Something brutal this way comes
Beyond the physical self,
This threat that is moving into the inner realm
Searching for us
Remember when we would dream?
All things were possible then,
They still are today, only lesser so
Dreams are fast, in seconds
Good outlasts bad,
Both can be just as infinite free
We can all learn a little something from someone;
And nothingness is nothing without knowing ourselves
WE.
We should dream at any point in this time
Make it reality
Before it reverts back to cosmic dust,
It's the paint and materials unchosen,
Artist of life
Using the hidden medium
That ethereal oil paint
They ARE there, sprinting to BE!
Those opposing forces to thought;
We are here. . .
In just a thought.
I Despise Sleep
How it meanders alongside you
Melancholy twin of that eternal slumber.
Why must we suffer this impending doom
The thoughts of nothingness,
Endings and beginning...
Again.
Sleep!
O' how I desire sleep.
Before there was light
There was an even bigger light.
Long before the human species,
There was an even greater, better being.
Humans spawned chaos, before it, complete order
Aligned just right;
Reason to the creation and death of a star.
Today's man is a threat to themself
Against our reality and of others,
Spreading itself in every direction
In every dimension of time when we began.
Before our beginning, it was their beginning.
And we learn happiness
And beyond that the eternal happiness.
Too much order causes one to gnaw their own foot off
We seek vengeance for our own doing
Unthinking, yet unified into crowds
Somehow connected to all things
There in nothing is found something,
We are that something,
And the loop continues.
The potential is there in all of us
We can all stop and breathe and start over
What we desire is ours when we think it
Travel in a circle it'll never end the same
Stepping outside the bounds of society
We discover we can create
Every level of being,
We are found.
.
To live is grand
Creation is powerful in a meaning
To ask why we're here is creation
It carries a blueprint to life
When on our journey we experience,
Our perception of the external world is born
We can see the future
This is a hands on dreaming
We are the sculptures living to sculpt.
.
There are times of feeling stuck
Or dust in the corner
Eventually we learn to move
Doors appear and windows open
Into the depths of life comes new pathways
With each colossal step we trek,
We leave behind a hint of ourselves
Our choices, suggestions, perspective.
.
Maybe we can help those doing this same thing
Leaving behind notes
Tips on how to overcome an obstacle,
Could this be that voice in our own head
Old messages from ourselves
Let's sit and listen to the song of the universe
As it plays and moves us into rhythm
Speaking to our hearts and soul
Building up from a foundation of self.
.
Nothing is easy to do
This world is impermanent
It wants to bring us along
It wants to show us what its experiencing
Our bodies are too
We must experience suffering
To witness freedom
See darkness and evils,
To experience peace and beauty.
We can dip our tiny toes into that eternal torment
And bring back with us a vivacious new life.
Like a good drug,
Time pulls us back right before the withdraws
It infects us with so much hope,
Our souls become dependent
Our minds become a junkie for it
All we desire is more of it.
A train passing without a conductor
The audience and the film.
Life becomes an autonomous actor
In all the between;
But it needs a director,
We can be its producer as well,
Time provides the backdrop
We are audience in this theater,
We are that limitless projector
Witnessing a process of pure reality.
Then time interrupts like some majesties usher,
Editing all the parts wrong -
Like strangers we meet,
We can only direct those that are main actors,
We can't be bothered by the extras.
This crowded room,
Needs to be written right
A cause to feel anxious
Feeling the time speed or slow,
Experiencing a flow in chaotic motion
This builds strength within the meditator
It allows for inner renovation
Changing of the whole editing room
And dance floor.
It's strange,
Strange
Feeling empty.
To be in the moment
This instant;
Is it always this heavy?
Sitting anywhere feels everywhere
The change of season
Clear dusk sky
East mountain smoking a cigar,
The shy lights above,
Carefully pushing through the dark.
Ourselves feel like other selves
These words feel like other words,
None of it matches
All of it perfect.
Are we one yet?
So this is what it's like
Awaken!
Love turns into
hate into love
like a processing a dream
turning coal to golden heaven
walk the path
or let it drag you along.
Something happened on earth,
And we were born
A sudden awareness of the Gods;
It's happening again.
*
At a level
Passing on the reigns
Selling off these chains
It's a happening man.
*
Were the disguises too real
Or did we know who we were?
This fall season will be great,
Like last Autumn, happening again.
*
Gentle is word
With which should make things better
Sometimes the best thing for a flower to do is
. . .To wilt.
The big bad plague is over
Rejoice!
Everyone, stayed the same
Change is that nagging inevitability,
a tick on the neck of our whole being
It is careful not to disturb us
carrying us to the next,
Big
Bad
Plague.
Chasing the Bag In
I write like a bad hangover
It empties out in a spew of bile
words are sticky,
ideas like old foods;
Head upside down.
Then it's over,
just a mess to clean up.
I say, "This time is time."
My time,
this time,
almost mine;
then the hangover,
the regurgitation of the bad,
expired ideas.
Yet, it truly feels
deep within I know,
no matter what weight is added
and how high I get. . .
This is the time.
Do these trees dream the same as we?
Forever in line
And, unthinking.
Heading to the end shared by many,
Many trees before us.
Nothing new
Flickering screens attempt a coup d'état,
As the leaves look away
Toward the hot Autumn wind,
Trading places with the mind of God.
We should've turn right instead of left -
Or left instead of right?
Just as the roots we lay
Drunken off the last rains,
Before this summer French kisses the fall.
-A creative yearns for these periods
Where are the heads are rolling?
Where the air is holy?
Where the bodies going?
When the crowd has spoken?
When the dirt and earth and space and stars
Makes a left instead of right.
Of what do they dream of?
Those old wizards!
I haven't had good sex.
No state of bliss persists,
Angels getting bored,
This whole scene is trippy.
Like a bank heist,
Get in and get out.
I truly believe its not the money we're after,
The connection of our bodies
Attempting a transfer of spirit,
Wanting to get back into one.
Always failing,
Losing the bout.
Luckily we have love,
That bystander in our relationship
When all else fails we can turn to it,
Let it drive for a while,
This long rode trip
This endless copulation of
EVERYTHING.
As a kid I remember
Launching homemade rockets
Clear skies,
Green grass,
The field where we played baseball
It was a launch pad then,
Houston.
Fifteen feet away
Dad watched as I held the detonator
Commander of launch.
Red button pressed
A stream of fire,
Smoke tail,
A hiss of oxygen
Zipping into a silence-
Still climbing upward.
A momentary glimpse into that infinite heavens,
Endless, eternal blue sky.
We watched as the rocket hit it's limit
Then, fluttered and wobble, its ascent ceases
And returns to Earth
Where all things must return.
In all these endings,
Brings us to a beginning.
Then. . .
3...
2...
1...
Liftoff!
Can my thoughts be held within these words?
One minute a passing image or an idea,
The next a change like a storm through a hay house
Like candlesticks these ideas burn
Soon melted down to a nothing,
A lesser
Writing them down quickly is painful,
Like, alchemizing one thing for another,
Only to be left with false gold.
I try my best to cement the ideas into words
Only I know they will not be in my thoughts.
My ideas are gone,
Liquefied and burnt to an ash
Gone into the winds like fluttering flakes of rice;
Will these thoughts reach the reader with clarity?
Of course not, these past words are symbols dead,
Different to many minds,
Always stirring up whatever thoughts
Random sparks of remembered programming
In their own way.
Always remember the possibilities,
Only then can one realize the truth to simple symbols.
They are not to be taken at face value,
Like some dying daisy drooping under a dark grey sky,
Or a chocolate wrapped in gold foil;
The world is a stage and these words
Young and Old,
Are fading from the call sheets.
Words are a tricky devil.
Whose honesty can never be trusted,
Read one way and it all falls apart.
Read another way the golden gate is opened.
Whenever I feel these words rattling in my skull,
Buzzing between my lips like the heavy beer fizz,
Forcing my hands, fingers, and all the inner workings
Into an exchange from the soul of my being
To the paper or screen or wall of some emptiness
It will go on to find itself thrusted into anew…
Different
“Alchemical transformations.”
Strange queer holds booze that is
Filled with something green and glowing,
Atomic radiating mucous that is gulped down like air
Treating the insides like a hidden warehouse rave
There is a hairy biker and their buddy,
Both taking turns to see how much skin they can gut out.
On the wall hangs a head of man,
A trophy of last years game
At the bar a group of recent aborted alien hybrids
Take turns puffing on a long opium hose,
Smoke hangs in the air like a red lava lamp.
The floors are covered inches with syrup,
The taste in the air is metallic,
The meth heads breath spilling out in deranged laughter.
Why would there be a monkey
On the shoulder of a woman,
Dressed like a man,
Speaking like some preacher
To anyone with a dime?
Why not?
This place is filled with groups of nobodies;
Yet
they're
all
somebody.
A glass fish tank is glowing blue,
Strobing to the rhythms of the doom noise jazz band;
The little people in the booth are mad on chemicals,
Their consumption is double that of any psychotic,
Any schizophrenic cop with a smile,
And any politician possessed with demons.
They dance upon each others unconscious bodies
Taking turns each passing,
Wailing out Psalms and dark incantations,
Obviously one side against the other
In a friendly game of Tom and Jerry
Tables and chairs seem to hover and move slowly,
Vibrating with the strong bass,
The player a skeleton wrapped with jaundice skin.
Cloned Egyptians wait on each guest
Giving out secrets to immortality.
A book is read out loud from a spotlit corner,
From the mouth of an eight hundred pound transexual,
Everyone pays a mind,
With crypto and wrist scans.
The book is silent;
Yet is the meaning silent?
How can anything end without such a party?
After we're long gone,
There will always be a celebration.
A chaotic tail behind us. . .
No meaning.
The new Layout feels alien.
Back to the old Layout.
Change is the only constant;
That and chaos.
We are tumbling towards extermination
In a fashionable and stylish somersault.
Tomorrow is here.
It's here with yesterday and today.
All standing there like the three wise monkeys.
One can't see tomorrow;
Tomorrow can't tell anyone;
Third one is afraid to learn of what's to come.
This is a party that no one really wants to be at.
Can art change anything bigger than the eyes?
Why do we need sleep,
If all we want is to live?
We have all the time
And money
And the love in this world.
This new layout is just fine.
Would this be enough
To satisfy my creative flow,
Like honey to milk,
Lips to a glass.
Can the flow proceed
In it's natural direction
To unleash the creative juices
Like exotic fruit rinds
A spritzer on a Martini.
An intake of enough information
Enough inspiration and junk,
To overload the psyche
To ramp up the processing speeds,
My brain, the quantum computer,
Calculating problems and how to solve them.
Are these words alone gonna solve anything?
Can our breath restart our hearts?
When does imagination,
All gathered images,
Thoughts and opinions-
When does it all become rock solid,
Constructed into reality?
At what amount of moments is good enough,
When can it be left alone,
Left peacefully to gather steam.
I am missing something,
Someone,
Some space.
Thought alone is never enough,
Images of long loss
Frozen still in the ether,
Like some preserved snowflake
Forever enshrined and unable to fall.
Life and all its sins,
Is pandoras box we've opened
We must always remind ourselves
To not take anything out of it
And bring it into reality.
Their words are poetry
Dancing through melodic gossiping
Becoming anew with the blaze of infinity.
Light, piercing our callous souls
Brings with it a remedy
They shine with hope
Rejoice in the symphony
Talking rumors with impunity
Bringing life to thinking,
Beauty is in the mouth of the transmitter.
Stunning symmetry in all conversations
A jubilee of talking,
Language, symbols, encoded sounds
A bacchanal of speech and listening.
We all expel energy
Of emotion,
The magic that moves us,
Guiding us to get things done.
FEAR
Are these words all my own?
Or are they simply repurposed
recycled sounds of past remembering
Is there escaping this doubt
of losing oneself
to all selves?
All I am left with is words
ringing symbols in my head
wriggling and anxious to be born.
*
Can there be peace among the rising,
awakened, and formed being
a crudely assembled vessel
Between order and chaos our changes bounce.
*
Whenever I look into your eyes
I see the familiarity
the identical;
Whole truth to life
our shared paths full of pain and beauty.
*
Watching the crowds filling the streets,
groups of connected souls,
al together moving forward
through the violence and safety,
blooming forth through the cracks in the streets;
Evolution of mankind a spectacular occasion.
The no-mind.
None mind
No mind,
Observing the observer.
View the many instances
Of time
Of space,
all of the paths taken
and all the Infinite unknowns.
Night always arrives fast and never lasts.
It never wants to give a second,
moving in a lumbering pace,
corresponding equally with our heartbeat.
No amount of sleep or dancing,
no matter the strength we shake its hand,
Night slips like motor oil
across our conscious waking dream.
*
I prefer it to loiter around;
yet now like the day
it passes on without mindfulness,
without regard to the realty.
*
1920's
Beachside view,
thin frosted windows
grey skies
blackened ocean
white edges.
There is music
and a fire,
and a fire.
There is no separation of sane and madness.
There is only degrees.
It's the Scoville scale
To the spiciness of thought!
Since existence,
There has been a struggle
To gain control of
The spiciness of thought!
We dream it
We do it.
Create it and birth it;
Then a master has captured it,
Spiciness of thought!
So be self master,
learn to control it,
balance it
and manage it to your hearts content
Spiciness thought.
Death is trying to pull me down
It constricts my lungs,
My breath is low
The bed attracts like a magnet.
Ghosts of the other-side,
Use old rope and weak binds
I feel a trap to sleep whenever I lay down.
Voice is weak,
It trembles when used,
It hurts to speak
Why must this continue
I struggle to keep up,
Death keeps pulling me back.
Can we linger on this happiness
Stay a while and see our emptiness;
Can your friends stay?
Intense joy
Calming
Languishing affect.
*
Tablespoons of shivering raindrops
The lucidity of it all
Pulls string theory into frame
-- Toward and onward
Ever shifting
Outwardly and into
Everything and beyond
In rhythm and unitary with the lone
Nothingness
*
Happiness?
Happiness?
Stay longer this time
Wade just a moment,
Become and change us,
Our gloomy
Blue,
Sadness.
In a position where the flower is poison
The fruits of the Eden is masked and rotten
Thought is twisted by nutrition,
Led to a death spiral
*
weightless silence begins to saturate us
Alone it gets tough to simply text it
over thoughts like split slit experiments
showing us a tree of possibilities.
*
Energy gained is energy gone
like switches triggered from mirrors,
infinite flips from positive and negatives
A constant role-reversal in a never ending macro play.
*
Offers us a path or two or more
A window into a room,
a possible solution to a age old question
a way to look at something begging us to do something
*
How we are allowed to decide on which door to open,
which radio frequency we tune into
tremendous power that is thought,
a shock wave never ending and throughout this,
everything
Dizzy, spinning like a broken metal fan
jittering, skittish, cute while missing
blue-washed eggshell walls,
the ceiling keeps squeezing
a moldy orange peel
the sound of crushing pressure,
a tin can, an ocean canyon,
a darkness that can be felt,
All things connected.
What's bad about
absolute freedom,
is that it looks violent
chaotic
and totally unsure.
What's great about freedom
is that it is violent,
chaotic,
and assured.
No comments:
Post a Comment