Cold, blue, wet, fragile, brittle, hard, steam solidified, water hardened, anger, fear, white, tensile,

steam solidified,
water hardened; you lie
in her wintered veins.

why?

"If she's awake, I'll **** you."
staccato words spoken
like a knife blade thrown...
...with malice and intent.

Her father's voice
from the bedroom next door
no sound of her mother.

The female child cowered
under her candy-striped sheets
their usual soft comfort
unnoticed

footsteps
door handle moving
light seeping into her sanctuary

her heart thudded
trying to escape her chest
as she held her breath.

"Please, please don't hear me."
a silent plea as
fear snatched her in its icy grip.

She could smell him
smell the cigarettes
smell his power.

She waited.

He backed out
returned to her mother
between her heartbeats
she heard the slap

"You are lucky this time,
*****. She sleeps."
Heavy footsteps down the stairs
punctuated by her mother's tears.

                            ~~~~~~~~~~~

The girl child had only ever blamed her mother
decades of anger and bitterness
the memory of this night buried deep.
Crazed hard ice beneath the tundra of her life.

In the third decade of the girl child's life
her mother died
alone
never forgiven for what she hadn't done
nor for what she had.

The ice remained in the girl child's veins
If anything, thicker...harder.

Then in her fifth decade this ice became water
as with the passage of life the tundra thawed
and rising with it to the surface
the truth.

Then what?

The girl child worked hard at staying warm
at keeping the ice at bay.
Not easy.

Nothing was ever said to her father.

In her sixth decade the girl child's father died
embraced in his daughter's arms
forgiven for what he had done
and for what he hadn't.

The woman had finally thawed
she was properly warm
her own love
finally able to flow

~dedicated to the old poets here~

the addictive pairing of certain words, a line,
a lyric, slap-snapping you to full attention,
unfailing decades of instant recognition,
an adrenaline + caffeine shot that powers

a chance, a tensile injection that causes

the lips to commence a new choreography,
the fingers to tap, a jumbled, hurried, embattled
disorderly mess that regenerates, reformulates,
concords into agreement, a harmonic consistency

a geometry of many differing angles that equate

a hard physical, a soft mentality in a singled work,
coexisting in a sacred state of singed confluence,
though imperfect, satisfies mathematical boundaries
of a random outpouring, crowning the stripe inspiring

the spark that finally satisfyingly silences an ignited

filament a-glowing for years, that holy happens
to cross your antennae, fulfilling the need to honor,
the sacred geometry of chance, the honor to need,
the joy of saying, at last, this unwritten debt, paid!


————————————————————————-
(1) a favorite of many years, a lyric from “The Shape of My Heart” by Sting

(2) Dec 3 2020 2:53pm  NYC

I'm not easily torn, but you've ripped me like tissue paper.

Her tensile wings
grew larger and larger
trying to reach
the end of the world.

Just to find out
she was only
circling around.

Someone collect all the hatred,

and all the vehemence too.

then don't recycle or reciprocate it.

turn it all into something else,

rich and green and full of kindness.

distill it, remove the impurities,

coagulate it away from it's cold

tungsten tensile titanium.

some of us only have to try,

it can be done. Einstein said so;

and Mother Teresa and Gandhi,

and Martin Luther King Jr.

Someone collect all the hatred,

and all the vehemence too.

then don't recycle or reciprocate it.

turn it all into something else,



rich and green and full of kindness.

distill it, remove the impurities,

coagulate it away from it's cold

tungsten tensile titanium.

encase it in concrete and steel,

bury it with the radioactive waste.

let it lie for it's half life,

in over 40,000,000 tears.

I'm not easily torn, but you've ripped me like tissue paper.

A hard iron ball,
Being pounded with hammers.
It heats, it stretches, it breaks.
The iron ball shattered, torn.

My love is like an iron ball,
Not much fun to receive.
Insignificant, unusable,
and Hard.

Put it on your desk.
It might have a purpose in the future.

No jingle bells ring around here
Since you've gone away.
White snow blankets ev'rything in sight,
But I don't wanna play.
I don't feel the merriment, the mirth, nor cheer,
It's not like Christmas at all
When you're not here.

It's not like Christmas at all,
When you're not here.
I don't feel like celebrating
When you're not near.
When you were in my life
I never did know drear.
It's not like Christmas at all
When you're not here.

A wreath adorns the cold front door,
Your somewhere on the outside,
Frolicking in the wonderland,
Your world is unfurled and wide.
You will never have to know
A life spent all alone.
You will always find somebody
You can call your own.

It's not like Christmas at all,
When you're not here.
I don't feel like celebrating
Without you, Dear.
I keep hoping by some chance
That in my door you'll reappear,
It's not like Christmas at all
Without you here.

The ornaments, tensile, and lights,
Hang on the evergreen.
The Yule log burns, and warms the harth;
The carollers, outside, they sing.
I can't face the new year
By myself, all on my own.
Things haven't been the same
Sinse you've been gone.

It's not like Christmas at all
When you're not here.
I don't feel like celebrating,
When you're not near.
Come back for the holidays,
Then stay all year.
It's not like Christmas at all,
When you're not here.

(Nobody's under my mistletoe -
I won't cuddle when the night is cold.)

It's not like Christmas at all
When you're not here.
I don't feel like celebrating,
When you're not near.
Come back for the holidays,
Then stay all year.
It's not like Christmas at all,
When you're not here.

T-Treading with a very measured gait
I-Inviting his balancing pole to equate
G-Grounding each foot at precise rate
H-Holding a toe grip by a sheerest fate
T-Tensile cable he doth easily intimidate

R-Reckons he'll get to the other end secure
O-Overcoming the snare of the floors lure
P-Plying skills which shall always endure
E-Elevated at a height where the air is pure

W-Wowing the audience seated in the tent
A-Applause he garners for his amazing event
L-Lightly he takes his final steps of torment
K-Kisses thrown at the walker who is spent
E-Elation he now feels and so very content
R- Risk and great pressure he underwent

Hello sad clown
You must peel that irony off your lips, you thieved it from me.
Your grotesque eyes bore through don't they?
If so, why am I not all bones yet?
Hollow noises would ricochet would my flesh would turn weary of holding me.

Hello sad clown
With your frown- upside down-
Is your plastic as tensile as my heart seems to be?
I would slice a knife beneath your sloping eyebrows, so you wouldn't see what I have.
It was pretty as hope and it decided to **** me.

Hello sad clown
Do you miss your happy shadow?
Or does it leech around in sadistic mockery murmuring things about your past?
I would lend you all my heart-cheats -
But they would involve the blackness of your soul or inside your eyelids.

**Mirror mirror on the wall,
Am I the saddest clown of them all?

Fine porcelain litters the cloth,
yet a quick pull leaves it still.
An exchange of tails both
holding, careful to not spill.

Our plates remain intact,
despite accidents of gravity.
Clearing the surface momentarily
within arrangements of integrity.

Utensils quickly turning
our tensile accent; I uttered
Vowels to what was heard
repeatedly signed our yearning.

Along the faithful stretch of tensile black ribbon
Homesteads garnished in sporadic , hospitable shade
Sunshine releasing every brilliant pigment ,
summit eloquence in festive motion ..
Botton land fathers toil a plethora of viable hillside earth ,
Afternoon chimney fires season the air with -
-Hickory and Oak kindling from creek-stone hearth
Silver Guineas patrol the forest edges , cordillera
Mountain Deer free themselves from the ******* of the midday struggle , recede into wooded escapes , immune from discovery ..

So, speak of infinite love and
roll your umber eyes. It goes so
well with the way you roll your r's,
as you teach me your Castilian
intonations. Just don't fall
in that category of immersed lost
Latin loves, of mine, sunk in
wet memory.

Ah, the murk of them, an amalgam.

Each giving to a melting ***,
and me, a liquid molten fraction
of strange tensile strength
and half gold-like luster. An alloy
of allies, do I see them as? Why,
yes, of course.

Now you come. Please stand out
from the mix. Show me your
purity.

Be solid gold.

I know you like my pronunciation.
I need to know now, yours.
Mi Amor

What he knows to be her lamp,
Exhaled bronze light.  
Obsessively unflinching mid-range stare,
Front teeth pushed forward, from the placement of his tongue over the years.

A vague un-answer,
Obfuscating, leftward facing eyes complete with matching set of lips,
In an unusually high voice mentioning predictables

Dragging behind the boat.
Purple refracted nylon extra tensile-strength line.

Half mesh half polyester, with a carefully closed-door shave.
Couch ridden drone strike 3 floors due north.
Considering the symbolism of when I got my coat back from her room. Saved her the trouble of throwing it off her bed.

Forward through brick, laid algorithmically and FedExed in, he could have an answer but would have significantly less automobile.
Both first and last name lower case tonight and many others.  

Silent E Novocained.
An on-again off again lightbulb.  Colander as lamp-shade.

My inner tongue trips
over her yesterday
morning’s extemporaneous
homily and its retelling
rains down on me
temporal anomalies
through which I’ll slip the bleached
monotony chasing me.

Turn key,
return me
to the upturned
glee of a midnight macadam.

Unmanned, it’s where
the manholes open up to me
their traps of sunken yet
stacked wire-mesh baskets.

They’ve been left
to catch a refused few
turquoise-beaded strings
mixed with ash
feather-dusted by the lime,
tangerine and grape
wing beats of exotic birds
too meek to fly upward.

There the tensile tip of a sweet
and fecund smell grips me
and it squeezes out
visions of too-soon
dying in that bed
where a stripped truth lies
tenderly with the on-putting
of my put-off lies.

A low hiss heralds happy heat
and radiating pings rap me
down the shrinking-shadow hall
away from Hedone’s keep.

In the singular
pleasure of this rhythmic pluralism
my nouns and verbs find
their final agreement:
*All we’ve known
is what a wanting wind’s foretold,
but its chilly, willful voice
can no longer hold us.

In a world of imperfection I have tried to be perfect but nothing seems to be worth it. I thought it would be easy but now I believe there is no easy way out, so i wanna ink out my soul, let out my tears to quench the thirst of the ocean.

I write this words with the blood flowing from my veins, the needle is stuck within and my jugular is past its breaking point.

My mind wanders off as I am slowly detached from reality, my tots are trapped in jars of desolation. I wish to find my way back but every stride I take opens up the doors to my insanity.
Such great agony I have come to know, one much worse than misery
I have got nails living in my spine, and I can hear them echo,
Every breathe I inhale is bitter and I pray that my last breathe blows away the wind
My ribs are tensile and cold as steel with knees set on sore concrete
I try to cry aloud but my tongue has been seared.
I ask to know no more of this, as the blade brings estacy to my wrist
I watch my pain slip beautifully to converge in a crimson pool, my eyes flutter into endless darkness and I try to feel, but I feel nothing, not this pain,not even the sound of trees.

But who would heed my call? or do i wait till never comes, because forever seems 2 far
I weave this agony meticulously to form a cold cloak that sits proudly on my shoulder. I know am strong so I would cut myself once again for I have come to realize that true grief comes with silence
I would just bleed silently till someone finds me, till I see the fire flies at the end of the tunnel.

the leaden
wetness of an
October snowfall
cloaks branch
and bough
of woefully
laden
trees

the pressing
mass
a weighty
strain
prostrates
mighty
hardwoods
to autumns
cold ground

as a
truculent
Nor'Easter
claws its way
through
the uneasy
Mid-Atlantic
night,
the crash of
creaking
maples and
popping oaks
persistently
echo through
the black
woods of
this
trembling
evening

power flickers
perplexed grids
go down
extinguishing
the warmth of
suburban
house lights

the growing
aggregation
of crushing
pressure
on tensile
taxed
branches
snaps
the firmest
wood

an
incessant
barrage
of
thumps
and
dings
splatter
a­gainst
the
house

while the
shuddering
uncertainties
of frightened
children
rise
as each
limb
clatters
to
earth

our
cowering
bivouac
draws
the
inces­sant
fire
of a
harassing
fusillade
from
legions
of
invisible
snipers
as
swoopi­ng
gusts
threaten to
relieve more
arboreal
tension

praying
limbs
fail
to pierce
the safety
of thinly
tiled
roofs
our
abiding
hope
remains to
escape
the
next
random
blow
of fate

the
night of
falling trees
stirs our
sleepy
hamlet
from an
uneasy
midnight
slumber


10/29/11
Oakland
jbm

I wake in the middle of the night
In another body.
A mirror image---
Dulled eyes,
Lopsided mouth,
Red-blotched skin;
All the same,
But not of me.
I am awake
In a dream.
Nothing moves.
Nothing makes a sound
(Except for the persistent drip
Of the broken faucet,
Skipping broken records,
And all the broken hearts
The king's men couldn't
Put back together).

I wake in the middle of the night
In a different room.
You're still snoring loudly
Beside me like a
Bear in winter, but
I don't feel your scratchy fur
Or the scrape of your claws.
Beige walls around the room:
Beige beige beige beige beige
"I hate beige,"
And suddenly they drop away.
I'm freezing in August,
Sweating in January.
The clocks on the wall
All watch me.

I wake in the middle of the night
In another lifetime.
Everything the same,
But my skin is tarnished silver,
My hands feel only cold.
Eleanor Scissorhands,
I ruin what I touch,
So you learn to stay away.
There's no comfort in
Tensile steel
And my life is made of it
When I wake in the middle of the night.

Vu. { as long as any story's told wrong}

- suffer not a novice to teach

No bet. Nothing wagered, no pledge to be paid,
no bet was made between the unspeakable name,

core processing access id-entity… we'll call Truth.
And time, if there were a wager, Truth be against Time.

- thus we develop a worth for attention.

The way life works super resiliently, bouncing back
after starry chaos leaves a constant possibility
for truths beyond our scale of instant relativity
to manifest as seems with none the wiser,

the sun could flick us from existance, and be
acting as naturally as all such suns act
after a while, maybe

seven minutes ago.
---
listening to me bellyache and moan,
woe is me I am good for nothing.

Hmmm. I could just die, but then, there
would be just cause to believe me selfish,
and selfish is something I try not to be, in fact.

Information flow, twists awry through held truths,
never taken apart to reset the spring.

Nietsche was wrong about a lot of things.
Knowing he had a voice he could
convince himself was otherwise,
he had a real raw idea of God.
That's good.
Not useless, mostly used up. Flame.

That's what the real old *** in me said.
Fretting naught,
letting go all wishery wasery,
growing old effortlessly,
be causing, as wishes are supposed,
sup-post,
same as prayers properly aimed, to
be collected to be
be answered, as information related
to pain in the brain or heart, or core
mental effort processing part, which
detects and destroys the infecting barb.
Just in time.
Release relief, unbelievable lies,
pile into icy dams, late spring
in truth
past all thorny issues,
life is not intentionally difficult,
ants - the super colony kind
run vast ecology balancing systems,
on auto pilot, pure intuitive duty drives.
On a global scale, spreading without war.

We can see we can be better rich than poor.
We can see we live on a wet ball spun
along a spiral in a spiral in a spiral, and so, on
and on and on, looping the grand loop, a little
farther along than last time,

our eyes have seen the glory, our children
can imagine thought speed, information passing

as time carries matters to gravitationally bound
points past which nothing is ever the same,

because you, cause me, to cause you to imagine
we share a plane conscious level,
as we stare across the heavens from JWST,

just adjusting reasonable focus, is it asking
too much? Asking to effect the healing
with truth that cannot be denied, and be truth
indeed…

Whatsoever, whensover, so today is fine,

infinitely fine, as a whole time bit, with us in it.

Who arranged the world's laws of nations,
?
not men in my general class, retired disabled
boys used in immoral warfare, and paid glory

and allowed to march in war winner parades,
even though, Wounded Knee and My Lai,

fester under America's Exceptional Blessing.

Agricultural superfluity, aided by machines,
and the modern incarnation of king control,
usurious
war debt, cost of plunder,
always need latest enemy detection tech.
- Confidential is above us all down here.

Who you gonna call to collect on reneged
deals, see the big picture, be visionary,
wars are lost for want of a nail, a nail
that woulda been seen missing, if the smith's
bills had been paid in time for precharge inspection.

Who allows evil to prosper,
who prospers from peace never made?

imagine you're the powerful and magnificent
leader of North Korea, or a Metro-mega Church.

You quote Lincoln, and agree with the great
promoters of idle time boredom prevention,
knowing you can fool some of the people,
all of the time. And some of the people
a predictable percentage of the time,

and all the people, after a while.  

Oakridge radiant Gospel,
"you listen too long
  you do eventually die."

- and thus it came to pass
- none found fusion, pfft.
Deep mindtimespace silence

Nonsense to any, therapy to me,
the effectual fervent prayer,

which is really
closer to need announcing, auto
awareness, missing pieces, up
ethos more or
pathos, up path of logos,
as winds winding times
recurrency circuits
up right
is not.
Down is not. Here is midway,
midterm… middle distance
**** sapien augmentedus
in the net spread
in the sight of radio beacons.
submicrowave accuracy,
acutron concept of counting
seconds worth of your attention

Practically stretched
past tensile strand strength

stretching to a C-note,
harmonica

calling all my musing friends,
come hang with me,
in my tree.

In the forest of humanity,
the ant intuitive interconnecting -umph
-- last stack, let patience prove possession --
---- Pa-airing Suckacessfull…
Yeah, blue tooth vestibular augments.
-- I can hear birds now.
Who is on war's side, if this were after
I made my case and closed it,
this is the future when we have
global access to once secret libraries.
5g- ****… radio directly individuated,
as once first accounts were coded, so
now, we are our comm device's user,
we filter using truths we used
and proved just so, we lived

asking truth to show itself in ways
a mortal who labored fifty years,
could be led to expect, jubilee,
boom,
I am free, and I am not uncomfortable,
U may read my mind and find news,
formed from used theories untwisted,

and stretched to the extent of one man's
heart fire, expanded with knowledge,
edified with activated agape, lief be,

take a second, what's such a bit of being
left alone, at second glance, become,

some kinda curious thing, clap trap.

****, all wishery is yours, it's time again,

to review the prayer/wish fullfillment section.

Did you, dear, oh, dear, what, what makes
dear the lessons life teaches for your attention,

no price, a quote, a song
"Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you without money,
come, buy, and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without cost!"

Isaiah 55, thriving on hope deferred,

refer again to the references,

decide yourself if you believe James I of England
was at any point a person you could work for?

My task is not to teach, unless my life proves
worth my continuing continuance, thinking

plinking, *** shots, clang… in the olden days,

when a family could live by a prentice knack,  
for taking things  apart, to play new roles,

as whole days that may be shared with wary
few, readers readied by experience, to become

as ware, soft, observant, paying eyeservice,
alert for entertaining clap traps when we all laugh.

Okeh, in a dark bijou-kiva, place where aspirations
are presented to the gathered together
to be entertained, de-brained, turned off, and

let be so, the picture show, as it were,
in the so esoterical initial induction, holiness exposed.

It is all in what you did not know, that makes
what you know now, worth living
through.

Yep. Fishing for a whole reality blessing
as living water
does occur to us as time,
we live in the flow, but we row,

because war rules the world we were born in,
and all the churches of messages etched in spirit,
written in light, of course, as on the silvered screen,
live to preach divine rights as old as lobsters's
stacking urges…
tapping scratching

And fire and memories paradiddling
cloudy smoky misty
shapes and shades noise uselessness knowing inspiring
zingers written on the door post, for good luck.

I read a coloring book, once, at a mall, in La Jolla.
"Grandma keeps a Kosher Kitchen" had a scene
to color yourself into, as a curious child noticing,
the little thing Grandma touched as she came in
from the garden of herbs and flowers for bees,

"what is that for?"
In the uncolored coloring book, it was so nonchalant,
"Good luck."
Grandma's grasp the lucid concept.
- food you know not of, love… luck
Thanks given. Praised be.

Long stories, should only be told as true,
if you, personally… lived to tell it, with no sugar on it.

Bitte, Schön. And so it goes. Kosher us, unclean other.

And what am I? Wild child left between the pillar
and the post of an aspiring great man, whose hopes

were dashed, when he crossed a line, in other peoples
ways of sealing soul stealing redemption agreements,

with a shotgun one potential solution…

by the grace of good luck from any source such
luck appears to have kept me breathing, aimlessly

as I imagine a spirit might decide, in truth, one breath
let go , allows a sense to follow, as glowing cardboard ash,
as the teller zones across old causes fought for and won,

which winning needs another singing, which cheek
this time? Which last laugh is led upto, now,

as I acknowledge the precious readers who form
the recognostic think thank thing,
deja deja

I am the moon and the tides.
I am the storm, the battered sea,
raging, raging, until the waters whirl,
deliquesce to droplets, dried in torrid heat…


I am creatures reposed to salty bones,
and I am the undulating desert gorging on them.
I am the Aeolian winds grinding mountains to sand,
blowing away my own dust to bare rock.


I am the tremors, unrelenting shockwaves, collapsing cliffs.
I am the molten lava flows, undermining tectonics.
Beyond the caldera, the release withheld…
The intensity is high, I bleed diamonds…  


Shear and tensile cracks throughout,
upwards and downwards;
unpeeling the mantle, liquid substrata, shaken core.
This world is crumbling... I am crumbling.


I am the imploding planet, spinning off axis,
out of orbit planetary collisions, the space flak.
I am the unfathomable supernova, cluster detonation
white nuclear, radioactive fusion.


I am the fading neutron stars, the star dust...


...the black hole.


v   o   i   d

Forged through amalgamations of bravery, deepest indifferance and hunger, fluster formed a solid ingot of unimaginable tensile strength. Bought and chewed what she was fed, "Oh to be wed." She would have it melted in her mind, as if drilled through skull, and smoldered into a pithy membrane. This vow, this marriage, this perfunctory cause and reaction would be solid fortune of her life. As if what her mother, father, church and giddy peers always spoke was lost wax fulminating from her ears. Topped with encrustation, a sparkly rock, salt of some miner's sweat, this platinum bond formed and molded was then clamped on her finger. As we of confused instincts know ourselves, she came from a far worse place. This all the reasoning there need be, for institution. Most of her life, she would not miss that lost pithy wax, that mind of her own. For this was the method called "sacrament" and this was her sacrifice.

three cheesburgers later

a valley of aspiration

o' majestic tumors, o' tedious comforts

the worst of this is true
sounding an escape with tensile strength

spires of desires as ancient as feeling itself

sinew capped mountains of sin
bones buried in landfills
city sewers, plastic bags clogging drains, in trees, suffocating bees
write me please
bite me please
lie with me please

if I were Indian maybe ever

so tall on Sundays
being tall in Bali is
not very tall at all

pause.

lately,
my heart
has been louder
even in echo than my head and
i am here
trying to navigate the oceans between
too much and not
enough.

looking ever-closer to where i think
the peaks of mountains
can be measured between fingertips;
measured between dividers;
backed by a steady needle’s weight.

a sea claimed Bering
through a marshy coastline
lit only by oil and torch -
where buoyancy can balance
treacherous watery routes and  
rough, shaky hands can trace the  
pulling of sails through knots
towards the exhaling light of an imminent shore.

though i am unsure of the differences between finger-lengths,
am i holding back
because i cannot accurately predict
the pulls of the moon;
the swells of tides;
the seasons of rough storms?

perhaps even the spark of embers against my heaving backbone -
and what of the humming gears of sentience
in my chest?

am i holding back because
what i lay in permanence always meets
a spray of waves?
the crash of undercurrents against the breath leaving
your lips? -

currents that unapologetically meet
the rise of the earth and the
curve of your back
forcing the Weems
to stretch for topography that maybe even my knees cannot lock against.

go down with the ship,
i will swallow the grasp reflex that builds
in my throat and in my palms.

a million times over i will meet the breaking of every tensile structure in my body
if it means catching your swell.

and like the greek merchant’s ship cast deep into the dead sea’s belly,
i will be overcome with every ounce of your pressure
even if every time
i am fated to lose the rise and fall of my lungs to salt water;
to a watery grave;
to knit sheets and a sailor’s prayer;
a promise of ever-lasting life.

If love is a dovetail drawer
I will turn my curious eye to the
dark inside
under ancient flowered paper
dust bits and lockets, or my mother’s
twelve-piece china
doesn’t matter
nor whether Shaker or Bauhaus
retro or rustic
how wide, weighty
or improbable

No, the corners hold secrets—
fingers that catch
the places that touch

And require practiced hands, sober skill
and a bit of glue—
to build a join of tensile strength  
to bear love’s blow

in the darkness of our feet
lavernum dreams
pale laudanum lips
lavender flowers

world stretched out as gossamer
too tensile, unraveling

there is another language here: you
pale and glowing
volume of phantoms pressed as books
against the history of our backs

now here, now stretched too thin
for wanting, for wanton
for the drain of love, or leaving

unmistakable grift, small as peonies
partitioned as ash, well-wish
silver ripple, or nickel of time

in the water a reflection: un-you
always losing shape amongst shapeless arms

there is an alm:
forgetting

Let it rest.
Let us see better, saying
some say we have dues to pay,

duties to the whole human race,
race being loaded with royal faith.

Any propagation of holy order, go,

take the land that lacks any kings,
make men modeled on Donald Trump,
from boys modeled on the anti-hero,
and ---

Accept the offer of a satisfied mind, for a minute.

Poverty of being me, not obliged to any
powers of orders from God, general use,
under which, in America, pledged children stand.

Stepping beyond the ordered classes,
my generation, born into natural TV, Eureka!,
I personally watched Archimedes say it, on TV,
I was seven, and used …
-------------
Information gathering, intelligence collecting,
ever learning never knowing everything about,
ever, as a state.
Eureka!
Communists, say the word,
instant hate,
****, say it, sayit Niggerniggerniger ghuck yew.
Potential traitors, aliegiance pledge violators,
called to vote, under the laws God authorized.

Vote for fear,
vote for hope, vote for leaving me alone.

------------------ governing a self, letting any mind
be in you, being found in the gaseous we state, ever
after all's been said and done, a dozen times, or more.

The entertainment value of life.
Judging one's own experience, later than most.
Age tested…
ex agere, eh, gitgo, let it roll… therapy, in session.

Listen, Doktor, I am a good liar,
I just wish I were otherwise. That's everyman's truth.

It is written, all men are liars, not only Cretans.
Therefore, right,
knowing that, accepting that, we all naturally lie,
and if we are rewarded for the art of mimicry,

we lie until we die.

Think yourself to the source, when did the mind
on offer to the elite who hired spirited tutors,
change
to allow the untouchables
to read?
------- Freedom from unknowing why I disagree.

Over the last century, however,
Freud’s ideas have since been met
with criticism,
in part because
of his singular focus
on sexuality as the main driver
of human personality development.

https://www.quora.com/Do-you-agree-with-Freuds-theories

My AI, intuitional artistry, assisting informant, informs me,
- ego chooses to, a bit vehemently, dis-herd my hide.
Be not conformed to this world…

be not conformed
to the mileau projected as reality, you and me
being formed in, positioned
as carriers, or as carried messages, proof
of all naked mankind may bear up under imagining.

Stand and ask the chronicles. Bow and ask the spirits,
sit Zazen lotus on a goldfish pond, stride across surface tension,
examine
animated orderly symphony of
how big a show we can put on.

Splash.
Recall the age weapon, wielded unrighteously.
-- I can out time waste any young mind.
-- time acknowledged passing. So,
what
am I to do well enough to influence turbulence positively.
Make a point.

Think a cause, make up your mind, our whole mortal mechanics,
levers and weights and balances and tension holders and releasers.

Prods produce anger, and
any we we thought we were kicks it self to death, when…

- Cadmus, it is- and this then that stone thrown at
dragon's teeth, taken from Ares,
by  our selected hero,
fed early Book of Knowledge, and Britannica,
and Aesop, and Poor Richard, and all the Nursery Rhimes…
- just so right, if the least heat zone is cool.
Goldilocks.
Rapunzel, coming of age, rites of passage, understand.
Peter, the pumpkin eater, had a true Freudean problem.

Not some thing nursery children can parse.

Knowledge of the story,
holistic impression on the cultural psyche, do tell,
says the Id to the Super I.

"Peter, Peter pumpkin eater,
Had a wife but couldn’t keep her;
He put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well.
Peter, Peter pumpkin eater,
Had another and didn’t love her;
Peter learned to read and spell,
And then he loved her very well."

I'd better think myself a fine boy, for this plumb,
line upon line, steady sense of balance and
timing since, aim, edumacated
will to tell, provocative force, tensile strength stretch
of the imagination,
the imagining machinery, pull
…
Target audience, the attraction in us all, to hit it
the key first thing,
the corner stone.
Masonic
cultural syncretism, lying idle, conjoined heads and tales,
inspiring

preconscious, conscious, unconscious, subconscious
science - use, measure, from seventeen POVs, at once.
collect a consciousness,
form a we, me and thee.
We are perhaps the briefest form of mind,
the passing fancy, fantasy titular idea, the works

opera, machinations deploying ropes and wheels,
and crashing cymbals, Zildjians, no doubt, old ideas,

tinkling bells, and jingling bells, sounds of whips,
sounds of sails snapping, tacking,

ambitions lead us around the obstacles, land us on the sand.
------------
knowledge, expressed with confident proof,
poet's license taken as granted, this is all I offer life.
Any ant-like urge to gather for the colony, I offer this.

I disagree with Sigmund Freud, and Bishop Sheen…
and doubt we ever could have been friends, like me and

the few names I have power to recall, with a thought, like
a charged ion on a quest,

to prove the best use,
of any knack.

This is all I brought with me from my past,
I speak English and
I have a linked history through five generations.

Being amusing, and being a user of muses, are not same
in balance of Natural vs Artformed,
Art's own sake, they say, causa sui
the use of knowledge, knowing and doing, showing growing,
formations of cultural biomes,

rust dust, color of Mars, Ares, same idea,
a good god of war…

"Turn the other cheek."
Love make simple - imagine Romance Novels, all day, all night,
News as it would appear, after the generational curses
propagated at the K through 12 stage,
bear fruit on grafted limbs.

The poor you have always
with you, ye poor in heart.

Fitting war's reality, 2023
--fit, not fight
Pieces of my mind, hoping mostly not to lie, unconsciously.

Lines, floating on singularities too tiny to feel.
Forming
From our conjoined mind's past,
to our oath tied you and me agreement, I admit, I pray,

in much the way I prayed as a child,
hoping to win the lottery,
believing my mercy on the universe plea,
worked.
I can imagine news from the Daily Planet,
I can imagine pogroms looking like a zippo'd village.

Can't we all?
Is not the power of the message art offers seeing eyes,
worth the promise of redeeming shame, cash in the secrets.

The work of a prophet, use the best gift, fabricate a valid reason.
T'is today, Monday, once.

So sophomoric have we become, tomorrow never comes, we know.

Live for today, eh, seize the light, stretch it, stretch it, to the night.

Blessed. Favored above the cursed, happy having things to do, right.
Cursed. Tied to the fear of death, due to childhood trauma, Victorian
moral standards,
five moral generations ago, height of the mission to hide the theft.

History and new thought. Novelty constantly, let me,
entertain you,
let my words be the glue,

listen with a will to know,
and grow your own shelter from the storm,

become a passive unibomber, seek and destroy the glory,
iconoclasm chasm leap

of merest faith, spirit verbing lief as well, mine or thine,
whatever.

Where this is, in a construct believed in as direct objective
The Cloud of all collected knowns and their known uses.

I, ego of the entity I play, outwardly aware you are there,
thinking we think at once,
this time,
this instant, and some men of faith can sell that.
Some sit in the buzz of electrified retiremental bliss,
content. Sowing seeds of kindalikeness.

The prize of the satisfied mind… seek that first.
See what it turns into.