I have no strength for devotion,

no dedication to sit at your feet,

still not averse to sensual enticements

no passion for the union through meditation;

bearing this in mind every moment,

Oh! mother divine

I adore you with the fragrant flowers of my words.

First date just ended
and quickly after I left
as the headache set in
barely catching my breath
it feeds off my feelings  
I can feel it creeping its way in
A case of the lovebug
Has got me again
Coughing up sweet words
Going faint from the comfort
This is how it always begins
It stole all of my thoughts
And gently erased them
Sweetly crawling around in my brain
Rearranging, rewiring, they all work the same
I was too doped up to realize  
That this case is so serious, my sanity died
And now it’s too late
All I can think about
Is your hand in mine
Your face
Your eyes
****** delusions and lies
And still I’m rather quite hopeless
Desperate, caught in the moment
Helpless to stop it
But why would I want to?

One,
who never allows One's Self contrast,
shall ne'er appreciate
what faculties One already possesses.

Sacrifice lends itself to Appreciation.
//
Sound is my Pantheon,
Music is my Prayer,
Noise is my Art;
and Silence,
my canvas.

I see no problem
in the use of certain Tools
to attain certain ends;
but to rely upon a tool
is to handicap One's potential.

Tread carefully:
use Tools as you see fit,
but be used not by them.

What is it
about what you fear or hate
that is so dissonant
with what it is
who you are?

People who want to see the Illuminati
are so eager to believe
that a third party
can determine what they achieve
So intrigued by the concept of mortality
that they perceive
that someone other than themselves
would be willing to deceive
in order to strip them of their humanity
to gain gold or power or fame
never really taking into account
that these people don't know their name
that at the end of the day
no matter what you say
one day we will all die
and all that gold and power and fame won't stay

I was gonna write about how I was writing standing up like Hemingway at some bar in Key West, but instead I ended up nearly lying down, like some Roman eating grapes, and I’m not scrawling with a pen. I’m typing.

Why the standing up, Ernest? Was it to gauge how difficult it was to keep good posture? Was it to better measure how drunk you were getting?

He would have boxed me for those asking those questions, or maybe he’d just slam a few shots.

All of us Northeasterners enjoy getting drunk somewhere tropical. I never have a choice in the matter. Whether it’s Florida, South Carolina, or the South Caribbean (I've never left the Western Hemisphere), all I really like down there is beaches and seawater. Everything else gives deep cringes. Those other tourists, so annoying just to look at. Flip flops, whole families, and the god awful shops they keep open. You go to a place good for a beach, green hills, seawater, and fruit, and you want to buy diamonds? C’mon. I wish you’d want these islands to be like national parks; nature over here and cities over there. But the tourists enjoy fake grass huts that try really hard to sell them junk.

So who’s to blame for the sellers perpetuating petty sales and mediocre values? Is it the islanders that make a profit, or the buyers that want the wares? Or is there a third party guaranteeing that the buyers and sellers alike are propagandized to expect the less than fine things in life? Are the salespeople actually working the shops, the ones really getting rich from the sale?