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Ken Pepiton Mar 2019
Benine benine be nine seven

crap. Betcha two more more mores for
one more chance at that

Aha! We imagined…

… mean pause if then else ifthen else to the tenth,
take it
don't missit, these thinks happen

rare, raw and dripping re

ish itch tar Ishtar and two snakes

while, recall, Moses, lawgiver and guide,
trumping Lycurgis's lawgiver only,

Moses had one for every eye to see or die
and one for every other heel to stomp.

Old Arizona Cowboy Preacher Proverb
Some times… ya'hafta…stomp yer own (goes unsaid)
[dam'd] snakes.
[ever bodies gottem by the plenty]

One of the Robin Clan of whitemanlan
Theodds, down the Hasayampa
Odd fellows, I remember there was a lodge…

… also means, when no point persists in being made despite the el-elucidation,
light's prime directive clarifying

the principal paring of time to the tenth and
you dear reader, if temporary times are

familiar, to you. Like, family,
a truncated simile metaphor word compact,

like jot family, familiar, family spirit,

house gods and goblins and lit-t'le ***-p'le in blue triangular hats,

… selah … be still … listen … listen

no threats of madness, nor vengeance or conviction
no act-use-ations fraying threads

neither curse nor cuse nor demn 'r'here,
life-central,
pretend you can practice real is ation

as you read. Dear reader, you are magi,
you know words hold powers, yours
for the reaaching beyond,

trust me, errors are far fewer than you have been led to believe.
Entire cultures set spelled-out prophecies swirling
into imagined infinity
withnaryaperiodjotortittle with no discernible weakening

of the original thread of thought that has us taking
these chances with madness

Philosopher Poet Sophist Cabalist Prospering-liarist

Hawthorne's Man in Black works for Sam Harris's God's
Master Baiter

--- not off track, side-tracked, to let two-way traffic happen---
---flowing systems, despite inevitable turmoil swirling
---this way and that--- cloud shape oaks framed in
twisting, tugging, pulling-pushing, lifting-dropping,

rocking-rolling, the old man is snoring
clapping and clanging waking the dead

oh, wait. not yet. wink. Swallow the bait.

see these threads, these delicate xylem tunnels,
cellulose cathedrals, when you see re-al close,
and, watch this, oak-speed,
California Black Oak speed and deegree of strain
zingle point
a branch maywillshallcanbe tugging a reaching out
rootical radial fractaling famous form

seen in silhouette
California Black Oaks are the Cumulus Nimbi of trees,
in my tiny bubble
five hundred drys gone by pushing cool away so
there ain't
no mo' mo'nin' dew

Woe, blues is fo' some oth ah time. You see.
We make peace here.

This is is our family farm or fact-or-knoting
Knott's Berry Farm being the birthplace of Boysenberries
has always seemed prophetic to me,

here's why, no wu wu, jus'thefax. done d'done done, now

Henry Boysen.
A chapter. AND nada. Same with Paul Lomasny, as
portrayed by Sal Mineo, in The Longest Day.

Despite the scars he had to show, I haven't found his
cred fact checkible, these days

that means
conspiracy, though spiracy sans con is also rumored

probable, should there be another

anti matter bubble develop in the biome blowing bubbles
from gmos bonding

with swallowed double bubble
and in'n'out doubledoubles

in the guts of children returning from a day with
a de-programmed boomer

relativity plays a roll. Snake eyes. Wanna bet?
2019.1-9
This coincides with a rock concert with snakes in Dallas... collective sub sistent concience science, I believe.
Robert Watson Feb 2020
As dawn breaks upon the silent sylvan, the sun pierces the clouds with a mighty phalanx of shimmering sarissas.
The ravens cackle their clamorous, cacophonous call.
The sun’s skirmish over the solemn sea of nebulous nimbi forces the gray void to a rout.
The radiant beams of the victorious sun permeate life into the sylvan.
The trees and flowers sway with delight feeling the sultry presence of their victorious King. That all-seeing eye of heaven, the sun, burns at a distance despite his ruddy touch. Then comes dusk, the inexorable coming of darkness, drinking away the vibrant vat of the heavens. The ebon ink restores the suppressive tranquility that intoxicates the sylvan.
I wrote this out in the woods near my cabin. Enjoy!
Anton Angelino Jun 2019
even when you pilot
you disregard the storm clouds ahead,
like if my navigation was enough
for our circumnavigation to work out properly,

and even when you pilot
we keep all of our maps fold,
like our compasses out of sight,
is it because no manmade object has an ability
to mess with that powerful force called ‘love’?
and isn’t it strange we don’t care
everyone’s saying we don’t deserve what we’re getting,
even though we both know they are absolutely right?
we live our lives like dreams,
adventure video games,
we’re born dreamers wearing fancy sunglasses
which allow us to perceive the world in a different filter
than anyone else,
we spend our days cruising aimlessly,
leaving clutter behind and writing stories,
living metaphorically in a world of ataraxia,

even when you pilot,
we disregard the vicious reality,
how?
we invented our own and painted it yellow and blue,
we ditched the universal way of thinking
and now we fly like sparrows made of steel,
we merrily punch nimbi,
catch cyclones into jars,
live metaphorical lives,
watching the obstacles that made the others surrender
abate on the ground,

we live our lives like dreams,
born dreamers,
born artists,
in a world of absolute distortion and dual existence,
in which toxic water and crystal clear water meet
but never blend into each other,
and only we know about this,
because only we have access to our minds and our rose gardens,
we travel above lavender fields,
oceans both raging and calm,
we do nothing in particular,
just writing an epic story,
it’s an ooze - a beautiful ooze,

though it was never our job to care about tomorrow or the past,
and now it’s finally the clearest it can get,
so set another sail,
let’s circumnavigate,
though it’s a brand new day.
Anton Angelino Apr 2020
we
Aries moon children
moonbathe partly civilian
seeking home off urbanized empires
in handmade utopian isles
sunlit all night ironically to others
digging quarries by borders
to find our reasons
why we are ourselves.

because we
Children of winter
We resist coldness wilting happily
not enough time in a year to grow on gardening soil unluckily
Purposefully living
Purposeless at doom
meaningless tale told by her Moon
we dance in flames
of cool.

White yacht parties techno music Bacardi
pillow cries?

Never in my life Never in our lives
Never moonlit all the time never sad exceptionally burnt out white hot we stay
Crumbled empire
Crumpled pages on fire
beautiful at last wild freely flying
to admirers

Being a poet residing on past dry and needy now I’m alive
Now the night is bright
they and their friends would be a group of nimbi high
Looking for their maker
always busy always out of earshot living multiple lives cause they
befriended town bartenders

Valentine
faking opulence still ahead of our time
elusive for our children’s lifetime by far
Vault which is a quarry
Open sky
still we’ve never learned to fly
we just stay collected and firm
Forever seeking gold of the prism
In the glistening eyes of people
We are who we are in the end
deeply designed precisely made
Aries
Marina bay
Taking inspiration from sweetish breeze air
crying happily on parchment all day
We could fly high as sky
but we’ll just stay right there.
Poem #15 off “John Wayne”.

— The End —