Didn’t I ever think to be authentic
collecting words, snapping photographs
exclaiming I am enamored with language and art

when honestly, I am merely a fraud
to what I love. My hands aren’t stained with ink,
my eyes aren’t trained to learn new techniques
paper is not my friend nor is a roll of film
tossing around in my bag of nonexistent records that
I actually love my hobbies.

I feel that I am not quite
an owner of my interests,
stealing passion from others and wishing
they were my own.

i got a second hand film camera
a pentax k-1000
already it was slightly rusted
and stained in some parts
but i didn't mind
it made me think about its story
and the stories of the ones who've owned it before—
where has this camera gone?
what has it seen?
did the previous photographers behind it
love it as much as i do now?
whose very hands have twisted the lens,
fixed the camera's focus,
and pressed the shutter button?
who else has meticulously loaded and unloaded film into it,
time and time again?

and more importantly,
will i be able to capture wonders of life
through its lenses
in the same way others might have done before me?

Every time I see her
My heart breaks beautifully,
Like an egg hatching fluorescent colors
In an achromatic world,
And bleeds desperate hopefulness
That never evaporates
Because the air is saturated with wondrous destiny
That causes hope to thrive.

Sweet symbiosis.

As premonitions explode inside my chest,
Shooting stars travel down my legs
Because I've seen her again

In a tale told by an alchemist.

Old Cowboys, forts and shootouts
Black for bad and White for good
With a spinning canvas background
And cactus cutouts made of wood
The desert sits behind them
Fifty yards away at most
The heroes don't ride horses
They sip drinks and sit and boast
About their celluloid adventures
singing songs all dressed in white
While behind them in the background
The stunt men do it right
A canvas background rotates
Through valleys, hills and streams
While the hero rides his deck chair
And the director yells and screams
Central casting fills the tribes out
With Italians, and made up stock
While our hero stops an avalanche
Of fake paper covered rocks
Cardboard Cut out Cactus
And heroes smiling in the sun
Most have never seen a cowpoke
Let alone shot off a gun
But, it's magic when it's finished
the dusters up there on the screen
All the fakery and snake oil
Are all hidden, never seen
The white hats beat the black hats
The hero sings and gets the girl
And the background on the spindle
Is still spinning, watch it whirl
A celluloid adventure
Cowboys no where close to what they were
But..watch the next show for a nickel
And don't forget your spurs!!!

White-bodied black bird raven like creatures that sit everywhere and obnoxiously yell to each other from the wilderness we live inside.

Wet birds. Soaking in mod colors affixed to the numbers the looms set in the torn threads of an old tank top named with the characters of Dune.

And in sweetly moving breaths of air the peaks pull through this range of mountains seen from our back deck.  

Friends, join us as we balk putting away cardboard boxes as not to put a hinderence on the relationships with our neighbors and instead traverse the moose-trails the tourists stop and crop their lenses at- only to make to Brouhlim's.

We’re making movies that no one will see,
about things that mean the world to us,
at a certain moment in time and space,
but that mean less than a rat’s *** to anyone outside our bodies.

We never regret the echo in the large hall,
nor the words that OUR scarlett and OUR rhett say to each other
during the 126 minutes long director’s cut –
their tears are ours,
their love,
despair and
hunger for life
will be included in next month’s newsletter.

We’re making movies about those parts of our lives
that weren’t played out so well.
It’s our way of saying “sorry” or “thank you”.

We’re making movies that some don’t even call “movies” –
intimate quantum leaps, inner fights between our bodies and minds.
It hurts us, yeah. We’re not (all) made of stone.
We, sometimes, get frustrated and don’t even know exactly why.

We wake up in the middle of the night,
running the entire dialogue list in our head,
sleepwalking through the entire movie,
screaming at our non-suspecting sleeping significant other to be quiet and to get out of the frame,
“cause we’re ******* making a ******* movie here and every ******* second matters”.

We’re making (silent) movies because
we’re tired of all this noise,
because
that’s the only way we can have some “Aaaaaction” in our lives
and some frames to be proud of.

We’re not making movies to prove that the world is wrong
nor that we possess the ultimate truth.
No.
We’re not making movies to prove that the world is beautiful
and that we know nothing and that that nothingness should tickle your funny filmic bone.
No.

We’re making movies that make the entire world think that there’s something wrong with us,
that we can’t relate to our surroundings in a healthy and normal way.

We’re making movies so WE can experience, in the most familiar way,
the new wave long shot convention that YOU all hate
and diss in the digital environment,
as if your lives were made out of fast cut blockbuster shots
and not lonely, long walks through a dull park. Good for you, Max!

We’re making movies because
we don’t wanna have to explain ourselves,
like I’m doing right now.

Reality sometimes needs its own subtitle and.. ****! You know what?
The truth is that we’re not making movies.  
We’re making moves.

My eyes are on the screen,
but my mind is on your hand,
lying pensively on the arm rest,
the screen's flashes dancing upon its frame--

Exposing the space between fingers I'm dying to cease.

Your hand lies there like a puzzle piece--
My heart races and fingers twitch
as my mind interlocks them with yours
to complete an image of grace,
one I've fantasized for nights on end.

Your eyes are set forward as mine,
I cannot even fathom what lies behind
this silent countenance of beauty.

How wholly engrossed are you in this movie,
are you tormented same as I?

As far as I'm concerned,
we are the only ones in this theater.

The popcorn in my lap,
the soda in the cup holder between us,
moments where our fingers touch
then retreat--
All without our eyes ever leaving the screen,
peripheral fantasies.

But that's where my intentions lie,
your hand dancing with mine
in the corner of my eyes
and the forefront of my mind.

How you weave through the popcorn,
your hand bumping against mine like an atom,
plucking the greasy morsel
and tossing it into your mouth--

What if our fingers lingered?

The soda our lips shared at separate times,
a middle-man between a kiss
I could only dream of.

These transient ecstasies
that pale in comparison
to the real thing.

But I'll take it,
in these peripheral games we play
in a darkened movie theater
on a Tuesday night.

Matinee screening,
our parents waiting impatiently in the parking lot outside,
nearing the end of the movie,
I've yet focused your hand in the frame--
These peripheral games.

vivid imagery
plays through my dangerous mind
like an ancient film