Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.



And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
www.youtube.com/
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.


Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.



Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
                                                        
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Humanoid.

You found me right and tight
And then you left me loosey

I
Hear the story of our oil –
Hail to oil!
From the glory days of Drake well we recoil,
To see seabirds flap and shudder,
Dolphins, turtles flop and sputter
With collective dying groan.
Hear our population moan
When the gasoline price geysers to the sky.
Still we drive, drive, drive,
To keep consumer binge alive,
Amid a maritime disaster fast evolving from the spoil
Of the oil.
For the oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For the gushing and the oozing of the oil.

II
Smell the ancient dark crude oil
Stinking oil!
Engulf the products made refining from a boil:
Guzzle gasoline flambé,
Drive-through fast food every day,
Raise our carbonated toast to Arctic roast…
Then drill more oil!
GM corn and corn-fed beef --
Both born of oil,
The shaving cream I slather on my face is made from oil,
Toothpaste, vitamins and lipstick,
Tires, everlasting plastic,
Come from oil;
All American affliction
Petrolopium addiction –
Truth is stranger now than fiction
And it does not set us free;
We are prisoners of oil,
And as slaves to OPEC pricing we all toil,
For the tapping and the lapping
Of the oil.
For the oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For the drilling and the swilling of the oil.

III
Soak in news of spilling oil –
Offshore oil!
In grim images of damage that the television splays;
First blow-out slimed in sixty-nine at Santa Barbara Bay
Then ten years next blew Ixtoc
In the Gulf of Mexico,
Two-ninety day gush tick tock
Slick slopped thousand miles away
To Texas shores!
In Alaska’s Prince William Sound
Exxon Valdez ran aground in eighty-nine;
Full tanker load erupted,
Left the rocky coast corrupted –
Prudhoe crude!
Seals and otters stuck in goo
Seabirds suffered coatings too,
Cruising tourists supped in view
Of the oil, oil, oil,
Thickened slick encrusted oil
On the shore!
How it clings and clogs and covers;
All aquatic life it smothers
Marsh and beach are left in cataclysmic mire!
Still we “drill baby drill,”
All our gas tanks gotta fill,
We must shop, shop, shop,
Lest our wasteful lifestyle stop,
So we run, run, run,
Take our car vacation fun --
At the beach…
See the sheen -- how it shines!
Pretty rainbow-colored lines
From the oil!
We love our oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For economy cachinging in the oil!

IV
Hear the praise of offshore oil,
Miles deep oil!
For the goal of independence on our oceans now we toil,
Till ungraceful conflagration
Twenty April rocked the nation
On the Deepwater Horizon drilling rig.
Eleven lives were lost in blast
As the deep crude spewed out fast,
Gushing Hell!
Couldn’t stop it with top ****,
Junk shot, golf *****, caps wouldn’t still
Gushing well,
And the spreading, spreading, spreading
In a steady surging crawl,
Gulf coast residents all dreading
That their livelihoods might stall,
Now the fish and shrimp are ill,
Tourist business will be nil,
And still oil spews…
We must thank God that there’s *****,
For there’s nothing but bad news
And the ooze, ooze, ooze
Oily ooze.
Who will pay, who will pay?
Who will make this go away?
Who’s to blame? Who’s to shame?
Many pointy fingers aim –
Lefty points to rich BP,
Righty points to rock Obama,
And there’s six sticks pointing back at you and me!
We will pay, pay, pay,
At the gas pumps we will pay,
So we can drive, drive, drive,
And keep America alive;
Despite the grim disaster that arises from the spill,
The way we live and spend won’t easily end;
So we’ll still say “drill baby drill,”
Each time our gas tanks get a fill,
And we will shop, shop, shop
To do our patriotic duty --
Spend our *****, *****, *****
For the oil.
For the oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For the gushing and the oozing of the oil!

Drafted 6/8/10, revised 6/14/10

i am a leaky faucet.
the crescent wrench of control
tightens,

righty tighty

but i drip, drip, drip.
a stronger hand has gripped my handle.

lefty loosy, let it flow

my dripping waters spill into your ears,
where earth flower seeds fell in late summer sun

oh, quick! quick! knock out the dirt
somebody call a plumber

blossoms like these
won't survive the coming frost.

*blossoms like these
will make your head explode.

loot the ***** boot the rich
Hang the snitch emancipate the
itch madness a bit saintly
Pitch a fast curve kick sadness
to the curb of broken dreams
It seems a thing of the past blast
passed the failure your always
will be searching for that someone that is me you irritate my peace of mind when will you finally leave me alone the thirst for success
Irresistible i cant reach without you in the drivers seat a deadbeat\

rhino walking softly carries a big
gun to compute the poverty disburse the novelty mute the donkey
Shoot up the ****** groove\
superb lock stock two smoking barrels manup positions dapple improve\
dry too flimsy ripple status quo fluid stain wet into a puddle strain\
stable ground disintegrate cry squabble hone grin refute scrabble tunnel\
cruising off a shotgun bang what up with that thang show her off hang *****\
sting know how ripe ***** in demand bite inflicting raw election dangle TLC\
exposed suckle foreplay bare the doom shielded knuckle brass boots ******* HooT\
BooM on blast mettle to the pedal sass passing windows fast exhaust throttle\
fastlane straddle last shrine wine tire popping the wealthy snoot channelside\
stealthy snoop crank dogg sly filthy in hind charlie brown restrain grand sighs\
define the grime be kind foresee the crime rewind lakhaim frame spine spinning\
wheel ordeals repeal sick figures concealed pinning children against frontal lobes\

memory versus\

skulls lost salam to lucifer in a frantic relay replay demonic delay foiling shalom\
band alaykoum in purse fulfilling evil curse droopy eyed fools drooling pearl pool\
diluting verses sheet smarts versions saluting sheer farce shuffling back\ rank pipe crack\
tears smear contract around virus rooms chasing bail resisting a ***** toned\
smears contract around virus rooms chasing bail resisting a ***** toned\
frown talking to walls of jail houses crowned end dead thread landfill clowns\
bumping heads bunk bed trash courthouse playground twisting ***** fits\
battered butter mutter peace cross the street forgetting to put up and fight\
shiest with height heist barren on the other side green lyres setting fear steep lower\
reflection revel mirrors deflection inflicting Ghostface highness pace rhymeless chase Killah\

stoke shady slim phone in remaining senses detain impurity capitulating dexterity fuse\
recluse stan granting badass roundhouse kicks rudimental trick chant chatterbox vamp\
underworld stick centerfold haunting Rancid activate superlative octave erupt glee\
sharply whiplash ash out the masses entrance serendipity multiply sentimental divide\
invincible prime knowledge footprint stepping benign modicum rootline stem enticing\ cognizant fledge camaraderie hack feasibility snare clear spear stupes stare look at\
that rearview it's you ******* a pornstar in the backseat rampaged **** dripping slit swept\

weeping tantric rendition ******* loose rocking out sweep companions check and replace\
**** tighten up crews shock and strut byob bend righty tighty string along aim gift dames\
chauffeur fate slate teams honor razzle the green fire dazzle gardens retire kinder\
inspire **** arthur passion swords struck within pyramid empires cured she'll always\
                          love you truly madly deeply combined nocturnal eternal WH navel\

I

At night, I search for the wrench
I lift it off my nightstand
I lie down on the workbench
the cool weight held in my hand

what I must loosen first is my knee
lull myself to a state of repose
leg is a swollen trunk of a tree
placidity the pain soon outgrows

ache that is green
ache that is ivy,
ache that is wrapping
around me
entirely.

being disarming,
the way that a friend will--
in no way harming,
I pry up one tendril,

My ache and I have just locked eyes
I turn my bolt counter-clockwise

just one half turn.
making way t’ward release,
pain is adjourned
to finally find peace


II

And in the factory,
It seems I was wound too tightly
Deemed satisfactory
Now, I relieve pressure nightly

The bolt pushes in such a way
it leaves the metal bent
Relief is not given away
but instead it is lent

pain that is sharp
pain that goes squish,
pain that is swimming
around me
like fish.

The pain in my head
a pain bright white
Will surely spread
If not done right

My head and I sob, throb, and cry together
And then I finally sever the tether

spin one full revolution,
Though I know it's unwise,
Lets in nightmare pollution
Maybe last night’s reprise



III

At night, I will always search for the reasons
Why is it that bad things happen to good people
I lie down and lament each of the seasons
If it’s about church, I’m skewered on the steeple

Now plaguing me is my dear heart
O! Please don't think me frigid
It’s how to be, if you are smart
Walls that throbbed become rigid

want that is lace
want that is divine,
want that dissipates
completely
in time

Wincing at every twinge
Heart so hollow it awards me pain
Lace is fraying at the fringe
Meteor in my orbital plane

said it flutters and feels flighty
prescribed one spin righty tighty

Then, compact are the loves I hold,
Locked in my heart airtight
No space empty or left cold
I wish you all goodnight

She had the moon atop palm,
and “righty” in her pocket,
leaving me to wonder which
heavenly body she’d present
next.

This goddess, “gravity,” if
she’d a name, played physics
with my parts, and persuaded
thrice an orbit, circles wherein
the same hopes quantized –

“We’re we born of the same
star? Please? And when again,
can we burn brightly?  Soon?”
She’d reply, and echo come
frigid a comet’s tail, leaving.

So you’d know tonight as
you’d twice before; I’d sip my
beer before you. I’d cry before
you. And a’parallel, tease your
moon atop my very own palm.

After drinks, the two of us walk down Columbus street looking for a back alley ******* Hanes knows about. It's 4pm - far past buffet hours - but happy hour is about to begin and that's what we're looking for. Hanes tells me the last time he was there, one of the dancers snuck up behind him while he was at the ATM and pressed the highest possible number on the screen, something like $500. He didn't have to spend it, but somehow, he did. He left there with a sharp distrust but newfound respect for the stripping world. Everyone's got to get there's somehow.
"Ten dollar cover to get in," the bouncer tells us.
"Good God," I mutter, "It's only four o'clock and you're charging us ten dollars?" I feel the gin tickling the back of my throat, bringing a tingling feeling of authority and righteousness. I know I'm wrong, I know I've overstepped by bounds and have no say in how much they think they should charge two men with no women at four o'clock in the afternoon...but I battle anyways. I must.
"Policy my friend," the bouncer returns, shaking his head in understanding, "I'll get in guys in for five."
"That'll work," Hanes says quickly, handing him a ten and brushing past him.
I pat him on the shoulder as we walk in, "You've done a good thing. A grand thing. A respectable thing." I'm drunk and anything that comes out of my mouth I think to be genius. How far I've gone into the rabbit hole is of no importance to me now. The only things that matters is that I'm there and that eventually, somehow, I'll get out.
I follow Hanes to the bar and put down twenty dollars to whatever he orders. Two Budweiser's. Seven dollars with tip. Pretty good. That excites me. There's something invigorating about cheap drinks in a place one would think to get shafted in. I tip an extra dollar and get eleven back. Hanes nods to an open table by the corner of the stage where there's no one but a single asian man and a plate of hot wings. A pint of ice water sits in front of him and he's all smiles. I don't know why Hanes thinks it's a good idea to party with this gentlemen, but I realize I've never actually understood ever what Hanes thinks is a good idea, so I follow suit. It turns out the asian man is a very fine man on his lunch break from the bank. He's had a very long day he says.
"The boss," he explains, "Is not a nice man. Selfish. Fat. White."
"Ah," I say, ******* back on the beer, "Never good." I watch a girl named Twinkle wrap her thighs around the stainless steel pole and twirl. Her hair is the color of fools gold and her eyes tell me she's been doing this a very long time. I ask the asian man his name.
"Bob," he says, biting into a wing, "You want one?" he asks Hanes.
Hanes waves it off and Bob offers me one. "Thank you, sir," I say.
"Call me Bob."
"Righty right," picking up wing, "Thank you Bob."
"They are very spicy, so watch yourself."
"I will."
Twinkle crawls over to us, her **** hanging from her chest, drooping slightly like honey would if you spooned it out of its jar. She wears a silver cross that dangles with her ****, reflecting the dark neon red and blue lights flashing, wavering above her. She can't be more than 25. I feel myself slipping into feelings of wonder and love, but know that is the trick of the club and how they get you to spend money. Quickly, I paint her in reality: a white t-shirt, some blue jeans, and old sneakers - she is painting her room. She looks lovelier doing this, grounded in something perhaps she loves, maybe even a passion.
She crawls up to me and turns around, thrusting her *** in my face. She bounces it up and down with the rhythm of the music, the heavy bass. I watch her tight flesh roll slightly like tanned waves of the ocean. Glitter floats from her skin as I get a whiff of strong perfume: rose petals and dry white wine. I like her taste and throw her a couple dollars. She bounces her *** a few more times, slower this time for me, then turns around to pick up the ones with her teeth. She is good and knows this.
"Wanna' dance?" she asks, winking at me.
"I would love one, but I promised myself I wouldn't," I say.
"And why's that?" She's dangling her legs over the side of the stage. Her knee caps are red and swollen from crawling on the hard wooden floor. I think they should give these girls knee pads or something, but realize that would really take away from the sexiness of it all. They would like naked electricians or plumbers for christ's sake.
"My father told me never to get a lap dance on an empty stomach."
"Your father," she smiles, "Is a very a smart and funny man."
"Wouldn't want all that blood rushing from my head to down there without any food in me."
She nods, "Could be very dangerous. You're funny. Let me know how you feel after you eat...I gotta' get back on."
"Will do," I tell her, leaving a few more dollars on the edge of the stage. I bend them into V's and place them upside down. She sees this and proceeds to bend over, picking them up one by one, showing me everything. She is snake charmer the way she moves her body, making one think it's all for them. I can see now why this place is so dangerous. She saunters off back up-stage, rocking her hips and her *** back and forth like she were trying to put a baby asleep in their cradle. She is very good and knows it.
"That was interesting," Hanes says. He picks up one of Bob's wings. Bob smiles and motions for us to take more.
"I got the endless deal!" he shouts. The music's gotten louder. "Only cost me $10! I got a beer with it too."
"That's a good deal!" Hanes shout back, "Thanks!"
He takes a couple more and places them on a napkin he got from somewhere. Bob motions for me to take a couple, so I do. The sauce is so hot it seems like its stinging my skin from the outside. My eyes even start to water. For a second, everything around me gets that watery sheen where all mixes together and nothing is hard lined. The hard and heavy bass mixes with my vision. In front of me, a blurred body hangs upside down from a golden holy pole. The image stirs some biblical images in my head, like an angel flying down to Earth or even Jesus being crucified, but upside, naked, and a woman. I put down the wings and furiously rub the sauce on my pant legs. If I were to get any of that poison into my eyes, I would be finished, I thought. Blinking hard three or four times, I let the tears stream down my face. Bob sees this and hands me a clean napkin from his table.
"I know," he says, "It is truly beautiful. Don't be afraid of your emotions. Express yourself. It's ok to cry."
"You're crying?!" Hanes laughs, "Why the hell you crying?"
"I'm not! This ****** sauce is so hot it's making my eyes water."
"These women are so beautiful, you're crying!" Hanes throws his head back, laughing. "I've never heard that one before. They'll give you a free lap dance for sure if you tell them that."
"Maybe the cook will," I say, wiping the tears from my eyes with Bob's clean napkin, "There. Back to normal."
"You OK?" Bob asks me? "You good."
"I'm good," I say.
A new dancer comes out on-stage. Bob seems to know her because he puts all of his wings on the table beside him and rubs any sauce that dripped off. He straightens his thin black tie and subtly smells both of his armpits. He definitely knows this one. She's a thick looking asian girl with a smooth, innocent face. Her hair is long, smooth, and black and it reflects the neon pinks and greens whirling above her. Bob leans over.
"She my favorite," he says.
"I can see that."
"Don't tell her nothing though."
"Why?" I smile.
"I don't want her to think I'm a creep."
"You're not a creep, Bob."
"Then what am I?" He asks, furrowing his brow.
"An admirer."

My vision isn’t perfect,
But I at least saw you.
The lefty vaguely sees,
My righty is flawed too.

One sees near, one far.
Yet they saw you, dear.
I look for rhymes, deep.
I listen for words, hear.

Its all an allegory, honey.
Or whatever that means.
I thank the past, my love.
Now the future is here?

Its all unrequited though!
And I have no intentions!
I love and love and love-
But they’re just my heart?

We see with eyes, sweetie.
We do feel what we touch.
Our senses have brought,
Things that are… naught.

This poem goes everywhere!
Talks about this and that…
But that is what you get,
When you have blurry eyes.

Check engine brings in the sufficiency of evil.

How does this work? Re
cognition, I suspect, a seemingly tireless system,
each day releases a sufficiency of evil,
just
enough to re
mind me-you, I see everything, I know

--- within the system of ignition and motive power

peace is after the first explosion begins to turn the crank.
all the piston resistance is pushed toward fore,

and we are off
the line ready

-- and I drive on to exit 28

The Madness of Crowds,

find what my tweets should be today,
read all the madness streams venting
into
the
new ideology of
entertainment,
consider comes up as a word, verb, I paused to look to the stars,
with their shine
to see me

as some bit of all that.

Far from the madding crowd maddened
by the noise we make in preparing
for war

from the foundational texts, in context,
time relative to everything, before
now, position point
meta data do the ID ea, ificate,
ego, go go on, wonder if

what if
hapt
ha, that one worked, eh? We.
You read, I write,
output input output with the effect of input,

loop once, and get the idea that this may
go on, never off,

well, we may imagine that goes nowhere,
round and round, balanced, as the best
1800's steamy perpetual motion patents were
compared
to vaporous IPO's in 1999,
which were overly faith-biased,
as a man thinketh in his heart, the whole world
seems to be… what the mind of the crowd can
conceive, with grip taken, hold on and lift
toward the top of the ripple,
balance
to the tip… of next…

here, put a gate.

Leave a legend of a fiery sword,
impressed
on the mind of a child living in a world
lit only by heaven and fire stolen
from the earth,
go mad with kuriosity

mad on me, mad on you, mad in us is used
to make us choose to believe or not,

dared? were we dared to doubt,
dared we be of two minds
in the matter of time and my being any thing?

Aye, and art, the wit of knowing, we are mortal,
don't forget,

how happy shall we be in ever, is there a demo?

May we try your way a while,
at the speed of thought
in unspoken words

read words in constant presentpast state, the angel
or the thought asreal,
read, but add the phenomenal experience of knowing

this one word is coming to me
from one level lower than the creator of all,
from one little measure above common
mortal humis based life…

where is peace in now?

An intention pledge, above the ethic moral tide,

as sea levels rise, tides rise, settle
us…
be the unem, see the top, from the bottom.

I look up.
BUT THEN SEE
the word realm I reside with
in time and chance,

such as the first fit word was serendipitously sung
in the sixties most recent,

along the marked ***** twisting thread through
the eve of destruction survived
by everybody getting ******,
according to Phoebe Zeitgeist, my once intimate
Tinkerbell fixation,
**** pixie,
in words.

Spin or real, side real, re
al Rheastatically
Hopft hopes to

twistit
little bit,
{which way, apriori flaw, *** of u and me}

-lefty loosy, righty tighty was known at the ***** line
so, ***** you, tighten
the connection,
let less - power - flow, {force me, Luke, make me look}

Hopfordsensation spun'n'set to spin on and on unless

- un less, add, subtract prove this equals that
- this is odd
- what if there is always a way good wins?

Spin or real, side real, re
al Rheastatically
dimmed to minimum spark, flash 10 second rewind,
I lost my mind
I set a reminder for a live feed proper propaganda
event for the latest contender
arisen to question the faith that is in me,
is me, I am
after all, covered
in the entire line of promises which,
culminate in Christ, if you know what I mean,

other wise,

you call truth liar. And there you are.

Wishing you knew if I were
you
would I lie about something as serious as happiness,
the state?
the condition?
the I'll go rhythm schism prism sparkling down the dusty trail…

mind wandering in ever after, as we have done, un
thinking, epi-
evolved by
tuning to those early greyscale programs with random snow
of many colors, when
you were of a bubbled state happy to watch the noise
of the universe
rippling through time to me via amplified CRT bursts
sans earthly input filtering output.

The white room we all remember,

staring in white room mode at whatever is on tv

see, think, imagine doing, that's it, that's it… nope, no good,
you feel bad when things go wrong,
even on tv,
we see.
These bits of us that make no sort on reality verification,
- there is no standard zero to divide by,
- and all the ones are whole
physical, hardwired, nurtured knots and nuts and bolts and
fast-ening things, thoughts that snag
hang-ups,
run the silk, expose the flesh, pierce the epi dermis

determinus outer-most
me,
into innermost you. In a given word, long ago, I think.
Life began to leak from ever before into ever after,
through now,
like this… quarkishly entangled with every thread of ever,
from then to now,

at any point in time, imagine, this is peace of mind, I MADEITUP!

--- a lessoning, to me today
--- opportunity to take responsibility, noticed,
there in our perifery,
leaning
left horizontal attitude adjust

POV straighten up
fly right.

Cultural norms super impose, form a me you may re
cognize in any mirror here on in…

that is not a clue, that is what you do. Now, or re boot day 7.

loot the rich stomp gratuity saintly disprove\
carry a big gun dispute the poverty mute superb\
lock stock two smoking barrels back it up\
shotguns bang what up with that thang she\
wants to know how it hangs ***** in demand\
hooded soldiers bareknuckles shoot the doom brass knuckle ******* boots HooT\
BooM on blast mettle to the pedal gas passing windows fast exhaust throttle\
fastlane straddle past shrine tired popping the wealthy snoot channelside\
stealthy snoop crank dogg sly filthy in hind charlie brown restrain grand sighs\
define the grime be kind foresee the crime rewind lakhaim frame spine spinning\
wheel ordeals repeal sick figures concealed pinning children against frontal lobes\

memory versus\

skulls lost salam to lucifer in a frantic relay replay demonic delay foiling shalom\
band alaykoum in purse fulfilling evil curse droopy eyed fools drooling pearl\
pools diluting verses sheer smarts versions saluting grave farce shuffling back\ crack pipe\
smears contract around virus rooms chasing bail resisting a ***** toned\
frown talking to walls of jail houses crowned end dead thread landfill clowns\
bumping heads bunk bed trash courthouse playground twisting ***** fits\
battered butter mutter peace cross the street forgetting to put up and fight\
shiest with height heist barren on the other side green lyres setting fear steep lower\
reflection revel mirrors deflection inflicting Ghostface highness pace rhymeless chase Killah\

stoke shady slim phone in remaining senses detain impurity capitulating dexterity fuse\
recluse stan granting badass roundhouse kicks rudimental trick chant chatterbox vamp\
underworld stick centerfold haunting Rancid activate superlative octave erupt glee\
sharply whiplash ash out the masses entrance serendipity multiply sentimental divide\
invincible prime knowledge footprint stepping benign modicum rootline stem enticing\ cognizant fledge camaraderie hack feasibility snare clear spear stupes stare look at\
that rearview it's you ******* a pornstar in the backseat rampaged **** dripping slit swept\

weeping tantric rendition ******* loose rocking out sweep companions check and replace\
**** tighten up crews shock and strut byob bend righty tighty string along aim gift dames\
chauffeur fate slate teams honor razzle the green fire dazzle gardens retire kinder\
inspire **** arthur passion swords struck within pyramid empires cured she'll always\
                          love you truly madly deeply combined nocturnal eternal WH navel\

"The power of freedom to overcome tyrants and terrorists"
Moral clarity accoding {cording} Natan Sharansky,
he mustabin seeking seeing through a moral window
besmerched wi'traditions
radiating

A Russian-reared Jew's perspective from Israel
In the 1990's
No integration without representation

--- wait, let the reader recall the goal - yet set not -
right, roll on
{where is this going, David Goodman Chronicles 2020}

The book of life, your role,
{when you find your name, you know}
expand into
A party for the moment, our parts played,

well, let's try {hence, a title}

----govern yer own damself

A gain, a tryal, a paying, a tension, contention,
single source contention,
pride's the culpa writ. Right.

{when you walk into a banquet, be polite,
meaning act as though you are where you know
you are welcome, ask if the empty seat is taken,
if not, you will know you are welcome,
neighbor. This is the same old way, in the future.}

Hubris gotcha down- be humble, win a crown

Shall we win freedom for those locked in fear?
A fine challenge, don't you think?
Read.
Sakarov was Sharansky's teacher, his Plato,
upon whose shoulders, strangely strong faith
finds footing,
fulcrum,
you get the ideas you claim to own, not
the ideas you thought taught
true to all who consume the canon.
Leverage.
A library gives a mind leverage,
we have AI, no lie.

An idea, an id-entity, speaking spirit
Weyekin, englished to we ye kin,
angels, beings guiding ones
who know.

Not every evil is nullified.
Be a ware, the e keeps you from being
a war, knowing your own self as warrior.
Peace makers do not keep the peace,
peace makers let it settle to stillness
waiting behind any obstacle,
waiting is suffering this to be so now, because
nothing in the energy compelling me is breaking
through
but to you, see, dear reader It may be
only I who thinks we are, you could be imaginary.

Actually.
Many useless
morals of stories remain as aphorisms
and adages and proverbial warnings to provoke.
Nietzsche numbered his, to give account
for every idle word,
links
perhaps…
Speak up, lie not against the truth, saying I know,
I know
-boundaries, of course
Freedom must be
defined.
Who knows? Tell me, oft-op apt ove'yer'head!
Y'know? Y,
Everyman does what is right in it's own eyes.
Maybe,
define everyman.
{und ganz Übermenchen}
All of us. Everyman sind all of us, in well ordered
reality,
such as our readers of reality-
between-
lines-never-drawn
in
sand. {flaunting the peace of the sabbath,
which did allow stoning, as you may recall.}

You see, we are in the same story.
There is no authority, save you pay,
free willingly, attention to tensions
seeming
to signal something
mechanical,
click,
ping, a single ATP dis compossesses.
-composed
Ride that photon.
Here we are again, speed of thought.
Think so? Real is an assumption, not an imagination.

I heard this guy say he was a son of God. Big G.
'Said he was aman with anorm al 'erose journey,
when 'tall wentahell.
Then, he believes he was reborn,
somewhat more than a mere mortal.
He claimed his forever
began when he stood up
to the knowing of good and evil, personally.
Intimately.
That seems good. Freedom is from some thing,
stricitive, right. Free from what?
Fear?
fear is one thing,
but fear has preservation purpose so,
we must be specific in which fears we bind to the NULL set.

WE are judging angels. Dare think.
You judged your own collection of inspirations,
did you not?
I prayed God, YHWH, actually, would show me
all the lies I believed,
about him and anything else. Amen, I did.
We'll make this plain, if this is your first signpost of note.

Ideas of freedom formed in the minds of slaves,
meet ideas of freedom formed in the minds of felons,
greet ideas of freedom formed in the minds of children in the desert,
bher with ideas formed in vacation bible school at hippie cults.
Suffer ideas formed in academies of technical guessing, f
er cryin' out loud.
Ideas of freedom?
Little children, keep yourselves from vain imaginations.

Freedom that cannot name Jesus YHWH is not the proof.
Truth is the proof. Truth makes free, he who seeks it,
which is not to say
he who has apprehended
the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
No, whoso ever seeks,
finds more abundance
of that which he has.
He who has nothing, finds nothing.

All candidates claiming direct linage to truth:
define freedom and be judged.

That's not fair.
Accuse, excuse us, life's not fair,

Judge yourself. "Make yer dam' bed!"
{presuming you woke t'd'yoke}
leave us form a
party to puff
up moral clarity like
leaven, till three more measures of
dust rise on the gasses we naturally

cannot see. In corpo ratus.
CLEAR!
Scientology? Coincidence, if 'tis.
Ol' magi-tech, what so
ever we agree. Same trick.
Sacro-sanctity
freedom from fear. Agree? No? Why not?

Fear of YHWH is the beginning of Wisdom.
True, but thought wrong.
Genitive fear, God's fear, is the beginning
of Wisdom, she was with him ere the
highest part of the dust of the world took form.
Fear of falling, is good -- no, it is a mistaken signal,
an imbalance, eh?
The speed of thought correction is faster than the eye
can see and warning is thought, of an unknown harm,
mistook.

Fear of believing lies, is needed, I thought, but, no,
There's no fear of believing lies,
truth be told.
"Cannot the tongue taste its words?"
"Is there any taste in the white of an egg?"
"Do you know the sweet influence of Pleiades?"

The bubble of all you know is an egg. Kinda.

-----

Self-govern, together live, birds of a feather flock together,
that idea. No slaves.

Fear society or free society, self, thyself, govern true.

That's right. "To thine own self, be true"
"believe no lie, tell no lie"
"Know thyself"
"Know thy shadow"

Today is 11-11-2021 the time here is 9:11 ante meridian,
You, as imagined, by me, alone,
are you, alone, reading, to yourself words
made from thoughts I am thinking at this pace.
Prepositioned, in your pastence.
Phrase, word, phrases, line
lines alone

lines in pairs
certain points genitivious, engender differing means
to obviously triplication of some certainties, certain
ties to old lines unraveled from a net knotted
in Ur.

We be ye kin, ken ye grock rocks rollin' on
down a course?
Of course you can, of course, the only common
course, this course of human events, common
sensed as time and space overlapping stuff.

Mater, mater, may I imagine being born, eh
oh, yes, -- movie memory -- see
right through the visible man,
a boy toy, picked by luck or the answer
to a prayer,
but I did ask for the best gift, hoping
it was money, because I was told Solomon,
was the wisest of mortals in ever, so
I was told he said, Money answereth all things.

Yeah, right. You already know, that seems so
wrong, wrong to the point, the root
of evil, barbed tail,
horns of dilemma, ah, what's a mind like mine to do?
Semantics, its all
se man tics, terms of worth, pro
forward onward efforting verbs, action words
The Infallible Book declares, Money answereth all things.

A single grain contains the whole, or some say so,
I imagine reality less restrictive in common sense
utility
use of knowns passed on as memes with reasons,
we sit to
gather memory, tell story, think song sung, sing
that song
a gain, we make the peace past understanding,
past when we were one, and we stood up
right
and ran away
remember, the heart of every story boy meets girl.

Well, this is different, scientifical. Fantastic, sure,
stable as the grammar in DNA.

Steady as the procession of the stars seen from
certain times and places, and passed through time
to any who wish to know
all the truth once held in forms told around fires
to comfort a child with a common cold,
aches and sniffles, full tummy,
milk and honey heated by stones, dropped
into a turtle shell mug my grandma gave to me

drifting into to tal, mor tal is man mortalisman more
more
more, wait. Wait.

We breathe. We listen. This is the book of life, live.

My task is breathing inlets along coastlines, where
waves of overlapping, pearling shallows round
stones as witness, stones crying out
living water has shaped me, see,

is this beauty for giving or selling. I wish I knew,
instantly,
this bit has been freely given, for the use
been made,
the formation, the inspiring aspiration to make

make up
a mind to find the answer, and find
it does appear
line upon line,
beyond the library Daniel witnessed sealed.

Money made this possible, this magic pen,
for all intents and purposes, this tech is magic.

Have you witnessed 3-D printing circa 1985?
Mac SE was cutting edge, and owning one
was status, using one was a good gig,
for an old counter of picas and points, once
the laser writer met vector formed fonts
calculated, computed with most accurate maths,
tangents and cosins and such,

the power of the press, in the hands of a pauper,
hmm, time and chance, let me warn you, this is
the untangling of the famed tangled web we weave
when first we receive the call to listen to the truth
you hear in written words arranged in patterns
adapted to the available, usable, medium.

Draw your self watching the horses painted
as the song of us is sung, a domus, we domus, us

singing together we form
awe
awfullest noise you can imagine in a secret place.

Welcome to the cavern of forgotten good ideas
and idle words mistaken as misdefined, this is that.
              
-restart
from certain places where uses are determined
by any means, good
[ye-es, the idea at the center}
pre-positioned, made fit for a king or a priest
or any humbler soul in a state of grace, id
est, best state, favored, by no power id-entity in me
conceived, but by the word of GOD, who is
good
all the time, any hungry child knows, how a child
weighs the worth of such an idea, plucked
from thin air…

Here, we be, wir sind, si, we know, go Ko!
golf-commentator whisper voice

did you come to find my voice, listen
learning is the first act that never ends,

the next word is the next thing, eventually,
events being
things, in their own right state, useful, or not.

Tantrums serve to prove the uselessness of tantrums.
Grandfather level wisdom fits moral to mean to end,
end all conjecture,
cease casting all cares to the common winds of time,
and space and sea and sky, everywhere idiocy abides
provoking one
an other, ricochet-re-re-re act re
sponse, jump, start

run, upright, spring thinking what
if
I say this is the goal, get to the bottom, fundus
professionally guided by I mind I myself, made up
mind
including you, the acting dear reader.
Saving myself for a publisher, copy right ritual
of code devisors, to increase interest,
gouge-deeper gullies to wash away desires
inspired by alluring vertisements intended
to loosen your grip
on sati. Satisfy my yearning soul-blues, bha-bha
boom
woncha sing witme seem what we seem to be
haps in a time per haps
may happen at will in a mind on a binge to end
all binges, writing like a joy-daemon viral
ex-plainer, needling *****, look

this way, see

ear? Practice makes perfect opportunity next

use of truth to tell a lie from a joke, perhaps
that is the trick,
who told the tale before you heard it was your
intellectual heritage,

your link to who and what you are, through song
and saga and right stepped beeing dancing thisaway
thataway sing asongofus a we a we a we away

what were we thinking, then
Lion King reminds us, being or not, what do we got
to do to attain

Acunamatattal rattle shake shake shake
shake your spoils from the war,
were you unaware, shaking ***** measures worth?

Stealing attention from the stars, eh,
lying demon, here, here be heretic tic, instant
hell
a poppin all around, as we recall some mirror neurons
to signal gut response
text wise
is this happening? Did the dam break, or the branch

is this a bough breaking affirmation broken from
the tree of life entangling the tree of knowing increase
vow to know
more, was the chant for warned be, war chants and we
chants are mortally indiscernible but

we die to learn the difference, you must be born again,
I can not call that a lie. Nor can you and prove me wrong.

Was that a the reason for war all along, selected
bits of the last old wives tales, the barren ones,

old wives, who watched no child, ever form, from
one generation, after another, to no eggs
ever forming vessels for the spirit of life knowing knowing
things, we agree on
things, we agree on things we make up and lie to others

to scare them, put fear in their hearts, fear of death,
real, on the edge, fear, we make up,
we pretend, we play, who am I to be, when I grow up?
- practice perfect sati, old wives say we agree, go.
polisemy spawn bloom Thuc's lic be witcha

If it was a common question, why was it no answer
is readily available…

avail, second instance, in this stream, how extra
ordinareally organzed are these eddies in the depths,
silken threads, silver in golden needles, apples
of gold, in pitchers of silver, still life, made
in vocative voice we sought, peace
in a picture
formed from words drawn in letting symbols setting
free
chthonic thoughts some time now,
where we go or how is immaterial now, here
is where all the power to be us - is, right now.

I'm loving the concept, except one knows,
one knows not,

could be a numbered aphorism in thoth lost long ago.

Freedom from pain? When? When the pain ends.

I have watched Thuc burn, many flashes
as to why
so, I surmise, no promise I am right then, but now
I am right, as a twist top.

As in,
do it right or break the true purpose of rightness,
lefty loosy, listen
righty tighty, mechanical children know that by five.

So in saying we ***** with minds we mean we re
thread the spiral needed to hold order to the curve
we use to move from mind to mind
by simple subtility common to reading minds, let
loose from codes of obscurity and silence,

priesthood of the programmers, defiled
by HyperCard…

hit it, 1985, we role the hero in the tail, the new man
stranger in his own home town, trope, f'shore

distant Homer's combed the beaches, sifting shipwrecks

finding, from time to time, these jars of old stories
written in magical ways, saying unspeakable things.

A dawning in the mind of all the kin, weyekin, listen
we say say the story so
somebody
listens, thinks, listens thinks, I thought that,
and laughs,

that feels good, silent smile, quiet grin, nobody sees,
but me, we ai n't e-whistlin', Dixie,

did the singer make a we of us, or did you watch
the TV show,
so you know? Did we meet and leave impressions,
or did you think I reminded you of a character
Bill Murray could play well?

What the hell? Imagine that, being another body,
after being this, be gone.
Sa sa sati. Is fine, as an idea, an id-entity in common state
free satisfaction for any dis-
satisfied mind, but
be aware, breathing is involved, for a lifetime, of days
and seasons, one after the other, constantly
feeling the draw
of empty from full, as we all sang, let the healing waters
flow,
and the joys, celestial
glow… go go go make up a Mormon link and think we

lied about many things, we need not lie about knowing.

Now, no lie lives in sacred temples misappropriated
by a tyranny over the mind of man,
to which we Jeffs and Jinn agree, an end is deservant

of your attention to the actual forces involved in details,
such as you reading this line after all the lines you read
before
now… when your clock is pacing, time's worth one way
or wait,
a guide, some intuitive icon may make sense suddenly
256 shades of grey, undefiled by the muse that planted
the shame associated with putting on that mind,
being in the head of a dramatic iteration of broken

sense of being holy, historical fashion statements
straight from full victorian victim global angst,

interesting times, said the chinaman to the BIC guy,

click, British East India, and the ***** war and
the tea cartel.

Grey Pompon, cheer rah rah rich man, now I can
eat your mustard,
rawly.

Euphony, is good euglobonics, euro-trash
white and all its malonat- ive {melatonin-iment}
serrendipt natural to the medium
hyper-text in metaspace, true to the thought
at
the bottom, pro fundus
ment-al-ity ifs
itself
into this actual state, where
when I write you read, and
this is connected to a very complex
tangled web of reasonings for acting
as if we know
this is that right thing you do, we do think
the thoughts in words we let mean true
things, in bundles.

Sub routines, we may choose
to understand, reasons for simple when
sublime takes a life time.

Faster fasting, we did, my we did speed,
even if it was only a game,
we generated the oomph that once made
war
bore boys and girls who saw the science
consciously, thinking
I was made for this, this time, these rules,
this tech
this magic, this history, this lexicon

this underneathness, chthonic thought
Lex Fridman, coincidental influencer
Joe Rogan happened,
to survive, or
did he, is he really Joe Rogan, on Spotify
or did he leave his sould self on YouTube
bait,
come pay me attention I may sell and
make you laugh and feel good
doing it, laughing
inside.

I just recall this guy I know, who has
grown anonymously old, mellowed
with char and aged to perfection
on the adapted tongue,
it is a cultural test, can you swallow
the real
hard stuff boy?

You want a taste of your own medicine,
- twined voices old and gravelly craw
- high and whiny boy

The story takes a turn, same script,
life is poetic, or is that the other way round,

who cares

Malonate
The malonate or propanedioate ion is CH₂2−.
Malonate compounds include salts and esters
of malonic acid,
such as diethyl malonate,₂,
dimethyl malonate,₂,
disodium malonate,
Na₂.
Malonate is a competitive inhibitor
of the enzyme succinate dehydrogenase:
malonate binds
to the active site
of the enzyme
without reacting, and so competes
with succinate,
the usual substrate
of the enzyme.
The observation that malonate is
a competitive inhibitor
of succinate dehydrogenase was used
to deduce the structure
of the active site
in that enzyme.

From <https://uci.officeapps.live.com/OfficeInsights/web/views/insights.immersive.html>

MMM, I get by…

With old eyes open, are we set free,
Is all a glimpse, of simple prophecy,                                                                      
Or tall, landed fable to fly children,
And bookend of time we borrow,
But lent pergatory of sole dream?
How the birds righty commend
The fine, happy sorrows of day,
How deepest ocean swoons
By alighted traces of moon,
How crisp unbridled beauty
Beams into youths of a girl,
How the salt blood streams
As golden sun swells ocean,
How the simple, cut mercies
In a flower are showcased,
How the stars, arc the sky,
Of stellar eyes embrace,
This then is miracle,
A flame to earth.

.
With old eyes open, are we set free,
Is all a glimpse, of simple prophecy,
Or tall, landed fable to fly children,
And bookend of time we borrow,
But lent pergatory of sole dream?
How the birds righty commend
The fine, happy sorrows of day,
How deepest ocean swoons
By alighted traces of moon,
How crisp unbridled beauty
Beams into youths of a girl,
How the salt blood streams
As golden sun swells ocean,
How the simple, cut mercies
In a flower are showcased,
How the stars, arc the sky,
Of stellar eyes embrace,
This then is miracle,
A flame to earth.

"Eloquently put"
Said the man with one foot.
"Righty **"
Said the man with no toe.
"Fantastic singer"
Said the man with half a finger.
"What the heck?"
Said the man with a long neck.
"It goes over there"
Said the man with green hair.
"Knock in the pegs"
Said the man with short legs.
"Time to get going"
Said the man who was rowing.

Does it matter what they said?
All had one thing in common.
They had something to say.

Now, what we were thinking
we could do together, for fun…
we can't
with this tech, too soon- we tried
Audio recording started: 1:12 PM Wednesday, November 8, 2023
Ifery is, this is a magic pen and can contain audio,
I'll have you know, I imagined this,
I'll have you know, so farther down you know it gets back
to the time when Amazon Web Services read all the small print
and the metadata associated, socially servicing aching needs
Information wants to be free
Little Shoppe Feed Me, we few old fools recall the vegemental
protest at the time,
we could feel dead trees in our hands,
how wrong I was is a crime. In reality, I did my time, on the line,

and I'm still on the line, and life ain't been no opioid dream,
soft hmmm
seems drunker, this
repositioning for interesting clause, riddles are blessings, not lies.

So this is a twist to tighten, widdershins loosens,
guilden rule. Righty, tighty.
Who said that?
Right
mechanical me mind, hear-sed
By whose authority do you make crys
for peace, where no crys were?
Smoke Fire
Is something wrong old man?
Is there something of yourself you see,
afar, as seen
on TV, No Country, Pretty Horses, Road
weary
been there, in that novel state of mind,
new to mankind, only a few centuries old,
the art of lying to make an unthinkable, thought.

A meme, make a meme, flash a fict, a second thought
Per haps make up a mind, and let it form in mindspace
time to time,

we catch a novel experience unfolding compacted
scrolls of gnosis knots blown to cover our tracks,

through the highest parts of the dust of the Earth,
embedded capital classificators exist, many signs
mean almost any thing that stands to prove patience

works.
Wait and see.

I waited until I was certain someone among everyone
loves the idea that dying is not to be feared, never was,

it is part of life, and, I dare say, done right, it is the best.

Alone and lonely are not the same feel,
see a said word as a said word, is a thought.

First, principle principle, pal. First ever eternal pre-time
instant wisdom pops up in the mind of Christ, allatime, man.
Magi
School, we live,
we learn, we linger, listen, did you wish you
had done more good, did you think you earn
rank
play the role you audition for, or go home, old man.
Serpentine wisdom bent left on a bet, my point.
?
Okeh, I got a back up, in case we disagree and bring down
the conceptual internet with wizardly gamey loungeers, seek
-erefteaaaaaaaaahhush

lurkers averse to flame wars.
Does the name Barry Rudd mean anything to you?
Does the word Hiroshima evoke images for you?

When the Spaceshuttles were built in Palmdale,
the assembly hangar was so voluminous a bubble
as to create a micro weather system, in the building.

What the Arpanet imitation game intended to use it for,
was as secret as any cold war secrets are, timelocks slip.

When AT&T was as real as any evolved ideal communication
of private information on a secure as money can make it,
network, hyphenate at will, the economy, stupid,
one that can survive mutually assured destruction, 1954.
Contract for the concrete, stamped 1954
Let time slip, be the boomer kid, like on TV in the commercials,
real every day as Silver Dollar Billy Baxter, totally typical, Jungian

Ranking higher, trending below Freudian slips in eugeniusisity
Your Holiness,
no, I
insist, stand for nothing less, a title,
for a soul, so, easy, you imagine, no, it was not so easy.

It was never imagined easy, now it is.

That makes it easier, believe me.
- he cops watch out
Oy, feel the old rage,
at Ed Childs's child's nursing home,
Al'heimering mindtimespace adrift, ifery
wasery, we can remember laughing at knowing

Ed Childs was a quiet man, for real,
and he went into real estate, when Hamner and Limonite
was in the sticks.

I can ruminate on wealth and worth, healing and measuring
worth of the scar to prove the contestant worthy,

boomer bunch panting
Queen For A Day, golden Cadillac, drool
old school applause-ometer….

I can take it from here,
but who's listening, 'm seemingly directional point concept
precept point widdershins introducing true cause chirality,
is up or down turned sideways,
a property of asymmetry,
you see, we work inside a set of six cardinal, pivotal points,
each of us, and all of us,
can make sense of most anything at once
we think ourselves sane, all at once, or once and for all,
go bigtime Alzheim extremist POV, being, happy
with the package.

A joint for a retired K-9 cop in Anaheim, a boomer,
never dropped out, nor tuned in, went with the game,
got good enough to know when to quit, and then he gets

Alzheimer's. Just so happens, thoughts, wishes or prayers,
chants, incense, any thing you think might help, does help.

It's a very ancient kind of love,
a love that laughs at fearing death, as we laugh today,
at children dressing in roles from mystery religious oathes.

Jesus, says in his own time and voice, I told you so.
We both laugh; secret oath wink.

-------------------
From the sign on the bridge saying
life is worth living, no 1-800 rukidding
- any body could but it was William James
- madjathinkit
Yeah, novel events grow stale if they sit,
mistaking thinking and doing, as mirrored
in the realm where prayers are answered
and made up minds are tested for repurposing.

Perhaps a variety of a general irreligious fine mind.
---------
That's a thing, back to the Hangar, now, you know
where you go when you link through the poet facet.

Here, below the western highside of the great basin,
we dug-in, we hired The Boring Company,
all telepathically, to investigate the likelihood
of any mortal good ever eliminating the evil nature

nurtured in warring cultures time immemorial,
-seditselah
eliminating cost of living, leaving being all we do.

matrix, make up your own mind, live with pain

and that's just not right,
and we twist the entire story out the window
and into thin air we know is there, because,
cause being aitia and I agree we be causing

so much silliness of the original intentional sort,
as to make old men wish,

the world were not so reassuring, until

we all selah and listen holygnosishitsreal, side reality,

minds intwined in mysterious old stories, when gay
was only happy, and buttoned up, as secret Edwardians
would that it were forever so,

oh, ** **, ye'll deal with a devil for a tale, you tell me,
let me test yer mettle, curse god, and die.
Iyobe
Did you think that and continue, such faith,
commends ye to the circle that eats, what the bull eats.

We intend to think our God's thoughts, right after,
hot, steaming prophetic gnosishit, not gnosisnot, that's
strange
very
strange, did I catch a meme from Sunshine Superman,
should 2525 arrive.
Just in case.
This was all worth it, this time.

uncommon ways of thinking are more subject to be
friending,
odd ionic quests are  trending---
what is the most noble quest?
like
What good am I, peace and safety wise
be me
as a wild bird might feel safe with you near,
as you quest on, leaning on the lift, rolling in the flow

life lives, ideas find shapes that fit,
moreso than a similar unit of your own mind's
left-behinds

just-in-case

we are commanded, be first
he who treads the grain eats first,
as the grain is tread,
or he stores his treasure in an imaginary vault,

safety deposit rule being if I was in the spirit,
as witnessed by the breath
filtered from gnats, and flushed of flem,
Ah hem, Aachen, is back.
Say he has a silver wedge worth risking the wrath of god,
you ever felt that urge,
to taste,
partake of the growing and harvest and decarbing and steeping
first partaker, the husband man, wombed or un, who labors,
must be, then
be the little red hen who shares the over flow,
--- what is being asked of whom, in this room?
not the filling,
let them be only thy own and not another's with thee
but the flood's free
running, whirling vein to one artery to another
we share the air.

My grandsons all can make that clear, the youngest,
three and one half swirls,
lefty lucy, righty tighty, one way or another
no no no … I'll follow the sun

twist again, like we did last summer, oh the
world swallowed me whole

as if I, not Faustus, I am bond to stand toe to toe
with old Mephisto,
by any other name, I tripped

on my feet I land on my feet Agri-industrial experimental,
oil company loss producer to allow tax credits
maybe useful toward avoiding
hundred and forty acre water
that, ****** if they didn't, we was plantin' trees
the names of those reaped
the fruits of our labor,

I see the rod, of an almond tree…

Ich kenne nicht I hid mein heir under the standing
pillars of right we learn
to live under, standing up right, relative to
who our DNA proves,
close enough for Perry Mason,
in the white of the egg, is there any taste?
it is an acquired taste,
a select strand of ancient as we, as a family,
mito-chondrial DNA,
is this not poetryscumbagthunderword getter
good, we

see the flaw, no flaw at all, a short cut for the trout, see

see the flaw in the flow is a matter of matter it self.
Self it sel, per se, same same logos I heard a meta
knower of something or another,
expert, in the literature of his field.

we seem the fruit of a life examined and found lacking nothing,
each day's evil sufficiency settled to gentle predictable waves,
marked by the red tent in the stories
of when there was so much grass and so much wool

every shepherd was feeding three wives in exchange,
for making life livable as the fate spin us
to true rest remaining for the people of {as we all agree, the idea does exist and is believed, though you may not know or know you do and know this form of reality, me and you bot reading thishit}
God god gods and sub beings with
From out of the culvert, east on 66, see I said then
that's me, I'll see what that man sees

you need not reprove the signs,
shake the dust and wander on samsara, as they say, one way

Child eyes, no fear at all, sees himself, a
strange old men
lurking where he remembers only old drunks,
smell of ****,

once watched a squaw in velvet skirt,
drop a qew outside a white outhouse

these windows persist as windows,
no doors if your ligends don’t match the receptors,

fret not, worst can happen,
but not here, time being as it is, you know, variable

In states of mind I can maintain for longer periods than i…
I take that back,
this is the real binge.
The last round. The words form constant ever after
bubble, **** I guess able to bubbles in milk
bubbles of being being my whole metaphor for life inside this one bubble we can sort of see the edge of…
synchronos compromise signals life change…

Invest in a three year old boy who is on-the-ball-*****-trained,
constant barking trained seal balancing the world,
beneath his feet, gripper stockinged ,
but a way can may be
still slide in the hall is if you put 'em on
grippers on top,
aha
life in a child
loves knowing any thing, for as long as knowing
happens along with everything else,

Like," Grandpa", from this blonde head with adult sized eyes,
seeing me look him in those eyes, signal
eyes touch, he sees his reflexion in the glare on my glasses,

I know, I saw my reflexion in my grandma's glasses,
when I was three, or so.

"Grandpa, stars come in all the colors." They do,
I said. I told my daughter, she shone.

I feel sorta Norman Rockwell, 2019.

swipey swipey left or righty
I could do this all freakin nighty
I'll never call you, never text
I know you're all just after ***
boys are silly girls are too
they want true love but a ****** will do
easy peasy lemon squeezy
nobody thinks this stuff is sleezy?

I certainly don't know this
And for sure I don't know that
No idea of where it is
Or where I saw it last

I don't know what to say
Or even what to do
I came too early to be this late
Here without a clue

I tend to lean on
I don't know what it means
From the very start
With everything I've seen

Don't know my righty tighty
From my lefty loose
No matter how you twist it
Here without a clue

I don't know what is in
I haven't figured out
Only thing for certain is
I am filled with doubt

I don't know what to choose
When it comes to what to do
Which direction I should turn
Here without a clue

These minimizing labels
There be pirates on these seas
And arming social revolution
Is in love with lunacies
Come in with tyrants,
Preaching violence
And enriching lesser clients
Privateers to privatizing
Water fronts to spread the virus
Be it powder wigs and kegs
Or kids with squids for their sea legs
It all submits before the rising
Of the bottom-feeding plebs
So call me leftist,
Call me liberal
I was born in the imperial
Ethereal imprisonment
The cargo hold’s
Bloodlust for gold’s
Dehumanized
Equivalent
A righty, if you write me
In genetics and supremacy
The strong, the weak
The idolized
And deified
Celebrity
But never on authority’s
Minority report
But indivisible as any individual
At court
And so I see the tribal fighting,
The internecine delighting
In the other side’s
Speechless demise
And stoke the reuniting