sorry, blogger is sort of having hiccups. At least on this end. My robot web-secretary seems to,also, be out in the alley "vaping" and talking to "strange dudes."
Once-- there was this vacuum cleaner went awry, and tried to do itself in. I didn't know what vaping was until she had explained it plain and clear. At first I thought she had somehow manifest that clumsy rug-sucker and was trying to smoke it. No, she was vaping.
Maddened tyranny and the recluse Banter of what can otherwise be known
as sweat-drench-sweat.
It went better the second-time-around, somehow finding that the best can be brought out when you cannot
bottle-in those lingering and undisputed situations called holy probably-wholly nuances.
So I obviously started kicking graves, and driving over graves,
and pummeling graves, and smashing in and cussing and yelling at
and expounding graves. and hopping over them, obviously.
Actually, that is something that did not happen. It's becoming some solved clue to me
that to type in jest is some serious danger the closer to literal interpretation we seem to move.
Not grow into, but
move toward
.
but since it is all a joke anyway....(
humane existence.)
But not to give any hardheaded bumbleblibberer any ideas, it would be--- sort of massively
satisfying, to just scurry around at some steady speed
to sheer and tear through tombstones, watching them shatter
and feeling that spill from the front bumper.
Those who do not feel such havenot
lived!
Problems arise in this scenario--- first, you'd need an older style car.
A damn fine car. Those aren't made any more.
How are you going to take a
smart car with their little fancy
delicate fiberglass pieces of framework
and mow down a lawn ornament let alone a tombstone row
with one of those pseudo-cars?
And to get an old, hardy piece of steal, you'd need to be down in the south-west...
on the north-west... or just the plain west-west... and the more East that you go---
the more temptation and urgency there is to even
get into the mind-mood
of satisfactory temptation to go on plowing into tombstones, pleasing the
inner-carnate.... that arena of frustration which in the daily life does not appear
to have the acceptable merit or the encouraged practice to 'exorcise.'--- being the
raving artful fun of a kind of madness that is healthy, and freely expressed via
guided and focused
letting.
I don't even think a Prius could handle it.
Cars snag down to brittle nothing in the East because of the harsh winters and the winter salt--
which terminates the underbody of the ride. That's why it'd be so much a rarity of an event
to happen in those tax havens. Instead you get stuff like this:
Some lemonheaded kid in syracuse, I think, and this was a few months ago, actually,
hauled a vehicle along through college campuses and elsewhere and crushed and capacited these new trees which was a real dick-move. And it was probably with a Prius or some smart car.
Did they impound his head? No. But no news is better..
It gives people slanted views because it bubble human stupidity and langliness and
lameness into some depreciating kind of habit-cavity.
I remember my consciousness being changed, and this all tricked me, by checking the news
for a seminal while.
So I took my shoe off and backed a wheel barrel filled up with fire wood over my foot
because I had needed to shock myself into producing some kind of vital enough change
to ween off that news-nonsense.
There is no world anyway and I learned all this from yoga.
which means union...
with the World.
There is spam mail and coffee--- sometimes sparrows, and there are histories
which tell much: Such as the types of hats people may have gotten away with
and what types of artillery being could try to dominate being with.. and of course,
the types of bread people would prepare sandwiches with. They wouldn't just prepare
the sandwiches with such bread.. they would actually eat the bread. Why we try to learn
anything at all from the past is some bibbling mystery, clearly.
No geezer could map a subway restaurant digitally
and just because Gobekli Tepi had to show up
and ruin it all for the timeline of history scholars
doesn't mean they knew shit at all, with their lack of
mapping a subway restaurant digitally.
I think your masters should stop bickering with one another
an join together in army tanks
and probably run down Gobekli into smithereens
like some car over a gravesite
so that the world leaders and masters
could relieve some of that blistery-stress
and not have to deal with new indents in world-conveyance.
Of course that is all in play.. used in some deal to mention that 'ol place again
which could extend curiosity into the subject of Gobekli Tepi
unto those who have written of it and researched it fairly well enough, sparing new-information
and new ideas so as to untangle the timelines
of all of the kinds of hats that people did indeed wear
throughout humane history.
***********************************************
Travesties and blessings fall from the sky like the rare falling heffers and
like seeds, bird-dung, rain and hope and answers.
You can hear about it all in
the Stress of my life Here!!
A book of living-motion
finds the credit grabbed
by considerable ego
to assume each event
of life-source
is personal
and somehow personal-
business.
All business is transacted with a smile
even if behind the back of that smile-holder
is a poison martini
and a dove of peace. one in each hand.
Is it critical the dove of peace was drown in a martini
or that a dove had sipped up poison from a glass
and either way became limp, with fallen wing-bones
showing a sign of a once alive and now tennis-ball sized
lump of bird-meat
stored in the grasp of somebody with a hidden hand
and by-sale smile out front
who in reality
holds nothing
[Necessary requirement of emo quip.]
The dove drank the poison martini, in ideal, and transmuted
the liquid, turning the bird into a professional wrestler,
Mighty 'Ol Bird Boy [New England, so pernouned boid]
in which case, Mighty 'Ol Bird Boy wrestled
with the holder of the hidden hand
fighting eternally
until that fight turns into a dance
thus creating the holy balance
between getting rubbage like credit card offers
and bloatsome gimme-gimme-gimme-scoundrels'
envelopes in the mail
and getting cool, neat, novelties
and fantastic penpal kinda stuff
thus positing that
the seer can turn crud into bonfire
and scrap paper material
and rejoice upon that which has merit.
****************************************
****************************************
Pt. III; Poemes fer Blimeys:
Streets full of paper pigeons.
Hot dog vendors
turn the corners.
The wheels go burned
on campus.
There is picketing
and world flags flying.
Street full of paper pigeons
stress not apt clouds
We look alike,
and so it's said
We look alike
and sit arright
using picket-sticks
to bash-bystanders.
World flags are trying,
world flags
are something cloth.
Paper pigeons
stand on dog-buns
Paper pigeons
spit smoke and cough.
and paper sheriffs
tangle with paper pigeons
and worldwide people
burn, bleed and ride.
Pint-sized ravens
with paper crowns
ride back street cabs
and sneak around.
Streets full of midgets
and clumsy giants
use paper pigeons
to wipe their mouths.
The streets are made
of faded papers
like Beetle Bailey
and Charlie Brown.
Streets full of certainty
hike proper value
and paper pigeons
don't care for gods
Or Each other.
Or Each other.
Or each other.
Bleed me, Bleed Me
Bleed Me
My face sinks in
I aim in sin
akashic-acres
Acreage-depth
the paper miles
crossing breadth
seeking smiles.
The ravens ride
on little wheels
Hawkings tells
of new-cloth deals
oh only so
paper giants
clumsily tip
Why is the bus on time today?
did something happen?
