Monday, April 30, 2007

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.

Friday, April 27, 2007


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

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

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.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

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.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

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.

Monday, April 23, 2007

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.


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.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

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.]

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

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.


Tuesday, April 17, 2007

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.

Monday, April 16, 2007

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…

Sunday, April 15, 2007

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.


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.}

Friday, April 13, 2007

(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.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007


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.

Sunday, April 8, 2007

Friday, April 6, 2007

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.


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

Thursday, April 5, 2007

Monday, April 2, 2007

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.