Freewrite

My voice is back to the blog.
Spencer, that's me. Hi everybody. It's different talking so plainly when you think so flowery.
Nah mean.
Anyways, I guess this blog's come a long way since I started.
I've gathered a lot of my thoughts on this thing.
Albethem playful thoughts, there's nothing like writing poetry.
The try to connect any word to any other is a healthy practice. I think at least.
Numbers aren't as fun. Geometry and economic trends are quite interesting.
But none come close to words. Words are far more troublesome!
Once you find some poetry write it down.
Even if it sounds wrong. Power through. You must make many mistakes, too.
If ever I successfully pass on knowledge the word has said to me and can say I ever taught someone something someday I'm telling you all right now... Write down the good shit.
And only the thinkers know what that is. That's why you scrit it first and explain it later.
One of the most important bits of wisdom I picked up in college was
How do you
know what you
think till you
see what you
say?
...
...write it down is right, my friends.
Write it down.
It's like, "tell me I'm wrong!"
Pun intended.
Speaking of which, before I go, I'll share one of my bit of poetry that I wrote tonight.
It goes
The trot I plot on
the spot aint got me
even to the state of
mind where I can say that
I've taught all that I've brought
to the web shaped whirlpool
a circumferential blot
from my conf'rence table spot.
The end.
PostScript
I was going admit earlier and speak to some of the context from this measure's collection of words, ideas, and poetic phraseology referring to specific posts prior, but it would have been just jumble.
That word makes me hungry.
As for my disclosure of intel: I'd probably have to speak to it in person.
Okay, well, I've been drawn away...... .... ... ..
I'm going to eat a bowl of cereal.
Shit, but we have no milk.
I tossed the rest of the half and half yesterday.
Piece of shit fridge.
Cream stays good for at least a month.
We have no dairy.
Except those slices of cheese
Cereal Nachos: munch brunch con queso!
Anybody?
Then after that I think I'll hit the hay.
And with that, my loyal lowbrow listeners, I bid you ado unto your day as you ought it fit!

Found poetry from The Anatomy of Influence:

Gusto

Leaves waltz with the wind one last time before
foreshadowing winter's white cloaking storm.
The gust springs a dance as a solstice summer
sun does enhance May's spark of thunder.

Everyone does die alone,
but I wouldn't mind getting gone
while someone sits by my side.

Just a substance, you say.
Them chemicals, today...
But when entrails are all
that remain then start solving
science's next resolve.
But what has revolution
left queued for solution?
And where's the paradigm
shiftin'side in this pairing rhyme?
There ain't none, obsolete,
constraint, done, it's complete.

Hidden Epiphany

A poem is pointless, nothing more than
a beautiful description of an
impervious thought or useless fiction.
Yet the point proceeds impotently on,
setting forth whence its conclusion won't do,
can't suffice and shouldn't satisfy you.
Without bottom the poem finds hatred
quickly with quaint ideas mind-stated,
hand-drawn and the language apparatus,
in full proving it inadequate...thus,
ALACK ALACK! So solemn words, words, words
are, are not and could, should or would will swerve
the intelligible beings capable
of consuming fragments infinitesimal.
::
PS
::
Picture in Room of Hotel on Street
The poem will do the portrait no more
than it already is. What it is is
simple; pigment, parchment and shaped vectors
which mimic the street around the Mississ-
ippi housing formerly framed business.
Yet the path is brick, not water nor less
than the clay and grass displaced neighborhoods
which are only known if seen in the woods. 

I love Anchorage because

It can rank it as a town.
It stays so low to the ground.
Underdeveloped. Intentionally.
Unlike the old west's cities
where they've cast the pasture upwards
past gravity's bound due for the divinities;
which is confounding because over there
their world is that developed.
And when you're way the hell up
there your head's in the clouds,
which is what gives me doubts but...
Here in the youngest west
there's no wearing big wigs
and more capaciousness
for imagination's figments.

Today felt like one of those days to see the ocean.

I didn't do it, but I really thought about it. It just felt like one of those days to do something like that. Something simple but something meaningful because when you put yourself in such a spot as the edge of a cliff, where there's so much yet so little in front of you, you really give your mind an opportunity to open up. Even your heart, too, if the vista invokes your insides so.
Pirates have been on my mind a lot lately. That's what's going to be the theme which reigns supreme amongst the lot of content and matter.
But it's not that simple.
The story that is, because both
1 - it's unfinished
and
2 - requiring still massive aesthetic conception and correction of that what will be conceived.
One day...
This whole thing over thematics of piracy and the need to look at the ocean are quite parallel predicaments. The story I've mentioned is a long story, so I'll keep it short and skip to the meaning of my urge to gaze upon the abyssal glorious oceana.
I need a sentimental character for this next alluded-to project. He's going to be a he. He's also going to be the type of guy who yearns to learn about himself while pondering his life's lessons with the sea at his feet. The waterway at the which he peers 'pon 'tis his perfect panorama. And then, while this sentimental sailor muses the aforementioned ideas, another shipmate from the shipyard will inquire into why the hell this allegedly-hard soul at sea is focused so deeply on the too-distant horizon. Then, after the conversation commences and develops, the sentimentally-souled sailor will say something like---

"Maybe the reason why I choose to stare over the depths is to confound my third eye's visage of the world, a world with an end. And that place without is out there across the water. That's forever. The end out there is seldom seen back. If we jumped ship right now for the betterment of everyone then I'm off! Scram! Long gone. That's why I look at the sea, and the sky, and the clouds, 'cause without them there would be no mettle, nobody, no nothing, bot an article in the whole raucous and lurid world worth talking about. But here we are, at the edge of forever."

First Recorded Rap Verse...a prelude to the real welcoming:

The thirty six degrees of preparation
don't even dirty the zert's kicks,
so let's start out with six degrees of separation
whereupon the grid we took a set vacation...
Aside...
Agiin, like a cold case of lackadoin'ism
beginning with a wick as if it were
the commencement of breakfast
but let me wake fast
and blast to the past
whereupon we stick it out
to fix it up, givin' the thick of the friction,
but when you "get it" to the contradiction
like we the English lexicon diction
mixing in on some
of this sixer on our swerve shit, son