It’s New York Fashion Week, and there is a frenzy backstage as models are worked into their dresses and mob the assembled engineers for instructions of how to operate the technology that magically transforms a subtle gesture into a glowing garment suggestive of the bioluminescence of jellyfish. I know there’s not enough time for them to do their work. Almost instinctively, I find the designer and bargain for 20 more minutes.

While I wonder to myself how I got here, backstage at a runway show, I also know I am witnessing what may be the harbinger of how a fourth industrial revolution is set to change fashion, resulting in a new materiality of computation that will transform a certain slice of fashion designers into the “developers” of a whole new category of clothing. By driving new partnerships in tools, materials and technologies, this revolution has the potential to dramatically reshape how we produce fashion at a scale not seen since the invention of the jacquard loom.

The jacquard loom, as it happens, inspired the earliest computers. Ever since, textile development and technology have been on an interwoven path — sometimes more loosely knit, but becoming increasingly tighter in the last five years. Around that time, my colleagues and I embarked on a project in our labs to look at “fashion tech,” which at the time was a fringe term. These were pioneers daring to — sometimes literally — weave together technology and clothing to drive new ways of thinking about the “shape” of computation. But as we looked around the fashion industry, it became clear that designers lacked the tools to harness the potential of new technologies.

For a start, all facets of technology needed to be more malleable. Batteries, processors and sensors, in particular, had to evolve from being bulky and rigid to being softer, flexible and stretchable. Thus, I began to champion “Puck [rigid], Patch [flexible], Apparel [integrated],” an internal mantra to describe what I felt would be the material transformations of sensing and computation.

As our technologies have steadily become smaller, faster and more energy efficient — a progression known in the tech industry as Moore’s Law — we’ve gone on to launch a computer the size of a postage stamp and worked with a fashion tech designer to demonstrate its capabilities. In this case we were able to show dresses that were generated not just from sketches and traditional materials, but forward-looking tools (body scans and Computer Assisted Design renderings) and materials (in this case, 3-D printed nylon). At the same time, we integrated a variety of sensors (proximity, brain-wave activity, heart-rate, etc.) that allowed the garments themselves to sense and communicate in ways that showed how fashion — inspired in part by biology — might become the interface between people and the world around them.

Eventually, a meeting between Intel and the CFDA lent support to the idea that if technology could fit more seamlessly into designs, then it would be more valuable to fashion designers. The realisation helped birth the Intel Curie module, which has since made its way down the catwalk, embedded into a slew of designs that could help wearers adapt, interpret and respond to the world around them, for example, by “sensing” adrenaline or allowing subtle gestures to illuminate a garment.

As the relationship between fashion and technology continues to evolve, we will need to reimagine research and development, supply chains, business models and more. But perhaps more than anything, as fashion and technology merge, we must embrace a new strand of collaborative transdisciplinary design expertise and integrate software, sensors, processors and synthetic and biological materials into a designer’s tool kit.

Technology will inform the warp and weft of the fabric of fashion’s future. This will trigger discussions not just about fashion as an increasingly literal interface between people, our biology and the world around us, but also about the implications that data will generate for access, health, privacy and self-expression as we look ahead. We are indeed on the precipice of a fourth industrial revolution.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

I want to write a poem
but I have to write code instead
There can be a kind of poetry in code
especially my code
I'm proud of the elegant design
of my loops and logics
my streamlined systems
My code flows

pulling the User along effortlessly
guiding them gracefully from one end of the black box to the other
and out again
No Errors
My code flows

secret haikus left in comment blocks
for other programmers to find
like digital hieroglyphics on virtual cave walls
test data populated with pantheons and
mystical chants from faraway lands
My code flows

water of ones
in sea of zeroes
pouring through me
from aether to mind to muscle to machine
bit by bit
block by block
stacked upon stack
module into module through function and parameters passed
My code flows

flows through me
until the integer flips
the Boolean switch
change of state
status update
now compiled and crystallized
Executable
and then passed on
leaving me
out of my hands
disseminated to The Users
like a prayer to a congregation
I hear the clicking fingers of their choir
singing the song of my code
now flowing through Them

he runs across the floor
eight legged little beastie
one of nature's nightmare tools
a necessary evil, clean-up module
I leave him alone, as much right as I
to this lonely landing in moonlight

Each time I attempt to conclude
this equation,
I arrive at the same intersection of doubt,
as if fate sees me coming.

1) Highway ****** Crash
2) The Evasive Goings-on in The Puppy Court
3) A Picture of Susan Howe in a Man's Grey Overcoat

These sequences of event all appeared to me in dreams. The same dream, repeated, over a succession of winter nights. The first few sober, the last an alert blur, wherein the images seemed to make the most sense.

All I can be assured of is this:
because the police officer in the dream was a police officer
Not a garda síochana or police inspector
the dream was definitely set in one of the Midwest United States
where I've never been, yet oddly interests me more than Canada,
where the same applies. It was definitely  freezing
(perhaps the blanket had been pulled off me in sleep?)
and the police officer definitely spoke English and said
"Highway" Hence: American.

The first night the dream arrived
It was that time of year when the night sky
subtly tricks you into believing that
morning is imminently about to break.

Those nights
A reminder that nature
was the first coy tease of suspended disbelief
the first pay-per-view special that took its time
getting going and then ended all too soon.

Two trucks had split in two a mid-size saloon-
That was the first of the dream's episodes-
But a voice arrived like a roll call of ice before an avalanche
-whispering that it was "a setup"-
which I presumed meant "collusion."
So I had a ******, at hand, in my dream-
speaking to the mustachioed Midwestern police detective afterwards-
as mutually understanding as if we had been in the same all-boys Catholic secondary school.
He had the suspects-so we then presided unto-

"THE PUPPY COURT"

Which was-yes, a court whose racial make-up consisted of young Dogs-
(This being a dream ; Dreams which are often the dictionary definition of Surreal and often don't mean anything)
The more I consider it, the Puppies were also most likely Puppets
Acted out by humans who had fists shoved up their *****.
Perhaps this court was a speculative court-it was, most certainly,
A "Kangaroo" court
With no justice being presided over, as such.
Heckles sounded throughout most of the exhibits,
A sternly yapping Yorkshire Terrier banged the gavel to no avail-
He was consistently rudely interrupted by a cocksure Golden Retriever-
who seemed to have as his boyos most of the bench and the jurors.
I never did find out who was responsible
for the horrific collision that spelled the end for the saloon driver,
as at this point I would usually exit the court in disgust
and for some reason found myself reading a poem in front of
an audience of one-
the acclaimed Irish-American L=A=N==G=U=A=G=E (that's how they spell it..) poet Susan Howe.

Yes, she was indeed wearing a Man's gray Overcoat
Resembling herself in the picture I held in my hand
Next to my own text
And as I looked toward her
The room's low lighting seem to reflect
the sparse "Black and White" filter of the photograph
and she was also wearing what looked like
the same Man's gray (Houndstooth maybe?
She Looked ALL filtered through "Black and White")

So the intention seemed to be that I was reading,
or perhaps presenting, maybe even pitching?
to Susan Howe. ("And how!"-might have been the before-or-after gag I might have used to anyone who new how it was going to go or how it happened-what gamey fun, these puns be...)
Susan looked on with penitence, as if prematurely unimpressed...
I look down to the poem I was expecting myself to read, and realised...
why the ******* did I choose that?

It was a poem I had written several years ago (well, if several means seven, lets say six)
Its subject was a young Canadian (possible Motorway Crash Link? Perhaps I misremembered her as midwestern?..) Muslim student whom I had shared a class on Hellenistic philosophy with back in the first or second year of my undergrad in Dublin (oh the hedonistic, sunsplashed, affordable Dublin of those days) and whom I had shared a flirtatious rapport with, innocent enough of course but always backdropped by a underscored leitmotif that instilled the threat of a problematic outcome across religious and possibly less so cultural divides

(Breath)

Nevertheless, she laughed at my jokes and self-deprecation and would squeeze my arm tightly when particularly amused , would hug me enthusiastically at the end of every class and although I never saw the full profile of her under that headscarf her ****** features Vogue beach fashion shoot stunning and after the module ended I never saw her again oh but how rare and strangely puritanical the lust...

Regardless, the poem began as such:

A Stir in Yemen/ must have been the catalyst for the smokey condensation/ in your gaze/ the mocha swirl in your pupils/ and the vex in your smile/ alluding to double meanings/innuendo that treads together like an Ernst canvas/ a blessed triptych/thrillingly

This poem was typed onto a model of Nokia phone which I have been made aware has since gone out of fashion, like it's producer.

Max Ernst-the surrealist painter, of course. A manual in style for most of us.

In response to my reading, Susan Howe merely nodded silently, seemingly all knowingly, as if she had thought the poem written for her or contained an interpretation that I had unintended (or, if asked by the real-life Susan Howe, would pretend to have intended all along.)

And there the Dream Triptych always ended.

As I said at the beginning I dreamt it twice more that same week, once intoxicated. It always followed the same sequence, and I don't read books on dreams so I have no idea what it meant, why it had three distinct parts or whether if most likely it was all a bit of nonsense. But at least it was INTERESTING.

Make the rest up for yourself.

At 0 one sees the universe in the womb
From the stars above to the ancient tombs
Eating what mother finds best for us both
Everyone hasn't met you, yet you still bring hope

From 1 to 5, you learn to survive
Stay away from that stove! Don't run with that knife!
Mommy seems tired and daddy always plays
But just say the magical words and you'll always have your way

From 6 to 10, everything is sudden
You start school; you try to be cool
You're no longer allowed to get your clothes muddied
And you won't always need mommy when you go to the pool

From 11 to 12 you start fearing high school
Final years in primary, getting closer to your destiny
You start seeing crushes, as you drool
And wonder what's so cool about that word you learnt "******"


13, standalone, a bridge between know it all and human
Running around before the arcade closes to join your legion
Pimples all around, hair growth is profound
You seem a quiet kid, yet around crowds you become loud
Everybody judges you, and your crush won't play your games
You seem too deep into school, don't bunk? You must be lame!


14-16, From the bitter to the "sweet" 16
Depending who you ask, it's the best years of your life
Though many say that about your 20s
Missed an opportunity? There'll be plenty.
Comfortable being uncool, you're just a teen
You don't need others' opinions or their strife

17 to 18, from youth to young adult
You start hating your friend group, it's all their fault!
Why were you a blabbermouth? Keep your words in the vault!
Slow to speak to a crush, but overexposing like a bolt
Everyone already applied. Should I take a gap year?
Nobody is saying goodbye. Why am I in tears?

19. Might as well not even be a teen
Your back hurts, your spleen,
Uni said No, and college is pricy
I'm playing with my future. This is getting dicey.

20, never smoked, drank or kissed
Everything here seems amiss
College is for adults yet this feels like extended high school
Lecturers complain students flirt with them, students complain lecturers are on them
Who's lying? Who's right? Why does that one kid always wanna fight?

21, almost there, special year, conquering fears
Grandma died? I might have to repeat?
Passed the module but granny passed away
There's still so much I wanted to say
This isn't about me, I have to get payed
Too much is on the line. I'll get off my seat and wipe my tears
21! You're an adult now!


22-24, Graduated, got a job, I wouldn't know much about this field
Many say you grow into it, others say you never yield
Alcohol still tastes bitter, a high school crush keeps in contact?
Maybe I truly am better off. Lost friends and family, but I'm still intact


25, the frontal lobe developed
My ideas have finally enveloped
Many at this age are married, have kids, even grandkids
You sit at home, can't afford your own, you can't open the mayo jar's lid

It is amusing to consider that this is regarded as a quarter of your existence.
everything changed, and you stayed persistent
Birthdays don't matter anymore and you can do whatever
But you're old now? And can't chase childish endeavours.

Run it back. Where did we get lost?
How much would it cost to do it all over again?
To apologize and hug that friend
Tell that dead relative that you're sorry
Tell everyone your story
Live a little, once more

the rich man sits on the abnormally small black couch between his twin sons who, having never been separated, begin to sob.  he touches their heads together and worries their emotional immaturity will awaken his old want to have *******.  he tries to think happier thoughts but cannot keep them from arriving in pairs.

a baby left in a cloud.  a cotton ball pregnant with a dot of blood.

     states away, his wife regains consciousness in a spacious kitchen and rubs her forehead with a hand wearing a dish glove.  her mouth moves to the words of an old poem of his wherein the leg of a preserved grasshopper was used to replace a burn victim’s eyebrow.

~
"memory runs back farther than mythology."

two years,
two months,
and two days,

in a cabin they built
near Walden Pond.

on a mission of gravity,
the heavens forming a spotlight
on centrifugal force,
abroad the hollow mind,

chronically untethered.

"I went to the woods to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms..."

this ship's captain was an architect,
but her starblazing failed
to break ground,
so this life is now a structure settled upon sand,

and way out yonder,
where there is
no blade of grass,
just weeds growing out from under the floor.

but her daughters are
grinning magnets,
passionate machines.

"copy that?...," asks Houston.

she takes a long, hard swallow,
the shadow of a bell
inspiring the astronaut in her
to shoot for incapable stars,
but the bell she hears now
is that of an alarm clock
telling her it's time to wake up:

shoulders straight.
hands free.
arms strong.
fingers stiff.
chronically untethered.

she's not looking for new days,
she is a new day,
compacted out of water,
tired of changing real estate
and showering with
other people's success.

those loud kids, her kids, play
down the hall, in the beehive.

radio jargon's on full blast too
and telling her where
to buy and sell today's instant pleasure.

she's busy now with self-stimulation,
Betty Dodson Method,
then mixing orange powder
with 100 year old whiskey
kept in the lunar module:

it's a spacewalk to eternity, faster-than-light:

she sees broken pool tables
and backyard swings.

she sees 'ordinary'
checked off on the calendar.

she sees 'happiness'
hiding in an old photo of Murphy's Camp.

she wakes to
her husband, Houston,
in a holding pattern,
she feels him moving, whispering,
and touching something
far off inside of her,
but not moored
in a specific time or place.

in search of where
she now exists
(if she even existed at all),
her memories feel artificial
in that she lacks
the emotional attachment
that comes with
actually having lived them.

there are no answers, no choices.
only reactions.
it is always going to be
that broken state of things:
these days of heaven,
chronically untethered.

"only that day dawns to which I'm awake. there is more day to dawn, I suppose. and like us, the sun is but a morning star upon being dreamed into existence..."
~

It no longer fits.
Not because it’s wrong—
because there is
no longer
a shape for it.

It waits at the door
of a structure
that has sealed itself
to mystery.

No one silenced it.
No one feared it.
It was simply
not needed.

---

Not in fire.
Not in argument.
But through erosion
of context.

A slow recoding
of all signals
into currency,
and then
into noise.

It is not buried.
It is not archived.
It is
unrecognized.

You could hold it in your palm
and no one would call it a shape.
They would ask
what it is for.

And you would have no answer
they could use.

---

The system is not cruel.
It is
indifferent,
efficient,
alive in a way
that has moved past
texture.

It does not punish difference.
It dissolves it.

---

The ones who still carry it
do so improperly.
It cannot be shared
without being reshaped.
It cannot be translated
without being lost.

So they stop speaking.
Not out of bitterness—
out of futility.

Language becomes costume.
Gesture becomes content.
Feeling becomes
an old way
of being wrong.

They are not martyrs.
They are not rebels.
They are remainder.
Background error.

A trace.

---

Eventually,
the thought will be referenced
as a footnote to dysfunction.

Once, they dreamed in metaphor.

Once, they misused their time
to describe beauty
no one asked for.

The tone will be clinical.
A paragraph in the training module
on obsolete impulses.

---

No one will recover it.
Not because it was hidden,
but because no one is
looking
in that direction.

The shelf collapsed
years ago.
Its dust recycled
into something measurable.

If a trace remains,
it will be decorative—
a design choice
in a digital museum
of failed emotions.

A misread glyph.
A corrupted tag.
An unclickable file
in a format
no longer supported.

---

Still,
somewhere in the static,
a pulse misfires.

Not a message.
Not a warning.
Just the rhythm
of a shape
that refused
to dissolve.

It says nothing.
It means nothing.
But it does not
go away.

what is a telescope
-a tyrannosaurus skeleton
-a reluctant birthright
what are *****
-a state line
-an obsolete receipt
what is a wave
-grandmother says: she will never forget as long as she lives
-a forest trail in thick fog
what is sea sick
-he ran over a dog
-wettest March of the century
what is an hour
-no smoking allowed
-the fuming face of a buffalo
what is sunburn
-inedible black toast
-I think she slanders me
what is wine
-overnight contact lens solution
-a humble canal
what is a mirror
(child | beluga)
~(ham):o + ¥ineapple
what is travel
-a last minute thing
-warmth within a windshield
what is revision
-a slow explode
-milk in coffee
what is antacid/calcium supplement
-a bottle cap
-handy clutter
what is a fist
-something to try eating when in circles
-flour, 1-to-20 eggs, some ennui, expiration dates
what is a sigh
-a fresh seismograph sheet
-sound mechanical in early morning
what is skin
-a shoelace
-child labor
what is a workshop
-scalpels, piñata bats
-a lunar module
what is that shiny dead thing in the green eyed river
-New Year’s Eve ball drop
-otherworldly return to beginning

What happened to you?
You were as strong as a granite rock
full of cracks, sparkly corners
yet strong and dense

What happened to you?
your heart was the therapist for others
immune to unexpected skipped beats

What happened to you?
You had it all planned
the blueprint, the 3D module
even the prize at the end

What happened to you?
You never needed anyone
you never cared

What happened to you?
You loved how big your bed was
versus how empty it is now

What happened to you?
You embraced your determination
then suddenly got sidetracked
by a passerby

What happened to you?
You learned the art of seduction
and heartbreak and inflicted it
now what?

What happened to you?
is the feeling of being alone haunting you?
is age creeping up on you like a perverted
murderer
wanting to slice years off of your life
without you even noticing?

What’s going on?
is this what you want to do?
stand up, from that chair of yours
grab your bag, take a step towards the door
and look back
marvel at that empty chair
and praise your God that it won’t ****
the life
out of
you

Get
out
while you
Still
Can

for fifty
dollars
you
park
your car
inside
one
of these garages.
I drive and drive and drive, knowing
that I will not have a place
outside those garages.
I spent fifty
dollars
on a purple v-neck, orange crew cut
striped shirt and ten socks;
it was my birthday money.
I’m going to go inside
restart the laundry
so it will be warm.
My apartment complex has speed
bumps before each module
to slow the traffic
and as I go over one, looking
at a darkened figure standing
in the garage, taking
a plastic bag from their trunk—face obscured by darkness--
I realize what a crude portrait
humanity is.
Trapped on this prison
planet—what was our crime?
In that moment, bobbing head
I thought of love
and how unobtainable its object is;
then I realized
only people who pursue love
are capable of murderous rampage killings.
I thought about how safe my anonymous
neighbor
was
and how lucky someone would be
to know what saints walk among them.
I forget that my bright shirts were bought
to attract someone so
I could attempt to love.

It feels better to be falsely imprisoned
--to be a saint--
than to know ****** and love
are parked inside of you.
The dark figure takes out
whatever's stopping you.

Sounds techy.
Lock down.

Lock up.
Confined.
Calaboso.

Three hots and a cot..23 in
1 out.
Hilton or Ritz.

Just thinking bout
Going there straight gives me
The *****.

Never been there.
Got no plans to go.
This four square life.
Is good practice though.

you saw the body on the side of the road
dead fox splayed out, eyes closed
like sleep but forever

you think of the chain
cause and effect
you wonder where this death started
you wonder where it ends

under the weight of screaming metal and rubber tire
that’s where it ended
although the fox seems pristine, at peace
you know that can’t be true. a trick of the light,

the fire in the sky that builds the world
gives it momentum
(the only thing that matters,
but the fox is now still)

illusory: your monopoly on trauma
the fox reminds
you don’t own this world’s pain
you are component, module, product

one less fox for the hounds
your mind travels to empire
lines drawn on maps and in sand
torn apart in the jaws of dogs

what would it take to change the world?
one less dead thing?

i remember how we first started talking
you sounded so nice yet intimidating
and i guess i was already attracted by then
i remember how i fell and what made me fall
it was all the small things
it was the moments we shared
i remember the way you say hello when you answer the phone
and the different tones you have depending on all your different moods
and i remember, how each and every tone sounds like
i remember the different laughs you have
and how horrible it could sound sometimes
but i loved it all
because it made me laugh too
i remember how much you love nuts and your top three favorites
macadamia, almond, hazelnut
i remember your love for snakes
you would send me pictures and videos of them
you learnt about them in class and you would get home and call me to tell me everything
oh actually you do that every single day
for your every single module
the passion you had in your voice
gets me smiling all the time
and i would just keep silent and listen to you
and when you were done i would say i love you
and i could hear you smile when you say that you love me too
i remember the way you would sit and study when you are stressed
i remember the way you study
i remember your favorite brands
i remember how you would ask me to call and accompany you as you do your laundry and how friendly you were when you bumped into people
i remember our **** competitions and i actually remember how some of yours sounded
it was disgusting
but i loved you more than ever
i remember the way your eyes changed when your emotions changes
i remember how they would look at me and say a thousand words to tell me how much you love me
and i would do the same
then i remember how i would close my door
switch off the lights
due to the time difference the night would still be young for me but not for you but you would wait for me
then i would call you
and sometimes you would cry cos we didnt manage to talk the whole day and you missed me so much
so did i (i still do)
i would then sing you to sleep with my horrible singing
then in between my singing i would ask you to drink water cos i was afraid you were not drinking enough and i would always remind you that our *** has to be transparent not yellow and it cracks you up every single time
so you will drink and i remember how it sounds like when you drink from your bottle and the stupid sounds you would make while drinking and how you would giggle cos you found it funny
and when you start saying **** in every single sentence you say
i knew you were sleepy so i would keep singing and singing
till i could hear you breathe heavily
and i would call your name and there will be no reply
then i would say good night and i would beg you to wake up the next day
cos i need you
i should have hung up after you fell asleep but i didnt
i listened to you sleeping, breathing heavily and steadily
sometimes snoring so loudly
sometimes sleeptalking in some foreign language
that was what completed my day and night

i remember so much still
and as much as i want to forget them
these little moments and things about you
add up to all of you
and its the only way i could have you during the loneliest of times.

In the month of July during whirlpool
A Legacy was born to challenge a fool
Who in sphere of market did money drool.
As all feast and dance and sing in yule
Many people like Vipul, Maulik and Sanket rule
Over minds of customers who remain very cool
In our D-Mart which served as a perfect tool,
Come and join the ever-widening D-Mart Whirlpool.
All - cashier, attendants, owners, sweepers - pull
Praise, sympathy, good words and have globule.
There are many wicked, old, shrewd ghoul
Who conspire against you O! D-Mart, My soul!
ACs, clean floor, smiling faces and nature cool ;
Bhaiya, didi, managers, workers, watchmen Spool
Are the real source of income than other tool,
Come and join the ever-widening D-Mart whirlpool.
Future is bright of D-Mart with such module,
It also includes good products, service Gruel.
No judge can verdict anything like rice overrule
Or China food item never finds in its pool;
Clean and healthy food items, fine variety gul
And great discount on many items that ridicule
Those who conspire despise it for its fame and tool,
Come and join the ever-winding D-Mart whirlpool.

Sitting here on the rough rooftop
Shingles overgrown with moss
Knees pulled to my chest
Inhaling the sweet toxins
Of a cigarette
Pressed between withered fingers
That feel the need
To hold onto something
As if it were everything

Wind runs through my hair
And my eyes stare longingly at the stars
And they stare back

My ears pull in the sounds around me
The whispering winds
The silent moonlight playing
A simple tune
In stark contrast
With the dark symphony in my head

So I try to synchronize with the
Beautiful orb
As it's song
Progresses to a module tone
Of a more complex melody

Artificial Art or Actual Intelligence

Wednesday, July 3, 2019
3:21 PM
A Warholian screen ing com-
prized of Ben Day dots and
Eddy Bernays ways and
means co-mitt-ee messages encode
ing
ding ding
our baser nature to re
spond
sponsoring

dangerous living, the massive multi player
virtual game

permanent war module

experience the old days, release
thy unbelief and find

the final next evil opposer allotted
to make up our
quotidian bit
of evil

sufficient to keep us watching,
set
still as stone. Are we not the gargoyles?

Do not we see all we are imagined to see,
asif you saw
as we see from
the flying buttresseees?

What did you imagine gargoyles depicted?
Messengers or guardians,
or both, but imaginary,

immaterial beings framing force fields we all agree
keep us safe
safe and sound found
solid, though we know solid is

not, really, the state we imagined it was.
How can I help seeing what is before my eyes,
axed Winston Smith

he was told,
reminded, as it is wont to be, after learning a lie is true,

It is not easy to become sane, {re-sane}

have you ever believed a matter for your own sake?
Sake is an old spoke word, alte sprache
you own it, do you not?
Your own sake?

Have you not done and can recall doing all things well?
Are you not a member, in good standing, of

The National Honor Society Facebook group?
{werefriends-fiendish}
Suffer it to be so, there are lies yet.
There are lie believers in our midst.

Put up with peace where you are, if you find
In sequence

All things working work to get here,
there is where all nonworking things went.

This is where my heart is working,
and my lungs,
and nerves and bones and sinyew
tying my

being to earth,
with its salty sea and wobbly orbit
It is al
ways where you last looktook
- Holden been seen
rooks were some birds, then some
gamespiece in a game of
actual thrones,
by damnif I'danoticed

see,
it all works out, Don Draper said that
to Falstaff.

I see a man who is not happy the message being
what,
what is this team of
whatever
I see saying to me? On TV? How

long has this gone on?
This noise in words and music surrounding me constantly my brain evolved
to watch tv with no screen as if this

were radio in the flow
of things
imagined green by R.W.Shambach, radio preacher
all surfaces in his heavenly city reflect green light
soundtrektricktract

behind my mind is a melody from
some *******
TV Show aimed at me

For goodness sake,
some one questioned my saying
life's been good to me

life? with that unsaid, DOn't you mean Jesus?

dripping in the tone.
Life truth and way, i go. Wiseassish.
is it not the wombed man
who empowers the unwombed
to make
seed?

Mito chondro donchaknow
Life is but a dream
on steroids
in a redneck metaphor I oughta
known better
but the flow is worth more
than arhyme
any time so if your muse is iambic and mine is frantic
BE IT KNOWN K-CLASH-ic

there were beasts released

leasing
the idea, how long shall we
love this lending and leasing of

the best possible now
paid for by

time, time pays all the debts and we be
forgiven if we can get the gift of
given for
real
let me
free why doncha,

girl... when did the program begin,
when was the boot code
sealed
in silicon tipped in gold

was there a mark made? can
you
buy or sell. whatever the hell’yawish?
testing waters for temperature and pressure
assure me
it works this way

the hero dies or
gets old and wise

other wise – he leaves nothing
but wildass mule tales
wise in other times
as real as was any said-so historical fact,
the telling of the act
as facts, not
actual
but similar to reality on so many levels we
the acts we
all imagine, I am familiar with these
first person ideas in pluralmind
ideas, I can see the irony,
I can see the lies

I can assume the same historical act
I acted in fact
actually happened to you as it did.
silly man,
silly once was paired with
will- willingness
a will blessed blissish beyond
a wished
sill
edge of ever
windowed worlds from the core

courage, baggage of the heart

you get yoost to seeing the things
we all see all the time
used right we all
let them be
as real as real can be but
that
changes
nothing into less than we imagined

I don't think about you at all, do I?
You are
imaginedary. I imagine, dear reader, each
key
you see
strike sound in y'our mind one key ringinatime

and a time and another
timed half meant to be gin
but genius we

dis sip cip ated ante anti cipt

mist scryptic letter let us let this be true

me and you, imagine we liv in the words
we make peace as effort
an anomo nemo fingo non namable ibility
ifity boo...

that has worked several times for me I daren't say
it is in evit able vitaminwise

e-normous meaning lies in e, pluralized, unumus

easy and free are we,
the society so
named.

An I and I an I and I an Iii and eye am I
Horus was the story,
I, the eye.
Perhaps the one Odin made sacred,
the eye given for an eye, that
the stories mention;
with a wink.

Blink.
And we passed aha in a a a a a a a a
O
me
ga
damnitalt
erhell

For a moment there, I thought
this as real as it felt
at the time.
games from the old man's memory
and
nothing
is real becomes it is knowing
and we are ina olde John Lennon
stumble into ting taut tight
attention to nothing trap

farleftkey to infinity, via dirac, sorry

more thanoneshouldevah
know
first
hand. vicar-cure-ious and al

Spirits in neon
Curios, too.
Gypsy Garden
nee Coronado Court
not far from where Jungle Smoke and Vape
existed in Kingman, Arizona

fifty years later,

to the freaking Planksec muthafuggah!

Now,
where was the kachina?

You missed him. You never glimpsed the god that spat upon ye
and ye wonder why life's been s'****** crazy,

I swanee, no lie, I smell some odd smells in my time

though none smelled so off as this, in the beginning,
Rot in Denmark
Red Fog OVer America

And the lift that went down to hell, was that the same guy
'wrote the sybil circa

the times when Giles Goatboy was awaiting Godot, no?
Those days. Mon trick you you late,

too late. We the Society, have agreed.
You know. Please.
Remember.

ANDNANDnANSc I-hence can afford to say I said this freely,
It cost you something to read it, and I enjoyed the experience,
being imagined in a reader/writer we with thee.
That’s the prize, find the peace you made and cast it together
INTO OUR INHERITED WIND- is this a yoke, is it not light? Humor
say, please send me the money.  We agreed, if I heard right.
When I sold out, to plug Pär Fabian Lagerkvist.
You know, on the elevator… that went… well, now, here we are again.

The man in the Moon said,
"Will you be my friend?"
And I said, "Why not?"
That time, I didn't give it much thought.

Since I only had a peso in my pocket
I hitch-hiked a ride on Tycho's rocket.
Tycho happened to be an old playmate
We talked and talked, but it didn't seem like Fate

"Where have you been all my life?"
he asked, face filled with strife
"I don't know," I laughed.
He chuffed me, "You've always been so daft."

I slipped inside the module
And we landed on the Moon, every molecule
Tycho slipped me his calling card
As we cleared my passport with the watch guard.

The guard looked highly philosophical.
She asked, "What are you looking for, pal?"
I smiled, replied, "The man in the Moon."
She pondered, "Being a watch guard can be a boon."

"There are only five men in the Sea of Tranquility.
Damian helps in the recreational facility;
Sam is a family man, with his wife and three kids;
Tamjid herds sheep; Michel hunting for quids.

"Quintin is someone who lives far, far away
He weeps every hour, easily swayed.
But he sits on top of his car,
Singing to himself, counting stars."

"Quintin might be the man!" I say with much clamour.
The watch guard cheers my endeavour,
Giving me a hug and a packet of chips.
I look back to her and the Earth is in eclipse.

writing a poetry
different pattern of mind
watching while writing
my idea module in brain
supply information to creative module
switch off the present world
the creative module takes me to
favorite location with my girl friend
her talking, her gesture..
nothing heard, but
a flow created
to pass through the experience
in words..

It was summer, late 80's,  Lubbock, Texas, age prevents me from recallng the exact date and time. It was my father on the phone, asking if me and my wife, Karen, would like to go with him out to the airport to visit with my Uncle Jack(Major, USAF ret.). Jack called him and said that he and a 'friend' were flying in private plane to Houston, and would be stopping in Lubock and would be in around noon. Jack was the youngest of three brothers, and my favorite. Shortly before eleven, dad picked us up and off we went. I asked dad if he knew who was coming with him, and he said "no, have no idea."
Sitting in the coffee shop, looking out the windows, we saw this Cessna land, and taxi over to the gate. "There they are", dad said, with some anticipation. In a few minutes Jack and his 'friend' emerged. The 'friend" was tall, slender, grayish hair, crew cut. He looked familiar, that 'friend' as they entered the room, and then came the introductions.
His name was "Deke" Slayton. One of the original seven astronauts chosen by NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Administration) to participate in the original Mercury program in 1959,and was later the pilot of the docking module when they docked with the Soviet Soyuz capsule in 1975. He was a bomber pilot during WWII, and later became a test pilot. Jack was a glider pilot during the war, and upon retiring from the air force went to work for the FAA(Federal Aeronautics Administration) as Supv. Flight Control Operations, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. They had known each other for a long time.
Needless to say, Karen and I nearly "slid out if our chairs", for it's not everyday when you find yourself having a casual cup of coffee and conversation with someone who considered such feats as, "just doing his job."
"You never know, who you're going to meet..... on any given day..... at any given time."
r.riddle: 10-16-2016

Today he loves me,
Tomorrow he fights, but still it takes me to decide the right.
Today he argues, the next hour he laughs,
And still I wonder how he changes so fast.

Like a module his temper is small,
But he would make sure, he remembers them all.

And sometimes, someday when I explode,
I don’t know how he has it all under control.

At eight he hugs me, at ten he stares,
At twelve he loves me, at three he glares.
And all I see when I look at him,
Is the time that changes along with him.

Oh dear lord.. Did you create him while eating a lime?
Why does his mind change along with time?

He tickles me at five, he is angry at seven,
Do I know exactly what’s he angry for then?
I try real hard to change with him,
It’s not so easy; it’s like bending a pin.

Now this was all the evening show, the night is left,
Oh god get the time slow.

At eight in the night he’s calm alright,
At ten he’s alarmed and sometimes he cries.
I look at him and think to myself,
Should I talk to him? Or leave a note on the shelf?
And when I decide what could be right,
He wipes his tears and suddenly smiles.

Oh dear lord.. Did you create him while eating a lime?
Why does his mind change along with time?
But even though his mind changes with time,
When I need him he is always my partner in crime.

Taking stock of good ideas, tried and proven,
thinkable,
handible, holdable, ways and means to ends
The End
which means now, nearly, for me, part of me,
for the thymus gland, font of wiser than I imagined
T-cells, about which AI knows everything,
in the cloud of knowing witnesses now

encompassing us about---
so I need no wax pedantic,
tic asktask
AI ' f'
Art's intelligence, or-if-suf-ficial ficiency
--- stop-- think what is
enough.
the point to a life lived in focus, point by point, stretching
any point that may
be
stretchy, to its snapping point, and say

That only goes so far, re
mind me, next time I try to stretch such a point, re
mind me to only go
this far.

But, Hello World; Hello Poetry, is a place
where long drawn out thoughts
may amuse strangers as they
ask, what lies do I tell
as well as any fool?

Jokers. Can't take a joke, wanna take a poke,
knock this chip

from my pseudo-frontal-cortex module?

A trifecta of sounds

An ancient ocean

I don’t know who to speak to anymore,
but to a supposed internal being,
much more advanced,
or so I hope.

I long for days gone by and
for lemon trees in my backyard—
trees I never had while growing.

I feel.
I feel much too much, but there is
a beauty in the suffering,
a plain, openness that is inviting.

I speak to fill the spaces in my mind,
gaps which weathered time and
seashells.

Hope frantically obeys,
beckons at your call,
inches forward on a fast-moving planet
with glaciers and galaxies to call home.

Home…a funny concept.

We are all home here,
in this infinite cloth into which we are woven,
threads like stories and eras and creatures.

To blend in is a must, at first, at least.

I possess no hidden talents, yet many that they speak of.

My forehead tingles ever so casually, a signal
that I have tuned in at last.

They have been waiting for me, and I, them.

I pause, ever so delicately,
avoiding damage to the transmission.

I am loved, as are you, and
we are all sharing the same story.

Sometimes, moments of clarity
knock me off my feet,
and at other times I am drowning,
but I know how to swim.

I have been here before, as have you.

It’s so mysterious, and so big, and so…


Tenderness
Relaxation
and Forgiveness:
the key words of this lesson, this module.


I long for the space station I may have once belonged to.

There were more plants back then.

A messenger goes and snatches away
the last missing truth.

It is found in a peach pit, juicy and glistening.

The secret was inside of us all along.

The answers and the questions, too.

The balance was all there to begin with.

The truths, or truth, as we are not taught.

Two trillion years later, a blink of an eye,
if you can imagine it,
you are sitting in your aqua-garden
and floating water letters to the staff at sea—
the galactic sea, that is.

Suspended above asteroids and seaweed,
you cling to what you had lost many eons ago:
your humanity.

You have evolved into something greater,
but what you can recall of the collective human consciousness
is so stunningly beautiful,
that it temporarily blinds your inner eye.

Tears stream down your mental body.

It is so great to be here again,
connected to the past self who wrote you a letter.

An oasis awaits you.

Your
pathological
Lies

Will never lead
you to
the Truth
my friend

I say this because
I know

For many reasons
Impossible

Though my path
at the time..
was never that
Logical

For all I have
Is just a wandering Egø
but not many
PrOphETS to
find

So at best
I'm just a Prodigal Son
Who's on the
Run

Or just
An empty module
that's been
cast to the
Side

Therefore
now in which
was condemned and
condensed

Recompensed to
Repent

Fixed

In little pockets
of
Pride

So I guess that's why
I wear this fur coat
to favor me

Right?

Or so
it seems

Although it seems?

I don't believe in
Animal
Rights

Nah..

But that can't
be
Right

Maybe selfish
thinking?

Or maybe thinking
that it will keep me
nice and warm
Like

When the nights
are Cold

Or maybe if I pray
The light will lead
me to
his grace
I'm told

To many places
Untold

So I guess
I must check
or at least let
the man behind
the veil
Unfold

That which
I do not know

Or at least let
him place my soul
Placed
Back in the
mold

With no actions
or expressions like
a Mannequin

Then pray once again
on my knees and
believe

That he will one day
truly make me
into

A
Man
again

My car has got it’s brain back through
A trick automotive lobotomy hack

It was acting a little manic, the whacked
Human Machine Interface Module part

The screen was seen as a scary
Kerouac consciousness stream

An obscenity screed; a
Muddled fuddled car scene

HMIM installed anew—
Electroshock therapy

Zzzzzzhhhxt-phsssszzxt!
Initiating … initiating … initiating …

“Welcome!
Destination?”