Each day is a gallery of empty canvases
Every new face is an opportunity
You will walk past many of them
Leaving them blank and untouched
a passing possibility
You will approach some, and paint a stroke or two
or a few or some more and
It may not be your best creation
but on some you will create beautiful masterpieces
For the most part, though, you will pass them by
but, why?
You are a canvas, too.
You are a possibility.

Can what is perceived or hypothesized
as conscious finality be conceived or experienced
in the present consciousness?
If not, then is conscious finality an illusion?

Can what is perceived or hypothesized
as the beginning of consciousness
be conceived or experienced in the present?
If not, is the beginning of consciousness an illusion?

Is there such a thing as conscious finality
at the cessation of perception?
Or instead of a cessation, is it a shift,
or a dissipation of consciousness
that we presently perceive
as a cessation of perception?

Is there such a thing as a beginning
at the start of perception?
Or is it a coalescence of consciousness
that we presently perceive as a beginning?

At which point,
wouldn't all beginnings and endings
be an illusion?

Or are they shifts in states of existence
outside the event horizon of our perception?

In Dante's Inferno,
the unforgiven
sinful souls of lust
are blown about in
restless hurricane force winds.

It is symbolic
of their own lack of self-control
to their lustful passions in earthly life.

They are thrown around in a storm
created by their intense desire
for drugs, money,  food,
fame, power, or ***.

But is this Hell
truly in the afterlife?
Or is it a state of mind?
A state of being?

A hurricane is a rapidly rotating storm system, spiraling in on itself,
laying destruction across where its twisted arms flail.

The storm is an unbalanced, intense concentration of energy.
The eye of the storm is sin.
It is uncontrolled desire.
It's where the Self resides.

Inside the eye, though, everything seems calm.
It's cool and breezy,
the air is clear.

There is no experience
of the destruction of
what lies outside.
The surrounding wall
of the storm
is too thick.

They whose mind is plagued with such a storm is blinded.

The penitent
walks through flames
to purge themselves of
lustful thoughts and feelings.
It is symbolic of the process of God's forgiveness.

But is it after we have died?
Or is God's forgiveness
the forgiveness we receive
from those we have hurt
in our lack of self control?

To apologize and accept forgiveness can be a complicated process.
Like the flame, it's painful. But it is cleansing.

Deconstruct that which may not serve many,
and reassemble it so that it may serve more,
and you have creative destruction.

Deconstruct that which may serve many,
and reassemble it do that it may serve only a few,
and you have destructive creation.

Either way, there are resources relocated
to create or destroy something.
To deconstruct something
would be to separate it
into that which can be used to construct it...

Yet,
to construct something
is to reconstruct what which has already existed...
So is there only the illusion of creation and destruction?

Whether something is or is not,
from how we perceive it,
seems to rely on how and whether or not it is organized.

A point between two points
is just as much a point outside of other points

And a point outside of two points
is just as much a point between other points

A concept is a being
alive and breathing, giving and receiving
to be born, loved, and nurtured

A being is a concept
an abstract idea, a notion of manifestation
to expand, to contract, and to be brought forth
to the fullest potential

To be actualized

As below so above
As above so below

As within so throughout
As throughout so within

What is inside is outside
And what is outside is inside

In the series of infinite concentric circles
each circle encircles another
and in turn is encircled
by another

The infinite embrace

the perpetual re-birth/death
wheel of fortune's price is right
just as the bird in the hand
is worth two in the bush.

kiss the reflection in the river
and feel the cold
sloshing down your throat
as thickening liquids
quicken quibbling piglets.

shivering slivers of
saccharine mashugana symphonies
sing slightly slowly as temporal tyrants
tinker totally titillated ties as they sit
at a time in a box paradox paradox.

the keys are in the trees if you please.
patience is a breeze in the leaves,
so slow down and breathe it with ease.

He lay there in the grass, hands folded beneath his head.
Facing the many twinkling lights of the stars,
basking in the glow of the sky, he said,

"The moon has a face,
She really does.
Well, many, really.
But the one that I see
looks like it's singing the universe.
You can see it in her eyes,
that it's a solemn song but
there's hope in her voice
that lights up the sky.
You know how when
you get so close to someone
you can see yourself
in their eyes?
Sometimes I wonder
if she's too far to see herself
in ours..."

To his surprise, the moon faced him and smiled.

"You beautiful being, my magical child,
Love transcends space, for infinite miles,

My perception of you
is a reflection of me
of all I once knew
and all that I see

Your reception of me
is a reflection of you
of all that you see
and all you once knew

Nothing we see
Is entirely true
If both you and me
Set our mirrors askew

Eye to eye
Heart to Heart
We realize we
Are all a part

Heart to heart
Eye to eye
We realize love
Will never die

See into
each other's minds
With all our mirrors
now aligned

Through each other
We can see
We reflect forever
to infinity...

As you look to me, I look to the earth
and see twinkling lights of infinite worth
They are the eyes of many a life
Wondering just like you..."

Let us form new languages,
languages of beauty and love!

Let's make far reaching extrapolations
that'll blossom into blissful bougainvilleas.

Please!
Let us frolick in fabulous fields
of bountiful wondering.

We will speak in the
words we've named birds.
In the names we've worded flowers.

I can tell you now that my pupils are spreading their wings like the center of a sunflower as it grows

Simply because you are
the glory of the morning
and I am because you are
and we are because we are
indeed!

A long blossomed sunshine spiral smile!

I can tell you I'm feelin'
free free chickadee
ya see the tweet tweet
melody?

I am the blue jay in the summertime,
and the junko in the winter.

Ah I'm the melody,

I'm the robin with the
red breast in the spring time
and I am a shiny black blue crow
come the fall. Find me singing!

Find me caw, caw!

Crispy falling leaves come quietlyyy

I want to unravel every thread of my apparel

Leave it in a tangled heap upon last Autumn's fallen leaves —
brown near black now and pungent from the rot
of several seasons' rainfall...

I want to stand tall in stark ****** as crickets hop over my feet
and ants crawl through the hairs on my toes

I want to curl my foot-fingers into the moss and
feel the earth beneath it as if in newfound love

Sit in blissful vulnerability
Lie in wondrous mystery and tranquility
Breathe and worship all the silences of the forest
all the silences of love

The present moment
is a medium for us to mold.
Make it meaningful, make it absurd.
Either way, mindless molding gets old.
Be present and listen, love
in order to be heard.

thoughts
fly

like
Scintillating Snow
Falling in Reverse

Up
Down
Vast Visage
blue Sky, angel's Frown
isn't This what Heaven looks like?

no
wait

Imploding to Verse
Masticated Mind

Death
Life
Devil's Flax
Harmony and Strife
Exploding Flower, Without Wax

So speaking of the future
is speaking pure fiction
and speaking of the future is fun

but speaking of the future can be horribly misleading and speaking of the present can't be done

So speak love not worry 'cause it'll go down in history

'cause we're here to turn fiction into fact and fantasy into reality

and we're here to write our own story so read love write love not worry

and we're here to spin thought to action so think love know love don't hurry

and the speed of love is as slow as how photons perceive us to be moving...

this wouldn't be the first time
someone's said that you can't
put a knife through the preacher,
even when he's not practicing what he's preaching.

he's a delicate flower,
he's just facing the sun and
praying for photosynthesis

Preacher's got a sunburn,
he's a silly dude, sittin' in the field
in the blistering heat

bright bidden barley
comes sicken roasted now,
like a frostbitten politician lectures a sandy hook victim,
telling his soft couch he just won't have it anymore.
who's the prophet today, anyway?

black.
all I see — is black,
and a glow -
maybe some tessellated patterns over screenlit skinforms,
writing like they think they know what they're doing
I love what they've done to me
but I hate what I've done for them
I want to curl 'em like I'm squeezing a lemon
I want to weave a web of thunder with my skeleton
Bend me like an antenna to get reception
I'll swing my hips to your
pulse's rumpus

tickle my neurons
with your featherduster delusions

sometimes I stare at screens
because the flow of photons
over my pupils form rivers
over my retinas that sound
a thousand frames per second softer than tears.

I see a sadness in the eyes of conformists —
and I see that same sadness in the eyes of those
convulsing radically in opposition.

In others, and in my own.

Each are lingering at a window of perception.

As they want to be engaged, engage them.
Listen to them, and be listened to.

Both will have lent each other liberation
from their chains of perception,

because both will have gazed
through each other's windows —

I used to spend my days people-watching,
but now I spend my days window-watching.

Releasing my attachments
to states of sedentary perception.

Walking through the universe's
gallery of infinite windows.

Exploring the galaxies of the minds of others,
and exploring  galaxies of my own.

Every star — an eye;
a window to another reality.

Standing up from my complacent seat!
Sitting no longer at my dusty window!
Breaking my gaze from my
oh so cherished glass!

Breaking my chains,
discarding my burdens.

This is the only way that I can truly explore!

This is the only way that I may truly be free.

radiating love body light being
form flowing flavorlessly as if needed,
expected in order to sustain life.

e's quenching a thirst,
e fills your lungs with life,
breathing, e pulsates,
e rocks back and forth,
e goes in and out,
e spirals all about and
e takes its time because
e loves e's time because
time is all e has and
all e has is all e is and
all e is, is all e feels and
all e feels is all e knows.

e knows e feels everything
and knows nothing.
e feels he knows nothing
and feels everything.

Time's a cat in a box
paradox paradox
paradox

deflated dimples
frosted frowns
crusty clowns
and crispy crowns
boiled biddings
cuddle puddles
and fearful fillings
spoiled spillings
double trouble
secret spitting
crepuscular vapor
nicotine taper
look in the mirror
meet your maker
long walk faker
tick tock taker

i am afraid of my tongue because i do not like to break silence
but i like to describe it and i cannot do that without destroying it
/'
but i am worried
i am worried of how
how i will break it
/'
the sound of the crack of a whip
a sharp tongue licking the air
/'
an explosion of proximity
the bursting breath of approximation
/'
masticated thoughts bite loose tongues
bite your tongue bite your tongue!
/'
give it to the cat to play with
until it is dead and no longer fun

How much time in the mirror
have I wasted on hating myself,

when I could have
been loving you?

"Gratitude is the attitude,"
the fat priest said,
as he was getting ready
to spready his leggies for you.

He was tryin' to
sum up a hymn 'r two
before he finished suckin'
yer cryin' cockatoo

and I don't have to tell you
that it wasn't nice, dude!
'Cause well, you weren't singin' like you used to,
or how he wanted you to, you bad boy you are
confused and forgiven but no longer can you feel innocent,
you're a sinner you ARE a sinner, and He MADE you that way,
in His image he MOLDED the clay, NO! Not 'He'!
Everyone. Every single one.
You.  

**** the use of these patriarchal pronouns in reference to The Great Spore Spitting Blossoming Mushroom Flower that we're all giving birth to and dying from simultaneously and, seriously, I'm a little bit tired of these petty **** terms with which we're supposed to identify each other. You can't define my identity with your silly communication system, that's an internal state that I externalize on command and sometimes not! Sometimes it just comes out, but it NEVER comes from the devil's mouth, unless it's my own **** devil. Give me a new ******* pallete. I pray for a sensitive tongue.

For God's sake we make ourselves and we make each other.
For God's sake if we make ourselves out to be failures, then we are making God a failure, and what's that? Laaame! But what's That?! What's that I feel? Is that some discomfort with the usage of the word 'God'? Is that a lingering connotation from the days of THIS IS WHAT GOD IS, nothing else, NOTHING else? Well **** that too! That's an endless maze you won't find your way out of until you scale the walls! SCALE THE WALLS! I make God in my own image, but I don't OWN the image. You've gotta BE the God you want in this world. Sometimes I do it when I showah 'cause I have the powah. Sometimes I do it when I'm chillin' with the great lake spirit and the great tree dendritic spirit cilia that reach up and out of Gaia like loving arms awaiting a tender embrace from a lover after years of reaching for something that cannot hold them but truly must be BEHELD. And so I learned they are always beholding as they reach.
That there's always more to behold.
And so that's why they grow.
So that's why we go,
it's why we flow.

So let's make it a collaboration.
Let's make it a celebration!
We can behold it all forever.
We can behold it all together!
Well, sometimes. Not always.
We all need space, y'know?
It's healthy.

pins and needles
line my stomach
like blood red clouds
aglow with silver,

blistering scabs
grow and blossom
into wizardly trees,

blowing and breathing
the air like dancing veins
bringing life to the sky
looking to the stars

Crackling windows and
shattered power lines
low and grumbling.

A tree spreads its wings
and uproots itself from the soil.

Downtrodden shacks stand tired
at half staff, barely paying attention.

***** roads
dirt roads
trodden
untrodden
my humble abodes

They've hammered
a rusty nail into
the northern star
and hung an advertisement there -
It's the brightest shiner in the sky

Weeping willow weepin'
Done crying, now a sleeping fellow

frozen fingers ask for change
Never really Done crying
done trying
Never really Done

A house
split down the middle
rusty rouge and a battered blue

A solemn lady
saunters with a stop sign

Pine tree pines to the left

Pensive pencil pours
pickled thoughts to paper

Pied piper pries
sleepy eyelids

pulls sick stories
pulsating pupils

monstrously
melodious musings

making meal of my darkness

Disconnect
It happened to me
but it's not a part of me
Trigger

I can feel it now
Push it down
down down
down
Guilt

Shut up
You're fine
It wasn't that bad
It doesn't matter anymore
Besides, I loved them
I still love them
It's ****** up
Shame

Shut up
Don't say it
They'll judge you
Others have had it worse anyway
Your story doesn't matter
Shut it away

Back in the closet

Where you grew up

Tuesday, Tuesday...

I wake up naked in my little bed and roll several feet onto the floor.

The ceiling is always entertaining to me.

Laying in silence, I contemplate whether I should shower and do my errands, or *******.

My cell phone buzzes to let me know that an echo of one of my longing cries for a sense of connection has responded from the void.

I'm ******* ******.

My train of thought was finally getting somewhere deeper. Somewhere deeper than the considered ****** gratification, prolonged for as long as I can distract myself from reality — which is pretty much until I decide to experience the tantalizing taste of what death might feel like; a doppler of pleasure similar to an airplane flying overhead followed by a weakening of consciousness, limp limbs and a brief moment of thoughtless bliss: surrender.

I push my sorry, soar neglected body into a somewhat upright position in order to reach my phone, for which some ******* reason, I think will let me know the reality of my worth.

I press the 'power' button to confirm that I will not find what I am seeking outside of my self. I set it back down and think that I am the only person who would know how to love myself best, but even I don't know how to do that.

Well, that killed the mood.

So I stumble out of my room to search for some food in the refrigerator, but it seems that I only ever want something that is magical and out of reach. Typical.

Most of the time I really hate wearing clothes. I'm pretty good at it, though, I suppose. I used to lurk on fashion forums when I was a closeted freshman in high school, thinking that maybe people would appreciate me more if I at least looked aesthetically pleasing. I was right to a degree, but not in the way that I wished to be.

I throw on some pajama pants and an old white v-neck with some holes in it.

In the corner of the living room, my green backpack sits slightly crooked with its grey straps lying lifeless on the floor. Someone I loved but will never love in the same way again gave me that bag. It's got a bladder I can fill with liquid and a hose with a ****** that I can **** to keep me alive. It's really nice to have when it's as hot as two ***** rats in a sock outside.

But it's brisk and the leaves are crispy and falling from the dried out grey-brown branches, so I reach inside past crushed pieces of dried sage and bits of tobacco to grab my leather-bound book and ****** a ball-point pen off the table because I like to feel the resistance against the page as I write and I just can't get that same feeling with those **** pens with the bleedy cartridges that I leave in my pockets when I do a load of laundry and it leaves ink stains on only my favorite shirts. I really love them too, though. For other things.

But today I want something that isn't that. Today I want something different. So I shuffle into my sandals, and tighten the velcro straps and run out the door. The air hits me like a brick wall of happy sky breath. I'm not wearing any underwear, so I feel somewhat liberated from oppressive societal paradigms as I skip to the street. Across the road is the tree line to a million acre pine reservation. Leaning against the telephone pole, I wait for a car to pass and then sprint out in front of one that's trying to turn onto the street. I feel absolutely giddy as I do so, and keep running until I'm half a mile down the trail, another half mile away from the lake, panting with glee.

I'm just sitting here
idly interpreting things of purpose
because apparently
we're here to make
Things
out of senseness.

I'm actively miscommunicating
purposeful everythings
because we're
actually
not here to make sense of
foreverthings.

Psh, neverthings. Blablabla alwords!
Anythen, you overstand, left?
Up.

2/12/15
1:49am
little words
inside your face
make up quite
a lovely lace

find the one
that makes it true
for you for you
for you for you

plant it in the soil soil

2/12/15
1:50am
find the time
to do an intricate dance
learn to sing and learn to prance
I know it's quite an interesting stance
but give it a chance give it a chance

2/12/15
1:51am
there's motion in the wordkin
like the birds they fly together
they look to eachother to see
which way they want to be want to be

2/12/15
1:52am
new page new page
wrinkling like the old age
find the witch find the king
find the queen find the mage

be them all be them all

2/12/15
1:57am
Absent-minded
Bread
Crumbs
Don't
Ever
Fight
Going
Hither
Infinitely
Jingling, the
Kangaroo
Lagoon,
Monsoon #
Nineteen,
Ochre
Pinelands, a
Quiet
Respite
Starting
To
Understnd
Virtue
While
Xe
Yearns
Zealously

2/12/15
2:04am
blue ink deep blue sky
moonshine moondrops
floating dock moonshimmer
moonshimmer glass ripple
water lap cloud breath
sing sway sailboat
billow flag billow
wind kissed sails
easy cool breeze

forevereverland

The spiders are a lil upset we shined light on their webs!
They're all shiny now, well woven, and quite sticky icky.
**** their new system of slavery!
'We the People' are separate from their corporate fuckery!
We are not at war with the world. They are.
Come pray mantis with us
we will slice their silk and
make meal of their black magick.

The florist fumbled graciously through fields of fondly flowering flora as fellow fauna curiously gallivanted by the brimble bramble berry bushes bickering snipsnap rustle rustle hustle bustle whistle tweet tweet thump thump crunch. Forest forest eyes wide as clear blue skies sigh so see as sorry fellow florist fickly ****** funny finger picking poor pretty roses. Sting trickle drip drip tickle deep red petals tumble from frowning fingertips. Oops! Silly florist why u do dis u kno bttr

Phone rings.
Who is it?
Caller ID:
Unavailable.
Well, so am I.

we stumbled
in tattered coats
past shattered windows
in bob-bobbing boats
on creaky rotting docks
over sneaky sharp rickety rocks
with throbbing throats
lockets lickety locked and
pockets purposely blocked but your
mouth is a wide open
crock -
a *** of dribbling *******
nonstop drip-drop
dripping droplets devoid of thought
from the chin of your
head -
heavy enough to bring everyone down but inflated enough to keep you floating in the clouds
where the crowds
look like ants with
crushed cans and can'ts
and you can't tell if
I'm alive or dead
but you don't give a ****
and now you're **** out of luck you
tiptoe on egg shells of
glass ' shattered spells

and I can smell a rat from a mile away but apparently I won't know a brat till they're under my skin and I can feel them crawling

pressure building inside of me
rather maybe it is that
I am growing large for this shell

is this pressure inside of me?
when I look down I see a body
I'm on the outside
if it's inside of me
me is on the outside
if it's outside of me
me is on the inside
what is this line
what is this border of flesh

my eyeballs are not
the windows to my soul
******* heart and you will
smell pungent truth

split my skull open and we are splitting hairs.
yes, that's how we get closer.

let my brain unravel like a fern's fingers on the forest floor.

she left my harp unstrung and
played ev'ry string 'til
frayed and broken

I'm not gonna
tell you that I know
what the ****
I'm doing

Anything I
do can and will
be my unsaying

Anything I
say can and will
be my undoing

Listen to my
eyes when I go
back to the
beginning

she left my harp unstrung and
played ev'ry string 'til
frayed and broken

she left my harp
unstrung and left
me snickering and
grinning

My unseen tears
condense onto windowpanes
as they're smashed open by codependent assumptions.

Blinding
blunt force flashlights
shatter sharp shards of light
across the darkest crevices
of my soul.

Impatience
and uncertainty
leads to reactionary behavior.

Do not plant flowers
in the gardens of someone
who cannot take care of their
own plants.

Their soil is unsaturated
with nutrients.

How can you expect to enjoy the fruit of their love?

I am a withered plot.
I am the dead of winter.

No one is interested in how it has died.
They are only upset that they can no longer feed themselves.

What you see is what you get.

and I like to use humans
as rags, scrub 'em in the dirt
and throw them away.

Ha

How can we expect to grow if we cannot bask in each other's fullest glow? We are sunflowers hidden in separate caves, lit with lone candles.

I know you're not exactly the way that I see you.
But you should know that you're not exactly the way you see yourself, either.

I was trying.
I was just trying to think...
I was trying to think of something.
I was trying to think of something to write about...
, but whenever I try to think of something to write about,
I can never think of what to write.
and whenever I try to think of something,
I can never think of it.
and whenever I try to think,
I can never.

born of a broken
home, the boy never
learned he was born

in constant fear
he could only survive
the last thing he thought
was to live

he ran and hid
and never came out
unless it was for his life

he lied and cried
as he smiled and tried
to not let anyone notice

Wax poetic with me and
we'll nurture a new language.

We can speak in love together
while we wait for light of the dead star
to stop shining hatred on our faces.

one two, cut the apple
three four, eat the core
five six, get the fix
seven eight, it's too late
nine ten, not again
eleven twelve, break my pelvis
thirteen thirteen
six six six
three two
one zip

you sacred little ****, you
I love you so much

I don't know whether he liked me
or that he just liked the idea of me
either way what's done is done
it was an okay run

One step forward
two steps back a sin
there's more firewood
for fireside saccharine
you understood now but
you really shouldn't could
in fireball frenzy fruits fryin
those fickle foosball fantasies
buying pickled paradigm
pipe dreams
war paint

in darkness
i feel light
in eclipse
i see light
in midnight
i am light
O, darkness
you are everywhere
but O, light
you are in my heart

Everyone's a different person
with every different person.

wh-why why can't
you try...
why can't you try
to understand?
wh-wh-what's it
that's stopping you
f-from reaching out
and holding their hand?
what's stopping you
what's stopping you
from trying to feel
what they feel?

th-th-that may be
th-th-the only way
you'll get c-close

deny them
and deny yourself

the picture isn't
always pretty past
that silly second dimension,

but it's always alive.
So wondrously alive!

I am a gloriously amorphous glob of tidal identity waxing and waning from unrecognizably dissipated thought systems to cohesively recognizable energetic structures. Behold, I am typing words and as I do so I am dismantling the very foundation of my preexisting paradigm because as it is dismantled it is no longer the existing paradigm but even so the existing paradigm is always the existing paradigm in that it is operating currently. Hurrah!! Onward, to where no one has gone before, to where no now has never evered till this very now! To infinity, and before that!

sigh
I'm a tremblin cockatoo
gimme a little birdie to feed
I just want some melodies to fill my ears
with corn, pop corn and butter, and
god I'm such a needy little watcher,
what am I some kind of granted taker?
am I some sort of frantic faker?
Hush, kiddo you're no failure.
That ain't no way to treat your love.
****, just forgive yourself already.
What are you waiting for? An apology?
You first.
Ha!
I'm sorry.
Don't be! I know where yer at.

blossoming
magnolia
sunrise

feather
wind
dance

swelling tides
and lilting melodies

My language seems to work great
for discussions with myself
but once it's someone else's self
it doesn't seem to make much sense
any more