Butterfly wings

What do you do after you capture it?
you want to return because you're scared. your so used to not having it. then when you finally have it your panicking. but the thing is you have it and the different thing here is you don't do anything at all, you just are. you let the butterfly go.

word (life's a bowl of cherries / here we are)

Writing, it seems that I only visit you when I'm flustered, got lots on my mind, cluttered and struggling to hold onto my purpose. How much of me is really me? How much of me do you get? I'd really like to write not merely just to vent, though lately, I have been doing just that, trying to hear myself amidst the clutter, allowing myself to speak freely, for a lot goes through my mind throughout the day, and it is a pity that only a minutae, a fragment of that racing mind is captured. The most intimate parts of me, my most vulnerable side, my grievances, my sorry and rage, my hurt and envy, my happiness, it is the real record. I've been doing this (writing, documenting in you), since I was a boy, except, these days, I expect something I shouldn't from you. But, what I gave before and have always given before resulted in a product, words. By merely recording just thoughts, freedom allowed those thoughts to blossom into a purpose, a reason for me, and I looked to you, the form of a word, the outer garment, the attire of meaning, this penmark on paper. But the meaning, the hurt, the moment, the music, the memories—the essence is truly invisible to the naked eye, and if I let go, discard the outer garment and the word, and the attention to how I am perceived, how I carry myself, my meaning will come to life and emerge on its own. All I really need is to record the thoughts, as I always have been doing. Let nothing be secret. Let it be. I'm going to be one, and whole. I'm going to find it: I write, I think, I fly, I am. There are no words, just me stained on this paper here, 2013 an evidence, an ephemera of my existence, evidence that I was here.

but something in me craves that this not be kept secret. So I move about. I move other ways to find it a home, visually, so that it can have a home, so that it can have the proper attire in its resting ground and that is why I make art to encapsulate the proof that I existed, to encapsulate the proof that I too was hurt and that I persevered, that I overcame, that I listened that i gave as much as I took. i need to be heard as much as you need to listen. i need to listen as much as you need to be heard. today i lived, and today i felt, today i doubted, and today i sighed from the monotony of this existence, today was levity, today was too heavy for me, today they looked at me, laughed at me judged me. today i did too. today i reevaluated myself and today i decided to change for better and some worse. today i floundered and lied still. tomorrow i got up. the day after that i repeated the act, but as i rose tomorrow, i picked up your hand and we stood up together. tomorrow we worked together. tomorrow we worked things out. tomorrow, we reached an agreement—that yesterday we will do the same if one of us were to fall. and yesterday was a little bit better and a little less worse because of tomorrow. yesterday we decided not to judge ourselves. yesterday, we listened to each other and I heard you and you heard me. Yesterday we looked at each other. Yesterday we laughed. Yesterday we shared each other. Yesterday we decided that today was going to be you and me. tomorrow we decided that today was you and me. we decided today was you and me and we never looked back at tomorrow ever since.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence.

you gotta be hungry for life.
know thyself. know thyself,
these are the last words that
i'll leave you with today.
know thyself.
know thyself.
know thyself, and
i cannot repeat that enough, you
are the most important of em all. please yourself.
gratify yourself.
dont care if anyone is looking, anybody is staring,
for they are, for they will be, for they're mesmerized by your
beauty and your authenticity, your magic, is a spell that
washes over them all. now,
i will write. always write for yourself.
always write in amazement for yourself.

The two people, for they were lions (and lioness).
Yellow wildflowers, surrounding these two ghastly beasts and I cannot, for one second, say to you the believability of these two lions laying on the grass in the summertime we were watching and we were waiting in between two blades. the lion, he spoke, he said, it's better to say, its better to do what you have been meaning to do, what you have been wanting to do, for if you do not, you lose a little bit of you, a little piece of you flounders and dies, a little piece of yourself scatters across the pavement, like snowflakes, and like a snowflake, they will melt, and soon enough it'll be like you never ever existed, and that is a crying shame, for you have so much to give, you have so much to offer, and your heart so soft and vulnerable. you were alive, pick the flowers, say hi (boldly), wake up, listen to the alarm, do it, scream. say, i love you. touch me. kiss me. learn the piano, learn the violin, scream, sing it, sing. sing. sing. sing like you mean it, don't be scared to cry, scream, grow old, cry, love, and smile, forever, please do these things, forever.

Life notes

"Correct principles do not change, do not react to anything. Principles do not die."

What's important to me is the a-ha moment, the eureka, the shine, the glaring of diamonds that shimmer through the ruckus. What's important to me is being steady because (1) I know that everything is and will be all right and that (2) how I experience life is self-generated and it's a beautiful affair. Listen.

"I will always try to keep myself free from addictive and destructive habits. I will develop habits that free me from old labels and limits and expand my capabilities and choices.

hang on tight. hold on loosely.

Expand your mind. Visualize in rich detail. Involve as many emotions and feelings as possible. Involve as many of the sense as you can.

It is difficult to see,

but as you look more closely,

there will be a ladder.

Take you to where you must go.

What's strange is that

you won't really go anywhere.

When u are ready,

Climb up,

and the whole world will be different.

Imagine if these words mean everything. Would you approach this activity differently? Would you expect more from it? Fine, poet, let's say it is: These words mean the world. These words mean the world. These words mean the world. No one is watching you. No one is judging you. (What will you do?) What will you write about? About the sadness in your heart about woman, about music? (No, that's redundant). No time for poetry except for what is. Keep trekking forth except this time more wisely, and humbler, capture their feelings and don't miss, wiser, I have a question. Why am I doing this? Because you have what it takes, and when you write, you seize a moment, a feeling. What you do is discover evidence for our living, you discover evidence of human happiness, and suffering, smiles, the wind, friends, mothers, food cooked by someone who loves you, oceans, coming and going, coming and going and never returning, harps, hearts, dogs, mice, cats and even lions, gazelles and apes, flying objects, turtles, dying people ... evidence materializes everyday, but only some people captures them and almost everyone enjoys them. Board a boat. It's time to move on, away from why you write and closer to writing.

My pen is a razor. I use it to slice the night sky, and the second before appears before me, and I think this is swell, so I slice again the night sky. Another second prior appears, and I do it again because it feels great. And I use both hands, slicing away at the night sky and time unfolds before my eyes and I watch myself living backwards, and as I slice the night sky rapidly and watch myself as I live my life backwards, I realize I make no mistakes (there is wisdom behind my deeds) and also as I cut through the night sky like fabrics, time becomes thinner and the sun behind it begins to leak out. The fabric comes to an end and it is all light. I cannot see because it is too bright. And because I cannot see, I cannot locate my body. I cannot find my body, but I know I am here because I am aware of my thoughts. I am here. What am I if I can't see myself? (I have nothing to tell me that I am still who I was). But my thoughts are intact thought I cannot see them. I feel my actions and repeating the actions will get me to where I need to get (and I do not know just where that is).

Not knowing where you're going does not mean you're blind. You are here. Whether or not you can see today because of the light or whether or not you cannot locate your body, your thoughts are certainly intact. They are indivisable, unable to break.

You drape a new fabric over the light. You drape another fabric over the light. You keep doing this, moving faster and faster. The bright light becomes dimmer. Now you can see your body again. Your hands, arms, chest, feet, leg — you feel your face — you are assured of your own presence. You are satisfied at this moment. You begin to walk forth, with no place in mind, but certainly there is a destination and it is your habits — those patterns that you pursue. You have covered your thoughts for comfort — for what you know, and you stride forth in a leisurely gait. You are walking forward, but you are moving backwards — you are moving away from your thoughts until one day you've moved to far and you declare that there never was such a thing, such a concept as the "sun," as the "light." Your thoughts are nicely bundled up inside the fabric. And like that, the sun dies, and your thoughts are made inaudible, and in no time, you too will follow.

Notes from As a Man Thinketh by James Allen

"A man's weakness and strength and impurity, are his own, and not another man's; they are brought about by himself, and not by another; and they can only be altered by himself, never by another. His condition is also his own, and not another man's. His suffering and his happiness are evolved from within. As he thinks, so he is; as he continues to think, so he remains."

"Man is made or unmade by himself. In the armory of thought he forges the weapons which will destroy him. He also creates the tools with which he will build for himself heavenly mansions of joy and strength and peace. Between these two extremes are all the grades of character, and man in their maker and their master."

"Dream lofty dreams, and as you dream, so shall you become. Your Vision is the promise of what you shall one day be; your Ideal is the prophecy of what you shall at last unveil."

"The greatest achievement was at first and for a time a dream. The oak sleeps in the acorn; the bird waits in the egg; and in the highest vision of the soul a waking angel stirs. Dreams are the seedlings of realities."

"Keep your hand firmly upon the helm of thought. In the bark of your soul reclines the commanding Master; He does but sleep: wake Him. Self-control is strength; Right Thought is mastery; Calmness is power. Say unto your heart, 'Peace, be still!'"

"Having conceived of his purpose, a man should mentally mark out a straight pathway to its achievement, looking neither to the right nor the left. Doubts and fears should be rigorously excluded; they are disintegrating elements, which break up the straight line of effort, rendering it crooked, ineffectual, useless. Thoughts of doubt and fear never accomplished anything, and never can. They always lead to failure. Purpose, energy, power to do, and all strong thoughts cease when doubt and fear creep in."

"The will to do springs from the knowledge that we can do. Doubt and fear are great enemies of knowledge, and he who encourages them, who does not slay them, thwarts himself at every step."

"He who has conquered doubt and fear has conquered failure. His every thought is allied with power, and all difficulties are bravely met and wisely overcome. His purposes are seasonably planted, and they bloom and bring forth fruit, which does not fall prematurely to the ground."

"Thought allied fearlessly to purpose becomes creative force: he who knows this is ready to become something higher and stronger than a mere bundle of wavering thoughts and fluctuating sensations; he who does this has become the conscious and intelligent wielder of his mental powers."

"The strong, calm man is always loved and revered..It does not matter whether it rains or shines, or what changes come to those possessing these blessings, for they are always sweet, serene, and calm. That exquisite poise of character, which we call serenity is the last lesson of culture, the fruitage of the soul."

Trust

Do I trust myself?
Do I trust myself?
If I trust myself, I'll follow, I have one broken toe, but No, I don't care about that, I'll follow, with my eyes closed.
Do I trust myself? I'll follow with my eyes closed.
Do I trust myself? I'll follow with my eyes closed.
I think I need to return to my routine.
Remember organization equals liberty.
Remember organization equals liberty.
How do I know if I trust myself?
I write in the dark. Church bells flood the streets in the morning, church bells flood the streets.
Sway Danny sway, the ringing of the church bells fill the streets. Sway Danny sway. The nonbelievers emerge from their cold dark quarters. I know what to do, I know what to do, and I'm going to do it.

Ilk

The old folks and their friends are my friends until we die, we fly side by side, high above the rocky cliffs in our hot air balloon that we made out of our own skin...we're really talking about sacrifice here! (I pull out a tooth for the mademoiselle, she hops around overcome with delight). My hair falls out like blades of summer grass, like snow onto the floor, and when I raise my head, I see people of all ilk. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. I give them my hand and instantly I'm dragged, swept off my feet, taken away by the mirthful, buoyant and very merry group—aged, gray and beautiful (I love this race!). My heart bounces around from one happy person to another, and I'm just in the fucking zone. I look down and I see my hair—little follicles on the floor—and I can see the mademoiselle, holding my little tooth, in the eyes of these old folks sharing me amongst their friends and I see how real this is: the mirth, the rapture, the ecstasy—the interdependence! I climb back into our hot air balloon and remove the weights.

Lemonheads

Lemonheads, 25¢, are one of least expensive food/candy, making it very popular in impoverished areas; they are exceptionally satisfying when you’re doped up.

Singing in the Rain

the bells & the whistles...all i've got is my sleep, my enemy who knows only the worst parts of me, i'd like to strangle him, i squint my eyes and fire and dance as a flock of dead birds rain down upon me, uplifted from my roots i stab repeatedly at my dead foot (numb), fear of hypnosis, I pluck the feathers from my newly acquired wings to demonstrate that it's only a coverup. i reach down inside of myself to taste myself, but instead I break down and cry, watching each bird dart back into the night sky, i trace their departures, drawing a line, connecting the dots, carving a small cavity into my own torso—wrecked, defunct, ugly and beautiful by all means to me—the flesh is putrid. I cannot take it so i squint my eyes and fire again at the flock of birds above me. I don't know if what I'm doing is right, but the sun's in my heart and I'm ready for love.

Discoteque (and Mr. Sundown)

the heroes and the cyclops shake hands. they not only shake hands but they shake their asses. its a peculiar island hermaphadides island. the way they do things here are quite unlike how they do things in the city of angels as the angels prefer to glide and waltz gently departing the earth. it aint about flying for them for they've already got wings. they prefer to walk and dream and suffer and long like us. but they are not us, the heroes and the cyclops. they dont know how to shake their asses like us. they lack the beats. purple and scrumptious, shapes of teardrops, they thrive in harsher climates like hermphadides island. we harvest the shit out of them and then we shake our asses. long live the union between the heroes and the cyclops in hermphadides island. i pray that the angels will one day catch up to our asses.

I kill myself in my dreams so that I wake burning for life.

If Only I had Remembered Future Greatness

If only I had remembered future greatness, my days will be fluid, time wouldn't tick but spill gracefully onto my plate. I watch the songbirds relive my mornings as I grub on a plate of worms, the record player still spinning softly, my body feels the rhythm of external forces. The walls are tied to my skeletal structure for support and I figure out my own moves that fucks with the universe and the people smile back at me. I take their chips, munching away contentedly—my grimace expands. I realize that some deeds can't be undone and some songbirds do not ever remember their songs. I tug at my umbilical cord questioning if I'm ready for all this.

Odd Ideas

I will become a better me, I will be kinder, I will listen and I will talk less, I will do whatever they do to be liked, the wolf thought. He wondered how it felt to be liked, to be approached by the raccoon or the otter and to be asked, how his day was going. And the wolf thought, maybe, just maybe, if I care about them, if I have enough interest in them, if I were to ask the raccoon how his day was going (to pose such a question!) that that creature can experience that great feeling. (Maybe it wasn't only about the wolf...)

In a Glass of Ale

In a glass of ale,

my misery, sanity, asshole personalities, insecurities, faces, voices, life and its ridiculous details exaggerate the drama of day.

In a glass of ale,

All the shit I'd said

float lifelessly in a circular conundrum.

My anguish relaxes casually on foam.

In a glass of ale,

I am, for once, just me.

No more and no less.

Sadder Days

As I write in the children's section of the Pasadena City Library, the weight of their world presses against mine, introducing a desired levity. I discover we are alike and together we travel so that the odd ideas of society do not silence the whisperings in our hearts.

The Face: A Short Love Story

The loveboat arrives to pick out the lovers off the face of the earth. The tear the eye on the face of the earth sets free is the precise thrust required to push them forth. Everything else is onward.

Blossom (Caribou)

My body

my soul is the sea

endless

birds

float

above me

roll over

see myself walking

with fear

look down again

realizing

it isn't my reality

a bird

falls

on the floor

and i'm really

really

confused

roast bird for supper

jug of wine

feeling spectacular

take a dip

inside the ocean

a shooting star

a cosmic knife

drifting aimlessly

leaping carelessly

living lovably

listening wildly

the soothing swelling of the sea

i am a savage caw

my body

my soul is the sea

endless

birds

float

above me.