What a novel message, hmmm

Tuesday, March 28, 2023

11:20 AM

mmmmaybe, baby, we do

grow old, past sixty-four and even more,

unbridled tongues, held silent, lo’ monks,

listen, quiet, now, then, to now, then to when

listen to the Osprey fly over our valley to Yuma,

to the Chocolate Mountains, beyond the river,

the only river, running down the great crevice,

due to erosion from John Bunyan’s Pauline ax,

a rift right across the heart of the land,

opened up the first Bright Angel Trail,

for there was no other way across the canyon.

And we had people, before, on that other side,

that happened, all around the globe, that hap,

the earth was struck, and struck another,

time and lost all its religion,

it was announct, we all sang along,

and some force pushed the edge of the sun,

in a single most malignant EMP burst relig-i-used

to beat al bound synenergy rationally, as knowledge

and life, root and branch, time and chance missed call

first shall be last, roll on, roll on down time orchard

lessons learned in lines of trees, you can imagine,

while alone, just be used to being in the sense we yoosta

call peace, or bliss, blah good blah, being right inside.

• breathing easy, not sleepy, no place to be.

When outside is just too hot or too cold.

Chaos reigns for days, and weeks and years, and

we can imagine, my kind, human kind, earth stock one.

We the deme, the interbreeding productive kind,

we who beat the dis-easing raging fever from eating

foul putrid rotting corpses, as would dogs, any dogs,

naturally,

we have such knowledge, said to be wild boys,

raised by wolves or Comanches… Grandma,

she did not know her people,

but she knew her place,

and made it perfect,

just right, she and her little dog, and relics

from a life that matched Saul Bellow’s on earth,

though she was never widely read, she did leave

a greater legacy in terms of proper child minding.

Yep, minding is mighty

otherwise than rearin’ n’raisin’ hardgeenevahnegated

she said it, and she served such chicken at the

same table where we all ate, we was sorta colored

because my grandaddy fixed cars for folks mr leon

the jew who owned the Loma Vista in the Green Book,

befriended on collect calls, and sent Pop Boyett, said he

t’ tow ya in, he’ll send his boy Jim,

‘be there drectly, jest don’t fret none.

sit tight. Sundowns a ways yet.

yeah, I am white proud that my grand daddy was friends,

with niggers and injuns and jews, his customer’s

including Charlie Lum, Mary’s daddy, who used grandpa’s

knack with stunted fruit trees, to bring peace and calm

into the environment, with a quarter acre lot back yard.

Living earth is in me, I ate my first mud pie, and liked

the laugh it got from whoever washed my mouth out.

I watched an uncle get his washed with soap, thus

learning how loudly to utter curses when being proven

beguiled by a will so sharp and thorny, nothing sweet

shall ever stick,

honey chile, tar baby, chocolate kisses, all a mud pie

made me remember, at a whim, in my dementing whiling

away

nothing needed doing more than not dragging grease

from the shop, past Grandma’s back porch,

where the squeezed water tub always was soapy

enough to expose a little boy to sudden stripping

and brush scrubbing,

while she laughed,

and made them all laugh, as long as that junk yard

was apayin’ the electric/

— Coming in from a tinctured cuppaKuerig

Settled mind alligning old stitches in a tapestry,

not much sense can be made of Bayeux resolution

stitched in time to serve in tutorial classes

open to the masses, for your undivided attention

in silence, for the space of about a half an hour there.

Columbian, it says on the plastic waste,

mea culpa, mea maxima,

we suffer such silly easy living made much too easy,

I light the bowl with a focused rim jet quartering,

too easy to use the flower, to ask smoke a favor,

as to result

in a bounce back,

as the elanvital of my mountain pushes west winds

back into themselves

to form the ribs

of huge cloud forms that reform so

true to pattern proof, exhalent

of this wind

reflection off the ridges we live on,

vitalized by a DNA centric view

of stress or pressure, squeezing bests

from times as worst as worsts were then,

Vital tipping point that lets a spirit slip into the story.

Structure and content cata and ana, as we leave

that which our fruits produce, a cache of all we be

come and see, I said, okeh.

Proof by Synthesis/ Venter link, blink

-Craig Venter… GI imagine, we all can Google It,

in another window,

and find it not mystical in terms of who imagined this.

You realize whoever it was, it is yet done

dramatically as next years

stories, lightsped mind gluons

from last years tragedy we all can find,

sympathy puddles, lost allusions

to chances being once this line

was written

for no single pair of eyes, not mine, ours,

de-cartooned Madiera wine revival fly,

wise minding times retwining U to I,

leading down old fissures where

suddenlies occurred and we all recall, as if

some things in life after television are with us

-to this instant and

until we die, and leave our mystery religion lying ever after.

Twinkling a little,

winking

done did done, artificial art intuited involuntarily

Accidents, where by we live, U rhea re minding us,

there is something wishing to use us, as yousta be,

• so fine

thank you for your service, Turing and Von Neuman

The general and logical theory of automata…

“much less well understood” loop the tape,

loop it once,

and again, become the digital life Warnock made,

flat land as real as Wildersmith ever projected it

Up against the wall, we pass through it all

and so on and so forth,

fighting phrases to fit the codescript initial intention,

in the immature tabernacle state,

a thousand atoms should be plenty,

make life from that, and all the scattered dust

of heavy metal stars that burned too fast

to eat up all the lithium.

• this is the bottom

A funda-lowest level, fundamental, puts us sensing

tips of our own tail, verily modeling

 Ouroboros

in the womb as drawn to our imaginations with

Look Whose Talking Now! WOW

Haeckel and Jeckle, and L. Ron-ron didoo ronrun
Dianetics really gave Travolta therapist recollections

needed to over come the scorn

spewn on Urban Cowboy,

outside Texas and New York City.

We can tame the bucking machine, with no pistil.

No bull, boys and girls, we made sugar in Trinidad,

using the pistil of a bull to instill the will to learn

to live,

and let it be known, life abhors evil, it fails to hate,

that which has no use and piles as potential piles

of all we knew we needed to encode to become

XML, then the shifting database schema, Dinesh

D’Sousa, the metadata scraper with an MIT MBA.

Not the pundit.

He fed me this character trait, mind in order,

meets older orderly mind in mortal chaos, coping.

Feel his way past the message messenger collision,

caused in no insignificant way by poetry, and poets,

enthralled with taming textual dragons, lizard brain,

quick wits

to wot not with, per haps, haps as chance are us,

being lucky because we feel lucky,

monstors speak often one with another,

see the bull lizards crawl all over each other.

Smell that, mofa, smellmemo nofa fame fa fa fa me

lizard pheremone, so subtle after while.

Layin’ out on the terrace, up above some granite

splashes from the wave that left the coastal range,

rising up from here, see it there, on googled earth,

take away the clouds and spin that globe,

like you are one of those named winds,

names you heard they called the wind; Mariah, and

Santa’na; Chinook and Roclydon and twisters

too many to name. Bringing dust to the Amazon,

to feed the hungry jungle, woken at the touch of waste

being made to feed once needless services, after,

the great lizard brains lost their minds in one fell swoop,

so they say,

they who strike the suckers, just below the root,

fine staffs are made from suckers broken off before blossom.

Orchard watches, as a young man, planless, saved, for sure,

but no assignment save this so-called fight of faith, for sure,

some people can be fed the kind of meat that forms soldiers,

from any man worth his salt, which, if it were ever a sin to gather

salt, say from the sides of the roads, where there’s a plenty this spring,

why then I would think the concept of sin had passed its use by.

why,

I’d get the old pickup runnin’ and take a flat blade shovel,

or, what was I thinkin’

not a type scooper, but a flat, scale-scraper shovel, there you go,

use a phrase arranger allowing such metaphors that morph to any tool.

Fluidbots in The Abyss, look it sees you seeing it, so what, was that new

when Nietzsche notict, tskt,

I trow not. But if it was then, it is not now, and that leaves me room

to say Freud imagined he knew things and his followers do as well.

Sometimes a cigar is a prop.

A stiff staff to lean on in a manifested dream interpreting schema

for ancient meta data shuffling,

the whole of all we know so far right now,

this being in which words act as though we know, we

at machine level code, being the internet, being a node, a nerve,

in the ever of ever since every thing, the whole truth thought impossible

but, to not imagine, thinking it at once,

it must be possible to tell, or why, in hell, aha, instant answer,

this is not hell, because if it was, I could not tell you the truth,

as Paul bore witness All Cretans are liars, I tell you the truth.

I bet my life, against any one of many, each experience as fable forms from,

those hang as moss in swampy tidal deltas, where rivers do not branch,

but open wide, another spring time in the Rockies, reaches all the way

to Burro Creek, down through all the Diablo Canyons in bad lands,

at the edges of the last great tsumamis that our satellitia see through centuries

and eons to when there was no thing made by man that could show him,

the Nazca Lines and our Blythe Intaglios.

In the world of artists at work, function descriptive sign making symbol

we agree, we be

come and see, sit beside our tiny fire, see, we have no words to say,

so we some times whistle and sound so much like a bird, a jay,

some one out there laughs he is my brother so he whistles better,

then every body laughs and shout PA PA PA papapapapapapa yah, way

cool, pa looks at his old walkabout friend,

he nods,

we grin, and go, well, when why was just a guest at our station,

in the core script lost,

left in the back of a black volkswagon,

who gave this boy a ride, from Santa Barbara, that strip,

I never paid enough mind to what they call it,

but it was lined with hitchhikers, they gave them rides,

and he was one of those who took PCH up and down,

a few times, spring of 1970, eventually, I imagine,

I would have been invited

to learn

at Esalen, what I could imagine doing about it.

The big? mark of the beast, the very knowledge forvidding one.

Cognosis infections sets in, but you know Jesus never sneezed,

and hees heest atuitionally

assumet’ be wiping your excretions from your beard.

In the spirit, no offence, only words, no gestures, ups or downs,

rounds and rounds, teetering palms, tilting eyes, furled brow,

world class rime crimes tearing whole realities’ religited ties, bows gnosis

knot release,

tricky three pole knot…

Magic, once, a few who knew, easily seemed so, read Twain,

and imagine your own, in dementia, joining other intentionally scattered

brains

informing conformist patterns that make our laughing echo

as medicine from men listening to grand fathers and uncles whistling

and laughing and little sister joining in, so grandma’s sister does so, too,

woo hoo pretty soon its allusfools fullfilled dancing in the dark

where we can still feel the fire.

As a s aside, for science sake, I have reached a stage,

an effect in on or to or any of the hundred and fifty

or so pre

positions things can be, and become, formative,

logos, logical sense of saying something seems so,

if you have been at this stage, and wondered

what is it worth to say it is no secret and never was,

I use cannabis, and I read and write and function

as any writer in the days of Post and Colliers, n’such

had to believe was possible,

to create the creatures we see on television,

those were dime a dozen underground reds,

feeding fertlizer to minds subknowingly with science,

hidden persuaders, falsely called so, the were inyaface!

Fool, he follow the old weigh heavy mean good,

real good, get down, to the ground feel the weight o’

oh momma did you know,

oh momma when did you start to show,

could you have let me be nothing but a bad draw, you

nevahnevahnevah gonna know now, but momma,

mam, where all good mommas gone, go on, you done,

you brought a heel into the world,

yes, ma’am.

a real snake stomping, preacher, kinda man, selling

salve, to soothe the transition, come the kingdom

due any day. What price you pay, what task you prefer

performance mandatory, in any sucha story

as this very one intends to be,

at a rate, cuneiform forming lets, say that,

this way

in an other time, one symbol to the thumbprint,

one per inch,

10 wpm during upload to ever from now.

Used just yoosta be we were tools.

“a used key is ever bright.”