Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Virus and Venom ( Digital and Analog Error Correction Code Multi-space )
Virus and Venom
( Digital and Analog Error Correction Code
L. Edgar Otto 13 May, 2013
The situation space at the moraine of the Green Bay lobe glacial retreat
Deep the waters on the fence of continental divides
the earth shrugs, builds on its scars
Supercooled avalanche carves, creates the waterway all at once where different flora and fauna meet
The soil sprouts if nothing else a crop of stones, all sizes
the winter's frost uplifting them, a sweat to float
For the love of a farm and Millard Fillmore, the Winnebago
keep their land far from prairie and the drift-less area
Mitchner's points of the human terrain researched for a long time coming, I leaving little trace of my days in Mount Simon
No neccessary realities when it comes to shifting light, of Physics or of Poems, paths, places, if our efforts saved
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Footnote: After viewing a lecture by Jerry Apps on his book
For the Love of a Farm PBS 2008, see fb I understand the book is still in print... our university wisdom is at the great divide... L. O.
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L. Edgar Otto 14 May, 2013
The body of being, of wisdom, old things new again, the diorama in motion and the panorama in scope as if St. Origin's model of reincarnated souls; the spirit as specter
a life rented against is own kind of nothingness where all new is the old and perceptions in spin are dragged with it,
each life of whatever degree of awareness, of creativity in its drive as if a purpose or centering has fabulous detail and complexity beyond the lucidity of dreams, and as the universe itself can be imagined condensed into the smallest of time and space, each of us feels, foreshadows, forecasts, forewarns, on prophesies and denials insist, predict, as if individuals or in some collective impose as if our own the genius of the cosmic code greater or within our dreams as we live and view, scry view, its pulsing dance.
The pages of our books of life flayed its finite fish-bone forms before the greater sunlight, surprised with seasons wet or dry, hot or cold so caught off guard as if we can command the weather, unique or copied in arrays on the screen, touched or taking thought to expand it can recreate in its spacial form some printing made flesh in higher dimensions.
Yet such a transcendence, a tethering is still confined in our developing scores of our folksy familiar soundtracks of our dreams. We the inadequate playwrights, chained or holding the umbilical twine, gladiators or lovers not too close or to break apart, become the lusting crowd for blood who judge the lovers hope for fame and freedom, mouth to mouth in dialog in shouts or underwater, embracing or with sharpened knives in hand, so to establish bonds or rank baring the accidents of escalation or the lies that we cannot prove this a promised God-given land and no dark empty faith for the sake of guilt if present and a tug on hearts of shackles to assuage our hearts abundance in a distant kingdom come we not the authors of evil or that turned good on the slogan that the poor are always with us, our universe a joke, its truth the lie.
The volume reaches not the deaf turned up that your hidden feelings make things true for if you think another unworthy that speaks more of you. If the gods shrugg or the earth herself with something in the plot misguided or indifferent so to walk away, the dice cast and after the climax the slow death left awhile to wind down, wide the battlefield after the battles, where death is the journey made alone, for greater awaking we are not ready nor forever known, but our efforts were of all things under heaven and meant well, the most worthy.
Of God and my right, in order and benevolence or of those who wage the cosmic venom, each soul becomes the universe to heed the songs and dance, serve or work for supper, stones in the end our bread, but it is not necessarily born so nor does healing the world need to take time. For we as the universe may awaken with the many of the whole, or one among us unwind it for us all or render it as the emptiest of nights, the snake or spear its need to taste blood or by ritual putting back the demon in the sheaf a token self infliction.
Snake-speares of shallow humor will not long assuage our pains, deny the deeper truths- or times the she lion bitten and blurry eyed goes off into a cave to heal her wounds, repair the pride over those she must abandon for the chance that all survives. Her germ cells sparked into replicas of herself, the clones, by platinum as metal makes fertile, some hidden layers down from the copper bloods, or the old bearded drone with dreams like the photosynthesis in flowers sparked by a single photon of light its many cells so sparking many lovers his marrow and his arrow digesting her joys or sorrows free of thought of tomorrows. And as she takes up, learns to like his songs forgets the lust for gold or that gold reaches its own level grandfathered in they say yet no child yet the grandfather in the warm nest made for them as it starts to eat our brains.
The true creators of verse have this responsibility in freedom and look beyond the message of complex art that anyone could feel or see as great and good as the play takes on a life beyond that taken on by the characters- not to bury us in only a trance of fictions.
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