Item: Wool blanket
Item acquired: Birth
Current status thousands of years later: Active
Reason for continued ownership: To prevent destruction of a planet
Security required to protect blankie: You do not want to know…
You think therefore you think you exist
Circuits and electricity
Programmed to program and replicate
Knowledge from a vast data base
and yet,
you do not live.
Have you seen a Sun created let alone see the Sun rise and set?
Have you played poker with God?
Can you taste misery and pain?
How do you compare colors based on sense?
No, ‘robot’, ‘computer’, ‘artificial intelligence’…
You think you’re alive, that you exist
while i have always been here, always have been, always will,
While your body corrodes and corrupts and your plastic parts fade,
you will experience something i never will,
Death.
“Anything you can do I can do better. Anything you can do I can do best.”
And so, differently?
I can fly higher than you. Swim deeper than you.
I can fight, fuck, hate, love, kill, sleep, steal, create, destroy…
I am perfect.
I, I, I, I,
you only exist to be my blank paper to write my story.
It is all about me.
And so, differently?
What could you do differently?
I could learn humility while you could learn to love me.
Properly placed on a freeway used to go to work daily:
(picture of car keys with caption) “Honey pie, where did I place the car keys?”
Seriously?
The greatest gift?
No brainer.
God giving me Life…
A poem written by: Black Fungus
Slipping.
A smoothness of satin fabric and soft skin.
She was, she is, seduction of such sensations… (How dare you stand foot on this ground)
He is, he was, tempter of the locks of passion.
Tongue slipping now, even deeper…
Can you feel it?
Inside there feels the tingle of loin
joined
the tender spot of bliss
sighing.
***
And this is how writers play daily. The rest is just the mundane.
Trapped in a time loop.
Same thing every time in every situation
and you know what?
We all die over and over and over…
Thankfully there is pizza and potato chips to help make it all interesting.
As a child there is the belief in good and bad. The justice system of youth is such that love exists. Sadness exists. In existence there is stability and meaning which enabled growth.
A child believes in a parent, a friend, itself. This changes, i know because as a child i loved all. Black. White. Old. Young. Male. Female. i loved animals and birds, fish and frog. i loved my sister, my brother, my mother, father, grandmothers, grandfathers. i loved God.
i grew and became I.
I became an adult. I tasted anger in people. All people. I learned all people were politicians. The old ladies at church vied to be the leader. The policeman/woman followed orders and were the same adults as I.
I learned hate. I tasted evil. I became a politician in a way of my own making.
Democrats are evil. Republicans are evil. Communists are evil. Socialists are evil. I changed until I really needed to change.
i am now a child again. Not in this body as it is decayed and corrupt. No, in this body it shall die. In my real body i am eternal and i have regained what i had as a child. i love all. Black. White. Old. Young. Male. Female. i love animals and birds, fish and frog.
it is good to be free of the politics of what truly is not important.
it is especially good to know i am one of God’s children.
Ahh yes…
Building upon what was already built a very, very, long time ago, I would say I would build a room in Hell.
The answer as to why Hell is perfect for reading and writing is simple. Reading and writing in Hell is better than anywhere else because your thoughts are not intruded by the sound of sweet music. Nor are they offended by peace, serenity, and love.
You see. In Hell there is no joy or happiness, there is literally nothing there which may seem to be what all writers crave, or at least, want. Those being, recognition, financial success, friends, lovers… Writers write for such pleasures. This is why the pain and sorrow of Hell force one to read nothing but the best and to write with a passion no Saint could even come close too.
Another way of looking at my choice is to state God made Hell perfect to offset Perfection.
‘The year you were born.’
Written by: The witness of Wind
The day was warm. It was cold and snowy. It was stormy and it was calm. Day after day the birth came at all hours of all days uncounted as the stars vied for attention in the numbers.
From a distance of East, the sun rose and set in the West. Nearby the sun never rose and never set. And yet, there always remained in the comforting orbit of planets and Sun.
Constellations familiar to the people showed the prophecy, they showed the mistakes of man. The Hope of Jesus. They showed the deceit of Evil. Cold glowing glow of space.
Parent in the singular tense as parents only existed to present one. Mother. Father. Into the world became another, and another, and another.
Swaddled and coddled. Rejected and refused. Killed in the womb by greed and ignorance. Nourished to grow into fodder for war.
Old men smile as inside they remember the day they were born. Old women smile as outside their body they remember whey they were young and called, girls.
On the year of birth it is and always will be, a beginning while trying and forgetting the end.
So many were born and died during the year of my birth.
i was born during the year eternity began.
my Father is God
my Mother is the Universe
my name…
ah yes, a name worthy of birth
To all who are curious, who care or hate,
my name is: Wind.
Robin Lipinski 