Archives for posts with tag: written

I suppose that this is different, that this is right,
        that this is real…
                I suppose that I am, too —
                        complementary and walking,
                                still mending my
                                past due shoes
                                and eliciting
                                cries over
                        what color to paint
                                them (again),
                                        times-two.
                I walk further out and
                        change my mind mid-
                                sentence, stepping further
                                        and sooner than before
                                        and mimicking a
                                                past like a
                                        circumspect beginning
                                                and my favorite
                                                        few words,
                                                        spelled differently.
                                And like my hand reaches for
                        a “time” to call closer,
                                I resist the pull from within
                                        and remark that my
                                                hands are freer
                                                        than blue winds.
I am let go (dropped the call),
        and set inside for safe keeping.
                I wait alone, awhile, for a new shake —
        for something to move me
                                another step
                                        to make me follow through.
                                I change into a view, a
                                        disguise and shadow
                                        the boxer, the player
                                                in the games.

Advertisements

My heart tries (in feeble attempt) to write itself down —
        to express with mere words, my only sanity — this belief,
                this love, this art, this practice. So, with compliment,
                        I retire to the sea and watch the waves
                                and time slip by…
                                        I feel out my “ancestors” — my
                                                reign, my “roots” — am I
                                                        tied?
                                                                I think not.
I think not of stupid things and meditate on nothing. I write
        emotions and feelings that bubble up and change course
                over a “moment” — across borders, la frontera
                        etc. etc.
        I value my “freedom”/responsibility to choose and act
wisely — with grace and intelligence; carefully. I feel out
        my better steps and pay no mind to false critics who
                think they may judge the value of my work —
                an extension, like an arm, of my being here.
        At present, I am reminded of how I began, as things
                end and “time” is seemingly more concrete,
                        more like ice — susceptible to wear, but
                                fragile, broken, and never there…
                                        nothing to depend on.
        I buy books because they are blank.
I don’t read books because they are empty inside.
        I write and paint and draw “now” because it is natural
                like breathing — a new sense that I am exploring.
        My favorite words begin and end in the same sentence —
they are concise and brief — simple, yet strong.
        My favorite song is slow and melodic.
                My time is not wasted on fools or dream-
                        thinkers.
                        Dreamers are actors who believe in beliefs —
                in what they see, how they feel, and history —
                the way things are.
Dreamers are false idols.
        Anything that can be seen, touched, or tasted —
        sensed, is false — truth cannot be sold, bought,
                held, or forgotten; known or forgiven — or
                        given, like in a book or inherited like a
                                strong nose.
My ancestors gave me false starts, but maybe I was one
        of them, on a a slave ship, out in the fields —
                freezing, thawing, working, dying.
And now what?
        How am I different? What is different?
What has changed?
        My heart still beats boldly, strangely, desperately
                for freedom
                        and my mind still allows for control —
                who am I?
        And why, oh why, am I here — as a reminder that
                I am no longer? Or as a symbol
                        of temporary form — of dying and
                                death?

I visit my past and write toward my future —
        a love letter at last given,
                my fortune taking toll and assessing
                        this condition.
I value my sentiment and challenge this
        rehearsal,
                like a drum, beating —
        a system chanting —
                I change my mind like you or
                        your hats.
I visit trusted angles and sail
        past the meridian —
        selling eagles and visiting
                scriptures, passed.
I visit your bald eagle
        and say that we are 1.
I value my sentence
        and recreate my own dreamland
                in your hand.
I imitate said reasons like myself,
        chanting.
I reach under the
        stairs and select
                a new disc
                        that will change me,
                                myself and this rule.

Scanned sketch-ness from my moleskine volant.  <333

IMG

something (now) greater than these two: love, freedom. what does that entail? ending: begin here, now. just as these words freeze, emit: transcendent phrases, now pulsing, freely. i have nothing before, i have no ties to this land, this memory or this place.
instead i am free ember, burning, racing – changing now to a wall following wall – a birth of common progress, now understood. this is something that seems existential (more real than flowers, purposefully) – this is why i reside, undetermined and now changing.