Transceivers in the Hot-spot Clouds Perceptions and Projections in a Chinese Room

Transceivers in the Hot-spot Clouds
Perceptions and Projections in a Chinese Room

L. Edgar Otto  24 March, 2013    01:38:06 PM

Within or outside the black box of a Chinese room the paradox moves with power in its spirit of timeless persistence.  This ball of light and lightning made of symmetry's, Cheshire grins of quantum cats, left and right our form projected or detected a Great Soul in the sky, and the bounded imagination discerning the faces on Mars.

At the beginning or the end, outside them both, we try to distinguish the cosmic message, caught in its paradox yet
go with the flow as if our own hands lead us or from beyond our chance path and choices, new poetry beyond the source
The spirit of triune space made flesh in flatland as the Sky becomes the land, land the wider depth of sky, our pointless question the only one worth points, missed whole the why?

We great apes crave finger paint more than food, eat not knowing how fine or uniquely unified chopsticks, metal forks

Stone age ax makers of their day pushed aside with the age of steam rollers as carbon meets steel
Promiscuous lovers in the nebulae not understood their paths
star-crossed soul-mates written in the stars chance encounters nothing in love not first found in the lust, in lust not awakening into the bonds of love, defibilations and electrocutions, chemical lobotomies where jumbled memories must return someday despite the scattered ashes from the urn

Long the recovery of old forests from new growth to burn as reason like a pendulum turns on end in times of gleanings, toxins.  Empires made with gold or even silver, the copper knights of Solomon expand the seeds said chosen, pass on, escape the slaves to milk and honey promised lands as the drought turns to desert in Dixieland, and we giant bacterium
leaving veins or marks, hovering shrimp over volcanic jets up from the sea but not too close our heat sensitive eyes spreading forth in the bounded universal sea as our we tighten our belts of rust and blurring Bibles depleted soils skyscrapers leveled, corrupted, old the olive oil caliphate back to the many-world of many-wives before the chaos and no return to golden ages of holy Etruscan's carving runes half serious march, revolutionary reels, spring into June

Is it not enough the bank always wins?  Must it take the last nickel and dime of capital our long learning curve worked hard for?  Retired or recycled the irradiated gold wires anomalies of evil axes, a hole in the Bikini atoll our treasures caught somewhere between our myths of Earth and Heaven.

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