I cant say what it is: maybe its that I feel as though I am a tiny little heathen vying to be recognized for owning a status saved for people who don’t really care for it. I have this recurring vision that I’m a child sitting on my knees before an edge of a great abyss. I hear this voice and always she says ‘there you are child’; she smiles. I feel elated. Wow its powerful. She only smiles, and she doesn’t have a face or a form, but I seem to crawl into her arms anyways, an area as wide as space is deep and I feel so much relief, like what I experience when my mind forgives the germs and pardons my weakened feet from walking, sliding into a period open only for rest. Its pure forgiveness. Its peace. Its the reason I keep coming back.

But now I wonder why I even have the respect to write: my skin is heavy with filth and frowns, my mind is a steady torch growing tall in the articulated breeze that comes from the wicked west from where I hear my thoughts cheer ‘get real’ at a rally of long chins and gray faces. I react when I know I shouldn’t, I give in and give up and sulk on the bathroom floor; a cup of tea reminds me to work with something other than the mystery of my own mind. The vacancy sign is definitely on, waiting for ease to rent to room. Where is stillness now? I soak my head in chemicals to hide the markers of an aging crown and I frolic through the words that dump from me like an elephant takes a shit. I’m tempted to throw it all away, to burn the forest down before the wildfire devours his prize, to win the flow and to fuck it all, like an elephant takes a shit. God it must feel good to evacuate so much useless matter, to give it to the ground: I’ll give myself to the process, like an elephant takes a shit.

Dear Journey:

CONFESSION (of the sexual kind)

I pull them in unintentionally and they become arrested, prisoners pulled from the sheets and into the wind, and they look towards me for answers, security, protection: I am not your goddess. I wasn’t meant to be seen in soft lights, the glow I manifest as I step is not meant to bring you closer, the haze that emanates is not intended to attract your kind; I am only trying to get by; this elusiveness is merely the natural byproduct of the processes of my survival. I guess its not worth it to smile, when the lonely grasp onto it like a rope dropped to save the masses from a well; the weak see it as an invitation to fall in love. But a smile is a way for me to say that life is alright; like a stone in the center of a rapid stream I let the rough waters stroke my back and continue to stare in the same direction, never waiting or wanting more from the swarms of wave riders that grace my space with a swift hello.

But some want to stay despite that the flow is too strong: you try to hang on forever and I’ll forever ask for your removal; you see, you are a stone too, to think you are free falling and failing to love is to mistake your life with the life of floating debris.

I am no trickster: If anything I am too kind to reveal the truth that I do not love you in the way that lovers do: but it hurts me to see you unhappy, (this is my dishonesty) and so I allow you to hold on until your arms became tired and sore; eventually impermanence is revealed (nothing is ever-lasting, I should know better) and you require another way and so you were forced to figure the truth of my indifference, and you did but it was a painful realization, and so with your wild imagination you tell a story in which I embody the source of all your troubles and regress: it makes it easier to let go this way, it does when you confess your hatred of the thing to which you are so attached (after they buck you), like burning your finger on fire and claiming to never want to witness vivid flames burn again. The fire is the reason for the tingle and the taste (of searing flesh), and I am the reason your heart breaks, and I hate to see you unhappy, so I let it be, I accept your ill-energies with a smile and a shrug.

Nothing personal, I tell myself. How could I truly hear your hostilities and be alright? I don’t sit on a thrown, I don’t wear any robes; I am not more than human. Yet you throw demon-blessed frequencies my way as if I have developed some royal filter that purifies my heart each time some mean confession permeates the air I breathe. I have no such abilities. I have only the power to remove the power from your words by understanding that you are damaged and destroyed by your need to believe these illusions of me created by your gushing mind. In protecting yourself; in preserving your righteousness, sense of security, and in anticipating disappointment, your thoughts have painted me in dismal tones of black and blue and now your masterpiece hangs in the hall with other untouchable works of a loathsome hue; I am not defined as such but by your side. After all I was never meant for such things as being the center of a crying artist’s attention; besides, I know this, and suddenly I burst out of the shell and leave bitter rinds to rot; sweet citrus oozes as tangy teardrops from my eyes and I find that I need not erase you from my life, but to stay and witness how clever the trickster actually is, watching him coax you into believing the illusions of your trying mind, decorating the cake you bake in celebration of your freedom from me with an icy coat of useless rumors.

So it goes, and such is life. If this is the process then I surrender: I ask for nothing and I apologize to no one when that means I must scold the most sacred part of myself: my love.

That’s the thing about love: where you think its your partner that has betrayed you and whom you can no longer trust it is in fact yourself that has granted them the authority to make you the lesser. Love has a funny way of glorifying the beloved; you then compare them to things like crystal radiance and full moons, and they become just as powerful in your mind. Of course,once they leave its like god kicked the stars from your skies and dulled your vision of shiny lights: the only way you can regain stability and ground, the only way things can ever be the same is if you commit to maim and slander; so you tear violently at those projections of your beloved that you yourself created, pulling yourself back up and into reality by clawing into the goddess flesh of your once lover and telling yourself its the right thing to do because she couldn’t be worth anything more since she hurt you so badly. You justify your actions by blaming the ex-lover, when in all truth this love couldn’t exist without you, the carrier of love’s disease, and the act of all this fluff and dramatic break-up stuff is just a natural reaction to feeling as though you’ve been rejected by a queen: I am no queen, therefore, you’re argument is invalid. See? love is the trickster, not I (said the little red hen).

In examining my existence I find that

there is only one, only one way home.

Today I mourn the vacancies in a sequence of three; one step, one stab, one me. I look for help but I am received with utter distaste; I am in the way and I do not belong here.

A smile cannot be found though people pour into streets like water from a wild fountain, they race to be places but the reason why is cleverly disguised; I just want to go home, back to nature’s womb, cuddled in the arms of vastness, blanketed in warmth and reading poems carved like symbols of imperfect hearts into the crust of a scorched tree.

‘The city, the city the city!’ I cry to the people so distant performing so distantly: why must I stay? Let them race and rot along the way, my city-self is suicidal and she demands her way; stillness is met by tears that grace pavement which meets my spirit that is so exhausted from exhausting every attempt to adapt by being higher this and not-so-much that; then what?

Then what when I walk around and I give myself and I bear my soul in honesty, and I allow and I disallow; I am drying up! It seems that every step I take requires another moment of stillness so I can collect and continue; and for what; for what? For what?

I require a way home. To the woods can I come now? Can I come home now? Can I come home now please? I think maybe you forgot me here, did I miss my turn to return? Can I come home now?

I know you say that the chains are illusory but I see today my life in this cage of gray and all I want is to come home now. The trees you say to see and be seen but I see them now as imitations; is it a trick to make me feel at home amidst this war?

In examining my existence I see only one way home; I require that way home now. The air isn’t clean and the energies are obscene and the fire that fuels the cars is from the same fire that burns bruised hearts and I am begging you please let me come home now.

A man walks by; did you send him my way? He says ‘what a beautiful day’ and I wonder if like the trees he sees that I am not so naive; he wants to sell me temporary peace, but I know better and so my eyes are facing up at the sky and I think that maybe it doesn’t go on forever; maybe its all fake and above it is a ceiling made of plastics and metal grates and there is someone like me looking down and laughing at the misery and sadness I create and I just want to go home now; please.

And the voice, it says to enjoy the mundane; no matter if it is real or fake or a ploy or one giant mistake; I am here and that’s the game; to find a plane where I can feel at home despite the craze.

In examining my existence I see that there is only one, only one way home.

I was at a cafe sipping my umpteenth cup of coffee, absorbed in the literature that has come to consume the entirety of my waking life and pondering a breath of sweet Indian smoke when I opened this letter. At first, my ego was satisfied with skimming the contents quickly and returning to the comfort of my toxic mind-space, but as I settled into his words I found a sort of calm, and in reading the message, in removing my attention from myself and onto the words I was inevitably enlightened; here, before me, is the truth that people have the power to heal themselves, that no matter where you come from and what your troubles are, the very thing you desire is entirely within your means to achieve; that, like Jason, in letting go and removing yourself from the insanities all around, you discover a sort of peace of mind that comes only when you no longer seek to grasp it.

His story, indeed, symbolizes the greatest ‘becoming’ of us all; it represents the most precious lOve story ever, that is, the lOve we fOrm with Ourselves as we re-fOrm Our lOve with essence, nature:

Shed old skin however best suits your desires; but do so soon and you will become wise beyond any level the best authority could grant. By removing yourself, relieving yourself of superficial duties and unnecessary attachments you allow yourself access to the highest source of infinite power, strength, hope, and love; be humbly and daringly open, accept that life is your challenge not to win but to surrender, and flow into it with the same respect you would offer the sea if you found yourself on a surf board, on a wave, powerless and in awe of the expanse of unity that could bring even the strongest warrior to his knees.

Jason Writes:

I know you would love this amazing California beach trip. I wish you could see this Shammy. I didn’t know who to write to I just had the urge to write, so I know you would appreciate this. Excuse my poor writing I am new to this. The peacefulness that this trip has granted me greatly triumphs every possession that I have and its “ability” to assist in my happiness. This is what being free truly feels.

Right now I am sitting lying in my car somewhere south of highway 1, which by the way is just as beautiful heading south as it is heading north. I got to Santa Cruz today early morning and surfed Pleasure point for high tide. You wouldn’t believe the seaweed there. I kept getting completely tangled in it and would be absolutely destroyed by the waves when I was there. This definitely wasn’t a rookie surfs spot. The hardest thing about surfing is getting actually out to where you wait patently for waves. When there are good swells it is near impossible. It takes every bit of strength you have to battle nature at its finest. So many times you just feel overwhelmed by the ocean. As soon as you overcome the wave another one instantly attacks you. The constant pounding makes it seem like it would be so much easier to just head back in.  I personally feel that it’s a sign of respect for the ocean, almost a test. You must past the pounding waves to be allowed to ride them.  The ocean is so unforgiving to those to don’t respect it.

After a few hours in the water the low tide set in. I took a break for lunch and started driving south through Capitola. I found the most amazing sandwich place ever. Had lunch there and ended up meeting some locals who guided me to Steamers Lane. Steamers lane is a cool surf spot south of Capitola that works well at low tide, so I went there and surfed for an hour or two. The ocean bottom was hard rock. Next to coral reefs this is the most unforgiving. The most amazing part of this spot is the inaccessibility of it. The water comes up all the way to the cliff; there is little to no beach left. Definitely somewhere you don’t want to get caught. There is a large lookout over the cliff filled with people watching in awe of the surfers completely shredding the wave or completely wiping out. There were also a few surfers that never surfed this spot. I started talking to them and we completely analyzed and planned our surf (all good surfers do this).  Time really doesn’t seem to matter right now. The only way I have been able to tell is by the sun. I went to take a post surf nap in the car (much earned) and ended up passing out for about 4 hours. I woke up and it was nighttime.

Heading back to the beach it was marked with the bright lights of the Saturday night bonfires. Here I met a bunch of people from Monterrey. We exchanged stories and danced the night away, cold sand beneath my feet. Ironically it was total surf hippie music. I wish you could see the stars here. It looks like they are neatly scattered across the sky. So bright and vibrant, they will keep me company tonight. I can hear the beautiful peaceful sound of the waves crashing down in harmony as I sit here in my car and write you. That’s it for tonight. Time to catch some shuteye.

I slept like crap last night. The only place I found that I could crash was right off the freeway. It got so cold at points too. It is strange to me that on a normal day that would completely bum me out. However I had some fruit for breakfast and was instantly put in a wonderful mood. I started driving to somewhere I could surf the sunrise. I put one of a few CD’s that my friend gave me for this trip and re-discovered Missy Higgins. (I went to the concert with Shereen.  Her voice could bring peace to war. Missy’s, not Shereen’s; haha) . She is amazing.

I ended up at Carmel Beach to surf the morning. The water is so clear and blue here its amazing, perfectly contrasted with pure white sand. It looks like it could be in a movie. The water here is ice cold though and the water was more of a rolling wave (good for long boards not short), so I was not able to surf long. Afterwards I started heading down south again and stopped by a Whole Foods to grab some grub. I ended up only buying fruit (apples, mangos, bananas, and a pineapple) and tons of water. I stopped somewhere on the coast to take a nap and relax for a while. It’s still crazy to me that I have nowhere to be and I can just go as I feel. That feeling is more amazing than anything.

Furthering in driving I came across Sand Dollar beach near Big Sur.  You couldn’t believe the price of everything down here. Gas and food is crazy. I think I will have enough gas to get me to my next destination tomorrow though. I think this is going to be my camp spot tonight and I will be heading down to Santa Barbra tomorrow. I started talking to these people and they even invited me to have dinner with them at their house. We skim boarded for a while and it was amazing.  I didn’t tell you that I love skim boarding too huh. However, I decided to get a head start on tomorrow. The further south I get the more breathtaking the beaches are and the more I wish that you were here with me. You would truly appreciate this more that ever. Highway 1 goes all the way down the California coast.

I started thinking about my life as sit here overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I think I am going to have a few goals before I decide to make drastic changes.

1.Eliminate liabilities. I have discovered that possessions mean nothing in comparison to experience. On my trip I instantly want to take every hour of TV watching and video game playing back. I have no memories of doing these things. Every memory of you and I sticks out in my head so vibrant and motivates me in life.

2.Improve my health. After a few days of surfing my arms and shoulders are torn. It is seriously wearing on me. My goal is to get mavericks water-ready by next year, not during competition mode but enough where I could be out there with the best. I have been out in the water where there were huge 15+ foot waves and it is so scary. Imagine looking up and there’s 15 feet of water above your head. Even when you duck, dive or turtle roll through the wave it feels like your are being hit by the force a bomb would create.  You dive in and it’s like a sonic boom.

3.Education. I have discovered that I think I am in need of a major change. I’m thinking communications (not mass communications, there is no money in that). I want to do something I love and communication is it. Everyone loves me; they cant help it.

I can’t believe I am writing you an essay.

I’m getting more towards So Cal and the water is getting much more warm and crowded.  Everyone seems so superficial here. They definitely don’t appreciate the little things. I did catch the most epic wave today though. I rode it all the way to its end. Flying past surfers and other swimmers, it was one of the greatest feelings that I have ever had. The feeling that you are completely in harmony with the wave is breath taking. You understand each other and you are working perfectly together to create something beautiful. My heart was beating so fast after. All I wanted to do was run and yell. You should have seen the smile on my face. I don’t think it’s ever been that big.

So my album for the day is ‘The Who’. It complements the drive so nicely. Tomorrow I will be driving back to the bay and for the first time in the trip there is somewhere…

I’m down as Pismo beach and it’s just littered with people. There is nothing inviting about this place. It is kind of neat that the surf breaks due to a large pier. However it doesn’t allow for a long ride. The last thing you want to want to be is stuck between a large wood beam and a crashing wave. I don’t think I caught one wave today. There was just way too many people. So I headed in to do some homework. It is amazing that I can sit in my car, perfectly angled so I cannot see the crowded beach; just ocean, sun and sky. I wish I could do homework here every day. I can just focus. Especially no internet and phone to give me any distractions. The only regret is that there is a small part of me that wants some pillow talk at night. I can only hint upon what I see and how I feel. I think I could do a better job verbally describing it to you. Talking about this experience probably wouldn’t give it any justice either. I think showing you may be the only way.

People down here do not appreciate what I am doing, unlike the people more north who thought it was amazing. A lot of people ask me where I’m from and what I am doing.

As soon as I was ready to give up on So Cal I met this old surfer. This man was the most peaceful person I have ever met in my life. He kind of reminded me of that guy from Surfer, Dude. I went and had lunch with him and he taught me so much. Its amazing how wise he is. Here are a few quotes from the old man.

“Surfing is much like love, it always feels good, no matter how many times you’ve done it.”

“Very few people life live anymore. Life lives them.”

“Listen brother, if there is one thing I am going to teach you today is that I have never stressed one day in my life. I have lived it more

 than any other person could say. I have nothing and only that reason alone gives me everything. Live peaceful young brother.”

CRAZY right. I asked him if he had a phone number or email to exchange and he said that he would always be somewhere by the beach if I wanted to ride with him. He has no phone or email. Amazing…

Well I am heading home tomorrow so I won’t bore you anymore with this.

Live Life Shammy, Be Peaceful.

Love,

Jason

Blow and Morning Brilliance

‘Oh my gato’ how the energies are painted in tiny specks across a spiraling reality: how minuscule the projection appears through my weary lenses looking out from within a  nightlife capsule; the sniffles and sneezes, the dollar-menu gazes and gourmet hollowness of this place is spawned from an oath to commit an act of epic togetherness.

It is this element of absurdity that links the faded frequencies of gone people; we’ve done this before, we do it again, distance is a trophy best honored by recurring sips of powdered air.

There are warts on the morning horizon, craters on the face of dawn pop and leak fluids that unveil a recent history of conscious massacre, one fueled by an overabundance of mind-altering goodies.

‘Quick’, I think. ‘Lets clean it up before the aliens arrive. I don’t want the obvious remnants of an intentional mutilation ceremony to taint the preliminary impressions of my possible saviors’.

Oh well. I shrug my thoughts and lean into myself: an olive tree is pointing a finger at me and I grin: ‘okay, okay, I’ll play my part’, says I in a whine. I collect my frigid form and manifest a smile when all I most easily want is to play with the party people. Regaining a sense of stillness I remember the impermanence of it all and sentence myself to detention, surrendering the responsibility of playing straight.

While life seems to be descending to a fine point for the partakers of illusory escape, I am with absolute presence and awareness, in a dress fit for a clown, laughing at the process and counting the seconds until I can gracefully walk away; I am free to feel the frequencies of a morning sun without the burden of having to pop her pimples.

I gesture to leave my souring nest but pity is a poison best sipped near the entrance of a new day and I ponder my own willingness to stray the comfort of isolation. No. Not today. I can’t go on like this. Ready. Set. Go.

I escape; I scurry into daylight, my shadow trails behind and I find a seat before the sun, beside a tree nestled eloquently in a bed of mulch and stone. I drop down down down to bloody knee: I can’t go on like this. Stop. Breathe. Listen. Screeching tires, busy doors and voices of people pushing sloppy conversations through forked tongues: over it all the piccolos cry, there it is: there it is: one tree in a field of asphalt has the power to pull angels from the sky. Its 10 am, I slowly release the heartbeat that rocked me from the safety of sleep; I undress my armor of emotional impermeability and learn that I am none of the things I call myself. Ready. Set. Go.

Dear Journey,

Confession:

I think maybe I tried too hard to be a hero around this. I dressed in an armor of emotional impermeability one night in the distant past and I neglected to change suits. Today I sat in the sun; I felt small. I miss feeling small. It felt nice. I surrendered the energies to which I have been so attached, the ones inspired by you, ignited by this spontaneous connection-

I write this as the thought of you reading these words makes me feel vulnerable- it is from this source of uncertainty that I trust you, dear Goddess, to provide nourishment for my spirit; music has been a fine dose of encouragement, colors return to grace the buds in beauty’s arms with pink-pointed kisses.

Or maybe its that I hold weakness in the back of my throat and it is now creeping upwards, shorting neural connections and breeding odd ones instead- I don’t know anything, but that this is not an end is something of which I am sure, though it has presented itself as one for some time now. And so I grant it the respect it deserves and I bury it while reading these words; otherwise I might turn my back to catch something shiny and new while this precious gem reluctantly floats out to sea…

Love,

Rasham Writes

I went for a walk in the forest today.

 I’ve walked many forest floors but never in this skin, never as I am today. I could say that something is different but I know the only difference is me. I understand clearly that I have nothing to give. Nothing that I could ever possibly do would benefit the forest more than my absence. This is an invitation, of course, to dance.

I danced. I imagined each tree as unique and engaged them as such. I touched the skin of these woody giants and felt forgiveness. I fantasized relationships and moved as I felt the tree would have led a human in a waltz. I laughed. I cried.

I was on my knees in the forest today. I played my part in the forest today. I was human where I stood and content as I slipped into the place where I belonged.

I have returned from a walk in the forest. Impermanence is revealed like a lightning bolt thrown from the hand of God and I’m gone in a moment. I burn myself as I thought I was and I become someone new. I surrender to the order of things, like rapid water reclines into stillness in becoming the sea. It is the center of time, a place where hungry scissors can have their way and nobody gets burned by the blades of confinement because limits have no value in the land of the free. Separate from my name, gather new ones and redefine the meaning of myself. I swat the switch to change my mind; this is the only control I can call my own.

“Do epic episodes of eccentric energies ever end? Or do they forever exist in everlasting imprints of extended tentacles?” I asked with diminished pride.

“Hold on to yourself while the ether flows around; wait: accept it, you’ll waste yourself fighting, just sink in and soak it up; flower from bud before wilting; you will have your moment and it is this life; stay open and exposed and love will find you in unexpected ways”, says the man called Mudpie.

 These lyrics that played while our tentacles interlaced serve now to ease the pleasure of hating you most wonderfully; ‘its just the way, that it is, nothing more, nothing less…’.

And so I wander back into my own skin, reclining into my easy chair, channeling melodies in city spaces and throwing off the challenge with a smile and a shrug.

Chico

Too many words

I only need a few;

modesty is a dress

I wear

on the night of

this bruised moon

Silence I wear

like the weight in my eyes

Drag the color brown;

drag it into this bruised night

My mind says to end

but with words I can pretend

that forever is fancy

and fortune is free

and love is the last mile

crossing

the distant breeze

So with fewer words

and fewer words still,

say back to me

once more, my rosy thrill

You brought me here

I am strong for it I fear;

but ride further with you still?

(The outline of this bruised moon

is where old blood rests upon window sills)

Too many words

I only need a few

I’ll say only ‘yes’

Simply and

before old blood

demands regress

So with fewer words

and fewer words until

I relax into the morning;

it asks to be still

4th Step

I know why you wear your glasses to bed: you’re afraid you wont see what’s coming when you’re asleep, that if you open your eyes and have a moment to react you may react wrongly because you cant see…I know this…I watch you sleeping, I see those eyes moving in the space on your face while you wait at the edge of dreams for a reason to engage your reflexes and then boom! Too late; the nightmare is real and blood is already pouring; if only you had been wearing your glasses…

And what diet have you consumed that has left you so bloated with fear? Who has your heart in a bind and who before has pricked it a million times with nasty needles of demented perfection? You seek approval in all forms, wanting to be wanted by all people in all ways. And when you fail to find that source of acceptance you suffer a gentle stab, you  feel it sink in and slide around, you feel it grow around your heart and change you, you feel it arrest your thoughts and turn them so that they are unfamiliar and throbbing like your pulse that sets the tone for your prize of resentment.

You will cry now, wont you? Remembering the pleasant taste of freedom, a memory vague and teasing, like the flavor of strawberry licked from the fingers of your vacant sweetheart. Why do you source the misery from which you run? Is there a place to phrase the pickled prayers of a self-anointed princess? You are nothing, you think. You have nothing and you come from people who have less still. So go, then, leave this world like you’ve wanted before; the skin of your wrists is already written with scar tissue gossip of a lonely end.

And to whom are you now attached, I wonder? From whom do you leech the vibrant energy of approval? Does he say ‘I love you?’ And what do you reply? You might sit still and soften those eyes behind the forged glass that shields your sinister intentions; so afraid to be alone you keep him with your smile all the while you silently repeat the mantra of mortal insecurity in your mind: ‘please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me….’ You’re so afraid to be alone! The form of the man is no matter so long as he craves you, cradling your virginity or catering to your finite innocence with the force of his fist; to you it is no matter. The kind one thinks of himself the answer to your history of abuse, the ill-tempered one sees you as weak and sees him a savior who violently demands recognition of his heroic cock.

Is it security you seek? Daily sessions of unconditional affirmation? Like congealed animal fat the weight of your uncertainties hangs in pockets of condensed self-pity, you roam the earth a victim of the hurt you have been prescribed by the crooked sources of power in your sick society: you believe them though all they have done is reduced you to another consumer casualty waiting to wear an American flag around the grave;  in death you’ll be as valued as the cost of your tomb. Until then, I hate the way your lips coil around the words of your favorite pop-star icon.

I know you fight it, you’re wrapped in your own skin shaking like a dying dog, a look of anger drips wet with worry and is smeared across the canvas of your nighttime portrayal. It is pain to descend into darkness, to release the demons you have all day concealed with a half-ass smile and neon bright words that defend your make-believe bliss. For you life is a thin dress of sugar which coats a swollen seed of malcontent.

What would you need to release the beast? How long until you give birth to your morbid offspring; a word or a glance or a thought or a sentence that spews like vomit from your soured insides? You deliver unto the world that with which it has you impregnated; coils of hurt, anger, hatred, and grief. Your life is a permanent gestation of a broken fetus with a broken heart; your child wears the crown of thorns long before it’s born, she is doomed to carry the burden of a thousand stubborn mistakes; thank you, mother murderer.

So what now? You’ll sleep eventually, wearing the pink frames or cuddling them close to the scabs on the knuckles of your graying hands, awaking to feed your aging addictions, one by one they surface and you place them in line, one after another, each one fulfilled only brings you closer to the next; you cherish your alcoholic itinerary and so long as you’re awake you function like a machine driven by a programmed response that has you constantly inputting random data and outputting arbitrary waste, the sad cycle of someone convinced they are deprived and only partially a person.

So you learn of things which only jumble spiritual reception and from it you produce no good action except the action to deny that divinity exists outside of dreams. You are alone, you prefer to be alone, so no one can ever get close enough to learn why it is that you wear your glasses to bed… but I know, I watch you as you sleep…

‘I am in love!’ she proclaims quietly to herself: she is wrapped in a satin cloth of a curious shade plum, waiting for him to return from his midnight departure. There is no sound other than the breath she draws from the space beneath the sheets, each dose an ecstatic ode to the fermenting sensations of freedom she is beginning to realize. She opens her eyes to a field of geometric vision, then closes them to see a pyrotechnic display of flat colors which are guarding some elusive force in the background of her mental perceptions. ‘Here it comes’, she thinks; ‘another black spot, another chance to visit my mind …’

She sees him, he is holding a radio as if to offer its voice to the crowd of uninterested travelers, but the only sound it makes is a faint constant, the static bass drum for his whispered monologue: ‘can anybody hear me? Can anybody hear me? Can anybody hear me?’

She looks around the carcass of this vessel: except for a few lazy eyeball rolls the middle car passengers aren’t responding to the pirate performer, none except for one lonely creature in a seeming embrace with her distorted reflection which swims on the surface of the plexiglass window. She is slumped while she sits, then suddenly tall when she stands, her motions make her as present as a stake driving the conquest of a warrior’s clan.

She has black belts of tears tracing rows down her face and she is staring into the soul of the freelance lyric slinger. From a distance the mind dreamer is watching and yet in this triangular embrace the three awakened await, and then the silent window watcher speaks:

“We have eyes for ears we trade truth for lies

The clouds are the hearts of gods that bleed rain as they die.

No one can hear you because no one is awake

A massive mental strike, a universal mistake.”

‘There goes my hero’, confesses the mind dreamer to the committee in her head , to which her head replies, ‘have you no better figure in mind to worship than the girl who wears holes in her jeans and stripes on the smile of her poetic mouth kiss?’

She sighs beneath the galaxy of linen spots and rescinds into her mindful sanitarium, becoming like a repulsive magnet to all possibilities of mortal connection, in a seeming embrace with her distorted reflection which swims on the surface of the purple satin sheets.