Were your mind the soil from which words rise,
autochthonic,

filled with meaning-ment-al
ready to write asif

you exist, dear reader, and know
autochthonic
people are some different from

Gaijins, gegenes, genetical offspring of Gaia,
I imagine, gollum mud men, goy-soulish sorts,

were, once thought,
asreal as death itself, by those in the know;

but

we never know ever, ever being as it is and

this being mortality,
the act of dying,

asif we were seeds, words whispered in darkness,

come and see. Buy of me gold,
without money,
without price.

Grace, take it for granted, and grow on.
Become that which the seed demanded you to be,

when autochthonic was re
cognized as some word Nunzio Corso knew, but you

never heard of him.

For the general good of life, and that more abundantly, you must pay attention to little things.
Unseen things.
Time compression is essential for even the briefest of glimpses, mere blinks,

A wink,
and what threatened Nihilation of the finest realities imagined so far, is nothing.

****. Again.
"there are universes
where eons go by in the blink of an eye". Somebody said.

Bubbling universes each able to open itself to the first level bubble, your bubble with everything you know in there with you. And, today, me.

"indisputable fact, there was / is a first bubble, light fills it to the brim
and what happens there touches
all, and I am,
in a word, part of that
First bubble kingdom"

Every desire of your heart he delights in.
There is such a universe, before you think or ask,
and you are sort of quantum bonded to your heart's desires, y'know,
hearts and minds, body and soul, 2 different systems.
Entangled.
Breathe.
You know.
Soulish desires disciplined in disciples
found blood washed hearts,
unlimited.
Extrapolate this. How much blood is in the ocean now?

More than you can think or ask.
You believe the first thinker thought you would
appreciate a path to each and all of your heart's desires, one path,
or you never find the way, no matter how you look. ?

Ya gotta beli've it to see it
Be li've
Ya gotta wan'it


Jah praise first bubble knocking
you b just one wall away
step into alpha thought and proceed to the omega thought,
Copy?
Respond.
This is the narrow way.
The old way, where good is. You found it, walk it.

It's in beta, so you can fail. Life ain't fair, its jest
okeh, ever how we lie and say this jest
cain't real-ish-tic
be,  don't make me no nevahmind.

life and light, those two team up and kick ***,
evil gets all turned around, ****** if it don't. then

The peacemakers rest, the meek inherit the earth
and everything goes back to normal.

Moral: believe no lie is of, in, by or for actual truth,
you know. Take it as a test.

Like changing your own air filter, in the realm of ideas,
you change your error filter when ever it

seems you jest cain't breathe. You can change that
****** error filter and hit any dusty trail

that seems right, as far as I can tell.

Traditions of men get in the way,
while creating an unholy mix-
the Human Condition fails us now,
as our eyes on ourselves are transfixed,
blinded to The Father’s heavenly sway.

When relationships sadly break down,
we’re torn about whom we can still trust-
the Human Condition fails us now,
as we’re held back by our soulish lusts,
blinded to His mercies that abound.

Recurring loops of insanity,
ensure that we won’t find any peace;
contentment remains beyond our grasp
when failing to accept Christ’s release
of Love and staying our humanity.
.
.
.
Author notes

Inspired by:
Mark 7

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.

Where, oh Heart, is the answer?
In man’s olive iris that pines
capsule of soulish vines stretching

by the water in that memory…
First pink touch: the long name,
Which you say is so
easy on the eye

In catching dim fair soft lights
blown in gloom’s silver odds

between two old pages or
News soaked in a gray ink drop bath:
The blending of war broken out on earth’s cheek
With the gossiping red margins and
Something eerie on the last page…

I step on it, walking straight.

In still mindfully begging
Oval windows on the church ramparts:
 Is it in the epoch
          Womanhood?
In the sore ******, in the sore slits
            Dribbling pollen of wounds of
            Nickings, gyps, slights, losses

Is it in a stasis
Forested with chocolate and sisters
Purpled bedtime music boxes
Dreaming or in the moment I
Stir my bland corners with song
            Not in victories banners cheering
            Hunched labor in running
            Something we get when winning

Is it in a process
That wrinkles like skin, then spots
            Or hangs over the path
            A great moss and changing
the wintery company of foliage and twig to
fire and blossom,
in the birth of death and growing?

is it in kissing or eating before praying
like guilt yellow as bruised pear hips
that melt to brown in your fingers

Should I see or hear or feel it
in the man himself, meat of his fine muscles,
his heart's voice, the buried hunger pang,
it speaks
or in his prayer's slow sadness,
black as the tomb's passage and
can you answer?