I have a special interest in telling about my colonoscopy.
The doc cheerful, secure in his specialty, colon cancer being
the second leading cause of cancer death after lung tumors.
They can snip the precancerous polyps right out of you during the test.
At first the doc gave me the statistics but having paid 25 bucks for this
      interview
I decided to make him explain the science. He was most comfortable
describing the physical architecture of adenomatous v. hyperplastic
      polyps
but what about cell structure I said. He was vague about genes and
      hormones,
I could have been chatting with an Electrolux salesman.
I wasn’t worried although my *** was burning.
Everybody dies, everybody, even Whitman and Emerson, so I browse
      models for dying—
mine are middlebrow, saddlebow—John Wayne in The Shootist, Paul
      Newman in Hombre—or hagiography
Plath her head stuck in an oven, Hemingway who ate his shotgun.
Anyway I was upbeat flirting with the nurse, a muse who has seen it all
      before,
acting tough, which isn’t actually an act
you do your prep and say your prayers.
I thought I’d be in and out **** as you probably already know
the prep for this procedure is worthy of Gandhi. A day of fasting,
clear fluids only, and constant voiding.
You arrive at the hospital one spiritual chicken.
I reflected it can’t hurt, lose a little weight, remember who you are
without so much **** and flesh between you and the natural world.
Snipping polyps is like taking electrons to a lower quantum energy level,
      nearer the nucleus, with fasting and ****** abstinence.
The art of total presence and abstinence, dependence on the Other for
      future existence.

I found myself smiling,
a telescope finding my
own private Jupiter
cooped in the noose
of a bulb

Yes,
its stupid to measure in hope-
-  this I know
but I’m told it's the last
thing to die....

So why would
I sully such luminary
wisdom...

.. . In  kingdoms of
merciless churches I find
myself smiling

  ...the search is still on
for a cause to believe in

but I shall be biding
my time.

It gets sour after a while;

that righteous quaver

that merely rousing oratory

superficial hagiography

state-sponsored martyrdom . . .

The old black and white

news-clip shots.

Yes, it was necessary;

the past was tense.

You overcame.

We got over it

gets sour after a while.

After revoking themselves from the transposed swords that slightly decreased in size, they uncrossed them to size it to the historical size that actually conserved them. They were the existing Xiphos that began to be delineated over sixty centimeters, which figured from what separated them before turning through the nearby heights of the Thuellai. After separating both when detaching themselves from the ribs of the Xiphos, they thus penetrated the light of the Empyrean, cutting the bastions of the dreamlike attire that had them articulated, nailing each of the Xiphos in the calcaneus as Vernarth executed before entering in the fight of the site of Gaugamela with the Falangists. In this way, they both took the Xiphos and synchronously pierced the crossed swords in each calcaneal bone of each foot, but across so as not to incite the Gods of Olympus, to hold the Angels and the God of the Seventh Heaven. They were left with the iron-bronze on their feet with a short encysted difference, and with the spears that the hoplites mainly before adopted with Vernarth in the charge of the Phalanx that was towards the shadow of a famous change of climate control that was splendid of the dying Kassotide, making these swords more invulnerable and deleterious.

Seventh Necropolis of Messolonghi
Parapsychological  Ellipsis

Vernarth came as if they had just come out of the Kassotide escarpment, resembling the imitations of repetitive interference on the assessment of re-invading Xerxes in what personifies him. Alexander the Great had already expedition this sea of the Hellespont and this time he would do it together with his egregious Commander Vernarth. What they had to reach together were the dominated geographical limits and their experiences, even what the conquest of Heles meant due to his resurrection from mythology or submitology, perhaps inquiring this as if it had not existed, or if it had been more preponderant when leaving his image as a hagiography that received a concussion and that pain never lets him overcome being on guard towards the front of the wind that hurts the autobiographies, of whom if he knows how to read the degree of the works with his maximum oratory, metaphorizing and adjusting in revolting voices alembicated of Messolonghi Seventh Cemetery.

The vapors of evil followed the converted spaces of other bodies that regained life, here the ears were clipped with songs from Hades, which from Messolonghi came to constitute before the fight with the revived war spirits of Dario III. Before reaching Skalá they felt impassive nascent airs that were emanated from the underworld, from where the tribulation would constitute unhappy chambers that revealed the bodies of the Achaemenids who woke up bilocadly in Patmos, they were transhumed from the aldehyde vapors that made them breathe themselves and supposedly insightful. The visions of this cemetery were made vacant to receive the casts that would fall after the fight on the heights of Skalá, where the weak and daring would be condemned before the natural graves that would reconvert them into precious ornaments of the Kassotide Trench from Delphi, to revive them in the stench that is greater than that of the corruptible human being.
The Seventh Cemetery would be the genesis of the global warming concept of the modern world grafted onto the atmospheric leitmotif of the Kassotides. The Anunnaki will rebuild the bones of those who no longer had them, and of the shattered bodies that were advancing in those who would occupy the void of the Messolonghi necropolis with dust from rubble from other bones covered with Cinnabar decanted with the Antiphon, and with the airs of trial where all the prescriptions lyricized a general funeral apostille that authorized an eternal dimension, which swirled through the dry nails of some who did not overcome the fear of existing, knowing that they would risk a thousand years without the universe that made them the son of a father from Andromeda, where enemies and friends would decree the global changes that would originate from the first-century b. C., the first consigne of the meetings that would alert the efficacy of containing a ****** and constant abyss of supernatural power, further away than that of a God who leaves behind the atonements that sustained him in the immediate ideology from the Seventh Heaven to the Seventh Cemetery of Messolonghi that tried to intercede between syntagmas that came from the shady fifth of the Helleniká Necropolis. The weaknesses that actually had to be imposed were increasing, and everything that could be solved becomes a disturbing renter of Drestnia, who would intervene with the enlightened when coming from Kalidona. Many stayed in the circles of abstention derived from the first Messolonghi Cemetery, from where Drestnia was alienated to get rid of attachments to mortuary remains, which every hundred centuries were physically and psychically absent from all the astral storms of Andromeda.

The climatic changes began to take shape in the whole world from the paralysis of the office of the Oracles of Delphi in 391 b.C. Since the moat of the Kassotides began to vary its alchemical tributary, after centuries in the bars of the bastions of the feminine brotherhood of Pythias and Sybilla's, everything was detached towards the physics of the globe with incessant rectangular impulses that emanated cylindrical emanations that radiated from Messolonghi, cleaning itself of the implanted grafts that were intended to replace the ex-karst nature of the Dodecanese, in the aerodynamics from which the impatient eyes look. The seventh necropolis was dissipating from three hundred cylindrical hectares, which would finally bequeath to the Archon who would define waiting for the de-demonization of the colossal shadows, after the few minutes of existence that were subtracted.

My beloved poet, where is your heart today?
Does she still keep your heart in those skies high above?
As she feasted with no man rejoicing, you lay.
Most days I pray to imbibe your letters with love.

Tell me, did you cry as she swallowed your heart?
Was it the resentment or the fear in her face,
As she held you frail, still and chained in your art?
She displayed you bare, as she bit down to your base.

This hagiography had already been writ,
As you arose in parts by no grace of your own.
How did you dream & how did you sleep? Still, to wit,
In your spirit held its decay, once your words sown.

My beloved poet, who did you love the more?
Sights of your heart, or a new vision of grace fore?

there once was a lad from Hungary
who was a dab hand at trumpery
oft a quote
that never was wrote
he made into hagiography

one day he went too far
and quoted his wife's mama
as saying her daughter
next to the altar
looked like a black Madonna

said in-law to him that's true
but it wasn't her, 'twas you,
in your tuxedo
and French libido
like balsam o' peru

if i hadn't known 'twas you
i'd have thought you an evolving gnu,
so stop writing lies
or you'll get a surprise
as my daughter wishes you adieu

When I was like as not lost, in history.
as haps so oft, it is a crying shame,
so few find the line, the point
to being, stretched so fine,
found at the point
for the time, what you were for the time,
too dear to surrender,
your aim in life, the shot not taken, left
leaven in mind, a chance to learn
and live to make the peace where none was.
Every year, spring reminds the system
bloom. Be as simple as pi, in wheels, in gears.

For a while, like a seed, falls to the ground
and ceases being seed, but for the final spear
enfolded light-catching green eyes, energized
as any serious listener to
American AM Christian Talk Radio, any where.
Listen, this is the day the LORD hath made,
and we shall rejoice and beglad in it,

by the way,
word of the day is colligated
with your religated wish for wisdom,
supported by your Phrygian dimes, since I can't say when.
Liberty is a state in mind of mind, no matter what,

stand up under knowing and walk from under that banner,
agape,
Or something other,
was it or was it just being whole as a bit of the story.
an ambit in the gestalt,
a qubit of the we, awesome us,
we, the deniers of liars prospering being doctrine,
the trade, we all live in lies, laughing at us lying,
why
you think you don't lie?

Being as this is the acceptable year, past due, notice
is given, I came to finish the law, not rewrite it.
Do not make life harder than it is,
really, remember being fifteen, it was scary when adults
all went stark raving mad
at once, mid sixties, according to tree ring analysis.

There is but the proud hagiography of saints,
those whose suffering proves
Jesus lied, his prayers for forgiveness,
must have failed,
or not,
we who knew nothing, know nothing still, until, now
so we are likely covered under they were ignorant doers.
But believe me, the joker knew the way, and led the thief, no lie.
All old people were liars then,
one day, like when your voice changed, or your first blush.
Our
Knowers rose to ask whole congregations,
when you next pray, ask the truth to show you
any lies you have held true, since you knew
- we saw the writing on the wall, for you,

for sure, I believed I knew things were known,
as I learned to feel the drill, the flow of war as art,
- what form does spirit fill?
- breathe and leave the lie to tell itself, until you die,
- or **** it on sight

seducing spirits, come sit with me,
leave us contemplate the considerate act,

let us run the river, bare foot, knowing,
there is always a place to put this foot, smart toes fit to this flow.

Sycamore Canyon, Arizona, 1970, about this time of year.