Something about a drink and an old memory

seriously quithink at Drink's mercy.
I'm sewed into my shirt and crashing in some random
part of town.
This is I;
the burden on god.

least, how he has /become/
onto these people.

Here have I come
to observe.

Though here have I been
grossly involved.

Here I've come to miss last summer.
I already feel like I've left behind
my youth.

I miss that Wilderness: a feeling just
what I haven't let myself know:
a longing of sorts.

I miss that reckless behavior
--back when I was living it
it wasn't fit for conversation.


Have a made a fool of myself?

JUST.
It was the last tattoo.



...



I have been living here for three months
and can't remember such anxiety.

My blood has curdled and my joints drained stiff.

There is Mary, the old woman, scolding me
at my every effort. I do not read her book,
though I've sewed her clothes and taken
her empty plates to the sink.

She has taught me bitter. What happened?

There is the girl, small and wild.
She will surpass me in fearlessness
and I will smile as I watch her Go.

I couldn't trade my trashy soul for any
innocent, attractive child.

Can you imagine that evil old men
were once helpless children?

This morning I awoke to her-still
-helplessness crawling into bed with me.
Sleep some more, child. It's too early.

This is the way I'll get over my rage,
by being the best caregiver
I could be. Arms wide!

This is THE WAY that I will be:
I told you I have left my home
for it was only where I was born.

I have gone on my way, and,
honestly
I will not know a single truthful home
until I have birthed in the place of my own design.

I want
the companionship of every kind
of person
on the spectrum.

I want those who are unkind, too.

Among the demons I am a Saint
though among the holy saints
I am Everything wrong with the world: Now,
I can go anywhere.

And I choose never to forfeit a question.
I choose never to forfeit a mind.

One day I will forfeit my body
and drift onto a place
more natural than home.

What's hitchhiking like OUTHERE?

Is there sight in the 2ndimension?
Is there a shape of shadow
that is
in some way sensed
in some sort of space
assuming
a Being of my infinite soul
was capable
of that consciousness
?

That epic of self
which is, perhaps,
only a function of the organ.

I swear on the dirt ground,
you see?
Those are my feet
standing on it.

It as a possession to what?

I think to myself:
my BRANE just folded through thoughts
and landed me mysteriously
at the curve a side-over.

Again, what?

In my TRI-LIFE next
I may seek the breadth of outer space.
To get passed Earth
as earthling.
Known me my Mother so well
she speaks to me: child,
it is Time to leave your home.

It is Time to be courageous
and discover the outside world.

Time is the highway of space.

Is Speed the only way to manipulate distance?
Is not
becoming God
another consideration?

To travel faster than backwards.
To use as vehicle
my universal thoughts...

I had said to you I feel the unhappened.
That sometimes I recline
remembering the future.

So Be It:
If it has been said, it has happened.
If it is happening
language will follow
attaching itself
as virus.

So Be It:
we must dabble
in these human behaviors.

The Yin-Yang is not Faith and Science,
those are merely
the eyes inside.

SO BE IT:
THIS IS THE "AMEN" OF AQUARIUS.

I may have to wait for the dawn of Capricorn
to get up there
through
the starry sky.

03/22/09

Then a trinity I have
of Brothers
of companions
I may trust
in lucid faith.

A brother of blood
a brother of drift
and another for the mind.

Universe, you have seen
me green
and I see now
that you are lending me
my wish.

That years ago I beknown
this world beautiful
in the exchange
that she would give me kin.

This was it:
my worship
for family.

And, Universe!
I take back nothing.

I want in my direct surroundings
people I have found
worthy of blood.

Let us build a home
of separate bedroom
but shared living.
We will have spacious rooms
of wood and art
and everyone gathered in song.
We will green our own land
and survive in subtle perfection
just outside the concrete world.

Here there is Nature
here there is always warmth.

We sing every night.

There are meals we make
with pleasure.
There is always enough for everyone
and their guests.

There is art everywhere.

This is my home.

Outskirted from the city I've known well
to have experienced
to have known
so that I can move passed.

Brother of mind, you must know
that I will always be moving.

Brother of drift, let us go.

I will travel to the feet
of every Mountain
between the city and my home.
I must, for I have dreamed of it.

I go without blanket
but return for its comfort.
In the clearwaters of sleep
I have dreamed my most
provoking dreams
in the wake of day.

There are children of the coast
born inland.

There are recurrent souls
from past life to present
that meet each other
and cannot understand
the innate fix.

Think of where you ought to be.

At a celebration,
with friends?

I have spoken intimately with the Universe
And I have said to myself:
this has been the perfect exchange.

Let your hands fold out.
I consider it strange that the lines
on our palms
are entirely unique.

But where else am I?
Back at the celebration,
with the origin of the universe
at the back of my mind.

I'm sorry that you think of someone
and that someone thinks instead
of Outer Space
and the Open Road
and art.

Go on, explore.

Somehow
I find family.

In this life the thicket of those
who love me dearest
have come outside of blood.

In the danger of a stranger
I have claimed my past.

Go to a group you know well
with others by circle:
this is the thing of us.

This is a party of our generation.
Is it not
glorious?

At whatever year you ask me of
I will say:
the parties were fantastic.

This is the behavior of kin.
This is the nonsense
at the depth
of movement.

GROW UP,
REALIZE.

If I am an old soul I must be kind
If you have reason you must have seen
something
and now
we can certainly imagine the brights.

In the clearwaters of space
I have left my home of peace
to come here
and seek out
a new home
of peace.

I ask the universe if any of this
was ever worth it
and I hear myself say,

jar

in my first days
of my 21st year
i find myself
juggling heartbreaks

i find myself on a long-distance bus
with street signs out there
in a language i do not know

but in a place i've come from

i understand loss now
like i understood freedom
last summer.

Wine is the mixture of water and blood.

My mother to me the old saying says
that blood is thicker than water.
These words together are cause to heat
and I return: I will not wear that badge on my heart
because your family has abandoned you and your children.

We are water.

My mother has been scapegoat
for these god-fearing people too long,
since at least the first years of my thinking mind
and for all those years I grew in anger.

Now it is only death that can cause such words to be on tongue.

I have since found peace
and I have found much of myself.
They are not bad people
though they have no idea
what they have done.

And the most genuine must go first.
Of course.

At the last supper I had to get up
with the closure of prayer
when the man's voice cracked
in his weakling state knowing
he was about to die.

Mary had held my weeping head earlier
in her tired arms and told me only
to not have him see me this way.

So I had left the table to share my sorrow with emptiness
though there I had found my mother.

The man can't see our love made manifest?

The man went to see and signed the cheque for his own resting place,
was that not harder for him?

These days of torture, mama.
These days of absolute pain.

We washed our faces
with cold water
and sat ourselves back down.

Mary put food in my plate
though I could not tolerate the idea
of feasting.

My mother offers me wine
the man himself has made.

This I did not pass.

Following my second glass
among the voices of an ancient language
I spoke out:

One of my earliest memories was making
this recipe of wine
taking off my socks and my shoes
to crush the grapes with my little feet.
He had held my hands as I walked through the pool
feeling juice creep between my toes.

He told me stories of Italy that day.

They could not believe I remembered this
but I shared details to have them believe.
He could not speak, but acknowledged that he heard.
This man who has never done wrong
who had given up his dreams for a simple life
with a name Of the Grapes
for he was born on a vineyard.

I drink the wine. Red like sweetened blood.

I was strong to not let tears find me then, retelling the story
but now is a different Time.
Neither He nor Mary are with me
so they will never know.

In our case, mother
we are water who drink the wine.

In our case, mother
Wine is thicker than blood.

Schisma-Blastemata

I trace the lines of sound becoming outer space.

I follow their paths and understand both meaning and message.

In this space that has grown with me
I am content.

Blessed is the curve at my hip as
blessed is every lonely soul.

Blessed, truly, is the addict
is the curious virgin
is the old soul moving past childhood
as the fold of the socio-cosmic sky:
blessed ye who are the drifting prophets.

Come, let us drift.

Spend on your journey nothing but the currency
of courtesy and wait for every blessing to be known you.

If there is storm, there will be comfort somewhere.
Let us not fear this task of survival.

I do not want to cripple before my body says goodbye.

Blessed is the preacher who has not taught
a single soul the lessons of god as blessed is
the one who does not Believe
though fellowship they have charmed.

Blessed, honestly, is the warlord! Our closest
human-type to god.

But blasted is the scientist.
Blasted is my intimate.
Blasted are the scorns of sleep: that my mind
is not strong enough
to stay awake.

Time is the slipperiest thing.

We are Blue.

I am not beautiful
for I do not shelter stirring
I am not womanly like that.

I may keep my body
in from the cold of season
but my every emotion is left out,
ridiculously so,
in the wind-disaster terrain of mind
that oftentimes is desperate for refuge
though kept out, to bare strength
and kept raw
for the world to devour and grow sick.

These, they will linger.
These, they will hold
for there is no choice
but the path of experience
through lightshine and storm.

You, lady
are my beautiful side.
Kept, instead, yourself hidden
kept yourself scared

or did I mean to say
sacred?

For one distant person that may never see this.

I asked fire for the difference
between air and water and their secrets.

She said water would keep a secret, knowing what she wanted.

Air would stop talking, in debate.

The bright.

Aquarius speaks to me of pride
and in conviction.
She comforts me by claiming herself
damn proud,
too.
But it is confidence, I say,
hardly pride.

Though in this moment of solitude
and honest contemplation
I am exactly proud.
I am certain this word matches this feeling
and I am certain in myself.

I am proud of what my hands humbly make
I am proud of the worlds my mind has found densities in
I am proud, even, of my ambitions
that they are before me
and that they require work.

I am proud of the places I will see.

I had not wanted to use the word in conversation
in fear that it may be mistaken for arrogance,
as I had in others interpreted such before.

But pride can be beautiful.
Cultural pride absolutely radiates.

My dark moon has not the lion at its station for scene,
but for the bright itself.

Stepping, stepping

I sold my first painting for 50 bucks and a joint today.

Time is Leaking and the Universe Acts on our Minds.

I had a dream about you as I slept
I had touched your skin for the first time
in romance, tangled in my actions but elated—
for once my finger-tips danced
on your belly and then pressed; my thoughts
had never let me go there.
I wanted the Sacred Idea hidden in myst
and kept
but then
I let existence reign
and it beheld me truth.
This is the Idea, and it is Sacred.
It is a world just unlike a world you have experienced.
But you may go.
This is a perfect thing
now, most specially, that it was first forbidden.

Bedded conviction.
Whatever,
live your life.
In my dreams there is rebirth.

There is noise
it is wonderful
it sounds
like music.

I learn to sing with a song in another language.
I know not the words but the sounds that words become
and the unspoken feeling they provoke: thump,
enchanting new constellations of thought!

I am not living centuries ago
I am living many lives scattered in frequencies
across the gorgeous planet
and feeling the essence of every living soul.
WITHOUT TONGUE THIS IS WHAT THERE IS.

There is childhood in wise thoughts.
There is Ultimate Reality in the intangible
the unattainable as
the Infinite Soul.
Now,
why can’t I feel this always?
Why must I be inspired
or moved deeply, as shaken I was mere hours ago,
again, there was a bomb,
though this could not be the signature
of normality.
What is that,
bliss?

No, I do not desire bliss. Not on earth.
But I desire joy.
I desire cavernous elations
main-streamed by general creativity
obscured slightly, though sharply
by tragedy defining growth
marking era
that loss is a necessity.

I wouldn’t have been born for bliss.

I would not, even, be born for peace
Though I would die in battle defending it.

I HAVE COME AS AN ESSENSE. I HAVE CHOSEN MY GENERATION.
AND I DO BELIEVE IN EVERY PERSON.
I do believe that every wave of people is of prescribed personality
with some sort of natural influence
that a soul may search out
on what trip they would like.

I am happy.

I have painted and climbed this mountain
for this whole mighty era.
I have traveled far in my mind
as an island I have reached planets
and have weathered youth in my expression
with the stirrings of my soul.