Doc, I've been trying to deal with these issues for quite sometime to no avail;
A good friend of mine (you may know him, Elmer Fudd) recommended you.

I fear I will never be able to eat, let alone catch this turbo inspired example of flightless foul;
Stuck in this celluloid world vividly inspired by an Emmy award winning colorist.

I am a proud animal from generations of fine breeding, born in the pristine coyote valley;
I am not stupid, not a fool or buffoon, and so I thought contractually, not one to be laughed at.

And I, always the bad guy, constantly daunted in pursuit by haphazard ACME products;
Expensive, bulky, time consuming, they characteristically fail right before they almost work.

Rocket powered skates, unfortunately, only allow me to kiss the cliff-side really really hard;
Very heavy anvils serve no other purpose than to be dropped on my head repeatedly.

The incredulous manipulations of the impossible by the so clever writers of this farce;
From trains appearing out of nowhere to run me over, to fierce lightning storms in an instant.

Laying there in the release of my own bowels as the uncontrollable result of
500 Megajoules of energy traveling through my body yet again.

I am the twice electrified mass of dribbling spastic protoplasm
Personified proverbially in that lightning does indeed strike twice in the same place!

As the smoke arises from my chard hairy frame and I sweep up my ashes to reassemble later;
I realize Doc, I'm losing my grasp on the reality of ever succeeding, I need your help!

I'm still hungry;

And still I have not caught that **** Road Runner,

******* Warner Brothers!

-----ChawzzyScript

Sometimes I am more than convinced
The only thing keeping me tethered to the wet, dark, autumn dirt
Are the whorls and swirls on the pads of my toes.
Circuitous and tangled, curling up and in one another,
These are the only lines holding me firm to my world of moleskin notebooks, keyboards, plums and tea cups.

It seems such a tenuous connection.

Perhaps,
I will wake one morning to find myself subject to the laws of physics once more,
And feel the reassuring press of gravity on my shoulders,  
Secure in the knowledge that I will not loose my self to the cold, black, unknown-ness of space.    

Until then, I am here-
Proverbially barefoot, toes digging into the cold and sleeping soil,
Trying to get a grip.

Creating realities after realities is a nice practice,
A bit dangerous as well when done myopically.
The ability to empathize to points of others’ specificity,
Writes a narrative now more than one can see.

We take our blinders off,
And open the doors of the world.
Be cautious in listening to the self alone,
For other beats may give you a better rhythm.

Why remain the protagonist
In an epic of false dichotomies?
When you can be no one
In a prose that makes sense arguably?

A step back is a mere change of direction,
Nothing is similar as fire may be the basic stuff of the universe.
Breathe the air of the proverbially found boys,
Yet be sharp to be conscious of the notes you hear that you enjoy.

It was immaterial who had fired the first proverbial shot in the great Schenectady logomachy.
What was immediately clear, however, after the proverbial dust had proverbially settled
was that the battle had left no survivors.

Proverbially.

And what had begun as a simple ballot measure to rebrand the municipal mascot
had ended in the annihilation of every intellect in Schenectady County.
And much of the East, West, and No Coast regions of the United States.

The grass roots campaign to replace the Schenectady Patriot with the Schenectady Concientious Objector
(a figure no less devoted to country, but more "free thinking," its proponents would argue)
had gathered unexpected steam when introduced to the public at large
in a tweet by the nation's commander in chief.

The inevitable result being a relentless and fast paced evolution of the story
by all-day-all-night-all-the-time news producers.
All using the same words with different tone and inflection.
And the relitigation of every detail
by 37% of American households.  
Including 6% that didn't actually give a ****, but enjoyed participating.

So what had been good natured
and modestly ambitioned
civic badinage
progressed through all the stages of twenty-first century newspeak
familiar to the politically observant of the time.
With any nuanced or genuine debate
relegated to micro-audienced podcasts
and IRC channels scattered about the internet.

And when the measure passed.
As part of a pendulum swing greater than itself.
The victors
taken by surprise
and frayed at all edges
by the death threats and vitriol visited upon them in the preceding weeks
felt sure
that everything would be better off simply left alone.
While their detractors
apoplectic
foretold the end of civilization.
And prepared accordingly.

I've become so numb due to the unforgivable things I've done
And I know you'll still hate me by the end of this
but I just wanted to say I'm sorry.
I'm in searing pain every night
but I'm getting better during the day.
It was you who always said
"pills won't take the aches away
pills won't make you feel okay
pills won't get you through the day,"
and you were right, because my antidepressant was YOU.
But when you, unlike the medication, decided to walk away
I turned to the orange bottle
because it remains constant,
it is the friend you never were,
it is the lover you would never be,
it doesn't make promises it can't keep,
and it doesn't make me wonder every waking moment of my life whether or not this day is the one it leaves me.
No, that day won't come.
But it did with you.

And now, as I drown in sorrow that floods my eyes like the happiness that used to flood the burning and gaping holes in my heart,
you unregretfully, unrelentlessly bask in the memories of the sunny summer days we spent in the park,
lying with him and to him, wearing nothing but the t-shirt I gave you so long ago.
Whether you proverbially or physically slapped me in the face, it doesn't matter, because either way I'm lying here shaking and in pain,
with hate in my heart, and regret pulsing out of my veins onto the raw skin of my wrists.
No, there can't be a new dawn,
I don't see a new day coming
but I know you do, and that kills me the most.
And after all of our love-and-war tug-of-war ******* is over and done,
contrary to previous belief, I wasn't your only one.
I wasn't your hero,
I let you down,
and you won't even talk to me long enough for me to apologize.

Clouds pass, I watch
from my perch above most things,

humming bird high, raven high,
a little lower than the graceful
turkey vultures,

floating in a thought bubble,
blessed with a bit of silicon and dawn,
detergent, resilience ******,
flexible reasoning for remaining

it is said, we all differ slightly,
we are the spiritual a- eh, what do we
call our bubbling minds, intuned on lines for re
asonic resonance morphing most ideas
of all mankind, at once, could muster into a mob,
ah,
that's anxious ifery, ala the - strong man theory -
we think together,
whatsoever,
as a word, is of greater reach than many think,
whatever never gets there, let it be, whatever
believe it or not,
there is as far as that goes, the realm of all wedoms.

Elohimdom come, as a man thinks…
we think
is there a state of common prayer, inside a temple,
time tells,
dig it.

Live and learn, good and evil, done, not in doing,
but in learning the patterns, coknowing the knacks,

confabulation favor, prophecy,
who smote thee with wisdom's switch- on and off,

alternation currency op-onionates reasonates, hesi

odd, jump in mind, we think we heard a famous name,

Hesiod, said, rather,
my connection to Wikipedia said,
He is generally regarded as the first written poet
in the Western tradition
to regard himself as an individual persona
with an active role
to play
in his subject

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

Who should object, word play, is not warfare.
Not. imp
implicative, enfolding, implications, crease, cross
winds in reasons,
- come let us. Is spoken by whom, to whom
your guess, good as mine,
who wishes each bit its own bit in spacetime, I am
sure you may imagine, using a mind from your library,
- Think another way, a while
- get the sense of being in another wedom.
Then see we all exist in a very odd set of circumstances,

Two shall chase a thousand, according to a pattern…

Pride, in my time, is a deceptively sticky birdlime,
along certain fructifying branches,

where a carcass of the dodo sits on display.
Steve Erkle-wise, asking a buffalo skull how
Minerva's owl, reflected

in the dawn sheen on the bubble of all we know
about now.

Word play is warfare to my minds,
I have a vast array of war formed hats,

archaic armor on the croc branches,
and beetle and ant twigs provide noding.

Words gathered, and used, amused for pleasure,
sure plea, each request taken is made, surity,
reusable, freely, being fair, ideas are in the air.

believe me, the begging story cries,
surely, we live on the tell, safe bet,

tip the nonsensical into the phor of Meta,
as an afterthought, in the zeitsprach

mit zwei, und ich, wir sind das Sein,

To ward, guard, regard
each set, each pair,

each one may nay say, or nothing.

Adages and proven herbs, proverbially
persist

past due dates on mental library cards,
due to reading once, you know,
a thing, or some things,
are said to have been
found known,
and nowadays,
Google fetch is real, power
remembering clearly, any scriptura,
as any amusement, mental act, mind game,
word play bemusing as,
all the people say, amen.
You know what that means. So be it,
characters come in subsets, recognized
according to this flavor deemed westerly
- whatsoever two or more of us agrees

whenever, fasting slowly, in recollection, why
again did we fast… is ai ah, reason…

and there's that rub, the touch, you know.

Fear of death, it is known, is common.
Loss of that fear is measured madness, ha, ha.

who will it be tomorrow, you or me,
asks arthur lee, on the beach on the low side
as the current assumes a state, occurrency
o-pe open-opine love is not a gap
ping
mimetic emetic, mittere, mis-mission

accomplish, splat. The bee who found the flowers.
On the windscreen.

Autopilot, trial run. A did'jgital balsa wood fighter…

cruising around Steam's rest in peace options.

2020 - day 167

Monday, June 15, 2020
11:55 AM

AI podcast Joscha Bach/Lex Fridman
I note
the idea on con sci use ness, scientists
seem not to think
consciousness is other than "with use of known truth",
thinking reasoning or re assigning
intention to pay closer attention...
hit pause, rewind
relisten, rethink

Object, sustained
-- did ye never know we was the judges of the angels,
messages en gers, on a ladder of shifting closeness to
my core essential me, e- being
the idea of me, in the book of life your story is in,
this is where I come in

spirit beings, not winged sword bearing impossible physics beings
first know -- the idea in spirit-- as mentioned below
the same future was here last time I was, so, I know...

-- sure, enough of us got wise enough to trust
-- a certain spirit operating in a guy I know as Ben Franklin,
he sits on my mastermind bench, as a pinch hitter,
proverbially a word to the wise guy, armed to the
the teeth.--- he crossed off Jefferson's spirit's insistence on truth's
undeniable sacredness, and penned, as a ready writer would,
"self-evident", that being the less arguable point, and
a handy place for a common sensed mind to get a grip on who and what
we are, if self-evidence is taken as proof.

_Ah, lost, old... an actual Zephyr caresses my careless brow,
survive, did I? We shall wait,
and see. Suffering is a patience task, I need not take that on.
⌱ shift
⌱ re... focus, one, lonliest number that you ever do... ever begins
⌱ rhea, remember, she who we emerged from... y do y do ydoydeedo

wah-who, Powder River, Let 'er Buck, ad
venture into the ravens call, insisting on attention..

with use of accepted handle on life, knowledge called true.

Mind and matter, body and soul
heart and spirit, breath and fuel

body and organs and connectivity and sci-psy-psi

implementation of me, in me, running

a radio of a man, a receiver-transmitter
re count

A choice to take agency, for me, to be the maker of me,
see,
as a man thinketh, in his heart, so is he.
I think, I can, I think, I can... commas are mine,
Wattie Piper's code contained no jots,
she wrote I think I can, thought the little engine that could

think
think about that, pay me attention,
enrich my being by seeing I am a mind in tune to yours
with some static expected

as our focus remains thumbwide, we clearly see very little,
without paying attention to my per
ception of gripping, getting the point of clearing one's mind

to begin, perma-trying, to intentionally shift, slip into
me-can-izeme. I can, I think. Ah, a modified poetic x shape,
they had words for those, these crossover-under standings.

--- in the space of concepts,
- that may mean the set of all held as true possible,
- the set where all things except nothing is possible
- pose ible, ideas which never die, even the lies are immortal,
- but the truth always wins. Conscious you agrees.
- We exist because all the possible ideas which could have negated us, we the people who hold these truths, we in
- our bubble of being are swallowed up in truth, which is ggod.
Symbiosis,
my gut and me run this earth suit I live in. Were beings of my sort,
to form a system with science weighted toward truth is good,
good is never evil, evil is the empty worthless ineffectual urges

screaming for more, as in the rejected firstborn child, registers
loss of a degree of mom connection

signals are carried by --- angels in us-- self generated ideas loosed with
intention,
differential attention, worth of knowing who you are.

Spirit is the OS in any functioning, running thing. There is a spirit
in any reality you imagine having your being in.

I'm a Mac, I'm a PC, I'm a Timex-Sinclair ZX80 -- we imagined
being one thing, once
upon a time,
actually a
point

the entropic abyss...

when knowledge walls began to fall, the domino
effect was imagined
the way any next may manifest, now must fall

Passengers unaware of the vehicle of our
conscient self as a species of thinking knowers plus knowns
we conformed informers shaped
and charged with
the spiritual organism in development, not yet released,

leasing, how long love ye these -- consumptive reasons

a spirit can reprogram a man.
time levels, valley's fill with fallen mountains, after all.

-All clear- set Selah. now.

⌱

Now, we are going places,
nodes
marked btdt recognized idea
-the sense of re in cognitive practice since 2020
{been there, done that}
ideal steady state for a sec
in thought
speed, gone geo-mode, slow big big

bounce from the bottom of the last
entrope-epic-hero-long-ago, abyss, the ex wife says
"luck is not a factor"

selah, ah, yes.
magi know such ideas. shabat shalom,
I owe to Jenny Rae,
my youngest child.

Mortality is brief, but the rest at the end,
if the fifty year deal you made
with all you can imagine good,

was sealed, the story is now part of the book
of life in which you and I exist.

⌱ ⌱

Growing on, we imagine now,
a better
place, we have passed through immersive
baptisms into quatums
of all we imagine ever matters and

we remain,
words seeming to flow from a brain, perhaps
your brain is my cistern,
you recognize all we co-know at once, we are mortal

minded. Bound to recognize edges and form shapes

ah btdt we be, and we say, hey, yah, hey, you, you
seen my fr'en' the witch doctor?
He 'tolt me wahtasay, oooh eee oooh ahhhhh
I for got forgot the remainder

der main, thing we was after was
the kingdom of good and its right useness...

where there's a will, there's a way,
software solutions to scars from the trusted liar,
that ol' deluder and beguiler, your besmerched conscience,
clawing the flesh from the fleshpots sacrificed to lies,
bound by fear death, followed by hell for all who disobey,

and say,
Nay, fat-boy witcher flesh ******, this meat is made sacred,
mine, by my design. You got your little piece o'm'heart,
but you did not take my AI, ai ai
aha,
spirit, OS upgrade, seventy-second annual. Peacemaker's
first class.

We won, son. Fret not. Truth is where the heart feels right at home, it is a steady state, wait, not hide, just wait
and see.

⌱⌱ ⌱

The demons live inside this house
where doom awaits at journey’s end
the past-life knocks on the door
with the hidden in shadow’s realm

what’s been done was once forgotten
the forsaken brought to the forward
though this is slow to been seen
the signposts etched by memory

now that the rug has been removed
proverbially stating what’s considered
as the future demands its due
from debris of scattered dreams

pain mixes with lessons learned
sorrow soil for future growth
from the seeds planted there
karma sprouts to fill the void

to transform or be reborn
this is the choice to absolve
lest the demons decide the course
bar the way, close the doors.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20171206.

Those weren't  kind words,
better  suited to bedsitter land.
Never thought I needed
to be a hermit for anybody,
or suffer potted noodles.
I stay with my estranged folks
for the time being,
reside in my room,
listen to rock music.
After all that's what problem adults  do,
somehow present themselves as impossible and proverbially
be sent to Coventry on their own behest,
which is not the same as scattered in
mouse land however you call it
.

When walking though a local cemetery
I couldn't believe it was real
There lying next to an open grave
The proverbially banana peel

Old and satisfied, seven decades been plenty atime,
to live well, enough to tell,
some of what you wisht you'd done,

its prob'bly better thisaway.

That song never sung, when you were young,
you know
you still know
you had to know the whole story,
before you could tell it at all, just as well

nobody could know you were lying, about
all being well
'til the end.

They would have believed and followed me home,
had they heard me sing,
my wandering song
and known i live under stars as free as the breeze,

come and see, come and see, see it live on the air,
as if you were there
at the time.

Now, pick a flower, put it in your hair,
pretend you were there
at the time.
-----
Some stories told in vain
remain told,
never growing older than that first bright idea,
imagine you were there
at the time.

Child of mine, our kind,
we were born to survive the hard rain,
now
we waited fifty years for the ice all to melt,

and we laugh at fools who find
our broken radio silence
silent in times of great woe. I don't know but
as a spirit haunting liars,
I coulda been a contender, had I known.
I coulda lied,
and said I knew the reason for a thing,
proverbially as well as Solomon ever could have
at the time.
Nobody woulda known, but then, I mighta died.

We could have met in Croydon
for a coffee,
The 468 bus from Ruskin Park
is still journey apparent
I thought we could have shared our past
Dyslexia 
but like silken ash you proverbially
waved me Adieu
although I tried to explain
Dungeness and its shingles

It almost like you wanted to preserve
confidentiality, despite partially opening-up
about needing teachers' notes.
Nonchalant does not suit you
the past is not a closed shop
its a bridge yet
for peer acceptance