Radical death seeks re-birth in the peace of in-betweenness and hopes not vainly for a pair of green grass goggles, groping for the other side and seeing only blackness where thick green glass was meant to reflect the missing element from daily tricks of the wandering day-parade: A parody of approximations and amalgamations becoming entirely too familiar to the brokenhearted peasant class, under a full mast, reaching for the promised land...

Trust not the worry and fuss of the must must train, left in the dust by familiar dreams and reconstructions of color and sound, built layer upon texture, upon a singular vision trained to the sight unseen of the green grass graveyard.
Discarded complacency comes with a heavy reward of responsibility, spelled out plainly in the margins next to faded lines, open to discrepancy and aural torment if my retinas smell your color code correctly and my fingers are properly reading your vibration. With any creation a moment of reconciliation must occur between the self of past meets present meets future deconstruction. All I ever needed was a self-resurrection, an insurrection of of spirit vs. ego warrior, a truce with my master narrative--not allowing me to step outside the sacred lines and indefinite times created by doubtful uncertainty and self-preservation by animal instinct.

stream

It's been an awful long while since I put pen to page
for the sake of putting pen to page
and it's not about thoughts,
but more of an inclination being inner-directed by that thing that flows through when the monkey-mind takes a vacation and leaves an opening to a higher purpose,
consciousness minus all the riff-raff of the hum-drum
and all the dumb dumb of the mind-numb
because the world is a bit-thumb
and I'm a chipped tooth
looking for a sensory deprivation experience through extra-sensory overload
and if you want to feel something real then I suggest you pass the test and move on to a new creation
in which all parties participate in an elocution-execution of
extra-terrestrial proportions and
if the vocational training of body and mind does not deign it appropriate to let spirit join in
then the cosmic joke is inward-directed and
we're all left wondering what happened to the
piece-meal-meal-ticket and sent searching for a
sensory migration to more hospitable climactic degradation because
me plus you equals everything and nothing and the space in-between and
I'm teeming with more reason as moments blend together like a seamstress hard at work,
stitching reality like there's no tomorrow,
because there is no tomorrow
and I don't really exist (outside of my own imagination).
How do you imagine me?
Are we dreaming,
or am I screaming because my self-electrocution is a painful evolution from old into new and animal into spiritual dimension where vibration is key and density is relative to the angle of attack. Examination depends on the sensitivity of sights unseen
in a world unclaimed
by a higher purpose.
A brightness is un-consiously half-felt beneath the demons in our collective chest--
Demons who fight to break surface and bathe their faces in the light of day,
to be revealed as shadow elements, play-pals banished to a corner for misbehavior deemed unsightly one day and self-defining the next.

another heart is shattered by the violence of our sad world of suppressed realities and untamed wildernesses within. another member of the survivor's club searches for a reason to get out of bed. what can i do? i hold you. i offer in my eyes a story of survival that hopes to transmit my heart to yours. i want to wrap you in my love and tell you everything is going to be okay. i want to erase the terror from your body. i listen. it's what i do best. i listen without judgment as you tell me that the sanctity of your home, body and spirit was violated. i cry the tears of a generation, of an entire race lost in memory and searching for meaning in all the wrong places. i heal myself in the hope that others will do the same.

well i'm breathing through the heartache subtle as a sunset on the silver strand. i may be tempted to treat you like me and me like we and we like i just don't care for the rest of the seedy tests of my mettle or merit or is it my mysticism? is my mystery all dried up because i'm longing for an emptiness of feeling and a fullness of spirit all at the same time? is it possible to see through my own scabby layers to reveal some hidden gemstone known as an untamed or untarnished heart? does the heaviness in my chest hold me captive inside a stolen ribcage, mechanically pumping a charcoal heart? can i heave-ho my own gravitational pull to float awhile on a river of purpose? can i train my focus and demand of me greater presence? can i look me in the eye and tell me to breathe a little while longer and vibrate a little less densely so as to let it all through my half-formed pores? am i up to my own challenge?

Please

Please don't assume your reality upon me. Please don't assume you know me, based solely on messages sent from eyeball to frontal lobe. Your synapses do not see beneath my skin nor through my eyes. Where you see a girl, I see a memory: weak, broken, silenced to the grave. I am a figment of your imagination, yet my skin is as warm as yours, my nerves as responsive to a feather touch or a snaking fingernail, drawing my geometry for the world to see in flaking dead cells