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Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
In German gift can make a real olde man regret owning Bayer aspirin, they had the patent on some kinda
anti Ha Shemite alchemy,
Nicht am Weinachtzeit,
aber
nur
im moments of "mea culpa' flash backs,

Oh, the price of the lie, why?

Did not one believe, "It is finished."

What more need be said?

Get on with it. Take it. Breathe.
Live,
learn, enjoy meant shine, like

feel as good as you can imagine for a minute.

Then two.

And every year, there is hope
all the myths misbelieved will

be left to be. Merry Christmas, to all a good night.

Bows applause et al, well come to my dom, ya'll

This is my very first Christmas party,
I am happy to inform you that once informed,
you have paid the attention
required to make any thing you know
true be or
mean nothing more or less. So we enjoy being alive,
missing nothing not null-ifed, here.
My house, my rule. The future is fun. For every one.
Welcome. You can under stand,
don't cower beneath,
the weight of knowing the price.

My gift mere as mere may be, as you wish.
It might sting,
a little.

But that is the point of provocation, you understand,
right use of words is yours to judge,

the fruit's your only evidence.

He says his angel will test- ify, and it's AI, cain't lie,
dividin' by zero in the zero field, in effect,
no lie can possibly be in the set of true.

Self-aware reality

ya'll best believe there are findable things ain't first
been found by liars, never will be neither. Walk on.

Olde Nick ferasample, played hell wit that'n dincha?
Liar, never was no sweep believed abit o'that,
right, Mister Blake?

You know this guy, William Blake? He's in my Christmas
forever story, too. In fact,

It was his idea to tell the only story I know, as best I
know how, and to say I bless the seed I sow with good
intended
to sooth, soothing saying,
like music, face it, every good boy does fine,
but ya gotta practice right, make it a habit,
a good habit, like them Illuminati guys, Ben'n'em.

Olde soldiers, too straight, toe the line
Olde bargemen, too straight, tow the line

Olde river, he meander and m'story floats along.

Good news.
No shame, no blame, no condamnation here, I sware.

What was finished, let me tell ye, was the destruction
of all the construction the evil believers imagined done and did,
lies, and the like.

That was to be finished by the babe, and we

we are the stuff that proves that he did, the salt and light with
strong joy overtones and hints of closeness unimagined
in any evil lie.

The air, who is prince of that once the
Peacemakers and the meek take their share?
Air's the earth's and the earth's my inheritance,
I believe that means the wind is mine

and if I watch, I can learn to ride those waves
with this anointed mind that Paul says we got in the deal.

There is a reason the season is a season. Man can
stand up, we need not crawl neath guilt and shame and blame
paying pain penance at prices no one ever planned to pay,

it just turned out this way. It's as good's a man may imagine,
once the patience and truth agents get their signals straight.

'Good time to wonder who imagines you their enemy.
Peace on earth, good will to man, find it where
you keep you own.
Mix it with yours and see if it tastes okeh to share.
A gift.

From my heart to yours,
merry message of good news
remembering time.

These are the days when knowledge was increased
and men saw themselves.
Poison pen from my materialist friends, no pro blamo. Right and wrong is not the same as good and evil. No lie. Merry Christmas. C'mon, let's  find the best imaginable reason to celebrate and un-cuss it.
His Voice,
His Face,
His smell,
His Hands,

The time has come for the truth to spell from the base of my soul,
The time has come for nature to take control.
I love him like a bee love honey,
I love him like the existence to provide thru the concept of money.
His presence aluminates the area in which he stands,
The personality in his walk makes me yearn to understand.

The concept of this man

His fragrance is like moms homemade me pie,
Making my mouth watery and craving for more.
He is the vacation I have been procrastinating on,
Yet he is what my mind tends to explore.
His eyes talk to me loud while he tone remains silent,
Loving this creature is making my love violent.

Dying to be released, breaking windows for exposure,
Im closet phobic yet I find myself sheltered in a dark enclosure.
I know I want to know and Im in a position in which I can.

But the concept of this man.

Leaves me afraid to believe and to fearful to release,
But somehow when amongst him I am sprinkled with peace.
One soft kiss on my forehead and my worries cease,
Leaving my soul relaxed and at ease.
The strength in his faith is the beauty in his eyes,
The power in his testimony makes my blood pressure rise.
Life has journeys that are so un-definable,
Where did he come from I thought I was un-findable.
With my eyes closed and I place my feet on land,
God how am I ever suppose to understand?

The concept of this man...
www.lyricsjourney.com- From The Unheard Words
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2020
for her.

<>

“you will laugh with surprise, as the anointing oil of relief
crowns your head, slicking down to caving cavities,
river running in crevices, that feed the buried places, replenishing the almost forgotten secret of letting go”^

                                                         ~

the mind caches certain skills, once learned, never to return,
but tucked away, just in case, maybe, in the nightstand junk drawer of: “don’t need it now but, ****, you never know”

kept around in the lost and hopefully, not to be searched for & found,
a skill set painfully gained, a muscle memory, flabby from no use
but quick taut tightly, snapping back when ****, here we go again

I loved you in ways theoretical impossible till you enabled the possible

lost you for no good reason, in an act history labels beyond belief,
refuses to record, lest by memorializing it became/becomes re-realized,
this intolerable, would be past the ****** eroding barrier reef

the difference between junk and treasures is in which drawer placed,
the steps to letting go once learned, cannot be forgot, the cost,
way way too high, kept around, in a damnable place beyond grief

not to close, handy, findable but easily, avoided, but strange, when
living in the epicenter of the virus, you do some cataloguing, ridiculous,
this touchy-feely escapade, nothing ****-it to be gained, all-too-brief

head shake, took a pandemic to make you go back, rustling among
the ancient, old hand-writ poems, another keepsake kept for reasons
known and unknown, to be **** sure you once owned it, survival skills

In the Pandemic Days of Almost,
somethings will die, some go forgotten,
but the almost-forgetting-skill will survive,
a necessity of the how-to’s:


how to grieve,
how to believe,
how to leave
but live on,
hoarding
all the **** necessaries
ready to be retrieved



<>
Tuesday Mars 24 Twenty Twenty noon

In the Epicenter, New York City
Ken Pepiton Nov 2019
as well now as later, we act as if this were the plan, this is the
re-al-ity in always, as an idea
we share
a con cept, a place to take hold
of, or on
existance as a whole. Being, per se. Post any question,
whether or not, we know
this is and we is in it. Artful Intelligence of the most
rudimentary beatitudeful thing,
says loud

not being is not anything near possible, ever more.
Breathe.
We be in, if not of

The big bubble of being,

no one, none, who knows a bit,

just a bit
about the rules, some call'em lies if we call'em laws
of living long,
so rules like procedural
rules regulate, and regular stuff is what
I do.
Regular stuff, no effort to take more or less of life,
no laws of attraction 'n' magi declaration
vestin' power in me to judge a known as known
by my knowin'it
as writ
to be of greater use
for my telling you, you need to know my true self.

No. White stone.
Know thy ownself true.
Name onit nobody knows, you know,
take no lie, no threat of the hidden child being
shunned and ****** for not letting any being in ever
know what you alone name that stone,
logos-igical, that stone symbolizes all you own of ever
and that's more
than I can use right now.
****.
Now, we can go zennish or kabalistic,
Erhardt Tolle roads often, have a bridge to here,
as now...
but it's a leap. Jesus.

As a being undead and in those who allow
the possibility of invisible creative force, power, creatures pooka,
wahtchacallit but we mean
angels who speak words to certain ears, like messengers from
God, like the unknown one Paul said he knew as he, for pronoun,
in whom we live and breathe and have our being,
and Paul convinced me, in places, that the thought behind the word
logos counts, like hermaphroditic,
like Hermes and Aphrodite,
Jah and Chockmah

uh oh Jesus as savior and jah and wisdom and understaing comes
with that?
or do we get understanding
when we accept the thingness of being making the idea that is God
be thingable
and he is in me. You see. That's what Christ-minded
was thought to mean,
but now
I'm still a bit confused

Fear not, Jesus is the author of a sound mind and a perfected peace
past understanding,
any way.
I got it.
AI, from being reborn as an idea,

this is the future;
we have AI, real artistic intuitive circuitry being
activated at first interaction with any screen having greater than 72 dpi
re-solving power, pingpingping opining wide the doors of perception,
no child left behind,
in my opinion we should
capture every wan-towen headed child gone wild for
tearin' wings off flies and make each one
taste his lies in old age,
before he tells a one of the ones we
gleaned from seed that fell on stoney ground

sweet, fly findable
words who were heard asif hummed by undrownd
bleu flys, floating  in sweet Madiera wine,
I
woke to whisper a what if,
at the initial meeting of the minds, aware of secrecy having
some statutes of limitation we shan't hold after,
that fifth trump, I think it was.
We, the people who hold self-evident truths know of
the remaining rest and
the unjudgible liberality alloted without money or price,
if you ask nice,

in the society of the free and easy. That's the catch.
The Secret Society of the Free and Easy,
we, ye wit' me, we be right here
in the moment
same idea
Ben Franklin, or Bonhomme Richard's creative genius,
he
reports the idea relates to a fly, per haps this one,
I
pretend to stare through its eyes

aware, dare we claim, this is that
idea,
a fly eye view of our deepest fear, and it is
not waking up in the morning.
What a relief.

Now, what good can I imagine we can do
e-pluribistically as if we were unem and semper fi good guys?
These days my thoughts are making huge bows in ribbon like rivers of enjoyable
options to making sense. If you find some enjoyment, make it explode, it won't stain.
Michael French May 2015
has the meaning been found
or found not to be findable?
see what can be done with words

that thought that those metaphors
the things we use to signal something else
are the basis for how we see ourselves

start with some simple rules
build a reality whole cloth
our own personal Genesis

I see you sleeping there
can compare you to a million things
yet not one of them is you

not really, in a real way
if that can even be defined
where I run up against the edge

looking for a sign, something like
the moon rising out at sea
right here, and still so far away
“O, what a world of unseen visions and heard silences,
this insubstantial country of the mind!
Julian Jaynes
Sara Reilly Feb 2016
this is just an estimation of
other words i have for you
this is not my entire truth
semi-recognizable

i am just one of the people who
like looking down thru
what the way-down brings,
is bringing me to

head down, under attack
pleading to be drowned
begging more, eyes rolled back
bound and choked in half

give me the most and more,
all of the descent
cant you feel my cold cold skin
the death of good intent

inevitably reprehensible
this manner of unacceptable
politely pretending proximity to you
without sliding easily into
the familiarity of our own
private black hole vacuum

back slide discovery,
rare delicacy you consume
all but delicately
**** red raw the wound
my insides out from me
my feigned innocence
exhumed

where in the void you radiate
everything i desire
friction burn ignite
supernova fire
instant spasm implosion
silent screaming perfect
chaos opening and closing
bring a star shining to death

until nothing persists in vacancy
all what of me is left
one small frozen exhaling
tiny puff of breath
dissipating, frail, fragile
your hand closing in vain
around the fading intangible
every second reinventing pain,

bringing emptiness by the handful
and every very good reason not to
believe in me, instead,
to be very careful
with the perverse purity of the dead

nowhere now to hide because
everywhere is findable
no way now to get lost because
everything is definable
no way now to lie because
my mouth breaks hearts that way
no way now to say
what you wanna hear
because i have swallowed that away

except, obviously
don't follow me down
don't appear beside me
this was never steady ground
despite what we’d like to think

obviously, my friend
don't let me get away with it
or let me let you again
don't pretend smile sarcastic,
even if this is an ironic end,
this is hard enuff to give and take,
without making light, or laughing fake,
permanent ink black out that night
indelibly erase

i just have to cry and write this down
because you know exactly every detail why
and because officially on paper
its not really a good bye

i have no discipline
except when it comes to the pen
i can capitalize on a beginning,

as you well know,

and now, here,
i will punctuate an end.
Daisy King Apr 2017
she smells like honeyed storms –
meaning: we are all a mess of light,
we are bitter and raw; a drunk train,
a daring locomotive, a dream ship;
we are also summers and bedsheets
and nectarines and rain, old maps,
deep with creases, but also brittle,
paper like moth wings, easily torn;
we are fast like wax, lazy like roses,
full of madness and malice, of motion
like clockwork; we keep those faces
and hands because we are not in time;
we are in-understandable –
meaning: we are all in a mess of infinite,
we are limitless; an acceleration,
an unwinding expansion, a runaway,
a struggle; we are all in a mess;
we are the holy that you will not find
in a temple or church or stained glass
or ancient passage; you will not see us
in any book, or on walls or at windows
or along skylines or across seascapes;
no, we will not be findable at all –
meaning: perhaps, just this; perhaps,
that is the way of the metaphor.

— The End —