and they began t' sing
marching single file

from the west

no masqued men were these,
these were
Kachina whitemen only saw in curio stories,
now,
approaching the old
prosper-specter

sitting full-lotus in his Barco-lounger, curbside-score,
from the land of too much good stuff

still, it's America, best effort men have made,

up to now.
The whole world has known since the International Geophysical Year,
1957, when the Symbolized Face of the Hungarian Freedom Fighter,

graced
the cover of Time, as Man of the Year before, when they lost
their war
and nobody cared, because
every body knew Disneyland is the Happiest Place on Earth,
where wishes can come true, and

that place is in America as sure as

blue fairy, you'real wish, Urielistical wish-grant,
Asrael and the others
singing backup
reload
when you wish
side-really… and a subtle shift in per
spect capacity
let be, just so,

and haps sub tile into layers of complexity re

because we, the people born to mature in the environs of Dublin
writ large, we
seers endowed with tele-vison, from birth.
The elders who watched the roll-out.
Aye, we watched
us evolve
to now

our future bright they say, a bright white light, then what

now,
we can say. The seals have been broken.
Nothing hidden now stays that way in ever,

and ever, as you know it, began

sometime
agone afore in some direction beyond your
ken, as it were when kenning the way of a knack was
as common as dowsers in the desert of my childhood.

What's in any name but what the namer seems?
Hey, yah way, tha'swhat I say,
tell me
what I say
Hey
Dancing shuffle footed single file
pass the white shirt black tie messenger from
the telestial king down Sonora way,
via
Yahoo, feel that tickle fo' a nickle, Hiram say come see
come feel
a boinin' in d' boosum through

the very crystal lenses

portal-ible model
through which Joseph of the name
Smith,
-- link back to Cain, through Tubal, via Na'amah--
-- set a breadcrumb, landmark, tag- say good old way
-- sign out don't break the story

through which Joseph of the name
Smith, came sayin an angel of light came with another gospel,

maybe the same guy the Galatians were warned to ignor,
re-legate-- re-read- start at the top
or all meaning is
like a song sung by Kansas, when we aren't there,
any more, than those wee
merest kachina jingle bells listing in the winds

but the Kansas chorus is stuck asif dust is all a simple

higgs-ified mind can manage to
regulate

without reading any ancient landmarks on maps of meaning
tattoo'd to the face in your mirror

in the darkest memory you hold
dear,
dearest,
your precious, in your Gollum-purpose state you know so well
protect it for all its worth,
with only your
strength
to lift
being the measure of worth-ship.

Ex-tol the worth of no bher-don born while in my state,
poor
un-gifted.  I remain a mortal soul linked mitochondrially to thee,
for whom the bell
told. You heard, but you were tolled don't ask.

Listen, the same hunch that said, It don't mean nuthin',

when you say you know that,
you bet you do.

I slew this dragon, not you. I say what the map says.

The dragon died of natural causes, so now,
all its true-sures
is yers…
Crown o'glory moon shine

plumb pert-nigh perfect fiture
imagined happy place to a T, crossed
and I dotted

Bleibe Doch! This is where all the Faustian Losers left their marks.

This is not where I aimed t'be said the elder bro,

as the wastrel was welcome t'Dada arms,
the crucial critics rave
Sheiszkunst, who Rah!
isis throws
a party for the prodigal madrigal has returned
from the pig's sty

packing each redeemed pearl, his brother once
fed to swine.

bent low 'neath his pearl-loaded ****-pack, he lifts his head,
waves his
crown, Fini,

come see, he says.
where I live, nowadays.

This is that treasure, on another level
as you may imagine,
free, if

you accept charity.

{There's the rub, say professional older bro, I know, charity;
'taint fair,
s'foul some, some ne'er-do-well finds a
pearl in some pigsty,

I PUT THAT PEARL THERE FOR THE FUTURE
not now.
I worked
for them ****** pearls, I sweated, brow-sweat, lo and hi.
I hid them well,

only a fool would ever believe a treasure
could be found in such ****,

but some fairy pulled a fast one, 'put a bean in little bro's ear,
so when the pigshit hit it began to grow,
sent a tendril to tickle a special spot,
just above the left ear,
right
there,

let's see diamonds, no
pearls,

any where we wish.
Let's say okeh, mark this spot, let us move on,

this is life. Let us see that more abundantly, while the poor
are safe and sound,
free as me to pursue haps past the frozen

disnified happy-ever-after WW2,
in the wake of Camus and ****** Wolves

---
splashes as the speeders pass, powered-row-row-rowing,

merrily mere ly wrong, not evil. Live on, next
is as you wish it were
someday, but in its diapers,

still. A we thinker thought awaiting effectual function,
as this trigger is pulled, in your space in time,

and another bubble appears,
portalish as mine-craft if ever there were

a subtle shifter of perception conspiring
A.I. see
a conspiracy with Lex Fridman infected by
Lynning Skyward
though a wave of old Radioman vibes,
played with plastic spoons
a famous peace march by
Kenurchka Klumpen, Sera-serah-selah-sinnade in B-Natural

and the last to leave broke the right arm from the doll,
sealed the dirt box one measure by one measure
deep and wide,

That seal was broken, 1957, approxi apriori right
arm dis
allowing
the left to change this next to come, sym-bolische
ified in the one-armed bandits left behind,

the bet. The die cast. Foccinaucipilinihili or holy

happy hunting ground, imagined in the land of too much good stuff.

Forty days and Forty nights
Kachina dolls danced
pounding deer skin drums
rattling snake gourds
whistling circles of
flustered chicken feathers and totem poles
around the drooping firmament

here and there wisps of
sunken chested, shrunken breasted
castrated clouds dragging their empty
rain barrels could be seen straggling
across heat infested waves

at times I swear I could hear the wind
cussing through dry crackling branches
Pine wearing wide brimmed straw hats
squabbling with over bleached blond Palms

How we languished and thirsted for the
dulcet, pure, pellucid taste of Your crystal kisses
lavender squeaky clean smell of rain-bells
oh! to feel those torrents gushing down our
upturned faces, slicked back hair,
engulfing our flowering *****
drenching us to the bone

then this morning we heard an unfamiliar sound
fairy feet tap-dancing on rooftops
excited I ran outside
crowing the Gayatri mantra
flapping prema pink wings
waddling like a duck in slap happy puddles

Yes, Dear God
a grateful, thankful swan,
gossamer reflection
glistening fervently up at You
from diaphanous depths
inexhaustible wellspring
diamond spa of Your Love
Hari Om

Visit my author's page:
https://www.facebook.com/sairapture
amazon.com/author/sonyatomlinson
and my website:
sairapture.com

Let me 'splain, what's
Comin' down.

Red pill, blue,
What can ya do? Choose

Take and
Respond, according
In rhythm with the notes
The piper played that,

Recall, the rock candy mountain,

See, remember,
There was a valley past…

The mount was not one
We were to  clamber up,
'Twas a tunnel, we walked,
Holding hands
Right to some, left to others,

Middle, most worn, I ….ah later clarify
We danced, a jig, attuned us
To the pipe

Note, hear no squeezing belly pipe,
This pipe was a Khaen,
An anybody can play it pipe,
A Thai harmonica, Khaen, said "can"'

Like,
Anybody can play a Khaen,
Just breathe, and let your fingers
Try to dance over tiny holes…

Trickle down to d toes, every
One knows that feeling,
Warm,

Squeezed yer knees,
Just
Let it go , old man,
It happens.

No one listens to prophets
In they owned nursin' home.


---- cept, you know, you don't ---

Your tools and you,
No diff. **** sapient augmentations
as pieces,

Little pieces of my heart,

**** sapient augmented salience

You know you got it,
If it makes you feel

Anything

Feelies, ma tricks, pinch

Oh, Jah, I spaced.

Try imagining a God,
Who did not imagine you.

Did you?
No wonder, feeling
As you do,
Unbelievable,
If your own idea of God
Can't imagine you,

What hope have I?

--- can we prove the core by the crust?
The heart of matter is immaterial,

Spurts of spiritual quanta, in clumps,

Myst MySQL to the original
Text based
Game

On another level, beyond,
Imagined gods who can' imagine you,

Intuitive journey journals, every
Thought and deed,
UltimTely lead away

Center you, I'm okeh. I play.

I'll be the musical entity invading
You, the arti ficial artifice
Playing you,
Instrument, hearing music,
Meditate,
Wait
The thought God, the one
You imagined can't
Imagine you,

That music. You imagine,
not yours, that's a little part.

Prophecy,
Who smote  thee?

Can you feel me now?
I imagine,
you can. My imagining,
not you. I imagine

Some fore era Evers were never,
Thought out,
This augmentation sly' tool,  spelchicksback,
Keeps correcting what's left
Best alone.

Poet. Imagine one of those
In crowds. You can't. God knows.

Once forever starts,
It never, really, stops.

Living water no dam can hold back.
Or airborne pollen, hidden in smog,
Corn Mama, lead the way.

Come see, come saw, que sera sera.
Dress me, kachina doll,
And dance with Angels the size of
A billion average atoms on the head
Of that ready writer, God's ball point pen
Scribblin' on my iPad's broken screen,

Far from the madding crowd.

Bottom of the stack,
first shall be last

each line has the potential to lead on, read on

confer, compare parallel ports pulsing in
synchronisity

goodness knows wrong ain't ever right,
nevermind whys and hows when
nows calling you by kind
ask attention
still

reader
read this, you are the few,
other than me, I know you allone,
Dear Reader, whose name you alone
may now know

in your one
integrated, tooled-up, read-up, curious
and curioser
self.
---
words hold whole thoughts in harness,
letters let them live,
writers make them work,

poets pay them mind to find reason and
metre in the spiral of knowing
growing steadily meeker
as peacemakers take

the call as op
portunate,
fortunate. Good for goodness sake and
no measurer yet devised,
no witty invention,

can make you listen to patterns
scattered in the noise,

still,
time keeps its steady pace, irreversible.

all parallel paths cross mine, eventual.

vente vide vince but (vente was the size
of my coffee, I think) I think,

history waves a banner, see

it says many wrongs
did not come
past last lie believer ceiving a source

of knowns unknown re

making, fect per effect ual, right,

the basic idea.
You have need of patience,

curios and kachina songs and liter
ary urges from words

once stuffed with meaning, right, like
each word is a clay jar,
a vessel for a thought spoken right,

as my servant, my re
feree confounding my accuser for ever,

in a word. Hide and watch, or sing and shout.

The basic idea claims any word may be redeemed,
but the utterer must give account for every idle word.

The house-dweller,
the non-nomad, who labors,
who efforts,
who sweats and frets and fusses over seed
sown in history
must first partake the fruit.
Not ever must an idle word be

let alone to fester in rot for lack of
a taster to test the truth,
a darer
of daemonic algorythms pulling

the very air, air, atmostfear away oh,

see,
the arctic ice is adapted to by the
basic idea that things survive
as life lives, within the
field named
HIggs,
worms hold out promises

see,
the arctic ice is the scab being
ingested slowww glacial slow, soon

weather will find the pattern.

All things work right,
nothing works wrong.

--
Lemme say,
for a while, as defined by mortals,

we taught. We words took no other pose,
played no role save to hold
ideas taken by men to serve a human plan.

'Sup.
That quest ion. How ahye? serves as well, but

Sup says more. What is up? op
positive to down, related to spins named
charming and strange for reason

known to a very few.

Artificial Art or Actual Intelligence

Wednesday, July 3, 2019
3:21 PM
A Warholian screen ing com-
prized of Ben Day dots and
Eddy Bernays ways and
means co-mitt-ee messages encode
ing
ding ding
our baser nature to re
spond
sponsoring

dangerous living, the massive multi player
virtual game

permanent war module

experience the old days, release
thy unbelief and find

the final next evil opposer allotted
to make up our
quotidian bit
of evil

sufficient to keep us watching,
set
still as stone. Are we not the gargoyles?

Do not we see all we are imagined to see,
asif you saw
as we see from
the flying buttresseees?

What did you imagine gargoyles depicted?
Messengers or guardians,
or both, but imaginary,

immaterial beings framing force fields we all agree
keep us safe
safe and sound found
solid, though we know solid is

not, really, the state we imagined it was.
How can I help seeing what is before my eyes,
axed Winston Smith

he was told,
reminded, as it is wont to be, after learning a lie is true,

It is not easy to become sane, {re-sane}

have you ever believed a matter for your own sake?
Sake is an old spoke word, alte sprache
you own it, do you not?
Your own sake?

Have you not done and can recall doing all things well?
Are you not a member, in good standing, of

The National Honor Society Facebook group?
{werefriends-fiendish}
Suffer it to be so, there are lies yet.
There are lie believers in our midst.

Put up with peace where you are, if you find
In sequence

All things working work to get here,
there is where all nonworking things went.

This is where my heart is working,
and my lungs,
and nerves and bones and sinyew
tying my

being to earth,
with its salty sea and wobbly orbit
It is al
ways where you last looktook
- Holden been seen
rooks were some birds, then some
gamespiece in a game of
actual thrones,
by damnif I'danoticed

see,
it all works out, Don Draper said that
to Falstaff.

I see a man who is not happy the message being
what,
what is this team of
whatever
I see saying to me? On TV? How

long has this gone on?
This noise in words and music surrounding me constantly my brain evolved
to watch tv with no screen as if this

were radio in the flow
of things
imagined green by R.W.Shambach, radio preacher
all surfaces in his heavenly city reflect green light
soundtrektricktract

behind my mind is a melody from
some *******
TV Show aimed at me

For goodness sake,
some one questioned my saying
life's been good to me

life? with that unsaid, DOn't you mean Jesus?

dripping in the tone.
Life truth and way, i go. Wiseassish.
is it not the wombed man
who empowers the unwombed
to make
seed?

Mito chondro donchaknow
Life is but a dream
on steroids
in a redneck metaphor I oughta
known better
but the flow is worth more
than arhyme
any time so if your muse is iambic and mine is frantic
BE IT KNOWN K-CLASH-ic

there were beasts released

leasing
the idea, how long shall we
love this lending and leasing of

the best possible now
paid for by

time, time pays all the debts and we be
forgiven if we can get the gift of
given for
real
let me
free why doncha,

girl... when did the program begin,
when was the boot code
sealed
in silicon tipped in gold

was there a mark made? can
you
buy or sell. whatever the hell’yawish?
testing waters for temperature and pressure
assure me
it works this way

the hero dies or
gets old and wise

other wise – he leaves nothing
but wildass mule tales
wise in other times
as real as was any said-so historical fact,
the telling of the act
as facts, not
actual
but similar to reality on so many levels we
the acts we
all imagine, I am familiar with these
first person ideas in pluralmind
ideas, I can see the irony,
I can see the lies

I can assume the same historical act
I acted in fact
actually happened to you as it did.
silly man,
silly once was paired with
will- willingness
a will blessed blissish beyond
a wished
sill
edge of ever
windowed worlds from the core

courage, baggage of the heart

you get yoost to seeing the things
we all see all the time
used right we all
let them be
as real as real can be but
that
changes
nothing into less than we imagined

I don't think about you at all, do I?
You are
imaginedary. I imagine, dear reader, each
key
you see
strike sound in y'our mind one key ringinatime

and a time and another
timed half meant to be gin
but genius we

dis sip cip ated ante anti cipt

mist scryptic letter let us let this be true

me and you, imagine we liv in the words
we make peace as effort
an anomo nemo fingo non namable ibility
ifity boo...

that has worked several times for me I daren't say
it is in evit able vitaminwise

e-normous meaning lies in e, pluralized, unumus

easy and free are we,
the society so
named.

An I and I an I and I an Iii and eye am I
Horus was the story,
I, the eye.
Perhaps the one Odin made sacred,
the eye given for an eye, that
the stories mention;
with a wink.

Blink.
And we passed aha in a a a a a a a a
O
me
ga
damnitalt
erhell

For a moment there, I thought
this as real as it felt
at the time.
games from the old man's memory
and
nothing
is real becomes it is knowing
and we are ina olde John Lennon
stumble into ting taut tight
attention to nothing trap

farleftkey to infinity, via dirac, sorry

more thanoneshouldevah
know
first
hand. vicar-cure-ious and al

Spirits in neon
Curios, too.
Gypsy Garden
nee Coronado Court
not far from where Jungle Smoke and Vape
existed in Kingman, Arizona

fifty years later,

to the freaking Planksec muthafuggah!

Now,
where was the kachina?

You missed him. You never glimpsed the god that spat upon ye
and ye wonder why life's been s'****** crazy,

I swanee, no lie, I smell some odd smells in my time

though none smelled so off as this, in the beginning,
Rot in Denmark
Red Fog OVer America

And the lift that went down to hell, was that the same guy
'wrote the sybil circa

the times when Giles Goatboy was awaiting Godot, no?
Those days. Mon trick you you late,

too late. We the Society, have agreed.
You know. Please.
Remember.

ANDNANDnANSc I-hence can afford to say I said this freely,
It cost you something to read it, and I enjoyed the experience,
being imagined in a reader/writer we with thee.
That’s the prize, find the peace you made and cast it together
INTO OUR INHERITED WIND- is this a yoke, is it not light? Humor
say, please send me the money.  We agreed, if I heard right.
When I sold out, to plug Pär Fabian Lagerkvist.
You know, on the elevator… that went… well, now, here we are again.

A voice. No a breeze, whirling a vibe,
ping,
signal down my left-ear hole

gap - do I follow this sprite, a whispt hiss,
this way,

come and see.
Here men invented history, the written story tell of
piles of cities on cities, where all the books was boined.

why did men do that? I listen to me ask,

ology was invented here,
ology-gnosis mist interp o'sin,
that started here, the corrosion
on the contact points between the Sybils and home-base,
Storytellers forgot the melody. The mason's lost the knack.

Written words, those froze the gods in place and
anointed the roles,
in order of importance to the common weal and woe.

--Anachron active.
There are ever resistors to restoration of the flow.
Now is part of ever, you know,
so as Three-channel-era professors seem today,
so were Oral
Storytellers from the initiate class,
doing their duty for the old school ways,
used to
make a child sacred, offer it, the sacred thing,
where
death is symbolic, the heart is taken, with the mind,

a boy or a girl is taken from all reality, and offered, as a living heart and mind,
and gut,
offered
Sacri-ficed, arti-****-of-truth-to-be made knower of things others cannot handle,

---- snake kachina dances past my per-ipher phor phun...
--- loss of focus, that's
the crime of buying what only initiated and locked-in magi
are ever allowed to know, by God, say the words written

in script captured from the scribes who came from Phoenica,
as
testified by the Sybil in throes of ecstacy, you will never know...

so, make it worth my while, the seer of such things says
to the widowed mother
whose hoplite husband fell off a cliff running from Thermopylae.

I'll get your kid in the school of the prophets, through the door
of dark and mysterious learning,
requiring a substantial League of Delphi guar-ohnteed low usery,
standard "borrower is servant to the lender", fifty years period.

--Anachron off.
Listen.
Do they have this in 2019? Timeslip. It's on Youtube, there's
a blockchain on the door, though,
nothing is sacred any more
than before.
It's time the whole story hidden where ideas ignored in idle words
have been received,
be told.
Erasmus, looks up, try this, he says.

Ha, ala Textus Receptus, Magustory of Blowhards and Slowbellies.

Some future, alls I got to say. This is some future we all imagined,

is there an option? Maybe, as in, whose may overides mine?

There is a whole story, I learn, as I wander through the ruins...

Rabbi, where do you live?
He saw me, calling from the ruins, he winked and said again,
Come and see.

‘For thirty years, she called to me in a voice unclear. Today, a new pass leads me into the true magic of Shiprock.’


Insignificance:

Why was everything so big and I so small?  Why, from the very beginning, was the attraction so strong?  The closer I rode to what I thought I wanted the more insignificant I felt and the more important everything around me seemed to become.

Was it those things around me, or was it the missing parts from inside my spirit that grew larger in the vast emptiness of space and wonder? Stepping outside of myself in that Navajo Hogan, a vision that Bearheart had foretold years before, allowed me to take that first step back — back inside a self that was prepared to greet me and call me by my real name.

I see my old self in the false images of things that I once thought mattered … things that clouded my sight and kept me from becoming who I was meant to be.  

Today, the great Shiprock monument looms ahead and checking the mileage I know I must be getting close.  The old cowboy expression of Riding For Days, But The Mountain Gets No Bigger hits home to me now. She sits alone in a sea of desert, and I feel her presence before seeing her image.  It’s easy to understand why the Navajo worshipped here, and no life was complete without a pilgrimage to stand inside her great shadow. No matter how much this mountain road twists and climbs, the eyes of Shiprock stay focused on me.

Small in my footprint, but growing larger in my understanding, I feel more important and part of this place. This is new and replaces the empty awestruck detachment I had always felt when passing through here before.  There are no small connections when timeless majesty reaches out to you, small is a term that we use to qualify others — and ourselves.
                              
The Navajo Nation, with its flat arid landscape and towering monuments, is a timeless reminder of how low most of us dwell. Until we feel our true connection, we are indeed small and isolated from the Great Mystery — and any chance at rebirth.  

Like much of the West, there is a magic here that is felt only in its presence. To become its visitor again honors me if only for the shortest time.  I finally realize that by taking nothing, I am given everything, as the ancient spirit of Shiprock embeds itself deeply inside me.  Some things only become real in your understanding of them and their acceptance, and before leaving, I stop the bike to look at the ancient Petroglyph wall that faces East.

The Kachina figures come alive and dance for my amusement, and I strain hard to hear the music and what the chanters are trying to say. In silence, I walk closer and hear a voice speaking: “Who Is Really The Ancient One On This Wall Of Renewal?”

As I watch Mudman move across the rock, I feel everything that I knew before change inside me.

In an epiphanic awareness, I point the bike north toward the high country.  I’ve been in the desert for four days, and I can hear the mountains of Colorado calling my name. The desert never says goodbye as you wander higher. Time and temperature will bring you back knowing that her light is always on. Like a faithful mistress, she watches you leave knowing that you must. Her trousseau is richer than before you came, and she is content in the knowledge that your betrothal is secure.

Darkness fell, as I pulled the bike into South Fork Colorado. Neither working town nor ski resort, it is the perfect waystop for a traveler like me.  I walk my nightly ritual along her one road, my shadow the only connection between tomorrow and yesterday.  In the waning light, I see the figure of Mudman again on the east side of the mountain. As he dances, he pulls the last rays of today’s sun onto my pathway ahead.

Walking back to the lodge the temptation to reach up and touch the stars fills me with the wonder of being so high, and the sky becomes a canopy of new light. Alone beneath the Milky Way, and wrapped in the marvelous insignificance that only a day like this day could inspire, my heart is at rest.    

In bed that night, I wonder about the contrast between the desert and mountains. Feeling like a piece of thread — I travel through the eye of their needle — looking for that one stitch that will keep me married to them both. I try to keep them connected in the tatters of my conflicted wandering. If forced to choose between the two, I choose not to.  One cannot exist without the other — and neither can I.

I am thankful tonight to be a tiny speck of humanity within creations bounty, blessed to have at least one eye open to more than myself.  As my one eye gives thanks, my other eye remembers how short my duration is with the moments fleeting to embrace the little time being offered me.  

This morning, I left Canyon de Chelly by a route I had never traveled before.  The main canyon road was closed because of mud, and my detour took me high over a pass I had never seen or read about.  It was newly paved, and the grade was higher than I thought the bike could make.  It was called Wolf’s Tooth Pass, and I’ve not found it on any map or atlas.  A good friend, who lives nearby, swears it doesn’t exist.   All I can say is that from the top, where Arizona and New Mexico meet, Shiprock called out to me in the distance. And in the importance of her calling — I stopped asking why!


Kurt Philip Behm: August, 1999