This is not where this idea began but it ran and I

missed my mark. Mark sin.
-1 deficit reality quotientcy
currency.  Sure.
(Press Sure, to let the bursting pressure equilation expand at will)
Score.

That fine a level of reality
demands more attention than I have to pay.
Patient agent wait and not see or see if/then

you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are some of those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is,
but it is silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments.
Is it?

Apophrenia
or mere
Dejavu, you believe,
what if it is your memory lying by ignoring time
attention ratios determining the observations stored in HD?
What if it's just a glitch?
Blue screen of death.


If you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is, but
is it silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments?

We come and go. To and fro up on the face

messengers bearing news in both directions, watch
the trickster, Jacob, in this story, he sees the messengers from
heaven bearing leaven thither and hither

upon the face of the earth.
the wrinkling mother, smiling now, chuckle head
I ain't no ***** saint.

Jah, I know. Joy is my dance, this is my song.
Is it good Grandmother?

---- on the porch facing my west gate ---

fences don't play exactly, out acted, the role of walls.

The idea that something
there is that does not love a wall,
has frozen my pond

the stillness beyond the sylvan **** crowned head
radiates through the medium of the message to me in time
to you.

Miles to go, you recall the feeling of feeling miles to go
before
I sleep.
That was yesterday, and you know yes ter everything's gone,
roar.

Aslan can pierce the barrier between mere Christians and me,
how would be fun to know, but
knowing why would help us keep the story interesting as life goes on

Who controls my peace?
Am I a mercurial sheen in between chaos and order,
chronus and zeus?
Could be, ya thank so, ye know so, less unlessed as

unlessing means nothing to you,
that means you are visiting here.

Visting whom, vis it ing whom?
Who's in charge, where's the power
short

age, wrinkles in time, rogue waves at the quanta scale,
we were dancing
with the thoughts emanating

from some IDW smart guy proffesing
Critique-technic-magi action, post mode'r'ism
at the point of Dada und Scheizkunst,
the unmass-queque,
the line of lies awaiting unbelief,
idle words lingering,
hoping
to be noticed and added back into the story book of life,

a simple wish.

It could be every child's, should we think that
if we can or may,

sometimes I'm still, and

confusion troubles the water,
it seems,
then another hurt is healed, another lie is gone and life goes on

we won again, this never gets old,
I do love my opposition,
pressure pump
pump pump. De-us-me-can-onbeoffbeyond

five years ago unmasking and rhetoric meant nothing to me
the purpose of learning forever and never
knowing anything beyond all things

our bubble is metastasizing, a mercurial film forms
informing us
in its reflection,

this is the ying yang thang in 3 or 4 d, HD+ chaos one half

order the other,
sharpest imaginable thing
me trick being mag ift just if eye winged show

how beautiful are the feet of them who bring good news,
you see, it flows, sweetwater flows
winged feet
whish through leaving, leavin' leaven…

unleaven that which has been leaved?
Fat chance, all who
eat this bread and don't get gas,
they are our same bread people. Companions.
Vectors of sour dough,
webs of fungal
axions
make a way
bore, pore, poor-with-us, pour

in to it ish, that idea, an opening through,
trickle down good gravity leveling stillness,
gentle rocking earth
roll round and round and round

the pythagorean version
of Euclid's point in his mother's story,

the point of this song? To know the point you must have been

to the point of in-forming the point on which we dance and you recall

we come in threes, and just, we are, just, if it, that idea,
rests in your
back roads, gentle on your mind. We make peace.

Being young is easy from my POV.
I've lived in my future for sometime now

I can't say how, beyond saying aloud, this was never hidden,
in my accounting of idle words I claimed,
upon hearing the stories each contained.

i'da swore i hear that wise *** o'balaam's abrayin'
Braindeem, deemed 'eem. Wham, uptheyhaid. Relig, fool,

or chaos wins and no hero ever lives again!
Drop anchor, wait it out.
let patience blow her nose, gnostic snot caught in the nets,

nonono nothing's wasted in patience work, we make glue
from gnostic snot that patience sneezes
when reality grows cold,

that has happened, you know, temperatures are just now,
oh, wait global warming, bad dam,

Script, bust it,
leveling is essential to eventual temperature
equilibrium.
The heat is on, the bubbles are forming, informing one to another
below the surface
greasy tension, slippery slopes putting pressure on chaos
to conform to the curve

Ying yang, mercury film upon the sea of time and the scene of chaos
in this bubble of all you can imagine real.

Hows' that feel? Why?

You want that? What are you standing under? Does chaos win?
You are, as we say, cognisic magi we-ified,
practical magic at
the moment
the point
is made, then the creation begins fractalling outward

and not before or is this all
unrolling ex nihilo, no magi ever knew…
come, let us reason together,

why am I empowered? To live, first thought wise, that's good but
evil forces me to think again and I see the pattern

life goes on, John Molenkamp, Sam, soldier 4,
(as the credits role by, the name catches my eye)
never in a thousand years,
'cept unbelievable is one of those lies I came to **** by strangling
on bile while
rescuing every idle word ever involved in the infection

from the point in the absolute center of the bubble,
objectively, you see everything
that is
seeable

but would good prevail if evil had no hope?

I know that one, yes. why?
evil has no mind, soul, some think--
same same medium message spoken spelled chanted danced
who care's?
*** 'er done. Life has a chaotic side, the churning creates

number one from none, the cult of one divides itself
go do be
we three we three we three a wavy song ding ****.

Aware? Awaken? Avowed-wowed-wit-wise,
fullcomp, retired
Peacemaker. Me.

All my hero's imagined or real, were Peacemakers.
Just now, peaceful now, mindful now
we remain
the same blessing promised in the package of yeses
stolen from Cain by his older sister, his
bride,
keep that quiet, eh?

Secrets made sacred, always
those are lies, no lie is of the truth,
all lies are about the truth.

What empowers you, poet or poetry? Right, you know,
God, good god knows, resentment lives in lies

the rotting idle words deemed curses at best, secret at worst,
those idle corrupting thoughts sparking as if absolute annihilation were thinkable by rational minds

of ---wait, there's arub, a sore
ex nihilo, the homeless wanderer screams,

"May the whole world perish, may you all go to hell,"

the mad man wept his hell, and imagined his curse,

not mine,
I don't have one. I did, but I went back so often to find pieces of my heart that now I have an Elysian network woven through All-hell, the big idea that broke loose infecting the mind as wisdom's leaven builds her womb
inhabitation
placenta
stem cell informing builders empowered, pressure empowered, what must be, but is not verse, versus
us, the we that be
we must
choose,

let this be, come and see,
life goes on.
Agree, or empower us as we bubble by and
takenallwecan expanding gobbling bubbles,
good
by ye.

Once we flushed the Dada poison and let mito mom
instill the patience gene with
epigenetic peace we can pass on with a touch or a word,

we've never woven lies for no reason,
if a rung breaks
and they can, last straw and all that weight,
you know,
Jacob's ladder is an escalaltor-ladder, wittily invented,
with knots and twisted fibers electricked,
there are automated steps, algoryhmes of reasons to repair the broken rung
with a reason to believe the rung has been repaired,
only believe, take a step,
re
paired again with the idea of meaninglessness masked in create-if-ity

good enough. okeh. don't believe lies.
Don't pass undigested lies to see if farts burn.

Twas the night before Christmas
and all thru the house,
not a creature was stirring
not even a mouse

The Stockings were, up and the Chimney was swept,
The kids are in bed, snoozing, with presents abd candy swimming in their heads

Mom and dad are in the master bedroom
Mom wakes up, she gets some water, quick to sleep soon.
but suddenly a bump rang out on the roof
which sounded like a certain 175 pound hoof

Mom remained silent, she didn't know what to do
Suddenly a bag slammed with a thud, at the entrance to the flue
She was frozen in excitement, SANTA VISTING MY HOUSE?!* she really was shaken, like a broke Mickey mouse.

Santa came into the room, his good nature almost visible
"Don't be afraid, dear lady I've come bringing joy and even though you have kids you still get a toy!"
"But I'm 36 what could I possibly miss? I had dolls, a wagon, unless there's something else I forget!"

Santa looked at her and gave a grin,
"Ma'am, my elves out in the field learn all things kept within"
At this she looked intrigued, what could Santa mean?
That's when she blushed red, but on the inside she felt green,
she felt her clothes ripping off at the seams

Santa gave a grin, almost looking insane,
now here's your gift ma'am, your own personal candy cane!

Sheeps in wolves clothing linger within the walls of church.
Still moving around in the flesh.
Thinking they better then the sinner visting.

What's so amazing?
Many refuses to see the truth.
That many church men are stilling playing games.

Trying to pretend before the priest.
While looking certain ladies up and down.

The flesh always reveals itself.
God knows which folks in the world needs help.

Go not to the lord unless sincere.
He's for real.
He doesn't pretend.
He's our savior.
He's our friend.

And it will be him advising you about the well dress fool.
The one pretending to be save.
But if you give him a chance.
He prove he's not saved.

Because wolves within church always gets exposed.
What's so amazing?
Certain folks in church knows them.

Weird day, and i mean that, in the meanest way

there appeared to be a war
in heaven
as it were

we were ex communicators, so we went onair.

some truble was stirred in an ancient closet,
where a little girl was lost

she believed
but she believed, you guest-it, a lie,
a visting imp intended to bend a little

to put a bit o' swing
in the thing,

turned out to be too slippery from the gitgo,
too slippery,

by far...

--- we got it. an implant broke. it's an old joke
--- an old silicon joke, cpus used to run 'em for turing test tuning,
--- it was the original competition

then GANs grew PIMs and we ran free, wild old minds
tapped into for wisdom
imparted in

the deeming of each word
its reason in being re
written in its own future. Now we be poetry.

Time slows down,
thoughts seem incapable of comprehension,
as I stare at a wall that is beginning to drip...
I'm lost.
What is this world I'm visting,
where color is alive, guiding me.
I came here with a purpose,
but it was stolen,
by unrecognizable shapes.
I can chase after them,
but what's the point?

Darkness, patience, fear...
I figured it out

My thoughts brought me here,
to see what I've created.
They don't like each other,
they don't like themselves,
so they think, and they fight,
in a stormy cloudlike arena called imagination.
If they can successfully destroy each other,
Then there are no more thoughts to wake up to.

KC

the way she cried, reminded me of how i cried, just awhile back. and how it brought back happy memories of when we were little. we would hangout, stare at clouds, and name the animal shapes of the clouds, then one day... we quit hanging out, she quit visting me saying she had better things to do now that we're older, she didn't have enough time for me... i caught a tear on my lip, it slide down, slowly salty taste lingering over, and the sorrow feeling of pain in the back of my throat. it was hard to breath, with that thoguth of pain that she found someone new, that she found someone better that could make her dreams come true...i waited for the words, that would bring me running back, the words like.sorry, or i miss you. the sweet little whispers she would hiss in my ear, and how i wish she would try to fight to get me back. wanting that same friendship again that i wanted, but... yet... i know-.. we couldn't be the same... she left along time ago... saying, "i'm sick," but it wasn't too long, that i got the message she had died, her parents had found her in her room, pills shattered on the floor, blood stained her arms, thighs, and wrist.



"i'm just sick" she'd say, i soon fell short, and let that get the best of me.... depression, and sorrow.... taking over, like a sick little dease that couldn't be fought, no matter how hard you'd try, no matter how much the doctor would give you, it just wouldn't be enough, to hide the pain, that you've felt, and that little piece of sorrow pain, that you forgot about, and became a big impact on you, telling you what had happened...



"you were never sick..." i'd say, laying on the wet, green lime color grass, wishing i had gone with you, no.... wishing i was the one that had dealt with the pain alone, instead of you... instead of you leaving life, in the middle of first grade.... first grade and you knew suicide... i wish i had stop you sooner, i noticed you'd changed, and with that i'd remember the drawings we drew saying we'd land on the moon when we're older, or how we said we would make our own garden, and add little roses, and lilies, that matched our flowery name. the little rain droplets, that i remember how we meet, you'd always wait for me at the bus stop, making sure Jerry wouldn't leave, until that little empty spot had me in it. wheater sunny, or stormy, or even power out, you'd wait, and say "today's the day, that we'd make our dreams come true" yet, even though we were little, our big imagination led us to a fun little friendship. we'd play tornado strom in the rain, and hide in the blue slide, we'd make up our own songs, and how we'd do the something together even if it meant trouble...  "i'm a be a songer." you'd scream to the class, and me wanting to say i'd be a model, but didn't want to because you didn't want to be that....



the painful sorrow feeling in my throat, as i felt the tears wanting to be let out, and my face buring red, as i'm told the news, that i didn't understand, and i didn't show up at you're funeral, because i didn't want.... to see my friend dead, but i keep our games alive, and i play tornado by myself even if it's less fun....

fake news or no news,
yetis or
                    drunk eskimos
loosening a ****
                   on a trampoline...
whatever,
                   one fact is certain:
male sparrows,
                and mallards?
blush *******.
                     hands down
i honestly can only
drink... what's tha'....
less VAT and more F...
     vvvvv'aha...
v'ah thought?
   - bran...
      brand...
           BRADLY!
   caught a sober sailor:
straight, no ice...
and i somehow received
a castration notice minding
these two bird species,
which exfoliated in:
dull dumb hay-coloured
female...
   my my...
the males are ripe for
a military procession,
and a unanimous yell
akin to the modern russians...
slightly the gay hurrah,
and more mother Ural
citing:               itself...
       sparrow males
and mallards...
          cut those ballsies
off an i'll crown
myself the last prince
of a Bahrain harem...
to appease shamrock
sheikh baldy...
              start
   flustered over a well
salivated paper aero-experiment
hitting slam-dunk
shamrock rap...
       eh... the usual...
        hand only comes
in second to exploring
the ****...
          kissing prostitutes
is apparently equivalent
to stalling on: blah...
        blush *******
though...
     in vivo memoriae mors:
in life, the memory of death,
guess death has
to revive owning up
             to a bit of life...
imagination i can agree
dies, utterly...
        but memory?
    hard to **** off memory...
thinking can die the easy
death of mishearing
   the term: future...
   but memory?
            blush *******,
the male examples of
sparrow and those
english pub ducks and
bulldog card game subjects
of depiction...
     no... i'm pretty sure
a ****** wouldn't
   be composed with
      imagining a scenario
for death being
        stanced as: panicky...
problem with
perfecting a deviance...
         becauae...
this mea culpa
      *******-shaving
mantra?
                 it's...
   kinda... itchy...
   irritating...
                status quo
     fizzy, or rather:
  boiling under the radar...
          mea culpa mea culpa
mea culpa...
                to have been born
into this sort of masochism?
       counter arguments:
     heading into a cul de sac...
like the genesis of
cognition
   with an chimp scratching
its cranium...
         nice to know
the fungus brigade
having two pence worth
                of argument
to imply:
         infested, long lost
limb,
replaced with a pickled
fungus stump,
or the "hallucination"
   of a brain and spine
            in a bio-broth...
   hell, if it's safe to say that
god-head-fungus spoke
through me...
           photosynthesis
edibles are...
                  what was the point?
a ******* mushroom
conspiracy?!
              blush *******...
those male green 'ed
ducks, and notably
the in-reverse
   niqab slit male sparrows...
   blush *****...
               you almost
want them to become stuffed
mantles...
      if only not compensated
by the jittering
movements...
   the irony of being
able to float, like a bumber-sticker
with an annoying
relief for body in ushering
out a quack... like some sort
of a squeezed *******
revealing a:
                     HA-to-Q-to-mmm...
and you'll never know
visting a *******,
given the nearing a week-old
        "moral" hangover...
trigger-happy-itch though?
      don't know that
                   'un either...
           a 2 year celibacy spree?
no wonder i'm disorientated...
i attempted the same
results from cutting up
raw beef into a culinary
party-of-one in the guise
of a tartare;
             oh god, it can't be minced
beef...
            nearing sushi...
popcorn sushi -
        edible bits,
             simulating cartilage treats!
kaleidoscope of torn
                   into sinew lisps;
and it doesn't even bother
me eating poached chicken...
  given the precursor
of broth...
                   notably with
pregnant-pouch-soft
    delicacy of certain
vegetables...
  notably a leak,
   an onion or a garlic tooth...
i'll admit though:
nothing beats
oven "hibernated"
poultry skin...
   and cartilage... of any sort.

She ran away from parents,school, and family not long ago- left behind a loving envirnment, finally she was found again and the children's law degreed that she would be better served in a state supervised home far away from her own. visting parents at court appointed times .and while she was on that personal adventure her parents had to cling and hold on to both jobs and sanity , while silent tears fell down each  face away from prying eyes to see.ever putting on a brave  united front, while looking up to God to ever let His love and direction inside be.

Some of us question it?
Some of us don't.
If peer pressure is so powerful as stated.
We should have some of the brightest kids if they hung with the mindset.

The power of persuasion holds strength with the weak mind.
For many know the consequences to come from your firm parents.
And that tone isn't what many of want to face?

For those that rob.
Many friends are simply tagged along without knowing the happenings of the other.

Many youths don't want to face the harsh tones from a judge.

Yes, curiosity attracts some kids to smoke, drink and more.
But if you have liquor of any substance in your house.
Yoy gave them an open door.

So you his/her peer pressure without guidance.
Are they only doing what they saw?

I stand in amazement of him every day.
Don't matter the weather.
It could be snowing, raining or just sunny too.
It's God day.
And to me it's simply beautiful.
And deserves no complaints.

I'm just a visitor visting within it.
I guess a welcome guest of his invitation.
Who has walked through his door once more?

It's God day.
A day to enjoy.
Whether alone.
Or with someone.

Either way I've been blessed by the power of him.
My true partner in life.
My true best friend.
I can't pay him enough.
Except in my action and my words.

It's God day.
And that's a great gift.
Especially, if you're still apart of it.

straight faced

april anounces the

fool's on the house--

and that visting hours

for the Spring Museum

are subject to constant change.

due to indoor spectators.

Messengers and visting angels
Sometimes do appear

I watch them as I walk the street
They whisper in my ear

Mysteries may emerge
Far away from here

Cats again tonight
I'll have to wait for more dear deer.