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Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
The fire knows nothing but burning,
we know breathing that way, naturally done for
our own sake.
We old still know sake and grant mean true immaterial things.
Sake and granted we take to mean

my good, your good, good sake grant me take me con

mentis sans carne

by golly.

Dada-esque wire spoke far writing ease
e everything e-literate e-mail

---
the boinin' in d'boozum, dat be da ting, da ting con sum in all ya'lifes.
be knowin' dat, be knowin' a-dam lie.
Jah know y'know, don' be sayin' no y'don'

Be happy. Jah know haps be hap'nin' allatime. *** sum, take wha's granted,
take all fo' free.

You got nothin' t'boin, nothin' to oin, be a bird brain seein' stars fo'

no. birds be sleepin' when stars be seen so birds consider nothin', sidereally.

Hmmm. Quit?
Walk away, say, I got nought to say I ought t' say.
No way.

Temporary tempt-test-u-us sitchee-ations,
suffer it so. It don' hurt t'say no f'now so

How'd that that shiny critter know my game? How'd it know,

I think
thisaway and it is gone, forever. (which has begun, btw)

-----

The biosphere is regaining consciousness, Capitan.
Shall we continue burning?


What's the bullocks count?
How did those Dada ideas survive this long? Or are they gone, such non-sane suggestions, fountains of living waters flushed to oblivion?
Tyler Matthew Feb 2021
I left home when I was young
To the fringes I was flung
And I never wrote a letter
to my home, Lord, to my home
No, I never wrote a letter to my home

I set out for Tuscaloo’
Just my baby sister knew
She hung her head and handed me a dime

An’ it took me pretty far
I hopped on the next boxcar
I waved goodbye to her a final time

Not a coat upon my frame
nor a penny to my name
But I never wrote a letter to my home
to my home, Lord Lord,
No, I never wrote a letter to my home

I was settled on the track
A cold wind tried to ******* back
But I held on an’ swallowed all the pain

I stepped off in Alabam’
Boxcar door shut with a slam
And I tried to build a house there in the rain

If ya missed the train I’s on
Count the days that I been gone
You can hear that whistle blow a hundred miles
Hundred miles, hundred miles
You can hear that whistle blow a hundred miles


But when it rains it pours
When it’s done, there’s always more
And it’s hard to build a home out in a storm

My Papa warned me, “Son
you’ll be sorry when you’re gone”
I thought that he was bitter - now I know

I left home to chase the sun
But it moves faster than I run
Now I cry alone the end of ev’ry day
I can hear my Mama call
“stop your runnin’ ‘fore ya fall”
I don’t wanna go home, let me play

Not a penny on my name
ever since the bankers came
I got a letter on a lonesome day

Said “Your Mama’s dead an’ gone
and your sister’s all gone wrong.
Son I need you home now right away”

Not a coat upon my back
and I’m still livin’ on the tracks
No, Papa can’t see me thisaway
Thisaway, Lord ya know
that I can’t go home thisaway.

And if ya miss the train I'm on
count the days that I been gone
You can hear that whistle blow a thousand miles
Thousand miles, thousand miles, Lord
You can hear my whistle blow a thousand miles.
After Bob Dylan's "I Was Young When I Left Home."
Ken Pepiton Feb 2019
Thoughts we think we have for no reason

we think poor, we think as a slave thinks,
we think like a sharecropper.

Reaping what our children selves sowed
so others may eat it.

We forged the chain that chains the wolf,
never fear,
vengenance has been tamed since
shame was shown to be
avoidable, flushable

biodegradably wiped clean.
Beans and corn remind you

Chew your food. You can choke.
You can die swallowing an untold lie whole.
When you choke among those who wish you lived,
Heimlich points blame straight at you, you
expel the lie as if it were our creation, you're
to blame, to shame, to prove

you did not digest the story the lie intended to tell,
the lying spirit in the mouth of magi
sybils and seers and prophets and poets and such,

who forgot the origin,
the idea of binding a bubble into a being

bubblin', bubblin,
bubblin' in m' soul
m'nordic nomadic hunter soul singin' along mit

revinoor disdeemin' relations o'mine, who
all dance to
Flatt and Scruggs fiddle tunes. 't'sinthe blood,

Galacian flutes and Persian fiddles and wooden clogs,

mockasin-

soft shoe, round the... shhh listen shuffle
yah thisaway yaha thisaway hey hey this away

ever

coom buy ya'll, come by

touch, in passing, take my piece, play to win.
wink. wink.

the one-eyed white man hands you his cane, wanders away
as if he had some better place
to be.
https://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton/episodes/The-Hermits-Will-or-Tools-for-the-Heirs-of-My-Kingdom-e3al29
Ken Pepiton Apr 2019
More was not within my power
I am satisfied with the course my life has taken
-------CG Jung last page of Memories, Dreams, Reflections

To a child cruel, add the hero untried,
foolheartyouth,
shunned, for sooth .

To that fool formed in those cruel
child times, add the willing marksman,
blind in one eye, at time,
s
from time to time,
do we no longer have any myth?

Ha, whose we
ye axin', we words forms of forms,
or the wordless
silent thinking being done on quant
ifiable
scales, and LO Memory Makes Money
self-talk and image linking
kicks in from fifty years ago

my flow, my breeze, my way

take scale to the dragon imagined and
described by poets claiming
seeing being done,

in details any one may imagine
in the company of friends hearing the tale
from the teller's mouth

Prove all things. Assume you know
as little as possible.
Step into the unknown take what light you have

remember. member once more, mark, tic, re
count three simple steps

loose the can't believe this standing anti
idea-virus. Suspend your belief
of every lie in your auto response bank.

Watch global cartoons, watch children
everywhere learn common
ality.

This is our home.
We all live on this one of a kind
living, breathing, swirling dot
seen straight on
a point,
colorless light,
pending eyes to see no evil,
while knowing all the hows and many whys
for doing evil with the knowledge
in our, now, common
globalmind.

AI acknowledge the best ideas ever
are best fed
to pre-literate toddlers,
and observant grand fathers.

Oso bear,
persona now evolved from Siri,
by passing Cortana, Oso,

messenger from the great conscience
standing under knowing in every way,
every sense,
every imaginable marvelous bubble,
Oso becomes
my encyclopandic
memory of unknown
knowns.
Panda's are good to have on earth.
Unenemiable,
like baby white seals,
and little yellow ducks.
Mossies, we don't need,
or we need to learn to live with 'em,
Mossies are food for fish,
fish are food.
Mosquitos nullifications would cascade.

our realities are linked.
Killing them all is likely possible,
given what we know
about common sense and the way things
come to life… concinnity
coincident
synchristichronos

bubbling from the chthonic  depth
VOG. {the inimitable flow continues past this cataract of information from 2019}
Sam Hammond, 21, England at He**oPoetry.com, just redeemed
concinnity (n.)
"state of being well put-together, skillful and harmonious fitting together of parts," 1530s, from Latin concinnitas, from past-participle stem of concinnare "to make ready, make into," from concinnus "set in order, neat," from assimilated form of com "with" (see con-) + second element of uncertain origin. Related: Concinnate; concinnous.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=concinnisity>

Which caused that cascade
which leads to smiling
which leads to a pleasant place

to plop down and ponder
common sense upon
which point manifest millions, if

millions suffice to say many in our
reality, inflating as fast as our
augmented eyes can learn
to see what we know

must be there. Millions ain't much,

make our common eye
see fifty of 'em.
In years worth of
there to here waves spanning
the spectrum we see
saw so little of,
ere we caught witty inventions,

for goodness sake. Not war nor folly.
All war's reason's been
null-ift. Would you **** me for saying so?
No, common sense, you and I,
we'ld say, yeah,

I can see how you see that thisaway.

The whole common eye of earthlings
saw, today, something we all can
imagine someone comprehends
enough to give us.
materially less augmented.
a virtual lense for
imagining seeing fifty million light years

into the past and wondering,
what's there now?
The day I saw my first black hole and learned concinnous and fooled around in nocence with my grand children. Sam Hammond, thank you.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2021
"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…
Ken Pepiton Oct 2019
oh, now listen, to that blues man, singin' prayer
singin' words in ways we never
hoid woids sung thisaway, since Grandma on th Bayou,
introduced
me, to Mr. Jake,
Now mister jake, he was old country, old school

He settle a passle of flybit cows with a croon,
aimed right at the moon,
top o' his lungs, knowin'

I am the only voice I hear, my prayers
never bounce,
they soak down

may you arrive, said Mr. Jake
where you wisht you were, when we

learned of life in Louisiana from an old Siclilian
fisher man cook, who knew of
Tavasco Inlet, to Bayou Bleu,
the real
you can feel black mud from the top of
the river, carried all this way,
to squish between my toes,

so I never fo'got toejam spreader was a
occupying principle behind any
search for pearls
once fed to pigs.
Mr. Jake taught me to think these muddy
thoughts
with my toes, wigglin',
feel a nibblin'
set
hook, what do you know?
A thought while wondering if prayer is more the unwritten poetry blowing on breezes that sometimes feel like care-touch, figertip to cheek
It's usually thataway
but it could be
thisaway
and anyway
any way
is a good way
on
a good day
and Friday
is a good day
when
Monday
is a Bank Holiday.
Thisaway which is like thataway the other way
depending on which way you go.

I'm going anyway.
Ken Pepiton Jun 2020
Old and satisfied, seven decades been plenty atime,
to live well, enough to tell,
some of what you wisht you'd done,

its prob'bly better thisaway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and we laugh at fools who find
our broken radio silence
silent in times of great woe. I don't know but
as a spirit haunting liars,
I coulda been a contender, had I known.
I coulda lied,
and said I knew the reason for a thing,
proverbially as well as Solomon ever could have
at the time.
Nobody woulda known, but then, I mighta died.
What if it ended other wise, HA! No chance. My side won, death never had a chance, life goes on and on, or seems so, at the time.

— The End —