This would be a :

Creative Poem Page

    O  U   with ya
   hynoglitch
      brainwash itch
   gee-uggeeaulation
     or breasticulatory
  motionary hyno
    twtich
       precisely rythumed
   re-intoned
    and hit or miss.

    Gotta another channel
      yet it's all the same
  little glitchy hypnos
       pounding on my brain.

   

I got issues with that last poem


   Wait, I did this before.

    If you're not in the mood to write
   you aren't in the mood so
why force it except
   that it adds water to the tank
 of things that other people would
   read and what they might want
     to hear except it isn't enlightened
   because it is a different voice
  the guy who is wanting this is
    standing behind with a wipe and
  telling the author to type
    his scree.

   But the author just wants to be free
 forget the chattering urge
     which binds us to our past 
  

  I have issue with this poem,
 it isn't a poem,
     more like a squirmy guy
  not wanting your affections
    who things you do but you don't.
  So what do you do?  buy your bread and eggs
    get in your car
  and go home.

    This is just an 
  exercise in how to get going
      into that 'make a page thing'
   because an interface just
      evolves by doing it
   putting it out there in the real
      world of opposites.
  
    Here we have a seed that we plant
  you worked yourself like a slave all week.
    when did you let the dust settle, or
   have you tried to filter it all away?
     and hearing the things that they don't 
           tell and you won't say
   is there an appositive apperition of
          something real that makes you feel
 so you know about the giant trees that
         always grow on the infinite slopes 
        leading up ward towards the higher
           lands, the place where
     giant rock slides up and breaks the sky.

   When I'm at those high mountain places
     after driving all night in a blizzarding 
               fog
  I've got no sight of what I see in the mind
   of who or where I am at first but then it sees
     how far I let myself go until the
  ordinary becomes confusions?  of
   what am I trying to say?  
   this not reediting . . . this living it now
   with no reset or replay allowed . . .

     Oh, I gotta make me an edit interface
   take away all the gotcha-gliches of 
   fuzzy automatic thought.
  the automatic typist needs his
   edit me please buttons
    so that his muddled mind farts
      aren't left over for eternity to see.

     

   How much fool does the fool poem typer fool
    have to fool around the pool
     of human acceptance to
   words so trite and typed at night?

   Go on fool 
     to your school of mule drewl 
  trail wonder-off-into-it's places of
     barron waste and oversighted land
   buero of land management
      deeds in kind in supplicate to 
   the super trustee, 
        oh who could that be?
    Some don of the lodge?
   a man of some knowl-
                      -edge?

    How many great writes do you know that you
      make it over the top for your
   puttings in of stupidies of 
    Friday morning thoughts
   and having 

     Thursday thoughts on a Saturday

 of the question of
   How to write silence into a novel?


   Real silence,
     the kind that uses not words?

   Best I can think of is something like
   what they use in the 

             Book 
                of 
                    Rev-
                        -elations

  where they say that there was

         Silence in Heaven


      for a half an hour.


   But hey, 
    what if the phone rings?
   you put the book down.
     It says 1/2 an hour.

     you try to be silent, no words
   but words keep coming
     keep trippin you up . . .
   grapping you by the neck
      making you check your stocks
   making you count your money coins. . .

    What is automatic about delete?

  I would say,
      if you asked
        that this piece, this little
    part of 
     what I typed in here
   is a nonsense line, a piece of
      mind pondering of nonsensical quality.
   but not all of it.

   Not all of it is a nonsense of words
  randomly positioned.

  If you talk in opposites
  it is not the same as talking of opposites.

     When you make the meaningless line 
        like something that I typed above
     Maybe you try and correct it but you said
        that this was automatic typing so
       you gotta leave in that crap that shows
           your fallacies of mind
        and later edit it out when the
     final version comes out.

    for the final version.

   terse.
   I look for terse.
   the brain fart isn't terse.
    it is worse, like a scene
  that while hilarious
    should have been left on the gag reel

  Kevin?  Are you listening Kevin?

    Kevin doesn't know about me.
   He is a celuloid fantasy.

   Post
     and reposte
   Tally-ho
    and away . . . well, you know
          how that one go.

    Far away when I used to write
   those little poem thought pieces
     so terse as to be 
 incomprehensibly incorrect
      now if you don't get me
          and that is just how it be, you see?
   But there might be no readers here
          is clear so fear that you are
   broken arrows of painful reconciliation
    form of mental manipulations
   too much caffeene to not be mean.
  I can not hear the sound of the fear of loosing
      you no more 
  waterfalls at the magic place of light and love
    where magic waters are found
              again after aeons
       of desserted waste and waterless 
        voids of stone and mud rock pain
    of light that shows the heat upon the
      lampshade of eternity . . .

     Oh you automatic things because
   I couldn't have dreams last night on account
    of my lacks (even in imagined) and
     my throbbing
        (even if just ordinary)

  

   Angstridden wastes of
   ceiling crak lands lost time agos
      made of wax that melted and fell
   up to the skies of light and love
     where the lints and dusts of the air
   come floating down into the crib of
     hope you let me out of here you sadistic
      mommykill dump me down kid left over

          how it hurts to think like
     that somewhere between thelinon closet
      and my unedited night urges (which
 must be erased)

   for poetic reasons I leave it in, for completeness
    but it is not for her eyes.

  Enter poem and leave your trepidations
   of night sweat thoughts written down
    and locked forever in the google giggle
 light flower love zoom fancy
   random search place of happy yesterbations
    of opposite yesterdays and
   implied fortitudinous yesterscapes
     and yesterbreezes with yesteryears and
   party memories but no more parties.

   so sad.
   
     So hows that solar business going?
    come by someday?  You can leave me a 
   type thought or something, I'd give it away.

   You can leave me at typed thought of
   painful derisive lonely go-away rants
     your broken knee an anchor to your
  broken heart in your lonely beach walking life.

   You were always such a bitch to me.
      I sometimes still miss you.

   Thinking thoughts of who it is that is gone and left
    somehow not wanting contact thats
      OK cause loneliness is not
   the same a solitude.
   
     And if I could be myself with her,
  but I can't,
     cuase she always has to shut off
   my rant
     which is like the deepest part of me
  shallow as I am, this puddle of
    needing to be accepted, 
  compromising myself to be with the 'you', whoever it was.

   reading books titled 'unconditional love' and
 finding out it has to go both ways

    Only that one live that goes both ways is real 
    and we all know Who gives us that.

My little 
E. Fox
   readings of light yesterday
    glad tidings Christian 
  happy-joys

   Taught me to less-formalize the
      way and manner of accepting
   that total immersion into 
  The River of Life
  and how we are one-all, and 
    nothing you can rant can change that.

     So you rant your atheistic
   'you must think like I do' rant
     that there is no <fill in the 
              name    
           of the diety if you dare>


    I don't care.
   If I had no word,
     no words at all to say at all (and
             my redundancy is a poetical
                 a-fle-fru (fru fru))
  double parens on purpose as well.

   If I were the buddah of no words
     up there high on Mt Hozeamean
       Washington St 1956?
     
     I can't be that.
      I don't want to take from him.

    I won't be a leach on his legend.

  No words.  No words of hate or missing.

    Love doesn't need words.
      Hate live with words.

    are these last two lines
  yet another example of why I need the 
    edit feature to work?

Dear readers, sometimes I sing (*all the time) and I am told I can post up some mp3 files so maybe I will do that soon. I want to make sure about the legalities of that and how I can protect my self from the powers that bleed. In any case.