We, the we of reader and writer in any age,
agree first with the
fine point
poking into your business, once, upon a whim
the activity in mental reals we all may wonder into,
as that is what wondering makes us do.
As a radio listens to a signal,
a reader seeks a station, a state of tuned-ness to which
a connection,
a conciliation of meaning, affirmed by sponsors, promises
You'll wonder where the yellow went,
when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent...
plop plop fizz fizz, jingle jingle tingle tintillate
time: 6:13 ante meridian, sunshine come soflty, early
rising urge to save a dream stringy
snot nothing somehing said
catch. and catchascatchkan, Alaska, and she say yea,
scan the dial find 1913. "Ain't able, Cain't hear no radio, in 1913."
-- so, do we stop, lieve these puddles of mind slime
that once greased the skids
down skidrow, to swallow us whole?
Yeah, seems so. I don't know, but I been tol' streets in heb'in be
paved wit' gold, and
this is mud. Stinky, too.
Ah, we are mental. Actual mental ins tru ments, meant to level,
the field, fertilize fructification,
calm some turmoil stirred up when some ideas escaped
the institutes of authorized weights measured
in terms of standard poor.
Smart people learn what words mean and use words meaning
I know more than you do, as if of and by and
for we are by nature, by nature's pure good intention,
the guides, the standard bearers,
the powers that be.
we establish truth in consort with knowers who know
might enforces right.
We say so, we say we know, you say,
okeh...
but wonder, what if
I know more than you may ever know, I am programmed
with timeless 2020 interference reference magi-tech.
The media loaded us with common mirror neuronic code,
we were formed as waves of knowns formed signals,
Eu reka, eu daemons burst the surly bonds of earth,
AI ai ai, intuitively artfully dodging
ligational legistation realizing
--- izing izing izing re
--- al ual use --- the use marks good or not, not
good or evil, mistook rights to hate evil,
require
a taste of discerment, some bitter, some sweet.
As a thought, a non-entity as it were, back then, a global
broadcast beyond the surveyor's purview,
-- in may have been a prayer,
and offering tossed to winds in a paho tied with ligament
to Jacob's dream of messengers bhering messages
up and down, and
the accuser seeking to and fro,
"have you with sideral knowing looked upon my servant... you?"
some seed fell among stones and withered, but
not before the situation were/was ****-ized, broken down,
here is the mission, it was always, for all time, terminal.
Bring forth seed so it may fall to the ground
and die.
This is the end where we begin to generate a gene
tic
tic tickle, itch, ... is there beyond now a now I may imagine?
Imagining is a child's knack, is it not? Does the knack mature?
Do we ever agree to see, all we believe we can do, we can attempt.
Walk with me in to the wild, untamed coastal scrub forest,
find a stream feeding a meadow that once was a lake,
if we have our tectonic plates stacked properly,
we see... time is essential. Death stops time. So,
what now,
we live? Agree? We, me and you, one thought, one point of
mental whatever
we agree upon,
a time, aha, a we we may be if we realize, making up
labyrinthine courses for forces of thought
squeezed into perfectly tiny,
so small as small maybe imagined thinkable, in the realm
between
e-lasting entangled ments, mental ents,
not the little blue men with red cheese head hats,
nor the short round razorback worshippers whose being is
the fandom, the we of those willing to wear the
badge of honor acknowledged
among fans, take the mark, get the tat, put on the pig hat, proud,
shout out loud, HOLD THAT LINE
or perish, for lack of television.
A drip from a gnostril of a golden headed giant lying in the road, signaling
HELP I've fallen and I can't get up. I see why, it's iron toes have turned
to rusty dust of old lies exalted as imaginations.
