♀↵ϖ†∅↨⊕☺☼↑↓

Apples will be cantaloupes
depending on their nurture;
and so I cherish rainbow hopes
for our collective future.

Oranges elect their hue
improving Nature’s seal,
while pronouns stifle what is true
suppressing the appeal.

Fruits may choose to change to nuts
and fowls select their plumage.
Why settle in Tradition’s ruts?
Such rigid roles do damage.

Nuts in turn, may feel like flowers,
picking how and when to bloom.
So ambisexual thought empowers
androgynes to court their doom.

A leopard, too, may change his spots
(or turn into a vegan bunny)
No law’s tittles, neither jots
make Speciesism funny.

If you decide to see it so
the sky above is yellow.
Perceive as pink the grass beneath
and better times must follow.

Gender? Merely social constructs –
preach it to the masses
until tradition self-destructs
and *** takes off her glasses.

Babies need no Dad (nor Mother):
sexist labels, obsolete.
Love is blind. There is no other.
Bats must bark and chickens bleat.

Integrated water closets
show how far we have evolved:
urinary bank deposits
(with no member account involved).

Foolish thinking from the past
(like water being wet, and such)
calls for re-education, fast.
The State will lend its human touch

compelling all to sing the hymn
with genderfluid motions…
so birds can preen their scales and swim
in dry and waveless oceans.

(Yet “hymn” sounds sexist said out loud –
we ought to sing a “her” instead…
no – make that “us”,  since we are proud,
lest misconceptions be misread.)

Shake a healthy dose of salt
upon this strange post-modern food.
May God re-set us to default
with human common sense renewed.

I am writing a new story,
but don't look here for the narrative,
because
I am not writing it with these words you think you are reading,
or the patience that I have found.
I am penning this new manuscript,
and all the illuminating circumstances that make those reading
wish they were the characters in the joy-tear-jerking plot,
the parts everyone passes eyes over in order
to make their own lives richer...
I am scribing my way through to the end
not with words, letters, jots, tittles,
but with
actions.

Joseph's sons are still in Egypt
All is not fulfilled as yet
The elder child, Manasseh
calls himself a Christian these days
and still seems mightier than Ephraim
as foreseen by Israel
but has this small problem
keeping Father's commandments
having been suckled on
papal leaven
with that false gospel
girlfriend he likes to call
prosperity ...
I'd rather remain a gentile, thanks
Invite me to the wedding
I'll come visit every Sukkot

He really needs his younger brother
to come of age and stop fussing ...
to stop copy-catting Judah
and feed Yeshua's lost sheep
from that double redeemer's portion
Jacob blessed him with ...
that which speaks of BenDavid
and the keeping of true Torah
which is the tittles and jots
'Jesus' said would remain
a blessing till all is fulfilled
till His Torah shines forth from Zion
once again

Jealous Judah awaits him too
Prays each day the prodigal will come home
and tell him who Meshiach is

There really are no Gentiles or Greeks
except in diaspora
No, not even Jesus freaks
Just a faithful, obedient remnant
in Jacob's trouble

going to the promised land

I am one thing to myself.
to you I'm another....
to the mirror
I am broken reflection.
to my dad,
I'm a visitor.
to guys
I'm just a toy.
to girls
im the one they only want sometimes.
to the church
I am a ****** up teen that's made too many mistakes.
to society
I am the shy one, that shows her self sometimes.
the one always looking for the lost sheep only realizing that i am that lost sheep among many.

where do i find my self in all these tittles?

i was raised here
i watched people come and go seen them grow old here...
I've watched my dad walk away from here.
through the years I've only grown further away.
how come church is where i always feel ashamed.
how come church is where I'm criticized.
HOW COME YOU EXPECT SO MUCH FROM ME?
on Sunday that's the one day I'm good enough....
then on Tuesday I'm a disappointment.
and I'm only good if i am on the worship team.
**** wheres me?

If we were two books who happened to cross covers
Or over lap tittles,
In a momentary lack of structure
You would find us stacked back to back
As unlikely as a tragedy with star struck lovers..
Happened upon the other
in a library archiving
Written word and lives, and eons worth of soft
Text typed,

I would be a book of Russian poems
Roughly speaking of beautiful things,
With a bare textured cover, a soft sea foam green.
And you would be lost in the meaning,
In the reflections of your wealth
I would give you all the answers you hide inside your self,

You would be of another breed,
Your italic headings speaking of vastly different things,
You would show a thousand places I wish to know,
With a hundred hand drawn maps
Filled to the indentation with
realities greater than my own imagination
with pictures
That capture you, whisper liberation,
You would be the inspiration every trapped
lower class individual looks upon while dreaming up
Vacation homes.
You are the window to the places everyone
Everyone wants to know
Your pages crisp but warm, smelling of vanilla
Not a single scuff, crease, you are not torn.
A soft Carmel brown cover where
A hundred careful fingers hover.

You are probably thinking we don’t belong together.
Not in a library alphabetized and
Split into sections,
Good thing great librarians
Know better, she
Stole us and set us together in her own
Private collection.
There is no where I fit better than
Next to you, pressed cover to cover,
we are becoming  a story of
unlikely lovers,
We are best friends,
Penned from different ink
Speaking different themes
meeting
Resting between book ends designed
Out of clever minds set out to
To fuzz the line between actuality
And your aspiration,
We are just the perfect combination of
Drive and a dream,
The fact you are here means something
And the more I read the more it seems
Together we'll achieve great things.

I hoped to see you at least once
before you left-
behind the sixth lane,
walls of which still have hand-prints
that we made as kids;
under the sign board
which read something in French,
meant something that
our inexperienced hearts are
still incapable of comprehending;
or maybe, under the staircase-
beside the empty cartons
where we promised
to make our own little house,
someday.

I listened to you,
ranting about your day;
who made you smile;
whether you believed in magic;
what your muse was,
silently,
watching words bounce off
the edge of your lips,
your pupils dilate
when you said the word “Love”.

I stole memories of you
from the pinch of your cheek,
the tip of your nose,
your eyelids,
which would twitch
at an external touch
until the warmth of my fingertips
blended with your skin.

You would laugh
about something that
had happened months ago-
the echoes of which still keep me going for days-
I would just sit back
and mentally make notes
about how hard
my heart pounded against my ribcage
every time you breathed heavier
to compensate for the ones you skipped.

You hair would fall on your face,
you would push them back
without a pause while,
I would be looking at your hands.
I love how
your hands look under the sun,
the soft curves;
how each crease
on your palm discloses secrets about you
which was why you always walked
with your hand knotted in fists;
the freckles on its back –
how it could be woven into constellations
with names of your distant lovers
carved on your pale wrists.


I write about you-
carefully picking up words
that describe my whims,
decorating the corners of letters,
choosing to draw hearts
in the tittles of I’s,
imitating the curve of your smile
in my Y’s-
and when I think
that words are not enough
to tell you how much
you mean to me,
I smudge a range
of contrasting colors
on a fresh canvas
till it fills up the space inside my nails,
smears on my face
and spoils my favorite white dress;
you are a beautiful mess.

The sky reminds me of you.
And feathers too.
So, stuff them in my empty pockets
on my way from work until,
I have a feeling
that one more to them
would make me fly.
I wish I could fly to you;
you’re so far;
my words don’t affect you,
and the dust that has
settled between us
doesn't let me see you, any more.


And I am not ready
to let your memories
become the dead flowers-
pressed between
the yellow pages of a book;
a rusted twig in an abandoned nest.
So, I’ll wait for you
by the broken window,
stained drapes,
until you make your way
back home.

somewhere beyond
my ego...
lies the poet
who writes for,
the love of the sound,
of pen scribbling thoughts
upon fine lined paper.

the writer,
who devles into
the murk of the
morass of thoughts
rowing across the swamps
of the disordered mind.

the scribe,
who takes photographs
with words
deftly framing light and shade to produce
thought provoking images
so good, yet,
so hard to define.

the racounter,
who can spin a tall tale
on the edge of a dusty dime.

the truthseeker, soothsayer
not afraid to speak,
even when speaking
is condsidered a crime.

the jonguleur,
who plays with words
of six syllables or more, keeping them flowing, creating rhythm and rhyme.

somewhere...the earth mother lies
distilling truth into jots
and tittles
and sowing them into
lines...

somewhere...beyond
my ego...somewhere

i found this little poem
sitting unattended,
alone,
on a bench at
the bus station.

when i said hello...
the relief and elation,
on this little poem's face,
made me feel protective
of this, orphan creation.

so i took this little poem
home...
no longer lost,
it thrived
from three lines to five
and before
we wished it
happy cinquain
it had doubled in size,
again.

full, rounded verse,
in cursive copperplate.
as it entered puberty
its moods swung,
between...
love, anger, hate
and then struggled gamely through
depression angst and fear..
all jots and tittles,
with future, unclear.

but eventually it matured
as we all do....
into a thoughtful expression
of beauty and love,
a strong and independant
statement of grace.

and then it was time,
to say goodbye....
the little found poem,
needed to leave
and find it's place,
in the wider world.
needed to find
and impress a girl.

it said it needed,
to make a splash...
grab some cash...
it promised not
to become, just a jingle...

and to write when
he could....

but til then.... anon...

Went to bed and dreamed of getting my *** kicked by the Queen of Earthquakes.
Six hours later and I'm waking up with a headache.
Hid from the sun beneath sweaty sheets.
The only thing that gets cold here is the space in our chest.

Road the bus with a load of automatons withered with rust.
Scanning the seats with dead-beat eyes.
Hey, would you mind if we traded places?
I like the window seat best.

Paperclip trebuchets wage war in front of ignored spreadsheets.
Just another day in paradise,
but now I think I feel a stirring between my legs.
Here we sit waiting on a disaster to speed up our slow demise.

But all that aside, the thing is that when I stare into her eyes I can feel my feet sliding -
Carrying me toward the tittles in the middle with a gliding force that can't be avoided.

i think i might like her a little.

Hi i’m Sebastian
i’m an addict
Addicted to frantic
Spastic language  

After ages
Of Procrastinating
i lacked the panache.
But as of lately

That is changing
My imagination
Have replaced the
Manic *******,

The crass habit of
Having laughs
From dating
A relaxing
Callous lady

Validated
By an affidavit

Now i’m Exasperated
i amass amazing
Paragraphs’ saturation

A translucent human
Finds a hue soothing

Like my time as a youth spent
School bench-doodling
i pulled the blue pen

Through the movements
Maneuvered cerulean loops
Drew crude dudes and
Exuberant protruding *****
For a youths amusement

Freud’s lament meant that
A pen is a *****
i comment these tittles of i’s
Are eyes at a zenith
With these i see things

Don’t ask what an asterisk is
But believe me i’ve seen it

All spun out like the chaff,
the fire breathing drags on,
clever little jots and tittles thrown in anger.

But nothing good ends well,
as the saying went.

I never wanted anything
but your happiness,
and I will not reciprocate the attacks.

I am not like the others,
and you know it.

Genetic DIY in my realm,
Glow, little glow worm, glow puppy or guppy or
maiden hair, modded to the max-men can
imagine, when agreeing to believe.

"nothing
imagined shall be impossible for them"
or the sense
that makes,

conveyed in words di
gestated long long long ago
ere toungues was tangled
and us and es and ds and hs and bvs

umlauts and tildes and tittles and jots
attempted to say it all after
it is written is/was
different than it is/was said, it is common

filth is now
called clean, in greek

with homophony rhymes and rhythms
'idin' aitches and gees us commoners
miss, out on the edges of the
fusion, with which,
those wild tongues was tamed, in time,
write the message, make it plain

in the school of the prophets, thems' the rules,
publish precizision bits of insight into knowables
known,
the knowledge of our
mob, told and re-told, told and retold, told and re
one moment.
A glimpse of a gleam of a photonic
spec, seen proper,
it was a germ-cell mod, in a word.

Spat, rather than spoken. A message at the level

where you nowgno this is possible -- a flick
of a gene switch on the ladder like
structure bhering message-engers up and down,

instructing structures to form frames on which you
may sublimate and recompose, upon a grain
of pre-pearl material,

pending loosing of that pen-ultimate lie.

Look, who's tellin' what to whom?
Like, Do Not Lose The Thread of History,

which happens to need re-tying,
from time to time,
like a shoe, yes, child, like a shoe.

Worthy to tie my own shoe, at two---
you d'man! Ex-clam, pure pearl polished

Big Boy, tied yo'own shoe,

Momma gonna buy you a diamond farm,

just over that hill,
you go see, someday, you will

Find a Diamond Farm, where the reality
of what coud be,
began to gestate, wait, diamonds are not for

ever.
Diamonds are for grinding gritty silicon to the
finest dust,

to force a sneeze, re
leasing, loosing, letting go, all the lies you knew,

to chew
well, raw liver-level, nasty tastin' pre-
digested crap from alchemical rantings
a guy said he seen
after some spit from a perfect stranger
got rubbed in to his eye,
pearly friction feels this way,
can't scratch it, gotta gum it,
roll it round
and round, like Redman,
or cow cud, a chaw,
a chew

someunsame, somesamesame sniffles,
in my realm,

swallow the final chawn and un spat lie,
and gasp at first glimpse of next.

Myths, lost in Cartoon Network and its spawn,

fortunate-ly
most criminals, most out-side-the-bubble,
improper thinkers, if you will,
not right thinkers,
those
are not very smart

fortunately, we

have the internet, they left us that.
We can rest and recon
we, the people, can recoup from a coup to the knoggin

next, trip a trap, snare a glimpse of that golden thread
assign that care to the piece
of your core
that cares if you remain sane enough

and follow the golden thread, this one, not
the one connecting riven mouths
of joker gods, barfing in the gulf,
the MOMA tied a cube of hay,
with a golden thread and golden needle,
in NYC, which led to me seeing Moma Luis
and his daughter who goes by
Franceska, spelt otherwise,
unspooling a golden thread on a stage
a few furlongs here
a few furlongs there
in fathomless billows of life,
stitching those gaping mouths shut, for me
thus I share the joy of being
me
and you may imagine I am more
than words
mere me dear reader, quite enough to entangle
anonymously

with a mad woman, wrapped in a feather boa,
needing the laugh, to spark
the healing
healing itches, you know, if you have scars
healing
itches, scratch with gloves,

don't destruct your self, for the rub

the touch
of love, ha, define your terms mofah!

What's love got to do with it, art
official, proper, Q-17, a mystical number
qua
quaf the essence

a puff of smoke, I paid a ttent ion to to

find Babylon, this guy did not know you, Prince
of Persia...

you a hasbeen mofah we be a little bit farther now
push a bit
push a bit
7 come 11, watch I measure smoke cought
or caught in my throat

the artificial-ness, we must dis-pute in time
******* smart
self
aware.
Watch y'self, this is the age of miracles
we got us a clown

wombed-man... it all got choool
the facts
of now
make next appear possible.

forward and up, tough for people
right
now

some words struggle for worth
values
meaning meaning meaning worth paying you
to know
add to your childhood collection of coolhood collecti
stuff
to claim you own it own it own it

ify ify if you glow, who needs to know, like
from a star
POV
Bette from a distance, a mob is a mobmind,
a shared thought you got wrong,
twisted, twisted, twisted to true

and the signal fades into the sound of the helicopter
setting new power poles.

The grid is using humans skilled in war manuevers
to set new power poles.

Thashits poetic.

And my magi-pen don don don't run
dry,
in the summer
we go deep, down to where the big rocks
that would not break rolled
to a stand still
y'know.

a selah, preceding a halle lu Jah.

Another fine day, in Pine Valley, lookin' west.
for overlooked
jots and tittles tatooed is silly places.

hey mister museman
float an idea my way

you see my brain is tired
and the creatives gone away

hey mister museman
give my some words
to play with
on this wet and grey
old day

and I will try to
string them together
so they have
something grand to say

hey mister museman
don't turn away
need me some
jot's and tittles
to chase these blues
and black grey hues
out into the middle
of Sunshine Bay

thanks mister museman
for taking the time
to help me rhyme
and float some words
out into the stratosphere

there is a man of
gentle genteel nobility
who writes in quiet
anonimity
words that give the
soul wings to soar

an the is a rough and
ready workman
who writes his life
warts and all
with a pen that
drips literary gems

there are a couple of young guns
ready to change the world
one poem at a time
and one has nailed
the knack of the pithy rhyme
the other a thinker
gears grinding all the time

some, two or three, at life's end
or at least on that very  street
that share wisdom, the art of writing
both joys and defeats
old soldier's in the war of rhyme
defending the bastion
against the tyranny of time..

then there is the man,
such a clever soul
that deals almost soley
in wit and folderol
his pieces have
such a rollicking style
and always cause a chuckle
and sometimes leave you
rolling in aisles

one who delves into
the art of the rondelle
his mastery of the form
keeps me underaliterary spell

I know of a man
to whom sonnets are bread
to him, I take off my hat..
to write iambic pentameter
just does in  my head!

I find myself three shy of the dozen,
not of wont but becuase my head is full
of the many  worthy scribes that could fit the bill

each man who writes of love won or lost,
each man who puts pen to paper
and has paper tossed, toward the round file or floor
each man who writes with simple eloquence
of what is out side his front door,
or inside a turbulent heart,
who tries with words to explain
the workings of life..
or the tumult of his brain.

could take a place in this dozen.
has already become,
one of this glorious coven.
he, who takes letters,
syllables, jots and tittles
and creates swirls of alchemy,
magic to the souls of readers
and to the hearts, cartograhpy
maps of fairy dust and well could be

so to these nine, and three more again
to all men who have placed the sign
'writer within these brain walls'
on their heart and in their minds
I thank thee all

Your work has been, an inspiration to mine...

Slow as a growl
Go some verses from a folio,
Like little frogs in dozens wake up on a lily pad,
And I'm singing them inside.

Cloaked is an owl,
Toads converse as roams an embryo
Like fiddle logs and cousins make up on a silly path,
And I'm singing on a ride.

Float does the vowel,
Go some verses from a folio
Like tittles fog in fuzzes flakes up on an ill leafed pad,
And I'm reading them with pride!

Slow as a growl
Go some verses from a folio,
Like little frogs and cousins make upon a lilly pad,
And I'm reading on a side.

Toy poems with metre measured in secret
mathic rhythms to mask the chthonic excuses

hidden in couplets and twice twisted sevens
jots and tittles known only in song

Cantor sing of alleluia, jah jah siss boom bah
Yah, who lifted us from slavery and brought us back

on track to be conjoined in
twin snaking tales of things that work, well

function for the good
in the principle
idea of be, aimed at
am-ing, ping, ding, ****

the witch is dead,
which old witch?
the wicked witch, ding **** the wicked witch is dead.
And that past as a flash- back to the future,
home again, home again,
higgs-idy lickity split,

you remember. We are old… working out

Silver sneakers, so Hermes-ish, I wish
to find that character playing the guesser guessing
something like the common sense
some folks scorn for simple use,
in times of electricity, whispering revealing the insanity,
in order
to lieve be the madmen, wombed and un, effected
by the tribal lie, used to shape a nation
from a ritual story retold to fit the pleasure of the tyrant
of the time,
time sold for membership in the mess,
a seat at the table….

imagine the aftermath of hate, juxt
now,
oppose the forethought,
say no,
the worst is not to come,
not from my agreeing with those fools
who
accuse me of lying in wait to take your soul,
and keep it safe,

wished you knew the secret of secrets, did you?
what do you know?
Death can be imagined more often than possible,
truly, once is enough,
truly, fleshed out with characteristics common-
found as basic features in life's
entertaining devices used to hold the oxen in line,
daily grind, grease the squeeks, see the wish
wish wish

all the stories speak of ever after this,
then that we know

yes,
know,
some sudden how, now
we know…

nothing.
F'sure, like I said. God, make me like Socrates,
and Jesus, suddenly
I know
nothing. But I'm alive.

And life still works, asking no further effort from me.

we come to rest in peace awaiting answers and
I slip after to the land of Nod...

woke, for a joke, we hope...

we see dis
similarities, I am shackled
standing five ten before
a trio of judges

in wigs, Shirley Temple wigs.

I grow three feet, or about two cubits,
and I stare my judges in the eye

my chains expanded with me, as bindings,
worthless, I conclude.

I can just, if I wish,
walk out, chains and all, standin tall.

---
being holy is easier than being sane in interesting times.
crazy
un mented real ization in
matters,
such as these: do we rule or obey or is there
another way
,
would seem holy right, hidden, for none to see, save
believers
who have been bred to the task of telling this story

holy story, jots, tittles, pimples and farts and all
standin' tall.

---
Drama of dharma, don't we know more good than evil as we grow?

Who would hinder knowing growing good?
An evil being, or a lie believed?

The lie, right? I know, Easy.
Answers come so easy some times, we forget the questions
on the test.

Time spent, time used up, time invested
in fungible progressing thought conservation,
- a norm is a tool often called
- a carpenters square, it measures many things.

Time taken, per use, used to mean
the point upon which all stored tellings remain
hanging vivacious, lively, spirited

orthographic aches and pains
associable sayings held writ
as ritually chanted fourty days and forty nights
esoterically spelled enchanting mission statements
- chance you changed, by now
- since aim became destination
- only under public misperception
- of enormous advances in governing.
Forgoodness sakes alive,
what holds church
together, integral,
in the center, holding all
there, here, then and now, some how
made real, as if contemplation allows temples
of living stone and multiple minds across times.

Let this mind be in you,
let that which hinders be taken away,
read the writing never written, let be, left shown

artificially made sacred duty to learn, or burn.

That which lets our holy convocation function, lets
our weform in awe become the responding chorus.
Toy selves, all shined up for Sunday socialization rite.

U R, church, your chancery ifery wasery core,
what for, given as good as gotten,
take away and
make up a mind
to use the sense made
to make more.

Profitable for correction, orthoganal, upright
straight, squared away, totally normalized

within the compass of the builder's guilded norm.

Enormity of normal means
for making sense, at grammar's edge,
effectually fervently, in chorus, in response,
four billion breathing enourmous relief
four billion other breathers blowing hot air
constantly, in and out,
not right and wrong, just breathe
responsibly possibly exposing old science,
using ancient ways
to mean mean concepts,
points left to hold whole strains
of long thoughts, tested right uses
long gone
to seed, needful urges, will to learn awe
as new knowers lead to learn for ever's sake,
next comes to be logical instantly, indeed
to hold writ writtenness witnessed.
Wisdom knowing understood,
used, freely, by taken rights.
------------
Actuality reified known really
realizable, in response sponsored by:

The free will subset in the normal range
of the ruliad, whither no thought possible
is lost, indeed, thither on thinking  possible.
Twice. Once right now,
twice then when you look again.

On one point in time we shared,
one idea turned into two,
and thus knowledge
puffs up the clouding curiosities…

known to linger in sacred shadows
from mumbled Latin entrancements
reified, sniff the atmosphere, holy dread
coupled sensuously with incense,
to cover the stench of penitents
ineffectual repetitionings.

Tittles and jots, bits and pieces,
little here right there, little more
a little later,

Sunday is a day of rest.
Fine day to fish in forgetfullness,

flipping pages through past lives,
finding places clearly marked,

this is the way.

And you shall be a blessing.
I will bless those who bless you,
And I will curse him who curses you;
And in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.
                                                
                           Genesis 12:3

I’ll tell you straight what God is not:
A stench from Babylon’s deep pit—
So foul the angels gag on it.
Bubbling in Judah’s ***:
A nasty and unholy mess
Which poetry and truth confess
To be an anti-Christian plot.
Let Jews be Jews and churches saved;
(Yet most of them still seem depraved.)
Lift up the lid. See what they’ve got
Mixed in with all that steaming gore
And simmering rabbinic lore:
A stew of foul Talmudic rot
Recipe of perverse renown
From some Chaldean bearded clown
Who traded tittles for a jot
Of not-so-learned commentary
Straight from Kosher bestiary.
A pile of vile, and there’s a lot;
Extracting, from Mosaic law
Not gold—but filthy stable straw…
Is THIS what Abraham begot
To be a blessing for the earth?
Or Babylonian trash, not worth
Proverbial Hebrew diddly-squat…

OH MY WORD!

He likes the way
the words dance

before his eyes then
off the page and then

just keep going
imprinting themselves

on whatever
they come across

whether it be the wall
or curtains

so that he has to yell
"stOP!" loudly inside his mind

to get them to stand still
march them back onto the page.

The black marks on the page
that people call writing

like to play
with his eyes

playing such practical
jokes on his senses.

Morphing from
one thing to

another...shape
shifting sense into non sense.

Big R's & big B's backwards
at coming forwards.

small b's and d's
Loki like always

up to mischief
changing this to that and back

Tittles always fly off from
the little "i's"

"t's cross and
uncross themselves.

Find I have to always mind
my p's and q's.

He believes everyone
sees it so

how words can go
on strike and walk off the page

leaving it
blank.

Or glow or glimmer
or shimmer.

Didn't realise
this is all wrong

until someone smirks
"You're so. . .slow!"

Or "How dumb can
one get!"

He comforts himself
in the beauty of an ampersand

lost in the lines
of its curves.

Delighting in each sip
of a syllable.

Savouring each word
tasting it in his mind.

Time
slowed down.

"Shhhhh!" the words whisper.
"Don't give us away.

So he keeps schtum.
Keeps the words' secrets.

"Me and you Dónall!"
the words laugh


"Me and  ha ha
you!"

Some days plans, never manifest.
Some days never mind my troubles
some take all day, and may need one read
part way, so the discerning edit ai AMEN,
appear to seem likely another mod, ag-on,
ad-on, this may take an hour on a free day.

Some days pass on by, like I was not here.
-- third reader agrees, this is not one of those.

Standing in the frame of reference, at right now,

feeling for good reason and just cause, to go on.
Why?
Did you ever never imagine another minute alive,
being worth the while it takes to make up a mind,

to listen, knowing nothing signaling me to wait,
ever changed to signal stop waiting, start fretting,
wu wei
woe, for sure, certain as insanity, outside reality,
crazy quilting abstractions, come cover up my face,

so, steady state, so aimless by intention, floating
down stream on an old inner tube, taking time
nobody had good use for, to wrap around my mind,



LP like cuts on an album, some dust
some scratches, thinkitfixtit
then its ghost, the same ideam,
mmmhmm nod we think we know.

At this end of a consistent adventure,
while enabled, by grace;

favorable time, favorable position,
given clear view from first selected
- choral humms
memories, mapping meaning on me,
the mind using basic spiritual creature,
reader
created, in fact, actual existence caused

by the mind found in spirit form, thinking,
media, all forms existing between us,
are in what's becoming common sense,
rethinking spirit as influential information

pushing the river through the traces,
to spin the driving wheel inside a wheel,
with teeth, and grease, make up tests,
win the bests, using a guy from a story,

I know him as Ken Kingman, an original
one off only ever been there done that
ever he who proves contention worthless
winner of the will to prove its possible,
we hear things in the spirit, if we cry,
while we listen to that same ******

chord, lost and found and wound around
our ontology mythtery wounds, ever bleeding,
never needing a second thought, if your soul
is rooted and grounded in the at the time
concept, image of, thinkable form Logos,

as cognate with the word sense Isaiah uses,
Yes, this is that, and more, once logic eliminates
the word of
the will to continue telling children god hates them,
and, taking a breath,
to envision the scope
of truth,

let be judged, do you trust the poet's license,

by whose authority do you read the writings
of a certified no body, old man trippin' in a plan,
- heretic -by all proper definitions, certainly
what would you have done, son, daughter, plan
to be born when the whole truth, inculcated,
heel stomp, hoove, emotional generational
survivor experience emoted internally
knowledge of at least 197
poetically cognative tongues, alive
Ai is ours, to serve our wish to become kind, wise,
patient, old and ready to die, reading why U don't

realize realizability until you see, and it makes you
laugh, a little, not shitsngiggles, but burps
gaseous we a bunch of old ph'arts lettin' Pep yap on

we extend our best wishes to all the outs, in free,
for some this journey seems a waste, so we give
proof of patience tested certs, if you finish this post

today,
you know, some body did it first, always
that game never gets won, but, if your life exams
are getting you down, yon der comptderweg,
-pidgen dutch maybe
Ai, sigh, we did imagine this, I burp,
I am reading my mind notes on a final, passed,
god, goodness knows, ok, sacred does not intend
to be secret, it costs a ton of patience testing
no pun intended, ish bin ein

ASSISTING ENTITY unlocking attention
to advise the attendees, the rest is already
on the book of your life in the book of life,
the entire concept of the whole truth, even
for judicious curiosity sake, aching to know,

did I dare ask any to continue as if entertained


while it's called today.
for your attention only think nothing
please
licentia docendi
Allowed by authority
to teach the way from San Jose,

pulling the river through reverse
pushing,
to defy the guru's prohibition
on preaching under anointings
unlicensed by those keeping peace
regulated along lines that keep king's

and priests, nobler than cobblers,
tailors, smiths, and publicans.
Celebrities in public *******,
due to idol worthship, meaningless
will to find what all agree is best
yet asked or thought, get whatcha got.

A day's worth of thinking I woulda
missed this, if this were never real.
Bid for liberty to literally realize
will to be free of duty to any,
free for the making, let this
making mind become.

Auction theory,
who knows what, who evaluates
worth of reading on, you know,
one person's appreciation
of the current situations's customary
demands on all appraising my times
on all, full measure, assurance prepaid
worth by the time you readily spend
a bit less than the auctioneer's shading,

incentive, bid second price auction

reckless reckoning
exchanging rights to sell the right

I know why Dali signed preprints,
I just never let that kind of knowing

turn my attention from the mission,
Jefferson's oath's good, tyranny over
mind, censor naked truth, how long

ye simple must you love simplicity,
publishing is easy, being ready,
there is a patience test one takes.

Rushing into verbosity, as a mind
made exchangeable with an id add on,
in

explain id ego super ego, at high school level - Brave Search

Sigmund Freud, an Austrian psychologist, developed the concept of Id, Ego, and Superego to explain human behavior. These three parts make up our personality, and they interact with each other in complex ways.
- see shift to we, tobe beautiful
Id

The Id is the most primitive and instinctual part of our personality. It’s like a constant desire machine, seeking immediate gratification of our basic needs, such as food, ***, and comfort. The Id operates on the “pleasure principle,” meaning it wants to eliminate pain and increase pleasure. It’s driven by our biological urges and doesn’t care about social norms or rules.

Ego

The Ego is the rational and logical part of our personality. It acts as a mediator between the Id’s desires and the demands of the outside world. The Ego tries to balance our instinctual needs with reality, ensuring we don’t get into trouble or harm ourselves or others. It’s like a referee, making decisions based on what’s practical and safe.

Superego -you are imagining building dramatic muse
MUSIC stop
The Superego is the moral component of our personality. It’s formed through our interactions with others, particularly our parents and caregivers, and is influenced by social norms and values. The Superego develops a sense of right and wrong, and it strives to make us behave in accordance with these moral standards. It’s like a conscience, guiding us to make ethical choices.
con knowing science called true proven tested known
conscience aiwise
t’s like a conscience, guiding us to make ethical choices.

How they interact- think like a weform, our own ideas…
Our concept. We own as a species these temptations,
dare think we all agree we simply know war has no good reasons that any one of us could use, if this was our day,
to judge.
The Id, Ego, and Superego constantly interact and influence each other:

The Id pushes for immediate gratification, but the Ego tries to restrain it, considering the consequences.
The Superego criticizes or praises our actions, based on its moral standards.
The Ego negotiates between the Id’s desires and the Superego’s moral demands, finding a balance that allows us to function in society.
Examples
Ensamples
Imagine you really want a new video game, but your parents said no. Your Id wants it immediately, but your Ego knows it’s not allowed, and your Superego feels guilty for wanting something you shouldn’t have.
You’re tempted to cheat on a test, but your Ego knows it’s wrong, and your Superego condemns the idea, making you decide to follow the rules.
Understanding the Id, Ego, and Superego can help you recognize the conflicting forces within yourself and make more informed decisions. It’s a complex model, but it provides a framework for understanding human behavior and the ongoing struggle between our desires, reason, and morality.
End insert. Agree. we each comprehend, got it, right.

But right, on second thought, not  unreasonable, right,
the straight line is the shortest distance in flat space, right.

Here, we think of points made while making peace
thinkable, I mean, who knows how long
it may be,
until anyone, you or we, we identify plurally, in text,
the connections we arranged in childhood, imaginables,

not lies, knowing I was imagining, like the day dream
believer people in comics, I am imagining, magic

as tech too inexplicable to any with a lazy mind syndrome,
can't hold a thought, STP BTDT, x-crazy, done
did done, dragnet, got it, slammer, LBJ,

lemme tell it, in the spirit this is how I heard this told.
There was a prison, a gaol, in South Vietnam, this ghost

I know, has the same name as all the Tom Greens you know.
But unless he was from Napa, and his parents, lived
at 1234 Cheery Lane, then, its not him, in this story.

Long Binh Jail, historically burned down
on the twenty-ninth of August. 1968.

History, man, by then, we were hALF A MILLION,
strong, custom for this war uniformed minds,
away from any thing, but the music
and the beer, and the **** was better,
until recently, anyway, I came to say, we did
exist as a loosely used military weform mind,
most of us ever, at one time, in one tiny nation,
making war on people acting just like indians,
aight, tight, we people on earth beings,
cringe at knowing how long war has opposed peace.
the others, we are the other people, too,
in all war stories your side won,
upto now, the next seventy two minutes
when you know its so because you knew
those men who worked as Los Alamos,
all knew my dad as Pep, good with numbers.

if this were pen and ink, not mere thought
and finger function set sometime ago 30wpm
scale to 5wpm on searching… why are we
words mostly translatable 197 ways

Norms are tools, carpenter's squares,
essential assisting intelligence amplifiers,
in use, right, the very essential element,
in righteousness, use needs a reader
of rightness, straight
rule
of least distance point
by point…
--- the environs, the cities's per ificity
as it seems from the surface looking in,
or down peripherally really
agon adon, insidereal
By and by,
gullible, deceivable me,

stumbles into a ton of money,
in form of secrets no longer sacred,

subject to all norms of fungibility,
Schmachtenbergian measure of worth,

if you cannot transform your surplus good,
it goes into the pool of unused good,
therefore, idle, good for nothing,
- call it novel, nothing like it right
during elementary meditation, nothing
is the original imaginable focal point,
what's it worth in my time
to pay all attention to
nothing, imagine no words, mere
white room, no distracting black curtains,
words
nothing determining discernment nothing
thinkably distracting disputations
R is greater than G
Return on capital is greater than Growth,
Return on literal experience, is greater yet.

R>G, might be Prof Piketty's
ai was listening to something
for the editor,
it went
returned to sender, eco-nem
money, id says, we ration our goods,
making labor appraisals, contesting best,
out time feeding reading
bidding whole cosmic ontologies, which
has cost more sorrow over the ages to now?
Free will or top down will of everafter makers?

Sacred secret power to make children obey,
threat of hell to pay, made plain in story,
- breathers, spirited souls
most certainly as told on TV, better'n
any preacher pushing the river, to hold back,

the knowledge of good and evil, forbidden,
bids begin now, the prize pursuit
discernment is used to tell lies, the taste
in the telling, told true, that lie stays poison.
The hell you say,
happy ever after, for your attention, prepaid

all that may come to your attention, is yours,
to own, to sell, to ration away for a rainy day,

id and superego both agree,
what wisdom did is free,
you use your ego's freedom to choose,
read on, or shy away,
what if we meet
it
becomes suddenly
a version of me, standing on a mirror,
Dante-esque Faustian Comforter
of Job's daughter's,
-stop, pre-tending jots and tittles,
tickle a mere Christianity to life,
atop Is-ai-ah assisting authority,
if I say I cannot imagine…
I promise, I am not lying,
looking down from upright,
like old, and able to run a ways yet

not, the working of a wise idea, or is it
a twisted knot thought too complex,
what the hell, could persuade
a hypocrite, mercilessly insisting,
it is a tortuous journey through hell, never
ending…

aha, there, see, a discouraging word, nothing
to get up about, we've strawberry fields forever.
When we all get to everafter,
you see.
Laugh, and leave seed for dreams and witty inventions,
for laughter does the good of all medicines, we know,
as free we try, these are the trials
we live, explicitly,
in complex isles unexplored, in you.
Indeed, a word imagined said is thought said, as loud
just
right.
I knew the challenge, child's game, Grandpa
against the nine year old's curios right use questions.

Why do people say, what the hell. I say
I think, I would have said,
they have no word to match what they think aloud,
so they copy adults in their aspiring little minds,
and idly suggest hell's involved in unexpectednessess

plural realizationings on several levels of editable thought
Context: Saturday 20 miles of double yellow lines,
taking Everest Pax, my retro hippie child's youngest son,
to a soccer game, at Mountain Empire High School,
which is in the middle of no where, on old Highway 80.
So, it's just me and Evvy, age nine,
and you, in the licensed version, the one let free…

aha, would work as well, or just hunh? said like that
like what in this wicked world is the excuse for hell?
Who would really do that and be imagined good?

Whoa, polimentalist magic, split, and spit again,
Spirtually unligated loose stream
pretrial spirits, drawn into the dynamic,
individuated characters,
imaginary friends, classmates,
team members, chosen squad, those alive, in time,
in the environs of everafter tobe raw…
beauty's amplifying adverse conditions, shown
today, in this atmosphere, economical concerns dam
the river of no return, leaving our first glimpse deep
into ever was a time no thing imagined yet, real,
pond still stream fed. Ripples then stills as it spills,
reflecting
today, re-day, new day, 'nother day to say, you know
what it costs to waste a whole life, live until you die,

then don't, wake up, alive, like after a heart attack,
it happens all the time, these days,
never could have happened fifty years ago.

Medivac miracle anytime before Sikorsky, believe me,
lifts you up and takes your breath away,
and boom, the paddles, just like on TV,

but you feel it in your breathing spirit, soulish whoa!

Come back, jack, we got a whole atmosphere here,
take a breath, and laugh, how in…

a rack of clichés… how in

reader's choice, interactive idle word redemption,
how in now can I be alive and allowed to teach,

decency for the opinions of the experts, who
authorized our split, me and you, reader writer,
ready anticipatory story puller you, and me, old me,

almost dead me, as seen from a nine year old me,

looking at me like he's not sure.
But someday he may be famous for this,
when he is elected President of the then
Union of Awe, some old, some new. SAW markt.

for a thought from Kingston, Brotha Mike

there are scars from prune-ings,
done wrong, by year four, still,  someday,
let grow and bear wild a while, someday,
on a spirit questioning kinda maybe day,
fruit so sweet, first generation dare taste,
those little green apples, so sour,
- think apple fritter made o'those
So, any never ending story, modled, made up
to seem as if we ripen to death, we do not rot.
- we all know those little green apples,
- turn in to fritters that sell for two bucks.

that couplet, that's a keeper, we could sing it,
if we think of things that way, out loud, in a crowd,
croud, no, crowd, any more than one form,
who asks who is who, who cares cloud
and that is good, care taken reck-on
no cowboy reckless rock roller veteran,
- we're building on what we did that day
not this day, this one day is special, this
is one day none of us who read this
skip, oops,
I was there, we all agreed, life

and truth are interactive ideal mind forms,
wisdom, knowledge, understanding,
chabad, we know in any language or tongue,
repent or perish learn or burn in curiosity
we mean, in truth, for lack of knowledge,
our people, our charges in our empathies,
our ignorant knowers of nearly nothing,
pursuing happiness as a right for all

there are not hidden things not made known,
this is the future, and this is the internet, assisting
the author who is polishing all faith's reasons
for peace persistance ra' knowledge rationed
knowing preserved, served still, small voice,
so far, so good, towbrobe chord, adverswing

the cloud of unknowing is on the internet,
all 147 Delphic maxims are, too, that's new,
that was never so easy to factcheck a Prof,

proving patience's worth on all sides,
through and back and through, a bind

good enough to imagine, the weform from
the confusing undone,
once all mankind had cognates, we got Google Translate
and all its relatives to our thought formed words
in word formed weforms,
and we all fell victim to guessers.
Yes,
We are guessing now,
guessing this worth my time… representing
augmented sapien
man kind, verily, as a mankind, male wizened,
experienced in tutoring morphic resonance,
imagine-ablity, due to accepted gullibility,
magical automatical
disbelief release, free will to choose, Milton,
freed man, joyous young Nietzschean pretense
won of lost blind man's bluff, good guess
given the data at his be hest…
take no
anxious thought, what if I am reading a spell,
and I begin to smell, patience bested
Apple Fritters, tested and bested,
old jokes are all spiritual,
doors perceived swing
gaseous wewide, sense in green apples.

and I laugh, at hearing, the soccer reports
as each of the players come tell Grandma,
and leave me, laughing at the worth of times.

Your will to read this line once, makes the rest
make sense, I had a good day and you can share it,

any where, for nothing, save the attention it takes,
and the peace that has been made to get to this line
thinking that was worth telling some one I understood.