Isn’t it frustrating to get part of a message, and have the rest of the message be forever beyond your reach? But that is, truly, Life, for all but the omniscient. Our simian heritage gives us a busybody’s curiosity; biological and physical constraints give us opaque horizons, signal noise, the need for sleep and other homeostatic housekeeping, and the tragicomedy of a finite lifespan.

This page is at least as frustrating for me as it is for you, O Viewer. So much is beyond my talent-reach, and I seem always to be short on time. But if it helps, I only wrote the last line of “Mixing Signal,” which is “Got Me? O well,” and other than telling you that it is a persona poem with a Yahwehesque God as the persona, you are free to either write the rest yourself, synopsis it without regard to meter or rhyme, or treat it as merely a visual element.

Similar goes for “Bul[]  Shi[]” though much more of the poem is visible. It is told from the point of view of a naysayer, and is an answer to “love echo” in the form of a sort of antiecho.

Bul[] Shi[]

Bombastitude has made a mess
Upyoursism oppresses flesh
Lamed intellect reverbs ennui
[.][…..] [……..] formed [..] Model [.]

Mystery fans, you now have all the clues you need to make some sense out of the last line. I don’t think anyone on Earth would be able to discern what the last line is, exactly, but the facts that Model is capitalized, and the rhyme-meter scheme revealed by the first two lines dictate that the last line be at minimum a near-rhyme of “ennui,” get you more than halfway there.

love echo

let those with baffled vision see
oppression plain as ABC
victorious are those who ooh
enlightenment’s a Bill & Coo