forgive my anger, silent God
your world is dark
and your forms are blind
the enslaved
forlorn sod of it
each unnotched loop of time
each
ending
further than we knew
what use are laws in space composed of

My Titulo

So many artists were bipolar, schizophrenic, and/or depressed it almost seems like a precondition.

I feel like the only way out of this hypersensitive emotionally overdriven state of mind is to FORCE it out through a creative medium.

The key is that balance between the unconscious mind and the creative self. Tap into that border where you can RELEASE but also EXPERIENCE.

This is the path to salvation. This is the cure for depression and self-worth. This is the meaning of life.

I am not fucking kidding.

Lulu (Hesse)

Every moment, a bitter and tormenting thought repeatedly occurred to him: that his renunciation and departure were not to be. He had to throw himself at her feet, to encircle her with all the burning flames of his passion, to woo and win her, to take her by force and ravish her. To do something, anything but sit idly by in her presence, while one blessed moment after another of his last hours in it hastily and irretrievably ran out. Nonetheless, he fought bitterly to gain control over his emotions, and in these last moments he concentrated on one thing: to impress her beautiful image deep into his soul, until it was branded there, glowing and painful, as desire never to be forgotten.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

It was some combination of her voice, her face, her thin gray cotton leggings, a glance across the greenish haze, that kiss of every breath at once. A dream within a dream so strange but carefully precise, so perfect. So lost within myself but lucid with the suspense of her lips and the soft electric glow of her small hands. She touches me and I remind myself that the dream is real because it is persistent. It becomes clear to me that compassion is the only rational direction in this noetic loop, where life becomes an image of itself an infinitude of times over.

Carolyn

And talking about what God looked like to ourselves, how She must be beautiful but without face or name but human and familiar. And how we saw Her in the womb and even now in shapeless flesh of Christmas tree and windowing. Church-born entryways enshadowed by the walk or dreamt and surely more dreamt than memorized of that emblazened silhouette we saw carved out and stoned.

Ninth

The catalyst of our dispassioned youth. The first domino to fall toward our complete disillusion.. The shell torn open, our lives exposed for the meaningless random walks they were. Everything since a Brownian soup of reaction and reflection, ascendent levels of hyperbole become a grotesque purity of awareness, a detached vision of the entirely vapid struggle of daily life, the conflation of beauty and truth, joy and greed, happiness, naivete and ignorance.
As we further heed the churnings of our inner self the world is doomed to steep in blood and shit. Dissolve the self lest we look back again on what we childishly destroyed.

heat

the cold dark end
is never dark enough
the farthest depth
too close
throw away the thought

you will never wait enough
for every
dim light
to disappear
and wrapped in all your
nascent moments
bound in
pitch fluorescent
black
the
humming wash of space

leave me unperceived
on your sweet shadow
sun end eye
your heart
goodbyeing

the tomb of light
a birthplace
for the soul