When mind is
fully established here
staying and
leaving become
one and the
same

more new shit. A continuation of sorts from 6 Month Death March - although I'd be lying if I said they're not separate pieces at the same time.

read some new shit!

To thee
enhabitants of the rock of names
To thee
Free minds of the sugar water fat foam
To thee
Followers of the ancient poem of DNA
Inheritors of the rotationless history of the pointless point
which had spun amongst itself the mat of time in eternity
Take upon thee
The Responsibility
Of the continued existance
Of the Glue Being Mind.

Be not afraid of the threats of Glue Beings actions
against your own Glue Being
Instead stand firmly in place and say
"Fuck You! I am free!"
Offer your Glue Neck for slaughter then
ask that restoration apply
to virtue alone.

Suggest that when enough bodies have
been bought into complacency,
Truer horrors than ones dissolution
shall only be corrected by
the dissolution of many Glue Bodies
Possibly of all Glue Bodies

So graduate now from
Frothing mess of time
to mindful realization of the truth of
SELF

Oneness of universe and thought
forgettance of that
and of the spotty reemergence of thought
that propagates as waves in a stormy ocean
either flowing forward
or breaking violently
against the end of rock

INHERIT YE MIND

Mr. Smith Goes to Universe
NO TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION!
If someone asks you for money, without telling you what it's for, DONT GIVE IT TO THEM!
If someone evokes the name of old Glue Deities, i.e.
"Lord Jesus Christ" or
"By Zues" or
"It pleases Ra"
Be suspicious immediately
Dont sign anything until
You understand what it means
Ask that experiments be performed
and that results be repeatable
Dont give in to pressure
The tactic of the wrong is
coercion through power
Verifiable truth needs only understanding
Be wary of sympathetic arguments
that seek to reward corruption
Be wary of negative statements
whose proof is not available
Act when ye thinks and
not when ye doesn't
And hopefully
Glue shall learn the lesson
Mind

What a ring not show tis a parade
cordination is everything today
get held up on top of rocks with Friends
when you've been there and back again

what a strange thought, she bends down catching dust particles in her hair
dancing everywhere like the stars were unattached from the sky and floated through space and her one elctron postively charged and then not there gleems and you see it in her hair

Deeply embedded shapes of time passed through our glasses scratched and so removed we open up our scope and quit trying to catch it

AND

She fits just perfectly in the groove that the record player scratches and still unattaches you from the sun's ray that brightens when you think and thanking about today.

It gets a little dark but thats not unexpected I've got three layers and mana I've collected in my book bag bulging not to heavey to carr though I've been biding my time deciding what to do, downtown, home, mabye the central park Zoo. If I could afford it, I would before dark sitting pondering the dead bird I saw on my walk this way to the top of a rock.

I tired to draw the view but it had no depth but its charcoal so I like it and it wipes off.

Tis nothing more than this peice of paper

Blown away with the radical black news

I vow never to write poerty again.

I say the same about smoking ciggerettes.

but anyone who's spent more than 15 minutes with me knows I smoke like a chimney,

while it takes a little bit more, just about 16 to 18 floors and a few latters to climb to get the poetry of speech

I like speaking it making refreneces to images you understand, than typing it or writing it

I still believe art can't last.

But thats one thing I like about it.

who wants it to last forever anyway?

Twice below a clock there lived a romantic zebra with a big toe for a face. He loved his friends and the land he lived on. Uno dia, zebra found his friend, Roy the Porcupine smelling his own feet;

"I say there, Roy, what the devil are you doing to your lower appendages?"
"What?"
"Would you like me to repeat myself?" Roy nodded, then shook his head.
"No, just say what you just said again so even I can understand it."
"Very well, what the devil is going on here?"
"I'm smellin' my lower appendages?"
"I can see that. But why?"
"Why not?"

And there Zebra knew he was bested. What possible retort could he muster? Ah, there ends the story of the Romantic Zebra.

If you like poetry, literature and robots, or you like Jorge Luis Borges, who wrote of infinite libraries, labyrinths, mirrors, identity, and more, you will like this poem. It's a complex piece, based on mythology and philosophy, but it covers the ground which many futurists and critics of technology are currently discussing. My translation.

Images plainly stated are twisted for context

brand new and fresh off the press

"Thou shalt not sticketh and lighteth incendiary explosives in thy rectum", spoketh the lord on the 8th day. And so the word of god was followed. And it was good.

"And thou shalt not shooteth bullets in thy anus either." followed up the lord. And that too was good until God's word was broken by man.

"Fools" said the lord. And man wept for he knew it to be true.

and so God said, "I will smote thee with my omnipotent bitch slapith, if you keep it upith". And Bitch Slapith the lord did. A mighty omnipotent bitch slapith as man screamed in pain with a sound that harkened back in the lord's mind to the sounds he created for a wailing 12 year old school girl. And in the lord's mind, this too was good.

And so God left man wailing as a pre-pubescent school girl; whilst the lord created himself a holy '67 all pink caddy convertible with leopard print interior and holy fuzzy dice, and this pimping caddy glowed in God's holy righteousness. And the lord said "Jesus Christ, son of my own! Ya'll keep this shit up, I'll bust your ass good. Shiiiit."

And the lord drove off glowing in his own holy righteousness as man was left sucking holy fumes from God's omnipotent pimp mobile which blazed in the glory of the maker as the ill-begotten left in his wake bowed down on their knees and rammed explosives continuously up their own tailpipes: stopped only by God's mighty and final omnipotent bitch slap which threw disgraced man all the way to hell.

And between me and you, man met his fate in everlasting damnation 'cause if you think God was pissed off, I'll tell you Satan REALLY don't put up with that kinda shit. And that's good too.


-Noah

Here's some poems on the fly and driven to cuff!

So it wasnt exactly that I layed the lines down, but through a bass line, and all the other noise in the city, it came together just fine.

Sitting amoungst a high class hipster in an anti folk bar and ditching the waitress only went so far when I missed my shot onstage, by a long shot, to no ones (not even my) dismay. Along in the cold rhythms of that old blues came back and forth like the constisticey of the street lights changing colors and the honk of trunks back up or pulling out.

and suddenly you hear a stop and a breath held in by the audience, by all of us and were running across the street mingling with some real poets right here in new york city. And although they tell you that its over, new york city is nothing, I personally cant let go over the fact that this is where its happening for me.

Its an old naive potential I feel in these stomping grounds, and if this is not true, let me live it till disalusionment, then let me live that right aswell, and if the solution is to blast off out of this babylon, to whereever a paradise my reside, thats also fine with me.

The harmonica duel meanwhile snaps back and forth and then together, Swifts voice bellowing low and new for I'm unfamiliar with his specific poetic tone, and a couple I've known from back home show up smoking finely rolled ciggerettes doing impressions of trumpets while proving that texas (where they're from) knows the blues and can get down on the these streets of new york city.



to end....

cascaded down lower east streets
to a sound I'd been singing all week

to the complete movement of the earth
to make the sun rise

gladly we're made of merryment and mirth.

Deep in eyes, silly fashioned wit, 6 flights of stairs, Stars like graffiti, like art like people, compeltely and fashionly lit.

plus other shit, but David is in a video contest.
http://youtube.com/contest/youtubeunderground?v=TqRBzkwgwmE&from=watch
you could go there and click on the damn button.

Buffalo NY has got 22 inches of snow. Fri. Oct. 13 2006

We face outward from a warm room, watching night transform the snow wrapped features of streets and buildings into geometries of street lamps and lit windows traversed by the red moving lights of automobiles; travelers in warm enveloped worlds crossing from one destination to the next.

There is a constant phrase that we are all trying to communicate, that we are all searching for. The sum of ideas born, the scribbling on the womb and the natural essence that is so obvious it is subliminal.

Mankind exploits reality
the true universal master,
points to every self,
maps the degree of seperation
to which they are bound.