trees sinaloa bottle paint wall paint

a day

the moon, and a little later

the sun.

days keep coming and going, and in any given day there is happiness, sadness, confusion, elation, and hope, and in the night we stay awake as long as possible until we don't even know where we are, but we're not lost. The morning is the time for being lost. The night is the time for lying down.

a new something, and a better capture of an old something

jank-ear

something

lowlight

I can’t sit, wait,
watch, and do nothing,
just watch and listen -
I can’t stand it –
It’s like a cage – the
theater is a cage,
I can’t sit here and
wait – for what? for –
the end –
this is a cage – the theater
is a cage.
Now the theater is
a cage that holds us
all by its three
dark walls and its
bullshit fourth wall.
I’m stuck here until it’s over.
there’s no way out
for me or for anyone else.

I mean,
the movie is fun.
I can’t speak, because every time I do I expose my own bullshit.
I point the finger at myself.
But I watch movies like this and I’m convinced
nothing is worth anything.

bullshit.

later

laodicea

there is something missing from the words of Christ:
confusion.
but there is constant confusion in the disciples,
up until His resurrection.
And even after, that unfortunate rift between Paul and Barnabas.
Christ has shared all our burdens.
Does He know what it's like to be confused?
I don't know,
but I know I don't want confusion
and the words of Christ dispel it
and then all the Christian bullshit doesn't matter.

found these from turkey/greece '08

I should go to bed. I got four hours of sleep and before that I was awake for 24. Now it's three fifty three in the morning and I'm sitting on the porch listening to crickets. They're loud tonight. They have a good tone. They're just like us, making a lot of noise and commotion to try and find another who hears, who will hear. who likes their sound.

but not me,
I'm silent
and all the noise
in all the world
all of it
will never wake me
up again,
it will take a
miraculous
resurrection.

Ha! someone tell me to stop being a bitch when I write like that.

Once I read a poem where coleridge compared something to a sieve. If I knew what a sieve was, I'd use words like that in my poetry too.
At the end of the day,
life is like a sieve;
you can only wonder
what the fuck it is.

night

the heart is a fantastic muscle

it never stops

(until it stops)

I’m sitting dozing on and off

with the zsound of a relentless line of boxcars.

now it sojunds like thunder.