Your swinging captures.

Your swinging captures. So unique, so purist.
I covet the heart which pumps, lets your ego be.
Such a delicate body and face. And mind acute.
I could watch for hours, your swinging captures.

Our eyes dance. play. seduce.
Time has crashed. A whirl of excitable moments.
It stops.
Here we are. I Smile.

Dripping Slowly.

Dripping Slowly.
Asinine.
Power Through Numbers.
Drugged.
And Assimilating.
Where It Begins.

yesterday

yesterday i ate a raw onion. it made me sick.

humans are very, very complicated computers.

hello mr. candlelight. where did you get the new, red shirt? where did you place it? it’ll never fit around my head. my head is far too large. mostly the circumference. like a watermelon pumped with GMO something. really don’t know how that works. apparently it feeds the hungry. turn the hungry into mutant produce consuming freaks. the rich will keep digesting “organic”. are the rich any better off? all they have is money. mostly dysfunctional. mostly unhappy. mostly glass ceilings. they argue their freedom of choices. i call it justification. it’s easier to live that way. you know, cows don’t feel pain, my spirit lives forever, and that new BMW will makes me happy. stop owning stuff. it owns you. “you’re not your fucking khakis”. it clicks. let’s just have “moments”. i wish my vocabulary was larger. that way I could sound “intelligent”. ha, i’m still concerned how i sound. it’s the human condition. my opinion is based on your opinion which is based on my opinion. empty. like empty calories. there is nothing but single moments in life. like now. i’m really pretty happy. it took awhile. i’m starting to like me. i think it’s a realization for no need for a goal. goals just distract and stress. i think i still live by goals, somehow the pressure left. or maybe it’s a habit. am i living a successful life because of habit? i really don’t care. society’s successful measurement is mostly empty. fuck you ayn rand, fuck you marx. they lived by goals. they could only see success with a pointed objective. they reasoned very well. they reasoned very well. they reasoned very well. they reasoned very well. they reasoned very well. they reasoned very well. they reasoned very well. the mother wishes to give, yet man enjoys power. humans are very, very complicated computers.

processing Howard Roark

must I prove something? why?...why?...why?... *find intention*
that spark in your eye *intention*, accenting, accepting, my little drug
no spark, I push, I scrape, “I” change…
I am like play dough. moving play dough

is authenticity possible?
where does the resonance occur?
is there anything inherently internal?
why is this so compelling?

does this pointed idea create authenticity?
a cookie cutter map for neurons,
am I merely categorizing, then justifying?
it feels so real. feels, feels, feels, feels…

solitude with time gives direction,
it dims our spectrum of potentials,
night falls, making our lighthouses clearer,
find my lighthouses. “I” am obtainable.

wetted tar

I feel free today. Open and clear. Rain is sporadically coming and going. Earthy and mild. It reminds me of playful kisses. Soft lips drawing a smile. It’s not washing away the old, but decorating it. I breathe with the swaying trees. Confident and eased.

I ran shirtless. 5 miles in the dark. Sweat and rain coated my back and throat. Chances of lightening broke my moments. There wasn’t anger, although there could have been. I was an animal pressing forward. Thousands of years of evolution refined my knees to pound against the wetted tar.

“let me scream, let me scream” I whispered
“let me whirl around this planet”
“become something new”
“old”

this was perfect.

entirely inertia

my fingers outstretch while contorting and shifting
snatching in pleasure
they jaggedly stumble to a pillow
blood spins though my clutching forearm
this heated pillow is too warm
as much to distract

two moments competing for my attention
like non-identical twins racing to impress mother
this new input forces me to pick a focus
the too warm pillow or pleasure
this deceptively elementary choice haunts
all these moments are truly the same

in this contemplation, an infinite conundrum embarks
this, the contemplation, spawns the third focus and choice
i probe further
can i genuinely exist in a moment? any moment?
what choice am I on now?
six, seven, eight…

let's plan my career!!!

I’ve always understood the reason adults habitually ask children “What do you want to be when you grow up?” is to gain some insight and new ideas. Who is truly happy with their career? Kids dream and dream and dream and dream and dream (ever hear about the boy that plans to be a dinosaur when he grows up?). Reality has set in far too deeply for us…

Anyway, what do you want to be when you grow up? I plan on being a dinosaur.

weighing the obvious

chew, clench, slurp, swallow
spit out fat globs, flesh between teeth
stink, rot, decay, blacken
bellies fatten, greasy lips, panting
“I NEED THIS”

“our” commodities’ existence, unnatural
caged, soiled, poisoned, tortured, butchered
no play, air, offspring, survival, purpose
bleak, empty, pain, unrest
worth $1250.00

what have they received for their pain?

i slouch

i slouch, think, cognate and gaze upon the underpins
masked, unsure. yet give direction. a flimsy poignant

this evolves into - solitude - empty - alone -
this bliss of ignorance spawns from peers
Acceptance, Relation, Understanding – shallow

no one will connect. only, I
these barrens - vast - cold - humid -
thickly pushing me under. smaller. smaller.
Oh The Magnitude. Running. Running. Only, I

is this all? holler for any traveler
should i concede? sit? sink deeply? slowly impressioning snow
i’ll walk, skeptically, consistently
for now