Low Light Collection

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

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.

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.

Shades

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.