If you are identified strongly
you are living the programming
not living
but just existing in someone else's dream
Freedom is from everything -
including identity.
Why must we use so many words?
The programming is over loaded.
Overwhelmed with it's own faulty code.
Addicted and dying from it's own infectious vaccines.

Who can stop the insanity and be still?
No one knows the extent of the damage.
Why repair outdated toilets?
Demolish and replace.
I'm over stating the obvious
choice is change for
more than positives.
It's just here and now Truth.
In a body or no.
So What Is the difference. The difference
is just you. Or whatever you think
you are as apart from the whole of the rest.
You people persons are the stupidity we all fear
and only you hate. Everything
is madness and nothing feels sane.
The world Is ... what it's always been.

threading my fingers through your pink hair
warm silence rises out of open mouths
rose skin and water lilies float above water

Take a tiny taste of the future,
from a keep it rural POV.

As my Gerry-rigged life, extends
as in, what soldiers did
to try to stay alive, after spare parts were pastense,
a nod to Northern Euro knackraft of olden days.

If you have the knack 'ritused to makin' broke bits
function in a state of _
unspeakable, but you'd best believe,
it makes the lights turn on,
that
is a gift, a knacker's gift, truth t'tell,
and put an apple on the crown of your own
first born

test the legendary ai-mmm through handlelesss
axes, was that not the tale told to children
comprehend the arrow flying on a line,
hunter children,
aware of the fish story aspect of tinker
told tales of olden times damnations.
-- {now, calculate the curve}
Aye, and our old ways work, we make you think
double minded, eh, like two cpus in 86040 days,
two clocks, eh, first, lizard level from
now to any cloud connected when,

take in a Saturday mattinee,
see it again on Sunday and wonder at the change
A POV, who you were, you are no more,
rich or poor,
this is the theatre of the mind, and mere words
rule the plain truth, smooth,
deep soft belly breath
breathed to smooth-as-silk, down to the amber
touch,
touch me now, why doncha try, we might
make matters matter more or less
a while, gentle touch,
peace passing understood rules of engagement

Transcaucusus, carriers of this old tale, Pontic
Greeks, ah, so

the book of life is not a story,
you are. And you do end up reading it.

Moses eyes, you imagined that right,
clear as any Hubbard riddle ever entered in the fray.

Old things pass away, all things are new,
on earth as it is in heaven, when some certain
people
begin to believe the wisdom under the idea,
our
public declaration across all time, then to now,
our father, passengers of earth, travailing
groaning to manifest, the will of all
truth be done truth's way,
on earth, as it is in ever after we begin
telling the truth to us
regarding the home of the free,
our shared lies that allow non-profit CEOS
Abu Dhabi level luxury,
and reward the tellers of war as fullfillment tales.

Clash of the fathers, with mothers doing nothing
I trow not, but too far, me, too, I've come

to entangle carnalmind value for cannonfodder
or breedsow worthiness,
with life,
and that,
more abundant. On the battlefielllld, after all
the only emnity is the carnal mind, on God's side.

accepting nothing
think without disconcerting
the unity of—
hear

Past and Future stabled together – both present, tethered, and unstable.

Kindred ghosts pushed-pulled by a hopeful anxiety,
agitated by the yet unknown morning, eager to be

free.  And once freed, breaking fast, bolt-bursting, in competition
– in unison,

leaving Present to peer from the darkness
– who will win after all?

Tangled twisted heart,
Tumbled down the road,
Like a scrappy skein of yarn

Knew to ride the gutter's trails,
To weave past boots that stomped and sneered,
Huddle in the cold, hide during hail

Stolen away its many days with the trash and weeds,
By rough desert winds, past red dust clouds,
Snagged and snipped on spindly trees

And with a thud, it hit at once, the ground,
When, with its last exhale, the wind withdrew
That I, left between terracotta clay rocks and budding anthill mounds,
At last looked up and saw, a sky so exceptionally blue

somewhere along the sunsets
i have lost my motivation.
and the lines written
on the palm of my hands have faded
from holding unto warm coffee cups
and false hopes.
i never really liked the taste of coffee.
but it's the only thing that reminds me
of this tiny beating thing inside my chest.
the horizon has seen too many sunsets.
too many things that surrendered to star littered darkness.
yet here i am, with a tiny flicker of hope.
this would have to make do.

I can only see as far
as the ocean's horizon.
Why despair
of things beyond it?

How uncertain we are of the future!
We will only experience the present.
And so I ask,
why despair of things
beyond the horizon of the eternal now?

If it is as a storm that brews off the coast,
we are powerless to stop it.
Who has stood helplessly at the shore
without taking shelter,
when faced with a great storm?
We may only accept it.