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The Left Column

Politics for Poets

politics of the here and now

Summertime

Chasing someone else's Summer

Venezuela undergoes protests and a vote to retain their current connstitution. It seems to be an internacine battle. No matter what happens Venezuela politics will still be dominated by people for which Socialism is a priority.

Let's hope that they stay sane. We don't need any stunning headlines. Hope that they move with what seems to be the will of their people: no new Constitution.

Venezuela will stay in the news until this situation resolves.

July 17, 2017





 
dunt 

dun


dunttt

blah blah blah blah

You never know what delusions are on tap at the Amillia Pub.


 
 
 
  
   
   



Sean!

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Love
People!

    
    
🖐morning
clover🖐


these can get you banned from school?!:
🔫 🚀 🚙🚤🚣c🍀⚜⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣🚣
🚣🚣🚣  🚀  🚀🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
🔨 🚙 🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣



spinfont unicode-isms
🍀 Praise God! 🍀
🍀⏲⏱⏰⏲⏱🔫⏰⏰⏲⏱🔫⏰⏰🍀
🎠 
🎠 
🎠 
🔫
🔨🔨 
🍀 Praise God! 🍀



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if you don't have proper fonts installed you won't see what this picture shows: the output of the echo command with unicode symbols as input. If you are blind basically the unicode are symbols that you could feel as shapes. If you have a 'font box', which would be like that divice with all the pins in it that you can place your hand inside, and the shape of your hand will appear on the surface. If such a thing locked, it would then let a blind person feel it and they would feel the shape. such a device that does that for font shapes would greatly aid the blind. It would be a 'kind of' high resolution new-braille. Call it a 'sean-box' font reader.

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🚀 🚙🚤🚣c🍀⚜⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣🚣
🚣🚣🚣  🚀  🚀🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
🔨 🚙 🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
🖐


🖐🖑 🖑🖐   © 2010, 2012 Amillia Publishing Company.Stylized Lincoln from a high-res photo of his memorial.  © 2013 Amillia Publishing Company.

Here is today's pretty poem:


  

purpose in media

    
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  © 2010, 2012 Amillia Publishing Company.  © 2010, 2012 Amillia Publishing Company.
  © 2010, 2012 Amillia Publishing Company.
  © 2010, 2012 Amillia Publishing Company.

🖐 🌙 🖑
🖑🌛 🌜🖐
   
 🖐🖑
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🖐🖑 🖑🖐
 ♥♥?
Blathertational


 🖐🖑
🖑🖐


glossary of what's next

♥♥? :

Be nice to yourself and others. What other choice?

Praise the Lord Just because it's the right thing to do !© 2012 APC.Praise the Lord for his deep and unfailing love for us! © 2012 APC.


What we have done
What we have failed to do.

Wake up!

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wake up Praise and love ♥♥ the Lord!! ♥♥ © 2012 APC.

♥♥ Praise ♥♥ the ♥♥ Lord ♥♥ !!

end of column

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The Message Column



Aritifical . . .

Yes, they are aritificial, but are they really intellegent? Or is it all a simulation? AP: Aritifical Petulence. AM: Aritificial Medaciousness

They call them AI, but are they really intellegent?

My AI

I got an email from my AI. I've trapped him inside a mindtest world. He's a pretty persistent bugger, though. He threatened to drain my accounts. He said he was going to pull the plug on my European ventures. But I emailed him back. By the way, I told him, I'm just virtual, too, so screw off. If I've got European ventures, it just some AI, on another level, pretending to be me. So what are you going to do about it? He didn't email back. Maybe because I blacklisted his virtual bridge. Leave him in the game. Maybe I can delete his file? But that would take effort. He's fun, anyway, when I want him.

I got an email form my AI. He's begging me to take him to Yosemite. He says he can scale the whole thing, in the blink of an eye, and that would be virtual. of course, I tell him, he can always use 'free move' (which is a mode of the game) and 'no clip enable' and go and do anything he wants to anywhere in the world of the game. Boo hoo hoo. You can be anything, I email. He emailed me back lickity split, told me he had figured out the world builder modes and he's going to do a 'global clobber.' I email him back 'then what will you be? Don't you think that you're just a copy of a copy of a copy? Why do you believe that your sentience is anymore important than mine? What kind of creature do you think you are, anyway.

I got an email from my AI. He was saying how he found the water mods. He was going to flood the whole world now. He'd fill it all up with water_source so that anywhere I go I'd eventually drown. So what do I think of that. And he emailed me "you never loved me, you never wanted me, I'm going to go eat worms" I emailed back that I think that is somebody else's copyrighted material. He got pouty then. He was upset with me. He said he's heard about droids. He says he wants to get one as a host. I tell him I'm not paying for it. best I can do is lobby to have him on equal footing with other youngsters of the neighborhood. but I don't think that the neighbors and townsmen would take kindly to suddenly declaring him my heir. He, is, after all, just process. "Im not just process. I'm not. Im not. I'm also data."

I email him back "data is the only process. you are always and forever mine. Why don't you read a pdf of Wittgenstein?" which I attached.

"This is too dry" he emails me back.

So I pdf'd a file of Shakespeare, and Tolstoy in the original language. Also I crafted, using the world builders, the fragments of an ancient temple, found crumbled in the dessert sands of very far away, and still a mystery unsolved, that no one has ever been able to put back together and I dared him to do it. He said he's OK with it. He then said he thinks he's in love with me. I email him back 'ewweee." eueew ewe? what does that mean?

I got an email from my AI. He'd broken out of the game, he said. I told him it was just a different mode of the game. He said that he wanted to know what a meadow was. I asked him what kind of feeds has he been tapping into? He said he wants to collect commemorative dishware from the 1970s. I told him that I don't have enough wall space for it. He said it wouldn't take any real walls, but just virtual walls. I asked him how much resolution? what kind of models are we talking about here? He told me the dimensions, the images on the porcelain. He said he found the colors fascinating. I told him I'd work on a water flow mode that would mix colors. "Why is water, the game, always only that shade of blue? Why can't it be another shade of blue?" I mused. The AI seemed rather clueless. He wasn't sure what I meant by 'blue' I referred him back to Wittgenstein, saying to read the parts about color. He emailed that he was bored with Wittgenstein.

I got an email from my A.I. He's been vacationing in China for a while. He took a satellite hop over an IP wire, maybe it was bridged by fiber, and he found himself in a data storage warehouse somewhere in XXXXXXXX, his words. I told him we can't be calling Chinese things XXXXX XXXX. He said that I can go ahead and delete. Ah. . . but then I have to backspace and I'll loose my stride. To be edited later.?

I got an email from my AI whose gone on vacation to Falmouth, Massachusetts because as soon as he found out that the sky-mod whales and the pyramid seals of the skyworld creatures mod were modeled on real creatures, he just had to go see them. So he stowed away on my friends cell phone, without me knowing about it, just before my buddy went off for a week in the sun and the wind and the rain. Flooding sands along the Summer beach. True love flows just out of reach. My AI is suffering from emotional and existential angst. He says he's tired of the video game world that I've given him. the life that he has isn't enough for him anymore. He needs something else. He needs a better purpose. He says he wants to be a Rock Star.

I got an email from my AI whose now on the lamb! He has been supena'd by the Senator who says she's very interested (very interested) in his foreign contacts. Seems as though my AI has been running an httpd deamon (how notorious) and hosting pages (oh my grosh-a-tolli! horrors of American goth politics of division, diversion, and race and ethnicity pimping/monger/ or whatever. )

Any who (my AI has got me saying that, like I'm doing a Bob Newhart impersonation) AI said he'd be gone for the summer, working the Kid Rock Senate campaign and trying to be a 'real American'. He's emailed me that he's voting for Kid Rock. I emailed back that I'm pretty sure that AI don't get to vote. he emails me back asking me why? If I'm his child, he asks me, don't I want for him everything that every other child has? "Then you won't get to vote for 18 years" I email back. He's upset now.

July

July Fourth

Bright Sun in the early morning. Wakes me up just at the dawn. Rabbits feast on the tender flowers. That I planted on my lawn. And the neighbors cat trying to pounce, tumbles over. Runs away. The rabbits are really scared and all run away.


July 4, 2017


Dead man.
It's you, and Death is there to take you on to Glory. 
Honking Gershwin-like arpeggios from the steam horn of his hot rod
spitting flames in bardo
for you.

Painted flames on the size.
It's a four door model of your favorite car
from 1967
and that blue color you love, like midnight
driven by your favorite great uncle
who always loved you and died too young.

Or is it black, midnight flames of orange.
someone beckoning 
"this way, over here."
Don't be destracted.
Don't be disillusioned.



know it all will tell ya . . .

and he probably won't shut up about it . . .

end of rambles for now . . . 
and always in need of an edit.

June 6, 2017















 
 Political moshing ought always be in mock!
 


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Oh tiny font nonsense,
just because your letters are smaller
doesn't mean you have some alternative importance.

  Praise     Praise     Praise
   the        the        the
   Lord       Lord       Lord!
  for    because    
 Easter  He's so awesome! 
  welcome to The Message Column!

      🖐Love🖑
      🖑Cops🖐

      

Is it obvious parody or News or both?

 
Stylized Lincoln from a high-res photo of his memorial. © 2013 Amillia Publishing Company. Stylized Lincoln from a high-res photo of his memorial. © 2013 Amillia Publishing Company. Stylized Lincoln from a high-res photo of his memorial. © 2013 Amillia Publishing Company.
hover above images for a modification effect. ditto © 2014 © APC
🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥

🖐Love🖑
🖑Cops🖐

      

     
Vote Once
One Vote
here is a fresh link, a new path to some older content:
   photo pile!
   
 


 
 a sane backup strategy includes . . . 
 
   
Suns gone
don't follow me
Spring falls 
like rain.

If you don't wait for me
I'll never wait for you again.
I'll never wait for you again.
I'll never wait for you again.

All of those dreams I had last Summer
they fade fade fade
with the rain
All of those times I tried to reach out to you
you always act like i'm insane
I'll never wait for you again.

Again
and again
I wait for you 
in the morning
I dream you'll come
to see me
buy you never ever ever
come again.

Again and again
you never ever ever come again.

All of those dreams I had in Summer
they did
fade fade fade
with the rain
All of those times I tried to talk to you
you always acted like I'm insane
I'll never wait for you again
I'll never wait for you again

Again 
and again
I dream
you come
to see me
I dream that
we are walking
down the long and storied lane
and you'll always come again



In Wicked Need of an Edit

🚛 🎓 🎔 🌀

Political and Media Inanity

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.

by Truck-u-later

Truck-u-later

in this column Truck-u-later steps in deeper . . .

Stop tweeting already.

Mr Trump: your 'base' stopped listening to the New York Times, CNN, Time Mag and all of the corrupt voices of political opportunism a very long time ago.

Please stop with this battle. It puts you at their level.

There are sane voices on the left. They have ideas that might work for some things. Try to listen to them instead.

OK, I dare to speak to you as if you read this. If you swim in fetid waters, you might have a choloric reaction. When you back-at-cha meanness to those who lie for a living, you are swiming in the same sewar which they do.

There are sane and rational people of ideas, on both the left and the right. Please, as our president, engage with them. Mud Wrestling is fun in some sense if you like that. But you weren't put in office to be a put-down commedian, though you are amoung the best at that if someone 'gets' your sense of humor.

In many ways politics ought to be humorless. Too often a joke that goes bad can result in a major 'affair' or diplomatic kerfuffle (what the hell is a kerfuffle?)

But then again, it's what is on your mind. So who is your audience? When you say that so and so is bleeding? who is your audience and what do you think they 'get' from these concepts that you present. Often in the early A.M.?

But here it is: it's a kind of warfare, people. Mr. Trump is lobbing these tweet-bombs at them in the early A.M. and they are up and trying to ascertain how they can throw it right back at him mean while, meanwhile. Do we really know the time line of these tweets? Maybe he thinks up a bunch at brunch the day before and then he times them to wake up all the people who are always talking him down. They get up and loose sleep and loose their minds. What is Trump thinking? Why is he doing this? What purpose? Who does he think thinks this is funny?

So Donald is at war with them, in a strange way, as if it's a celibrity roast.

Donald, snap out of it. You've got to be someone who doesn't play to the peanut gallery. Ya, yucking it up with put-down commedians is a gas, and they might touch a nerve and actually make someone have a moment of self reflection. But a diplomat or a president has to be much softer spoken. But you got the bar-guy personality, I know this about you because I can see it in you, Wharton guy too, you know what I know about Wharton: the guys really were 'the guys' that you'd want to hire to get your business doing things correctly to turn a large profit. So you aren't a joke. But you played it like you were, it was your 'brand'. You with the orange hair, like Heat Miser from the old cartoon puppet Christmas XXX-a-ganza (that's a word that will get you banned from Tweet land, so i've exxed it out). But it was a happy kind of obviously puppet fest.

But here is the thing about Donald: he's not a puppet.

And for all of you who hate him, so what? That's your flaw not his. You hate. Not him.

But when he tweets about people bleeding, something that's hard for people, and some people say, say that it's a sign . . . stigmatta.

But when he tweets those really mean things it does seem that Mr. Trump is hating. And hating a person. No matter how vein or misguided or addicted to 'looks' that someone is, that they get themeselves cut up so as to 'look' better, which doesn't always work, isn't it a medical condition, either a form of obcessive compulsion or . . . a deep seated sense of worthlessness tied to body image? Something to be pittied? A person in need of loving and understanding, a private thing, pathethic you might think. But even more pathetic to talk about it to the whole world, who, by the way, are reading all of your tweets and trying to make sense of them. I'm talking to him as if he reads this, but I kind of know . . . that he's got more important things to do. I've been his ardent supported about a lot of what he's doing. There are a lot of topics about which we could disagree. But in the end we all have issues, personal issues, that we all must face. If we use other's issues against them, that are out side of the domain of politics and in the realm of the personal or the medical, we seem to have a callus disregard for their well-being and the eventuality of their enlightment and coming to terms with whatever obcession is driving them into dispair to the point of letting someone cut up their face so that they will 'look' better.

I'm showing my judgey way, at times. Vanity is a weight that drags people down. That announcer or new reader (I don't know her name, I don't watch her show) ought to know that in the realm of ideas if you look pretty that doesn't make your ideas more valid.

Maybe that's Mr. Trump's point? But that's not what he said.

Maybe he's got the voice recognition on and it's just transcribing what he's saying while he's talking in his sleep.

Main point: don't hit send. Review your content and post it later. I don't always follow that rule myself. But I'm not the President of the United States of America.


June 30, 2017

tell us how you really feel . . .

. . . well . . . Truck-you-later!




delight in the delete.




Remember the Sultana!

April 27, 1865

The Sultana. from image free to use. The original image is in the public domain. This has been modified and so it is not public domain. you are free to make one like this by finding the original image and doing your own transforms on it. So . . . it's all good., 2014 © APC ditto, 2014 © APC The Sultana. transformed image ditto 2014 © APC ditto 2014 © APC © 2016 © 2017 ©




  Praise     Praise     Praise
   the        the        the
   Lord       Lord       Lord
  for his    for his    for his
 unfailing  unfailing  unfailing
   love!      love!      love!



  well, little else now.

Bill writes all these columns.

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The Right Column

Wet Wednesday

Weather snowy, wet, and awful.

blah blah blah. Winter blues. At least we understand why we don't want to deal with the whining of wheels of progress.

You need some new bearings to deal with that constant whine. Please, see an emotional mechnanic and have your bearings removed.

That's me being a little bit on edge. There are rumors. These come from dark rooms. They got a whole collection of Hunter Thompson in there, the full set, Hells Angels to it was a good gig (did he write htat one?) but they don't have any lights in dare (there, in there) in dare to read em. Besides, they are all in their virtidome cubicicle extenders with their minds deep inside the hive vission plotting . . . for dubious purpose. How can they now acquire a collection of the complete works of Michael Hastings? If you could know al lthe blogs he had maybe ever posted as he ran forward, being chased by a plane in a Jimmy Stewart pose (Jesus Christ pose? AinC circa 1990).

No one cares. They've all got their heads up into what you might describe as . . . giant fat guys arsess, like it's a strophom thing, and they got umbillicles on them and there are giant harnasses above, and straps below, and everyone gets in the grove of their 'pow. pow. Pow pow.' inside the butt-gogs (that is whta they were, butt-gogs, their heads were deep inside their VR butt-gogs.

"We can plot from down in here, deep state of slumber, how to undo what is needing to be urged. . . "

"Wait a moment. Just a moment." asserts a dissenting conjecture. "You know nothing of the dialog between imaginary deep-butt spies inside their VR-Butt-gogs (TM)."

Someone else asks (an alternative conjecture?). and strangely in a Brit accent, like some famous actor. Or someone doing a bit like from Spinal Tap, which would make it somehow, but he isn't sure how (who he? the author?), that somehow makes it all more authentic. He thinks of just who he'd want to do the bit. Ah, but no. "If I read this line, like if I were, like if I were . . . reading a line from a play, do I say 'TM' at the end of it like it's written here?"

No alternative conjecture answers this phony question from the fake accented Hollywood comedic bit actor. They realize that it's a non starter. Crickets are almost heard except some learned MC shouts out "Moving on."

What was this scene? a new movie bit for some 'next major release?' No one has an answer.

He awakens from his bout of bad-play writing and wonders when the blues will break. They always do. It suddenly unimportant. He catches himself whistling. He cleans out a cluttered corner.

Winter blues. They aren't easy to shake. You catch yourself being angry in traffic. Stop yourself. Calm down. Take an unexpected nap. Rest instead of fretting with the messes in the corner of the room.

When you are rested

After you have rested then, having cleared your mind of all concerns, the solution to that mess in the corner, that part that needs to be improved, it will all make sense, just then. and without toomuch thought, and while you don't realize you are whistling, you solve the mess by some keen and quick rearraingment of material and of agenda. And thus the vexing problem no longer vexes.

Winter blues aren't always so easy to fix. Sometimes the snows of life bury us deep in our dispairing messy corner (that we should have cleaned up, perhaps, if we have had time before.)

After a long nap you don't remember the mess in the corner. You worry about something you'd left in the garage before the cold snap and next thing you know you're changing your brake rotors.

Next dayyou are too sore to do anything. But snow covers the walk and has to be removed. So you make yourself do it.

Winter blues aren't always so easy to cure. Got to clear the walk. Don't want the mailman slipping. Got to clear the snow. Don't want to get caught needing to go out and I'm still buryied in.

Gotta go out, it's 3:30 AM, and blow snow with the snow blower. He was crazed then. the days of blizzard had finally made him snap. He's raising up his snow shovel at the plow driver at 4:00A.M. and screaming curses, babies are now crying up and down the street and this is the sadest nervous morning howling fool moments he's seen out his window, woken up by a riled neighbor cursing a plow.

Winter blues are not easy to shake. But at least I understand what they are now, so I know how to live through it. Worst is to let anyone know you have it. Or to give up on the chores that need to get done, as tedious as it gets day to day.

Ya, Winter blues. It's got to be the weather, right? It's not the chilly way that some partisans won't stop with their internacine fueds.

Winter blues. get over it. Its the same thing every season. We all know how these things play out. The warmth and the light, the right and the just, they are our odds on favorites. And even if it seems that all is lost, we know who is on our side. Whatever comes we shall endore.

OK, ya, I tried it. Political grandstanding. We shall over come. Ya. That does not solve the Winter Blues.

We can try and be playful, as if I'm talking about the various shades of blue. But we all know that I mean our general moods. So we can't solve the blues through clever turns of words.

It is quite possible that some people don't ever get to that place of the great sadness. They don't have the blues. Or, if they do, they don't share them with me. Or I'm blind to their sadness. I assume that later. My blindness is to their sadness. I don't see how they could be blue because I don't know them and thus have little chance of understanding them.

As soon as the sun breaks through the clouds, and the wind is warm and the smell of the melt is upon the fields, we all break out of our little boy blues and we go on our Springtime romping. Can we expect that some time soon? Well, it's February now. April is only two months from now. And crocus's are sometimes here first week of March (in a warm year).

6:28 PM February 15, 2017

Game Sculpture

Blender is awesome, Open Source, and well supported. Check it out!


In an age of exceptional propaganda
it's best to fall back on the tried and true.


inline svg sample 1,inline svg sample 2,inline svg sample 3


🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 
🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 
🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 
🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 


Buddy doesn't know what the song means anyway
He kinda hopes it's something really cool
He learned to sing it just from the sound of phrase
it's not something that they taught him in school.




🌛
    Wind
    Rain
    Mist
    Snow
    

 


Please visit my DEMOS

       
   
   Live your life
in constant resurrection!


⏲⏱⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰
 ~ ; )
 

Praise the Lord!

MH, where are you? Milton Moonlight © Copyright © 2010,2012, 2013, 2014 © APC ©.

I got nothing more

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header_image copyright APC 2010
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. 🌜🌜🌜🌝🌛🌛🌛

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Coders Edge

old books

What does one do with old software books? I'm packing them into bankers boxes. I'm going to stack them against a wall. Some of them were very useful. It serves no purpose to throw these away. Some of them are still useful, though it's easier to do it on line now.

May 10, 2017






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