When the wind ripples,
the tides are out of season.
Thanks to vagaries,
aviaries are fully stocked.
Statistics are in this breeze,
turbulence by chance,
by changes.
Throw dice to see
how reality sees itself,
the sun says to the
stars who can see it,
far off,
as a person.
A St. Anselmic challenge:
if god can be considered,
consider what else
might be real?
No, that was
the challenge
to the challenge.
Deity's a matter
of thinking
and growing stitches,
in the side
and otherwise.
The occult,
the spiritual.
Don’t believe it.
And why not?
For the unknown
is strange
without being
magic.
Tithe not
to the bureaucrats
nor to the witches,
nor their entrepreneurial cousins,
the business fish.
Know less
than nothing--
it's better than
nothing.
With confusion and fear
arise the conductive
elements of happiness.
The resistor of
satisfaction has
as many ohms
as it has minutes
of discomfort.
Dreams and expectations
stare down the imagination
and challenge it
to make each come true.
Such could be
the mind's job.
Deny that project!
Those projections!
Better to cavort
in little-understood meadows,
to rest under incomprehensible trees,
and swim in unconceived ponds.
Goals are of apiece
with the aforementioned dreams.
They stream toward
some sweet salinity,
guided by the expectations
of a greater barrier reef,
a heavenly stopping point.
Such is the optimization disease,
literally disease.
Trembling and ease
are neither goals
nor opposites.
Does the mind
wander
or focus
or tunnel?
Does the body
develop
or decay
or flame up?
Each experience cannot
distinguish itself,
even if it is an experience
of comparison.
And linguistic specificity
may call collect,
but its recipients
are disinclined
to accept the charges.
The consciousness is no stream,
it’s a potentate river,
a ruling of passions
twelve inches,
a meter,
a milestone.
Context is the pantheon’s top god,
sitting in the cockpit,
hands on the trigger and yoke.
Weather, of this course,
is a flowing that sets down
its dictates moment by moment,
pictogram-resistant.
The organism considers
itself organized
beyond the sand,
but the sand
is where organization
is from and by
whose transient intransigence
measures its times.
Uncanny, yes, that the beach
should have waited for the tide
until lightning could play the role of moon
by the bay or by the by.
Roman Ryan 