Friday, April 27, 2012

creativity 1.5


A man enters the barn. Thirteen pieces of silver, a tattered dream, a broken heart, a box full of old bones from another life.  He is about to go to work praying for all the lost souls-trying to define his existence, providing a stimulus and reaction to the real, what he thinks is real omnipotent omnipresent a sense that he cannot escape from. He would say that none of us can escape. Trying to be faithful, he dresses up the dead, trying to make them presentable, declaring hatred the highest form of the hypocritical feeling-the pain within the body of god. Show god your love.

Ernesto hears all the voices of god, those voices that try to do the most, trying to dominate, trying to spread the disease as far  as he can, a religion, a testimony, he hides behind his hat, the patterns of color in his mind, he covers them in a garage sale letters. All over their faces, so many faces, the words do not come together, peeling away the scraps, the yes man haircut waiting on the call from the zombies to sell them shoes.

Ernesto tries not to swivel nor sway, he can only stand, to stand as a man like he was once taught. He sees those eyes watching from the slopes, there is crack in this man's soul, a pale light shines out from it, a rose colored thing that almost seems lifeless, like a just dead or dying thing, a half-life thing, that future oblivion that everyone knows is just around the corner.

The echoes of desire that once called out to Ernesto. He fumbles with them in his feeble hands those instruments that once could do so many things, all about sound and image, the primordial connection to the past, the ghosts that whispers in our ears as we create. Scanning the fields for lifeforms, a long dead shiver,  he recognizes its sound maybe before he even hears it, a premonition, an inkling, a second sight into that world that he eventually will travel to, single and alone, a pawn removed from the board.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Sanskrit handshakes

Sanskrit handshakes

A thousand meteorites
My cheekbones smooth
A woman’s peach
The boundlessness of dirty
Coalesce behind the barn
Succumbing firmament
Squeezing every last drop
Of the principle
Beneath the lens
A spare molecule
Synchronized to the metronome
Tick, ticking, tock
It passes through me
With each strike
The hidden old man
Unwinding the eternal
A dormant advance

Monday, April 23, 2012

Creativity 1.4

she was Lola in white socks, receiving your email and trying to respond, but I got lost she could be you, could be we, and all never was-not now, not ever it was just a big joke to you until she peeled your shin back over the front of your face you were too sensitive, really I never would have guessed that this would be a warning to all the young minds think more than you talk, live before you decide to jump off a bridge Stop putting poisons in your body. That was for the old fucks, a taste for postmodern fiction I don’t know what that means do you can you hear me Do you understand the rules The rules, the rules… “All work and no play” makes Jack Nicholson into a character you can sympathize with One hundred red percent realistic, I made up my mind-red in the head, complicated and hard to follow Kafka with his one hundred chakras, sad demeanor with the shuffling feet, and defeat in bodily form, a metamorphosis Thursday morning, nine in the am, oh my goodness in the morning paper, he wanders from person to person to show off his newspaper article, ignoring that fact that he should be teaching his students how to think,  “god forbid!” the little weasels tearing my flesh on your honeymoon hello sister how are you today one of my best friends and she told her husband  turning them into junkies that is what john Irving said I never would have said the options there are no options I am not bring you options I am not your waiter so do not speak to me I’m still waiting for your dream voice mixing the alcohol with the downs might have been a mistake you think about it and get back to me in 100 words or less a conversation we have or should have had I don’t know I don’t remember what she wants how to think god forbid you and I need so many things connecting one piece to another I made the cocktails and I made the sandwiches surprised and kind of embarrassed Zelda was the first reader living in the US as a stranger it was because of that strangeness observing people and the world out jumps the frogs from the airplane I couldn’t stop and again with this Dostoevsky thing first Miller then Murakami the conspiracy goes on and on

Friday, April 20, 2012

creativity 1.3

The skull laughs at him. The world is filled with laughter and those making videos on the internet, forms a cavity for the brain slipping through cracks and portals, a second moon, another world, another dimension it stands for the question, the one that has ran away from your brain looking for the woman you have lost. She exists in this other world it could be purely illusion. We all escape into another world from time to time. It is ok to let go and relax, let your mind go. There is always the possibility that you could become lost forever. We are all a little lost. Once you have crossed over the surface of an unknown asteroid it might be possible to reach the unknown. You are speaking of being tossed; you are a tossed salad, a flag or a beach blanket, a bouncing ball. Which one is you? Are you behind door number two? Are you in a play ground with virtual guarantees? Have you been given time to grow? Hear the ghosts of cats and crows-the most experimental controversial contemplative reflective refractive light source, pontificator of the highest honor and of a sound mental beating. You are bloated and puffed up beyond recognition, you inhabit the labial zone.  “Seek and ye shall find.”  A brown mouse broken and betrayed, being of two minds left brain and right brain on the world’s stage.  “Hark who goes there!”  It might be a ghost of our king and then we have more blunders, more lies, more cock waggling in the face of democracy. This is an allegorical world constructed from your childhood symbols. Moon pie is surrendering to the phalanges.  That is right honey; I take all the words out and make them more real for you. Any way, you can cough and scratch and run up the stairs spinning around.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

creativity 1.2

We wrapped her in cellophane and sold her as a piece of meat, a utopian influence reading karl marx and polishing the bullets. A revolution of the working class to deconstruct the machine and then we discover that we have a profound love for the machine putting it back together replacing the chains on our hands, praying for the singularity gas chamber-paris dada-the first heavenly adventure with the queen and a stacked deck of cards. Her panties are around her ankles exposing us to her mesmerizing capabilities. She speaks to the dead stagnation of the movement as the tea party circles their wagons for their cookout on wall street pissed off that they did think of it, gibberish is what we bank on, secured loans that are no longer secure and we want our armies to be efficient killers. Tristan and the bear are dancing on the mountain the old man in his fur coat, as we wind up the electric car, it goes “chug, chug” and puffs a little smoke. Leo where did you go when your country needed you? The most the bearded heart tool time juxtaposition a former student in abstract art, nothing is again our call to moon beams and the electric shackles of industry and promised promiscuity that we dream of in our childhoods of masturbatory highlights-“click, cluck” chicken hot dogs- eat them with a “high five” tooth missing grin.  Lolita with the brown skin and a bicycle ride into the west don’t make this your bible date intervenes on Humbert’s behalf and shares none of his interests. Running away, the hero is beset by reflections focused only on the suffering and despair-metaphorically Herman creates Drustanus from the abbey of Saint gall castle dore and tau cross the bull of the Egyptians francis of Assissi, a personal coat of arms, advent and pope innocent-such a silly name to leave behind you as you walk away into the darkness into the abyss and strangle the lonely crocodile removing the thorn from the lion’s paw.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

creativity 1.1

It was over by 1922, the standards were thrown out the windows along with the leaping men, leaping frogs, and leaping dogs. Everyone jumped up at once and time was reset to your clocks. We included you in our public gatherings-groups of surrealism and pop art punk rock. The purpose was to ridicule your need to follow the rules, your need suck on society’s cock. We represented the opposite: a phenomenon bursting forth; a work of destruction and we begat a monster and a savior a moral and economic crisis lay waste everything to the path. Everything has become the victim of sacrilege as if it really does exist-nothing exists; we are nothing; you are nothing-nothing rules. You say there are absolute truths but that is just bullshit, you live to spread your fucking bullshit, petting the cat with the big teeth, hugo ball “karawane” (nonsensical words),  samy rosenstock, the gas heart handkerchief of clouds, razor blade jackals, dancing penguins, the approximate man-humanist and serving as a spell, a brief moment in time as the world spins and you consume more bullshit to pacify your feeble brain; entertain, dance you bears, dance as we play the music. When the music stops we will kill you just like before. It doesn’t matter nothing matters not even your cell phone bill and the balance on your credit cards.