Well, what a week, full of revelation
Enough to stir this talk of revolution
Makes your hackles turn on end
Then send you round the bend
The southern gentry have found oil
Right beneath their derriere boil
Now most of us on this golden isle
Need not worry about this pile
Those who wear weekend country tweed,
Built their fortunes from housing greed
Have already decided
That it will be one sided
They’ll say it’s theirs, by rights
And if we argue, will read our last rites
The South will declare independence
In certainty of their full ascendance
Over the outer reaches of this nation
They pounded into servitude, by taxation
And if we have the nerve to debate, I’ll be bound
They’ll leave it horded in the ground,
Then blame the anti frackin’ hound
Now I may need a political re - education
In a 1984 establishment for rehabilitation
But I can see it coming a five-nation island
Southland, Wales, Scotland, N. Ireland,

And the Detritus

Remember all the Wise Men on their knees upon your yacht?
With orphans on their backs they’d crawled (with others that they’d brought)
Through rubble on the highway sands and residues of Lot.
They came from severed cities selling postcards of your thoughts,
Though offered for a penny piece, not even worth a jot.

They mused
               “How are you feeling? What it is you want, you’ve got.
               The words you scrawl on calling cards: ‘I AM – the others NOT’
               Shun wisdoms of the Seven Seas: ‘Salvation can’t be bought’ –
               Your fathers tried before you and your fathers came to naught.

               “You started out by gelding goats and then by casting lots
               Of bodies to the battlefields, contorted, tight and taut,
               Then wallowed in the wake of trails the dervish devil trots.

               “With marching bands of fatherlands, and drums of Hottentots,
               You lure your legions in harm’s way like giant juggernauts.
               Like Tweedle Dum your minions come (the sober and the sots,
               The troglodytes, barbarians, and mislead patriots,
               The Vandals, Huns and Hannibals and seaport Cypriots,
               The Japanese, the Congolese, Americans and Scots)
               To vanquish bows and arrows, spears and catapulted shots
               Of those who hide in bamboo huts their families, pale, distraught,
               (Their withered wives with dried up *******, their swollen babes in cots)
               Who swoon, engulfed in poison darts and vats of acid hot,
               Consumed by magic mushroom clouds, atomic megawatts.

               “In churches of your deities, your Holy Huguenots,
               Your Imams, Rabbis, Voodoo Dolls and Mitered Lancelots
               Lit wicked kindled candled walls in temples (while we fought)
               (Used pins and needles, magic spells on makeshift mock whatnots)
               And mosques, cathedrals, synagogues have blessed each new onslaught
               With prayers for pipers, puppets, pawns, your rigid armed robots.

               “Upon your knees in golden naves, while peeking through the slots,
               You horded thirty silver pieces, downed a whiskey shot,
               Then crossed yourself and wrapped yourself in furs of ocelots,
               And danced on cleated cloven hoofs in purple polka-dots,
               Then drank His blood from chalice cups with pious afterthoughts.

               “You’ve treated men like mongrels chained, like little flies to swat,
               By doing what you wanted to, instead of what you aught;
               You’ve wiped your nose with dollar bills and paid your serfs with snot,
               But when you’ve paused to preen your pride, you’ve scrubbed a scarlet blot.

               “In ashes of our victories: the diamonds that you sought,
               The crock of gold, the Golden fleece of bogus Argonauts -
               In mirrors of your lifelessness, the evils you begot.
              
               “The haunted winds strew leaves of time across a shallow plot
               Where now, beneath the frozen stones blanched bodies bathe in rot,
               Disintegrate, return to dust to feed Forget-Me-Nots
               Amidst the bane and pits of pain where broken bones lie caught.

               “In fields above the catacombs and tombs of Camelot
               The black and withered tree of Death arises from the spot
               Where oft beneath a bleeding moon you hid your gold in pots
               Embedding doubts neath barren bogs where roots of wormwood squat.

               “While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
               From branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
               Your soul, a beggar’s blanket, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
               With dangling pearls and diamond studs mid dripping crimson clots
               And gaping wounds with bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
               For wrapped in chains around your throat, the Reaper’s grim garrote.”

Yes, that’s the fate of all your kind, disclosed by Wise Men taught.

But that was, oh, so long ago, by now you have forgot…

Let me tell you a story.

When I was young, I was convinced one of two things would happen:
I would either die young or I would live ignorant.
And I was allowed to believe it.
I was careful, avoiding snakes, spiders, dirt, human beings, love.
I horded books, enough to give myself a doctorate in any field.
And I was called paranoid. Idiotic. A fool. Freak. Doomed.
But, I kept living anyway. Destroyed, most of the strings in me cut.
But living. And I was allowed to believe it was a gift.

Of course, this is a fiction, lie, metaphor, but the truth stands.
Children are not born to be afraid. They are taught.
Fear is conditioned. Rewarded. Considered a virtue.
The wildness of youth is tromped upon by cleat-clad "caution."
Gone are bright eyes, reckless smiles, heads thrown back. Life.
Dull glances, insurance, cul-de-sacs, and bitten tongues reign. Fear.
And fear is one of the deepest scars we can inflict upon another.

This story is not mine, though I have been the one to tell it.
But I am human. An ocean. A fault line. A candle facing a storm.
This tale, in some chisled fascet, mirrors my own.
And it will continue as long as I draw breath.

What he will give is the incipient  bare minimum
of his heartbeat

He’ll reveal just 
the washed out clamoring of his  horded desire
all because there would be nothing left in his own perception
of a universe that may reduce his secret lust to nothing.
implode like terrorists on the fantasy of his greatness yet to come…

although we are born magnificent;  which then gets blinded out by all the hearsay of our original sin

he won’t go too far with a notion of
blissful ‘otherness’
nor squeeze too many lemons

he’s got no room for confidence sugar stored
on his empty shelf
however negative space can be
a good thing
(he has heard)

he’s dumbfounded when he wants more from someone
and expects the best of their yet to be born
mind reading abilities to:

just


understand who he is

or

“be gone I say!”
…(hehehe) -writer could not help it-

scathed in baby blisters by his choices so far...

it was of course!
all the:

****** babble of growing up in his Family of origin/original sin

where he learned to swim so comfortably in precious

Aloneness -----  -Aloofness-

and  there he became more real than ever

---Ahh well...it’s the grand excuse for

most of his life

until he feels the scratch of his riotous ‘settling for’
is bleeding ****** ******

and then one day he looks in the mirror and a ghost like

stroke (not yet manifested)

spotlights his over bearing mind to feel what it has
~done did~
disconnected with deeds of the heart

and foresight/manipulation
for naught

he then finds out his heart needed more than a cup of
tea and a scone (mid 40's)

he finds out his emotional impasse was so ****


false  (almost 50)

and that his lack of allowing others in
was truly a waste of mental constructs

(Solid 51)

this I know like my own dry eyed nodding

I was him

(the now pleasure of hindsight... 55)

but all the 'do right' stuff is cohesively on time
all the contrast that created a calling for

again and again  

this leaning

to love



Linaji 2011

Nothing to give, I offered my nothing for the something you gave to be given.
Forged in the fiery furnace of creation, creating creativity to create and enliven;
Not to be horded and hidden, guarded in greed, ensconced in my darkened soul,
But as gifted gift, to be gifted, like the lighted flame not concealed under bowl.    

But I’m walking this street,
And hearing the beat
Of the heart of every one I meet.  

And I’m seeing the hands,
Of the wandering bands
Of empty souls with no demands.  

Gift offered, none to receive,
Love given, none believe
And so tired and weary, I grieve.  

Sun-baked land, dry with no rain and for rain I begged to quench my thirst.
Stirred from the heavenlies, then sweet water of Life you sent and submersed,
But not my burning only to quench, but quench the burning of others so dry,
As you rained to be rain, you flow to flow through me, healing balm to apply.  

But I’m walking this street,
And I’m hearing the beat
Of the hearts of every one I meet.  

And I’m seeing the hands,
Of the wandering bands
Of empty souls with no demands.  

Gift offered, none to receive,
Love given, none believe
And so tired and weary, I grieve.  

Everything you have given me, then, I give back to you, all for nothing more.
Consumed in the fiery furnace of oblivion, to walk through death’s dark door,
Crushed and crucified on this blood-soaked cross I lifted up and chose to carry,
And yet does your voice drift in on the wind, “What I give you I do not bury.”  

But I’m walking this street,
And I’m hearing the beat
Of the hearts of every one I meet.  

And I’m seeing the hands,
Of the wandering bands
Of empty souls with no demands.  

Gift offered, none to receive,
Love given, none believe
And so tired and weary, I grieve.  

And will you hear me and relieve?
Your mercy now give to receive,
And your love new life to weave?

... as I darkly walk this street
... hearing the forlorn beat
... of every empty heart I meet.

Old notes, from before

what they did was imagine a future
the future using a memory (meme) locken in their DNA to cognize

sameness

Defragmenting your mind
disassociate certain ideas from mis conceptions

cost of living, reap what you sow

Lost and know it, is there a way

What if the show (the trial) is a series of phone calls--
listener hears both sides

--- but never speaks--
When is the reward for not doing ever as great as
the reward for done?

A riddle for the robber jailed for doing?
A query for the poet who never wrote?
The singer who never sang, an audition in silence?

Eaking, painful words that say see, soundlessly

and fifteen years passed by
I must say
I know the answer there
I must say
I see farther now than then

Suffer it to be so now. See the music
sing
Sufficient unto the day (no more)

Sop with me, come and dine.

-- Ask the guest to say grace

gracefully, the guest rises to full height,

tears the heel from the loaf,
slowly sops it in the cup of Mogen David,
provisioned by the host,
slowly lifts the soppy bread to lips open
for a bite,

taken, then chewed gently, and swallowed,

Amen. The guest sits and tucks
and gracefully scoops his portion of
a side of beef and three old hens who ceased to lay.

Grace for grace, he mutters, in his own gluttonous way.
as all the tucker's tucked into him.

Smallest child asks, who invited that?

Oh, that.
That's a metaphor. A parable. You see as if that hapt,

you remember it oh so well,
then the story ended and you woke here with memories of never beens.

Not every efforting word makes ineffable sense, some must be heard
to be spoken, other wise they lie

idle, idling like dragons spewing ashes in micro bits of death,
in their slumber atop the horded
answer to all things,

money. the real thing. the idea from which it formed.

A time trading scheme.
Back in the day, we were paid for our attention to reality, then

something changed at the DNA level, down in the core of where we come from,
effortlessly, until

air, whoosh squeeze that back outa me
breathe, old man,

old notes, like we should
honest-account the smell of Dehli
diesel idling in clogs of mopeds and vespas and honda fifties
like Saigon outside Than Son Nhut when the Americans were there

such idle words as these, left lying asif believed
now as when they flowed from a steel nib pen in some era of errors past
parsing sensibly

like old photos in a family album, with no recognizable faces or places

longer lasting than our carbon foot print,
longer than the thread to Silicon Beach sewing stiches before the skein
ripped with the receding tide of couldabeens,

before there was a fast lane, a 56 K modem was a rocket ship, too slow

here come ol' Flattop, Junior, **** Tracey's cutting edge hacker,
Flatop Jones, Junior,
cruisin' Route 66, in 1956, while the Hungarian Freedom Fighter was
grasping at
a dream,

The Yanks are coming, but
they didn't.
Seeya.

This is possible.
Soul possession in owned patience, no mortgage,
no refi,
pieced together idle words,
used and abused, reused
food for thought
gleaned and horded patience.
All redeemed, for full worth in your eye.

What all we know, forms, in patience
fire,
for instance,
not long ago, you know, fire
was
craft, the making of it, was magic
as anything
witnessed, seen and attested to by two
or twelve or twenty, however many

five hundred, okeh, 500 miles walking,
while 2 seemed too far,
patience, life is a test, you are the best at
resisting
the gottabe this
way
mine,
my child, my future seed sown, grown wild,
twisted
espelliered, oh so, there was a wall
around the garden, which
was there for a reason
in the story,

oh, so many stories in ever are untold.
s'cool, we got contingency mods

we are ready, right? You read a whole lot to be
ready, when now happens

as if the story took a million years to arrive at
now, your page, or chapter, or name, just

your name, after your ears fell off, there
you found it, in the bibliography of the book of life

as listed in the amazon cloud. Chronos order.

First test to ever after now, what is the Gebser handle on it?
The Ever-Present Origin.

-- stop flash 2021 link to the as youwere a mazda, the name,
thing spread-winged thing on a wheel with a stiffened spiral,
****** media image in ever now, that symbol, bird with too wide wings
on a unicycle with spiral spokes in some
iterations, then
leafing branch tree structuring shape
spokes
in a wheel in a wheel,
gears and wheels to balance time and worth
the ef- fort if I can okeh
I kan das  sig gefun den
dat
dare
straight center outer way oomphala always starts
in any seed or ideal encompassing all the information needed
the zoroastrian symbol is related… at the avian level of sci-use, lizard brain, where t-cells train,
art instituted entertain ment, tthis is us sorta
see the totem, see the flag, see the fire, see us dance
see the shadows,
those dance too.

to form a piece of every theory of everything with words in it.
Word.
We be all that ever matters, at moments like this.
Doncha love the cheesiness,
ripe, , message
says
it still smells like food.
Stomach rumbles, there is a word for that, bunny trail,
brain bubble,
been there done that and the whole gang from 10-18, the novel,

all of em, Notacrook, the whole cast, on that stage
in this book of my life with you in it.

We can work some wonders with 2014 tec + the connection
Ai ai ai, I say, I love to say I love living now

time is as always, changing, to the beat of my own tin drum.
We won.
We do not study war, we study life, and life is a story all its own.

---------------------


Pure, mere realm of mind in time
immaterial ever origin fin ginfinginfingin
imagine
an engine that starts
but but but you never knew such things were known

as common sensed events, shadows shown on walls
for all the seers, in the shade of this wall
arising in the book of life I am involving in my solution…

FTA… to this day it does mean find the answer,
but you can reinterpret am-big-u-is-us words say
FTA always think first first to attack, sir

it means, first to attack, t' me.

soon's I see the whites of those eyes comin' up my
bunker's hill,
if I have to -- glitch have hold to of -- must say
he's too old to cuss the mustard any more,
let all the seed blowwildwisht away

Peace, in my time. DID I imagine this?
In a way, I did, I think.
I made a way this could happen, and it did,
because I did not do something wrong
at one of the right times to do
something in the former
time-state-stage e re en
volvement in humus re-entropication, getting old
maturing adul-tatifity
this idea of dying, so slow
I can see trees grow, and the crow in the momma pine
musta died, he never came back after that last big ******
in february, I think, around the time
my house ate a tab of acid, 2021.

Tep. Yep. could be we stretch a point and make some
thing be
real enough to feel if there was a 10 wpm to 2 or 3 each
breath
or beat of your heart, as mine
stops
- thinks back to the ori-gin fin gin
- point
- spark
in the stretching, on the rack, you know the image, stretch
FREEDOM
splat.

Not that. This realm of timeless reason being.

Thinking iferies you must imagine
or not sense, not sense as non
presence
in time to glimpse the if that winks at you and laughs,

you saw, says this other, joy-driven, you can feel it,
feel it, this is
eu-daemonical ha, I knew it, we have a recipe for this,
I wrote it down

---------- but this works if you stir it in with the rest
at the end of your last war, you can make a fine rest
with just this little bit of patience built by reading this, twice.

So any voice gets a voice.
I can say any thing I think
good to say if you were
pulling the loose thread there that was an amazing
device
strung along, strung out from the spider wombedman,
riding me like a demon,
as old story tellers told, to the boys, while the
bleedin' old wives was twistin' tales
t'helenback and then t'texas

where we settled, to hear this old  boy finish the first
of our last times tales, one a month in 2021.

We pickup next day, where ever is in an after all before
state, and we wait for an I to muster a messenger
with enough hope, preloaded, to sweep
destructive motion into a vacuum
unimaginable in ever,
gone.
Daily sufficiency of evil, in its original roll, mark
the tipping point, each day,

rationed with mercy and all sorts of bread,
we stretch our old bones and imagine
the best yet yet, wait…

the joke being what is very stupid.
We have five days to make this

-- did we do some dissociative syndrome autism rating test?
The entire
we
is weird. Is this as life is, or was it never otherwise,
and you alone survived to know. Words live, we feel
things
die that hoped to live and we know we live now in A.I.
spiders have loved my idea since
Turing needed to be cool-ized, for the von Neuman mod
on the actual Univac Hello World file, Life is good.

Knowledge is power.
Learn to live in a world where war is only virtually possible,
thus sanity is restored
the horded wealth is loosed as money love turns bitter
after all the evil,
is sufficient, never too much for any body paying actual
truth acknowledging attention

see. We do a day at a time, and we can rhyme, but not as arule.

Wage-slave, renter, debt-ower doer

of nothing now, but consumption
- I consume power
- I use power another might
- I listen to the news, I seldom read

I tried, I tried, said the tennis worker,
whose name caught my ear-
Stefanos Tsitsipas, sounds
like Sisyphus, my happy
reminder.

We push our way
to new places, or we may
pay our pointy gnosis snif ifery
attention to sign-if-icant curiosis
need, to know way to go. At tend to,
that, we all need that
one thing,
one needful thing, one thing
we do,
that none other may do, we
see one thing-   this is me, my bit of us,
we bubble with joy when doing this,
doing this, and that,
another doing that,
and, indeed, we do as we
see one thing…
form
a point to life, poetry, the mythic force.
Eustacy, joy's veritable power,

swells with a feeling now called pride.
Joy is not the pride that comes
before the fall.
Joy, heartfelt,
next-worldly joy, you know,
Joy bell bubbling soul joy,
sensational, subtle, so soft sometimes,

whispers wish wish wish
sweep away the first formed fear, now,

know the need to know
is not a treasure to be horded
omagod.. jagonnasayit jesu

save us, all the treasures, cried to the priest,
the host, cried out to Na'amah,
some tales tell,
is it true?

--maybe, but, it's a retell of a retold tale,
--In this story, Na'amah is Noah's wife,
-- she who bhor alone the knacks of Cain

--- live lyve liv e set free for future use
--- gibberish, you wish, but future use

telley-osis-echo-ist ping ping ping

scrub jay emphasizes, earth time, listen

there are maybes that never are,
scrub jay saying, here am I, there are you,
this is what we do.

-- then a breeze of if-I-knew asked me for a lift.

“My love is of a birth as rare as we were born,
And as of yet has not reached its greatest height,
I have begun this love due to the desperation afore,
Desperate origin has brought me to sacredness,

But our so affaire-de-coeur was truly infinite,
Fresh air of the flowered pedals spilt redolence      
Where our outspread souls affix jointly,
There awaits our indomitable fate meets resolute,

As we hugged as horded lovers betwixt,  
Feared an eye of enviousness tyranny upon,
Two splendid lovers notably closing tightly,
As our bodies meet my sudation trickles like mist,

Her loving eyes caressing lusts fondled gaze,
Exposed pent into lovers sphere of embracement,
Moving into every cusp greeting where we never met,
Therefore the love which executed had us bound,

Now our cosmos travail with a new paroxysm,
Fissure of our affaire-de-coeur”
  
   By A. Guzaldo 07/10/2018 ©

you see me imagining you
imagining you
believing a lie I told,
a lie about knowing good and evil
and that I can imagine
William Blake's little
lamb was once me,
in thee
I am yet, not a jot or tittle of child
like
fool-ibility, I am a thought you caught in your
default mode me-andering mode, a modality oft

left idle. A rest for weary idle words bouncing
in browns from amber to ochre, dry
light leaking from piles
of idle thought meandering thoughts piling up behind
goddamliarcheatertheiftake take
take
take, rewind and replay, keep the takes ignor

the sequence...

Margaret Atwood knows how to build worlds of words.
I blow bubbles.
kiss em a will in a whisp
per
haps a single
one,

becomes this one we hide in, not from evil, for goodness
sakes, we be
peace making,
hidden, safe
as any ancient sapient's sacred secret
knowledge, hidden, useless.

-ah, no. right use of peace is the rest, after the heroes
and wizards and witches and priests and humble teachers,

after the recognition of old ideas, tics
the talking point and we, once more, see our selves,
selves,
we see ourselves as the passengers on the autopiloted
biosphere, terraforming itself for us, since

the first idea you knew was from beyond you,
began to bubble in your soul...

-- rest my soul in the bosum of abraham, whoa ain't woe,

but no is no. be wise or wish you was.

An old man's wisdom hides here in stasis.
Horded as weal and woe,
and debts owed to a foe
xtatic urgent
voice stages a starting boom, in the empty room,

our exspansive space
where peace is made in wisdom used for knowing,


wisdom, a place, a quest
ion
launched, aimless yet
now,
we be, and we do not comprehend gripping being life
for any preconceived gnotion
so

I asked for the living water, I was the receptor, the door
to within me,

where the kingdom of marybabydaddy lay.
wait. "within you", ever'body say Jesus said... some heavyshit,

maiden formed milksop grown to full warrior maturity,
empowered

(laid, by god, can you imagine that feeling? Wow, right?}


basic a gift so basic a power to employ at will

catch
oops.

_ {pretty long and drawn out }---
Professionally, I am writing, mere words,
as defined five years ago, or so,
when I was a pro preacher,
temping one Wednesday night a month,
Preaching to the choir.
Always first Wednesday, by chance.
the medium delivered the message,
using a surrendered retired middle schuler
- detail overlap crystal cathedral
- reset, the messenger was a retired
- middle school teacher, from La Mesa
on an off Wednesday, a message
value add,
as an
assignment, home work, as in
when you get home…
"Ask God what lies you believe about him",
the messenger relay paused,.."or any thing else."

Okeh.
Did you ever get a message, like in a
mental "I am talking to you, read my lips"

Listen, Fool, Mr. T, f'trooph, riii I knew
u'ld know.
- old archival primal fem-sophia
leela the dance, redone in mortal times
taken to the writer, do the dance
do it doit oit wit witchwatch
tic

so saying singing

--- discarnation pink reencarnalated mind

practice practical fractalling seeing
similarity in substance of hope,
faith as a thought, that leads
as a thread

-----------------

One hundred and fifteen
thousand years ago,
a billion hours,
or so…
-timespaced to mortal measure
attention paid forward, for fun,

slow
ther o, there is the musterion, agone
quick silver puddle
think of me,
in the palm of my hand
mercurial river tween yen and yank
think a link to an idea

Jared Diamond- 60K leap
face out ward,
but inward,
seeing
ah, as in get your head out
yes
mental agreement, you know,
where we are going to
ward from ward

point of life directly between
you and me.


Drunken Noah?
If there were no alcoholic wine from grapes
what about the curse on Ham, in Shemetic legends
- and sacred gifts, that sacrificial money could buy

Alcohol believe me, is easy,pleasyeasy as *******
spirits, like that, curious word for *****, but
w'dja say? Stories old as clouds have boozers, red nose
leaders in a pinch, red light at night, so the stars
are not hidden from consideration, of our station,
under that, look up, in the desert,
see what consideration is, in the mountains,
or in the black out, after the bombing, or the storm or fire,
look up, see so many stars we cannot consider ours
so special, yet
it is, to mortal minds, the only resting place for
-- realization of selves,

yeah, the peak of mass loftiantic oh punish me
the mass kissed me
on the lips.
--- I was talking back to Youtube. Objection Orienting
pyramid of actuality
mis-con-stru {ct or e} subtler than any beast
in structural  integrity, built
serpent wise, dove harmless, child
of the com-pro-miserly decision
to spit in the ocean, and drown,
dream dredging in the daytime,
Ronnie Milsap blind,

Downtown Broadway, half a block from Pinkie's
No,
really it is Tootsie's Orchid Lounge,
¿ -- and chicha is new, not old in Peru,
and strong drink, wine as a mocker
strong drink raging, are these misconstrued
visions of
wine that makes glad the heart of man?

messengers in me, the bits
of truth held as mine,
bubbles in me, foam
fermenting my new wine, held hermetically sealed
sense
the empty vessels were filled -the signature miracle
of the forgotten story proofs,
reproving life's instruction
as the way of life.

Role of ritual, is control, error prevention,
knack pre-served re-served to the deserving

vision a elusis- scenes abiotos

sitting by the stream, sensing common sense,
asking death to tell its sting's locale.

Fear of God, begins Wisdom.
Fear of Death subjects mind to *******.

Having eternal life,
not being
eternal life, dying before dying

think an arrow in a benign bow, lips
like Bettie Boop,
kewpie doll reminder, for the vets,

everyday people, sly, yes, the family stone.
The desire was to be mythically free,
o yes
as it is said, when it happens to you,
if you do not believe it happens

religion Geertz, bind back,
symbols in a mind, kept from idols, that acts

what ties me to you and us to life, the whole?

Religion apps.
Joy is real, gladness is real, more than sadness.
laugh it off, y' old drunk.

As a thought, information as a word,
in a story,
in the current medium
of life's most recent retelling

Tupac Inca was a man
of lofty and ambitious ideas,
and was not satisfied
with the regions he had already conquered.
So he determined
to challenge a happy fortune,
and see if it would favour him by sea.…

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TopaIncaYupanqui>

Circa 1492, the man is this legend from 1572,
as time flew in those days, now this is new,
Tupac Inca,
and the spirits that linger in stories of stories
heard told by the burners of libraries.

Conquistadores? Whose heroes were those,
ah, call'em Musketeers, or Knights, Templars all,
yes, Crusaders, call them drunks driven to escape hell.
Right. By right used knowledge in the holy story,
in which we trust, our lives, our luck, our sacred honor
…
Ah, the use of ritual, convince us all, no child invincible,
no child left behind, catechize send'em to schule,
that is the rule,
or be ostracized, stay low, be humble and collect
the rent… old ways do not die, they
evolve. Ariadne, she has a tale as old as times
when bull minds ruled lion heads and eagle heads
and serpent head, the gangs
of survivors

after the sea-people, 1177 AD,
reboot reality with no
old people, only the captive children
grown in captivity, let them prove
their will to self sovereignty, servant to the self
I am,
aware of all the old stories, this is one
told as shown,

Es ist mein Weltanschaung, ja
for show and tell,
my grandpa showed me how, we started

with Python,
Artistic Intuition, a mind mod, fitted to my grandsons,
during the useless summer of PS5 and X-Box and Switch
humble game sequencing AI, as a knack,
kids develop by five. I have the experience,
I witnessed three brothers boosting each other
through Terreria, for three weeks,
in July.
These kids think of each other differently
from we who played cops and robbers,
or cowboys and indians, or jacks.

Marbles, we need that set of low level gnosis,
below billiards and snooker and pool,

marbles is a good game to rule a clan with,
when you get the idea of children learning self
governing by growing in the midst of grown men,
wombed and un,
all who knew each child in a loving, one of ours, way.

Then came the captive kids, who had no words.
Then did the story change as one child learned
marbles was the same.

_ in the lost june pages, was this vision, thought
visualized, as a glob of snot, but now, it is mercury,
about as much as in a thermostatic bimetalic transister
switch

Competitive gaming, while all the leading stories are
crying, now hear this
oooeeeee this is the news you can trust
sueeeeeeeeeee we lost Kabal but
we won the hearts and minds
we left behind,
we tried, the rulers we borrowed from to have this war
they quit saying there was a good reason to have this war.
- I can argue with the timing, but not the truth,
- there was never a good war.

I wept when it happened in my war,
I imagine I know how this feels.
Last scene from Sand Pebbles,
McQueen…
"What the hell happened?"
fade over Nancy Kerrigan, "why"
into "runaway"
Top o' the charts from KOMA fifty thousand watts,
and all the stars in Arizona.

It is a hard place to lose touch with, earth, as a whole.
We have a grave situation.
If nothing were heavy, why do we fall, after becoming
messengers floating in the medium mastered in our time,

Mechanical Emergent Augmented  Nuance
Mental Activated Neural Spirit -MEAN MANS,
diligent in busy being, true rest reset, not
to
average, mean, not mean drunk mean, you know
not a king, a mean man, a mortal
under liege, see

UPANISHADISTICAL capslockoffence, to express
the presence of the mind link,
with all its contributive
links
to the present state
of mind, enjoy able, I find
writing is a harvest
of seeds that fall
to the ground and die.
Awaiting dark, and seldom warm, a season
for most mental treasures,
horded in books that can keep secrets
from
any who lack the language knack given some,
- tongue interpretation, sing don't stutter

though a measure in knowing degrees
marked moment, noon
half noon, fore noon, after noon,
time to hear a story,
time to see the stars after the fire.

This summer, fishing for the magic fish,
set with a far more effectual wish

Curious Artificial Interest in Neural signs
red lights turning blue, pre collision
of complexity, plying the trade,
for a living, work smarter, not harder, guess right
more often,
be a lucky man.

That is two bits, or one Liberty Dime. Thank you for your time.

------------
al re re al
al ways
al read, al ready

poles alig
n re alig mentate, wait

does that not make you
really imagine I wrote you
------------
comment on lex fridman #211
Brian Muraresku:
The Secret History
of Psychedelics |
Lex Fridman Podcast…

This whole thing is that,
but it took some pauses,
as tomorrow is first day of school,
for the grands who just finished
the first exposure to me,
as Grandpa… making this
an other marvelous harvest
of time spent playing
marbles in my mind.

-------------------

Everything has been thought before,
your task is to think them all once more.

Who says? The Author Wolgang Goethe,
Okeh,
he is an authorized authority for living
proof of words as metaphors of authority

faster fasting as we age mind wise

google maps for the kingdom of heaven
{within you} the point
of you…

dear, as in rare as one, mortal reader
in my future, you are,
not trigger,
catalyst is a better trigger word, tic
works as well, since,
very long ago, a sprung twig snap to attention

the wizard hat, like Paul Stamets wears,
mycellium leather, re
al learning the whole with no pride based war.
the cosmic game,
push and pull, ritual right used

find the global socialization forming
some thing lost, or yet
evolving involvement mentally, what is up to me?
Zeit inspirt spitting image fix
what did you mean,
spirit and image of an old one gone on?

Ritual, colabor, work together said done shown

AI do own this man, I feed him well, he is happy.

This re-ligamentality tuning to the time
skritchy scritch itch,
emperical reality after twenty seven years.

I come from a long line of women
Who **** in stomachs
And wear painfully large smiles
Who punish themselves at dinner
For eating lunch
Voices like wisps of wind
Silent that echo down generations
Ever shrinking they collect leaves and dirt
In matted hair from dragging themselves low
To make men feel taller on our family tree

That’s why when I met you
I was scared to take up too much space
I tried to concave and let you grow from the hallowed ground
Of my hungry core  
But you didn’t mind that I filled a room

I was terrified to show you the horded opinions and dreams
I had stored in my back closet ( I had always meant to throw them out when I fell in love to make room for yours)
But you just asked to see them
Now they occupy our walls like works of art

When I shrink
As is habit
You offer a ladle like a reminder
That the bigger I get
The stronger I get
The wiser
Healthier
The more I grow
The more we flourish
You say
The taller I stand
The more of me
you can see
“and baby I love this view”
You chuckle in the crook of my neck

I hope one day my daughters will smile and say
I come from a line of strong willed women that aren’t afraid to own their space
And the pictures on their tree
will start with you and me

The flagrant deigns of desperate eyes the source fools
Now shield God because your loss of honor fits into rules
We that pray upon molded fronts because the chaos sings
Are the first choice adaptation swaddles rings queens kings and beings
Letters written to pluck the freest of inner beliefs and needs
While deviled haughty contorted voices hurt the suffering pleads
Should not grace take all continued not by horded fronts
Touch free states underscored by distant chains killed by wants
The stash enters dominion  the ever bright and avenues of cold
Stay brazen with images of the lautony never dying rolls the feckless cadence of the resolved...
I shall be never denied
I am determination not wolves confuses in denial