Nic nic nic neek technic eeeeooo heeyah, me,
Hey, Yah Wey Hey, see we dance with winds, our friends
Inherited from mother’s father’s family whose cousins
may kiss, in our cultural
milieu , ‘knowadamean?
Play, Piaget, comfort me, comfort the child in me that never knew a mother.
Can you do that?
Do you know lulla-by-essential momasong? Tit-talk tacit told to
sucking Adamkind, of every augmentable sort. What say ye?
Ken ye sing such asong, as my Grandma did?
Kin ye weave our blanket for come walkin’ pollen way
Can you walk the wings of wind?
Imagine them the only inheritance you carried from you troubled house.
The wings of wind mime patience singing capital tunes
The old man with the reed flute, grins, face to the wind, he begins:
Play, Piaget, lift us from the Spartan lie that makes monsters and dust.
Play, Piaget, comfort me, comfort the child in me that never knew a mother.
Poor child voice, not your choice, we know.
Hearing the poor we have with us always, Christ,
We know that ain’t easy.
Therefore, let, permit, allow, on your own authority,
Patience
Perfect work.
Confounded, mixed, stirred, shook to the point of bubble realities,
emerging from the mind of every speaking-spirit. Things got real crazy,
for a while.
When those real events rolled on, the thunder of their motion was enough to gel some of the emergent bubbles into clinging masses of little opinions and fears, bigger fears than any single bubble could hold.
Hence the proverb, “Forsake not the gathering of yourselves together.”
The dust of the earth you walked upon, came into you nose. Snot-nose brats, you remember those? Dust of the earth you walked on, tiny bits of everything you breath. Your nose knows, tacit-knowledge, it appears, what is needed to clear freeloaders from your technical plant, your body, if you care.
Groups, friends, family, deme, tribe — that is far as a fear formed in a single pre-confusion mind could expand in a mother lulla-by-esse-momasong.
In time, at several points and upon several verified times, an old wise man’s sense of ideas, voices, no words, hunches, got us here. We can’t go back, but we must go on. Nows are fragile.
Ideas can regress and even restructure optional realities for naif kids to play in, but it’s not good for either. Here’s what happens:
I got a hunch, you will not have forgotten me. I know you are real. I have known you, tacit-emp-iric knowing done, indeed, as long as I imagine time has been racing past this moment,
this line among lines, where you realize you are
or nothing is, as far as I can tell.
Everyday a blogger blogs bullshit, is minimum…,
Nothing, nevermind, Thumper’s Daddy’s rule,
fifth amendment and number nine command.
Idle word redemption processes are not purgatory,
it concerns co-recting what you said was right, but was wrong.
Not the same as evil at all, just dropped the ball. ‘s all.
Per fecting, quires knowin’ fect mean a thing.
Such fecting knowing comes from ideas being passed, not empty words.
Should you walk this trail with me, a mile or two, a tale or few,
Your thankin’ may change my mind, not my accent nor my destination.
