Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace
His costly canvas with each flattered face,
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush,
Saw cits grow Centaurs underneath his brush?
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale,
A Maid of Honour to a Mermaid’s tail?
Or low Dubost—as once the world has seen—
Degrade God’s creatures in his graphic spleen?
Not all that forced politeness, which defends
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends.
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems
The book which, sillier than a sick man’s dreams,
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete,
Poetic Nightmares, without head or feet.

  Poets and painters, as all artists know,
May shoot a little with a lengthened bow;
We claim this mutual mercy for our task,
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask;
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams—
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs.

  A laboured, long Exordium, sometimes tends
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends;
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down,
As Pertness passes with a legal gown:
Thus many a Bard describes in pompous strain
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain:
The groves of Granta, and her Gothic halls,
King’s Coll-Cam’s stream-stained windows, and old walls:
Or, in adventurous numbers, neatly aims
To paint a rainbow, or the river Thames.

  You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine—
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign;
You plan a vase—it dwindles to a ***;
Then glide down Grub-street—fasting and forgot:
Laughed into Lethe by some quaint Review,
Whose wit is never troublesome till—true.

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire,
Let it at least be simple and entire.

  The greater portion of the rhyming tribe
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe)
Are led astray by some peculiar lure.
I labour to be brief—become obscure;
One falls while following Elegance too fast;
Another soars, inflated with Bombast;
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly,
He spins his subject to Satiety;
Absurdly varying, he at last engraves
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves!

  Unless your care’s exact, your judgment nice,
The flight from Folly leads but into Vice;
None are complete, all wanting in some part,
Like certain tailors, limited in art.
For galligaskins Slowshears is your man
But coats must claim another artisan.
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same
As Vulcan’s feet to bear Apollo’s frame;
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose
Black eyes, black ringlets, but—a bottle nose!

  Dear Authors! suit your topics to your strength,
And ponder well your subject, and its length;
Nor lift your load, before you’re quite aware
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear.
But lucid Order, and Wit’s siren voice,
Await the Poet, skilful in his choice;
With native Eloquence he soars along,
Grace in his thoughts, and Music in his song.

  Let Judgment teach him wisely to combine
With future parts the now omitted line:
This shall the Author choose, or that reject,
Precise in style, and cautious to select;
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford
To him who furnishes a wanting word.
Then fear not, if ’tis needful, to produce
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use,
(As Pitt has furnished us a word or two,
Which Lexicographers declined to do;)
So you indeed, with care,—(but be content
To take this license rarely)—may invent.
New words find credit in these latter days,
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase;
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse
To Dryden’s or to Pope’s maturer Muse.
If you can add a little, say why not,
As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott?
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs,
Enriched our Island’s ill-united tongues;
’Tis then—and shall be—lawful to present
Reform in writing, as in Parliament.

  As forests shed their foliage by degrees,
So fade expressions which in season please;
And we and ours, alas! are due to Fate,
And works and words but dwindle to a date.
Though as a Monarch nods, and Commerce calls,
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals;
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drained, sustain
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain,
And rising ports along the busy shore
Protect the vessel from old Ocean’s roar,
All, all, must perish; but, surviving last,
The love of Letters half preserves the past.
True, some decay, yet not a few revive;
Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive,
As Custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway
Our life and language must alike obey.

  The immortal wars which Gods and Angels wage,
Are they not shown in Milton’s sacred page?
His strain will teach what numbers best belong
To themes celestial told in Epic song.

  The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint
The Lover’s anguish, or the Friend’s complaint.
But which deserves the Laurel—Rhyme or Blank?
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank?
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit.

  Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen.
You doubt—see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick’s Dean.
Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied
To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side.
Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden’s days,
No sing-song Hero rants in modern plays;
Whilst modest Comedy her verse foregoes
For jest and ‘pun’ in very middling prose.
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse,
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse.
But so Thalia pleases to appear,
Poor ******! ****** some twenty times a year!

Whate’er the scene, let this advice have weight:—
Adapt your language to your Hero’s state.
At times Melpomene forgets to groan,
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone;
Nor unregarded will the act pass by
Where angry Townly “lifts his voice on high.”
Again, our Shakespeare limits verse to Kings,
When common prose will serve for common things;
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire,—
To “hollaing Hotspur” and his sceptred sire.

  ’Tis not enough, ye Bards, with all your art,
To polish poems; they must touch the heart:
Where’er the scene be laid, whate’er the song,
Still let it bear the hearer’s soul along;
Command your audience or to smile or weep,
Whiche’er may please you—anything but sleep.
The Poet claims our tears; but, by his leave,
Before I shed them, let me see ‘him’ grieve.

  If banished Romeo feigned nor sigh nor tear,
Lulled by his languor, I could sleep or sneer.
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face,
And men look angry in the proper place.
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly,
And Sentiment prescribes a pensive eye;
For Nature formed at first the inward man,
And actors copy Nature—when they can.
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound,
Raised to the Stars, or levelled with the ground;
And for Expression’s aid, ’tis said, or sung,
She gave our mind’s interpreter—the tongue,
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense
(At least in theatres) with common sense;
O’erwhelm with sound the Boxes, Gallery, Pit,
And raise a laugh with anything—but Wit.

  To skilful writers it will much import,
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or Court;
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear,
To draw a Lying Valet, or a Lear,
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school,
A wandering Peregrine, or plain John Bull;
All persons please when Nature’s voice prevails,
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales.

  Or follow common fame, or forge a plot;
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not!
One precept serves to regulate the scene:
Make it appear as if it might have been.

  If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw,
Present him raving, and above all law:
If female furies in your scheme are planned,
Macbeth’s fierce dame is ready to your hand;
For tears and treachery, for good and evil,
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil!
But if a new design you dare essay,
And freely wander from the beaten way,
True to your characters, till all be past,
Preserve consistency from first to last.

  Tis hard to venture where our betters fail,
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale;
And yet, perchance,’tis wiser to prefer
A hackneyed plot, than choose a new, and err;
Yet copy not too closely, but record,
More justly, thought for thought than word for word;
Nor trace your Prototype through narrow ways,
But only follow where he merits praise.

  For you, young Bard! whom luckless fate may lead
To tremble on the nod of all who read,
Ere your first score of cantos Time unrolls,
Beware—for God’s sake, don’t begin like Bowles!
“Awake a louder and a loftier strain,”—
And pray, what follows from his boiling brain?—
He sinks to Southey’s level in a trice,
Whose Epic Mountains never fail in mice!
Not so of yore awoke your mighty Sire
The tempered warblings of his master-lyre;
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute,
“Of Man’s first disobedience and the fruit”
He speaks, but, as his subject swells along,
Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the song.”
Still to the “midst of things” he hastens on,
As if we witnessed all already done;
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene;
Gives, as each page improves upon the sight,
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness—light;
And truth and fiction with such art compounds,
We know not where to fix their several bounds.

  If you would please the Public, deign to hear
What soothes the many-headed monster’s ear:
If your heart triumph when the hands of all
Applaud in thunder at the curtain’s fall,
Deserve those plaudits—study Nature’s page,
And sketch the striking traits of every age;
While varying Man and varying years unfold
Life’s little tale, so oft, so vainly told;
Observe his simple childhood’s dawning days,
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays:
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans,
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens!

  Behold him Freshman! forced no more to groan
O’er Virgil’s devilish verses and his own;
Prayers are too tedious, Lectures too abstruse,
He flies from Tavell’s frown to “Fordham’s Mews;”
(Unlucky Tavell! doomed to daily cares
By pugilistic pupils, and by bears,)
Fines, Tutors, tasks, Conventions threat in vain,
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket Plain.
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash,
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash;
Constant to nought—save hazard and a *****,
Yet cursing both—for both have made him sore:
Unread (unless since books beguile disease,
The P——x becomes his passage to Degrees);
Fooled, pillaged, dunned, he wastes his terms away,
And unexpelled, perhaps, retires M.A.;
Master of Arts! as hells and clubs proclaim,
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name!

  Launched into life, extinct his early fire,
He apes the selfish prudence of his Sire;
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank,
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank;
Sits in the Senate; gets a son and heir;
Sends him to Harrow—for himself was there.
Mute, though he votes, unless when called to cheer,
His son’s so sharp—he’ll see the dog a Peer!

  Manhood declines—Age palsies every limb;
He quits the scene—or else the scene quits him;
Scrapes wealth, o’er each departing penny grieves,
And Avarice seizes all Ambition leaves;
Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets,
O’er hoards diminished by young Hopeful’s debts;
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy,
Complete in all life’s lessons—but to die;
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please,
Commending every time, save times like these;
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot,
Expires unwept—is buried—Let him rot!

  But from the Drama let me not digress,
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less.
Though Woman weep, and hardest hearts are stirred,
When what is done is rather seen than heard,
Yet many deeds preserved in History’s page
Are better told than acted on the stage;
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye,
And Horror thus subsides to Sympathy,
True Briton all beside, I here am French—
Bloodshed ’tis surely better to retrench:
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow
In tragic scenes disgusts though but in show;
We hate the carnage while we see the trick,
And find small sympathy in being sick.
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth
Appals an audience with a Monarch’s death;
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear
Young Arthur’s eyes, can ours or Nature bear?
A haltered heroine Johnson sought to slay—
We saved Irene, but half ****** the play,
And (Heaven be praised!) our tolerating times
Stint Metamorphoses to Pantomimes;
And Lewis’ self, with all his sprites, would quake
To change Earl Osmond’s ***** to a snake!
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief,
We loathe the action which exceeds belief:
And yet, God knows! what may not authors do,
Whose Postscripts prate of dyeing “heroines blue”?

  Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can,
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man,
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape.
Of all the monstrous things I’d fain forbid,
I loathe an Opera worse than Dennis did;
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong,
Rage, love, and aught but moralise—in song.
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends,
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends!
Napoleon’s edicts no embargo lay
On ******—spies—singers—wisely shipped away.
Our giant Capital, whose squares are spread
Where rustics earned, and now may beg, their bread,
In all iniquity is grown so nice,
It scorns amusements which are not of price.
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear,
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore,
His anguish doubling by his own “encore;”
Squeezed in “Fop’s Alley,” jostled by the beaux,
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes;
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease,
Till the dropped curtain gives a glad release:
Why this, and more, he suffers—can ye guess?—
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress!

  So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools;
Give us but fiddlers, and they’re sure of fools!
Ere scenes were played by many a reverend clerk,
(What harm, if David danced before the ark?)
In Christmas revels, simple country folks
Were pleased with morrice-mumm’ry and coarse jokes.
Improving years, with things no longer known,
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan,
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low,
’Tis strange Benvolio suffers such a show;
Suppressing peer! to whom each vice gives place,
Oaths, boxing, begging—all, save rout and race.

  Farce followed Comedy, and reached her prime,
In ever-laughing Foote’s fantastic time:
Mad wag! who pardoned none, nor spared the best,
And turned some very serious things to jest.
Nor Church nor State escaped his public sneers,
Arms nor the Gown—Priests—Lawyers—Volunteers:
“Alas, poor Yorick!” now for ever mute!
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote.

  We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes
Ape the swoln dialogue of Kings and Queens,
When “Crononhotonthologos must die,”
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty.

  Moschus! with whom once more I hope to sit,
And smile at folly, if we can’t at wit;
Yes, Friend! for thee I’ll quit my cynic cell,
And bear Swift’s motto, “Vive la bagatelle!”
Which charmed our days in each ægean clime,
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme.
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past,
Soothe thy Life’s scenes, nor leave thee in the last;
But find in thine—like pagan Plato’s bed,
Some merry Manuscript of Mimes, when dead.

  Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes,
Where fettered by whig Walpole low she lies;
Corruption foiled her, for she feared her glance;
Decorum left her for an Opera dance!
Yet Chesterfield, whose polished pen inveighs
‘Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our Plays;
Unchecked by Megrims of patrician brains,
And damning Dulness of Lord Chamberlains.
Repeal that act! again let Humour roam
Wild o’er the stage—we’ve time for tears at home;
Let Archer plant the horns on Sullen’s brows,
And Estifania gull her “Copper” spouse;
The moral’s scant—but that may be excused,
Men go not to be lectured, but amused.
He whom our plays dispose to Good or Ill
Must wear a head in want of Willis’ skill;
Aye, but Macheath’s examp

"O where are you going?" said reader to rider,
"That valley is fatal when furnaces burn,
Yonder's the midden whose odors will madden,
That gap is the grave where the tall return."

"O do you imagine," said fearer to farer,
"That dusk will delay on your path to the pass,
Your diligent looking discover the lacking
Your footsteps feel from granite to grass?"

"O what was that bird," said horror to hearer,
"Did you see that shape in the twisted trees?
Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly,
The spot on your skin is a shocking disease?"

"Out of this house" ‚ said rider to reader,
"Yours never will" ‚ said farer to fearer,
"They're looking for you" ‚ said hearer to horror,
As he left them there, as he left them there.

THE ARAB PAGANS
                     MATLOOB BOKHARI

The Arab pagans  were plunged in the depth of ignorance,
Barbarism;  adored idols, lived in unchaste life,
Ate  dead bodies,  disregarded every feeling of humanity,
Allah raised among them a man,  honest, and pure ;
Who called them to  Oneness of God , forbade idol worship.  
Enjoined them to speak truth, be faithful, merciful .
Muhammad taught them rights of  neighbors ; kith and kin:
Forbade them to speak evil of women, or to eat orphans’ stuff.  
Ordered them to flee from the vices, and to abstain from evil.
Offer prayers, render alms,  observe fast and respect elders.
  The Arab pagans rose against him to cease his preaching.
Muhammad with a bloodied face, a busted lip, a broken tooth prayed for them
When they mutilated Hamza’s corpse; burnt off his nose ;  cut off his ears;
Muhammad, the messenger of peace and love, forgiving prayed for the pagans
But the shadow  of  the dark clouds of hate totally eclipsed the moon of love
The Arab pagans ruthlessly massacred the whole family of Muhammad
Hussain ,picking up the body of his young son, an image of Muhammad,prayed:
Praise be to Allah Who is the hearer of prayers and warders off anguishes
Hussain, gathering pieces of the dead body of his nephew trampled by horses , prayed
O Allah! The All-gentle, the All aware! I willingly desire for You and testify Your Lordship!
Hussain, burrying  his six month martyr with his own hand in the sand of Karbala, prayed
Praise be to Allah Who is raiser of ranks and suppressor of tyrants
Hussain  standing on  shifting sand-dunes of Kerbala , smeared with blood. of Abbas, prayed
O All-merciful, O All-beneficent. !All glory be to You! Verily Originator and Reproducer
The grandson of Prophet Muhammad ,left all alone, called  for help
But the pagans threw his headless body  on  the plains of Karbala
Leaving Prophet’s daughters in   raging flames of tents, they celebrated victory
O God Who gladdens the hearts that mourn, dries the eyes that weep
I cannot write the whole story of love and hate,  My heart cries! My pen  bleeds!
Matloob, sky and stars weep upon such sacrifices, angels bow, they don’t die in vain!
Every soul shall  have a taste of death:  We test you by evil and by good by way of trial!
Praise be to Allah ,Hearer of prayers! From God we come, and unto Him is our return.













Jan G. A good poetic account of  the history of Islam. Another Hussein might be required to correct once again what came of the Islamic Republic. Oppression loves to speak in the name of liberation it once embraced. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poems/by/matloob#sthash.iCoJzCfi.dpuf



RAJ NANDY: To take an universal view I must say, that let religion not come in the way of love and peace! It has been for the Wise to show us the way, banish ignorance and bring forth light always! True faith is love and as the greatest binding force that shall remain! Thanks for sharing, -Raj



Rick Ratliff : I am  a Christian  and moved greatly by this  powerful read


Rev. Donny Doom – Thanks  for this thought provoking read!


Nikluss 6: An excellent story!!
is it from the Koran????
PEACE MATLOOB!!!!



tarobinson - What a great poem . Wonderfully told . RESPECTFULLY TOLD .




    Hussain was supported by Christians too in Karbala
    

Kyle Wittman - Title / intro is: It certainly sparked my attention.


My favorite line is: The last line.

It's a great read! I do love the imagery.






Dark Iris : Such a beautiful  truth! I  Like it.

These bangs make me look up
Already make eye contact,
like a boss
Friend days "sup?"
I say "wuddup?"
I hear "go hard"
What does that mean?
Do your best
Through what I see,
It is keep on keeping calm
And keep on singing songs.
Whatever makes you happy
Corny as ****, whistle a tune
Not give a ****, or a ****
Or a promise
Viewed from your lips
If that's what it is, ****.

Let's go skate, I'll  meditate
Everyday, against a current
Staying strong and keeping along
In the present day
What do you all say?

Fall asleep on a still ocean
Wake up on a cloud
Still dreaming
Wake up on a star
Almost there
In the darkness

Open my eyes and I finally see planets, galaxy
around me

Whatever makes you happy
In your dreams and overcame fears.
Never stopping 'til the heart is content, transpired peacefulness through energy.

When sleeping, my hair is up above me
If this is when I am free in the end...
Hair cut? Thinking so, why not?
Allow it to go because it'll be too hot to touch the shoulders
Longing to be with the fresh palm trees,
Fresh springs and great eat.
Frizbees, mountains, deserts heat is where I need to be.
Squishy feeling
underneath my feet.
and again more trees
Keeping me on my way
Trucking' along
Singing more songs
in the summer's rain
Tap dancing and I'm gone.

What is truth?
That's an easy question
Actually, that's in a different demention, with words spinning around it, like a universe.
From chest, lips to ear, the hearer is not relating from the original scene.
You "had to be there" moment is what's very keen to truth.
The truth is inside of you.
That means that you and I or me and you, don't know what its like, inside each others life.
But here I am
And there is you
First site may be the end to some
But judge not because I am just one
"I am a Soul and Have a body"
A wise man Gar, once said.
I know we go on
there is no end.
Live life to the fullest
If not Yolo was dead...
Plenty of lives ahead
To the top of a pyramid
Of whatever we are
A cookie crum lost in space
The light of a burnt out star

Anything is possible
Dream among the starts
Is said because we are the sky

Our roots hold us down
Pressing soil away
Growing through the pain
Rocks as anchors
Til they are ripped away
The once hurtful thing
Getting in the way
Grasping on and taking hold
Foundation for home
Up-rooted and move
"It goes on" a poet once said
So I say, look ahead.
Life may be fast but it's not short
Choose a path to walk, grow, learn,love, glow.

Kids play differn't these days
not so flat, more points of focus in less time,

more  POVs and Portals and Morphic Resonance and such

Minecraft. If you never watched a child at play
building a world from available resources,
near-infinite, digital resources limited
by algorithms based on

science.
Eco-industrial-only-mortal-home-known science.

You should see it.

Stones and plants and animals and winds and water
using right, effecting change, shaping things
in her world.

You should see what your grandchildren think.

They have access to tools we only imagined.
Remember what you imagined a road grader could do?

She built heaven with a stairway and I suggested
an elevator.

She said I could build one, a heaven elevator,
for old people in a world I make up.

She had planned to teach me if she had the chance.
She made me several avatars, she knows me.

wizard grandpa who asks if we know
the sweet influences of Pleiades,

his hand points up to the right
because this is the night after the first

quarter of the final moon pre-solstice
and he is looking west.

That one,
that is the one I will be-- wizard grandpa
square head with a pyramid on top,

minecrafty me exploring the undeveloped
fractal morphing algorythms

I'll-go grandpa, go go rhythm of the winds

drifting in what might have been a micro fiber dust bowl
waste land of 8640 chips and Zunes

(you can listen to books and play, Grandpa, at the same time)

Ah, Sam Harris, you asked a reason for the faith that is in me and my grandchildren know it so honor is at stake

and many other pride sourced sorts of things
contention tension challenging the tensegrity of made up minds

working together, serially parallel on every level of the grid, kid

Worlds with no evil intended,
that can be envisioned, practically, tested,
in Minecraft the game in conjunction
with the suggested myth in
Minecraft the interactive story

and Grandpa's story
in the world he migrated from, the journey way and back to

The Desert in The Rain shadow of the Moral Landscape
we can jump off right here

I have photos, in the cloud

trust me, things hap
ex acted
when
done
didone done
done
AM radio
The golden tones of Johnny Gravel
Kay tripple AAAAAAAAAA

A delightful ditty from the fifties programing,
in the fifties this one goes out to Rosemeade

Ah, the idyllic four bedroom ranch
now on the end of a street that dead ends
at the I-5 cliff.

A tune, whistle, while you work,
it's a hap hap happy day all the clouds have blown off

the doors of my perception
my mind expended, spent fi'ty years on the trip,
weary wearisome make ever much
some effort to discover the act

of effectual prayer
which took prayer, effectual or not, by faith, leap
fast
over the edge,
you learn that, day one, in Minecraft Training
by Brynn Aulyn

next is always over the edge,

of my perception
my expent
effort to discover the act

of effectual prayer
which took prayer,
and fasting,
over the edge,
you learn that, day one, in Minecraft Training by
******* Grandpa

next is always over the edge,

but I did not grow old after playing Minecraft as a child.
I grew old after playing with dynamite in a mine
as a child.

Major POV cred Grandpa

My weapons are not carnal.

Is there a monster if jack
finds treasure at the top of the beanstalk
and says to hell with the suffering
mother so he becomes
a god, in harmony with the giant, doing any good he can?

Let the dead bury the dead.

This is for ever.
What they don't know won't,
will not, would not, has no volition to hurt them, ever.

Good, you know, good. No good is ever bad and
the nintendray dooblay is, like rackabilly,
intentional
pre
positioning me for the idle word of the day to be ******
from hiding into the light of
double entendre? how do you mean?

light. OK, okeh, no other resupposings,

there is never light in a creation myth
until some utterance of the idea of light is communicated

which btw
mean there must be sentience from the get go

and mebbe, I thank on it, other wise, as well

as before, the get go,

it was gitgo, all the way down back ahead to Happy Together,
the song,
British invasion,
very creative hope sorta vibe
Turtles all the way down,
Hawking could not put it in words. He could keep time.

You had to be then, it was a brief history. Funny though.

The old ones gone on, they say okeh.
We good to go
happy hunting. Merry Christmas, take any open door
and listen.

The game is making many decisions based on what you pay attention to. In reality attention weighs decisively more than money in any form.
Doncha luvit, life is so unbelievable, until

you die, you think, you've seen something like what you think is possible happen, you've seen death objectively

anybody can do that right? That is evil.

Killing or dying?

Both.

Lizard brain.

the great game, neath ever more layers of moth eaten cotton and worm spun silk lace

crocheted and starched to make doilies for the parlor
when the pastor comes to pay his due attention

to chicken, made sacred for the occasion
in boiling oil, not golden,  but
fried chicken could look golden in the right light seen from the right height, apron strings high.

I could say my grandma served the man of god a golden dead bird.
And the blessing that was said came upon me

because the window in the top of my head never shut.
Air head. hearer of secrets where secrets
make themselves known, as truth sets one free. Jesus knows.
If anybody does. Wait and see. Be good.

Soyal, Yule, Christmas and the contenders, also rans
in the mid-winter hope leverage ceremony
rites of passage missing
or missed? Missed
Messages of a way promised where there seemed no way.

It is finished. The wireless grid. On the AM dial one

wee zero beat beyond simple,

you find sublime. define that. You feel what I said, Merry,

my wish to you, Merry, message of the promised way to you,
make you merry upon remembering

good wins, it never quits winning.
good, we know, personally,
good, right now,
not bad, we can touch, you and me, imagine that being good.
if feels Christmassy, in that good way.

the old way, where good is, find that. Then later, I am the way, believe me when I say I know where the kingdom of God is,

My granddaughter, somehow, gifted me a Map,
it was delivered by a messenger fly.

I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

☺☻☺☻

When painters who paint about painting
meet writers who write about writing,
self-conscious redundancy
bordering lunacy
ends in esthetic in-fighting.

These modernists, right about nothing
(mostly nihilists mad about something)
are so lost in the process
they vent all their excess
in metacognition: dull writing.

You poets who muse about musing –
unaware you are reader-abusing,
provide a terrific
verbose soporific,
yet not of the hearer’s own choosing…

I long for some righteous verbosity –
but I’m stifled by all the pomposity.
This dull erudition,
“sub-metacognition”,
is but an artistic atrocity.

You thinkers who think about thinking
drag my spirit far lower than sinking.
What we want is a Word
which we haven’t yet heard –
so till then I’ll just drink about drinking.

You can’t, if you can’t feel it, if it never
Rises from the soul, and sways
The heart of every single hearer,
With deepest power, in simple ways.
You’ll sit forever, gluing things together,
Cooking up a stew from other’s scraps,
Blowing on a miserable fire,
Made from your heap of dying ash.
Let apes and children praise your art,
If their admiration’s to your taste,
But you’ll never speak from heart to heart,
Unless it rises up from your heart’s space.

This costs you attention you may owe elsewhere. FYI

Thursday, November 01, 2018
9:42 AM

this is our choosing.
we the subjects, the agents of our own intents,

patients, please, await the signal.

Box up your Bohring atoms collected in 7th grade,
wit' yer stamps, n coins n cards n ****
(tha's WA tag, ovahdtoppinallahthishit- -suprimpost)

step out to the fuzzy edge of reality and look

to and fro, go on, imagine the universe a bubble,
along the line of Heisenberg's electron vision
super positioned in that box
with Schrodinger's cat

thus the fuzzy edge, eh?
Close up. neutronic axiomatic close
up
can't say
pre-cise-d-ly ex-zact-ed-ly when
the other  side begins?

Are we aware?
Who won the war?

The game?

No, the war, who won the war?

Why.

Because I need to know, I think, to choose?

Why won. How and what and when and where and all the con
tenders considered,
did not win. They wrote books, but they did not win.

Let me learn a story and my children will hear it right,
from me to them. That's relative-if-it-ication,
there are better ways to say everything,
the story, per se, remains

pro-babble-ity demands equal opportunity with
equal hope of out come,
in valence
in balance (vaca, baca, tomata tomoughta)

Value balance at the fuzzy edge of your own bubble,
your bubble of known knowns (beliefs are in this set),
man on a wire, bird on a wire,

Occham cut my throat, if you fall, trust me, I'll pay.

Choosing Illuminated or Illuminati or mere-r-ly free,
let us pro-ceed,

past conspiracies are now no more than stories being told
as they were told
before the recent war

reconstructed realities arose from the dead on both sides,

whose side is the watcher on?
who accused him. Why, no, how. How accuses the seer,
why ex-amines the seen scene sensuous mystery
field of NULL.

My God. Imagine NULL, my God did that. Can your god
imagine that?

Mebbeso, mebbeeno, gottacogitate, whaithere.

If we agree that we, as in
We have to be a moral people, means:

we, you and me, reader writer sayer hearer or
whatever
concept of us as an inseparable dichotomy with
sum zero field anomaly twixt us
spooky
at a distance, Middler, not Einstein,
last big hit, remember

At a distance,
the edge of everything seems
sharper than any two-edged sword
you ever imagined.
Here,
Higgs-close, where any thing can matter,
at a whim,

Be still.

Still works.
You now new know you knew

right and wrong exist in good,
wrong alone exists in evil, which

In this story, from a winner POV,
is NULL ift, no chance, ever.

To be continued… another line, or two per
haps.
Haps we have made too clear, mortals see right
through them.
While that is good, in balancing things,
we have tremes ex isting in many minds at once,
what's
to be?
Hap, solidifed, happenstance, sistere, give the word.

Done. You recall, it is finished, the alluded to quote,
the bid accepted,
the olde deluder protested,
you recall, who will go?,

I'll go, there was a rhythm in the keys akey aqui a
letter must belong in a word to mean athing, eh?

Waddabou'soun'? say eh letter or more, a vibe

like say aaaaaaah at the doctor looking down my throat,
oughtayasee?

Nuthintall.
Later, ya'll, dream a little dream Ferme

---this did not end there it begsan ah
so
In the beginning all things began,
It's just that simple,

said the side named right by itself, and, odd-at-first-seeming, by
its op positon, but not by down or charm or weird or the un committed
on foreign assign meant un trans late able here

A super positioned time paradox on the part of the mortals involved here.
that explains this.
clear if I see it as you see simple is a poor substitute for sublime,
if I may have said so myselved several times over.

Hello Poetry, this is the signal.
Let patience have her perfect work. The fun'sbegun.

State of our Being
I want to shout at life complain about where we have ended up I found the perfect allegory for this
Piece a western magazine has this written on a barn that is seriously in need of a paint job it says
Every barn needs a little paint and in the open door there stands a baby colt paint horse we could all
Use a reassessment a new coat of paint we the baby boom generation changed our world we shook
American society to its core there was things wrong with the country as now but there is more wrong
With us as a group I just want to take us on a trip that use to be a standard saying you all right man yes
I’m just tripping man the tripping has turn to fitting man were tied in knots having fits its because we
Forgot who we are and where we came from hey presidents build libraries and museums and put their
Names on them and well they should well I think a whole generation is worth a museum on the out side
One word ROCK says it all then the building itself a great arching entry has three neon three inch bands
Red green and yellow it looks just like the front of a juke box inside are the different rooms that depict
Times and different phases some is told in paintings still photography and videos it starts with gold solid
Gold all the gold records that lined the walls of the coolest talent found anywhere in their wake we
Found our sensation cool swirled and rolled as a torrent sweeping us a long on a great musical wave
The king of Memphis stole the show he was show cased in one of the rooms on video by wedding
Southern gospel country bop rhythm and blues he turned music on its ear not to mention the hearer’s
Heart sent racing it was the call to be in a sense anointed leave you’re stayed void self behind come alive
To possibilities long they have been lying dormant you’re invited to score life at a higher free level and
We did ultimately we gave and increased society and then the dream room the voices enchanting other
Worldly so beautiful you entered a trance whatever your state of mind you were effected and your
Companion reaped the highest benefit maybe you were just dull well in no time you were sharpened
More sensitive more considerate you realized deeply what you had and you gave expression to a heart
That was released to its full potential to care and give love we were on a mission and the rest of the
World got it steel away and love me was a innocent anthem that drugs and crassness never touched
We were besought we lived on the crest of a wave that embraced a glorious future and we delivered
On that knowledge how we need to return to that primary truth now we fall for the lie it’s all over
We are past it we could have missed it the first time if we had lived by that dead thinking we are not
Dead and far from it they should hear from the baby boomers again defying achieving against all odds
Give our best lets add on to a great museum let have a whole lot of shaking going on

The crazy man seems to hate his mind.
The Zen man loves his mind.
The crazy man doesn't know, and is confused about it.
The Zen man doesn't know.
The crazy man laughs and says, "It's an imperfectly perfect world!".
The Zen man laughs and says the same thing.
The crazy man is unhappy with his life.
The Zen man is happy with his life, most of the time.
The crazy man hears voices.
The Zen man is a voice-hearer.
I know about this
because I have been
both.

Heart-affluence in discursive talk
  From household fountains never dry;
  The critic clearness of an eye,
That saw thro' all the Muses' walk;

Seraphic intellect and force
  To seize and throw the doubts of man;
  Impassion'd logic, which outran
The hearer in its fiery course;

High nature amorous of the good,
  But touch'd with no ascetic gloom;
  And passion pure in snowy bloom
Thro' all the years of April blood;

A love of freedom rarely felt,
  Of freedom in her regal seat
  Of England; not the schoolboy heat,
The blind hysterics of the Celt;

And manhood fused with female grace
  In such a sort, the child would twine
  A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine,
And find his comfort in thy face;

All these have been, and thee mine eyes
  Have look'd on: if they look'd in vain,
  My shame is greater who remain,
Nor let thy wisdom make me wise.

Aye, they'll be no wars here
Russian Sci Fi full neo-hero trope
post the untangling of tongues in 2019
We got us a 'ero, sh

it's bueno, like okeh
A. I. imagined
"Better Than Us"
paquin paquin 'skool

global mind making us see us

Bable was a long long time
whole wide world now speakeasy one tongue un
tangled
from
the root of all evil

virtual free speech is like free thinking

Bravo Holmes Noshit Sherlock

Ruskie TV on Netflix, this is a brave
new world

how much green screen clueing do we need

how real can you imagine
this source
being
in A/I termsa All In Art-effectual Inteleosity

Eh, wanna play
the long game? Snak-ish sistere quest on a point

is the whole world chromakeyed to black?
CMYK reality
2-d
3
4 and we know there
is more

life is com
plixitified in timespace with sinkholes

from russian lit gone t' seed
in the days of geek gods in realms of emoting

demoting weight of adrenalin on a globalscale,
umphing
the dmt, just to see men dance.
  try it, its in you, you think dreams

you know you do
think
dreams, hard wireless ness courage
daring

to ignore the backstory and take the hero as
the hearer of the

angels, the forder of the hermetical stream
flowin' tween yen
and yanked

into reality with a pull
that broke the skin, an orange picker memory
eh?
would you know the rod of an almond tree,
if one budded in your mind,

lockt in the box of the coven
entitlement to the
kingdom, after
kings mean
dung and reality tv is indistinguishible,

can you hear Turings's gay chuckle,
how about…

now.
Folk Art, the ruskie actor says, winks and
pirouettes into

a spiral-ation action,
slipping in rorshach assumptions...

beacuss, be a cause
we can,
its
bits and digits all the way down,
the turtles were

never holding up progress.
They could have been repurposed in future myths,

as mutants emerged from sewage,
wait
...
who imagined that,
for real?

Your children must know the truth,
who will tell them if you can't lie?

That is an A, an alpha idea.
Can you think it? But is a Beta,

but beta is always better, eh?

Everybody knows, we sneeze in threes.

Charlie was the enemy, C. Company
Rhose to the occasion

how long ye simple ones
choose ye simplicity?
asif
complexity
this odd is
simple as pi wrapped in
Hopf-fibrations you twist in your soul,

There's the question? A/I (Arisa in this Netflix
re-run of "Better Than Us")
arisen
from,
queried through by
every
whether person's vacillating
on the
width of the eye of the storm
in the  elex-elite
distrix,
as co-related with the
degradation of the
Great Red Spot.
---

Episode seven or so
the russians call coaches coach.

Hey, I call coaches coach,
even ones I never knew. WHO knew ruskies do to,
s'bueno,

Hard to hate a team player, with coach
respect dripping, dark stains on the green screen

where what shapes the future
reality is

visible, If I squint....
Those can't be, can they?...
Potemkin villas,
filmed in 2016, to run in Amerika
now, leading upt to interupt the
intentional animosity
with frivolity in
the 2020 build up of crudescence.

We have seen the enemy and he is we
envisioning good A.I. Art-effectual Inteleos,

as well as Pogo Possum did, Earth Day One,
1970, nigh half a century passed away as
funny papers faded into

the medium of memory -- look around--
loved ones ain't in the funny papers, like regular, back
when ink ruled the imagination involved in
judging
how Tibet was depicted... in our mind's
hearing ears and seeing eyes

shhh,
how about…
can you hear Turings's gay chuckle,

now. It's the test.

If your outer appearance change
Your kisses will stay the same
As you grow old and get closer to the Lord..
Your growth in him, makes me love you even more..
As I think of times before..
When they use blades..
For you I would take a sword..
Present day take a bullet die for you..
Like Christ..
For him I die and live..for you I live and die..
I am a living sacrifice..
You are my wife..
Show the lost the Godly context of marriage..
What Gods love looks like..
If they disrespect you they disrespect me..
Blood of my blood . flesh of my flesh..
Confused because I treat you better than me..
God first ..wife second..God puts everything else in perspective
In its place
Look at yours as I seek his face..
He knows best..
As I write this I know you can feel this in your chest..
Its spiritual the way we connect..
Connected to the vine.
Branches of the same tree...
So when the wind of the Holy Spirit moves we both feel the breeze..
I should propose to you daily and drop to one knee..
Make every effort to keep this fresh..
Like that fire that consumes and purifies the flesh..
Passionately love like I am about to take my last breath..
Passion felt nights..
Compassion as I wipe the tears from your sight..
The tears I miss God catches them..
Thrive for the mark my life reflecting him
You see my heart for those who are rejecting him..
So I am a hearer of the word..
The Holy Spirit in obedience have me do what I do..
Love but reject the world

Rewards
Can we touch what is lost by approaching those things that are timeless in our
Midst an ancient wall trees the earth itself that is the oldest material of all our outer touch will cause
Nothing to surrender but the nobility and pure spirit within shared the world with them natural breath is
Essential but I speak of the fiber likened unto the sea plants they sway with each current but they catch
Passing particles for food we do the same as spirits or we would die we cannot escape the truth we
Hunger for the inner murmur the distillation of like minds and hearts we grow strong or weak by the
Distance that is between us it stirs as localization as we mill together greater inspirational sparks will
Fly heavenward if not a course and crippling darkness descends confusion is personalized nothing grows
Speech dries like a pool that has only the sun beating on it relentlessly it needs the mist the rain a
Breeze all of what makes moods drift in quiet but makes patterns in the soul the texture that will endow
Promise where the hard voices only call for hopeless dead ends at times the greatest communication
Is from a look an action that shows a lost forlorn complexity is driving a person inward but away
From the very help they seek a divide is developed the actions of many are avoidance when you
Should press in close you will be surprised when you feel a hidden switch click on and wisdom begins to
Flow without knowing it you have found what adventures and explorers have searched the globe for
You have found real life riches that satisfy that grow and are if ramped up enough are intoxicating
What suffocation impairs us all when we try to assuage a natural cry with something material why?
Is Christmas so enviable and has a power because we are thinking of others reaching out to them
To give not to take we turn soulful as a dove our quietness and attentiveness is pure joy the same
Feeling when you hear them coo over the back yard or a creek it goes out over a peaceful quiet
It soothes the hearer the same is the character of a soul when it stops the rush and madness
And turns its hidden non used charming qualities on to the maxim peace rises from the ground in
A thick layer you in a true sense will be lulled by it inwardly you won’t be standing vertical in a defiant
Gesture but laid back cool describes it best that kind of person is never tiring we need more like that
Give it a try you will know joy and that’s where the departed live you will be surprised how accessible
They have become you made the essential stand that says welcome

Far, far afield--the averages of distances
are sought after.
Seer, hearer, feeler likened to what feet
fail now...as a body parodies its mind
unknowingly.
This chased relationship... headless chicken's
nocturne.


Konstantinos Mark

You can say that again, later, it is -time
lace up the daily bag and pass it
for all private interpretation
removal, from the rumen, to the next
- gaseous we, Huxley called us, 1957

No, this ain't show business, this
is living, made in a made up mind,
being finished doing, just
living.

Making up reasons to dispute liars.

Maybe not a good living, but it's free.
Or paid for, any way.
Bought with a price
my grands won't be forced to pay.
- divided attention makes
- ads obliviate into the mercantile
- classification, in attention econ 101
It's free - this living
in the way well fed children do,
in America, outside the cities;

Joy pursued and grabbed in happy
fistfuls that fill laughing memory bubbles
to store for when these become
the olden days.

No, this ain't show business,
its sacred duty,
work of a thing,
made from a boy who looks
into flies eyes, gazing up
from the bottom of the cup,
a little glazed, perhaps,

owing the fly an easy escape, look away

Tricae,
tricae
"perplexities, hindrances, toys, tricks,"

The collections of thoughts,
the access to held thoughts, knotted
messages
to you
private moments,
time alone, as a mortal human being,
humus built, auto-repairing thing being

being, eh?
One-like, only, or
on-like, only going on and on and on,

becoming fruitful
becoming useful
becoming less and less useful, but
becoming more and more curious
becoming full enough to become superfluous.

Lay preachers can create cushions
for lazy wishers wishing to be comforted,
but the weighing of the worth of comfort,

lay preachers seldom do, to my knowledge.

Terminus gnosis, all I know, my bubble of knowns;
this is it…
a thousand stacks of sensible lines, atop precepts,

strewn beside the trail.
Heavy
heuristic heretical how-to do as I dones,
published by faith in the thousands, litter
the little hills the psalmist asked,
why they writhed and twisted,
as in a dance of anger wishing,

clear channel, me and the truth, today,
just/instance, this/ now.

Free am I, by the faith in me, but you
already
knew that,

don't you?
Don't you know, there is a musing mind,
we wear to bed, some nights,
we lay on memory foam, some nights.

Thinking sorted thoughts, untying lying links,
links to educated guesses fed you as new reasons

to be ever vigilant, ever ready to defend the faith,
the laughing faith of a child, leaping
into the sky

- my grandson, I just learned,
- asked for more math.

No class common man, that is what I am,
on the cusp of next, looking back,
at the mess I left, like a cyclone,
randomly distributing seeds of kindness, specs
by which an idle word can activate troves
of ancient autoresponders, each guessing
what if, what if not,
what if, what if not,
what if, what
if
not now, when. Pop.
Bubbles of been, leave go, go on, think it

through, and passed through, into
the now
where we formed, letters, letting words wait,
sit still, ready
for the reader, ready
to steady the quivering fearful thing,
lost in thought,
stuck in stacks of holy orders, hearer only,
only ordainded doers do the trick,
intricate, folding to make not a paper swan,

too, easy. Make a protein. With no model,
just the idea in the word applied to science,
proper pose, super knowing, proto-life-ish thing,
that is digestible using an infantile nourishing node.

What tricks do you know?, the magi aske Moshe.
Snake from a staff.

From the crozier of goatherd, sure,
we can all do that. What else?
---
Allusions to ever knowing, knowing as old
as knowledge given girls at their flowering,
as old a mystery as any orphaned mother may tell
her great grand daughters,
nobody told me any thing,

but I took it as normal,

As the patient potency prefecting
effectual
fervent
prayer, dramatized, made big as all
art
any
bubbled artifice holding essences,

essential bits of the daily grind to gloss
the leading intellect's reason for being
so shiny,
Klimt golden, as that one kiss I recall,

yes, a facsimile, a memory evocation,

a kiss, golden in that moment, infected
with a feeling
dramatized to be offered to all who see,
intricacies,
khipu twists and loops and bundles and beads,

accounting for dues,
instructing kaballah, pass it on

Excuse me, are you in the right realm,
we feel pluralized,
but you don't fit,
we are uniform,
uninformed,

excathedra, listen up, all eight billion now living, are destined
for certain death,
it is a matter of time, dying once,
can happen anytime,

and if there is a second death, so far,
I never saw any body do it twice,
once truth makes what I am free,
we stay free,
amen,
reception accepted kaballah, et al,
take that greasy grace, feel it,
as the oil ran down Aaron's beard,

and there were no poor denied
starship rations,
until the comet hit and all
but a single mind
blew, into this
a complete fiction,
or another compleat guide to fishing

Imagine the magic of the sailor's accounting book,
envision the magic of levers, and pulleys and cogged
wheels feeling the weight

ping
2023 Gravity driven or gravity powered, is it
one
or the other, when it come be to inspire
first fears
to frame wisdom pools,
at depths we learn
to believe,
prove each participant,
worthy of keeping,
the secret.
Salt of the earth, deep down dehr dat
Caribbean Sea,
shore line fracture,
follow the riverwise road,
any thing you think you must bear,
don't blame,
sometimes it pays, to bend.
Grasshopper Locust practice, for the mind
of an ant.

Wisdom harnessed the fear of God,
put it down,
in other words,
when there was nothing
but E, mass and time being assent
esse, sentient, in sentient and ex
insentience, sapient over lay,
- honeycomb tripe pattern, say
- why not ruminate enclosed
- in a beauteous inner digestive
- recluse-exclusive-sub-science con
ified, tied ligously, fi,
to witty means, and ways we prove
gravity is our friend, driven power for all life,
strong as earth itself, but, we are

in the burning phase,
let me bring you down,
cause being accused, does that
to a stranger
being
entertained, or entertaining, on an aitia
let me
reason,

have you come for more, or do we have
too much
of too many things
to make too much
sense
of any particular reader/writer ifery algorithm,
if then,
else is this, current, slow, nodding, flux,
capacitance
loading axially,
if each mind thinks right once,
today, we have enough,
let's save the world.
- that easy, eh?
global restoration, Christ, yes,
that is the plan.
As the planet was.
Prior to Peleg's days.
Intended to have a single
dry land mass,
Wisdom pushed
for plates meeting
and using ice
at the top
of the world, as seen polaris up,
spinning
in a slow wobble
through four
seasonal positional hot-cool-cold-warm
gyre drivers, saline liquid epicycles, sisters
of the four winds
as a flywheel effect
in the telling times… a little imbalence leaning helps
with the wobble,
in the event,
slim to none,
the odds, but,
Don't Look Up. It could
reoccur, and shall, if
Nietzsche's epicycle

has wheels. Graham Hancock, on clocks…cosmic

Mindspacetime, the elite flight,
secretshitistic, it is, most certain, it is
fantasmic imagining
E not equal any thing, mere words
-jello-timingoooisht
between me and thee,
no point, not one, between the we
we become,
in the final analysis, if you wish,

might
you wish,
long, lazy river readers, re-mind
their lost selves, how innocense felt.

The worth of an unsold story, given
as a gift, as a poor artist might
attempt
a portrait
of their daughter's children

- "that little thing"
Done. As best he could, he believed,
at the time,
as it is
with
everything being as is when we arrive,
we adapt
or become the insane opposition,
to anything,
just
be the counter weight on the pendulum,

keep things swingin'

feel time slide
into the real deal,
at the crossroads
in the wayback seat,
sayin' honey, you ain't here
after what I'm here after,
y'gonna be there, after I'm gone, as  asong
that was
once a joke ended you gonnabe here
after I'm gone, but

seemsayin' eye
squint, see,
way back
when,
we were otherwise involved, affirming
sacred oathes, we swore as children learn
IT being life, whatever,
it don't mean
nothin'
is not a joke, it's ahint, to readers, ready
writing is key to reading,
vertical eyed
qwerty keying is learned,
phone wide,
natural, feels familiar
style adaptation
as cuneiform once was,
years of hearing the same words,
said and resaid, story after story stacked
in
time, measured by stargazers, called, by god,
eyes like eagles, these minds expand, and see
the order of the cosmos,
and the chaos of the collective sub-science

locked by a generational curse on oathes
under the God those kids had in mind,
September, 1954, first day of school,
all across the Wyatt Earp of Nations,
each child not religiously exempted,
stood, right
hand on heart and repeated, as a national
student body, K through 12, a pledge,
local time 9 a.m. nationwide,
not unlike
a true Tenant's pledge of fealty,
as recorded in
The Compleat English Copyholder:
Common and Statute LAW of
England, relating to Manors
and Lords of Manors Et c.
- buzz nod what instance… seven seconds
Sorry, Under God, was added to the pledge
that year, that affectionizes those exposed,
we meander under god, think it not strange.
It’s a legendary trait, we'll all be remembered a bit.
- default modemod is always beguiling temptation
- for temptation sake, win a game, get the rush.
of chasing hares
to where the conies hide,
feeble folk, but they live among big rocks,
reason enough,
use what you know is right,
hide from things that eat you,
that evolves
in nations
with no elders, constant defence mode
peace makers seem
feeble folk,
who knew,
and fell away, impossible to renew,

whoah, zeke play me that riddle,
'bout scrublands being humbly blissed
so long- wayback, anchoring the authority
17
that's me, I
fiddled around
and blew the clearwater revival
to kingdom come, Muddy Waters, aight
and there was hippies, ever whar, swanee,
so I do, I swan no no no no mo
lie like the devil for the sake of church heritage,
holy warrior sworn, heart torn, tears shed, tongues
spoken.
You know, when gravity is taken
in, your weight, sunk
into the reasoning
swung wide
in progress, no aim, past the cloud,
for crying out loud, this is louder than ever,
listen, no
silence
all that
noise, is natural
to persons genitivally, ok, cross
shadowed animus anima imitation,
in your cultural genes, cowgirl
seeing the world a yingyang thang,
with gravity and the E-magnetic shields
allowing systems to com-uni-cate locally,

scarey
indeed

too much,
the scope
of any thing one might think
or ask,
as in what was that rule
of LAW once?
I read
Compleat Fisherman's Guide U recall led
to , yes, The Compleat English Copyholder:
Common and Statute LAW of
England, relating to Manors
and Lords of Manors Et c.
is on Google books, masterfully typeset

Feel free to learn all you will, 'tis all in the Common.

as, by now is much that may have been, otherwise,
in needier times,
less riches, more sorrow,
less sorrows, more riches, peace.

Made that my after all battlefield task,
no mas win or lose.

My side, on the scalar models is gravity empowered,
heavyweight, ancient concept,
gradient slopes
with long lazy loops
on the downhill side,
listening
to kids make all the noise they wish,
two chalk walls away,
in the bubble we all breathe.

To this day, whatever it took, it worked.
Life gets as good as you can make up a mind

to accept, as
this is it,
this is my bit. My close up. To the exact point
where I breathed that bubblierised wedom-opinion

opinion opinion opinion okeh, settle years ago, okay
we all say okeh here, holy ground,
entire collection of recollection on that victory alone.

Okeh, is still the proto voice model, ok.

upon approach he sees a man
with beard of grey and leathered tan
who says come here
and have no fear
i am a mere forsaken man

i am a carter of the wood
whose lived much longer than he should
i travel far
through lands bizarre
by wound and scar i understood

to this the boy a greeting gave
my name is Will and I am brave
it is your whim
should i come in
by discipline i will behave

this made the carter stop and think
he did not breathe he did not blink
two thoughts collide
and then divide
and so decide to cross the brink

since it is cold and wet about
and my fire far from dying out
come sit a spell
and warm ye well
and i will tell a tale of doubt

well to approve the boy does grin
up to the flame to warm his skin
without delay
he does obey
as if to say you can begin

the carter looks about the trail
in hopes to capture each detail
his egos fight
this is not right
and yet, despite, he tells the tale

i’ve traveled all the trails I care
and seen more than I think is fair
i’m growing old
my stories told
but i withhold this that i share

this is a story wrong and true
my time has come to tell it too
its with a sigh
that i must die
as soon as i tell it to you

there is a curse within the tale
the telling of which will unveil
a creature foul
of horrid howl
he’s on the prowl and will not fail

for he comes after those who tell
the tale that always will compel
the hearer who
must tell it too
but when you do he’ll know it well

you see this tale it has been told
by many men of ages old
and they like I
did question why
yet did comply as it is told

so please forgive my desperate soul
impending doom does take its toll
to fate be true
i can but do
one day so you will know its hold

at this the boy did squirm a bit
up to the flame to turn his spit
it’s just a tale
and somewhat stale
sir you will fail to get my wit

it is a tale, yes that is true
but cast no doubt on what i do
undone by hate
I meet my fate
so shall he wait one day for you

This drop in the ocean
I want to put into words,
Hope the wind will listen
As it carries them to the sky…

My silent prayer, only the heart can utter
For the events can’t be undone
Even a miracle can’t turn them around
You have moved on, and have given your heart
To someone not me, she could be your ‘one’

I want to wish you well…
And pray that you be happy…
But this silent prayer contradicts the message.
You cannot be happier, not when it’s not with me.
It’s selfish, I know.. Hence the silence


But this silent prayer, is my only friend
In deaf ears may fall and work in your favor.
I’d still want to whisper and hope you’ll realize..
That in her arms, you will still remember me
And in her laugh, it’s my face you see…

I say you look good together…
Tell everyone, you are better off with her.
Your dreams will come true; with her there are no barricades
But hypocrisy is my craft, you don’t have to know
That in my silent prayer, I am your loving traitor
Betraying the joy you want, wanting that joy to be with me

In silent prayer I can be selfish, envious and jealous
That in someone else’s love, you found solace.
My Hearer may just understand, I hope He will
Or punishment I’ll bear for as long as my heart longs
For you…the one person
My silent prayer’s only subject.

I am in limbo.
I have this feeling in my bones
that my time will soon end
impending doom
that this happiness is not infinite.
But i relish right now
in the feeling that i am still hearer
he is still here
and the moments are precious while they last
and they become relics when they are over
which is why I need to remember
more than ever
the way it felt
the words that escaped this mouth.
the way the lake glistened
the sound of birds
and sweltering heat
sitting on a picnic table on a small island.
How finite it seemed at the time.
rejection
but with the usual overthinking
i found
hope
in that sense of
"it's not you it's me"
that he proposed.
He finally noticed his shadow
and told her the truth
that she already knew.
that I already knew≥
He is too selfish
too independent.
yet still she feeds the fire
of his ego
and holds on to the hope
that the credits won't transfer
when he comes back
he will be stuck in the web
with she
with
her
with I
withme.
and this is my salvation
this is my hope.
because no matter how dangerous and painful love may be
you can only run for so long.

Painful lack of words
writing becomes much too hard
where have our poems gone.

Words written in haste
now make very little sense
without any flow.

They are no longer
as a body without breath
alive for others.

Emptiness resides
in a heart without feeling
our words have no life.

Those words without life
failing to bless a hearer
become of no use.

Why do we ignore
inspiration from nature
our muse is asleep.

Once it awakens
words return to the living
joy comes to our hearts.

Art is the signature of man,
wombed and un;
the creature or construct of time and chance, which
thinks and uses things to make things, ****.

Okeh, mere glance away, we see
two yellow feathered birds, in a bush, but
the body of each, surely delicate,
creature, is not
all yellow, even the yellow
part is graded,
more or less yellow where it fades
in to white, or nearly white, which fades to fully
grey, graying gradually to black,

but seen, closer than Audubon could,
though he did
imagine, who could help? who could stop
seeing how deep the beauty of almost, almost, almost
perfection of graduated choruses of color
shades life at every level?

GK Chesterton appeared in my feed today, as he has done
in yourn, ye'll note, on this line.
I happened to have heard of him, so I listened and he said:
Art is the signature of man, and…

I felt the tug, not the hook, the net, is closing
as the fishing forces draw us closer.

Mere reality.
Signature effect after exposure to one's own kind.
Swans are never merely black and white,
no line, in living things, is sharp,
merely graded to reflect in
angles as waves,
from distant shores revolving spirals in spirals,
seen from the surface as
as near perfect circles pulsing from many suns.

Nothing more than this, nothing less than that
mere perfection,
in these little, grey birds, now, outside my window,
far from the maddened crowd,
I thank goodness you may freely call a name,
the goodness is the same.

I thank the cause of time and chance that I may
watch the dance as if this is my task,
my reason to exist, the act
of my being merely real.

Mere, as a word deserves, as a friend de-
serves, and becomes familiar,
a friend that sticks closer than a brother, in a word;
mere serves no man,
mere is free to mean more than idle minds insist when
calling any word or man or living thing, mere.
Pure is mere's sister. Wisdom is wit's mom.

Mere reality, if we agree,
in realms of only words, mere feathers on thoughts,
form fins we fly with to escape the net,

and see,
this is life, at the edge of all that was, it fades into ever
ever after, as the breezes draw bats back to their
cave,
already to be as any bat is in the daytime,
as the world turns…

yes, child. The world turns,
and winds return, long-I, short-I, wound around
a reason, winding threads from
a merest of whys, wist ye not?

Grave decisions, are cuts. Cessions in skins,
letting go the tie that binds
this thread to that,
this point to that,
ripping tides,
mere reality.
Minds wander, much as winds and rivers, meander.
Art is the signature of man, wombed and un;
the creature or construct of time and chance, which
thinks and uses things to make things, ****.

This is that, man as we agree we are, as a species,
a kind, like no other kind;
a kind, with whom we procreate and imagine
mmm who
are you, if you are not me, at the moment hearing an
insistent bird, seeming to wish
my attention, then at the mention, it flies,
I think I felt it laugh, like
Maijalookmaimaijalook.

Sapience, mindfulness, sense, to the degree
given birds in my mind,

save in a formation of birds, like starlings or geese,
each bird flits or swoops or soars
at will, on whims not pushed,
nor pulled by winds, but
lifted, it appears by will of the bird, not the wisp.

Whisper hearer, hearing me, have we any wool,
have we gathered, since the summer, all the holly held?

Shall we sit and twist it into thread and take
a sabbath's journey
sitting in the shade
of this great rock our home sits upon? If we agree
we may,. any may, any one, may
imagine might-as-well- be tales to sweep away lies left to seem
as true any tale a crow can tell,
when she's in the mood.

Painful lack of words
writing becomes much too hard
where have our poems gone.

Words written in haste
now make very little sense
without any flow.

They are no longer
as a body without breath
alive for others.

Emptiness resides
in a heart without feeling
our words have no life.

Those words without life
failing to bless a hearer
become of no use.

Why do we ignore
inspiration from nature
our muse is asleep.

Once it awakens
words return to the living
joy comes to our hearts.

​these streets doo ***
with houses stained
rich by the rising sun
and you should see the
Corinthians, columns and
fences and blades of
grass; palm old money
shaded by forked
voodoo trees that
creep and hue the
streets cool,  
trees with roots
and brown skin
that grooves and
deepens, hearer of
that Mississipi
hymn that spoke
of wading and water
but god there is
no water
in Uptown.

Just once, I saw your face at the blue moon hearer.
Your Hazel Eyes glistened with desire like burner.
But, your thick hanging lips were trembling feebler.

Unexpectedly, you appeared before my eyes in the lunatic night.
Your tall body was filled with youthful zest.
But, your hands were too week to catch the hazard.

Your pale face was lighted by moon and shine coldly.
But in the meantime, I'm feeling your breath of life brightly.
Such imbalanced existence burned into my mind deeply.

So, that was U.

Now, the golden autumn wind begins to blow, the colored leaves swirled.
At the small Spanish café., I Just listen to the autumn sound. Wind are blowing drearily out side.

And, I am thinking about you. Oh, my dear.

How can I forget your eyes full of wistful ? They showed me your lonely soul.

'Cause  you cannot get acclimatized at any country like me, no?

I know we cannot acquaint with each other no more. But I can't give  you up.
I know we cannot converse with each other no more. But I can't stop look you up.
I miss you. I am missing you...

Some stories come with songs,
some waltz in a lone, strange peace,
with surface tension
signaling

something jes'wentwright, mmhmm
wrought by god,
twang taut copper wire whisting
twing crash
shards of ceramic insulation, change
of situation
- we were running stone to stone
suddenly,
the girl, it was a girl, kicked a stone
she oughta stepped on and moved on,
but
she stepped out of line, so now,
she limps,
no need for me to tell her, once more,
there is always a place to put your foot,
- too long the blame, how long the shame?

a messenger on the barefoot road knows,
some songs are for the journey joy,
some are for home come joy,
some are for always joy.
some are for once.
For me.
It ain't easy. But there's plants. Listen.
Listen,
as a mortal message, Hear this,
does not remove the power
in the word, read.

gulpunctuated inequilibrium'n al alaq
don't choke
this is no joke…
Had the most famous hearer of that message,
"READ"
obeyed, what a wonderfilled world might this be,
eh, Satchmo?
watchawatcha wa wah
shooobeepshaboom shake it all shake it all

whata wonder full world we see….

see the shelter fade… words as ash remain,
to remind me of the wrightminder
just burned on this point.

For a story that wished to be poetry, just once
more.

My soul is weakened at the hand
To be such a one who sleeps
In the morning and night
And midday to which one will have
Anything to be such a winter gun
Such a winter gun
Inside myself inside your own
Hands and thighs and pinky fingers
Little toes on the ground
That will make something a sound
I cannot find the words
To explain some absurd
Gallery on the table
With the magic light of spark
Sparking up to the hills
Cannot be something real
In the ocean, cannot bear
What will see, diamond be
To be careful in the mare
Underwear

Such a boring winter light
Magic markers at the sight
Counting wrens inside the tomb
Mystic magic, *******
Inside my hearer sides,
Inside the willing lies
Toes inside the marching band
Dinosaurs of the little land
Feet with socks of purple pots
Changing numbers like they’re rocks
Sweater on the baking tide
Whizzing laughter fill inside
Drooping eyes of wisdom words
Cannot calculate the buzzing turds
Swooping in and out like a bee inside the masking man
Marching till it’s out of hand
Cannot conjure anything at all
Can you fall
Until the doll
Reaps inside the penny lane
The naked heart inside the side
The cave below
The ground that’s sowed
Sewed inside
The human eye
Everything inside
Something inside
The man won’t go away
The humans are here to stay
The baby parasite
The adult living life
What’s the difference

The Bible holds the definition of the word of Jah
Clear, with no obfussy experience, Word,
the slang cool a decade or two ago, word
was a repeat expulsion of agreement,
in a certain holy ritual spirits call, say
Amen, word, and fall
at the feet of a Gamaliel, be taught by the learned
Authorized Version
It is said be
Here, a little and
there, a little
word from god, go.

The Bible fragments -minus lacunae - missing bits
using no breathing commas, so we know bits,
- but not knowing every thing about anything,
- is no reason not to share the map,
- to there, and back.\ Mere Word
we might say it defines the Word of God,
as being
a  little here, there, everywhere,
whispering
still small voice, here,
am I, listen, murmur, spirit, valued only in spirit,
measured only in spirit,
spoken only in spirit to the hearer, who dares
tell the professional confirmer of hell being so real,
to blow off
that 10% off the top, is but a taste,
of the indulgence giving fifty years in service buys,

to a truth leaver, finder, prove me now, did,
did prove that is not true, that tither magic
used on Christian TV, the giving,
ah,
the widow's mites and mine, we are the salt,
in the soup we offer god's truth, to witness,
crackle thorns in fire,
laughing of fools, found at the edge,
wondering
why they bet there is no god, ah, yes,

I recall, because, if there was a god,
there was a heaven where dead babies go.
And, that being so,
there was a hell for theives and liars, entire sets,
sorted there,
concise, those enter not, no thought, with hooks to
******
the rumproast or prime rib before the seething's done,

indeed, sons of eli, the movie about your book is bullshat.
That a fact?
Fact is, as this story itself is pickin' up steam, we gotta climb

up from the swamp reeds and tamarcks ******* salt
from deep roots, to settle as dust,
on distant ice in need of pressure, osmosis us, squeeze,

a reasoned measure, a certain limit passes, time has points

remarked each season by passers by
awe
expressed at thinking, we all thought this each time
one reads as an act of faith, realized, used, a what ifery,

bet, if I write this, another will read and feel precious,
as any smooth stone in dappled winter shade,
glossed, as the learned say, to be noticed,
as not anything, only words, dancing.

Prince without lineage
King without a throne

Master without servants
Lover of that unknown

Hearer of what’s unspoken
Seer of things divine

Lord among the jesters
Voice for all the mimes

Reason, when excuses falter
Questioner, when answers fail

Link between the seasons
—first breath a baby wails

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February,2016)

press a phone call button.
if you ask, wait until an oxygen mask
provides me with substance
as hearer isn't on the other side

clipping off internet ties
is often with a swallow of oil.
cutting off an internet life
like lost drafts of a wallowing poet

standing my ground next to you
mute as a fish.
you sense a transparent wall
towered up on my elbows of cement

longitudional stripe
strikes across numb chest.
connived at all hemorrhoid
you dragged into my pride.
what a voice to receive not a thing from

apartment walls' yeller
a nominated storyteller
is not a winner.
pain in the rear

a pen to the front
can ink a million thick books
in spite of not telling

so I sat at a wooden chair
and blankly looked over you
clutching my phone

Such distant voices,
Like echoes from a recent past,
Calling over rickety field fences
Gently swaying the flourishing corn,
Diminishing as it nourishes,
So that the hearer only hears
A ghostly murmur and not the cheers.