a few minutes ago i dropped my medication in my water cup. it made a pretty funny seen of me using the pen in my hand to try to pry it out but my effort was fruitless. this also made me re-realize that there's been some crap in the bottom of my drinking cup for a few days. lol, i drank it anyway. i used the pen again like you'd use a spoon to get a cookie that you mashed into the bottom of your milk. i hope this makes your day.

oh how i wish for our souls to dance as the purity and pain of our jaw spreading souls and brains minse the shit of these bones. together our bodies can lay in a pile on the floor. we'll be food for the cannibal's already dripping lips. we'll forget and scream with all the god forsaken rememberance of this world. there was a time when we could hold our souls open and hide from life. we got caught up in the AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! where are you as my tears fall? where the fuck are you? how could i fuck this up!

the faind passionate love
of two marks of horrible existence become one

and i forget
rather i forgot, what it was to be lost inside
of you, your mind, your love

we might've mixed our ashes together
and i might've finally been ok with it

AAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

now all you are are marks on a page
you could be the single authority on analysis of this

but i still feel slaps of ink on my brain
as you drew blood from my brain

would the greeks have written such a tragedy:

where two become one by blood for blood

sharing wrists, of clenched fists clenched to fit.
we'll shift our weight to soul
our backs will fall to the wall
we hit the concrete
holding tired fists, tired of fighting
we poured our souls to death
where we could become one

you are my blood!

this was originally a comment that i wrote on jj's blog that turned into something interesting to me

do you ever wonder if we're missing out on what we're trying to capture when we stop to take a picture of it? should i just let those moments, the purely beautiful self-holding moments of life slip without trying to capture (them)(/myself) as (they)(/i) arise? is that the truly beautiful and sincere art of life?

don't stop and write it down. that's moving away from the very art of experience. is that like a pure experience and then you say, 'wait, let me think. let me write it down.--AS WE PUT OUR HANDS TO OUR FOREHEADS--let me get this, this, this.'? this, what is this? what have we done to the art of life (if anything)? have we killed it and so moved away from exactly what we yearn to be involved in/do/understand/become inspired by? or, could it be that the pure creative experience can lie in the thoughtless interaction between the artist literally unified with the camera and the creative experience of life itself as it shakes the SHIT! OUT OF US!?

why do i always have to let things burn slowly? do i just not have the balls to allow it to burn faster? or, am i just trying to figure out whether it should be burning at all?

god i hate this! LET GO OF THIS STUPID FUCKING BODY AND HOLD SOMEONE'S HAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

is it possible to become less mature?

funny, i don't even feel like bragging

i decided to buy a pack of cigarettes today, cloves because the other cigarettes taste too much like shit. i thought, while on my way to buy them, that it was just what i needed to chill out and just be. i (still) couldn't relax at all.

I could feel my lungs killing the ozone as i watched the smoke spread into the air. actually, that was a lie. I didn't want to inhale. what? i know it's bad for me. absurd huh? anyway, let's get to the story with lots of 'I's' in it. I stood on the street corner looking for a mirage. I've been avoiding that well lately though. I should start smoking.

when i threw my gloves on the floor i knew that it was right. it was fitting. it was me. this too. i hate it. i hate this. and i'm so predictable. AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

titling something before you even write it is like hearing the headlines in your head before they even exist. i'm loved because of what i write by mariano dompablo

now i charish this

it's always after you're gone that i come upon the self showing of your pen and i think more about the thoughts that you had in that moment than i ever could have when you were present.

there were no eye lashes left for a wish for you, but i made it anyway. call me an idealist.

if you're looking for happiness, stop flipping through the songs on your cd player looking for the one that you think you'll enjoy.

just let it play. : )

you can't live in front of a computer!

GET AWAY!

GET AWAY!

Peace! to you, friend! May your night be pure like our resonating life we only need realize! : )

I found this somewhere and found it interesting.

During the centuries past, ships would travel by the breath of the earth, taking course on the oceans between Europe's Belgium, Holland, Spain, and many others. They would ark toward the African coast, pick up their harvest, and continue on back to their home port. It was an ironic space that they filled in the strength of a bustling economy that no one could avoid. This was brought to light even more by the route that many ships would carry out after their southern journey, covering distances nearing the Greenland to gather ice burgs to be hauled back for Kings and Queens of the day.

the future

we're on the roller coaster ride of now. every now and again, creatively imagining the future but only now. is the future really real though?

can we ever really say that the future exists? at the very least, we can say that it's as real as a dream. we only actually know now. it's as if we're creatively making up an idea of the future that could be but never is exactly, but for some reason we give it more ground than a dream.

i've recently been wondering if some of this stuff is insincere

awakes me to coming down.

and the crow's caw

she's thinking about if they have really great sex

not the original version

sometimes i feel like we're all dweebs in a diorama

dweebs in a diorama

(this is one of the ones that annoys me to the point that i almost can't stand to post it.)

it explodes in me with perfect aim

i get it. you hold your eyes open until they're so tired that you can't bare to hold them open anymore, and they fall helplessly shut or dry to the point that they've clouded like dead fish eyes. either one means that you're in the dark, which makes it a lot harder to stay awake.

how can you fall asleep when you're so restlessly alone? so weirdly alone?

your heart's said

even if it seems that i've faded off into a world that no longer comprises the world that is apparent to you, know that my heart opens up to the moon, and if you can see it, you can touch it, but only if your heart opens up too.

this is for the above writing.

there are few moments when i feel what it is to know the beautiful warmth of a soft current's faint shaking of my soul. i feel so indebted and sincerely joyous for the words that i could share with a true human being. love is the only word, but i felt our exchange so close to me that i wanted to try to remember it or to write it down if only for it's pure, sincere beauty. that's what i've done here. just the words do so little. Sincere love, like the nameless, is the only word that i know that can even try to represent the hidden aspect and energy of opening for each other that cannot probably be understood through these words. nevertheless, i try because our conversation shook my soul.

the quivers in my voice are from when my heart beats harder

how do we manage to forget about all these men and women? they reach out every time they call someone and say something they would never have had the balls to say. "i miss you guys." even though we didn't like our particular Forgotten, he some how manages to call with a poor excuse, "hey, my names still on the answering machine. i was just calling to make fun of you guys for it." he swallowed his pride to say he cares. it has been about a year's time since we started forgetting him, but what about the past three years of forgetting? so many of them probably didn't have shitty excuses to call home, call old friends, and even not so great friends to say, hi; i care; i miss home. they die on hot sand and paved streets, forgotten.

i'm happy for you, happy for me, and sad for us.

oh yeah, there it is. oop, there it went.

whatever happened to the upside?

two hour pill commitment. why don't they make them work forever. then, even if i make a few mistakes, just one success will commit me to a life time as a better reality. at the very least i wont be so fluent in "fuck this" anymore.

fuck school, that's for sure.

fuck school, that's for sure.

all i can do is stare.

i wonder if we're too old to love. too old now, but not old enough.

(the first version)

the crowed cheers, begs for death, him too. for a few breaths they agree.

he's right on the brink now. they say, hold on, wait. i gotta take a picture. he's now seen understanding. he knows, i'll carry it with me, this lesson.


what were they trying to take a picture of. did they hope to capture the exact present moment when his life fulfilled definitive death definition? or were they hoping to savor his pain? for later?

the crowed cheers, begs for death, him too. for a few breaths (and echoes of self-sheltering pure experience) they agree.

he's right on the brink now. they say, hold on, wait. i gotta take a picture. he's now seen understanding. he knows, i'll carry it with me, this lesson. (i'll carry it close, though, they can't even grasp)


what were they trying to take a picture of. did they hope to capture the exact present moment when his life fulfilled definitive death definition? or were they hoping to savor his pain? for later?

Dinosaur Yellow Snow

Dinosaur aliens on another earth. They speak Bostonian English. They can't figure out what's wrong.

They forget that they're wearing clothes?

They forget why they're wearing clothes?

does she think of sheep to clear her head?

a night on toon's roster

deaf girl wandering down a train track, in her seemingly endless bout of depression, she looked apathetically on as she walked the most hopeful moments of the day, from and to school, everyday, gambling life and hoping to hit it big at freedom.

she runs so she can't feel it. it's so absurd.

the pallet to work with, it's endless was said, but once said it, self shown it, committed to death

calm, collected

the shank, its sheer, its cut acutes nerve feeling fears,
it's a breath, but of life? yes sincere, awash in acid bath sense suicide.

pearl tub, aside from blood suds. it was cut clean, cut with love, of conscious inquisition. yes, curiosity did kill the cat? when? who saw it? where? how do you know? or, is it what is more?

want or need for a poetic end of silence

Burke, Paine, Marx, Daoism (this is what these and many other things have done to me)

caste from ivory towers, the passions of social pasts(lasts), the rule of fruiting minds, they're faultless fortified (in) (a)creted as if possessions, solid without compassion for what can't last (still be). the fast of life's length is not right, (and those of) the organic revolution, a beast (of) (as) (like) high tide. (first) they'd (first) beg the reigns with their hate. (and) they'd (next) fend it away with lay wisdom of anew not afraid, (a-wake,) afew more names fruiting post unforgotten. this is the one way window, (bending, cracking, melding) cracking bent melded glass, hot with progression (ever) so close to what we leave (past). a spectre for ever present passing toward pouring toward truly free. (it is) indeterminate nonbeing. swing Our Circle As what we Breath. (then again) forfeit Nothing for Begging relief.

i had a really good conversation with karl about (around) this

infinite possibility is not accessible to the person. for man or being (extant or not) to access the non-matrix of infinite possibility would be to assume the character (being/man) to a characteristic of first the universe, second the metaphysical existence, maybe the tao.

infinite possibility is not existent . possibility is determined but it is ever creative and that creative ongoing unfolding ever breaches in infinite unfolding creativity.

don't tell me i'm not different because i know.

yes, i'm medicated, and well.

why is it when you call, forgiveness always comes to mind?

a little taste

god forbid you give. well, here's a little taste of your own medicine.

stop worrying so much about skill. just do it.

i'll put them back up when they mean less.

pr

proverbial

real life art is not titled (refurbished version: version 2.0 if you will)

art is not life. life is life. (this may be the only truth.) art is just the inevitable byproduct. if you're doing anything else, are you just trying to get attention?

(it's always good to maintain a little hate (maybe a little reservation from) of) your art. why else would you do it?

funny; no one reads this. well, at least i haven't "sold out" yet.

why don't you go try on that pretty dada jacket for the day?

instead, why don't you just give up. what will they call that? will it be a jacket that people will try on for spiff and size? you'd be so bold?

real life art is not titled

art is not life. life is life. (this may be the only truth.) art is just the inevitable byproduct.