It's Who and What you Know (about them)

We know more about people we've never known than ever before.

Before now, you did not know who you did not know,

and who you knew mattered mainly to you 

and only those who knew you

mattered more.

More than ever 

whatever you think is known. 

They know you 

and know what you think, or think they do.

They do know more than ever, 

not about what they know, but about what others think they know.

They think they know something about whatever, 

and whatever they think they know 

is something to think about. 

The ones that now think they know you, you need not think you know, 

even though they think you know you know them.

Think about how we know more now than ever before

about people

and maybe people are still learning.

Maybe learning 

whatever others think isn't knowing anything.

Knowing anything is better than not knowing what you know.

Is that what people think? I don't know.

You know, without knowing anything about you, 

I bet you know more about me than me...

who knows nothing and nobody 

ever more than ever before.

Painting by Abraham Solomon (1854), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

This way to today

The sun burst forth its light of day

from the desert floor and climbed white-knuckled over 

the frosty rooftops

                                                   beaming a widening smile,

exhaling puffs or clouds 

                      released in a distinct triangular way.

It dawned upon me, 

                                      low lit in golden rays, a sea of 

silver hairs and etched face lines, wisps of cirrus water 

                                       afloat, I am Just

                                       in Time.

Mercurial matters as these at sunrise

the ambience of obvious juncture

                                       enlightenment-the way-

the light leads the I -

Back to the horizon.

Yet again...

This must be the first

genesis

                                                                      Trinity taking the shape of day

like this one, our only Sun.

The Bio

Her tepid clay pigeon pen

Unresembling wings or other flying things

Flows

She strangles its narrow neck, interrogation by noose

                                                            Loops and scratch

lines. Facts. Only the boldest,

                                                            truest statements

apply. Condensed herself in this square space she avoids and

skirts the far edges. Newspaper crisps in the October low sun

and pollen makes her more 

Miss Chevious.

Her plump pinkie smears tracks while the pointer pushes on, blame, and her thumb has its privileged back-

space-deletion is better than insertion.

They want to know-she said-Or do they?

Write a Bio 

or abbreviated autography, They have requested                                                                              do in process…

Theories sound better in white, she writes and smears-

-Eternity in a paragraph-

History at present, is blurry. I have aimed at Life in a picture.  It is coming in-and per-fading, presently-the eye-just passing through.  That she-writes poetry. She lived there, has left -no forwarding ad-dress. She still dwells, not here, not She. 

Miss Chevious. 

Good? He too-with two shoes walks the same line. 

Post-haste. 

Mister Place & B. Gananew

Painting by Florent Joseph Marie Willems [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

mincing

admitted none
wanted other
place people
there looking
harmless wishes
willing luck
superfluously
too much
said thought
corrupt convince
convoluted
diluted solutions
whims words
wasted wanting
none other.
admittedly.

Painting by Wassily Kandinsky, Red Spot II (1921),  [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Page sniffers

There was a time when-
They will say...

From what remains-
We can tell-
Stories.
Ago.

In this time,
Through these
They found each other &
This is how by smell...
Through the ages
sealed between the pages
Vials of hermetic memory...

Though this does not last-
the notes have all but died-
Faintly, there is a sense
only Paper People
remember Reading.


Painting by Paul Cézanne [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Make it Official

-State your Name and Intention-
Do Not mention any affiliations
or become subject to litigation.

Acts of remediation are often post facto
in futility even-ergo, better never
than too late
to instate your Greater Purpose
or your amor fati, by decree of entropy.

You see, if you aim for Truth
untethered to ego
you may move more freely
About.
If motives move
unannounced
they are pronounced
Wrongly.



Photo By Archiwum Ilustracji Ilustrowanego Kuryera Codziennego (corporate author) (National Digital Archives) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

de Hydration

It may be more satisfying for those that attend high school football games or homecoming parades,
who have mini-vans-or now-called-cross-overs-with stick figure families on the back window and are stocked with three cases of Costco bottled waters at any given time-
they must know, despite the number of passengers,
thirst is the same for all of us.

That middle-aged woman that was on the local news who was arrested for breaking and entering a church and sobbing inconsolably, may have been parched,
her lips were chapped and white last night.
The police on the scene were ill-equipped
to serve her,
or protect her
from the ensuing harsh light of day,
offering no peace but handcuffs.
Do not doubt, she will drink today.

The old meth house near the elementary school that had been boarded up after numerous raids was demolished over two years ago but has become overrun with five-foot and rising weeds.
It was finally fenced off and covered with green construction mesh.
That was weeks ago.
Just yesterday they hauled the heaping mounds of green waste away.
Without the water weight, they could carry more.
The kids walking by learn something new.

Water is no longer free.

At any given time, tears help to alleviate
our own weight in water.

That hydration happens in the hypothalamus, and like all mammals, we are merely
menial doodlebugs donning diving rods, lead and led,
most often leading us to empty wells where water once went and today only traces of humidity remain.

The air is sere here,
even those echoes no longer replenish wonder.
The apocalypse asphyxiates us
while we are set on re-repeating, like sheep bleating out and choking on swollen tongues,
panting and naked as wolves we are.
It is no wonder
we are still thirsty.



Painting image credit By "FREREMORPHEUS" (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.