When I was younger,
I wanted to be an artist.
I aspired to be someone
who made a difference,
like
Picaso or Vincent Van Gogh.
Someone who was remembered.

So like every little kid who has a dream,
I pursued it.
Saving up all the allowence I earned
In just 3 weeks
I had a total of $12.80.
Enough to fund the dream of a child.

I realized,
I loved drawing.
From the minute I picked up my
$2.50 pencil,
I knew my dream was going to come true;
Even if it started with doodles...
of flowers and stick people.

So eventually I grew up and I gave up that dream
of being an artist that makes a difference.
I gave up,
because I couldn't master drawing the perfect person.
I couldn't draw
how the persons eyes shinned when they saw the love of their life,
I couldn't capture
the beauty in the young girls smile
as she ran through the field of daisys towards her father,
who was coming home from war.

I realized that you can't capture the beauty and the memories
that someone holds
with a dream and a $2.50 pencil.
drawing // a.s.

His heart was kept in a babooshka-doll
that released memory smells
with every layer that eroded.
The wooden fences faded
to damp brick in the corner
of his head reserved for the harmonica
that played through the microphone
in his neck till the sound got lodged
in his maudlin march
that had him running like he
was angry at the road.
His Echostep
vibrating in
the kremlin skin
and marrionette heart strings
that kept him.... him.

Despite broken wings
he made the air around him dance
with the resonance of each
broken crystal ball shard used
to predict the past.
Each chime raised a mountain,
folding back on itself
hoping the hallucination would end,
till tired hands
batted away golden hawks.
With rocks for claws.

It was all the fights with the wind
that had the clouds leaving the moon's
Picaso skies,
and sailing towards him on warships of
rain and frozen effigies.
They arrived, astronauts
from outer space
burning from the lips
outwards revealing grey
intent and red mists.
He fought back with false start
epiphanies and the falsetto
prophecies that stung the air
with pitch raining down.
Leaving bare branches where once
green hands applauded
everything but empty air,
like listless typewriters furiously
trying to find their voices.

Feirce winds and fake faces
left blinking with closed eyes
in the vastness of battlefield.
Turning stomaches and
blank canvas whirlpools,
storms of anti-peace
scarring the last conquests
of the flightless ape lizard,
and all his gorilla warfare.

Josteen Yazzi said the Critic should ask his thought

on the matter of great art and literature

What do you know of art and literature, Uncle?

Nothing, he said, I think about what I do not know.

I do not know why people don't like Norman Rockwell.

Norman Rockwell painted the American Dream,
with Indians in it, some times.

I like Norman Rockwell because I know how he felt.
I saw my people live in a good world that vanished.

Magic or other wise, I remember mine,
the way
when I see
Mr. Rockwell's America as he imagined
he had seen it.

Or maybe he painted
what you should have been able to see,
but for wars and Spanish Flu and cattle barons
and reaping machines and steam and electricity.

Olaf Wieghorst coulda painted America ugly, too.
But he didn't.

Literature. I have nothing left to say, Norman Rockwell, maybe he needed a mentioning for some
reader anchored reason.

We have to deal with that more these days.
People with big old dish antennae out there,
rusting after Direct TV got a satellite to see the res,

Some o'the kids build a radio telescope, outa them three meter models,
so we are connected.

Norman Rockwell painted the Peaceful Kingdom,
just like Mr. Hicks and Mr. Kincaid,

not mr klee or mr picaso, they could image hell.
My ma liked That drippy guy, said she could see the swing of things in he's paintings, What's-isname,

Jackson, damshame, Jackson Pollak right?

but the message is in the medium, that's what my Shicheii yoosto say. Art must sing.
So I can play my drum. And she can dance.
When we think nothing about it.

I’m just going to stay here.
In this very spot.
Yes, in the Arby’s Parking Lot
Because I remember on June 30th 2010
Close to eleven o’clock
On my 19th birthday
You kissed me…
In this very spot.

I also won three dollars
On a scratch ticket I purchased earlier
That, in complete truth, was the best day
Of my life

I’m just going to stay here.

I’ve been around the block a time or two…
Hell, I never quit
I never cared
Reckless
Burning the rubber of my tires
Radio at max volume
Speeding up
Sharp turns
…and then I met you

First I rolled down the windows to see if it was real
I turned the volume down…
Shut my car off and got out
I walked barefoot on this gravel road
Got to the top of this gorgeous hill
Blue sky with clouds hugging air
And said to myself…
“So this is what breathing feels like.”

I’m just going to stay here.

We froze time
Every word you said could paint
Canvas upon canvas in my mind
My skul, swimming with hues
Sometimes I get you confused with Picaso


Told you about my Cobblestone path
Where other girls dissolved away
You sat down next to me and said
“What else…?”

You looked at my tattoos
With such adventure in your eyes
My fingers through your hair
And on your skin
Could be a treasure map
I don’t care where the ******* X is
I don’t care where the ******* gold is
I just loved getting lost
And retracing my steps…

I’m just going to stay here.

I’m an atheist
You’re a catholic
Sounds like a sitcom
I know sometimes we didn’t see eye to eye
But I could put my glasses on and then
You’d try with your glasses
We’d try and try and try and try and….
Then finally our pupils would align.
And I was just so happy.

“Tell me what you think…”
You said I could play guitar well but,
My voice needed work
I know I don’t have much of a singing voice
Then I see you and…
I get angels in my throat

I’m just going to stay here…..

You said goodbye to me
I didn’t care to remember the date
Because then every time that number would
Crawl up on the calendar, I’d just be irate
Very abrupt
Train de-railing
Break the rib cage, through the skin

I can’t breathe life into words
That would showcase how I am
Something of that magnitude
Could end the world
And I don’t feel like doing that
Because somewhere, someone
Is having the best day of their life
Who am I to ruin that?

I planted that feeling,
Along with the red pop tab
From your Rock Star energy drink you gave me,
In my backyard
I used to carry it on my key chain
But when I saw it, I felt like
Falling through cement or tiles

That feeling will grow into an ugly tree
Bark the color of granite
Branches twisted like a sociopaths personality
But in the spring…how beautiful
Bright hues would cover the contorted branches
Roots tangled in dirt
How we hugged
Purple leaves
A bright orange glow
Magnificent flowers would….Can flowers even grow on trees?
Never mind, I don’t ******* care, I want flowers on my tree

I shouldn’t stay here
It’s nice to look back and smile but…

I shouldn’t stay here
Leave this world
Let go
Let go
Let go
Move forward
Drop this world
The story is over

Perhaps in five….or ten years
You’ll come back here to this very spot
In the Arby’s parking lot
Pick up my book
Whip away the years
Flip through torn pages
And by the time you collide at the end of this line.
I’ll capture sunshine in my spine

Im held to the ground by my imperfections. Dodging bullets thrown by those in need of correction. Understanding that life is filled with much uncertainty, acting only on the knowledge that I am most certainly free. Held to my actions and words by the thought of perfection, being only that which determins selections. Into a realm by which the humble are seeking, gained only by those whose words are worth speaking. Determined by a world whose ear seem cut off and closed, and unwilling to listen to that which they are opposed. But truth can be heard by the hearts of the few, whose minds are filled with possibilities anew. Whos lives are practice in the faith of whats real, but whos minds are not blinded to what true beauty can reveal. Because truth doesnt come through trial and error, truth comes from understanding that we are all rare. Held together by a contract of emotions and deeds, that defines us as a society with real human needs. To be loved and accepted, held and adored. To act on these wishes and hope to find reward. Because when the reaper comes to collect on our debt, we are all going to wish to wake in a cold sweat. To find more presious time, in our running hour glass. To hold on to each grain and not let it pass. Without cherishing the moment and giving it our heart. Without telling those we love, they are a work of art. Painted by the Picaso of the ground that we walk. Whos motives no one will ever unlock. But disagree on forever, untill the end of time we will. And break our human contract with the blood that we spill. Of our bothers and sisters who feel just the same, as the men and women who share our last name. So read me your books and give me your shame. For logic is my shepard for this world i look to tame. For i hold in my heart a truth unknown. One not found in a book or scripture alone. Or known by those who try to speak fear, through a book whose hypocricy is well too clear. One only found when you see a mans true soul, and realize 'that is all i need to know.' To stare at the only perfection this world will ever know, and hold him in the same regards as winters first snow. Or summers true spirit, or falls pure brilliance. Or when the sea meets a rocks true resiliance. Imperfection may hold me firm to the ground, but my spirits true beauty holds no bounds. And when the world can see one another through each others eyes, then humanities posibilities will break all its ties. Will be stripped of its shackles and free of its chains. Will be free of its stife and know no pain. And we as a beautify creation of perfection itself, will finally find peace in oneself.

There is no truth, there is no lie
Just a mind making up
Everything that goes by

You can shimmer,and shine
And climb high
On cloud number nine

Mirrors and smoke, horrors and hope
Mind making up
Everything that goes by

If you don’t like the movie have a glass of wine
It’s mind making up
Everything that goes by

Picaso’s paintings may make you cry
Mind making up
Everything that goes by

When we look into a mirror
There’s nobody there
Still we stop
We stop and we stare

Sean Hunt   Windermere

Fickle ,
Unpredictable,
Random ......
The simply complicated state of zen......
It is what makes it so blissfull.......
Unwell wishing for some .......
At the other end .
Of the spectrum.
No use tryin to hide the pink streaks     ....
Like acidic streams
Cutting caverns down through my puffed cheeks....
The saline
Leaks .....
From my eyes....
Stings ........
Dreams .....
Lofty ....wonderfully
Thought of
Dreams .....
Beautiful sanctuaries.....
A place to hide and smile .........
POISON ....
They can be
Like walking down a slightly sloped ..oily
Razor blade.....
Dreams  .......
Have them love them . ....
By all means ..
Never fall in love with them ......
Never  fall in love with them
...........
POISON
......
IMPRISONED

Paint picaso away
It's
New tainted
It
Now glues

I survived from death,
And made a new wreath.
Someone is calling me outside,
To a green youthful woods so wide!

He is like Picaso holding brush,
What a hallucination and crush!
My blue sky is dotted with red-yellow,
Are you trap of rainbow? sweet mellow.

A sweet lass tunes her anklet,
Happiness is smiling like gorgeous velvet.
The sea is in reap tide,
Who are you mariner sleepless guide?

Who is giving life such a magic touch?
Why is happiness flowing sprinkling so much?
The shiny dawn smiles as night disappears,
Not death, Love emerges with happy cheers.