Thursday, June 29, 2017

starfang


for a world unable to stomach its own reflection for all the various wrong reasons, unable to stomach all the right reasons, nothing new, whats new. for a world filled with such beautiful ethereal smoke sculpture, it is quite frightening to move around in, one cannot destroy a work of art with a sweep of hand, it cannot be that easy. but it is, works of art were once the primal scream against time and hope, are now the commerce of skin and bone, the mundane sweeps of hand become. and when they are create destroy destroy and when we are cause, effect and meaninglessness abruptly clarified and brought to life, except what was is a dream, was a dream, stillness of life acquires a newfold meaning as artifact, time travel, in the edifice of sunlight just so for only so many times, but addictive with each toll, as art always is, literacy capable of exponential illusions in life, causality a slowly sweeping palliative. for life as its own sake, the actions of movement, rest and change with a contrived blindness to the mirror, discarding fades of moments and time with equal misstep chat chat and hope, is the comfort of this age, not wrong, whats wrong. but the immortal craving to have been, fully visible, recorded and archived, just a few minutes ago, it continues to be a pointless feature of non-existence, addiction to the grand theater of I. the test of time lies wildly scattered in the continuous deception of morning light, varnishing the blind seers, and just sort of being there


Saturday, June 24, 2017

TEDxSSN

one of my favorite bloggers is on tv! http://krishasok.wordpress.com



im a total groupie :D!


Monday, May 08, 2017

the whole point of limitless


slowly dragging a squash court, inch by inch, to make with it a swathe of river that turned slowly around, many magic carpetlets airborne and with a few lives left, some minutes before life, trees that blur and change their viewpoints, helpless but for the wanton waste on nothing, building scale alongside, changing wallpapers, when open road and open sky are well documented, and a close open lot is a lot, its not the colors that make the droplets move, its not all the talk talk talk, it is, nor the relentless light that snakes around all little shadow puppets and moves their darkness around, shapes and turns them, there is no looking backwards, but wait we can, to see if it all moved a little, a lot, became rubble with darkness, burst many flowers without warning, the leaves are green again, they exist, look, but no, its raining, pouring over every single last dream, cut sharp and cold, if only eyes wide shut were a teenage boy's most earnest wish come true, sure this too will pass, but what imagined world was it more beautiful, all the angles, shaking like vibrato, wholly unprepared for a little phase shift, now put in the sleepy hollow, a time cake just sweet enough and add coffee, it dulls the great black blur for a few anachrons, so many nightmares before dawn, letting go, hah, timecount is brilliant and nicely punctuated, wide open spaces between slices and guilt, its a magical time to live in, a beautiful day to pause the storm, and turn on a feather, dream along the sparkle of sun and the music between

Sunday, February 26, 2017

everything


trapped in many cocoons
with new ghosts of practice
slowly darkening the limbs
trying to still the flapping feet
ignore the raging roar
of stillness
enjoy a few minutes
of sunshine, and trust
the water people know
everything is a matter of time
everything is a swirl
of the obvious, the unobvious
the salient, the arcane,
the endless, the pointless


Sunday, January 29, 2017

to search perchance to find


of moving, with walking feet
parleying with a beautiful epitaph
of a gorgeous earthquake
to lay some flowers to grow
gather faults and pickaxes to wait
nope, still nothing
take a power nap to wait
reason with odd parodies of time
approximate with the worst
the metal machines
still nothing still waiting
maybe more water
more weather, a soft sighing tune
nope
the sunlights all wrong
maybe cornice with bevel
paintbrush, glue and tap tap
oh that echo so loud
but flowers do not bloom
unwatching now
crunch crunch away
to wander searching
again for the system in the maze
sink into the glass houzz
peacewait for the loud timer
may rain fall sun shine
and flowers bloom

When the Soul wants to experience something she throws out an image in front of her and then steps into it.  -  Meister Eckhart