"i know what the universe looks like"

he says.

i do too. [dominating the narrative] it's black and crystal and rainbows. a grid, old tv static. pixelated. abstract. and flame blue.

i know what it feels like too. it's the feeling of a warm lick. it's lava rock sticky, gritty, english muffiny. it's our skin touching, soft grass. it's freezing. it's a bullet entering the skin. the slice of a knife, the snap of bone, water rushing over rock, bubbles popping out of a hot spring. it is a tickle.

bodies. insects. lizard skin. music.

it's grief without trying to get away from it. it's reverb. holy shit. endless boredom. shivering. sweat. whisper. the sound of moths' wings and of stone.

yeah so i did see the old man at 8am on a mostly empty street with a razor blade scraping - what is that other other word for unnecessary? - superfluous?* muck off the street poles, as if his civic duty or one remaining purpose. first amusement, then existential funk.

but what i really want to emphasize is, this bullshit has gone too far. power yields only when there is demand. and in the spirit of change, it's all so fkg crazy amazing.

*punctuation. vision. maple fucking syrup.

he sleeps

and the planets are where they are.

if you have a child, it's clearer to know, you create miracles.

i give my love of music to my father's second wife, and to both my first parents, who played piano and guitar, respectively and of their own souls, while i fell asleep in front of the fireplace or in my room. thank you life. musicians. skin. eyes. roberta flack, john prine. beethoven.

patti smith

all the things, the bits of string

crass reference.

you unraveled me and tangled me back up again

washed ashore like a mess of colored fishing line

what is a bundle of string to do, new life, feathers and seaweed all imbedded



memories of the swell

dry

i love the sounds

of TRAP walking by my window.
for a moment i wonder.
it passes.
it's as if it's the eyes, resonating from the heart, turn everything into pleasure or angst, not the thing itself.

fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you

i'm actually really good at integrating

love someone beautiful

it's a quality.

i have this sticker of a quote which says: the beginning of love is to let those you love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our image. otherwise we see only the reflection of ourselves we find in them.

so there's this inquiry about loving and receiving a reflection of love back. and you just know when you love someone for who they are without trying, and the other times when you love your own reflection.

you know what i heard today in a song?

life is a game and true love is a trophy.

fuck that! i want the trophy! i am totally winning.

i have to see the Art in it

we breathe. we sense. we work and strive and relax and ask questions: why am i here? what is it for? if meaning is not to be found in lyrics such as, 'all of us are in the gutter, some of us are looking at the stars;' or 'the reason we're here, as man and woman, is to love each other, take care of each other;' or 'when love walks in the room, everybody stand up;' or 'turn away from it all like a blind man;' then, where is it?
trick question!
breathe, feel, you get all this. i won't stop 'til i feel my heart stop beatin'. repeat. ask. breathe, relax, wonder, poeticize, build, laugh, see, listen, feel. until the end of time.