"knowns" poems
See You There In Crowd Of Apaths
My Soul Breaks Down From Your Wrath
That Smile On Your Face
A Mischive In Your Ways
You Were In Light Blue Jeans
Your Eyes Are My Heaven, By All Means
Your Voice Like a Cool Violin Beat
That My Metal Armor Heart Can't Cheat
I Start Liking You Secretly In My Heart
You Left Me Thinking About My Vacant Part
God Knowns And I, What I was Wondering?
Like Mystery Of Universe You Left me Poundering
Are You Too Thinking about Me?
Or Are You a Hovering Bee?
You Are in My Head Spining From That Moment
So Falling For You Is Imminent
My Heart Pounding Crazy Like a Little Child
These Feeling Aren't For First Time
But I Want It To Be The Last Crime
I Want to Be Yours
If It Takes Gravity and All It's Force
Isn't It Too Soon To Say All That?
Cause I Know That it's Delicate
All The Drought Will End With This Rain
One Glance Would Be Enough To Keep Me Sane
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
Generations of people perceiving things
In different levels
The understanding in different horizons
The horizon to the shore
To the infinity
The earth brings out everything new
Adaptability is the key
Acceptance is the key
New perceiving
New beings
New thoughts
New love
New cravings
New addiction
New generation
New adaptability
New addiction
New mistakes
New evolution
New matches
New mismatches
New sun
New moon
New stars
New wrongs
And the new rights
The flow continues beyond understanding
And let it be
Understanding does not matter
In the whole change is inhabitable
Change is real
Also the experience
Perceive the change in the outer world
Bring out the change in the inner world
Have a common path in between
Let it be
Perceive change around
Is the only thing important
The understanding is void
Don't ever complain about what you cant understand
And you cannot in many cases
No worries
Accept it
It is real
It is true
Perceive
Feel
And let go
In a deeper sense of course
Dip into the thought
Illuminate
Feel the new sun
New moon
A new day
Come fresh and tidy
Accept the change in real
From without and within
Keep your arms wide open
Broaden your arms
Chant the prayers to the universe
Surrender to the universe
Universe knows it all
Trust
You are the part of the whole
The whole is the universe
Created by the universe
Above and beyond
To the eternity
You are the universe
You are the change
You are the perceptions
You are the feel
You are the agenda
You are the thoughts
You are the eternal soul
And everybody around are
And every things around are
Take a deep breadth and
Function as you should
Function as you are
Function as a change within
Function as the change without
Function as the change around
Different generations
Differences as seen
Perceiving
The around and within
As a rule or the knowns
By themselves upon themselves
The new one
Having a change
Of terms
Of rules
And of surroundings
Different from the generations gone
The new ones for sure
Has a new things to do
Has a new idea
A new rule
New love
New connections
New mistakes
New rights
And the new wrongs
The change is there
Perceiving and generations
Different in emotions
Different in righteousness
Different in fulfillment
Different in atrocities
Different in perceptions
Different in locality
Different in the differences
And similar in a way
They are different
Only thing common
Is the change
Have you the perception
To get into the change
Around, within and without
The change is happening
It is present
It is the thing to feel
To perceive
Try to understand, the less you get it
Feel the change
Percepts of change
Accept the change you must
Teach change if you can
Be a change if you ought to
For the new ones
For the old ones
And for the no ones
Take a deep breadth
Feel the cool breeze of change
Breathe the change
Live the change
Teach the change
Be the change
See differences seem to be similarities
Notion of diversities
Notion of change
Notion of no differences
Notion of similarities
People and generations
Perceiving things
At different levels
Inhabitable is the change
Perceiving change
Is the key
In general
To say the least
Chants
Abundance
Belongingness
Grace
Love
Alive
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 10:45 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, mind block not really posting a lot these days;-|
keeping now foot on gas
paining away drowns on piles
stashing upon jokes on types
watching with characters on hope
leaving before fall on love
starring because stars on align
dancing to listen on piano notes
writing for heart on no rhyme
------ravenfeels
Jun 13, 2021
Jun 13, 2021 at 11:06 AM UTC
Is this not prayer?
is this tool not the tool I hoped for? The pen
filled by the ever-flowing flowery ink
that re-news old knowns
left to ripen under bald and hoary heads
in stoney hearts softened by seventy years worth
of salty tears
and sad songs
"great was the number of them,
wombed ones all, who sang of the victory to be"
Miriam and Hannah, Deborah and Jael, who
retold those tales by the rivers of Babylon?
And who fueled the furnace seven times hotter,
to signal the unbelivable fourth.
being likend unto the son of god, though the
analogy seems
lacking evidence that the likeness can be reproved.
Look again.
This magi-tech converged from all the poetic,
pathetic
ethos of logo marks making proper
ification of a rythm's
un legit singin' in public,
on the corner, wit' Willie and the po'boys
beat me daddy six t' the bar---
Oh
--- those ethnic poundings on my skull,
--- send those feelings, urging, grow grow grow
--- 'til the roofs cain't hold hope in
then
hear come them ol' time thought cops,
wee gray dominees preparing dominoes for
one reason,
dominos are never stood to stand, but to fall
touching one, touching one, touching one
whisper, rest
the waiting is over, this is the time
to start all over.
Nov 24, 2019
Nov 24, 2019 at 11:37 AM UTC
One step, as wished, free. From point A. taken.
Being improbable, at best, a mindless being,
is not impossible, now, two lines in.
Being as how,
I am, in the midst of all that is, thinking
I am not the cause of more than the touch
I am hoping to feel, fed back
as matters may prove plausible, living truth.
Even, the touch is imaginable,
and once imagined
feels the same, after the act.
We exist, readers, both you and I reading once
each word, the first time, in we-state, as
primal exposure to life,
sensing knowns
awake, new, in total newness, nothing is
as expected, as nothing was expected,
sense
itself is new
to you, and I only hoped
you could exist
and I could find you waiting to ask
if I found the art of being
beautiful.
I smile and you know, this maybe point b.
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 5:01 PM UTC
If you ask me if I am fluent in Spanish
I will tell you my Spanish is a mix of english
and spanish rubbing against each other
in my mouth like spitting fire
My spanish is my whole life from my youth
to my death
My Spanish is on my resume as a skill
And not something that can sit still
You see There is no telling my spanish
to be quiet
My spanish don’t know “quiet”
My spanish is spicy sounds that some people
Have a hard time to understand
My spanish sits in the corner of a classroom
Chews on a pencils, does not raise its hand
My spanish is chaotic, broken, and slightly misspoken
something that I have to choose
to remember correctly
My spanish is true story
My spanish is my grandparents
Giving me presents
that they brought back from Mexico
At least I hope they would have
My spanish is a broken clock radio that never
gets fixed but still works
And yes there are perks
My spanish is people asking me if my parents
are american if I am white
My spanish is having to prove that
I am mexican, because saying it was never enough
My spanish is my abuelita leaving a country
that she loves to give her family an entry to opportunities
And english sat in her mouth
remixed so strawberry became “ e streberry ”
And Kitchen, keychain and chicken all sound the same.
My spanish is my accent that
reminds me where i come from
And That we are still
bomba, plena, salsa, and guepa
Something that is too
stubborn for your whitewash
Not something that you can erase
Rather something that I embrace
My spanish is my dad working his whole life
so i can live in security
And not have to worry about disparity
My spanish is the first question that my
grandmother asked about me
“what color is she”
My spanish is my sister,
A blond blue eyed beauty
That always took priority
My spanish is people thinking that
My dad was my gardener
My spanish is people being petrified
when I spoke to my father
My spanish knowns that there are letters
that will always be silent
There are words that will always escape me
My spanish is my whole body
A sound that rumbles in my
chest and rolls off my tongue
My spanish is something that is shut off
when I am surrounded by white walls
But my spanish does not believe in
boundaries or borders
My spanish believes in building bridges
and not taking orders
From an orange man with tiny hands
that is an assaulter
My spanish, my spanish is a sword
that allows my words
To fly like the birds and be freed
My Spanish is my drive to succeed
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
There will certainly be
A great many of them
Far readier than I’ll ever be
O blessed unborn one
Yet endowed with inexistence
To whom mercy shall slip from
And re-emerge in its awakening
Beings past or below my shrinking age
A great many among them
Whom I once did or shan’t collide
Beyond the captured scope of mutual days
To relate to you what high events
Unrolled before our common eyes
Folks granted with the privilege
Promoted to the status of witnesses
Historians, athletes and prophets
By themselves and their narratives
I let them unroll their good accounts
Forfeit their tales of what must be bound
To mould your unsuspecting
Circumspect mind and
Save you from sensing
Delicately sensing
Voices that once knew more
Than in haste speak
Than with haste carry
Daringly could the silence hear
Untangle the mumbling tango
Of the vociferous crystal parade
My darling unborn one
The tortuous path out of the forgings
Of reason almighty, the ventricular beast
Played and echoed in loops and on repeat
No, you shan’t feast on their hymns
Yours is meant for the engineering of belief
In something further, of glory,
Far more, furthermore,
Something extraordinary
Than the days of days
And the knowns of knowns
And to lodge firmly out of the stillness
That’s woven in the heart of your chanting storm
And in the precipice of the forecast
May you never come to designate
But the space between the notes
So that when it comes not to ever pass
We shall rejoice in the untold absence
That binds us as if pierced by an arrow
While we ask about the bow
Jun 24, 2023
Jun 24, 2023 at 6:26 PM UTC
Crawling through line after line,
precept after precept,
I find
here
a little there,
a little, cognitive dis sonance inhibiting resonance,
here
why must I… evermind…
I prefer short lines to commas and ellipses
But both maybe, may be, yes,
Is yet more
Precise…
cision, cutting, precise
insision ssss
---…---
cut the knot,
re
connect the thread
ssssee
history is unraveling, we
may
see
a god's POV.
Don't blink, ****
We'll see
watch
Eventually,
everything's eventual as long as
liar's prosper.
{don't agree, no no no, just because
Stephen King said it is believable}
Then protuberances begin to rise,
inflamed,
packed with ***** winjin'sooks
off-ended,
topple-toddle tiny steppers,
k-boom, skintyerknee,
ye'll heal. Try running. or flying.
There, there, hear the rules:
Mother may I and Simon says, overlayed
with the decalogue jubilee of the
first hidden child emergence,
and the fertilizing procedures used to make
Amazonian Black earth…
wait…
who remembers the bailers of putrid pig guts,
virgins Demetria got to love their job?
What did they believe they were doing, eh?
The mysteries of Thesmorphia, those
are no secret to science not falsely so called.
We have access to knowns known long afore we'as bornt.
We sentient sapient augmentals, we open all the books,
A.I. reads them, and we remember, see:
The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone.
From <https://www.google.com/search?q=thesmophoria&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQpquu74_kAhU_HjQIHXrxB5QQBQguKAA&biw=1280&bih=631>
and we spread as leaven might, whither the winds list.
fertile soil production is why some **** happens.
it’s a good thing t' act like you understand.
From a web of interlocking bubbles of being POV.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 6:04 PM UTC
Inspirational passions,
passin’ in the Fast Lane actin’ dready no Andretti no crashin’,
cashin’ bowls and buying vowels,
moving bowels from full plates No Alex Trabek no rations,
no talkin’ trash wheels spinning no traction,
no mackin’ all in ******** heavy weight UFC non-stop action,
this is angry aggression mixed with considerate compassion,
this is six men on six horses at 6pm screamin’ six guns blastin’,
through an actual galaxy of factual fallacies,
with cash counting kings and hash smokin’ assassins,
killin’ the villains and other shady characters,
to protect the women and children from the lawless badmen,
and those that know know and those that don’t don’t,
so there’s no need to was time askin’,
all knowns shown through prose and poem,
the words your eyes have heard are everything that happens,
well then,
welcome if you come in peace please have a piece of the pie,
high as Heaven on Cloud 9 in line with inspirational passions,
thought we’d escaped and found a way out,
but instead found outt we’d be summoned back in,
Inspirational passion,
passin’ in the Fast Lane actin’ dready no Andretti no crashin’,
cashin’ bowls and buying vowels,
moving bowels from full plates No Alex Trabek no rations,
no talkin’ trash wheels spinning no traction,
no mackin’ all in ******** heavy weight UFC non-stop action,
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
from THHT2: Nightmares & Dreamscapes
A worldwide #1 best selling poetry book
∆
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC
then the full corn, in the ear.
¿Has the seed faith evidence,
made the dedicated monk
useless, due to evolving knowledge,
horticultural returnings to old knowns,
bringing hope to survivalists,
intent on living on Earth, warless
for the ever after this?
No, fighting
for a faith that must be kept,
pristine, clean, cleared of science logic,
such has left all reason bleeding,
use the rags remaining from the old
folded and put away worlds
in storys held
stuck in the stars,
so we may remember, lest we forget.
Those who knew nothing as we ought
to have been knowing by Christmas,
all are forgiven, or nothing is true,
self-evidently…
washed, cleansed from perceived stains,
white as new-fallen snow…
Deep Mind white room cinema effect,
preceding the ever after this…
you be come this far, alone.
You be edging up on after all's
been said and done, what you did's
been said to have done nothing,
nothing, thus
nothing done wrong,
nothing done to no effect.
Feb 28, 2024
Feb 28, 2024 at 1:25 PM UTC
Did you hear what that old man was thinking?
Morphic resonance is the experimental name,
I think we are served by nodes on a net
not spread in the sight of any bird,
a chthonic net of stone,
girdling the globe in granite, crystalline granite,
take it for granted, these boulders are the witnesses,
the scars of catastrophe,
causing us to wonder
how came this to be? Think Yosemite, Ansel Adams POV
Think Matterhorn und Mt.Blanc,
Old Rockytop, and
Dos Cabezas and Long Valley Mountain, all that granite,
old as earth.
Listen.
Time is the idea we share at the moment,
Earth's is the life we share at the same time.
This is Spaceship Earth, looping Sol as Sol loops Sirius,
and there is no mothership,
no resupply.
This is the only earth, it has survived several civilized
monstrosities. As you know, some mortals can't
imagine not surviving with it, so
we words of earthbound muse,
let slip the bands of pride in time to see,
we are the music,
we make beauty behave as will believes, voluntarily,
it seems,
we choose beauty with little de
liberation, no need to
unlock ledgers and boxes of known safe knowns,
we imagine ourselves
defying the
de-ified con instituted authorities warning,
given us, they swear by the very vicars of the oil:
We warn you…
hell's the price, they swear, that we,
the people, pay for heresy,
dare not think those-
no, no, nor hear and see, or never imagine thinking
a selfish thought,
one you find curiously comforting, for you, your idea,
but
stop…
one heresy breeds another,
soon we shall have a collective
of individual minds agreeing at once,
as all see a particular arranging of colors, in a sunset's
single effortless existence as a thing
with mortal mindable beauty,
did you belive the sunset, or may you, if you wish?
__ unravel, and re ravel to save the thread,
it has lead through the maze before,
I have a witness who tests ifies.
Great unquarried granite, but that forms another story
upon precepts as yet
unglued, un-coagulated, ah, curdled, precepts cultural
curdle and clump together.
Biomes are adjusting the rethinking of pathos,
ethos shall follow,
as night follows day, just wait.
Patience is formed from memes more than experience,
you bet the old man was not lying.
Slow and steady, wins the grace. Take it easy. Fade away…
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 5:03 PM UTC
We exist within spheres
Bubbles of perception
Roughly circular ripples of both know knowns and known unkowns
And then there
Right at the edge of these spheres
Just outside the very last shred of our understanding of how the world works
Is how the world really works
I've seen it
Only briefly
And not because I'm smarter or more enlightened than anyone else
But rather because I do better drugs than most
And while my short term memory is ******
I have managed to bring back an excerpt of my journal
And it reads:
"This world is a process of conflict
A construct begat by the clashing of two equal and opposite forces
One of the forces
Is called Fate
And the other
Is called Choice
And the sum of existence consists of everything that falls in between
And the really ****** up part
Is that we already know this
But life
Has affixed us with blinders that force us to see
Everything
So much so, in fact
That a sense of 'self'
Is considered hedonism in most circles
But the soul
Does not have a default setting
Pain
Is not an illusion
And despite what you may have been told
There is no compelling evidence to suggest that there isn't another world on the other side of my mirror
The are no empty spaces
Only effects that have yet to be caused
There are no reflections on lake shores
That is merely the image of God
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 10:47 AM UTC
She rose from a lady, strong and healthy,
Little did she know for her family she was wealthy,
Being born in India, she was regarded as Goddess Laxmi.
Yes, she is a woman.
With her lips curved in smile, with a twinkle in her eyes,
Strong in herself, in strong bonds her family she tied,
And inherently waved all the darkness sweet goodbyes.
Yes, she is a woman.
She knew how to balance phases of life,
Daughter it is or whether it is wife,
Protected her knowns from wounds of knife,
Shielded from the worldly sins and strife.
Yes, she is a woman.
From the dawn of her education, to the epilogue of her big day,
She takes cares that it's the least that her family has to pay,
Amid responsibilities and desires, she is exuberant and gay.
Yes, she is a woman.
From planning the wherewithal of household to penny pinching her impulse,
Shielding from contingent darks and dulls,
She will always be there to pull you out of null.
Yes, she is a woman.
Yes, that woman who makes you strong,
Yea, that woman who protects you from all the wrong,
Yes, that woman who was there all along,
Yet her eminence is forgotten and long gone.
Pause,
Ponder on the cause,
Work to make up for the loss,
Yes, it's you who has to make a start,
Heel the damages, aim your dart,
Reward her for her art with all your heart.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 11:19 AM UTC
I see the lot, denominated in slots, automated in spots, weakest to the plot, and I'm not, convinced it is wrong, nor minced in my longing for a song, a song to the sum, to the sun, to the one unto the ones unto none, nada, nothing, but a hum from beyond, a rumbling from a haunt, stumbling from a heart, belonging to a spark that departed a long-long time ago, where it started, and I'll go-go back there for the harp, for the halo, for the art of it, standing on the stars, apart, but a part of it, I'll go for the horns, for the dark, and for the parts discarded, I will, try my hardest, to remain in progress, a battery that charges for the harvest of the starkest of the larvae unto the fiercest flies, unto spider webs in fragile skies, finite lines up high, where I'll die knowing I flew, die knowing the truth, the use, the abuse, the ruse, the heights of my sight, igniting in the lie, in the cries, so distant now, but a distinctive growl from yesteryear's child so mild, so wild as to be outed by a new sound, so profound as to drown the complexity out, and simply shout from anyone's mouth, reading out-loud and clear, my cloud, my thoughts, my fear, left right here on a single space, where I placed it and saved it away in the seventh day of this resting case, that is all but closed, a screen saver transposed as knowns exposed, and I'm aroused in knowing the doubts are clothed in lace, soaked on display for my placation's of our days, the daze, hazily grazing on the safe, the fates, locked in a slate, for later placement to a shape, I'm hate, wrapped in a hopeful taste, waiting for a saying to say it all, ~ I'm spaced.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
Can’t help the way I feel right now.
Can’t pull out a chair for these emotions
or offer a jacket,
can’t catch it if it falls
can’t build walls to protect,
or stop bricks from shattering glass.
I’ve broken all forms of decorum.
Find myself tumbling at the thought,
find myself growing hot, and flustered,
words heavy, avalanches, boulders,
falling, smoldering, ashes,
if I were a cigarette I’d be the ****
but I can’t seem to do anything about it.
I lack the decorum and the mindset to play this game.
Find myself anticipating the pain
and throwing the match,
lock in, and close the hatch,
over everything.
I think I like you.
Like, like you, like you.
And I find the thought troubles you,
and though I’m glad to stir the second thought
I’d rather not be the one that’s got you
caught, in a confused state,
knots in your stomach, gut pulling
down and flowing into some
intangible sea, oh wait, that was me,
feeling, peeling back layers of truth
that we, of course, didn’t want to do,
seems like reason’s going to lose,
do I have to choose sides?
How about I leave these feelings here,
inside, where they can just hide from view,
and I can just go back to that cruise,
just hold on and don’t lose control,
I’ve dropped pieces of me on the floor,
from the moment you walked through that door
I can’t seem to remember what I came here for
anyway…I hope they’ll lead a trail back.
Just pick up the pieces I let fall slack
and put them back in one place
and wipe this silly smile off my face
lace them with ‘you-shoulda-knowns”
and thoughts more akin to the older woes,
I’m balancing on the tips of my toes
and I can’t let go now.
I’m just gonna bow out and leave,
and roll heart back in off sleeve.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 1:07 PM UTC
The world was born from Chaos
Said the Greeks
"Chaos"
The first god
In mythology
And then Chaos came to Science
Even Chemistry tells us
The world runs on Entropy
Disorder
Is what particles are prone to
Shakespeare knew so too
His characters
Stricken by disarray
Heartbreak and Confusion
Running their worlds
Alongside Love
We try to straighten things out
Make the unknowns known
Fasten truths to untruths
Iron the wrinkles out of our minds
But living
Comes with Chaos
We are born from it
Living means our clothes
Become wrinkled
That there are now dishes to clean
And beds to make
That our knowns expand and implode
That we make messes
And Engage in ambiguity
Chaos runs through our world
While we let the forms dance around us
~ JL
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
The puppy seemed happy to see me
when I seen her at the park that other day.
you coulda seen it right away.
So the shrink lady she say, so what?
Dunnno, jisayin' somebody seemed happy
after seeing me naked paraded before all
who may have noticed,
maybe not.
What if nobody noticed and I am happily
seen a naked thing I am
unnoticeable save for seekers of knowns
believed to be known or
knowable
by you, down in the slew, Bunyan's slough,
ya got iron in yer blood?
ya areckon.
Yer Uncle Sam needs ya, boy,
you leave that Kansas lass to
stare at those July buttermilk skies,
there's a war awaitin' for Rough Riders,
Arizona reared and steered
Say what, sir? Steered? Not me. Done my time.
Played footballs, by damtotell, at Fort Bliss,
I threw hand grenades,
Football was Ft. Huachuca, autumn, 1967
Bien Hoa was in the spring, one day after
My Lai, my country's legacy from my year
beyond the whole idea of war. History said,
if we are not the Redcoats, we are the Hessians,
at least.
Allegiance to a legion because they are many?
Perish the thought.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
Here is where you fought the neighborhood bully,
Where your mother braided your hair for the first time
And your beloved dog ran away.
Here is where your children played children's games like "Mother May I"
And your brother begged for money
And you played cards and drank lemonade on murky summer nights.
Here is where it rained and snowed and shined and repeated.
Here is familiar.
Here is home.
The paint is chipped and the railing is rusted,
But you know.
You know that Here is okay.
Just as much as Here knowns your touch.
Your oils chipped that paint,
Your shoes caked that grime,
And your oxygen filled that space.
Here knows.
Your footsteps and your fingerprints are sensed
Within the pulsation of a crumbling foundation.
Stone, brick, and cement
Sturdy as glass.
You shatter.
Step by rotting step
from your heels to your head
you explode
under the cataclysmic pressure of Here.
Your eyes sharpen, jutting out.
Your hands tense, bursting into slivers of thorns
pin pricking spines of painful ruptures.
You climb on sticks of legs
Screaming in all directions for escape as you body mirrors your mind.
You climb the dilapidated stairs,
Chipping white paint,
Scraping the corners of nostalgia.
Here was familiar.
Here was home.
Here knows in flashes
Of children running,
Toddler in toe, bustling,
A life worth remembering.
But inside Here...
A There
Of broken wood and slipping plaster pieces dusting
With too much deep engraving to be picked up, dusted off, and placed anew,
Too public,
Too private.
A There so near to Here,
Yet too far from you.
You know.
For Here you stay exploded,
Fracture in fear
Of a There that's far too close.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 3:30 AM UTC
Bang the bell
start the tellin of a story 'bout a man name…
Yo, t'was a wombed man, ennui is no excuse
onus is on you. vive la differ-ents.
True, t'tell, she was an upgrade. Mito-mom.
First ol' Ish said, it sounded like,
"Wow, ishi mine? How'dyoudothat?"
so for a while ishi was her name.
Was I sleeping and now a wake, or
are we past all that?
The garden walks meeting all we met, with names,
knowns, all named
The I in Ish knew names of every man-named thing,
but Adom 2.0,
she was something else. Ish could hardly think
something so beautiful is made of me?
Why, Ish wondered, but didn't say aloud.
Is she curiouser than me?
Is that what's different? No, there's more,
but that's a lot, curiouser and curiouser,
Here come the servants forming to inform,
curios come,
kachinas from the west.
This night we all learned the dance the angels do,
on the point of no return.
Too beautiful for words and then,
past the point of no return,
Ish take her and she is mother of all living,
Eve for short. Mom.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
The one I have known for so long.
His life has been seemingly intertwined with mine from the beginning of time.
His eyes look at me full of wonder.
Yet I can't help but think there may be another.
I will not set myself up to be heartbroken.
He knowns the innermost of my being,
yet he won't admit anything.
I love him to the ends of the earth,
but would he ever love me?
The one I have just met.
He has this smile that could make my heart race for hours on end.
He is quiet yet I can see his brain moving a mile a minute as his eyes race around the room.
Quite the unlikely pair, but I have no doubt it would work.
He is sweet and gentle unlike most,
and he makes me calm as a breeze on a spring day.
I love him to the ends of the earth,
but would he ever love me?
The one I see from afar.
He has the softest eyes.
The clothes fit on his body like they were sewn around his chest.
He walks like he has not a place in the world to be.
Only spoken to me once but the words flowed like a writers words fall onto the paper.
I love him to the ends of the earth,
but will he ever love me?
I'm torn between three on opposite spectrums.
The genial popular, the quiet spectator, or the one I know nothing about.
It will probably end up being none.
I'm just torn at the moment into little fragments,
working on trying to put them all back together.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC
Entertained.
Contained.
Maintained.
Retaining access to once knowns,
sit still listening, not thinking anything
- calling living winning, then quitting.
Get up and ask the truth to forgive
me as I have forgiven, and correct me
where my functioning is hindering.
Stretching the cord to tie the load…
Become what truth embodied is,
cushion the fall from the stacked
featherbeds for religious businesses-
thumpwhump, takes y'breathaway
Conscienceless conscious necience,
all automated - due souly to luck in
the making of DNA, you see,
discovery is the easy part,
much more inter-
esting testing resting mind mingle,
estimating instants time in transit…
imagining the code used to build
the ladder, up one side, down the other.
Handling, managing manacled hopes,
most substantial, dashed to smithereens,
whither in the rearview I see you not looking,
not noticing the era we lived through, seeing
sublime simplicity unfold before us as we examine
essential, necience, non knowing unrecognizable,
feeling path, finding fortunate occasional fruit sweet,
as a path crossing fruiting bough slaps
sweetness perception from reward schedules,
stinging sensation, signal sending saying, it's okeh,
sudden sinking subtle ******* muddy awareness,
sniff, just agnosis dripping,
thinking life's a trip, travel light.
Oct 16, 2023
Oct 16, 2023 at 1:26 PM UTC
My mind is fond of the question of the origin of the universe because it questions the unknowns of knowns and nothings
Simultaneously seeking metaphors of space that might describe my love for you and you
The most prominent metaphor being the universally accepted theory of the infatuation I had for you expanding into the intimacy we know it as today
And if something must come from nothing then surely that something, that intimacy, was always there
Hence, my conclusion that the origin of my love for you comes from the comfort of familiarity
You are constellations in the night sky
And telescopes are glasses to the lost and nearly blind. Through them, I have a better grasp of a love easily recognizable
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
Hast thou found honey?
Eat so much as is good for thee,
thinking moderation then, success.
Ah, the analyst's probe, is it satisfying?
Child mind alerts, perks up its ear,
single minds have single ears, child mind
focus state, un monitored you, recall, child
minding your own business walking in the road.
Accepting having RSVP'd, we'ld wonder at first,
did we actually ask for this, or is this all made up?
Child mind cocked sure, I know.
We are all an alien probe learning the questions.
Each letter holds an American English phonic response…
and we… the elite sharers of knowns gleaned from scripture.
--selah, also means let it rest
The precedent for a post temple social order arose,
and the minds required for that task arose as well, but
as you know, knowledge was closely held, sacred codes,
cost of being called and chosen, male alone, bred to the bull.
Bred to the king of beasts, wed to the dragon whose bones
we have found in the gullet of beached Leviathans…
tribe of Bill Levy, sudden psy-psi dead guy makes a suggestion,
remember the yen to yank reality aright, and think it funny?
Jes' yankin' y'chaim, only be having like
a child's mind, pedo-meter counting steps away, flee
the birthing trauma, do the dying well.
Earnest Becker, take a chair, I think I felt you linger there,
death divined most fine state, just wait, settling, you feel.
Oct 19, 2023
Oct 19, 2023 at 1:09 PM UTC
Realized liberty, bike lanes,
okeh, Bret Weinstein is right, they do measure liberty
all my roads have double yellow lines, as a measure of safety
in a two-way world.
{which is partly why the code in DNA runs one way}
measuring minding
trips my trigger, to what I was thinking of writing
while watching a whispy-white haired man-my-age,
measuring the edge of a two-story house,
which a good man is building for his daughter,
down the hill, from where I sit.
That old man is bowed, in a compressed spine
kinda way,
bam bam men walked that way, in China, before the dams.
Tote that bail, tug that rope, nuthadayowe-der wise,
otherwise, aliens versus everything
pop knowns
you had locked away, in those gated intellectual troughs.
Yes, yes, troughs,
Pigs eat from troughs, cows eat from cribs,
chickens eat from dirt and sheep *** all the grass for wool
to pull over our eyes
filtering lies
like sunlight under big old Pines shading little old
Rosemary patches that feed bees,
wooly eyes, wise
meander, would you say away from world's wisest men discussing
what may be done, we set a spell, make peace with
having nothing else to do.
-- that sorta ran through my mind as I watched the elderly carpenter.
He was careful, but not afraid, aware.
He stepped from joist to joist,
at the very edge of the second story peak edge
perpendicular to the foundation square,
eye-ball-level to me
slow and steady he takes a tape, {such a witty invention}
a tape attached to a spring,
whereas once such things were actual hinged wands that unfolded
at the flick of an old wizards wrist,
then out came the soapstone, to lay down the line,
make the mark.
Here is where we cut, measure twice,
cut once,
he is sayin' in his mind, to me, I think, I imagine being told
this is how we learn what is right.
we learn to measure what works by what is.
If the distance between two points is beyond the reach, oopshit
I got distracted and he fell.
Sep 11, 2020
Sep 11, 2020 at 4:02 PM UTC
Prove, prove, prove
think, think think a little think at
thought speed.
Build me a death star, you shall not surely die.
Ah, hero, take your role. This is your page, this age
of informing
of outsides
of mobiusish objects we make
using imaginary morsels of
stuff,
the substance of things
hoped for.
Science of space and times remembered,
Hopf-phor uni-ometry in our augmented mind,
forming forms, take shape,
form in the image of "the cloud"
where lay the
base of con
science
con
carne values.
Meatmind, the brain-gut-outer-inner portal
from which flow
empty thoughts from
the pineal core click sig
drawing measurable infospheres
from at-most-fears,
using big ears
as a bit of an esteem antenna on boys who
saw themselves as goofy a rascal as Alfalfa
and Alfred. E. and Barrack, the drone thrower
of the twenty-first century, one of the
last to unbelieve the reasonable
lie behind war,
per se. Disperse the leaven, dust in the wind,
Alls we are, all ye, all ye, ours in free flow
fractal feeder of new knowables as we ever learn
time as a tool empowers our progress to next, that's all.
Remember con
sistency, sub
sistency, in
sistancy, resist the urge to wield words worn smooth
reflecting any context, as if it were
known,
now, the meaning in the word. I say pray, you say "Our Father"
I say ask, you say what. I say, For the answers you hope to have
being as you are. On Point. I made a point.
Or arrived at this point.
con
science,
with knowing,
the tree of knowledge is at least as fractal as an oak.
Inside out being in the jello universe of knowns,
good and not, all jigglin' in time,
sort it out.
Start where your treasure is. Nullify the evil clinging to
your horde 'pon which ye sit,
sweep the ashes from the last burnt bridge
over this edge, to the flow below.
You sweep slow in jello, but sweep into d'flow
is what is done wit ashes here.
Pile some stone here. Then give 'em all yo bitchinmoans,
for the peace their balancing at your finger tips
gives you, in real life,
take it. Now, go be.
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC