‘…a clown’s death with painted on tears dripping down to where heart is on my sleeve wiping away the wet the emotional debt i used to rage against when my body let me know that something was terribly wrong desanctimonious and i could not run away from the faces like feces schmeared upon the screen-lit smiles vapidly humming electrical wire sound trickling in from the empty surround that envelopes us with signals symbolic of the dread inherent in living through these lenses, and each a differing sight to behold if only for the fleeting moments we have Here though not always in listening to one another but to our own voices sometimes do we ever become aware of what a vessel like this can truly contain without being spilled as those cliches of milk…’ – out of Context.
out of Context -‘…i started writing all this material to begin with as a challenge not an obstacle to aid in the personal evolution that each of us enters into without knowing how or what the journey entails, and whose entrails have come one-eighty degrees for me so the stagnancy ends now as i begin to wage a battle with myself and nature and words and whatever powerful series of forces influences my decisions to accept the renewed challenge starting next month to write and publish my thoughts or poetry or whatever stories i have to share with what little audience i really have in the Out There for what i hope will go further than a year of this consistent practice making me better mind body and soul…’
‘As insurance that things won’t always be this way…’
‘time-honored afflictions with duty their despoil and despotic authority’
the real me is but a pigment from your fragmented imagination, constipainted…
defined by the palette and hues in your hand, the brush your guide to the inside…
the mind pouring out its’ wisdom, drained of a cacophony clamoring for retreat…
voices of spirit taking over, perhaps the ghosts of past or present regrets…
the meat of the brain might distract away, though sometimes as obvious change…
enlightenment the vital remains creeping in, to prevent the ficklest of fate…
choices seem random at first with few certainties, except for those one sees…
that judgmental voice in the back of your mind…
…”the method you mention is madness, a dancing repetition
moving behind the eyes, a variety of senses and images
looking for a sense of gravity to pull details aside”…
‘sitting, stinging, slinging
… pen to paper
… an authority,
gripped in a cacophony
a phony, mad cockiness
throwing random angles, as angels to faith, manic head full of fate
this tangled stasis, a mass awash in faces, displaces interest between
these jagged fragments, of man incorporating machine, to seize the world
in a capital scheme, the extreme of which, takes a cruel touch
to collapse a hateful trust, dreams to mutate dreams, mutilate and conquer
disagreement achieving, an uneasy humanity, moving slowly across the page
the tormented sage, spilling words of was-dumb, refused or accepted sum…’
‘this? rhythm words, kindness, the inert…’
