it's Saturday

11/9/2024 and instead of recovering, planning mischief, we're inside writing poetry for you;!

She misheard us this morning and thought we said — green eggs — we made it happen

WE LIED ON THE CLICKBAIT HEADER — THE WRITING POETRY WAS FOR US — ALTHOUGH WE HOPE YOU ENJOY IT TOO

surpasses understanding
Con/Jur/d, 11/9/2024

“Because there was great upheaval in his realm
Hsuan Tsung finally fled to Shu” these days, no reason

to not ‘look it up,’ ignorance is now codified, drowned beneath
wave after wave

                          poor metaphor, since it is increasingly harder
to break our character armor as the old pervert Wilhelm Reich
would have said, if the beast America, America! would have 
given him
               a chance

                this hard shell, the calcified pineal gland, the changes
in synchondrosis, combined with the rush to be someone, to self-

define, before the system labels and categorizes us, feeds us to
big data sets, prevents, as Bruce  said, “to flow like 
                                                                 water,” 
rather than drowning, 
the waves are covered, like a
‘wreckage of boats,’(an Anthropocene fleet’) after a hurricane, tiled 
one atop another un-

‘til, 
‘til, 
‘til, we are parched, more likely to die of thirst than drowning

THAT’S NOT CORRECT

we forgot waterboarding, sigh -- returning to the original statement
Seems like we’re the kind of people who fantasize about running-

away, but we’ll do just about anything to not be Hsuan Tsung, we’ve
outsourced the running, bought the gym memberships we don’t use
and we’ll sit still in a burning house, hoping somebody else will do
for us what once we had to do for ourselves

                                                                      how else do you explain

bulldozers over bodies, guns on the walls, in the streets, wielded by
those sworn to protect, who instead
                         survive, root out difference

follow orders, like the mathematically inclined who won’t gamble, play
the lotto, and look down on us who still believe Shango punishes by

lightning, (a treeless golf course in Texas is a good place
to run, before the clouds piled high against horizon, roiling 
press the downpour 
against your pantomime of steadiness, club raised
symbolic defiance)

                                                                              who don’t get, t
certainty is a false bulwark, 
a folly moat separating the truth, this improbable singular
                                                                                          exit

the miraculous door out of incomprehensible eternity, out of an
infinitude of space, allowing us to exist, surpasses understanding

no matter how we move, how we still, no matter how many times we
                                         are hit 
                                                    no matter the coruscation or the dark
                                                                     which descends            or
                                                                        how many chances

this is it
and we’ll never know
                                                                                            what it is.

WELL I’M GETTING AN AMERICANO — HOW FAR SHOULD I GO?

SMILE!

Much love,

Con/Jur/d, 11/9/2024