The wall stood heavy,
It separated epos in the tale.
Cuts and stains; all around,
Didn't yield to the strongest gale.

They claim the walls were always there;
Before the initiation of time.
Though veiled, unknown, and silent still,
They shaped the lustrous dime.

The breaking of the wall began,
Harmony grew on both sides.
Then came the old guards
An agony of backward tides.

===============
As far as one may say, I might know more
or less than the standard, normalized person.

I may have had more words spoken near me
than many who never had the tools I have,
especially the personal time, I have taken
to listen
to books
for the blind, while

driving mile after mile on roads built
by mankind across the continent I live on.

I can consider Tolstoy a failed ensample
of a curiousity construct, inclined to accept
real congruity, eh, is that the word, coherency,

sticking together to become elemental parts,

almost elevating the essence that being is,
to the knowing that the knower is knowing…

not for, nor why, but so, being so many possible

parts of so many plausible entireties, each actual
processing mind prepositioning self in other words.

Being cyborgian, not demented, but there's
an edge, spirits can cross painlessly…

================

Sup
supposed
superior position
supposed to be top.

Utmost, uppermost
ultimate umbrage

shade
shadow low to the ground,

local turkey buzzard grace
given true liberty flight
over me, free
to see,
feel, accept as real.
===============

On Earth, as it is in Heaven,
in spirit, of course, not really
yet, with a little wish it so,

realizable perfect Wisdom
from Heaven, realizable
for some who make

beliefs, relieving weighed reality,
breath and river, trees and freeway

--------
When.
Now, suppose, position time
at this stream instantiating data posed
to mark those points with no pastence.

Not long ago, make believers made
boys believe we've been made
to fly through the sky, and
ever after then,
we believed.

===============

From the future,
at the speed of thought,
literally let us agree, thunk
words carry any sense you make.

Your at
present position,
in Heavenly scale, JWST
on currency considered
influx imaginable indeed
side-real context input ports
make believe or realize, mindwise,
within Physics, the science of reality,
clear noway, beyond boy's true beliefs

we believed,
basically the truth revealed,
at
about the bottom edge
of puberty, say
seventh grade,
in the U.S.A., that summer,
for many a Boomer, unforgettable,
1961, yo', Boomer, get out of the slot,
jump the track, lose the confusing loosening

hot wire
from the capacitor, country kids know,

a shock somebody must feel
to believe,
to know
it's funny, we laugh
at the Yankee city kid, loser

loosened childmind lid,
the anger and the shame,
and the pain, the unbelievable shock it takes
to crank a war surplus jeep, the shock makes

the whole life event, a better, shamed

by rubes,
yes, rubes,
what's a rube.
You. You're a rube/ ra' ah ben Jacob's eldest,

not so bad a name, AI tells me
a man named
Reuben Waithaka:

A 72-year-old Kenyan man
walked out the back door, in Alabama,
around the middle of May, in 2025,

and nothin' won't undo that, wandering
away forgetting everything, that temptation

sad, story, such as any accidently hearing it, say, man

this life can instantly change,
so sudden any person can
disappear, instantly be gone,
so sudden… few go so mysteriously, instant
in prayer, sudden
at a thought,

a faith, held supposedly true,
instant persistant what if.

Same science Elijah uses. Save a seat.


===============

A man falls over,

luckily I can't see more --


There are bystanders.

I find it so easy
to think poetically
of the world
as one giant beach

On it in which
all of us stand
and wait for
the clouds of radiation
to roll in

To resign ourselves
to the disaster
on the horizon
because that's the direction
inertia carries us

It is easier—
at least for some—
to imagine learning to die
than learning to fight

It drones on, with empty determination,  
the moving mouth;  
pouring out a jumble of blurring monotones,  
onto halfhearted minds.  
While stiff gears grind the rust of in-imagination  
and spin silent thoughts,  
that stay quiet and subdued.  

The people move in silent obedience  
to some empty hearted duty;  
colonizing the corridors like clockwork,  
hoping to find refuge in the knowledge,  
behind their murmuring doors.  

Solace to the lurking shadow,  
a fragile future,  
hung by fears and dollar signs.  

An intangible force,  
that makes our feet march in time,  
along the road to success.

You want to be a family, I admire that- I really do
I think too much has happened, in the past, between me and you.

See I learned what soft love feels like,
That I don't think you can give
I don't look at you with stars in my eyes,
Why couldn't you change when I did?

Once you were my universe, and like women before me I held you down
But I don't want my daughter to be generationally cursed to be a man's clown.

They say we're from a line of strong women, and yes I do believe that's true, but I don't want to be strong for sticking it out, I want the strength to forever leave you.

Maybe this is the fork in the road, where my mother chose to stick it out,
I can't raise a daughter on fake love of that I have no doubt.

Really it's up to me, I can't blame great grandma for this gift,
I always thought narcissists move on to a new supply but this man tirelessly tightens his grip.

I can't ask the moon for answers, no- this has to come deep from within, will I have the courage to keep the **** away? Or will I keep our matronly traditional trend?

Take away selfishness,
and most of the American Dream flattens
into the cinema-real backdrop
against which Boomers matured.

Our grand parents were the last
of the pioneers,
or first
of the labor class immigrants
to be specialized
for urban labor roles, selling ordinary sweat
of the brow for wages
of sin born iniquity jobs.


When all people
on the planet think little
of groupthink effects, one devises effectual,
fervent effort to make wares worth a nickle, or a dime,

or a penny's worth, back when pennies did buy baked wares…

bread of life's basic daily grind,

fundamental bottom mind, superfluous
to say bottom most, basest
ideal standard ration
measured common rationality
built line upon line, letter by letter, plain
let the message be itself the messenger
kind of sapience marking our species
as soil comprised complexities,

which wax old in no time at all, at the end,

the far end, hoary head and toddering gait, sitting,
face to the sun on a April morning,
in a trough between tumbled granite waves, decomposing.

In this position, suppose-edly
my Truth's only ever once
told
upon a time, out past here and now…

I sit, thinking,
reifying realized right thinking, balanced,
recollecting all yester-was
incidents we all pass
as one's own life
time wise
necessary
organic carbon scaffolding - and memories.

A smile,
a suggestion in a word,
a subtle shift on a face,
you see,
you knew what I mean.

A wink, not what you think.

Come let us make a day, imagine,
today, only the good we do gets done,
within the reach of any doing penance.

So, the word of the master, whence
cometh all the wisdom ever we use,
cometh to all, save those brought up

in the school of the prophets Saul danced with

-- the difficult concept, knowledge da'leth,
dabar
רִיב Hebrew reeb, a controversy, point
of contention, an argue-premise point…

Proud child memorizer, reared
to be the reader aloud, raised
to be the reteller reselling past prophecies,

pointed promises perceptible now, as later,
still, the end must come,

the truth itself shall be seen as shown,
to be observed, reverent, wary, watching

all the mobs of mankind been scattered
to and fro, from island to island,
since ever was a story we be in.

Today, 2025 by the church told time, since
the message from the spirit of truth, per se.

Wait, after activation, spirit of curiousity, feel

whatifery, reification risen conception, breath
whispering, really listening,

here's the time, as it ever was,
here's the day, as it ever is,


make do.

The mind whispers,walk the path of dharma,like Arjuna, with his bow drawn tight.

The heart replies, let me offer love into it,like Meera, singing to her Krishna through the night.

Situations whirl around me.

Like the churning of the cosmic ocean—Samudra Manthan

Where every choice pulls like devas and asuras

Tugging between what’s right… and what’s desired.

But my soul, ancient and still,speaks in the voice of Vishnu, resting upon Ananta.

Soft, eternal, and unshaken

Do what is necessary

Time moves—like Shiva in his Tandava

Moments rise and fall

Karma spins its golden wheel.

In the center of it all

Like a flickering diya in the wind

Like Draupadi with folded hands

I stood… still.

Not knowing what’s right and what’s desired.

Until something touched me

Not a voice, not a word,but a divine light

Like the jyoti of Arunachala.

The kind of light Yashoda must’ve See when she looked into Krishna’s mouth and saw the universe.

It said:

When your heart and mind stop their war and start walking together,like Lakshmi beside Vishnu grace flows into action.

Miracles don’t just visit…They begin to live in you.

When your soul accepts the leela,when it bends with the time,even suffering becomes prasad.

Even poison, like Neelakantha’s, becomes a sacred strength.

So I bow

Not in surrender,but in sacred acceptance.

I do not run after answers.

I do not ask the winds to calm.

I walk the sacred thread—that unseen sutra,woven by Saraswati’s wisdom and Sita’s silence.

That ties duty to devotion.

Lets love carry its weight.

With no need for reward.

there's an ocean behind her eyes
an ocean in which she drowns
it's unlike any  
for no light reaches
perhaps,
it's the waves
which she can't pull herself out from
they tug her in
they drag her back
and she pours in
she melts
she returns
as if she had never left at all

there's a desert behind his struggle
and between the sun-kissed orbs
that loved to gaze on the sun
there's a hollowness he feels
it was as if he walked around
on naked feet
and upon broken shards of glass
but there’s a duty he bears
as if suddenly turning older
it meant becoming atlas
with the world upon his shoulders
and his own became ash

but he stays quiet
lips tightened shut
even if the silence weeps

and there's so much to say
but the words are already lost
between what couldn't have been
and between what was
at least most

and there's so
so many paths to walk on
but her bones ache
and he doesn't remember the last time
he had taken a breathe and had sat down

and they might meet,
between holding on and letting go
they might meet on the wrong road
or on the middle  
or in the end
at the right time
at the wrong place
and in between
just two strangers walking by

they might meet
in one gaze
in a single glance

and it would take little
to see the ghosts
of what they used to be
crawling behind
and the trail of blood
it would take very little
to see the ashes of dreams
upon their feet

to see the water
and to see the sand

it would take very little

Whirling of blades, clouds of dust
Screaming, suffering, litters of men
Crimson covered deck
Water of red flushing
Rinsing away the horrors of man
His uniform is ***** and wreaks
Dirt that isn’t dirt
He stumbles into the showers
Dazed in a trance, shock
Dropping his rifle, pistol falling to the ground
Standing under the cold rain
Dust and dirt, wash away
Water of crimson
Mud that isn’t mud
Guilt so heavy, he cannot breathe
Death all around him,
Yet he lives Why?
Brothers and sisters, gone
Yet he remains, why?
Guilt overwhelming
Pain, searing pain.
Yet he lives.
Unworthy, full of guilt
Crumped in the shower
Unworthy
He weeps for the fallen