So again I speak for myself, and on behalf of my practices… the art of
what? is not exactly essentially known to any one particular individual,
is the twist always something stronger than that which presses us into
line in the first place… a creepy synchronicity feeling its way through
the tense atmosphere of the pulsating real not aware of the chilling
skill with which it all moves into place begging the question of
existing at all… mirrored by differences so similar to each thing as
itself… bandwidths and wavelengths, parallels and perpendiculars, waves
and particles… one and the same begging for understanding, to be
understood, and always by the other ones like itself asking the same
question in offset timing structures… creating a particular harmony
through dissonant details splashing without the idea of direction…
ringing to drive out the demons, thrilling beneath the skin, and
syndicated throughout the perilous world of sticks and stones and broken
bones… the pools of blood feed the plant life, and our own thoughts
plunge further through space, splashing against the page… like everyone
else craves the strange to break themselves away from stage of the
eventual existence… including the brave, it takes them in waves, by the
dozens to make it swirl together in violent colors before it fades…
where is the canvas? the backdrop plays, the crowd softly whispers to
themselves, the elements align as the room darkens slightly… without a
doubt, the fierce and untrained mind has seen a light, and it lights up
bright tropical skies… rough passages from one moment to the next as the
voices ring through our heads… thought a lot about nothing and inane
actions in the week of “bliss” and blistered lips, what topical
solutions we find Here, but is it left for an untrained eye like me?
dropping the pocket and the balls for all to see, and panic of wet floor
gripped me straight, from worn off pain to riding planes… the nothing I
thought about was the nothing accomplished, a regained essence of life
as the tourist eyes replaced my own, and the windows watched reached
stumbling in to teach… a guide through penetration, first days end
quick, and then the sober sick brain inhales escape… the new patterns of
another powerful culture has settled into vision, assimilated
transfiguration and transformations through sun and shore, and ocean
floors explored giant cruise ships leaned… the gift of flesh, my mind as
the fly, and lurid maggot lying there stares long and hard at bodies
unaware… nothing really new just many other points of view to spew upon
the lessons learned of, though I still don’t know what was the end
result of all that drinking religiously, except for that ‘serial biting’
incident… the rhyming is the reason that all this comes together with
craters and wedges, the cheeses from the buffets, and all-inclusive
jargon thrown astray… the six of us, as we all seemed to travel in a
pack, toured the fairest island close of all… the classic trust of the
familiar rusts and withers as it stays just arm’s length out of
distance… out of focus in the hocus-pocus rhetoric, seasickness and
Spanish language abound, and then the usual tricks again swirl around…
what souvenirs are left us besides our stories witnessed, and the gifts
we have kept with us, but something other than the decadent positions…
of surface glimmers like the tans, the burns, the blistered exceptions
that shimmer as we see them in our mind’s eye projected… what forgives
us these qualities?
Thanks, khet.
