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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.
the
bot
tle
can ac
tually dest
roy lives with
its                    in
sides and it's lov
ely taste of happ
iness wich we w
ill never find ou
tside this bottle
of alcohol and s
ome stupid lies
alcohol is trash
KCibot Jul 12
Unfinished Duet*
Bridge:

I am Home
** ome Sick
Without A
Bit

Of the things
That I Need
To Feel Your
Love

I am Love
Lo ove Sick
Without a
Lick

Of the things
That I Need
To Feel At
Home

We Are
Si ick
But We
Are Stong

And We
Can Wait
A little
longer

Wait A
Little
Longer

Wait A
Little
Longer
Just
Need
My
Partner
Now
Olivia L Oct 2015
Please, please stop yelling. My head is too filled up with noise and darkness for me to even hear you
Every ******* day, I have to wake up and smile, pull on my mask and sprinkle the light into my eyes, and you expect me to
Recognize your ideas that push me further into the closet, hiding behind the dresses and scarves and makeup and shirts and shoes and tights and jackets and hats and
Fucking costumes that I use to fit your vision. To pretend that things are in the past, and that
Everything that is wrong has been fixed. That my broken soul is sewn back together, and I no longer have a gaping whole inside of me.
Come on, do you really think that what I'm saying are my true words?
T**hat this façade that I glide through life in is me? Because this person, this PERFECT persona that I place on myself is my shield, and one day, it's going to break
Slam poetry idea. I'm getting a head start on things this year, still have about six or seven months till the competition, so lots of time to churn out pieces.
Mehkai Figueroa Jan 2018
I don't know how you feel but to me life is nothing but a series of events intertwined between you and others,

The vines of fate move in between society

You can seek sanctuary in others but is that what you really want?

Sanctuaries are but temporary shelters,

What you really need,

I could ask you all the questions in the world and maybe you could answer them...

Maybe you could respond,

Maybe you have that knowledge....

But with knowlegde comes fear,

Fear that you don't know what you are doing, saying, living....

Fear that nothing matters,  because nonexistence is significant and existence is futile,

But let me tell you this...

What you really fear isn't any of that...

As you became more knowledgeable, you become more fearful,

Fearful of what you don't know

Because with more knowledge comes less self-satisfaction

As you are left wanting more... but needing less...

Needing less than what is needed because you only exist in the crevices of your mind,

Psychological, Analogical,

Your mind is but a place where your soul resides because your soul isn't in your heart,

I don't know how you feel but If I went to you and asked....

"Would you give up everything... for the 1 thing that means the most to you?"

Give up your life, your family, happiness.... friends... all that you have aquired over the short or long life you have lived....

Many would say yes... For all the love, power or money in the world....

They would give up the most important things in their lives....

But fear not... if you say no.... you have decided right....

Because all possessions may make you feel content for a short while...

but losing what you had will make your heart ache and pain more that before....

So when the day comes that you can receive anything for something as important as everything you have obtained over the course of your live....

I hope you take my advice... or just throw it away.... maybe even forget it....

I don't care.... I just hope your decision makes you feel content in the end...

But honestly, no ome will ever feel content or satisfied,

I hope you don't spend your eternity contemplating the decisions made...

All I know is if this question was asked of me,

I'd respond with I don't know.

— The End —