The Left Column
every so often it's good to clean our cabinets cabinets but the doors don't shut the doors don't shut you aren't a poet just because you repeat your self you repeat your self she takes the cash and would give no reciept for you and only her bonded friends can be hired for her required 'mitigation' make sure it's all in tens and twenties.
November 29, 2016
My windmill is tilted tilted, tilting at your windmill is tilted, tilted, tilting at my windmill. My windmill is grinding corn my windmill is toasty warm when the sun in high and the day is long. Out in the river you can see the rocks when the water's low, the day is over, the ferry has made it's long crossing. All of the things she demands her tyranical rants and the money for the car the diamonds, pearls and little furry pets and a constant stream of soda all of it today tomorrow yesterday drive us all away off into the forest "you are the sinner, you not a Vermnotteer you you are the sinner, you. not a Versnooststeer" Yesterday it was broken dreams when some of this made sense all day long he laments his calling gone retrograde, the fence at the edge of the swamp, the fringes of the forest, off in a memory, lost in a long forgotten yesterday suddenly reappears. It's cold there that day though the light was bright the fringes of the field were all grown over by then, it had been left fallow. You would have been pulling a sled or a taboggan and it would have been cold and damp and dangerous but no one would have been scared. There were not thickets then, it's a different memory now when they'd mow it. Cow Weeds and Pig Weeds and Hogweed damage and cortesone and caritgine and vitamins and a fussy coach who was nosy and a far away father, always travelling, and the Winter with knit mittens that didn't work against the cold and snot down his face and snot on the jacket of his coat he didnt' even see it. Didn't think it matter, never thought it was anything, too cold, too lost, where do you live, little boy? Call an officer to find his home. Find a person who can make him feel less alone he's never been to this neighborhood and no body knows who he is. So Duders mohter must have known better, about these things, she called an officer who showed up just like that and he was very large, and the kid was scared a little, like he didn't love cops. So then it was later. I'm walking up that next street, the icey hill, the limosene service pulled up to Mavin's Maidly's house evening delivery liquor and soda. The Christmas lights were on. I never thought of that boy again, lost and bawling frozen tears. Lost boys you really can't follow me home or don't I know how young you really were? Rat out some small child to a welfare profiteers, they'll see it that there's money in it, I can hear the ladies talking. I wasn't knowing what they were saying, about who it were that was being discussed, no one I remember. It wasn't my sled. I don't let strays follow me when I'm wondering through the forest but you can't stop them from doing it when they've got the mind to. Saturday we'd go all the way up that long road, and down the longer hill to the lake all the way around rampaging through the college, all the pretty girls smelling like smiles and giggles and us being young and rathscallion screaming like champians running through the tennis courts disrupting all the girls' games. I could walk out across the frozen lake it would be thin ice over where the river runs into the head of the lake We all knew not to skate over there.
They collect environmental fines to fund their lavishness
these can get you banned from school?!: 🔫 🚀 🚙🚤🚣c🍀⚜⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣🚣 🚣🚣🚣 🚀 🚀🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣 🔨 🚙 🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣 ⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
spinfont unicode-isms 🍀 Praise God! 🍀 🍀⏲⏱⏰⏲⏱🔫⏰⏰⏲⏱🔫⏰⏰🍀 🎠 🎠 🎠 🔫 🔨🔨 🍀 Praise God! 🍀
🚀 🚙🚤🚣c🍀⚜⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣🚣 🚣🚣🚣 🚀 🚀🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣 🔨 🚙 🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣 ⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣 🖐🖐🖑 🖑🖐
Here is today's pretty poem:
🖐 🌙 🖑 🖑🌛 🌜🖐 🖐🖑
♥♥? he blathered: clearly countertative, cause redactical cause redactical cleary countertative. Kanye's not crazy crazy like a fox. Foxes have holes. Birds of the air birds of the air. Foxes have holes. The son of man has no place to call home . . . Kanye is not crazy. crazy, crazy like a fox. Waves of leaves flood the fields and woodslands clearly in need of a snowfall to make it all a happy winter scene, children sleding like from a distant dream. Clearly eve evening evening in Malibu a gracious painter holding a single maple leaf, elegance of form, a painting of many pots that she is selling at auction. You can have it If you bit it bid it win it. Win a tour win a life of touring. Your not Jesus. You have a home. You don't live in a hole. You have a family who wants you to be well. When manic people are often exceptionally creative. Except maybe they can't tell the difference. Eve tweets about her discontents. Kanye remains under observation by millions who really want to know Are you alright? Was that quite a fight? Would you and Eve be OK? Would you buy her painting on a better day? bid it, win it, paint it, show it. If you never try you never learn to walk How could we have learned to fly if no one would ever try? Kanye's not crazy. Eve seems to have a contented life secure enough to tweet about politics. discontented with other people's choices. I hail her, I solute her, if she ever got 'checked in' her people kept it from the press. We are all her people. We wish her well forever. She was a princess amoung princesses, never a flighty queen not ever known for being mean or all agrandized never one put out there to despise. If he never tries, he never flies. Make sense of this with all your ties. If he never tries he never succeeds give up some large part of very many greeds. My painting is all words just glittering I always felt great joy while everybody is painting It was never a competition. get out your box of wax pencils, fill up a page with color. Make sure there aren't any empty spaces. But the empty space stands apart and gives the border to the forms. The forms take shape as effort continues, a poetic form perhaps most vauge of all no rythum to guide you, no color theme, that if you use those materials you can't go wrong, no one beating a drum in time so that the orator knows when to beat the next sylable into the heads of the audiences Kany's ascended the light towers, he's way up high above the stage which is very high already, very high already already very high already and no one had to put him there he didn't need to climb up there. He can't touch the sun, you cna't touch the sun, he knows that he isn't Jesus. Maybe Jesus could go and touch him directly, visit him and calm him and feed him your wine. Love him and cure him. cure me. cure you, the reader, cure Eve cure Donald, cure Hillary. And when you try and understand other people's art they might tell you nothing with their smile. Their twitter feed still shines out, even after they have abandoned it. The sunlight along the ridges, the aspen glow of the late afternoon. The haze and distant cliffs draped in pendant whisps of evaporation, blown along and made into clouds? Or is that a distant forest fire? Upon the ridge, along the Sierra highway, the other travellor knows where the fire burns, someone's ranch, someone fertile vinyard, someone's maple grove, an artist's cottage and a summer's worth of fancy painting. Let's hope that's not really what it is. Race to the stars? Reproduce the master work? How many masterpieces, through out the long ages of mankind have been destroyed by neglect or mallice? HOw many mona lisa's? And even if you see her standing in the sunlight head slightly cocked, to be respected as a talented painter do you notice her own ease and grace and welcoming nature even if she is a skeptic about politics and inclined to let you know how she feels about the news of the world. Shine on, oh life time stars of human novae! 🖐🖑 🖑🖐
glossary of what's next♥♥? :
Be nice to yourself and others. What other choice?
The waste land of your spirit quest hallucinations aren't coins to use to explain away what you delude to be failures of being, your excess, kicking in the door of some strangers SUV at Venice Beach, October 2014. You were out of your mind and being inhuman raving at 'them' about your urges, needs, crappy understanding of society and the wider world wind and waves. But your better now, by now? some time in a rehab for a while? found by someone important? Your better now, and I won't ask about the tats, bars, stars, gang sign markings. Got to go wash? Wash-off your life from yourself? What we have done What we have failed to do. building bridges where there is a river? building bridges and walls, roads, valley town around the roll in the highway,up the mountain, down the mountain up the mountain down the mountainthis must be stealing, you can't wash off who you are. You can't. You can only be born again once it is said get born again. got the message? hang up the phone? Want to experiment with awareness? take a long nap, remove yourself from delusions that the peculiarity of the place that you will create for yourself if you burn off parts of your mind is going to be anything more than just an idiosyncratic virtual delusion Maybe you could wrap it up in stories? Leave them in a box, no body will read them? I'm being a buzz kill? buzzing on means that you land on a flower, for a while, if you were a butterfly and then fly on to the next one. // // Or maybe that is where you'd lay your eggs, if you were a butterfly. You are not a butterfly even if on alkaloids you could think that you were.
♥♥ Praise ♥♥ the ♥♥ Lord ♥♥ !! end of column
The Message Column
Rain. November Rain. It's not snow. It might become . . . black ice. That's dangerous.
Nov 30, 2016
Paddering rain It'll never be the same . . .
what does it matter patter what does it matter patter what does it matter patter what does it matter patter
Shimmering rain running down my window
If I feel like I'm not succeeding does that mean I feel like I'm failing? Introspection. The glare of traffic lights attacks my eyes splashing water on the street outside. If I get it wrong will eternity blame me for being lame? Not wanting thoughts, not agreeing with thoughts isn't the same of never having them. Some things are never real unless you make them real like the woes and rainy day concerns of black ice and all day car ride. Sign here. initial initial "you shouldn't even exist. just pay the fines and we'll stamp your permit. how dare you live with in a world of nuianced existential conflict and expect other people not to be preditary living off of strangers secret vampires.." She's mean, this one. Demons of purpose screaming about environmental causes with a black heart made of mud and living off of extortion of strangers.
how about an excerpt? more like a literary joke. The Blank pageend if excerpt
The existance of existance is rumored throughout the crowd the band plays on their endless song The existential crises of existential crisis were rumored and cataloged by some who weren't dancing but off to the side as observers Finally, there were the exits not just rumors but actual portals to your future off into the cold evening and November rain. But the streets weren't mean, and the rain was cleansing all the crazy flowing down with glitters and colored dies flooding along with all of it, just an hulluciantion? Just the result of best intentions, sincerist prayer? Sincerist prayer calls out to our purpose, and asks, pleads, "can you help us ? Of course you can help us." He helps us.
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murmurs of existential nonsense he downs his beer and saunters out into the wet evening.
Praise Praise Praise the the the Lord Lord Lord! for because Easter He's so awesome! welcome to The Message Column!
content monitor software? Anyone?
Vote Once One Vote here is a fresh link, a new path to some older content: photo pile!
Baby she wants you now . . . cause I don't know what she's got up here sleave she's made it clear that she wants you to leave baby don't want you now
Kafka wrote comedy. Orwell was a pessimist. Depends who you ask.
Imagine if they both could have lived and made it to Los Angeles, post war, and been collaborators on writing romantic screwball comedies for Hollywood. If we search IMDB for movies written by Kafka, or by Orwell, will we find one? I kind of doubt it.
Politics. Aren't we all sick of it by now?
Government should not be a shakedown. Zoning board parasites should not be a single point of shakedown. 'environmental' requirements are used to justify graft to petty tyrrants who burrow into office and then haunt there, like a ghoul, shaking down anyone who wants to do something real, have a home, be their own person. And while they do it, they scold their victims. "There shouldn't even be a house there." A clear case of 'governance' with disdain for the governed. But these zoning board parasites get to live large off of the money collected in the shakedown.
Nov 30, 2016
this was once a poem but now it's just me filling space. This was once a grand soliloquy of a man with a sense of eternity skipping down the page. This was once poetry of a high gauge. And once I thought a while typing all night long I put my drafts on the Internet and some times it's a song this was once a song a poem a dream a roaming rock wants to dance wants to swim in a parade of awesome standing in the late afternoon sunlight of a beach of eternal time passing repeating passing repeating this dream your tan his house that door was lock the window and the wall and the cold wind we were no longer friends this was once a dream of you it had a flavor, like I could smell apples and the day was bright and long ever morning dreaming of you bringing This was once a memory of a song that had been a poem before until someone saw it there, put it to a tune, used it without permission these years of words draining these heartbreak cliche days dreaming day dreaming daze dreaming. The sound of the rain. oh, you literal cliche. he keeps typing enen when he has nothing left to say. Hit enter. My poem hadn't arrived yet the promised poem, that great epic trilogy of hope and pathos coming to awareness of truth and life. It wasn't there yet. It flopped around awhile, the door to the garage had been locked by his uncle and no one would be getting access to the key and then he died. We were left standing while the storm approached out in the rain streaming lightning but it was only a dream in a poem, not even a real dream. His uncle was never ever mean. And if angels scream of sleep at the end of a very long day waiting for parents to let you get in the car and drive away to a place with your bed for the night. No one else will be there then, it will be him alone with his toy tracktors. If you go to his barn you might find a dream he had before he started using that excuse that he makes up over and over like he forgets that you know it was obvious to you you could tell by the mood swings, the dust on his guitar strings, the flat tire on his motor bikes, the bird carcus laying next to the closed window where it had flown against it and died maybe a year before. And driving away you wanted to pretend that you could still sense the glow the hope the promise, that eternal beach in the sun afternoon eternity for ever with you kind of joyous venture the memory of which never goes away. And locked within your jones you'll neer know the way he feels for you, a love that's true. And driving away you know that even though you might never go back there you will always be there. The paradox of that last verse makes sense during the dusk that descends upon the highway and the hills this day was long, the lifetime trip back to you forever condensed into a fraction of hope, by the time I could admit my own failure my tendency was to cut bait on the problem which usually meant being alone When so many were out on the town drinking writing sappy poems about that eternal beach of life somewhere in an old notebook, and confessions of my earlier life when I was such a weasel at times to so many people, not being honest afraid of the blow back the most mendacious generation. But I got better. draft on, crazy typist. Is it cold in here? Is there a draft? Ya, everything on this website.© 2016 © 2017 ©
Praise Praise Praise the the the Lord Lord Lord for his for his for his unfailing unfailing unfailing love! love! love! the poet won the prize for literature! well, nothing more here today.
The Right Column
Here are some karts, built with Blender and Open Source scripts at Game Sculpture. The page is one of my demonstration pages, with inserted images in that, and haven't taken too much time with it and it needs some tweaking.
7:03 AM November 30, 2016
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🌛 Lovers and fighters are often the same
Please visit my DEMOS
Live your life in constant resurrection! ⏲⏱⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰ ~ ; )
Praise the Lord!
I got nothing more
Poem Shards Eulogy I met him in the fog of war after he was already dead his visage in videos speaking dread and how the public is mislead. If only I could have known you before you gave up the ghost to haunt the crossing ferry off to places unknown, an undiscovered . . . virtue. A new country! A new type of people who respect the things that work that ferry churning through the fogs and mists and dank smelling out-gassings of these many foul rethorics spewed plausible no one knows who is sure? Which shore does your ferry pull up to to let out the ghost, so the story goes, the one that gets told . . . better be one that people can hear when their kids are there outside the house at the top of the stair. She can't hear that story if he is but a ghost now she knew him he was her friend and told her how he had been destroyed, remorsed, fallowed, wasted, lost abandoned on the battlefield of soul blow up your fallacies, this war needs to be taken way down inside those dark-thought places where hate channels freely destroy the hate by sending it off to unthought rhyme unspoken words unkind unthought hate. We try not to think of it, what the plausible story can be he's off on that Platsburgh ferry a shroud of fog the mists and fowl outgassings must some how be endured one last time to say good bye, come back to me come back to me you friend now gone and lost never known all hopes of how to write this story . . . his story . . . if he had asked me . . . I'd start the book: "He faked his death to escape . . ." from Unipoems She asked " If you get across can you take this to the King of Nowhere and tell him, plead to him to think of her and the way that she needs him? but he won't come home so she goes out looking for him went down to The Flatiron Building asking anyone wrote a card mailed it home. I imagine her collapsed on a bench people shuffle through she feels the lonely loss why won't he come home? I imagine her. She wrote it like that on her card. But it was all for sympathy, just an expression of her drama and she felt lost because of it and didn't know how to proceed the tricks didn't work with him he'd gotten willful, run off with a different girl who doesn't go to church. Hear the steam whistle of an approaching ferry turning to make a smooth connect. Moving back from the railing and the ropes she notes the impatience of the people at the dock and how the other women really like to talk. the crowd rushes forward have your nickel ready she gets swept along now she is way out there in the ferry out past the jetty. Ferry to Red Bank 1906 🚦 🚧 🚨 🚩 🚪 🚫 🚬 🚭 🚮 🚯 🚰 🚱 🚲 🌛 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥 sometimes there is beauty within the fragments . . . 🌜🌜🌜🌝🌛🌛🌛 Sprongg . . . onng . . . ongg ga Her tired morning seems more like poetry than anything you can find on a blog. Bark Bark. Bark Bark. Tree Bark Bark. Bark Bark. Dog 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥 Woof and woe🌝 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥
who da thought?thought is sequential the end of it is never flood on, river of wise neglect let the bough break let the wind blow removed the baby from that cradle long ago and took him somewhere safe. Thought is over rated when it's thought for being mean to be mean being mean what you mean when you are mean when you 'mean what you say'. Memory is overrated there is joy in the person even when they don't know who you are anymore they still love you they usually don't forget that they love you usually. It was cold that day he'd driven all the way there and plodded through the snow to face the sorrow of his loved-one who didn't remember him but thought him to be someone else as thwarted. Memory is overrated when it's hard hurt of past tragedy as if it happened yesterday from the long ago. Bill Perilli, writer of all of the things on this blog. 🌜🌜🌜🌝🌛🌛🌛