To the t. Ar, pre-e, Proto sprache,
Ar + e, we are, we being.
Ar + t, our "skill as a result of learning or practice,"
Ar + m mmmmhmmm grasp slip thrown bat
some guy, I met in text space… I felt his pain,
but failed to catch his name, I dropped the ball
splat, there
a discus discusion compression
up the dorsal cavity, to fix a silly grin.
Nailed it. Perfect nonsense, 'gno wadda mean is?
Alls poetry is, is contextual poeisis, dig it, ever
once begun,
a good self carries on,
a useless self gives up and goes mad…
at the point of no return redemption,
parting all the ****** scenes,
happiness sought early
works inside out.
That is a bit, metaphorical diamond dust.
Motes seen in sunbeams, captured for use.
Reflection, while pondering, you know.
I think there must be many who grew to full age simultaneously, with me,
for some part of the past 8 decades, there must be many of us,
with gentle muses, art-ist itself on us, in twisting us
in the thought that made now. Hope displaces hopelessness.
Nietzsche never wrote that down.
assuring us, confessing a willed selfs will to be quiet,
