Come, think with me,
we are friends, partake with me a caffeine
break, not better than
Starbucks, by any means, only less trendy,
in the sense
of being in the know, in the flow of human
concurrencies of fortune,
which, fortunately, lately, since literally
came to mean, as it is written,
so it is,
when the idea is clearly wasery. Mere wasery.
Hist
hiss, here, hiss, snakey lick hear this,
Yes, that as well, find those fingers that know
these chords,
think steps, His mind dancing, Black Elk old man
prancing
High oh, told you so
High oh, told you so
High oh, told you so
live a little longer,
High oh, told you so, outlaws hung where I hang now,
what makes coincidence unre
cogitatible, re think the time, to after 2020,
any day now,
this is that release, the any day, now, let go
let God, no lie, I try to make up happy minds,
using **** induced happy thoughts, and it works,
once paranoia has no power to *** me, I am
the same old ***,
free
by any current or former force fit to pull or push,
one thing
thought, ping, pfft, as in origin of wisdom,
the tale we shall trade for venison.
We shall tell the losers how to win as we have won.
The master plan, entertain a thought, as a we,
attain
we state, stage one, begun, gun, response gone,
launchers, beamers, senders, shields and points,
joins junction function fun
pfft, fun-c-tions, is funky in some sense original
funky sweat sox, stocking feet
stepping soft, from shadow into somewhat
thick bits of elumin-essence
light, to bright, blindness,
is not precisely blindness black colorless shadow
whither no eye
has seen,
now,
we, the commonly augmented majority of consumers
at the highest level tech has flooded
in search of meaning,
meaning meaning, on average what we agree I can
know and you may know otherwise,
or not at all.
We all fall down, we all age beyond this plane
visual tactile me,
bringing idle words to the for,
reason, in the last ditch effort
umph-oomph primal scream of the selfish gene.
Expunged of all blame.
One who wrestles with angels in word forms
indiscernible from deity or immortal info
locked in mental limbo,
during the roll out of the Breton Woods,
- through the woods, trans sylvania
- to grandmother's house we go
new world
ordered to these specs, with, as these little buggers are
known, easter eggs having Ready Player One options
available to every player after,
now, pull-
it is finished, the fix is in, aim AI mmmm good shot
imagine we won, and when we rethink the whole
history
the formation of the pattern in the everyday dance,
the peace we make is consumed
on contact and we presume
this is the result of all the was in the wasery we agreed
could be stored for ever use in idle words
patient, ready, locked and cocked,
to be deemed meaningful to an emptied mind…
old hunter memes, cave learned, in fire light
stories lead us
into the wild,
we do not know what we all find but each does go,
come and see.
A life, a blur.
So fast, forty days, who knew, time is flexible,
and whole truth structures
pop
as the strand, the lido, and the state theaters
flood my mind
with movie links to movies that I know,
- you saw those places named
- temples to the imagination,
- projections of republican dreams of Socrates
- being real
- and Plato but a secretarial disciple
- re-hung on each word.
I never saw as seeing since, I am the blind man
healed in a world lit by
--- smorke, is this a joke, are we trippin'
I trow not, y'know at a mean point we all think we know,
that is commonly not included in sheets
of things to take and eat.
The banquets let you bring a doggie bag.
Then we can meet some
point in the future to pick meat from the bones
of the monstor
mind fleeing freedom from a wedom you imagined
awe could norm m from, inform
formation in
absence of any thing good, ok, I claim I
saw this white space
perfectly empty, and if you never read this
this is still what I finally saw,
when I considered someday, you might wonder why.
Answer. I am old, and I can do a thing I once imagined doing.
Making order dance to my tune, on the order of
beautiful sunsets, in the daily transitions.
A page in a book if books are metaphors for long old trains, packeted
info taining entry points to apparent oblivion...
