Feed

A funny thing happens when you’re browsing your twitter feed. While watching the brownie batter you spent something like way too long trying to get it to the right consistency, drip out into the baking paper, as it rises in the oven everyone said was overkill.

You giggle at the anecdotes, the way everyone else describes events unfolding. Sometimes there’s a willful level of insanity in the brevity the feed inspires, or possibly hidden base instincts.

Regardless I keep scrolling, never stopping to really think. The posts that whiz by as I judge by the pictures of the ones can speed read right through. As though I willfully enjoy relegating peoples thoughts to data points. I suppose its all the same.

But when I stop and read and click on the links, the feed seems so much smaller. The single unified entity is no longer anything I assume to care about, its not mine its just a mishmash of too many ideas flowing faster than anyone can feasibly keep up. So even the ones I stop at I just browse, no need to invest in the words of others

But then there was you, your face damming the feed faster than beavers looking for some reasonable food. At the very hint of your visage things stop and I have to choose, do I think myself out of this or do I let go and just miss you. Thoughts beguiled by the decision they must make usually just let’s it scroll, missing you would require remembering you and sometimes sometimes remembering is too easy overall.

I run down the words as they stream down the screen, reading like this is great speed reading practice, maybe I should do it some more. Like paddling down the river that one time, forgetting to mention you can’t swim, hoping death wouldn’t come, but the things I had to learn rapidly, they’d never fade. As the rocks they exploded from beneath reminding me to keep the faith.

But then you show up again, as if you know somethings reminded me of you. I try to scroll on but I can’t I’m stuck between a rapper sampling cats and comedians proposing to pizzas. You, you hang there like the end of a journey that never really existed. Syphoning my thoughts to stopping the memories from flooding back, blinding me while these brownies rise from their molten primordial sugar puddle.

I just want to write you a song, a sonnet, or even a hymn, just to remind you you’re not alone. No matter what you say to me, no matter how much I try to ignore the stream of your thoughts in the world, I don’t want to stay quiet anymore at least to these words. The only ones I can really speak to, because their conjecture is not to assume an ulterior motive. At least until I tell them to.

I want to give you, all that I can. Guarantees and promises I can’t, cause no ones kept there’s. I wish not to make you hope, I wish to remind you that there is love. Love not the way I do love you, but of life and the little things we ignore while trying to think our way out of things. Like streams of familiar faces, telling us how they feel.

All this in the moment I see your face, while randomly checking on the brownies. They’re almost done now, its primordial corpse rising from the tray, the excessive butter clearly visible. I just want to send this picture, of brownies coming to life. But I won’t cause I’ve stopped caring about how they look.

I’ve stopped caring that they’re going to need to frozen then re-baked. I stopped caring that I’ve been leaning against the counter top for something like longer than I care to remember. I’m staring at my phone, trying to remember, why I relegated myself to just music friend on the other side of the world. Why I let everything convince me, that anything ever done was a mistake.

I could go on but these brownies need tending to, I’ll let the knife cut them down to smaller bits. Maybe I can share some too.

Words of Nothing

Eyes won’t open
too much light
not enough dark
consumed emptiness
hallow be thy rest

Flow into the night
let not life know
keep it guessing
seeing whats allowed
never control aloud

Can’t find you
you went missing
the moment beyond sight
let the time fall
the leaves changed

Find the shoe
will the boot fit
look together
we can find it
but I’ll leave

Loss is null
not worth a penny
take the dull
work out the edge
then cut string

Empty days
full of filling
live for pie crust
the apples are sour
sugar free living

Thoughts unfocused
glass doors fogging
close the shades
I want your light
you’re blinding

See these sounds
watch them bounce
under the clouds
we cant hold it up
the blues just might

Toy with the idea
play with its points
revel in its logic
ignore the fine print
let the soul talk

Plucking slowly
find soaked blood fast
frets watery red
fingers lingering
playing the dead song

Mind not right
thoughts bounce high
no drugs to sort
the miasma creeps
this meeting blows

Words solidly unfounded
reality complete
can’t believe whats happened
tea to forever steep
bitterness will not keep

Fuck it.

Hit Play

Its as simple as a hum that take our souls and send them for tail spins, disrupting the flights they take crossing misanthropic chasms.

Too bold to understand that what had occurred was reality in its purest form, having let the chute rip as molecules fall to grace perpetually scattered, and always misplaced.

Let it go uttered the music of that tone, clutching existence at its very core as it armored up preparing to be let fall hard as the times before.

The way of the world, too simple, too chic, form fitted for a reality not forged but forced to exist, through unknowing falsehoods based on hope.

Wishing upon a star, thinking too soon the fall had come to relieve this multitude of stigma the wicked visions would give out.

Whispers crawling in the aural caverns of the void, carved through countless repetition and malignant growths too subtle to notice, growing as coral do.

Sometimes the urge to reveal the empty naked husk of a being holds strong, the cool not needed to mask the truth of trying to stay clean and sober in the eyes of God.

Beseech the darkness to explain why it loves that which cannot be, love that will not change, love required by higher moral fortitude.

Query on the lost, the weary and the defeated, they will all return the same date, never alone never mismatched shit was hard sure but never lose light.

Everything hurts everything bleeds, yet time moves forward unable to heal the wounds that refuse to play as the same game repeats itself, sometimes on the wrong plain.

Fear me, I’ve killed hundreds, seeking nothing more than patience without the grace, obviously falling where i should not have, but in this place Love is ever more.

The simple hum that guides to this place of cats and existential irrelevance, who is to tell you more.

Sticking words next to one another to attempt to make the mystery and more languid, to understand the game.

Never enough, the clues burn bright to remind of a time when they weren’t needed, weren’t coveted, no more illumination, its my mystery to figure out and lay to rest.

These cloths will not wash themselves, these visages of what once was, was perceived as good as they can possibly be.

Remind me, where I am, what I have done to get here, to throw caution to the wind and allow the almighty air to consume my insides, still not uplifted.

Speeding into the division, no past but ideal future, or past with a future tied to nothing more than a path too narrow to be derailed, where to run anymore, how does it make sense with these bloody eyes, seeing red.

Reality sets in as the flames flame out as the ash fall hazy amongst carrion, picking from the corpses of those who might one day do good.

Eventually the time will come where the past no longer governs how hurt we are by it, the scars though still tender are but reminders of roads once traveled, where we tripped over fallen leaves, as we watched them change paths.

Fill the void of the ones who finally made the void bearable, with the numbing silence of apathy and genetic predispositions to give up, singing as the mail men chant “everything will change”

Low frequency oscillations perpetuating the zero sum of feeding the beast of what never truly was, by attempting to will it into its own existence as if that will give it the meaning it so dearly seeks.

All this to say the words that filled with enough fear of being used again, of being let down, as the trust was so easy to give out to them.

The words they have no meaning, they sit on the tip of my tongue, sitting at the razors edge bleeding, wanted to just be uttered slowly because maybe, just maybe reality didn’t have to be broken down into chunks.

Maybe just maybe, I could finally say it without worrying that they’d be flung back at me, as little as they mean anymore, because words are just the tools of the cynical to convey the “truth”

That borrowing from cliche might be too much, but, but it means enough to warrant the hum to give us permission to speak again.

Permission to remember that maybe, maybe we aren’t all built the same.

Permission to forgive yourself, when life reminds you that you weren’t to blame.

Permission to say the things we promised ourselves we didn’t think we could say.

Permission to smile at the darkness and remember that it would be okay.

Permission to write, regardless of whether or not there was too much to portray.

I love you, forever, even after I couldn’t help but hit play.

A tree put through some hi-tech un-solicited filters.

The Sound of Settling

Roots.

Usually it starts with crack from a place you didn’t know existed, or rather was capable of cracking. It usually pretty wicked in its guttural-ness, as a pill bottle shifts all its content to one side in a single instant, it releases the pressure of a hundred million tectonic plates under the deepest trench down the furthest hole from the sun. Then, it happens again, this time more in your head, where a few words change everything and the filters of perceptibly quickly reorganize themselves into something more codified into a singular supposition, without real conflict.

The noise that brings so much silence is the settling, the part where ignoring is no longer a viable outlet for obfuscating the guilt of things that happen within. Settling into what is, instead of what can be. A stark division from the traditional impermanent mentality of flux and floating, filled with jealous gloating and longing stares. The silence, its real, as the televisions high frequency ringing available to those ears to drive them to madness, it shuts off and hopes to rehash the truisms of confident old world, thought to be believed untrue.

This is how we settle, into our big arm chairs, with our headphones so warm, we listen to the crispness of music we hoped would always give use truth and solace, yet find that it feels boring as it does not resonate. Not country; not electro, not synthesized alt-rock with a bit of jazz funk thrown in for good measure. The rich Corinthian leather doesn’t have its appeal anymore, nor does the comfort of sitting on the couch that brought you peace and solace, like the music all those years ago. Nope, nothing doing, it makes little to no sense, said assuming it had to. No this is the sound of settling, where to quiet the mind, the body gets loud, ignoring the obvious fallacies without deciding what there is to come, so it runs around finding itself without needing to actually run.

Like jumping the fence or a barricade testing the resilience of the cops, once thought the height of fun, now the looming pointlessness of the arrest becomes apparent, fuck it the old man needs to run. Into the crowd screaming with snakes in their eyes walking them astray from the path they once had. Venom leaking from their teeth revealing the idiots actually had won, as their obvious mindsets continue asking cops if they’ve got Molly. I’m too old for this shit comes to mind, too old to see the same mistakes being made for the wrong reasons, even if they were the right ones. Realizing settling is being ridiculous without the thought “That was ridiculous” bouncing around the head, as the bare chested sweaty body in 100 degrees swings the wet shirt above the head. So proud.

Settling into being okay with not feeling anything anymore. That sunlight and snow flakes just remind us that we’re alive, but that’s just it whats the point of it if we can so easily settle into the bones we’ve tried so hard to break and mend because its as if we’re meant to, than we can become better, maybe. Like the ways of the world don’t mean anything anymore, but to points to ignore, because they go against what seems to be respected amongst peers.

A yearning for banality and uninspired continuity takes root, where the trunk grows strong with the disgust of shameless blind trust. Realizing that people don’t change they just become more of themselves, magnified by their own reflections compounded by false regression of self soothing. Nothing makes sense so don’t question infinality, it leads to knowing you’re enough to change the world, it’ll always scare, so why bother?

Sometimes the genie’s wishes aren’t enough to remember the thought of happiness once had. It was real sure, but it wasn’t good because it won’t let the relaxation comes, it comes with a goal, but that goal isn’t to be quiet with this black hole that seems to have made its home right above the gut in between the lungs. “Wish for patience,” a thousand years will pass, even than the silt will not set. “Wish for understanding,” the mind will revolt seeking all the answers from the past. “Wish to see the light in any dark,” the light will not bleed. The wishes will fade and the happiness will not be found, still settled with that calming cracking sound.

Wash away the fears of the ghost of today’s regret as normalcy sets in, the waves perpetual in their harmonic oscillation. They’ll repeat til they never sound any different, calling out the whispers too often ignored because of perceived insignificance. The routine to follow ad nauseam, wherein the the numbing will set into itself, and the comfort will again be reached.

The sound of settling into thoughts, hearts, and bodies, so loud it ignores the wails of dreams and goals not yet met. A cacophony so loud it seems to organize the ways of the worlds into an army of ants following strict guidelines for the betterment of the “whole.” A noble deed indeed, without it nothing could stay, nothing would be done. Just floating in space as time bends around the traditional chronomatic time stamps, through the bending of the light and the the velocity of the an object in vacuum without any motion.

Too tired to write; too excited to settle; too fucked up to know if any of it’ll ever get better. Too much dreaming is lost to the constant committal, to the strictest adherence of impermanent stupefaction and three levels of doubt. When the dust begins to settle, from a short life of queries and falsifications, lets find a love seat, sink in and settle.

Bored and Untitled

Breh… God Rays

Day by day everything gets a little softer, a little more tense along the places it needs to.

Day by day the compulsions shrink from the eerie ad infinitum to manageable chunks of memory that feel like they can fade, but don’t anyway.

Day by day belief systems broken down by feeds of idiocy and armchair activism voices cry out to be heard, not to convey a message.

Day by day the approaching apocalypse seems farther farther from the fantasy of Hollywood’s minds eye, swirling storms and free will.

Day by day think about the future of yesterday, the past of tomorrow and the emptiness of today without the aural light to remind of its worth.

Day by day the unfortunate phone call that never seems to come, the one remind of the days that will never come.

Day by day organizing the clueless and the lost, only to realize the map was written not to find, but explore.

Day by day finding meaning in the ocean of people too blind to themselves, they see with others eyes.

Day by day the memories fade as the words drip across the pages of the pensive that is the Moleskine that holds it all in time.

Day by day the talkies of the past seem more and more relevant to the scourges of the modern predicament, childhood where dreams are built from the past.

Day by day realizing the dream was always real, the nightmare, well that was pretending it wasn’t.

Day by day the arguments for leaving everything as they are, more justifiable in their claims to cleanse the old wounds, no scabs to pick.

Day by day, waking up without remorse from those killed from apathy and shame, we were meant for the stars but we try so hard to blot them out.

Day by day things change but stay the same as their orbits can’t be broken, without the normalcy how can it be?

Day by day realizing it was never a fluke, never a mistake, bringing to the forefront the love that doesn’t show itself much.

Day by day listening to the noise of those who’d live off its likes and listens as men which conviction only can, rehashing the void they’d try and fill.

Day by day hummus and crackers don’t stop the return, the maisma of silliness and ridiculousness.

Day by day the thoughts don’t want to leave, comfortable in confidence that the feelings were always real, so why not build.

Day by day forgetting the joke of existing is that is all funny, how else would would economics exist?

Day by day going through the oscillation of waves, vibrating on the air, suffocating the stagnation.

Day by day finding the light as it hops along the petals of the flowers among

the coronation of the divine machinations.

Day by day the details don’t fade as eyelids only obscure the photons not the projections of the eternal.

Day by day blindly walking off a ferry into waters below, someone will come through, they’ll want to see what the seaweed looks like in June.

Day by day falling in and out, the jerking motion inducing soul sickness through contented resistance, its just supposed to.

Day by day stopping for nothing turning around to say hi to the model hiding under the baseball cap, “you’re too pretty for that.”

Day by day chipping away at the slow clap that feels to fast to exact the revenge of the new sound, watch it lay in gutter drowning in the flood of drown.

Day by day knowing as the Canadians used to say “Ferrr surrrrrre” that will would add itself into the memories of trying and fucking up.

Day by day beard grows longer, waiting, when will cover enough to obscure the reality of its seriousness.

Day by day the longing, erodes the nexus of patience and accepting, no alchemist can stop the change now.

Day by day knowing none of it is meant to be, though the fact that it was still reminds, that what was, was.

Day by day looking in your eyes, all of them, reminded of the impossibility of being alone, a reality for those eyes bright and wide to see.

Day by day sticking words next to one another deciding they’re never good enough but pulling them all out just the same.

Day by day rolling the mind to mush under the pressure of balancing paper over a flame too strong to tame.

Day by day reading the play for today, move to the right you say?

Did that yesterday, how about something new today?

The Silos

Take stock of your life, its in piles across the floor.

The florescent hues of the fades that melt into the style that exudes doesn’t give a fuck.

The floral patterns and paisleys hold a strong presence with their rolls up sleeves and crinkled collars.

Trying to convey a story about where they haven’t been.

Worn for days on end, no sign of stopping, for time never waited for things to occur, so the shirt will be worn so long as the light can’t see the sordid story they might wish to tell.

Oh don’t even get started on the trousers seeing as napkins no not a place when a thigh exists for the milkshake residue left from getting that milkshake too large to finish, but something needed resolution.

They lay there like a series of bodies too wasted to move, pockets filled with moist memories of not remembering what was said.

So laced with needing to forget they act as the home for not needing to exist, cause pockets can hold things indefinitely.

The piles of unmentionables and undergarments too risque, still in pink, purple and paisley, no, never to embarrassed for that.

These were the things that needed cleansing seeing as they’d spent too long always.

Too far from the cooling jet streams of the Raytheon washing machines built from the factories of bombs and ICBM’s, and looking like silos for these weapons of mass dirt ablutions.

They’re all sorted, piled in order of purpose and neatly dumped into the bag, with its elastic band holding the roundness of itself at bay by the pants stacked to straighten the stay.

These are the cloths to take, to absolve them of their sins, as they are taken down the stairs and into the day.
They hold tight as they know they are about to be washed of this wickedness they did not choose.

They did not asked to partake in the ritualistic desensitization.

They did not choose not to be wholly conscious of the good and overly analytical of the bad as to make choices to sedate only the momentary plane of existence while trying to extrapolate how to deal with the rest of it.

Nah, they were along for the ride, what choice could they make, partners in crime nonetheless, the wash will forgive most for their mistakes.

Much like Comstock’s choice, to accept repentance or pretend to be except from damnation, there is evil in neither just regret that hindsight hadn’t come far sooner, reminding the madness its not at all that special. That even a little is too much to to know what everything will become.

But they’ll be forgiven, the soap and suds that’s what they’ll shun.

Load up the car, trunk too small, so stick’em in the back.

The detergents a mother fucker so keep that up front.

Well, that was easy…

It’s raining

$Whats bright might one day illuminate even through refraction of perception.$

Whats bright might one day illuminate even through refraction of perception.

I can’t sleep this evening, rather, early morning. It’s almost 2 and I can’t seem to find it in me to lay down and turn on the fan, since the humidity would just circulate itself.
So the question of trying to sleep it is for the most part out of the question.

There is rain however, the kind that is relentless in its assault on the world outside my window. It has me pondering the thoughts about freedom of choice and if everything is as it’s supposed to, in its right place. Falling vertically as it does, the outlines of the ghosts I greet every morning dance under the embraces of this all too overlooked gift.

A lot has happened in the past few weeks, I’ve lost my mind, found it a couple times, then proceeded to again lose it to fatigue and a self professed fugue state that lasted three working days leaving the days following rather disoriented and full of hope and wonderment for the betterment of mankind. I know that last bit to be a bit of a pipe dream, but I like to believe that the money that I give the beggar in front of the mosque isn’t going to a panhandling scheme, I cannot judge or anticipate, for that is seeing the worst side of one another and not hoping better for the world. But where am I to go when the winds of change are seem to confusing that the Sirens leading me to the rocks don’t even know what time they think would be appropriate to show up and thus proceed to forgo the appointment all together.

This is time standing still in my head as I hope to sort out some words and give them to no one to read. Peer reviewed by the one person who won’t fact check an article about why the article is being written seems like naive response to not caring to put this through a word processor, hoping Google’s language engine has analyzed my keystrokes enough to know I’ll always misspell.

So here I am still writing, mainly because I’ve given myself creative block by making sure that all the parameters for not getting work done are met. Set a goal for whence a task should be completed is basically telling myself that it will never get done and something more important will come along, seeing as it always doesn’t. Make sure these goals are impossibly lofty with no prior full qualifications to complete them, without ample time to prepare and live with the standards and technique necessary for their development, well I’m just fighting with my own will to learn and create. Yep, thats probably why, I just need to occupy something, even this little thing.

It’s 2:10 now, I’ll be up and eating in an about an hour. Trying to hold together a life I’m never sure of anymore, with an omelet and enough water to bloat a sun dried tomato. I’ll still feel ungrateful that I wasn’t able to give more to something besides my perceived humility to the world, and went back to sleep with a full stomach and a job. Why the fuck am I even writing any of this?

Because I’m bored with nothing better to do?
Or maybe I’ve actually lost my mind, in this month, where I’m probably supposed to?

All I know for sure right now, and lets be frank there ain’t much of that a lot, but the things that I can say for sure right now, this rain feels fantastic on my feet. Cooling whatever fire I felt before the chamomile, quelling this nightmare but for a few moments. I’ll be up in a few, with a the same stolid annoyed face no one seems to get is just neutral and nothing personal as my projections upon the world.I won’t he hoping for the good anymore, no, just making sure they know it exists, and they know that what it is.

Love everyone, and everything, always. Dwell on the good, accept the bad, and get off the phones and explore the world around you. Its amazing… Look: a droplet of water slowly sliding off the leaf.

Thanks for reading… if that’s what’s to be done.

Calliope

Breath deep, it’s beauty will not quickly diminish

I was listening to OMN the other day, there is one line of vocals in the entire track, used effectively as a loop that could potentially haunt the listener to the point where its reminder alone can inspire visions too clear to ignore, built of memories, even though they really shouldn’t. “I don’t think I can…” echoes long in the flower fields found in a place that was always there, but never really explored.

Its the little things that we notice when nothings really makes any sense. The little things we shared as nebulous as we could have been, the things that gave us pain– eventually or made our evening with happiness that they existed. The little details that shouldn’t have stood as any consequence, the little factoids about summers, and over sharing about adversities, accepted, but hard as fuck to forget.

The little things that we can’t get over,like the man who watched as the one he seemed to care about the most, wouldn’t look back at him when she got on the boat. How he waited for what felt like an eternity, with a hope filled gusto that just didn’t want to die, just hoping she’d look back, with the gut-retching anxiety that he would never see her again. A glance, the vindication of madness and want, that never came.

They’re usually veiled behind the oppressive nature of society’s collective fear of the dark even though we have one another, and the stars protecting us from above, instead shrouded by light we create to protect us. Alone the dark might scare us only because we don’t know what will come once the light shows us what was there when we wake up, that maybe, it won’t be same again. That maybe our light won’t be enough to illuminate this story about where we might end up. But who can say, as long as we know there can’t be any light but our own, why not just let the darkness take what it will.

The intricate details of intimate timelines of loss and pain, too hard to extrapolate from anecdotes that will never leave the creases of these neural pathways of enchantment and recollection. Too small to make sense outside of those moments in time where they bore themselves somewhere between economics and philosophy. Too complex to hope that simplicity would give clarity to what had washed over, even though it was the most obvious thing ever to have been seen.

They tend to be buried in the memories of utterances through admissions of fear and vulnerability that invariably sound over-zealous when trying to seem naturally aroused. Buried in the moments that ignore the idea that advice about sleep is usually good, but when sight of the present would be lost, so it remained ignored. The treasures to hold dear because things are so transient so prone to be warped and changed, like the charm named after a muse, to inspire even the dead. Aren’t thoughts things after all? Aren’t they just neural links that form with chemical reactions form, so why are about things at all? Why give them the satisfaction of them at all?

Its a question too complex to answer as a human who lives in a world where things are the objects for which we stand true instead of idea’s that last longer, they can’t be held or pay the bills. So we work with little things to get us through this existence, this perpetual grand stand that would confuse living with portraying the idea’s of what we’re told we’re supposed to be.

Old correspondences and one off text messages that haunt the cracks of the technology that couldn’t be affected by the instability of delete. Bleeding into everything there is to do, because the little words were all that needed to be heard, were the words that couldn’t be reset. Looping over and over, the sound waves bouncing around as the rides back home from the noise, were filled with the laughter and hopefully a smile.

It was never the grand standing, ever present fear of loss, or even the fear that unbeknownst to hope things probably wouldn’t work, that could have stopped the sewing needles and intricate crochet patterns from weaving themselves into the fabric that held the truth of being, the truth that cannot have its evidence present in the court of the things that make sense. Imprinted because the editor was given an ultimatum, to make sure the story stood honest, and true of the character that wouldn’t need to be defined, yet willing to accept that maddening pain that would follow the initial feeling.

The little things that hold us together, when other little things would hope to tear apart. The details of a concept not yet fully fleshed out, from memories that won’t fade, even though they were supposed to, as the light of the water crashing down, wondering, what’s going to happen…

Built to burn

The train moved too quickly today. It was as if it knew that there were things to say but it didn’t want to let them come out. To make sure they wouldn’t accidentally drop a word or two about what shouldn’t be. Of the world that once knew that it could recover itself, when it knew the wonders of its own stupidity and sought to fix them by assigning the task to experts who know more than the men before them, but less than the men that came before them. So who to believe?

If history is anything to show, the only thing worth seeing would be the glow of the embers of flames that take down idea’s and crumble the foundations of existence, as only the reality of this game. It is that it’s only fun when the rules are known unknowns with a twist to make sure that no one who ever wants to play knows that the known unknown unknowns should be the only currency for dealing with it. Waxing poetic as Huey Freeman, as though accepting that that pessimistic Bisy Backsons, aren’t the worst thing, but rather the The overindulgent owls of the court who preside over the judge, makings sure the verdict is to keep breaking down and owning more and more to feed the flock they quickly feed on when they see the first sight of blood or the potential for blood.

Humanist’s would hold the belief that humanity is meant to be one, not limited by borders and ideas, but by the experiences that the lives of all would propagate and help plant the seed for the tree, from which the fruit is picked. Consumed, then shown to be nothing more then egotistical self posturing because humanity is too fucked up to do much about unless you care too much about the tree that create the roots for which their ideas stand. Hold strong and don’t fret, there was never much left to lose, but the idea’s fundamental naivety to the fact that everyone is corrupt, and not a soul attempting to find the difference means to do it because its true.

But when built to spot the differences between a leader and puppet, learning that manipulation can be summoned from but an idea that would hold as improbably true, but none the less with value to the puppeteer, the truth becomes clear, backbones are for those that will die. Humans will believe anything as long as nothing else is given for them to understand, life retains simplicity as question are then never really asked or brought up, since they’ve nothing do with their self worth of the idea. So cognition and perception stew in the proverbial cauldron of distortion and chaos, while belief systems are made for those that can’t seems to grasp the notion of the flux of time and the eternal state of content-ness and control.

Built at the precise times that it needed to be built, transmuted into the harbingers of the whatever tomorrow would bring, the scars the pasts that are held so dear, even if their lossless audio drivers maintain that there is a 95 percent degradation in how it gets interpreted, given the appropriate filter anything can sound as if the fate of the worlds words depended on its. Built specifically to the thing that is required to watch the combustion of the worlds as they collapse into themselves and then proceeding to fall out into the dusting of reality that pelts the worlds around them. The monarch flaps its colorful appendages as the youth of tomorrow are ushered into the gale forces of mistrust and acedia, contented to find out eventually that all they really ever were, were the embers of what came before.

Go Do, before the Pebbles get the Better of You.

Progressive Destruction.

I skated today for the first time in my entire life.
That wasn’t at all a false bold proclamation, nor was it conscious felating of my ego for having tried something new. No, I actually felt for the first time in a long time that I was skating for the first time ever.
Ignoring the fact that it was skateboarding that had consumed my life from age 15-18. I hoped on my board today, for the first time in about 4 years. But this time, not concerned with getting from one place to another, or meeting people to skate with to shoot the shit and just watch. Not concerned with making sure I practiced my technique and style in order to give off the impression that I semi-know what I’m doing and that I’m cool. I had experienced it while skating in the past, but I always overlooked it.
Today, I went outside with a feeling in my stomach and a restlessness in my legs, just pushed up and down the block, remembering how to hold my balance as the pebbles under the poly urethane, shook the wood like a fissure concussing itself further into another plate. Holding steady to the thought I had long forgotten, that falling is okay.

Remembering in a hilarious instant that the truth of the matter was, as out of shape as I was back then, when i was just a chubby Muslim kid who didn’t do the bad things and prayed 5 times a day to make sure that I everything wouldn’t go to shit again, because there was finally something good in my life, that I’m the same as I was back then, but just a little more prone to getting winded after spending a half hour trying to remember that ollie’s while moving are a lot harder than kick flips, but eating shit and having the deck fly into knee’s: still feels like getting somewhere.

Beyond that however it brought back a question that festered even back then: “How long can this last?” “How long before I have to grow up to whatever responsibility I’m supposed to take beyond what I already have?” Suffice it to say, I skated for the first time today, knowing, there needn’t be a limit. There needn’t be a time required for something to end because it is thought to be the thing that would end, for nothing really ends. Like a connection to a six layers of wood, six bolts, eight bearings, four wheels, a design manufactured to promote a brand of some kind and adhesive sandpaper that makes the whole thing follow a certain criteria of safety, it is unanswerable to the seeker of the question until they themselves decide that they are done, or when it comes to be that it needs to end to some degree.

I skated for the first time today, not alleviate the urge to skate but because this was the first time I’d pushed down the street, comfortable in my own skin. Comfortable in the idea that, sure, I’m still a big-ger dude, but I can rip better now that I know I’m in control of my body, that I can actually do something other then just push around and practice my technique and hope that hours, weeks, months of pushing around the park where we’d go every time we could, just to make sure that I was keeping afloat with everyone else. I was me again.
I skated for the first time today, and yesterday was international go skate day, and what did I do, go out and not skate. Why, because it was too late, and it’s just not something that I can keep up with anymore, but I still felt an absent bond to it, even through have been separated from it for so long.

June 21st… the first day of summer, here, in the city that made me the way I am where not many of the rules apply as long as you know the where the cops don’t give a fuck, its probably has some other connotations to others, but heavens knows those couldn’t be as important to me.
I had missed skating, just to skate, it was something i hadn’t realized I had done. Just the vibrations of beneath my feet and the ever present sweat drenching me like any high intensity circuit workout would. I could breathe, and these words just came.
Have a wonderful week to anyone reading this, I couldn’t honestly call this rambling, nor could I call it madness, I’d go so far as to say its love, for what I can’t explain, for what’s there and can’t be, never mastered, never conquered, just— Being.

Arts and Crafting for Turtles.

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