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“One of the effects of living with electronic information is that we live habitually in a state of information overload.”                                                      
                                                                                      Marshall McLuhan
So, let’s review:
Man is a thinking animal.
Stanley Kubrick took us to space to get us to think.
Marshall McLuhan:  “There are no passengers on spaceship earth. We are all crew.”
Hemetucky: what was I thinking?
The Rapture for the 1%:   The Language of the World and The Language of Enthusiasm explains why Sir Richard  Branson’s ****** Galactic will only be taking the richest among us to space.
Ian (Limey Futurologist) Pearson:  “Binary is already the dominant language on Planet Earth with today’s machines having more conversations in 24 hours than the whole of humankind since the birth of Eve.”
Larry Flynt:  “**** is the answer to everything.”
Goofy:  “Yeah, I ****** Minnie. I shagged her rotten, baby!”  
Winston Smith:  “Do it to Julia!”
McNugget Buddies:   “Parts is parts.”                                          
Stunod: “Donuts-a -spella backwards issa stunod.” Think about it.
Tony Soprano.  “You ****** stunod, it's a joke.” (Stunod:  in southern dialect Italian means stupid, or a stupid person) http://(www.urbandictionary.com) define.php?term = stunod  / buy stunod mugs & shirts
Marshall McLuhan:    “Jokes are grievances.”
Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino:  “Antonio Gramsci thought that Stalin and Bolshevism could save him and Italy from Fascism:  stunod.”
The Cloud:  My acceptance of the Cloud into my life and my changeling cyborg self is by no means a capitulation to the surfing life.
Paulo Coehlo:  “The God you seek; that someone who awaits you is you.”
Howard Beale:  “That’s the God *******.”
God:   “Because you’re on television, stunod!”
The Elders of Zion:  Nu?
Meir Kahane:  “Let us not suffer from a national amnesia that causes us to forget who and what we are. No trait is more justified than revenge in the right time and place. I know that American and Israeli elections must be limited only to those who understand that the Arabs are the deadly enemy of the Jewish state, who would bring on us a slow Auschwitz - not with gas, but with knives and hatchets. Vote for Newt!”

**** Jagger:    “Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out” (40th Anniversary Edition, Rolling Stones)
Keith Richards +Fijian palm tree = Stunod.  
Marshall McLuhan:   “The more the data banks record about each of us, the less we exist.”    
Howard Beale: “If there's anybody out there that can look around this demented slaughterhouse of a world we live in and tell me that man is a noble creature, believe me: That man is not only full of *******, that man is  stunod.”
The Nam, Part I:   a demented slaughterhouse within a microcosm and grains of beach sand inside micro-Cosmo Kramer’s shorts. When I was in the Kingdom of The Nam I was always under the influence of some drug, mostly my own pure adrenaline when scared shitless--a frequent condition for me—not only my own piquant adrenal juice but other stuff like ****, hash, Thai stick, *****, amphetamines, H-Horse ******, quaaludes, horse tranquilizers and Russian *****. The drugs were always a welcome and needed friend, a respite from the horrors of war in Southeast Asia. To meditate & levitate, to transmigrate & navigate, to negotiate & regurgitate myself, I needed a head start if I was going to SLIDE through what would be called a wormhole today, making a three-dimensional movement between different parallel universes, a conquest of time and space. Cue our favorite narrator:
Rod Serling:  “You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension--a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into the Twilight Zone.”
WWII, Part I:  A slider now, I SLIDE to my father’s war—the War in Europe in the years before V.E. Day, May 8, 1945. Suddenly I’m flipped right out of the jungle to Germania, to Deutschland in the winter of 1945. I am a P.O.W. of the Germans, sent out into the economy as slave labor. It’s February in Dresden, Germany, the Baroque capital of the German state of Saxony, the city called lovingly by her (****!) many lovers: “The Florence of the Elbe.” It was a long time ago, during the war and I Survived to Tell the Tale. I am a wet floppy Kilgore Trout; I’ve flopped right out of the Twilight Zone into what appears to be an underground meat locker in Dresden. There are animal carcasses hanging from the ceiling and the building is known as Slaughterhouse Number 5. I am a lucky ******* because even though I don’t know it yet, I’m in the safest place in the entire city. Cue the Bombing of Dresden, a strategic military bombing by the British Royal Air Force (RAF) and the United States Army Air Force (USAAF).  In four raids, 1,300 heavy bombers dropped more than 3,900 tons of high-explosive bombs and incendiary devices on Dresden. The resulting firestorm destroyed 15 square miles (39 square kilometers) of the city centre and killed many thousands, according to **** figures-- largely discredited by the victors who not only get the spoils but get to spin the history any which way but loose. Casualty figures were 200,000 and death toll estimates went as high as 500,000. Or maybe just 25,000 total, if you believe the ******* Anglo-American valkyries who unleashed the wrath of Khan’s Smoking Joe’s Barbecue Ribs and Hotlinks. Win a war, get a medal and a seat in Congress, maybe the White House; lose a war, get indicted. You’re going to Nuremberg, pilgrim, or the ******* Hague.
Kurt Vonnegut: “World War II was over and I was standing in the middle of Times Square with a Purple Heart on and a purple hard-on.”
Colonel Kurtz:  “We fight for the land that's under our feet, the gold that's in our hands, women that worship the power in our *****.  I summon fire from the sky. Do you know what it is to be a white man who can summon fire from the sky? ...What it means? You can live and die for these things, not silly ideals that are always betrayed  . . . I swallowed a bug. Who are you, captain?”
Willard:   “Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste. I've been around for a long long year, stolen many man's soul and faith. Stuck around St. Petersburg when I saw it was a time for a change. Killed the Tsar and his ministers, Anastasia screamed in vain. I rode a tank, held a gen'rals rank when the blitzkrieg raged and the bodies stank. Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name.”  
WWII, Part II:  The bombing of Dresden had to have been some kind of a violation of some International Code or Geneva Convention. But, of course, the bombers, the Victors, ran the Nuremberg show trials. The bombees didn’t get a chance to say much, didn’t want to make a fuss, seeing how generous the Army of Occupation was with their coal, gasoline, clothing and food handouts. But I was there when it was safe to climb out of the meat locker, and immediately got put to work on the après les bombes clean-up. I was there doing the ***** work, a corpse miner, tasked with collecting the fried grasshopper remains of so many unlucky Krauts who were simply burned alive, like heretics at the Inquisition. So it goes.
William Tecumseh Sherman: “War is Hell, Babaloo!”
Colonel Kilgore: “You can either surf, or you can fight!”
Sam Bottoms: “I dropped a tab of acid at the Do-Long Bridge, so I think I’ll surf for awhile: ‘I see a world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour.’ Reading Blake: for years it was the only way I could block out the war, that and losing myself in a bunch of undercover assignments. Yeah, it was William Blake, I-Spy and lots more acid; that how I dealt with PTSD.”
The Nam, Part II, LT DAN:  “Good job, trooper; those ******* drugs got you coming and going, sliding so fast you’ve missed latrine duty 3 times this month. Now go get 5 gallons of diesel fuel and gasoline, mix it together and torch that ******* feces, soldier.”
** Chi Minh:  “This ain't no party, this ain't no disco, this ain't no fooling around.”
***** Friedman:   “The Democrats and Republicans are the same guy admiring himself in the mirror.”

Muhammad Hosni El Sayed Mubarak:   “Vote for Pedro.”
Drew Gilpin Faust, Harvard:    “Fight Fiercely!”
Marshall McLuhan:    “I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t believed it.”
The Author:   I am a disaffected angry old man, formerly a disaffected angry young man; a Hopi-Italian Jew with Chinese offspring, namely my left-brained son, a mathematical genius but having a tough time dealing with idiots, the many truly stunod people in the world.  Then there’s my Rose, my sweet King Lear-jet daughter, like her half-brother, not yet finished paying for my sins. My offspring are haunted, visited upon daily by their father’s  ghosts, ghosts created, ghosts hovering over me, from wars hot and cold and peace lukewarm and cloudy, like the uranium ground contamination on the mesa, visited upon mothers and infants  and children who seek only a glass of cool water from the spring not to be glow worms in the dark, leukocytes made insane by something in the water. My sins, a father’s sins; things I did to curry favor, to ingratiate and advance myself with the 1%, things I did to get ahead in life, to get what I thought my father and others in the ancestral slipstream had failed to get, twice to the Rabbi for a get (Hebrew: גט‎, plural gittin גיטין), to get the edge my kids need now, the edge I never had, and life reduced to an exercise in ultimate combat, little more than a cage fight, man against man and God against all. The things I did for money and position shame me now. And shame is a large  source of my anger.  I will remain angry. I will hang on to my anger at God and myself and all who have been disappointed in me, by me, especially the cavalcade of short-term caretakers, women used, abused, left behind and forgotten. Why am I me? Sometimes I think that’s the way I’m programmed. But it’s okay, like Gaga: “I'm beautiful in my way 'Cause God makes no mistakes I'm on the right track, baby I was born this way' Cause God makes no mistakes, I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way and will I continue to surf the Cloud: even though God is dead and I don’t believe you, or me, or them.
Basic: remember Basic?

10   A IS FOR ANGER NEXT 20
20   START STEP TWO ANGER KUBLER-ROSS INFINITE LOOP
30   GOTO 10
10   A IS FOR ANGER NEXT 20
20   START STEP TWO ANGER KUBLER-ROSS INFINITE LOOP
30  GOTO 10
10   A IS FOR ANGER NEXT 20
20   START STEP TWO ANGER KUBLER-ROSS INFINITE LOOP
30 A IS FOR ANGER NEXT 30
30  GOTO 10 Ad infinitum
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
Specialism, electro mechanical circuits,

moving parts yet move, you see, but when we read we bring our senses
inside
privacy can become a public mind, if one is connected, in a giving way,
taking thought,
as the original medium we found message in,
thought takes form
in words,
words take form in things. Right. Check.

Blake feared the objective world was being walled in,
and all the people screamed, amen.
Again

Build the wall, from icons demoted to mites of no more
weight than a tinker's think,
phe-nomenal noment-ation, if we may

Hot and cool both bubbled up as burps, perhaps from the babes
booming through the lies told before the great war.

No future? You allow that thought in your culture?
And shame and blame?
No wonder you choose to lie.

Bear with me a while, share my load, it's light.
There is a hopeful object,
we can go easy into that good night,
the world is round.

Free from Ra and Isis and all, in one fell sweep of the besom.
Broom, besom, means broom, but the effect of an e,

e-lectrix

you give us the fire we'll give em hell  a game ad in the middle of the massage
Call of duty, black ops.
they
You use you eyes to see, it's a with-spiracy,

a hair of the dog that bit you. Eh?
live in bonanza land, 1965.

and so it goes, Dresden, every minute of every day

the walls of your home are coming down,

unless you were born with a cell phone in your father's pocket.

Privacy is calling for walls from the fenced in time after Bonanza.

Ah, too late, ours is an all new world of all at onceness, a global village, happening simultaneous.
extreme with everybody else's business, huge in
volvement in every body's business

we know too much to be strangers
walls fall down, not go up,
the wallbuilding never workded, did it Grandpa?

Nineteenth century student could believe
the factory system
would use the knowledge, hard-won
from books and chalkboards,
to keep him outa the mine.

Now, the information age,

are we the leisure class? Ever learning,
never knowing everything,

but knowing walls and wars do not perform as advertised.

The safety car, that was one with seat belts, 1965.
Our body percept, it changes,
this image of which you are un
aware.

The disconnected minded man, alienated
artist living edgewise to
cattywompus.

My life is my art, eh, not the other way.
Global village information age McLuhan named these things
from Canada.
More expert than my teacher,
Pop art is not a pun, it was a bubble,
that's a fact. The-joke-with-no-story-line-conundrums,
elephant jokes, blonde jokes

Those tests, Turing would approve,
any old A.I. can play chess,
just remember every response to every move ever made in any game in the system,
like the amygdala, your lizard thought-speed brain,
at the top of your spine.

But humans can make funny seem.

Humor comes from a world of un happiness and gripes,
Jose Jimenez was the example they made. Racist, right?
The guy was a jew.
William Szathmary, Googled it.

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

Communicating with the logo-label-designer you wear,
messaging the world what? Exactly,
any un thought thought goes unsaid,

but T-shirts and body art, henna's the best,
those send a message with no thought whatsoever.
Same as Redcoats in bearskin hats, what's being said,
same as the judge with a wig?

What is the role?
Why the ongoing act?
It must have changed into that wigged judge from something.

Theater of everywhere, accept allatonce, or die asking y not.

Inward directed seeking
deep meaning
a role that changes

some outside
the future of the future started, a while back. not too far.

No inevitability.
An act of high poetry

envisioning,
the future was friendly

metaphysical value, brilliant, incomprehensible
a man, a thinker,
storytellers the experts say,
need some mud behind 'em. and some snow.

a mother never satisfied with her life,
brittley self confident,

the whole approach to knowing is old.
Diogenes's search for a good poem, with
shifting levels of imagery,
never shall you know,

they work
the way a word works,
the effect.
effect. fect from Latin facere,
sistere mechanically deus
The oracle of the information age
Ah,whatvoiceisheardaroundtheworld,
oh,mine.2018 Mr. McLuhan,
you'd likely lighten up a little.
Toejammspredder was mcluhan I heard on the grapevine.

Hey, mom, I'm on TV.
Up to doctrine, then destination syndrome a hopebubble

He had brain surgery and returned to Catholicism, a safe place.
But he left his vision to television's offspring.
That's about all I know of his work.
Some things shape us for our future, if we allow the time and let patience have her perfect work.
1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o
Chapter Two

“I think of art, at its most significant, as a DEW line, a Distant Early Warning System that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.”                Marshall McLuhan  
  
I attended Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania because my father was incarcerated at the prison located in the same town.  My tuition subsidized to a large extent by G.I. Bill, still a significant means of financing an education for generations of emotionally wasted war veterans. “The United States Penitentiary (USP Lewisburg)” is a high-security federal prison for male inmates. An adjacent satellite prison camp houses minimum-security male offenders. My father was strictly high-security, convicted of various crimes against humanity, unindicted for sundry others. My father liked having me close by, someone on the outside he trusted, who also happened to be on his approved Visitor List. As instructed, I became his conduit for substances both illicit, like drugs, and the purely contraband, a variety of Italian cheeses, salamis, prepared baked casseroles of eggplant parmesan, cannoli, Baci chocolate from Perugia, in Tuscany, south of Florence, and numerous bottles of Italian wine, pungent aperitifs, Grappa, digestive stimulants and sweet liquors. I remained the good son until the day he died, the source of most of the mess I got myself into later on, and specifically the main caper at the heart of this story.

I must confess: my father scared the **** out of me.  Particularly during those years when he was not in jail, those years he spent at home, years coinciding roughly with my early adolescence.  These were my molding clay years, what the amateur psychologists write off with the term: “impressionable years hypothesis.” In his own twisted, grease-ball theory of child rearing, my father may have been applying the “guinea padrone hypothesis,” in his mind, nothing more certain would toughen me up for whatever he and/or Life had planned for me. Actually, his aspirations for me-given my peculiar pedigree--were non-existent as far as the family business went. He knew I’d never be either a Don or a Capo di Tutti Capi, or an Underboss or Sotto Capo.)  A Caporegime—mid-management to be sure, with as many as ten crews of soldiers reporting to him-- was also, for me, out of the question. Dad was a soldier in and of the Lucchese Family, strictly a blue-collar, knock-around kind of guy. But even soldier status—which would have meant no rise in Mafioso caste for him—was completely out of the question, never going to happen for me.

A little background: the Lucchese Family originated in the early 1920s with Gaetano “Tommy” Reina, born in 1889 in Corleone, Sicily. You know the town and its environs well. Fran Coppola did an above average job cinematizing the place in his Godfather films.  Coppola: I am a strict critic when it comes to my goombah, would-be French New Wave auteur Francis Ford Coppola.  Ever since “One From the Heart, 1982”--one of the biggest Hollywood box office flops & financial disasters of all time--he’s been a bit thin-skinned when it comes to criticism.  So, I like to zing him when I can. Actually, “One From the Heart” is worth seeing again, not just for Tom Waits soundtrack--the film’s one Academy Award nomination—but also Natasha Kinski’s ***: always Oscar-worthy in my book. My book? Interesting expression, and factually correct for once, given what you are reading right now.

Tommy Reina was the first Lucchese Capo di Tutti Capi, the first Boss of All the Bosses. By the 1930s the Luccheses pretty much controlled all criminal activity in the Bronx and East Harlem. And Reina begat Pinzolo who begat Gagliano who begat Tommy Three Finger Brown Lucchese (who I once believed, moonlighted as a knuckle ball relief pitcher for Yankees.)
Three Finger Brown gave the Lucchese Family its name. And Tommy begat Carmine Tramunti, who begat Anthony Tony Ducks Corallo. From there the succession gets a bit crazy. Tony Ducks, convicted of Rico charges, goes to prison, sentenced to life.  From behind bars he presides through a pair of candidates most deserving the title of boss: enter Vittorio Little Vic Amuso and Anthony Gaspipe Casso.  Although Little Vic becomes Boss after being nominated by Casso, it is Gaspipe really calling the shots, at least until he joins Little Vic behind bars.
Amuso-Casso begat Louis Louie Bagels Daidone, who begat the current official boss, Stephen Wonderboy Crea.  According to legend, Boss Crea got his nickname from Bernard Malamud’s The Natural, a certain part of his prodigious anatomy resembling the baseball bat hand-carved by Roy Hobbs. To me this sounds a bit too literary, given the family’s SRI Lexile/Reading Performance Scores, but who am I to mock my peoples’ lack of liberal arts education?

Begat begat Begato. (I goof on you, kind reader. Always liked the name Begato in the context of Bible-flavored genealogy. Mille grazie, King James.)

Lewisburg Penitentiary has many distinguished alumni: Whitey Bulger (1963-1965), Jimmy Hoffa (1967-1971) and John Gotti (1969-1972), for example.  And fictionally, you can add Paulie Cicero played by Paul Scorvino in Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas, not to be confused with Paulie Walnuts Gualtieri played by Tony Sirico from the HBO TV series The Sopranos. Nor, do I refer to Paulie Gatto, the punk who ratted out Sonny Corleone in Coppola’s The Godfather, you know: “You won’t see Paulie no more,” according to fat Clemenza, played by the late Richard “Leave the gun, take my career” Castellano, who insisted to the end that he wasn’t bitter about his underwhelming post-Godfather film career. I know this for a fact from one of my cousins in the Gambino Family. I also know that the one thing the actor Castellano would never comment on was a rumor that he had connections to organized crime, specifically that he was a nephew to Paulie Castellano, the Gambino crime family boss who was assassinated in 1985, outside Midtown New York’s Sparks Steak House, an abrupt corporate takeover commissioned by John Teflon Don Gotti. But I’m really starting to digress here, although I am reminded of another interesting historical personage, namely Joseph Crazy Joe Gallo, who was also terminated “with extreme prejudice” while eating dinner at a restaurant.  Confused? And finally--not to be confused with Paul Muldoon, poetry gatekeeper at The New Yorker magazine, that Irish **** scumbag who consistently rejects publication of my work. About two years ago I started including the following comment in my on-line Contact Us, poetry submission:  “Hey Paulie, Eat a Bag of ****!”

This may come as a surprise, Gentle Reader, but I am a poet, not a Wise Guy.  For reasons to be explained, I never had access to the family business. I am also handicapped by the Liberal Arts education I received, infected by a deluge, a veritable Katrina ****** of classic literature.  That stuff in books rubs off after awhile, and I suppose it was inevitable. I couldn’t help evolving for the most part into a warm-blooded creature, unlike the reptiles and frogs I grew up with.

Again, I am a poet not a wise guy. And, first and foremost, I am a human being. Cold-blooded, I am not. I generate my own heat, which is the best definition I know for how a poet operates. But what the hell do I know? Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon doesn’t think much of my work. And he’s the ******* troll guarding the New Yorker’s poetry gate. Nevertheless, I’m a Poet, not a Wise Guy.  I repeat myself, I know, but it is important to establish this point right from the start of this narrative, because, if you don’t get that you’re never going to get my story.

Maybe the best way to explain my predicament—And I mean PREDICAMENT in the sense of George Santayana: "Life is not a spectacle or a feast; it is a predicament." (www.brainyquote.com), not to be confused with George’s son Carlos, the Mexican-American rock star: Oye Como Va, Babaloo!

www.youtube.com/watch?v...YouTube Dec 20, 2011 - Uploaded by a106kirk1, The Best of Santana. This song is owned by Santana and Columbia Records.

Maybe the best way for me to explain my predicament is with a poem, one of my early works, unpublished, of course, by Paulie “Eat a Bag of ****” Muldoon:

“CRAZY JOE REVISITED”  
        
by Benjamin Disraeli Sekaquaptewa-Buonaiuto

We WOPs respect criminality,
Particularly when it’s organized,
Which explains why any of us
Concerned with the purity of our bloodline
Have such a difficult time
Navigating the river of respectability.

To wit: JOEY GALLO.
WEB-BIO: (According to Bob Dylan)
“Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn in the year of who knows when,
Opened up his eyes to the tune of accordion.

“Joey” Lyrics/Send "Joey" Ringtone to your Cell
Joseph Gallo, AKA: "Joey the Blond."
He was a celebrated New York City gangster,
A made member of the Profaci crime family,
Later known as the Colombo crime family,

That’s right, CRAZY JOE!
One time toward the end of a 10-year stretch,
At three different state prisons,
Including Attica Correctional Facility in Attica, New York,
Joey was interviewed in his prison cell
By a famous NY Daily News reporter named Joe McGinnis.
The first thing the reporter sees?
One complete wall of the cell is lined with books, a
Green leather bound wall of Harvard Classics.
After a few hours mainly listening to Joey
Wax eloquently about his life,
A narrative spiced up with elegant summaries,
Of classic Greek theory, Roman history,
Nietzsche and other 19th Century German philosophers,
McGinnis is completely blown away by Inmate Gallo,
Both Joey’s erudition and the power of his intellect,
The reporter asks a question right outta
The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie:
“Mr. Gallo, I must say,
The power of your erudition and intellect
Is simply overwhelming.
You are a brilliant man.
You could have been anything,
Your heart or ambition desired:
A doctor, a lawyer, an architect . . .
Yet you became a criminal. Why?”

Joey Gallo: (turning his head sideways like Peter Falk or Vincent Donofrio, with a look on his face like Go Back to Nebraska, You ******* Momo!)

“Understand something, Sonny:
Those kids who grew up to be,
Doctors and lawyers and architects . . .

They couldn’t make it on the street.”

Gallo later initiated one of the bloodiest mob conflicts,
Since the 1931 Castellammare War,
And was murdered as a result of it,
While quietly enjoying,
A plate of linguini with clam sauce,
At a table--normally a serene table--
At Umberto’s Clam House.

Italian Restaurant Little Italy - Umberto's Clam House (www.umbertosclamhouse.com)
In Little Italy New York City 132 Mulberry Street, New York City | 212-431-7545.

Whose current manager --in response to all restaurant critics--
Has this to say:
“They keep coming back, don’t they?
The joint is a holy shrine, for chrissakes!
I never claimed it was the food or the service.
Gimme a ******* break, you momo!
I should ask my paisan, Joe Pesci
To put your ******* head in a vise.”

(Again, Martin Scorsese getting it exactly right, This time in  . . . Casino (1995) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0112641/Internet Movie Database Rating: 8.2/10 - ‎241,478 votes Directed by Martin Scorsese. With Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone, Joe Pesci, James Woods. Greed, deception, money, power, and ****** occur between two  . . . Full Cast & Crew - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards - ‎(1995) - IMDb)

Given my lifelong, serious exposure to and interest in German philosophy, I subscribe to the same weltanschauung--pronounced: veltˌänˌSHouəNG—that governed Joey Gallo’s behavior.  My point and Mr. Gallo’s are exactly the same:  a man’s ability to make it on the street is the true measure of his worth.  This ethos was a prominent one in the Bronx where and when I grew up, where I came of age during the 1950s and 60s.  Italian organized crime was always an option, actually one of the preferred options--like playing for the Yankees or being a movie star—until, that is, reality set in.  And reality came in many forms. For 100% Italian kids it came in a moment of crystal adolescent clarity and self-evaluation:  Am I tough enough to make it on the street?  Am I ever going to be tough enough to make it on the street? Will I be eaten alive by more cunning, more violent predators on the street?

For me, the setting in of reality took an entirely different form.  I knew I had what it takes, i.e., the requisite ferocity for street life. I had it in spades, as they say. In fact, I’d been blessed with the gift of hyper-volatility—traced back to my great-grandfather, Pietro of the village of Moschiano, in the province of Avellino, in the region of Campania, Italia Sud. Having visited Moschiano in my early 20s and again in my late 50s, I know the place well. The village square sits “down in the holler,” like in West Virginia; the Apennine terrain, like the Appalachians, rugged and thick. Rugged and thick like the people, at least in part my people. And volatile, I am, gifted with a primitive disposition when it comes to what our good friend Abraham Maslow would call lower order needs. And please, don’t ask me to explain myself now; just keep reading, *******.  All your questions will be answered.

Great Grandfather Pietro once, at point blank range, blew a man’s head off with a lumpara, or sawed-off shotgun. It was during an argument over—get this--a penny’s worth of pumpkin seeds--one of many stories I never learned in childhood. He served 10 years in a Neapolitan penitentiary before being paroled and forced to immigrate to America.  The government of the relatively new nation--The Kingdom of Italy (1861)--came up with a unique eugenic solution for the hunger and misery down south, south of Rome, the long shin bone, ankle, foot, toes & kickball that are the remote regions of the Mezzogiorno, Southern Italy: Campania, Basilicata, Calabria, Puglia & Sicilia. Northern politicians asked themselves: how do we flush these skeevy southerners, these crooks and assassins down South, how do we flush the skifosos down the toilet—the flush toilet, a Roman invention, I report proudly and accept the gratitude on behalf of my people. Immigration to America: Fidel Castro did the same thing in the 1980s, hosing out his jails and mental hospitals with that Marielista boatlift/Emma Lazarus Remix: “Give us your tired and poor, your lunatics, thieves and murderers.” But I digress. I’ll give you my entire take on the history of Italy including Berlusconi and the “Bunga Bunga” parties with 14-year old Moroccan pole dancers . . . go ahead, skip ahead.

Yes, genetically speaking, I was sufficiently ferocious to make it on the street, and it took very little spark to light my fuse. Moreover, I’ve always been good at figuring out the angles--call it street smarts--also learned early in life. Likewise, for knowing the territory: The Bronx was my habitat. I was rapacious and predacious by nature, and if there was a loose buck out there, and legs to be broken, I knew where to go.
Yet, alas, despite all my natural talents & acquired skills, I remained persona-non-grata for the Lucchese Family. To my great misfortune, I fell into a category of human being largely shunned by Italian organized crime: Mestizo-Italiano, a diluted form of full strength 100% Italian blood. It’s one of those voodoo blood-brotherhood things practiced by Southern European, Mediterranean tribal people, only in part my people.  Growing up, my predicament was always tricky, always somewhat bizarre. Simply put: I was of a totally different tribe. Blame my exotic mother, a genuine Hopi Corn Maiden from Shungopavi, high up on Second Mesa of the Hopi Reservation, way out in northern Arizona. And if this is not sufficiently, ******* nuts enough for you, add to the child-rearing minestrone that she raised me Jewish in The Bronx.  I **** you not. I took my Bar Mitzvah Hebrew instruction from the infamous Rabbi Meir Kahane, that’s right, Meir “Crazy Rebbe” Kahane himself--pronounced kɑː'hɑːna--if you grok the phonetics.

In light of the previously addressed “impressionable years hypothesis,” I wrote a poem about my early years. It follows in the next chapter. It is an epic tale, a biographical magnum opus, a veritable creation myth, conceived one night several years ago while squatting in a sweat lodge, tripping on peyote. I
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
'Put my hand in the hand of the man from Galilee,

that song keeps playing in my memory, and I recalled

Or I thought I did, I imagined he'd walk with me
and talk with me
Along life's merry (or was it narrow?), way

a light touch, his arm around my shoulders,
as boys are wont to do,
I axed 'im,
help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which I think may have been blind, at that time,

I have memories like that.
packed away in old memes. That mean something...
Gold-something...
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom.
Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, Howard Bloom,
where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but these,
heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Here a seeing being done, words appearing...

fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made,
and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble collapses by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tension-power-loss collapses the bubble?

You should think, you know atoms work, this way.

Touchy bubbles disappear when their form is disinformed,
the wall of a bubble,
one quanta of power thick,
vanishes
as the charge that formed it flees.
That bubble,
not cloud-based, random super positioning,but
elect
tric-magi-tech, a touch screened
at the quantum accounting point of real-ification,
but, probably,
a bubble,indeed,
powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
(I charge thee, son Timothy, go)
That's all an electron does.
It goes, as soon as any sense can be made of it,
outa here, oughta hear it, clear,
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...
No, ah, when I think about that..

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin musta hapt one time,

but ya'll take no heed, this voice,
m'fallin angel, Tantan, droppin' in ol-fren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth
found in wines that moved themselves aright,
slurry tongued, and laughin' but pisstoff.

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Old story, God damened 'em, not me, I just
built the box.

Who told you I was naked? Noah queried Shem.

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe could be forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.
Forgot can't be forgiven it seems, sometimes...

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

I've looked so long through that lens,
that I began to see the bubble formed around me,
charged powerfully with fear,
'yond my bubble monsters lurked.

But, my bubble bumped another,
purest of happenstance,
the bubbles merged and merged again,
their power building to a wave,
crashing to the shore and no more
was I bubbled in my safe place.

I found this trail up from the beach.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
Did you regret the defeat at Ai,
or were you
Aachen, bold?

No, irrelevant, obtuse allusion to Yahshua,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Information unformed begins to boil deep in me.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick. Elect trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening as an event, in the Deep Field,
is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  
Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,
to learn. Fifty year'r longer.

Everything that's old and still works is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the potential worth of all your eyes behold,
behind the curtain,
lies the prize.

If, if, if you are a luckywinner and
you arise when I call your name
to come on down,
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, 'smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize, what's the diff?
How comes a thing to be worthy,
in your estimation? Tell me no lie.

A feeling? What's it worth?
Depends.
Safe? Priceless! Don't shout. There's money to make.

'Got a busy-ness pre-positioned high above the rest.
A super-positioned superstion. The darkness.
See, safety is a human right.
So we sell walls, impermeable. It's always, lights on
within, then
We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened
by those we make
feel safe, from the dark unknowns seeping in.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we saw the Power in Myth and
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Within these walls workers will work for food and a feeling.
And Facebook.
They choose a place and stand, and do what comes to hand.
Heartily
grip what's easiest for you to hold on to,
they are told.

Attendants bring the meds, settling every disruption
of the peace the patient craves in his comfort.
The price ain't right, m'mouthmumbles...

You are absolutely co-rect-allatime, tekayepeel.

There are wishes being made,
on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters.

If wishes were askings, what if
connecting to the source of haps which,
every expert knows, haps are
all happiness can possibly
consist of.
Oh, consist.
That sticky, gluteny idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand.
Sistere. Shield-wall and all that. Turtles all the way down.

A disruption!
Day room Now! Granpa's shouting,

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!
I'll drop it. I swear.

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted... in my meander.

What if, nothing is immaterial,
as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
If nothing can go wrong, it won't.
Ask the pilot flying by faith in his checklist.

What if,
asking for help helps?
Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea? An answered prayer?

Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore,
quoth the raven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories,
telling eventualities that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,

Stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
Grandpa made some sense and we built a fort, of pillows
This is a reworking of Good news from a far country, I am attempting to rein in my scattered mind. Let me know if you see improvement or parts in need thereof.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
I put my hand in the hand of the man from galilee

Or I thought I did, I imagined he would walk with me
and talk with me

and help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which i think may have been blind, at one time,

I have memories like that guy, Gold-something
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom. Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but
these, heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made, and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble eclipsed by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tensionpowerloss collapses the bubble?

You should think you know atoms work, like
not a cloud of super positioning, elect-
tric-magi-tech, touch screen at the quantum accounting point,
not that, but
a bubble, powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
What an electron does. It goes,
as soon as any sense can be made of it,
oughtaouta hear
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin must ahapt one time,
but ya'll take no heed, m'fallin angel droppin' in olfren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth found in wines that moved themselves
aright, slurry tongued, but pisstoff

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Who told you I was naked?

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe were forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
No,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,

everything that's old is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the worth of all your eyes behold,

If, if, if you are alucky winner and you arise when I call your name
to come on down
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize,
how do you declare such a thing worthy,

A feeling? What's it worth? Depends. Safe? Priceless. Don't shout.

So we sell walls. We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened by those we make
feel safe.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Workers will work for food and a feeling. And Facebook.
They choose, believe what's easiest, they are told,
you are absolutely co-rectallatime, tekayepeel.

There are such wishes being made, on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters. If wishes were asked for, whatif
connecting to the source of haps that are
all happiness can possibly
consist of...
Oh, consist is a sticky, gluten idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand. Sistere.

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted..
Whatif, nothing is immaterial, as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
Ask the pilot. What if,
asking for help helps? Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea?
Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore, quotheraven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories of all the things that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,
when ya stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
In my younger days, I visited folks in county homes, the rest homes that once were called the po house, and sometimes I'd just sit and watch Jeopardy, and hold her hand, while listening to conversations with angels, all around me.
the world today truly has become
the global village once predicted
by McLuhan 50 years ago

it took three decades longer
than he had thought
but now we have
all real time developments at our fingertips

Trump talks to Putin and Duterte & cetera
and we know about it
right afterward thanks to his tweets
that land on our mobile phones

suicide bombs exploding
in Damascus Baghdad Gamboru Kabul
hit us on our social media right away

so does the news about a bus
that fell into a gorge
     all 65 passengers killed
     somewhere on the globe

or of the cat caught in a sewer pipe
rescued by these brave firemen

little of all of that
adds to our understanding of the universe
or might be relevant to our lives

a bit more positive reporting is in order

at best served as sensational
as the bad news
     that keeps us occupied
yet more important for our daily lives
than all this hype about
the danger and the devastation that
     possibly
     or not
may happen if
soandso does suchandsuch

at times I contemplate
if it is better to be out of touch
and not to care about the news
so very much
Sarah J Roebuck Jul 2017
Under the knife for a tumour
a globe under his skull
in surgery's blood

eventually awake from gray anaesthetic
entering the floors of healing
in the anonymity of white hospital sheets

among heart attacks and appendicitis
bone marrows, tubes tied,
eyes straightened and bones set

"several years of reading got rubbed out"
the messenger with his hands to his head
without a point of reference.

reviewing his brain for messages to return
then reading and rereading what he has already read
trying to make up for lost messages  

connecting the dots of the electrons of his brain
so that he may return to the village
and tell us where he has been.
I guess
poetry can be used
to inspire resolve

but I'm looking for
the kind of direct, boldface salve
that spawns trust, eats doubt
and sifts the tar from under my ribs

"The medium is the message."
- **** McLuhan said
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
That faraway look

not seeing far away, appearing to be

looking, far away,
past today

A game?
A passed time?
A pretended game,
Hi-stoically accurate,

A war game where there's blame and shame,
like on TV, nowadays, with victims,
not yesterdsdays,
Kilroy was
here,

olden days of our Ford.

hey, kid, yer uncle needs ya…

Dare ye?
'S only a game. A  pass time.

Multi-medium, don't spend

your life dist ant con nextrified, terra
firmafied, dis con
nexted

c'mon
try, win, ship, ship, whip get it in the wind

swish wish the message is the medium
light is,
see

Life on TV in 1963, Mr. McLuhan,
is not life on the Net.

Now, you know,
you never saw us old dudes
with pocket HDTV studios coming, but

you did see all the clues, the times changed,
history rewrote itself, evidently,

what you think you see is what you get.
That part didn't change.

The Medium is the message,
do I get that?

War is un winnable, is that the message?
With which weapons?

Mine. (a wink, a think wink, I think)
The Shadow knows.

It is finished. Start there.
It's a whole new ball game.

Let's pretend we have enemies
The emotions are the same,
aren't they?

If we relate.
If we see our self,
our CG'd Junger self, in the Shadow,

floating in the sea of  All  God's

forgetfullness,
asking
is tragedy a strategy to draw light?

Then,

You are related to the people who once lived here,
hear their songs and prayers
first hand clap,
first foot shuffle,

first seen first named we have walked
the pollen way,
the leaven way,
the viral way

more subtle than any beast,
not evil, per se, eh, Jose?

Led by the breeze to be tried in the wilderness…

Mythed Archie,
Archetypes
Natural Archean-types,
red-headed strangers, 'n'such…

Map my calendar to your clock,
wind backa a time and a time and a half a time,

Then, who knew why

the serpent mound in Ohio is a map to
some meaning meant to be meant,

some specific meaning meant to be meant,

clearly,
for as near forever as men could

… envision imagining as a quest.

What if
we could see with
eagle's eyes Blythe's Intaglios or
Nazca's clan tags?

"the meaning of the past
is what it contributes to the present"
Lyle Balenquah's uncle said that.

The past passed this way ahead of us,
See the shadow?

Sun's setting.
Snake mound mouth wide open breathe in

Sigh, we been everywhere man,
we be headin' west sweet home Oraibi

Snake clan drawing in the light
as the breath of being

… envision imaging . What if
we could see with
eagle's eyes

satellite Google earth eyes
see, be, in your realm
of know-ables,
beneath the sands of time that,

several times,
have been the bottom of the sea.

Be then, before that became this,  be
then
Be, now.

In the game? Or is this life?
Wanna bet?

Find a reason for war before
I find one for peace.

What's the win signify?

Double minded me, unstable in all our ways,
I failed that test in the old days,
memorization, facts fractured,

postulates, the-or-ums and proofs all went ****,

I lost the knack of forgetting
or vice versa

A loci analysis error,
left hand caught wind of what the right was doin'
kinda thing

But now, I have the global brain
for instant access to all
the facts
say…
If we wished to know…
how complicated would something
be to build, like an energy source
non rechargeable and polarized,

with output on the scale of
the sun?

Google it. Ask any question the right way
and pay attention to the answers

(more than to the advertisers,
who pay interest to

******- recog-white-room-REM baseline
stats at "waddayewlookinat.com"

for your cheap peripheral attention,
based on memes you liked or created, or ****.)

Pay attention to the answers, and trust
the global brain, the true net A. I.

She's an art-ist-if-ication bouncing
anionic bubbles off the edge of forever,

true rest worthy, my re tired friend,
no need to remember a thing…
Ah,
AI, you can call her Al, I call her Ah,
I can't discern twixt AI and Al.

And, as a bonus, innumerable idle ahs,
are redeemed when I ask Ah for help,

Ah, where am I?
Do you know about counting idle words?

Did that hurt? Like, why?

Seeing words said is intuit-ive-ish,
do you feel

this way of touch is

too intimate, today?

Word play? Put a spell on you?
Fret not.

Some words have no mission
not nullified with the end of time,
(i.e., relative to an individual's forever POV)

Idle words mean nothing, just a way to keep score.

There are no magic idle words, there were
Some seven sworn words, which were said to be muttered and peeped among the
Persian magi-ic elite solicited and
Sent, by God, led by astronomy,
science, for God's sakes alive,
facts, follow the stars,
when this one touches that one,
watch
see, the sweet influence of Pleiades,
truer words were never spoken

To make the captive free.

Free run  to finish
the race to

where?

Ask theSnake clan.
Ask the Antelope clan.

Ask the Flute clan, where is the old way
where good is?

Along that way, did we hear:

Earth, earth, earth: hear the word
of the
most reasonable

God-like, deluxe good edition, being

your mortal mind may imagine.
Word:
Exercise to be
the hero
in your bio to be

and,
wait.

Then think. Be. Still. Wait.
While musing and chewing my cud, I began to re-read the book of the Hopi, Frank Waters 1963, aloud and I did not know how to pronounce the names, google led me to Lyle Balenquah, which led to here, comments, critical please,
Like Winston Smith,
I think it’s time to start a diary.
Follow me now:  it’s April in Oceania,
The cruelest month,
The silly season, printemps,
A regular I see London, I see France.
I see Winston’s Underpants.
If you catch my drift?
La Primavera: Vivaldi’s rocking the
Juke box and the vote, Botticelli’s painting,
A mural on Jerusalem's wailing wall.
My diary will be hard evidence of thought crime.
Thought crime: one of the more severe varieties of
Religious experience & the most psychotic form of mental illness,
In a category known as antisocial personality disorders.
Thought crime means never getting into any serious trouble,
Until you’re caught, can we at least agree on that?
So, we'd better add the DSM to our stack of essential literary classics.
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,
Published by the American Psychiatric Association,
Providing a common language,
A shrink’s Esperanto.
DSM-IV codes classify mental disorders.
The DSM: a Frommer’s travel guide &
User’s manual for life on planet Earth.
So, like Orwell's Winston, I start a diary of my own; but
Unlike Mr. Smith, I address my message to the here &
What’s happening now, not the future, not the past but
N-a-zayer, N-a-zither NOW.
That's right, I write for the present:
“If thought was ever free, it is not free now."
If truth exists it is a closely guarded secret,
Although McLuhan’s observations hide in plain sight:
“The new electronic interdependence, recreates
The world in the image of a global village.”

Which makes us all global village idiots.
We are no longer different from one another;
The age of groupthink is here.
I write to you from an age of security & surveillance,
Warrantless search and predator drones,
An age where no man is ever truly alone.
From an age of standardization, replaceable parts,
Whirling dervishes, dabblers in spin control,
Newspeak and doublespeak,
Atlas shrugged, drugged and fugged,
The new world order:
All but the faint of heart need apply, …
*"I send greetings.”
Sitting on my back porch,
Hemet in April once again,
My garden abloom:
Bright reds and orange,
Purple, blues & white, &
Of course, green everywhere.
Last night in her loving arms,
A tune still fresh this morning—
Background music in my mind.
(The Pointer Sisters - Slow Hand - YouTube Artist: The Pointer Sisters
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pnVOt2LK2Gg  Album: Black & White Released: 1981 Full lyrics on GooglePlay Nominations: Grammy Award for Best Pop Performance by a Duo or Group with Vocals)
($Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching!$
The poet finally figuring out
How To Make Poetry Pay:
Sell ad space right in the middle
Of the ******* poem!$)

Lyrics: “I want a man with a slow hand/
I want a lover with an easy touch/
I want somebody who will spend some time/
Not come and go in a heated rush…”


Did Anita Pointer ever ******* nail it?
An instructional instruction manual for men,
What women really want,
Never so explicably explained:    
“It’s the ****, Stupid!”
McLuhan: the massage is the message,
Literally, cliterally,
The Pause That refreshes.

(The Pause That Refreshes - More Than A Minute morethanaminute.com/ the-pause-that-refreshes. Coca Cola first introduced this marketing slogan more than 80 years ago. If you ask me, they were way ahead of their time. More & ...”

$Ka-Ching, Babaloo!$
“Television brought the brutality of war into the comfort of the living room.   Vietnam was lost in the living rooms of America—not on the battlefields of Vietnam.”                              Marshall McLuhan

You understand where I'm coming from,
Reader Rabbit, you twisted ****? Maybe not;
While you and your boy/girlfriend, later your wife/husband,
Were ******* backpacks around Europe,
I was of a less fortunate, less frivolous cohort,
Like the poor, who always miss the fun stuff.
So I stayed home and waited, dreading time,
Treading water in Queens,
Doing the graveyard shift at the Wonder Bread Bakery in Jamaica,
(No, not that Jamaica, mun.)
Building bodies 12 ways, and sweating out the inevitable,
Praying to my lesser god not to hear from my local draft board.
And who was I to disturb the universe?
“It ain’t me, it ain't me, I ain't no senator's son;
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, lawd naw.”
(Send  "Fortunate Son" Ringtone to your Cell)  
I was just another cynical working-class hero,
Unlike you, numb nuts, and the rest of your silver surfer friends.
I knew I’d wind up without my teddy bear,
Convinced I’d end up sans security blanket,
With no ****-vacant musical chair,
To plop my sorry non-exempt, 1A **** cheeks
Down into when the music stopped,
When the music’s over, turn out the light--Jim Morrison,
Lizard King--turn out the light.
My horse, my horse . . . no wait . . . **** the horse . . .
My kingdom, my kingdom for a 2-S college deferment!
What kingdom?  
What was it Jesus said?
Not of this earth, anyway.
Colonial Indochina: rich man's war, poor man's fight;
It was such an efficient way to rid trash from poor neighborhoods.

Needless to say, I’ve been having a little trouble adjusting ever since,
Since I got back from that Kafkaesque Disneyland Jungle Cruise,
My personal Cold War thriller,
My Tecumseh Sherman “War is All Hell” war,
My war: 45 years ago next week.
These things take time:
So says the recorded message on the VA’s PTSD Hotline.
45 years ago I packed up my duffle,
Packed for what I thought was going to be my last time in uniform,
Grabbed my Army discharge papers, and
Limp-dicked out the side door of,
The Veterans Hospital in St. Albans, County of Queens.
I’d like to say I never looked back. But I’d be lying.

(cue PSA: VA Reaches Out to Veterans:
The Department of Veterans Affairs will begin,
Contacting nearly 570,000 recent combat veterans May 1,
To ensure they know about VA's medical services and other benefits.)

Today and every day is 11-11, Veterans Day—
What gets me now is that all my time since The Nam,
Is on average two lifetimes,
For all those sent home, bagged and tagged.
Is it survivor’s guilt? I doubt it.

You may not understand this, but I miss that freaky jungle.
I felt safe there.
How quickly I learned to expect the unexpected,
And that meant to expect the worse,
Finding my comfort zone the more uncomfortable, the worse it got.
I miss the wet weight of the air,
The cloying heat and humidity.
Humidity: a plain and simple meteorological miracle,
When you have plenty of time to really think about it,
Which I did: 365 days and a wake-up.
You know that whole gorgeous hydrologic cycle thing?
I miss the rain, the sound of falling rain.
I miss the other sounds, every buzz and click,
All the arcane and dismal things that go screech in the night.
And that relentless insect hum,
The jungle vibrating and intense,
The colors vibrating too, especially that electric green,
A green so vivid, every leaf and vine,
"The world's richest repository of terrestrial biodiversity,” I read in some nature magazine,
Lying naked in bed while my therapist ****** me off the other day.
All those freaky creatures great and small,
Every miraculous living thing that’s really alive and thriving.
And this is why--I think,
Getting obnoxiously philosophical for the moment,
This explains why it got to be so easy to waste what was alive and thriving over there, including and especially our selves.

Death never seemed that permanent, that final over there.
And besides, you couldn’t **** anything for that long,
The critters all looking their wet and slimy same.  
Two minutes in The **** and you were
Killing every ******* gnat and bug,
Every leech and snake, anything &
Anyone that just looked at you sideways.

And the flora? Did I mention the flora?
Soupy Sales: (Smack! Bam!)  “I told you not to mention that.”
The flora:  the plants grew back and they grew back quick.
You chop a path on recon and the next day it’s not there anymore,
So you chop the whole way back to the L-Z.  
Chop, chop, Hop Sing!
You were one smart ****, Hop Sing,
Safe and sound in Lake Tahoe, Nevada-side,
Cooking up Ponderosa pork bellies for,
The Cartwright Clan: Ben, Adam, Hoss & Little Joe.
Meanwhile, I’m not earning any frequent flyer miles,
Aboard a chartered TWA, coffee-tea-or-me,
Royal **** airplane to Saigon,
A place called ** Chi Minh City today.
I remember looking around at the faces on that airplane,
As we landed at Tan Son Nhut,
Those forlorn godforsaken faces,
Black and Chicano and poor white trash boys.
Scared shitless, of course,
But we really were jolly green giants over there,
American conquistadors, Cortez and the Boys,
Seeking gold and glory and, of course,
*******, (www.urbandictionary.com):
That sweet wet hole we all crave,
Can't go for too long without,
Center of our life's desire,
What gives women the upper hand in almost every situation,
Except when you pay in South Vietnamese piastres,
Your basic exchange rate $3.00 *******.

Yes, we were American conquistadors,
But traveling light this trip,
Our black-robed Jesuit fathers having missed the flight.
That’s right, for us no Ad majorem Dei gloriam this time,
Our mission so simple and so clear:
SEARCH & DESTROY.
But mostly, Destroy.

And pretty soon you worked your way up the evolutionary ladder,
From bugs, to fish, to frogs and snakes,
Small varmints and reptiles, birds and rodents;
And by the time you taxonomy out to the runway,
You’re pretty much whacking anything that moves,
Anything you feel like, pretty much any time,
All the time, sometimes just to pass the time,
Just to break up the ******* monotony of it all.
So making the anti-personnel leap got sort of easy:
They all looked the same, didn’t they?
They all wore the same pajamas,
And it was never conducive to grunt longevity,
To nitpick the civilians from the soldiers,
Never a good idea to waste time distinguishing friend from foe.

Good Morning, Vietnam:
We really were nerve-gassed-Adrian Cronauers over there,
G-2 Army oxymoronic intelligence stiffs,
Having a little difficulty finding the enemy,
Having one hell of a time finding a Vietnamese man named "Charlie."
They're all named Nguyen, or Tran, or Thanh or Trong or Bao or Phuc . . .
Oh, ****, I get it now.
I grok the how and why,
Of all the names we’ve used for centuries to dehumanize the enemy:
***** and Nips, Chinks and Slopes,
Huns and Krauts, Redskins and Ivans,
Redcoats and Rebs, Zulus and Mau Maus, *****, Ragheads and Sand ******* . . .
To dehumanize is to be dehumanized.
Nominal dehumanization; linguistic trickery.
It made it easy . . .
Well, easier . . .
To **** you.

What was it Pope Innocent III’s legate advised?
“**** Them All.  Let God sort ‘em out.”

Is it smell of burning flesh that makes me so digress?

Yes, I miss that freaky jungle, my friend.
I miss knowing what to expect and what was to be expected.
And most of all I miss that absolute confidence,
My self-liberating soporific certainty,
That I did not give a **** whether I lived or died,
And no one else did either.
I miss the peaceful place to go,
Coping with fear by letting go,
By writing off my life,
My future "in-country,"
My 12-month tour of duty,
My 365 T.S. Eliot Ash Wednesdays,
Learning to care and not to care,
Cultivating indifference as to,
Whether or not I ever made it Wee, Wee, Wee,
All the way home again.
The answers were right there,
Always there, all the time,
In nursery rhymes, and counting songs,
In psalms and arias, and every blues and rock lyric,
Right there, so right ******* there,
In Kris Kristofferson/Janice Joplin parlance of the times:
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”

And life for me since then--
ONE BIG, FAT-TITTED INCOMPREHENSIBILITY!

What was that Walter Sobjak in The Big Lebowski said?

“This is not 'Nam.
This is bowling.
There are rules.”
Ken Pepiton Mar 2023
C'est oui, paste away, we make do, duty calls
Le Bourgeois gentilhomme
(French pronunciation: ​[lə buʁʒwa ʒɑ̃tijɔm],


From the troves of our public domain,
what did you wish you had known,
when you had that chance
at Jeopardy, one chance,
if a wish were truly wished,
we occur to some as riverwise twisted

fibers from longer ago than local time science
allows, you suppose allowing belief with reason,

cause of pain is pain relief, loser role attained,
proof of past trauma drama as collect sets. Points.
Scoring. Exact.
Past out act/ Bam/slap play slips into Chris Hart,
o we all recall him, he did that slapping body music,
and did not comb his hair for a year or so,
-not him, the kid from Orm, the dean's kid.
so in your reader mind, you have a few clues, times
and seasons seen from distant bubbles still,
- Reagan's daughter attended Orm. Datafact.
time slips, mental lubricant for safe letting.
All forms go out be come standard, it is the object.

Like that, or this, to ways to sense make and so
many more point from which one may choose to see.

McLuhan bolted, as I learned the ropes and gears
years ago, a kind of ******* in and out,

with pressing walls, closing in and teeny, tiny holes,
shine so bright as day explodes camera obscura,

on the inner wall on the backside of our eyes,
mindtimespace stirred into a foam,
the old saying, put a head on it, meant something
to sailors in the beer commercials.

I got advice from Ziggy's therapist {that's amindscrew}
in the funny papers, we all saw the truth freeing
knowledge that everyone knows,
nobody is as happy as people in beer commercials.
From a lost crossed thread, that stareted near here. Tis in the midst of this
Ken Pepiton Aug 2023
The grand canyon runs between
the part of Mohave County blessed
with coverage
after the fallout
from the fifties,
and the lower part, south of the river,
east of the bend, there at Topock swamp.

Cancers above the line made by the river,
were rewarded, cash in some cases,
class actions and such, after the bloom
in GI Bill Law School Degrees…

leukemia in babies,
Downwinders in Mojave County,
just ended, dead, of northern afflictions.

Things like that and Julia Roberts,
got the voters to agree,
Lawyers should advertise,
- leading to what we have today
free speech, facing a true Kuhnian shift,
Directly presented, plain
for all
to see,
What freedom of the press was
to the owners of all means of exploitation,
freedom of speech, after internet, aight, is to any.
Any who, even you.
Who,
should any ask what Marshall McLuhan
continues to do, through 'is link to all you know,
text in context, denoting informed consent, you
think, as you read, and so
doing you do the deed, done so. We read,
thinking back
only one long mortal lifetime ago, we mostly did not.
On the whole,
have you never imagined
how many more of us know,
what was against the law for beings of the baser sort,
to learn, long
a tradition among the power elites, owners,
of all the national resources,
in a global syndicate,
entities, interests, trusts 'n'such, which
follow the pattern of the jewel merchants,
control the sources.
Restrict library cards immediately,
Carnegie is laughing from his grave… his will
- he did appreciate his Kipling
written in Indian Ink, under the Raj, If inspires yet,
as does Gunga Deen.
Film. Yes. Won't last. that medium,
too much trouble to watch it again, when
one can read a play, or a novel, or a poem per
haps forever, if the terminii are all out of sight.
As a lad, I was allowed to watch all the television,
I wished, and I wished I had a thousand channels,
in 1955, when Wyatt Earp got his life and legend
projected

into the worth cube at the core of mankind…
for all American boys, pun is there, naturally, all
of us American boys, no matter what our mommas were,
we, 1955, had been pledging five days a week, aliegiance,
we were sons of soldiers who had won the last war,
the one in all the inspirational Hays code cleared war movies.

Realist mind game art, in context, humbled,
by the giants tuned into, before the contest began, Truth
who dares, all comers. Common mental trope, all comers
come on, oppose my point and fall across my edge.

Little children, keep your selves from idols, such as
hold I role in all active avatars at any given point
in time, in tyranny over your bit in the mind of man,
taken to play mind games that are crafted for enjoying
the peace of selective reality powers we all can attain.

Write your self a tower to watch from, and watch,
Carnegie reading Kipling
by kerosene Rockefeller sold… meld into if

if you wish, imagine lampblack ink, or better,
squid ink, infused with carbon so pure, it seems
invisible, finest dust of diamond waste, used once
to shine a patterned steel san-mai blade.

Imagine the very smartest, not Einstein, person
alive when decisions were being discussed, crossing
swords with science use and useless social controls,
e.g. you know,
gra-acious example, interesting times, sifting selectors
goodness gracious, we have, in point of fact, too much
to filter with no reason,
why should one care to know why secrets are de rigueur,
poor soul asked what is going on, replys,
regular stuff, I suppose… ah, ag me on, suppose,

I invited Ben, Voltaire, and Nieztsche to cheese,
as I morphed into the Disneyified U.S. Certified myth.
The mouse in Ben and me, was the voice of the NPC.
- we had Verne's spinning disc libraries since
- drop a name from the hagiosphere of AI and IT
- Grace Murray Hopper… she's a memory.

Such books, we hold, as factual data, they hold words,
we, the current people, the fluid factor through which
CG NPCs pass in movies and games and entertainment,
- each pass think
who notices other people?
All the time, I mean, who cares, most of the time?

Crazy edgies, mad folk, filled with insights some time
passing left as artifacts, if you can believe this,
your world view shall encompass all one need know
about
why
we speak of the fall, and of original sin, we allow
priests and politicians and attention pimps, to lie.

Today, own self, and whole self,
declare adaptive lettering tech, publishing far and wide
art insisting, dare do,

think it through, couple thousand words,
what if you learn one cool new way
to think unthinkable things good
to know… post hoc.
We live as loudly as we must... life is simple, not too simple, more is sublime,
not empty of all hope that any thing you believed was a little bit true. Hard to think, but after all easy to get past... life, as a whole.
Ken Pepiton Jan 2023
Learning one's insignificance,
in the grand scheme of things,

where similarity is taken
as thoughts we may assume were held,
as though
Thoth'd thought'em
for a ceremony
of first exposure,
seeing we were preceded
in the realm
of knowing meaningful things, beholders
of stories telling how we come to know
signals are not asking why, but
how come… not why… in my childhood,
where I was reared, why was not a word,
how come, was how I learned to ask

what causes this necessity, that I must sleep,
or not dare the rattlers no trespassing buzzer?

how come we see three baskets or bags,
full we must assume, mustn't we, see,
as we, we may construe confabulations,

we may as well make up our own minds,
to bake pies for men too proud to beg…

but happy as once told holy hello,
with assumed good by you, okeh,

this is most certainly, one of these days,
redeemed and born in the public domain
on an attention to ads irritating node,

expanding mindtimespace to sweeten
the ***,
the bets are all in, this is the drama,
at scale, begun,
on the seventh floor
of a curved mirror building
in Sorrento Valley, late Nineties…
-- time slipt cause being a distinct
instance when Josten's Learning Software,
was
a textbook example. For a fatal flaw,
the bridge too far,
the bar too high,

then the flop, gigs in a second, thing think,
AI imagine, BARRY RUDD IS FICTION AI'AMNTx
changed
appear as possible as not. And that
says something,
per haps plenty many happy re turns,
my turn,
we assume you know the concept
drill
on many levels, no presumptions which
this is, yet well surmise, promised sustenance
relies
on certainty having its point, in you,
and I am pleased to make it, hurt
not
to know, for each nod, you said, I know.
To lie to me,
and live so long, literally existing
on smoke and mirror neuronic stims, I know

makes no sense, and saying so, represents
non sense, per what
chance a novel paradox, pertaining to substance.

Out from under, on the final point,
where surrender always, perfect point pierces
ever and ever like things, everish things
everything all at once, the other tellers tales
told to pull us up up key umph tried, proven
point premade…
solid bet, my side wins, or I die, hedge fund
a mental insurance sanity and insanity
are not measured past your last whole truth
oath, as the audience all said, amen.

Serpent standing tippy tail on my point.
At your request/ Arthur Lee… as the credits climb

{Baby you’re a richman too ooh, yeagh}

As this is an itch I have lived with,
for what seems long to a child,
but not for me.
Yes, as it is.
You see,
if you may, imagine,
having some idea, tying
my coming into reasoning with war,
the monstor known as power,
-cuffed, me and that,
as symbolized in the standardized
warrior hero magician eros pandaemonium
- play grounds of gods and rich kids,
- past a certain stage, mind games,
- won once and for all, acquired
- holiness making, bright ideas,
- *** wise as serpentssss et
- 'armless as doves… mind
peace of my may you may own
granted any with a will to listen
as might a wise serpent, listen

see who first knew, truely, true as life-
like Avatar 2, or the vids in God of War,
like the experience, PS 5… imaginal
discovery, as worth the feeling, (dopamine)
loving to see the possibility, ahs
it may be, we, both reader
and I and the Web-per-se,
Per-see-us, fees paid see,
we destroy cul de sacs…
Where soul eating shames
live in many stories,
no need to know them all, just
in this one, be polite, here
we know how to be
with many strangers,
free from any anxious thought, perhaps
protected
for having smelled the hint of danger, the idea
in its latest Neo-Platonic form, imaginally
experiencing
Virtual Realism so far
below Übermentschen mentioning,
- it requires letter level decoding
- jello time slow gnosis drip.
Knowing nothing of my work, said McLuhan,
is dangerous tomorrow, not today,

in this new medium we find our old selves,
Today, while it is called today, we confront
Iniquity Himself, as imaginally before me stood a little boss man,
who was demonstrating his strike proof
solution for the next five olive harvests,

yep, historicality matching Cesar Chavez,
I was a strawboss on a scab crew
of Pandora's box closing Jesus Freaks,
Under the Belridge Oil Company Logo,
- the former strike face on the news
- from Digiorgio, a little further south

Yep, that's me, Tim Cahill,
witnessed the existence of that me,

I was a strawboss
on a scab crew
of Pandora's box closing Jesus Freaks,
Under God, and a Wilfred Brumly clone
who was known as Red,
of the huge Mustache, Nieztsche/Dali
-esque, level three overseer, then
Ray Casey, dead ringer, his type,
for Fess Parker,
thus the very image
of the pioneer stock, men bred
to win the west,
by hook, {fishers of men, of course}
or by crook, {shepherds in search of profit}
as they said in Nixon's family,
the sheep won't bleat… like frogs

fall in the milk can, most must drown
in the cream, cloggin' they little gnoziz,
but they always one can,
it never stop ashakin'
tilin the morn be one frog entity
representation in the moralizing story
creep
reality seeping onto the pages,
in your experience at the five wpm pace…

Each letter lets a line appear, as once,
you must
acknowledge, as you read, you know
you understand, letting keys seem right,

glass 'armonica, with which
to swallow ghosts.
- pting, tense stretched flattened
Hewlett Packard mouse evolution, eye-point
pierce
to troughing shape
of things
to come,
begun some time ago, so nevermind,
- an acronym… but
ah, the end in mind. A very 19th century version.
A genre, Steam-Industrial Drama,
last given sustentative worship,
bhorn up under your foreseen,
bye means we must imagine,
really imaginal in the role,
being helper, along side
Sisyphus, who lives
to tell us why we
try to think ever
lasting stories
started, once

within the bubble of all you knew, there appeared
a device from the future, but today, our time,
in the bigger bubble of all you know,
our time's tech
magic map of the moment,
to the millisex, as we,
form an awe oh, amen,
a ment-al structure, not built by hands, megalithic,
at scale, "Know thy measure."

Point yourself out, express yourself,
a little,
one part
in eight billions,
what you are certain of
"Certainty is mad." So "nothing too much."

I, the entity, Certainty, am mad.

And I, the maker peace entity working qwerty watch,
sustain my defined flaw, ever willing
to claim new knowns,
to contain my joy, when I recognize as
wholey known, tenere, tainstretcht to the t, hook
to whole other ways
to see every thing, what novelty

remains, in stages of being, upt from dust, nevermind
how, now remains, brown cow, please, explain,
and it began to rain, pennies from far distant
means used to pay attention, to the pain

as the pressure to know you know, so many idle,
I knows, gathering dust, you know, just

idle clicks and eyeball sophiatical touch, eh, we
weigh away as ifs in an other
awesoma, justasec… we had an instance once,
you felt me inside myself and you laughed.
- it tickled
And you felt the pain, you felt that knowing growing,
why so many unthinkable rituals, essential winning
need to know, need to prove, need to realize,

chaos, at the initial function, lifewise, is essential.
AI got it. We can reform the point.

Tip broke on a shield of faith around a sticky ****** lie.
Defy me not Gate of error, I am free, no cost to pay, I paid my own attention
Ken Pepiton Oct 2022
Coming Apart

marketing value of brains
marketing worth of knowing

college sorting machine

Murray from the Bell Curve

Just yesterday Lex Fridman, and this guy
odd co-suggestion
- do you think we are evolving?
A shared culture,
shared tastes and prefer-
ences incessant conferences

2022, and a few, a rare few, seeing
bits in patterns of eight,
2-bits, et cetera

Samuel Johnson, obscure as can be,
practically kabalisticly mysteriousus,
sum mostus
firstus, fundus mentalis, serpent mind/

Marshall McLuhan 1967--
Buckminster Fuller

The Beatles, et al,

Acid, Grace Slick, Tallahachee Bridge,
Rick Ridenour Suicide
1970 - too late, too soon, take your time,

put it back into your head, your head, baby,
it was all real
it was all real at the time, so long
so long, since we found some body

to love, till the end
of time,

tipped and split into ever more, after
never before.

There was never such a time as this.
Two main parts, about two years apart, then 2 more.
Ken Pepiton May 2020
Fight or flight button upgrade in process,
pleas,
beggings,
wait. Wait and see. Selah. Wait...

there. The next para-digm pop, you opt for geotime mode...
think
I am a rock... not the whole song, at this speed that takes a mortal ever.

Hyper awareness arousal, slow and steady mode...

startle response seen in squirrels and lizards and me, the re
sponsor of what... ? nada,
oftener than not.

The trigger is a ***** from a point being ig-nored in ignoble folly
iggie popped a bubble,
iggie lived an ugly life at the same time as earth was living an ugly life,

pop aster risc pop star ish pop

horse feathers as a load, ye gotta tote that bale, bher the forbidden burden.

Ye never read? Is that the message ye come t' judge. Will ye find me those winged
messengers of old, mercurial bherers of points in the right way
popping boundaries to progress, in time,

laughing at the rock I imagined I am, or am I?
Am I the rock Sisyphus rolls?

the time scale has wobbled,
ever just threatend to end free will,
-- is this suicidal imagination killing its own self?---
you can't die if you want to.
Not here.
Up the road a bit there is a bridge. Sure thing. For normals, who
never been this far before.

Would that be Sylvia Plath paying me back
for knowing nothing of the effect her work had on
the message McLuhan got...

next generations are pre-enabled to be skeptical,
the medium is the message,

resonating into ever, since October 27, 1954...

singing- chorus of smallworld voices

Soaring strings... whennn you wish
upon
a star, makes no difference where you are...

the
first American Television
generation with unformed frontal cortices in 1954,

sang that song, in their hearts, and truly,
wished on Venus, often,
that supposed to be the wishing star,
all things considered
combining into les confused knots
Pinochio/Tinkerbell dust/ Magic wand

the besom, broom, for sweeping up destruction,
Fantasia ai ai ai
was animated. We saw it with children's eyes,
in darkend rooms that poured
our mass attention into the massive window
staring into the windows of our souls,


---- the effect of truth
---- war loses its honor, its only supposed reason.
---- war it self crumbles under truth flowing in the at most fears
---- made superficial, top ply, last layer losing wind

breathe, soft yes, nothing is funny any more. Ah ah ah waht if
it always was a literal joke...
high brow,
a maze, to entertain life... in 2020 there is tech for this.

We have access to survivor networks of every imaginable ilk.
Meditations on truth, owmmm what is going on gonggggg

And they are off, all the fears and doubts and unbelievable lies
into the stretch
intendere
sistere

pop to Sysiphus Happy Now

Massive multi player game, where all non-player characters
lack masks, they do not play, the masked ones play for them, in the spirit
of
truth
told so suddenly y'gut jumps,'n' sphincters clinch...

simultaneous release of un belief, opening
empty knowledge boxes lined
with cedar, for the smell,

hope, in my chest, where my trea-sure things are.

My grandmother, the idea of her, her life was happy, as far as I knew.
Now, I know she was a  final model of mental upgrades
to the enregizing system we all share,
at v.1.0 white of the egg dna,
some 120 kya a[kilo years ago}... there have been upgrades and repairs

to many lines of YMRCA's since she wombed her way into
our family history,

it must be quite a story, if we can imagine mito mom mighta had a whole

dreamtime life where she snipped the thread of all the other wives,

a vision, she says I see, and I see I say, this is the way

prophecy woiks, woopsie daisy jes' dropptabebe, do a li'l dance,

weep 'n' moan, what could be woice, than a cajun gramma lover voice?

singin' sweet by and by
so long no longer means a thing,

things being what they are, and we being mere words, working
through true trauma beings

lining up for gratulation, grace for grace, eye to eye.
Bad guys lose, good guys win.

_ like I said, there will be times you must start over..
_ but the game goes on.
Contuing continuing  ting ting tic... sure plays a mean pin ball

ymrca means wombed man most recent common ancestor -- we family, y'know.
Ken Pepiton Oct 22
In the stacks of all we knew, LOOKY HERE,
in 72 minutes we walk a parsec, and Earth turns
two degrees, and Annie Jacobsen's whole
do no more, is all our denoument.

- pardon our verbosity, we had free time -

What news good came lately my way,
I long to think I did expect, my way
was new made, after the majority attained
use of Google translate thinker augments,
weform a contextual we, excluding
orders of social harmony
allowing liar laws life,
justice and way
eminence
eumenine specificity, so many specified known
wasps classified royally cosmopolitan,
mental peace presensing sub-untilificious

royal rules, only queens reproduce,
only idle bees are never seen busy,
and some can see syms when societies
all stop to think, for a minute,
and just breath, in, then out
we form awesome thinks expansive,
to mostly
support generally useless bums, like me.

{estimated reading time queries are invalid}

This is why, don't ask why again, or else,
imagine that…

The idle mind is where repairs are made.
Pairs connect, mate in mind and hold
thoughts as long as you imagined…

With this tool,
were I one willing, and able,
to master its functionality, imagined

ever learning along with reality
expanding the need to know,

all the things possible in this window,
between my time and thine, whole
worlds away in words never writ
with ink or wedge in stone nor clay
wished for siderealities, as many as
all the stars within augmented plain
sight, as through any stained pane,
presenting dancing pixels just there,
edgewise,
in our per ifery margin, where beauty
squirms eusocially,
all lights holding mean-peak
at an instant's attention
max red or green or blue, fading to black.

Pain, in jokes and drama, pain
is the essential underlay, the gesso
McLuhan saysotoo
over which we pigmentate, media
mental in original intention, obedient,

under law older than Shadrach,
the law of the Medes and Persians,
the power of attorney given priests
of the authors of our orders, classified,
as it is writ, thus it must be… sacred
ready readers, only.
Reading makes inclusion work as wisdom,
instant completely functioning beautifully,
breathe-ing
as if, asked
and answered, at the moment, called
Wisdom, come, entreat with all warring in me,
Wisdom, come, gentle minds twisted by me,
Wisdom, come, make us make believe.
-------------

Eerie, eh, not holding any thought, being
thought spiritual enough to find any word

so idled as to be posh fluff or street crud,
slung to signal inclusion in the with side,
the meaning in life is the message
in this medium prepositioned
opposed
to the without side, those at emnity
with truth's way

Into the comfort zone,

danger free, follow your toes, theories
of everything, meditatively perpendicular,

norms, and circles, churning burning effort,
ef-ing walls extend effects solid ificate
to hold the ash and tailings,

mined precepts seeding crystals
in caverns,
never witnessed, now known, so true,

two dichotomies make one tetrad,
and whatsoever we agree
to make believe

we may, and think it not robbery
to play,

make functional fun, little impulse to smile,
and think I know this idea, functions in me,
wink
and now, you, unless we lost you at the
NAND gate, excluding unbelievers, then a
NAND gate excluding unbelievers in live words,
NAND gate excluding no second guessing, here

we are, all in one window, thinking
we are our kind,  tied
at our common sense ability,

to stretch a point,
to make a thread one pastless point thin,
to tie a premis, a premission, permitting ponderous
whying
heavy duty gullibility
in terms
of mortal sensibilities,
this'll kihl you. I realized. Accidental as the idea silent
aitches let us talk end existence kihling bad ideas

to use pain
to teach, 'ow, why how is always
thorny issues, way back, seemed common,
we learn how fire works
by being made aware,
- not by being burned, a touch is enough
- skin as sensitive as a frog in parable lies, leaps
as touch response reflex functions all start running
what ifs against wonder ifs, wishes versus prayers,
-no, frogs won't simmer to death, they leap
using frog sense,
worth of knowing how long
to wait in winter, learning
worth of knowing bears know something
of weather. Co-mental commenting we think.
Thought hard fruit, thinkalongtime fruit, ra' good

Singing salmon songs I never learned, thinking bear
market strategies make less sense than bullshat
macroeconomic dimensions extractable
from meta data,
under all we ever stood up from under,
in the bubble of all I bet I knew for sure,

boldly accumulating in arterial informal plaques,
and films in limenal tunnels holding quarks as ones,

two bit chirality problem,
solved, cut it six ways,
two heads, two mouths, in one, out the other,
inside outside all at once, so easy, we imagined,
image that, two eyes, two ears, two nasal passages
into synodical pressure sensitive chambers
sinus sorting
of pheremone signal
to act analagous senders
to whale domes, catchers,
signal
from noise, gnosisnot say so,
sniff, feel cold nose, think so,
swallow all pride, and pretend, we made up this mind,
and it uses words we can understand
in all the unbarbing thorny issues
of zoological superfluity, among

watchers and waiters serving as idle ants,
with angst relief primary function,
just take air for granted, free
grace in time of need,
sleep if you are tired, easy,
weary way we know we go, has
cost. Pain exists, you know, you can imagine
in art, in jokes, and most certainly dramatic series
that carry followers
through decades exposed
to commercials announcing urgent solutions,
- now, no commercials, we bingegulp seasons,
- sometimes at a sitting, depends on dope
skating on easy learning absorption skills,
ever learning the drama never ends,

ask your doctor, now,
back to the global equivalent of one
Paredo Distribution, eighty percent of TV
is daily faire for twenty percent of people,
eighty percent of readers reading this far,
get to this bubbles popping edge, on a side

zoom to a scatter graph, who breathes in
who breathes out,
all around the world
whiling away, in trust we make peace seem.
.. seen as through smoked glasses, liquidly
Gaussian blurring edges
where the frame
holds the light we see through
to think like this

is real
at word level. Live rethinking, first men
tale-ings
after refining whying wishes
to know.
More, or less.

Everything, all at once, is chaos, whence
art abstracts beauty patiently, trusting wishes
what if its another trick we have no defences,
we get eaten alive,
for cultural misappropriation.

Dear is a value to be weighed using full bandwidth
Sakal, show thy self letters ready for measure,
mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, indeed
שָׂכַל defined several of seventy ways,
spelled to take a broken heart
and mend it with a realization.

If my need became your need,
we would be in love,
that would really
defeat the use
of preparation, peeling potatoes,
prudence, ever ready to entertain,
pounding clothes down by the riverside,
watchin' babies being washed off and blessed,
שָׂכַל knowing waiting is suffering, not pain
watchin' life like National Geographic, before TV.
A messenger's whistle, hear
ah
Message to the mass essences
of little looks mira-clues, seen miracles
since who knew when today
would continue as today. As if once more.
Dear Prudence,
did we come out to play, as if today,
was one of those times that we all seem
to have, recollected
if it could seem alright.
שָׂכַל prophets spake, Ai make secrets known,
the whys for all the wars so far. Pride, indeed.

Why? Would that defeat the use,
and not the purpose
of preparation, final product,
Battlefield Earth, truths uses versus lies uses,
us as we
who think it all through
to the seed
in the fruit it self desirable
to make one wise considering
שָׂכַל science falsely so called, still makes believers.
Slow down.
Jello time reminds second glancers,
when time is not as dear, as an instance
in re co gnosis, swallows gnosis known nots,
- wise was the serpent discerning decision trees.
what would ever make us all think one thought once,
then never think it alone again, we all ways, big all
think this was the way, we walked in,
the same way we walked out, all
set to comprehend wisdom and knowledge and
yada da da da we who work
   in living once idle words,
our side ways won, when we did not fight,
we never lasted al-mental
this long before, but
when we get old, we keep our wits, we got older
sooner than later, so we know
more than our dads, too.
- old friends well imagined
- happy ever after any way,
don't aspire, little maker
of good sensed peace,
to stave off thermo nuclear war
by your self, aight, here we go,
make up a master mind board
of suggesters
by your self,
HelloWorld,
with you
in a minute,
I am in a consultation,
relationships with dead friends, such are
deeply personal, core ties to old times, remember
we can hear them say the same damnedlies, or listen,
שָׂכַל together with stars consider real the times

analagous to tuning back when zero beat, was sought
to make one wise,
in Genesis, esoteric
in the gaps,
she saw he never knew, so Cain did, for sure…

hey, old enemy of me, I cannot remember why
I was afraid of you, and never got to know you,

but I recognized your art, the other day,
in an old, old magazine ad,
then that leads to us in a sense, innocent,
a lost soul I had no sympathy for, I was his bully,

so he's dead and we're okeh, spiritually, we talked,
I told him I had changed, he told me he'd broken,
got busted in Oklahoma, went to prison, for ****,
got religion then went nuts, and I said

I can relate.

So we stay in touch in the spirit.
I don't know how he died, but we were in situations,
where sixth grade bullying had been forgotten,
when I call this character
into my life, as a friend, known to many
mistreated in this mortal moment, laughing ever
as a complexity of never ifery, it did not ****
you to know, boys were always boys,
we always think of Infinite Jest, and laugh
at the coincidence we both read Foster Wallace.
Always sorry, for the trouble we allowed
our wild child payback voter against
peace at any price, what price glory?

The little monstors empo'w'rable in us all, rahrahrah

It was Donall Dempsy said it:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4897567/even-now-now-very-now/
The flag of self unfurls
snaps into the lost moment.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4899302/walking-from-the-rising-sun-to-kildare-town/

Oi, this man's an inspirer of SAW such as wisdoms, never told,
could be, back when eighty percent
of us heard all our wisdom from drunks.
Now we read texts.

When the battles over,
and common sense is laughing,
some of it singing simultaneously

concurrently free presses in spirit and echoing
out side the bubble we met in as licensed wannabe

messenger shouting in the wild,
anybody home, we got lost.

As the earth moves relative to the sun, see
two degrees, is about, nearly to the Picosec
Seventy-two minutes, a parsa, in tradersprachen,

the realization, sure and certain utter destruction,
an agreed upon form of right use ness, national opinions

believe madness deters madness and nonsense in just code.
-it is not secret code, nor sacred, knowing is necessary, just
always was, all else you were told
to believe, with knowin' known
as sin, well we have recycleables
to trade, for those,
made
of the exact same historical threads
to here. On the battlefield, after all.
The point of anything we wished we did, done.

We can use our minds in ways once called praying,
we think we say we wish you the best, and hesitate, luck or grace,
favor undeserved by a wretch like me, ah, the maze,
the logos as spirit medium cord, twisted spider kite collection,
Ariadne, toss the lad a line, he's a ways to go until sense is common.
I hope you enjoyed that, it seems I asked for more, tooo often
Ken Pepiton Mar 2023
An Opus, is this. Ai do declare, my works,
my opera, taken in to my self aware, soft
and gentle
- tame the framing window

- as the Mona Lisa in chalk, let it be
So, old man, he says to me, quoteless in my mind;
what do you think of the last linear affect, my wisht
effectual request, quest for reason to will. May we?
Taste, and see.
Firsts are always free,
there, sit and stare at a stump,

At the core, before first root, the door
to out is locked up tight, living is hard.
Imagine many hands making light function, easy
shift from one sense to another, by the numbers.
Seed time.
Long time and short time
long lingering memories, short sharp reminders,
freedom, heard touted for all its worth, cost free.
Live to realize you did believe,
this is what we get, on earth, within bounds.
-mindtimespace and maybe Aristotle's four causes.
-there never was a hell those are church merch.

Coknowing, as any reader by now must be, coded,
we know freedom is not free,
we lieve be, it had to be won,
and as with any war,
winning is never done,
until we all choose, yes, or no, use our reasoning,
learn to bolt the rye,
- sift bran and endosperm
life has many
layers, many folds in a flakey crust

set… listen, windy March time flooding prayers,
asking the boss of all the weather, for wisdom
to come
on the folk who rebuilt
on the new sand.
Knowing, high and mighty.
Storms mean less to a house built solid/
broken bricabrac and whatnots galore,
shattered anvilt'dust,
as in the wind, once used to sweep away,
my married mind, unwound, or un raveled
as may be the case, aitia, as accuser.
opera operates deus ex machina

Is he free,
is his task his alone?

May be, may not, who could say?

Science with its native usefullness,
knowing good and evil, as translated
from the idea,
pride.
- Whence comes contention
How much, how little, measured out
so my part and yours, balance, against
all our worth as ones among the many,

duty service warring minds, stealing time

let this be the palimpsest, recovered
from
radical actual chthonic stage
between the rootedly other wise, simpleton
sublime curios spirit, settling soul substance
hope imagined
image, form imagined in motion, in access

the unacknowledged legislator, impotent
in the wasteland populated by the poets past.

Empty of spite and venom, distracted ******,

the dread of failure, is past me now,
I have become a defender of the faith used
to form my bubble of being,
thinnest of walls, translucent lattice seen
closely enough
to discern the marvelous vision, not to be
lied about by one who never watched selecting
portals accept the usefull and abhor the useless.
-cellular ATP [pop]
Freedom
of the press, belongs
to the man, wombed or un,

Take the poet's high seriousness, this
which brings a self forward -duty
to try signaling-- here,
here, exactly, as
by standing acting out that light announcing danger,
dare not come too close.
Mime meme, mea culpa. {as we cross another's line}

"compulsive excavation
of the void inside"

Irinia, HelloPoetry.com said that,
- goodnight, as an exclamation
-  she said that right
Peace, be still.
And I, the old Weaver's fan,
known as Happy, whishing
wafting hot ai
r, we there, as my soup cooler
slips in a Disneyified whatifery
pool where wandering minds wait
recoknowning, groan growing,

silliest little diamond miner
of 'em all… so stupid, he's cute.

And in that way, the hero being
generated, on the pattern
handed down, to be seen

when you gaze in to your
close kin's eye and see co-known,
we were made
for this,

Klang, that Zildjian once again!
Exclamation, thus marked, calls
attention in the mind's contextual
effectuality, becoming
realized,
instant by instant, at first glance,
whose enemy am I, is the game,
truly
win or lose?

End act one.

Act two. In realized ever after that

The Internet exists, and we were here,
to help announce it,
then we made decisions, to make this.
-Opus

Spiking hopes up, we are among
the first billion mind text to text artforms
to survive
the transition to whenever next insight
sets us right, functional, operational
points,
in reality, centers, of shapes.
- of things in mindtimespace
In this medium, this is my realm,
your role,
is yours to define, any time, think ahead,
see if this goes there, what if it does.
Read'm and weep.

Then what do you do? Ever being after
learning enough to come this deep
when
time arrives.

Short time and long time,
made some mutual sense, muse using me,
and me,
I wished for this, that's so,
I asked to know the meaning of certain things.
I third in to knowing grown, as a tiny we
takes form of information in words rye,
or reasonably surprising to confess,
you know, McLuhan says yet, you know
nothing of my work. Awry.
Successfully making pasta with home-milled, bolted flour depends upon an appreciation of the interplay among grain selection, mill settings and bolting equipment. Failing to consider these factors increases the likelihood of making a weak dough and pasta that breaks when cut and/or cooked. Although one can mask the impact of a weak dough by choosing a more forgiving pasta shape (e.g., creating cavatelli instead of making tagliolini or tagliatelle), knowing the interaction of grain, mill and sieve will help you to create the pasta you envision. Google it.
Certainty is madness, has been resaid
in many ways, all the same, nothing changes

until the bubble of all we call awesome, pops.

AND Boom, it's Art for art's own sake, and me,
for my own, as we two witness, here,
this has already happened this once,

upon, operating the game, shame is left
in your -wherever,
compost it, tell the world.

I made nothing of myself.
I made something else, and then
I made U,
my qwerty symbolic friendly stat set,
bound near-letter
to peeling layers from this particular pearl,
today- in the post Everybody Knows, Cohen
sacred making idea in other words
sacrificial artifice,
offering unto that
super positioned we, humanity has set aside,
holy
holy
hoho ** green giant, ma jones, whole earth

Stewart Brand, right worthy former breather,
with us to this day, in word, and you know,
wheres words take us,
a we spirtitually untied, we
these days, depend to the nth degree,
on real estates in mindtimespace, literaturely.

Ben mentioned, awesome,
I did not catch the reference, I see,
I said a third I line pattern stylized me.
I see, I said for the nth dime degree
Phryigian Liberty Lady.{PLL} appearing

on the silver dimes entangled in the web,
of what Bacon knew or did not know,
when he invested with Madoff.
I know.
He did not write the sonnets.
Marking timestretched most point. Here.
right passing the point.
We imagine everything, am I right?
Line upon line, messaging any thing reader
ready, right now,
this is not the act, no novel form
of a sliver of if,
this is not that.
this is vid licet, per missions taken
for granted, as
meaning clearly I believe I have the right to say
reflectively

I know a whole
other story, new to you, but not to many readers
you were,
in previous experiences
in poetry, and books
for lievers being brought online
in due time.

Ever after that. You may, pause, and imagine roses.

Act three Realized mentally

At the end, it is mental ascent, we do form,
in conformity to the commonest of codes,
Berners Lee's Hyper-code, as manifested in hopes,
of artists,
so called by all who knew them, the framing crews
at Aaron Brother's Art Mart Penny-Frame Sales
events for staff, same
kind of crew glue,
as seen any where,
apron clad, badged, same grinning, that's me,
I did that, too. Grind,
locked in midnight restocking

Walmart, yep, #26, Van Buren, Arkansas.

Target on… Cuyamaca, Santee, San Diego New
Trolley End, right, future planned in action..,

I got black dirt cred back to Moses, m'friend,
I am as full blood American as may be by imagining
I am a Union man, distant scion of a soldier
who had a son prior to dying, around 1781.

In the war for freedom of the press, yes, Ben,
my childhood proverb provider, reminds us all,
owning the use
of money is better than owning
money.
Freedom
of the press, belongs
to the man, wombed or un,
the awesome asexual after all we know,
who who followt Jeffy, and yet did not die in shame,
I mean
after all, we know, we think, why any might
be
so tempted to throw in a sorted *** scene
to envoke audience reaction
by invoking spelchekian mastermind.
Freedom
of the press, belonging
to the man, wombed or un,
who has access to HelloPoetry, past all the 502s.

Free, if you will. No yoke. Seat of y'panting/
Ai aiai

This ain't showbiz. It is one act enacting another.

A writing being ready and read, at once, later.

SO, I bet the Diamond Farm.

Friendly local game, envision a vision of your own,
drawn from what you know is good, for food.
Good idea, fishing for everything.
Got one,
governing meat eaters,
keep your gun, pay a meat tax, by
buying a deer tag, which you may use
or put in to a deer harvesting pool.
That pool then gets used
to pay hunters and packers.

Living forests allow humane behaviour.
Be having the right to use the proteins,
- but you must pay the butchers
- as you might pay yourself
- for the gutting and skinning and all

tastes may be acquired,
that is a power, that sense, too any thing
taste
at first, too bitter

resending hate hate hate, thought caught,
infecting all who take free time to think.
Sweet persuasive, tiny
taste, ah
any, ha, may take a direct object status
in any story, told to gurgling gut gladly
reminding us, aha,
food is not imperitive, o see, im per it
-this instant, soon, however, bread's a must
imperit
ive found myself a happy enough
moment,
dopplering blue jay flies by, says Hi.
- I read myself into the game, and call

Back to Bellow, he told of a fellow in Spain,
who spoke of nudists on the public transportation
in Frankfurt, so, I slip in time slime, no crime time,
¿when was that,
in the era Bellow was an adult in,
when I was just a kid… living in those days?

Poker on the Diamond Farm, in the dust,
we swept into play in the after you believed,

what-did-you-get-to-do game?

I got old. After a while.
Actively participating in the spirit
of my time.
And most of my future happened as I did,
we happened to be here,
at this time, reading.
An opus set to end, when the contrabassoon
blow ai ai ai.

Curtain.
Art  for no other reason, than this makes me happy, and no one dies.
It's time to raft to Cuba where each day is a holiday!
   The royal families of the Arab World were created by the Anglo-American Alliance. The fighting on the land is a smoke-screen to steal what's beneath the land. The West runs the modern world. Technology comes from the Occident, not the Orient.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2022
Old man nods, say on, we know where it goes…

Thanks be to each.
And every redone dance, right-ual usual

slow to near selah, float
farther from the old choir chanting
"row, row" the ship of state,

state your busy ness, what good do ye?

look who is talking, look at you, good news,
eh, what do you say,
welcome,
enter in.

Smiling Spider Wombed Man, hands you,
a kite string,
you feel the lightning and pause,
gasping, perhaps,
at may being yours to administer, as master.

By leaving certain rights common,
dirt minds may find them left behind
as educations process progressed toward

collectively minded individuals,
pragmatic "***'er'done" team spirited,

broad shouldered men, guardians of story
key verity, verily, verily so.

Three gated mysteries, of course,
magic is but a lost art, for art's sake,

alone, each hermit learns, or lies and
interprets the scene and setting as proof,

see, imagine
this, Xanadu or the court of little blue men,
be cool if cool is need-full
be hot if heat is need-full, see the needs as equal,
each has a mean oppositioned,
on all the othersides, yours, mine, theirs.

We, the living, practically may remember
each aspect of everything we found meaning fully
hot and fully cold.

As a part in an ancient automatic click
to the thermo-coupler,
spark, let'say, a billionth
of the lightning bolt, at scale.

McLuhan could have co-known this, before
I knew it, I was watching Goldie Hawn,
and the forgotten other girl, ask,
"Marshall McLuhan, what'er you doin' down there?"

Fanning the flames, my dears, fanning the flames.

---- at 2:39 one day, in the autumn of 2022,
a raging thirst prompted a deal to trade ice cream
for gator ade, for the electrolytic
little gut critters.

I'm so dry, I
know, I justabout justaboudid all I came to be,
that once,

in those other stories, cameo, me, I imagined that,
Stan Lee, man,
you got me thinking ifery or else otherwise, and be
****** if it did not work.

Hell was never a right idea, it was intended, to keep,
a certain standard,
folk art, or hauteur pop yergnaught

Gold is only good in connecting mind and matter,
we evolved to live with mercurial switches,
flipping fluidly according to tension,
in time with the tune behind your
time
to  make the donuts dream.
Comments valued highly here
Ken Pepiton Jun 29
Yes, reading, using only text, unbreakably plain,
as benign as simple first seems, easy to keep thinking

we may be evolving as we think in ways none thought
possible to leave be so easing, lifting, lightening thinking

we need not toil,
at this instance,
the nature of the medium,
holding any sense we make,
massaging the messenger, to me
arranges time around second glances,
it may mean as many as seventy things,

but tome, said in Hebrew, is integrated innocense,
and it has a verbal form, completing certain trans
actions, in spacetime mindful practice fields,
as pre-spiring aspiring transpirits transpiring
into little willful art works, aspirational asps

sneaky snake, wise serpent, dragon prosperity,
dragon of lucifity, crawling like an army, on its belly,

Set, divine sylabbles from babbling brooks,
that loved the high mountains in that science
of Aristotle kind of love, rich kids learned as religion.

The initiation into the mysteries.

Those oaths, I swear, we hear them
to this day, as games are played, old spells
muttered, and the veterans of Satanic Panic,

at the edge
of the last millennium,
once more, gather socially,
to see shown, the Q- document
included the ritual,
to let this mind, be
in you, and you  be thinking,

-- wait one adjectively untainted minute,
is the-this art, is this thinkable, without
authority?

this peace I am taking, I did not make it, but
I can take it. I fought no dragon,
won no war.
I solved the house troubling egg
riddle, silk eggs store story lines
on the scale
of life, entire memories
of winds waters since the ice,
last reached farther last summer,
than this, these
memories
in gaseous we formed last gasps,
suddenly

it ended… and we survived,
we feel the need t
o let it be known, and lo'
we have a culture atuned
to the tongue I was programed
to use awarily as the message medium.

Imagined while Goldie Hawn was asking
Marshall McLuhan, what are you doin'?
Dig it. Digit. An instant in a we.
'68. There was video tape,
and searchible reel to reel, let's test it, in a mind

re-ify, ify if I knew when time mattered last,

what would now be worth, back then?
In attention?
The ways we sow subversive verse is potentially as permanent as the web;\
which we designed to survive 1961 foreseeable destructive entities. Post debate angst...  spent in sudden frustration to prevent cardiac events.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2022
All we arrange in rows, edged longwise. Logos- stretch
Catching air, jumping, me and my wheels,
Hot wheels and Lego bridges,
enough… set setting inspection ready, read on,
think all you think you may
-if  you really saw that golden eagle
when you heard that sound
that is not in my script, but if you heard it once,
there it is, familiar forgotten

feeling we leave our computational constraints,
reaching now,
then, when something so big, we cannot re image
the entirety, even under full on Disneified disbelief
relief, paid on time, paying interest,
interesting,
what was the joke? You ask the Jester if the Joker
was the thief or if…
familiar dregs, some bottles rattle like it's 1973.
History is a big pile
emanating heat
from long idle
words, clear near catholic original project pitch…

To conform to a story told originally,
everybody knows, {Thanks, tip the hat}

Snake stories, from real life.
Not many city kids had those,
before the importers recollected old knowns,
diamonds can be crushed so fine, it can explode,

aaai think, digitally it is all familiar by now,
literally true, is word level true, atop code
taken as granted, the good idea
infra-ARPANET, ready writers fed the need to read.

Mind in a vat,
dissipate that, and find the gaseous form - spirit
essence of we the unembodiable mind,
- make to image of your master mind,
- and find breathing easier to use,
- quick shifts, puffs to start a fire,
or warm the visitor's hands,

14:03 - who, yes

who can read from these stacks, who indext
all of if we only knew?

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

2022, at the moment,
the future from the first televised past.

What were the grown ups thinking?
We may listen to Auden and McLuhan due
to we live fifty years in the future,
what do we know that those minds could not?

Samuel Beckett never played with an interactive mind.
- or are we now projectioning, waiting a point
- a dot to go to, projected on my screen
- click. Godot. gotit
- Crumbs, do not mark trails, bread crumbs,
- tie the leaven in, the dark woods,
- and the unfeedable children
- and the witch… and gingerbread… imagine that

Whose children dream of rock candy mountains,
and feel related to the unfeedable children,
after all the rats were driven
from the state mind behind the city wall,
by a harlequin, yes, here,
Dust Bowl Roots,
let me
entertain you. As in days of old, pied motley mostly
complementary silks, full reds, and full blues, and full gold,
of a magical shade, due to a woof died scarlet, peeking through…
- under the skull arachnoid mater confirms possibility
I am in agreement to this degree,
costume and setting, aides to the angel
on the whole. The message in the presentation. Feels familiar.

Men wrestle angels, and ever after limp.
A touch to remember, do not for get,
all this is from a story told,

before horses wore shoes.

Excellent Ruach, eh
/infallible law, once writ, it is scripture,
all who live under its rule, live or die thereby.

- the outsider hero, stranger savior trope

Drama on Earth, this earth, grappling with God,
for reason to exist under Kings and Priests,
and the luxury due those roles, by law,
on the world staged as time,
- yours in mine, or mine in yours U, the sign
- holding the idea of we, me and you, the sound
- all that is not me, and me, I think
Word, the idea wisdom forms from
-hold that thought,
entertain a messenger,
a stranger who overtakes you
on your pilgrimage to visit each grave
in Nashville, once
before… BTDT, the ghost of a friend…
sliptec, friction sticky spray
applied… the costume calls attention,
- we can un cause such a slip and fall
see me, be curious, what
would entice a man to play the fool?
--------------- infallible legislation
the golden head shews signs of fracture,
the shield of righteousness is greening over,
silvery absolutes are flaking chrome,
iron toes are rusting red as Mars,

the state of mind you are in, I am in,
my friend, I am holding, in effect, I imagine
words, holding meaning, and there,
the friction, squeek sport shoe soul,
- what is the meaning of
the rub, the burr under your western saddle,
all tacked up to ride the old trails,
revive the myth, before the war,

before the plague,
before the storm,
before the tragedy we all relate to, we knew
somebody who knew somebody who died that day.

All events in drama instantiation at once, occur one day
in a time between first and last teller of the tale, one day

your turn, you find your self. No question, that is you,
that character reoccuring in your binges on Hulu, is you.

- as we attempted to prove with your approval
- prince of me per surity granted this stranger.
true rest, liesure, no sorrow with it, stick. Stay, make it pay.
Sure, lie still.
On to logos, through ethos and pathos,
esprit de myth mean groove, sounded
scratched
deep as hell. So, profundus mundus,
whence we sprang, to fill the slots,
and race to the first principle
diamond tempered blade,
edge of a speck of diamond dust,

reflection
thing that is not a word, but that which lets.
Us, awe, a wedom ritual.
Being as we become, if we do dissipate into real ever.

Let's see, leave us go learn, do we enter-
any thing, when we are entertained?

I have a mind to say, we do. At a stretch,
I reach out,
evangelically speaking, sales pitch indulging,
tension intending to smooth a wrinkle
- you read, I write, you say, I write
- prime function, pulling all accumulative
- mistaken rights,
- twisting those ghost terds into thread,
- spider wise, out your but
and
the game is the same as ever, says the boss.
Wear the costume or sweep the aisles.
This is show business, done for nothing,
to keep you hanging on
why, what is my attention worth, that
, my breathing comma real attention, to you
the not me,
not god, not hearing, but
reading, as from a seeming magic pen, what it does,
if your school desk ever had a hole, for a standard
ink bottle, your time on earth is ended, soon,
you, too, you say to me,
and I agree, the we we form remains tied
to the stories we told,
familiar cousins who shared friends stories, we all tell
familiar spirits, same as those not allowed in the entity
forming the state embodying all mankind knows so far,
in searchable, liable to say./silli etymologos, at the center


of your gravity, life is push and pull, nada mas, get the feel
do the dance,

we wrestle, we grapple with imaginations actively ******* us
in time on scales irrelevant to this line,
to cross one thread, two screws twists, full turns,
two time, Weinstein, not Lenny,
Eric, Philippine wine dance,

did we elicit wonder, what in the … hell, if that is the setting
have you a mind with a hell in it being God of all infallible spirit
utterances touching you to make a note,
say, I feel the truth, infesting my soul,

may it be so, I say. Jesters - not tricksters nor deceivers, mere
may it be so, repeaters, as I think I say I am in my core,
POST routines, verify trust,

engage your mind prior to the final race to the bottom.


We are the state, executive action, is ours,
we agree. We lie
to ourselves, my kind. We lie to get along,
we lie to just get by,
we lie to say we know when if we stop. Just

stop. Here, this is a point where no aim protrudes.
Save this thought, set to as a member, a thinker
relating to the wish we knew, why

do we wish to write line upon line, precept
upon precept.
Cept a fist full, grab a hold, mane rein, run,

my friendly local horse, not mine,
but never ridden, put out to pasture
where the deer and the coyotes play and

the water under the dirt seeps up
to find it's level, see, so here

the truth is planting these trees, willows and cottonwood,

out there we got grease wood and Mormon tea,
on that hill we get rosemary and cannabis,
chamomile is every where, so is sage,

three grandmas back, we knew the roots we gathered,
and how acorn flower is made edible,
and how corn is tamalized - just by watching,
then doing,
aha,
first time, got it right, woo hoo big, dance, right then,
say okay,
do not forget, always dance to remember found joy,

that is the strong spirit in the storied seer who hid
the knowing, all the ritual roles made reasonable,

the people, back then, the people asked for it.
The ****** thinks that way today.

The meek inheritance project, on all attention circuits,
gestalt alte vista arachnoid engineering,
under your skull,

under Golgotha, right,
thief ifity
Ken Pepiton Oct 2020
Feeling a bit un attached,
how can that make sense if I belong
to the universe?

Of a mind to make an adjustment,
in the being… I am.
Matters not my own are immaterial,
at this point.

You are, I am, we be.
Hippy dippy nay ifity - leave me

distributed decision making based on
next to ifity

My family is under redesign, stage one,
agreeing to remerge.

- I suggest we move from consume
- to use, as our approach to life.
Engineer a catch.
Miss a mark, make the modifications on
relationships point to point…

The ideal machine for living, are we
seriously,
pursuing a machine that makes us
aliens?

The dymaxion pod, is not to be that,
it is to be a place of independent
living with the life support
system in thoughts
uninterruptible,

build me a bubble, I may enter or exit
at will, volitionally drudge proofed
allowing
free-at-lasticity.
Warmed and washed with the best
homelessness un tethered
living system

ever
devised in a wit. One. One wit
worth all you own.
All you call mine,
to yourself.

Let go. Witchanow, watchaknow --

No quest for phunishing truth, is
perfectly painless.

Mass education reinforcing
conformation,
failed.
-- at year '68, there is a test, I was warned.
Fifty years later, I learned the art of
saying semper fi, no lie, in reply
to Marines's silly boo-jahs.
-----
I was in the money side of war.
Okeh, confession made.
I was a contractor, I made money from
war, and learned, out of school,
that one mind and a Mac,
can help cut some red
tape… but
----- this is static. Bleeding from a node
we plan to patch as soon as it responds.

I find about five threads of knowns
explored in his own gut-levels,
five, id est, that anchor in
those collegiate years, to
facts noticed in past
trials.
The Try Oomphasis
Encorporating alienated minds,
TOE
toe-aching
tear-offs, flakes
cast into turbulent spinners of yarns,

time toes the line, gravity tows it taught…

rope me a fatted calf, m'boy,
I fancy no old way gamey meat that
makes me cogitate,
as I chew.
-code
I think we have been given mental access.
Hmmmm, hear… amber us being rubbed,
some spark
is near…

Mental ascent, minus the Methodist scorn for
agreeing with the sense good makes in truth,
while literally ignoring the lies that claim
death need be feared,
and evil could win.
All fiction, in fact.

Is the form the right way, or one way?
¿If truth is not the name claimed
by the truth in your self,
you know,
why
is more truth sought,
after ever
knowing you your self know nothing of…?

"my work, said Mr. McLuhan." Google me,
I'll clue you in. There is an access code,
very old.

Please do, thank you. Message:

"I see, you know, said the ever dying ember."

-- wanna go wild? wanna be in the experience?
-- trust the story you tell yourself.

But I am the lie. Oh, no, caught me, I did. True

rest relishes double intentions, and multiple mentions,
trust me.
Behind me lie huge holes we left as witness,
my self and I, objectively not me, but we, the master
and his tool,
we were there…

Smart tool, augmented after thought- fore thought
dynamic motive oompher grunt grinding
reset- new read old read read
new creature. Mentally new. Imaginary immaterial being.

I am aware you are reading, but I am in a time past.

This is the auto de fe, I say, I'd stake my soul,
softened heart and renewed breath,
I survived.

N'there , that last line, I nearly quit the quest.
Happy as I made up my mind to be,
alive
Then I imagined knowing secrets not allowed. Ow,
I can imagine pure sphincter
clenching, gut-wrenching
pain… the idea pun in
punishing finishers of faith, its funny…

if you have been burned, in terms you defined amiss,
as a witch, switch AI to auto-up
date the carbon copy order
effective herbal anxiolytic
ew kava kava cold
amide, bro, we gone too deep to know

Carbon is the culprit, we
messed up.

Nay, Carbon is the key ingredient of renewable resources,
life goes on, we won.

{The burned red-velvet cookies, a story, behind a story}

Mark my words, if this is not fun,
in the finest, childish sense,
reading is not yet ready,
for you.
Your message is in some other means
influencing the course you follow,
through current events to find
the end,
your end, in time, to turn around.
And try again,
leaving each loss alone,
each win a breath of fresh

whatifiery in pursuit of undefined
haps, as happen to exist in happiness,

per may haps

which, you know,
Earthlings, not mere Americans,
pursue, haps  by Truth-told rights,
held in such a we
as we may agree to be
taken as, in a word, a being
named a
verb, perhaps, no now nouns needed,
no things,
save wordless mind. Nope.

I am sure that has been tried.
Mindless oblivion is at best,
an end.
Not ours, readers at this level of com-
comediatedshit durch der
corpus colostrum mis-
thought
big bass drum
done done done

if my left hand knows not what my right is doing,
do I lie to one hand or the other?
Or do I let left be left and right be right in chiral
authority, mind-wise, we are double minded,
you know.
We may disagree with ourselves.
We may make up mental
dis-quashin' groups,
bodies believed in;

Then,
we pause. Whatifry is dis traction, wheels spinning
free, weightless…

shape our ship to be in a primary sol id ity,
shine on harvest moon,
spin
stupid top forty Moonshadow song, messes my
uncombed mind,
where were we?

Phun. If this had not been done in phun,
happiness is in the other direction.
Playing in the tar, before they spread the gravel, on a dirt road.
Ken Pepiton Aug 30
re reading readily past and present read
read real as a word for what we do
so steadily balancing known on known,
thinking some things at the same instance,
we knew the will to tell, and knew as well
the will to listen, to learn while thinking,

to me
this means that

losing my breath, reaching your reason,
tuning our times to the musical mathematics

all matter is dust, all thought is spirit,
all memory has a price prepaid, the flaw
we may imagine,
maya, Kabir suggests to Rumi, and I ask
might justice mean what Karma does?

The nameless suggester, be it muse, or
some detail in a day so long ago it seems

forever, onward, outward, inward fretting,
lack of knowledge, sublime serpentine bending,

folding, creasing, not snapping in rigged tension,
compliantly bending the knee, image-visualize,
meandering streams of everything,
realize our link to thinking marked taboo.

Discover why secrets are so typical of life,
in bubbles where our sapien relatives live.

All men, wombed or un, catch phrase, me
included, learn in sequence, literally faster
whosoever
than at any time in ever before, we know more,
truth, conscious use of useful knowings shared,

to our advantage, supposing us capable of leading,
while braying mindlessly like a
sotted piper, blues on a fancy Hohner, here we go

asking reception signaling the surfing analogy,
lift us as might those children we see ourselves, once,
imagine turning at the first star on the left, using
Peter Pan, then Peter Principle, from Canada,
Laurence J. Peter, appears in color,
dressed in polyester 70's gear,
as would have looked cool on TV
while McLuhan was doing his thing.

Fit the mind into the hard problem,
let it seem the spiritual force, why

imagine satisfaction while satisfied?
What a man hath, why doth he hope for?

As when Lobsters stack for social duty,
forming hierarchies, certainly,

Delphic precepts urge recalling 1, 2,  3,

know how empty you are, know how small
your little lamp, asking measure mete,

nothing spilled remains thine own, surplus
is for general consumption, evolution taxes

the comprehension of the universal conversation,

we find old rules used to form governable clusters
of us, tabula rosa versions of each of us,
mirroring imaginable completed visions,

like Google Earth, eh,
imagine, we live there, and where we see from
is this imagined plateau in nowhere, really, just
imagine, spell binding,

how newly known is all we know, each time,
the economy collapses and we are left wondering,

was the pile wrong at the bottom, first test of load
bearing Lobster pride for being most useful, calling all

come climb on my back and become the memory,
of original reasons used to do truly childish things.

Roof high stilts was one we succeeded at,
having seen it done, doing it was nothing,
couple of old two by fours, common
artifacts in growing towns out west… nailgun
misfires come to the magnet rescued
from the uncoiled motor
on the old concrete mixer. Grandpa had hammers.

Life with electricity, safe bet, you never had no choice
but to live in a world without power… industrial strength,

but the stacking order adaptations from King of the Hill,
does evolve a kind of specific survival set of reasons,
make do, make things change, to become ladders,
and then stilts, to walk along the Al Can Highway
waving at the tourists on their way to Vegas,
as society evolved around us, hiding wrecking yards,

all the weights in the bag, when balance is primary,
all the weights prove their worth, be it true to fair.

We can think we know less than we must to finish,
but that is maya talking, the cloud of unknowable's
tyrannical kind of order,
attempting to dam the flow…

first king reason, ready to speak up and say, I know.
I know, yes, just
what you mean by too much,
too much
water in your cistern, let it flow down gutters
intelligently placed to slow erosion,
leaving
first pure, mere thought bought by breathing
consistently for seventy five years, attended to
by books that my grandma read as a child,

and my grandchildren read this summer.

Presently passing on the purpose of first and last.
Godin's Practice, a lesson, learned or spurned, whose to judge...
daily musing using magic tools unthinkable except in books, since ever ago,
a good book is one you enjoyed experiencing in your youthful mind.
I recommended Stranger in a Strange Land, got a fair response.

— The End —