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a prose poem Ain’t is the most wonderful word in the English language because it is a source of human experience in real time; Ain’t is the most wonderful word in the English language because it is a source of human experience in real time. It tells you of a person; ain’t is also a consternation for those who must insist on describing the right way of speaking; and still it is an utterance that you are free, an unadulterated , demotic life, quite like Adam and Eve. It is an utterance that you are free, an unadulterated , demotic life, quite like Adam and Eve. Ain't has a fluid cacophony that ain’t pretty, but ain't ugly. Ain't is a unifier. If you linger on the sound of the contraction, “n’t,” then you get how it kinda minutely rolls, and then it fires off the teeth. Pew. But at first it is a word that digs deep into that Indo-European root. Fein. Vain. Vein. Pain. Gain. Rain. Ain’t. Fully expressed it gives a good ole drawl to our beautiful source of understanding, our symbolic language, our grammar, our story.  Fully expressed "Ain't" gives a good ole drawl to our beautiful source of understanding, our symbolic language, our grammar, our story. And still, it ain't as beautiful as “Ya’ll.”

a Story The explanation Joel got for his cousin's wedding, when his pastoral father gave it,—maybe not just the explanation—seemed palpably queer. Whatever the Buddhist means by right speech, he could not utter it, but it was an empirically rich experience. If only he could see the print of it, something he could put his fingers into, something to see. He could thrust his being into it, sense and know it, or else he would not believe it were even real. His chaps were leather, braided along the seam so that leather would dangle and dance as he moved. Donning Justin Westerns, his , richly applied silk, its slick, sharp, irreplaceable shape upon the head with a ruggedly grippable texture, . The damage on his spur straps had been remedied by an unnoticeable wire, keeping it in place around the boot-heel, an innovation that his dad had helped with, but Joel needed to look slick, like a cowboy. "A man just gotta figure out. It ain't always comfortable," he remembered his dad mumbling in a moment that had felt like anxious irritation. Joel would not understand becasue he like the dandy show. The slightly worn silvery metal matched the roadrunner on Joel's bolo, a tiny turquoise stone for its eye, his dad's least favorite part. He rarely adorned himself like this to ride any horse, but dressed like this, he loved mirrored surfaces more than riding any wind. The red bandana, an under-rated accessory, tired around the left side his belt strap, flourished as it flapped. Of course, I had a weakness. I had a buckle, a bit inadequate in my opinion. I lacked a buckle that I was proud of, one I thought was better than everyone else’s. One for me. This one was fine, but its basic nature sent a message about my poverty, which my parents were both eager to hide and desperate to escape. They were certain god was the way out. That goddamned belt buckle. But it did fit extremely well, which kept most unaware of it anyway, compared to the rest of me. As I gazed around at all the bandana-oriented git-ups, the “cowboy” wedding made sense. I settled into that notion nicely, because we all had. I admired the various adornments along the center stretch of the men’s front waist-lines. Everyone had a better buckle, yet that was all I had to be jealous of, and I neatly lived with that, being the ring-bearer and all. I had to look so good. I did. I was mildly aware that most people in the world didn’t do that cowboy thing. We rarely did, me and my family, and I seemed like the only one interested. But we were all so used to it that nothing mattered at this church. Haybales lined the entrance, and even lined the nave of the church. About each bail, Indian Paintbrushes, Bluebonnets, patches of marigold. It was gorgeous, romantic and Romantic. With plenty of freshly painted tractor seats atop various bales or posts or even actual tractors, I could sit in fun spots. Kids seeking a perspective do this. Atop them, I could breath in the air of festiveness, and the dusty purity of the lovely countryside. It was amid a dusty walk through the dirt parking lot that paw stopped to give us a brief run-down since I had just asked, “How can you get married when you’re in high school?” “It’s right to do this!” Paw immediately retorted as he briskly turned toward us all, halting the line of seven children that he and maw were leading. Instantly, he grasped Batty on the shoulder, she being two kids in front of me, Sharla and Janet walking next to me, shoulder to shoulder. The rest lingering behind still claim they did not hear a word paw said. The do recall the anxious gaze he rendered upon us all without the show of hesitancy. I saw that look on him when there was some serious matter of righteousness to be explored. It was a spirit. He explained to us the need for understanding how legal this wedding was, something I was utterly uninterested in, and he emphasized, a lot, just how much the bride and groom loved each other and had courted. My sense of age was not atuned enough to know anything. I was just certain, based on the concept of the universe that I had been handed, that you got married after  high school. Something is a bit more fluid here—not exactly what the others do, what the world  does I chimed in once, as expected, the speech turned toward God’s command for sexual purity, “How old is Mark?” I was largely uninterested in this message and all the terms paw aligned with it. However he was explaining it was utterly incomprehensible, and so a malaise surrounds it all, and forever will. I may be wrong, but I think paw gulped a bit.   “Thirty-one,” he responded, holding back a forlornness in hopes of fervency. I wasn’t too sure cuz at that time my gaze whirled with bluebonnets and spinning rowels.  I also noticed how sad it was for the women. Among all the glitz and glamor of men’s western outfits, the women were less interesting to me. They wore blue jean, or thick-fabric-ed, skirts down to the ankles. A few rebels had on jeans and wore buckles, like cousin Sunny. She was always the most interesting, the most happy, the most in trouble. Her buckle immaculately matched her soul, as if emanating a halo. There were a few bonnets; they are difficult to miss, but most dresses were accompanied by long flowing hair, rarely cut, no jewelry (except wedding rings), and no make-up—no outward adorning, save the bandanas. They would become artists with their bandanas, the ways they could integrate them to flow and wrap and represent the lovely ornaments, which is in the sight of God of great price. I possess been to a child wedding. As far as I know, and based on my several but infrequent interactions with Shelley and Mark and their two children, they are great. They work and love and play. And their kids are self-sufficient, hardy and kind. That was decades past now.

We very well could be, our universe and all the elements of our being, listing on the event horizon of a black hole, among trillions of cosmoses; perchance, that’s why you, as I, FEEL so disintegrated into extremities? 1  So here is a manifesto, for our Chorus of Revel; thus it saith: 1.  Absurdly, a. each biological situation, cells eating cells eating cells from yeasty fecundity amid hydro-vented acid to our glorious and untold trillions of tiny organisms foaming and emerging as liquid smooth, finds I AM, somehow. 2 And have we not grotesquely fondled all the possible, infinite selves enough to understand there is never enough to be anything? Is any alone wise? 3 Thou shall have? 4 Anything goes? 5 The interrogative Mood’s grapple births Heroes and LORDS To be and to have. “At least I’ve chosen a side,” Intensely answered passion. "Look Professor! A sign!" and the Plastic helium bag flew into the blue. 6 b. desires, perpetually postponed to powers just being, gawk it. 7 “Is this what you Thought it would be?” 8 Pyramids and Laws And shit? We lend Or lose?—Our hopes Coerced into copes. 何が分かるんだよ？お前も寂しかったんだろう. 8 2. Complex a. leviathans slither and stomp and their great bottomless furnace never spews death, oh no, just Dantean cordyceps. 10 So many, so many skull mycelia—one for each of you. I feel its tendrilled networks of arachnoidal permeation throughout my mind. And I AM always something different, with you. Woe little mutant Scaled with others’ Beautiful evils. Did you Forget you had An appearance 11 When we vandalized Amenhotep   With righteous lust, at his feet? Τέρπει γάρ σ ̓ ἐράτα μόρφα βασιλήϊδος ἄμμας· Βαλβίλλας δ ̓ ἔμεθεν γρόπτα τάδ ̓ εὐσέβεος. 12 3. Believability a. ain’t what happens. It can, as a sullen emo wraps us like a plastic, dark, inky cloak,   Seem dejected because built altars do not denote me. 13   So what you Assume I’ll find for you, because I hear it, what you don’t, An unvainglorious mental echo , Because I see like Josephus on Patmos 14 Essaying what stands and unfolds itself as us.   4.  Let’s Be—go on then with Geschwind, and I, like a client, sprawled and bare—   R heumatic Presbyopia, Either rolls back into Visons of Tiresyas Or carbuncles into A burning fury against Obsoletion. Aging creaks Through you, and maybe if, Stopping not to see Tempest Motifs Or Fucking Eliot allusions, You’ll see, Socrates Was right— State execution.   The stink of sea water, along The Vast tranquil bay, that, That is where you will finally Feel like a Texas Deputy, Bemoaning the wounds, Proud of your brown water.   Believe me my friend, bruh. I have wept bitterly too. I have Wept from the heart of hearts Where you mourn beside me and where you clamor with me.   But you will also weep richly Now, and bid farewell, and Dissipate nicely, as sunbursts That sprinkle into unimaginable Loveliness. So melt away Into our record.   And if you can Summon the Wretched, hideous, Unholy, grotesque Bugs to crawl out, Then you will Understand SpongeBob. And I will baptize You in butterflies:   You shall be holy Because You the you your you are holy. 15   Cloven fires will Tongue our despair. In the ash Eyelids appear Then pop a glare, Opened into The red air. 1-We seem to endlessly ramble on about our origins or “place,” and at some point we never seem to be right: LOL 2-See Mitski, the Bible, and Shakespeare and Descartes. 3-A few times I have heard a legend that Thomas More scoffed, “Are you alone wise?” at Martin Luther’s insistence on possessing THE right interpretation, his solas and other such nonsense. More is essentially retorting, “Compared to everyone else? How so? Get real." Although, having read much of his Confutations to William Tyndale, I am convinced the poor man had been psychologically abused into absurdity. These legendary moments were a banality for More’s century. Plow boys reading scripture and defiant laymen retorting churlish priests were common tropes of sixteenth-century humanists. They were rhetorical concepts employed to generate a personal sense of self-revelation in the individual, creating that incredible paradox of enlightenment: Self-evidence and Equality. 4-Exodus 20:3, King James Version or Robert Atler’s translation 5- See Guy Bolton and P. G. Wodehouse's version, or just look around a bit. 6-During a walk in an urban prairieland preserve, a student saw a silver balloon gliding away. The balloon was in the shape of the arabic number 1. 7-Romans 13:1, King James Version 8-Upon meeting at a "natural area" surrounded by factories and stadiums, hoping for respite, a student inquired thusly. 9-"What do you know? You were lonely too." -Luffy in One Piece: Red 10- See Leviathan  by Thomas Hobbes, and Revelation 9:2, King James Version 11-After the visit to the natural area, another student, after returning from a restroom with a mirror, claimed, "I forgot I had an appearance." 12-"As the alluring figure of our queen pleases you, this is my graffiti, Balbilla the pious." was etched on the Colussus of Memnos by Julia Balbilla as a member of Hadrian's entourage in Egypt. Balbilla was a Syrian princess whose family's slavish devotion to Rome guaranteed that her erudition and affluence would remain patronized (see Plant, I. M. 2004. Women Writers of Ancient Greece and Rome: An Anthology , 151-54.). 13-A barb for Bible historians. 14-1 Corinthians 13:2, King James Version; Hamlet . 15-Leviticus 19:2c, King James Version or Robert Adler’s translation ;)