Friday, December 21, 2012

flukes in the cosmos

tonight the moon looks like a vanilla bowl of ice cream. there is no typo in any statement. she used to eat fat little worms when she was a child. i told her that time was a lake and she reminded me that rivers  bring them water. lips, a tiny dog named elvis and calm and bone marrow. i wound down a hollywood hills stream resurrecting myself in my jewish deli city. alan watts returned to late-night radio, some indie station programmer brought his voice again; the illusion of separateness, buddha is an awakened one, sansara is a rat race to which we slave. outside, my friend and i were smoking and talking about meeting women and the distance between the nucleus and electrons, relative to a football stadium, ourselves. without the charge, we are soup, alone in december we can survive anything. still stars in the sky during the day and night is a prize if we can remember our moment. feeling thin, adult, meaning, bringing bunches of meaning, filling the plate with meaning. a christmas party, american spirits, basil whiskey, and little themes repeating themselves in new spirit.

"metaphors are dangerous. metaphors are not to be trifled with. a single metaphor can give birth to love." - milan kundera

she's passionate about tomato soup, prop. 37, and old people. i told her about the lady i rented a room from in franklin canyon years back. it only took abby three marriages to have the same last name as her street. she laughed. abby had an oxygen tank, swollen legs, flaky skin and a dark sense of humor, loved the syncopation of my guitar, watching tennis, and kept a tiny prison bed in the miniscule nook she sublet a teenager who spent his nights wandering the neighborhood, drinking whiskey, wincing from the hollow burn, improperly smoking cigarettes and smelling cooking from houses belonging to families and stoves. they weren't good days or bad, they were mine, simple. but we don't include those details because they arrive later and are inconsequential in comparison to the spark of interaction.

elvis reclined on her lap, head hanging back like a kid upside down or a playful bat.

Friday, December 7, 2012

fortified with six b vitamins including 50% dv folic acid 1 gram of sugar per serving

i see an eyelash floating in my cereal milk, it used to belong to me, seconds before. we keep losing these things we've grown, produced by our very being. they just happen to fall off.

"life becomes more and more about what we've lost." i told a curly-haired girl at a bar some lost months ago. she kept calling and calling.

you wanna borrow some passion?

i lived alone, walked in the middle of the night from my santa monica canyon street to an ocean avenue filled with hundreds of thousands of people and a few underwhelming art installations. years after, it was me and my girl and some bicycles from venice and after that i was alone again, wondering about a glow.

i meant to say nostalgia, prior to passion, but wait, something happens:

nostalgia untethers to curiosity.

there have been all these flighty women defeating me time and time again through heart-wrenching feeling or icy indifference with bands and locales and experiences and, but, i set my stubborn roots in this magical desert, buzzards flying overhead, my seeds spread by santa ana winds and subtle seasons which indians like us know how to detect, and so we prosper, the way desert creatures know how, burrowing, meditating, climbing to some altitude in early chilled mornings before the stampedes wake and, there, we nurture spirit and thrive in our own way.

i wasn't bred for the path of least resistance, as docile as my pursuits appear on surface, surface, you can have surface. i'm somewhere dark, ensnared in monster tentacle, knife on belt, tearing away invigorated by some struggle or another.

i know that i've created all of these predicaments. it's what we do when nature fails to blow hurricanes our way. but there is purpose, it's a worldly laboratory and we are all mad scientists conducting experiments for our own opportunity at something more, physical, it happens in the physical, then manifests, if true, in the spiritual, near-infinite minuscule experiments creating something like, god, or ultimate creation.

this artistic soldiering, has greatness, even if it's a single hand on a massive push, on an object too large to comprehend outside of vision.

the reader is both repelled and attracted to the indulgence. something else exists is all i'm saying and i can locate a torn shred of a map to it's location on this strangely arranged keyboard.

so grab your passion now, coddle, cuddle, let it float away like the butterfly and give chase, ignore, paint, sculpt, dream about all those turbulent images and non-sensical patterns you've been beginning to suspect for some time now.