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.

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.

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.

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.