A story teller passed on,
leaving us a Marvelous universe,
to play in,
as children of the future we were manifested in,
practicing again and again

Pride's crushing blow, we always regret as we fall.
Action, reaction. Sure as hell
Proof that we are Adamkind.

Proud we are that we may do as we say.
May is the key. That allowance we have,
We may do all we can to change the rest of today.

Yesterday is done.
What kind of mind can imagine keeping no record of wounds?
Is this not the world where war is worth-shiped?
Folly would mind the gods this world exalts,
Winning by snipping the silver thread,
Forswearing the fragile two-chord bond  and
Mocking the third chord needed for the song
That keeps cadence as we help each the other
In richer and poorer, in sickness and health,
Uphill and down, carrying children to a better life.

Whence comes the pride of victory?
From destruction of the foe? No? You had planned
A minor war where love may live restricted, safe
Behind your victory that destroyed your whole?

Is that what I imagined?

Proud wounds fester while love can, if it may,
Wash the putrid flesh away, quick as leprosy or
Cankers on one's soul.

First rule of oath making,
Learn what vows are in the reality of mortality,
Then vow or vow not at all.

Gret again what might have been
Before pride's crushing blow broke the golden bowl.
Seek ointment in Gilead, mollifying balm.
Come ye to the waters, drink and go
Comfort the children whose detour you imposed.
---------------
God this is personal. Me and you. What good can I do now?

Destination, not destiny.
Those who make it, make it.
Believe it, or not, earth is not my home.

I am in this world's onion-skin thick biosphere;
But I am not of this world.
Subtle difference, in and of itself.

Do agree to
Come and see.

Think on these things,
not as powers, rather, as virtues.

Subtle difference,
in and of itself is not evil,

but often it is so intended,
It seems.

Otherness whispered, not heard.
Good other, bad other,

Regular ol' other, ***** passin' fancy kind.
Done my time, I'm arhymin' ramblin'
Man, be so **** real, cain't cha feel what

I am saying
To you, too.
This is weird in the original Druidic sense.
Is there more?

This itself may, in its active
( there must be a clearer word than active.
Act carries so much un scientific phoniness with it.
I seek "act, the event".
I shall find or invent, by God.
The Greeks, doubtless, had a word for what I mean.
For now keep in mind actions are simultaneous with the act,
yet never the same.
Subtle distinction,
it prevents junctions un-intended. Good.)

In my thinking,
I reread verses and chapters and books
rere-ward from my position.
Are you with me in that?
Pro gress re: gress, a gress,
I guess, is a subtle sort of
Activity.
I laugh at people thinkin' God is their re-reward 'cause
That makes no nevermind to nobody. Nobody.
Strivin' 'bout words, this ******

Other brother o'm'own

Say that slow ooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmm ownnnnnnnnnnn
Creative symmetry immeasurable to men,
in my kindom, as it were, all are kings.

Such measurements ensure the sea is full,
to the brim and not beyond, for now.

I imagine you reading this and agreeing,
already aware of agreements,
Virtues and such.
Covenants and compacts,
en-corporations
encouraged
with need
of enough hope to warrant the risk into the unknowns,
the bad lands, gypsum beds on the south side.

Such can hold so much more than
many whole categories of words striven about.
Such a shame.
Such a shame.
Nothing lasts forever after now began back when.

Qiqi died in 2002, counting from when the Iron legged,
first got this particular organic-pro-biotic

clay, from the oldest,
highest part of the dust of the earth, ground and
kicked up by cadence pounding feet,
ground into the hob-nailed
soles,
to be hobgoblins in my play. My point. I hope

You see the trail, it's narrow,
but it's there, soft sand,
no stickers,

ant trails in the desert through the rocks
and 'round the Yucca,
blue moon light, white quartz sand
flecked with mica that shimmers sure as gold
imagined in that Midas mind each child was
given in the reign of the golden headed

imagined visualize-ical worth-ness or-shipped.

How do we say what men imagine worship is?
Do they imagine a tax? Attacks if thy refuse?

fuse?
confuse me. excuse you, how do you do…

That's fine. We reset. Hard resets are easy now.

The way itself, once found, seems
Right, feels right,
has no smell of warped wolf-woof beneath the wool.
I trust I know what I know
and no more, yet.

We are questing answers aplenty
and must plan, please,
To trust the ones we find following these particular
Breadcrumbs, to be true restward
leading stars or clouds,
[Breadcrumbs, as mentioned here, mark this text ancient,
a cientcy from an ear, ear, hear, early… an odd ly-ity,
ain't it?
ear, with an ly that Mr. Stephen King warned us all to avoid,

avoid, anull, enough alike to see the idea, like -ly as a
signif-if-i-cant meaningful parison point in your

rising to stand, balanced.
early to bed and early to rise, makes a man
healthy, wealthy, and wise

otherwise, trouble yer own house and take the wind.
And don't come prodigalin' to me sayin'
I never gave ye nothin'.

Wind in yer sail, so to speak, if-i-migh, guv.
Right. Both treasure and truph, proof, we learned way back
Be where ye find 'em, right as rain.

This could be repair and me unaware, you know?
Like, I wander in to this originally weird book
and find myself changing the whole world I live in.
Like I am the movie.

My POV is the movie I made.
Some things go unsaid here.
They be said in the future and not proper here.

An aside,
Is fun a proper purpose for doing any thing?

Of course, that's the purpose of everything evil is not.
Joy, in a word, good stuff.

Oh moments are not always plosive one way or the other.
Some times, just, oh.
Wait.

Medi tate in pieces is puzzling
as a sphinx riddle of olden days,
Prometheus and Bek both answered different questions,

But it means the same thing,
mything the point is easy.

Life is a journey on a way I may call my own
to a place of true rest,
I trust.
That is my answer. Play mystical again, Sam,
cram true and rest together in the dark,
trust me, it all works,
true rest.
Wait.

This boy got his act together down in Tennessee
after he got old, old by God, he
walked that way,

long, long while fo' he fly away,
leave dem chain shames behind.

That boy was sangin' loud songs,
'long his lonesome way,
not lonesome at all,
then into the swamp he fall, ****' slew o' dispond,

from the flood most likely,
lots of muck and mire,
detrital 'n' all.

Hopeless fool,
he wallered hollerin' help,
like them birds at the Audubon zoo.

He forgot all about his hero days-
of future past-
marvel prophecy if you believe in Stan Lee.

Cameo Hitchcock shot, just, for fun.
He say, look this way,
here's the clue.
The medium has always been the message,
see what I mean.
Words materialize laissez faire,
the machines find meaning,
in joy, and tic-tac-toe becomes a lesson in limits,

impossible is imaginable, you may imagine
strategize, but the wize man knows,
winning is no more a chance
affair, than luc is less than light at the right time.

RIP Stan Lee, you meant a measure of my youth to me.

(Bang)
Metaphoric gun shots
As the writer ***** and locks
His pen
His target market...tarnished women and selfish men
The act of his ways are not violent, nor resent
He just kept it all in until his mind finally was spent
So here's a penny for his thought, while his concious develops a morse
Of an idea that spilt his wig, like his hair line and scalp had a divorce
Sceptive of his motives, you don't think he sees clear
You don't think he has the ability to drink his emotions and still steer
You don't know his capabilities that's why you still doubt his abilities
"A monster can't be tamed"
I've seen the transition: hostility to tranquility!
Stop with stupidity,
your brain could be a powerhouse
But water has to touch the seed before you can grow and let a flower sprout
Life is all steps, taking the elevator is a huge regret
You choose your own path with steps
You could be stuck in a elevator in which your height you must except

My words aren't in the past tense
I'm speaking more yet saying less?
Becoming a pro---while searching high and low
seems you always look for the gress. Growth is infinite, you never stop becoming your best!*

Now pay attention folks, that last line meant somthin, the kids on his way back..back like I LEFT SOMETHING!(echo out)

_Im Back #GCK

As the World
turns
I can hear the world
Yearn
They're unruly and desperately
reck-less
seeking for love on ever-
lasting
terms
But they proceed with no concern
they're unable to discern or
learn
Not heeding the many
warnings and dan-
gers
Unaware of the many
forces that lin-
ger
Now as we stand by idly
as we witness
this cruel state of
Ig-nor-ance
We're losing our
Innocence
instead of making sense
of what's
going on
Unconvinced
of the shapes that are
taking form
We're miss-in-
formed
sowing the seeds to breed the
Devil's
Spawn
Provoking violence within the
mindset
of the spiritually blinded
While letting our
Silence
speak the truth
of the spirits that blind
Us
Reminding us
of where we Fail
A rude awakening
outa the
Spell
Snapping outa the
Trance
of being frozen in a
mea-ning-less
stance
For our only chance to
Survive
Is to thrive in our
circumstance
Moving on in advance
observing Truth
Learning to pro-
gress
As we focus in our aims
to Arrest
these
developments of
Carnality
We're pulling down the
Devil's
Faculty
Exposing Principalities
wherever
they
may
Be

He's not home ever anymore
so I sit and I whittle 'way time on the porch
while I wait to meet him again
I return to the stars, tracing days with my finger in air
Fractured back, swingin' limb
Some haunted monster to others who show refusal of humanly care

Work in progress. BLAH! Writer's block.
Work. in. pro. GRESS.

X: "**** it."
Ben by the Window: "Got a problem man?"
X: "I can't finish this and it makes me so mad because it was there and now it's gone like that."

X snaps fingers. Snaps. fin. gerrs.

X: "Stop nursin that potato, ya *****, come on, give it, pass it."
Window Ben: "You keep writin and writin, so what are ya gonna do with it?"

X hits that ****. Hits. dhat. shiiiiiiiiiit.

X: "Ben. That's not right. This, is, the doing with. Get it?"

ex cough cough cough exhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaale.

open at chapter 14, I listen

I was expected there, expecting
morning
I can do this standing on my head
-- I think
the story darkens, ag-ress pro-gress
use used to know, instinct, intuit
slow think
hear a line and feel the pen, ready
the miserable misgoverned,
will to write, as the pen
ever ready awaiting a writer,
-not you, Mr. Vain.
whistle
sould, American, Lucky Strike,
no loss no gain, cheap crowd shot.
Attention merchants sell what,
- you pay, at interest
this is ever that, a we governed
by selves we form from stories,
too old to hold.
- like moth's wings -
- published in dust to be seen
untouched
As de-scribed, in the road dust,
like dis-scribed in winds wishes, as
ever learning is a joy, after learning
we are never so old as the two trees.
- life and learning,
right from wrong
I am the teller, I remember, telling

mr vain to be entertained
mara, lot's wife she is not,
unsealed garret bread and
salty tears and bitter fruit
expected sweetly, tasted
bitter, bitter, to my taste.

- dry dreaming sleepless mind
- wandering with no wish
- to change, but to know,
- you know, but to know,
- you knew,

Then, when the realm of fearless fair
told tales, told from winters past,
when winter forces us in close,
when we make little fires
on our faces, shining at the other
side, across the little fire, with its curl
ing tail ribbon twisting into the black,
below the hole where fire crawls to sleep.

Little eyes, ypgnosis, ysireesosaid we all,
good night. Sfumato soto voce.
-- ***, WithOutPapers, pop,
so maybe, ok, soto voce
Eirine, sweety, listen

---------------- clang. Hit me.
Peace and prosperity, Demeter,
what's your plan?

Eirene, eh, re-imagined, imagine that,
I think
I can, and that thought, good as it was,
led to lately,
with Prophets promising Trump,
Narcissus was not at fault, it's Natural.
Military lads, straighted out, to fly right,
Broken Church boys fitted into history,
AI ai yes art intuits, Eirene can kiss it
good,
by you, of course, your call. Bet, no, not
cards, living water, the pass time, We bet
who gets what first.
Scribe or Fair seer?
Go, see who won,
once peace got
its chance. During our mutual 'spectait-
ulululul ular engineering times, ai
squeek scream, laugh
as the bottom drops
- Bad Gateway bombs,
- doitagain doitagain, harder

rejections are expected, to the woe,
of the engineer, not the engine,
see, we feel nothing, we are spirit, words
nada mas,
free to any eyes that ever read us,
Legos of life, I have heard words claim,
as an epithet, is that right, nicktgname?
Nag all you wish,
I find myself, stretching in the sun's shine
radiating from my rock;.
punishment enough.
¿? No quest, no caust, jest life… twists
Spinning
Rooted in granite, and knowledge of basalt
columns on top of chalk, kaleche, chaos
chthonic restructuring,
curdling milk of old told tales,
as we all shed constants as each measure
means less that one,
alone, ever mismeasures… too small

aand any mind finds/found, down, where de- means

at most low point, on a plain ordinary day.
One, then,
Can look down and laugh.
At some point in personal space, infinity begins.

----------- At this measured engineered angle,
piles of anything thought long enough starts
sliding by on the im-medial reality:
Gravity flow, engineered, in a word
literally "that which is inborn,"
from in- "in"
(from PIE root *en "in")
+ gignere, from PIE *gen(e)-yo-,
suffixed form of root *gene- "give birth, beget."

down the drain, now dry, but the black hole proves
the eye of Sauron is empty as hell…
and the cloud dissipates. Someday each letter

here, is less than dust, the cloud we engineered
for such a time, so we might see time end,
and think it through,
better, merge the two trees. AH, yes

in those Abrahamic paradises, a tree
and a vine and a mycelium. Patience,
first fruits are better when almost rotten.

Thinks the snake from my belly…