Beautiful things

When my soul starts growing, when my soul starts growing, I get so hungry and I wish it never would, never would stop growing.

Here is some obsession to mull over.

Above and Beyond

#12. Anaphora

-Talley

Well, that's ridiculous. He's got you. He's got our mother. You'd think that would turn him off the entire concept.

Maybe the reason that people in vintage photographs are never smiling is because they aren't happy.

Some old polaroids from Jaffa, Tel Aviv, and Jaffa respectively.

The Age of Aquarius

There is only one real moment and that is NOW

The past no longer exists and the future does not exist yet

When they did and will, they were and will be the only NOW

Just like this one.

xxxxxxxxx to imagine though

How now will be then and then will be NOW

- the only one.

And when it is

How you might remember imagining this moment

and this how strange that you're there

and its NOW

And it is strange. You'll be

remembering yourself anticipating yourself remembering

yourself. The existent and the non-existent have

switched and the two moments have become

interconnected in the NOW, in your head. All the xxxx

now that came to pass in the xxxxxx xxxx does not have

this connection, its simply gone xxxxxxxx

and unnecessary to take xxxxxx. That xxxxxx

and this is NOW and nothing else matters.

[I found this piece of paper on the ground at a library.

The xs represent words that I cannot read.]

Ghost Horses

#11. Viva la Revolucion

-Talley

We ride tonight.

The power that the internet provides makes us all appear wiser, but in reality it makes us dumber than we really deserve.

#10. A whimsical title, that comes fleetingly; a momentary inside joke shared with myself, describing a feeling of despair.

-Talley

You can tell a lot about a person by looking at their shoes.

three short poems...

1.

style line

develops

envelops psychosis

ra ra richter scale

musky tetanus(quintet)

2.

rivulets of atoms

being taken, not

by gravity, but by

the earth’s levity

toward static joy

with an elephant’s haste, drifting,

swimming, strands spun

by invisible hands

3.

love is the true organic

love is the original organic

abcdefghijktmnopqrsluvwxyz

no rest for the waking

diligence

On second thought, lets not got to Camelot...It is a silly place.

...a long poem.

lurid warm

one morning I awoke to this voice

saying just close your eyes again

those dreams had left me greener

than before

and prayer flags fluttering

tickling my windy self-consciousness

and my transdirection identity was so unsure

but I was sure of the insecure

and I made a wish that maybe;

just maybe...well

maybe Kerouac will tickle my belly

maybe Bukowski will mix me a drink

maybe Mozart will giggle excessively at a joke I make

maybe Thompson will pull me up from the pit,

hand me the gun

and a glass of water to

say sweet dreams

maybe judgment will become awakening observation

and lucidity will become the inbetween

maybe the Reds will become purple

maybe taboos will become tradition and

language will become extinct with linguistic intelligence

some empathies were the origin of cliches

the beads that itch between my skin and musculature,

the space between

(pigments) protein layer color

thousands of frictions and

silver halides compose

light sensitive words

silk lining wool and the

punctured skin of

anthem caked streets,

smiles lining silk veins

and golden years

flaxen tears

windows’ leaden pains watch

through filtration,

outside a masterful architect

knows what to flaunt

and faces inextricably connected faces

yet will not lay eyes upon themselves, the picture

others perceive or absorb

parallel lines walk nonexistent

inbetweens and perpendicular

magnetics arrange our blood

lines like grids that string stars

apart

so weave that picture faster

so it lasts and when your children

wait till the day those manics’

mechanics grow to overwhelm their

slipping gears

they will lay those faces face down

and the ninety degree angles will

puncture here

because you smiled and said cheese

doesn’t mean those thousand

words can bespoken from your mirror mouth

the two thousand mg. in your purse

will never make that date we made

the oxygen leaking out the holes

in your liver won’t tell me about

that friendship you forbade

or those bruises, they can’t converse

the stolen cash, the FBI calls,

the white powder and the post.

because for every g you,

because for every k you knock out

another thousand words

are left out

pleading, don’t

tell me anymore