Drunk, we staggered home.
Aware of having been
That woman, she could answer
any question rebbi axt,
she laugh and say, Dude, I got the Intent-net,
in my hand
That's more than a list of numbers, this
accounting idle words going on, on going, as fast as
lightning, at the scale, of, say
cat-ions ifiying an-ions
seen systematical, from a distance
at the scale, of, say
Great Deep Field.
Center you, I'm no matter.
Use that steam program
you gotta see that to imagine this, right,
and next is what you keep saying is unbelievable,
but its not.
Good things come to them
good makes more sense.
Earth from the moon POV
Confusion flux, spurtual, caused by the solar flare of all solar flares,
Whooshing the Ice left from Patton's flood
into steam, the stuff, not the app,
which swooshhhesssssssssss smack
into the freezing repurcussions
from the daark side…
The Noah event, that was bad,
This one, the last one, this just previous one,
was spiritual. Magnitudes incomparable
(save in parable and example, exemplar gratis,
says the bodiless being, with a roll of my wrist and a bow)
At that very time on the side away from the flare,
the daark side of the planet, this one…
a Donald Patton nitrogen snow ball
that nearly breached Roche's limit,
too not nearly enough,
The atmosphere freezes
to the quark level, snap,
booms a nitrogen bubble now
any heat locked in flare fired steam,
what was once the water
that washed away the gods and locked their cities
of ivory under the ice
on the sunny side,
where now, then,
a solar flare like legends build empires upon
has passed, fires rage
there were survivors who lived to tell
and old stories never die. Old story tellers do,
Only miners survived, gold digger mostly,
few alchemists who knew the mystery in mercury,
Lost was all knowing but to a very few,
who truth be told had been the owners
well kept servants, ministers of this and that
they perished with all the fires touched
we diggers, we only marvel
How bits of time, exact as ours, can be seen happening
all in bubble of Mercury. Cooked out red rock like these.
"Blood o' the gods of old, swat I'astold."
Messages from the gods, grandma, said, "Mercury calls for gold, gold listens, when fire's hottern fire can be,
the breath of men blow on the coals", we all said that last part and blew out the light. G'night
but a story told a wee bit here a qubit there
here a little, there a little
line upon line,
precept upon precept,
'cept no body knows what I know about cept,
capere, a story starts, a provisioning tale. Wait.
it means grip. like a tool. rock breaks nut.
Paper covers rock, but scissors are so far in the future
that now, my time, my mind wanders after whys
this authoritative telling of the story, in it,
none know the terminal tale.
As in times past, there were survivors who lived to tell
and old stories never die. Old story tellers do,
Tho' here's a clue.
Meek's not bad,
******, for no reason, is.
Living long for the sake of a song heard once,
in dream luring me on, promising right now, I'll
know what it's like to see, oh
POV I made this clear some time ago,
time is less predictable than any imagined, before 2018
when, you know…
Even those tales old drunk Hesiod sold
in the Hittite tavern at Delphi,
Chronos thought wrong in those,
he ruled but for the merest gleam o'
Time, then a bubble gen erated by the thought of
opposition to transition,
nothing to something,
pushing /pushing back
that takes power, pulsing power, throbbing power
you know, imagine, glowing - cheat 2018 CG
each time the bubble pushes back
imagine a clock, later, if you believe then, you must.
Now, see the bubble of all men have imagined,
since the time when such a bubble was only evil,
It went viral.
Noah we know for sure, almost, survived, ? Cushites kept records. In Africa.
Akkad kept record, too.
Some Hopi survived somehow and they have a tale.
They say they know the story is ten thousand years old,
I've been to a crossroads
on their journey,
tell of it, still, today.
Holy means marked for good reason.
Marked with clues, not riddles, maps
Sacred means secret means hidden away for use,
not common, every day, quotidian use, right use.
Time, the opposing force, is precious to us all.
In time, we do all we can and die,
in ever, we expand, in no time at all. I imagine.
You fill it. Now, Your expandable mind's time,
time pushes from the outside,
wisdom pushes from the inside,
And so it goes, life goes on and music grows on ya,
Amusing how they do that, teeny muses dancing
shiva on the tip of my tongue,
singings songs in tongues I've never known
are words on tongues
or sounds on tongues,
Baysian Binary Cross Validation
still ends with some people thinkin'
"it is finished" left them with a ton o'weight,
that's wrong, insist resistance.
Some, heavy duty, leaders of lambs, they claim
power in their mouths, spoken from fixed hearts,
but fixed upon, is truly the song,
said, words are only
little bits of whole sym ulacrum of re-ify-ing
where broken things re-pair, and life goes on…
"fixed, my heart is fixed",
no, your heart is machine of the most magnificent design, perfected,
a time at a time.
Flexing, pacing time itself, faster slower,
try some time
be still, pond still
I know the story broke,
I could not hold it.
In the night, bitter cold
There are pieces scattered every
there is time, there is at least, a point
a story may stand upon and ask an angel
Dance, give it some flare, what do we care?
Nobody's watching, but that fly.
This is read, by me at http://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton
Life is good at my house, thankyou. A reader is needed more than words can tell. My posts are a book now, few stand solidly on their own. Thank you if you spend your time perusing them please tell me where I muddy the flow, or break the story.