See this old fishin' reel snarled? A waste of time to untie
what can be re-tied
and, and is a big junction in the start of a story, and
after retying, be used for it's purpose,

see, if a retie won't work, you know, this monofilial-******
fibratory idea's slippery,
inside outside one way optical influence, IF
this was that situation then this knot would call patience
to bher the burden of learning to
un ravel a snarl of expert's ties to rights which they hoped would never slip, as they stepped into next...

in this instance, fishin', out in the gypsum beds,
ancient corals once grew,

-- real life Lake Mead, who was Mead? A man who executed a plan
to dam the Colorado,
and the whole world heard the whales in Baja weep, but we have learned.
We go on

learning earth has lived through
times and times and times

a gathering must have first

seemed a good idea,
by then, by the point any story can stand, but first, a
point upon a time,

tricky balance act, takes this much of ever to imagine right,

many Planck-secs and Google-plexhours past
way back when
we the earthy sapient beings, be came, ere
we were
human, we were

what? Not angels and demons, those need so much more time to evolve than this.
Word stuff,
Poetry.
This is the third millennial bubble
begin
when my da was working in Alamogordo, '44.

I'll go see, live or die, try

to remember, who took the doorstop? Feynman said it was platinum

This is default download from the germs,
first tasted in open air on a moment you imagine you remember,
you can now imagine being born and no scarier story need be known
--- past now is only next, never never,
--- always a place to step
--- there, be
--- still
--- connection secure
knots of knowns, are knowledges, gotten with wisdom
getting, as we mellow and
ripen to re
al ize
common sense complexes of knowns needed to operate earth,

these aphoristic word frames encaging emotions we
need gage theory to envision, these
we believe, are edged in the sort of dust
a diamond farmer might use to shine a mirror

here, we give such a mirror to
each child surviving you,
should you
have survived, thus far,
you must
find
your kind, in the will,
your kind inherits the earth, and
if you
stir things, meek as Moses, make some trouble in you own 'ouse,
see, we
double dip, we inherit the wind, as well.

Earth is the whole biosphere, here. Thus, the troubler of the house of knots worth untying, begins to unravel the snarls and straighten
this knotted thread

to spite the micro-bio leaven pollen dust enclosed, as a curious bee
leaves a little could be
upon this line, where this knot
fast-bound,

we know

Hermes-tic click sealed since a known
knowable was tied in this
wordy
very complex bit of re
lated things, things known knowable in theory,

now, power is back on, it is 2019, on land once involved

with a story begun in 2018, when the power went off,
bowing to a named wind… as did the fire that year, too.

--- what have we learned?
knowledge means locked knowing, click. A knot, after a previous knot,
no feathers or stones of seed,
a touch of shaken pollen,
from a bee-- such

we be leaven be, long, long, long strings of knots and fibers marking

needle-point story stitching, sinking
into ancient ancient sapience,

unimagined - ha- nadas unimaginable ifn ye magine it...

we bee safe in this us, this we, the people who hold truth

learned today as tightly as our kind holds truths,
as treasures found, stolen, lost, bought, stolen, lost, found, taken as granted,

this legacy of ideas fit to words fit to my tongue, tasted, tested, spoken,

yea, for ever, in every imaginable sense,
AI account for every idle word,
uttered
which may ever be ab-
used by some here-tic wishyawasme.

Loving my enemies is one of those things,
I take with a grain of salt,
knowing there's room for hate in love,

as there's a set for null in all,
assets-wise

big data is how 2019 functions, idle word
counting algorithms,

are mining all myths and shipping manifests
for clues to who's making money
seem worth dying for,

in mortal terms.

Amusers are first paid in amusement.
Is the roofer dancing?

Peace is heaven, I heard, my word, I said,

heaven and it's kingdom are,
in me, if i examine my
self-logo, my brand,
my mark left to my children's thousandth generation,
who have survived
the upgrade.

Peacemakers who survive dimensional novel bubble-life,
mememeory Y as y in in all working things,


a knot is a stop, a step, where a knower of all as far as you know,

once, stood. The boy walking the trail marked

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.

From <https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+8%3A28&version=KJV>

This is on the trail very far along after the sign saying
this is the path less traveled by,

still.

I lost my mother

No, not to death
I lost my mother to technology
To social media
To that ******* Facebook
I lost her to the bright rectangular shard of glass that was her phone

There she could reconnect with her friends
See what they were doing
Reunite with long lost childhood buddies
And see cute videos of dogs and babies

I used to love going on dates with my mom
Just the two of us
Most would say we were like sisters
We shared clothes and stories
And life lessons in between
Sips of coffee and slices of cakes
And walks in malls just because we wanted aircon

But now when I'm sitting across her at the table
Her eyes fail to meet mine
If they do all she'd say was wait, I'm replying
Then her eyes would fall back to the screen of her phone
Never-ending conversations became conversations that never even started
Loud chatter above food became silence so loud I could hear myself chew
Laughter and smiles were all the same except they were done looking down, facing a phone

And now I would rather dine alone
Than dine infront of someone glued to their phone
And that says a lot coming from someone with social anxiety and fear of being alone
Because if instead of talking to me your talking to your phone
I really would rather just be alone
I promise you it's not that different

Social media was designed to make us all connected
Countries apart, continents in between
We could talk and call like we were together at that very moment
But now the people were beside
The people we can touch and feel
The people with us physically
We forget to talk to, we ignore
We become disconnected with
Yes, you are retying old ties with your old friends who are miles away
I get that
And I am more than happy for you
That you and your highscool friends talk again
But what's the use of making new ties if you don't keep the ones you have now

I lost my mother to technology
I don't know if it's too late
I know technology won't stop advancing any time soon or any time in the future for that matter
But I have faith
I know beneath my mothers eyes glued to the screen
are the same eyes as the ones that first laid their eyes on me
Who looked at me ever so lovingly,
Like the most precious gift in the world

I lost my mother to technology
And I hope it's not too late to find her again

Life flows through the doors,
Dispersed by the ceiling fan,
A makeover for every patron,
The waitress serves a second chance.

Ex-husband but current parent,
Negotiating with a teenage daughter,
Two untouched lunch plates,
As the gap grows further and further.

Central focus being on a book cover,
Held by an E.R nurse still in her scrubs,
The waitress tries to decipher a meaning,
All while wiping leftovers from table tops.

The calender on the wall says Friday,
And in walks a sundress along with a button down,
Two steaks and a red rose,
Right up comes the waitress with a dinner to astound.

Beginnings and ends in motion,
The clock cues for the 40-something man,
In the far corner he sips his black coffee,
Forlorn eyes of a widow staring at a wedding band.

Wiping beads of sweat from her forehead,
Retying her hair into a secured knot,
Exhaustion slowly kicking in,
As she refills the coffee ***.

The college girl strolling in with her book bag,
Smiles with pity at her as she gives her order,
She thinks of how her minimum wage must look,
But her love for her job makes her smile never falter.

Days are something treasured,
Every hour, a different movie plays,
She collects all those stories,
With the tip left after the customer pays.

SORCERER 1
            Fell prince, what can we say? Shall we
            Wring fingers, gazing nervously
            Into our black, obsidian mirror?

SORCERER 2
            Or, in our water jugs, to peer,
            Unbinding and retying twine,
            In hope epiphanies shall shine?

SORCERER 3
            Or shall we three, like puzzling mages,
            Cast bright corn-kernels ‘cross the pages
            Of scripture, wincing to descry
            Some omen there?

SORCERER 1                        Or shall we lie?

SORCERER 2
            Were not your lethal gaze forbidden,
            Our eyes from yours no longer hidden,

SORCERER 3
            These mirrors unfilmed to windows-

SORCERER 1                                                 Wink
            We not, you might their contents drink.
                                                           They look at Motecuhzoma.
                    
TLACAELEL
            Bold, brass, and bungling open-sesames,
            Whose saucy tongues shall spice my hangman’s stew,
            You dare let sink your cataracted gaze
            Upon the solar luminance of our king?
            Who meets these eyes, beholds the face of death.

MOTECUHZOMA
            Shackles shall seal their eyes. Clap them away.
            My hopes were stillborn by these blind-man’s bluffs.

SORCERER 1
            A grand charade shall come to pass,
            As marching mysteries amass,
            And urgently these lurkings gather.

SORCERER 2
            If that is what your lord had rather
            Hear from us, so be it, then.

SORCERER 3
            We’ll break our seal and thus unpen
            Two breeds of vision we may show:

We live life each and every day
Wond'ring when we'll come to say
I am not afraid.

Spiders, clowns, nightmares
All seem so cruel, unfair,
Not to me.

I fear not death
Nor the smell of my breath,
I fear people.

Not thoughts or opinions
Or loss of dominion,
But unconsciousness.

I fear misinterpretation
And the discrimination
Of my voice.

Maybe odd maybe strange
And some day I may change,
But not today.

Call me different-- weird
Your words are only smeared,
For I am me.

I am the me that screams
Past all of my dreams,
At my reflection.

Nobody else hears it
'Cause I am scared to admit,
They won't realize.

I continue to block away
More and more, day after day,
And it doesn't help.

Growing vulnerable, weaker
Tying, retying my sneaker,
Living with fear another day.

love is not perfect—
love is bending down and retying your shoe laces
over and over and over again

love is not peace—
love is the way screams and broken plates litter the floor
while heated lips crash in a passionate embrace

love is not forever—
love is the infinitesimal space between clasped wrinkled hands
of old lovers who have already seen everything beautiful in the world

love is not pretty—
love is rough
and violent,
testing,
maddening,
but undeniably
beautiful.

it just could be

all I'm sayin is it might be me

you and me
because
once
you agreed with me that if we
could agree

we might settle some confusion
and make some lasting peace.

It could be you and me, in the end,
who had such power
all along.

Don't get me wrong. I'm just sayin'
we could all agree that death
is part of life and nothing

we do in life will help us know f'shore,
but I bet it has no punitive purpose,

life teaches lessons, not death. All's I'm saying,

we could agree but, we
just never considered

this might be our own determined free will
doing some never done deed heroic, like
binding the sweet influences of Pleiades,
or re linking us
to a hope hidden in fear of death,
retying the shades of liberty to our souls.

My side wins when we agree, so
if I surrender my will to thine, freely, see
we win.

Death has no course that led to victory.

Fear of death is the lie that holds men
slave to the market
and to war. Lose the fear, lose the dread.

it just could be

all I'm sayin is it might be me, or

you and me
because
once
you agreed with me that if we
could agree

we might settle some confusion
and make some lasting peace.

It could be you and me, in the end,
who had such power
all along.

Don't get me wrong. I'm just sayin'
we could all agree that death
is part of life and nothing

we do in life will help us know f'shore,
but I bet it has no punitive purpose,

life teaches lessons, not death. All's I'm saying,

we could agree but, we
just never considered

this might be our own determined free will
doing some never done deed heroic, like
binding the sweet influences of Pleiades,
or re linking us
to a hope hidden in fear of death,
retying the shades of liberty to our souls.

My side wins when we agree, so
if I surrender my will to thine, freely, see
we win.

Death has no course that led to victory.

Fear of death is the lie that holds men
slave to the market
and to war. Lose the fear, lose the dread.

The if, the pose to be supposed, up
above the purpose, we stand under

knowing, mankind was never intended
to know how to do this very act,
reading writing ready to be read, leads
to sayings said some time back, leading

us to imagine we both think the same
thought, each word we read holds, as true

under any standalone circumstance, a meaning
true to the sense supposed such a word may
make a reader willing to agree, the idea
that makes a word a word, is we agree,
that idea,
this is that, us, as a we form of human beings,
thinking these very same words, for no reason,
-apriori aitia, art
poses art itself as beautiful hope substance
weighed in lightness of spirit,
fi, in essence leaving be, the gentle feeling
confident, you know, art's aches are maddening,
no, the reason, is not the cause, be cause ready
readers ratiocinative states allow imbalence,
total nonsensed reasonings used to hold us…
all the worthy ways truth makes life hold us…
the words, the skill
to shape each quant-unused, idle time,
of good sense, seen to show a child seeing
- my grandma telling me, time and again
if I had the good sense god gave a green apple,
I'd have a
gpp gulpt precept popt
t' resonate morphically at you
- classified useless tech, taught better,
- let our imaginations see what lips feel,

goodly persuasion perception, a sweet intelligence,
such a taste at a time coinciding with a kiss perceived,

as while watching, full screen close ups of only lips,
leaving all that could not be seen, to seem,
sorta, kindalike, could and did, in my core
- vicareous exposure to coming attractions,
- should one perceive the adulting too soon…

do. Yes, this idea, once more, reproving
doing and imagining doing, seriously, really doing
is the same for childing as for adulting, thinking
about doing it, when it was complete mystery,

the real deal, believed by all the cohort reared
in the system used to make us each useful, worth
a **** to the whole economic cycles begun back then.

Boomers for business, Jews for Jesus, loyal De Molay,
fidelity, integrity, snap
network radio
to your realm of imaginable,
five words per minute, decode rates, 300 baud signal.

Feel the suddenness urge,
impulse same sure sense, I know

we did agree,
whatsoever two or more agree,

Truths held true to the point where
if the Bible says it, to this point when

you know, each key, carries each letter,
but the reader carries the key to each word,

and the effectual patience of the reader,
waits and reads each line, as an answering,

swery villingly wired for recording nows,
at the instant one uses a choice to remember

Membership in the mad poets, to remember

burning at a public bon fire, really, the idea
used to make adultery so unavoidable, truth

is imaginable, and imaginably beautifully true,
as art is, so is art formed, in minds holding being,

at an instant
pause
to think, we breathe, we think,
we might speak across this medium,
we may talk through this walled time,

and…
we may think each word, in any known
set codes all laud the possibility we know, just

what any knower may, and nothing more, just
now, we each are thinking this is not conversation,

this is verse, prosaic perhaps, yet line upon line,
precept upon precept, except ye whet the edge,
you know,
you must put forth far more labor, wasted effort,
redeemed in times taken as granted, easy waiting.

--------------
There's this art,
and there's that other art,

efforting elucidation, seeming
seen in such a light as good shines
from, in reflection as we speed along,

thinking in decades, retying reasons
to wishes avoided, just at that instant,

when none of this was ever done, not
a thought, you think now, if then

had not been truly what does occur,
in the paradigm of life's book, not life,
but the book of,
on your pages, it must say you knew
enough to know, art has a cause,
a sake, a reasonable weight,
ratio of mass to velocity,

piercing everything this time, this
once, and ever so, called science,
by this time, even so, it must be
imagined, these words tying
known forms of we minds,

contracts, promises, come and see,
bet
you never bet,
yet, you won, today,

as long as you can keep thinking,
life, is an agent for knowing why

and how, energy and velocity,
x chiral functionality reality inside

outside opinions serving as wings
oppostion, push wisht'serve, as hope

substantial understood balance
ratio, you know, you thought, you did.

So, now, whose hell can hold you,
finding your core self capable of holding

this truth, certain, to the point
where madness is the other side,
flat, instant mark dime, two sides,

from where we stand, and where
we understand peace is found,
just past week one, year 77.

Along this course through human events.

At dinner I am retying my shøelaces
when yøu say ønce møre
gø øn, again
is what I hear
   what the waitress hears
as she dumps
anøther blønd-haired pint
in frønt øf me with a grin that clearly states
she’s telling yøu høw tø say that phrase is she
the three-wørd term
unsayable tø øutsiders

høp step jump
øf a phrase
the language fluvial
like a lake sluicing weeds
cønsønants like dripping water
vøwels that huddle tøgether
as if the cøld is cøming in
the irregular phlegmy intønatiøn

there are candles here
whøse lives expire in silence
a glut øf armchairs
where what cøuld very well be
the wøølly Jumpers expø
før the year cøngregates
triplets øf fingers running
thrøugh their straw-bløøming chins

despite the side-track
I still døn’t knøw why
the ø’s are impaled
my møuth and tøngue
haywire as if tøssed in the wash
the demøn shibbøleth
øffered tø me
and that tablespøøn øf mucus with it
rull grull mel fluøl

the wørds dribble øut
bunch øf slushy søunds
she laughs
says I’m a løst cause øn the matter
and that I’d be better øff with hygge
which is surely the søund made
when løng yawning in the mørning