I WILL BE A SICILIAN BRIDE

The season has changed me,
has aged me in this position:
I have said within my reflection, Youth! I have
sacrificed my olden age for when I had made those decisions
I was young!
I laugh at myself already laughing
at myself
and what I have already grown out of.

Culture is the most wonderful thing in the world.

The Guru's of the East, the Adventurers gone West
And strength everywhere.
In the commoners and simple minded
there is the richest beauty of Earth.

I think of corruption.
I think of the underlining world
that seems to be only
corruption.

First there was art, then there was war.

First there was creation, then there was paranoid leadership.
I stop the wind of my thoughts, the overture
of the next swallowing war will let rest Old Man Europe.
Those people are exhausted of it.
Let them plant fruit trees.
Let their skin leather in the sun.
I learned this night that my mother's family
came forth and lived
under the coincidence of language.
That my Great Grandfather was plucked
out of infantry in the First World War
for his penmanship was so beautiful and delicate
he was far better used behind a desk
with ink, pen, and lettering wrist
than behind a firearm.

For being born you will die with a story.

Hello Earth.
So, this is the way you will age me.
By taking my tenderness and sheltering it deep
within yourself. I am the fountain of youth.
I am the Philosophers Stone, and you
have known the secret
forever.

I have seen you at your passing
in the eyes of a newborn child.

I watch, now, the setting of the moon.
It is dawn and my curious mind is lit.
Sunlight stretches out over my hands that have just done.
There is colour.
There is perplexity.
I grew within the body
of a kind woman born
within the womb of night
and my thoughts
deep and uncovering
will linger, there, at that moment, in darkness.
I will seek the corruption of the world at slumber under the sun
and bask comfortably with peace
in the shadows of Everything.
I will humor myself with the traditions of humankind.
One day, I will marry.
Before then, probably, I will birth myself, and give birth.
What season of day will my child be born into?

Mother. The concept often startles me...

THE ORGANIC MOTHERLAND

in the fishbowl: I stare out at my virtual world
fishing virtually for good concept.

it's as if i'm vibbing, somehow, to some beat
through the air which is my ground
for there is unmistakable ether
being made in the exterior.

think of beautiful as beautiful;
i feel the hit
but i will get to thinking back
as beautiful.

wow.

the fishbowl became bright.
(from outside i can see the continuous picturesque thing,
always in perfect composition)

what of creatures who are just
at explore? who obviously startle who
obviously swim through
some kind of imagination.

think of outer space as being water.

my senses find fever and lust among themselves,
though, it is curious, isolating consciousnesses
and being born but returning to the
world after death, and at death
which is birth understanding
because it is a higher place
though really
coming here is stepping forth.
placing isolation in a setting and time,
having watched, having conceived,
though unusually lingering long enough
in the womb for this life.

am i a life junky?

good Finished Thought,
down, thing.

my mind is a monster; these are the most turbulous days since birth.

with a throat so bloated
and a most hideous face, swollen, about to burst,
I did not sleep for three nights
unable to swallow, spit!
unable, even, to let close my mouth, spit, spit!

forget it all, the flesh bruised behind my skull
is pathetic.

I have learned this [weak] that through sickness
one may learn of their darknesses.
dwelt, I:
myself in the overcast of my spirituality.
myself lost in the thickest, most delirious and taunting
wood of shadow: I have lain uninspired and useless.
I have been unable to pick my rotting skin up, plunk!
and at the attempt for creation, the only energy to surface
was an angry, deep basin of drawspeak inability.

I only regained consciousness at the pain of my clenched jaw,
out of place with the aid of my malnourished strength
in the destruction of a drying canvas, twisted 'round
my aching limbs, painted all over I, reversed expression.

what happened to me?

I am capable of this anger?

I could not let myself rest, and rest well
to heal and return to myself
and let creation come to me, like it usually does.
I needed it. I forced myself to it, attack!

suffering may be the elation of the soul when passed
for the lessons instilled.

earth is a mirror and within us there is a sun.

or am i cluttered?
the sound is crawling
on my skin, man,
all over.

i see the direction
in the perplexity
of my mind.
that box i've been thinking in,
it's an actual cube of energy
in the most outskirted of space.

am i showing myself
what my soul
really looks like?
or am i now
in thirdpsyche dreaming.

is it spacious?

i know because i used to be scared
i used to--
nevermind,
the world all
just spun
in the same, gorgeous direction.

i forgot almost about the sound
and the exact profile of an old man
hung as a shadow on my wall.

i guess i figure
there is a deep baseline
between people who must know each other.
you see,
i am in desire of people
and i do mean
a huge, human family.

these are the things that i think
though thought never goes down on paper.

though

i send them to you in folds.
it's a colour effect.
the way senses may meet;
the way senses collaborate.
if my world and my body is simulation
why should i fear?

i think on mad
i think on mad
deep into the future,
not for fortune or pathetic telling,
but for the discovery of a personal
Brave New World,
a contemplation of thought
or a question of thought?
something that seems natural
but perverse.

an empty, nearly glowing thing.

this box of energy, and it itself
being comprised of energy
though at a slightly denser glow.
it is the form of all communication,
is every kind of transportation.
it sits at my bedside.
in my room,
with a plain, simple bed,
no pillow, windowless,
and all gray.

that box is everything.

i may still step outside
in the heartache of day
and touch my fellow world,
that being,
on all counts,
a great mystery.

that is my Brave New World.

what would i conceptualize
to give gratitudes to the laws of beauty?

every meet of pen and paper
and every sketch marked down failure and celebrated
is the creation of a dimensional universe.
a dimension may be flat in theory.
stackable.
the ancients still knew.
earth is a canvas
at paint.
the page is opportunity,
union of the Tao in my thoughts.
at peace it is stunning
though sometimes i shake,
sometimes i shake horribly
and the waves get uneasy.
but the page is extraordinary.

how is both projection and manifestation energy?

if i cannot speak clearly,
or discover a world of censorship, freedom of thought,
i will think EVERYWHERE.
i am a solider dropped in a mind
for a world
and there is all
and there is open
without restriction
or unnatural danger.
the total free.

what if the way we believed our future
and the future of the world to be
was what we got.
and all those people moreso thinking
of that other path
got that.
people just loose touch sometimes.

but in this change of world,
in this manipulative connected world
people are easy.

do i perceive upcoming world devastation,
erupting earth with sorrow and a sovereign
of corruption to blitz the planet over with war
and famine and creativity or
will these good vibrations procreate
and adopt a new world of peace
and just peace.

can art and passion live in a world of peace?
i am unsure of what I perceive.

The Tao of language: the WORD is the destination, the definition the journey.

Each observer carries different waves
which, keep in mind, are abstract.
We therefore, output different wave-function
which I would interpret not scientifically
but as the quality of will,
the child of perception.

With "reality" as a foundation,
I question the Scientist.
As this quanta suggests, there is place
for alternate universes, which,
perhaps, accept every collapse?
In the search for understanding
of the GREAT EXPANSE,
the unlimited wave of Everything-beyond-Time,
reality will never be a concrete vessel.

Reality is your consciousness.
And your consciousness is of easy influence.

I'm a little bit frightened
to think of boredom,
and the on-going struggle, and chastity,
even, and those other things.

I let my experience absorb me
and I dabble, literally,
through the puddles of memory
and think myself a child.
Except that now
I can recall my childhood.
I trace every era,
every secret,
that has put me here
beneath this moon.

Do you know how a poor person
may be rich?
Language is not a prefix
to the depth of thought.

I think of the latitude
of our galaxy
and the longitude
of our galaxy
as a layer
of galaxy-product
in the parallel of universes.
they are interconnected
but still
logically stacked.
I think of dimension now,
piercing through every
collective wave
but gently,
subtly,
as the string of height
and, co-operative together
I can envision the particle whole.

Is there a concept
in the developers mind
adjacent to Time?

I think of the trinity: emotional, physical, mental.
Writing this now, as incarnation I am Being
the physical aspect of my soul.
Though, the "soul" I am thinking of,
actually,
is the mental aspect of my soul.
You see, that energy itself goes beyond.
And emotion is what?
That undefined wave?
In this life I may think
and I may feel
but I AM.
When I am thought
how do feelings change?
Do they become temples?
They are aesthetic, they are colour.
When I am thought
what is touch?
Something I know about
though it remains a mysterious reality.

How far out must I be to encompass emotion?
Must I be the moon?
When I am thoughtful,
I may still myself in place
and lend myself to the physical world
as I
in this state of flesh
may sit herself down
and think.

Yes.

The mind is a higher place.
It has no body.
It is breathless.
When the time comes for me
to accept conclusion and release
myself from this somatic home
at death in my wise-age
so is the pain of mind at human birth.
There is a thought process involved,
allowing death and especially
latching onto fetus.
I wonder, the trauma that a soul
may inherit by sudden death,
is there also a trap to impregnate
a soul to earth?
Thrust into a bleak life
starved in a purgatory?

I do know I AM THE UNIVERSE, but
our souls are individual for a long time.
There are paths, like strings,
like pure, pulsating energy.
I feel as if I have watched earth
since her astro-birth.
And was there, in spiritual community,
discussing which constellations should be
involved for the personalities of this planet.
Let's make this world ironic. Challenging,
but so beautifully serene.
Now, who wants to go first?
And who will be their children?

I want to live at the turn of Pisces to Aquarius, I think,
that will do my soul good.

I was able to find an image of a city from the second dimension!

12.03.08:

Steve says:
your city from the second dimension is a minipci 10/100 ethernet controller
we've all come looking for America says:
hahah
we've all come looking for America says:
im just trying to illustrate using a picture somebody else took to say that we have been the creators of a system. godLIKE in theory, and we have noo idea what kind of world it is that actually lives there.
Steve says:
oh we will totally destroy ourselves, we have no clue what we are doing.
we've all come looking for America says:
Ahh im not saying that. these primitive modern times may carry some proof of that
we've all come looking for America says:
but with knowledge, i guess, comes the good judgment of kowledge
we've all come looking for America says:
and spelling errors
Steve says:
and system access fees

THE FUTURE IS AN OPEN BOOK

I sit myself
in the middle
of massive group:
the super-consumers!
Having done my 'rounds,
done my 'round,
and bored.
I gave and got myself
only for
a $3 pin.
I wait around
watching
waiting for the man
I call my father
to show.
I wait
I wait
around
I wait
I look out
and look
around.
Life is getting clever.
Life is thrusting
sending
delivering!
My senses.
This is the world.
This is the world.
Life is clear:
obvious,
ugly
beautiful.
I sit here.
When will the man
be satisfied.
I'm right
in the middle
noise
and people
everywhere.
I'm reading Wolfe's
Electric Test.
I am closing in
on the chapter,
"What do you think
of my Buddha?".
I think,
before I ever
heard of this
before I ever knew
of Kesey,
or Leary or Huxley
or Watts and
whatnot
I have put myself
into that open field
of mind operation.
The grand,
cosmic
jitter-smoothing
visionquest
you know?
a spacemission
you know,
the space in my third eye!
That THING that
makes perception
and that adjacent door
into perception.
This feeling is up to here!
I live and relive
and think and
attempt desperately
to perceive
and it's exactly
how it' is.
And in this heap
of human flesh
and heap
of mental activity
reading, living
and reliving, remember?
These words
are done well.
I read: PALO ALTO,
CALIE, JULY 21, 1969,
AND THE DAY
THE END
OF AN ERA...
I have been moved,
already by story,
and then this day
the people of Perry Lane
and, truly,
one of the first
genuine waves
of the sixties
died, for "the bulldozers
came" and everything
was taken down.
A slap!
Razing community
with intention to disperse
the growth of counter culture.
To replace it's root with suburbia.
The day the era died
the day
the era
died, my world,
was the day
my mother
was born.

The discussion of want is acceptable between siblings.

Listen
to the music between your voice,
it's utterly inspirational.
Listen to the footsteps
of the drifting spirit:
we have come
as solid flesh
to make noise as we move.

The ocean is natural percussion.
The wind, I think, just everything.

I want to dance.
I want to make move the soul at my feet
and bring my whole world with it.
I want the incidental place,
a place, even, that goes on perfectly without me.
A place that will never know I have come to visit.
There will be nothing to do but dance.
I want to speak out with anonymous voice!
To the strange getting stranger
who will tell my story to me
and I,
for myself.

I want to dance
around the song of your riff
at the side of the road
waiting for our next ride.

I want to go off only
with my soul and my psychedelia.

It's a hard road.
It's a damn hard way.

I want to see layers of earth
no one will ever understand.
I want to confront They of every kind,
unless they are not kind.
I want to BE GONE
to be at roam as the chance encounter,
the chance conversation,
practically unimportant.

I give away possession.
I want nothing but the home on my back.
I will banish all luxury
and sprawl out in the dirt ground.
If the sky is clear
I will lay there for lifetimes
and declare myself elated
for this simple existence.
The world will know I have nothing,
and give nothing to me
but what
I can't leave behind.

The world, this dent
of our universe, an emotional playground
that keeps such mysteries.

I have been a grain of sand;
among many contemporaries.
I have been a cloud;
feeding flowers before their bloom
with my weeping rage.

I have walked
and have come across a brother.

I want nothing now that has resulted from human thought.
Nothing that has been taken or touched
or dabbled by manipulating hands,
I want just
the expression
of life.
The wilderness of man
and the characters of nature.
Do you hear? I want the road!
The FREEWAY, brother,
I cannot wait.

And above all my wants,
I consider it beautiful
that footprints left at the shoreline
last only moments
before a wave does come
to conform it back to perfect land.

iISM

I forgot to mention my prediction on art
is that next
it will involve spirituality.

If everything's been done
add another dimension.

THE WORLD AFTER POST MODERNISM.

The brights! The sunlight glows
the things that are my freak:
what broken objects
can I now see?

May I bask in this warmth
of spectacle of starry infinite invitation

Or,
have I landed
in another box?

I swam to Aquarius today.
We spoke of our dead world
and our newbirthed hope
for art.

Yes, I said: I agree that material-availability
has made everyone the small-time artist.
The world of creation is hardly elitist anymore.
But the notion that everything has been done already
is gross,
it grosses me OUT;
it is revolting.
ART
can never cease.

Yes, she says, I agree that art
can never cease, but understand
the modern difficulty.

I understand that everything said is true.
I understand that brats and thugs have names.
I understand that society is boring and the
concrete middle class have nothing
in meaning except spare time.

To be louder and hard, we must create.
I don't care that Time is the filter.
I don't care that through the worlds Great Connection
it is harder to Be.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
There are times that manifesto's are spat in speech.

I think of the "hip"
and the beatific hip
and the glamour involved with history.
I explain to my consciousness, when
you're telling the story
you will be from another Time.
You will understand reasoning
for it slips from the present,
as the gift.

A thing that shone
shines brighter
from afar.

The world of art is by reflection.

Everywhere there is conversation
concerning the masters and the idiots.
I recall words between
two fires
and one earth
on topic that the brush of the past
is the only capable thing.
That on the hereby,
it is only through influence.
I sat quietly and observed.
They were almost convincing
in their fervor of cant.
These intelligent people,
at play with their words
making the creation of art harder for themselves
discovering ego in solitude
and shy to reveal.
Actually with attitude
that uniqueness has deceased.

Some of my most adored with this thought.
Some of my most adored for they do this thought think
and yet everyday create something new.
I wanted to call them mindless,
but just for their communication
they were mindful.
I wanted to tell them they are simply
afraid to conquer
But they have proven their creativity
despite the opinion on their tongues.

There is originality, friends.
And you are among the original.

I search to the past and do consider
every phase every era every generation.

Is it not wonderful
that the world is beyond Huxley?
That Tesla, Tesla! existed.
That I may look at Ernst
and fall on my soul.

The first time I ever heard the name
Max Ernst I was in New York
happened at a collection of his work.
I was born, then, at the moment
I began to cry (before the days it was accepted)
beholding a
WORK
OF
ART.

My world! What was once a blank canvas
moved me so much.
Who was this man?
And,
how could I now fear god?

Nevermind, the image is just.
I am in a world of illusion.
You understand, illustration
is in image of it.

The artist has relationship
with the world.
Thrusting expression against the
scheme of chance, winding personal reality
to abrasive consumption
and colliding skill (which is past) with ambition (going forth).
Having collected thought enough
to set it down in composition,
renewing itself as the birth
of the onlookers thought.

At the second's tick,
inspiration may be recognized.
By the hour's arm,
the artform may strengthen.

O, great thinker
brave thee even speak,
superior is your station.

I HAVE SEEN
NOW LET ME WONDER.

I have been unemployed now for several months.
I have stayed within,
painting picture, writing verse,
getting high and thinking deeply
of my place on earth
of the people involved
of the creation involved
and the words that may
flow with it.

I'm exploring the world by
exploring my mind.

To be content with a day spent
at home thinking.
To go off into the wild, exhaust,
and seek these months of recovery.
Morning must be easy.
Past nightfall, there is serious mindwork to do.
In humor I believe that I am
the underlying cause
man has not yet achieved outer space.

There is goodness on earth.

Each day my mind gifts me with thought.
You understand,
thinking itself is gaining knowledge.
That every piece of KNOW
is available in meditation.
In Tao, on all fronts,
there is learned lesson.
In silence, on all counts,
there is the timeless wise.

I rest beside my boiled water
and watch the leaves and petals steep.
World! The water changes universe.
I think of element
and relationship
and smile at my teacup.

I sketch through my recent words now
and take my mind back to the very stream
of continuum riff.

I apologize to somata.
I am seizing my mental ideals
and that deeply concerns
my peace of day.

I do understand eruption is
passion is an eclipse of self-containment
is unfelt memory
for reflection has not passed;
is ejaculation
is the current of psychosis
and the fundamentals of art.
Is chaos on the bank of humanity
is exhaust at bay
and the temple at ransom.

I do understand the dress of revolution.
Of religious poverty (almost extinct)
and the freedom in carelessness (the momentum).

My gut compels me.
It has acted and now I must observe
both shy and obscene.
I want to relate.
Is the canvas dry?
Is she prepared for another layer?

The only thing I need
is natural light.

Where is the creative world?
Stuck in the junk
of method and death.
THE ISM NOW IS iISM.
The movement now is new.
A young foot on ancient ground.

A curious begoner,
because I do become
and I will be gone.

On She This Mother
good and proud,
green and blue,
I will walk
I will know
I will trust
and I will meet
those who Are.

Already it is brighter.

What will science give?
A new god?
A new light?

I have come here in primitive times.
I'd like to know of the experiments they're
doing now with apes.
Are they talking monkey slang?
Walking perfectly upright and at war
with each other?

There is everything I do not know about.
And there is everything left
to think about.

I think about the evolution of mind.
I think, always, about the people I know.
I know the near future of art.

And art,
there
must
always
be
art.

I want to know the Neal Cassady of my time.

My family keeps on giving me poetry.

I come downstairs, set my little She-beta fish
on the kitchen counter.

I begin to layer on clothing
to battle the extreme of white outside
and call out to my mother:
I wish I were a fish.

Why?

I clasp my hands together and squeeze my face
squiggling-dance type motion with scarves falling off:
So that I could swim like this and
float in the air.

Think of how exciting life would be confined to that small,
glass thing.

But, think away from fish suburbia,
think of the freedom of swim in the natural world!

Okay.
But if you were a fish,
you'd end up in a jar.

Cultivate your sleep.

NO.
I spread my mind.

Lately I've been keeping time by
watching flowers die.
The orchid at my bedside has turned
from sunshine to golden sleep in its age.
The bird has preyed.
I know how many weeks it has been
since I've began watch.

I am
spreading my mind,
going nowhere
but always going.

The personality involved with my human
is exhausting. My brother has said to me
seated in my room looking at the things around:
I'll make it in the ways of the world, I'll get to the top,
and you,
you're going to paint pretty pictures
and give them away for flowers.

I say, oh, we're both poets.

No, I'm smarter then that.

No, you're just louder.

NO
I SPREAD MY MIND.

The flowers remind me of beauty that
will on earth never be mine.
What will be the next collection of time?

People, 1896.

If this movement is going to MOVE
Jazz is going to have to be revived.

It's a difficult spell to speak, the way a flower may perish.

I watch
the older members of my family
decay with breath still in them.
Expired with will at function
fighting off disease
to find disease to be triumphant.
I feel for these people,
these who withdrew, who
banished their homeland
in order to avoid World War.
To get on a rotting boat,
with a child barely at walk
and a womb at full bloom
(who would born to be my Mother).
My God,
he is applicable here.
To work restless days, laying down stone,
building magnificent homes
and coming home to the most humbled of them.
Decades it took for they
to learn the new native language,
and still,
they struggle bitterly with it.
These people who came here empty,
in total craving of a promised land.
Never did they succumb to modern society
clinging to their land by heart and moral by attitude;
these people
did take up god,
hard.
these strong people, who abolished I,
and my most intimate of relatives
with years of excommunication
and excrement disposition
when my Mother had, with peace,
chosen against the church.

I love her to death for doing this.

These poor people
who had to reinvent the hardship in their life
by way of Fake Ultimate Salvation: I swear
I could not tolerate this behavior in myself.
My children,
though unborn,
will always have my word.
My soul would depend on it.

Well, womb begone.
These
grand
people.
What do you even feel about life?
You who are invented by tradition,
a lifestyle full of emotion, and hostility.
I'm sure I understand the making of your generation,
truly, you were born at desperate times
fashioning yourselves as the stone you did lay, but listen,
I have been born on impulsive ground.
I have within my grasp
THE BLINKING WEST.
You must understand, though without speak of it,
all these changes in the world and why I must
be different from you.

I have my grandfather's sense of adventure
without the hysterical wife
who shut herself from the planet outside her door.
Who had to settle with permanence,
the only acceptable reason to wander the outside world
was in worship of the lord.

And for you people in between them
and I:
Shame on your respect.
Never has a single moral
been at clearance to fall.
The three of them going off to school,
My Mother at times taking, and fleeing with
her younger brother,
the oldest one staying
to take the beating.
Never have I seen such repressed people
as the children of my grandparents.
They are practically
inspiring
that they may live these stiff lives,
filled with small happiness yet cast
on the foundation of illness,
and a week planned
around church.
I see their lost souls accepting weakness
that they may fear their lord
and have reason to prey.
I see them at break
and I am broken for them.

Do they truly believe?
I do not doubt their sincerity.

I do know one who lives against his will
with the standards of religion
to be with the love of his life, my favorite of the bunch,
his wife, my aunt,
a soul of genuine kindness.
Who had a shattered heart
within the walls of ex-communication
a heart she did let break
and considered every pain.
Who has the warmest
of all voices.
Who carries peacefulness
with her throughout.
She does possess beauty,
though she follows her community.
She does find happiness
in her life of small happiness.
During the years of disown
I have sensed her suffering:
let us forget who they are Now
for we will have to abandon their souls
completely on the Day of coming Judgment.

I have cried in laughter.

This night, I have heard of further illness,
hence my thoughts of them.
Cancer,
back, the both of them.
My Mother thinks the woman who bore her
to be the strongest on earth
though I have asked her to consider
the way she has attacked her body
at the sights of her husband dying.

I look at them and grave.
I have no sense of guilt for my actions against their values,
but I would have to be emotionless
if I did not find compassion:
it is here, and it is here deeply.

I am most curious to watch my young cousins grow up.
Which ones will stick and which
will revolt.
I will be a friend to these babies and children
who wish to discover the world.

I am further rooted in the concepts of Earth
then what I was taught, once upon a time,
to avoid at all costs.
I, now, am more "worldly" then many
of the worldly people I was sworn to fear.
And I know know why they are afraid.
The world is exhilarating.
I would wish it upon my every creation,
and my every enemy both.
I have fallen for the world.
She truly is infatuating.

I reflect and wonder how radical and judging
I can so easily be
of my extended family.
Those who have shared with me
nothing but
blood.
And yet,
when I do go
and search out this WORLD
I have immediate tenderness
a true sense of discovery, that simply,
I have come out here
to discover.
To find somebody to grow close with
to truly absorb
somebody who could become either story
of perfect stranger or soulmate.

I do not leap to an irrational judgment of them,
sorry.

Though I suppose it will be the world herself to Judge
these God-fearing people at their Final Day (the rest of us will live on, untouched)
for their rejection they will, in return, be gifted with rejection.
They may not die knowing this,
but at life reflection,
they will surely remember.

God will, absolutely, eclipse your every gland of euphoria
and infuse your every chemical
and send you TRIPPING,
My lord! You've been right all this time.

And when I die I will float peacefully
back into another consciousness,
understood?

What a precious grip of my emotions
all this is.
Soft and equally sullen,
though I realize at these stirrings
that in my life I have been shaken.

These people have taught me to remove,
God bless them.

Universe, give bliss to the moon, this ink & this water, my mind and my visionquest. Amon.

Listen (ear)
to the ticking clock (hand gone by).
The monsters of your daydreams
will give to you as flowers (lilies on a gentle hill).

Your feet are immersed in water (indigo)
and your eyes are closed (indigo).

An eye blinks back at me (the whole surface becomes the iris)
and a beam of light flashes from? or through? it (energy).

The full moon is tapped on a pyramid, it breaks
and lets out the yoke of human climax
raining forth, and onto earth.
The side it faces is struck by colour,
intense & dimensional (all these things happen).

Large statements will come from little eyes
(an insect almost swallows me)
and you will see the grace of sympathy.

Hear what the people say!
You may ask further questions now.

I ask of romance.

I see a man at first with his back towards me,
raising his arms with intense energy
looking out at the gorgeous view
standing at the top of a mountain!
I know he is screaming with delight.
Finally he turns and, still with excitement,
comes towards me.
I am left with the topical vision of this
elevated land.

My next love will bite my mouth off.
His breath blows through my lips
and as he does so
spirit-energy exits my eyes.
He is a beautiful man,
but he is filled with sorrow.
It eats his flesh & he sits there,
peacefully.

I look back to see the moon again.
She has many words for me.

what if earth is the only planet with emotion as we know it

we face each other as lovers would
if that were a part of our world.
we put our minds together for conversation
though our minds are always together.

i want to be wild
he wants the wilderness
though we can not go together.

i say to him, i want excitement!
perhaps the most beautiful story of all
would be one of raw,
painful tragedy
in the midst of a gorgeous place
just to be OUT THERE
immersed in the feeling of life
and in the gut of feeling
surrounded by the quieted but tangible
Absolute Superior.

he says to me, then go to Earth.



i have come for this lifetime.
it is my first
life on earth
in which we communicate
as spirit
to human.

his lives here have been of war
of the giving of pain,
of the masculine quality.
mine have been of the recipient.
i have died young, mostly,
i have sinned and been sinned against
while he has been
leader of his ancient tribe.
together,
we have every experience.

you may have heard the song of wind before

there are reasons, in the conceptual aspect of
the word, that our soul has undergone these
paths. with the growth of our consciousness,
we discover. within the world, whichever world
we find ourselves in, there is perception and
there is the evolution in and of perception.
our soul has divided itself, and each scattered
piece is of a certain expression. we carry within
ourselves, our hereby-dimensional self and our
higher selves, a certain expression. the Eternal
that we absorb back into posterior to us being in
this feeling, human state still does not unify us
totally with Creation. it is still individualized,
still of quality. through the simplicity of existence,
we compose ourselves in our spiritual evolution
and discovery of consciousness. it is true that our
very CONSCIOUSNESS expands with fecund
liberation. aspects of the world and of every world
may slip into our knowledge base, and we may
become the absolute aspect of discovery. in this path,
we discover our EXPRESSION. and once, beyond
our lives, we understand and support our certain
way we are given back to the Whole Self. Unity.

Amen.

I watch my baby-booming parents wither in the flames of society.

wow: the warmth is coming through my head, so I instill,
go down into my feet warmth,
golden make me completed as a planet.

i do not feel complete though i have this status.

disaster areas are known to be located near the heart,
the anus, and the third eye.

there have been droughts,
famines and idea-wars.

all this planet needs for conclusive history is warmth.

imagine beings at wonder over the whole exterior of your skin.
you know well there are better areas for habitation.
that the wind front on your head is severe
but for underground reason, existence there is prolific.
there is terrene bursting with soul
there is lithe by terrortory: the devices at work
are in reflection to the cosmos;
activity drawn from
the core of the active-conjured.
i consider myself as outer space.
the dimension of my gut this day
has erupted into world war,
with casualties at large
and a genesis of
immense pain
the body
like planet
over.

there is purpose for every separate world to cultivate insight.
to find its individual enlightenment to then carry through
to the greater universe of worlds.
do you see dimensions?
we must gather first by cluster, then culture.
we must gather nation wide for our land, completely,
to get over her adolescent angst.
for her to reach wisdom within the universe
and to next collide and gather
with other worlds detached.
imagine universal consciousness
in the language OF THE UNIVERSE.
what then?
what kind of existence is the Everything Known-Of
part of?
how infrequent does dimension get?
how high does it go?
HOW HIGH CAN I REALLY GET?
the unity of Whole-Self is communication
with the stars.

the history of this world is so deep
so absolutely breathtaking
as a spiritual experiment
through identity.

i imagine the Book of Earth as an organ
within the Great Conscious Thing
as a living experience that just is
without mythology, without bias
just the quake of a crashing
higher mind.

my feet are still cold.

will i discover in my lifetime?
give expansion to the spirit as proxy
so that when my humanpet removes herself
i will be taken home satisfied
from my adventure.
MOTHER, i don't want to leave you
until i get full compassion from you.
i have remained laced in the stream
of your children growing greener
and i want us all to acquire REAL EYES.
i want to realize.
i desire and request
personal freedom.
what stubborn piece of paper must i show
just to take leave from where i was born.
what law of morality has been sewn into
the mind of the commoner.
i need to give my bleeding mind a head.
i need the external memory of a world whom
i adored birth in.
why do newborns weep so bitterly?
i cannot live in fear
i cannot live in fear;
i demand paradise!
i will not be lazy in the maintenance of health.
if this was land without war i would sweat by the land
for i'd be elated to participate.

mercy for our body!
you have come to a beautiful PLACE:
glory for the art strokes of nature
and, curses, christ! to those who will not stop and look.
the earth is stunning.
she is the grandest woman of your life, imagine,
your
mother
is seducing.
is it within you to understand beauty?
i wish against ignorance:
i seep inward bringing consciousness to
positive vibration.
i send it home to my spiritual self at intellectual play
flying through the skies and
if it detours at linger amongst the people
so be it.

am i right to consider life on a question of higher
existence still with quarks and quality?
connection between souls must simply get deeper
until it is One.

but then,
is this character lonely?

the emotion frequency involved with this planet
is a raw actuality
we as a species
is cretinous to.
JUST GO SOMEWHERE
TO HEAR A WOLF CRY.
i have heard the symphony
and had never felt so passionately alive.
there were many wolves playing in the darkness that night.

mother.

we phenotypes have faults.
what if no one was boring or evil?
where is natural vaudevillian,
should we comprise our attention to creation
and dispel that thing of luster.
greed causes us addictions we may only conquer
as forfeit incarnation.
we cannot abolish greed, we must abandon it!
that looking at the mountain peak,
beaten to your erection,
is the bliss of this breathing.
the water body from puddle to endless shore
is a miracle your own
divine hand
manipulated into livelihood.

subsistence here is solid ground.
this is the spiritual wake of this life.
i often think to myself about the FAR OUT
but this dirt is the worshiping backbone
that lends me notion root to crown.

if only wealth would spoil,
expire like the vile men it bleeds.
if only institution was lost. banished!

i dream and accept my fate as a dreamer
who will be ridiculed
without contempt
and redeemed
the failure of the syndicate
and live
the happiest life
of all.

i've subjected my soul
to this rawness of human survival;
my life can do what it wants with me.
somehow, i have made it to this moment,
SOMEHOW
WE
HAVE MADE IT TO THIS MOMENT
people just
sit
and absorb the world.
lay back in comfort,
that feeling of confidence alone
connects you to life everywhere.
lay back! be at peace
and in the moment:
every moment of peace
is a moment superior
for celebration.

warmth.

THE GIRL WHO TAUGHT ME OUT IN THE WILDERNESS THAT IS IT OKAY TO CRY.

One day I'll tell you about the things
that move me more than anything.
This new revolution of Self
are my eyes that learned to speak
my eyes that may easily scream.
They have watched intensely,
they have been too shy to look
and for years
they have been static.

I was alone, feeling, without even
the spirit world, experiencing self doubt
clinging to my skin due only
to the circumstance
that my soul decided upon me
and that now
I am stuck.
At the very moment following despair
a soulmate spoke to me with spontaneous words
filled with affection, these expressions of
powerful speak.
She sent me to absolute glory.
My infinite soul!
The words she picked were perfection
against my demented dent of mind.
I let my sight blur and before consideration
I was weeping all over myself.
I was spilling my soul all over the blinking room
shedding the water of my mind every colour
of the disc of feeling.

I kept myself seated
for my thoughts revolved in a world
a far more horrid place then what, commonly,
I allow my mind to vulnerably think it as.
That human nature so easily falls to disgust,
that there are always victims
and that there is hardly ever
deserved
mercy.
That basic footage of the collapsed mid-east
and the alien demon of terror feasting there
requites all hope for beauty in this
original beautiful world.

Is there any hope left for beauty?

Within my small world getting bigger
all the time
I was reminded
exactly on time
that yes, there IS hope
and there is already beauty
because I saw it in the victims eye of fear;
she was truly a gift
about to die
by a soldier's hand.
And in her final perspiration
she was a queen,
premature for her death, too,
was awful early.
I was reminded exactly on time
regaining personal hope
and feeling the drops of something beautiful
falling from my obscene face:
HERE IT IS,
THIS IS LIFE.

I do adore this existence. I have found
true companionship.
It is friendship that is not jealous.
I beg the unknown with every breath
that speaks in silence
to seek the same fortunes:
SOUL that does move
that does love and provoke love.
Peaceful awakening and a time
of peace before rest
land that does not bother to own
but radiates in freedom
and
the celebration
of all these things
together.

I imagine an audience of spirits
gathered about I
at contemplation
of these fleeting sensations.
They are observing this breed of human kind:
a young woman
hurt by violence a million miles away
wanting to GET AWAY
and feeling ashamed for every earthbound illusion.
Retracting but falling again. Finding joy at my core
when intuition provokes dreamlessly:
KEEP IN MIND, THIS IS LIFE.
Thank your soul for friendship and love.
Do not bow to your savior, but rather,
to the feet that spared you.
I would give my body away to Nothingness
if this world finds path in war.
I will abandon this gorgeous planet
full of natural wonder
if the profession of solider persists.
I do not have the will
to live in fear.

My infinite soul.
The qualities of the wild.

ernst

the way i held my face
i found a salty tear at my lips.
these last moments keep me transfixed
in fascination.

i was enjoying the peace of meditation
revealing energy and dwelling within it.
my brother burst into my room
carrying two small containers.
he tells me quickly to help him, that on of
the fishes fell and has almost no water left.
i am disappointed for this interruption,
but i cannot ignore the dying fish!
as i prepare new homes for the creatures
my brother explains to me the ridiculous exploits
to result in all this: he and some friends
stole two beta fishes, literally put the cups into
their jackets in order to watch them battle each other
though the plans did not manifest, i am disgusted
by these words. one fish was bright and normal sized,
the other, the one that had taken the fall, was incredibly small.
he tells me that one of them
has to stay with me
and internally,
i treat this like an unwanted pregnancy.
consciously, i have determined that i will never seek
to keep hostage animals of my own
that domesticated pets are an unreal theory to me
that i dont appreciate their mess
and that i'd simply rather
they keep natural habitat.
i respect all animals and fish
and wish them all health: i did not
at this time
want a living responsibility.

but now my younger sibling has found this
awkward fault
and i have been inflicted with the caring
of another life, as small as he is.

i felt unkind towards this.

that my mind was incredibly open
and vulnerable
at the time of interruption
and my reaction made tangible
the effects of everything swimming within me.

i cleaned the bowls and put the betas to rest in them.
i knew which one i was to keep.
he took his with him, and left me with a tiny, blue
fighter fish exploring a home
far bigger then what i first saw him in.

i ask myself if i could obtain the same meditation
but i feel my body has given up relaxation
and my spine is sitting uncomfortably now.
i look at the thing spinning itself 'round in the water
stopping and seeming to look in my direction.
i feel unkind that it has appeared, still.

i sit with myself and calm.
i sit with my eyes closed and think of existence
and how awesome it is. i feel warmer.
i have thought this entire evening through
of things much higher then i
and am now blown away
at this spontaneous turn.
that i was searching OUT
and was exploded in.
i open my eyes and look again at my new,
blue child
and he is still directed towards me
though this time
i naturally feel comforted by it, not hateful
that i did not want this for myself.
"maybe i'll take you in after all," i say and immediately weep
at the sound and honesty of my voice
of my transformation,
of the lessons of this full moon.

MANifestivities.

LISTEN
all you beautiful people:
do you understand
your place?
do you know your power?
Be spoken to as the individual;
answer as the universe.
In the holy face of Revolution
how much confidence do you exceed
to look it dead
in the eye?

The call for faith is meaningless now,
NOW there is the call for spirit.
The call for glamor is meaningless--this
modern movement of art & culture does not care
for unfelt design or the trendwhore.
It speaks of genuine expression, whatever it becomes
and genuine presence, whatever it so happens
to look like.

There is an age drawing its end
and the UNIVERSE RISING, listen!
This is about the turn of the century
as a chunk of Time unkept
a chunk uncalled for, as in,
unfocused
scattered energy.
Reflect on the most recent 100 years.
This was a Time surrounding the first WORLD WAR
this was a Time that bred Dada, the breaking
of the world of art
the chaos of the Mother made tangible in art
and as art.
Obviously, this was rebirth, however,
to recognize all the elements of immense importance
in this era takes serious
emotional
consideration.
Unlike distinctive counter cultures of decades post
this was SCATTERED ARTISTRY
necessary for every ISM:
a time
radically kindred
to the time
now.
It was a fascinating MOTHER.
The century's foundation was this piece
of crazy history. Every modern revolution
based itself on the enlightenments reaching from the turn.
The century in its entirety derives from the turning.
This history is most evident today;
WE ARE
THE GENERATION who will spawn the next world.
We will quake to shaken Earth.
We find ourselves scattered for collection
and for definitive movement.
We must draw each other to community
for community stirs movement
community speaks.
It is a worldly universe, and holy inspiration.
WE ARE CERTAIN UPRISING.
The recreation of art MOVEMENT is upon us, for, simply,
we are the turn.
And, LISTEN:
we are even more than what was just related.

We are more then the turn of the century, PEOPLE,
THE GENERATION NOW
IS THE TURN OF THE MILLENNIUM.
We have brought our souls here at this Time
to create and furthermore
for absolute creation.
Inspire: to be, to seek, to discover, to cause.
The next one hundred years depends on our say
and, even, this whole next AGE.
We are living excitement.
We truly are
living
at the dawn.

Draw community.
Let your impulses reveal themselves.
Your ideals are within you.
All those things involving inspiration will realize you.
Let rage your innate spirituality. Fear of the world is unnecessary.
You
will
discover.
The universe is you.

what i think as i sit in the gorgeous autumn sunlight painting psychedelic bomb clouds

I have been taught this day. I have within hours grown closer to creation
and KNOW, now, that there is movement. I have dreamed for it
in my lifetime
and have considered it before
concluding in serious contemplation
that it is a thing of the near future.

This day has been so simple.
The food in the house is leftover from
a day of festive thanks,
the season is changing
but for this time of year
it is remarkably warm.

I've spent hours getting to know my world
listening with complete mental silence,
being totally aware of my place.

There IS movement.
The modern world has begun!
I don't speak of technology
though that is the tangible evidence,
if there ever was "tangible evidence" in all of history.

There ARE fresh ideas, there ARE people emerging
who will be reflected upon as the pioneers
for the next era.

It has begun,
it has.


And,
Thank you, Mom, for naming me Joy.

Prayer Circle (we tap down on earth together holding hands like space crafts)

Universe!
Thank you for being good to me
thank you for your awakening, that there is only genuine good,
and that
in these days
I still find myself content.

specifically today, I read a classic novel
in one sitting.
I put the read down after the long,
half day and only felt inspiration!
I finished the book by writing myself down.

I pray keep this stirring in me--stay; I,
at the mind-expansion.

Universe, I know if i keep smiling
in thoughts of you my ideals
will materialize.

This passion is universal: I WANT
THE WORLD TO SPREAD. SHE IS
BURNING ME WITH DESIRE.

I watch the souls around me,
I watch with lollipop eyes
dipped in the sugar of curiosity.

Amen.

ling involving the habits-to-get-me-beaten

Yeah the times get fucked up, sketchy-like. But honestly, isn't that the rut in our piece-of-cosmic-slice that infatuates us all?
You tell me you're as boring as always-been-sober to care.
The times
get fucked
my tongue
gets incredibly vulgar I wish
I had a tap.

Hah.

So, I'm stoned. So,
I just got stoned.
Obviously that's the rant in my passion--
and I can't just sit here
and write poetics.
I listen to ether,
and, LISTEN:
wow.

This world boggles my extraterrestrial mind!
I am
fully human
at my consciousness; and isn't that
a dimension.
ISN'T THE INFERIOR HUMAN TOOL OF
LANGUAGE a goddamn savior?

How could this invention be so
infatuating?
Before I talked of the universal--
now I'm getting dirty.

The times
have changed.

I can say that with sense though they are constant and
in continuum for i know well the riddle
of the Present and the always-presenting.
The times have changed.
And in the next reflection
I will speak of then to NOW
with a lotus at my crown
with a song at my silence
and BE THERE: WOW,
Earth is extraterrestrial.

She this being with every personality.
She a sibling to other worlds.

I know I'm not myself.
Know that I am not speaking in tone
or with boast, just simple understanding of
the human conversion to the spiritual-act-of-Knowing.

Love
is
the
superior.

I fish for words. Truly, my mind
feels as if it moves though water
though I know, really, it is the dense air
of outer space.
I feel! progression in the depths
of the ocean without the energy of propellant,
without any energy at all
just my soul at drift
in the infinitive sky.

How about, the secret of dancing.

Foresight.

The weekend before last, I went to massive gathering.
I had painted onto my forehead with the colour of the third eye
and felt myself withdraw. Days of contemplation passed
when a good friend shared with me the story of her guide
putting this thumb to her forehead--that,
with any sort of coverage
meditation will internalize.

I thanked the universe for this secret deeply.

I have companions who with I give gratitude and salutations
to the universe on impulse, holding hands & open
leaving reality
and speaking to each other fearlessly.
Often there is poetry and always there is
intense honesty.
We speak the mindtongue.
We were given all that we have asked for.
This act of prayer has assumed activity with my individual, too,
and, fascinating!
I feel for myself but have been completed by the world, honestly,
I AM THE UNIVERSE.

I adore the words I know are not true, like I
and me
and my.
I indulge in carnal concepts,
getting dirt upon my hands,
playing with makeshift identities, and
requiting my place to be suspect of the supernatural.
That is why the soul has come to earth
this is why I, a soul certainly involved with yours,
has weakened the spirit to give a mind
to a body in order to walk the earth.
It is in order to walk the earth
and I will not
let myself be consumed by a role in society,
a role of religious decree, or anything of bias.
At this moment & incarnation it would not be real.
It would not be necessary for I am achieved of that
Beyond.


So
When do I get to be a musician?
How can I swim the bottom-seas in human consciousness? I know,
already,
how I get to the sky.

mixed ideas

This is the passion
the slip
and
at its climax, at its
origin marked: HEY,
how was i created, really?
was it really me?
was it the matter of a galactic feat,
or a core spirit experiment?

I'd like to take on anybody.
enter their body
as their mind
and completely have possession
of their every detail.
Be them
at any natural state:
discovery
would be
religious.

Institute my very being
with an apex of lifetimes at
my soulful indulgence.

Listen,
i do become
practically removed
to enter the pelvic notion
at a sight exceptionally attractive:
i feel
in fluid-state
at the toes of the mountains
at the depths of ancient growth
and at the body's shore where elements collide
absorbing
absolutely
everything.

Hah, listen! It's magic.

I am involved in mystical trespassing
I am ravished with the urges of lust
this be truth
at Earth completely naked.

I have put my hands on
olden bark,
naturally uncanny: i breathed in
the very air being spat
by it, the erect thing had so much
existence involved with it
just being there in consideration of it all
took me for heavy stimulation
for paradise of soul and
the
satisfaction
i
need.

She: my body, and She: the world i have been
birthed in, these
are the dramas of my being.
the unstoppable TRIP-i swear,
it's magic.

Tune out.
i would become
actually removed
to enter anothers intensity or
the calm of common nature or
the aroused, the angered
the newborn or death.


This is just an idea,
spatially unknown,
perhaps consuming, though
i think my consciousness could handle it
within the intimacy of my soul.

iLearn!

some thoughts come at me like

infantry, when it is this my mind reclines

tilting slightly smiling, abrasive countereaction:

there are native memories in my mind

that i sense at a hazy distance
that i may go to meet up close,

and i think the same way

of the loss of culture.

receipt paper

summer was a dose too high
like that extra hit of acid for breakfast-
i'm breaking,
fast!
i've gone and brought back
the place.

so humanity has a spirit, and the energy of it demonstrates generic patterns of personality that are altered by celestial influence

So i say something ridiculous: science
is EVIDENTLY a religion.

a religion-type concept.

it begins with Creation.
it's an unknown thing but
the mystery is curious.
a million people try and interpret,
make sense of it,
speak passionately of it to others,
mostly without conclusive knowledge.

some individuals become very involved
and study it.
they reach personally discovered conclusions
and become mentors. they become Great Thinkers
and even get theories named of them.
they publish books.
sometimes, they have to rewrite the text.

eventually, most people begin to see the 'truth'

though there are always people who know
how to manipulate its power
to create for themselves power
and ultimately
cause immense destruction.

the catholic church hailed with crusades;
america dropped the atomic bomb.

these are the eras of humanity: recently pisces
ascending to aquarius.

T

in the fourth dimension there is no time.
there is, actually, no timeline of history
or mysterious future but only
our human consciousness inventing it.

this is what is there: scattered in my thoughts
as i talk to the virgo about partials that disappear
under the scope like they're slipping
through dimension.

i ask her about the string theory.

she says: time is the 4th dimension.

and,
wow:
how
did you
just speak?

time IS the 4th i considered
the 4th to have no Time.

well

that may make meditative sense:



the 4th is a place,
i knew it.

lake concave

in orgasm i swept my hands
across the wet earth
and felt each atom's detail and
felt each thing of air
and each feeling in between.

i felt feeling
and put my hands on it.

in orgasm i moaned
for i had no choice.
i lifted my head, then,
to let sink again
the pulse of this euphoria, and i:
every load of energy pulsated back into me:

i lay my hands down on the wet earth
and moaned.

~

i was with
at this time
a She companion; an aquarian soul
very close to i.
in our past she has witnessed me
at my worst and i consider it awful sane
for her to now hear my noise
of pleasure.
i keep myself here
starring up to the Natural Spread Woman
and, truly,
i am in comfort of all i am surrounded with.
i am not shameless,
i am simply, now, without shame.

this is the feminine at climax.
it is the full moon at the height of summer
and with eyes of worship i behold Luna
so tempest and close to earth,
so round and so full.
pregnant on space.
she is in her thrown and bending the water:
i look out at the waters and can plainly see!
they are bent!
it is awesome!
the tide has risen and the body is in tension
though
completely
inviting.

i think of how fearless a woman must be
to feel absolute pleasure.

i grow moist
and subject myself to the waters.
i take off all my human cloth and wear
nothing except what She my mother gave to me.
i am spirited in my existence.
i keep one foot in front the other
and MOVE
until my body is soaked.

Luna! you have behaved me irregular and never before
so natural.
i am without possession or intention of anger.
all these worldly things have vanished for there is
no such means of cultivation of them
in my soul.

i am only with
my
soul
and my womanly
umbilical cord
fixing me deeply
to the universe.

all i have now is this simple pen & paper

instant desire to paint the situation
as saturated excitement
for it is
saturated excitement.
this dark skinned person
and fixed jaw
cigarette dangling
bold profile
that i see exact
as bold profile.
has both quality of child
and man.

i want my paints!
though i cannot wake He sleeping
in the room next
for he is in my mindful heart, too.

all i have now is this simple pen & paper.

i look to absorb what i see: daring innocent
in my stare on his
calm focus.

precious excitement.
how is it
that i am here?
these people did not know me
when they invited me into their home.

suffer to find suffering

oh my.
this time it was my tongue
that spoke: thumb to the road!
and we stretch out; i imagine
my dresscode and
my every mannerism
to see me as a worldly Dividual.

my gut is rotting. i have half-drawn
and mostly felt
the comfort of rhapsody, though the feeling
was deranging up to my goddamn
clasped hands.

i realize how impotent i am
with an idea.
that humanly i feel
unkind with this confession:
at the impulse, i must leave.

the girls get undressed and i
recline in my seat.
i put my hands at rest
in comfort
at a cross behind my neck.
i SEARCH OUT.
the view from is spectacular.

a man with the sky in his head
talked to us about a circle
and the locals we met on our mission
talked naturally of seeing
flying ships.

the great northern desert
has taken me again.
in my past i have been left,
i have said goodbye and othertimes
i have just fled.

how may i tame the electricity
between the palms of my hands
and expel it at my own discord?

i can count visable crackpipes with the help of my other hand

they shove objects
most of which i'd assume
were dirt rejected shit
from the ground: source of fire
cellophane of some sort
the stash of butts
trampled underfoot junky
to junky
i swear,
the orifices of their ragged cloth is in
constant stimuli:
pockets are habitus to these people.
by their engulfing presence
they intoxicate the streets
they cut the air as they stake,
replaying their burnt movements
like broken
social
scene.

fulfillment here is
the savage at wander on temple grounds.

they possess Revelation in their clumsy step
moving forth to backward-down,
honestly, the energy left in their minds
can only let them jerk
only the erection of twitch
may travel them--as if
they can feel their giant steps as
corrupting tracks in the wetness of earth
and their damp souls feeding the spirit
through awful experience.

this damp suits the ocean of filth.
independent pharmacy haven.

the police do nothing.

i've been disgusted with a lover i can fully be
infatuated
with the knowledge of presence
of being
HERE
and knowing
THIS EXISTENCE.

this is i on the freakshow 20
on my 38th day of homelessness.
i come in observance of the streets.
i thrive for the realities
they conceive to me.

something to get me kicking again

one in the group is a korean
but he grew up the Mother South of Us
and acts completely in rhythm with these spanish guys.

its a typical night here.
there's a stranger, theres a stirring sky
of rolling r's in the room.
me&fuzzie are playing getting-drunk video games.
(note that i simply accept this form of activity for the extremely
short era it will be in my life)

i call for compassion.
not from the game but
from a group
of kind, modern minds.

this guy has a plane ticket and load.
he's leaving for the airport.
he's walking out the door after all the animated
goodbyes
just as a member shows.

everyone in the room immediately energizes
we gather and joke that he shoould eat a magic cookie
on the plane.

we make our selections.

he returns with a ripped up plane ticket
and a mad blushing smile.

NO. I AM STAYING! says he
in a tone of childish composure,
with fully evolved pride
and a nothing-to-loose conclusion.
my soul brightens that i've witnessed this.

i pack a bowl
and send it his way for dubs.

he leaves the house within minutes
without baggage.
i express my confusion
i am told, "cerveza"
(alcohol)

the bottom of my shoe

a dark skinned boy and i speak
to each other of this planet.
we speak of travels and
he asks me what it is
that i search for
on my journey.

i absorb this question calm-collectively but reply
with leaping excitement: SOUL, i say:
definitely soul!

yes, there are voices coming through the walls.
this is a community, like it
or not.
NOT
befallen to those unkind
with a glitch
in the eye.

often mine are damp. not of
sorrow but of the haze
at lurk behind.

i am becoming this life!

the thing about this world
is letting your soul feel every emotion
interacting with everything
to find experience
and sometimes: thrusting yourself
against the wind.

this is a calm collected.
this is the reflection
of an itch.

i am about to undertake
the great world.

i behold my ideals
thinking things yet to happen
as memories. instilling these thoughts as reality
that i may will them into existence, and,
that my ultimate ideal
is a kind world.

like a lady she may fall you
the hard way.
like a lady she may seem pure
but repress with painful circumstance.

i must find charm,
let her do good to me.
find only sincerity
in my companionship
cutting into my soul,
revealing the adventures and
the passions
it so deeply desires
and manifesting them
all.


sway me, wind.
enhance my damp eyes.

put me on,
put me in my soul: i will discover
everything.

spine of the notebook

the traveling night-
i think of nothing
but laugh
at the thought of it.

listen!
there are no words
in my Mind
but as the ink goes down
they appear.

i look: watercup,
i tried to paint with wine
last night
and achieved a subtle shade
i declared Skin

i ask myself to think
but only watch the sky
loose its daylight lifetime.
i sink with a sleepy feeling
of growth behind my eyes.

what do i choose to do?
i move the canvas and put my legs up.
i recline.
and wonder,
what's going on in there.

the traveling night has soul
i toke a flowered smoke:
i deem it completely worthwhile
for its given me
that line.

what else is there?

i live in a sacred place
though sometimes
real people
take the spiritual away.

i am sure that when they are at peace
they are holy.

Now thoughts enter me.
it is getting progressively difficult
for my hand to move

Time, time

forgotten of cigarette--
pile of ash
pile of nothing but
the empty
glass.
Dinner plates: submarine
in the kitch sink--they sunk
with helpless survivors
dying still
at the surface.

the sitch is awesome.

the record has quit--
how can
i still be
this happy?

the vision has stirred!

I am in the dark light
shining so
fucking bright
this vision
has overwhelmed
and here i am

with the butt
and the pit

and i am so
goddamned
content
in this ugly world.

i'm only missing the goddamn violin

its abrupt, its observing:
bazaar motions of bazaar total consequence.
I don't care of your unmoving existence:
you do nothing new, and in my opinion
hardly anything true.
i think of you, and honestly,
i think of nothing spectacular.

i love you to death.

i think i'd both kill
and die
for you.

then why
the death
do you destroy me?

i've drank this night
i've seen
the high
and i think of you
i think of you

you've consumed
this whole part
of my life

you're mad.
i'm consumed.
i'm distant and distracting.
and honestly,
you're so mad.

i guess your presence
will never detach

i haven't heard of you or from you
for so long

i guess
this is as perfect of timing
as any other time
would have been.

how are you?

Team Beat the Meat ('cos you're a vegetarian now)

A highly intoxicated scribble about purity. Circa 420 2008

I don't want to BE the meat, I want to EAT the meat. Jesus. That changed everything, everything like the animal in my mouth puked after its last meal. My god. I can drink anything right now: that right there, that empty glass, that filled-up nonsense mind, that tasted like water. The warmth of Mexico.

LAND'HO!

She speaks: I don't mind that he's a homo, all he does is drink and smoke, cos he was underground punk and shit, and he's fun to talk to.
I get back to the conversation in my head. I want to roll a joint.
But first I interrupt from write with a bowl of Egyptian blend. These aphrodisiacs! They, these cunts of a son like I'm the only one: I AM THE ONLY SON. Listen, this is a style. And some Egyptian blend, of course.

We hermits smuggle in heavy conversation under the North Lights Blueberry AAAA. Obviously, we are activating the solar system. Obviously, I am at my death, I cannot remember my life just that my soul has been out of orbit for some time. Time...

The concept induces some recollection of human experience.

First of all,
This is technical: I'll probably sober up,
probably tomorrow morning.

They're saying now that being too interesting (drug dealers)
is a negative: flaw.
I stare at the table, where someone split their tequila.

(smoke break)

The boy comes in and dumps his stuff all over. He's meeting some hashplant half way. Dr. Gonzo tries to eat the green cookie, but it's a human cookie. The guys grabbed awesome today: each one has over 2 grams condensed.
The Dr. snuggles up to me. I let it.
For a while.
O dear.
She's going to be sick.
Would this now be considered a scandal?
Now, excessive?
SO fascinating this life! I BELIEVE!
And, yes,
we are getting re
tarded
in here.

I swear this is occasion. But that's nothing you need to know.
You don't need to know any of this. So why am I write-speaking of it?

Orange juice.

Taste has it down and doesn't ask questions. The story ends up being hilarious and totally
at One
with our generation.

Kind deeds
reincarnate.

I worry about the girl in the other room.

I go in to see her and also,
play at enormous height
Country Joe & the Fish.

She's perfectly fine, she says: I'm fine
I'm just waiting for the room to stop spinning,
you can play the tunes loud.

Them other people are slouched, holding hands.
I'm ready for a toke.
I aint sick or in love: I'm ready for that toke.
I take it hard and somebody calls me ambitious
but she tokes right after me.

I persist in the festivities as long as my mind can handle it. My alarm is set for 5 am later this morning but I'm too fucked to care. I pick up this book and write on, write on,
I almost melt into my exterior self but decide to wash my face
and go to bed
and make these queers
quit their playful laughter at me--hah,
I smile and write on, hah!
I struggle slightly.

I tell myself the order of which to do things
in order to find myself asleep:
I grab my knees
to give me strength
and, HEAVE:
goodnight-go.

the world said goodnight

Alright,
i've reached my comfort level...

oh my window.
this is fucked.

his face is cropped so wonderfully
i wonder if there is any chance
that he could see me.

this is how he is, Nature.
not like that night he played with my hair.
my mind grows hot.

i listen to a poet strumming
but i can hear his voice
through the walls.

at the first moments of my evening high
i catch this happening.
i consider it a petty gift.

too bad this night is still with daylight
and that tomorrow will start
soon awful for me.
i'd march myself down there
and speak.

i just had a cold shower
in my cold skin: it was highly
uncomfortable.

i watch him do something embarrassing
i laugh deeply to myself and say aloud: oh!
don't put that in the poem

i recline. i reflect on my day,
and i am satisfied.
i had many genuine
human conversations with
the community itself
of good friends, gorgeous strangers,
and the idea of What A Person Could Be.

the boy has gone inside.
my hair is still drying from its wet.
i wit again over obvious intention.

i don't want the reality of sleep so soon.
today has been becoming and exciting
with this most pleasant
goodnight sight.

my catastrophic soul

pondering my anti-existence
i; in the sharp stab of what i foretold
and the deepening fault of Mine, this inkling
of a total universe.

i'd like only to be as wise
as the ocean. i'm so exact
to the temperament of water
i find it in my eyes.

i pretend i am
my own lover: weep, baby,
unfold all those unkind thoughts
but gently now,
i know your fragile, too.

these components

my collected self vs.
my whole self.
could i be getting closer to
my soul-self
under one astrological incarnation?

these furious memories:
i've been to earth.
i've died.
the human SELF is to story-search;
there is no wrong in spiritual discovery
but i tell my desires
of possession-abandonment
to suppress themselves
for the worldly-void of impulse.

i let the soul rest
and take on
personality.
i let myself feel heated--it is
more obscene to my mind
than kindly refrain.

it is too effortless for I
to believe in the Holy Neutral
so i let the fishes rage.
i let myself
unkind,
speaking of myself
as if i were proper subject matter.

i speak of it
because we are them same
and as US
we are every subject
that matters.

i do not want to detach
as human
from humanity.

spiritual gain is human loss.

i want to feel every emotion, i want
to orgasm. i want the dilemma and drama
of morning thru night.

it is most spiritual.

there is bitter love
and sweet fear.

there must be for these words exist.

my scattered self;
my silent self.
the confusion of incarnation
is what makes the most sense.
these changes and feeling the same,
these normalities and the slip to sanity
vs
the natural.

when i awaken i will smile in reflection.

Tumble this

The ideas you have of me
are false
You forget me, you beg
your rid of my foul

Those that think of me high:
the delirium untruth
Those who have spat at my soul:
this dream of conquer

This load.

The ideals I have of this world;
that when I don’t understand something
but still consider it creative and full
I am satisfied with earthculture.
When I hear the sound moving, truly,
or a speaking book, image, sensation...
There have been many sensations.
I feel comfortable with the IDEA of human.
I feel sane within the chaos of mental evolution:
I picture the gods (with rejected belief in such Titans
just, that
for the moment’s reality they are tangible).
I picture them in conversation,
in beginning and creation, and
making love.

This heave of insight.

I am loud, breathing
Or at least, like that in my mind. My thoughts
get more concrete. I am relieved but reluctant
to let myself fully escape from the abstract. I try desperately,
search for my True Mind
to static and devour:
let dizzy enlightenment stay.
I am nauseous, hesitating
the fag is getting closer to me,
but I want this smoke.

These waves.

It’s sounds like I’m psychedelic,
off of earth for this hour to look down and actually see beauty—
but be fooled for I am just
laying in bed.

a condensed soul-to-body conversation

what yesteryear's am i thinking of;
these places;
i think of flavor: and discover a hidden truth
to life as in
using flavor, i could let my mind consciously delve
into a sense further and deep, because taste itself
could take easily the universe of Time

no,
listen:

i discovered something fantastic
about being SENSED crazy
like i swear,
cock could never feel as good
as this Expansion of Mind and Existence
i pick
and pick
at a habit,
and surely,
it always does
find me.
fold into existence
you'll know it's happening
you know it's raw and experiencing
you know
your face just aged
a little you're face
has planted its fold.
okay,

but why are there such mysteries?
why am i always
so
cold
so provoked
by human nature:
i'm exactly like the world
i'm a soul when i'm not alive
i am
a destination;
apparently Somebody thought of me
and thought the Trip worthwhile. fuck.

my mind had tranced so deeply my body ached
and further ached, another sense growing deeper
and bloodyfuck deep
like, hah, now my mind has spilt
i must attend to somatic duty,
ease my tension
quit
thinking
for a while
for comfort
for reminder
of this flesh,
which
most times i think awful.
cold world,
stop reminding me i'm so vulnerable.
oftentimes i do not understand
this world.
the city
the scene
the wilderness.

the happenings of a story
are in the works
or whatever.

i let my body drift here imagine where i let my mind go

if I'm misshapen now beware
my days of coming.
this flesh will abandon youth
with haste and nasty telling:
my eyes will speak of every high
my skin will lie to you--
my presence
will be
surreal.

I take the load
and know
this simply
of the parallels I'm approaching.

in my ideals the foolishness and
adventure I face myself with now
will reflect extraordinary.
in my fantasies i live an awkward
and important life.
I take the load.
I inhale it large.
I can feel my body aging,
I can feel my soul getting a little younger:
soaking into my mind
and taking on the project of somacy
and as my Self now grows older
the balance of experience
and spirituality
drip into each other.
The void behind my consciousness
decays and takes my human with it.
The soul and mind reconnect:
I search for death to find genuine
youth.

Now, experience.
Get this living through and conquer
so that this TRIP is learning:
colourful and birthing to
True Enlightenment.

the magician

Love is lusting
and the God of Love does lust.
Fearing its maker, fearing even,
the things it creates.
There is war in outer space.
You humans must comprehend
how high
you can really get.
Now, the sky. Now,
be in movement.
Hereditary mental deficiency.
The blind norm is consuming
in action, but courageously,
the mind is thumped upon.
Humanly pure humanly thoughts
and emotions are
raging and forcing exit.

I beg my body to let go of my mind.
I would be me, again.
I'd be of no identity, and beatific.
I think of myself in ecstatic joy like this
though I remain trapped
in this consciousness.
This is the escape I search for--not
city-to-city dwellship
begging for the tangible rockload
being at the point to conquer
then flustering away.
It's thrilling.

I think of the worship my human self has
for the higher Thing of soul.
I know, truly,
that creation is creation.

I'm speaking to you from the box.
Once you get outside
you understand you've only moved
to a larger box.
I think to myself, I think: what of
this existence?
This numbing stream, green trip,
there are worlds
and there are livelihoods.
I am living an era of one of them now:
I watch myself.
I don't
like
myself.
I have ideals. I do not function.
I am without euphoria.
I want this place, okay?
You must learn love. Keep from suffering,
though that is life.
But, what is peace
but boredom?
It is pleasant though vulgar.

War inspires art.
It's wrong.

We are within a twist of existence.
We are hesitating from enlightenment,
we are mischievous
and limitless by story.
Do you understand why Earth is called Mother?
She has birthed us, we are her every feature.
The sky is bold. It is the expansion.
Boxes.

I wish I could tattoo my aura:
the infinity sign over my head.

to elaborate on later

the world
i've said it before
the world is my most adored.
when there's jazz playing
at the Cambie beside the drinking Cambie
i've got the noise in my head.

a stranger said to me today: i wish
everyone was more like you.
and i felt insecure.

i am beginning to sense something new
and something emotional: grown up loneliness.
drastic and different from the childish innocence
of being alone in younger years.
i know now that i have experienced hurt
but this knowledge is purely reflective.
i wonder
how much
pain
i am in
now.

toking is joking

we lounge madly getting minded out
with laughter and constant laughter.
i put on blonde on blonde
not that i'm too into it,
but that its great
and on its rainy day opening track
he sings: everybody must
get stoned
and everybody in the room
tokes at the same time
and gets
a little
higher.
i laugh to myself
and wonder
if everybody else
is smiling
thinking the same thing.

compassion is the way

my manager says: no, we can't buy pot on the company for the staff party because we'd need a receipt for it.
kloe laughs: these girls actually have a place that gives receipts, man, be careful.

wind, blow that other way

my room
mate
is naked
in the other room
completely
with a camera
in front of her

i interrupt
for a quick lifetime
for a smoke
and steal
a lighter
from the set

today is an extra
terrestrial day.
i was worn like a Day
and psychic-lady
from the Arms Forces, Global Unit
sits in front of me
on the bus
and looks.
she says of the crippled woman
who just took her exit: what a lovely
and proceeds: everyone's getting in tune
it's like a dance, a jive,
and everyone will pick up.

a small asain mother with
a bouquet of flowers speaks up, too,
laughing and joking unless we all have two
left feet.

i smile
i gleam
i know she sees me
i have bright colours on
and a oversized symbol of peace
embroidered into my bag.

i carry myself in peace

at least at this most pictorial situation.

she introduces herself to the driver, and walks off
at the same time i do
in her badges and uniform
and bohemian accessories
bleached hair zipped back
heavy, hard, jaw line.
heavy, hard, voice.

i am blown away.
i am on my way
to pick up my passport.
i am purely intoxicated
with the magic herb and
this is an extra
terrestrial day.

my roomate is naked in the other room
she's posing for kicks.
she has a yin-yang of good and bad circling her
i am in this next room
reflecting on my afternoon so far.

2:37 pm: i sign off and go back to collect
my laundry
at the soapmat.

shocking incapable.
i don't put out for the disease
i'm perfectly ashamed
to share some of my thoughts;
vulgar, mischievous,
blatantly untamed.

Nervoucious Rex.

my calm unbearable, i'm sure
i'm seething like water underneath.

i'm at a very traditional cafe:
i've already today met a gorgeous soul.
i've interrupted my broken thoughts
with that which are My Human
and ponder the Beauty of the girl
at the cash.

Oh my.
she's wearing a girdle under her work shirt.

let me observe in this book and be nasty.**
Oh,
maybe not outloud.
but write provocative and most provoking
because it isn't wrong
to disfellowship thoughts that come
without morality.





**the last sentence I copied from my handwritten book

the MUSEUM: I will not edit this rant. i will never care more for a place getting shut down. i am outraged.

This does not support the god life

This is an abomination.

I will speak of this plain to let the world know,

At least, those who listen:

THIS IS HOW I GOT MY FIX:

THIS IS HOW I GOT MY HIGH:

The Vancouver Drug & War Museum.

The established underground: each day

At 3 pm where Hastings East meets

Hastings swank West at Cambie,

At the park statue, gather there, wait there,

A representative of the museum will greet

And take you on a tour.

Vancouver’s Drug & War history.

Different locations; very informative:

Gassy Jack was Vancouver’s first drug dealer,

Now, historic Gastown is named after him,

The heap of whiskey at his bronze feet,

Is the actual barrel he sailed here with.

The Lotus Hotel was Vancouver’s first earthquake

Resistant building, but more importantly,

Cheech & Chong met there.

There is a time capsule buried in the Cambie park

To be opened in 2042, filled with goods hopefully

Legalized by the release date.

The purple glass tiles in downtown and Gastown

Were there for very specific reasons:

To show people where the underground tunnels were,

That led users from opium den to opium den,

So that the general public would not have to see them enter,

Not to mention that they were the result of Canada's first

Restriction-law that was passed on completely racist terms.

(After the railways were built the Canadian Government saw no use for
the Asian community and tried to send them back home by restricting their
only materialistic pleasure)

These are all examples of the things the tour has taught me.

I could go on, it was very informative.

Once the tour is complete, you are brought to the museum location.

You are told the way it works:

The place is always “closed”.

The windows and doors are caged.

You knock with something metal to let the inside know you’re waiting.

You are taken into the space between the door and the outer cage.

You are asked specific questions about the tour to prove that you were one it.

If correct, you are led inside to the first room: posters,

Information on drug and war, handouts and political flyers…

The second room, behind the curtain, is the lounge: there are always

Groups of people blazing in there. The room is a constant hotbox and it makes me

Feel fuzzed and content just by being there.

The third room is the objective.

At any one time there are 2 to 6 dealers behind the tables,

All with whatever they are offering laid out on the table,

Feel free to browse. Feel free to ask questions.

Make your selections.

The last time I was there I got $100 worth of HINDU KUSH.

I have never walked out of that place with mediocre bud.

It has always been top quality.

AND NOW

I RANT IN HYSTERICAL ANGER

THAT THE MUSEUM WAS RAIDED BY POLICE

THREE DAYS AGO,

AND EVERYONE SERIOUSLY INVOLVED WITH IT

IS NOW IN PRISON

SO FUCK THE CLAMP DOWN

ON VANCOUVER

BECAUSE OF THE FUCKING

OLYMIPICS.

MAN,

I HAVE TOO MUCH TO SAY ABOUT THIS.

People try so hard to consider the law so that others

Can simply

Get high.

Can SIMPLY enjoy

Herbal, earthly grass. A great motherly gift.

So much effort went into this establishment

And now, besides all the fucking disgusting junkies hanging out

All around this place (on East Hastings) getting their DIRT FIX

Right in the fucking middle

Of the fucking dirt street

Is tolerable.

Yes. THAT is tolerable.

FUCK that.