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.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
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?
Thursday, July 24, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, June 2, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
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.
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.
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