Machines glitch
6/30/2023 life keeps on living
A Series of Habits Con/Jur/d - unfinished therefore undated Recapitulating, O that’s a nasty big-word habit like the death of so much by the toxin Oxygen recapitulate by being habituated to breathing And then crawling, a gateway to space soon leading to a radical increase in harder stronger habits like walking, running, and perambulation We’re gonna skip sex, not because it’s plebian but because it’s plebian, and like the others it can be addictive leading to humble brags Like, I think I’m a sex addict, or whatever excuse you used to justify your hypo/hyper complexes, traced by Herr Freud and their Disciples, and so what if it's drugs? We exogenate neurochemistry, and attach judgments like bad or a made-up word Of course, as an aside, sotto with a deep and purposeful wink, wink the older we get the more habits they expect us to give up After all, joy is to be rationed, and some of them require a lot more space, they can afford it, after all, so we’re left with impure Heedless habits, and those of you not satisfied with dregs, with a second-hand world, you’re expected to give ‘em all up including breath Soon enough, they’ll all be here, buried, spread thin providing serialized carbon-based addictions to the carbon creatures and those after -- one and one plus one, once we hit three there’s no stopping 10’000 things and more arising.
Turning Words 6/4/2023, Con/Jur/d Whatever you say is too much, dandelions have turned to clovers before you mouth it Yet, everywhere we walk are turning words “Most people Want to serve god in an advisory capacity,” We laugh, yet our way stripped to the absolute, is to treat with the real Not its representations or inherited mediations, we’re so lost, fall leaves have already denied the flower’s holotropic agency And suddenly, denying and interrupting the ‘and then’ motion, out of the sunlight Appears concrete sidewalk ephemera as if to be, it was Awkward, we stumble avoiding chalk erasure preserve, this simple illusion “Die/Live Just Happened”
Much love,
Con/Jur/d, 6/30/2023
PS
Seeing what you want to — on further examination it appears the found poem is:
The Die Line Con/Jur/d & Live/Dead Annonymous "THE DIE LINE Just happened" although what was left to write this poem on grey sidewalk before sun rose below broken street light is best framed anonymously.
Nice offerings!