Miser, misery, miserable, promise me
meaning,
give me compromise…
wait.
Wait. Eject, reject, object, subject throw
down an up idea
expect inspection, look up the mean
measure
assure me we are as expected,
the promised ones,
the next to be,
after ever changed permanently to now.
Who cares if fit and right are equivalent?
Who sets equivalency?
What is prevalent,
val-ient or value-able?
The winner is the living thing,
no lie is formed from truth as we know,
you know,
you learned as taught, but
then you lived
past all that.
Now, what is truth, asks Pilate, in a thought
Save me a sunset.
Share it with the maddened crowd.
Offer them a chance to see
the salience.
Sally forth, through the fallen wall,
see into the womb and find
punctum saliens.
Leap then,
into life, as we assume a role
of actor acting on
common ground,
solid base,
pedestal of promise.
This is the mission, let go, gone
to and fro, upon the face
of the earth, whose
countenance has moods for my modes
of seeing.
Put on your winter eyes.
Remember, re join, re
call the warmth and light,
greet visitors with fruits from the fall.
Hey, whaddaya know?
My daddy had a seed, he planted it,
last winter.
As the world turned and leaned the other way,
that seed sent forth a tight-twisted up-swirling
augur spinning into sunshine at veggie-speed.
Faster than geo-speed, by a full fractal measure,
in time and space distance at light's average speed
--- time is the mortal problem liars deny,
either thought is the fastest speed or we
are lost.
Either we imagine better, or we never could have,
any way.
At this point, I say to myself, am I wrong, no,
I ask the mind around me,
am I not you,
are you wrong?
Ever, and a day.
That is the sentence, verbless
bless m'soul,
I lived this long, with you.
Since time was before now, and we
know not, but
believe
time is moving on without us, leaving us to wait,
suffer it to be,
so sufficiency is always seen enough, no
need for more,
no wish wish wish it was that other wise
way, makes it so, sufficient to the day,
to the hour, to the instant, is
the evil… is evil all it is made up to be,
or made out to be?
Making up and making out, making
differences of opinions;
kids do stuff like that.
Old men watch and see themselves grown
through the past,
passed by and by
the grace for grace, got on the way
right-used,
well, tho' less, travelled by,
path or trail or track, way
where there was no way,
this is that,
at the moment,
this is life, I read, you write, we meet in this middle
realm
of words, and words, and words and we inform
an I,
to imagine what we think we see, ifity
apps
apt to teach, reach ing
the edge of knowing, think how such things
may be
immeasurable, and we may imagine that and speak
as if we agree,
some things are so. Bigger than we can imagine,
I read HP for an hour and it stretched my imaginary reality.
