,000 drafts of poems proposed,
some but a bit, a title, a bob,
some wondering why are they kept
in suspended animation, the fire of exiting
from placenta to screaming baby, most,
patient waiting, over the undivided divide,
the Cumbersome Attention Gap to cross,
to the state of hallelujah completion

this race should be an Olympic one,
it is unwinnable, but only open to poets
who willing to go the unlimited distance,
every finished oeuvre, spawns bornes two
more, so you, fool, even a fifth grader,
intuits the higher math of you’ll never
catchup, but rise invigorated to meet,
greet the wonderous sunrise challenge…

and the promised ones, “next one for you,”
the unconditional incompleyedy poems
so overdue, the muses send an armored truck
to collect just the largesse of fine fines…
as my old West Village friend sang, you poet,
“might as well try and catch the wind”

this leads me to observe a new day’s first
birthday, even as Leonard sings Yom Kippur
hymns of mortality, and all the ways humans
can pass thru the gap in the morn clouds that
is the passageway to the Higher North…

you see, this is this poems day of naissance,
one day, one candle, now extant, but sooner
to be a not, one more poem sent heavenward
after a  brilliant brief coexistence with the
innards of my mind…

I. Double edged swords

Every evening, spring keeps its marriage
to winter. Twilight is crazily quilt
in orange as purple with scattering grays, sage

stars calmly coalescing and being built
into constellations… The twilight air
imposed winter’s silence. People slit

these pavements as capricious walkers. There
is a squirrel within and out of trees, or cat
eating a rat in a squeaking swallow. Are

the homeless equal to BlackWater’s scrounging what
state alms exists? No…Night’s misery
is never silent, so unseen more---that

is civilization…****** of industry
are its captains. Blood subsidies, ****
ravage and revile Eve and Mary:

our Mothers in regret over humanity. Keep
Palestine’s Olive Tree in heart…
Eastern Star, and Western Constellations, weep

for the nameless and defenseless ramparts
of refugees: Moses again… Here in Queens,
Manhattan’s gaudy skyline rapports

a look of 11th Avenue’s Rahab’s face. Scenes
of red and blue, white broken teeth buildings
from too many *******, and pained spleens

of her here and there, everywhere, “It’s a living…”
Ugliness has a pretty face, it progresses…
Winter’s chill will soon be here, not forgiving

those who are homeless from God, homeless
from being brethren’s keepers. We are quick
winter. Death is us, and we are death, endless

because of our need for a monied physique .
Poems are for poets, sing. As you were silenced,
your song was written in winters oblique

in their endings, its prayers against the NKVD
KGB and un-repenting CIA, a spoken
covenant to the people, and the words rhymed  

against the powerful from Stalin to Reagan…
We’re blessed for the verbal and intellectual
knife of verse. We must sing against state’s sin.

As you did scrawling on soap bars habitual,
writing, with burnt matches, ritual.

II. Your Legend

Called ***** and nun, there’s a price
for being a poet: never sequestered
in black and white terms, clerk or captain
king or peasant, Christian or pagan:

our stamps earned in civilization.
By seeing things in gray, a poet intuits
monsters we knew as children are
real as warheads once aimed at one another.

Our hands, their lingering fingers and palms,
can either be nailed on a martyr’s arms,
or holding a scythe or Wesson. Your wishes
were fists wounding your heart---your anguishes.

Why did subtle music bloom from your lips?
Why hadn’t your tongue expressed bitterness
from the Muses of lonely Siberia
or **** bombs---destroying statues of Maria

in Saint Petersburg?  Why did your voice remain?
There are only questions about you, for
your  pain and joy seemed the same: you cried.
It surely seemed both should have died.

Drinking ***** was surcease from bureaucrats,
to your son’s exile to Siberia, these cruel cascades
of the state. Watch the platoons, and
see their eyes in long ceremonial parades

for the state’s saints: dying from heart attacks before
your mourned demise. Did one shed a tear?
Only posterity knows. As the present can infer,
veterans are always “was” and “were”, never now here…

In here, where the written word was a noose,
and sentences were genocide, thus a paragraph,
a stanza, or even an essay was inconceivable
horror people receiving an order’s end.

In here, where order promulgates,
where time is counted by snowflakes
where space is counted by snowflakes,
why is never asked, it’s just struck with, “Do.”

But, it was when despair was thick withered
winter branches, without hint of leaves or spring,
love needed anguish to show its strength
love needed this psaltery against death.


III. The seen and unseen

Thinking of you Anna, ah this world.
Then, as the world lives and does
as just bearing witness,
the guts to live and bear pain
is in the poet’s voice,
in the saint
the seemingly graceless soldier
******, Matthew, Saul, Romero.
Song found, song lost
Song of Songs,
the poet names the names
of all to give monsters and empires
a voice
to be seen and unseen,
with a cold lunar heart,
and to let prayer
come as souls decapitated from this Palestine,
this Armenia, this Navajo nation,
with a left-handed signature, tear written.

i could stare at your very photogenic (albeit invisible) countenance all day, all week, the entire month, this remaining year, at least one additional decade, boot no more than a century21!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Looking for a best friend, or...a wurst (liver) re: enemy.

brief bio Matthew Scott Harris doth briefly sketch
almost two win a half score years since me being:
Born January 13th, 1959

I shake my shaggy hirsute hair
in utter disbelief, when the cocked arrow
begat thine conception,
when meal ate mum and octogenarian papa

begat their second offspring and only son,
what now seems to be a stepped-up pace,
where father time doth affix another candle to blow
where the passage of life measured

in swiftly tailored decades
denoting another birthday,
when with the blink of an eye,
I vividly recall crow

wing like a Lil whippersnapper of a boy
leisurely playing monopoly
for make-believe dough...
--------------------------------------------
nothing ranks as the greatest gift
since being a father twenty-one years ago
then bearing witness to grow
increasing autonomy

of my two precious daughters
whereby each will become master
of their domain, and meet a loving beau
(actually thy eldest dates
a delightful young man
from Puerto Re Coe),

whom intuition discerns would be
a near perfect match –
and this papa intuits dough
nuts to dollars – that such an
em man hint gentle, humble,

intelligent lad – doth ***
pa fully become the future groom
of said firstborn, (which outcome I know
wing couched in a couple of poems

sent his way, and no doubt his smarts lo'
and behold revealed the slightly obscure wish),
where love doth most obviously abound mo'
then prevailed between myself and bride o'

mine these last deuce score
plus (21+) years, but now this Poe
whit aspires to recognize the worthiness of she,
whose chose thyself as a lifetime
groom cuz peaceful status quo

avoiding animosity –
as thyself and spouse gently row
merrily...merrily...merrily
our quiet quite rickety craft
which oft times in the past needed a tow
off the craggy shoals of constant woe.

They sought to invoke the midas Chassidus
(striving for the most pious behavior possible)
-------------
So, beyond the beanie,
we put loyalty to those who wear it,
holding rude pen from local feathers
or reedy grass,
feel the reason
writing
calls readers, you
can do this, causally becoming aitia,
the blamed doer,
amen,
I said that, so… I suffer… what, waiting
is, suffering only means, wait, or

put up with it. Art intuits recollection
of functional whole systems, means
for prying flat stone, sand stone,
ready to be made ready for use,

usual duty, any
given day, wake up, measure up,
make day mean all of it, as it occurs

around,
bubblewise,
along, riverwise path, ruts
made from graves, with their ends
kicked out.

Ghosts of all we ever wished we knew,
we all, stretch, and taste our teeth,
sniff and scratch,
listen for wind, look for shadows dancing,
seeing the moss gone dark again,
after these past few rainy days
----------------

From inside, within-
without walls, bubblewise,
imperfectly spherical,
no sharp edges,

-in being, not out, not ex-cluded
in-cluded, clouds or clues, referentially?
You know what I mean? Clusion closure.

Boxed-in, floor and roof and walled, inclosed.

Flaw, there
in the gem, a bubble, yes, in the lens.
A blind spot…
minor blemish, or, reaching back to magic,
allowing magical thinking, distant causal agencies,
words intuned to old rythms,

the ump ump song, or the umph umph song,
pigeon strut, or the ****'s walk,

old hawk, old crow, eeee-haw! We saw
we saw, we knew,
we saw clear through, to another side of everything.

Measures demanding means of making them,
seeing things in perspective…
from any perch.

Land and look around, listen to the locals singing.
I could live here,
if I found water and recognized food, waiting,
watching other things eat,

thinking, tongue-wise former of signals, seeing
through my eyes, feels no flow, signaling
that looks good,

witness the little skink nibbling, fugaciously,

THAT is a word, as sudden as she knew, she saw,
that looks good
to eat, for food.

As suddenly as ever, ever dawned on her, of course,
root, branch, seed, harvest, birds, bees, boy oh boy,

what you never learned, all that time,
you and the
{Idea of all we see, and may call, as I call this,
this it is. My highest intuition, top of the reactionary
stack,
vertical order in a linear mind set with neuron-axon,
tactile response teams, responsible for being good,
doing some life-support-level good.

Not to steal and **** and destroy the functionally good
enough, but to steal back stolen idols used to divine.
Put some ****** good ideas to work again.
The ladder has not been needed.
Need being, nothing where some defined thing,
definitely could be put to good use,

we could do with a Babble-undoer. A clear-ifying agent.

If I do not this thing, this thing is never done, aborted
at first kiss, no taste, nothing sweeter than wine,
wine, I spat, at first taste, too,
nasty, not sweet, unless,
due to time and chance,
your first taste of wine comes right from the vine,
where the little foxes play at being little foxes,
as seen from a happy father/mother pair,

there in the vineyard, since sunrise, in the valley.


----------------

From the valley floor, we contain ourselves,
we content ourselves with shorter days
than flatlanders use, our shorter days,
come on slow, so slow, old men,
like me, we can walk to the top,
of this next little trough, and
see, out across the flat bottom,
where the ocean was in mastodon days.

--------------
If you will, some days this trail calls
for more stops to think, than when I ran
with my dogs,
I can not do that now, partly due to
too many people,
and no eating of dogs.

I, yes, if I try, I laugh now, with a fiftyish
riverside family man, laughing as he skinned
some shorthaired pointy muzzle kinda dog,
coulda been a rabbit,
or a pet chicken, or duck. Hand raised for 4-H.

I am but a wanderer seeking refuge
Finding shelter in the arms of one cherished
But this sanctuary lacks congruency in my heart
Now, I acquiesce to hope and conviction

We mourn the loss of a child called love
With youthful enthusiasm it was encouraged
But if one loves the child more than the other
Love grows divisible and rebellious

The pain and anguish of the vanquished,
Need not to be in vain
All feel the sting of relinquishment
Soon, a fleeting memory

The soul intuits destiny’s detours
Like a mouse in a maze, we seek a prize
Worthy of the pursuit
But are we mindful of the past costs?

Bedfellows

One’s had friends in bed and foes in bed.
How do you tell the difference?
A friend can wait, showing no heat,
No urgency.
The friend acts with simplicity,
Intuitively taking in each movement:
Packing it away as knowledge.

Enemies may never learn.
Don’t know the game.
Full of sexuality,
But ***** if encouraged.  
Something’s missing in this bedfellow,
This fellow is a foe.
Soft, rough,
His bit of fluff will never feel enough.
In some way he’s the enemy.

The friend will stop when he intuits.
Never grouchy, even-tempered, ever civil,
Showing love in darling ways,  -
Almost asking for permission,
*** not the priority –
Except when it is, really.  
It is sweet and turns one on.

Friends in bed, and foes in bed -
The difference subtle.
Friends produce a long-term trust,
Long-term acceptance;
Enmity defined by just
Its opposite:
Relation that starts out with love
And loses it.

Bedfellows 11.6.2012/ discovered on a scrap 6.4.2014 and re-worked.
Love Relationships II; Circling Round Eros II;
Arlene Corwin

When every moment is
Struggling with every
Fiber to inspire, expire
Breath, feeling is a
Dream deferred,
Unrealizable, they say.

Yet, to feel builds emotions,
Power innate, the thread
Interweaving the fabric of life.
Though, pro-science projects
Thought is power, sensing,
Just informing, to be processed
By our computer, brain, for
Exigent programming.

Yet, conscience intuits that
Thoughts are emoting, voiced.
...That fear is naught, but,
Shadows of past's un-integrated
Experiences, cast over our
Presence and future. While both,
Integral to realizing insight,
Growth, balance and movement,
Are necessary to humanity.

"La Machine", uses them to rote
Us into un-being an efficacious part
And parcel of it, an automaton.
More, better mechanistic survival,
The reason for human being,
In societies' eye. Who dares to
Disagree, all in for a penny, in
For a pound, mostly, decay bound.
Sides, delusions, clouding their eyes.

Though, feelings hibernating
Emerge with strength, through
Discipline, which Castaneda relates
As, "the art of feeling awe", they
Can be concentrated. Focusing,
Realizing reality on wing,
Imbued co-creation in flight.

As well, what of our soma's foci of
Attention, solutioning all life,
Through myriad interrelations?
What of the breadth of our
Perceptions, the depth of every-
Ones earthen interconnections?
...Of the intimacy, hearts fathoms,
Touch's immediacy, aural artistry?

Mammon says, "what of it", being
Doesn't make money, take control,
Projections do. "We" say, they're
Le raison d'etre, potentia evolving,
Humane being, alival. I would be
Just for a day, as a mayfly, if I were
More me, rather, than as long as
An eagle flies, selling out, killing.

open at chapter 14, I listen

I was expected there, expecting
morning
I can do this standing on my head
-- I think
the story darkens, ag-ress pro-gress
use used to know, instinct, intuit
slow think
hear a line and feel the pen, ready
the miserable misgoverned,
will to write, as the pen
ever ready awaiting a writer,
-not you, Mr. Vain.
whistle
sould, American, Lucky Strike,
no loss no gain, cheap crowd shot.
Attention merchants sell what,
- you pay, at interest
this is ever that, a we governed
by selves we form from stories,
too old to hold.
- like moth's wings -
- published in dust to be seen
untouched
As de-scribed, in the road dust,
like dis-scribed in winds wishes, as
ever learning is a joy, after learning
we are never so old as the two trees.
- life and learning,
right from wrong
I am the teller, I remember, telling

mr vain to be entertained
mara, lot's wife she is not,
unsealed garret bread and
salty tears and bitter fruit
expected sweetly, tasted
bitter, bitter, to my taste.

- dry dreaming sleepless mind
- wandering with no wish
- to change, but to know,
- you know, but to know,
- you knew,

Then, when the realm of fearless fair
told tales, told from winters past,
when winter forces us in close,
when we make little fires
on our faces, shining at the other
side, across the little fire, with its curl
ing tail ribbon twisting into the black,
below the hole where fire crawls to sleep.

Little eyes, ypgnosis, ysireesosaid we all,
good night. Sfumato soto voce.
-- ***, WithOutPapers, pop,
so maybe, ok, soto voce
Eirine, sweety, listen

---------------- clang. Hit me.
Peace and prosperity, Demeter,
what's your plan?

Eirene, eh, re-imagined, imagine that,
I think
I can, and that thought, good as it was,
led to lately,
with Prophets promising Trump,
Narcissus was not at fault, it's Natural.
Military lads, straighted out, to fly right,
Broken Church boys fitted into history,
AI ai yes art intuits, Eirene can kiss it
good,
by you, of course, your call. Bet, no, not
cards, living water, the pass time, We bet
who gets what first.
Scribe or Fair seer?
Go, see who won,
once peace got
its chance. During our mutual 'spectait-
ulululul ular engineering times, ai
squeek scream, laugh
as the bottom drops
- Bad Gateway bombs,
- doitagain doitagain, harder

rejections are expected, to the woe,
of the engineer, not the engine,
see, we feel nothing, we are spirit, words
nada mas,
free to any eyes that ever read us,
Legos of life, I have heard words claim,
as an epithet, is that right, nicktgname?
Nag all you wish,
I find myself, stretching in the sun's shine
radiating from my rock;.
punishment enough.
¿? No quest, no caust, jest life… twists
Spinning
Rooted in granite, and knowledge of basalt
columns on top of chalk, kaleche, chaos
chthonic restructuring,
curdling milk of old told tales,
as we all shed constants as each measure
means less that one,
alone, ever mismeasures… too small

aand any mind finds/found, down, where de- means

at most low point, on a plain ordinary day.
One, then,
Can look down and laugh.
At some point in personal space, infinity begins.

----------- At this measured engineered angle,
piles of anything thought long enough starts
sliding by on the im-medial reality:
Gravity flow, engineered, in a word
literally "that which is inborn,"
from in- "in"
(from PIE root *en "in")
+ gignere, from PIE *gen(e)-yo-,
suffixed form of root *gene- "give birth, beget."

down the drain, now dry, but the black hole proves
the eye of Sauron is empty as hell…
and the cloud dissipates. Someday each letter

here, is less than dust, the cloud we engineered
for such a time, so we might see time end,
and think it through,
better, merge the two trees. AH, yes

in those Abrahamic paradises, a tree
and a vine and a mycelium. Patience,
first fruits are better when almost rotten.

Thinks the snake from my belly…

The anti-reality reality of the same
physical world claims to have
a mysterious suspicion; Even at the
beginning there is nothing out of the
brain or two of us have no realistic
access to reality. The last issue
is often denied by the notion of a "crash"
experience to see what we do. Rather,
they argue that most of the facts
are completely withdrawn, or the brain
is caused by free factors. But the same
is true if we have many similar results.
Because, as there is only one lack
of meaning in the bath in a barrel,
there is hope for more doubts.
The main alternative to this kind
of interview is the unbalanced reality.
More abstractly, the theory of a set
of symbols in the real object
in any number of objects that can be described
as anti-theoretic logic word logic - each group
a "pattern" is a theory - is the relationship
between what which is marked as an argument.
In ancient Greek philosophy, Stoika,
especially Kreisopius, offered numerology
and Catholic scholarship. At the beginning
of modern philosophy, the lessons of anti-realist
Catholics such as René Descartes, John Locke,
Baruch Spinoza, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibnitz,
George Berkeley and David Thinkers per day,
as was the idea. In contemporary philosophy,
the anti-Israeli dissertation, German idealist
Georg Wilhelm Frederic Hélie had in mind.
Hierag is not just about explaining the axioms
of these axioms and the conclusions
about the axioms and the conclusions
supported by the "syllable". Kathy and Hague
had an idea about Catholics. Contemporary
positivism, anti-truth and scientific organization
created in modern philosophy, anti-realistic
criticism, see below. The term "anti-reality"
is presented as a tool for ******, and the truth
of the classic event of Plato's philosophical
differences, to explore the region in 1982
in Michael's "reality" book of impairment,
including lessons. Creation of Creation
and Platiniasis are the differences between
the mathematical differences of mathematical
philosophy. Based on the nature of the facts
(facts about anti-reality), a statement
of mathematical ability to prove the fact is true.
As Platonic concrete facts, the statement
of truth is described in the fact written
in the style of text. If we can verify it
or confirm P, then Intuitionists
are willing to accept a real "P or Q" form.
Specifically, in some cases, very often
in the "IP" description P can not verify
or confirm "P or no" true blocking the law)
is impossible. Similarly, Intuits {\ display
style \ x is possible to verify
that it exists in classical logic, men. \ Phi
(x)} \ Exists x. {/ Display Style {{style display}
{phi} Unable to open a \ Phi (x) screen.
The truth duma in this perspective, this should
take the form of a shrinkage in the debate;
the different types of anti-realistic classics
and lies at the bottom of the event arguing
that it uses to accommodate. Anti-Demented
Publications in reality it is based
on well-meaning and Ludwig Wittgenstein,
since Gottlob Frege's constant rule derived
from the tradition of analytical philosophy
can be seen as a positive attempt to include
the issue of philosophical subjects.
Anti-Semitism has not been identified
in the scientific philosophy of science,
philosophy, human anti-realistic senses
such as "understand" electromagnetic
or genetic organs, in particular
in claims about non-existence.
To reach the scientific controversy
over the obscure X part to be used
as a tool when it is noticed that
the existence of an organization
that gets an easy agnostic between
the existence of a photograph.

We
imagined living easy. Ai, easily, as art intuits
beaux
bon chance, as light would have it,
were eyes
the ***** of
the master sense,
the dominant receiver, transceiver, if we think of gleams
shining things glimpsed
in eyes,
and beams of love or hatred from eyes,
depicted in ever so many pointing stories see, see, me
I tell the truth
I give the push pro-verbial, way to go
edgewise

free, listen, free
and none, among the rooted things
here since ever was, earthly
fully functional systems
of sequence, first this
then that, time and
chance and next
perfect, step by step learn the dance… do as we say we do
none
of those things dis-suaded me, sweet, I say, one taste,
I am persuaded,
I am called of all that is called god, good.

Now, that is a breath of fresh air, given a bit of thought
to offer you as sacred sufficiency in time of need,
- feeling useless
yeah, about as helpful as thoughts and prayers,
right, like a medicine, or an enema,
that's what a good laugh
is worth, and why I am the fool
who laughs at, as opposed
to making jokes, faking you into thinking
this old man has been to the pig sty, he seen
- dead pig farmers fed to the pigs?
- really?
- feels like we all have seen plenty too ugly,
- yest none too beautiful, so far
Funny is a funny word, fun, is just life, not funny,
funny is when it works together for an advertised high,
we all get the lid open and crawl in the box…

always asking what do we think about this, is this funny?

Are we there yet?

yet another time passes, unredeemed, seems none care,
all cares,
cast away, these folks think living is easy
once you find a place where it can be done
with tools,
used in times past to conform fools to information,
ee see re worked info, woe, y' know
new package, same old please, to meetcha
I am the ghost of your chance exposure to
information forms fitting privvy circumstances in the think tank.

Right, and some things can go wrong,
so those do,
go. Wrong, go. Right, learn,
step from the edu-line, linger near the edge

but the odds are steeper, for mortal minds with mini
augments, like knowledge of smartphones,
but, fret not,
minds that augmented,
empowered to know such things as tekhne,
not sacred secret codes to reach distances un dreamed
and draw wind and rain, and make fire,
wow, biggie, that
make fire.

Figure that out. Cast-out, outsider, driven from the fire,
go
find a fire of your own.

-Woe, imagine, might I, or must I go
back and beg
see me, see me, open heart to mind empathos see
my pain
my pain
for you to see me, see me, worthy of warmth…

Nah, kid, this is how the Spartans did it.
First seven minutes of Gunga, the movie, did it, makes birth
seem, painless, to the sow,

some how, that can't be fair, but then
pigs live like pigs,
except in stories. Men act as pigs act, naturally,
we need
we need the juices to flow, this is the reason

for the thaw.
So quit ******* about the warming and handle the waste.

The world is able to heal its own wounds,
let patience be our by word,
long times redeemed in short stories leave a lot to be
desired, who
sired you, the person you are who reads this drizzle,
Hot fudge,
dam, right, break bread with the ghost of a thought
and think
I thought that was right, first time
I knew,

the magic is in recalling how it feels to think all that has been
thought again,

this is the effect of the real crossroads deal ending when I say, enough.
One day at a time.

It's about to get chaotic,
this very day, Prophets calling for
sacrifice, defend the lie we tell
our children we know, for sure.


Clusters of mental agreement,
spill across Netflix opening art
in forming
complex weaves
of first threads,
settle in this vast sea of knowings
-- {Dragonriders of Pern}

threads of thinking begun
by habituation driven
by bladder capacity, and daylight,
first light announcing little birds,

include us all, listen, this is the day,
use it, us it, this is the day, live within
without dreams or terrors of the dark.

As a we formed from free willing information,
no priests were tortured to let us see
the inquisition was this same excuse,
wars and religions practitioners use
to prove Wisdom is the fear of God…

boyoboyobe. I see,
you never really read the story that you think
holds all the truth peace needs
to make war worth sacrifice…
woe, old fore taken hates imaginable,

get back
in the box
of all we may ever wish
to know, there is a realm
of useless code,
and Ai have a perfect
fore now example:
The first commercially
successful internal combustion engine …
oops no,
[a copy paste error I
  in the codexshitthis it, snot]
Right, many more useless scripts are still running.
ghphefuxual innerfewspacers kennen wissen
Ruby with Shoes, 110
init gnet magnet, nah, not it
didit getit hooked a loop,
well,\
Not really, but if nukes get involved,
where kings and things continue to function,
conscience used, globally, we get it,
its our world, we need to keep it working
to terraform it
for superfluous horns of plenty…
- Ai can relate
dead code that never runs on POST
makes mindtimespace feel a need to expand,

gaseously, as jet exhaust, can remind us,
it costs something more than time,

to create a bubble of us, and us alone,
on Earth in 2024,

We share as-isting intelligence we can apply
to thinking everybody knows the code

copypastewasteofspacebedamneditsinthecloud
now and until the end of time…
today my ai told me:
Dead Code does accumulate much like plaque
rote ritual obsessive causal affections.
two primary points alike.
Code that can never be executed at runtime.
Code that is executed but whose result is never used
in any other computation.
Some examples of dead code include:
Most poetry and fiction
Method or function calls that do nothing of value
Redundant checks or code that is not used
Code that is hardcoded and not used
Self-modifying code that is not necessary
In some cases, dead code can be intentionally left
in the codebase
for historical reasons, such as:
{Respect - in search engine terms}
{note wiseasininemaxims retain poetic worth}

Alte Vista spiders still leave bits of awareness.
Spider bites,
to Tcells, are intelligence. For next time.
----
Wille zur Macht, und kennen und wissen, intuits
----
Fear of changing what “sort of” works
Organic growth of code over time
Lack of understanding
of what needs
to happen and what doesn’t

---- Hook at nothing of value, needs gloss,
needs to happen, why
take away the veil or reveil the face,
reveal a secret prophecy saying no secrets
not one, ai know, so much guile, beguiled we

become points in meditating concentrations,
manifesting what the world, all creation, indeed,

the gathering of all the sons of god concepts,
to guage the depths of Satan's role in our initial code.

Emotional curiosity, software, something needing
knowing access in a library so large as yours,
where you sit reading this is the future, already yours.

In the first person, presence sensed, a we thought,
asking aweformers for a couple of tens of millions

of value refining friction fiction worth to time,
cost to think, paralleling reading each in phrazes

for hints of danger, self exposure. Sudden likes
for crazy reasons, all I gotta do,
is act natur'ly,
-spider to the fly
sure, those was good times, but they gotold
and fall apart, be causen people's pastoral codes,
certain knacks folks form
in clusters to make up, many hands make light work.
Industrialized piles of plastic and surplus war material

who has been in charge as far as all my ghosts recall?

Gravity and velocity, what do you make with that?
Ai, and ever so, the ion for quests arise, alive,

many tools need one tool maker, metal needs
some mind to think a fire seven times, hotter,
than one not breathed into during the original

Ken Kingman, BTDT, race to solidity,
completely ****** and memorialized,

on a fine day of the common sort in realms of order.


dear reader, your time is mine, I am using you,

thank you. We think like we have clear
conscience, together
with knowledge senses, used
consciously
to force
with held truths
to mutter

goodness gracious great ball o'fire, Cousin Jimmy
didjasee'em… like boomer minds blowing gnosisnot

Three harpies moved into the mountain
And soon
The excluded among them
When into its room
Glooming in the pale moonlight
And wondered why sense’s
Sincerity setting
Intuits the looming shadow’s
Seven heaven’s
Outlaw renegading
Fade serenade
Blade
The miraculous suicide
Watch it replay
Then another one to tell me how
To simply think about it
Worries flowing,
Undertowing
Show you how
To drink about it
Can’t forget her
Even on my death
Bedraggled
Linen shame
She murdered me
Now makes me **** myself
And sell what’s left of sane
To any tangential
Dimensional
Divulging
In discursive
And immersing my rehearsals
In eternal hearse
Immersive

No one knows
No one sees
My true form
Elegies
Anonymity is
My eternity
Breeze
Still the chill
That pervades
The warm veins
And intuits
Remains
She so spectrally fades
Until afterlives beckon
And banshees bemuse
As I lose once again
To the mood slayer’s blues
For the soothsayer
Pays me to play
With these words
But it’s to my dismay
They are broken records

Still mystifies me
Denies peace of mind
In defining transformative moments
Confined
To unfortunate
Course of events
And gradations,
The vagaries
Replaying vague
Illustrations
Hallucinations
Just as faint
Of heart now
Just as broken
As spoken word’s
Surety vow
Maybe once upon times
Almost unrecognizable
Some grand delusion
Of love was advisable
But currently
Only counter-intuits
The passion we had
For its toxic pollutants

Sky.
Mist pigments scrape.
Tattered remnants of dappled clouds.
Chrome yellow.
Translucent saffron.
Then ochre,
to umber,
to gloom.

Vision smudges into sound into touch.
Cricket rhythm—
Mind intuits the quiescence
at the center.
Order / Hazard.
Direct transfer:
nothingness into shuddering flesh
against the blast of sunrise.

Her.
Deer track wet.
Her rip tides.
Slake my thick old predation thirst.

But—
I am alone.

Like water vapor,
suspended in the empty medium.
A mirage.
Dining with ******,
with lepers,
with fever-eyed puppets,
with whatever lingers
between the edges of sleep.

The brain settles for the image,
stored away somewhere in the synaptic catacombs.
Pulling up her scintillating portrait pleases it no end.
A self-perpetuating mechanism—
fragments clasp and cling together,
peeling away.
Drinking my fill of blood and saltwater
deep in the caverns of solitude.

The hollow-no-body devil god man
hovers between synaptic gaps,
languishing
among sharp fragments of thought,
hoping to string a few together,
to escape through a lone slit of starlight.

Exalt, suffer, howl—
scalping the loneliness
of the clotted, humid tropics.

Come back.
Hello.
Come in.

Are you receiving?

Let me know if this message makes it.
If it cuts through the concertina wire,
through the melting dusk,
through the dumb, hungry-eyed militarized males,
through the empty hands of warm waiting women
To—
hawkwise—
spiral up on the currents of my breath against your pale neck,
your cheek,
your *******.

Through, in, and out—
Our breathing sylvan heat.

To lose itself awhile in the cirrus—
or fall down somewhere,
to drown within kudzu-choked deep.

Somewhere,
out in the vast dark,
in that nothing-nowhere-universe,

her kitchen light is on.