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.