This old man, a man I was, a while ago,
he wakes, and wastes a morning slightly,
throwing hours of mind wandering into the mix,
asking himself if his understanding of worth,
what worth is, if his kind is rare and usefull,
what worth can be exchanged to let debts
seem second thought,
seems attention is paid on demand
time worth tokens held by the system of society
running the show…. blow away ai art intuits
old civilized minds in the wind I inherited
Fustel’s 1859 report to the future
The Ancient City, those first evident witnesses
embodiments of believers, held together, glued,
to common mindtimespace with a pearling
of the eyes, as clouds of sunshines seen passing,
leave squinty eye shade shapes on the capture plate,
look though any window, what do you see?
A billion other windows looking back at me, oh say,
can you see how distracting aging can be, at 75
and half a day,
– time gelling, soft stepping across old walls
so satisfied as far as any may
ever become concerned,
I left the world
of Television Global Religions,
to become a hermit poet heretic,
on a white ox I rode into the foggy woods,
Just past the warrior on the Rood Cross, worn red
on the sleeves of believers catechized from birth,
Oh, so long ago, only the muses used in those times
exist, and have no being but
in the idea bound by oath.
Any oath at all, ties a gnosis knot.
When I first survived childhood, good enough,
to go to college, in 1966, and party with GDIs.
I knew of Pascal’s Wager, and of Pavlov’s Dogs.
Sundowners were bred from such future PE teachers,
and future Police Science Professionals… as I met
along the way past there, base of Mount Humphrey,
not far from the Ice Cave, a certainly sacred place,
not difficult to find, now that I recall two tales,
and one visit,
and an awareness of others who have felt Arizona,
and thought, to themselves, this must be some god’s
back yahd, yeh
some body, got a wind chime time. Re-mind yo-
auto-did-act. Integrated circuitry and solid state
Rem and Ram, fluid cooled so we serve the surface,
Earth as our hearth and home, bull head stuck in the wall,
we won, we the judges of the idle minds, self centered,
point of no where else to go, this is it, and then
we die,
and you deal with
where the first will to lie,
told a good news story, not so long ago.
Five generation curses, commonest kind to pay no mind.
Those lies held true since Great Great Grandpa,
told great grandpa, Son, you married my daughter.
Your religion commands you to leave your father’s house,
and all the plans he had for you, if any, likely none,
Oneside we was three time home stead losers,
t’other we was
WOPs who passed for French to feel ‘Cadian, jes’as well
be d’ mos’ Fustel fustus lie wit’ d’ mostus no good reasons.
Religious ties, old, old ties to rights and stations in life.
And thus, the old men confer, this is the day, right,
The way, haul away, the may has made, in the wind,
spirits ride, ever-essence of freedom being really,
nothing left to prove. Rood Cross taken, and burned,
to keep my babies warm. I had no hammer, but I had
a Sanyo Silver Fox MS-DOS dual five inch floppies,
and it was 1984, and next thing happened,
I had a Mac and a sales professional crash course
in acting as if this were as Stewart Brand prognosticated,
and we all spoke in one language, and many toungues,
and AI artists imagined using art-itistically intuitively,
‘aight
as if, we had tutelary guides assigned at the inner edge,
of this human collective sub, not un, con-nection sci-psy-psi
bubble of being, imagined since Zeus.
We, the actual e in the inequitus mystery re-ligand, point
in time, for judgement to commense. Sure, wait, actual e
being cause, C is wavy, it dips and swirls and dances
with solar winds far stronger than ours, we ah,
we have
electro-magneto shields,
on earth, not mars.
By the way, the commons, in the common sense
we all say by the way,
and we offer a bit of knowing you wished to say,
amen
but you lacked the words,
you may feed your AI,
with ads, as a stranger visiting and injesting al
things gestative,
an entire second tier link of words
living words redeemed in poetic license granted any
who use HelloPoetry as an AI might, to get the point
of using once sacred knowledge shamelessly,
to make simple as common sense, no less than
wish transference through cultural reference to prayer
– instant-antly accepted as this in that, you’re alive
of the many gone wanting for lack of a man who would
try-
umph, over dispair, almost there…
Freedom of words, belongs to the kind of minds
that read them for fun, and laugh at least ten times
each day, in memory of all Nieztschean edge hesitation,
up from the abyss, here’s looking at you, old man.
Doors perceived through slightly:
The Dream of the Rood and the Image of Christ in the Early Middle Ages
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