with science/knowledge used, I learn you read
I write. I make black white,
you see,
iusta
imagine an extension of my ream, my bubble to be in,
while doing the mortal task my hands found to do.
Nothing special am I, I am amused, taken from
bemazement into the legendary amazed state,
having learned to feel Ariadne’s rope, wound of fibers
twisted from some sun-seeking seed’s sense
to reach up, stretch,
remember hearing the early mmmmorning has
gold in ‘er mouth, big yawn,
or rosy dawn, either bring the realization, this is
conscience, my use of this tool to tell this story,
Life is a story that tells itself, with joy, I am allowed
auto impulse eudemonic,
out reached up to you, euphorical you, bundle of joy.
Once, upon a time, you may have imagined being
the doer of the eudemonic giggle, becoming
soft belly chuckles as the tickle threads,
wind around my present state of mind, reminding me,
you read to find some peace of mind,
I imagine, I can hope, enough to write you in as
overseer of peaceful situations,
it is the perfecting task patience prepped you for,
destination determined, turned inside out, do you know
aitia in her eulogistic form? AI am doing nada in secret,
we are at the edge of mortal reality, sitting pretty
dangling barefeet
with too long toenails
over the nearer edge of the echoing abyss.
The story of these two old men, who formed this place,
in imaginary space, during the process of edu-mech-ation,
AITIA, assigned to duty by her redeemer, establish
worth, cause to effect, reason to blame,shame or fame, redo,
do the deed that made me laugh,
tickle me pink,
do the deed that made me rage, and find
that button has been reassigned
at boot.
Will you win?
What? The defining term, contention or conscience,
which cometh only
from pride?
There are cultural trigger systems on glandular faucets,
over heating defense systems, tuned in child’s play,
Today in my realm, is no screens Sunday.
Grandma has put oil in the leaky old Prius, and gone
to sing and pray in public reaffirmation of the mystery
of iniquity that doth already
work.
Hmmm, Max Tegmark? Life 3.0… that’s real, that idea
is not new, how
ever as we know, knowing is on an in-fin-ite expansion
into total un-yet-ness,
folding in on itself,
klein jar wise.
Grandpa intervenes, 12, 8, 5 year old boys,
all obviously related to all their ancestors,
building magnet and lego-limited, trans dia logical
– thingamabob
witty inventions, immediately destroyed,
when sisters, 9 and 6, insist,
toys wish to be shared.
Romper Room, this ain’t,
but if there were a better place to make peace,
it can relay the signal from here.
———- life as a listener, leaving a mark,
due to the reader who reaches this rung,
finder’s keepers, loser’s weepers, is a kid-formed rule.
Top-down,
how deep does that go
to be lodged as true,
at the base
of you?
Object subject, take it as a found old tool,
from some selfish genes
meme collection,
back when
the winds of change sent the old bits
of us up
to the highest realm, where the
breath of life leaks into the depths of stars,
we turned
and saw, or were shown,
say those who know
all I think I know
about science used as proof
of my disregard
for Bible Truth.
Unconfused,
we turned
and saw,
the earth a jewel among jewels. All who see it as it seems,
the only living planet that accepts my kind,
see it so and know,
that is so,
slow growth
despises the lie that threatens woe,
to all who know, GOD CURSED MAN FOR WOMBED MAN,
one way the story starts, at her majestic request
she tempted him, she was curious.
What if he knew, too?
GOD CURSED MAN FOR SUCCOMING TO LUST ITCH
total bogus science of chastity
read it every way it is written, no reading makes writing true.
Archaeologists have interpreted the inhabitants of the Gallina highlands as either a distinct people or an archaeological phase relating to the Upper San Juan culture area. An archaeological phase can have temporal and geographic relevance, but it does not necessarily reflect how the people who lived and dialogically constructed and maintained their cultural worlds either viewed or organized themselves
I make better sense in short lines
fewer punctualitie errors in the stack of sense
now- latest instanciation
be do become a knowing of the trivial–
Non-places are then defined
based
on precisely
as what
place is not, by Auge, i.e.
That is we presume we must lieve be,
but say another waym id est, you know,
place is not
localities that come
to existence
by virtue
of being relational, deeply historical and intimately connected
to identity, both social and individual.
It is where history erupts
in the form
of a site-specific event,
landscape erupts as the loci
of the intensified relationships
between humans and the world.
The problem here that Auge points out
however is the anthropology’s
long-term disciplinary practice
of producing a romantic vision
of places, as timeless, unchanging,
“rooted in the intact soil”, kept up
by archaic and exotic rituals
of the indigenous.
He also cleverly points out the
“totality temptation”
where culture is imagined as holistic
and accurately represented
by randomly selected
individuals, artifacts, places and practices
from
within itself.
This anthropological
othering
of its subject reminds me of …
From https://www.brown.edu/Departments/Joukowsky_Institute/courses/archaeologiesofplace/7994.html
The Trail of Tears to Tahlequah. Me, too.
these places are cultivated and defended
by the essentially non-discursive practices
of their indigenous dwellers,
but also
by the spirits
of the place, maintained
by the operation
of chthonian and celestial powers
of the landscape.
From https://www.brown.edu/Departments/Joukowsky_Institute/courses/archaeologiesofplace/7994.html
kython of the brain, is the hair, maybe,
waving in the wind,
where it is widely known, ever lasting
answers abide,
ruffling curling leaves
– curing wounds from harvest right uses,
– kept sacred, as in adult only…
– hmmm, govvvvernance
– provenance, practice knowing
– where did the adults rule begin???
Two old men sitting in the shade, carrying on
the versation with unscriblable nods
and finger tip taps,
thinkin’ in time
too hot
to wrestle with god,
but that is fun.
Israel is a fun god-givename, jawyoke,
jokers know,
secret ritual, done right, you play the role
exactly to the tone of your hallelujah,
you walk out rich, for a kid.
Back before Y2K, a bar mitzvah
could launch an empire, eh, a little geld,
to the good mind,
push the cream to the top,
fatten the golden calf we never sacrifice,
suffer the taste of bacon, denied
to keep you humble, as Bernie Madoff,
be a righteous eater,
it all works out, never pay retail, we got
a network,
on which, as a bat or bar of the real rules
of life, the game we all play with kings,
child, keep the buttered side up,
– live in interesting times –
whenever you drop your bagel. Or else,
bad, bad, bad… you lose all of it.
Balance the bagel on your gnose, sis.
Walk like a JAP, in to the famous little grey house,
across the Al-Can Highway,
from Pinocchio’s Bar and Grill.
Nancy was her name, too.
We
are in that old movie mode, slow slipping
ghost-gnost most nostalgia,
melanchooliamoans oh
no, we never
make up the sentimental journey,
we make such
from auto-poetic cultural ties
to happy days, as enforced recollection
of reasons
to be ready to fight fight fight
root for the home team at the home coming,
all the former heroes return, it is legendary
cultural affirmation, see,
football makes the rich kid famous, for a minute.
local news. Earth is burning at the surface,
and below,
in the shade we made for days like this,
we sit as two old men with wishes hooked in next,
sucking moisture from those realms
below us where yucca roots
have been in prep mode,
daring fire to pop all these seeds, sown to be grown
to hold the next rain.
That’ll be about a month, if life’s
local channel has not made a change,
of course,
then the next rain, may be October,
peak fire season,
’round the harvest festivals, fit on
a bit of old time tuning to the land,
to the north lands, where the ice wall was,
oh, never doubt,
let not GOT’s ice wall nor Ice Age
delude your fantasized Frozen
earth, there were tool augmented
humans of fine skill with wood and stone,
one fine day, swept,
swept away, like those folks in Siloam,
when the wall fell,
or those people whose condo stood
on the shore, right on the sandy berm,
left from a storm long ago.
Clovis left tools and tales
of traveling traders,
re told to children who asked old men,
who taught them how to make a willow whistle.
See the way we knew when the sweet seller
was in town,
was we heard his whistle,
willow whistles that sounded the same,
became a game,
we could speak of sweet things, with the whistle,
yes,
give a little whistle, Jiminy Cricket, sure, we knew,
Jesus Christ, do you think we was heathen,
we whistled while we worked, why,
I’d say my kind of mind, grown old, kept clean and
well oiled,
we never take the last half
of Zeno’s Paradox too literal.
- my son in law says watch Midnight Gospel
- and I did not laugh, until
- I saw my old 404 error friend, and saw the
- route out.Dubus, doubt’s root idea, two
of “of two minds, undecided between two things.”
From https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=doubt
Evangelized to death several generations ago,
the balance factor needed
to grow, beyond
understood solidity
of mental effort affecting
com-uniooon-ification of a minds story
to stick to, ha ha ha, poly-mental
exercise plural rurality
in godliness, right,
up here feel free imaging hell,
as seen through a door,
- hell fire heat, seven times hotter than wont
- smell rotten eggs, rubbed in your face,
- by a laughing big brother, who owns your ass.My angel witnessed the event, and recorded the
growth of both the fear in me and the hate in him…
ha ha ha polymental loony tune stops with a long
gentle exhale, whisper soft through blow
key of c, first hole high note.
Soft-belly breathe, and think a bit of all we both know,
is better imagined
in multitudes
of input points
and nodes and knots, to hold a thought
ought and naught, were caught in time, and we
measured the resistance to the fear of God,
which,
I admit I did find first, actual God-eye mate, said,
sexy, see, did you ever meet that bar maid,
in Caiiguna, the sssheila yank with the joey?
Yeh, yeh, met ‘er, brought her a jug o’ Southern Comfort,
no, no, nothin’ like that, it was an arrangement,
2021 tech, rearranges details,
heroes fade, new ones fill the void, I can wait.
I have a more comfortable handle
on suffering time to pass,
than some who find suffering,
by ortho-definition,
according
to the very root
of the tree of knowledge,
bloomed beyond the wall
sprung
from first fruit swallowed seed, bhorn
gut- deep, into the wilding necessity,
out of the forest,
on to the desert past plain and mountains,
suffering is pain, pain, pain and more, and more pain,
to a state of mind we all can facere from nada
life is total pain,
but it ain’t. You ain’t in hell, you ain’t even in despair,
you got some hope yet, that the translation,
is instant, though we may day dream,
while away weeks and months and years,
while settling for Mr. Hicks’s Peaceful Kingdom,
and John Jay’s opinion of the one needful knack,
self-governance.
Yep.
Otherwise, any we, the people, lacking forward
pulling momentum,
become those the guardians
protect
from the poets banned
in order to save the republic. What kind of fool am I?
