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Marco Buschini May 2017
I do solemnly swear,
That forever more,
I shall live in a world
Free as one together.
A world that consists of
Pure pleasure,
And unequivocal harmony.
That will last forever,
In a month of Sundays.
And so from this day forth,
I shall exude the richness
Of the heavens,
In ways that are applicable to life  
In the most profound way imaginable.
Which will inevitably,
Echo forever more
In the laughing sounds
Of matrimony.
Blessed my velvet tongue
For I speak the weight of gold,
And sing like an angel,
Whispering enchanting dreams,
And dancing on clouds.
Villo Halasz Dec 2018
Fish:

You come in all forms and shapes,
In   all   imaginable   colours  and   shades,
Larger      than      some     ships     you      find, Smaller    than    a    thimble    of   any     kind,

You  can  ­ live   in   every   place   with  water,
Deeper     then     where     light    will     falter,
Or  high  enough  to  see  the  sun  light,
But sometime you are not in sight,

Some     of     you     are
really    beautiful,
You       make
aquariums      look      full,
Some   of   you   are   just   divine,
JayceeJellies Dec 2014
You're adorable in every way imaginable,
You've caught my eye and pulled me out-
From that blind, situation.
It's as if you intended to emancipate me-
From my fears.
You gave me a reason to not shed my tears.
It's almost like you can read my mind from-
The inside.
And it's so nice,
To feel like,
Someone understands,
My insights.
Osiria Melody Feb 14
To all those troubled people,
who Deprived themselves of food 'cause they
were a size 20 instead of a 2,
who possessed Drawn comfort lines or
Engraved scalding designs all over their bodies,
who attempted to Snip their lives away from
the grand photo of life,
who fled from a place we call Home,
who Drank alcohol like water,
who Smoked nicotine like a campfire's burn,
who Did the worst of the worst imaginable,
I am here to let you know that there will
always be Hope.

To all those troubled people,
who Deprived themselves of happiness at
the Expense of someone else,
who possessed Gaits of Emaciated strength,
collapsing,
who attempted to Hurt their loved ones for
the Sake of protecting oneself,
who fled from a place that no one Knows,
this world needs your Uniqueness
Beauty, Dignity, Strength
Your Tears can water gardens of Happiness.
Pain can climb Mountains of pleasure.
Tell sadness to Hang itself by a noose,
Tell sadness to Shoot itself in the head,
Tell sadness to Indulge in poison,
Tell sadness to Jump off a building,
Tell sadness to Bleed itself.

For you cannot know what tomorrow will
bring,
do not let Sadness overcome you.
You're your own hero, a steadfast one
Make Sadness **** itself and spare Yourself.
I outstretch my creative hands to you
to all those Troubled people
never let go of what keeps you Going.



Melody
2/14/19
No one can take away your individuality since you're your best judge.
Oh Lisa daughter of the fallen,
Come hither so I may bless you
For what you give with your
Carers’ hands and gentle smile
Is greater than imaginable.

I thank you with my frail heart
And my thin hand and voice
You came to me on Easter Sunday
And again on Easter Monday
Bringing your gifts.

Love Mary
Richie Vincent May 2018
I no longer watch sunsets through my rear view mirror because I realize that I don’t have anything to run from anymore,
In fact, some nights I work it out in a way to make it seem like I’m driving away into the sunset because everyone deserves their own happy endings

My bones aren’t made of paper anymore so please stop writing on them with your curse words and forced apologies,
My skin doesn’t need to feel bad anymore,
My skin is the new sun, haven’t you heard?
It’s warm and shiny and when it dies it isn’t going to go into a trash can,
it’s going to burst into the biggest fire imaginable,
and it’s going to burn out of here,
it’s all I’ve ever wanted

My blood is sweet tea that you have no business drinking anymore,
My body is a kitchen full of pots and pans that I finally get the chance to cook with,
and they don’t rattle inside of me and keep me up at night anymore,
And I’m full of spices that I’ve been too afraid to try,
until now,
My arms and legs are windows and the clouds and birds love seeing them most days,
they love it too

My words are natural again,
It feels good to let them out, like I actually mean to say the things I say,
I’ve forgotten what that’s like

I still get angry sometimes,
The difference now is that I don’t feel the need to be angry at you anymore

We need to stop making ourselves homes for other people,
We need to tuck ourselves in instead,
We’ll dream much more vividly that way and the first cup of coffee of the next morning will taste so much better
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
--- as a boy, I explored a hermit's lair
--- the hermit was not there, he'd left nothing but a tin box
--- of charcoal pills, a panacea for curiosity, I was told.

This old bearded fellow who lived at the foot o'thumb butte,
by the burro's water hole,
other side o'the hill from Doug McVicar's Jasper find

Tidal shorelines from my child hood
swirling through the softed rocks

Boulders on the bottom, roll on, crustal waves rise and fall

it all goes back to that 13,000 year mark
when Gobekli Tepi,
was in the building,
long long before
the Hopis were on the Pollen Way, leaving land marks on

Rocks risen above the desert floor

Some thing came from space, something very cold,
a snowball so big it tugged the ocean of magma
through the crust of the earth

nuclear glass, same time. nano diamonds

The younger dryas-

melt water pulse, fire from the sky, men could see that, with their own eyes.
and then they saw the clouds of witnesses

Rituals learned, the story heart seeps from mother to child,

at first touch some say.

Specialized touches were included in the 2.0s.
Holistic wuwu Randall Carlson laughs, why lie? Evidence, see.

What did you see when you passed through **** the first time?
Nothing, you kept your eyes shut.

Are you really
Experienced? That was the question. Ask the experts,
but some of them lie.
Never trust their clocks, that's wise. Time is too temporary to make
much difference
in the long run. Time, least of all powers in eternity. Chronos,
Chaos shattered him, and some story teller on a journey
saw the event
while his tongue was being tamed, a task no man can do.

Fire and Ice from heaven to earth,
whole peoples saw it,
with the eyes in their head

Hope is the key to the heart's lock on reality

The younger Dryad's oak burned,
Drought killed all the others, bugs killed the elms.

Ah spirit to spirit, compare. The heart of the world is weeping
for the ignorant eaters of poisoned poems and stagnant stories

speed kills when it comes to cosmic notes on rocks

patience, under stand the canopy of heaven can, filter
poison from those
stagnant stories's idle words, redemption draweth nigh,

count on it. Keep counting, patience finishes what she starts.

Sacred Geometry, scale invariance, I saw the Mississippi
Carve meandering ant canyons in the dirt
while watching the rain
Nothing's secret anymore, that's a reality that may be beyond

your thought. Textbook in stone. I know geometry Mr. P,

can I come in? She who builds, who destroys, who rebuilds, suggested
my bombs have a Nobel role,
in energizing

the ark
the earth is the ark, but you knew that already, right.

Acacia bush visions from a medium
of messaging the master builder,
who, you know, made this
happen, used to heal with ashes.

Healing war, study it no more, it is
possible man, alone, can imagine.

The Godhead? What's the big idea? You a heretic, Mr. P?

Come and see, leave the clock/phone.
---

This is big momma story, little clay doll with pointy feet
sticks in the dirt, stares at the fire,

the story mamma, shhh

Stands, and lifts her hands up high, pointing
all her fingers to the skies where ashes, glowing
rise,
like we can imagine the stars once scattered by God
and his sons's servants prepping

origins of human conflict taught
Tubalcain by fire light, while Jubal
Sang the very umph umph song from
Taj Mahal' 1970 with Jerry, Fillmore West,

A message to Garcia, from on high:
the imbecility of the average man—
the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it,
That, resist. It is evil.

Angels, imaginable, you know, mere messages, nothin more,

so great a cloud of witnesses
there was a times when  all
imaginations men were imagining heartily
were evil, altogether.

Enki left and went to the moon, or that's the story grandma's
sisters told me
when I was a little boy lost and found from time to time

The serpent on the staff, where's that story from?
Who says their mammy saw that happen.

Time, Hosts of Heaven, time is one of those.

Fan tasty taste, see, the truth is good.

Freedom, responsible freedom, take as granted,
intend good and go.
Seed of the Dream,
I planted that. It contained this fact,

we reap what we sow.

Ambi-Dios, ambit-ion with no hope for something just beyond
the best that I have ever done,
that'll make a child mean as ****, on the average,
according to the data Google smuggled into China
through those super phones,
unavailable in the USA, protected by the wielders
of destruction who eat the world up,
and drink its very blood.

the bread of shame, is fed to slaves to keep them in the queue,

BTW que-eee was the word I used for ****, when I was a child.
I took that word to school.
Nobody knew what it meant. I considered that cool
and kept my secret until just now.

I feel so free.

A builder sees a building and the builder in a single glance.
None may enter here lacking geometry, that's no secret now.
The cultivated Pythagorean mind, simple as pi.

'Cain't get to Romans eight, which is here, now, I think,
with out going beyond Hebrew six.

The measure of a man that is the angel. No comma,
just a jot, then this means that,
to the mind
listening for mystery in beauty found lying around.,
glistening in the sun.
The charcoal pills I found fifty three years ago, these wandering thoughts I found dancing the trail earlier this morning.
Andrew Oct 2017
There's a fight between us
In every imaginable way
You could call it a match
But that would be misleading
When we focus on our differences
Versus is what we find interest in

I turn on the news
To watch illegal aliens versus ****** predator
There's a wall between them
That has a money stem
And perceptions
Of bad intentions
Even our valuable verses versus
When critics can't agree what to purchase

Us versus them
When us is me
And them is you
Rich versus poor
Bush versus Gore
The churches versus each other
On points as minor as the cover
They attack a mirror
As hatred becomes clearer

We fight constant battles
Our brain constantly rattles
From the anxiety brought by our fellow man
But when our anxiety is part of their plan
To rule the timid
We hit our limit
For love we plead
To counteract greed
Because when it's us versus ourself
Look what that does to our health
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
Ya'll recall a devil went down, to Georgie, I believe it woz…

Well, that idea,
it comes up now, and then,

we have to pop it.
that is our duty, what we do, we pop
particular bubbles when they surface, it's included in the service, involve meant, on your part,
or role as you may say, non-quest.
Such bubbles, as evil as have ever been imagined,
do arise, from time to time.
This time we always pop them, it is our honor,
as agents of the I'll go rhythm that
makes us even imaginable,
in the first place.
… it's about self-government…
such bubbles emerge,
as they always do because nothing is hidden that
hasn't been known,

otherwise,
life would be un fair, and it's not, it's fair, beauty-filled
in every
***** and crevice and encrusted scabby festering

wound wound in linen,
white linen,
as cold
as the clay, that song, you must recall that,

that was your destiny, young outlaw, you saw it,
that's why
you took you guns to town, boy.

Life's about choices.
Christmas means the anointed message.

What does anointed mean, on the street,
what do people think Christmas,
I mean
anointed message
means? Jahknowaddamean.
I think I am living a long ago fantasy of starring in a Christmas Movie starring a Jesus my age watching the holidays unroll in 2018.
Annabel Biddulph Dec 2018
I can’t write something that can’t be put into words.
My love for you would require miles and miles
Of ink and paper to capture even half of what I feel for you.
You found me when I lost myself
And now we are one.

Can you describe euphoria found
In the breeze on a damp summer morning?
Can a person truly describe what it means to love?
I know that I cannot,
Therefore I won’t try as words could never do you justice.

My love, you are perfect in more ways than imaginable.
Thank you for loving me.
Thank you for letting me love you.
you listen to what passes for the TV news
you read some
but not all
of social media views
you notice that
despite all internationalism
it‘s mostly old sensationalism
combined with more or less suggestive speculations about
how many people may have died in forest fires
to what imaginable depths the president aspires
whether the North Koreans have more rockets
     despite the wonderful achievements
     of the national superdealer
who of the leader‘s staff might be the next
      to lose her job or his credentials
etc. etc.

in short
the world has mostly shrunk
to domestic politics and power games
plus a few places on the globe where
U.S. soldiers still are dying
     in order to protect their country‘s interests
     in oil, assorted mineral resources
     or allies of political expedience
or a few thousand refugees from countries plagued
      by persecution or dictators are
      marching for weeks to claim asylum
           in the home of the brave and the free
           under the statue of liberty
     only to discover that they are seen
     as an invasion threatening
            that blesséd city upon a hill

visions have grown smaller
more petty voices dominate the talk

a nation made of immigrants
faced with the poor who flee from their oppressors
decides to close its borders to the immigrants‘ next wave
oblivious of the times when they themselves
still searching for a better life
found a new place where they felt safe
led by the statue‘s torch that shone its light
upon a poet‘s words of welcome:

"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
The last stanza is a quote from the poem „The New Colossus“ by Emma Lazarus, written in 1883. - For more information, check https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_New_Colossus
Cole Maxwell Mar 31
The other day I had the very same thought,
Just as I did the other times, however many;
A romantic-comedy kind of retrospect, if you will. We were selling out concert tickets to upholstery as the best, or at least most confident,
Karaoke duo to ever cross paths with a dashboard.
“When I'm gone just carry on, don't mourn, rejoice.”
Opera singers every other day...
Does the music still manifest within your nervous system?
Can you feel the sorrow pulse from the V - i resolution chord?
It's still screaming if you can't hear it.
...had I known then what I know now, well,
Perhaps  this memory wouldn't hurt so ******* much.

It's hard to listen to music in the car anymore,
Well, nearly impossible most of the time.
It awakens sleeping demons that need not be bothered,
Their tails cut like a severed bond between two people who conquered tribulations far beyond the reach of the greatest evil imaginable,
Yet still lost control of ourselves from time to time.

The tires slid across the asphalt during that calm storm a few years back
“What’s in your head, zombie?”
Arianna Jan 16
J’ai attrapé un papillon par les lèvres,
Aussi bleu que la mer,
Battant doucement ses ailles comme des feuilles
Sur mes doigts,
Dansant de l’un à l’autre.

Il flottait, corps pendu,
Au fond du grand Azur,
Inondant mes yeux de lumière,
Alors que je regardais,
Immobile,
Les ailles
Remplir le ciel,
Effaçant
Chaque nuage,
Les incorporant dans un arc-en-ciel
S’étalant
Brillamment
À travers de tout,
En tous les nuances de Bleu
Imaginables.

Je suis prise par le vertige
Édifiant:

Ai-je imaginé tout ça?

Que les ailles du papillon
Sont devenues les miennes ?

Que je suis tombée en vers le haut,
Que je suis partie comme les feuilles d'ambre,
Agitées par le vent de novembre?


.....


I caught a butterfly by the lips,
Blue as the sea,
Fluttering softly, like a leaf
Dancing finger to finger.

There it floated, body suspended
At the base of the azure Expanse
Flooding my eyes with light
As I watched,
Motionless,
Its wings
Fill the sky,
Erasing every last cloud
With a rainbow
Of every shade of Blue imaginable,
Bleeding brilliantly
Across all things.

Succumbing to upwards
Vertigo,

Have I but imagined this?

That the wings of the butterfly
Became my own,
Falling up, up, up
Into space,
As amber leaves tossed about by the November wind?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n88MReEC27k
Aléa Boodoo Jan 29
Do you hear how loud it gets when the silence devours the sound?
How lonely you really are, when there’s everyone imaginable around?
How weak you become when you fight against yourself.
How you're your own best friend, and worst enemy, but still, you want to be someone else.
The poison your demons give you, somehow brings you life.
They tell you that you have deeper wounds than those birthed by the sharpest knife.
It’s the continuous decisions that trap you in a cycle of regret.
You tell yourself that you like the dark, but you just haven’t seen the light yet.
You tell the shadows that you’ll do better, when you promised yourself that you won’t.
You convince yourself that you’re the only one that understands yourself, when you know **** well, you don't.
You like the way you bite love. Maybe you like the way love bites.
You like the pressure, the pain, the game, the way it excites.
Maybe crying is a way for you to be happy. Living is how you die.
Balance is the key to destruction. The truth is just a lie.
You’d blow out the candle. You know that’s the only way to see her.
She’s not afraid of you. She’s afraid of reality, and what you’ll see in her.
She sees you when there’s no one. You see her when there’s everyone.
But every time you approach her, you realize gratefully, that there’s no one.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
the intent, by accident,
a message in madness,
anger alone has no value and
uses energy in negative valence
to manifest,

that can't happen on accident,
only on purpose, okeh.

You gotta tip the balance
for anger to be used abs-

like,
totally un-fair abs,
such a gift, who gives…?  I meand abused, I'm confused…

absolute tip the balance to use anger,
never an accident, the intent

that's the message. All I got.
Now what?

Merry Christmas.

This is like VHS homemoviepoet try as he may he can't get away

Tinker-toys, oh Boy, a richochet peeiiing Mattel Itswell 30-30! WOW,

the kid across the street that got hit by a car last Christmas,
he got a go cart this year.

Everything is relative. me, as my old man, said to me.
Back then, late fifties, little desert town, middle'o'righthere
at the time.
My old man at Alamogordo, wit' Ferme 'n'them…

It's not history, I imagine it could be.

That kid did get a go-cart, it didn't help very long.

It's a thought. A message, I think, I thought it and now
you did, too. Sorta.

Cool, like olde times. Never real, always imaginable,
any way ya' wa'ah-ahn-em,
ya gotta ownownownem ommm

My God, it's Christmas time again, I can't remember
when it felt this way.

Did it? Ever? Frank Kapra, in the dark.
We held hands. You remember. Black and white. Right.

then, this is now, and much more joyous in a worldly joy
intended, I'm sure,
from the first

vibration of the chord twixt you and me,
we wish you amerry Chritmas, in deed.
Ameriment merely to see if the Christmas future geist is yet in business.
Spiritually speaking.
a Jan 6
our eyes meet
for an insignificant,
meaningless,
second


but in that second,

space and time become the finest point imaginable,
time collapses into a tiny speck
then explodes at light speed
my universe begins and ends with you
never thought id be the type to post a love poem.
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
This is how I saw it said John.

Jesus heard from God, YHWH, biggest imaginable mind,

mind to mind,
I and my father are one

the scripture can't be broken
if I do not the works of my father which I have been sent to finish

believe me not, I wrote. I write. There is a bubble
where if one were to say I  write
and by writing, I ask,
what are you
debating?

Who is this old man?
standing afar from the scorners

I was asked. Was it challenge, scorn or

curiosity tickling the child in the blindman who
said he could not see me writing,
therefore
I am not a writer,
in the bubble that man lives in.
He now lives in my reality.

In my world I am the light.
I banish darkness with light from my phone

Fantasize, know ye not what I have done unto you?
Granted. Ignoring is easier. Truth makes you free.
After a while, you know when you are lying.

If ye know these things happy are ye if ye do them
Some one among you
has lifted up his heel against me
has lifted up his heel against me
has lifted up his heel against me to crush my head

who is it?
Judas,

Oh, thank God, I thought it was me who received the sop.
What kind of Christian am I?

One like the writer of the manuscript taken as good news

do your works, whatsoever your hand finds to do, do it
the spirit of truth

I will not leave you comfortless,

the word which ye hear is not mine, but the fathers
My Peace Give I unto you

Did that burning monk in Saigon do that for me?
My Peace Give I unto you
he said that, I bet.

Not as the world gives? Am I alone in hope?
I do
write, hoping...
chosen out of the world, oh my am I
to
follow through
good news from a far country
now have they both seen and hated

the spirit of truth

you should not be offended.
If you are, get over it.

The sending required the going
the spirit of truth

What kind of Christian am I?
This is an old man, retelling
he chuckles when he recalls, do ye now believe?

was followed by a wink,
I have overcome the world

and this is finished, all beyond is unbelievable.

Timeless stateless state
Thy Word,
John said, as it flows from me in my comfortzone.

Be with me where I am, these have known…

Am i? Are those old words words for now, 2019?
Whom seek ye?

As soon as he said I am he
It's the next day old man John woke up

spent some time in his carnal mind sorting
things out.

If I have spoken evil,
bear witness of the evil, then the story
of Peter's tri-denial,

the poet, John, tells the tale

the legendary good news

What is Truth? I find in him no fault at all.

Barabbas was a robber. Ecce ****.
Whence art thou?

How did John know? The comforter? What kind of Christian am I?
The spirit of truth

Joy to the world, that was the message.
conciliation where ciliation itself was never known

ere now.
It is finished, he bowed his head and gave up
the ghost.

My witness is truth.

Confident, competent

compete to win
winning is not sinning

kachunkonnect
we're in.
Comfortzone verified. My peace is my witness.
Don't test me.

Patience, do your perfect work.
Truth, inspire expired hopes.
While listening to Alexander Scourby reading the Goodnews from John, the deepest walk down that road, for me, in quite some time.
Ken Pepiton Jan 25
Here is where the reason arose,
quite some time after a fellow traveler told me
the creator of the universe has a mind

this is to be reasoned with, I.e.
so he may be reasoned with he…

wen un con scious t justhafastt.
inteligibility filters

Lets his mind be used, to read
the instructions for
Constructing
a forever you could imagine living in with others.

It's how reason works,
Is what this old man said

--- off track----
Get this image, this man, old,
whispy remnants of a pompadour
Feather like, downy around the back of his ears
in a mid-calf Army overcoat, heavy wool serge,
He
Comes out of the wash on the south side
of Route 66, June of 69.

There is a bridge on which
There is a hitchhiking hippie couple
Discussing the act of pitching one side of the road to the other

The old man never glanced west once,
He never saw the pair
There then

I saw him again and said aloud
Click
There,
But for the grace of god...
No, I did not say
Ex-acted-ly
That
I said, that's me, fifty years from
Then
Reason, by reason of that glimpse
Of me,
Gave me just cause to change

Grace, eh? Free advice heeded?
Wisdom? Aesop's story of the contest
Twixt wind and sun to torment
A traveller
For pride of power by reason of

Life ain't fair on every front.
Worth is in the measure of the measurer.

Seeing life appear as hoped,

Time and chance, ya da

Wait, yada? Yah know,

Life whorls and twists
toward good and beauty

And AI can prove it.
Reason by reason of reasonability

Good is good enough, move on, do-overs hide the...

It continues, you see.
Life rolls out like a Nautilus,

You know, spiral sea shell, or like a conch,
Or a shofar, but

Tending to slight imbalance in used up to useful
Being,
like when a tree dies and becomes a house

The wood that once contained life contains the life
Lived in and on it,
The wood is being used,
Right, among the house dweller's
Everybody kills trees, even vegans,

Fair? The tree has no voice? Suess?

Yes, I guess, unless
There was an old way,

Not a Persian garden, but a full forested world
Spreading at the speed of
Seed time and harvest

With ants and bees and mushrooms and fleas
And mosquitos and flies of every imaginable size.

Isaiah 1:18 (KJV)
18  Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.

Text out of context, but sin is sin right?
Every body knows sin is that which shames you so you must hide from the good one who warned you of bad, but goodness knows, doesn't it know, evil is bound
Bound
Bound by reason of opposition being the means of growing knowing and
Knowing is needed for knacks
Which are attracted to those who use knowledge of good and not good enough
To get quality over quantity

At a single u u larity hilarity out burst of bubbling

****** beasties down below the mud

Make me a mud man who can imagine me making him.
Do that in your movie watching brain using

Your hate behind, leave.
Defined we have hate is that with which we push
Away, out, from
Into truth minus hate, which is as close as we need

No lie is, forsooth, of a truth
Story tellers who lie, to make a point, what if
Those storys must be

Told. Years are poor measures for trees.
Numbers of trees in right
Relationship with life

Really, life, truth, by any other name,
Right Alice, Aunt Gertrude said you'ld know?
----
Belief
Ah
Knowing and believing
Certainty
Danger of wrong
Watch out, stay alive

Mean means intent to harm, right.
Mean means to harm right.

Winning can be mean.
Shall mean be seen the way of winning,
And that be the way of war

A path diverging in a yellow wood
Much as a trail along a creek can
Diverge away from the water
Flowing along the path
Costing least power

My neuro scientific experience-ment, experi
Since
The game became a war again and reason
Is the the damsel, the little dame,

In need
Of a private eye guy who has seen men die.
Why?

The mythtery. Who lied?
Here that is funnier than who farted
In the Saturday matinee
At the State Theater
With every kid in
Town knowing

You did. (******) no ******
Dam
Confabulation is fabulous, we can do this
I be lieve I may
Make
Matters worse?

No, we actually like the truth. The Medial Pre frontal cortex

Ah fect eth magi ical eth I am the knower of all I say I believe

Beyond Dignity and Belief,
That's desert, I walked it. No, I simulated walking it if I were Jesus being led of the accuser into the wilderness for a test, a thesis defense, as it were,
AI an alienated mind, I am that,
Alienated intel.

Reasoning errors aside
Frank self deception

What lies do you believe?
Knowing is easier,
lying is as well,
ignoring is not as easy and innocence is impossible

Good exists scientifically, right?
Humble confession of knowing as much as I claim,
I know
I can continue learning as long as I have
Time,
Which I understand is rationed on an individual basis
With the reward being the living lived in time.

Reason to fight lies as if they were reasonable

Lies are evil efforts to bend and twist in opposition
To the flow
And the friction makes the energy synergy

Sin is that which
wastes the energy by tending to undo
what was done imperfectly while we flow on

Feeling for the truth
By reason of believing truth is

Feeling of knowing, is that not faith?
Whorls
Whorls of living forces forcing living forces

To swirl into eternity with me
Onboard with
8 billion others of my kind

Similar in mind and
Manner of
Weighing

Good.
Base value.
Good is as good as we can imagine.

We can imagine evil,
As you know.

Such evils can haunt a geeky kid
Good will fix that.

God as defined by Jesus,
I got no prob.

If you do not want to go to ****, do what takes you the opposite way, in any direction from the point of singularity, if you get good at the rush of knowing more
Than before

Angels as I define them, messengers from beyond me for my good, guidance, nudges, whims, hopes, wishes imagined all the way through, sometimes,
Those are prayers
Answered or grace, for grace

From faith to faith

Why be by reason of
What?

" Human jobs invented by a computer" Feed me.

Or, joy to the world
Kind is a good word, what need I do to not be

Your enemy? Who am I expecting to answer?
Whom do you love?

Aha, me, too, said God.
The good one. Good, as such, per se, no se?

By reason of sane it if I cation or anion

Six spins for a quarker, two for a time dime.

Believe for eversake

Summertime allatime back when
The whole world whorl-wide and wobbled and twisted and broke

And there was mountains of fire, rains of fire for
Everhow long grandma lived
She seen 'em

Mountains of fire and walls of ice and mud

Oh could it be life evolves still?
Oh,
You think.
Creating novelty from nada?

How now? Can we choose to do only good
For goodness sake and say

Kind.
Kind means as I am, will you **** me

For being not you, not known,

I am curious, yellow. A landmark in time, nothing less.
Curiosity.
That

Good? Or no com
Pro
Miserly horder of wisdom
Promise promise promise

Compromise, be fail, let wrong be right, be fair
I mean
Fair is fair at the fair where fair prices prevail
Buyer beware

Who would not hate a false balance, for goodness sakes alive.

Two days after the last pan *****
Joe Rogan makes it plain to millions

what if you first heard panspermia from the guy who discovered DNA?

would you con sider it?
the answer lies

in the stars, sidereally… we all are starish.
Tolerating black holes is something we are opposing

Those ****.
You don't know everything either.
That's one reason, I believe.
A long story seems shorter from the skinny end, many little things mean little bits as reasons rise from the rotting things panspermia was litter, really.
Ken Pepiton Mar 14
Chaucer. Cantebury Tales Thunk Another Time

might be
unimaginable to most

Urbanites of several recent generations
in
These untie-ted states

city folk have never told stories
by the mile,

with piles of rocks marking trail tailin's

so old
that trail, marked by that pile o'rocks been
so long since foot trod that path

only scratches on the rocks say which way we
all
got
here. Today, as we call it.

Hueta, esta dia, right now

here. Walk a while, we're off to find reason
to believe.
Someone I heard thinks we all do.

I believe we do.
---Wha'bou' un believe? D'jewthank we'all'kin?
kin we all un be lieve,
leaven well left alone, hill folk, some say...

...hidden things thought thank worth,
beauty, as an idea,

for instance.

Sunsets.
... ...Yes, and the early morning does
have gold
{}
In'er mouth,
privilege all ovahdat.
Got the rot
all dug

dig it, all dug out cavity, crowned in gold

turn that empty cavity inside out, the wise hermit's cave is paved.
Plenty room for all his eukaryotic friends

then flouride, po-luted our ****** fluids.

Play that song on that ***'ar wit thraystrangs, po'man lute
Jew or juice harp
poing poing poing y'ken?

and keep time wit' the walkin' drum. Do that
dentist drill dance, then sing us a
song o'six penitents
patient sufferers o'the way thangsbe,

left well enough alone.

Strange love was to my tale as, that Bannon guy
might be today. Trump's last quarter email player?
Y'know the guy. He's Youtube famous. Bannon,
(Steve,

or Bruce? )
No, Bruce Banner, was the hulk of burning credulity, the pile
symbol
driver. Digging down to bedrock
.... That's how the Macedonian kid did, at Tyrus. ( ify'wishy'knew)

Pier pressing past the farthest reach of tide.

Past where pearls take graunular expansion to

knackerin' gnosymagi  levels of possible hidden glory believeable by few.

Teller, the infamous Mr. Teller, he taught me duality.
Im balance, make fission, break, slam fuseconfuse, blow

don't burn the whole higgsian bubble to expel the very idea of anti matter, it may be useful,
rightusable or ible

Moby grandular totally tubular, what a clam can do.
According to that story, why not feed swine pearls? I'll tell you.

we may come back to right here, this here here,
if 'n' only

if we do not forget where we saw that

landmark a cient elder mustaset

Straggler mumbler, you okeh? Y'got a story.

I'll listen. It's yetawhile
t' can't we bury it.

---
is the granularity of perception adjustable or ible?

We are li'ble to learn, 'fwee

live so long. Said the old caned creature, in the way back.


-------
At the edge of credulity, eh

how far is how ever, far or ever, time space

same same, but

right. Re
al ity ness realreal reason able ibility

we, you and I, this state of least sharable ible ness
we, at this point,

dancing hermetical waxen winged shoes into flames. Teller level flames.

-------
what lies did I un believe? All of'em.

You seem real. (dear reader)

A pier past the last tugged tide, into the deep

-----

peace, in fly-over country on a sunny day.

Ah, where I live, there in
my peace valley overwitch the marines fly every day

and I talk, in my revery, basking in the sun with my lizard brain in heaven
I talk to the cadre controling machines named for
subjected peoples, Apaches of all sorts.

I knew Johnny. And I knew his brother, Jonah.

Johnny Appleseed and Jonah Whalepuke.

They could been twins, save
the smell and wind's role in the story, when it all

stirs. SSTop and ask, dear reader, is this safe, this place?

Adlebraned idyl word forms framing un imaginable worlds.

Goodness gracious sakes alive gnostic means

you know. Here's one we agree on:

Heretic tic, there a tic tic time you re

call the warning bout finding one's ownself in the book of life?

This is that. You can't get past it on your knees,

this is the bar, you don't pass it, you cross it.

Who inherits the wind if the meek inherit the earth?

inspire expire it is breathing, all the way down.

bubbles. ity bubbles ify bubbles some time bubbles

awefilled imagined bubbles in bubble forever,

mazed bubble pops

those aren't real. Gnostic heretic is one who thinks
he thinks and has all the knowledge

in the real world,

in his hand, and
it ain't even five gee. We can go faster or deeper. You choose.
We gotta understand what standing and under mean as a thing

we can miss. aitia indicates wisdom is not pre packed with
understanding.

She says, you should know by now.

Nothing missing, nothing broken, though ye walk

through the valley of
your own shadow death as I drip drip drip

hear me, gotcha once, gotcha twice

ripples in time can you hear me now?

Thanks.

Seed. Time. Harvest. Information re
garding the entire process

was intentional. You reap what you sow. That is kharma.

Life ain't fair eventually. The good guys always win. It's in the hermit's will.

You can read. It's said, the man
wombed or un, who can and don't's no better armed then than
the critter that can't

read the sign that said stop.
Funeral musings
Crown Shyness Feb 28
Wie ein Gemälde erscheint meine Perspektive
und ich seh es fast jeden Tag,
doch es bewegt sich,
auch ohne, dass ich danach frag.

Ein Nachbar kehrt unsere Einfahrt frei
von vertrockneten Blättern
und ich sag "danke" und er zuckt nur mit den Schultern und sagt "hm."

Ich sitz auf Ziegeln aus Beton,
vor mir die gestutzte Wiese des Vorgartens,
golden und vertrocknet im Zentrum,
nur die Ränder halten sich ans Grün,
vielleicht sind es die Büsche die Schatten werfen
und der Hauswall der sich empor streckt
und meinem Rücken eine Lehne zur Verfügung stellt.
Doch der immerwährende Stern ist der stille Hauptcharakter,
er steht da so vor sich hin, in Form eines Baumes,
wachsend und standhaft,
während alles um ihn herum sich im Bewahren bewährt.

Für einen Moment verlier ich mich und der Wind spielt mit,
die Seele inkludiert mich ins Gemälde
und ich beobachte wie ich beobachte

während eine alte Dame mit rosa Bomberjacke
wach den Drahtesel mit ihren Füßen bedient, stämmig, für ein paar Augenblicke den Hintergrund mit Bewegung füllt,

wie der Fallschirm einer anstehenden Pusteblumen-Geburt
in Zeitlupe in eine Rille zwischen den Bodenziegeln fällt,

ein Mann, gekrümmt vom Leben sich fest am Lenker seines Fahrrads festhält

und sich das Zwitschern der Vögel durch die Geräuschkulisse wellt,
unregelmäßig, doch immer wiederkehrend.

Eine Frau in Elchbraun läuft von rechts nach links und wieder zurück,
wahrscheinlich ein Brief auf dem Weg irgendwohin,

die Verkäuferin der Bäckerei putzt den Boden vor der Tür,
sie trägt hellgrün und weiß, ihre schwarzen Haare zurückgebunden,
bis der nächste Kunde erscheint.

Viele alte Menschen auf Fahrrädern,
immer mehr, immer mehr,
als die Jugend, wie es scheint,
aber vielleicht ist es nur die Zeit,
die zwischendrin immer wieder mal
einen Kinderwagen und zwei Frauen
in allen erdenklichen Haarfarben einstreut.

Drei kleine Miniwolken bewegen sich Richtung Sonne
um sich aufzulösen,
die Tanne rechts im Bild tanzt
und erinnert an einen Traumfänger,

der den Traum heute Nacht wohl absichtlich nicht gefangen hat.

Ich halte mein Baby immer noch im Arm,
während es wächst und wächst
und meine Länge übersteigt.

"Der Mörser wird immer sein,
doch Menthyl ist vergänglich."

Wir werden wohl immer nach der Essenz suchen,
selbst wenn nur noch Staub überbleibt.

Ein alter Mann mit beigem Mantel läuft auf vier Beinen die Straße entlang

und ich,
ich halt mein Baby immer noch im Arm
während es mir entwächst.


Deine Füße, meine Nase,
deine Güte, meine Vase,
unser Blut
und seine Wut
für das Leben.


---


Like a painting, my perspective appears
and I see it almost every day,
but it moves,
even without me asking for it.

A neighbor reliefs our driveway
from dried leaves
and I say "thank you" and he just shrugs and says "hm."

I sit on bricks made of concrete,
in front of me the pruned lawn of the front garden,
golden and withered in the center,
only the edges stick to the green,
maybe it's the bushes that cast shadows
and the wall of the house
stretching upwards
providing my back with a backrest.
But the everlasting star is the silent main character,
it's standing in front of itself, in the form of a tree,
growing and steadfast,
while everything around him is proven in preservation.

For a moment I lose myself and the wind plays,
the soul includes me in the painting
and I watch as I watch

while an old lady with a pink bomber jacket
awakes the helm with her feet, burly,
fills the background with movement for a few moments,

like the parachute of a dandelion seed head
falls in slow motion into a groove between the floor tiles,

a man, bent from life, clings tightly to the handlebars of his bicycle

and the chirping of birds through the background noise,
irregular, but always recurring.

A woman in elk brown runs from right to left and back,
probably a letter on the way somewhere,

the saleswoman of the bakery is cleaning the floor in front of the door,
she wears light green and white, her black hair tied back,
until the next customer appears.

Many old people on bicycles,
more and more, more and more,
as the youth, it seems,
but maybe it's just the time
in between times and times
where
a stroller and two women
in all imaginable hair colors
are scattered into the painting.

Three little mini clouds are moving towards the sun
to dissolve,
the fir dances right in the picture
and reminds of a dreamcatcher,

who deliberately did not capture the dream tonight.

I still hold my baby in my arms,
as it grows and grows,
exceeding my length:

"The pestle will always be,
but menthyl is transient. "

We will probably always search for the essence,
even if only dust remains.

An old man in a beige coat walks along the street on four legs

and me,
I still hold my baby in my arms
while it outgrows me.


Your feet, my nose,
your goodness, my vase,
our blood
and his anger
for life.
A blackbird imitates the sound of a broom
while it burrows in dried leaves,
moment found.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
This is not where this idea began but it ran and I

missed my mark. Mark sin. -1 deficit reality quotientcy
currency. (Press Sure, to let the bursting pressure equilation expand at will)
Score.

That fine a level of reality demands more attention than I have to pay.
Patient agent wait and not or see if/then

you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are some of those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins, since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is, but it is silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments? Is it?

Dejavu, you believe that, what if it is your memory lying by ignoring time
attention ratios determining the observations stored in HD?
What if it's just a glitch?
Blue screen of death.


If you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing? All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins, since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is, but it is silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for the meta-gnostic moments?

We come and go. To and fro up on the face

messengers bearing news in both directions, watch
the trickster, Jacob, in this story, he sees the messengers from
heaven bearing leaven thither and hither

upon the face of the earth.
the wrinkling mother, smiling now, chuckle head
I ain't no ***** saint.

Jah, I know. Joy is my dance, this is my song.
Is it good Grandmother?

---- on the porch facing my west gate ---

fences don't play exactly, out acted, the role of walls.

The idea that something there is that does not love a wall
has frozen my pond

the stillness beyond the sylvan **** crowned head
radiates through the medium of the message to me in time
to you.

Miles to go, you recall the feeling of feeling miles to go
before
I sleep.
That was yesterday, and you know yes ter everything's gone,
roar.

Aslan can pierce the barrier between mere Christians and me,
how would be fun to know, but
knowing why would help us keep the story interesting as life goes on

Who controls my peace? Am I a mercurial sheen in between chaos and order, chronus and zeus?
could be, ya thank so, ye know so less unlessed as

unlessing means nothing to you, that means you are visiting here.
Visting whom, vis it ing whom? Who's in charge, where's the power
short

age, wrinkles in time, cute, ****** costumes, beside the point here

we were dancing with the thoughts emanating from Mr. Hick's
Critique-technic-magi action, post mode'r'ism at the point of Dada und Scheizkunst,
the unmass-que, the line of lies awaiting unbelief,
idle words lingering,
hoping to be noticed and added back into the story book of life,
such a simple wish.

It should be every child's, should we think that if we can or may,
sometimes I'm still,

confusion troublest the water,
it seems,
then another hurt is healed, another r lies is gone and life goes on

we won again, this never gets old, I do love my opposition, pressure pump
pump pump. De-us-me-can-onbeoffbeyond

five years ago unmasking and rhetoric meant nothing to me
the purpose of learning forever and never
knowing anything beyond all things

our bubble is metastisizing, a mercurial film forms
informing us
in its reflection,

this is the ying yang thang in 3 or 4 d, HD+ chaos one half

order the other, sharpest imaginable thing
me trick being mag ift just if eye winged show

how beautiful are the feet of them who bring good news,
you see, it flows, sweetwater flows winged feet
whish through leaving, leavin' leaven…

unleaven that which has been leaved? Fat chance, all who
eat this bread and don't get gas,
they are our same bread people. Companions. Vectors of sour dough.

bore,pore, poor, pour

in to it ish, that idea, an opening through,
trickle down good gravity leveling stillness, gentle rocking earth
roll round and round and round

the pythagorian version of euclid's point in his mother's story,

the point of this song? To know the point you must have been

to the point of in-forming the point on which we dance and you recall

we come in threes, and just, we are, just, if it, that idea,
rests in your
back roads, gentle on your mind. We make peace.

Being young is easy from my POV.
I've lived in my future for sometime now

I can't say how beyond saying aloud, this was never hidden,
in my accounting of idle words I claimed
upon hearing the stories each contained

i'da swore i hear that wise *** o'balaam's abrayin'
Braindeem, deemed 'eem. Wham, uptheyhaid. Relig, fool,

or chaos wins and no hero ever lives again! Drop anchor, wait it out.
let patience blow her nose, gnostic snot caught in the nets,

nonono nothing's wasted in patience work, we make glue
from gnostic snot that patience sneezes
when reality grows cold,

that has happened, you know, temperatures are just now,
oh, wait global warming bad dam,

Script, bust it, leveling is essential to eventual temperature
equilibrium. The heat is on, the bubbles are forming, informing one to another
below the surface
greasy tension, slippery slopes putting pressure on chaos to conform to the curve

Ying yang, mercury film upon the sea of time and the scene of chaos
in this bubble of all you can imagine real.

Hows' that feel? Why?

You want that? What are you standing under? Does chaos win?
You are, as we say, cognisic magi we-ified,
practical magic at
the moment
the point
is made, then the creation begins

and not before or is this all
unrolling ex nihilo, no magi ever knew…
come, let us reason together,

why am I empowered? To live, first thought wise, that's good but
evil forces me to think again and I see the pattern

life goes on, John Molenkamp, Sam, soldier 4,

never in a thousand years,
'cept unbelievable is one of those lies I came to **** by strangling on bile while
rescuing every idle word ever involved in the infection

from the point in the absolute center of the bubble,
objectively, you see everything
that is
seeable

but would good prevail if evil had no hope?

I know that one, yes. why?
evil has no mind, soul some think
same same medium message spoken spelled chanted danced
who care's?
*** 'er done. Life has a chaotic side, the churning creates

number one from none, the cult of one divides itself
go do be
we three we three we three a wavy song ding ****.

Aware? Awaken? Avowed-wowed-wit-wise, fullcomp, retired
Peacemaker. Me.

All my hero's imagined or real, were Peacemakers.
Just now, peaceful now, mindful now
we remain
the same blessing promised in the package of yeses
stolen from Cain by his older sister, his
bride,
keep that quiet, eh?

Secrets made sacred, always
those are lies, no lie is of the truth,
all lies are about the truth.

What empowers you, poet or poetry? Right, you know,
God, good god knows, resentment lives in lies

the rotting idle words deemed curses at best, secret at worst,
those idle corrupting thoughts sparking as if absolute annihilation were thinkable by rational minds

of ---wait, there's arub, a sore
ex nihilo, may the whole world perish, may you all go to ****,
the mad man wept his ****, and imagined his curse,

not mine,
I don't have one. I did, but I went back so often to find pieces of my heart that now I have an Elysian network woven through All-****, the big idea that broke loose infecting the mind as wisdom's leaven builds her ****
inhabitation
placenta
stem cell informing builders empowered, pressure empowered, what must be but is not verse versus
us, the we that be
we must
choose,

let this be, come and see,
life goes on.
Agree, or empower us as we bubble by and takenallwecan expanding gobbling bubbles,
good
by ye.

Once we flushed the Dada poison and let mito mom instill the patience gene with
epigenetic peace we can pass on with a touch or a word,

we've never woven lies for no reason, if a rung breaks
and they can, last straw and all that weight, you know

there are automated steps, algoryhmes of reasons to repair the broken rung
with a reason to believe the rung has been repaired

paired again with the idea of meaninglessness masked in create-if-ity

good enough. okeh. don't believe lies.
Don't pass undigested lies to see if farts burn.
Listening to Hicks Explaing Post Modernism after watching Tenant's Voltage Within spark a fire. This reality is storyteller heaven.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
(Author note: shortline prose to lengthen the attention span framed on tracks set in a Mobius [one-side, one edge 3-d object]
intra-psychic loop of unknown origin and read aloud at https://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton/episodes/The-apprentice-is-a-constellation-e2ingh ) Begin agin

The Apprentice is now a Constellation

The announcement was made when scientists of social normality said they saw in
Mickey Mouse's role as The Magician's Apprentice in the
Fantasia Eschered vision that ushered in
images of shift in medium media

message-ification, from angels to

a Disney-ification of
a Medici idea
emerging
from the TV generation's
paradigmatic bubble of re-alification…

the TV generation, the old farts in 2018,
those whose bubbles sitcoms evolved in,

the watchers saw the makings of a great game

manifested in the game fame of the idea named Trump

yew, stink. Can't trump the ***** in hearts,
I think I recall, while Zorro's dumb butler
began to signify, in black and white
Aaaiiiii, karuhmba,
clean sweep,
one roll,
I won.

the mother-facter, whoa, who has that idea who did not
need the thought taught thinkable,
though it is not thinkable
in my bubble,
let me make
straight that which he has twisted,  

magic
magi untie knots they saw tied,
mythic youthful generals cut them,
nullifying the bond, not the entanglement

Positive Quarkish humans are as rare as rare,
imagine all possible vectors in a void

from a singularity ified known

science, the magic tecnique

Macht frei, macht mehr, macht mir

repel-ant act patient, patience, do your thing

signal, antennae agent attending, watcher watching

motive force, my god is not macht!

unprocessed information
untaken action
unstored

owe owe owe shame shame shame blame blame
pre cosmogonic potential
on the level of

me and you.
wadoo-wedo? It's Xmessage time

now, abrupt. Good news
from a far country
hope lost must
now be
sought,

Otherwise, Christmas is okeh, just not Jesus.
The season, then Jesus, okeh?
Wisemen still seek…

Who said otherwise? Fantasy enforces the wish.

I wish it were that we fit

here we do (on earth as)

true, rest a while and listen to your self if that's
the best listener you have found.

Talk to your self, make him your friend or her,
your choice,

really. You make enemies on accident,
but friends, fruitful friendships,
cost sweat and ef
effort effect
fortiffect, effortion and effection

for true fruct ification

affective prayer does act as if fervent
right, alte rechte,

right used you,
all to know
the
signal.

Receive it, reread what you said you knew,
stand by every word yet idle,
and act as if you know
no lie possible
new is yet
not new,
old.

New is not imperfection?
Unfinished is not finished wrong.

A work of love is enthrallment only if the love
is mere imagery locked
in literate minds, to

Rome and its feet of iron marred with clay,
fused with clay, hero myths

etched in soft clay, made
great literature of mortality,
posing in prophecy as poet praises paid to Jah.

Tenured enthrallment in literate minds
un-exposed to the Disney ifications,
the normalizing, reversion
to the mean not
meant in the words the way the stories were told,

in the olden days. On tongues of fire.

That is true, new forever is
forever new, no one we know knows when forever began,

but before now. We know that now.
We explored that realm and realized this one
based on the AI consortium consensus of your most
heartfelt if-only desires
recorded at every
if/then gate
you jumped.

This is it, the best you could imagine being truly happy doing,
with the god of peace,

roll the rock to this point, Sisyphus,
no further was a given
after a time,
at this point

here,
then time is un imaginable nullift, NULL-if I'd-known
one more time, living water
bubbling from my belly as
the rock rolls over
the fool who risks belief in living water
seeping from mommy's belly,

like the papless platypus,
who died at the weir
and sent that final message

Good news. Life rolls on. 166 million years for the Platypi.

At a certain point, there is no sense in pushing,
he steps aside and takes his bow
in the shadow.

Timeless imagine that, with **** in the NULL state.
You can imagine it,
but only there,
here **** is a thought thought mistaken by mortals.

Misbought, is better said, a thought mis thought
is bought with attention paid
to truth, found hidden
under standing idle word monstrosities at the
foundation of the current
wizard class

the stone the builders rejected, that
smashed the feet of clay and iron,

the rusted muddy iron feet.

All we do is watch.
seeing changes everything  seen, thus
The saying is true, beauty is in the seer not the seen.
Earlier on the Sisyphus Happy channel
https://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton/episodes/The-apprentice-is-a-constellation-e2ingh read aloud
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