Accomplishments can always be replaced
with better ones;
Display your art to inspire yourself
and still it reaches us all…

Screaming in orgasmic child’s play,
focused, watching the world
while the sad clown smiles
and you would notice if you would turn
and look at him closely

Notice how dreams and imagination,
all the tops of their heads removed,
air out the space for ingenuity

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The writer’s bloc arrived in him subtly, without notice.  He felt like he was accomplishing something, he was moving at a good pace in life (just a few weeks ago, the pages flew by) and now he was staring blankly at the world and at the blank page which was a metaphorical middle finger from all the great writers of the past, from his own upbringing and even from the near-empty book he was facing.

He had finished writing his first full-length book a few weeks ago, the same time when the slow drip of the scribe’s morphine began dripping.  But, I just finished my first book, he thought.  I have accomplished a lot, especially for myself.  Why can’t I just relax?

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“I can’t reach.  I am too short,” said the giant dressed in all yellow.  “You are going to have to help me.”

“But I’m just a kid,” she exclaimed, amused, confused!

“I know.  You are bigger than me, stronger…think you’re up for the job?”

So, she pursed her lips, scrunched her eyebrows, furrowed the forehead and became quite serious.  “Hrumpf” was all that came out of her little body…and then she began to grow.

“That’s it,” the gentle giant said softly to her.  “You understand.”

She stretched her arms out, then up, spread her fingers…

“Good…Good…That’s it…Keep Going…”

And as her neck got longer, the bubblewrap in her spine tickled her with a Pop Pop Pop Pop and she giggled out loud, “I’m doing it!  Look At Me!”

af

(written with pen on paper)

He killed himself
His breath and his voice rang violence in his head
so he held them both still
until they stopped trying to escape.

He was stuck in thoughts,
which often spiral until they latch like moss on all
the necessary synapses;
And all fungus will continue to grow until scraped off from doubt.

He heard the sound of his hilarity
and loathed it
revered by some
but annoying to others who mattered most
who were standing by when the cameras stopped.

How difficult it is to live feeling laughed at rather than with.

af

(written with pen on paper in memory of…)

It was how she said “Thank You.”  She said, “Yea, I’m really excited,” the other woman replied, “I’m really excited for you,” and then she uttered that “Thank You.”

She was grateful.  Her entire body was grateful.  Her voice was a petite expression for how grateful she was for every moment within every moment in her life right at that moment.

She said it and it reminded him of his ex, the way she was too young to just be herself, her off-centered societaly-crazy self.  And so vulnerable to the love of others that, if she had said that very same Thank You, her eyes would have quiver as well having never expected anything for her life in terms of love and gifts…

I have been sealed symmetrically perfect in a freshly poured cement wall between the normal and the freak…me being a complete crazy yet judging so much that I insist on being normal.

The woman leaving is the person who sits at a middle table with too many bags and carts.  She is not the homeless one, but the person who is mentally different, talks, laughs, sings…if you can catch a glance and get in her eyes, you’ll see teal ponds in rich fields of thousand-color flowers, you’ll notice she sees neither the building she is in nor anything around her, that she’s playing with her friends in her secret cerebral fairytale…

af

(written with pen on paper)

I look at the great artists
read the great writers
always thinking
“what am i missing? what do they have?”
perhaps my honesty is greater than
my ability to be forthright

she shut the light
unzipped my pants
I felt her hands on me
    one on my shaft
    the other cupping my unshaven testicles
I watched her silhouette kneel before me
    that is when I felt myself in her mouth
    that is when I came

Simple details?  Pornography?
How up front can I push?

Writing about that night
and
Living that night
still
I have no regrets,
whatever the consequences might be

I lie here naked on my
last night in Espana
hoping for more of those dark meetings
flipping through the manifestos of
Leonardo the crazy
Botticelli the violent
Schiele the erotic

These great artists…

They dared to do, always

What they had were inherent desires to be themselves

af

(written in Barcelona, Catalonia)

The troubles of the world will never be solved –
They are self-perpetuated, society propelled;
when one is cleared, more are created.

This is the world that we want.

Humans have a thirst for being clever,
so much so we cannot comprehend the simplicity of life itself:
The problem with education is poverty
The problem with poverty is repression
The problem with repression is lack of opportunity
The lack of opportunity is a structure which
rewards “white male adult property owners”
The problem with this being that the rest of humanity is equal only to
three-fourths of humanity.

Monetizing slavery in the new era forces upon all a new God;
no longer one of faith but one of paper-smooth reality.

Humans crave wars on nouns
which only end when we get bored with them.

To end poverty, give rather than take
simple
trust me, you did not work hard enough to warrant yourself
superior to any other creature.
To end drug abuse, heal rather than punish
simple
your good book condemns planks more than splinters
To end terrorism, live rather than hoard
simple
it’s a two-way street, one cannot instill fear unless someone else
is willing to be afraid

Humans insist on having a higher purpose
therefore creating the need to create problems which need solving
to create our sense of accomplishment and overcoming.

Humans lust for ego, succumb to anger
which constantly feeds that self-perpetuating propulsion of our problems.

The troubles of the world will never be solved –

This is the world that we want.

af

(written in notebook)