Struck

I've come to certain conclusions, but I can't recall what they are.

My eyes droop and quiver in the cool air, trying to capture and focus in on a bunch of letters on a screen. More than this bout with physical lethargy, I find myself struggling to overcome certain mental notes to myself. Why should I like a routine? Why am I doing this or that? What should be read next? What should be worked on next? Every so often, a glance left, then right, just to ensure no one is watching too closely, stealing my comfort from under me. Some arts have a new life when spectate-d upon, others become peculiar, unconventional and almost paranoid. at the mere mention of watchfulness. But such is life, to some a stage, to others a study.

That is a point I wouldn't mind discussing at this time and strangely enough, it reminds me of a book which I loathed but had to read on more than one occasion. The book, exactly, is not important, but the fact that a book reminded me of this, that this was written into a book, is entirely relevant. Writing is done, generally, in solitude, no one watching each brushstroke. The actual watchfulness comes into play when the act of writing is over, so to speak. I write a poem and I hand it to someone. My part completed before my reader's part has begun. It is not unlike a CD in music; the musician has his studio, makes his recording and eventually, someone else listens to it. The writer has his study, scribbles his intentions and eventually, someone else will read it. In both cases, you could stop and retain what you have for yourself, fuck the other people, its something you wrote for you.

In music, however, you perform for people, they see you play and marvel along with you at what you have done. They appreciate it in multiple ways and something new comes into the mix. With writing such is not the case. You could attend a writer's reading, but how many people really associate the reading with the writing in the same way they do the concert with the recording?

So back to the book and the brushstroke. The world as a stage, we the actors acting out whatever it is that we want to accomplish. The various objects in our possession are the instruments of our emotions and yearnings. It gets harder and harder to act out the same parts though, and thats when actors move on. Not so simple in life though. Prefer it to be a study myself, with the occasional Peacocks in a row, in line for the party, the meat market. Won't happen that way though.

So what does that mean? Means I'd like to be an extra for a while.

Memory Lane & Davis Avenue

There is no Malady.

A malady requires there to have been normality in the first place.
So unless you are Hobbes, what are you talking about?
When was the first root of violence and where is or was this...

"Human Spirit"


?

That you or I can possibly see, feel or identify this....come on.
We've lived in a perpetual Ice Age as far as "Spirit" is concerned
and we know nothing other than what is human.

We, humans, are as disgusting as the most degenerative bacteria you can find out...
..in a swamp
..in our blood
..in our mind.

"Human Spirit" is a myth and morals are just false teeth set to take a bite
out of the only prey we can never pursue.

We navigate our fjords and all we find is a cold darkness;
and what we talk about are horror stories
as we yearn for this bright red fire, your dream buried deep underground,
to warm us
up.

Land of the Seas, Home of the Slaves

The Sunny Empire lets loose the laughter,
bursting — unconditional to the collective unconscious.

The hysterical rhythm and tone of madness behind its veil,
psychological smut smothered by frail happiness.

This type of laughing is no laughing matter.
It is the abysmal malady of our Modern Times.

It represents a reproach for human spirit
and the desire to prescribe its moral disaster.

Wabbit Season

Ridiculous. Steep.
Twice forgotten, once taken.

Vibrations. Echoes.
Please stand by..

abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz.
EADGBE

Timeout! New game!
Get to your corner, NOW!

Each scurries to his corner.
Tension in the air, who will win?
Who has not a spot?
Who is instead watching the tele, watching:

"I claim this planet in the naaaaaame of the Earth!"

There is a winner and a loser to be proclaimed;
I would much rather be on my way to Alburquerque.

Shed Water Weight Now..

"Ahh!"
Is a figure of speech, (slow or fast)
a wait is a weight in and of itself,
a sublimation of an eternal feeling,
the memory forever persists.

Mystery is necessarily followed by
un-mystery; the wait is what flexes
and bends, time does not have time
for anything or anyone.

Century over Century, we mull over the same questions.
We bear the weight of our wait for a solution,

And I bet the magician hears, "Just one taste? you want to know what its like?"

Laughter.

exit 7A

soon slow matters will pass
the wait and weight which came with it
will be gone

speak of lives across the horizon
the shadow behind the horizon fades
like the lives and stories untold

generation after generation


question i still can't answer:

why give us the potential and watch us use it ignorantly?