Balance.  What a charged and pregnant word.

Balance.  Common in our daily vernacular
but void of it's innate and innermost meaning

Balance - what do you see?
The Golden scales of antiquity?

What a dichotomous lie
For Balance is multi-planar, multi-dimensional
Multitudes of exponential, fractal-like branches
Hanging from the largest trunk of the largest tree with the largest network of life-providing roots spreading in all directions at once like a wild-fire with unlimited fuel

Balance.  It's perfectly symmetrical reflection
Only distorted by the waters of our perception
Thrives and simultaneously strives for connection
Connection to the mirrors of eternity
The pristine, naked, flesh-covered bodies of pure vulnerability, set free to explore this spherical dream

Balance is a friend, but left unseen, reaching for our touch without so much of a glance towards it's arduous efforts to bond with the deep dwelling dreams of Souls,
Balance can be distorted, as the tree is, in the ripples of our confused and distracted minds.

Crack!  A branch breaks.
Balance falters, catches itself and picks up its severed limb - a sacrifice, for the greater good.  The only good.

Crack!  Another branch breaks.
Balance steps to redistribute it's misaligned weight
A sacrifice, for the greater good.  The only good.

A fitting mantra.

Crack!  Crack!  Crack!  Branches breaking back to back
Plummeting to the cold hard ground.
This sudden decay is too much to handle
The limbs of this great tree, the greatest amongst all cannot regrow at the speed at which the others wither

Ironically, balance is now imbalanced

Shaking, desperately grasping the ground with its roots  to stay upright, at the very least, to remain present, persistent, possible, but, most importantly, present
Present for those vulnerable naked bodies to one day glance past their distorted waters and into the depths of what truly is...

A force, so strong, so humble, so forgiving reaching out through it's remaining, fatigue-strewn branches in a dire need to make contact with the branches of our mortality

When branches unite, as they shall, as they always do from time to time,
Imbalance is washed away as waves wash the shore
And Balance emerges from the distorted waters, now retreating, pulled by the tide of self-awareness

Perfectly, our fingers fill the gaps of our grief-stricken but eternally determined ally and meet with it's tender stumps, the necessary wounds of time
A fusion of worlds meld the two together in a forge as hot as the sun but as nourishing as a mother's touch

Balance, in all it's glory, sewn to us through the channels of our consciousness is now, truly, and undeniably,

Balanced.


- Brian Patrick Williams
11/13/2013

Pretty Princess, primped in pink, never really stops to think about the idiocy she spews on a daily basis.  The dog cowers in the corner, afraid to be faced with her scarily unchaste, omniscient hands.  She certainly possesses a vast knowledge of the canine race QUICK, before the vet arrives, act in haste, lest the dog be victim to her knowledgeless, black-hold gaze!

Pretty Princess, never faulting, ever daunting, continues the endless flaunting of her limitless skill.  Planar geometry and collegiate calc are no problem for the persistent resident Isaac Newton, who scribbles phony calculations and bogus numerations on a Hello Kitty scratch pad.

Pretty Princess works by the candlelight of her over-bright, tower-tall, double-wide lamp and paces across her pink and purple flower-*** rug as she fantasizes about the greasy local pint-size **** who’s oh-so dreamy in his Nike cut-off dishrag.  From her desk, she scrawls the inane on a beat up, college ruled, blue-green, hand-painted notebook, for all to see, but none to name.

Pretty Princess is unstoppable, tearing through the grocery aisle where Earl Grey and Einstein fall into place betwixt bacon, sausage, and salmon paste, and then for show, she takes the liberty of becoming the resident nutritionist, which here means “amateur ‘botchulist’”, as she tells us what we’re doing wrong.

Pretty Princess keeps a hidden diary wherein are written all her fiery rants and new to-hit lists, saving space for all the boys she wants to kiss and yes, even room a tear stain or six BUT, she claims, it doesn’t exist.

Pretty Princess is afraid of her secrets, afraid of leaking them to the outside world where that entire girl would become just another whirl in the machine of elementary girls’ gossip.  That unrelenting pack of wolfish half-wit rug-rats, teeth bared and armed with magic hands, would seize the Princess in their dastardly plans BUT, they say, it’s only for a single day that Pretty Princess is robbed of her dramatic time at play.

Pretty Princess is unheard outside her environment, her voice never reaches above the casement of the teacher’s oblivious predicament because she’s completely preoccupied with the class’s rampant evil stride of impending doom.  The classroom bully sits, high atop his throne, and from his face is evil shown only to those who know how to see it.

Pretty Princess knows how to see it.

Pretty Princess comes home crying more often than not, misunderstood by her snotty, hot-headed teacher or “witchess”, and storms to her room in haste, leaving Mother to pick up the pace, lest the wrath of a pre-teen girl blow up in her face BUT, much to her disbelief and in some sense a strange relief, the truth comes out.

Pretty Princess just wants to be heard.

All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—

Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation

Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons

Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate

No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing

A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation

Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.

Alright,
I'm standing
in a rain soaked field
looking due North at the
stacked glorious nothing.

And the vapid brands that
stamped and covered these walls
are an echo of their vibrant
former hues.  

The people drive round
and down trying to get
to their brown house maybe.
The parking lots are planar
grey graves, commemorating
the former lives of the

ghosts of shopping malls past
dying ghosts of shopping malls past.

Right on, I'm
walking through the Holocaust
memorial with my coat buttoned
to my throat.  The dying lights of
the Sharper Image really makes
a mockery of what they left.

There is the shell of a Banana Republic.
There's Old Navy, Gamestop, Footlocker
Shoes.  This is the food court where I hit
on that girl who ended up being as
forgettable as a food court meal.

Okay,
now I'm
looking out just one mile south at the
excavators pushing the dirt and the rock
Digging into land bought by the City,
to build up a new store or twenty

This new real estate is assured to
bring "vibrancy" to our local economy.
Those old stores aren't the right location
so let's just leave, they never existed and

a single family of mallards swim is
circles in Yorkshire Lake.  Calmly watching
as the engines get closer, not really expecting
their time is over to bring in the future of

the ghosts of shopping malls past.
Another ghost of shopping malls past.

"Abre sua aversão;
Eis que um nauta fala:
- Mestre, vês somente sofrimento no amor?
- O amor pode conter fuligem e até mesmo grasnar, porém uma vez sentido é como parcel:
não se desfaz fácil dentro do peito.
E mesmo que nos faça presente o basto e dorido retrocesso, o medo,
infindável de obstruir a todo esse amor, mais infindável é o anelo que o amor causa-nos.
Estamos sobre escombros, mas o amor é como papelotas angelicais…
Desce ondulado cheio de idas e vindas, corrupiando até a estabilização.
O amor é granívoro, come pequenas as sementes dos defeitos nossos,
belo como o grande milhafre-preto a planar no céu.
É como a retriz que sente o vento a tocar, é o ósculo entre o paraíso e a imensidão.
Oco somos antes de amar.
Somos como o barril quebrado sem vinho, esperando que o tanoeiro nos venha resgatar.
Encher-nos a transbordar.
Ouça o execrável grito do ódio, sendo cancelado pelo dulçor deste imenso sentimento.
Ouça o esfolar dos descrentes, incorpóreos.
O amor é um reverbrar eterno de luz em cada alma,
é a calma, e a batida de cada pulsação.
Não se pode obstrui-lo, ou excluí-lo da vida,
pois ela o traz em cada vibração.
Como um frincha encontrada dentro de nós,
convertendo aos poucos cada problema em solução.
Transformando o ingrato em um romântico facúndio,
criando paz em meio a escuridão"

A vida é o jogo de emoções total,
É jogo sem regras, sem costumes,
Quando a temos, muito formal,
São mediações de perfumes!

Mas se eu não gosto afinal,
Ou se eu amo meu amigo,
Sentimento é ser informal
Importante se o consigo!

As misturas de regras são vagas,
As vagas de sentir, são viver,
E assim afinal, planar e dizer,
Te amo ou odeio, faz cócegas!

Sentimentos não são de dizer,
Palavras, não sentem o que fazer,
Carinhos, toques, gestos, são prazer!

É assim, um cheiro a perfume natural,
Sentimentos, são trocas de atenção,
Quem nunca sentiu chegar no plural?
Sentimentos, são energia no coração!

E assim sempre vou mostrar meus sentimentos, sejam duros, suaves ou possantes! É isto a natureza informal de eu chegar, junto de todos aqueles que no fundo, eu considero!
Autor: António Benigno
Código de autor: 2013.07.25.02.11

Sinto o meu corpo voar como um passarinho,
Nos teus braços, sinto conforto do nosso ninho!
Os teus olhos, são a alegria do meu caminho,
E quando chego a ti, sinto mesmo o teu carinho!

Sinto-me a planar no ar como uma pena,
A energia que vem de ti, me é tão amena,
O teu perfume cor de energia tão plena,
Teu abraço único é meu, querida Liliana!

Nada é igual a ti, à tua doce presença,
Tua imagem, sempre uma boa lembrança,
Respiro melhor, estes sonhos de criança,
A vida contigo, é agora a melhor aliança!

Sinto-me tão grande no teu aconchego,
Sinto-me vaidoso da tua companhia,
Sinto a tua presença com muita alegria,
Beijo teu, eu vejo e logo de vontade, pego!

Esta noite eu vou deitar-me alucinado,
Descanso sobre a almofada apaixonado,
É tão leve minha consciência, abobadado,
Vénia pela noite a teu ser, por mim amado!

Autor: António Benigno
Código de autor: 2013.07.23.02.08

In the temple built from straw,
humanity gives way to something animal.
Primal chanting of age of songs
and the hypnotic undulating of carnal dance
mark that spirits of the eldest
have arrived from their planar journey.

In the temple built from wood,
baubles have been blessed by the watcher.
Portraits crying oil, and statues carved from ivory
that slurp up spoonfuls of goat's milk.
Even the patron's tongues are sacred;
spouting the language of the birds.

In the temple built from stone,
all entrances have been sealed from view.
The scriptures are now so sacred
that they resonate only within these walls.
Soothing secrets for the selected pious
who give God their gold so graciously.

In the temple of the wolf
there is but one parishioner present.
No doors, no floors, no walls or ceilings;
just keen eyes and a mind unclouded.
Breathing and dreaming worship
within his body most holy.

Stasis to stasis,
stations of the cross
lost in a basement
beneath some planar baseline.

I hate time.

I'd rather daisy chain rhymes
like claymores arranged
in gateways;
bouquets of daffodils
and baby's breath
on a grave.

Slain means dead,
they say.

They say a lot of things.

I've dipped my brain into arcane,
The power from another agent.
The power to become a saint,
Such sanity begets contagion.

My mind is split across the planar,
I see beyond what has transpired,
No fear, or smear, or peers to cheer with.
I see the end, and it is near.
My friend, I knew that you would come.
This work we've done, it led us down this path.
Our minds were one, our paths were some,
We reached too high and turned awrath.
I stand above, yet still you lurk,
I have become a perfect being.
My mind is flawless magic clockwerk,
I am a part of everything.

And in a single hurricane
No vain, no gain, no strain, no pain.

The world has gone. The puppetmaster
I have become and raised disaster.

I won. In victory- defeated,
Mistaken was in chosen path.
I see you, friend from world we lived in
And giveth you this sacred chance.

A genius that is mistaken
Is dangerous, but lies therein
A chance for mind to reawaken
From its misguided faulty dream.
A genius is but a starter
That still may choose a stupid path.
It's wisdom, friend, that makes us smarter,
Not knowledge of unclear past.

The world will end, I send you inwards,
In loop that threatens to unwind
With you, my friend, becoming victor;
Forgive shortsightedness of mine.
Our understanding was... distorted.
We stand together, now- as equals,
Our brotherhood, once more, restored,
We stare into the vast abyss.
When deed is done, I'll wait you here,
We've got so much we've to discuss
Before we get to disappear
Into the void amidst the stars.

I hope there'll be a variation
Of us within these mystic planes
To wisely propagate creation
And get to understand arcane.

alone.
Stateless space,
the world wide web of stateless space,
mapped to my mind,
my own mind, with its grand library of knowns
guessed about by other minds I may,
if I will, if I am moved to, I can soak up the spill

spilling, spewing from the reservoir
of all men may know, given
a state of rest.

Take a cookie, a reward for leaving, allowing,
letting me pound a peton in the anterior
wall of the canyon-like sulci down into
-- wait
the sulci is a wrinkle, not a canyon carved from
upstream material being squeezed
through a crack in the outer
shell, the cortical planar surface of my brain

I am alone
again, stateless selfless one all in my image
otherwise we,
when we re
sonate, ring my chime, save me by the bell curve

autism,
give me a place on your spectrum of value.
Outism,
give me an in, open a window, or a door,
breakdown a wall,

love me with reason, or leave me alone.

Listen, meaning list as list is meant in states,
stateless
situations de-ify meaning as destinated metadata
left in cookies,
rewarding the meme in you from the mind of
Jim Henson and friends.

The friends from the nursery that is not real.
Not here, but there
on Sesame Street, which I thought was in San Jose.

Yes, I have a picture of the time, a state saved
in a long list of symbols, each a cookie,
with reference to a U R L

universe
re-source {or resourcing}
locator... refer to google, should you lose my way,

some sharper turns are available here where
physics is protognosis,
after
life is meta allathat, now is as now as ever was or
ever shall be.

Neither luck nor physics stand to block this flow through
nada
zilch, stateless space, as good as grace, no guile,
innocent - non- nascent

stateless. Not even a Turing machine in sight and then
what should appear?
as we see, we get
a state where any imaginable machine may be
with us as a - whatever

here we be, re a ranged, or dered, idiot tic tic tic ti esti
whoa.

You and the horse you rode in on.
This is my own state of grace, and you are welcome.
If you know what I mean,
welcome, here, my state of grace, where I bake all the cookies
I could ever wish for,
that was the wish,
circumstances complied with, layer after layer of complexity,
eventually,

we pause, selah. These days coming into an oasis with
cookies waiting to settle you into
default mode, commonly sensed, distant sounds
that would be
noise,
were their source inside your mind or head or heart or wh
at ere what or where, where
noises are all delusional, used to fit allusions to former illusions.

Welcome.

I’m Triaxial,              
In geometry,          
This X, Y, and Z…              
Caged by coordinates–          
So planar, unfree          

And time’s forward flow,          
Just won’t let me go,                
It’s sometimes too fast…  
Then, relatively too slow  

There’s a down direction,              
That pulls with oppression,    
Gravity’s fixed force–      
A constant compression

When force is innate,
I’m stuck at it’s rate,
Sunken and buried,
By pressurized weight

And, in this void,
Nothing’s destroyed,
Change is the constant,
From which all is deployed

While my perception,
Is a small projection,
Of fundamentals,
Below our detection

I myself am just an extension
Of laws beyond comprehension…
I’m suffocating, blind
Stuck here, in this **** Third Dimension

and sometimes, you
are like starlight, for you fade
with the colours of the dawn,
and only when quiet reigns—when
shadow overtakes shadow, when
adoration slumbers in golden, curled chambers—
do you arise; spinning, and just discernible,
you reflect on charred and distorted surfaces,
sometimes curving, sometimes eclipsed and
forgotten.

to be unmade, to arise from the
planar and float in myriads indescribable:
the object of your temperate love.

Perhaps, the salts that seed the seas
can through some scientific discovery
find a way to be released
giving us more bodies of water
to safely drink.

Perhaps the oceans will give up
their dark and deep secrets,
life undiscovered,
resources never plundered
now available to study.
Movements barely encumbered for
non-bipedal bodied intelligences
in a water world of three d multi planar motions.
Sonic vocalizations interpreted,
while untold depths of water and consciousness
are unlocked in this pursuit.

Perhaps space will put us on the way
seeing time try to escape
as we to attempt to run away
from the only true fate.
Will we find dimensions diffusing
like a permeable membrane, or
like cells stacked upon one another
while black hole balances matter
between both realities,
or merely two extreme distances
beyond our perceptions in this universe,
swallowing light and time in one place
and spewing it out in another?

Perhaps, in the learning
we will see
that the fruitless pursuit
of disparate identities
is a dangerous delusion,
that the confusion and schisms
created in competition
is the creator of greater cataclysms.

But when we are able to work together,
when we finally understand
the philosophy of that long dead Star Trek man,
“Infinite diversity in infinite combinations
equal infinite possibilities”
we will realize that we have
the opportunity to fulfill
an unquantifiable potential.

I bought from Staples earlier today
November 18th, 2024
cuz the the older one malfunctioned.

Said older generation mouse sported
a rather extensive "mouse cable,"
one end of which ended
in a standard connector
namely a USB (Universal Serial Bus),
which plugged into the Macbook Pro computer.

Though the aforenamed laptop
equipped with a small square panel
containing different touch-sensitive areas
linkedin with cursor movement.

I much prefer to manipulate
that amazing hand-held device
detecting two-dimensional motion,
and translates "planar motion"
into cursor movement,
and yours truly (me) particularly elated
after quickly jimmying electronic
palm size pièce de résistance
to function without a hitch.

As part of an ARPA-funded experiment
to find better ways for computer users
to interact with computers,
Douglas Engelbart of SRI—
who would later work
on the DARPA-sponsored
ARPANET project,
the Internet's precursor—
invented the computer mouse.

Perhaps growing up
and attending public school
within Lower Providence, Pennsylvania
where quaint accoutrements
like blackboard and chalk
(and a daily volunteer -
ofttimes a teacher's pet - NOT ME
(hashtagged as a pestilence)
satisfactorily wiped the slate clean
for another day).

Matter of fact, I barely completed
twelve years of education,
where cribbed writing of mine
wrote illegible scratch marks
(mostly drawing blanks),
when examinations got handed out.

In retrospect, the much younger me,
(whether as a little boy, prepubescent,
older teen, and even as an emerging adult)
lived a quite sheltered life totally oblivious
to any danger field), and allowed, enabled
and provided himself to be mollycoddled
much against the objection
of a father and mother, and even myself,
whose pledge of allegiance
to passive aggressive behavior
wore patience thin

toward their singular male offspring,
whose unnatural control
of his (mine) spontaneity
in tandem with suppressed healthy predilections
essentially stunted emotional, mental
and physical growth and maturation.
Ofttimes, especially when trying to coax
extemporaneous good humor
constituting mine introspective mien
synonymous with mean during little boy

(think quintessential generative
artificial intelligence realm
where chatbot accidentally waxes philosophical
randomly and unthinkingly
displaying creative binary agility )
surfaces to level of consciousness
a mindset awakens
(particularly when attempting to evince
a playfulness crafting literary endeavors)
analogous to the impetuousness of a child,
whose innovative spirited "joie de vivre."

I can only pass on a fraction
of what I see and understand.

This language is a helper,
a cleaner, sharper,
sometimes meaner
gardener
that wants to trim
my branches
and clear the whims
and fancies
that I like to play in.

But there is so much more
than what I am writing and saying,
these letters and lines
are not fully portraying
the games I am playing
in my head to get a better grasp on
what is really going on
in this human situation.

When I am well-rested,
the best is all around,
all sights and sounds,
skin sensations,
but not smells
cause I can’t tell
one scent from another.

There are worlds that transcend
the energies we spend
trying to comprehend them;
Not magical realms
or fairytale fantasy lands
just undiscovered countries
of knowledge that man
has yet to get to.

When I look at you,
I see an unknown quantity,
family history,
strange ancestry
going back to
a gross glowing goo
that went through
so much to get to
become the full wonder that you are.

I see mental calculations,
physical exertions in repetitions
and multi planar movements,
a magnitude of observations,
and opportunities that were neglected
because you let your mind and body
redirect you from truths scientific.

I see the poetry of experiences
written on your skin,
reflected in your muscles,
and the wrinkles when
you are smiling.

When I am driving
listening to audiobooks
podcasts, or music
I use all of it,
try to imagine new
and inverted ways
to say what I want to convey
passing on what makes us great
and what I hate
about the human race.

But there is just so much,
and I don’t always have
the patience to write that way.

_dogs bark in the shape of unsure gunfire as motorbikes growl by and
rain pills-up the blackened planar earth//like an old.favorite gone through far too many washcycles// .breakfast at midnight, they say- ******* the air with hissing tailpipes in the cool repose of darkness.
⚠️begone, foul steeds,the dogheart demands - knowing well, the falsification of instinct in this place.
it’s a new brand image we worship now!it’s a new pantheon of thinly veiled threats!
everything that’s been promised!it’s good for it-but just
put it on the company
card


.

Aerial telemetry of incident
Without response
Radio down
"Homeless death metric"
California Women's Legislative Caucus
Prisoners
Air Force Coms down for the night

Liberty is gone in thousand oaks California
Glendale please stand by

Army journalist

Supposedly

Bystander Effect news

My Hudson Hawk will fly me away

If you knew Susie like I know Susie
Oh what a gal
What a future she presented
But I'm public
In a parlor

The tri state failed the tri counties California

Admirable leave, granted pass
Remain at front
Dispatch home
Stateside account
Continental breakfast served well enough
During, the war
Economy exchange is
Brought in and out of China gate

Ag shares
Agricultural planar development
Interior corridor gates closed

Adjourning
A turn
Page attorney General Reserve

Local coordinator French Polynesian perhaps African comforting sight on seen

Flat mapped southern level boards out from railroad

On this plane out scoop scenes a resist of photosynthetically mirrored mirage o waiting lift over

Naming special forces in silent drop net

net
#systemofadown #kendricklamar #jennahaze #tarynmanning #kendalljenner #repbrownley #mikeytaylor #mayorofla #nytimes #latimes

Tom your aviators?

Far and away the best silent pitch in the surfing business

Pleasure Jeff

Atrache from Peace Time Major General David Conboy
That's my little brother
Welcome to cloudfare research gentlemen

Have a typo

Virginia
State of Residence at Time of Collection Donation
Virginia
Headings
-  Conboy, Craig C.
-  Vietnam War, 1961-1975 -- Personal Narratives
-  United States. Navy.
Form
DVD
Extent
1 item
Repository
Veterans History Project, American Folklife Center, Library of Congress


Gender
Male
Status
veteran
Service History
Vietnam War, 1961-1975
Branch of Service: Navy
Service Unit/Ship: 1st Battalion, 26th Marine Regiment, 9th Marine Amphibious Brigade
Location of Service: Vietnam
Highest Rank: Senior Chief Hospital Corpsman
Dates of Service: 1961-1989
Entrance into Service: Enlisted
Military Status: veteran

We been on Napoleon a while boys

The quip was the illiterate blip needed a physician
We could historian that as well

Marine’s career spans thr...
U.S. Marine Corps photo by Nathan L. Hanks Jr./Released 150409-M-UF252-196.JPG

Apr 9, 2015

Sgt. Maj. Kevin Conboy (right), sergeant major, Headquarters Group, Marine Corps Logistics Command, receives the Legion of Merit from Lt. Col. Adrian Cleymans, executive officer, Marine Depot Maintenance Command, and retiring official, during his retirement ceremony, April 9. The ceremony was held at Marine Corps Logistics Base Albany's Major S. P. “Swede” Hansen Officers’ Lounge.

Kevin's a popular branch

The saying of my fold, goes
In the keep of intelligent office
Out with

I'm
When the moon hits your eye
Like a big piece of pie
That's fide et amore

Just like pasta fazul
That's fide et amore

Fear my quill
Fide et amore
Assorted Strings as Chords

Geneovese's Harp
Nuovo

You take Belfast
To Shepard's messa
Gianmaria Tests is waiting

Gian
Guigellmo
Performs on his robot
Friend before sharing

Friend before sharing
#tomcruise #writersguildwest #kendalljenner #jeffschogol #therealnoahwyle #anthonyedwards #leonardodicaprio #alpacino40 #evawebgreen #megan

How soap of Spain leaves strings

C'mon Kevin we teach them again
Of stand and deliver
Nuovo
In a five I because the teacher

There a word is small
In my Irish ink he says silent

The scene captures the comfort of time
In her coat