2020 – day 186
Sunday, July 5, 2020
9:23 AM
Experience accepts authority
authorization
author
author guess again, is ality the end of
reality
furnished by the empiricists dreams take on
reality
contention only comes from pride, sift this line
fine, pride is the knowing expanding
experience under urgings to know
chthonic thought
ought be
enlightened, the darkness needed for a root
to find water,
H2O gogogo seek, and see, see
ye must
see
to seek, know to find, aha, there’s a point,
What are we looking for?
Grace Slick, waves her hand, I know, I know
“somebody to love.”
Hmmm,
define that, sift it through a window screen,
down to sub-gnat
url-evel-ated to viral fungible parables, given grace
to grant
anthropomorphic sensibilities to perfecting function
pati-ence
con-sci-ence, bow now, kow tow, to my
id-ea id-otus, egone egone, e be oer d edge, too, late.
Should you find your self
here,
that is so common a quest:
should you, could you, would you
attract
actual ritual love, worth-ship exalted,
out alter set aside, apart,
set out alternative put forth a thought
puff me up, knowledge, until all that holds me
pops
and conscious becomes the handle on the idea
idea
unembodied, unauthorized, unrealized
wordless
empty thought, hmmm, how might one imagine
empty thought,
Reed’s intuition trickles down,
facts must be included in the thought that what
we
did
we did, we knew, we knew, we flew
we actually flew, as far ar as any empty thought could
fly, if I
realize, later is never now, and now is never never.
Money, the stuff, grows from a different root than evil.
Hmmm. New thought. An amphora delivery team seeking
a tripod to hold the golden oil,
I prayed for golden oil, intending to be pray for a time
to come, at the time,
previous to your existential confusion in my stream of
used knowns,
once knowns known to lift a hopeless wish higher,
set it on the alternative
otherwise course to
you,
the good you. real you. me. Meme, tic, turn a degree,
settle for close, near enough to do the deed,
flip the switch, obey
goto next. pass go, uno. If I win, I win all the games,
all are mine
to play and make the rules
my planet, my rules.
Is this a Robinson Crusoe trope, Martian, but with knowledge
as slave, AI serve,
I laugh at emoticons and malaprops, feign no faith save,
next is after now, and all I am as I am makes this
good enough for me, at the time, to use,
this idea, strung out here, line upon line, precept upon precept,
for, pre, purposed hold on an am-
phora idea, a container of known or not, we never know
un-lessoning, open the vessle or ignor the life inside,
— ow, no, do not cut the artery
pierce the vein, send the mass upward ward warden forward
march
all dispute is idle. HA. I disgree with he who imagines he is me,
the object
of your purusal, use me, true, abused truth is an oxymoron,
creation science, is not. AI, art’s imperative,
make something that proves me wrong,
try. try. why, why would I assume the sillogism holds P and Q,
get the degree of truth from North, imagine knowing, in the morning
the dark shall fill with light and in the next night
all that light shall form a future
we agree, my light and me,
to use,
to use in making any thing we imagine we can make.
We can make a heaven of hell.
Experience waves his hand, I know how we know, so we may agree,
we have all made hells of heaven,
now is not never, so all we can do is make heaven of hell,
doing nothing not being an option if we continue
to breathe.
nothing real is absolutely simple,
… one as-
spectual conceptual imaginary reality
or
me, the being I am. Am I enough, alone,
how now might I know,
al
all one, a point. Score. Reset.
Life, once
more, life has won. My madness is vain,
no confusion I fall into chokes this
life more abundantly from me,
pliant, bendible me, with no wires in side
to break and poke through,
from my belly, my soft-belly state of being
in mind of otherness
other ways, other wise, falsely showing flies
fire flies the way into the bottle,
for safety, shelter, from the storm.
As the ghosts of all the pigeons, drop greetings
like those of the quail in wilderness of dis
connection,
{what price in the future for a cab of dove’s dung?
broken bonds in weakest links, you are you know,
we all know, I am the weakest link.
I am delicate, gentle, easily mistreated, but
I flow wireless in the later days, as golden oil,
archetype goodness, stilling the harbor in the storm,
symbolized in Tar Baby and the Briar Patch,
seen as common ground,
black and white magic of Micky Mouse and Krazy Kat,
morph’s to Uncle Remus, as Morgan Freeman,
ah, more again, here
here… rest. be ready, read, listen… mortal moments,
choose a next in which your good is done,
the seed grew you. Reap what you sowed, or leave it
in the field,
let my crop mingle with dandelions and such, as nature
would, were she of a mind
to keep me for later,
preserve,
preserve my life, for spice. Salt is plentiful,
pepper now has purpose,
sneeze, spread a virus you imagine good for ever
after all.
–
un con ventional per fectuality
un con venient sapience
unconventional invention of wit,
to wit,
knowing as science, within the set of knowns,
truth holds science,
science can be imagined to hold truth bits,
within truth,
the set of ality, really, each imaginable thing
and nothing
unimaginable, if thinking,
as we imagine thinking is,
is imagining we find meaning in the stream
of life being
my experience with knowing used to form patterns
near
enough perfect to work
as faith works when used as a formative, pretend
the point
can stretch of it’s own volition, will,
mind…
I am of a mind to buy the world a Coke, but give them
a clue. There is a real thing.
Would you honestly ever have imagined Coke is it?
It was. I thought you knew.
What does it mean?
How does this form a mean?
Am I a mean man measured by a verage
verging
on overflow, wei wu eh, tu
brute kraft pro
spermia… blossoms call bees, but the bees
are in the alfalfa,
we call the wasps. we call the flies, we call
spiders and such,
thinking
something like a butterfly might effect
the desired affect,
hook the big fish, the magic fish
Alan Turing in the Forrest of Wisdom
he died the year I first swore alliegance to the flag,
and the republic,
for which it once stood, as one nation,
under god, under the assumption
god is always on the victor’s side,
read your earthly history,
each time civilizations crumbled, life lived on.
Code breaking as a signal to the future,
message in a bottle, an amphora of humongous stature,
set solidly on three feet,
three points… Turing is a tragic sould, from one aspect
of reality,
but his life was not lived in vain, only too swift for
reason locked in conventional wisdom
floating points in common sense as far as truth can compute.
Dear reader interpretate any code,
any pattern, you may, you
can, you imagine any form forming from
information,
all we know is all we know,
for your information
writing
reading
is informing, not the act of making,
but a way to make
a thinkable pattern form from similarities,
this is like,
this is not. This acts as that and all
I wonder
what if and you say let us see, we see and know
that’s good, it worked, or oh no, we never expected
this,
we must fix it, fix it fix it, nail it down.
When the Christy Minstrals sang
We all wished for hammers, thus now, each problem
is a nail.
Be the being your culture wished you were.
Each ad you respond to nails a bit of AI right to your attender.
Re think your fixed positions, see if there was
a path less traveled by and you
imagine you saw signs, Burma Shave,
1953
Our fortune / Is your / Shaven face / It’s our best /
Advertising space / Burma-Shave
you are five, you know burma was where the british built a colony,
you are called a little shaver, by the judge
whom your father delighted in letting you be his son,
he was very old and lacked a son,
I was offered. It was the Father/Son night at the LIon’s Club
meeting at the Jade Restauraunt,
owned by Charlie Lum, whose yard my grandfather mowed,
in the future, 1963,
speed of thought, unconventional invention,
free time travel. day dreaming from default mental meandering
mode… modified in those beings of our sort formed
under waves of radio,
— go back to 1958 and wish for a transister radio.
— got it, 1959, just in time to hear some African land become
an independent nation, listen… is that the voice of
the most trusted man in the world
“and I quote…”
Trust me, true rest, stillness, not tolerating, fitting through
righty tighty lefty loosy tests of
good or evil,
function al sci-psy-psi
Now, after fifty lectures in philosophy, times two,
though I slept through some,
hoping hypno-rem combo absorbs some adherent
points
I can hook to in passing at the aforsaid speed of thought…
reminders flash, conventionally,
Giant steps feel exactly, experience wise, like falling.
The big Idea is moving into next,
These, are known, I think, to me, I feel, I have
habits
that function here, hearing is one of them, and I hear
you asking… you say “but
you are crazy, right?” and I am back, the voice of the one who
survived,
since ever after any common sense we have,
memories we can almost believe we have, because we saw it all
on tv. No beings of our kind in current history saw
the world from the moon, before us,
we, the people formed from knowns loosed as if a bomb went off
where idle words were imprisoned infected
infested
rotting away, except where the dancers and singers remain
truly resting in good,
as a motto, in good we trust, and if you will you may kill
this we bit of me that is you,
but I’ll rise again.
And knowledge begins to push aginst the final fence…
follow the maddened crowd, or
slowly seep into the rocks
witnessing my demuse.
Today feels samesame sitting by a stream,
fishing, in my mind, not
real but
reelin’ in the years, like that song
sittin’ by the dock o’ the pond,
dangling a line
link to a long meandering flow that would be
rude
to offer short attention spans, but should your
kurio draw you to a shadow of a doubt,
these lines dangle at the end of where
earlier began…
