now 's my time to bury. hibernate in me.
now's my time to carry. my eyes into the deep.
now's my time to wonder. sit inside my head.
now's my time to push off.anything that you've once said.

like bounds of smoke

Come to me, like bounds of smoke
Take note of who I am
I have already seen inside you, I already know
Where it is I want

I can’t stand these technologies
Technologies that keep at us apart
I am unaware of resolution
In these times we are left in

I wish others wished like me
Wanted what I want
Had eaten the things I’ve tasted like
Where is she, that I don’t know about?

please speak to me, in frequencies, that only I can understand
and I’ll too touch you, in color, with not words, but with my hands.

The shivers in my bones ensure my heart is always beating
Like platoons of steel horse drums, I’m always me– never forgetting.
And when the tucks of bed do find me each to every night till morning
I can feel safe inside myself, in times when love has not yet found me.

torturous femme

locks and locks of chains have come to claim me in their haze.
when sifting through the rubble i found shudders of my name.
when lying in the gutters, I felt victim to my veins,
as i poured my life to grain --she just ate me...

all the same.

A place for time and space sits inside, sits inside…
Creeping towards new face, I came alive, I came alive…
Sitting ‘mongst the waves, we here tonight, here tonight…
Fragments of our names, drowned in light, drowned in light.

initiation with the now

in synch with these drum beats that had been buried there for sleeps. i then married to a moment, a moment made to reap. it woke up inside me, finally, we at peace.
i pushed it out through heart race, i so gave it out my leaks.

eyes are wide and always seeing
through the vast, my heart goes grieving
to cast off oceans, in whom to slave me
and cut from my throat, the words to just be.

The sun peaks, from behind my sheets,
another world comes again each day.

I don’t know much, from the time I fell down,
Yet, why do I feel so drained?

Dark lies sit in dark eyes, when you see inside the mirror
Your face, I swear, would scream, if you could only see the clearer

Establish the establishment, look the ways as others do
Yes, it will make you all but safer, but it won’t make you all too true

Dare I reminisce of bloodlines, that you opened, when to feel
Or have you crowded them in suspect, steering yourself as just a meal…

A meal for ups and gobbles, from the ones who look your way…
A meal for all the people, who bought your breath, with just their say.

the truth is there's no need

Why find truth?
Is truth not but a wall,
an apparent,
visually evident,
piece of boundary bound within it a message of an absolute,
unbendable,
unbreakable,
piece of factual -
physical matter?

Why beg for such a black and white piece of machinery,
to lie dormant inside your home? Only taking up space…

there are trees out spilling waters, just so you and I can play.
where we’d congregate in flowers, and watch hours peel away.

people wouldn’t find us, couldn’t grab us, it’s our day.
let’s move rocks onto new dials,
let’s let our bodies purr, and sway.

i wish you'd see as well as i

Where are you? …along the licorice trail? With your eyes only seeking the most pleasant of grass, you yearn for more candy. All the while – Can you accept your own sorrow, or see your own face? Can you feel the vampires stagnant amongst the room, sharking all that is pure in you? Men’s manhood as their spear headed brushes, do you even mind the color they’ve painted you? Will it wash off? Can you fall asleep tonight without the distraction?

…I pray your memory isn’t as haunting as mine.

a life whose free

They sit amongst the details
Tiny coves where children play
Inside the walls are shallow
Allowing thoughts to drift away

While parades of decades swallow
In drones whom sweep new day
The lot will try to storm them
By melting hearts into old age

But all they wanted was to find this
...Their life activity
So they soaked their hands in Sunset
Just to find a life whose free.

I see (finales)

I see, yes, in you, displeasure
As you lie and toss your hair

I smell the fragrance of undoings
They way we’ve kept to this cold air

These times, they’ve come to change me
And change you, inside this night

They’ve come to wrap and bathe me
So that I may wake, when skies meet light

We were the pair, who kept to sandals,
And now we’re marching stone in feet…

Cause we’ve awoken from this slumber
With new realities cold from the street.

stone lord

Stone lords – marching on stone ravels
A snare drum in between each trot-full hoof
I see them, and so the shivers…

‘Cause each frosting of the mourning; leaves wet
Wet – wet from my own birth.
Another dream, now killed from mean labor…

Is this an airplane?
…Or perhaps some old wings?
The skies will tell me, but won’t say

And so my hands drop, to reveal inside ghosts
Weird waters, now, I must play.

where is the you

And I bid this utterly unfair, the ways in which you hold onto past affairs.
And sing with them, back pockets. Where memories graze and hold on,
We were vipers in our own venom…

And in my own mind’s nectar, I sift for glances of your skin,
Pleasures from the old country, where the city hadn’t turned us into communists, yet.

We were fair, like children, then. We also shared the strongest of reason hands, and again I claim yours to be back pocketed, in the now of this time…

Mine? Open to each and sudden flux of vapored time that happens to eat change at my own soul if I to see you again...


And! Don’t say you know what’s best when only your own eye-lids you know. When only your own assumptions aid you through the studies and degradations of me and my past characters. And will these personified hooks swing round again? More than likely, from time to time – but so in this cycle sprouts the absolute definitions of me, and with that said, justification.


So, if you, or anyone else, does wish to break parts at this declaration or cut views at my mind, then a cutting of roots I shall force my hands to scissor, in preservation of the only known permanent commodity that I, or anyone else, can have come to find for themselves – and that being, undoubtedly, the right of sanctity to self.

sister city

And with new eyes, comes my sister city
People as houses, and yours all too pretty
I’m alive when inside you, your arches and your frames
Your windows– enchanting,
Your warmth– my refrain.

When my own place, too stand still
I grow weakened in knees,
But your face helps me wake up
I find new working bees

And my skin starts to grow up
Your touch strong, as your word
You are free in my kingdom
And I’m untied inside yours.

membrain

Chemical membrains, these thoughts like handcuffs
Stretched down from ceilings spinning like ceiling fans
Is it enough – to defy gravity?

Is it enough to sing true?
Everyone re-feeding, making sense of things
...In science eyes, in black and whites.


Physical matter all that impales me, from flying –
All now seizes and caresses, with a simple, do tell, explanation…
Logic makes people grow older.

in a midst of thought, i re-think you

I used to know a girl, I used to call cat.
She made pretty voices each time I could see her think

Her waves waved, and her cheeks blushed
I promise, she could love someone

Like a mother, she seemed warm
But like the seasons, she to each,
Sometimes turns cold on me

And her anxieties make her difficult to find in the brush
…She is so free, I understand.

Oh, I hope someday those smiles equate from
The things, I know, to do

I hope she’ll once find eyes to purr for me.

I hope she’ll once see, where I love her.

excuse

And it seems I’ve wiped the jelly from the complex of my eyes
To discover darker colors, from the fair in your disguise

You are a crooked killer, feeding from children, feeding from children
You are sick inside the sinner, feeding from children, feeding from children

And did you know this could be true, there could be something wrong in you
And did I know it to be right, to sit and revel in lost fights

Where iron weights on dogs bring sight, and egos spring as free as kites.

My apologies for such light,
But I believe my eyes, are right.

In All

To each his own, his own in All…
For the friends, and the lovers
And the ones who do fall.

For the crooks, and the cynics
And the ones who do play
For the chiefs, and the hands
And the ones who’ve turned grey.

For the ones in the dark,
And the ones with great eyes
For the peasants, and the riches
And the ones who will lie.

For the priests, and the vessels
Even the ones who will crawl…

There can be treasures to each...
There can be crystals in All.

a reason to believe

Two brides tangle
Colliding in faith hands, descending as one
They are born in new genesis, and in this claim,
Unbridled dependencies upon an air founded giant

Lost in the whispers, the onlookers decided,
In a whole, for the one.
In the collective face; a wave amongst the magnitude
Coasting in some strides to voices void from just ones own

Eyes towards a man, neglecting truth amongst one self
Evangelical divine, looks towards clouds, from ones own health

The Sun rises and is new in each to every day
Till this decree of new beginnings is swept
It’s time for Mind’s to come of age

Mind’s to decide…
Mind’s to crash raptures none at idols but at own personal platitudes
Mind’s to bestow showings of the energy and choice in his state of self

Giving only of his nature…
Gratefulness to the Moon for keeping him to feel
Gestures towards a Sun keeping him to leap and when to real
And thank-fulls towards a planet, and two parents, who give him skin
And a life, far from the masses, but rather buried deep within

Instincts, nature’s savior, through emotes and lawful seas
Born from wisdom in ones hands
To be true – is to believe.

what is the seeing this

Three crows dance from my window…I bet it’s harsh out there.

In purple light, the haze in me,

I am cold without the company.

Free, Inside

The sounds, you make, my favorite…
My ears, peel off, to savor it…

Echoes, echoes, out on your drums,
Bashing in hearts, lining torsos with guns

The suits, in banging, flashy tooths
We’ll creep, those crypt,
Back away, with their truths

Back away to their coops,
Back away, wayward sleuths!


…And they do not believe in us

Our design of foreign nature
Our class, of waste and paper

We are useless in this cause?

Well, you,
Dead by impact –

And in that, no applause

Lay no attention, to the fact,
That your ribs are numb in bed
While your manners, all remembered
While your growl, all pretend.

No more pretensions, you are lost,
Leaving only other’s voice,

So please leave us to our magic,
We’re all free, inside a choice.

the buildings are concrete

Here we are, here we are, here we are building our mansions
Too afraid when hands start clampin’
Round the necks of fools in kids, who couldn’t help but fool around…

Too afraid to play so we’ll lock up in stone,
Ride the whip, crack your back, so nothing else looks alone

No individual of matter, is what you keep to be
Regurgitate your platter, you're now a part and not a he.

With the likes of the liking

Your skin is flawless. Let me prove to myself that you actually do in fact exist. And not such figments of human perfection that only I could’ve thought upon and have found myself to tend to each and any day...

Your hips... I’ll play rhythms amongst your thigh, and you can sing the melody. We can make music together…We can find the hook.

Can we walk into each other every once in awhile? Can we jump high cliffs with hands in bed together? Can we spark the eye, inside the Mind, when the pleasures are outside, together?

It’s not even, just my desire, but I say a proof in Nature’s say. I believe the star’s have mapped our paths together and we’d be sick to choose away. Is it just my eyes that see, what fortunes can be had? If the likes in you…with the man in me, came to meet upon new plans.

My Thought On Mind

And so this, I claim. That our minds be likened to the depths and reaches of Space. Never – can we be lost on one such planet, when vasts amounts of new and venture can be had. Stars and Planets mark our intellect and memories. Shooting stars and explosions, new ideas.

Where vasts amount of lot is available for the buy and building. Never, I say, will there be a time where the Mind reaches a fence of limit. Where a set number can be extrapolated to pass label on the capacity for new knowledges. Whether taken from the experiences of the sensory cortex, or from intrinsic rationalities, the Mind can always be added upon.

If reduced due to outside physical abrasion, or thought upon as weak from genetic imprints, I attest that the Mind has not lost its vastness of Space, or haven’t the Space at all, but rather its core planetary systems have either been destroyed or not yet been explored and found. Tests of intelligence prove not of an intellect, but rather of space taken up as of then.

The Mind, still, and always, will be ripe for new intergalactic voyaging…
In other words, there is absolutely, (like that of Space) no known limit for the human thought.

when they nay say the free

Diagnose my undoings, you are lost in your cause. You hold specs of yourself yet you still dig with your claws. Ripping seams of the seamless where your fingers don’t fit. Away – with your logic – you haven’t a grip.

One of those

I am lost in this will. I have lost your cool wells. Where now the waters will run through, and out face, to commemorate your curvatures, to drown in white lace. We are raceless commodities, we are boundless fortunes. We are inked in our imperfections and this unity we hold makes at one.

I can still taste, see, hear, you. It’s unfortunate sometimes, this memory of mine. Holds little of numerical value yet spans in images of never ceasing loop stations.

Unfortunate, my vast for the first person past. Like lobsters to the cage I am sea bound and tangled. I sit here, little doings with logic, wondering in places serving me no intrinsic value or commerce. It is surprising that even in that now – I am still bound to your body.

When the Sun Went Out

And what happens when they put out the Sun? Cosmic misfortunes, raining black on everyone. Will you see the truth? Will you recognize yourself? Will you look to the sky for a Man with your heart? Recognize. You lived life, to please which was far from your part.

And so a vacuum you become when you go to please away. And leave the grapes of crescent Moons to bask in all which while you play – symphonies for others while you bend to become Mothers. You are tasteless in your patterns, you are keen to become others.

And so who are you? Who are you when the Sun goes out and the dark is all we see? We lay gasping for last breaths as colds remind us why we’d seen. The colors of cool matter which are all, in all, we feel – And become voices, among people, and not just footprints prior reeled...

When the blacks of Moons are all we see, and we swim in dead of night, I hope they’ll recognize my voice, for I’d have tried with all my might. To step from line, and once use light, to burn in all that’s right in me. With no more Sun, and sight of eyes, only true …will breathe easy.

We, the Dream State

We, the alive dream state. Acting out already existent consciousnesses. Drones in step, matching whims to the populous… Antennas, for eyes, we’re ants…we’re safe.

We know the steps, and so we step them. Easy trails; your knees won’t cramp when you use them for your means. Someone has already plowed for you, so go ahead and eat at yourself. All energy you will use now lies in your ability to memorize key phrases and numbers. All energy you will savor and keep will be kept within the feathers in your sheets. Your comfort is in angles. Your head in Nostalgia, when you build wombs around yourself.

But -– If disruption occur, then we’re growing! Bat off the flame we’re growing! Everyone knows that the growth in our selves, equals change. And change is the inconsistent blood thunder – it is the organic reap.

And in this change we’re confused. …

– So what now, we ask. What now with these feathers, whom do not protect from rain? What now of these numbers, who’ve drove us now insane? What now of our travels, when the paths are now dug in? …. I guess we’ll have to wake up, instead of simply dreaming in.

descriptions of the dying man

Empirical matter, or should I say frost bite. You are a kink in your laborious attempts at regression. I pity your narrow ears. They must only hear your stomach. I look down on your eyes, they must only see your reflection...

And when you think you are done, you are not. Rough sequences of cold and action will re instill a smaller half of you. Same waves of your old choices will either flush you to mountains or beat you to pulp. Quenched in your sweats you will either pass, or stay.

Pray swift, you will pass. Pray that balls of yarning flash beams twist rationality through the seas of your Space in Mind. Pray that your eyes will notice the beautifully imperfect world that is bubbling in breaths around you. Pray that you make it out all right

…From the bowels of the perversid memory glands, you are wading in the corrupted channels of waters and waste. Churning your limbers into splinters of yourself. You are lost in the transgression; stuck between two worlds. The on going normalities, versus the space where only photos peel back Time. You are nothing, so much as you are rock – you are a displaced molecule.

papper

Comfort me, I’ve been away…
Traveling to find new things for new people
I’ve picked berries so we can eat
I’m sorry it’s little with protein,
But its wild with flavor

-and!
Wild with vigor, I’ll figure your lingers
Each crest of your skin I am alive within.

You help me to turn off my brain for my body is alive
I am trapped there otherwise when in solitude

Disgust with the out, I build fires within
That’s where the new eggs are hatched way away from dirt filled hands
Hatchings that can one day reach the hens and cocks
…In my hopes with each day

-and!
You are a light house
I’ll run to you after school
After the others have tried to teach me how to walk
And appear when in public appearance
And how to speak myself…

They are fools if they think they can change my step.

My feet are of only my feet and move only how they please
I will walk in your direction – but only to my rhythm
And if you can see that, than we’re clear
I am comfortable in you.

Don't wear your plastic

Don’t put on your plastic face, honey… It doesn’t matter your shine, you’re already Sun. Your imperfections rush me, I feel so alive in your humanity. Why do you blush? I don’t know what you hide for, you look so pretty when you’re real. You look so lovely when the morning’s first kissed you and your eyes still crust bitten with birth. In that haze is when you can see and hear new birds, and me. In that morning’s haze we’ll find our bodies fresh. Through the cracks of these sheets we’ll start this day with echoes, and right.

Won't be Comfy

You are a smile that I will keep always close to the console of my chest. You are safe there. Cold logics of Time and physics hold very little aggression towards my heart, please do not worry…Less of course logic has eaten at you, first.

Less of course you see me as man, instead of me. Less of course you’re wind.

And well then, then things won’t be so comfy, anymore.

I can feel you now

My heart, it peels open wide and gives, for you. In your face of memory, I quiver at lip and feel out, for you. I want – I want for my fingers to suck from you like grapes, from you I will drink wines of life and of you. From you, lights will shine from everywhere.

And don’t be afraid of them. We can be alone in our cityscape as buildings bask in the walls of our shadowed curved bodies; we are exciting in our breaths and latitudes

….I can feel you now.

I should’ve held you like this long before the winter...Valuable warmth could have been shared in our raptures of blood and heat on skin. We are humans alive as animals, we are the beautiful design – you are divine in your right to shackle my eyes, and only, for you.

glass ear/ glacier

you must always search for people where there are bodies and rivers.

you should never look for people where there might stray bears.

strange people are perceived from internal doses of already a strange person.

it is ok to with hold the physics in truth, it is never ok to lie.

statement

I enjoy sporadic acts of imperfection within all of what I enjoy to do. (Not correcting my natural flaws of mistake)

– It reminds whomever it is who is sensibly addressing, and receiving me – that a human being has made this, and that human being is me.

it's a matter of physics and love

Seventeen months, three days…
Or just walk at the morning’s come

It’s just that simple when change of mind has become inside you

It’s interesting -– this process of human adaptation. Combines of vibrant synthesisms born from heart and sense of mind ; a physical world, made of physics of matter, takes hold and snow plows change just as all that is materially around us moves and pushes itself, always.

Yet for some with minds of remembrance and memory, are able to reject in this order of things. In this situation two senses of reality that are normally in one will become two – leaving the body to whittle and whiten like the winter that Time has pushed upon its shell of brain, that lives in its inner with small senses towards physics.

Physics of cyclics and patterns that are hard in their truth and strength of knowledgeable rock, while sometimes the Mind can be soft with infinite fertilities and warmth. These two can clash as titans due to their respective differences...Or perhaps, work as one – Physics and Love.

It is the take of Time and Memory. It is the introduction of Reason to Dream.

[It is all a state of Mind.]

I'm still ( I know ) a Child.

+

I cannot be entangled. The entangling of things will corrupt my spirit, I fear. It will render my hands to be as solid as the rocks I know I would become, and the newness (like the ripples in oceans) will be lost and bring its blaze with solid ice. My hands must move, move like children do in playgrounds. Boundless and free in their happy faces and carelessness. The world and all its loyal intrigueings are but orbits gravitating towards their clevers and whims. This is a good feeling. This is a feeling when aliveness has caressed its leggings through your bloodlines and brought out the better sides in you, where aything is possible, and in that reasoning…I keep my hands free, free as a child.


With that my mind must soar for a child does not care about his neighbor or what the times have crashed into his door, for he must always play, to grow. Play to bring new, and explore things with wide eyes. To create great artifacts from the soul, your hands and minds must play like children do. Children do not care for children have no rivals or concepts of others, and in lack of awarenesses they can be free and no one else more to copy in social olympics. They are in thus always new and growing, for the natural self is but an animal and never patterns in his behavior keeping fresh, and will flow as this from his inner core, never ceasing to adapt in self.

However it is hard to play when the eyes of the watchers follow and spite at your moves. When a rally of critics kick dirt on play fires. And in a child’s growings, his skin is still thin with emotions, and the world can rub much too hard, wasting waters cross the cities of dreams the child had created, and now lost, leaving only insecurity and fear.


A child is not free when he is conscious of fears. He is not free when he is always questioning. He grows scared and doesn’t like to play anymore. He moves just as the watchers so that the watchers won’t watch him. He doesn’t like to make new things that express the beatings in his heart. He has thus given up his own faith, and in that, been forced to grow up. The world now has no evidence of the uniqueness of his hand and mind. The world will never again trace the animal patterns of a child's gift to give and trust in self and build to the pools of beauty and humanity.

This cannot be the scenario for an artist, the ones who keep new to be only them and only an individual. For the ones who wish to use their hands to replicate the affirmations in their skulls, must always keep to be free as children, and neglect all who force outside pressures of judges and guilt. They must never grow up in their mind, for the ones who trek to adulthood only wish to compete and take and paint their faces different reflections fto humor others, never wishing to share outside their own sect, less for profits. They only wish to copy, as to catch gains and keep for their legacy. They lose sense of themselves for their senses are only tuned to everyone else, and in thus, weakened in spirit due to social trampling. Nothing new and revolutionary of self will thus be born like a child into the world, but instead, a new robot generated by just another old robot.


I refuse to think and maneuver my hands as an adult and lose the children in my veins. To lose the awareness of myself, and all that is around me. My eyes will never truly work right, and could become drawn to material powers and corruption otherwise. I will never again trust the ones who smile and give eyes. My colors will twine into the blacks and grays in my business suit and my face will never again shrine, me.

In order to survive, I must explore and taste in all. In order to have hands that move like rhythms and new, they must always be left to play in pools of freedoms and air. In order to always grow strong, I must keep true to my natural ways. To be, the greatest version of me, I must keep free, keep free as a child.

-

this is magic of law (love is beyond thought)

Worlds of reason won’t keep me from you. Not even the greatest of philosophers will rattle my time with you. You are an angel of no sensibilities – I only understand in the way we both feel, and this in itself is law... and even in these laws we’ll break them and away, see there are no laws to the wild, and there’s certainly wild in the blood we make. Run to some jungles with me, my love. Run to some jungles, away.

sporadic passages that may or may not belong to a greater whole of passage.

– Fasten me to trees; I’ll lift and raise my head. Up towards skies and Moons and pleasant memories long since died and floating. I’ll find and catch the ones I lost and bring them back to me. One day. One day you’ll be special again.

– And in my pools of thought I’ll link ties to wonderfully different things. I’ll break magma rocks and solidify the hots into colds and so on. New creations. Beautiful things that could help humanity…or was it just me? I can’t remember because we’re all still human, right?

– But sometimes it’s so hard to keep quiet, when you notice so much. It’s hard to tame a beast that smells and is startled by everything awkwardly vibrated. Energy waves have rhythm you know? I can feel your hiccups of mind.

– Yet when new hope rubs my back with time, I’ll always doubt it. How so a mere man to grace his hands and mouth upon something so sacred and beautiful as you, without unresting the God’s?? The God’s that raise thunderbolts inside of your mind and spanning body. Until a messenger straight from the lips and eyes of the one I behold do speak, I will not pass my whims of desire. There is too much risk at stake!


– And so the man who felt and noticed too much strayed back away from the opens of the day. He kept close to the comforts of night where people couldn’t notice, like he. Trees and vines were his friends because they had no legal judging system. His mind and face liked this; his body was still cold.

documents from back

And to give a piece of your self, is such a struggle in veins. To be alive in your love, to give your secrets of brains. To transmit it all, to give your life in your touch.
To wrap your body in ten thousand knots and wrap those tight in ten thousand socks-– hanging from the chimney when you wake from the bed. With thoughts of us dancing still swift in your head. You’ll find me in Christmas, in your stockings that day. And the day after that, ‘til Christmas white turns to gray. … And the streets turn dilute in their twisted black soot, and the fires of our love whittle from seas to pin hoops. …

- A prairie of passions turn lost and to old fashions in the eyes we once shared now too real through steel satins.

The clock has now beaten on our lover’s lost hearts and awakened the beasts whom are dear to depart, away from involuntary risks of non reality.
. And to extract the lost parts that were given in trust, through the touch in our lust and the lips from our cups.

In cups from kind drinks of our skin beating sinks. But the waters ran dry and we’ve lost sight of the kinks, and to us, each other’s heart- beat. Just human contrive.

And we both now see robots, yes – that’s where our love died.

So goodbye as you ween from those eyes to night sky. Take with you, your cup, to fill along with your lies. To fill up with your pleasures now that you can see in 3D, now that you carry a pistol, now that you can’t quite see me. Goodbye as I bury you deep with the past, although I admit I hate shovels, I fear this mound will not last…

Here is a piece sample of the latest collection I have been working on. I am almost half way complete with my collection while still trying to juggle several other independent projects and school. This will also be featured (along with some of my other works and writing) in an independent art pamphlet myself and some of my closest colleagues have devised in order to freely output our own creative art works and writings. I will post more news of this endeavor when our first issue is released in several weeks, and I will keep things updated on the results of my collection's efforts.

Take care.

-Adam

all, all around me.

I can see in shapes and colors; hologram eyes imbedded in me to notice the wonderful rounds of your form. The wonderful laughter that flows from you intoxicates my wrists cuffed back behind my head and this excites me. Who are you with your smiles and lips? How have your movements been kept so close to me; let my hands grace your hips.

It’s not that I am watching you, it’s just my instincts tell me where you already are. They tell me if you’ve yet detected traces of my lingering eyes – I’m so sorry they already love you before we've even met.

And I'm Sorry Time's Affected Us

I’m sorry cold Time has triggered gadgets in our brains. Combines that twist out signals to keep away for society is watching...

And as our bodies develop we only begin to see other people's bodies. Shell houses of our desires. – But where is a sense of mind?!

Where are your keen hunting skills when I am watching you. Where are your instincts to sense me already around you and inside you. I can breathe you from oh so far away and my nostrils bring me melting; yet you sense no change in my matter...

{The mind you have inside you, cats…I’m sorry the Time’s are killing you, cats.}

(To become) King of Hearts

To be a King, King of Hearts
takes great bravery in one self.

It takes rock hard shellings
with a mind to fight for freedom

One must be true and lead in all his doings...
and never lie down flat and be not he

Ones heart must care,
leading forever upon the nature of his making

One must share in all that's he
without hoarding or corrupting self against others

To be a King, King of Hearts
takes great bravery in one self.

-

In my dreams, I am an Indian
I am not shy for I am not clean
clean with the stylings, I wear my own things

my own hair, my own eyes, and my own lips to yell and prove my wilds

In my dreams, you love me because I am an Indian
I make drums in you and we are happy
We are happy because we are both Indians

...and as Indians we don't give a fuck
(its before the WORLD has come)

In my dreams, I am an Indian
and in my dreams its right.

Happy Easter

Did it make it safe, did it arrive at your place?

The package he began… when he was just thirteen
The face he has been growing; in his growings to be seen
But the lines of the shy, heart filled wondered eyes,
Keeps dreaming dreams of cities; yet too afraid to lose sky
Too insaned, when people turn their heads as a must
And peels away at the ego for the thinness of his crust
Has been meant to stay thin; so he can feel inside the breeze
And sensatialize the brain – which splints the magic in his veins
And brings about the vision to see things in his own way
It gives him the ammunition to be him and only he –
To be true and not the servant to the plans meant for the class
(which boil in the present for they swell deep inside the past...)
To wage wars for bright new futures where his touch may mean and last,

To break bread with boundless heartbeats,
To help the others from their caste.

untitled

(What goods be there in lies; When truth beats out our hearts. )

Art History Class Doodelings

Where I Sit; I Know

And these greens wipe visine, in my eyes through this scene,
Where the people painted robots live to copy in their zines.
And here I am too, made to follow in this game –
During the lightings of the day where chameleon faces come to play
And I have to be like you, so they won’t cripple in my views.

Then here sits me…
Alone in my spec; where my sleeves come clean, and my ideas are wide –
And sanctuary is inevitably all around me in my walls
… but the people are not
(oh the people, the people).
I am here, with my feet bathing in measures and tapes,
Of infinite boundaries where personas can play and great new things are met
…but the still people are again not
(the people, fair people).
I can be Mountains of myself in clouds of thought…
And orbiting in random sporadic revelations are the works I’m leaving behind of them.
For bridges of New, do find me
…and yet the people do not, do not.

My ticking arm veins, come alive like steel trains,
From the pillowed oil sleeks which spot the confines of my brain...
But with no bodies to relinquish views –
Tornadoes gasp – Aloft in thought in my own room.

the ups and downs in light shows

Now the lights in the blue fluorescent hint hues
Each shone copper of pigment, in lover’s lost shoes,
Flying mountains now face you in directions where ghosts
Come alive in your mind and your long vacant hosts
To take away from this boredom of each random day's coast
Swinging seats now move us – for each better and worse
And the piccolo soundings seep from horns of the hearst
Marking the end of the Man, who now holds in his hand
The red tear dropped signed package
Of a Lord's love in his land
Burning like horizons; that have died till its dusk
Where the endings are beginnings, and our cries are now rust
And the smiles of the day reflect the patchings in Sun
Stronger; as whole, we are the West found and won.

what happens in the middle

Discard the ones who’ve fallen for they mean no spare of part
They are worthless in the leverage of our own domestic carts
– That we push around the streets to linger sweet like room dinettes
That aren’t meant to be used in fashion’s fear of late regret.

Sip wine with bloated, oily swine,
Hold meals with kinds that kill at our time…

To save this place; to chase after our race
To be apart of, but then -
Our instincts raise hand
Against the heels of brethren,
And the hearts of own kin.

>

Our own reflections we now smear
When we cannot see quite clear
In vain and clothesline pasts,
Leaving futures, born to cast.

Driving Games from New York

This is a drawing that was a result of a sort of driving game Gene constructed for me to play on our way home. I suppose it wasn't really a game then if it was just me playing but it was sort of an interesting challenge to partake in. Basically, Gene and Ruba would recite to me a random word every five minutes until I decided to stop and we would see how I instinctively processed the course of these words into line form. The words were as thus : pit, purity, falling, sincerity, mushroom, and snooks. I decided to stop at snooks because the fact that Gene decided to throw that term at me made me realize he was bored and probably was going to continue throwing me trick curves to liven up the atmosphere...so I decided I'd take the chips while I was still ahead...

I also drew a couple other pictures while on a beach and from the car ride home after being swept up by the city. you can see them at my eyerchives or rather the "formal hand methods" link.

One Must

One must think – to perceive

And One must perceive – to find oneself

And One must find oneself – to find will

And One must have will – to go on

And One must go on – to live life

And One must live life – to add

And One must add on – to feel whole.

The Sun - it's out - Go running for funs

Well when the Sun comes out,
My heart goes too…
And when the winter goes running,
It brings my attitude

In the colors of the flowers;
They melt the man in me
Bringing softer children,
To where they ought to be

Cause it’s in the way you hold your head
When the People come around
To what skins and hearts are beating
Under Suns and warmer grounds.

What I do

.

Please stop counting all my habits,
Because I know just what I do
I find my worth through battles

So I can build my love for you.

My Love is for The Moon

Oh Moon light, sweet Moon
With your bosoms warm of glow
I’ll journey towards your knowledge
From these trees down here below

I’ll walk eagerly through darkness
To see your different points of view
Not knowing where my legs might end up
Or what adventure comes anew

But in my tiresome trek walks
I’ll keep eye of what to do,
That is only of my heart- beat,
Because my heart beats for the Moon.

A Question

Tell me – have you seen Space, with just your eyes...

Or is the microscope all you bare?

In case my face may scare you

It's not that I am different
Or changed my root of name
It's just that I am growing
Into someone never the same
Languished in cold mystery
I sweep and find ways out
And with each struggle, I forge ahead
...Until the next change comes about.

(self) explanatory

the new crowd is new here

You only see a physical body
Imposing his will
Imposing him self to physically gripe at you
You struggle at yourself
So you struggle back with me
I am a humble body here

But in my mind I sit the throne
In my mind, I am the King
And through my hands my realm will proclaim
-Upon pedestals to be seen
-Upon pedestals to be loud
-Upon pedestals to see and find humans ready to be humans

And these writings are indeed an evolving ego
A centrically driven – manifesto

You see, in my head I’m for once me
Because through my hands I can now see
Because through my medium – I can speak to a crowd
Who as well wish to stand up,
Who as well wish to be loud…
Through the beats in their hearts
And the loves they’ve once found…
-
To feel strong is now misfit,
To be small: the new crowd.

I'm afraid the city scares me

I'm afraid the city scares me
I’m afraid they will take out my child’s eyes and replace them with their own. I am afraid that my self may stop coming to me. I’m afraid there may be a realness epidemic sweeping their streets and I could be infected. I’m afraid there may be snitches who will snitch out all my style. I’m afraid there could be pretty girls with dazzling eyes and inconsistent tendencies who will surprise and excite me but make me realize later on they only love themselves – Or worse spoil things by telling me love doesn’t really exist at all. I’m afraid of losing dream reason. I’m afraid sex will be sex, and I’ll start drinking coffee, and people will have routines and will stick to them. I’m afraid that the bustle will make my teeth cringe and help me to die. I’m afraid that the buildings will constantly fall on top of me. I’m afraid I’ll feel trapped in the critic’s company.

I’m afraid the people might be real enough – to be fake.

random actors who accurately portray the moment in which I felt. something.

brain/ body conclusion

this was a random realization I had one night while speaking with friends. I urgently found a receipt to release its graphings.

lip weapon (1:44:56 AM): there are only a few revolutionists.

this conversation has given me great new hope for the formalities of aol instant messenger:


"

Steinblanket (1:32:39 AM): yo dude
lip weapon (1:33:00 AM): hey, man.
Steinblanket (1:33:33 AM): how ar eyou
lip weapon (1:35:27 AM): tired, trying to make myself write a paper.
lip weapon (1:35:36 AM): i don't feel any real reason to do it.
lip weapon (1:35:40 AM): how about you, man
Steinblanket (1:36:13 AM): i know how that is
Steinblanket (1:36:29 AM): it's hard making school projects, cause no matter what you are deep down making it for someone else's tastes
Steinblanket (1:36:33 AM): and there is nothing of you in there
Steinblanket (1:36:39 AM): it's hard to be fake man
Steinblanket (1:36:45 AM): tired body syndrome
Steinblanket (1:36:48 AM): =reality
lip weapon (1:38:56 AM): truth, man. almost every paper i write is just faking it for a professor.
Steinblanket (1:40:53 AM): art school is bullshit for the artist, but it provides a wonderful shelter for the realities of life and themselves
Steinblanket (1:41:02 AM): it is a healthy and necessary buffer zone
lip weapon (1:41:25 AM): but you don't think it's really necessary to be there to be an artist, of course
Steinblanket (1:41:42 AM): well you either man, we're in the same boat
Steinblanket (1:41:46 AM): you paint in texts
Steinblanket (1:41:54 AM): i paint in lines and colors
lip weapon (1:42:04 AM): i don't feel like there's even been a class that caters to what i do at all.
lip weapon (1:42:11 AM): i conform my own style with each new step.
lip weapon (1:42:16 AM): it's never really free
Steinblanket (1:42:51 AM): i mean, school is giving me great practice for methods and skills, and i do believe it is good to first know the rules before breaking them...

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''' ''''';'';;''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''?

Steinblanket (1:42:54 AM): oh i agree man
Steinblanket (1:43:09 AM): the chameleon man walks out during the day
Steinblanket (1:43:14 AM): whenever everyone else can see eachother
Steinblanket (1:43:35 AM): that's why the best shit in life happens at night haha
lip weapon (1:44:02 AM): you were dead on with that statement about breaking the rules...i want a basis just like everyone else, but i want to take it a HUGE step further. places people don't even think about.
Steinblanket (1:44:14 AM): exactly man!
Steinblanket (1:44:43 AM): who the fuck needs another mirror to copy one another, we all have to be windows into expanding people
lip weapon (1:44:49 AM): i think vision is half the problem, if not more. people don't break boundaries because they don't even look for them. they are content to sit back and get fat with money.
lip weapon (1:44:56 AM): there are only a few revolutionists

- thank you for the words eli, it is good to think with you.
========================================

Steinblanket (1:50:46 AM): if you have the capabilities of doing great and powerful things in yourself, and with your heart in the good, i do not see why people who wish to lead in soemthing great don't step forward, now.
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ;

bang n chang'in hater players

Bathe me in cold darkness,,,where people can’t see me,
and give me brighter visions like the lights on bright TV’s.
And give me brave new mornings; where they will not know my name...
Where they won’t know all my stories, and they won’t think me a game.
They won’t take hold of my sounds when I romance them out loud
–to spread my inner being and to entertain a crowd.
They will sit and swing and live within the conscious of themselves,
instead of breaking in; an anarchan,, .to leave me seeds of someone else ,,,

And these people I so dearly speak of,
God, bless me fortune–– for once sharing their love
They’ll see just me, and not just themself

And the diamond in them, I’ll see for my own health.

Beauty in Flaw

The strive for perfection is in itself, a trek that most, I feel, choose to willingly take in life. I was myself a strong perfectionist, in the sense that I would feel an utter sense of guilt and pain when something I tried to convey from the bowels of my being just couldn’t…come out right. Just wasn’t accurately portrayed in the veil that I had initially hoped and felt for. I myself, had driven towards the lanes of perfection and have for many, many years tried to contort myself into a product of complete wholeness and resolution. But I ask you, what is the ultimate satisfaction in this form of thinking?

I understand the strive for perfection is in itself a way to control ones own destiny. To find a meaning, or goal, to follow and to hope for–and I whole heartedly agree there must be meaning and reason behind anything we choose to do in the vast freedoms of our life, but to what advantage can we contrive from aiming for perfection?

Are we not, in ourselves, saying that by focusing our attentions on the status of perfection, we are hoping to perch ourselves amongst the company of perhaps a God, or a machine? Now you may automatically interrupt that it is unhealthy to look to such depths – into matters merely formulated for good productivity. That we are not literally adapting to become an omnipotent resolution (on behalf of the fact that it is naturally impossible to be that.) But I ask you to search and think… from everything you know and can observe from around you, perfection has not been realistically viewed upon amongst society as exactly the only thing it can be, which is a glimmer of hope, a will to keep running, or in short a knowledgably intangible fragment of human perception. Instead, it has become something much more tangible in the thirsty eyes of man. Passions have become obsessions and the strive for human perfection, is in itself, become a retreat from our own humanity. The will to become a scientifically absolute being, immortalized in functionality and patterned consistent results – describes not a perfect human, because again, there is no such thing. To me, this resolution marks a longing for “robotniks.” Perfection has become a quest into an age of machina, and unfortunately we will continuously come to realize that this goal is in no way a plausible one, but rather a detriment to our own human vitalities, as well as instinctual, unique self - characters.

I do not agree that perfection should be even thought upon when constructing or interacting with anything that we do. The marks of our natural flaws are the bookmarks to our soul, the proofs of our human attributes. The path of perfection, the path that we choose, in our minds, hopes to lead us to a destination in which an exchange of human for machine parts is located, and becomes a never ending quest that will only tire and brittle our ego and bones – leaving you weaker in spirit rather than stronger in being. The cost of our human complexities and errors are too great a price to consciously be ready to give away in an instance of recognition or power.

Our flaws are again – what make us who we are!

Too often the judgments of others become the swooping blade that rips out who we are, our capabilities, our potentialities, our distinct instinctual selves. We fall as victim to critics, and in the wakes of these happenings we strive to cognitively and in full awareness, pursue a path that will leave no room for repeated troubles or error, and this becomes enforced by excruciating terms of punishment that we lay upon our own self when terms of perfection are not met – which again, I’m sorry to disappoint you, can never even be met in the first place. We create shells of steel and armor to bury and protect ourselves in when we feel shamed by our offset patterns, but is this not just another description of a robot – a being encased in metal and steel, cold to the sensitivities and wondrous forms of organic Earth?

We are ourselves Earth. We are apart of everything in so many ways and to hide from our human selves is in my opinion blasphemous in its nature. We mustn’t strive to be perfect, strive to be the complete definition of everything admirable and true. It is just something that cannot, and should not, be taken seriously because the weight of this determination is far too heavy for any sensitive human being to carry. Our nature is to be only ourselves. Our responsibility in the giant quilt workings of everything is to be only true to what it is we know and do.

To be a human, to understand and bask in both our glories and flaws, is to me, a much greater gift than the promise or attainment of absolute excellence – in short, I choose life over any kind of perfection.

An Introduction

To first begin this journaling expedition with a forewarning to you, the audience, of this “blog.” This journal will in no way help lead you into my daily soap opera of a life like many others I’ve read and observed in the past. It will offer you windows, maybe sometimes mirrors, but surely never an open door into everything I do or openly feel. I am someone who –with great honor– sounds his heart safely to his sleeve, but in order to truly touch it you will have to puzzle your way through various jackets to reach it. Nothing I will write, pour, empty into words will logically make the obvious of sense – and why should it? Nothing is free. Should I continue to make your life any easier to digest by comforting you with my own? I take the greatest of prides in the days I am given and it would seem utterly egotistical to blatantly regurgitate to you the direct moments of my own life when you already have the conscious events of your own. Turn on the television or open a magazine if you’d like to live your life inside of another person. I’m not here writing to you, to spot light my face, or openly invite you into my world. I am here to help to aid in a revolution based on freedom and thought. I am here to create new things within myself, and possibly inside of you. This is made to hopefully make a difference somehow, somewhere.

I’ve found that going from point A to point B in life is becoming the route most taken as we adapt. And why shouldn’t it? It’s obviously and factually the quickest and most efficient of routes, and also the safest, and well, most comfortable form of travel. However, I feel because of that the world has become one big rubber padded existence, and is in many ways become too easily proofed by sciences and calculation. We are understanding patterns that were not intended for us… Well I apologize because this journal is truly not intended for you then if you enjoy the peacefulness of logic and fact. If you take kindly to reality, than perhaps you and I will not get along. Because what you see as meaningful, I see as shallow. What you may see as worthwhile, I will probably notice as utterly boring and redundant. This site, these thoughts, my drawings and music, all of it, is not intended to blissfully numb you into dumb founded tranquility…it is here to shove you, to stare at you. To make you think, to make you feel, to make you question. It is not working with you, it is working against you, to hopefully – in the grand scheme of things – help us all work a little better with each other in the end...

My personal work is always intended firstly for me, my release. It is my mark into a world of things and people that I am hopeful and eager to explore and connect with. My eyes are wide and I am ready to consume. To take in moments and air around me and to do what it is that I love to do most with it – exhale. To breathe in, and to exhale languages of visuals and sound. I make art to signify my waves in a pool of oceans and life. I make art to return what’s given to me. I make art to simply be alive.

I will in no way help you into my work, and for that I am sorry... However, I do extend the invitation still, into understanding my human complexities. Only you will have to clear the gap I’ve created between myself and you, on your own. There are no bridges into what I do, who I am, it’s just not as simple as that and in no way should be. We are all beautifully complex individuals that should in no way be taken for granted or easily labeled or identified. I will not offer you a point A and point B – an open path into my eyes. You will have to figure a route much farther out of the way if you so do choose to understand this. We as human beings, this world, our lives, cannot only be about two locations, a beginning and an end. There is so much middle between the two that must be explored in order to find the substance of truth and wisdom. We must always be entranced by our instincts and emotions by the life we live around us.

We are slipping on the holds of ourselves and one person, is becoming many. To understand what I do, who I am, will not be as easy as searching your neighbor or the market avenue for reference. You will first have to question what it is you do, who exactly you are. I’m not going to think for you, I have enough thoughts for myself, thank you very much. It is time for you to think on you own, as only whoever it is you are – and yes, don’t worry, you still have a brain. The computer or your Xbox hasn’t gotten to all of it yet, it’s still safe to come out into the light and think for yourself.

If you are searching for a recital of my day, or perhaps art work that will aesthetically capture what it is you are already able to see outside with your own eyes, you have come to the wrong place, my friend. I will offer you little reason, little method, and hopefully an irretraceable pattern to follow. My work will hopefully make you struggle, but in the end, hopefully you will find that I am very much just like you, a human being, with a heavy heart, and an eager mind.

I hope that this journal will be an interesting travel for both of us. My head has become quite stuffy with ideas and its time to let them breathe. Hopefully this vent will keep a steady flow of wind between your senses and my wings, leaving an exciting course of travel between you and I. While my art and writings are only my own…I am more than happy to share.

My feelings and languages are free to you now, good luck interpreting.

Always,
Adam