pulling and pushing, it sloshes. the thoughts, the air, the convection cycle of the ideas that circulates amoung us. Its transient and dull, mysteriuos and obvious, like the air we breath, like the lashes covering the light
from entereing our eyes.
who knows? one day we’ll shed. that hair. upon our lens and head towards the light and behead the king and make headway into truth and see the beauty in the hedge on the side of a beaten gravel path, hammered by the caloused hands of hidding men behind a chink in the brick back ally walls. they are there, perephrial and kneeling and shaking and cold and happy. Because they are the fallen and the only place to look is up. But they hide. from who? From you, the HE the hatted heretic guised under a cross and a blissfull,ignorant grin.The headmaster: he is us, the white of our skin, the skin on our knees, the kneading of the bead we injust, the injustice of our privilage; we are who we give thanks to; we are who we are, and, that, like a golden gaultlet of bittersweet aged wine, is theatric; for we are all playing a role behind a mask,lips puckered to the brim of fask, navigating to nowhere in a cross-eyed stupor ,room spinning and we twirl.we are washed in the woozy which mix fact and absurd into one venti egnogg blend at starbucks, allowing us to savor the smell of the roasted bean without stopping to think of the sweat of the man who hold the hand who picked the bean in the blistering sun for a penny and then collapsed; under the same shinning star under which goldens our skin on themountain of Olympus. But here we are: City of lost angeles? The city of the lost, the city of the confused, the place to sit, sit , sit and think and not stand and move and change. the city of complecency and the city of fog and haze and burns the eyes, the shaded eyes under the lashes, the lashes which mask the sun, the sun which scalds the skin and brings truth. Is there truth in the burn? is that the hearsh reality? must there be a headmaster? must homogeneity be beauty? Realize:differnce is beauty, and then, the city will move;
but for now, progression is regression, and hell is the downstairs library in a 50,000$ dormatory. Hell? Is hell in the mind or can unhapiness be in ones enviornment? The enviornment, Ravage and rape the enviornment of its nutrients, aide progression towards happiness and health and having hail turn to hamburgers and rain to roast beef and ice to imacs and tsunamis to certanty, certanty in the way things are moving. To move, to sit, to stand, to kneel and pray:whichever direction youre moving has a point, but all of the points are on the circumference of one circle, so it doesnt matter. Take a leap. Outside our circle. Into what isn’t known, into the galaxy where ideas are thrown, into that space before you hit that wall. That wall when the mind can’t go further, the mind that turns the blind eye towards the working cowering beneath, the wall which reminds me of my limited capabilities and the rest. the rest, the rest is a test….
… i must confess ,i need to distress, i cannot rest with this in the air: we have heirs who are no closer to anwsering these questions than me, yet their worth is dispersed to the masses during masses and in classes and mothers tell thier kids in the thrice used bath of brave men who run fast. but if you think as fast and the nuerons in the mind, then what is point of being physically divine? where is the physical translation from the strength of the brain to how much wear the body can strain? This preoccupation: my limited body, the wall of my mind;the lashes which shadow my eyes, the suns which gives erotic pleasure and sinful pain; the virture of balance and sustainibilty which is unattainable and, to me, the only thing worth seeking. I want to balance. I want to give what i have because thats what i have ,to give what i know to those who dont, and loan what i own to those who count the pennies on the ground- not for luck but for the sound of the clink they make in the wishing well, and they squeeze their eyes praying grandmother well, avioding hell on sundays by drinking the blood of a man who existed but died with his blood leaking from within to the outside, a metaphor for all of our internal sins. And i am his kin;you are his kin, but why is he unique?last time i checked crucifixtion was a repeat offense of the roman men, who set wrong into justice by annihilating sin though killing the people who embodied the bad, thus stopping the symptoms-which i admit were mad- but they still exist within all of us, for we are fouled, we are not just. we are constructed to be sheep of a shepard who resist the notion we are here alone; thus we baaa’ we have a reason, we have a purpose, we have a reality, our reality, but is it a dream? you and me and i and us and her and it and pronouns alike, we share a reality, and thus shoudl be treated equally under this regime of the human experiance. Except if youre Ze- that is, if you have no gender; Except if you black like the night and the Other and the dark and lurk in the ally and under the coffin’s hood, tempting the carass to come back up like jesus did.sultry african temptress: you don’t share my reality. and animal, you dont share my reality you cannot reason. And tree and bush and ocean you all cannot think like i think. But sun, which lets me live and glow and rash and burn, surley you are the logical equator for which you shine upon me and the african and the deaf and the devine. you are devine, i feel in my spine, you make me grow and you make me whine, and i squirm in your heat and shiver when your gone, ebcause then it is black, and viod of the security shawl. because i feel you on my skin, you are real to me, and real to my kin. you were real to jesus, and real to the shepard, the black man, and the lepard, could not refute this idea of your omnipotence, for the sky is illuminated under your existance. all i know is that your truth is your tradition, and your relentless work, which comes routiney and in my socially constructed smirk i know that is why i find comfort in you and your stars and the bed that i wake up too; confort is in what i already know. they are points on the circle, the chart that measured my grow on the door of the powder blue laudry room. because my bodily limitations will only let me get soo high; then the wall hit, and i think i knw why. nothing special outside of the human eperiance will happen to me; i will think no thought that didnt predocess me. and in this way, plato was right; we are all carbon copies in our individual flights. the oiginal is one form in teh sky; we are shadows of eachother, and as time passes by, i see the uniquesness burning down like the ash on a cigareete and the ash on the knees of the man whose skin is so beautifull and ebony but since white is wonderful that ash disappears under the ruleof dove beauty adds and ms britney spears. so i wish, just for once, the social constructs would lessen, or i could just go, as a ghost above the stary night, not back into time or into the future, or on a cloud, niether in silence nor out loud, just released from the human i am, the bear of a body for which i tend could be left behind on this clump called eath and i would understand what i search. but i cannot not find the water if i do not know i want a well; i need to narrow the question which i am looking for. Eyelashes: curl or fall when i blink; let the sun in my eyes, so i can think. let the sun in my eyes and sweat out of my skin and i will seep myself outward instead of taking things in. because that is the ironic metaphor for which i must thrive: i live as i exhale and survive as i die; to make each moment as if i were just a thought and then my limitation will be off like a cough in the middle of winter outside in the cold, and here i am again, in this blunderous world. why help others, thats what he asked. help them for the same reason why i fast and whithold myself a potential good to remember that comodoties are shoulds and not needs, and goods can be concived in ideas rather than products and plastic; thus, good can be found in the cities, and found in the hoods, and found in china and also in milan and through the turtles eyes and bird in the pond, for in the ecosystem we all function as one, and if i am out of sync then it will tumble and crumble below. do i do because i feel responsible or do i do because it is my deuty or do i do because i like to, or do i do because i define myself by the impact i have and i have a feeling that is the most rightous ripple i can throw in teh pond. Because i want to be the best i can be, i take my highest virtues, and extend them freely, and try to do as much as can, to enact those virtues turning hard rocks into sand and hatred into grains embedded into the ground, trampeled on by feet on which virtous mind stand. To take the chiseled rock of this social contruct and run amuck with things i have thunk and spray graffitti all over its face, repainting it with a different take. is my different better or is it better to me? objectivity is starring me right in the face, or is is subjective, is there just one race, the human race, or do the colors matter, is the racism true, are the leaves of a flower, is the tradition of hate and cholorphyll one in the same and in time they are still and never wil change as hard as i try, and thats just the food chain. i need to know why why , why are these things searing my mind, why cant i jsut leave them behing and i want to find, the object, the truth, but i suppose, that is just uncooth.
big haired ghandi-on crack