Through The Ages

understand Euclidian space,
one sees man's world in two dimensions

study Renaissance paint,
and one stands outside the third dimension

read Gutenberg type,
expand imagination

listen to the radio and watch the glowing stone,
become the visually-audio-tactile whole once more

analyze the Cubist lens,
and look at man's fractured self

the artist reflects their society
like the sun shines in the pond's waves.

The Image

The architect
the designer
the taste of my lover's lips
the mechanics of flavor

The engineer
the machinist
the feel of my lover's touch
the mechanics of sense

The builder
the mason
the echo in my lover's eyes
the mechanics of walls

The digger
the bulldozer
the ruined temple
the mechanics of earth.

A dream about being free

An Angel whispered to me
"To be happy, you must be free...

Stay with me for a while",
She spoke with a warm smile

I said with stern concern
"If I stay, I will not learn"

"Learn what?", she asked
"To be free, I cannot wear a mask"

We loitered naked under the moonshine
Looking up at the sky
Her body was close to mine
She shivered, I wasn't sure why

We watched a bright shooting star
It didn't seem very far

My eyes followed in accord
The Angel showed me the Ford

All roads lead from an archetype path,
Contour and Spring aftermath

She took my hand
Then held onto my arm
The land shook on her command
My mind went into alarm

Why did I make my decision to stay?
At the moment, I couldn't say

The terrain abruptly split apart
Intense fear filled my heart

Simultaneously, we fell underground
The surroundings became dark all around

Midair, I leaned more against her chest
She embraced me, pressing her warm breast

My sensual perceptions were left behind
A third eye is what I found

I closed my eyes because I could see,
My mind started walking freely

Each step had an inner leap
Into the unknown whilst deep

Why am I in the midst of nothing?
In the plunge, the Angel says, grinning

"Freefall is like birth,"
Suddenly, I felt the earth

An Angel showed me the Ford
My eyes saw in accord

I was standing under a tree
A crane soared overhead
I bent down on one knee
To stretch my hand into the riverbed

I put my ear near the rushing noise
(I listened, humbly, to the belle voice)

"Your origin is based on another premise
...do not forget this"

[you will]
I awoke, completely still

"Most of us have been taught very little about the power of words. Once we are attuned to hearing what is being said over and over,we start to really hear how we strengthen the bars of our own prison by the incredible lies about reality that we regularly repeat. In many ways our words are our prayers,because they are our decrees. Sufis tell us our words should pass through 3 gates before we speak them:Are these words true, are they necessary, and are they kind?" — 2 out of 3 down like a lead balloon, but the last, still up in the air.

Junk Journalism

I think we have a bank somewhere that contains all of the little sayings we "use" to describe horrible things. Every day, its the same news, filled with loathing, doubt, decline, depression and desecration. Either a toddler dies somewhere due to a psychotic parent or a famous celebrity of some sort dies unexpectedly. Sometimes its a suicide bomber somewhere in the East, and almost all the time there a few mentions of the infamous Taliban. Do journalists get sick of the same sing-song articles, the same pathetic and, at this point, ubiquitously meaningless quotes about someone winning, losing or dying? What is ultimately sad about it is that when reading these sordid and redundant stories each day, the best parts are the worst parts. If Paris Hilton decided to get a third breast, then thats the article that seems most positive and optimistic. Its tabloid news that keeps the subway rider awake, keeps them aware of their puglistic desires.

How appealing, how useful it must be. How does the journalist feel that writes/rights this garbage, garbage which, no matter who the fuck you think you are, turns you into garbage? Its just a job, they'll say. It's our right to know, they'll say. Its no different than a top executive at a big tobacco company or a bar tender at a posh spot. We don't need to know about other people's personal lives, the public and private sphere got conflated by paparazzi...why do I care if Britney Spears gained 10 pounds? Why would someone model themselves after someone they don't even know? Why do assholes look around and think about all the wrong questions? Valuing crap for crap.

And we all buy into some crap or the other. We purchase angst for what?