-benefit seeking and not part of the original program.

Contemplate the sweet influences of Pliades, silently questing the truth of hope and matter. There is more power in this stream.

Chapter end.

Here, a bouquet of broken
Skyscrapers,
A pile of glass shards,
A chaotic
Entropic
Mess of a thing.
What a pity
you wasted your time
on me.
Tied with a black ribbon
Of wet tar and black candle wax,
I hand it over
You said,
"I wanted your heart."

"This is my heart."

held up in gutterwork masterpieces,
half a shard of torn and ragged paper edged on,
where once it bore, proud and in eager definition,
a reminder of little importance or,
a note of sweet insincerity or,
the last refuge of an eviscerated mind;
and, lost to entropic freedom,
no-body would care to ever even want to begin deciphering those smears.
not that they could, anyway.

the death of parking lot culture,
they say,
is all down to the skin on the teeth,
of a couple earthquake-gowned security wardens,
and the irresistible clamour
of city lights:
"just gotta get away, get outta this place" you say,
when you haven't slept
a real night
in three or so months, at last count, in the best-case,
whereas the real tragedy
is the drizzle,
that you're sure
will never,
ever,
cease to fall,
inside of you,
even though you keep telling yourself,
it's still just a lie.
it's all just a storytime fabrication.
it's all just waiting to fall apart.

and you're just hoping it's sometime soon.

Jealousy grips my stomach
       Insides twisting with thoughts I can’t think

A longing away from this moment
       A longing for her

Deflated

When will I find my goddess?

She steps in silence
        Across the snow
The lilies love her
        Her laugh they know

With patient pride
And delicate care

Sloped lips of red
And luscious hair

Smile,
spreads symmetry;
Through,
entropic chaos.

Looping
Laws
Like
Light thread

Her mind at peace
Her pond so still  

I’ll wait for her
My source of Will

Her heart, beguilingly  florescent, spoke to mine,in signs invisible
when the night wore her darkest  cloak,making me lose my way
when I didn't know which way to turn and stood perplexed
her love spreads magic, emits colors, eloquent and sincere
pleasing not only to my eyes but heart too in tune with my beats.

Some times we were birds,wings lift us  involuntarily above winds
we would climb up through dark dark clouds, that wore thunder bolts
her love takes me by hand , navigates, her fluorescence was in full play,
love makes us favorites of winds,raging waves, sprays and water.

Under water love showed us magical colors,melting drops of bluegreen
tinged light, spoke tales of love to our entropic  hearts, that listened,
across the seas we swam propelling mind through incredible depths,
underwater castles waited for us , but in each other we were lost.

A piece of my heart will always be locked away in your chest cavity
I started using words like chest cavity when I met you
Because you taught me how to face reality head-on with all it’s porousy entropic beauty
But now I’ll speak in metaphors because the truth hurts too much when it’s unveiled

I tumbled into you tripping over my own feet and my own past and scrabbling at your amorphous grip until you became my solid paperweight
My edges held carefully into place with leaden stability
And we reached such great heights together, skipping two steps ahead of everyone else
We whispered forevers under shadows of lashes and I still believe in the power of a first true love

I want to dig under my skin and scrape out the indifference and pour salt into the raw, deeply-seated pain
I built you and held your heart and our souls intertwined
I began to unwind
I frayed because I am no saint
And I ****** with a heart that I cherished
And **** me.

Since the age of 10 I've thought that grieving is a weird thing, maybe it’s because no one told me how to do it, and you’d think they would have
because, people get cancer, give up, have heart attacks, are murdered and drown. People die and people are dying, and it’s always been hard
once I expected it and six times I didn’t, and seven times I prayed, but I don’t know if I believe in anything that I can’t see, that’s why I’m bad at chemistry, why praying is still something I do sometimes
because entropy increases and we always lose, loving people makes me vulnerable, I realized when grief was punching me in the kidneys that everything is entropic, I didn't know how to let the chaos out, grief is an emotion that lived in my soul and grieving is a process that I didn’t know the ideal outcome of
once I googled it and I read the 5 steps. I thought I’d maybe done the last two but those were someone elses steps and mine were different
I learned how to knit so I could knit my soul back together. I don’t know if I believe in souls but something was in pieces. I painted my toenails the colors of mermaids, but I was so scared of water, and I still am but I swim anyway. I devoted parts of my heart to drawers full of glitter and goat cheese and long skirts.
there was a point when the grief was an itch in that thing that was once completely shattered, those pieces never seemed to fit back together again quite right. I realized that sometimes rips are too big to sew back together sometimes you need patches. There was a time when my patches were food and swings and books, things that I thought were enough because they couldn't leave me, but that’s like patching rain gear with suede it lets all the salt water through and everything gets colder. There are better materials in the world for patches, literally and metaphorically
literally that metaphor is inadequate, because in that metaphor people are what became patches on my rips, but the people who are gone can't be patched over with more people, there's always going to be holes there.
people are quilt squares in the quilt that I need to wrap myself in to make everything seem okay, the quilt is ripped and the tatters are ugly in a way that only once beautiful things can be, but more squares are sewn on every time I love someone. Maybe it's enough to keep me warm  
the threads are my heart strings, all of them, because all of my heart is for loving people and loving the world. later I figured out that I had to love myself too because the only way I could get through the feelings of loss and the feeling of being lost was to love everything more than I thought I could. To hug more, cuddle more, express more
and that’s hard because it still makes me vulnerable and the quilt keeps ripping. I keep sewing because, maybe the ideal outcome of grief is love, and if it isn’t
it is what grief has taught me