If you can say anything,
Why not make it rhyme?
Or disguise it’s meaning
Like the passage of time.
Do you dream about your mind
In any other time?
When we knew the omens and inscriptions
Before we were Romans and Egyptians.
In the time before our names were who we are
From looking both upon and from within the stars.
When did we eschew?
The wind that brought us news,
The morning dew,
And told us what to do.
You crown my experience
I am not worthy of your aura, superior
You lost warrior, you lover, you fighter,
I am down to prostrate, another
Recover, on bended knee
Discover my brother
Step to the outside of the outside
Release your dreams in blues and greens
Wave-off wave upon wave of soldiers
Doing what they told us…
The swirling, shifting sands find fulcrum
And sea-saw balance lies within those tides
A strange, finishing wind feeds the fires
And inspires the cold currents to coax
New-born heat from beneath her deep
Where instantaneous peaks will one day meet
Our grandfather’s shining insemination;
What souls we have exist as quicksilver within our hearts that forms a triskelion
And orients these ridiculous vessels to the true-north of the patterns within the mystery.
Don’t be ridiculous
HE never existed ‘cause
If HE had, HE would not be like us
And HIS friends would be furious
And instead of so populous,
HIS father would have returned us
What could all this meaninglessness mean?
Must we make up stories to justify and explain it?
Or could it be that we have forgotten our own, better stories
Which has led to all of this meaninglessness.
All around me, people are trying to worship a ghost,
That, mixed with the prizes of misery and death.
Is that crazy or is it me?
They know nothing of devotion, for their lives in no way reflect the life that was,
Might have been, so instead they focus on death.
The teachings are as dead as the man.
Reduced to words because through a lack of practice, aka devotion, they have been forgotten. Atrophy due to lack of use.
All of this death creates a culture that ensures a supply of it’s progeny combined with suffering and spiritual extinction.
Different versions of a contemporaneous evolution are witnessed everywhere
Among the devotees of nothing.
We traded our great stories for those of division.
Instead of worshipping the unity of all life through the focus of love,
Some of us decided for the rest of us to follow a few different dead men,
Whose ideas may have been great,
But they never really caught on, failed to manifest themselves into life.
Perhaps they were too much for us, too lofty,
Perhaps it’s not our fault at all.
So all we are left with is death.
Growth always comes with it’s own pain.
There is a balanced proportion to this relationship.
Panglossian, tacit support is a choice.
Change requires involvement.
Fuck my super-ego (FMSE), this is my involvement.
Do the hypothesized, self-imagined, hard-working, decent people
Ever give money to politicians?
Is this the same thing as tithing televangelists?
What does this signify, what does it take the place of, what does it offset?
What am I missing?
I am just trying to help.
Religion is the domain of weakness,
Where you check your spirituality at the door
And receive in exchange a blueprint of fear.
Where you substitute courage, individuality, inter-dependence and independence
For ignorance and mediocrity.
Change the rules,
For they are self-imposed.
*calm down hater-dorks, it’s called artistic license
I am become the pink devil.
The foolish dancer,
a walker on a tight-rope stretched between ridiculousness
and meaningless chaos.
Balanced between hopelessness
and a will to spite.
I am an enormous,
shining beacon of energy, spirit and light.
And so is fully every other being and presence
to have ever found existence.
Questioning the reasons behind colors
The meanings of music and the feeling of love.
Why can’t I
Paint my butterfly?
Should the salty sea, so dry
Like you or I
Refuse to die?
Take the weight
Of time from the starlight
Of this night.
Dream as if to seem
The how and why of you and me.
The way we choose things and outcomes by our nothingness should remain an mystery to no one.
Don’t yell for help
You’ll be yelling to the some of them
You’re running from
You’ve tried to hide
The traps too big
You’re hiding on the inside.
We all have to play
But all that praying gets in the way.
Don’t be that way.
Just go along with it
Please just deal with it
Live to see another day.
We can’t know
But only bring how we’re feeling,
Good, bad or interesting
The universe recycling.
Stick around, it may.
It may, it may, don’t be in your own way
Don’t let the fear get you
I am alone on the island now, exactly where I want to be
Fire your weapons and hurl your insults
You can not hope to touch me.
And your skirmishes and rhetoric and religion
They’re really all the same thing.
And your sickness and hunger and hopelessness
Can not be all thats happening
Could be whats kept from happening
Is what we make it happening.
So I am alone on the island now
With no one to bug me, just me, judge me
And only one thing to concern me
What is happening to that sea?
There is a debate, ongoing and organic, that posits the question of whether ‘things’ are getting worse over time. Subjectivity notwithstanding, are they better or worse than they have ever been or do they instead go back and forth between dark age and golden era? My own answer and intuition is based on a powerful and simple equation, being an American moron, and to unlock the mystery of the quotient (Plant), divide the estimated human population from any time for which that is reasonable and feasible, by the number of divisions present within that time, be they tribal, political or religious. This should yield a happiness ratio, illustrative of the relative ‘goodness’ of human existence. So, based on that logic, things are great, better than ever and will continue to improve without abatement or correction indefinitely. Hooray.
A tired mind is hypnotized,
Remembering only fuzzy,
Geometric patterns of black glass
Only slow descent,
Back to stubborn unkindness
What is heard is the big lie of silence
Ringing, humming, droning, drumming
Regurgitation of the ugly soundtrack of doing
…In the white world, you can have any and all of the stuff you want. You just have to sacrifice your spirit for it. The greater the sacrifice, the more stuff you can get. Yeah, you see it now…you see yourself in there. Don’t lie. In the world of the human-beings, alluded to often but mostly forgotten, its the opposite. You must sacrifice your stuff. In this sense/world, ‘spirit’ may be substituted for life-force or simply life. In this world, need and possession have not met.
Conservative thinking, again don’t lie, is both a synonym for and evidence of a dead or dying spirit. The only sure way to tell where you are is to honestly asses your personal desire for escape. Is freedom really what you want? C’mon, don’t lie. Or is it more and/or better stuff?
Your president knows that the machine must be lubricated with blood and no longer needs to sell the change. May we reap what we sow.
Bippo Arnez is;
1). No longer interested in your rigidly defined, tired-ass bullshit reality.
2). Waiting for the time between your earliest convenience and when you arrive at my location to solve my problems for me.
3). Gone, and not coming back.
4). Sardonically using tumblr to show you the last four or five words alluded to previously in 1).
5). Aware of how few people are listening/paying attention to what he has to say.
6). Satisfied to wait impatiently for alien abduction, the oracle, or armageddon.
It is just as unproductive and pointless to write for no one else as it is to write for everyone possible, or the ‘lowest common denominator’.
I hereby conclude that the issue of who the audience is should be resolved once and for all, and for all concerned (by this I most likely refer to myself alone): the audience should consist solely of the voice within my head, and within your head, and within everyone’s head throughout time.
This voice is called different things, and is thought to mean different things, but it does not. It has been termed Spiritus Mundi and the voice of god. These are but names and labels and are thus superficial and necessarily represent an agenda.
What is important and significant here is what joins us, not what divides us. The fact that we all have (normal humans…, bear with me here) this voice and always have as far as we know, is what matters. What various individuals or groups have chosen to call it, and the reasons behind why they have made those choices is what does not matter.
It is this presence, a very real, identifiable and universal entity that I endeavor to write to and/or for. Unlike myself and my readers (arguably one and the same), it is in my estimation that this is the only audience that is truly worthy of gifts real or imagined.
Weathered oak and dappled morning sunshine
creating prisms on wet grass
Moon-lit heat making melons sweet
Hunting owl calls out secrets;
the gifts of abandoning possession
do not come cheap
should be seldom is
Solitude behind my eyes
only for one instant;
frozen flames of swimming suns
broken, baking, bleaching sea
Winds of change blow
sands of time
run out the clock on
pigs and cockroaches
Wait for something less
Search for annihilation
Focus on where you are looking
Become freedom as thought travels backwards
Light becomes memory
Sight becomes prayer