Saturday, December 11, 2010


The mind is much more resilient than we give it credit for, I know, I know. I was reading hundreds of pages I'd written years and years ag-- not that long ago - and there, smack dab in stone, were the traumas, wielding their billy clubs and battering rams and me. Strong young me, standing there for the tanks to destroy, holding my ground to be flattened, reading off a list of ironies and complaints. Protesting indignant, I never would've remembered more than a few sentences, but that had been, that had been my perspective of experience. That was everything I'd ever known and understood to reflect. Now, we go on, move about, run faster, something like confidence in our strides. Isn't that what happens? We take the years and assemble confidence, mighty, uncertain but confidence, yes confidence, welcome to the parade, we're already familiar with it all, most of it, like a well rehearsed dream or nightmare or all of it, right, thank you.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010


At night, down below, the lines of glowing traffic look like silver slugs, gushing their way along the intestines of the lit-up city, slowly, lit-up, slowly. In the morning, the sunrise comes onto the Earth's face. It's creation, not degradation, it's the beginning of a new life, a symbolic entrance to a new day. Warming, encouraging our sleeping souls from hibernation. The pigeons clapping their wings in applause. The skater flipping his board, active in the air, trusting the results of something happening within himself, beneath his feet, which he doesn't totally understand.

We're in a constant state of flux. The flux is in adjusting to and figuring out what we can control and what we must surrender to in this life, and others.

When realized it can be a blessed state.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Part 1

I'm wide awake to the glistening moment. We're given two spoonfuls of medicine. One is blue and contains all the cold solitude in the lovely world. The other is gold and guarantees you pain and connection to existence. So you nibble on the blue and then wish it well, seduced and perfected by it's silence, but already bored to death by it's vacancy. Next comes something for which you had no preperation, your impulses blaring from the massive gulp of gold. You're now inside the rushing train. And the bodies pack against one another like Tokyo rush hour or Indian panic. And your body is contorted by the crowds until it's not your own. But you recognize yourself somewhere else serene, even as you're experiencing the press of madness and the deluges of terror. Body to body. Wall to wall. Nose pressed to window until it bleeds red. The tears slide down the glass and thin the color. The sun is burning warmly on your panicked face and the landscape outside is enough to give some sliver of hope. All is not lost. All is not lost in this pain. All is not lost in this guttural agony and interrupted living.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Some Assembly Required

The swell fades. The lion eats it's prey. I was young once but now I'm washed away. I struggled to stay awake while the calm flooded my brain. I dreamed of bright lights, low windows, and a kitchen knife. I was riding a shared river of invasive current finding that my only salvation was action. Down into the layers I delved for a pearl of forbearance, a ticket to ride. The day begins cold. The sweat remains. An archaic reptilian brain meeting the demands of the devices to which it is enslaved. The computer. The stove. The toilet. The trash can rolled out to the street. The newspaper slamming the door. The front page promising grim while I live vicariously through the sports section.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Everywhere in Particular

Today I walked down the street, a hobble in my stride. A gnawing in my physical side. A man was working on an old car. The same one he's been working on for twenty-five years. I talked to him. Then an animal control officer and I spoke at length. She had crawled under a house to save a dog. Then there was that fucking Wine-O again. He's always there on the vacant days. I wonder if he knew how attentively the sun was following my skin as he sang his song. I wonder if that lady was joking about flying a helicopter to Mar Vista. I saw some airplanes and shot them down with my two fingers. Same with the Wine-O. I shot him his best wishes. Later, I thought about two people meeting on one of those airplanes. It was nothing original, as I speculated about what the young woman driving by me was doing to busy her mind in her black car. Before that, I had walked past my old friend's house and wondered if she and her sister still lived there and the sun kept following me.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

There Is A Soul

Thursday, November 4, 2010


Saturday, October 30, 2010

Your Guess Is

There are some mornings where the buzzards have no shortage of dying energy to feed upon. I'm listening. I'm stammering. The blocks are stacked one by one within the next, abiding to the formations of the grid. Shuffling through street names and slinking between alleys and walkways. Dodging back and forth, trying to forget. We try and try again. Scraping metal to the cement rock bottom and scooping up enough dust to rise again. There have gotta be reasons to continue this childish pursuit of living. First, a meaningful breath and a view beyond wonder. Next, the expansiveness below and everywhere else, all fluid as the car spins and hugs every turn in slow motion, speakers blaring abstract tones. I had all these fucking movie ideas and my hands were consumed and my brain was a distinct form of useless and if it wasn't for that inner gravity, my slipping context would have lost pace with the earth's rotations.

Then you could've witnessed a man being thrown off the surface of the globe like a guy tossed out of a bar, obliterated by time, surrendering to the indifference of velocity through space.

But now I stand by the seashore bedevilled by the confusion of symbols and signs. I'm caught rejoicing in another matter, handing out crustaceans as offerings to the gods of order and pull. Meaning, the best I have is a free-found ancient shell of confounded hyperbole and articulate banter that can only exist because it recognizes the profound nature of things. Grounded in a peaceful awe and strong respect for this combination of wonders, I'm allowed to freely pursue grander notions in exchange for a humbled paranoia and semi-serious empathy. The wheel rolls, mountains crumble and apparently the sea drops are all different if we look closely enough.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Face The Evening Straight

a beauty and a bird. the mirrors turn their backs. don't cry, there are some people doing incredible things with their humanity right now. i write cooked by nostalgia for the future i misunderstood. I write windswept. there's so much more to build. the evidence is staggering. those teenage dreams proved one-dimensional, they had to be to drive this undertaking. it's better to not know what we're getting ourselves into when we first step foot on these larger journeys. the movements echo responsive feedback, lesser and lesser the closer and closer we get. i write invigorated by wonder, growing wonder, it slips through the sludge no matter how much time is wasted browsing the internet. no matter how much is lost in the muddled undertakings of half-efforts and misguided schemes. the optimism is never misguided. the propellant drive is always furthering. the growth is always awkward, stunning, eye-opening.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Passing Stones

I swear. I swear it. This gloom can break a lot of hearts. I've had dreams of pissing blood, when today I lost a stone and it's gone and it was a collection of a lot of things, thank god it's gone. We gather and collect dust until the dead moments calcify, become, painful manifestations, violent symbols tearing apart our urinary systems and then there goes the gremlin that's been winding-grinding it's way through my days and weeks and I'm shaken and glad to be rid of the demon, glad to be recovering, shaken, I assume the calm.

I knew that mountain would be good for something and it was greater. My friend and I were speaking of complexities and running through humid cloud space and gentle time and huffing and puffing lactic acid-exploration and we weren't escaping, we were grinding into and through the exploration. The talk was of removal from conditioning, the talk was of forgoing the chemical slavery to which we allow ourselves to fall victim, it was about CHARGING the moment with all of that wasted falsely manifested-once-survival-necessary-now-destructive-dazzling energy. CHARGING the moment and losing labels and defensive ties and wasteful security and bypassing the limited confirmations of fixed-selves, we are ever-changing, we are ever-changing, we are best losing confirmation of our fixed-selves. Personality is bullshit because it's putting on a persona, he said that. Geniuses are really just bodies for demons to grace and bless and it's good to lose certain responsibilities to our creations because they aren't ours, the best ones are expressions passing through our particular form, our stylized expressions of energy, we are after all just expressions of energy in the form of humans, humans are good little lightning rods, we do some good things with our form, we allow some brilliant energy to CHARGE through our form, we can be exhilarated with genius and we can pour paintings and music and words and songs and moments and photos and colors and vibrations and grace for creations that stimulate, beautify, grow the complexity, animate the senses, the senses, these sensations we have are tools to measure our advancements, our purposes, our majestic train stations, moving trains, and runways, planes and spaceships, flights.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

old notes from the phone

We sit in front of our computers waiting for something to happen.

A flower blooms outside. Someone runs down a beach. Two people meet at a bar and lightning strikes.

Inside private rooms, the screens draw us to their glow like insects to the flame. I've written that before. But I'd also like to add that a warm laptop in bed is a poor substitute for the body heat of a lover.

A shower under a waterfall. A shower shared. A shower of falling stars.

Our eyes begin to hurt from the sedative's intoxicating glow. Something in our foreheads making us dizzy. The body begins to reject the drug.

Collecting profiles from the past like baseball cards prevents one from stepping onto the three dimensional field of play. The photographed lives are hollow reflections of non-responsive personas.

A bottle in hand. Sunglasses over eyes. A party or a paradise. Glossed over lives.

Monday, September 27, 2010

113 Farenheit Before it Broke to Have Fun

I had this thought about all those ghostly souls trudging along the misty sands that night and how they were the greatest installations of all and how they were fooled into becoming art and it made me feel good about the masses and how they can arrange themselves in search of inspiration and peace and glow and how their movements can sensually mirror the ocean and how it moves so elephantine and lovely away from and toward the shore to cover the waking with energy as a blanket over minds and eyes, ears and lives.

Then there was the street fair and more warm faces and sun and it's almost scary that you can't just go through life hating the crowds when they appear so wide-eyed and well-behaved in person. certain days being enough to momentarily gloss over the inhumanities these creatures lose themselves to from time to time, day to day, all the time, only certain days they have some redemptive show.

Today the hottest day in Los Angeles happened and triple digits visited the beach for the first time in awhile and the rays of fierce light were glad for the day-vacation and the people were dancing in the water, taking pictures, and climbing and falling and laying and crawling their meaningless time away and it was sad and glorious and spectacularly similar to every other day for awhile and this context shouldn't be taken for granted and the scary thing is that it wasn't and they were moving and caressing themselves and taking part in the mystery and the fault-lines and foundations upon which their lives lay cooperative enough for a moments breath and that's positive, it's positive, it's a pro and we watch it bloom.

Ice cream and then my love rides my shoulders to feel like a bird or a giant or an equestrian and my strength finds purpose and then sushi and beer and a parking ticket that could or couldn't mean something depending on how much it gets under the skin and usually it takes more than that, and that's not a challenge, only a reminder of perspective and the Wine-o with his same stupid song and the way he sings it and it's funny. It's funny isn't it? Jingle bell, Jingle bell, help me get drunk and I walk by and I'm sweating and the air is warm and my hair is wet and I did pull-ups from twenty feet above sea level and the sun was glowing all over that grass at 7am and that's why we couldn't find that errant golf drive because of those shimmers, that dazzling, shining, dancing, charming light that bounces off of anything lucky enough to take in the light and that coyote looked like a wolf and those geese couldn't have been happier and life exists and exists and the stories can be so fucking colorful and drab and somewhere in-between until they splatter the night sky with memories that lead us to moments like victories and/or crisp cut serendipitous thank god it happened that way perspectives and blessed actualisms and the moon will calm you down and put her blanket on your shoulders and she'll laugh and listen to you like a beautiful mother and you can tell her all about your day and that dancing light, those dancing characters, broken thermometers and livesthoselives that you were surrounded by down at the seashore and otherwise.

Artists Only

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Our house is in a cloud. The entire street is invaded by white. I put a fishing line down into the deep blue sea and wait like a patient man. With a towel around my wet hair, I hide in cotton and find solace in the dawn. You and I are something greater. My heart is quiet and warm. The flashing lights all look like sirens in the mist. My thinking sways between understanding and deliverance, it motions along the line between correct and flawed. My fear constantly slips and slides from the gallows, pardoned before execution, buying itself more time, challenging this life to which it little belongs. It changes it's voice, it's form and reason, playing the part of friend convincingly if not a bit self-indulgently. Fear is an ugly mask left behind by some criminal instinct whose purpose has long since been removed. There are better times to be had. Simpler emotions to be lived. Purer forces to gravitate. Seeing the bigger picture. Admiring the landscape with as few obstructions as possible. There's a lot of unfiltered joy to be discovered living within this circus, candied apple in hand, smile properly aligned.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

The First Step Is The Deepest, Baby I Know

This isn't going to be pretty. There was a line that led me to the past. Finding a place that hadn't changed. I couldn't remember my childhood growing that peacefully, but sure enough it was more rustic and charming than even my most darling dreams. You know the ones, they give you hope and hold you like no one in your life has ever known. Sometimes they serenade you. Sometimes they disappear. Sometimes, they turn on you. That's right. One seemingly arbitrary night they'll twist and turn your stability until you've woken up changed and affected for the next day, week, month, or half-hour. You've felt shaken. You've stirred. I spoke of inertia. I keep telling people about this fucking artist inertia toward everyday living and sustenance and long-term planning and the blah that goes with the futile and the other blah of the living dead. It's not a wall to be busted down, it's a maze to be undertaken and can be a bit difficult because somewhere near the entrance, I'm lying on a sandy warm beach basking in a precious glow of creativity and love and freedom and activity and good fortune and just a sprinkle of self-delusion, just a sprinkle. I believe it to be necessary to the recipe. I believe it to be the common thread between all of the grand ambitious, results-be-damned, results-be-varied souls who take giant blindfolded leaps across chasms of indeterminate size and above fields of indiscriminately sharp teeth. The psychologists will have their field day. The rational minds will stomach-punch your projected purpose. Projected being only the illuminated blueprint whose fate has no bearing on the machine that provides. The machine is better likened to a root. The root is better discussed as a dream. The dream is broken down into components of who you were born to realize, what came to influence your path, and how you chose to most beautifully express what it is you have to feel and ultimately say.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

When Growth Honors Entropy

The onions between our fingernails turn to tears. The sprinkler system coughs water onto our lawns. And I'm lucky to be alive. My days are spent floating in love. My days are succumbing to inertia. My days are lived in secure explosions. I chase the wind on my bike. My darling's eyes water from the howling air and my love swells for her after every turn. The quarter audit reveals the gratitude for another crack at freedom. A dinner table. Interwoven spirits. The ever-beautiful knot growing more complex, more picturesque in flaws/perfections from greater distances and from right here in the existence. What do I have to say? There's something, some greater message, some bulk of positivity that I'm trying to spread or convey, almost as a shield, almost as a sacrifice for the good that exists. You shut your eyes, face that big body of water that gives a hint of godly perspective and you say thank you.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

It's Already Covered

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Four Dimensional Merry Go Rounds

I already wrote something in a dream but apparently those things don't stick around when the eyes open and the brain starts spinning it's hamster wheel.

I envisioned the threads severing and the world falling apart and the strings that compose the spaces between space spiraling and twisting themselves around our arms and legs before carrying us up to the hanging gardens of this or that or some other spiderweb galaxy to which we might belong.

A few days ago I went running down the sand in the early morning and I sat at the edge of the pier and lost myself. When I awoke, my true state returned somewhat maudlin with my back tight and my mind humming it's usual refrigerator song. But those moments before, where my body went quiet and the polyurethane coating of my delusion peeled away, thinking of those moments, there was a pause that I remember calmly. There is the universe as a black sheet with all of it's mind-blowing scale of life and space existing within the thickness of the fibers of the cloth, stars, planets, galaxies and the like. There is the expanding speed warping and wrapping outward all while gravity does it's time in the weight room and the little defined constants obligingly hold their position. And here we are with everything cooperating long enough for us to give our tiny monumental cracks at these minuscule auditions for the roles of becoming gods, or less melodramatically, becoming beings of understanding, and usually we fail it seems.

And if time travel were possible we'd be looking into the eyes of a future traveller on CNN or Fox News depending on the political affiliations of said journeyman, and he/her would also be proof that the elusive search for the master of this expansion still hasn't shown his/her face and that if time marches on and people fail and fail and fail to elude the boundaries of existence, then they'll forever be at the mercy of the constants and the feeling that they're participating in one hell of an emotional existence complete with tears, love, mistakes, happenings, futility and something seemingly like optimism.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Things On Your Mind

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Avocado Hunting

Thursday, August 5, 2010

The Collective Bonfire

This has to be from the finger tips alone. If there's a manifested energy to be released, it must be cruising on it's own course. Searching for the gift of another form. There are no color barriers, only a notion that the exchange must take place. There is a glance. A subtle gesture. A hint of life in bloom. Now presenting a freedom, a friendship, the coming together of two souls.

A light switch left on reveals a room only when perception arrives.

A man alone means nothing. An anguished cry in the woods doesn't make a sound. For these words to be true, the human soul would have to be disconnected and for that reason I disagree with the previous statements, but not their provocation of transactional context. The creation exists in the life forms surrounding the context, orbiting a purpose, seemingly arbitrary or intensely focused, the energy expands multiplied by these relationships. Expanding and expanding moving toward complexity, contributing fuel to the evolutionary fire, not just on a species-specific basis, but a universal one. WHY ELSE DO YOU THINK WE'RE DOING ALL OF THIS?

Monday, July 26, 2010

a gust of sentimentalism

storm waves piling on top of my deluge. the dreaded memories of foggy sunday mornings, ripening the hollow feeling that nothing can happen. we're born, we play tennis, then we die. in between, we fall in love and we cry. there are some great moments and I'm not even talking about the time spent on tropical vacations, though that amazing corona-commercial-seashore-zen felt wonderful as i laid on a hammock with my woman in my arms. i'm sure you'd agree if you could see me. sometimes my eyes are young and youthful, sometimes i get stoned and laugh like a blissful child and other sometimes I look bloodshot-tired and on the edge of a mundane precipice. my whole line was:

if you don't know what day of the week it is, you're on the right track.

Chasing Momentum and Evacuating the Void

A streetlamp like a spotlight with a highway full of blinding cars as the audience. We're subject to the whims of underground fault lines, shifting, shaking, sinking the arbitrary into the rubble. Swallowed whole by the earth beneath the concrete under our feet. I laughed, laughed like I always do, like a madman. I already told you that. I pounded my hand onto the floor looking for oxygen, I was choking, I was dying, I was high. The revolutions of the globe stopped, sending the rest of us flying off of its face. Then the momentum swung around, beginning the laborious turning for the opposite direction, causing time to move backward while we relived the past and I lost myself in chronic dreams. Meanwhile, your toes deceived the rest of your stoic body, they writhed and wriggled like caterpillars. Your feet cramped from the orgasms we made. Your eyes danced from the glow we shared. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm luminescent-enamored. But what does that have to do with a story? Well, I'll tell you. We woke up and argued and then made up and then there was that little boy screaming for his mom to calm down. Suffering in defense of the man who was the only person who made his lonely little child life happy. He said so himself. Next door. His pain recognized me and crept inside. I was getting high from his fumes of torment because I've heard that same desperate howl escape from my own lungs. I've been caught between two greater forces attempting to push and pull them together for the sake of keeping everything I've cared about intact. I've been possessed by desperation, fear and the feeling of my best actualised slipping through my hands as I watched it fall. "Ahhhhhh, big deal" you say. (Which could come off as calloused if I didn't know you better) You, you, you, you're all different Yous just so you know. One of them is even You my dear, my friend, my love, my brother, my sister, my stranger.

I'm not finished. I'll drive this train until they pull me off the motherfucker. I'll fall and descend and do all those other things that remind us of losing our shit. Then life will turn quiet


there's the steady undisturbed tick of the seconds symbolizing the countdown, but honestly, who has time to think of these things. We've got dreams to chase. Appointments to make. Hours to clock. Sacrifices to fall victim. Movies to watch. Books to read. Blood to spill. Towels to wash and dry, circle, wash, dry, rinse, repeat. I've done that before.

We're getting there.

Running with reckless abandon. Go. First your heart beats claustrophobic in your chest, then it loosens, next the breathing catches up, your blood begins boiling, your periphery becomes blurry and the funniest part of recognizing yourself happens. I guess that's why I've slept on floors. Eaten from trash cans. Drank from bacteria ridden pools. I guess that's why I've woken up. I guess that's why I've kept going in such high spirits despite my passive arrogance. It's because I've recognized myself from time to time, through sweat and tears, blood and silence. There,

Friday, July 23, 2010

Rewarding Kinetic

I've grown tired of making things what they're not. For a man who detests the compression of life, it would seem rather contradictory to narrow the potential scope of the future by peppering and riddling it with booby traps in the name of fear. This tried and true method of having-it-all-figured-out before "it" occurs is a defense mechanism and, as with all defense, it comes with the inability to move forward. Change the habits. Move forward. "Be here now", like that obnoxious, busy-mouthed yogi said. The inertia will implode. Reward the kinetic. Challenge the advancement. Contribute to the expansion.

Thursday, July 1, 2010


We are fucking particles. A collective feast. The magic we made is a portrait, not technology, it's a portrait. Some things never change. Try finding a bathroom in Hollywood. Scoring mercy on La Brea. Opening inspiration in the Valley. After longer than expected, I've seen them all, outliers. With any luck, so are we, along with particles. Along with a ride in a van. A conversation in a cafe. Hangover on the bus. The days blend into one. The way our bodies twist and turn together is the exciting part. The unsuspecting moments where friends discover liveliness turns the colors worthwhile. Underwater is good. So is that old-fashioned unconditional love. How lucky to be so loved. How lucky for the feelings to be normal, assumed, granted. It's valuable to take notice. My gratitude lights up the sky. A moment of reverence is fine too. In fact it's more honest than a metaphor in this case. Breathe in the gratitude. Let it go, carry it somewhere with the rest of the invisible. Life goes on, you've got life to live, precious life, so subtle sometimes.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Low Light Collection

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Bad Stand-Up

Inevitable. The cyclical nature. Staring at the washing machine.

On the news there was that old man spending the next twenty years without the woman who'd been his purpose. It seems that eventually even purposes piss themselves and get cleaned by nurses in retirement homes. How strong is direction if it's cooked in a bedpan? How splendid is this masterpiece viewed with fading eyes?

The explanations become as blurry as the images.

Look, you take one meaning and plug the leak as long as it'll hold. It can be a cheap fit that lasts a few blissful hours or it can be a stronger glue that relies on fitness and endurance and the hope that, by nightfall, the body will be exhausted enough to surrender. Each are options with inevitable consequences. The first option gets pulled over for weaving in and out of traffic, while the other finds the mind wide awake with no more gas in the tank. It's an empty feeling as the water rushes onto the boat and you drown another day.

Isolation is this dream. You wake up, start again and hope for any element that holds the rickety boat together long enough for peaceful sleep to prevail.

Hey Cutter

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Waves of Surrender

Illuminated lines and angles cut along your mind's splendor and we dance and dance and dance the night away. The air we breathe is like a mission to retain our senses. The pulsations imposed by the flesh deliver us our own wonderment.

A collective burn and forge, a passionate embrace, a river of sweat, and a delicate afterglow.

The freedom to go anywhere and the choice to choose the other. We both stay away from hallucinogens because our minds are ripe with fantasies. Our world's already vivid and thumping with energy. I can feel you over seas. I can share your dreams. I can kiss your knees. The world spins hurricane on it's axis and we lock hands.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Get Going

The pitch is this: An accelerated mind moves too fast for its own good, ignoring road block after road block, it travels on two motorized wheels down various landscapes, most of which are beautifully sparse deserts filled with equally brilliant mirage-like sequences. The horse with no name is a lie.

Thursday, April 29, 2010


As everything folds convolute and turns in on itself, the universe shrinks and glass breaks. The streetlights bend like matrix spoons and our bodies lay unconscious, with brains simply unable to shut off.

There were lightning sparks in those Icelandic volcano clouds. A balancing phenomenon. An electric-charged storm of energy carrying on within the cloud. This is different. Now, I'm thinking about oil spills. The ocean lit aflame. Liquid black hissing out of a pipe and mercilessly spreading itself. A slave of physics. Blanket of death. Maybe it cries as it swims. Wanting only to return to it's dark womb. Never asking to poison the blue, it was simply the victim of a supply and demand scheme insistent on perpetuating the sterotype that man is a parasitic doofus stumbling around Earth. The falling black snowflakes on the other hand, are apparently good for the algae in the saltwater, something about iron deposits.

Lighter things.

Like a dog that plays with a kid. A birth where blood pours forth a silver glowing child. A girl taking photographs of herself in a beautiful city that makes her look like a decoration. What about the man who created a beautiful song from such an ugly demonstration of the probabilities? His strength to continue could be filed under lighter things. Just as a friendship forming somewhere in that black tar mess might end up lifting spirits. Enough lifted spirits becoming the change. Reaching for something.

Float through the adversity and juxtapose a smile with the scenery. The best that we are struggles to move on, the best that we are admires the struggle. A helping hand. A destination. A journey spent awake because the surroundings were too damn splendid to ignore with shut eyes.

Hope is a belief in a positive outcome related to events and circumstances in one's life. Hope is the feeling that, what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best. Definition courtesy of Wikipedia.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Benjamin Button

Face to face. Wall to wall. Translucent to Translucent. We used to kill jellyfish that found their way to the beach. Later, there was the plastic container in the Carribbean that may or may not have been one as well. I'm older now and I don't hurt what scares me, in fact, quite the opposite. Sometimes it's the flirtation with ruin that becomes enchanting. The damaged purpose of projecting manifest into future time with misguided attempts to fill that ever-waiting void and gut-wrenching sun-drenched land of expectation whose results are usually followed by a tripped over shoelace or worse.

Placing an object in the potential-forward and then magnetically gliding toward it is the manner in which this life orders itself and is made all the easier if those easy whores, pain and fear, are the ones being projected. It's unnecessary, it's a fucking game. Break those tendencies. Choose productivity, trust and bravery. Go to the source and examine why the detrimental feelings arise. Put something better in the future, it could be free of pleasure or pain, it could be pure, it could be expectationless, it could be tinged with something better.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Write some pp pp ppo ppoee poooooeeemmsssss. Ppppppp

This one's for you kid. I hold a 24oz tallboy walking peaceful streets, a homeless man in gym clothes. A recluse with his shirt-off getting tan. Dreary inspiration dictated to by the melodic tide. This peripheral merry-go-round throwing off the drunken-lucky-idiot. A bruise and a scab traded for escape from the ever-slow circuitous conventional circle, fair trade, fair trade, I'll take the cut, I'll take the rain. Forgive me for the lack of flow, it's been months since my last hit. Down another can, crunch it up, throw it on the ground, pick it up and recycle. Never free, even if our intentions are pure. You see the contradictions. We're always free, even if our intentions are unknown, even if we drown ourselves in syrupy anaesthetics. Forgive the contradictions. You're beginning to see the contradictions. Forgive the contradic-

This attention span elastic, memory durable and plastic, the old ones never decomposing. The slime of our worst selves slipping down storm drains released into the boundless blue sea, confined to the slamming shoreline, polluting minds entering through ears, dirtying lives and drinking tears. There we see the lack of contraindications which are different from contradictions in that they protect us from ourselves --- which WE are NOT in the business of doing my friend. WE ARE in the business of running hard, diving deep, smoking too much, hiding from the world, sleeping for days, standing on stage and counting the eyes, screaming in anger if they aren't all intent on our images. We ARE in the business of proving ourselves to people we are not, dazzling them with acts of apparently little effort that actually have been forged in our worst nightmares and hardest efforts behind the curtains, behind the scenes, in our own personal glory days that feel like torturous neglect. Our salvation the intersecting similar lives, the collisons of common pains and laughter of unincorporated human beings like you and me and him and our girls and our dancing bullshit and shit words and loud cries and growing pains and electric brains lucky for the love lucky for the love that our mangled genius forms are capable of being loved lucky to have a woman with love and to love to give love we're like Tyson, better at giving love, but we're learning to accept it, getting better every day, it's interesting the way connected people can grow parallel and evolve and change and still remain immaturely inane and decadent and extravagant and grateful for the time so grateful for the time even if we call them wasted lives we grow and thrive and keep striving and keep turning corners beautiful blissful face into walls we keep turning corners and challenging the surprises and we live and live and live our lives.

Friday, March 12, 2010

No One Reads Blogs

Sometimes it's merely about turning things around or reversing their order. Mixing and matching. Walking into a dead-end and climbing over the wall. You play with the puzzle until it all fits, look at the big picture, leave it around for a day, then take a breath and tear it apart. What happens next is that you begin searching for a new one to figure out.

Carrying a little more confidence in your stride as you go.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Warmer Still

One small being strapped to a revolving ball of water out in the boonies of the universe. Sound waves cut. Sad, sad, music, wanes and grows. My self-loss echoes silent. Black night. White-yellow stars. The moon spits it's tobacco juice golden glow and we hold our breath. Sucked beneath the earth by savage undertow.

I've caught the thin blue morning light a couple times recently. Painting water colors while it supposed me asleep. I've dragged my transformed heart around as it pumped perfectly over and over again, so much stronger than my spirit. My heart beats on and on oblivious to my condition. I've become a person capable of loving again. The bravest act we have, is also our only redemption, the only buffer from the walking dead. I reach and cling to wet strands, using my muscles for something. Grateful for the grand illusion of separate days.

Friday, January 22, 2010

I went out with other young people. Like we thought was healthy. And,

all I did was talk about you.

When I'd think of these scenarios where you'd be gone for awhile, I'd imagined myself a slightly mature and patient man who busied himself in other things, but I'm not. I miss you. I'm with you. I keep you in my heart. You are, actually, my heart.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

The Beatles play. The sun shines through my window. You're at the epicenter of a disaster. And I'm writing again, probably because it's my only hope. I overflow with life, I write.

I see your pictures and my pulse calms. Life through you're eyes, your lens, gives me comfort. I become you and the moment turns beautiful. I'm there with you.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Calming Faceless Ghosts

It's the time of morning where the low frequency buzz of the cable box and the whirling chatter of the refrigerator are the day's marching band. The delinquent mind on overload. The heat of a firing metabolism wailing inside the warm sea of my blood. My salvation arrives in the form of this canvas.

First there was the womb. Then the sensory baby. The confused infant. The inner-child. Achingly becoming the adolescent. These sidewinding apparitions mingle with present neuroses and a caffeinated mind that quickly and savagely becomes lost in a self-contrived maze of no apparent origin or ending. Stay calm. Walk the path, don't run. The demons that jump from behind sharp corners are only actors working on a commission relative to the fear they cause. These treacherous sounds of ghosts function on an automated recorded feed. The refracted mirrors are distorted only by negative thoughts. Enemies prey on belief in false forms. Truth is the furthest thing from your mind and that's the only danger. Find your truth again. Listen. Stop talking and listen. Every once in awhile clarity appears like crystal-cut daylight after rainshowers. As you move forward, the redirection of focus can be the best survival tool you have. Relax. Stay calm. Walk the path. Allow the best of your world to call to you.

When the exit appears. The pain starves. Truth arrives quiet and strong. There are no guarantees, but the sun will soon rise.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Put A Blue Ribbon On

Wonder-wonder. It's no wonder that this time of year opens up like a kaleidoscopic splendor-drenched landscape. The days are warm here. Everyone keeps telling me that we should send some pictures to our friends in the cold. We never will. I'm too entranced to be bothered by weather gloating.

My plate is full, then it empties. I go to hide for awhile and return to it covered again. A feast. Rinse, wash, spin, repeat. Let the growth occur in between. Ambition is the many feathers of a peacock. They dazzle, have their focal points, shine persuasively for another party to take a liking to. They die. They fall to the ground. They're replaced by new feathers. They end up on pretty jewelry or trampled beneath the dust. They lose their luster. They change the world.

If at first, few thousand times, you don't succeed, lift yourself up and try again. The third round Arsenal match was a perfect example of the idea that:

No matter how down you get, never abandon your style.

At its presentable levels, STYLE, is more than a fleeting choice. It's a long-crafted expression of your evolution. If you've done your due diligence, been forged in fires, withstood the tortures, breathed in the beauties, accumulated the scars, and maintained a sense of humor, then this flawed collection of brilliance will contain the best that you have to give the world. Adjust, evolve, tear down, and rebuild. Never abandon your style.