Thursday, June 30, 2011


Wednesday, June 22, 2011


feeling was nourished, by the grand illusion, that i was wanted. the pleasure, the derelict tendencies, moments where i sold myself. the dumps in venice, a bunch of cars that move once a week, dodging street cleaning, skating back and forth from curbside to curbside. the driver's hands soaking pretentious bohemian poverty bliss, the last of the mohicans. a bunch of rats with tiny holes to glorify, realize self, seldom few can destroy, even that frail notion. life is know...good but lonely...but lives....doesn't's the best we have.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011


"Here I am talking to you, I'm all worked up, and still I can't forget for a minute that I've got a story to finish. I see a cloud, like that one, shaped like a piano. I smell the heliotrope, I make a mental note: a sickly-sweet smell, a widow's color, use it to describe a summer's evening."

Thursday, June 16, 2011

the sky is our mistletoe

we were young and what's there to say? we were young, having such fun. we were young, oh so dumb. when you're young, love doesn't come easy - yes it does. yes it did. yes it did. yes it did. when i was young, even younger, not a kid, a teen, but a young young man, i used to drink beer and write until i cried and through the tears the words would spill out and ideas'd take shape and it wasn't for anyone else, it was for me and it was somewhere pure, distorted by delusions, but pure, pure in it's belief. and i believed, and i finally get the genius of that sigur ros song, i finally do. only, it's now alone, i'm only just learning alone, it's like - we die - so we can begin again and learn. we die and begin, die and begin, then we die and learn again, through our life, and the others before and others afterward. reincarnate me, an ant, a spacebeam, static in your radio, a gypsy moth, flame, destitute galaxy, spec of dust on the moon, i'll see you entirely, the way our bodies moved, how entropy was only a superficial challenge - the greatest illusion - that everything decays hahahahahah - it's only superficial - only in sight - only in senses, we do not decay....we expand. we grow and further and thicken and challenge and see through to the other side upon the other side upon the other side and somewhere over the rainbow is irrelevant because the rainbow is right there smack dab and we are already over everything, under everything, flipped around, backward, upward, downward dog at the shoreline watching the waves break upside down spinned around toward the sky and inverted we see the change, like clues to a greater puzzle we're already a part of, complete with no need for the cover for reference, the cover is fluid, the puzzle is what we are. the surface is the only falsity, the surface pretends, the image imagines, the ocean deeper than a pane of glass from an airplane, just as the sky is further than a thin line from the ground, life is breathing endless below the surface and outer space is further than we can use our brains and we're the same way. far beyond this skin, wrinkling, drawing lines, sagging bottoms, far past these graves, bills, arguments on the freeway, pressing flesh, dinner ceremonies, silence and waves, water spigots, laughing children, garden gnomes. we live greater than solace can imagine, more powerful than relief, pleasurable than massage, giggling at the rush of orgasm, it's but a trifle in true consciousness. shaking, shimmering, the ground moves, ground like coffee, ground like particles, ground and ground and grounded, our hearts give us a clue as to how boundless we are, our heart's maximum only clues to an eternal greatness we possess. inherent in energy. inherent in consciousness. inherent beyond feelings, judgements, labels, inherent within gravity's lie.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

When it Clicks

You were correct to get nervous when you learned that Jim Morrison was only 27 when he'd died. Your impulses were alarmed at the wealth of art and impact he'd seemingly created in comparison to our own lives. Whether it was greater than what we've done or not, is irrelevant. I was wrong. I shouldn't have assuaged your fears. I shouldn't have validated you. I should have jumped on your moving train of thought and like you, figured out how to do more. More in this life. More with my days. More waking hours. More activity. More action. More disruption. More movement. More expression. More. More. More. We can always be doing more.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

the xx

The ash from my joint litters it's chewy black all over a working desk that's gone on holiday. I was thinking that if we traded our expectations for practicalities and antediluvian moralities, that's when we'd arrive at something greater. This notion thriving by forgoing the pop culture orgasm. This notion based upon a norm explosion with shades of bohemian bliss. Please teach me gently, how to breath. They'll tell you one thing and do the other. Everyone keeps shucking off dime-store quotes and it's getting to be regoddamndiculous. The best advice is abstract. The best advice we tell ourselves. The best advice gets delivered in one sentence of a greater nonsensical rant. Bars are group therapy. Street fairs are excuses for people to look at each other. Deserts are our souls. Forests are our hearts. Mountains are our brains. Lions are our creative energy, lazy male power, agile female huntresses. Devour and burn, explode onto one another, over and over again and see what shakes. Explosion creating decimation or fertile grounds. Explosion being the catalyst to our behaviors. Explosion being change, allowing us to mourn, forcing us to leave, grow, return, move forward. Move forward. Move forward. We gain so much of our lives by reason, we lose so much of our lives to reason. We absorb and participate in so much complexity. The liquid of our great story lives within the motion of our movements, work is applied force through space and time and I'll cross oceans like never before, so you can feel, the way I feel it too. My face is an ever-shifting tale of distortion and I'll mirror images back at you so you can see the way I feel it too.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

the organ of gratitude and loss

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Microphones ("I Felt Your Shape")...

I thought I felt your shape but I was wrong
Really all I felt was falsely strong
I held on tight and closed my eyes
It was dumb I had no sense of your size

It was dumb to hold so tight
But last night
On the birthday in the kitchen
My grip was loose my eyes were open

I felt your shape and heard you breathing
I felt the rise and fall of your chest
I felt your fall
Your winter snows
Your gusty blow
Your lava flow
I felt it all
Your starry night
Your lack of light
With limp arms I can feel most of you

I hung around your neck independently
And my loss was overwhelmed
By this new depth I don't think I ever felt

But I don't know
The nights are cold
And I remember warmth
I could have sworn I wasn't alone