apartment—perhaps neither happy nor healed.
Meditation On Uproar Through Colors Of Sex and War
Gold burns green in black chalk; grey fires white in purple perspiration perspirations conspiring from empty hollow rooming meadow is old pushing back to new when roaming fully.
Hair on bare skin feels sex, tickling nudity, tickling me. Living things under skin burn holes into joyous ejaculating nerves. Wiggling feet of sensing innocence.
War power rages powerless in straight blood lines unable to perceive the circle: soulless without strength, weak without soul. Falling to uproars of buzzing motor, master matter, master mind, masterfully destroying with arrogance. Political violence of personal fragile body—sensual pieces; peace is uniting hunger to what feeds fully healthfully.
Hollow sex lips sex sex breath.
Back bent, back bent in, bent back, bending bottom, boisterous, bold.
Feels praise, feeling, sweet sex juices.
Holes fall within themselves. Bouncing desperate spasms exit back into outer.
Nerves.
Feet.
Uproars.
Mind fucked harder than body.
Blood we use as finger-paint for plaything playtime because there is no distinction between recess or necessity or progress without punishment in our way of doing; our orgies are the same as our wars; our lovelife is murder; our only distinctions are without distinction; we are without the necessary distinction and the necessary lack of it.
Body bows as an arrow beautifully, body bleeds beautifully, body bleeds needlessly, body bows-down naturally and unnaturally.
Green thumbs sodomize nature. Naturally, of course.
Meadow dries in summertime.
Fully.
Under a tent I saw pictures of bodies bombed in every part of the world. Bones are more brutal than blood when they break. Faces of love ripped from peace to pieces.
Into.
Of all the motherfuckers, why these motherfuckers, as it goes...but shouldn’t we love motherfuckers too? The motherfuckers!
To and from.
Is.
Without love there is no love—even though that doesn’t mean anything just to say it—spelling misspelled unspellables.
When is away what?
Circle sex entry exit. Circle way. Circle sight. Cycle of blood. Circle in pieces in peace. Cycle circle of breathing love nerves.
Fragile.
Encouragement From The Bright Straw Colored Sad Wind
The news we heard today is that it is time to move again, but we are staying. The town has told us that many of its people are also looking in an unsure way. The town said these people are looking for what they are looking for. Here, they might find it. The town told us to stay when we listened, when we finally recognized the whisper and the whistle of all its people and the way we are an element of this interaction.
Wet air’s magnetic property held us more intimately together, kept us on the ground and our bodies parts intact—so not torn, flung and spinning through unknown spaces. We saw the yellow in the wind and followed its mystery around our raining neighborhood where we also felt this air kept us connected.
We felt this day, as we often had before, that our lives were lost in obscurity and cliché—that we communicated to no one in any real way and could not be communicated to—lost in the agony of trying to live a loving life in the quick tormenting moments of sleep paralysis. We remembered how this feeling stayed with us for years, depressing us, destroying the possibilities of our future.
But, this day, we saw the simple musical colors. We talked with the people waiting with the rain, standing on shining cement flowing with reflective water, and they heard us and we heard them.
And we listened to the town again, and we promised to whisper into the wind so that the people who are still looking for what they are looking for may unknowingly hear our voice, as we discovered that we heard the voices of so many others.
The Stomach Of What Eats You
Shot diagonally up through tunnel of orange light with baked clay walls in space moving indeterminately, skin cooks from the heat inside—rough scarring—barrier—separating off all that is overwhelming.
Arrived at a place where the vibrations of orgasm aren’t noticeably different from the last moments of seizing death.
Broken, you reinvent yourself as yourself—now yourself anew.
We reinvent us as us.
Loss gained.
Private creation of person-personality, impositions by limitations of exposing, creating self out of others’ other than, out of what is other than you or us, out of my I: we, struggle to be we as one, our self, ourselves; we are divisions, individuals, divided and undivided, seen with a suspicious, singing eye.
Invitation inviting invention of subtle becoming. End of endless possibility coming together out of endless possibilities.
Finding what.
It is possible what is possessed could end up differently—where difference is our ability to be able.
We are all included in seclusion’s limitation where necessity asks past the mask, needed because what was was because what could be could.
I was who I thought I was because of what I was. I was who I thought I was because of what was was I; not what I was because of what what I was, what I was because of what was me what could be.
I try to see I to eye.
I try to be me to we.
Hear the ultra sound of finding nipples’ fulfilling nourishment.
A paper-bag mask moves across motionless face as to show one eye; then both; then one again but the other.
Pills numbing the knowing of; stuck in a giant honeycomb; bees buzzing around your faintly heard prayers of “please,” sporadically stinging as they vibrate across your nudity when calm is lost.
Innocence insensed, privately hidden, concealing even what appeals to us as appealing.
The Self-Deception Of An Onion While Trying To Avoid The Stew
A strong memory of sucking a honeysuckle blossom, the incredible floral honey experience that tasted like it was the whole of the earth which made us part of where there was no separation.
Before it got heavily built up, the area was still somewhat raw country—or at least had some of the feel of it.
For a while, we had chickens that gathered their own eggs for us everyday, generally. We had a couple of goats and a sheep and a rabbit or two. And I was mainly the one that fed them and gave them fresh water. I remember the smells of the water that came from the hose and of the wet dirt and grass from where the water fell. And I remember the smells of all the food for the animals—the hay, the alfalfa and the golden oat mix.
I have memories of a lemon tree where I would pick and eat fresh lemons that to this day make me smile when thinking about them and how the whole experience felt with all the senses—and it is still unbelievably otherworldly, as if it cleansed the deepest part of me, releasing me from an inner experience of bondage so that a true whole of me was refreshed at the touch of the lemon skin, an effervescence sparkling inside of me from being infused with the slight citrus oil that escaped when squeezed.
There was also a large fig tree that I climbed on. I didn’t like figs much then. Now I love them and look back on having the tree with a certain amount of envy towards myself and regret at my tastes not being more appreciative. Strangely though, I can remember eating the figs right from the tree and not liking them—but I can remember how they tasted then when I didn’t like them with my love for figs now—and can somehow enjoy the same taste in impossible ways.
As children they grew up with tens of thousands of books in their homes and were completely puzzled when going to the homes of others as to where these people put all the books that they must surely also have; it wasn’t until well into the children’s adulthood that they fully realized that these people had no books: and they all remain unsure as to what that means.
There is a little man that lives in my beard that as
two prehensile tails—one in the back and one in the front. His name is Somuch and he does many things that go unnoticed or whose causes are unknown by others. He also responds as if being spoken to—although nobody can hear him—whenever anyone says “so much,” no matter the conversation. This can be very good and can also cause total disaster. Also, he often leaves my beard going mysterious places on peculiar adventures; he has many lovers that he keeps in my belly button; and while he is very mischievous, it is said that he is also very wise.
Salt flowers seasoned with moisture know how to tell the best stories; sometimes there is an abandonment of obsession and an allowing of open exploration.
I turn into the sky now; and trees bleed violet-blue blood down cheeks, dripping onto the smiles of wrinkled faces.
The onion runs away from the pot of stew and hides and cries.
Don’t Ask, Just Enjoy The Music—But Also Ask
Snow pea colored letters piled nearly dead upon stark cement. In their last words, they tried to put all their remaining energy together in an attempt to kill all language with a swift gust of mushroom brown.
We find these letters to be exemplary.
Everyone thought everyone else wasn’t nervous, but everyone was nervous.
Oceanic orchestra akin to peaceful killing.
What is Violence?
Far beyond the measure of need; away from capacity of measuring.
Appreciation was given only after everything was found to be good enough to be thankful for, as accustomed with