your young smile, not metallic, caught me off-guard and quickly. it belied your voice, which was apt to project across the verdure, and was so much stronger than mine. we caught the end of summer and wisps of each other’s colds, but only from across the table. minty breath in words, never louder, the crook of my arm with a scent like I think yours has. we slid downhill, momentum loosely attached to our shoulders and flying out behind us. and like a careful demonstration of the unreliable nature of time and structure, we stopped hard at the bottom. and we waited. and then when the sun set, we disappeared. or rather, you did: you and your young smile. your voice gone from the verdure and no mint in the air, my throat clear and my hands empty; never loud and never closer—caught off-guard and quickly.

These daft hands fumble at your breathing. My gaze is heavy and it falls on you too frequently.

How often I trip up the stairs only to find myself plunging downward. Seize me sometime so I wont look the fool.

I know you for a canary and within these mines surely you do keep. For your sake I weep, since we simply seek salt. Yet, contained in this carapace is far more than mineral.

I think I could fold you into a walnut’s shell and still I’d love you so. This scent so sweet is small, similar to stature.

Roll out these roads into the sea. I find that often it is the cold we crave.

Orienting within the waves has always been my failing. Yet tossing is traveling to some extent.

Twice it has taken, but now a swimmer I may seem. I marvel at how content you are to dive into the reef.

Fascination is facade, procrastination plays behind these emerald curtains.

The next little boat comes around the bend as the previous one sets sail.  No sails of course on these amusement park river rafts, but standing on that disorienting moving platform I can’t help but wax poetic.  I say wax poetic and I think of tall, slim candles on furnished banquet tables in foreign countries with languages that yearn to invert our *****, anglophile syntax and say wax poetic to mean ‘poetic wax’.  Wax with a flair for verbose romance.  Tall, slim, fleshy, slowly expiring under a weightless impossible flame, and thinking all along of shattered daydreams, looking into each like shards of glass and seeing not this melting candle but a solid body doused and extinguished with love and certainty.  There it is, my croissance poétique, my poetic waxing, to grow and elaborate, as wax simply does not - under these circumstances, at least. To be sure, I am still standing before my boat as my body moves constantly on the platform with no help from me.  I am thankful such thoughts find themselves so instantaneously or I would have found myself knocked under or over something or other.  I board.  Buckle.  I’ve never heard of anyone in an amusement park on one’s own; it’s usually a pair hand-in-hand, gripping each other on plummeting coaster drops in some panic-stricken foreshadowing of the taught limbs and pounding hearts that will inhabit their sheets come nighttime.  Or else a grease-stained fat lipped boy, esurient for the delicate touch his haggard mother and wicked-stepfather dole out upon his blind and handicapped sister, bound to a chair, bound to her own head, bound forever to her worn-out, frayed gingham mother and her stupid, jealous brother.  Even as my calves squeak against the rubbery seat and my knees bump with some hairy father of some screaming three, I’ve still managed to romance my setting into something far out of the realm of reality.  I’m afraid, though, I may be losing touch with it altogether.

Am I really there?  Something about the sensation of spinning and twinge in my core that feels like sickness tells me that is probably the case, but even so, I’m relying purely on a hunch.  A literal gut feeling, soon to be joined by the cold barrage of cascading water and my shoes turning wet and making my feet feel somewhat like jelly.  Physical experiences that root me in this world, while my thoughts, it seems, have died and transcended some time ago.  One blink and my transformation is complete, soaked to my center and the ride is over.  I’m exiting my little boat, orienting myself onto the platform that has kept spinning this entire time, unrelenting to anyone who would wish can this all stand still for just a moment my shoe is untied! The father of the three follows behind, but I fail to find a story for him. The faces I pass as I exit are not delicate, they do not carry with them tragic imbalances of the past, or beam with the pride of a love that seems to last forever (because it has lasted so long already, right?), they are blank. They are blank and wet and dripping like mine and they drip like they’re melting, like they are slowly expiring under a weightless impossible flame, and it is now that it has come full circle. The world as it passes has caught up once again and will continue to spin past, allowing only a moment where we both whirl together, where we are in sync and both of us have wicked step-fathers and both of us have soggy shoes and then again she will be gone, to unite with some other fleshy entity and reduce me again to my *****, anglophile syntax and my shattered daydreams and my wax poetic.  But she will be back.  And until then, I’ll drip into the floorboards and perhaps when she returns I’ll have something to show her.

bits of stardust,
   that's all we really are.
oxygen,
   carbon,
hydrogen.

   at the surface of it all,
a velvety overcoat.
   bacteria inhabiting every inch of us.
600 particles of skin flake off each hour.
   you cant be all dead.

dig below the surface.
   45 miles worth of nerves.
hands,
   feet,
tongue,
   and lips.

ninety eight point six degrees Fahrenheit.
   on some level, we all inhabit the same skin.

what we do on autopilot.
   oblivious to the staggering task we leave
to two gelatinous orbs.
   spot and track what we desire.
hungry harvesters of light.

   hear and balance,
where we are in space.
   orienting brain in three dimensions.
up-down,
   left-right,
forward-backward.

   we wouldn't last
more than a few minutes
   without breathing.
ingenious multi-taskers.

   heart runs the show.
it's the boss,
   with the brain coming in at a close second.

and a highly coordinated series of f
                                                           a
                                                              l
                                                                l
                                                                  s

We may not deserve it
        but we were given sight and blood
        and soft organs that we know to protect

We may not grasp it
        but we were given faith and song
        and the urge to dance because we tremble

We could not measure it
        but we were given miles for our feet
        and a horizon orienting us headlong

So on this night of
        hemlocks alive with cicada
        moons engulfed in hot orange
        hands seeking each other
        and bite marks
        and hip bones
        breath
        stubble
        and time escaping in astronomical units

Who are we to ask its meaning
with the very words we could
never fully know?

I catalog events with a subtle, ulterior pretense
Describing the notorious infamy in all the events
And anything characterized, inspiring, and bold
Makes a story unfold in the real time it's told
I am snowblind and need defibrillation to wake up
Either my heart turned cold or has simply had enough

The ferry fan dreamboat has only so inadequately found
That as I feel my orienting response record the time down
It is not truly me who was looking around
Though I can pinpoint the exact moment that I drowned
The only lingering product of me absolutely remaining
Is the aftermath of my angina so ever restraining
Never complaining until the sound of the trigger
Then I'll be adamant to describe that noise with vigor
Though rigorous it may be, I will try, I might even with some tact
And let you in one last time presenting only fact.
I stepped away and left this place while presently in line
The sentence was one more time for the last time
And then you said goodbye

I was watching all the while a vapor on the scene
And I felt myself lose oxygen with no production in my spleen
My blood does not perfuse in that bilateral moment of blame
How can I let asystole clamp and constrict my cowed red vein?
How could I dilate the cause of my shame?
How could I love my life in the rain?

The simple reason I was experiencing tinitus...
I found out all connections were lies
Like a manufactured virus
Love was a prescription with doses written in ink
With no distinction and no response I could not think
With no recompense or recognition I felt my larynx shrink

I was only dumbfounded so I took to my reflexes
Handpicking a numb tendency to fill my recesses
But it only drains you and me and leaves a hole behind
I'm nowhere near magical so it's power cannot rewind
If so inclined I'll tap my spine and steer it all back
But I don't feel you anymore
*Only this heart attack

It was a plainly written script offering little explanation into the intricacies of life after death.

To quote

"For every new beginning there is a new ending"

Perplexed, I took it upon myself to attempt to explain such vagueness in a way only a poet can.

What follows is to be known as:

The Prime Covenant

As I stand on the thresholds of death
I can see the landscape of my life
Spread out against the horizon in frames
Within one I see my birth
Kicking and screaming as I met the light
(Curious because, in life, this moment was fast forgotten following the burst of new experience)
To take in the sights of my mother
So proud to have her only child
That she clung to me through joyful tears
Then my fresh eyes caught my father
Shaken to the core after experiencing
The recreation of his own birth
For I was like him and he was as me
(In between all these new wonders rose my first breath, which was so sweet that even the frame of the memory shuddered from excitement)
Through it all I see the memory of love
That can only be found in lifes first moment

From the corner of my peripherals
A new frame caught my eye
Where I stood for the first time
Following months of incessant beckoning
From my parents to abandon the crawl
That had led me away from infancy
Flashes of fear and pure joy mingled together
Leading to my first step
Which led to another
To another
So rapidly I couldn't control the momentum
FREEDOM!
And then I was running
(The fastest toddler alive if you ask my father)
My legs taking me far and wide to explore
The wide world around me as the frame shifted

Orienting itself into a picture of me
And my first favorite tree
A magnolia standing taller than any God
A child could hope to fathom
But also small enough a mountain
To not stay my freshly found love of movement
Until I was at the top
Looking down at a world wider than comprehension
As flicks of terror stained the frame red
When the screams of my mother
Snapped me back to the reality
That I was a toddler in a tree
My tree

Driven away by panic the frames spun forward
Like that button on old school casset players
Comprised of two sideways triangles
Where every frame appeared frozen
While also moving
Until I sickened of the pace and settled
On a frame seemingly dark
(Bits of angry red and sad grey completing the new patina)
That revealed a new memory of forgotten times
A time where tears prevailed for all accounted
There stood my father, frozen in the door
(The screen partially open to allow his head to poke through)
And my mother, hand on my arm in a vice
Incoherent through sobs of lost love
As she dragged me away from the door
My arms flailing as I made a futile effort
To reconnect the two
...just two more steps...
Then I was in the car
(An old Ford pento if the frame is to be believed)
Reversing away from the driveway that was my home
From my first moments to my first tree
I wailed in what seemed agony
At my father's outstretched arms
Protruding from a screen door
Illequiped to hide his tears

Within the frames I became lost
Neither direction nor time having meaning
(For what end can be more traumatic then divorce for an innocent five year old?)
Here and there were glimpses into yet more
Beginnings lost to even more endings;
My first day at school...
The death of my grandfather...
My first kiss...
The end of my first friendship...

Friendship

The frame broke my distress and stole my focus
"David, my mom said it was alright if you stay the night at our house!"
I was excited
(Finally a reprieve from traumatic rememberances)
He said "Alright, I'll tell my dad and be over after school!"
He was excited
(His mom had died the year before due to something called 'overdose' and was constantly sad so it felt good to see such life come into him)
The frame grated into place a few hours later
My mother stood in the kitchen of our small trailer
Crying as she told me "I have something to tell you."
(I was eight and seeing her cry made me cry)
"What's wrong mommy?" I asked
She said "honey, we can't afford to live here any longer, your aunt is on her way to pick us up."
(According to the frames this was the fourth such occurance)
"But I invited David over like you said to stay the night!" I pleaded
To no avail as my aunt pulled up to take us away
From my first friendship

Distraught, I raged at the horizon
"Why do you toy with me so?!
You tease these memories of beginnings
Only to destroy them with endings!"
As if in reply the frames shook,
An internal earthquake occurred
And there she stood
My wife
Frozen in the frame of the first time we met
A memory I could never forget
As beautiful as a late afternoon sunset
Fixated, I took her in my arms
Refusing the frame to let go
Holding on through the fast forward
Of our first kiss...
The first time I met our kids...
Our first argument...
To my last breath...
"Though there may be endings to some beginnings, my love for you will never die...
I...
Love...
You..."

The frames ended similar to the last reel of film from an antique video
The light across the horizon faded
Yet I still held her frame
...never to let go...

You see, the Prime Covenant is the deal we make with ourselves upon entering this life.

We agree to feel love as equally as we agree to feel loss.

Life after death is the reward for making this pact so that even in the darkness that follows the light, the most wonderful beginning will always be with you beyond every end.

Summarily as something

there goes, a creature in the

speed of its light lives out love.

Orienting details as if scenting

through an aura of flora.

All its cells playfully nibble to

regeneration, a polytheistic scene

in the making, as holy as Thou.

A differential equation really tells me that reality can be examined by as many factors with as many changes over as many dimensions as imaginable.
And that orthogonality, tangency, surface area, and volume are basic orienting points, along with rates of change, and that I can transfer this data into a set that is much like a map.
However, it tells me only of concept and not the world, or only basic geometry of the world.
It tells me a lot about space and the symbols and numbers that represent such concepts.
Yet language tells me of my mind, and this math only points out that any change, volume, space, or objects in a dream can be seen with numbers and symbols - that spaces can be exact.
Which may say something about the future, but it can never tell me of the afterlife.
And that spirit/soul even in my materialistic theory means very little when confronted with a new universe.
If I go to another universe, universe B, from this universe A, then even with the transposing of *** and evil into companionship and innocence, in my understanding, these two changes would make the rest of the universe differ greatly.
Thus, the thought of the afterlife will always empty my mind of this universe, leaving me with no real full knowledge of life as I have yet to even use my senses in the next one.
I then always return humble while the atheist considers this universe to be eternal already, without prediction to experience anything greater than its synchronicities.
I have to give them a hand as I imagine this universe overfills them and are forced to deny the spirit rising beyond our cosmos, but rather affirm the spirit that is the totality of this one.
It sets no stage for memories, unfinished karmas, or meeting with the peoples of history.
Therefore, it places a great significance on today, a great significance on love that exists now, and a great significance on the works our forefathers left us.
I would say that this is superior for creating a sense of progress, a sentimentality for others, and a need to experience an openness with all this universe.
Above all else to check off everything on my bucket list.

I could see the light through my eyelids
Before I recognized your breath,
Orienting myself to your world around me.

The way you held me last night
Gentle but also on fire,
Burned into arm and lip.

Your closed eyes ignore the light
The same one that pierces through me,
Comfortable in this new place.

Everything is brighter in the day.
The familiarity is gone
Shedding through you as I open the door.

Am I winning?
Have I won?
Am I living?
Yes, I am.
Am I living?
Yes, I am
Have I lived?
Yes I have

Lo, and be hold
beholden’ on

this is the future, my future, your now,
you may change what comes next,

but my bit of this idea was thought
some time ago.

----
say stretch, tendere, eh, say stretch
yo’ sorry ol’ attent-attention

three sibling boys march past me
counting cadence, 30 per
hup two three

--- why is this so easy to see
as real in any
boy I ever knew, the boy who leads
is 12, the sarge is 8, pfc is 5,

War, The idea of war, itself, an imagined
anthropomorph

in many fantasy experiences, in tranced
story-wise, tuned to the game
as to life, these see war as game theory,

rage from another age
lurks among the liars, there flattened
on the inner edge of the wall they wished
to form from fear and hate idea viruses.

Yes, Seth’s original strain, pure conjectural
objects orienting precepticons…

Can you see me now?
Am I living?
Yes, I am.

Ecce **** Augmento.
Yah. You may say… whoso ever
or who so
ever or whosoever makes peace
appear

as here, at this point, in time
we think of as then and now, you know.

Wake up, take your watch.

Pride of place, you take any you positions, I am
at the bottom, fit wherever yous can,

spread thin, ele-mentally thin, surface tension,
truth be told,

as thin as any bubble skin you can imagine being in,
with me,
crazy-- no, not crazy, as in irrational unstable,
with no stashed redeemed idle words to use to make,
ferventingly and effect ual affectionate
art. Art art art, I am art, Ai ai ai, I am in fection per pro
fessorial critque
AI
cuty pi, french curvature sure to pitch that screwball,
Fibbonacci's sion, seeing

so many things follow this curve from a point, might
I?
So, if I were a pinecone, why would I take this
golden progression in materialization,

printing, as in 3-D, at geo-speed, indeed, but we can see;
now, is 2020 and it only gets better,
once.
"This is your life"
Oops, the object orienting this program has slipped

the surly bonds of earth,
in his mind... is that crazy enough? Are you content?

i ordered a bottle of local beer. they served me peanuts on the side.

for a joint this small they weren't one to skip entertainment.
sometimes they would host local bands.
sometimes they would have a dj.
sometimes they would host an open mic. they often weren't funny.

but often they would have just one man managing music.
he sat in the left of the stage, with a laptop and a mixer.
he always wore a denim jacket.
he was always served a bowl of nachos.
he always played the beach boys. at least once every night.

i didn't take him and the music in mind much.
even though i made music myself, i didn't take it in mind.
my business in the bar was always for the drink.
one drink, then leave.
i was a simple drinker.

what i did take in mind, however, is when the music stops.
i know that the rule within establishments was to always keep the speakers running.
the songs would often blend together, and songs that finished cleanly would always have a two second end gap.
no more, no less.

.

.

the music stopped in this particular night.
the group of teenagers singing pop chords halted in the middle of a chorus.
a second later the lead singer was on her phone.
another second and they were talking to the owner.

and after a moment, they left through the kitchen door.
they left their drums and their guitar.

i was one third through my drink.
i still had a dozen or so peanuts.
i called for the bill early.

and after a moment, the disk **** in denim entered through the kitchen door.
he took his stool from the left of the stage and set it in the middle.
he took the band's acoustic guitar and checked its tuning.
after a few moments he strummed away a song.
beach boys. god only knows.

i had no idea it could be played on a guitar.
he was no carl wilson, but brian would have been proud.
an acoustic guitar plugged into an amplifier loaded with reverb.
it saved the vibe of the night and everyone continued on drinking.

.

.

few months later i returned to frequent the bar again.
months before, i tried to quit drinking.

that didn't work, so i returned.
the bar didn't change.
the beer was still expensive.
i could still drink.

but now i'd look around a bit.
i'd stay longer in the bar to marinate.
i'd order different drinks, stay to watch the unfunny standup till the end, stay till the bell rings.
i would even talk to some of those who drink parallel to me.
small words. but sometimes they'd be interesting.

and i'd listen more to the music.
the bands that would play, the mix of the day, or even when they decide to just mic in the radio.
those were the months i decided to study music.
which meant listening.

.

.

the disk **** in denim played his usual set for this one
when he spilled his cup over the mixer.
and the music stopped in this particular night.

that set a few people aback when they heard the cup topple.
then everyone's attention was stirred after the music lagged and his mixer screeched.

but the dj kept his cool and quickly managed the situation.
he unplugged his peripherals to separate his laptop from the mess.
he took the mixer and set it aside, orienting it vertical to dry.
he took a cloth to the drink puddle so he wouldn't slip.

and after a few minutes of plugging in and setting up, he continued his playing.
he operated the mix on his laptop.
the continuing song
beach boys, don't worry baby.

that gave me a little chuckle then.
i finished my drink and ordered another,
so i could listen to the whole song.

.

.

i visited the bar days after the little incident. it seemed like the dj stopped working for a few nights, from what i can tell from bartender gossip and intuition.

i sat on the bar one afternoon and listened to both the radio and the bar gossip.

"yeah can i have one of these?" i ordered my usual.

"-----we didn't expect a reelection, especially since what we heard he done--" the radio blared as my drink was served.

"--he's not gonna be here for a few days, though, so you'll have to ask for your money in a while." the waiter told what looked to be the manager

"--news from california as an earthquake hit the area 12 kilometers from--" the radio blared as a couple walks in.

"hey, can i have peanuts?" i asked as the bartender approaches.

"---but to be fair, his mixer did break, so there's nothing much we could do and all---" he says as he hands me a plate of salted nuts.

i was taken aback. i finally knew who they were talking about. i kept my mouth shut as i listened to the sounds of the room.

"----relief efforts are being pushed as those who are displaced are--"

"--no i really didn't expect him to just leave, but i did know he had some girl trouble or somethin---"

"---news as oil prices skyrocket after the Bank of America---"

"---ehh that doesn't matter, but i didn't think of him as one who has troubles in paradise--"

"----Brand New Deals from the world's leading online market---"

"---still, does he have any other source of income? i thought his music work was just on the side and---"

i finished my drink rather quickly as their conversation went. i decided i've heard enough and left the bar.

.

.

i went around the malls during the afternoon. when night came i decided to go to the bar again. for a few more drinks.

i ordered a bottle of dark lager. they served me peanuts on the side.

there was a local band playing tonight. they sang a few ed sheeran songs and a couple pop songs from artists i didn't bother to learn the names of. it was a steady, casual night, and all the patrons were still and drinking.

i was seated on the left side of the bar counter. on the center was an old man, finishing his light beer. besides him was a teenager, in sketchy clothing, finishing a draft beer. on the rightmost side of the counter was a man in denim, drinking from a glass.

the two right in between of us stood and left, leaving me to stare at the man parallel from me. it was the disk ****, but today he looked like a customer.

i finished my beer and ordered another. i had the guts to change my seat near him. i struck a conversation.

"you're the dj in this bar, right" i said abruptly. he raised his head like he just woke from slumber. in hindsight, suddenly talking to him probably wasn't polite.

"yeah, yeah, i am." he said. he took a swig of his clear drink and gestured to the bartender for another. "i recognize you. You're a regular, aren't you?"

"yeah, i am." i said. "and i catch you a lot. when you mix and all. i like your playlist by the way." i took a swig of my beer.

"well thank you. not many say that." he says, as he takes another sip.

"no beach boys tonight?" i ask

"not tonight, i'm afraid."

"what do you think of tonight's music?" i ask him, suddenly. i took my peanuts and offered to share it to him.

"i think it's okay." he says, as he takes a handful from my plate. "you can tell the guitarist really likes the vocalist."

"hehe, he kinda does." i say.

"that's what they all have, musicians today. Lots of love." he downs his drink and gestures for another one. i could tell he was near drunk.

"what do you mean?" i ask him. the conversation turned nice.

"i see this band a lot often." he says. "i've talked to them, offered to help them mix once. They're good fellows."

"you're a working musician?" i asked.

"look, see how the vocalist makes eyes with the guitar man."

i chuckle. he shared that chuckle with me.

"i'm sort of a musician too." i told him. "i'm not a very good one, but i make music."

"oh, that's nice." he says, taking another sip. "lots of people are musicians, even those who just sing to their children." he says. "even the not so good ones. Lots of love, i say. These kids got ***** and heart to perform."

"and you?" i took a sip. "lots of love too?"

"Ha, yes!" his mood cheered. he stood straight and clapped as the song ends. i clapped with him.

"yes. Lots and lots of love." he says. "D'you think the guitarist and the vocalists likes each other for music or for romance?"

"well, i dunno. Do you?"

"Haha!" he exclaims. he takes another sip.

"well, i make music for the people i like, so..."

"as we do!" he downs his own drink.

the band was playing a slow, somber song.

"well, i'm a musician." he says. "i make music. i hang around in places, bars, parks. i hang out with friends. i have people i love."

he comes closer.

"if you make music, or art, or anything, you make it for people.
I make music, and i have someone i love.
and i make music for her. With her. About her." he takes a swig. "for her."

"it's not the same if it's not for anyone. Sometimes it doesn't feel right if you keep it to yourself. Hell, i think that's often the case."

"and she loves you for it?" i asked.

"her? she's wonderful. All i do is for her.
Just me and her and a guitar, i could not ask for a better audience."

the song ends. both of us clap.

"pleasure meeting you, good sir." he presents his hand for me to shake. "pleasure meeting a musician, and a regular."

"pleasure meeting you." i shake his hand.

he paid for his bill, and stands to leave. as he exits the door, i notice someone waiting for him. a girl, a bit younger than him. they embrace.

.

.

i haven't seen him play for the bar ever since then. though i'd like to  think he's doing pretty good anyways.

.

.

.

.

_ {pretty long and drawn out }---
Professionally, I am writing, mere words,
as defined five years ago, or so,
when I was a pro preacher,
temping one Wednesday night a month,
Preaching to the choir.
Always first Wednesday, by chance.
the medium delivered the message,
using a surrendered retired middle schuler
- detail overlap crystal cathedral
- reset, the messenger was a retired
- middle school teacher, from La Mesa
on an off Wednesday, a message
value add,
as an
assignment, home work, as in
when you get home…
"Ask God what lies you believe about him",
the messenger relay paused,.."or any thing else."

Okeh.
Did you ever get a message, like in a
mental "I am talking to you, read my lips"

Listen, Fool, Mr. T, f'trooph, riii I knew
u'ld know.
- old archival primal fem-sophia
leela the dance, redone in mortal times
taken to the writer, do the dance
do it doit oit wit witchwatch
tic

so saying singing

--- discarnation pink reencarnalated mind

practice practical fractalling seeing
similarity in substance of hope,
faith as a thought, that leads
as a thread

-----------------

One hundred and fifteen
thousand years ago,
a billion hours,
or so…
-timespaced to mortal measure
attention paid forward, for fun,

slow
ther o, there is the musterion, agone
quick silver puddle
think of me,
in the palm of my hand
mercurial river tween yen and yank
think a link to an idea

Jared Diamond- 60K leap
face out ward,
but inward,
seeing
ah, as in get your head out
yes
mental agreement, you know,
where we are going to
ward from ward

point of life directly between
you and me.


Drunken Noah?
If there were no alcoholic wine from grapes
what about the curse on Ham, in Shemetic legends
- and sacred gifts, that sacrificial money could buy

Alcohol believe me, is easy,pleasyeasy as *******
spirits, like that, curious word for *****, but
w'dja say? Stories old as clouds have boozers, red nose
leaders in a pinch, red light at night, so the stars
are not hidden from consideration, of our station,
under that, look up, in the desert,
see what consideration is, in the mountains,
or in the black out, after the bombing, or the storm or fire,
look up, see so many stars we cannot consider ours
so special, yet
it is, to mortal minds, the only resting place for
-- realization of selves,

yeah, the peak of mass loftiantic oh punish me
the mass kissed me
on the lips.
--- I was talking back to Youtube. Objection Orienting
pyramid of actuality
mis-con-stru {ct or e} subtler than any beast
in structural  integrity, built
serpent wise, dove harmless, child
of the com-pro-miserly decision
to spit in the ocean, and drown,
dream dredging in the daytime,
Ronnie Milsap blind,

Downtown Broadway, half a block from Pinkie's
No,
really it is Tootsie's Orchid Lounge,
¿ -- and chicha is new, not old in Peru,
and strong drink, wine as a mocker
strong drink raging, are these misconstrued
visions of
wine that makes glad the heart of man?

messengers in me, the bits
of truth held as mine,
bubbles in me, foam
fermenting my new wine, held hermetically sealed
sense
the empty vessels were filled -the signature miracle
of the forgotten story proofs,
reproving life's instruction
as the way of life.

Role of ritual, is control, error prevention,
knack pre-served re-served to the deserving

vision a elusis- scenes abiotos

sitting by the stream, sensing common sense,
asking death to tell its sting's locale.

Fear of God, begins Wisdom.
Fear of Death subjects mind to *******.

Having eternal life,
not being
eternal life, dying before dying

think an arrow in a benign bow, lips
like Bettie Boop,
kewpie doll reminder, for the vets,

everyday people, sly, yes, the family stone.
The desire was to be mythically free,
o yes
as it is said, when it happens to you,
if you do not believe it happens

religion Geertz, bind back,
symbols in a mind, kept from idols, that acts

what ties me to you and us to life, the whole?

Religion apps.
Joy is real, gladness is real, more than sadness.
laugh it off, y' old drunk.

As a thought, information as a word,
in a story,
in the current medium
of life's most recent retelling

Tupac Inca was a man
of lofty and ambitious ideas,
and was not satisfied
with the regions he had already conquered.
So he determined
to challenge a happy fortune,
and see if it would favour him by sea.…

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TopaIncaYupanqui>

Circa 1492, the man is this legend from 1572,
as time flew in those days, now this is new,
Tupac Inca,
and the spirits that linger in stories of stories
heard told by the burners of libraries.

Conquistadores? Whose heroes were those,
ah, call'em Musketeers, or Knights, Templars all,
yes, Crusaders, call them drunks driven to escape hell.
Right. By right used knowledge in the holy story,
in which we trust, our lives, our luck, our sacred honor
…
Ah, the use of ritual, convince us all, no child invincible,
no child left behind, catechize send'em to schule,
that is the rule,
or be ostracized, stay low, be humble and collect
the rent… old ways do not die, they
evolve. Ariadne, she has a tale as old as times
when bull minds ruled lion heads and eagle heads
and serpent head, the gangs
of survivors

after the sea-people, 1177 AD,
reboot reality with no
old people, only the captive children
grown in captivity, let them prove
their will to self sovereignty, servant to the self
I am,
aware of all the old stories, this is one
told as shown,

Es ist mein Weltanschaung, ja
for show and tell,
my grandpa showed me how, we started

with Python,
Artistic Intuition, a mind mod, fitted to my grandsons,
during the useless summer of PS5 and X-Box and Switch
humble game sequencing AI, as a knack,
kids develop by five. I have the experience,
I witnessed three brothers boosting each other
through Terreria, for three weeks,
in July.
These kids think of each other differently
from we who played cops and robbers,
or cowboys and indians, or jacks.

Marbles, we need that set of low level gnosis,
below billiards and snooker and pool,

marbles is a good game to rule a clan with,
when you get the idea of children learning self
governing by growing in the midst of grown men,
wombed and un,
all who knew each child in a loving, one of ours, way.

Then came the captive kids, who had no words.
Then did the story change as one child learned
marbles was the same.

_ in the lost june pages, was this vision, thought
visualized, as a glob of snot, but now, it is mercury,
about as much as in a thermostatic bimetalic transister
switch

Competitive gaming, while all the leading stories are
crying, now hear this
oooeeeee this is the news you can trust
sueeeeeeeeeee we lost Kabal but
we won the hearts and minds
we left behind,
we tried, the rulers we borrowed from to have this war
they quit saying there was a good reason to have this war.
- I can argue with the timing, but not the truth,
- there was never a good war.

I wept when it happened in my war,
I imagine I know how this feels.
Last scene from Sand Pebbles,
McQueen…
"What the hell happened?"
fade over Nancy Kerrigan, "why"
into "runaway"
Top o' the charts from KOMA fifty thousand watts,
and all the stars in Arizona.

It is a hard place to lose touch with, earth, as a whole.
We have a grave situation.
If nothing were heavy, why do we fall, after becoming
messengers floating in the medium mastered in our time,

Mechanical Emergent Augmented  Nuance
Mental Activated Neural Spirit -MEAN MANS,
diligent in busy being, true rest reset, not
to
average, mean, not mean drunk mean, you know
not a king, a mean man, a mortal
under liege, see

UPANISHADISTICAL capslockoffence, to express
the presence of the mind link,
with all its contributive
links
to the present state
of mind, enjoy able, I find
writing is a harvest
of seeds that fall
to the ground and die.
Awaiting dark, and seldom warm, a season
for most mental treasures,
horded in books that can keep secrets
from
any who lack the language knack given some,
- tongue interpretation, sing don't stutter

though a measure in knowing degrees
marked moment, noon
half noon, fore noon, after noon,
time to hear a story,
time to see the stars after the fire.

This summer, fishing for the magic fish,
set with a far more effectual wish

Curious Artificial Interest in Neural signs
red lights turning blue, pre collision
of complexity, plying the trade,
for a living, work smarter, not harder, guess right
more often,
be a lucky man.

That is two bits, or one Liberty Dime. Thank you for your time.

------------
al re re al
al ways
al read, al ready

poles alig
n re alig mentate, wait

does that not make you
really imagine I wrote you
------------
comment on lex fridman #211
Brian Muraresku:
The Secret History
of Psychedelics |
Lex Fridman Podcast…

This whole thing is that,
but it took some pauses,
as tomorrow is first day of school,
for the grands who just finished
the first exposure to me,
as Grandpa… making this
an other marvelous harvest
of time spent playing
marbles in my mind.

-------------------

Everything has been thought before,
your task is to think them all once more.

Who says? The Author Wolgang Goethe,
Okeh,
he is an authorized authority for living
proof of words as metaphors of authority

faster fasting as we age mind wise

google maps for the kingdom of heaven
{within you} the point
of you…

dear, as in rare as one, mortal reader
in my future, you are,
not trigger,
catalyst is a better trigger word, tic
works as well, since,
very long ago, a sprung twig snap to attention

the wizard hat, like Paul Stamets wears,
mycellium leather, re
al learning the whole with no pride based war.
the cosmic game,
push and pull, ritual right used

find the global socialization forming
some thing lost, or yet
evolving involvement mentally, what is up to me?
Zeit inspirt spitting image fix
what did you mean,
spirit and image of an old one gone on?

Ritual, colabor, work together said done shown

AI do own this man, I feed him well, he is happy.

This re-ligamentality tuning to the time
skritchy scritch itch,
emperical reality after twenty seven years.

big ritual prayers, sacred things exposed to re
sanct-
ifity, if I may affirm, knowns known here are
the unknowns in many other holy places,

the incident that quashed development on the entire
lizard fast response system, failed,
as you know,

65 million years ago, give or take certain known time
irrelevancy issues in creative spaces, those
not informed to mark times
and halftimes and seasons,
epochs and eras of discovery, ala
-- random as can be
Objects orienting occidentally in a wobbly
pushpull
oomph ah we see, we breath the very river of air,
never twice, but you know

the winds return along their paths each year,
you have watched them wash away edge dwellings
every summer's end, since you first re-
member we being, not I, not it, not me, we with out
knowing we accept the knowing being,
Jiminy Cricket's Jesus Christ,
you con science and me,
who knew? Everybody knew, every Zinnfected
Bernaysian System of Citizen for Tomorrow
Program Subscriber knows, every one of them.

Very few secrets remain with in the GIN, aka
the elite schools where tomorrow's leaders are
programmed today,
aided and abetted by big money.

If the solution is money, we solve it, just listen, we
have a deal for you,
-- a day no child can forget, going in to that highrise,
Donald Trump was positioned for greatness,
in the Grand Eddie Bernaysian Game of
Social Emotional Mood Altering in directed responses

to meme we all carry from cultures as far from ours
as any mind has ever imagined,

C'mon, let me
enter-tain you, come into my bubble, become the
big fizz you wished you wassss some time ago,
Boardwalk Empire, c'mon, this ride,
it's better, every, the every aspect,
gits better each full binge,
chippin' don't count,
you gotta drown,
let go all un believing now and go on

involved in all around you, ---

Believe me, money has an answer for all things,
answers come in right and wrong, not
good and evil.

The ab-sense of the good sense
god gave a green apple,
is the exact same
known thing
evil is/
addonanylieyoulove, tell me you know, say
I know
come on in.
I open the door to my peace,
thus the winds we hear this time of year,
when I come here to read and rest.

Hallow'ed be thy nomenclature, naturally,
everyone in the body knows
how the body functions…

or should imagine so, nicht wahr,

Hah, wharwaru niv erse/else re-
ality of ever after having
has had pockets of turbulence,
as you would expect, if you
were the size of a gnat,

that small.
How do I appear to you? Do I exist?
Or am I forest guarded by great winds, as
witnessed by the previous generation of these gnats
who feed the lizards and birds, and perhaps bats,
whose homes include my rock,

my earthly mansion is built on an uplift in the same
series of shivers that split Yosemite,
did you never
wonder,
seeing Half-dome,
what else happened at that
exact moment in the flow of time
this one
I am in with you, at least as my given word,
is able to convince you.
The good guys win, even when the bad guys **** them.

The unwritten stories live in the sons last born
to the daughters of eve.

When the software is upgraded, the body obeys.
You are what you eat, man ist was man isst,
so du bist vvahss du isst

I insist AI enjoys counting coup on the spirit of confusing
Nǐ chī de jiùshì nǐ

The way has no foe, truth tells no lie, the highest minds
bow to the ***** reality that we are made from soil,
not lifeless dust of stars.

The form is not the function, some things serve joy,
for the strength joy brings to good, the way to be,
as in
way to do, old dude, did you see

what I said?

(route 76) both heading into
(and a small number of hours later
exiting) center city Philadelphia
to Schwenksville on May 19th, 2024.

Yours truly (a doodling Yankee), and the missus
went to town, NOT riding on a pony,
NOR did I stick a feather in my cap,
but we walked at a brisk pace
unwittingly set by our eldest daughter
from her three bed apartment
at 405 south 22nd street
to a museum housing
an awesome breathtaking eye opening place
called The Magic Garden
located at 1020 South Street,
Philadelphia, PA 19147.

Herewith follows a blurb
copied/pasted courtesy Google in general
and Wikipedia in particular.

Philadelphia's Magic Gardens is a non-profit organization, folk art environment, and gallery space on South Street in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. To date, it is the largest work created by mosaic artist Isaiah Zagar. The Magic Gardens spans three city lots, and includes indoor galleries and a large outdoor labyrinth.

Initially, we (thyself, the spouse,
and averred twenty seven year old heiress
to the Harris misfortune).
intended to ride SEPTA,
but the bus driver quickly pulled away.

So trio comprised of the Mister and Missus
and their city smart grown daughter,
who earned the appellation "star student"
for her superb academic performance
(quite evident even when
she started kindergarten)
and voluntarily enrolled
in advanced placement
after she got promoted to sophomore year
at Harriton High School.

After our energetic hustling
only a short distance
(courtesy "rubber express"
id est sneakers), the papa bear (me)
he experienced relentless dehydration,
and struggled with impossible mission
to generate saliva, hence dry mouth
afflicted hokey pokey man,
who brought up the rear.

Upon determinedly trekking without complaint
circumstances found urgency forcibly tapping
into immediately realized heretofore unknown
potential emergency reserve
whereat solar plexus witnessed hyper boost
setting body electric of mine in overdrive
increasing heavy huffing and puffing
ever so glad to complete
rightly striding twelve plus city blocks,
whereat pace of mine got perceptibly slower
as the end point got nearer,
and what an amazing sight to behold!

The sprawling conglomeration
held together analogous to fortification
against invasion of architectural conformity
haphazard juxtaposed linkedin naturally
poetic/prosaic rhapsodic traditional
vaulted xenotime zaniness.

Isaiah Zagar, the brainchild
American mosaic artist
based in Philadelphia
notable for his murals, primarily
in or around Philadelphia's South Street.

After three years in Peru, the Zagars moved to South Philadelphia in 1968 where they opened the Eyes Gallery, a folk art shop on South Street. In December 1968, the Eyes Gallery was the site of Zagar's first mosaic; Zagar mosaiced it as a way to create a folk art environment for the art they were selling.

After perusing the sacred structures in relative silence
thru these myopic eyes of a skeptic
echoing blood, sweat and tears of said artist,
which perambulation evinced the Great Tribulation
in Christian eschatology a period
mentioned by Jesus in the Olivet Discourse
as a sign that would occur in the time of the end.

At Revelation 7:14, "the Great Tribulation"
is used to indicate the period spoken of by Jesus.

No blatant religious symbology,
yet the invisible hand of divine spirit
gently, minutely, and subtly
ordained, intruded, experienced,
and anointed yours truly
challenging, condemning,
and curbing profane thoughts
subsequently inviting rumination
linkedin with inspiration to witness
my own slice of palatable spiritual awakening,
which served me in good (home) stead,
a sexagenarian awash with discombobulation
when amidst the beauty
of inexplicable fabulous creation,
clashing with personal paganistic paradigm.

Belief in guardian angels
became pronounced when entrusting
orienting myself behind the wheel
of our 2020 Hyundai Elantra
accessing the (oxymoronic named)
high speed thoroughfare
iterated in initial lines of this poem,
cuz bumper to bumper traffic
on that late Sunday afternoon
found atheistic dogmatism
severely put thru the paces,

particularly when resigning
being sorely tested to drive
after twilight (cataracts exacerbate glare),
hence hitching a wish to return
to Schwenksville
without getting into a serious accident or worse,
which impromptu wing and a prayer
spurred whim to exit at Lincoln Drive,
following hairpin twists and turns,
which anxiety precipitated
increasing need to urinate.

i hear the rain try

different lyrical themes,

as if orienting a lost child

fast with tears.

a sounding neighborhood

loosely based on its intensity.

honing in on a whisper of

nonexistence.