The probability of life itself is unpredictable
For I can’t extract your mind or heart to decode
Likelihood of possibilities in measurable quotient
For I can’t retract a past gone by to encode
Continuums of even chances and certainty
The toss of the toasted dime, the weigh of sides
Slashed slide all smashed and thrown in mines
Fallibilism of my indefinable opinionated delicacies
Attenuations of what life is attacks and strangles my neck
Global troubles of war, bombs, hunger, anger
Illogical connotations of overlapping determinism
I burrow like a termite in a convex rising molehill
Terminated in contrasted stations as we convene
Gripping hands to grasp our existence in life
I wonder about the whole of it, I think of it somedays

I was cleaning out the fridge today

And in the back I found this "thing"

It was furry, soft and squishy

From the mind of Stephen King

I didn't want to touch it

It looked like a tangerine

But, from all the fur and oozy stuff

I don't know what it had been

I knew I had to move it

But I wasn't sure quite how

I'd seen things much more appealing

Come from the rear end of a cow

I emptied out the other stuff

I put them in the sink

I was left with this small land mine

That really had a stink

I needed some protection

Before I tried to grab this bomb

so, I closed the door real quiet

And I went to get some on

I put on swimming goggles

To protect my eyes in case

It exploded when I grabbed it

And it jelly-fied my face

I then grabbed my old rain coat

And put it on all front to back

So my front was well protected

In case this thing chose to attack

Hockey gloves to save my hands

Work boots were for my feet

All this to dispose of this

Thing that people eat

I opened up the door again

And as I looked inside

I could swear this thing was throbbing

And it had grown to twice it's size

I slammed the door and grabbed a beer

I had some in the sink

I had to get this thing destroyed

I needed time to think

I called up both my neighbors

I said "Evacuate" the street

I told them I was killing

Some thing that people eat

I couldn't tell them what it was

Because I wasn't sure

I must have bought it months ago

But I didn't know what for

If I knew that this would happen

If the expiration passed

If I knew this when I bought it,

I would have eaten it real fast

I went to get the garbage

I put three new bags inside

I would put the thing inside one

And would then get all three tied

I'd run it to the dump myself

But, I'd have to freeze it first

Because, Imagine what would happen

If the plastic bags had burst

One more thing I had to do

was get some stuff to hide the scent

I thought I'd get some vapo rub

So off to search I went

Now, all prepared and goggled up

in raincoat and in gloves

I was set to grab this thing

For push had come to shove

I opened up the door and there

Where the thing had just now been

Was nothing, not a single thing

Where was my thing of green?

It didn't get out on it's own

And no one would eat it up

The only one who'd like it

Was our garbage eating pup

It was at this point I saw my son

Rolling outside like a log

Playing with our whirling dervish

He had fed it to the dog!!

Not much happens in these parts, he would demur,
As if he’d be asked in the first place,
He one of the dwindling few remaining in this dwindling town.
Nevertheless, he has seen his share in four score and change years
From the vantage point of his place
Which sits just off the corner of the Penoyer Road:
Boom times and bust,
Snowdrifts threatening to lick the roof lines of houses,
Boys running through the embers of fallen leaves,
Shirtless and barefoot on improbably warm October days,
Young men in hay wagons and rattle-*** Chevy pickups
Laughing and singing, confident and carefree,
Making their way to the old train depot down at Apulia Station
First step on their way to show the jerries or the VC
Exactly how Upstate farm boys took care of business,
Windows adorned by placards with a gold star
Illuminated by a solitary light bulb at odd hours.
Here and there, younger types have begun to dot the landscape:
Professors with a romantic hankering to get back to the land,
Neo-hippies with their own reasons for embracing the rural life,
Each in their tune walking about their yards
Holding keyboarded and wi-fied replicas
Of that which Moses carried down the mountain,
Their fixer-uppers or double-wides adorned with small dishes
Pointed forlornly at the horizon in search of some satellite supplication.
While he has seen enough not to be too ******* sure about things,
He suspects that complexity and contentment
Rarely walk hand-in-hand,
So he keeps his needs simple enough
To be met by the ancient radio
(Huge, wood-cabineted shambling thing,
More attuned for Amos and Andy than All Things Considered)
The three-checkout grocery in Tully,
The Morton-building sheltered family practice over in Cazenovia
(The squalid, sooty skyline of Syracuse,
Split by six lanes of high-octane madness,
As remote and slightly terrifying to him as Mars itself)
As he has learned enough from thickets of trees
Which all but shriek with torrents of crows in September dusks,
The subtle changes of stream banks
Tinged by the stubbornness of frost on early May mornings
Or blanketed by the pig-iron forge heat of July afternoons,
To know that there are sufficient and possibly necessary limits
To the places where two legs or four wheels can carry a body.

a letter arrived today
from Hope, my eight year old niece.
Hope asks how I am, about the weather.
She talks of Lego and new curtains
with cushions to match,
which she says she does not like,
calls them too grannie-fied .
She did some colourful artwork;
a pizza slice, rainbow, butterfly
and a big smiley face ,
all on the outside leaf,
things no doubt she likes.
No talk of fairies,
this time,
maybe that has now all gone.

i am a cork, set upon
the rapids today.
a storm, rising in
the darjeeling tea.
lightning, in the sugar jar
all bitterred up and jittery.

i am a feather, caught up
in a whirlwind,
on the edge of a cyclone.

running laps incessant, on the
hamster wheel,
of insomulance, that's me.


frenzied, fury, frenetic energy.
revved up, to beyond the max,
caught... ******* in a box with
bright,binding string.

claustrophobically, confined,
ready to explode,
my brain confetti, tizzy-fied.


why you ask?
            what's the go?

that's the ****** problem..

i don't know............

Lies are lullabies
Sweet songs that we sing
To ourselves and to others
Trying to convince ourselves
That something isn't our fault
That our world is more utopian than
Reality allows for
We tell ourselves that
It's better to live a lie
Than face the harsh world
Without our emerald glasses
Or maybe everything we believe
In is a lie*
The faerie tales have even been
Changed to suit our own needs
Pretty ballgowns and sparkling glass shoes
Forget the truths of rags, dirt, blood and filth
The romance still remains
But the glamorous side is tougher
More truthful, less plastic
The grime and dirt gives the story life
These Disney-fied, prettied up stories
Are just machine made, molded
Plastic. Commercialised. Dead.
And they spell faerie wrong too

The wind, it calls, through foggy day
T o dazzle dust and drive dirt away.
But some of these darkened vertex
Hide the stories and forever perplex
The strengths of tested 'feel-good' fables,
Denouncing sciences' empirical labels:
Too thin, too fat, too short, too tall,
Too hairy, too bald, too square, too like a ball,
Too strong, too weak, too open to lies,
To encompassing of stories of the skies.
Too angry, too meek, too full of passion,
So give us pills!  It's the latest fashion!
Dose us up on your chemical compounds,
Stop us from disclosing rebellious sounds
Which remind us that not all we know,
Are these soul-******* television shows:
Nip-Tuck, What NOT to Wear, Big ******* Brother,
This is the modern day 'Watch With Mother',
Feeding false standards, 'Bieber-fied' norms,
Sapping energy, becoming a nation of vacant gorms.
So Yes! Hide your kids, hide your wife,
Open your own doors, live your own life,
Because this **** ain't going nowhere,
And even without a deity, a higher force is watching, somewhere.

If we are not proud of something,
Then we would never have said aloud
What it was we did not, do not,
Or will not take pride in,
Refusing recognition
For the humility of a given circumstance.

These are our times,
Each of us in our cyber shells,
Stagnantly appealed to atrophy,
Sailing in search of the long
                Lost spirit,
That one gleam in our existence,
That esteemed ambrosia,
Callused palms,
          Achin’ back
Stars shooting themselves,
Through our wings.

We can dance on moonlight,
We can sing right to the earth,
We can move atop,
          Saunter into the horizon
Yet we safely sit nestled,
Afraid of our neighbors,
A new paranoia,
McCarthyism eat your heart out,
          They’ll ban freedom,
          They’ll root us out,
If only we could come together,
I fear,
That no one is left,
To live as,
The fearless had.
That the once,
Benevolent virtue,
Of being human,
In all that horrid splendor,
Has washed away,
The spirit left on the shore,
Waving.

I haven’t seen anything,
Like the Ol’ Seraphim saw,
Or the Ol’ Duluoz saw,
O has it all been lost,
Somehow the latency has produced,
A grand homogenized pile of ****.
With everyone afraid of the shadow,
Imagined,
Looming overhead,
Heating the backs,
Tearing at the truth at heart,
The sight unbearable,
People try to be people.

The impact of what had happened,
Now riding the rails,
Still on the course,
This wild horse will take,

Things will always change,
There are truisms to be had,
Dissolved into the land,
I hope for a band to come out,

A real group,
A bunch of people all there,
Out there,
In here,
Over there,
Everywhere,
That can think,
Feel,
See,
Be seen,
Communicate,
Chanting,
Silently,
Beheaded,
Buddha-fied,
Chr­istly,
Godliness,
They are bare,
Naked,
Covered in the filth,
Of pure humanity,
Celebrating breath,
Creating something,
It wouldn’t all have to make sense,
Some of it may be hard to follow,
--misinterpreted—
Partitioned as pure nonsense,
The lama lama ding blah blah,
Could come off as that fevored,
Sought after rhythms,
Straight ahead to the main destiny,
That inevitable fortitude,
Caught in the clouds,
Foretold by the unseen Unknown,
Chaos imbedded in our skin,
Slinking off,
Erupting into the cosmos,
Connecting our bemused souls,
Like the rain toppling down the mountain,
No picture can encapsulate
This mosaic of mankind,
But this is our time,
Right here and now,
While the whole thing is still moving,
Almost tripping over its own feet,
As it has always done,
The sigh of relief when,
In the blindest revelation,
In the darkest caves of ignorance,
In the coursing waters,
In the towering worlds here,
Even the truest of falsehoods,
Makes the whole thing called life,
Worth a ****.























Drawing in Dawn:

The sight of it,
The sun,
Being birthed,
From the womb,
Of the Horizon.

I draw a breath,
As I watch,
Reminiscent of,
The Moon,
Entangled in,
The eternal,
Nightly web.

The forces,
The push and pull,
Waves in,
Counter balance,
Like the,
Drawing in of,
Embrace,
The pull of,
Ever drawing time.























The dusty rag tumbled down the mountain,
Only to be shunned by everyone,
Destitute in absolute desolation,
Roaming as it had always done.

Then it came to rest beside the grove,
In an inlet that rang with melodious wonder,
It became awashed by the world’s beauty,
Lost in the splendor of it all.

Time passed faster as the grace seeped in,
The pores of its flesh inflated, elated,
The flash of fiery thunder roared,
The sand fell onto its back, and dust returned.

Time had come to move on and break aloof,
From the fortitude and pleasure allotted,
For the call of the wind was too great,
To ignore for any longer.

warm-hearted it's true
minds race thinking of you
electrified
bona-fied
an amazing grace
to this horrid place
altruistic affairs it seems
an alluring demeanor with ease
you burn aglow
with sweetness unbound
a lasting impression
you leave me
butterflies a flow.

i woke up from a dream this morning
the thoguht of it almost made me cry.
i was lieing in a fied and it was raining
i was looking at the colours of the sky.

it was cold it was late september
i was wet and i didnt even care.
i was trying to see into the distance
i was trying not to choke on the air.

i could hear the birds in the background
they were siging but the song wasnt there.
they were looking for a soul who could hear them
it was me, but there was somthing in my ears.

it was the voice of a fallen spirit
it was broken beyond repair.
it was crying, it was the rain thats falling
it was the gravity, the air.

another heart that lost its passion
another child that grew up scared.
one more lone range soldier
looking for a love that was lost
but it was never even there.

they were singing: dont let this break you
i know your scared but tommorows here.
theres someone out there waiting
who can stop the floods of tears.

untill then just keep your head up
your strong your an army of stars.
inside youll know youll be fine
youv been alone and youve made it this far.

i woke up in a feild this morning
my surroundings almost made me cry.
i was lying in a wave of flowers
there were birds, a symphony in the sky.

i could see the light in the horizon
it was bright it blinded my eyes.
i could feel my soul returning
i could feel the power of life.

theres person who can stop the thunder
theres aperson who compltetes ur life.
theres a person who makes you wonder
if everything youve learned was i lie.

theres a person who knows whats out there
the direction to a life that feels right.
and theres a person who takes the long way
picks a fight but still enjoys the ride.

theres a person who can break your heart
and youll still forgive them in time.
theres aperson you can always count on
even if you misread the signs.

theres a person you can always trust
when no one else has a clue.
theres a person who knows what worth it
and that person is you.

Out in space on the other side of the earth
where the world of water blocks out the sun,
you look outward to see the stars burn bright
without Earths atmosphere they don't flicker,
they shine strong and the total darkness calls,
it calls God to your heart, while the milky way
is a band of white, leading to where? Perhaps,
back to the Garden.  Here on Earth, between
these ears, where the battle of the soul rages
and your conceit grips you with two hands
around your neck while you try and run away
in the other direction, or maybe you'll just sit
in the **** while a legion of devils whisper in
your ear. The Hounds of Hell, they aren't satis-
fied when you hold out a biscuit shaped like a
bone, no, they want to gnaw your bones to pulp,
they lift there leg and **** on you as you stand
there shaking, shaking like leaves on a tree and
you know your only hope is to bow your head
down and get down on bended knee. Go to the
Cross and from the dirt on the ground look up
to that naked figure there that paid the price, the
God-Man sent to fight the battle for you. All you
need to do is ask, go to your closet and in the darkness
of that small closet with its four walls in arms reach
and all of its ghosts with their hot breath breathing
down your neck permeating your pores and let your
Spirit pray.  Keep praying as the tears roll down to soak
your breast, pray until your eyes puff red. Pray that the
Christ saves you rather than not; as you've been the Devils
play toy for so, so long, and if you don't choose when you
know the difference God may just move on, move on to
save a soul that really wants to be saved. How ignorant and
arrogant we are about the Laws of the Universe, about the law
of cause and affect, about living a life of faith and instruction.


© 2013

i. prelude in accordance with comparing the parting glass with auld lang syne.

aye, jingle jingle bell... jingle all ye may...
tis' the season to be jolly,
in times when elves are half-wits
without the graces of a Lord Elrond,
majestic, proud, here where little
hobbit-elves roam with pointy ears
and hairy nostrils... aye, jingle jingle bell...
jingle all the way...
   as you look east, and hear both the dove's
song of *silent night, to later hear
   the sombre mea culpa, and the creed
come easter... and upon the altar: get
your blames and your sins...
         for letting it happen! for letting it happen!
o heathens and o you gentiles!
    come while i scold my dog into having to
father me - aye...
       so frown too at the acronym prelude
with all that pandemonium glitter - presents,
crucifixes replaced by christmas trees:
and as is the clause of santa - reduced to burnt
smithereens of torture instruments standing
in Ka Ka poses - o hear the my new fatherland
waiting for me... while the cradle of my word
seemed but almost ready to finally to get rid of
me, i come back swiftly... and rid Europe
of harmony... nor was it that the Englishman foresaw
it... being a gemini-gentleman, he did what
any Pontius Pilate could do: he washed his
hands, then washed his feet - and assumed a moral
high-ground: in times when speaking German
or using German words parallels national socialism...
aye, and all good tidings to the many.

ii. interlude, beyond the 24th hour awake.

you know how they have these cautionary moments
on television during the news?
  they say something like: warning, this report contains
flash-photography...
     they should really have the same ****** cautionary
statement when you walk out on the streets these days:
caution! flashing christmas lights! santa's strobe disco
special... i'd be curious about those photosensitive
epileptics walking the streets these days...
and as they say: an englishman's home is his castle...
obviously that depends how many christmas lights
be dons in his windows... and how ****** annoying
their setting is... i blink less times in a minute
than these disco arrangements flash in 20 seconds...
but indeed, an englishman's home is his castle...
but put about twenty of such castles in a row
and you get the inkling... pray not call these
the abode of windsors... they look nothing like
castles... more like chicken-shacks...
      to live so close among each other, and for this
sole reason... despise each other so fervently
as to love one-another by simply: not even saying hello.
after a year so closely packed? what could
a hello ever do to me? ruin my day... that's what...
and you see these pseudo-hippies out there
on the television screen advertising mentos sweets
told by Ormond St. children in hospital to
hug people in the street,
          or 'wanna come round my house?'
that's a line out of Norman Bates' mouth, isn't it?
if we can't talk jolly over a drink,
    what do you think a conversation over a mentos
sweet would achieve? fresh breath...
  but certainly the still stone-cold heart of
              keeping up with mascaras and mortar.

iii. the best presents are the littlest of joys.

tiny, like the last babushka: a great psychological
schematic... hollowing out, hollowing out,
moving further apart... in the end it's not some
concrete ego-theory, or some self or some questionable
"self"... that last babushka (i was going to say egg,
added to babushka) - is but a pinch -
       pinch of salt, or a pinch of a little reality that's
that adequate spiderweb compliment toward each new day.
- and say, all grand things acquiring little idiosyncratic
words of these isles...
                            but inherently the baltic breathes into
us a different disposition: i too, upon waking
    see Sisyphus - but instead of utilising my body
i have to utilise my mind... i could remain a child
and think of pushing the stone telekinetically,
and become an engineer, and inventor, to ease the woes
of the daily toils, invent a mechanical drill rather than
use the old manual drill...
                         but i don't even contemplate
   telekinetic deviations... i just sit by the stone i'm supposed
to push up a non-existent hill...
    so unless i be ****** with some demon with a hot
poker to get mye lazy *** to the daily toils of the sweaty brow...
i'll finely sit and tell you this.

iv. and i told them.

i can stretch this soviet sleep experiment to two days,
sleep my twelve and wake to the twenty four and beyond
up to 36... but don't expect me to fear going
at night for my sedatives... even if I have to leave dear
McCormick behind on these travels, and travel east
and feed on ***** for a while, oh indeed the hiatus
and the family... even among my kinsmen i will walk
the night... and all I have to say: the worst has already
happened... the best that can happen would be
for Samael to kindly raise his *** from the cold marble throne
of graven idle - and finally make the clean scythe swoon
into my heart...
                            and that's how it began...
the †-word... the bilingual crossword -
       no, nothing like the original crossword game for
monolingual people...
          there are were no clues in the word scythe...
Scythians? that's Latin... meaning that etymology would
not help, but it was tested...
      and yes... he was crucified on the †-word,
on the basis that he gave no insight into hashem,
yes, the name, the y m c a, the y h w h... the acronym
of which was ironically †... or n.e.w.s. -
               that's why the scribes, the Pharisees pestered
him! they wanted some insight into their practices!
but what did he do? he scolded them!
         he insulted the scribes and the little scribblers of
Jerusalem long gone... and so with due irony:
got †-fied: defied... and by later jokes of the gentiles:
deified.             scimitar doesn't even help either...
then one word pops into my head, don't know
why, it's not even synonymous, and that makes it
even less antonymous - brzoza - birch tree...
also known as the pioneer tree... where the birch tree
settles, other trees may follow... palms?
palms are ******* dead end... the best you might
get from a palm tree... is a cactus.
        well... this is becoming a very horrible crossword,
i have scythe
                       Scythians... scimitar...
     sclera... dictionary...              but nothing leading
me to translate scythe into ol' ma'...
                                       no etymological congregation
to work from...
                  i'm not even going to cheat...
      i'll just make life a little bit more easier for myself
and enjoy the evening with my whiskey...
   KURVA JEGO PIERDOLONA MAĆ!
           now i know why i couldn't find the word,
it's too undisturbed by Greek or Latin,
        it goes to the ancient roots of when languages
didn't exactly borrow from each other...
scythe? in western slavic?       kosa.
      it's a basic word going back back to syllables...
and given that Latin is an alphabet of syllables
rather than nouns like Greek (a and alpha? different,
aren't they, obviously).

v. a chimeral opposite.

so fill to me the starting glass
good morning and misery be with you all,
as the years pass,
with each new year, i don't know what
i'm expected to be celebrating or seeing others celebrate.

2020 - day 103 -- a long and winding story, fun, I re read it twice.

Wednesday, April 22, 2020
8:04 AM

Pharoah-ism is a thing.

It's in a class of words holding forms for governing,
herds of humans,
who can be fit to the form, walk this way,

like an Egyptian, indebted for all your worth

Trillions and trillions, soon enough,
the ghost of Everett Dirkson laughs at
another billion attributed to Carl Sagan,
"we ain't even thinking real money any more."

To whom does the government of, for, and by the people,
owe all the nation can invent

Some day we will learn each bit of reality, but

we, as a specie, a valued mod on the base line
must access our global brain.

China -- that is -- the military mind of China,

has egged on
the military might of the USA, offering hope

for all-out war on peace, for no reason.

War has never had a reason for which any good
could come. Never.

And I will defend to the death your right to disagree,
but not your right to fight and destroy me.

If peace and war were to meet on a distant shore,
peace might move inland, but

now, we meet here on earth as mere ideas empowered
by the codemaker; peace and war

tete a tete, cabezo y cabezo I betcha, like dos cabezos

peering ahead on I -10... on the road again...

this is a changing station stage of life...

fold down time.

monster employers, users and maintainers of
common flesh and blood eyes, ears and hands,
people of the commonest class;
some times sitting in boxes,
some times standing in lines, sometimes

watching welder robots do your dad's old job.


--- capital
= money = time.

Gotta minute?
Invest it in imagining you think, as in,

think

who holds those, no, not those,

these truths, these factions of the whole
truth
faction, not fraction,

truth
and nothing but as sworn to on tv via mirror neurons
and solidi-fied, pur-chased, caught, netted,

in plebeian pledges of allegiance from first
grade, in the sorting of useful citizens,

some may serve at the highest levels, lifted via
lessons proven learned in standard tests,

-- number two pencil, fill each box, complete-ly,

so a machine can discern your answer, and punch
through the insulating paper, to signal
each bit of evidence

coming into piles of assorted usefull knacks,

mark this one. Feed him Wattie Piper, make him
think, I can
think, I can, think, think a little think...


We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of

How did Einstein think?

AI ai ai, we know. Not in words. Einstein was taught to think

in whatification. What if I

--- nail the sun to the sky and feel the earth move me at
-- twenty-five, or so
-- thousands of miles
per fifteen three hundred and sixtieths of a day
-- and a night, one whole day...

but N D Tyson taught me that trick, not Einstein...
and not all things count as worthy,
relatively, of attention paid.

The worth of a thought's open door invitation to the curiosity we
enjoy


Semantics (from Ancient Greek: σημαντικός sēmantikós,
"significant") 
is the linguistic and philosophical study of meaning 
in language,
programming languages,
formal logics,
and semiotics.
It is concerned with the relationship between signifiers
—like 
words, phrases, signs, and symbols
—and what they stand for in reality, their denotation.

On the subject of secrecy in general,

ah, no, we've no secrets, for here we have no truely
believable lies,

the truth will out, we say.
Life ain't fair, death had no hope, that's just

the way it is.
Wait and see. We had ein kleiner Gedanke, once
upon a mythical histerical time,

ah, think of any first blood in a world of secrets, such as we

formed from, even in famine, some seed was sown
each season,

some seed remained from first story peoples, preserved
in sacred places, safe,
until the dawning on you, that this is true, life always wins.

brightly lighted stage of history

no weakness... save where the blade meets the soft flesh
beneath a noble head bowing to think


fringe brushes my gnostic-itch, son of a gun,

son of a blade, edge, point

pierce the air, no pop, no apoptosist apostasy, see

we use words with no definitive meanings, right?

significance is cast aside, who cares
that's just semantics, I don' quibble bout {sign-if-i can-sense}
significance
or sign.
I wonder did we double down on a word righting there,
did we give meaning to a barely breathing

wind born lie, some interruptions signify engagement of

a clutch, a tool to grip the wild spinning trans-
*******, while

we slip into something more comfortable.
A higher, cruising 12 to 1 gear

My neighbor from two hills north, is coming to sit a while,

the guy has been called Cowboy, as a name, since all his siblings
knew him.

He is a walking archetype. And my friend. We share some burrs,
from wild meadows ridden on sole leather,

leaving a steaming auto-mobile by the side of the road,

aaah, the interruptions {more, with Oliver gone}

any line in context, is a step past last, a first of all the nexts

Nexts?
Options. Who determined this? My will being to discover this
fringe connection to the persistence on the fringe

of string theory strangling struggling

genera general, whole sorts of hu-mongolian signif-if-if ier yous.

Yous guys includes girls and nobody makes me say,

wombed AND un-wombed, man. So yous, youse, y'all you all;
you,
samesame, okeh. Plain and subliminal, wait and see. Losers win,

when they stop fighting fair.
Die and see what happens,
or imagine
you
know some body who did die and before he did he said,

Hide, and watch. AND now, you see,

caution once cast to the wind, calming all the rage required

to oppose the forces

¿? quare, sistere, wait, feel the urge to know, a click calque

see, new old idea, an old idea studied to the point of a word
formed to signify a set of things

cal-que-able, in curios kurio terms derived

from Phoencian merchants, who set up benches in all the ports.

Users of money, milkers of the exchange, worth-ship of silver,

balanced on the craftily formed me-assuring thing,

eight silver tid-bits makes one golden one, tid-bits fit

fingers, excluding thumbs, for thumbs play a role

mechanically in holding any thing, even

steady -- com-pre-hensive press press sure...

you got it, knowledge

ex-spands into wow... did it work?

Did we make a handle? Or a tool? No pressure, guess.

And Dave Goodman, rides into the west, with a QVC Lid-Lock

full of fabulous pasta cheese and celery, with peas.

A culinary experiment conducted by the grandmother
of all my grand children,

a most mazing teacher of balance's pre care-ious role

on an inclined plane sure to flatten the curve

--- are we in historical moments a generation long,
--- with second generations arrows
--- never quivered, these shafts I shot by faith at unseen things,

for which I have reasons. Were now the war,

we all agree war always cost far more than its worth in death,
robbing life from mankind,

unaware if there ever were a gospel truth. I say don't study war with carnal weapons.

Words carry us into real contextual contests for human sanity as a whole,
we can make peace,
we all can breathe easy, loose the tight jibbs {jaws}, gritted molars, loosen up...

Historically, it seems riddles became de riguer in ifity, but plainly,

only surviving stories survive.

Science knows no story which was eaten up and troubled m'bowels and made me know

boom boom boom, montezuma's revenge

in the spirit kah-blewy con ef ef ef fectual fervent

prayer/sayer saying/praying in timeless harmony

if we can agree... no good we imagine can fail,

let chirality meet diversity and error meet ciliation

conciliate celebration,

conciliate (v.)
"overcome distrust or hostility of by soothing and pacifying," 1540s, from Latin conciliatus, past participle of conciliare "to bring together, unite in feelings, make friendly," from concilium "a meeting, a gathering of people," from assimilated form of com "together, together with" (see com-) + PIE *kal-yo-, suffixed form of root *kele- (2) "to shout" (the notion is of "a calling together"). Related: Conciliated; conciliating; conciliary. The earlier verb was Middle English concile "to reconcile" (late 14c.).

take away my anti-grace, de
ify my chance appearance,

dance, mirror neuronically, sitting your chair-saddle,

y'put y'left foot in behind your right and

boom
y'hit a but, but this, but that, but some other thing,

you got only so much mortal attention,

so when one door closes, whatever you need, is not there,

here we see the old wise man who saved a city and no one knows his name,
he say, redundancy of instruction is the way of life.

fectual per effing e fect, non sensicle semantical ice, Gibsonian ice,

no sweat, we are wrapped in white linen,

we broke on through and waited for you.

Yea, a sword shall pierce through thy own soul also.

words we remember were words
meant
to stand tall understanding all things


differently, re
reading, the scene from Night Scenes in the Bible,
that
was a level of knowns
effectually un provable but by
common movie-complex unbelief release, let it be

-- lower missing efs, finding more attention {behind the scenes}

ef-fectual is conjugolly confusin my prudent nature.

or higher, north or sout, plus or minus h

who cares. We made it. This is today.

Meek inheritance day or the spirits judged by the degree day,
a holi
day
in which they trouble their own house, and recall the point that
pierced their own soul,

so to speak,

survived hating your own self for other's sakes,

sakes meaning  goodness and graciousness which

constitute the happy bits in ever,
the treasures found,

where a man's heart is,
my diamond farm is yours now,

my gift to you... only words.

I inherited the wind, my job is to finish melting the ice.

God and sinner reconciled is a song,

does that make it less true?

For us, ever began before today,

so today is that day or it is not, we wait to see

or we wait and see, seeing if

this were the day, when all things go my way,

or come my way, in the course of human events,

I may be ready if readiness is some form of kurios

assurance, blessed, said *****, in a song,

I agree, blessed assurance,
Hey-sus is mine, find his words bring comfort

2020 paradigm shift is common parlance, Cowboy uses that
and logos regularly and he is

old, by mortal standards, for an archetype he's barely ligandary
to most receptive sub caudal imps.

they can feel

him biting the bullet,
gritting his teeth on the Gerber Bowie-wannabe blued steel
blade, re-imagined in reread instead, bullets bitten can go off,

I know a kid fired a deadly-for-a-mile bullet,
with a hammer and a rock, so, knifes are dangerous, too,
so
as a mime-ical biting down, per
haps this hero-in-forming bites

a wooden drumstick, beating now with one,
biting down on the other
boom
boomto doom boom
boom
boomto doom boom... and as the beat goes on,

fringes find loose ends and latch on...

Dirac was an early Cher fan, and she was something like dys
lexical survivor of the year,
if she can, anybody can
I think I can read faster than

hmmm, slippery *****,
speaking memes as old as I remember, then

by the time I wondered if she were real or
a con structure
I lose my footing

slip on something comfortable, this promises to be

that night, in the legends, just prior to a marked, edge of night,

ever after post. Will you still love me,

tomorrow.... deeedly violins lift away any hope

of redemption, oh, ma, it was 1963, you had to have me

to sing your blessing into,
to hide your gift in me, no one must know, oh god
bless his heart...

no part of this vision is clear, nor plain, why is this my beatrice
cockatrice

Olden day, Robinson's cowboy preacher son, sowed a saying in my
core, I sup-pose, put
his phrase formed
an ever more pleasant link to Wikenberg,
on this shelf, see, we can remember the target by re

reading... remembering never drink from the Hasayampa.
and you can tell the truth
by
aquiring point on conscience. Taking thought.

Ethos keeps insisting we are in some offensive mode.
Thus the call for concentration, we are tunable now,

on some oldies but goodies websites...
Kenpepiton.com, for one.
mytechpeople.com is possibly in the archives.

Calebland.com long left to a bland b-break lacking dash,
early urls. imaginable as answers to
either wishes or prayers,

or desires... unseen, unthinkable tools to augment a

satisfied mind, completely ******, no direction home...

here, my heart, my contentment container,

at the moment, indistinguishable from any mortal concept of heaven.

Robinson's father's saying: {remembered just in time}

some times you have to stomp your own snakes.
he may have said, you gotta stohmp yerown dam'snakes,

but never would he have said: one must stomp one's own snakes.

That Remains..
Of my soul... ****** dry by the leeches of disaster
My blood is gone... My Zombie-fied  body aches to bleed, once again.
I'm a sponge dried out. Under the Sun.
I need water, to drink. To get back to the fluid master...
of getting "back to life"
Becoming more human.. this boil sets to bust
In need of relief of the torment of walking on eggshells
To avoid a nuclear chain reaction..
Caught in the middle of the battle grounds....
I'm the old and dying car that has been left in the junkyard to rust.
To have the ability to smell the roses, once again..
As my nose has been cut off to spite my face
My rebellion to ask for a "helping hand"
Infected me..then the community like a deadly virus..
It spread throughout my loving community and infected
all to grow green, sick, hard, and drug into crazy days
As an army of those who tossed away their hearts..
Not only destroyed his and their brains..
Hungry for more of "true Feeling" Hunger ways..
"Give me the vaccine or cure"
So I can become beautifully flawed as a Human
Since this Monster's once Human heart
Seems like a bright light which is now dulled to a Memories Blur

Feel like I’ve become desensitized,
Blood on my hands,
But got sand in the eyes.
Don’t need a cancel culture,
Because my moral conscience,
Won’t let me hide.
And the trauma got me making excuses,
But how else does one overcome genocide?
And I can’t lie,
I feel empty inside,
Thinking of over 1000 ways to die.
Imprisoned within my mind.
It’s like I’m zombie-fied.
With everyday being a melancholy overdrive.
And my capacity is on low power mode,
In order to just survive.
But although I’m surviving,
I’m not truly living.
So, desensitized,
And Running out of feelings.
Have no moments to rest,
Because I can’t stop overthinking.
With persistent thoughts to numb it all,
By taking drugs, gambling, and drinking.
Really every addiction at this point looks appealing,
Yet I know what I got to do to start healing,
But its hard to explain,
Because I feel like a card dealer but I ain’t dealing.
With these issues because I’d rather start running,
Thinking I can out-run all these problems,
That keep on piling.
And when people say how awesome I am,
It’s unnerving,
Because complements,
Are something to, which I am undeserving.
At least that’s what I tell myself every morning.
Before I take my happy pill,
To give off the effect that everything in my life,
Is so ******* charming.
Even though in reality I am drowning.
I’ve become desensitized,
With everything around me distorting.
Desensitized to the violence,
Just another dead brother and sister,
Yet everyone’s ******* silent,
Doesn’t matter whether your defiant or compliant,
Not sure what’s worse the assailant?
Or the sirens?
When both be killing us!
If only people could take this **** serious!
Instead of calling us delirious.
Guess I’m not the only one that desensitized!
If you don’t believe racism exists,
That just means that you’re climatized!
Unable to recognize, that you’re indoctrinized.
Where hate, becomes normalized.
How can we expect change?
When we’re desensitized!

most everyone knows
the stories
that all these
Disney-fied
and
Pixar-ized
movies are based on
are much more gruesome
than their animated versions
if you don't already know
i dare you
to skim through the originals

many of these stories
that are animated
bring in a prince charming
(which is pretty much as annoying as the manic pixie dream girl trope)
they show you
that love is someone sweeping you
off of your feet
and carrying you forever
never letting you fall
now
brace yourself if you don't take the truth easily
this is a lie

love is boxed up all pretty
perfect pink wrapping paper
covered in little hearts
with a big sparkling
pink bow
but this is artificial

your prince
or princess
or whatever else
will drop you
probably face first
onto your glass shoe
but if they love you
they will always pick out the shards
and kiss every wound
and i like it more this way

i know that you've dropped me
kicked my ribs
knocked my head
against a brick wall
but i know you'll always
always
fix it the best you can
(and thank you
for not hating me
when i bang you up too)

fairy tales aren't real
but i know that you're my fairy boy
and as long as i believe
i know you'll stick around

my love is like a glowing rose
that grows in an ebony chamber
forever there to stay alive
forever to remember

forever to remember there
how strong once burned a fire
it fied the sun and blinded day
so high it dared aspire

some day a storm again
will blow through open doors
   will stir the slumbering ember
and raise a flaming rose of love
that burns the ebony chamber

(The prospect of your eyes hidden behind the hair-
style of a just-woke-up darling looking square
at these words pushes me to devise, with utmost care,
the following lines in as debonair
a fashion I can conjure.
Forgive me, if you wish, for any chair-
leaving phrases I might've missed.)

Bathed in red beneath a blood moon glare
and strung in stockings for all they're aware,
a picnic with cherries ensued elsewhere
between two dove birds in love-locked stare:
within the upper grounds of a certain lair
only veteran heart-thieves would ever dare
break in, much else was thrown in share
besides the cherries
of a picnic love affair.

A few blows of endearment amidst a midair
smoke thirty thousand feet in rare-
fied air, and an exchange of where-
abouts within the massive grounds of a nightly fair--
glamour and energy had brewed with a potent flair
of sweet and spicy that forgoes prayer
alongside the scarlet nights of puppy love. There
exists a frightening tug
even hugs themselves cannot compare.

Alas, when the ice had melted and the air
was hung with hanging puffs, hands paired
in woven resolve, all either cared
to have was the mere company of their sweet beloved
beneath the fiery glare
of a searing blood moon.

("I love you"
"I love you too")

I wrap myself in sizes too big because that’s how I see myself.
For surely if they see me this big,
When I reveal my true self it won’t be as bad.
I smother my hips, stomach, shape because
I can’t get past the fact that I hate myself.
Looking in the mirror makes me cringe.
That’s what I look like?

Why can’t I wear cloths in my size?
Why am I afraid to go into changing rooms?
It makes me want to scream when I walk away from a store, that my friends, sister, mother bring me into, so I can find my style.
I will stick with this t-shirt that costed a dollar.

They think it’s easy for me to walk away.
They believe I am being over dramatic.
But I can’t walk into a changing room without worrying if I really fit into anything.
I don’t want to disappoint them when it turns out I’m too fat.
Even if I do fit…
My skin feels like it’s showing too much.
“Watch out for those massive arms dot.”
Right. Thank you.

When will I love myself again?
Writing this made me feel semigood again.
With prom coming up and all my friends wanting to look for dresses,
I am terrified.
Petrified.
Mortified.
Horrified.
Every word that ends with “-fied!”

I will not cry in another changing room.
I will not cry.
I will.

Do to ti
you take me through re melancholy
to mi harmony
send me through fah epiphanies
it is sincere and sure it soh to me

do to ti
a singing lover lives in thee
not so many rhymes would reel
these words into a curled rhythm
but so many curls would twirl a verb into
a metaphor so that my cognition cogs conviction and spreads emotive revisions

do to ti
I see you I see me
a living and loving lover vivified in you
lives intelligently I am stupefied
So high on notes of riffs and motif glitches I am hi-fied on grammaphonic signals I'm vibrating on love cloud nine
in ten we circle the spheres of a star, a world and a mega sector lined
In 2-d visions we live in the pictures of a binary mind until in 3-d a prospect sticks and we are multi-divine

do to ti
i find melody kissing harmony as I sing a love to thee
A lover surely lives in thee.

Someone saw you were beautiful,
I too saw you beautiful,
When I saw you, I wanted to see you,
You wanted to see me too,
And so we planned to see each other,
And then I saw it,
And you too saw it,
I was satsfied,
You were satisfied,
Our hearts got st'fied,
We loved it,
And it was like wow!
Please! Don't tell her I saw you first,
Lest you forget,
He too doesn't know I saw you first,
But rem, its wrong to be silent after such a wonderful SUPPER!
I know you SUFFER!
I too SUFFER!
He's come its not like it to you,
She's come its not like it to me,
For you carried my heart away!

What Is Faith, Really?

The Pope is coming here today, ‘here’ being Sweden.
Sweden has around a hundred fifty thousand Catholics;
Loyal bricks
In a religion with its world mystique;
Jesus the pivot, One-theistic.
Kind of him.  Kind and broad-minded.
Plans to meet with not just Catholic,
But Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, Lutheran -
A sojourn
Ecumenical.

So what is faith?
It’s expectation, trust, conviction, hopefulness and confidence
In something that can only just be sensed,
For instance,
If you’ve faith in money, you can touch the money,
But the green can never guarantee the thing,
The happiness that it will bring,
And for how long.

Imperceptible, invisible, an energy
With wish inbuilt;
A wish and hope.

I understand the atheist.
To him the whole unjust-ifiable and –fied;
Unwarranted:
He can’t believe in God.
But what he doesn’t understand
Is that he too has faith –
Perhaps in love, his father, mother, one
Or other institution:
Faith in something -
All of it a veiled mostly unnoticed hint;
A blended tint linking the man to one thing
Or another.

of course when I say man, I mean both, all and every gender.

What Is Faith, Really? 10.31.2016
Our Times, Our Culture II; To The Child Mystic II; God Book II;
Arlene Corwin

-

a detailing of moments
metamorphasizes
seconds into minutes,
minutes into hours-

into patient waiting
upon children
to emerge
from a toy shop

an unwanted noticing,
listening dull—a'fied to
adjacent patrons talking
furiously into their hands

almost wishing to
urinate again
just to pass
the next hour

tick—tock
sitting still,

autobiographies have been
written and published
in this time

tock—Tick
Still sitting,

Children have been Conceived
and then given Birth To
in this Time

Ticked—TOCKED !
Still—

Moons have been Known
to form on the Surfaces
of Uranus

In This Time...




"the Tick— & eventually, the Tock"
© 2020 By Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

.