Renewed - gone large label back to navel

Some drama came into the scene. Drama! To excite the stale air. To fuck up anyone's agenda. Anarchy!
Some spent out on long nights and hazy days between command central (some adulator's basement or garage) and the civic center. Planned protest! The sound of it makes most young activists want to switch and become substitute teachers... probably most do. Or join the green party ranks. Or jump off some bridge. Or move to Amsterdam or Vancouver. Or talk on talk radio.  To be located and chicken-wired into a city 4 block radius by choice? Planned Protest? More like planned parenthood for dizzy girls spun dry from wet, half show up to the clinic because everyone's betting they will be -- but they aren't! -- pregnant yet.

All washes away, tears and problems and headaches and trash. But the drama remains. A great decompression hits the air, and electricity unloads upon the city and picks up pavement like legs over jumpropes. Feelings around the block are so diverse and tangential, burning like coals in the eyes and faces of those who live deep in the heart of the American city.  Every American city, from Quebec to Tijuana, Houston to Montreal, Toronto to Rio de Janeiro. Feelings are burning and so alive. Need no lighter fluid because the (sent by the sun) solar flares have arrived.

The fabric of life undervalued and torn. Woven across the city in dust colored thread, corn rows
and baggy clothes. Bare hands. Bare feet and calloused toes. Life in the streets was intense as hell, and when you survived the day and met the night, nothing else could be so sweet. Sewn back together ends of days - and carefully self-placed in the bed. Eye of needle sees the thread and closes ranks. Send in the dreams, the fortified tanks.

by Karen Garman, 2011

I found myself in a jam....reluctance berry preserves -- grown on common kinda ground, and a salve to the disheartened lost souls like myself. I knew. I saw them reaching for the same jars in the same grocery outlets. We had the same eyes and fears and blood pressure.

I found myself in a jam. Halfway through my peanut butter sandwich. But I saw no end to the torment I fought so hard to get over. I struggle and effort and fight and try. And why?  My mood, my status and my affect --my sense of myself in this chair this room this house this hood this town this city this country this world this universe this emptiness. Senseless sometimes. I can feel so foolish, my reputation fallen. My spirit lost and out there somewhere lookin' for me. Callin' and callin'.

I feel the shift always into drama.  Like when the burn through the subway the burn through the atmosphere the burn through my oats and honey and brown sugar. The burn in my belly. The burn of hot chlorinated tap water spraying out the pipes onto my thin skin.

 I might stop. Mid-sentence. Mid-summer. Mid-night. Or any other time I choose. I might.

 If we are speaking then of course I will not stop like that, no way. I cannot afford to stop! Hey! I might pull too quickly away from vacuuming the room to do the dishes. Or vice versa. Then in moments I realize the track switchers switched my tracks without my clear knowledge, and it burns me but its a slow burn like St Louis ribs or a the extremities exposed to high altitudes, low temperatures. I suppose i will taste good when the fuckers eat me the hell up! Haha. Hey! I did not mean to stop. I didn't stop at all, in fact. Prove it! No no no, give me another chance, will ya? I know its your show. I got carried away. Thought I was the main act! You got me excited, though, it was you! So come on man, shit. Give me a break!

Too fuckin' bad i am still without a studio. Thanks to my big mouth shot off again. Interviews so close to complete. Bank account so far from replete. To shut it all out and pay attention to this channel is all I know to do. All i can do, all i am able to. My last trick, come on. Show some compassion? Meet me underwater, where all distractions die and everyone knows the party's relocated to Paris. And Paris is right there, right fucking there! I swear!

I had to drop the many ways I came to greet you. No announcement. Like you.Your arrival unexpected, split second! Kinda brutal. We like it like that here in this little earthen corner of the sky earth water joint. Don't we get along so well? I study you within the four walls, floor and ceiling. But never confined, no, always free you are to float toward or away from me and us and this condition cannot condition the unconditionable -- that is you. You make me crazy, whatever whomever however you are.

 I was green, yes,  but not for long. Maybe only St Patricks, and felt like an imposter even then. Maybe as a kid? But I felt older then, when I was younger I felt much much older. Can you hear the stress in my voice as I raise to the rafters my own? my drama? I demand it, damn it! They get theirs, so im gonna get mine! I will be juvenile like third grade elementary if necessary. This is the kinda sacrifice I will make.

 I opened the door, yeah, but too many times. The door is now a japanese hand fan. Today and maybe tomorrow. The nickel bags of weed turned into quarter ounces rolled in dimes. This all started in the nineties, and took so long to leave behind me. The ones among them true, dropped out my life in pairs. I took the stairs and waved goodbye looking down at you in your descent, over the rail, and over my head you went.

You may have seen them in the hall, did you? Bounced like checks before they fall. You so fortunate, my dear, to see all this in the rear mirror view. Had you lit up the scene with your presence fine I know, the colors would bleed out. What commenced blue might have finished lacking color. Maybe not completely taken out, but still so far from feeling right. Like putting on those fresh dry unpressed cottons and feeling still too hot and yet beneath your skin you feel cold, ya know? Okay, well what is mine is mine! Something unique to me, calming that way, like I am somebody no one else be, like I am a singular moving object in a forest of trees.

Turn on, huh. Oxygenated really...wow what a turn on!   (to be continued)...

loco - motion

With the passing of trains half of nights through oakland, i often stop what i am doing and catch the fresh wave of memories that extend past this life, back i believe. Dare say. Stop my dreaming and wake to it. Stop my typing and rise to the occasion. Stop my tv, my radio, my dual core thoughts spinnin round and round at a feverish pace like Ratt blowin out the rafters at some warfield or nondescript american music hall somewhere in Jersey, any year any day any time for any reason so long as theres hairspray, tights, a wall of sound and hair   -- bienvenidos baby!

Yes I wake to this rare and clearly audible across the sleeping city streets straight to my heart, my spirit, my affect lit up like a candle and soon after maybe self-drawn down and out with taper of wax rope into a calm silent predawn meditation like never before. Only to come again like a sudden shift of energy like a buckshot to the booty to spike the adrenaline and imbalance my mood. Taken to the heights for some reason, I dont know why. I guess its past life love affairs i cannot and will never have the will to deny.

Yes I catch the deep whistle two am oakland. The antiquated rail travel carry the heavy of lumbering train cars, to where the weight of past life memory coincide.. a brand new light revealed out of thin air. A push of electricity every damn time i swear! True love. I can feel it. A cottoncandy kinda recollection falls with me sweet even into bedsheets. Mothers milk if i ever knew it. Takes out my feet, levels my head. Out of whatever OCD kinda track i was on to some fly switched track back to some old fashioned mix, to some fantastic retrograde recollect callin me like pay phone street sound lonely ringin for the desperate connect back in the old town, east coast.

I gotta talk about the real steel for a second, gotta stop and pay mind to the channel of the divine. he real industrial hydraulic momentum generation of all my past life memory i miss you beautiful trains back then were bold steel and smoke and looking glasses. Leather upholstered genuine rawhide seats. Satin embroidered pillows. Velvet curtains to transition dining cars from smoking cars from sleeping cars. Needlepoint welcome mats as you step aboard. Opaque linens to offer light into redwood carved chamber anterooms falling discreetly off the main oakwood supported halls driving sleek lines from caboose through locomotive machinations to the coalfires stoked by attendants with metal rake and shovels with halfmoon sharpened edges diving into the living maelstrom dripping black charsmoke over the countentance of prebellum Europe, Asia, Soviet Union stretched out in rails pushed into place by hard laboring peasant and cossack farmers with hearts simple aligned with love of country? Ya? I dont know where it comes from but i have had these scenes fresh on my tongue, since i was young.

Piston pull, arms juiced every morning into some woven experiment toward heavy metal, interconnection. Or the hard laboring chain gangs who involuntarily paved the transamerican continental railway...really a poor copy of the sister railways of other great countries, the transsiberian. Even Canada showed her teeth, carving through cold winter granite to expose to the world that she would not be stopped so easily, no not at all. not at all.

Yes...see i dream of working on, traveling in, witnessing from, feeling of the past lives in me who may have bought the ticket to ride. Instead i get the stale substitute of Amtrak, which is like a plane or two dropped out, not so light, not so clean, robbed of pure wood and steel amenities shining, muffled the sound of clack-a-clack, domesticated from what i feel from those days i no longer carry thoughts or memories except in my senses deep, my breathe, my way of moving in and out of space, the wandering of my eyes to rest on USA, gone west of west...

Still i love her! goddamn fuck, i love the motive, makes me loco, stops me still! Like the deadening of panic post the trek up some nondescript citys pill hill.  Drops me down by any other american windowsill. Nondescript all around me, even my own flesh might cut out on some nail cause at those times the heart goes, the mind travels, the spirit flies and the rest playin catch up! My friends had trains pass through their backyard Richmond, and every time i heard that  shit --- hey! check me burstin' with the best moves i can make to dodge and dart out there and hop the broken down fence and then push up like the mosh pit of gen x days full pressin' toward nirvana, nondescript.

Hey all goes ghost! All get out all get out and go! to see her, hear her, anything and all so sensual and reverberating across the gps of my whole soul!

The train she got my heart, man.
Time? Fuck time. I got all the patience in the world for a long enduring train ride, the nondescript people you meet. The meeting i have with my nondescript self, in nondescript towns that harbor trains in strangeways you never been. Beats never been. Kerouac never been. Burroughs never been. Break out the gin nondescript for a nondescript sit for a spell. While others take in the local produce, fruit swill, the local smiles of those thankful to have a job, even so small as to polish someones shoes. The fresh orange juice with pulp stirred automatically by the motion with your nondescript vodka driving screws into a fixed witness of agape landscapes post sunset in middle some country. Hell son, you and me both be stoking the fires of our contemplative nondescript period blues.

 they chose me, crazy loco self thats me, steel and smoke and looking glass-eyed-sigh of self, that wisp of me who crosses you not, yet opacity full and driven west against the jetstream like a waterfall come up against a scream, moulded and melting into the love of haunted hitchcock night trains, soldier story told certainties of death... certainties of rebirth and hell shine up the silver faucet fetch above the rubber fitted catch, caught in a siberian dream of aquamarine fluid stream into river into greater embrace of oceanic magnificence... like the transcanadian transition into endless pine forest greenness. End of all apocryphal bred of searching insecurities kind of self-ignorance...trasmutation back to your youth and anyone who pays attention to the lands flying by in patchwork sky...will see....themselves, their people, their purpose, high steeple, deep well, poor people of the life of the land do tell. Do tell.. Do tell.

Cause right now i know this room, this home among homes, this road among streets, town among cities...this life among lives before and before us also...needs to listen to your simple story again. These television people. These fearful sons daughters parents grandparents through time. Fabric of lives by chaotic design. Do tell, in the fury of midnight passage descent into ravines never heard no other industrial sounds other than, trains whistle blow. dry and pristine.

The slow trains are ghostly, the many cars as they pass over terrain passed over an infinite time, infinite times uncounted. Temporal aberration. Perhaps circular as well, spiral shaped. Not unlike the nondescript fried dough. This year (like the nondescript last) she blew me over like a sweet evening seabreeze. all of her energy blew over me so, she blew me over. i felt blessed and kissed by the sweet touch moist air down there. where i fell. in that nondescript small patch of earthen compression.

old one dreadlocked unfinished

Love. What was this word love and her many repetitions, her various meanings to diverse peoples. Her attachment to some individuals, while others she out right eluded for always. Never could be bought yet always on the auction block in the world. A craigslist listing would offer her for four twenty? A toss-up for maryjane? A friendly exchange of goods for goods, goods for greats, goods for goddesses, cheap plastic sacks of chemical crapwrap - passion plays minutes or hours only long...

 Short the patience required for the real. u like it? u dont? 
 shit, your aura is looking droopy. i see a kinda pale dripping teal. 
 Didya get downsized? from the belly of the whale to an elephant seal         sunning for your comfort all day at the wharf. barkin to keep the oxygen circulating through your scrawny sidesteppin grille....  nah! 


Step to the truth of this kind of sadness...manifest in cities and suburbs and rural surrealities, all across your gentrified former farms and unharnessed lands, no one can remember anymore. Step to the sad truth of this soon forgotten game catch of love within the more controllable context of lust and self-marketing fueled by loneliness and greed, fear and need. Fear and need. Loneliness. Greed -- step out. 

Witness the watchers (who witness too) cold in the eyes unable to blink. Refused to look away from tragedy. Greco-roman perfectionism-ready.
Now they never will and where love resides so also reside the watchers for eternity and possibly past times running downtown, too. Even the thought of such visions in hell took the thinkers of the thoughts to emotional lows rarely recovered. 

In rare cases (usually antisocial or sociopathically labelled) such emotional descent might be succeeded by rising titrated blood tides. For whom love may as well suffer only the hour the sunset tapers... to the moment of cold dawn frozen in the face of a dying star - - -
mad
mad & red
this - - -
         mad red sunrise

so sepia-toned

Sometimes i just am doing my thing and im feeling alright, ya know, alright about life and what its all about, ya know, all the drama that continues to come up on us, all the patriarchy and patriotism, all the capital pursued by the capitalisms, all the hate pervaded by the heterosexisms and the racisms... all hat shit that forms the context of our lives, yet not the foundation of our beings. always i come back upon the sugar melody sweet and simple. safe. needing not. like the man who picks guitar on a train, on the spot.

photo/edit by Katya 

sometimes that scum just floats up above and though it fogs my vision of the sky above, at least i can swim in pure waters deep below, the waters of my deep meditative yearnings, far from any fears of homelessness secondary to flat zero no earnings...more like looking at the smooth side of the spoon, gaze up at the fullness of the moon on my empty sorta stomach, god i wish sometimes i had him back, i wish sometimes i did not need to keep those photos i edited made and treasured that show up sometimes on a sky drive slide show or in the mix when im trying simply to raise a beat or catch a flow...

cause my feelings are so fuckin intense they become dangerous. i can get so heated i am losing my voice trying to tell you what i mean cause you dont seem to understand me, and then its like on and on and im trying to convince myself that i know who i am, when the truth is more complicated and flux...the past and the present and future, the darkness getting lighter, like lux.

redux. back to simplicity. back to the beginning, please, or that moment when i really knew or really thought i knew what was up with this world these people the merchants the soldiers, the widows, the yearning earners, the five-- ohhhh! what i must look like to the law? twice arrested, twice confessed it, lost my drivers license the first time for a second, back in florida twelve or so years ago...you dont wanna really know!

but this time, this last time, the second time, jail house named after a Saint? dragging my finger across the chipped paint? Cell walls, remembering by force how it feels to be free of cellular phones and receiving half the time dealers half the time collectors calls. dead air in there. silence at night and pretty gospel voices raising the sunless space, comin out harmless like a song but really truly full of fight....against the brokers of insensitivity and protocols lacking all creativity. the measured drip of impersonal uncaring powers that be? powers that see to it that if you dont know youre nothing, well then now you know.

Of course i fought it too in my own way, facing some heavy feeling depressed cornered suffocated and scared tired yet holding myself up with whatever attention i got left to let the others know im not shy, no -- im forward. 4 ward i was , with the powers and the powerless in there, the binary quite pronounced, so i ducked down when i could, lying on my top bunk white sheet, one pillow, one beat, mystery meat, the girl who got two pillows has skin the color of wheat. shes pretty. some chick on  a bottom bunk not far away is eyeing me. while im eyeing this natural wheat colored chick.  i like her too.

the doors opened for me. they do again and again. they will 4 you.  i got accustomed to what was a pattern but not irreversible not etched into some semipermanence. this luck i had as my birth right, right? Well, no one in the saints house over here cares what rights you might claim by birth, nah, they will stop you so you better shift your weight and realign your height as you bow. Bow to those who never had nothing really, or did and saw it gone in october, and part of them died and fell off like the leaves in the fall...

 doors opening, and i can see in my own knowing that the doors may be closing more and more like they have and must, and i need only open my eyes to the loves of my life and embrace them and have prayer and faith for the coming of the lux the light. in presence of my continued ongoing inexorable fight. in the presence of my continued seeing something thats truly out of sight. i can open the blinds in this moss avenue apartment and look past the compound the medical kaiser is constructing, look past whose right and whose wrong, look past the past and my love unrequited. look forward to more of this freedom i have to be alone or get it together, to go out and earn it or stay home and do my makeup...

a shade darker. a shade heavier. more green. less blue. more brown. getting it. a clue. this is time and time has not hold but yes the form we take, the styles we make, the way we show up --- lets hope its not apocryphal, not a front, not a cardboard cutout. not fake. you remember? when you were so sepia-toned

photo/edit by Katya

like the time when... the time when..... when you did what you did not want to do when the double negatives got ya. that would also be the time B4...the time B4..... B4 lux. b4 light showered upon you and yours, us and ours, theirs and theirs, mine and my world, yours and your world, their world the third world? its all one world and fresh world, new world without order but earth everywhere. sky everywhere. water is rising. so rise up! rise up! in your fortune, your misfortune, and do what needs be done. okay? never let the double negatives double up on you like they did me for so long.

stay true. stay clear. my dear! stay strong.
this is dedicated to Desiree. i love you.

she whose temples were rubbed right in time

Anecdote from the cutting room floor, circa 2009 …  cuts fresh falling off her aura, this girl. Locks of her soft layers of dyed hair flashing in the fluorescent light for the last time, in silence, her silence, the silence of her stylist, of her boots up on the old steel footrest.

She was sickly aware of being one of millions in her country. one of billions in the world. Any megalomania of her youth had been drowned or subsided into a pale ascertain of some kinda amegalomaniaminority status in the pantheon of petty class passive-aggressive weaker-than-war fare.

She was sick from feeling cold and sick of being stepped on like every footrest in every goddamn hair salon or rickety down home kitchen in the not so deep south where she hailed from. Snailed from. Slow to wake up out that hot and humid daydream.

She knew she could neither recover the day nor the dream. She knew she would not recover, for she had nothing she wished to hide from herself anymore. What she had uncovered, well, it was all the darkness you could expect to find under an old rock toward the far edge of a garden revisited after years of neglect. 

She was a despondent girl.  Our girl. And still people dared to stare back at her silent icy stare. For they knew her as the daughter of disgust and disgrace. Fuck, she thought, hers was the legend she would carry all her life and to her grave. Hers was the standard by which all could measure, even the lowest of the low, and still be seen as if from below. Her only entitlement for all she was aware, was to be straight up miserable. And to stare.

So she stared. And she could have cared how you reacted, whether you cared or did not care. Or did not care enough not to care or care. Many if not most were subjected (in her presence) to having her eyes upon them. That uncomfortable, unwelcome, malevolent stare.

The silence of falling years of color, could not have felt more free on this day however. She sighed in the chair, having untied her hair. By the weight of her breath, one would not have thought freedom. But feeling was the heaviness set forth in the room, bouncing across mirrors.
Rippling earth through the room. 
Folks shied away, children started crying. For what sensation she lacked, she made one without effort. A natural audience surfaced from magazines.  A natural uneasiness surfaced from her longstanding psychic wounds and kept people away like the bubbling molten rock of an active volcano. It was said that those who ventured too close to her -- well. all anyone might hear was gutteral cries someone lost somewhere in their spleen. No one needed to know anymore.

She had some feelings about feeling. She did. She was not therefore unfeeling. Who was? She also considered them, her feelings, too. Not to feel might be too plastic. Whereas feeling was often way too dramatic. So she strove for some middle path. Which, despite fair effort, often led her to static. Whats wrong with static?

The silence that followed or preceded both her stares and her static. She considered it. This silence was beautiful, she thought, like her glock automatic. This was her gun, not a clock, not a toy. She found it beautiful yet deadly. Two incompatible traits. Incompatible but not impossible? Her gun was something she kept neither to use nor enjoy. She found it in the pond by the old shed, where the shallows found coy. Some spirit had told her she would find it there, and not only that she should or could (because truly she had no desire to!) but that she must go and retrieve and polish and learn the gun. She did so reluctantly. Then sent the spirit away with her stare.

She was not homicidal. her parents were decidedly pacifist in the wake of all their bloodsport they boasted of in the ledgers they left her. Suicide was dystonic to her. She knew this clear as her favorite drink in her hand; one part lemon, one part tonic. She held it up quickly at times when her arm and wrist faltered. Or to prevent its being corrupted, maybe? or any darkening of any light. She was hard to figure.

The rock ice she loved to chew into, or maybe just the sound that sounded of her teeth up against it, like they were gonna shatter painlessly. Somehow. Her teeth. These were the things she had every right to look forward to, her ideas. Who was anyone or herself to take her away to some pragmatic reality? What kinda place to live is there in the heart of what so obviously presents itself to us? No one could answer her.

The rocks in her glass, the ice they came in contact and chattered. Moving rocks of ice, how much an oxymoron. She loved that rocks could chatter. That something frozen cold could move quick and lightly float.

She loved how every single day, under the weight of her great sorrowful stare, another sucker came to pass and misinterpret her, another one who missed the boat. This of all she knew on earth, well, it had to be her undeniable satisfaction. In a world that gave her little solace from her bloodlines. In a town that needed no court for all its judges. On a path that led to no particular welcome outcome.

The silence and her favorite drink, the feelings she did or did not feel, the strange form she took getting bigger herself every day as they tried to make her small by cruelties they inflicted or unkind words they would say, those around her... what influence had they? Maybe some. Maybe alot. But she tried to appreciate the ongoing evolution of her self. In trying she was almost able. And she tried to appreciate her almost as much as she could, and almost she could.

In subsidiary was the account of the days of her youth... through a precipitation of all things heretoformentioned and avowed... through the fallen rain of colored locks of hair... through which all ugly jaundiced countenances saw to the unconditional freeze of her powerful icy stare...in this antiquated world of salons and sociopoolitical theatrics of penelopes and patricks...of bulbs bare and loud enough to make her head ache...

until a dull scream fell out of some poor childs mothers spleen. or so somebody said. Fell out and fell down on the ground with a thud. Like an ice cream cone scoop of dark  heavy chocolate. Insensate.

She would not rub her temples then. Postmortem. She would have.
She could not rub her temples then. She would have if she could have.
She did not rub her temples because someone else. Someone else knew.
Someone else knew what she would not do.

Someone else knew that she could not do but would have if she could have.
Someone else rubbed our friends temples with a fullness. A fullness that cannot come of judgment or jaundice or class action. A full indescribable spontaneous burst of parenthetically deserted straight up true natural overflowing. 
Someone got her back!
Straight up! so strange! how the only one unseen is all whom exists.
Who shakes up her rocks with a twist of her wrist,
recovers her balance despite deep leaning, the list.

True. When all her luck seemed away from her, our loveless child (of generation x-ers marinated in grunge), drew to her temples (like the strike of a match) a guardian to protect her. Dear Stella, her hairdresser who carried all kind of class. 

Ooh how the love came flowing all through her, our girl! and nothing around her so hateful any longer existed! She was the one like her mother, this Stella. Intuitive like her mother.
She cursed and howled with cathartic abandon, as Stella smiled and held her down safe in the chair, caressing the pulse of her dome. Where all calm came to bear. 
This healing, this was practiced. Not random. Nine years married to some bastard who could give a damn about her.
Our dear Stella.
Damn him! our girl cried, seeing the blackened eye of dear Stella through the glass and the flying cuts, all the cuts.

She would not stop there,  no, but went on with more damning. Against any and all who she knew to have maligned beloved Stella. Beloved Stella who brought this kind unlikely sweet ending, this wave of great invigorate feeling to our young girl, leaving youth.

Once the damning found expiration through itself, the loving welled up in our young lady something wonderful and self-propelled. Our young girl now young lady, now saw for herself, herself now deserving and becoming as well.
The ground swelled.
Becoming she became a very source of her love. And this set off Stella, who most intuitively picked up on it and cried out...Damn!
Damn, girrl! Bring it!
Now Aint that-the-truth?!

foot fall in sole

Sometimes you wanna wonder what today may bring. Even less so when yesterday just sucked. Sometimes you wanna be more careful about whose surrounding ya. Even though whose surrounding you are the most real and tangible of types. Sometimes there is hope. Sometimes you feel hopeless or feel you will never be reassured.

Makes you wonder. Or dream a little. Or to focus on your dreaming, or your dreams after they ended. Wondering about your dreams and what they were. Well you may not have to ever think once upon your dreams to live a full life. But you maybe oughta one time, if you never did before. Some think maybe they ought to wonder, every other day or more. Wondering is like wandering, when without agenda, some say. Wonder is like sugar, some believe, real sweet. Others seem certain that wonder reduces life to less than life like splenda. Accept no substitutes! they cry with certainty in conversation. Then end her.

To the wonderers: Do not worry or give up, though you may be so confused. Life is full of various types and personalities, like vegetables or animals or trees. You will come to understand if you don't. Don't fear if you do not understand. Do not worry if you do.

Small amounts of hope are placed like elements in your chart every single goddamn day, you know. Be grateful if you wish. Be thankless. Be what you are. That may be all you will be.

And those intangible feelings you get, the ones which often radiate out into the fullness of your chest and reverberate along the spine of your intuition? The ones cannot be seen with eyes. The ones which are really undeniable.  The ones cannot be measured yet are just exactly that clear. Let them remain for everyone including you. Though still you may taste nothing. It's okay. True?

Do not let anyone preach to you teach to you reach for you your truth. Promise? This truth your truth, she do not come on like that, unless she do. She may not frequent rush hour traffic lanes. She may like the road dark and open and half of whole. Believe. Believe in her, however she may be. Then she may help you stand up to a challenge. Then you may face the world calm. Then you may countenance all kinds of alarm.

She don't have to have charm, your truth, no she don't. She may be a man, and his attraction quite a force. May she fit like your foot fall in sole, nice and gentle of course.

May your demons be let out carefully as sails in heavy wind.
Young in early grades, pushing the whites out of paper.
Or late.
Toward the end talking to you or themselves and no one in particular,
coloring the sun like an orange.
Talking to everyone who cares and anyone careless, too.
Roll them in tight.
All of them.
In a tight embrace with her.

I wonder if Life is an egg? She is like an egg. She is almost like an egg.
Almost like an egg with the yolk broken,
 if the yolk broke uniformly out in circumference.

I wonder.
Life rolls beautifully like that. Life rolls terribly so.

message in a stare

Sacred. Holy. One week to press.
With the weight of a half thousand years
i confess.

So many months deluged with so many hundred tears.
Will we find our way home
or the renaissance of our fears?

Half of no one really cares or cares
to think about her.
That girl allison who left her bike locked to the school bike rack
yesterday. Helmet like a cradle still hanging from the lock.
Fifteen & this young american life
sprouted up bold

with spice & kick !

only then to a stand 

still?

Please don't get me started. cause i understand the pain. i feel it tonight just worse than ever. I am tired. Half insane. Weary men and women listen! Cause we are here. Well, some of y'all will listen-- those who have enough left to hear. And other unidentified walking objects get a shout out. dripping off the gate like morning dew. cradled by the wind. back to source through the air. A message in a stare.

Like those before us, we shall be tracked by tracking systems until we can be tracked no more.  Then we are lost or free. or both, if both may be... Just not downgraded to immobile media coverage task. Just not downloaded. Not forced into play.  Just not packaged with advertisements. God help us that we not be, no way.

No time for us to be distracted, to be distracted eats up time. Take your files and get in line, steady forward to the task. every sector in the urban 50 mile sprawl must be covered, just in case they ask.  The year might be 2027. Or it may as well have been. So far gone and yet far ahead of them. We meet in present time, of course, in future time united. By spirits of our past, energetically protected.

The pharmacological solution for weariness sxs is just to reach market! Her derivatives are Non-narcotic, uncontrolled solution. Spirits, triple variables, this is the scenario! One constant holding ground like an anchor pressed into the seafloor forever into dissolution. Reunification with source spells the end of all fragmentation, source is like light, enlightens the solution.

Source is sacred ash and vulnerable.  Spiritual energy. Source is humble. Anchored in the message. Means running around in circles searching and searching no more.

No longer feeling lonely.

going out there with courage.

Encouraged! Where loneliness gets discouraged. Where death cannot flourish. Keep moving! Dropping to the hardwood floor. Dripping your feelings fast between planks. Bye bye to Loneliness (its confidence tanks). Its global toxicity becomes local then less.

Human duplicity fades away,

spun out of the spokes of

true unitive rims rolling away.

Girl, the world aint pretty when you're all fragments. Its sharp and cuts us something terrible. To reconstitute may be by means agonizing. Tragically stitched. Exposing that which was self-inflicted. Self-dealt. Out-played and played out.... sounds exhausting this transformation but let me tell you... she is universally-felt.

Our world she gets broken apart, polluted and cut into, whether or not we or you think its a sin too. Then she's swirled together like Missouri, Joplin weather.
Disconsonant elements,
mashed through and through.

Sacred if you accept it, if you will
through and through
Turns black to red to blue and back to black again
 like your dragon tattoo...

The flavor like white stripes to
detroit heights, higher. Up to the upper peninsula! So inspired.

Hike and hike your skirt and let the clothing pull away

and  plant your self 

(your body glistening white like source

bright against the moist earth, dry clothes)

directly in the maelstrom
in the very vortex of

the maelstrom of

your life.