| Mr. Bullet
I once had a vision of a very large weave. Each string a moment, each moment very bright against a equally reflective background of colour and (non)context. Woven together up above my head they peaked together as a singularity eclipsing their seperateness. It was no moment less than what I had scene already...
They came out of the back of my head and hung above me like a great personal tunnel, conduit, or ladder; very very tightly woven. My friend pulled a large metal coil out of the ground, supposing it into the conversation as a dogleash holder -- it was. This was only synchronistic though. The real elevation of my glint was in this persistent vision IN my minds eye...
OF my minds eye...
It coiled like the metal corkscrew with mud on its side. Each small filament or string was a perforation of the main convention that I had become accustom to thinking about: time. Each moment was a string, each photographic frame in the crystal clear video like presentation to me of my noon enlightenment, nausea, and deep suggestability...
Mindless to say I hadn't experienced nausea as bad as my friends. However, there it loomed.
Everyonce in a while it would crack. Silently. Peeling a piece of its great rope swinging out like a helicopter of trembling perception. Each string had been a individual moment in my perceptual or visual sphere; each infinitly small moment was a tiny string inside of this great tunnel that I saw above my head... noon... darkless...
Imagine each visual moment like a frame in a film and the tunnel above me like the motorized reel of a projector -- pulling the outside world in through my eyes into a individual moment and wrapping that information into its roll. The short term memory supposedly holds five seconds, which was each of these frames/moments eventually coiled too close to each other and not the great religious rope/tunnel like thing. This seperation was expressed as a great crack of abandon and release... away from the tunnel... each string whipped off into muddy peace.
The middle of the tunnel was empty, impressing upon me my immediate inference of the moments that I saw before me being sucked out the back of my head into it. However that emptiness would collapse into a string and the string would weave itself onto the tunnel wall -- with a speed that redefined for my mind and perhaps actually defines for my reality: a singular moment. Some of the strings' vibrations affected or melted into the corkscrew's color/frequency/paradigm as "Memories" but yet others would clump together and whip wratchet off the needle tip of this soul conduit and fall into the mush of the underground mind, where I and my friends were standing in the shadow laden knoll of his summer time lawn. Each collection of recently passed moments was like a string being ejected or violently unwinding off of the Great Rope.
It was haunting. I also thought about Brahman's many local brain stems as Family Trees. Where each member (of an immediate unit) would sit with their back to the trunk, on some grass, and saw everything from the tree's perspective. Facing outwards in a circle from the same point but yet seeing all the different directions, shadows, plants, which that point/tree trunk had been offered to see. | comments: 1 comment or Leave a comment   |
| If nothing is what "it is"
then truth would hold that
what "are" is just an echo of
the great "it", thus --
Nothing is what "it is"
Anything art an echo
of what Art and Allusion
attempt: Echoing the very... | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Jesus of the Grain Silos--
Part one --
Rope swings and vines, childhood friends and public games with undercurrents of infinite learning, bogs and math, magic yet painful martyrs calm, a million folds on the smile’s face, a center place remembering the forgot;
A warmer blanket not then any other’s different, a shy mind embraced by the squinting of master sky, a vision found like a needle in a day bed of hay, a reservoir of water inside the desert dwellers eye, a vision quest gone on dues to arrive, a world non-separate of deity and others too, an attempt to continuously end again, a hollow underneath causality’s move;
A light unguided yet guiding without knowing them, a procession towards the directions in respect for each with a satire against insincere juxtaposition, a harbor unkept yet keeping of its waters and keeping of its stilted mazes, a mysterious action, a play forward moment rewound to its original extroversion against the full, a man alone in perspective from others but not from himself, a perfect mirror over the invisible thin of the fog most thick, an ancient mystic’s ghost within physics, a surface tension;
A spent foot apt within vastness’ square jaw of pyramid teeth with toes posed upon that grid of perceptions function to break purposelessness, the other (spent foot) on the same side of that room again but from where the sense of should could have resonated with and against; God’s orange and teal walls would have to dry begun...
A stupor by means of distance walked under dream there sleep-waking near mathematical wisdom, beauty as un…
And rapture in some unfixed phenomenon of memory…
_____
Part two --
Some unused white robe is without rest or humility towards rest or humility, some naked body is waiting not for himself, some place in-between fear and the person itself, some curdle eternity with the rennet of their previous incarnations, some future self attempting another inconsiderate hypothesis, some awaken to mothers a cancer of thoughts inoperable, a hopscotch game with the devil disguised as an attached eyelash, a perilous pearl of jagged truths, a dictionary of facts against the essence of knowledge, mind games as euphemisms for the reality of your floor, a man, a woman, an ancient child made without memory or form placed in a catch all, an orphanage media of Yahweh’s love children.
The lotus blooms when everything is revealed to be empty;
Every grain seeds in the emptiness where everything expands into plain infinity.
Of content: Mud is there when here is sown.
_____
Untitled anti-loge --
The yeast of fire more intense than pain
without sensations to contain or enslave
funneled calm against the moist dusts of
histories’ powdered grains and verses, oh
hear them align their diamond pore cheek
turned minds with social ores of reflective
chores to echo lore excepting my searches;
see their chorus herd, perfectly unheard…
feel and choose not to those above him…
Eat then and be against yourself again. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| The beginning of the conversation was in our zone, our one-mind, the basement: tonight, the two young men tried to converse on a new location. At the time there was madness in his mind; one being to the next, speaking of boundaries in need of confrontation. Can one being speak to another about such a confrontation that they have within themselves?
“At a time there was a boundary within myself,” he spoke. I remained posed, he continued “there are things, you can call them sprits if you want to, you can call them possessions if you want to, they want us to play from the deepest surface, non-existence to the rest of the resting tension,” he paused “if I could only tune into the tune of the galaxy,” and then added “whatever the hell that means.”
“They could lay for me,” I was thinking inbetween his words and heard only a a few more in that sentence of go “no pain no pleasure necessary to motivate, the prize could be cheap by othering standardizations,” I sat down “it's not cheep to be the thing at the end of the tunnel,” I was ready for this one, in his own words perhaps.
“I have experienced the Guitar as... the Guitar," enlightenment perhaps "as the first thing that the Guitar would play as itself if it had a first time to meet its self, liike those who have never had the floor themselves, that is the idea of the Guitar,” I well not me but he went “its like this instrument was created for a purpose, the purpose of creating music. And music's purpose is giving us purpose, whose purpose is ours,” he paused after stating the viscious cycle of ecstasy in plain tounge “and my purpose” he continued, “is to play the Guitar... no cliches unbroken... I remain the thing inbetween all of their guesses, I am my own genre of transcendence.”
“When I was young... I had no idea of purpose... no goal to... no drive to be the world that I wasn't... there was nothing for me there.. my quest for wrong was understanding... my mistaken dance was chance... the gaps in time that pop'd themselves into everything else, that, that was my continuum," I made alittle sound that didn't mean anything "but they wanted me to buy my time from them, but it was not for them too to see that they would never see the intimacy that they attempted to sell to me was a given in here” he paused “I am my own idol, I am my own critic, I am my own spellcaster, I am my own necromancer, I remember me no matter what the currency that the “they” would have me pay to them for me to be myself in their eyes... it may sound cliché but the guitar isn't... I know what I would say against everyone except my state of transcendence,” I thought of my own childhood and then he said “touch the child on his forhead and tell him that she is more than a memory.”
He continued “the playground castles had their standings by their tides, but that was purpose... I wasn't sure yet to make that new mood full as the moon was supposed to be... I was still on my own playground... the world was... well it was there...” he starred just behind me and began again “I could hear there... there was instinct and... there was this girl on the purple sands and green skies... no definition on this plain point of memory and reason it remained even if it was hidden. Without need outside of itself the rainbow was there by virtue of fermentation in the mystery... the reason why I am here... the reason why I am on earth must be... yes... its here on my Castle of sand... oh I know, yeah she's here... my moment of truth... oh her name... her name... was the Castle of sand's daydream... that name was the only way into its infinite something... a something that I would later call a subconscious apex,” I sat and thought over his next few words “so as the myth goes I kissed her on the mountains previously invisible from the playgrounds.”
I asked “did the depths of those colors your previous self spoke of speak to the paler shades of tommorrows yesterdays stay and move?” he felt and spoke, “its like we're given this chance to be something, and its like as though, well I don't know how to be a Guitar player with or without a guitar in my hands... I am the fucking Guitar I'm constantly touching myself in fullness either hands or not, the questions will not necessarily reside but they might not anyhow... I should ask them,” he asked “why do I see things when I play on the Guitar?” he continued “As though there is some ancient pattern, perhaps even the same inspiration behind the hyroglyphs... its hard to describe... I don't have to clarify, they do it for me... they clarify that I don't have to follow... because I have to follow anyhow, they're always infront of me... its the impossible feeling that anything is possible... its mine,” he stopped with the main tease of my mind insisting syncrhonistically, “What more? More power... massive audience... a crew of fearful strive and there forwardly the auditorium is not just any other memory?” he paused in punctual emphasis “the collaseums of memory contain more than just the socially posed happenstance of victim-hood and victory... what happened to you?” he looked through me.
“Keep going” I asked, “what about the architecture of those ancient people?”
“There is more to life than transcendence,” he answered after a long pause “there is death... for example and money making... for imgination,” considering the previous he followed, “there is fucking... who couldn't make a theory that isn't immediately obsolescent compared to that,” there is no reason to lie he continued, “consider the following... so... all that I am saying is criminal. I'm saying steal the greatest gold away from the "me" that is stealing to steal away from the fabric that I wish I could cloth myself against it and its previous fluxs and.... when I don't know everything moves to solid and feels specifically that... cold... and the opposite is even more fucked up... climbing up my back there too... I want to be free... danmit... I have to believe that someone on this path is already free, I know it, I know them vicariously through the most divine and intimate power, like every musical note knows each other however far apart their context might take them... whether its out on town or on the safari... the twelve... the thirteen... the seven... whatever the cultural split... its the infinite, the one.”
“What is life to those who are living it?” I asked.
And he replied, “its gotta be their inspiration, its gotta be a steal from their own self... it absolutely has to be theft against their general apathy's sense of being... grand theft auto against all of the well shown beasts in the garages of our future memories... yeah... major theft against those places that we have slowly accumulated in neat and tidy ideals which burn us on the back burners of our fears to be them. Burn back your current confidence budgets for futures to reveal the real ME, locked in a future person, a future me of me's, my past's lack and that he that each of us never thought we would be... I'm not going to lock my real me into some future, but its still going to fucking be locked in there, that's why I gotta steal it. Knowing HERE, the knowledge there-of, is a prestine fire that burns the garbage inbetween all of our forgotten heartfelt beats... a beating sun on a garage of cars that we presume for ourselves upon some future date... locked the fuck away... yeah basically break into that shit, burn down that which keeps you away from yourself by order of consequence and happenstance and just fucking steal away all those mustangs and cadillacs for your own fucking convertible sense of now or whenever you want to really succeed or just be.”
“What do you suggest... a crow bar or...?” he sat and looked at me with a firm distance, too close not to know the satire and truth of what I suggested, “remember, your memories start and end with your tounge,” I came to beleive that he meant that I should bring my own torch. | | comments: 2 comments or Leave a comment |
| Pantomime Eyelids --
an ode to our toadstool temples
A child composed of one
thousand hits, a child
composed of one
thousand hits each
an it; with a meter in
between for their accurate
dreams awakening a... into a...
person, a person;
However, however is
ever asking the answers
whether or not they are
one thousand hits?
______
“Crock… crock… Crock… ribbit”
Synchronicity is
no, yes,
no like frogs
which say like synchronicity
is art
our or
are or
and... ummm
Immeann…
Oar!!!
“No… no… No… sippit”
Constellations of events art…
constellations of events are
the umbrella in my drink of
non-contextuality; spiriting my
non-contextual drink, which is
shadowed by a canopy of connected events,
and I gladly by baffled present un-tense gifts.
Synchronicity art careful hieroglyphs
upon my frosty non-contextual...
Pantomime ignorance as a vast place,
as is, art composed in reflective offs
frogs that say "NO" and their mirroring
heads nod – opposing those oppositions.
Pantomime ignorance is just such a
composition of agreeing ripples, of
light bending away from the chorus
of “Ribbit” and “No... no... No... no...”
The horizon waits before the wading
waste… high days can be seen, enjoying
time placed on the dry other side of the
scenic exaggerations and pantomimic "Crocks"
“No… no… No… no…”
Pantomime ignorance…
is exactly what it isn’t…
"Sippit... sippit... No... sippit"
The horizon's eyes well up with stars
as the waves that they are... move
crossed ponds of many unsaid oars...
woeing... away
need’s disregard for ribbiting sea's
view up at the kites of sky pin-light...
no matter how much they catch each others’
starlight brows wave-functioning together (their)
minds only upon the face of the horizon look;
all just constellation of co-incidence and knot
speed indicators of symbiotic synchronicity
with the changing tide and ebb of "me"
as I would have them… would have them…
"Crock... Crock... Ribbit"
The horizon's eyes art…
The horizon’s eyes are always already spaced a
part of the infinite circle halfing the sky;
The horizon's eye was...
The horizon's eye is.
It is UP to us literally and
down to us literarily as well
to well out our deep lengths that art
exponentially expressed upon evaporation upon and
over top of the horizon's aptly eternal width
Our pantomime ignorance occurs
when the X and Y of the Bodhisattvas’
eyes' sides meet both:
High in meditation to open and
Wide in intention to close (their) eyelids;
the occurrence is an eclipse of the ego
with the source, (there)
the true chaos within upon
the true intention without.
Turning on is dropping
with the ocean in every sip.
Opening to the heights has its requiem
in the intent closing of off, in the intention to
become the widths – as well as having initials.
To turn has always been the intent with both.
"drip"
Cosmic pantomiming of the infinite soul is
found in the returned gaze, reflected off of the shadow
sheaths of those eyes enlightened by the non-contextual…
“…sippit… sippit… sippit,” the frogs awake and sea.
The eyes that open in meditation
close with intention…
To pantomime ignorance is the frogs’ gift
to give anxiety to the lack of each.
“Crock… Crock… Ribbit”
“No… No… Sippit”
Similarly the diplomacy of
the Bodhisattvas’ islands
are composed of a singular, yet!
continuous choice…
that of choosing…
whether or not they want to see
whether or not they are or aren’t
our pantomime eyelids!
(Clothing and books)
The panoramic view from there
allows a cosmic sense to begin
again – without separating against
against again or against itself.
However; however is ever
begging to differ in being
naked and ecstatically shameful
in-inadvertent adventures expected
upon looks and playful day-stools
of transient lotus locus’ i.e.
philosophobibliphobiphiliosis.
“Crock… ribbit… Crock… crock” | | comments: 2 comments or Leave a comment |
| On thefreedictionary.com
The quote of the day for today August 15th (which is also the last day of mercury in retrograde, which is supposedly bad for communication) was:
"Success is dependent upon effort"
-- Sophocles
which is interesting because if you purposely mispronounce Sophocles name as SO-phuckle-s it becomes a matter of synchronicity: so-phuckl go do did it! | | comments: 1 comment or Leave a comment |
| "If Jesus Christ came back today and began walking the earth preaching as he did before, Sean Hannity would call him a bleeding heart liberal who doesn't live in the "real" world, and would then add for good measure that Jesus Christ is a homeless bum who deserves his position because he didn't bother to get a proper education."
"If Jesus Christ came back today and began walking the earth preaching as he did before, Sean Hannity would call him a bleeding heart liberal who doesn't live in the "real" world, and would then add for good measure that Jesus Christ is a homeless bum who deserves his position because he didn't bother to get a proper education."
"If Jesus Christ came back today and began walking the earth preaching as he did before, Sean Hannity would call him a bleeding heart liberal who doesn't live in the "real" world, and would then add for good measure that Jesus Christ is a homeless bum who deserves his position because he didn't bother to get a proper education."
http://www.right-wing-pseudo-christians.com/matthew-25.htm#firstq | | comments: 2 comments or Leave a comment |
| Too many changes to document...
I have been changing alot and in ways that have not required the grand artistic confidences that I have here as friends and fiends alike. I will return. I love you all very much.
Expect me before or just after the beggining or middle of fall...
I may just change Lj names though; so much change... so much time...
_____
I feel thousands of times my previous self; I had to loose face here to see what it and I have been and what I have, am, and continue to be - becoming. | | comments: 2 comments or Leave a comment |
| Purgin my mind: Tele-Nausea
Mediations of the cosmic joke
Unpaid me for their time to teeter on
Their bossums baren of that, which was,
Often more or less of what
My own wit could have had.
_____
The Psychedeli Eucharist is the preceding benefits of ego death,
The line of definition upon which we trip into humiliating bows,
pulled back in full meditation upon substance's vulnerability;
my mind is an armchair and my soul is an elbow's angst: Care is weighting. | | comments: 5 comments or Leave a comment |
| Your confidence is high. My mind arrives past its conclusions. In working, divine order takes chaos with form. Formal thoughts are alien here, ends inclusive of context’s most wide are of the saturation point. The pathos of my incidental soul reach for this kind of nominal beat. If I were to become aware, if I were to shed another tear, where then a normal message is here.
In uprooting my sensations, claims are stakes with exacting aim. No negative connotation could arrange their worth against. Form again is not a multiple of circular-reasoning. Though there is a spire of secrecy. That sort of tension bridges the molding receptacle, however visible-in.
My body of work erodes this. Elongating i.e. language same to rain as any one of its destinations’ destains – some join together on windowsills before their violent percolation. The fall remains; the double edged frame etches out a philosophical blade. My mapping parades would be silenced, my happenstancial mornings would be interpreted as sadness, my lack of love for love would be life but subtle madness.
Earnest folk in the road, he would see me fast. Like a fork without food, that is.
The last two sentences are: subjects complete in their differences, like an organ who never knew it wasn’t bagpipe dreamt – by some child. Summer is here, the And. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Tortoise waits for each Hare
At the finishing line...
At their finishing lines.
Tortoise's brush stroke is
Continuous and composes sideways
To the Hares' collective haste, which
Cancels and synergizes
Out through time to
First place;
Each bristle of bound hair stroking is
Another Hare brushing the page's bond.
For-warding the stay blue, I still ball
Won't believe that Earth is Circus shaped
Like a gigantic dog talking backwards
Over china to push its dissimilar dusk
Light through iceberg analogue
While back serums, smother
Bubble shapes and their
Spinal icicle endings,
My tongue… I mean slipped into
Lumbar discs: Film slides
With divinatory cartoons and
The crackling laughter of
Turtle shell truths
Eat away at the salt
Dissolute in my worldview’s
Horizon. Splash.
Like hairy-shells (or/of)
Fiber opticy-synapsi...
American cats coil tight around
Cube shaped nervous systems
Which break and enter into the
Infinite within any space
Namely their own
Comical physics of six-sided paint. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| You are your ghosts
Until you let them go
And then you're the
Toast of a maiden Soul. | | comments: 1 comment or Leave a comment |
| When it is said
"you just have to beleive that it can do what you beleive it can"
what is actually meant to be conveyed is that
"if you put that beleif in place of your disposition, or exchange your disposition with its disposition, its context will manifest self-evidently"
How self-rhetorical it is to claim that one MUST beleive what one beleives to manifest that beleif;
there are many beleifs that one does not have to beleive and they still manifest; and also as all of us know "beleiving" in a beleif does not change its actual level of validity, at least most of the time.
"Beleiving" is not an invisible substance or ether that works to pressure reality to be a certain way; rather, manifesting a beleif is to place experience within its context, or to make similar ones own disposition with its disposition, which then equates into a full context of understanding and affect. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Window is here… is is not is…
I feel better now.
I wish for simple sentences.
I hate hating things as a form of emphasis…
Raking zen sand which is?
Life art death again and again and… and… is
_____
In this poem I’d like to speak of my "skeptic mystiake" that I take
Allowances with held and dry sigh-nuses break the hortical verizon
cell-photosensitivity-calls and erect their babals to kaledo-topic with I
_____
What am I to pertain from this drain rage
rain, rain, rain; stay? Heart fillet pain a-rays!!
If people said it was still then what angst is
is is is s is i sss is ssssss… eh?
I as??? Period… | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Nothing gives thought more injustice then a few unread words, written to some convention of private-speech to be read but not understood. Even as I sit here pondering the matter of the subject, the meaning is not a matter of itself. The meaning rests largely without reference. The words go in and out. They are pronounced in a dialect of a crude refinement, with overtones of the personal.
All cerebral form is a reaction to an unknown. All lack of understanding creates vaccum and weight for understanding to mature and assimilate.
I digest things in my head. Long strains of digestion and short bursts of anxiety-like-saturation are the digestions of the cerebral. The chain of life is like the chain of meaning or language. The unknown equates the direction, the mystery is all wise, all consuming, all powerful, and all producing. The egoic moderations between this movement and itself are the very fabric of design, which is built to release itself back into the movement, which again is the mystery. The chains, the strains, the compositions of energetic perception. The perceptual genesis stores itself into concepts; concepts are like fats to be broken and created, into and out of the non-contextual sense.
MY MIND RACES TO AN EXTREME PACE, it takes nothing more seriously then certain certainties of END. What beauteous transformation I could impart upon the world if these importunate desires and impotent waitlessnesses could be re-juxtaposed. If only new meaning could allow for all to begin against nothing less then itself. Only then would I change END into AEND? No it never begins and ever ends; know it ever begins and never ends!
Non-contextual coin flippery, line-knot worked dispositions, equates any side to any side equalling the wall truly magnificient peace that I always imagine should come after my ideations but never appears, succumbing instead to an opposite of continued opposition, almost homogenous in its contentionality, in its reactionary dischordance. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Window is here… is is not is…
I feel better now.
I wish for simple sentences.
I hate hating things as a form of emphasis…
Raking zen sand which is?
Life art death again and again and… and… is
_____
In this poem I’d like to speak of my "skeptic mystiake" that I take
Allowances with held and dry sigh-nuses break the hortical verizon
cell-photosensitivity-calls and erect their babals to kaledo-topic with I
_____
What am I to pertain from this drain rage
rain, rain, rain; stay? Heart fillet pain a-rays!!
If people said it was still then what angst is
is is is s is i sss is ssssss… eh?
I as??? Period… | | comments: Leave a comment |
| " In a Wall Street Journal op-ed in 1997, Bolton articulated his dismissive view of international treaties. “Treaties are law only for U.S. domestic purposes,” he wrote, “In their international operation, treaties are simply political obligations.” In other words, international treaties signed by the United States should not be considered as a body of law that the United States should respect in its international engagement but rather just political considerations that can be ignored at will."
YES LONG LIVE BOLTON FOR UN AMBASSADOR!!!
( the above quote is taken from a pro-right website:
http://rightweb.irc-online.org/ind/bolton/bolton.php ) | | comments: Leave a comment |
| "Denying the terrible side of life, we have noted, leads one into becoming an unconscious servant of it. Only by recognizing it, embracing it with mindfulness, and transforming our garbage into flowers, does one then gain the freedom to consciously access the other facets of the infinitely complex fabric of life."
Eat and be eaten...
this article rocks on the socks off.
http://www.erowid.org/plants/mushrooms/mushrooms_article3.shtml
Very HIGHly recomended to those navigating the spaces unbesent by fungus. | | comments: 2 comments or Leave a comment |
| Something super crazy happened last night...
Well first let me say, that, I am getting my mother fucking license back today!!!
OH FUCK YEAH! I will now be able to drive whereever the fuck I want to, I am so happy that I am pissed off!!!
Anyhow, there was a gigantic explosion just a kilometer west of here... A big huge gas mina ruptured and it made this horribly loud sound for about an hour and a half!
It sounded about twice as loud as a Jet engine, just blasting. Anyhow, the gas luckily didn't catch on fire!!! However it was scary as hell, and SUPER loud. The air smelled like gas too, really heavy like. We we're pretty scared I have to admit; however, thinks turned out humorously ok. It is a pleasant surprise that nothing caught on fire, in that case today would be just another moment of collosally mixed omens, in my life.
I'm goind to the ZOO!!! | | comments: 7 comments or Leave a comment |
| Anagrams by
Lj user: ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) push_loud_pens
"destination eshaton = athiest condensation"
"celestial bodhisattva = validate this obstacle"
"planetary cataclysm = aptly clean arty scam"
"christian rapture = rear up antichrist"
"master maitreya = i am smarter yet" | | comments: Leave a comment |
| |
