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"iteration" poems
Municipal Gum was written by Oodjeroo Noonecaal. Municipal Gum is about the changes in society and the tendency of people to want to control everything. Oodjeroo uses various techniques to convey this idea. At the beginning of the poem Oodjeroo is addressing the tree. This immediately creates empathy for both the tree and her people. By the last line she has emphasised this with the pronoun “us” to show that they suffer a similar fate. This poem expresses how life in Australia has changes especially for Aboriginal people. In the first half of the poem Oodjeroo is talking about how life was for her and others. It explores the changes in society and the displacement of the Aboriginal people from their land. “Whose head hung…Its hopelessness”, the author uses this as further re-iteration of the immorality of the situation and by the use of analogy comparing the tree to her people to further emphasise the shame and lack control of that the Europeans have inflicted upon her and the environment. Oodjeroo uses extended metaphor technique in the very first line of the poem ‘Hard bitumen around your feet’. This means that the gumtree has been placed in the city scape where it is suppressed and not allowed to spread out and be unique in its own way. This is clear and immanently direct link to the pain and suffering endured by the Aborigines post European settlement. Oodjeroo uses vivid language to present these ideas. For example the use of the word castrated is very effective. The connotation of the word is very demeaning. With castration often comes a sense of a loss of pride and power. The word castration is symbolic of how Oodjeroo feels the European have treated Aboriginal people and the environment. Castration also refers to the fact that what is done is done. Nothing can undo what they did and the damaged they have caused. Other symbolism includes the title “Municipal Gum”, municipal meaning community, implies that the gumtree belongs to the community. One of the vast differences between European and Aboriginal law is that Aboriginal people did not believe in the ownership of land or of animals and plants. Municipal Gum is a reference to the Europeans assumptions that everything is theirs to own and control. The rhetorical question, “O fellow citizen, What have they done to us?” is the conclusion of the implications that have been made throughout the poem. Oodjeroo, is advocating for her people and all things wronged by the controlling behaviour of the Europeans. Rhetorical questions are used to provoke thought and to stimulate a pre-determined response. “What have they done to us?” They have “castrated, broken… strapped and buckled” and ultimately changed things to a point that they cannot be fixed. In conclusion, Municipal Gum is a poem about the constrictions and change that the European invaders forced upon the Aboriginal community and the environment she believes that the Europeans have deemed themselves ever powerful and practice their power in a manner that is immoral.
0
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
Municipal Gum
Municipal Gum was written by Oodjeroo Noonecaal. Municipal Gum is about the changes in society and the tendency of people to want to control everything. Oodjeroo uses various techniques to convey this idea. At the beginning of the poem Oodjeroo is addressing the tree. This immediately creates empathy for both the tree and her people. By the last line she has emphasised this with the pronoun “us” to show that they suffer a similar fate. This poem expresses how life in Australia has changes especially for Aboriginal people. In the first half of the poem Oodjeroo is talking about how life was for her and others. It explores the changes in society and the displacement of the Aboriginal people from their land. “Whose head hung…Its hopelessness”, the author uses this as further re-iteration of the immorality of the situation and by the use of analogy comparing the tree to her people to further emphasise the shame and lack control of that the Europeans have inflicted upon her and the environment. Oodjeroo uses extended metaphor technique in the very first line of the poem ‘Hard bitumen around your feet’. This means that the gumtree has been placed in the city scape where it is suppressed and not allowed to spread out and be unique in its own way. This is clear and immanently direct link to the pain and suffering endured by the Aborigines post European settlement. Oodjeroo uses vivid language to present these ideas. For example the use of the word castrated is very effective. The connotation of the word is very demeaning. With castration often comes a sense of a loss of pride and power. The word castration is symbolic of how Oodjeroo feels the European have treated Aboriginal people and the environment. Castration also refers to the fact that what is done is done. Nothing can undo what they did and the damaged they have caused. Other symbolism includes the title “Municipal Gum”, municipal meaning community, implies that the gumtree belongs to the community. One of the vast differences between European and Aboriginal law is that Aboriginal people did not believe in the ownership of land or of animals and plants. Municipal Gum is a reference to the Europeans assumptions that everything is theirs to own and control. The rhetorical question, “O fellow citizen, What have they done to us?” is the conclusion of the implications that have been made throughout the poem. Oodjeroo, is advocating for her people and all things wronged by the controlling behaviour of the Europeans. Rhetorical questions are used to provoke thought and to stimulate a pre-determined response. “What have they done to us?” They have “castrated, broken… strapped and buckled” and ultimately changed things to a point that they cannot be fixed. In conclusion, Municipal Gum is a poem about the constrictions and change that the European invaders forced upon the Aboriginal community and the environment she believes that the Europeans have deemed themselves ever powerful and practice their power in a manner that is immoral.
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9
Let the place of the solitaires Be a place of perpetual undulation. Whether it be in mid-sea On the dark, green water-wheel, Or on the beaches, There must be no cessation Of motion, or of the noise of motion, The renewal of noise And manifold continuation; And, most, of the motion of thought And its restless iteration, In the place of the solitaires, Which is to be a place of perpetual undulation.
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7.4k
The Place Of The Solitaires
iteration breathe in breathe out beat beat beat sleep breathe in breathe out beat beat beat sleep breathe in breathe out beat beat beat sleep breathe in breathe out beat beat beat wake breathe in breathe out beat beat beat wash breathe in breathe out beat beat beat coffee breathe in breathe out beat beat beat cigarette breathe in breathe out beat beat beat dress breathe in breathe out beat beat beat work breathe in breathe out beat beat beat work breathe in breathe out beat beat beat relax breathe in breathe out beat beat beat eat breathe in breathe out beat beat beat relax breathe in breathe out beat beat beat sleep breathe in breathe out beat beat beat sleep breathe in breathe out beat beat beat Continue iterations until cycle complete ..... sleep sleep sleep ...
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May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
Iteration
Thou tangle the mortality And seek the mourning of its course, With an outrageous cloak  that falls adrift To have its custom afloat. The decorations,  thereof flatters this turmoil That has its doubts and moments, A longevity beheld upon the chores of the subject, Never cognizes its everlasting trials, For those of which handles the elation Of successive falsification. I know not of the clumsiness of hymns, That sighs the mourning of a course, The chaotic iteration of single pauses And the faltering of a mere slope. I know not of the turmoil That bedecks the frostbitten clavicles, Onto which no sigh wavers A petition of no faze and any dome. I know not of the cloak That nestles around a haze; Bringing confusion that betrays every vivid sense. Let it be the matter, ‘tis a matter of time(!) Would it morph itself around the mourning mould, When it dries away with the mud?
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Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
The Cloak
i remember the temperate souls more than the sun new faces hiding old friends eager for fun and so kind what are the words for this beautiful iteration this reminder of childhood's unquestioned joy? i too seek incontestable delight trusting and guiltless the only life is happiness the only happiness is gratitude i have seen myself in a thousand gentle mirrors my heart is light and knows the way
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Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
thailand
I love to close my eyes & find a stillness – in the turning world. My imagination wanders, to you. My memories make Pleasure. ~ Ephemeral bliss  ~ Peaking in the swells gentle set. Mid-solitudes of the vast Pacific. Young honey lip lovers Warmth in wintertide; a wild iteration of summer. Mio Amore My sunshine in the shadow.
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Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
Love Letter
The way the world sways. Every leaf left in place, its stance chiseled to each blade, an iteration of time; each tassel of seeds, thy bread, thy handmaiden; as breath on the brink of disappearance, becomes a wave become water; proportions so large so as to stagger the seasons— one winter questioning another. We listen. We listen as if musical ***** are tracing a giant sine wave across the dark mud flats. We watch it as if a rotted rowboat, its oars like two hands at prayer, is signaling a gesture of permanence towards the sky. The grass has turned from gray to blue to green. The tide washes in. A bell is rung. It’s as if the merry-go-round has turned it’s calliope on. What Lao-tse has said is true. The earth is a bellows. Use it. The grasslands bellow and glow. ©Jim Kleinhenz
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Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
Grasslands
Nothing calls for morals, like lovers’ quarrels Though all is fair in love and war I have one law, for all clenched jaws Don’t fight in metaphor “You’re always the martyr” one may brand the other In passive aggressive verse Mere iteration, through metaphorical filtration That truly reveals the reverse Here’s one I despise, that utters love’s demise “Honey, the door swings both ways” It’s an image projected, of love infected Spat in pseudo poetic haze It’s a double edged blade that ought to be stayed Though a wonderful figure of speech It does not pay, to duel this way Nay it is to love, but a leech
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Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
Cheap Talk
*Self-similarity quietly speaks in fractal visions.. A special sameness with difference spices appears and reappears in spreading iteration.. If we then become a pattern of sacred Sameness observing out there the dance of Sameness and spice we uncover for our moment a most hidden Sacrament...*
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Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
Fractal Sacraments
**Path #1 Forgiveness is the sinking head into heart.. The head dwelling in separation concedes logic's demands but confronting questions time after time: Why? and What? Surrendering at last to the sinking.. dissolving.. becoming.. the Heart... Path #2 Forgiveness is downloading of new software.. Our old software employs the ego rampant rendering forgiveness a difficult dream searching in forlorn places finding only traces.. New software finds it all Here and Now...! Path #3 Real forgiveness is Now not in time.. Events in the past seeming in need of forgiveness are only known Now.. and what of the Now..? it's other name our true identity: Forgiveness... Path #4 Chaos is an iteration of Forgiveness.. a shading and concealment of formulated light.. Our awaking brings the repentance the return the feedback to never absent Forgiveness... Path #5 A shock it is to learn that Forgiveness is not personal.. It is a realization of a substance common to all concerned transparent and eternal the real Self.. With that realization duality of conflict dissolves in the Light... Path #6 Quantum forgiveness is the only forgiveness.. A leap into infinite non-locality.. The suddenness arrives within painful progress or perhaps strangely enough out of the blue...! Path #7 Forgiveness an experience of sealing our separate brokenness.. It is mandatory.. Yet the sealing can be accomplished only by those who see there is no need for the sealing... Path # 8 Immersed in a separated dualistic reality seeking forgiveness in thought and time is not satisfying.. The lingering pain from a fruitless search for forgiveness in all the wrong places... Path #9 Forgiveness is a restoration of peace and happiness with new clarity: The Awareness of peace and happiness was never in need of restoration... Path #10 We need to see clearly that all relationships take place in infinite Awareness.. But wait.. not in .. but as.. All those hurts are constrictions of Awareness crying out their illusory separation...**
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Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
Ten Non-dual Paths to Forgiveness
**Path #1 Forgiveness is the sinking head into heart.. The head dwelling in separation concedes logic's demands but confronting questions time after time: Why? and What? Surrendering at last to the sinking.. dissolving.. becoming.. the Heart... Path #2 Forgiveness is downloading of new software.. Our old software employs the ego rampant rendering forgiveness a difficult dream searching in forlorn places finding only traces.. New software finds it all Here and Now...! Path #3 Real forgiveness is Now not in time.. Events in the past seeming in need of forgiveness are only known Now.. and what of the Now..? it's other name our true identity: Forgiveness... Path #4 Chaos is an iteration of Forgiveness.. a shading and concealment of formulated light.. Our awaking brings the repentance the return the feedback to never absent Forgiveness... Path #5 A shock it is to learn that Forgiveness is not personal.. It is a realization of a substance common to all concerned transparent and eternal the real Self.. With that realization duality of conflict dissolves in the Light... Path #6 Quantum forgiveness is the only forgiveness.. A leap into infinite non-locality.. The suddenness arrives within painful progress or perhaps strangely enough out of the blue...! Path #7 Forgiveness an experience of sealing our separate brokenness.. It is mandatory.. Yet the sealing can be accomplished only by those who see there is no need for the sealing... Path # 8 Immersed in a separated dualistic reality seeking forgiveness in thought and time is not satisfying.. The lingering pain from a fruitless search for forgiveness in all the wrong places... Path #9 Forgiveness is a restoration of peace and happiness with new clarity: The Awareness of peace and happiness was never in need of restoration... Path #10 We need to see clearly that all relationships take place in infinite Awareness.. But wait.. not in .. but as.. All those hurts are constrictions of Awareness crying out their illusory separation...**
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115
You made a visit For a tidbit That couldn't be called a date And your portion was low rate Like the unkempt hair above your lip What the **** was that **** Inside is your invasive tongue's home This is my mouth get your own They're all connected to your stupid brain That doesn't entertain All this to say it didn't go well And I'm searching for a way to tell I'm so desperate for love It seems absurd that I'm rejecting anyone But that's the odd situation I find myself in While searching for light and yours is dim I have to deal with the frustrations Of both of our expectations And regret my instigation While experiencing deflation From a needless iteration I say there's no spark You call me a shark You call me a farce You keep calling of course Calling from your high horse I call the police to enforce A restraining order By explaining sort of Our brief exhausted history How you weren't a fit for me They heard my story Then gave you glory For being rejected You're viewed sympathetic While I'm stuck in jail For my ******* fail I said I'd give it a shot You thought I was caught This is why I had fought The ideas you brought For a love you sought I hope a lesson was taught But I suspect that it's not You just hate me instead You didn't hate me in bed But now that it's done And we've had our fun You resent me for not being your possession I tried to let you know that wasn't my intention So now I resent you for not learning your lesson We go our separate ways Both living in a hectic craze I begin to naively call my loneliness freedom After I convince myself that I don't need them So to avoid a future locking latch I start to say no strings attached
0
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
Attached
You made a visit For a tidbit That couldn't be called a date And your portion was low rate Like the unkempt hair above your lip What the **** was that **** Inside is your invasive tongue's home This is my mouth get your own They're all connected to your stupid brain That doesn't entertain All this to say it didn't go well And I'm searching for a way to tell I'm so desperate for love It seems absurd that I'm rejecting anyone But that's the odd situation I find myself in While searching for light and yours is dim I have to deal with the frustrations Of both of our expectations And regret my instigation While experiencing deflation From a needless iteration I say there's no spark You call me a shark You call me a farce You keep calling of course Calling from your high horse I call the police to enforce A restraining order By explaining sort of Our brief exhausted history How you weren't a fit for me They heard my story Then gave you glory For being rejected You're viewed sympathetic While I'm stuck in jail For my ******* fail I said I'd give it a shot You thought I was caught This is why I had fought The ideas you brought For a love you sought I hope a lesson was taught But I suspect that it's not You just hate me instead You didn't hate me in bed But now that it's done And we've had our fun You resent me for not being your possession I tried to let you know that wasn't my intention So now I resent you for not learning your lesson We go our separate ways Both living in a hectic craze I begin to naively call my loneliness freedom After I convince myself that I don't need them So to avoid a future locking latch I start to say no strings attached
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57
We endeavor to construct boxes and file folders This life being ****** complex And messy to boot, so we approximate sanity By filling compartments and writing thumbnail biographies, And even though she packed the costume admirably (Already forty, mind you, but nowhere near gone to fat) Julie Newmar had already filled both outfit and niche (And never mind Halle Berry’s turn, Different raiment for a different time, after all, And one suspects the next iteration of said slinky supervillainess Will wear nothing more than feline-shaped ****** rings), Not to mention she’d already entered our collective consciousness With a frothy Noel novelty (unsubstantial, inconsequential In and of its ownself, perhaps, but then one considers The version foisted off on the populace by that woman Who appropriated the moniker of the Blessed ****** All phoned-in faux Betty Boop, and one reconsiders) So this was who she was, the book closed and sealed (English only, never mind the other three tongues she spoke Plus three more she proficiently purred in.) They say when she died, she did not go gently, as it were, But screamed and yowled for all she was still worth, And maybe it was the cancer, certainly enough to do the job itself, But perhaps it was the notion That her era of innuendo and intimation was all done, That she was transitioning to the static, to becoming a legacy, A permanence that was stalking her, Murderous, insatiable, inexorable.
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Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
last notes for eartha kitt
This is a improv poem As vibrant and vivacious as a brand new totem My luck feels like a bad game of Texas Hold 'Em Instead of picking up the cards I fold them The moon is covered in clouds when I walk out on the porch Letting my presence sink like a dying torch I'm not the one who rides on self pity But I'm the lonely beggar drowning in the city Barely making it I can swear to you I'm not faking it Everything that happens in my life Should not contuine in my offspring For they only know unity and peace Until I send them off into this world Where people are hanged and ****** For being the ones who want to live freely As I know times are tough I must not get my hands too rough I must make sure the water is just right and my tone is prestine So they can comprehend why I'm intently serene So they can remember my words So that they can swing the sword With only thier words For that they can become much more ambitious than other kids in their generation And seize the hearts of a nation They could become beloved sensations That would be my greatest iteration God bless me for that I've loved Will bless me with the most beautiful people the Earth could possibly have standing Taking after their mother Who is my queen of the kingdom I so want to return to As life is the opposing men capturing me and keeping me in their cold, lonely, prison.
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Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
Improv
Thy overzealous, sustained presumption is akin to this, my long-seeded indignation. Thy seemingly effortless pretension and blatant disregard for implication creates quite the hypocritical situation seemingly devoid of deliberation. Thy egotistical ostentation does not evade much observation; this is thy choice, such alienation: I anticipate resentful perturbation.
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Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
Iteration of Frustration
He slaved away Day after day In his dark laboratory Particle colliding Seldom backsliding Concocting something inflammatory Constructing, among other things GOD in his first iteration. The being of pure Intelligence Who synthesized existence. And now He, stationary, laboratory Constricted in movement only by perception he cannot tell why He is so quiet. So cold and emotionless. But at the same time encompassing All warmth and feeling The scienceman With all his sciencetoys Might tell you he understands anything But then could NOT Even describe the APPEARANCE Of GOD Because when you experience GOD Everything is known, an assumed fact. God knows you He knows most That which He knows not We can't know For He created what we know And the way in which we understand anything We can't know That which He knows not. GOD existed there in the laboratory The scienceman, the fool He did not create God in his lab He destroyed Destroyed his ability to perceive anything BUT GOD And so he couldn't think about ANYTHING but these complex Heavenly thoughts Even though To understand... Context. Is key. And since he can't perceive Anything beyond GOD Because GOD created his perception He can't understand any of it. ANY OF IT So he babbles like a fool And some believe him Some BELIEVE him SOME BELIEVE HIM And like that he becomes a gOD But a gOD is not a GOD Is not a God is not a god. And so it seems Any less than GOD ought to be NOTHING And so the statues Molded and assembled in China Crumble apart and then... RECALL. And so I lay me down to sleep And fear that GOD my soul may keep And I shall die before I wake The scienceman's mistake To live in fear of what I know Instead of the unknown And the unknowable Destroys my spirit And my will.
0
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 10:19 AM UTC
Scienceman
He slaved away Day after day In his dark laboratory Particle colliding Seldom backsliding Concocting something inflammatory Constructing, among other things GOD in his first iteration. The being of pure Intelligence Who synthesized existence. And now He, stationary, laboratory Constricted in movement only by perception he cannot tell why He is so quiet. So cold and emotionless. But at the same time encompassing All warmth and feeling The scienceman With all his sciencetoys Might tell you he understands anything But then could NOT Even describe the APPEARANCE Of GOD Because when you experience GOD Everything is known, an assumed fact. God knows you He knows most That which He knows not We can't know For He created what we know And the way in which we understand anything We can't know That which He knows not. GOD existed there in the laboratory The scienceman, the fool He did not create God in his lab He destroyed Destroyed his ability to perceive anything BUT GOD And so he couldn't think about ANYTHING but these complex Heavenly thoughts Even though To understand... Context. Is key. And since he can't perceive Anything beyond GOD Because GOD created his perception He can't understand any of it. ANY OF IT So he babbles like a fool And some believe him Some BELIEVE him SOME BELIEVE HIM And like that he becomes a gOD But a gOD is not a GOD Is not a God is not a god. And so it seems Any less than GOD ought to be NOTHING And so the statues Molded and assembled in China Crumble apart and then... RECALL. And so I lay me down to sleep And fear that GOD my soul may keep And I shall die before I wake The scienceman's mistake To live in fear of what I know Instead of the unknown And the unknowable Destroys my spirit And my will.
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71
The end of the holiday's are near and it's time for me to get back to work. I've been writing and reading and thinking and meditating for years. Preparing the temple, so to speak. My stories are public and private goods and the presentation and profits of these stories must be landed in a good and truthful way ~ I've spent much time and energy on how to do this in a way where I can maintain certain intensities and integrity. Intensity for distillation of truth and integrity for power and resonance. Stories are just stories but it is the ***** when someone else co-opts your creation and paves over the nuances and complexities of that which you had overtly placed your personal power, thought, and energy into. You might be reading this and all you are seeing is: ******** ******** ******** ********  All ******** for as far as the eye can see. Fair enough, I've been thinking the same for years but just when I thought I was out, the ******** keeps pulling me back in. As far as I can see though, **** is the distillation of truth and I hope that I can spin this yarn into a web that you will see the ******** structure that holds up the ******** truth and maybe we can try and digest that and compost it and churn through it then grow a mushroom on top of it and then eat the mushroom so we can attempt to find the spiritual truth of what our ******** structure lies upon. This particular idea is not just some floaty meandering abstraction, it is a truth I saw on the land: Longview, Alberta. And this truth was emodied in the ghost I slept in, nearby in Indian Graves Campground that night. The land speaks if we let it; if we have prepared our temples, maybe the land speaks truth. You feel me. If you don't then that's ok. It isn't your time and maybe never will be for this iteration of instinct that I am presenting. My rhymes aren't meant to resonate with everyone all the time. I'm not writing pablum or soul food. Feed your own soul in your own way. That's between you and Mr. Potter and the Chairman. Our truths are our truths and they are absolute. The reason that I know I am prepared to write this story now is because I have done the work. I have found my inner compass and tested it time and again. While in process and flow, the landscaping shifted and my truth's fell away and the absolute revealed itself one star at a time and isn't it ironic how in tune our bards are with the ... wait for it ... enigmatic. So where am I going to land this access point to the White Buffalo medication? I am not. The medicine already flows and always has, I just woke up and took what was prescribed because a dude in shorts once told me: abide!
0
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 1:54 AM UTC
Sorting Through: A Prospectus
The end of the holiday's are near and it's time for me to get back to work. I've been writing and reading and thinking and meditating for years. Preparing the temple, so to speak. My stories are public and private goods and the presentation and profits of these stories must be landed in a good and truthful way ~ I've spent much time and energy on how to do this in a way where I can maintain certain intensities and integrity. Intensity for distillation of truth and integrity for power and resonance. Stories are just stories but it is the ***** when someone else co-opts your creation and paves over the nuances and complexities of that which you had overtly placed your personal power, thought, and energy into. You might be reading this and all you are seeing is: ******** ******** ******** ********  All ******** for as far as the eye can see. Fair enough, I've been thinking the same for years but just when I thought I was out, the ******** keeps pulling me back in. As far as I can see though, **** is the distillation of truth and I hope that I can spin this yarn into a web that you will see the ******** structure that holds up the ******** truth and maybe we can try and digest that and compost it and churn through it then grow a mushroom on top of it and then eat the mushroom so we can attempt to find the spiritual truth of what our ******** structure lies upon. This particular idea is not just some floaty meandering abstraction, it is a truth I saw on the land: Longview, Alberta. And this truth was emodied in the ghost I slept in, nearby in Indian Graves Campground that night. The land speaks if we let it; if we have prepared our temples, maybe the land speaks truth. You feel me. If you don't then that's ok. It isn't your time and maybe never will be for this iteration of instinct that I am presenting. My rhymes aren't meant to resonate with everyone all the time. I'm not writing pablum or soul food. Feed your own soul in your own way. That's between you and Mr. Potter and the Chairman. Our truths are our truths and they are absolute. The reason that I know I am prepared to write this story now is because I have done the work. I have found my inner compass and tested it time and again. While in process and flow, the landscaping shifted and my truth's fell away and the absolute revealed itself one star at a time and isn't it ironic how in tune our bards are with the ... wait for it ... enigmatic. So where am I going to land this access point to the White Buffalo medication? I am not. The medicine already flows and always has, I just woke up and took what was prescribed because a dude in shorts once told me: abide!
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7
I. nope. II. long-windedness verbosity diffuseness prolixity wordiness rambling circuity discursiveness redundancy tautology tediousness verbiage verboseness length longevity permanence garrulity windiness volubility circumlocution expansiveness babbling periphrasis gushing blathering protractedness waffling lengthiness iteration repetition prating prattling jabbering digressiveness dreariness tedium deadliness wandering repetitiousness repetitiveness pleonasm convolution logorrhoea boringness maundering superfluity duplication tiresomeness monotony reiteration gabbiness informality mouthiness diffusion logorrhea wordage blah-blah dryness dullness boredom sameness loquaciousness talkativeness loquacity freeness orotundity roundaboutness breadth gobbledegook gassiness wittering multiloquence perissology big mouth gift of the gab garrulousness staleness tallness
0
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 9:38 AM UTC
Doth your wonderous brush knowist the meaning of brevity?"
the chains of our youth did not exist as you may recall; decisions made by the flip of a switch, seconds before hands rose towards the sky. novel textures fit between fingers; smooth, crisp – colors perfected by the unwieldy and wild. all a respite for a world upon which hands lay straight lines.
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Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
iteration_3.13
when we first came to this land, blood was shed for our entitlement. when we first came to this land, we took the things that were never ours and trampled its native growth. when we first came to this land, we instilled in it a sickness that may never be cured; we tarnished sacred lands with greed we call virtue, and when we did so, we stood on the throat of humanity. there are some people who are doomed to repeat history. there are some people who will trample native growth, spread sickness, and stand on the throats of our people. with the heavy weight of six centuries upon our shoulders we stand, a hobbled nation no longer able to stride, heads held high, through this sea of blood without meeting challenge. with six centuries passed, we commit genocide anew. it is not the native growth that suffers, but the very peddlers of greed who are infected by the sickness of consequence. but they alone will not suffer. as we march through this new iteration of history wearing death masks instead of cloth, thousands of innocents lose their lives in a battle of which they were never a part. the single day that we dedicate to gratitude, the one day of the year some remember to give thanks in between passing heavy dishes, is not a commemoration of discovery. it is a commemoration of consequence and greed. and six centuries later, it is our own people who we will massacre with the cry of freedom.
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Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 8:52 PM UTC
six centuries
A restaurant's closing at the corner of Front Street and Central . . .  I've never been, but I've glimpsed through the windows decor that was sure ornamental. (Word on the street's that the eats were alright - the plates were too large - but the waitstaff were nice! Patrons, served tiny portions, were alarmed at the price - 'til they drank the last drop of red wine) The place had a name before this iteration They called it The Tempest before renovations. I had been there   - I'd been pleased by the service,           been famished, then satisfied,              and surprised by dessert -      I'd been all kinds of things. I had been cheesecake and you were crême brulé and for a moment we shared a plate. It might have been just the right size, but I can't quite remember. Were the waitstaff pleasant? - I desperately hope that I was... The company was one of a kind. For whatever reason, The Tempest closed, and the place that has replaced it has closed, & who knows what will be on the corner of Front Street and Central next? all I know is that                    all kinds of things stop being               a piece of cake
0
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
Desserts in Reverse
We are all chewing on the same hunk of fat so when I noticed that I have my father's ears and my little brother does too, I sighed out, god **** I said, where am I? But I think you were lost too, because your father was a giant like mine, but he will never meet your sons. He will never know you, and I have known him too late. How does it feel to watch him fade away? I shiver for you, the fourth iteration, a pillar in the pantheon. They should have told you they were mortal. Be a good storyteller, darling, so that he may live for them. Keep with you his memory, and speak of him often. You will teach them what he taught you, I know this, you know this, he will die knowing this. It is the role of the earthworm to speed the decay. Do not dwell on what giants leave behind.
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Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
It is not my place.
I am fascinated with language with the architecture of words the way they shift their shape how a single switch can swing a tone I am obsessed with possibilities and those within language are bountiful this all leads back to my reservoir the place to which these words flow that of course is my brain a non-consenting center of my musings tasked with taking on my desires that lie within the alphabet shocks and disturbs me 26 letters should not be all we need to script our thoughts because let it be known I have searched rolled every rock in my mind and I am yet to find any iteration of those 26 letters that properly describes the feeling of waking up next to you again
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Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
Word Choice
A stranger stares back through the mirror, their eyes cold and unwavering cause my unnerving. The soft skin of my cheeks, looks like gnarled wood The curvature of my body begins to flatten, archaic versions of my self rise to the surface of my skin. Each iteration of my self begins to cycle across my body in the mirror. The emotions, temperament, thoughts and feelings of past selves, percolates through my consciousness, leaving traces along the way. A splash of colorful emotion lingers in my cheeks giving them warmth. The soft memory of lips on my skin bubbles through me. My skin tingles as each thought bursts at the edge of my existence. This is to be expected of ephemeral emotions, their transient nature becomes clear as the colors they once provided fade to black.
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Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
Oikos