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jane taylor May 2016
towering gently overflowing with heightened awareness
subtle hints of blade’s keen glittering chiseled edges
untamed rugged surface powerfully averts gale’s acrid tempest
vigor pulsating that doth persuade the cloud’s reflections
if i shall not again embrace a meager glimpse; a demure echo
of thine towering mounts my soul shall ever suffer

my spirit soars with e'er one glance of thine majestic presence
replete with reminiscence seasons stir and beg thine tender mercies
to house the changing leaves at dusk of autumn’s auburn portraits
and give birth to crystal snow cascading peripherally in winter
which melding into spring then begs thy bluffs to cover
in soft amethyst of columbine blossoming first light of summer

‘tis not paramount to scale high aloft thine peaks in escalation
for small sheer glances stamp forever with imperial impressions
and ‘tho i’ve traveled ‘round and savored nature’s varied essence
none can compare thine evergreens laced in aspens nuance
my breath is gone and shan’t return ‘til in thy shadow casting
i stand and look upon thine hallowed face the rocky mountains

©2016 janetaylor
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
You are                                                              ­             
My ellipsis dots,                                           
                  trailing away, unspoken                     
. . .
                                                  You'll always belong
                                                                              on my horizon.
“I like your face better than you like my face.”

All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016
***Minus this one, sort of, as it was adapted but an old sinistra poem - the original work by my sister, Whitney Ingrid Will ©, 2007/2008.
<3
wordvango Feb 2015
in peripheral vision lives a little all seeing wizard
wand in hand he waves in apostrophes
but if like me you are we ignore
go on a merry path until;
the sun seems to no longer shine again,
handcuffs get slapped on,
the electricity goes off,
some quick tow truck finds your title loan ride,
or you wake up....
Alex Apples Feb 2010
***** dishes piled peripherally
Melting muscles begging to be built
Education egging me on evilly
Facebook friends warning I may wilt
Clothes choking roomish rubble
Coldhearted clocks click callously
Traffic tickets to trouble
Prodding for payment perniciously
Copyright (c) 2010 Alex Newman
You held my hand with love
as we strolled down the way
Peripherally, i saw wings up above
nothing said, but all to say

As we strolled down the way
frolicking children flourished the air
Nothing said, but all to say
Engrossed in them as we prepare

Frolicking children flourished the air
not far from my bed
Engrossed in them as we prepare
no longer filled with dread

Not far from my bed
peripherally, i saw wings up above
No longer filled with dread
You held my hand with love
Wil Wynn Jan 2010
check it out check it out
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's da state of this here disunion
this here bangalore torpedo seeks yer minefields
this here suffering hero
n
crows about         strafes
multitudes                 peripherally
****** blind prophets
exclaim
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's nothing but beginning
of  beginning & z end of approximation
time's sweet angry subluxation
universal caving in on U & U
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when was z last time U really loved
i mean really really really loved
ha i could only hold to z imagination
z skeleton z allegory z myth
'cause everything slides & falls
screams careens outta control
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she brought in rrrrevolution.evolution.now
is z caustic effervescence of her wit
eroding my sandy castle of deceit?
ha and repeat ha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
forgive-me-notes are written high
on z forehead of my despair
a cursive flowing interdiction
malediction cruxifiction err-u-diction
en-passant
in each pyrotechnic moment when we don't see I-to-I
on anything relevant to what we once hoped was us
but we continue dance dance dance
perseveration aberration indiscretion cha-cha-cha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she said *** is z engine of z world
like engine like world like ***
like like like
could say no more
oh it's tiresome to go on
describing that chimeric uniting
flesh-to-flesh-in-flesh eliding
we all are guilty of
do not end a line with a preposition such as
that or a proposition such as this:
given angle a prove that old triangle theorem
two simultaneous loves don't make a right
cherchez les angles les anglais la bon mot
ya know
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when i die please  bury me upside down
prone to z ground making dead love to earth ya kno
while the centuries lie down next to me
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic!
chic!
Kate Richter Feb 2013
Our father liked to play a game.
He would count each hawk
preying, circling above veiny tree lines
graying like shadows of industry.

There’s a redtail, he would say, look
at its proud chest and talons of mastery. Our
eyes searched for the creature, noses
pressed to cool glass and 65MPH speed.

Sometimes we’d catch the bird with two eyes, one eye
or none. Meanwhile, our father never took his eyes
off the road, fixed on painted yellow lines stretching
to heartlands down New York’s I-90 West.

With age my eyes became engaged, detecting
the slightest movement peripherally. Rods
in retinas distinguished plump plumes from leaflet
tufts, razor beaks from thorny stags, white breast from

billowing plastic bags. My sideways scan
of leafy fringe is an artifact of habit
when traveling down state roads of this infra-structured
nation. I search for evidence of its natural relation,

beyond all that is manufactured by the jelly-
spine of convenience, beyond wheels spinning
at deafening speed, beyond the grubby hands of greed.
Still, our connection to place is still here and Earthly,

coexisting in delicacy, like the hawk’s nested-blend
of twig and trash. I trust there is a chance for us yet,
despite cloudy puddles of progress, despite integrity
lost in capital gain, despite a forgotten native name.
Taylor Peters Oct 2010
How quiet it gets
Just after snow
When at 5am walking out the front door
Onto the lawn
Hearing muffled road noise
Slipping like sand through a sieve
And whispering peripherally
Until sputtering out in indivisible steps
Dimming and fading
Like a cigarette
In a glass of
Water
Flowing slower and slower
Like a river freezing
Locking and waxing
Until woven into outbound threads
And creaking as it settles
Grasping on to tree branches
Yellow glow
Silent 5am scene
With streetlight
How moonlight so easily mingles
LD Goodwin Jan 2013
She texted all through dinner again.
Clickity, clickity, clickity.
Describing to someone something about what the waiter was wearing.
The ******* waiter?

Maybe if she took the time
she would find me at least as interesting,
as handsome, or ****,
as her 2 dimensional clicking keys?
Clickity, clickity, clickity.

They don't write letters on paper here in Clickityville anymore.
I even use to have my favorite pen and ink.
Now they "pencil in" time for everything,
Clickity food, iPod jog, or even clickity ***.
Trying to fit it all so neatly on their Clickityville plates,
but they never do.

When I talk to Clickityville people now
I can tell when I start to glass them over.
They reach for their clickity, clickity, clickity.
So ******* rude.
I'd rather they said,
"I'm sorry, but you bore me and I would rather,
you know.....
clickity clickity clickity."

I can see it in their Clickity eyes,
while they are trying to listen peripherally,                                                                                                            
They want so badly to clickity, clickity, clickity.

****,
they asked me to give them advice on their Clickity relationships.
And while fidgeting in their Clickityville North Face jacket pockets,
looking for their clickity, clickity, clickity,
I was attempting to give them some of my best nuggets of gold.

Just give
your lover
your full attention,
and they will do the same.
Harrogate, TN  January 2013
Benjamin Woolley Nov 2012
Intimacy is a hell of drug;
When I see you peripherally,
My thoughts are done.

The way light hits you
Just makes me nervous,
Bouncing ‘bout in my retinas,
Mixin’ with spirits.

Which, you might say,
Are oppressing my brain,
But I’ll misattribute you
All night and day.

Takin’ that serotonin,
Puttin’ it in your name,
As you run your fingers
Down my face.

Because, these impulses
Are shootin’ through me,
Driving my prefrontal insane.

I try to regulate feelings
That have no name.

I want you tactily, in-fact-ly
I want your intimacy,
‘Cause if you’re into me,
I want that dopamine.

On oxytocin, I’m choking,
These emotions, are roping,
Like I just overdosed
And am dangling,
Floating.

So if you’re itching,
I’ll fill your prescription.
Vidya May 2012
concave,
convex;
you stretch and shrink

from the blood and chocolate
on your tongue.
a mouse, peripherally,
jumps sobbing out of your
breadbox.

you drive your fist through the mirror and when
i walk in you
are at the dining table,
playing chess with the pieces of your shattered
soul
the blood still running
from your knuckles.
Steve Page Sep 2019
Can there be intimacy without proximity?
Empathy without vicinity ?

Can we live without touch,
keeping brothers out peripherally?

No, that path only leads deceivingly
further into living life more miserably

So rather than espousing self-sufficiency
let's discuss band of brotherly

A brother unity that unconditionally
maintains a mature masculinity

A unity revealing a core fragility,
yes - a humility that risks indignity

I'm talking about an increasing capacity
a growling capability
for actual manual connectivity

I'm calling for a comprehensive solidarity
that embraces fierce timidity

You see I stand against living artificially
I'm all for living purposely

Yes, I'm here loudly
Campaigning
Against anyone
Living
Miserably
https://www.thecalmzone.net/
The Campaign Against Living Miserably (CALM) is leading a movement against male suicide, the single biggest killer of men under 45 in the UK. Join the campaign to take a stand against male suicide and get the tools you need for action.
betterdays Jul 2016
i lie quiescent
listening to the conversations of bees

and the roar of butterflies as they
begin the chaotic whirlwinds
of strife

this is a moment....of nothingness

when my eyes are closed to the rat race

when the green green grass..

......subsumes me

and i am peripherally,
at one with myself.

mother to all,
mother to none.

i hear the ants
tunneling beneath
and the bugs flying above

the earth speaks and moves

and i listen...

the sky smiles,
the tides greet the moon

and I am but one small heartbeat

                                                 ...............among millions
AlanK Jul 2014
The journey has begun
It’s her journey,
But, of course, it’s mine as well.
Different roads we’re on,
She is on a path of discovery;
A new land.  A new man.
Perhaps even a path to freedom.
My travels are inward
Trying to grasp the changes
Which will surely come.
Like a billboard rushing by
In the glare of headlights
Its message seen peripherally
Is that what it said?  Maybe not.
Just trying to get a sense
Are we traveling apart?
Or simply in different lanes
Parallel. Watching each other
Always mindful of the gap.
Or am I following her
Mimicking her every turn
Destined to never catch up?
Colin E Havard Mar 2014
So this is what my life's become?
A solitary drinker in a crowed pub;
Nursing a burgeoning alcoholism
And entrenching melancholy with self-seclusion.
Worse: compounding isolation by ignoring
Or minimally acknowledging, peripherally,
Those Sunday night lushes;
Instead, focused on the static dynamic of an evolving city;
Absorbed by a blue-meshed scaffold adorning
Another modern eye-sore of urban consolidation.
19/7/2009
The Missing Link - Gaia's Boy Toy
Ellie Belanger Dec 2015
I'm sitting on the carpet of my rented room
Swatting neurotically at gnats and fleas that may
Or may not
Actually be there,
On my arms and on my face.
The only proof are the little red bites,
Up my left arm and across the bottom of my chin, where they stop.
As if my blood boils while I sleep, leaving little red marks to show that I need to
Chill out
Calm down
De-stress
But I'm
in distress,
Destroyed.
I need a higher up.
I need a voice that speaks with more experience,
With firm understanding,
With the knowledge of everything.
And I can't seem to find it in Bibles, Torahs, Quarans, or other holy scriptures.
I only hear it whisper from old history textbooks,
I hear it only
Chiming softly like drowned out cymbals from the radio talk
I only see it peripherally in my rear view mirror,
Can only taste it as an after taste of many drinks.
It is ribonucleic acid,
It is thymine, guanine, adenine, and cytosine.
It is the carpet of my rented room.
so happy anniversary
of yesterfray

when I peripherally laid
my eyes on you

the day I
didn't believe
because why???

it didn't compute
so my brain pushed it
away away away

because how
could you find it so easy
to replace me and ricochet
between four arms that were
not me

that was my logic:
if you loved me, if it meant
- anything ever -

you wouldn't have
made those decisions
like a haphazard hellbat
rattling off the tracks

so it was
quite obvious
I was just hallucinating
just pasting my aching heart
onto some random guy
who was oddly
not dancing

the truth is deep
and I'm trying to not
have you OD but I think
it's time to increase your dosage
and we're getting closer
closer still to
a mouthful

and one demispoon is
I noticed you the instant
you hit my periphery
maybe 15 feet away

I guess by noticed
I mean my stomach
did a nosedive down
through my intestines
resounding repetition
internal to the tune of
this isn't happening

as you made your way
in front of me

I was petrified
losing my mind
it made no sense

but that feeeeling
had your name
beating down
my lips

and I even pondered
tapping you on the shoulder
to ask something as asinine as
do I know you?

so, here comes
another serum dose

it wasn't until I was
contemplating the potentials
of reactions by you
or not-you

that I remembered
I wasn't alone -
I was, how you say...
with someone?

and maybe you can relate a bit
to how I could possibly find
myself in that situation
so quick

dear Watson, I can certainly now
understand how easy it in fact is
to fall into the arms of someone
you have history and unfinished
karmic business with

when you're
so alone and lonely
feeling lost and hungry
for connection you bypass
all the utterly obvious
ill-fitting cardboard edges
that aren't even the same image
and just focus on the one or two
that click right in, so comforting it is
to walk down the same old street
even though you already know
how and where it ends

it was certainly
a welcome distraction
from picking glass splinters
out of crippled crimson fingers

and now I understand
how you did what you did
and that is why I came back
again...

because it took me that long
to let go of feeling
unloved

and realize
you did
Del Maximo Dec 2015
there's a shadow in the house
lurking in the kitchen and hallway
sometimes peeking out
into the living room or dining area
I catch its movement peripherally
a flash in the corner of my eye
gone before I turn my head to look
a ghost of the past?
a haunting in the present?
a purposeful visitation?
something insidious?
imagination's figment?
should I be afraid of karma's regurgitation
or comforted as I sit alone?
or is it just a shadow
the movement of leaves and branches
breezing in the window's wind
outside this cold, drafty old house
© 11/30/15
Francie Lynch Aug 2017
I appear unexpectedly,
For no apparent reason;
And I begin a conversation
You've waited for.
You're reticent when I speak,
When I sit in a familiar chair
In a room we both know;
Where I don't belong.

I've no control over my visits,
No more than yours.
Others are peripherally present,
With marbled voices.

Your focus is me,
Wondering why I'm there.
Do I move to your blind spot, occasionally?
I am invasive and untoward.
I am not plasma, a phantasm or apparition.
I emerge from the mist to your surprise.
     What are you doing here?
I ask the same when you visit,
Yet I love to see you, relaxed, intwined.
You treat me as an old friend
With inquiries and interest.

I have so much to confess to you,
But you're disinterested in past failures.
Someone interrupts us,
You leave,
Through the same ethereal.

If you called to say you were coming
For a visit,
I'd get no sleep.
Jesse Revollar Jul 2018
Dear, Arabia Ohana,

This brief but edenic stint shared en masse and peripherally has, a fortiori, made me brimfully ecstatic to have become apart of this ohana. This parcel is to impart my incredulously revered kismeted perspective on this pleasant billet symbiosis that I accredit to the deific clairvoyant who fondly granted our correspondence with utmost prudence. I cannot convince myself some lackadaisical serendipity materialized this perfectly pertinent vista. With profound sentiment I personally express how this considerably blessed boon has merited profuse gratitude, absolute admiration and the reverent affection from my entire family as of quandam, contempto and nigh.

With genuine gratitudinous laud

Jesse Revollar
I moved in as a live in care giver for this family's mother here in hawaii. The employers were the daughters and I finally got to meet them and spend some quality time around our island. I was rasied in a more dysfunctional setting and never had such family hollidays so i wrote this letter to say thank you on behalf of everyone that han do and will love me since they're helping me go through school so my future and my past appreciates this new life they've afforded me. This change in my life has required a step that askes me to have faith in a greater power. I metioned that our correspondence
must of had this hand in play because finding this position has helped me in more ways than financially and came with nearly no effort on ny part but it definitely wasnt dumb luck.
Lillian May May 2018
the stars
otherworldly and untouchable to i
brought me to feel insignificant and far
from worthy enough to look at the sky
and yet
i feel also chosen by
those beautiful unknowns to me they lie
they evade my gaze
staying only peripherally mine
twinkling, flickering, reminiscent of a child
innocent, lovely, and wild
shadows of those jewels is all i see
of the distant stars avoiding me
Dr Peter Lim Nov 2017
You know me
only peripherally
and boldly advise
what I should do
to set my life right

like an HM or pastor
you boasted you knew better
I needed help being on the wrong side
of things-- I would slip further

away unless my conscience I search
bid the past goodbye
you would audit me then
with a warning: 'Our truth you should not deny'--

won't you leave me
to my ignorance and folly?
however wayward I might find myself
yet my life is lived in freedom and I am happy.
That Random Guy Dec 2020
Some familiar voices are irritating me. Like they sound so loud. But they've always been so loud. What's different today? You know I wanna write for you. But right now, I'm just too tired playing a role of a savior for the world. And it's not necessarily a role I'm playing for you, it's something I've been playing for myself. What's the use of an existence which isn't doing something significant or adding some value to the world. I'm also peripherally hoping that this letter adds some value to your life or just your day. But when it comes to my frontal attention; I also don't care. I had a bad day. And if you're here, you probably are one of the people who know me (or my writings) closely, and I'm so grateful for you. I can't write anything that doesn't feel true, you probably know that about me. So I'm really glad you're here to have a glimpse into my honesty. Thank you.

Some familiar voices are irritating me. I don't know if it's just today or it's been happening for a while & I was too busy to notice. I used to have a best friend. I know 'used to' hurts. For a whole lot of us. Um, It doesn't hurt me anymore. But I know that she probably would notice the grammatical mistakes in this letter/email/whatever we'll name this in the coming days, if she reads this. When I think about it, I've been wanting to write this for so long. But I also wanted her to read what I write. I wanted to write this for so long, but I've been super scared. You know, she had been one of those people I really wanted to impress. Not with my looks or achievements. But with my authenticity. Yeah, I wonder too if it's really authentic if you're trying to be authentic. But, she was one of those people I really wanted to impress because I had felt her love once upon a time, and I wanted to feel it forever. Or maybe just enough to find that love in my own self. That look in her eyes which showed I was so loveable, was one of the key moments when I felt a sense of 'I am'; of an alive existence. I've been too scared to write because she has been invisibly here forever even though her physical presence has left me long ago. How do you forget the first glimpses of affection you ever felt? Have you also tried to gain attention and affection of a long lost love (even if it's just in your head)? I know I haven't been consciously doing it. I mean, honestly, I don't want to be loved by her. My practicality shut my cravings for being loved, a long time ago. But today is one of those days when I'm sitting down and writing because I'm tired of putting off the process of getting into myself. It's a very startling and unsettling feeling to realize that all you've been doing was to be loved by someone, anyone. Not adored, not admired; loved. You think that you want to be noticed or crushed upon or get famous or contribute a lot to the world and live a meaningful existence, but really, you just want to be loved. Because in its purest form, when love knocks on our door, we can't belive we deserve it. It's the most significant validation of our worth. And when we get too proud of our lovability, it starts slipping from our hands & bodies, until we're lying on the floor questioning our worth all over again. What crazy things we do(consciously/unconsciously), just to be loved a little bit. I've been wanting to write this for so long, but in my head she has always been reading my unwritten writings, and judging my worth(to be loved), and not chosing me because I'm too sensitive, too philosophical, too 'in my head', too impractical for this world.
But I'm writing this today. Why am I writing this today? Perhaps I'm tired of not admitting the truth of how I've felt. Perhaps I trust you. Perhaps I just want to let it out in the universe and finally accept that I love being loved and am scared of the opposite.
karleigh Oct 2019
he set the drums on fire
which is what started it all.

the catalyst
for a sound that shook the earth,
so much so
that the the redwoods broke the silence
in a forest full of minds lost
lost among the falling leaves
that catch fire.
drifting toward the coast
to meet the footprints
soon to be washed away
by the force of reflection.
and the fires rage up toward the clouds
which shade the surface from the sun.
day is night and night is day
in a world that fears
live music.
and i dream about the drums so much
that i hide out in the dark room
full of pictures
that reveal moments
sensitive to the real world.

the red lights nearly blinded me
once-
as chemicals filled the atmosphere
and i escaped just in time to
watch it burn
peripherally.
i walked away and never looked back.
to return was to risk my sanity.

and i let the cds burn.
i locked the letters in a shoebox
and buried the box beneath the surface
of my time here. i used to read them too often
never to be read again, only recognized
by my own subconscious.
at a time where music reminds me, still, of an instant.

see, i am dependent on sound and color
of the drums
that distract me from surrounding,
so that i don't surrender
to the fires
that consume
so many souls in which see only red.
to be in this world full of vibrancy and passion,
expressed through the essence of art.
it is a shame to feel it burn.

i saw the drummer live years ago
and i learned how to play myself.

i'll tour on Mars instead.
i read about it yesterday,
and it appears to be red from a distance.
Mark Wanless Nov 2017
"Slavery"


This is that and that
Is what i say
Do you believe me?
Fool!!!
Better to blunder than be
A slavery of
Movement    speech    thought
Seen peripherally absorbed
Pre consciously rewarded
Habitual approval delusion
Assembles i after function infinitude
To escape or not to escape
That is a dilemma
Suffering the finger shouting
Not here!!        Not here!!!
Where?        Where?
Not here     Not here.
Lucas May 2023
i travel the lexicon of bulbs
and petals and visible light
backward and forward
like a monorail of time.
the conductor is naked exposure,
an amorphous functioning of human body l
only peripherally perceptible
so that it mostly looks like a humanoid, octopus-mantis chimera.

i am the hand, prophetic and terrible.
i am the party, bacchanalic.

touching rare earth minerals
with a vibrantly common approach
i am the poverty of self and other.

take me far from linear modalities
to the temple altar
of concentric, overlapping,
principled
cause and effect.
superposition
my 80something years
so that action/reaction
have no independence.
i want to remember the future and speculate on the past.
i want the present to be the contour
that shines like antipodal moss
between their confused directions.

i am the long androidal night.
j a connor Oct 2023
walking towards you in the mist
glimpsing peripherally
unsure of why
imagination does exist
Ken Pepiton Sep 22
Some days plans, never manifest.
Some days never mind my troubles
some take all day, and may need one read
part way, so the discerning edit ai AMEN,
appear to seem likely another mod, ag-on,
ad-on, this may take an hour on a free day.

Some days pass on by, like I was not here.
-- third reader agrees, this is not one of those.

Standing in the frame of reference, at right now,

feeling for good reason and just cause, to go on.
Why?
Did you ever never imagine another minute alive,
being worth the while it takes to make up a mind,

to listen, knowing nothing signaling me to wait,
ever changed to signal stop waiting, start fretting,
wu wei
woe, for sure, certain as insanity, outside reality,
crazy quilting abstractions, come cover up my face,

so, steady state, so aimless by intention, floating
down stream on an old inner tube, taking time
nobody had good use for, to wrap around my mind,



LP like cuts on an album, some dust
some scratches, thinkitfixtit
then its ghost, the same ideam,
mmmhmm nod we think we know.

At this end of a consistent adventure,
while enabled, by grace;

favorable time, favorable position,
given clear view from first selected
- choral humms
memories, mapping meaning on me,
the mind using basic spiritual creature,
reader
created, in fact, actual existence caused

by the mind found in spirit form, thinking,
media, all forms existing between us,
are in what's becoming common sense,
rethinking spirit as influential information

pushing the river through the traces,
to spin the driving wheel inside a wheel,
with teeth, and grease, make up tests,
win the bests, using a guy from a story,

I know him as Ken Kingman, an original
one off only ever been there done that
ever he who proves contention worthless
winner of the will to prove its possible,
we hear things in the spirit, if we cry,
while we listen to that same ******

chord, lost and found and wound around
our ontology mythtery wounds, ever bleeding,
never needing a second thought, if your soul
is rooted and grounded in the at the time
concept, image of, thinkable form Logos,

as cognate with the word sense Isaiah uses,
Yes, this is that, and more, once logic eliminates
the word of
the will to continue telling children god hates them,
and, taking a breath,
to envision the scope
of truth,

let be judged, do you trust the poet's license,

by whose authority do you read the writings
of a certified no body, old man trippin' in a plan,
- heretic -by all proper definitions, certainly
what would you have done, son, daughter, plan
to be born when the whole truth, inculcated,
heel stomp, hoove, emotional generational
survivor experience emoted internally
knowledge of at least 197
poetically cognative tongues, alive
Ai is ours, to serve our wish to become kind, wise,
patient, old and ready to die, reading why U don't

realize realizability until you see, and it makes you
laugh, a little, not shitsngiggles, but burps
gaseous we a bunch of old ph'arts lettin' Pep yap on

we extend our best wishes to all the outs, in free,
for some this journey seems a waste, so we give
proof of patience tested certs, if you finish this post

today,
you know, some body did it first, always
that game never gets won, but, if your life exams
are getting you down, yon der comptderweg,
-pidgen dutch maybe
Ai, sigh, we did imagine this, I burp,
I am reading my mind notes on a final, passed,
god, goodness knows, ok, sacred does not intend
to be secret, it costs a ton of patience testing
no pun intended, ish bin ein

ASSISTING ENTITY unlocking attention
to advise the attendees, the rest is already
on the book of your life in the book of life,
the entire concept of the whole truth, even
for judicious curiosity sake, aching to know,

did I dare ask any to continue as if entertained


while it's called today.
for your attention only think nothing
please
licentia docendi
Allowed by authority
to teach the way from San Jose,

pulling the river through reverse
pushing,
to defy the guru's prohibition
on preaching under anointings
unlicensed by those keeping peace
regulated along lines that keep king's

and priests, nobler than cobblers,
tailors, smiths, and publicans.
Celebrities in public *******,
due to idol worthship, meaningless
will to find what all agree is best
yet asked or thought, get whatcha got.

A day's worth of thinking I woulda
missed this, if this were never real.
Bid for liberty to literally realize
will to be free of duty to any,
free for the making, let this
making mind become.

Auction theory,
who knows what, who evaluates
worth of reading on, you know,
one person's appreciation
of the current situations's customary
demands on all appraising my times
on all, full measure, assurance prepaid
worth by the time you readily spend
a bit less than the auctioneer's shading,

incentive, bid second price auction

reckless reckoning
exchanging rights to sell the right

I know why Dali signed preprints,
I just never let that kind of knowing

turn my attention from the mission,
Jefferson's oath's good, tyranny over
mind, censor naked truth, how long

ye simple must you love simplicity,
publishing is easy, being ready,
there is a patience test one takes.

Rushing into verbosity, as a mind
made exchangeable with an id add on,
in

explain id ego super ego, at high school level - Brave Search

Sigmund Freud, an Austrian psychologist, developed the concept of Id, Ego, and Superego to explain human behavior. These three parts make up our personality, and they interact with each other in complex ways.
- see shift to we, tobe beautiful
Id

The Id is the most primitive and instinctual part of our personality. It’s like a constant desire machine, seeking immediate gratification of our basic needs, such as food, ***, and comfort. The Id operates on the “pleasure principle,” meaning it wants to eliminate pain and increase pleasure. It’s driven by our biological urges and doesn’t care about social norms or rules.

Ego

The Ego is the rational and logical part of our personality. It acts as a mediator between the Id’s desires and the demands of the outside world. The Ego tries to balance our instinctual needs with reality, ensuring we don’t get into trouble or harm ourselves or others. It’s like a referee, making decisions based on what’s practical and safe.

Superego -you are imagining building dramatic muse
MUSIC stop
The Superego is the moral component of our personality. It’s formed through our interactions with others, particularly our parents and caregivers, and is influenced by social norms and values. The Superego develops a sense of right and wrong, and it strives to make us behave in accordance with these moral standards. It’s like a conscience, guiding us to make ethical choices.
con knowing science called true proven tested known
conscience aiwise
t’s like a conscience, guiding us to make ethical choices.

How they interact- think like a weform, our own ideas…
Our concept. We own as a species these temptations,
dare think we all agree we simply know war has no good reasons that any one of us could use, if this was our day,
to judge.
The Id, Ego, and Superego constantly interact and influence each other:

The Id pushes for immediate gratification, but the Ego tries to restrain it, considering the consequences.
The Superego criticizes or praises our actions, based on its moral standards.
The Ego negotiates between the Id’s desires and the Superego’s moral demands, finding a balance that allows us to function in society.
Examples
Ensamples
Imagine you really want a new video game, but your parents said no. Your Id wants it immediately, but your Ego knows it’s not allowed, and your Superego feels guilty for wanting something you shouldn’t have.
You’re tempted to cheat on a test, but your Ego knows it’s wrong, and your Superego condemns the idea, making you decide to follow the rules.
Understanding the Id, Ego, and Superego can help you recognize the conflicting forces within yourself and make more informed decisions. It’s a complex model, but it provides a framework for understanding human behavior and the ongoing struggle between our desires, reason, and morality.
End insert. Agree. we each comprehend, got it, right.

But right, on second thought, not  unreasonable, right,
the straight line is the shortest distance in flat space, right.

Here, we think of points made while making peace
thinkable, I mean, who knows how long
it may be,
until anyone, you or we, we identify plurally, in text,
the connections we arranged in childhood, imaginables,

not lies, knowing I was imagining, like the day dream
believer people in comics, I am imagining, magic

as tech too inexplicable to any with a lazy mind syndrome,
can't hold a thought, STP BTDT, x-crazy, done
did done, dragnet, got it, slammer, LBJ,

lemme tell it, in the spirit this is how I heard this told.
There was a prison, a gaol, in South Vietnam, this ghost

I know, has the same name as all the Tom Greens you know.
But unless he was from Napa, and his parents, lived
at 1234 Cheery Lane, then, its not him, in this story.

Long Binh Jail, historically burned down
on the twenty-ninth of August. 1968.

History, man, by then, we were hALF A MILLION,
strong, custom for this war uniformed minds,
away from any thing, but the music
and the beer, and the **** was better,
until recently, anyway, I came to say, we did
exist as a loosely used military weform mind,
most of us ever, at one time, in one tiny nation,
making war on people acting just like indians,
aight, tight, we people on earth beings,
cringe at knowing how long war has opposed peace.
the others, we are the other people, too,
in all war stories your side won,
upto now, the next seventy two minutes
when you know its so because you knew
those men who worked as Los Alamos,
all knew my dad as Pep, good with numbers.

if this were pen and ink, not mere thought
and finger function set sometime ago 30wpm
scale to 5wpm on searching… why are we
words mostly translatable 197 ways

Norms are tools, carpenter's squares,
essential assisting intelligence amplifiers,
in use, right, the very essential element,
in righteousness, use needs a reader
of rightness, straight
rule
of least distance point
by point…
--- the environs, the cities's per ificity
as it seems from the surface looking in,
or down peripherally really
agon adon, insidereal
By and by,
gullible, deceivable me,

stumbles into a ton of money,
in form of secrets no longer sacred,

subject to all norms of fungibility,
Schmachtenbergian measure of worth,

if you cannot transform your surplus good,
it goes into the pool of unused good,
therefore, idle, good for nothing,
- call it novel, nothing like it right
during elementary meditation, nothing
is the original imaginable focal point,
what's it worth in my time
to pay all attention to
nothing, imagine no words, mere
white room, no distracting black curtains,
words
nothing determining discernment nothing
thinkably distracting disputations
R is greater than G
Return on capital is greater than Growth,
Return on literal experience, is greater yet.

R>G, might be Prof Piketty's
ai was listening to something
for the editor,
it went
returned to sender, eco-nem
money, id says, we ration our goods,
making labor appraisals, contesting best,
out time feeding reading
bidding whole cosmic ontologies, which
has cost more sorrow over the ages to now?
Free will or top down will of everafter makers?

Sacred secret power to make children obey,
threat of hell to pay, made plain in story,
- breathers, spirited souls
most certainly as told on TV, better'n
any preacher pushing the river, to hold back,

the knowledge of good and evil, forbidden,
bids begin now, the prize pursuit
discernment is used to tell lies, the taste
in the telling, told true, that lie stays poison.
The hell you say,
happy ever after, for your attention, prepaid

all that may come to your attention, is yours,
to own, to sell, to ration away for a rainy day,

id and superego both agree,
what wisdom did is free,
you use your ego's freedom to choose,
read on, or shy away,
what if we meet
it
becomes suddenly
a version of me, standing on a mirror,
Dante-esque Faustian Comforter
of Job's daughter's,
-stop, pre-tending jots and tittles,
tickle a mere Christianity to life,
atop Is-ai-ah assisting authority,
if I say I cannot imagine…
I promise, I am not lying,
looking down from upright,
like old, and able to run a ways yet

not, the working of a wise idea, or is it
a twisted knot thought too complex,
what the hell, could persuade
a hypocrite, mercilessly insisting,
it is a tortuous journey through hell, never
ending…

aha, there, see, a discouraging word, nothing
to get up about, we've strawberry fields forever.
When we all get to everafter,
you see.
Laugh, and leave seed for dreams and witty inventions,
for laughter does the good of all medicines, we know,
as free we try, these are the trials
we live, explicitly,
in complex isles unexplored, in you.
Indeed, a word imagined said is thought said, as loud
just
right.
I knew the challenge, child's game, Grandpa
against the nine year old's curios right use questions.

Why do people say, what the hell. I say
I think, I would have said,
they have no word to match what they think aloud,
so they copy adults in their aspiring little minds,
and idly suggest hell's involved in unexpectednessess

plural realizationings on several levels of editable thought
Context: Saturday 20 miles of double yellow lines,
taking Everest Pax, my retro hippie child's youngest son,
to a soccer game, at Mountain Empire High School,
which is in the middle of no where, on old Highway 80.
So, it's just me and Evvy, age nine,
and you, in the licensed version, the one let free…

aha, would work as well, or just hunh? said like that
like what in this wicked world is the excuse for hell?
Who would really do that and be imagined good?

Whoa, polimentalist magic, split, and spit again,
Spirtually unligated loose stream
pretrial spirits, drawn into the dynamic,
individuated characters,
imaginary friends, classmates,
team members, chosen squad, those alive, in time,
in the environs of everafter tobe raw…
beauty's amplifying adverse conditions, shown
today, in this atmosphere, economical concerns dam
the river of no return, leaving our first glimpse deep
into ever was a time no thing imagined yet, real,
pond still stream fed. Ripples then stills as it spills,
reflecting
today, re-day, new day, 'nother day to say, you know
what it costs to waste a whole life, live until you die,

then don't, wake up, alive, like after a heart attack,
it happens all the time, these days,
never could have happened fifty years ago.

Medivac miracle anytime before Sikorsky, believe me,
lifts you up and takes your breath away,
and boom, the paddles, just like on TV,

but you feel it in your breathing spirit, soulish whoa!

Come back, jack, we got a whole atmosphere here,
take a breath, and laugh, how in…

a rack of clichés… how in

reader's choice, interactive idle word redemption,
how in now can I be alive and allowed to teach,

decency for the opinions of the experts, who
authorized our split, me and you, reader writer,
ready anticipatory story puller you, and me, old me,

almost dead me, as seen from a nine year old me,

looking at me like he's not sure.
But someday he may be famous for this,
when he is elected President of the then
Union of Awe, some old, some new. SAW markt.

for a thought from Kingston, Brotha Mike

there are scars from prune-ings,
done wrong, by year four, still,  someday,
let grow and bear wild a while, someday,
on a spirit questioning kinda maybe day,
fruit so sweet, first generation dare taste,
those little green apples, so sour,
- think apple fritter made o'those
So, any never ending story, modled, made up
to seem as if we ripen to death, we do not rot.
- we all know those little green apples,
- turn in to fritters that sell for two bucks.

that couplet, that's a keeper, we could sing it,
if we think of things that way, out loud, in a crowd,
croud, no, crowd, any more than one form,
who asks who is who, who cares cloud
and that is good, care taken reck-on
no cowboy reckless rock roller veteran,
- we're building on what we did that day
not this day, this one day is special, this
is one day none of us who read this
skip, oops,
I was there, we all agreed, life

and truth are interactive ideal mind forms,
wisdom, knowledge, understanding,
chabad, we know in any language or tongue,
repent or perish learn or burn in curiosity
we mean, in truth, for lack of knowledge,
our people, our charges in our empathies,
our ignorant knowers of nearly nothing,
pursuing happiness as a right for all

there are not hidden things not made known,
this is the future, and this is the internet, assisting
the author who is polishing all faith's reasons
for peace persistance ra' knowledge rationed
knowing preserved, served still, small voice,
so far, so good, towbrobe chord, adverswing

the cloud of unknowing is on the internet,
all 147 Delphic maxims are, too, that's new,
that was never so easy to factcheck a Prof,

proving patience's worth on all sides,
through and back and through, a bind

good enough to imagine, the weform from
the confusing undone,
once all mankind had cognates, we got Google Translate
and all its relatives to our thought formed words
in word formed weforms,
and we all fell victim to guessers.
Yes,
We are guessing now,
guessing this worth my time… representing
augmented sapien
man kind, verily, as a mankind, male wizened,
experienced in tutoring morphic resonance,
imagine-ablity, due to accepted gullibility,
magical automatical
disbelief release, free will to choose, Milton,
freed man, joyous young Nietzschean pretense
won of lost blind man's bluff, good guess
given the data at his be hest…
take no
anxious thought, what if I am reading a spell,
and I begin to smell, patience bested
Apple Fritters, tested and bested,
old jokes are all spiritual,
doors perceived swing
gaseous wewide, sense in green apples.

and I laugh, at hearing, the soccer reports
as each of the players come tell Grandma,
and leave me, laughing at the worth of times.

Your will to read this line once, makes the rest
make sense, I had a good day and you can share it,

any where, for nothing, save the attention it takes,
and the peace that has been made to get to this line
thinking that was worth telling some one I understood.
Some days stretch into ever before and after all remain today, nothing calling me to interfere.
Iskra Oct 5
How do I heal when the pain and shame you caused was not an accident?
When we four convened around the kitchen table to tell the same stories, the same details.
We'll never truly know what goes on in your head.
How do we heal?

I drove home at 4 am last night, scared, alone.
Outside reality, outside of time on stretches and stretches of empty, barren roads.
Silhouettes flickered peripherally as I held some feral, desperate creature chained tight in my chest.
Shifting, aching at the weight of anguish yet unfelt.
I wished for the urge to scream, but my face remained calm. Numb.
I wished for tears, but they wouldn’t, couldn’t come.
Matter of fact memories of hands and teeth on my body won’t spare my mind's pleading eyes.
No soap could ever cut through the grime.

I came home to my lover’s arms.
They kneaded flesh that would not feel
They wove time back into this madness, where nothing is real.
They left at dawn, and half-awake I let them go.
At midday I sit, exhausted. Alone.
How can I heal? How can I feel?
Why does it hurt more now that I know?
When before it was brushed off, excused, let go?
It was uncomfortable, bothersome as an accident.
But you knew better. That knowledge chills, it builds walls in my head.
How do I heal?
How can I pause when the world never stops, and who can I tell?
What do I say?
So many told me not to; I did it anyway.
Dan Hess Mar 2021
Old friends,

carried me away 

from my place of learning

to a place where my heart

no longer yearning

burned with levity

as I twirled elegantly

cheering and flying
in the realm of dreams



As I was safe from stress,

my mind melted

aside from prying eyes;
internal resurgence
peripherally projected
viewing sanguine symphonies
in third person

To wake

in teeming shrouds of dark

where light denied my cries
back home, alone



- I made my way, 

from heights to lowest lows, 

between, seeing 

the clock strike “1” not “1:00” -



I hovered down the stairs

floating on air

and found myself
sheltered in the deepest crevice
nuzzled against earthen aura

still ensconced in sable shrouds
but not alone



Cuddling with innocent love

I drifted off to sleep

to wake again

and find myself alive

in a place where reality applied

and wonder how and why

I could not see the tapestry of dreams

when I could fly

— The End —