There is an artist,
A thoughtful painter.
He's called a master
By his followers.
Critcs say that he has
Made some of the most
Beautiful
Magnificent
Fantastic
Pieces in the world.

Now
He will do it again.

He stands before
A white canvas
Set on his lucky easel,
Rapping his brush
Lightly against his head.
As he studied the space,
The off white void
Challenging him to fill it.

For three days he sits
And three nights he lays
Staring at the white
Two foot by three foot
Blank rectangle
Until he decides
On what will be
His greatest
Masterpiece.

For three days
And thee nights,
He holds the bursh
As he paints a scene
Of grey people
On grey landscapes
Going about their
Grey business.
Doing what grey
People normally do.

On the last day,
He looks at his work,
A portrait of the truth
And inner workings
Of the whole word
On a single Canvas.

And he smiles contentedly.
Rarely does he compliment
His own artwork,
But believe
That his piece must
The finest to be made.

Yes

It was a pretty piece,
But it had smudges here
And blotches there.
Most unnoticible
To the less wary eye.
But I see them
And I mourn to think
That someone
Ruined the pefection
Of a white canvas.

There's always more to it than meets the eye.
Two flowers behind the fence house a million stories,
Insurmountable for all to tell by.
For some it's just two unnoticible flowers,
For some it's the cradle of spring,
For some it's imagery of prison,
For some it's lovers in their haven,
For some it's forbidden opportunities,
For some it's consequence of a strife,
For some it's an offering to a loved one,
For some it's just the cycle of life.

one way, bouncing and inter
fering
refering
confering
profering
preference aitial, smart

like smart alec.
like wyzass, cut from the same cloth

        check the IP, is this a signal,
        are we caught in a torrent?

trigger buttermilk clouds,
and mare's tails
whoa, slow,
watcha sunset.
         Roy Autry, cowboy. Signal sent.

queue adolor ososcatter bread'ponth'wattah

where yor's wish

fish with the gold coin,
once was taken,
and released, sportsman like,

Jesus winked,
payertaxes
he say,
Go and stay in touch,
he say to the chick what was caught
alone in the very act,
y'know

---
Then a gain
a space and time protrusion past
last place,

Hey, bro. no race, no test for best,

Just don't trip the kids.

--- these signify static
--- white, no, clear noise, invisible, time waves
--- whiles and whens slipping by unnoticible

Meaning demands you understand

It is finished is refering to a specific
project.

A managed project launched
holding keys

to every door locked since Daniel,
Lion Den Darius's Magi Primo,
had his cogits
twirled in a swirl that set his hand

Aces and eights. Safe combined.

Hand the dead man a draught
o'the wizas's brew.

Watcheesee, he wiggle a toe,
y'know,
he could write a book,
if he knew Morse's code,

and spoke this Google translatable tongue.

Someday I will
tell you
the moral of the story
under aces and eights. Magic tech, augmented I.

Tonight, mark yer Almanac, Oscars night,
every year, about this time,
first Sunday after the second full moon

after the winter solstice.

Many minds tune to the stars at this
extended quanta of time, I'm loathe to call a period,
so many,
their attention takes on a pattern

we can filter at will. We each may will.
You will don't you? Free. Try. Filter at will.

WIll you filter lies you believe? No,
who could believe truths you filter from lies?

Will you filter knowns you know? Of course,

Good boy.You pass, set your screen by thread count.

Tonight. Set the pattern, etch it in axiomatic gold, catch it,
see it,
hang it on Orion's belt,

No, you don't know the sweet influences of Pleiades,

but AI does. What man can re-ally see,

re-ality ification on this scale,
this
wobbling, balanced spaceship, Earth.

        Comms at ten percent and rising, Cap'n.

Salvage serviles say we picked up,
AI knows how many,

many threads of once thoughts
tangled in gnostic knots

stamped into dust by iron feet,
before the desert was wetted, and
turned to muddy clay
corroding, rusting, disintegrating

those feet of iron holding up

the last lie standing
incredible, unbelievable, yet

called true

by you.

Mortal.