Life is
the mess in my hair it is the coffee, on my breath,
and im finding as im growing that life is
this divine hunger to speak honest words and know honest humans.
We all have been called names and we have called names, and im realising that there is so so
much more than the brutal arrogance ,than the smell of marijuana in the room, than crushed beer cans than what time it is. There is more than the price of gasoline and than blind assumption.
ive noticed that we each tend to leave pieces inevitably perhaps intentionally perhaps subconsciously intentionally.
ie, tonight i left my coffee cup in the wright car and chance has my book in his to read stack, i have the caveman sticker chance gave me on the back of my htc. jordan has my sweater now and i have kyle's t shirt.
tonight feels like a circus and i am recklessly gracefully slipping into this romance with life itself. truly, i am deeply
bound
it seems
this beauty has my attention
it's creator , my creator, has me in his great hands. im following my heart here as my heart follows the truth and the truth is leading to so much than any other road could not even begin to take me.
apologies for the way these words read so unstably, so rigid. i am having a great trouble articulating such love that has been poured into these current skies and settings.
i wont be naive in believing that youth is anything other than fleeting.
but at once , i will neither submit to the chains that tell me Youth is not most certainly
captivating.
though gold cannot stay, it must go somewhere, does it waltz in and out of our lives or does it fade in each of us at different speeds under different circumstances.
wow whoa well.
let's just listen, you speak to my open ears,
we just love in these fragile
years.
dancing on the cliffs
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
lie for awhile with your ear against the earth
sense is attractive. It has that poised, self defining characteristic, it needs no explanation, for all it is is clear. definite. There are lines, and a grid of protocols and passage ways. You check in at the desk of solidity and there is no fog in the air, no dust in your eyes.
Nonsense, however, is located on the catastrophic foundation of feeling.
of ideas. of possibilities and perhaps'. There are no rules in nonsense, which is both beautiful and devastating. nonsense has no titles, no plans, no barricades. Only bridges and seas and wind. lots of wind.
your hair is long, but not long enough to reach, home to me
Nonsense, however, is located on the catastrophic foundation of feeling.
of ideas. of possibilities and perhaps'. There are no rules in nonsense, which is both beautiful and devastating. nonsense has no titles, no plans, no barricades. Only bridges and seas and wind. lots of wind.
your hair is long, but not long enough to reach, home to me
Monday, March 12, 2012
because the wound there is so fresh
the subtle scars lying between health and unhealth, between what you have always known you never wanted and what you could never want less.
these scars dictate, they
in a sense
pave our decisions our emotions- the few that are invited, their chords we dawn by choice not defenselessness.
we have these little wounds, these traintracks between what we have seen and known and what we may or may not choose to revisit.
at first glance they appear hazy, some memories- yes wretched bloody comely sweet memories all welded together like cold steel unlawfully driven into the lining of the safe walls of our fragile choices.
You pray for opportunity when you're stepping on the golden one as these words are being written.
you wish for a resolution, one both fair and futile. a resolution of such a peculiar nature that it would only be fitting granted unto one or say two equivalently peculiar victims of circumstance.
drifting through the fog barefoot and blinded and something cold you feel beneath the dust. a silver line. a silver line amidst an assembly of identical silver lines, train tracks train tracks train tracks train tracks train tracks. no train of course because that would be too humorous, too common to fit this odd chapter of the wanderer's existence. the tracks extend for miles, for months. you follow them, careful to walk beside and not on top of for each track seems to be offering some treasure of its own.
one whispers to you of the manner in which it's hair unceasingly interrupts.
another shares a photograph of a parking lot being rewritten in fresh fallen snow.
the 28th track down the line is humming a song, cant you seem im trying i dont even like it i just lied to get to your apartment. as a track, it is vocally ill-equipped and fails terribly to succeed in the correct expression of each individual note, strum, drum beat.
but you keep walking, staring at the tracks and as you do so you fail to recognize a heavy nothingness lingering in the N E A R D I S T A N C E.
you at last reach the very last track. you hear silence and see nothing and lean in close in case there is a photograph of bit of wisdom or torn letter stuck nearby. no. however something does catch your wild eye On the track. letters., hidden, dusty, in black ink, book antiqua font.
With a ready hand you brush the dust off and meet, eye to eye, a small word painted purposefully on that fateful last track. it eloquently reads,: Fuck.
perplexed, you stand and look around you. Where you have been where you have become to be when you have walked yourself with no one forcing you, No one telling you THIS WAY, you walked there. on your own. willingly. intrigued, conflicted, restless and real.
it begins to rain and all the dust soaks into the ground , small pieces of water rest on the tracks and slide down each revealing its own polished scar. an evanescent petrichor is present and fades, leaving you alone with the line of glimmering train tracks train tracks and that fateful nothingness patiently waiting a near distance away.
the nothingness clears its foggy throat and speaks to you, it says, finally, we meet, ive waited. My name is denouement, kind you. please, feel free, feel freely to paint me. for i am what you choose me to be.
these scars dictate, they
in a sense
pave our decisions our emotions- the few that are invited, their chords we dawn by choice not defenselessness.
we have these little wounds, these traintracks between what we have seen and known and what we may or may not choose to revisit.
at first glance they appear hazy, some memories- yes wretched bloody comely sweet memories all welded together like cold steel unlawfully driven into the lining of the safe walls of our fragile choices.
You pray for opportunity when you're stepping on the golden one as these words are being written.
you wish for a resolution, one both fair and futile. a resolution of such a peculiar nature that it would only be fitting granted unto one or say two equivalently peculiar victims of circumstance.
drifting through the fog barefoot and blinded and something cold you feel beneath the dust. a silver line. a silver line amidst an assembly of identical silver lines, train tracks train tracks train tracks train tracks train tracks. no train of course because that would be too humorous, too common to fit this odd chapter of the wanderer's existence. the tracks extend for miles, for months. you follow them, careful to walk beside and not on top of for each track seems to be offering some treasure of its own.
one whispers to you of the manner in which it's hair unceasingly interrupts.
another shares a photograph of a parking lot being rewritten in fresh fallen snow.
the 28th track down the line is humming a song, cant you seem im trying i dont even like it i just lied to get to your apartment. as a track, it is vocally ill-equipped and fails terribly to succeed in the correct expression of each individual note, strum, drum beat.
but you keep walking, staring at the tracks and as you do so you fail to recognize a heavy nothingness lingering in the N E A R D I S T A N C E.
you at last reach the very last track. you hear silence and see nothing and lean in close in case there is a photograph of bit of wisdom or torn letter stuck nearby. no. however something does catch your wild eye On the track. letters., hidden, dusty, in black ink, book antiqua font.
With a ready hand you brush the dust off and meet, eye to eye, a small word painted purposefully on that fateful last track. it eloquently reads,: Fuck.
perplexed, you stand and look around you. Where you have been where you have become to be when you have walked yourself with no one forcing you, No one telling you THIS WAY, you walked there. on your own. willingly. intrigued, conflicted, restless and real.
it begins to rain and all the dust soaks into the ground , small pieces of water rest on the tracks and slide down each revealing its own polished scar. an evanescent petrichor is present and fades, leaving you alone with the line of glimmering train tracks train tracks and that fateful nothingness patiently waiting a near distance away.
the nothingness clears its foggy throat and speaks to you, it says, finally, we meet, ive waited. My name is denouement, kind you. please, feel free, feel freely to paint me. for i am what you choose me to be.
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