i have six beers and only two cigarettes
and no philadelphia digression.

as a pronoun you can dissociate yourself
from nouns and common noun usage
and censorable noun usage,
and find that the deconstructive aspect of *derrida
is not found in nouns but primarily in prepositions
& conjunctions
and the timing of adjectives to respect the manual labour
of cobblers & tailors is almost arbitrary
for the six digit people employed to use two five digit extensions
and swing less under par when unemployed on retirement
looking for busyness and 6am and the alarm clock’s chandelier at noon.

Often times I don't know what I'm going to write about, so I usually end up writing things I have already said, trying to say them in another way.

The art of losing yourself is a very slow and complex situation that happens over a long period of time. For some people that could be years and it seems like it happens in a day, and others it could happen in a day and seem like years went by before they even realized what happened.

Either way, some how it takes a while, whether it's reality or only in our mind, we eventually lose ourselves somewhere in life.

We like to blame false lovers for stealing our heart, our thoughts, and consuming our whole mind, but honestly it's just our soul chewing away at the doubt inside of us trying with every bite to numb the pain.

We choose to blame the lack of income and the multitude of outcome that leaves our pockets turing over and over for our pain.  We expect money to be right at our command, at the tips of our fingers every night, and stacked in our account with tons interest to water the greens.

We feed off of happy memories, expecting life to only be them, and anything other is a disappointment. We are so blind that we can't even appreciate the color that has already adapted in our brains.

The art of losing yourself is worth it, because in the end, you will always find yourself and a little bit more than what you ever dreamed of.

(j.a.r.)

Water drop,let go everything,
Just meditate on the touch down,
an eternity in between passes in a flash,
the immeasurable complexity  of time!

The way I read your mind
Is the same as sign language in your poetry?

Poetry is the chiseled marble of language;
It’s a paint-spattered canvas - but the poet uses words instead of paint,
and the canvas is you:

You borrow a phrase, and hanged it like a gibbet,
That meant nothing for us: it was so ribbit ,ribbit
You sat there on the log and watch as the frogs
Jump from Lilly pad to lily pad: in the dusky fog
The frozen frogs’ moves, your words croaked

we decipher your deepest fears,
so why do you filled the pond with the splashing tears?

the remarkable thing is that in all of my confusion about you, I really knew from the beginning all I needed to know and then some. I knew that this glass panel I had placed before me was mucky and soaked with dirt; I was seeing the full picture, but through the wrong lens. I don’t think about you much anymore, maybe once or twice every now and then, but all of the bundles of escape and the masks of summer were torched in all of our distractions from reality. time has moved like it always does, and our minds have evolved to our own separate desires. for you that would be the fake laughs and twisted foul calls you don’t fully agree with, and for me, well I’m not really sure at this point… maybe it’s my decoupage of memories that keep me going, or maybe it’s just the benefit of the doubt. sometimes, I picture all kinds of wildflowers; purple, yellow, red, and white, and I try to imagine them as the serenity in my life, so out of the ordinary to be left unnoticed. that’s exactly how you have become, just a plain old wildflower in my life left on the side of the highway.


(j.a.r.)