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.

goodness vs badness

goodness vs badness
is the subject line in so many stories USAmericans tell one another, its the backdrop for the narrative tales that thread in and out of the jacks in the boxx the seven elevens the cvs walgreens white hens laying eggs on your bank account until they fall below zero and then get egg in your eye so all you see in your cloudy mirror you clean without windex but some substandard nonglass cleaner maybe with bleach cause you maybe are white and privileged and lazy like so many are once they reach that place of certain control and power... until they get undertowed away for having worn the boot too long for having basically anchored themselves in one place that has become so comfortable a locus where from all their lofty semideas can truck over their under inferieures who  bend over forward or backward or side to side just to hide their true feelings toward someone not quite befitting the mantle of boss... on the balance sheet of life its quite clear their eggwhites of eyes register the very zero so many are fearing and steering as far clear of as may be consciously possible. who knows where the unconscious is going sometime, personal or collective. its what makes life interesting though, isn't it? what makes truth actually truly stranger in many many ways than what we might invent. if we are no good for nothing loser unemployed poets and self-actualized and optimized daily with new vegan recipes of cost cutting and paper saving, earth focused animal-friendly and rather fascinating as a bonus, right? yeah. that must be what people think of me, too. whooooo! good night everyone! xo

perpetrates the sanity

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 Preface

from the cutting room floor, circa 2009 …  my fresh falling in love with some guy who could give a shit. or so time told.

love on the auction block like a craigslist listing ripe now 5 days old

with a buy now option but still got killed. Witnessed by the watchers

left with some sadsong ebay email says

“ unsold ”

in boldface arial black

indeed. love ran the sword.  all she got was an epitaph written by anonymous lover who knows who:

here love resides. emotional low succeeded by rising titrated high tides.  love of the sunset tapers. The mad red sunrise. rarely unremarkable. love hurt… mad love… had heart

 

The dreadlocks were thick and held by

                                     silver and gold rings in various outcroppings from

                                  his nappy nappy

                                                 pretty head

            caribbean foundation put a smile in his eyes, she saw. Must have seen him six different ways since

sunday...

                                       Rolling up on

a week of conscious contact between them.

deuces wild.

 

She was trying for

she was crying for someone to love and love her for her by her stand by her aliven her. Like wild. Like aces and deuces wild.

He just let her see and touch

this gorgeous napped out unmapped out

dreadlocked mess!

                            She smiled to find coins and precious uncommon keepsakes clasped around them

Some maybe placed years back and now immovable. Run freely up and down then found roots somewhere

an oily fresh weave? on highway eight or four? Out in unincorporated Martinez or Pacheco? circa 1988.... escaped from NYC – land of love and hate.           

                               She imagined

           what was clear to her was that this man this young man

he had been loved!  yes! Once was loved and hey!maybe many times who knows and theres no asking!

She suddenly felt hope! for him for her with him. She was suddenly struck with it. Just some light manicuring to take the edges off one another, just some light shown there in that puzzle piece place of connection. She felt.

From her shoulders

from her retinas

From her self less got lost into him. By route of Spirit on backs of roads to fields of velvet folds.

 Letting herself walk out there

was wondrous

was easy

was a world she would soon pray to have a place in

2…

 

Way 2 much invested 2 soon

it sadly seemed.

What was new?  4 her? – NOTHING! so easily sized up triple beamed and tared. known quantity.

weighed out. untouched. bagged. distributed.

 

Cold contact titration

lacking any sensation

just a feeling washed up on your shore

a feeling which was her.

 

And he like so many b-4 him

chose to taper against her written script...just short of doctor shopping, truth be told. Or he was shopping elsewhere all along.

Her prayers to be let in got laid out cold T-boned

The physics the physical force and subsequent distance was atomic - too great 2 overwhelming for her to bridge. wounds came to be she could not close.

She was left desperate to throw up a sign now and then to remind him she got real estate, damn it! They got real estate!

 

So it seemed so soon she needed help and she knew it, he knew it, she fell to her knees crying with

the 222222222222222222222 repitition

in her lonely little aftermath space always reserved for her lonely little inconsolable

singular bedhead.

Her body her new jersey skin

pale white in the winter

coffee and cream colored in the summers

her flesh and her skin touched only by

                                          held only by

                                                known only to her

Again 

against that dark world all around her.... the cruel world!  perpetrates the sanity it does yes it does.

Her defenses now beleaugered once ran deep to stave, to hold the world off or at some distance so she could breathe at least

at last

 Yet the dreads! the dreads hung fresh and dry in her mind, her heart felt through the touch! the heart! felt the touching!

heartfelt and touched by

the symbols! the language of the diverse weaved into a bond impenetrable,  long long grown to let the world and everyone in it know not to --

Don't fuck with! this certain rooted element certain divine in the end not for her other than to witness see and touch.

Best of times she thought, how lucky her lucky star lucky day to lie around lazy with young punk rastafarian lineage? take a load off and get listless in the aftermath the postpunk postatomic posthypnotic stonewalled cellphone called up immediate microwaved and you better behave cause the walls are so thin all the sound is free to get down and move around and then – well then you have your rights, ya, your right to remain silent and have anything and everything held against you like a cold blade to your neck when youre getting jacked up.

its fucked.

Anyway, back out in the sun after she ran from Fascist Alley, she found hella wisdom on Broadway. All condensed and rolled up tight filaments.

Zipped. Charged with unusual science

undetectable to the ordinary pre-eminent usa-usamericans steady eyes. Left then right. First, second, open and aware sensing. Lawns outdoors. Rinsing. Into streets with real curbs detailed with clear arches. Roman tribute. Tricked out by fast food monsters. Golden arches. Hit the streets universal. Sore to the eye and unnatural. Comparable to some bdsm sanctioned Golden plastic showers. Theatrical.

 

Where she remained was

in her prayers in her dreams in what was left of memory

mixed with childlike imaginations...

Fit to be and possibly, fifty one fifty, for all anyone knows or even cares.

Nothing reflects on her. Embedded in the fearful lacking

loss of shine

her over time daydream remembering overshadowed eventually...embedded in the dreadlock. Hoping for a key.

Embedded in the dreaded nightmare location. Where love has run the sword and not yet quite arisen.

Sky without sun

Earth without trees.

                                           fin

this loves for real .no stopping. all green some whole some lights

fuck I have been cold. I have been frightening cold, I have. until some small smile some sarah somewhere in this place post punk and petrified with perfect well wishing winning new paradigm nod to the North. if north is astral. if north is known by certain colors that stand out like a football I mean soccer jersey that’s brilliant yellow lighter than gold yet darker than lemon and loved even lusted after between air steam rising top of the crucial team consciousness on soft ground with soft ball and hard hand shakes the rising roof of random screaming. a world of color. a world of meaning. for most this was not so. but they backed on the tidal wave like the undertow. the passion of the few was where was sourced there you know. the masses go and they flow. the masses go with the flow with the go with the flow. sometimes this was impressive. other times stupid. because one circled roped in focus can distract from well you know, the life your wife around you. your son who packs a gun. and maybe boy or maybe girl, the foil wrapped careful cut icebergs or powders or icicles or dubsides, come half baked with home fries. for the waiting guys waiting sometimes impatient waiting. sent. sent by that curiosity fills the soul. kills some whole.  just before  the - you don’t know now you know - part. the grow on your street that your feet touch and meet there. pavements so hard. killed fred astaire. or would had he if he had only. like no bread, just bologna. with capers and mozzarella, white wet from the homeland. alive and kicking. kicking down the doors to taste buds. touch memory deeper than sentimental songs, you know. by heart. don’t start, ‘cause I’m not finished, …