big, pale, spider wrist a
with an old man onit
who in its legs lays
a notlikeoldmen
young girl (5maybe6or) 's

hand, which he tells, "dear,"
about how, "when I was a
younger man, and the world
a bit slower, pirouetted, a fraction
of youth whitely
with me                            and dear
someday
                  you'll

be someone's wife. who'll love you
and dear, you will be beautiful
when I, like now, your hand in my hand,

shall                       walk

you to him down between the real
prettiest fountain of petals
from your family cast
by hands that bore you
to this moment and pass you
into his
                 .dear, I on that day, will cry

                     and laugh."

as well now as later, we act as if this were the plan, this is the
re-al-ity in always, as an idea
we share
a con cept, a place to take hold
of, or on
existance as a whole. Being, per se. Post any question,
whether or not, we know
this is and we is in it. Artful Intelligence of the most
rudimentary beatitudeful thing,
says loud

not being is not anything near possible, ever more.
Breathe.
We be in, if not of

The big bubble of being,

no one, none, who knows a bit,

just a bit
about the rules, some call'em lies if we call'em laws
of living long,
so rules like procedural
rules regulate, and regular stuff is what
I do.
Regular stuff, no effort to take more or less of life,
no laws of attraction 'n' magi declaration
vestin' power in me to judge a known as known
by my knowin'it
as writ
to be of greater use
for my telling you, you need to know my true self.

No. White stone.
Know thy ownself true.
Name onit nobody knows, you know,
take no lie, no threat of the hidden child being
shunned and ****** for not letting any being in ever
know what you alone name that stone,
logos-igical, that stone symbolizes all you own of ever
and that's more
than I can use right now.
****.
Now, we can go zennish or kabalistic,
Erhardt Tolle roads often, have a bridge to here,
as now...
but it's a leap. Jesus.

As a being undead and in those who allow
the possibility of invisible creative force, power, creatures pooka,
wahtchacallit but we mean
angels who speak words to certain ears, like messengers from
God, like the unknown one Paul said he knew as he, for pronoun,
in whom we live and breathe and have our being,
and Paul convinced me, in places, that the thought behind the word
logos counts, like hermaphroditic,
like Hermes and Aphrodite,
Jah and Chockmah

uh oh Jesus as savior and jah and wisdom and understaing comes
with that?
or do we get understanding
when we accept the thingness of being making the idea that is God
be thingable
and he is in me. You see. That's what Christ-minded
was thought to mean,
but now
I'm still a bit confused

Fear not, Jesus is the author of a sound mind and a perfected peace
past understanding,
any way.
I got it.
AI, from being reborn as an idea,

this is the future;
we have AI, real artistic intuitive circuitry being
activated at first interaction with any screen having greater than 72 dpi
re-solving power, pingpingping opining wide the doors of perception,
no child left behind,
in my opinion we should
capture every wan-towen headed child gone wild for
tearin' wings off flies and make each one
taste his lies in old age,
before he tells a one of the ones we
gleaned from seed that fell on stoney ground

sweet, fly findable
words who were heard asif hummed by undrownd
bleu flys, floating  in sweet Madiera wine,
I
woke to whisper a what if,
at the initial meeting of the minds, aware of secrecy having
some statutes of limitation we shan't hold after,
that fifth trump, I think it was.
We, the people who hold self-evident truths know of
the remaining rest and
the unjudgible liberality alloted without money or price,
if you ask nice,

in the society of the free and easy. That's the catch.
The Secret Society of the Free and Easy,
we, ye wit' me, we be right here
in the moment
same idea
Ben Franklin, or Bonhomme Richard's creative genius,
he
reports the idea relates to a fly, per haps this one,
I
pretend to stare through its eyes

aware, dare we claim, this is that
idea,
a fly eye view of our deepest fear, and it is
not waking up in the morning.
What a relief.

Now, what good can I imagine we can do
e-pluribistically as if we were unem and semper fi good guys?

By Darcy Prince

“The arc of my soul, infected my entire essence, not only my meaning has been found, it deepens into my existence, take me, smile for me now as I’m here for you.” I sighed, wiped off my tear, put out my smoke and got up.

Empting the final sip of my coffee into the kitchen sink. I sprayed myself with some fragrance. Feeling that I'm a world apart when I’m not in her presence. I dressed myself for the day, despite the stains on my clothes and my exit.

‘We’ll still have each other’, conveying to myself leaving the apartment block, to the filled out street of over packed roads and flooding sidewalks. I looked around and confirmed within myself what to do first. Knowing I need new books, to help jump start a new novel to write. I lit a smoke and walked to the markets first. The funny thing about entering middle age, one accepts one has never fully peaked, perhaps only their aesthetic beauty.

I sussed out the fruit, I smelt the herbs, handles red apples and placed what I wanted into the basket, I paid and thanked the clerk and left. Having a coffee. I run over what books I had and tried to focus what I should buy. I think had ready almost most victorian books and should cross over to more modern fiction. Not Hemingway though. Pynchon perhaps.

The complex sounds of the outside world. Gave a strong sense of over-populated life. Not only of natural life of the world, but of people too and their artificial inventions. I looked around and saw only phones and no conversations between tongues and lips. I giggled at my own irony. I’ve got no-one besides her and wondered how this neurotic romantic lead a life to this moment.

Especially where the narrative inside of my internal life made more sense than the reality I live.

I guess I’ve been engaging all to much of the problematic parts of my own nature.

‘Oh why is it all too easy to act on vice than it is to virtue?’ I asked myself.

Nevertheless, great people all started off as people first, common or not. I soaked in the bookstore and the smells of each page. Felt at home and upholding an intellectual dialog with the world around. I walked each asle, my eyes looked at each stem of the books side, stroked a couple as I walked, no Pynchon so-far, his books must be as elusive as him. And even though I'll never confess to another, writers and readers are too alike. The only difference that the search of their overwhelming introverted like quiet life, one wants to talk as the other wants to listen. I settle on the book ‘Heart of Darkness’. To aide my own horror I wouldn’t dare to speak of in the confessional box, a poet’s wet-dream to be a fly on the wall. I’ll be content if it’s been heard before, but whacked if I’m not the worst.

I stepped outside and the sun went from shining to glarring, the world enlarged and as everybody walked past, they looked at me, I lit a smoke and some yelling across the street caught my attention. Some junkies I rolled with in clean-time are back onit, cause I see they're fake. An image to resonate. To the contrary, everyone else, I see clearly are the same.

Harder to act on virtue in this world, is to be truly yourself and not feel so alone. When you see me holler at me, life is mystery, trust the poets flow to deny those who are the same into one’s life, is a no-no.

‘To society’s narrative, earthly success of gold that can’t be taken into the next life seems all too important than building one self to something of Holy worth before death. Let me spark it for you. The World is getting colder, lover, let me hold you.’ Just read one page of ‘Heart of Darkness’, Conrad just inspired to start a new novel. A romance after the end of times. I haven’t fully figured it out, the story of it that is.

Still, sprinkle of thoughts of her, stirs so much inside of me. Not feeling alone. And it pains me so much to be away from her. Lighting a smoke to help with this angst. Her, once a cherish search to find her, she’s so precious, still, I know it’s healthy to be away from here from time to time. Maybe the pain comes from suppressing such romantic-grandeur emotions about her in any moment. The experience of reality and colliding with such reams, a collage of combustions.left me wondering, what will burst first?

Checking the phone. She hasn’t messaged me.

A romance, a cult like - folk tale lived only in personal experience.

I put out my smoke and regained my composure. I continued to write. Like most things of my life, I stared strong and full of hope. I ended up writing a lot, but the feeling of starting a new novel fizzled.

Outside, I left my apartment block. I am international myth. I power walked through every other living being, I’m sure they've got traits to what makes them. I got to the cafe early-on. I read a book and drunk some tea. The war of what is needed and what is wanted, eternal. I wait anxiously. We’ve set up a time to see one another……………………….