Passion is a dagger in the heart of a cynic.
Toward a greater identity, you say.
Ha, lifeless drones can’t comprehend the magnitude of a spiritual upbringing.
Humanity quells all fears, yet politics throw absolutes into squalor.
Fuck them. Speculation falls into tar pits and degrades into history.
Launch thought through unbridled optimism and see where it gets you.
A hell of a lot further than your reactionary bigotry.
Benefit those who tell you that a living consists of undeterred servitude, because you see into the reasoning that drives their rationale; when you take your opportunities to advance the ever-loving system that they claim to have perpetuated, you undertake the responsibility of pulling the burden of human perpetuity to the necessary climax. You throw it over your shoulder and smirk as they review your handiwork. The lack of understanding is perturbing, but your passion propels you to the next thing as the preconceived rulers dwell upon the variables that accommodated the last revolution’s momentary success.
Make up situations and watch them fester in corners where little Billy dumped his dead frog last summer and Jill took that old spoiled yogurt and threw it in disgust and it splattered on her face and got in her eye and she began to cry–not because she had stinging culture in her cornea, but because her dad left the house that night and didn’t come back. It wasn’t his fault, the F-150 behind him was going 50 in a 35 and turned around to look at the girl with her chest touching her neck just long enough to fly out the windshield as he connected with the trunk of a midsize sedan which in turn lost its bearing and hit a light pole, taking out the left side in the snap of a finger.
Laugh at the endeavors of a poet. They’re too idealized, infantile, idiotic, idiosyncratic to be real and applicable in our modern society of vast civilization and designed scarcity (not to mention obsolescence). A word will change with its people, a poet will laugh at those people in a different language.
Laughing through words proves difficult most times, unless a kindred spirit laughs along at the farce that was invented when the ones who held all the wealth decided that distributing these valued materials across hordes of commoners would immortalize the innovators of the shackling system; those benevolent givers still have their faces on dirty coins today, unseeing and ignorant to the ridicule they’ve imposed upon their children.
Temporary insanity paves the way for innovative dramatizing, and the function of all those waves colliding seems to be inextricably linked to the number of molecules contained within one jar of honey. A single jar is all it takes to begin a revolution, though often times it’s shattered and gouged in a counterproductive manner. Why we must take two steps backward after a step forward still eludes me, though I suppose we like to hunt those impossible answers and pretend that the horizon holds them all, a wall of color that dissipates and leaks inspiration when you get nearer (but holds answers like a sieve holds water), lifeblood for the essence of creativity; infinite and intangible yet tantalizingly exhilarating.
I may have to make wallpaper with this type of pattern.
That’s it for tonight. Y’all’ve been swell.
Can you find the two ends of this line? I made them fairly obvious if you know what to look for.
If you can stand to follow them, be my guest. Start from one end and see if you can reach the other.
I call this one Beltway because it was the first word that came to mind.
It’s on an 11×14 sheet in a snazzy sketchbook.
Pardon the low-quality file and strange lighting and weird shadows.
I won’t complain if you don’t.
Honestly, if I start to upload things this way, you’re going to get sick of my drawings.
Not because of the image quality, but because of the frequency of those uploads.
I doodle a lot. On a lot of different things.
Well, I hope you don’t (whoever you are).
This drawing reminded me of a shrub or topiary. Then I realized my affinity for our leafy friends. I’m going to keep that idea in my head when I draw, so as to structure my compositions while remaining spontaneous.
If that makes sense.
I guess the drawing doesn’t always have to be framed perfectly so long as it’s able to be seen.
I take for granted the beauty of imperfection,
And I wish I had more patience with myself.
That being said, this is a big step.
Temporal archaeology discusses the cosmos,
dissecting, directing and flooding our circuits
with a panoply of round figures destined to intimidate
and eventually sink into their built-up condominiums.
Sheep lift their heads as the grass ripples.
Flanking the misogynistic brooch is an insecure medallion,
gaudy, cumbersome, more valuable than it’s worth.
Do I hear an opening bid?
I most certainly don’t.
Well people, I don’t much blame you. These things are hideous.
But in all seriousness, let’s give it the old college try.
Save the Volcanoes can really use your generous donations.
Honestly, you can buy this set and toss it in the trash for all I care.
Come on, all I need is one bid.
Oh I see, anyone who would commit funds to these atrocities is worried
that they’re doomed to never live it down in their social circles.
You’re all buffoons.
I’ll just buy them for five bucks so we can get on with the auction.
Sold to the man with common sense for five bucks.
Half a heifer to the man who can provide the whereabouts of the golden sombrero.
Okay then, a quarter heifer to the man who can muster the courage to admit his pigheadedness.
Okay then, an eighth of a heifer to the man who can swim to the bottom of this lake and retrieve the gumball machine I carelessly tossed in a bout of sugar rage.
Okay then, a sixteenth of a heifer to the man who can stand on one leg for more than five minutes without breathing.
Okay then, a thirty-second of a heifer to the man who can shave his armpit hair and refuse to scratch the area until it’s fully grown again.
Okay then, a sixty-fourth of a heifer to the man who can tell me where the closest diner might be.
Okay then, I’ll keep the heifer and you all can go to hell.
Grammar means no stammers or howling uncle slippers,
unless you count the wreckage burnt by eager melodies.
Even so, the palatable few cease whacking at the weeds
long enough to marvel at what happened to free orthodontia.
Gnaw forever on that single thought and you’ll lose recognition
as the first bold scoundrel cheap enough to glimmer at the sun.
Groom sparse cabin cloth inside a robin’s egg.
Before the rain diminishes and leaves a puddle here,
I’d like to let it swirl around, become a memory
of hamster balls and chimney sweeps, beholden to their work
atop the food chain, hesitating, bitter and obscure.
Something told me you were here;
I doubt it nevermore.
A thicker wheeze ensconces me before I blow my nose
and rectify my nasal flow to where it used to be
I sneezed then.
Something told me snot was green;
I doubt it nevermore.
Tethered pistons yelling grief and gilded tattered fungus chips
elementary linkage, smartly aligned and chopped through the useless night.
These are the loftier goals of our people, healthy and vigorous ones,
the tumbling hasn’t left our eyelids, if we’re lucky we’ll catch a cold.
Outwards and progressing, starboard forward and sandpipers running
softer climes, where skinny legs won’t be lapped with briny foam.
Timid clicks, the endless game without objective never loses its thrill
loveliest, simplest, most fragile spirits, visiting us just for the sunset.
A tapioca polar bear approached me Easter morn
and told me I had leverage within this golden arch.
I took the time to recognize that polar bears can’t talk,
but this one shrugged and passed me by, aware that I would trail.
So he and I approached a cave, uncommon in that place.
He bade me: “sit and light a fire, your thumbs are magical”.
I laughed and got some kindling out, but lit the tinder first.
He went into a hiding place and found his finest catch.
We ate like kings; I let him have the lion’s share of fish.
“My stomach’s smaller than my hands, and not as magical.”