dancing through time on the same wavelength, the same pitch shifting through the same repeating measures, we touched the pulse of beating hearts set to time signatures that we could never understand at all. harmonized to form the same melody, painted in bright violets bleeding into a deep purple enamored in a sea of radiant green. i hold the violets in my hands, i've lost myself to the viridian maze around me and i'm in love.



relapse.


byproducts feeling symptoms of a universe beyond their control...



a blink of an eye turned the world gray. blackened trees dotted the frozen ground like desperate, outstretched, hands. the frigid winds slipped through their bony fingers, and howled across the parking lots, strip malls and highways. it carried coal ground to a powder, a pollen that blanketed the atmosphere and swallowed any glimpse of the gallant blue skies. i saw bodies kept afloat on rivers of petrol that fed oceans of coagulated oil. nobody ever saw them dye their jet black suits on the shores, its blood was the print on their checks, and the plasma in the veins of a planet. you gave us a sweet tooth for comfort and it gave me a cavity. i wanted the smiling faces painted on the smoke stacks to weep. downward stares and stoic faces will stare at the piles of white ash at their feet. i set the rivers on fire, and i cast the bridges ablaze.

reality was a lustrous luminance of dark crimson streaks and violet skies.

everything

there were dying trees. a couple deep darkened red, maroon, pale and orange leaves dotting their blackened limbs. grey skies, cold, wet, a steady rain blurred the fractal swirls and comfort i had achieved at the spark of a flame, the inhalations, exhalations of carbon monoxide. the cancer, the control factor in the equation to determine the line plots on my life. they filled my lungs with fluid, they turned them black and tarred. eaten alive from the inside out, in the vice grip firmly clenching my lungs, drowning, suffocating slowly. it was easy to find x on a line plot within the margins i had set.

naked in front of the mirror, a lazy right eye, slightly smaller than the left, asymmetrical borders that blurred where the two colors met, a simple term used to hide the shades, and undertones that were the tools in the masterpiece before my eyes. the roman empire constructed itself on mathematical formulas, aqueducts that brought "life" to the rich, and the poor alike. they drank from the fountains of clear cut lines, they lived by the equation and died by it. over a thousand years later here we are again. the haunting specters of everything that could be seen driving their cars, in the malls, choking on force fed salaries to the point where they just want more and more to put them down sooner than later. the crumbling walls of rome ran all the way to washington dc. their jagged edges couldn't hold back the nuances that put the curves to my naked image in the mirror and the beauty i saw under all the empty suits and dresses on the subway. as their trains speed on, they fade back to the rough sketches, the blurry lines from which they were designed. we were never sketched, we were never drawn out, and we were never designed. there are no jagged edges to the human body, and the emotions that make us conscious and alive could never be attached to numbers.

we are living. if i flatline you will be there, he will be there, she will be there to keep me breathing. when my time comes i will feed the grassy fields set to golden skies that outline your image for all to weep, and cry out at in awe. there is no way we could ever be controlled forever. we are barbarians. we will stand out, we will tear down the walls of rome and watch their remains crumbling like statues to a god that none of us ever found, yet we will shine the mirrors of appreciation upon each other and see what sets us apart from the huns.

in the greatest of tragedies, the most smiling of comedies everything is beautiful. everything has gone spinning out of control, it always was, and i couldn't possibly think of anything more gorgeous, more compelling, more of a motivation to carry on.

i'm in love with my perspective, the seasons, the cycles, the shock and awe of the rising sun, the gravity of spinning satellites that keep my feet far off the ground.

notas para escribimos.

car ride home- best or better friend a stoner. smoking a joint talking about the universe destroying and re inventing itself. kid is silent. comic relief.


mom- blows her head off in a struggle between the father in candle light, candles melted down to wicks.
-dad actually pulls the trigger even though he's trying to stop her
-introduce police detective.
kid- upon discovering suicide he's cold, cool about what happened. packs his stuff leaves
-smokes cigarette on the way over to bus stop and doesn't even realize it as it burns to down to the filter- burns his hand.

bus ride- goes to the back, passes out.

weather- rain stops by the time he gets to the bus

part two. need to insert dialogue.

"gray skies put a dreary tint to a delusional idea of eden. it sent chills through the window, blue curtains, four walls, computer desk. white. white and simple navy blue curtains, all the personality could be seen in its imperfections, cracks, all there was to look at, the progress that could be found in deterioration.

morning light faded the red in his bloodshot eyes, nothing positive, only negative balanced out to a neutral white, a milky gray, the cracked prison walls, what's left of a life."

a slam of a door, a brief look at the watch, and a quick toss of a uniform was all she needed. no words, just 6:58, and a soiled and sewn piece of fabric. another slam of the door and the blank expression, the faded eyes were as white as the walls. all that stuck was 6:58, and an acute reaction, a split second thought about the hinging on the doors.

the darkness that crept in from the doorway only made his walls shine like fluorescent lights in an empty city. the fallen mirror she left behind lay cracked and shattered at his feet. he looked on at his reflection, a work shirt soiled but tucked in just right and a pair of slacks. his eyes lost in its shattered fissures, a spectrum of light twisted together to nullify itself to the absence of what gave it life.

he faded through the white prison walls as they were exposed for what they were, a spectrum of unrecognizable colors. a ghost on the same wave lengths as his surroundings, he faded in and out of walls before he learned to slip through their cracks. each step after the other in frames of motion, floating down the hollow stairs that lie on a foundation built upon a landfill. his parents; familiar echoes, chants from a chorus that repeated endlessly for his silent response.

he's inserting keys, the radio went on, engine rumbling, ignition...

"Unemployment climbs to 15%..."

foot on the gas....

"Polar ice caps have been reported to have receded.."

a puff of a cigarette, inhale, exhale...

"Riots continue in..."

a bunch of blank faces, empty stares, steady raindrops in rhythm and step to supply comfort to meet demand for this daily funeral procession, the morning and mourning whore parade.

a rough opening segment

gray skies put a dreary tint to a delusional idea of eden. it sent chills through the window, blue curtains, four walls, computer desk. white. white and simple navy blue curtains, all the personality could be seen in its imperfections, cracks, all there was to look at, the progress that could be found in deterioration.

morning light faded the red in his bloodshot eyes, nothing positive, only negative balanced out to a neutral white, a milky gray, the cracked prison walls, what's left of a life.

round and round

spinning images of dreams, delusions, the misplaced values lodged somewhere in her brain. she falls into step in an endless death march to nowhere. everyone stood and watched her last dance all liquored up, smiling faces, flowing white gowns behind transparent smoke screens.

the moment never dawned on her when she became an observer, drink in hand, her ring a nostalgic memory that clung to her like a scar. lost in search of metaphors, they all saw what was there, they all had it in them, but they stood vicariously living out something that was always out of reach.

it's another lonely night amidst the crowds. a cigarette and a clenched fist. a few drinks in and not quite drunk. anger, hate, distaste, i loved them all so dearly. the pedals on a lone weeping willow cast on the yellow milky light of a sunrise they could never fathom, a thousand beautiful things blind to the liberation in their hearts, and lost to their minds.

what is warmth without the cold? what is comedy without tragedy? it's lobotomies or nothing. blind to the gorgeous entrapment of the downward spirals, the blood spilled from a thousand beautiful things turned the rivers to wine. they looked on in terror, a red sea, a dead sea, a mirror reflection of their lives.

it's no wonder a nation of sheep will be ruled by pigs.