we are real

hands down

you do this. never feeling whole because there's a hole somewhere. music resuscitates and keeps the river from drought. wake up. eyes open. the matter of how high to pull yourself from the mire. like a mother dog biting and lifting that part of her own neck. you're not a puppy anymore. but when you create. when you create. if you're lucky enough to find it's location you expose that newborn soul over and over again. and the world comes crawling into the best untouched and mixes like paint. sometimes you wanna put it on your wall. other times you want to drown in off shades.

all rivers at once

on the other side of pain is gratitude. there are so many brilliantly good people in this world. often we're just one brave hello away from meeting them.

beginning through dirty window

dawn

nobody's watching. the sun must light up our eyes indefinitely if we get enough of its unblemished morning rays. no one knows when you're gone. the liberation of spirit is beyond compare. the exchange is only stroke of blood in heart. life becomes a phantom right? memories crystallize into present behaviors, some good or bad. indifferent or meaningful. a bunch of handsome people move about abbot kinney now, but before it was just us, wasn't it? insulated in worlds and worlds, that google+ thing has it right with it's circles. circles and circles of perspectives, we lasso the reality we choose for now and grip it like it's everything. sometimes catching something god damn beautiful that drags us like an infuriated bull. hands bleeding from rope as long as we can hang on. everything certainly becomes repopulated. i'm not sure with what? a lot. this morning i walked the beach with a lot more people than i remember. and the sun was writing all over my face. the sand hitchhiking in my shoes. birds travelling like neurons. giving thoughts. pleasure ocean. pain boardwalk. both contrasting forces inherent in one another. i took a left along familiar streets. a vagrant face reflecting back at me in car windows. or just another affected one prone to reflection. it's something.

yes

"life is not linear. it's organic. we create our lives symbiotically as we explore our talents in relation to the circumstances they help to create for us."

inconsequential

there's a burning throat. we never smoked together. not as much as we do separately, now. we drank jack and then chased it with coke at the top of some mulholland vantage point and the glimmering lights of the valley were turned down dull enough to accurately portray such disappointments. we were talking about something vaguely sentimental or singing about something else top 40. maybe considering dancing on the side of the road. i'm sorry you felt bad that night. it was so long ago, mixed in before such drastic events and after our greatest victories over one another. in our darkest hours we have these small memories and they're entirely inconsequential until they're all we have left to prove that a prior reality did indeed occur, take place. i talked bullshit about space.

is a flame

fresh energy. stars. we search, even play it passively. hoping, dreaming for the burst. i stare at my cell phone for a flashing red light. i glance at the sky and swallow powder blue loneliness like water. i converse with strangers i'll never meet again. shake hands. use paper towels for getting in and out of public restrooms. dream on floors. scratch my scalp. take omens with a grain of salt. apply for spiritual grants. toss and turn in bed from full moon gravity. heart palpitates, stomach metabolizes, energy burns like a pilot light, levels varying. i work away libido. draw upon experience, splash abstractions, wondering when and where, when and where. breathing. inhalation is inspiration, fresh air, allergies, pollen, and all and everything.

in the shower or on a rock

The spiritual exists more than anything. So, when your analysis prone friends tell you one thing about your true mourning and my anthropological buddies point toward man's nature of the hunt and promiscuity, remember that they're both neglecting the unspoken beauty that uplifts this life. The invisible greatness that two people can share when they're both concentrated.

Then what is good?

"The obsessive interest in human affairs, plus a certain amount of compassion and moral conviction, that first made the experience of living something that must be translated into pigment or music or bodily movement or poetry or prose or anything that's dynamic and expressive---that's what's good for you if you're at all serious at your aims. William Saroyan wrote a great play on this theme, that purity of heart is the one success worth having. "In the time of your life---live!" That time is short and it doesn't return again. It is slipping away while I write this and while you read it, and the monosyllable of the clock is Loss, loss, loss, unless you devote your heart to its opposition."

-Tennessee Williams