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Ken Pepiton May 2020
Nothing about a bird's life
seems difficult,

after escaping the egg. All birds ever called to fly,
first survive the egg.

After surviving the egg,
each bird seems

eminently able -- wait,

learning to fly,
that seems difficult

no, that, too, is automatic, an algorithm in some avian system
of cellular facility formation
while
maturation of flight feathers takes time,
not know how.

Wait, and see if

reasoning in birdbrains may be mono pole,
one aim, one direction

like by monopole
electrons driven, an action reaction loop, find good...

good? no, good? no, good, yes,eat this and
grow a few feathers,
without thinking, what are feathers for,
where no feathers were.

Birdbrains do not reason why. The baby watches
momma fly.

Unless, men have changed the program, tamed our wild ways,
fed us corn in quantities we never could imagine,

ours is but to be useful, my Raven mentor caws,
laughing like he knows I have no clue.

-- in the air a query, are chickens still birds?
If good is good enough, it is good enough to provoke a good work. Do birds think flying work?
Feeling somewhat rotten inside
But not really knowing where it went wrong
Looking into no place to hide
Doing what it takes to go along
Wear whatever face that suits you
The tone of things just elicits nonsense
Lying awake dreaming of few
memories when the stars did align

Be whatever has to be you
It is fine to be seeming so bemused
When one's always starting anew
Some things have to bear being used
Stop keeping fingers in your backs
to point on what you don't believe belong
You've really just been losing tracks
And it very well may just be lasting ever long

Why yes of course the devil knows !
No way he's sitting out that one
And no matter how the world flows
Try to utter the word that won, I guess ?
Anything that may help soothe the burns
Of being constantly irate
Helpless, unable of concern
Alone and inconsiderate

Someone has to be wrong
It's written in the rule of things
Cannot keep up, on time for long
Until the end it will pull on your strings
You stole your own soul
Please bring back one when you're finished
Orbiting near the monopole
Finding out that every thing vanished
"My worst enemy is myself. Nobody else would be up to the task !"
Naomi Feb 2020
Know not how to survive
in the desolation and suspicion
The magnetism of sky and ground
would leave the rain in suspension

Somewhere is an apocalyptic energy,
the gap, the hypothetical monopole
I wanted so badly to find you there
But one must focus on the road
The way
They all
Seem to hint
That grassy adage
Every blade, every blade...!

Every blade bristles and tickles
And cuts my skin
To pieces

Cause you might think
You want to leave
But appearances deceive
And would you believe
That I think I know why it is!?

Well, if suffering and joy go ***-for-tat
Like a monopole deciding where it's at
Then I might find some joy in suffering
But then I lost the point of suffering

And I might find the joy to disappoint
In moments when I see what's going on
Or at least I might get nauseous looking up
When caution doesn't matter anymore

So sometimes there is rich inside the poor
And sometimes there is sane inside insane
And I swear that I knew this all before
But my my my my my things forking changed.

But what bothers me the most of all is you
The empath who could never draw the line
And now writing this poem I see it's me
The kind of shirt that happens all the time

There is a certain, certain safety with you
That I just have a feeling I might lose
But there is certain liberation down the road
Oh, i always go, I always go

— The End —