Through airy roads he wings his instant flight
To purer regions of celestial light;
Enlarg’d he sees unnumber’d systems roll,
Beneath him sees the universal whole,
Planets on planets run their destin’d round,
And circling wonders fill the vast profound.
Th’ ethereal now, and now th’ empyreal skies
With growing splendors strike his wond’ring eyes:
The angels view him with delight unknown,
Press his soft hand, and seat him on his throne;
Then smilling thus: “To this divine abode,
“The seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God,
“Thrice welcome thou.”  The raptur’d babe replies,
“Thanks to my God, who ******’d me to the skies,
“E’er vice triumphant had possess’d my heart,
“E’er yet the tempter had beguil d my heart,
“E’er yet on sin’s base actions I was bent,
“E’er yet I knew temptation’s dire intent;
“E’er yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt,
“E’er vanity had led my way to guilt,
“But, soon arriv’d at my celestial goal,
“Full glories rush on my expanding soul.”
Joyful he spoke: exulting cherubs round
Clapt their glad wings, the heav’nly vaults resound.
  Say, parents, why this unavailing moan?
Why heave your pensive bosoms with the groan?
To Charles, the happy subject of my song,
A brighter world, and nobler strains belong.
Say would you tear him from the realms above
By thoughtless wishes, and prepost’rous love?
Doth his felicity increase your pain?
Or could you welcome to this world again
The heir of bliss? with a superior air
Methinks he answers with a smile severe,
“Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there.”
  But still you cry, “Can we the sigh borbear,
“And still and still must we not pour the tear?
“Our only hope, more dear than vital breath,
“Twelve moons revolv’d, becomes the prey of death;
“Delightful infant, nightly visions give
“Thee to our arms, and we with joy receive,
“We fain would clasp the Phantom to our breast,
“The Phantom flies, and leaves the soul unblest.”
  To yon bright regions let your faith ascend,
Prepare to join your dearest infant friend
In pleasures without measure, without end.

'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb
Ascending, fires th' horizon: while the clouds,
That crowd away before the driving wind,
More ardent as the disk emerges more,
Resemble most some city in a blaze,
Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,
And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,
From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field.
Mine, spindling into longitude immense,
In spite of gravity, and sage remark
That I myself am but a fleeting shade,
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance
I view the muscular proportion'd limb
Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pair,
As they design'd to mock me, at my side
Take step for step; and, as I near approach
The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall,
Prepost'rous sight! the legs without the man.
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep
Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents,
And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest,
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine
Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad
And fledg'd with icy feathers, nod superb.
The cattle mourn in corners where the fence
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait
Their wonted fodder; not like hung'ring man,
Fretful if unsupply'd; but silent, meek,
And patient of the slow-pac'd swain's delay.
He from the stack carves out th' accustom'd load,
Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft,
His broad keen knife into the solid mass:
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,
With such undeviating and even force
He severs it away: no needless care,
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile
Deciduous, or its own unbalanc'd weight.

...

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume,
And we are weeds without it. All constraint,
Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes
Their progress in the road of science; blinds
The eyesight of discovery, and begets,
In those that suffer it, a sordid mind
*******, a meagre intellect, unfit
To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Thee therefore, still, blameworthy as thou art,
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd
By public exigence till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free,
My native nook of earth! . . .

...

But there is yet a liberty unsung
By poets, and by senators unprais'd,
Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs
Of earth and hell confederate take away;
A liberty which persecution, fraud,
Oppression, prisons, have no pow'r to bind;
Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more.
'Tis liberty of heart, deriv'd from Heav'n,
Bought with his blood who gave it to mankind,
And seal'd with the same token. It is held
By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath
And promise of a God. His other gifts
All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his,
And are august, but this transcends them all.

...

'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb
Ascending, fires th' horizon: while the clouds,
That crowd away before the driving wind,
More ardent as the disk emerges more,
Resemble most some city in a blaze,
Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,
And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,
From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field.
Mine, spindling into longitude immense,
In spite of gravity, and sage remark
That I myself am but a fleeting shade,
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance
I view the muscular proportion'd limb
Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pair,
As they design'd to mock me, at my side
Take step for step; and, as I near approach
The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall,
Prepost'rous sight! the legs without the man.
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep
Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents,
And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest,
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine
Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad
And fledg'd with icy feathers, nod superb.
The cattle mourn in corners where the fence
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait
Their wonted fodder; not like hung'ring man,
Fretful if unsupply'd; but silent, meek,
And patient of the slow-pac'd swain's delay.
He from the stack carves out th' accustom'd load,
Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft,
His broad keen knife into the solid mass:
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,
With such undeviating and even force
He severs it away: no needless care,
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile
Deciduous, or its own unbalanc'd weight....


'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume,
And we are weeds without it. All constraint,
Except what wisdom lays on evil men,
Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes
Their progress in the road of science; blinds
The eyesight of discovery, and begets,
In those that suffer it, a sordid mind
*******, a meagre intellect, unfit
To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Thee therefore, still, blameworthy as thou art,
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd
By public exigence till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free,
My native nook of earth! . . ....


But there is yet a liberty unsung
By poets, and by senators unprais'd,
Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs
Of earth and hell confederate take away;
A liberty which persecution, fraud,
Oppression, prisons, have no pow'r to bind;
Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more.
'Tis liberty of heart, deriv'd from Heav'n,
Bought with his blood who gave it to mankind,
And seal'd with the same token. It is held
By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath
And promise of a God. His other gifts
All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his,
And are august, but this transcends them all.

Seeing my self, the lost self, the bet maker,
he who bets his role is hero,
seeing a reality no one else imagines.

Poets do some gnosticshit and call it art.

To live professionally,
y'gotta know the lingo.

Some suggestions from the sponsors, still jingle.
DO NOT MENTION POLICE

Imagine you know a guy, big dude,
an ox in stature and temper
a bull in brute potential… like
Plato, who found no fault in Socratic ignorance.

yeah, he does look like George Floyd,
but also, a little, like
Derek Chauvin,
- kachunk, like a Zenith Space Command
- pluck click ultrasonic change of flow, levee-gate

Derek Chauvin, must be
disappointed… I mean
it would **** to really be him,
worse than really being you, if you could see his
inner view of what may be,
and what may never be,
and the rage is with him, laughing in him, at him

that has got to be similar to hell,
if you imagine,
it never changes back.

This is now,
and you, as he, are
a real person in 2021, now historical
redefiner of the term
chauvinism
as used by Billy Jean King, refined down to the muonic
bit
tied to the actual trigger
event in the
idea in a name that takes a meaning in time
from a meaning in another time,

male chauvinist, sexist ****, prepost-er-ous error
of the very best intentions, twisted in time
through pursuit of happiness, undefined,

as is my right, should I ever be given a clue,
hap
happen
happiness the state of being, let's say.

Where nothing is missing, there is no nowhere
there is nothing.
This is all there is.
That is how a living word exists, ready to be
read.
When the better angel tells you. Take it easy.

Read. {refuse the roll of cheerleader,
or prophet when offered}

Stupid you, you say, read what?
-ah, the angel brighten's up, everything, it says
in writing on the tables of your heart
on pages requiring
rolling or folding to be put away.

Entire world views, Weltanschauung, worlds shown
and world's seen, may be
folded in this method-knowing… first

measure.
length to width. there to there, here to here,
edge to edge to edge to edge to edge we see a gem

-a gated elysian matrix, -- odd allusion -- matrix

cross my legs and meditate,
should I say, or should I wait, say it, matrices being

The logical sense of
"array of possible combinations of truth-values" is attested by 1914.
This is part of the piece, not a footnote,
a piece {I gotta style now, I am a professed artist}

matrix (n.)
from māter (genitive mātris) "mother" (see mother (n.1)).
The many figurative and technical senses
are from the notion
of "that which encloses or gives origin to" something.
The general sense of
"place or medium where something is developed" is recorded by 1550s;
meaning "mould in which something is cast or shaped" is by 1620s;
sense of "embedding or enclosing mass" is by 1640s.
The mathematical sense of
"a rectangular array of quantities (usually square)"
is because it is considered as a set of components into which quantities can be set.
The logical sense
of "array of possible combinations of truth-values"
is attested by 1914. As a verb, in television broadcasting, from 1951.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=matrix>

Attestation, affirmation -- proof of sanity,  artist inclined auto-ism,

it goes both ways, as the reader,
you may be crazy… if you know what I mean, and I disagree.

These frameless pages are proofs of thinking,
as a mortal thinketh,
in process of bringing answers
to questions some asked the AIMM,
which we all serve…
as sense makers… words suggest senses felt,
you feel me, means, you gitit,
you know,
if you know you been guiled, beguiled,
AIMM let you know.

the augmented intrestation manifestation module…
AIMM
constant scan set, set
as a finishing nail is set. If you had a hammer,
here, your methodology
is not applicable, see,
reason
morphs through a sieve, a fine mesh of all men ever claimed to know,
in writing after the alpha bet,
squeeze, like a tater ricer,
whatchewsee

first bet, at first, ohgnoshit it is going to self-destruct---

wisdom, from some unseen source,
arises to form that very thought, the fear
of the creator,
you know the feeling,
wisdom, whispers, not that way,
this way
you are the feeling
being, I imagine, dear
reader, line upon line,
through the matrix of the folding pages forcing sense
of something
where sense of nothing going nowhere was,
wind in the pines,
yes.