Flat
One facet, plane on many minds, ripped
to disc long ago cast to the wind,
Torn asunder from the first spreading
of fog above the pond,’
in which, as a cloth,
whole with edges held topstitched, as
a hanky, for snot, beautified
to prove fine use of twine,
twisted from spider kites,
this, so finitly soft thread
thinking wisdom won,
we do be alive,
against all odds.
left to learn if we wish
“How to Work Woven Wheel Stitch”
eh, is this not the old known since needles?
Let us wind a woven rose.
With only bits of thread from wren’s nests.
Here.
The place, a Town of Weaver’s, at piece work
since surviving, or reviving, mayhap making peace
- final line, taken as a great notion
- to jump in to the currency and loose
- the bowels of enmity in amity. Being as I am.there is a gap, well, as the pause, prior, to
- Walter Mitty, in the Forties, as a child
- think of that, could you,
- sure, every body is a rockstar-like heroa step that may be falling. And always ar-aises
this option ai ai ai
midfall or flow past jagged pasts, reality stiffens
at the thought
Step light, step right, leave no trace
but having been, words abound to patch
the rip through reality
reproving the existing realm we reason on through
veil after sufi veil,
veil after holy veil
veil after right used curtain – torn asunder
a million words ago…
had Kafka had the will to leave nothing behind,
perhaps, this fact,
that we know we may metamorphose,
should prove Sam Harris a little bit right,
there is no free will at the end of faith.
here, arriven.
I gotta say, I have seen the fossils, in the mud,
during the unregulated days of detours
through
Diné land of dusty four-horn churra sheep.
= here life was easy to learn to do right
our thought of knowing is good to know,
need to and no need, too much sweat equity,
grind through a crystal mountain
hmmm, I do remember seeing
what may been any thing
flash past in my perifery,
if wish I can Sarah Berhardt, so what.
———- perhaps
Scraps abound, abundance is the rule of law
ligating us to joy as reason
to be
for being sake, the cause of being
being mostly mental,
when we take stars into account, for weight
and distance
we, the augmented survivors of Covid ‘n’all
that follows,
we reading writers, feeding one the other
and all the same,
seeming one thing, spread as fog, or near
drawn, closer to the steam of wasery,
washi
emotional sclerosis, we all snatch the idea
as a known, a phenomenal process of fibrosis,
gnosis, sniffing, sucking slim strands
of gnostic snot known for silent
consonants, with no noise,
appearing in spurts
arterial.
An art of telling old tales, with no neonic knack eidetic,
recalling each step, to seed,
to flight, to fall, the journey then is all, to now
fallen, we sprout, bean wise, wings swim to light
fingers and toes reach chthonic senessence noesis
“The image of a human head
with opposed faces has been used
by cultures
in widely separated parts
of the world
at various times.
It would be wrong
to assume that these cultures have any connection. Instead, it would seem
that this theme
has an appeal that relies
on the commonality of human experience.”
clovis and fishtail and windust
logic as a suffix means using the set
of definitions used
to think we know what we are saying
is what you hear,
and, then, therefore,
heretofore,
think all we are saying makes sense
in terms we may find
in sorted logical boxes of thoughts,
stacked and shelved, mantled in suspended dust
held lungwise in the body,
as the fog
of all we never knew, might be
pre
served as truth to try living better for.
— chew or gulp — can this be shown?
The point part of the egg emerges,
slime proceeds placenta,
slupping, slipping into
outer reality, for gotten womb warmth
only missing,
some thing that was and is no more, but now
I
BREATHED
ah
ha, we may proceed to develop the line,
spin a tale to take with you,
take flight from fear of death, believe me
living long is worth the effort,
dive
living forever is not worth the thought.
You know,
nobody knows what’s next past knowing
these words remain
verifying I was a happy man, not the happiest,
individual man, yet one of children bought
during the early days of now,
the first production line mod, since mitomom.
Happy to be a part.
Homo augmented us, artistically intuitive
measure for measure, tic to tattle, joke or titled
child set for knowing all the known letters
letting words from long ago fit thoughts
we think today,
as mica chips sparkling
in the old silicon substrata… geologic time to think
as we dust the shelf of anxious prizes wished for,
gotten and unused for lack of grip,
-a double edge, two faced tool to sift in pedologic
mythtery of imbalence – handle with care
face to face, eye to eye
looking to lucify—
for lack of aim, no prize is won,
for lack of honor,
no gift taken, win or lose, ours to chose,
take the life, and live it or take the life and waste it,
get old in 2021 or later,
and see, you thought this was the end, so it is.
Here, you read resent messages in puffs of smoke.
this story sat silently
waiting… for the boy to lose his hair and teeth…
the old man hears music,
something familiar in a lick emanated from
my
actual garage, who is this,
my old man me inquires as I hear a bit, like this
“you don’t know what loves is, you just do what you’re told.”
————– and BTW
“The Jacob is a breed of domestic sheep.
It combines two characteristics unusual
in sheep: it is piebald—dark-coloured
with areas of white wool—
and it is often polycerate or multi-horned.
It most commonly has four horns.
The origin of the breed is not known;”
according to knowledge, since ever
sheep of seven horns,
or two whole functional heads,
have lived,
as have men with many minds, behind
the egg’s inner most place
of piece work parts
for future
efforting of one stranger thing to live, umph.
E or effort. I judge. Blue ribbon to the reader.
Never having been a shepherd, I seek my
artistic intuition for a way to say I know
a bit of what the whole cloth needs to form,
at all,
information conforming to pattern with mysterious
iniquitous twists and transpositional possibilit-
a knock at the door,
and an inner action with reactions,
to things
I have been known to have said in terms
we disagree on,
suffer it to be so now, the suffering as you imagine,
is brief,
the time it takes to see eternity is not a mortal concept,
ever is no absolute state, stasis stuck
round and round
wait and see, leave me be the only knower,
lone be
learn of wedom, as we know, me and the reader, being
known as selves with stories certain
in the past,
no regrets remain, but where the complexity of being
you
in my mind, is not for me to untie, or re-tie to my definition
when you believed you know, far better,
truth that proves, data-wise, there is no god, as – who/
who who
who refines the rethinking task, way back machine, be
history. As of now,
Baccus protocol envocolation e-lation cellophane
crinkle in the veil
Rumi walked right through, and left me wondering
when did I recognize the being by the name.?.
name me author for a day,
run it on old video of Queen for a Day,
run a series of clips,
wish clips, what is your wish the audience may grant,
in our democratic game of shame erasure,
wound recovery, tattoo removal,
- nur ds
- the banality of evil, asks for first rule
- from point of no return, what is evil's mission,
- in words?
- Evil words, Turrets spir'ts spat from side walk
- prostrate saint in the throes of entheosityWalk on by, imagine I am all
alone, wishing I were in a we, a class of us, big
ambitioned amity in enmity
with e as balanced on an inconsistent constant,
absolutely, I see, he says, I see, he thinks he does
out of body lookame aiming to know, as much or more
than any
who got away
may have used to leave a clue
where now, this is 2021 and the sleeve/host/possession
kiva-temple on the phone fully converged to match
the 1999 white paper.
Read the stripes. Those heal invisible. Like plastic braced bites.
We all have flaws, we are the industrial gems,
these
stories, parables, poems, recurring pocketest
of crystalline thought
tinkling breathless
if ex stasis, see, budge it, oomph, we all know,
let’s roll
down the barrel, rifled at a ratio on the knacked smiths knew,
now, we know, all things related to rifling spiraling
an arc, set to force the strike
flint to steel to powder of magimeasures and transfiguration,
In my mind, at the very least.
yes. the point of every thing at once, knowing
is slowing
the engines of fear and hate and doubt and betrayal
— I released the idea of absolute states or stations,
because of you. My son, from his younger self, to whom
I first define my terms,
as Silverman taught me, with your permission, let’s say
I cannot lie,
oathbound, resound, begun redone
dance around the truth with me, think of reading ready
writing qwerty keyed in symphony, phony or Meme-o
graphic burps of adol-idolescing,
didn’t we, now didn’t we didn’t we, now didn’t we
didn’t we, now didn’t we didn’t we, now didn’t we
didn’t we, now didn’t we didn’t we, now didn’t we
didn’t we, now didn’t we didn’t we, now didn’t we
didn’t we, now didn’t we didn’t we, now didn’t we
didn’t we, now didn’t we didn’t we, now didn’t we
didn’t we, now didn’t we didn’t we, now didn’t we
didn’t we, now didn’t we didn’t we, now didn’t we
didn’t we, now didn’t we didn’t we, now didn’t we
didn’t we, now didn’t we didn’t we, now didn’t we
and it never gets old, days of old,
being who we once imagined we could be had we
taken another turn,
roll one more time.
