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A_WHISPER.txt

<h3>Probably shouldn’t, but couldn’t have said no, at the time</h3>

the glare off the cross

is what wakes me, and puts me

in a state of dawning panic;

only for the vermilion,

leaking thru the upholstery

safeguarding me from the sky

depicted just past the window;

i regretted the waning away

of my faculties' cells,

that quit responding

after the one-thousandth, or so

time i'd asked for help.

all of a sudden is

encompassing all of this

that defeats my motions in morals.

snowfall and poweroutages

keep the inevitable, from

this obviously undicovered

slit in formality's fallacy.

but even if the opposite is

possibly meant to be, let it

be set free, and proliferate.

there's roots,

who're although unseen,

are dictating the snuff we chew.

so being the scaffolding

for every frivolous expendature

that might not've been mine,

but directly under my watch -

like a slap on the wrist.

and therefore my cross to bear;

even if that means discrediting

the body of philosophers, who're

composite in heat's yoking, with

the arctic's discerned severity.

[mxanalog-thereckless-blog]

I rep Baron Fig, and not a lot else.

[mxanalog-thereckless-blog]

1st and 2nd realties; with ours being the 1st. Welcome home - you are here.

[mxanalog-thereckless-blog]

[Choppers Sing & Thunder] 22.56 pm SEPTEMBER ‘08

   I’VE GOT A TRACK that's turnt in recursion, right in front of me; That's a sliver of what's seen on a tree's remains, etched with fathoms of data, entrenched in years; Whose memory's geometry makes sense, to the apparatus tracing over it; That's got electromagnetic static to convey the message, and speak on its behalf; Funnelled though an exchange's interface, in this case a purely one-way street, Letting the shapes tranform to sound, and be read and transcribed to signals, by the needle;    AKIN TO THE AERIAL attached to radios, who're projecting only their own reception; Lancing thru throngs of waves, spheres and fields, fetching back whatever faint fragments that resound; Whose prerequisite's nothing but the sky, and the patterns of its revolving ions;   AND THE TONEARM’S interpretation's passed on to the subs and circuits tethered to copper; Insulated echochambers keep the signal stable, as it tumbles over to digital from analog; Then vacant space takes and conveys it - the signals yet on their way to a target; Now what's in my ears is the original - the physical ridges leant to etheral sound;

  THEY’RE BOOMING FROM a wooden box, housing zeroes and ones, and hooked to the wall; If it weren't for currents taken in-turn, the drive wouldn't have made it here from the city; In my days, these streets would've been dark, lit alone by torches behind single-paned windows; Now what I've seen, is the city's encroaching into each and every crevice that was sacred to me; But it brought this symphony into this room, over years, miles, and thousands of dollars.

[mxanalog-thereckless-blog]

[Sorts of Quartz] AM, 6.43, FEB 1987 “I dare you to read this as if no law applies, as if sovereigns and vagabonds are outdone by numbers alone.”

  WHISPER VISION of anything that's come to pass since my first inception of them, a decade from now steeped in tangled tiers of years, and impenetrable when it comes to discerning the validity of such refuse.

  AN AUDITING SORT of cancer's what's spoken tonight whenever it should come to a surrogate of the same asked in a round-about way to avoid any soft underbelly.   WITHOUT MATTERING MUCH to the nomad, who's stationed before a burning window, poised for a long-distance contact.

  WHOSE SCOPE’S FLITTERING from red to clear, in a recursive survey of the pines' density and of all the salal, huckleberry and rowan, too.

   THE SORTS OF QUARTZ strapped to our wrists are the ones clocking the entire character of years; meaning our influence is one of pioneers exonerated from any old expiration's elapse.

  BUT IT’S PURELY in this sliver of dawn, that I can be possessed of the right audacity to condemn any waking and resumption, in the morning; whose threshold's the one I throw it down at - any semblance of the dread I've brewed at night for the same old fate's song and dance, thereafter - that's sapping what's left of me, that I can gauge according to what could possibly await me, past this day.

   TODAY’S THE LAST, where in Hades my life's rooted; for its' getting too obvious, the word alone won't create.

  AND IT’S PROVEN A LOT harder to rescind from the heat, once kitchen combat's gotten too hot - versus a rocketing of matter into molten lava, to ward the chills from its founding.

  WE’RE CAMPED PAST the sorts of reams of war that're cut in charcoal across the land; but that's not stopping some’s revisiting of harsher resolutions of pixels.

  WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT’S got me perched here, tucked to the window's sill, bearing my diatribe cascading from my hand in halflight's exposure; that's cast the textures of my life that's passed into comprehension for this unbidden morning no birthright could have promised me; leaving me barely in heresy's margins, like any of the last who burnt too brightly, before their sheathing in ice, to deflect the rest of time.

  7AM’S WHAT I PLAN on drawing on forever, just before the sun can break my westerning silence and just under the horizon, violet's turnt to fuchsia uprising from stifled waters, many miles down thence that were tread as vessels for all we've wrought here, on the overworld, that'll indulge only for once in letting such pent-up unrule splatter over this sight that nature might've promised us, would keep clear; that what goes up must come down, or all that prospers shall crumble, in accordance to their gravity; that nothing like Rome's built in a day, but furthermore, it and its kin's liable to a wipe-out taken in an hour.

  THE THIRD OR FIFTH for the night's just gotten lighter, and I'm left only wondering for tomorrow's, how much more over yesterday it'll take.