Firing through the night
exhausting fight with bone cold
Splitting slivers from the whole
Catching a vein and running wide
a ladder Connecting now to later
Splitting time down the middle
Missing rungs from the bottom
Finding another way.
Smoldering moldy fumes billow Hills of heat
Seeking high ground clinging Hungry hands
Passing aging lovers Queuing forms Rising floods
Catching drips that
Tappies carry away
Creating rules
Forming into pieces
The Rhinos Run free in the sunlight stamping out the shrooms as they find them.
Except for at the eruption Shore where the spicy boys Kandinsky created from the liquid metal meeting the waves.
They left great quarry pits.
Moving towards the sound and lights of the trains,
The kobold comes to a great ToadFrog looking into a black reflection pond.
"I'm a beautiful creature,
what do you know? You can't even speak right. "
the kobold realized that there are no words when witnessing all the stories of the reflections.
Burning embers interrupt her beautiful reflection,
the hissing STEAM smells of morning mist.
The pain from grasping the Ember moves the feet buried in the muck.
The light from the reflecting pond illuminated the figures whose wailing laughter drowned out the wet sounds that surrounded them.
Embers drifted down around them hissing when they touched liquid mirrors igniting the surfaces with brilliant images before the thick smoke overtook them all.
Overcome by the stench and deep burning in the eyes, Everything wanting to vomit out the oppressive substance, the feet of the kobold continue on.
One day there was a princess in a tower and she thought a white Knight was coming to rescue her and he was beautiful and spoke kind words. And he seduced her, knowing she was enchanted and would never say no to him. When she became with child her world was filled with joy. But when she told the White Knight he turned into a vicious Goblin and ripped the baby from her stomach and ate it. The goblin was magic so that he did it in such a way she kept on living with a hole in her stomach. And so the princess stayed in the tower in the castle forever after that because she was too afraid of the Goblins outside her Tower. And who would want a princess with a gaping hole in her stomach anyway?
The art Is a lie used to tell the truth.
What is the point of talking into a machine that is unable to understand you? It is the same issues I've had with every other person I've ever spoken to. Words that sound like other words are transposed on top of each other. In the quantum world these words do exist and the songs that we don't know the words too also exist.
We often go back to the moment of waiting in line under Christmas lights two hands brought together, no electricity pass between the two.
Electric into time and into the future and I see you. All of the options that could be there. Your future, so bright. I push up against it with my hand and you hold tight.
The lights flicker and go out and I hear you gasp as you feel me absorb the life from this moment.
I wonder if in that moment the words that we spoke came back to you? The words about an artist creating the world around them. The artist using words declaring what they want,
And all I wanted was to hold the hand forever.
My hand was open waiting for you to grab what you wanted. And then your hand against mine found it and decided to cling to this moment. The Christmas lights flicker and are gone. We stood there waiting in line. I hope the lights remain off.
And then your hand pulls away for fear of someone seeing as you're reminded of a discussion they had on the state of being.
The character of light and dark and the electric current that exists between the two.
Christmas comes back on, never close again, except for every moment since then.
They spoke on the idea of trash
in humanity as we picked up and threw away the discarded.
As I threw my trash over a fence I speak on how there was more God that I saw along the street then in any church.
Wax smoke covers my clothes and turns them into Rags, is what is filling my lungs, and my brain. This is the Purgatory where I move the muck but go nowhere except for old memories. it weighs thousands of pounds back and forth to be melted down. There will be no record of the work.
Trying to find something of value in all the death, The definition of art has now become unoriginal decoration. Of course everyone hates it. And there is nothing to understand of it.
Love Is Alive used to tell the truth?
Love Is A Lie used to tell a truth.
The lies that were told are now forgotten.
Your hand let go to let the trash fall away.
We grow older and make monuments to defy time.
The things done to hide and change our appearance and the labels attached to a fleeting identity.
When the ones we love are gone and we leave unfamiliar metal likenesses for a possible passers-by searching for the resting place to their genetic origins, what is really there?
We don't want to be seen how we are. Even in death we want to be better. Striving for something to make a mark on the world before we leave.
The dreams of those who wanted to create something better than they started with, always originally started with simply putting 2 similar things together and watching what happens as things are added.
The material expresses a unique personality.
Being unidentifiable in appearance and yet communicating a sense of familiarity is what helps push the creative people into greater innovation.
Seeing and making the connections in the form of an object, a structure is made.
The natural evolution of creation is continually adapting and changing at such a furious state, that it seems amazing that any creater can devote an entire lifetime to capture any state of it.
The more words used, the greater their insignificance is shown.
The lines that create the structure of our definition of home.
Protection from harm.
Home is peace.
Pieces discarded stick together forming a unique identity.
All the warning lights shinning bright as I try to make it where I'm going.
No fuel, no pressure, maint reqd,
Driving the Backroads of life as it's happening:
The skinny homeless dogs smelling the weeds for maybe the last time. Black fur and bones and golden yellow weeds of an empty lot.
Black and yellow bounding together as one unified expression of the power of life running away with the sunsets for one more time the last time.
Before our bodies were shamed by clothes,
before our minds were dulled by language
We sat laughing in bubble baths
The silence of waiting, waiting
for the clay to dry out a little more
Waiting for messages and images to work their way out of wrinkles around our eyes and lengthen our noses
As we lay awake lying to ourselves about the stories that brought us to this moment
The one that we give credit to everyone else for creating for us.
Broken eyes and teeth cut our fingers deep.
Blank stares reflecting when eyes were more than just seeing, but actually being used for a purpose.
Even a piss pot of exquisite terribleness is still more fulfilled than the ghosts of vessels broken looking out blankly as they stick out as empty decorative tradition that no one cares for.
The many different faces throughout my life that move across the clay surface until they are eventually frozen solid in dry clay.
